Army of the Dead fl-8

by Richard S. Tuttle

  “What of the men?” asked the bursar.

  “Only old men are arriving,” answered Wendal. “The fit have remained behind to fight the invaders.”

  “And why are Khadoran soldiers working on the buildings?” prompted the bursar. “Where are the laborers?”

  “They are far to the east,” replied Wendal. “They are building great trenches.”

  “Trenches?” frowned the bursar. “Where and what for?”

  “BaGrec’s works have become very expensive these days,” smiled Wendal. “They are in great demand.”

  The bursar frowned heavily, but he placed another pouch on the table, which was immediately swept away by Wendal.

  “The trenches are a feat that will be spoken about for years to come,” smiled Wendal. “They stretch for many leagues and are designed to impede the advance of the invaders. It is said that a man cannot jump them for they are too wide, but a horse can leap them easily.”

  “Where exactly are they located?” asked the bursar.

  “There are three that I know of,” replied the merchant. “They are concentric rings between the coast and the Khadora and Lituk Rivers. It is said that they run from the Kalatung Mountains clear to the Fortung Mountains.”

  “What about roads across them?” asked the bursar. “Surely they have made places where wagons can pass over the trenches? Many estates would be isolated without some type of bridge.”

  “There are three,” nodded the merchant, “but they will be destroyed if the enemy gets close. There is one near each end of the arc and one in the middle. An enemy that seized one of those bridges could entirely defeat the purpose of the trenches. It would be a shame to see such work go to waste.”

  “What of the defenses at Raven’s Point?” asked the bursar.

  “Those defense plans have been kept well guarded,” frowned Wendal, “but there have been observations that offer clues to what might happen. Of course, if there is an invasion, the value of BaGrec’s works will soar in value.”

  “Enough,” the bursar said in a threatening tone as he placed another pouch of gold on the table.

  Wendal smiled broadly as he swept the pouch away. “Thousands of mages are reported to be along the coast,” declared the merchant. “Practically every mage in Khadora is out there. The armies of the Imperial Valley are also on the move. Reports speak about traveling far to the east, but not all the way to the coast.”

  “Held in reserve to defend a retreat?” frowned the bursar.

  “I am not a military man,” shrugged Wendal, “but that would be my guess. It is curious that these troops are traveling so far, and yet the frontier troops have not been ordered to move at all. Especially since many of them are much closer to Raven’s Point.”

  “That is curious,” admitted the bursar. “How solid is that information?”

  “Very solid,” assured Wendal. “We get many visitors here in Khadoratung. Every frontier clan has been told to remain at home.”

  “So the first line of defense is merely the coastal clans?” mused the bursar. “That sounds negligent.”

  “Unless the mages plan some type of devastation of their own,” shrugged Wendal. “You do know that the mages have been schooled in battle magic?”

  “I have heard,” nodded the bursar. “One last question. Where is the Emperor in all of this planning?”

  “Of that I know little,” admitted Wendal. “I will venture a guess, but it is only a guess. Emperor Marak is known as the ultimate warrior by the Khadoran clans. I would expect him to be where the fighting is. He is not the type of Emperor to sit here in Khadoratung while the battle is raging elsewhere.”

  The bursar nodded his head and left the stall. Only the most thorough observer would notice the man’s slight deformity. His left palm faced slightly forward when his arm was at his side.

  The bursar of the Devon clan left the marketplace and entered the Wine Press Inn. He stood inside the door and scanned the common room before moving to take the seat in the far corner of the room. The bursar had not been sitting long before a black-cloaked man entered the common room. The new comer marched across the room and slid along the bench to sit right next to the bursar.

  “Would you mind sitting elsewhere?” asked the bursar. “There are plenty of open seats available. I wish to be alone for my meal. I have much on my mind.”

  “Actually,” said the black-cloaked man, “I was hoping to talk to you during the meal. I have something that might be of interest to the Devon clan.”

  The innkeeper appeared to take the meal orders, and the black-cloaked man ordered two special wasooki steak meals and a bottle of expensive wine. The innkeeper smiled broadly, and the bursar frowned in confusion, but he nodded his acceptance.

  “What is of so much interest to the Devon clan that you must disturb my meal?” asked the bursar after the innkeeper had left.

  “The Devon clan no longer exists,” smiled the hooded man. “They were wiped out by the Vessi during the Jiadin invasion. I would not have expected the great Clarvoy to be so ignorant of such a thing, but then your mind is more on future events these days.”

  The facial expressions of the bursar changed rapidly. First came concern, and then fear. The fear changed to determination, but quickly succumbed to disbelief, and finally to pain and shock. His hand rose threateningly as he turned to stare at the man next to him, but it dropped limp by his side a second later.

  “A pity that you must leave us so quickly,” the hooded man said softly. “I would have loved to interrogate you, but I dare not take the chance against your magic.”

  The hooded man calmly slid along the bench and stood. He left the poisoned knife sticking in the bursar’s side and moved nonchalantly out of the inn as Clarvoy’s head fell to the table before him, his eyes wide open in the stare of death.

  Outside the inn, the hooded man slipped into the alley alongside the building. After checking the alley to make sure that no one was around, he stripped off the black cloak and stuffed it in his pack. Before the first shout of murder emanated from the Wine Press Inn, Fisher was dressed in an Imperial Guard uniform. He moved out of the alley and quickly responded to the call for help.

