Guardians of the Lost

by Margaret Weis

  Raven was under no illusions. The accursed black armor was the cause. He had tried to do the right thing by bringing the armor to Dunkar, by “taking the curse from the people,” but now it appeared that he had done everything wrong.

  Raven stumbled out of the Trevenici camp, ignoring the calls of his fellows who were roasting meat for their breakfast. He headed for the barracks, determined to find the officer who had poisoned him. Unfortunately this proved difficult because Raven could give no coherent account of the meeting. He could not remember the captain’s name. He could not recall what the man looked like, beyond the fact that he was short, swarthy and had a black beard. That description might fit any male in Dunkar. Those he questioned only laughed at him and told him that he should never try to drink a Dunkargan under the table.

  The sun rose and burned off the morning fog that lay both on the lowlands and in Raven’s head. He was never going to find the man who had done this to him and he was wasting precious time. Returning to his campsite, he rolled up his sleeping mat. He snagged a water-skin and some dried meat, enough to last for many days on the trail, for he would not have time to stop to hunt for food. His fellows were curious, for they knew he had just come back from a visit to his people. He told them only that he had heard that the tribe might be in danger and, after that, no one asked any more questions. Every Trevenici’s first duty is to the tribe. His fellows wished him well and said they would see him in the northlands.

  Raven saddled his horse. He was leading the beast from the stables when horns sounded the alarm. The city was under attack.

  Rumors of war had swirled around Dunkar for months. Reports came in from outposts on the western borders that they had been attacked by savage creatures. Then stories came to Dunkar of caravans looted and burned, entire villages wiped out. Since the reports emanated from the sparsely populated western territories, hundreds of miles away, and brought with them only a whiff of the smoke of war, the people of Dunkar sniffed, but did not pay much attention. They were far more concerned with their bitter enemy, the Karnuans, to their east.

  The reports continued to come in, the whiff of smoke on the air was now a thin curl of smoke that could be seen rising on the horizon, for villages that were within a month’s ride of the capital were now under attack. The flow of travelers into the city reduced to a trickle and those people who did come had strange and terrible tales to tell of people vanished or found murdered in the most cruel, savage ways. Word went around the streets of Dunkar that a patrol sent out had not returned and was long overdue.

  Anxious women hung about the guardhouses, asking after missing husbands and brothers. The officers answered them brusquely or not at all. Soldiers who went drinking in the ale houses no longer shouted and laughed good-naturedly over dice games, but sat hunched over their ale, looking grim and talking in low voices.

  King Moross, whose hatred of the Karnuans ran deep, was determined to blame this on the Karnuans, as well. The High Magus was loud in denunciation of the Karnuans. The high ranking nobles agreed with His Majesty and those who did not held their tongue, for the king’s pleasure, once lost, was not easy to regain.

  The Seraskier, the current head of the Dunkargan army, did not hold his tongue. He told His Majesty bluntly that this strange army came from the west and that it had nothing to do with Karnu. He gave it as his opinion that the Karnuans might well be facing the very same threat as the Dunkargans. The city of Dunkar was in danger. His reports indicated a massive force headed this direction, and he wanted to press into service all able-bodied civilians, double the guard on the wall and send for reinforcements from their sister city, Amrah ’Lin, to the north.

  The High Magus was there to whisper in the king’s ear, refuting the Seraskier’s advice.

  King Moross valued the opinion of the High Magus, but he also valued his Seraskier, Onaset, the first high ranking officer the king had ever found who had not been corrupted by Karnuan gold. King Moross went so far as to approve the doubling of the guard on the city wall, but he would not press civilians into the military, fearing that such dire measures would send the city of Dunkar into a panic.

  King Moross might as well have issued the order, for panic set in the very next day, when the Dunkargans looked out to see the morning sun illuminate an immense army marching over the grasslands to the southwest. The people of Dunkar stared in shocked disbelief. Never had they seen an army this big. If this was an attack by Karnu, then they must have emptied their land of soldiers.

  “Karnuans, do you think, sir?” asked one of his officers, as Seraskier Onaset hastened to the wall to have a look for himself.

  After studying the enemy until his eyes ached and burned, Onaset shook his head.

  “They’re not Karnuan. Karnuan soldiers march in disciplined ranks. These appear to have no order at all,” he said.

  He called for his aide to bring him his spy glass, an orken invention he had seized from a captured pirate vessel, and trained it to the west.

  With the glass he saw that what had appeared at first to be ragged patches of armed soldiers flowing across the plains at random were actually battle groups who were maintaining some sort of order. The ragged patches shifted formation, flowing into circles with their standards in the center. He could see tents going up.

  Onaset looked closely into one of these camps. He had received reports from scouts describing their attackers as being creatures more like beasts than men, although they walked upright as did men and had hands and arms like men. They could wield weapons with as much skill as men, or perhaps more. Still, Onaset was not prepared for the sight of these creatures, like no creatures ever seen before on Loerem, with their long snouts filled with razor-sharp teeth, and their green and brown mottled hide that was reputed to be so tough they had no need to wear armor.

  He watched the creatures until his eyes began to water so that he could no longer see. He handed the glass to his trusted officers with the curt order that no matter what they saw, they keep their comments to themselves. His next order was to immediately close the two main gates and the smaller wickets. No one was to enter the city, unless he had damn good cause. No one was to leave it. Aides departed to carry out his commands. Onaset returned to staring out over the battlements.

  One of his officers gave a low whistle. “Gods help us,” he muttered, “there are humans down there!”

  “What is that you say?” came a sharp voice.

  Onaset turned to find King Moross climbing the stairs that led to the battlements. Moross was in his late forties, a saturnine man, good-looking with black hair and beard streaked with white, making him look older and lending him dignity. His robes were rich but not ostentatious, for he was in truth a humble man, who sometimes seemed embarrassed by his kingship.

  “Humans down there?” King Moross looked over the wall. If he was dismayed by what he saw—the vast army that was rapidly building an entire new city on the grasslands—he was careful to keep his expression impassive.

  Onaset had never had a great liking for Moross, believing that the king cared too much about what people thought of him. Moross strove to please everyone, offend no one, and, because of this, he appeared indecisive and unreliable. When talking to two people, he would say what each person wanted to hear, which was fine, until the two came together to compare notes.

  “Then this proves it. These monsters are being led by Karnuans,” King Moross said, his brows coming together in anger.

  “I don’t see any signs of the Karnuans, Your Majesty,” said Onaset, offering the king the spy glass. “Those are human mercenaries”—Onaset pointed to a group of soldiers he had spotted almost immediately, due to the fact they marched in traditional battlefield formation—“but they are probably ordinary sell-swords. What I believe the officer was referring to is the fact that these creatures have apparently taken human slaves.” He directed the king to look in the direction of the nearest circle of tents.

  Several humans moved around the interior of the
enemy encampment. They were too far away to see clearly, but Onaset had the impression by the way they moved that the humans were manacled.

  Moross cast an involuntary glance behind him, into the city of Dunkar that was home to thousands of men, women and children. He looked back to the tens of thousands of creatures making themselves at home in the desert and he blenched perceptibly. He motioned Onaset to come speak to him privately.

  “What sort of monsters are these?” he asked in a low voice. “We’ve never seen anything like that on Loerem. Have you?”

  Onaset shook his head. “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Then where did they come from?” King Moross was baffled, appalled.

  “The gods know, Your Majesty,” said Onaset solemnly, not blaspheming. “Perhaps you should consult with the High Magus. He is a most wise man—”

  “The High Magus has left the city,” King Moross said, biting a thumbnail. “He left this morning immediately after the alarm sounded.”

  “Like I said—a wise man,” Onaset remarked dryly.

  Moross cast him a reproachful glance. “The High Magus is carrying word of this unprovoked attack by these creatures to the Temple of the Magi in New Vinnengael. He thinks that perhaps the wise among the magi there may know something of them.”

  “Considering that such a journey will take him six months—if he is fortunate—I don’t quite see how this benefits us, Your Majesty.”

  The king pretended not to hear, a trick of his when dealing with particularly difficult problems. “They’re setting up camps. Are they going to siege us, do you think, Seraskier?”

  “Not unless their commander is an utter fool, Your Majesty,” Onaset returned bluntly. “We are a port city. We could hold out against a siege almost indefinitely, unless they blockade us. I would say, Your Majesty”—Onaset rubbed his bearded chin—“that these troops mean to attack and conquer. Look, here come their war engines.”

  Elephants came lumbering into view, hauling behind them enormous siege towers known as belfries. Mounted on four wheels, the towers stood as tall as the city walls and were made up of several stories that could be filled with armed soldiers. Archers mounted on top of the belfry kept the wall clear of defenders. When the belfry reached the wall, a gangplank could be lowered, allowing the soldiers to pour out onto the walls and from thence into the city. Other siege engines had strange hose-like devices mounted on top. The city’s defenders feared these more than the belfries, for these housed the mechanism used to pump ork fire onto defenders and structures alike. The jelly-like substance burst into flame on contact, setting all it touched ablaze.

  “Still, to attack a walled city will cost him dearly.” Onaset glanced about at Dunkar’s defenses and shook his head in amazement at this commander’s temerity.

  Having prepared to face Karnuans for years in a battle that had not yet come, Dunkar had built some of the best defenses of any city in the modern age: mangonels and ballistae to hurl destruction at the enemy on the ground, well-trained bowmen on the walls, enormous cauldrons that could be filled with boiling oil and water to pour down on the heads of any trying to scale the walls, as well as their own version of ork fire that could set the belfries aflame, roast alive those hiding inside.

  “Such a battle could take weeks and he will lose a vast amount of troops, men he can ill afford to lose, for if he takes the city he will have to hold it and I have already sent messengers to bring help from Amrah ’Lin.”

  “He? Who is he? This unknown enemy.” King Moross gazed back out across the grasslands and muttered, “He must be working for Karnu.”

  Onaset was not convinced, although he could offer no other explanation. “He’ll tell us in his own good time. We’re not going anywhere.” He paused a moment, coughed, then said, “I believe that our city can win this battle, Your Majesty. The gods know, though, that nothing is certain in this life save death and taxes. Your Majesty might want to have the Royal Barge ready—”

  “No, Seraskier,” returned King Moross with the first bit of decisiveness Onaset had seen in the man. “We will not flee and leave our people to face this threat alone.”

  One of the officers pointed out over the wall to where riders had appeared. “Seraskier, they are sending a herald.”

  “Good! At least we will find out what this is all about,” King Moross stated. “Have him brought to the Royal Palace. Seraskier, come with us.”

  After a final glance over the wall at the rapidly increasing numbers of the enemy, Onaset accompanied his king to hear what his enemy had to say.

  Raven was about to depart, when he heard the horns sounding the alarm. A Trevenici warrior, who had been on duty at the wall, came back to report. “There’s an army out there.” She shook her head gloomily. “Looks like a siege.”

  The Trevenici exchanged grim glances. Instead of glory on the battlefield, the Trevenici must endure months, perhaps years, of being under siege, trapped in these city walls that they detested, sleeping and eating with nothing to do except to exchange verbal insults with the enemy. Worst of all, with no way to return to visit their tribes.

  “Well that’s that,” said one. “I’m not staying to die of starvation.”

  “You had better make haste, then,” the warrior said. “The order has been given to close the gates.”

  At this dire news, Raven leapt onto his horse’s back, kicked his heels into the animal’s flanks. He knew better than to try the main gate. He knew of a wicket on the eastern side of the wall, one used by those who had business in the city after dark when the main gate had been closed. He would try that.

  Unfortunately, word of the enemy had spread throughout Dunkar by this time, and the streets were clogged with people. The main street was impassable. Raven’s horse was battle-trained, accustomed to the clash of arms and the smell of blood and the screams of the wounded and dying. The horse was not accustomed to small children darting under its belly, the shrill cries of gossip-mongers and the smell of fear. The horse pricked its ears, rolled its eyes and balked.

  Then some drunkard had the bright idea that he should steal Raven’s horse and use it to escape the city. The drunk grabbed hold of Raven’s leg. Raven kicked at the fellow and sent him head over heels into the gutter.

  Turning his horse’s head, Raven managed to extricate himself from the mob. He tried another street, a narrow side street, and found that it was not as crowded. Still, he had to proceed slowly, keeping his horse under tight control, as people burst suddenly from doorways, crying out to know what was happening. Raven finally reached the wicket gate, to find that it was closed and barred.

  “Open the gate,” Raven called from horseback.

  The soldiers glanced up at the sound of the order, but, seeing only a Trevenici, they shook their heads. Dunkargans are not adverse to having the Trevenici fight and die for them, but that doesn’t mean that they have to like them.

  “Go back to your rat-meat stew, Barbarian,” said one shortly. “No one gets in or out. Seraskier’s orders.”

  If Raven had been a Dunkargan himself, he would have tossed a few argents on the ground and the gate would have been opened for him with no more questions asked. The Trevenici had never been able to understand the concept of bribery, however. Raven slid off his horse’s back and went to argue.

  “The Seraskier’s orders do not apply to the Trevenici,” he said, which was perfectly true. “I am a Captain. You are obeying an order. You will not get into any trouble.”

  “I know I won’t,” said the guard, glowering. “Because I’m not opening the gate.” He cast Raven a scathing glance. “You’re not getting paid to run away.”

  Angry at the insult, desperate to leave this city, Raven laid his hand on his sword hilt and heard the rattle of steel behind him. He looked to find himself surrounded by six more guards, swords in their hands and dark expressions on their faces.

  Trevenici are fearless in battle, but they are not foolhardy. Raven knew when he was beaten. He raised his hands, to show
that they were empty, and then returned to his horse. Mounting, he galloped off back down the street, sending people leaping for the gutters or the alleys to escape the pounding hooves.

  While Raven was trying to flee the city, the herald from the enemy was permitted to enter, passing through a wicket gate located at the main gate and into the city proper. The herald was a human, not one of the strange monsters—much to the disappointment of the townspeople, who had been hearing rumors about these creatures from those on the walls and wanted to see one for themselves.

  Fearless and proud, the herald rode with calm dignity through a throng of angry Dunkargans, who had come to see and curse the enemy. He had a thatch of blond hair and a beardless chin. He might have been sixteen at best, but he already sported a battle scar on his face and he rode his horse and carried his sword like a man accustomed to warfare. He wore a tabard of rich material featuring the image of a phoenix rising from flames and he bore the same device on his shield. No one could recall ever having seen such a device before.

  The herald was given a guard of the Seraskier’s own handpicked bodyguard, for the Dunkargans are a volatile people and every single one of them believed beyond doubt that the detested Karnuans had hired this army to attack them. There were shouted demands to behead the messenger and send his body back to Karnu. The Seraskier’s men kept their swords out, struck with the flat of the blade at any citizen who drew too close. The herald regarded them all with a jaunty grin and a raised shield to deflect thrown vegetation.