  * * *

  The fleet of skimmers rose and fell on the heavy swells, salt spray covering the two sailors in each craft. Kruffel, a crusty old fisherman from the Fakaran city of Ghala, led the fleet of a hundred small, fast, attack vessels. The heavy seas had been unexpected and had resulted in the force missing an opportunity to attack the Motangans before they unloaded in Meliban. Kruffel was determined to strike a blow against the Motangans, but not by sinking empty ships anchored outside Meliban. He led his group further westward in a relentless dash to reach the Motangan fleet heading for Khadora.

  “This is mad, Kruffel,” complained his partner. “We have no idea where the Khadora-bound fleet is. You cannot drive these men like this. You will exhaust them.”

  “They are between here and Raven’s Point somewhere, Dasra,” retorted Kruffel. “We will find them.”

  “If any of our men survive,” scowled Dasra. “These boats were not built for heavy seas. We have almost lost one already, and the seas are getting worse. Give it up.”

  “Give it up?” balked Kruffel. “How can you say such a thing? And your being from Raven’s Point yourself. It is your home that these Motangans will be invading. How can those words come out of your mouth?”

  “If I thought we had any chance of success,” replied Dasra, “the words would not have been spoken. This is a hopeless gamble that will only result in the deaths of our men.”

  “Our men are already dead,” snarled Kruffel. “We failed to attack the Fakaran-bound fleet. Three hundred thousand foreigners are already on Fakaran soil. I will not let this opportunity escape us completely.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Dasra sighed with compassion. “We left port as soon as the word was given. No one expected these heavy seas. Do not blame yourself, and do not kill our men just becau
se the weather conspired against us. It just was not meant to be.”

  “I should have pressed the men harder,” replied Kruffel. “We might have been able to catch the tail end of the Motangan fleet.”

  “No, Kruffel,” Dasra shook his head. “We were far too late for that. There was nothing that you or anyone else could have done. Turn the fleet around and take us home.”

  “Home is where I am taking you,” Kruffel replied defiantly. “We are much closer to Raven’s Point than we are to Angragar. You are from Raven’s Point, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” Dasra sighed with frustration, “but my home will not exist by the time we get there. No one expects anything to be left standing in Raven’s Point after the Motangans pass through. It will not even be safe for us to land there. Our men will be killed for sure.”

  “We all understood that we would probably die in this endeavor,” shrugged Kruffel. “Death will not be what defeats us. Do not fear it. Failure is what must be feared, for our failure to strike a blow against the Motangans will doom thousands upon thousands of our countrymen. I will not turn back as long as there is any possibility of catching the other Motangan fleet.”

  “Nor would I,” conceded Dasra, “but this is ridiculous. The Motangans would have to have stopped the fleet in the middle of the ocean for us to catch up to them. Why can’t you understand that?”

  An excited shout from one of the other boats interrupted the discussion. Kruffel waited impatiently for his boat to top the next swell. When his boat finally rose high on the sea, Kruffel swore with excitement.

  “Drop your sails,” Kruffel shouted loudly to the skimmers around him. “Do not let the Motangans see us. Pass the word on.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Dasra said in amazement. “Why would they do such a thing? They are sitting limp in the water. It makes no sense, no sense at all.”

  “Perhaps there is more to Kaltara than you are willing to admit,” grinned Kruffel. “They sure looked like Motangan ships to me. Nothing else is anywhere near that size.”

  “They are definitely Motangan,” agreed Dasra, “but it still makes no sense. Do you really believe in Kaltara?”

  “I haven’t until now,” admitted Kruffel. “Oh, I admit that I get to thinking about it, what with everyone speaking so much about it, but I have had trouble believing in miracles. Now though? It sure is strange that the Motangans stopped and waited for us. It certainly is not something that I would ever have done. It is as if God is intervening to make our lives worthwhile.”

  “What will we do now?” asked Dasra. “We cannot just sit here with our sails down.”

  “The Sakovan skimmers got in trouble because they were sighted early,” replied Kruffel. “I will not make the same mistake. We will wait until nightfall before attacking.”

  “What if the Motangans leave before then?” frowned Dasra.

  “I reckon that we are still a day out of Raven’s Point,” answered Kruffel. “Even if the Motangans left right now, we could catch them before they make landfall. We will wait for the darkness. Throw lines to the nearest skimmers. We need to raft together, or we will become too separated without sails to maneuver.”

  The skimmer rose on another swell, and Kruffel gazed once again at the Motangan fleet. The four hundred leviathans were only a smear on the horizon without their sails on display, but it was a sight that sent shivers of excitement up his spine.

  * * *

  The Wound of Kaltara was an enormous gorge through which the Kaltara River flowed. Ancient Sakovan scrolls told the story of its creation over a thousand years ago. It was said to have been blasted out by the hand of God in a fit of rage following the murder of the Star of Sakova. A priest witnessed the event and was sent by God to inform the Sakovan people of Kaltara’s displeasure. The priest was given the Scroll of Kaltara to guide the Sakovan people in the rightful ways of the future.

  The canyon was over a league wide and half a league deep, and it stretched for hundreds of leagues from west of Zaramilden to the Wytung Mountains. It was a desolate, uninhabited gorge of enormous proportions that travelers avoided. Usually.

  On this particular day, there were over a thousand travelers on the floor of the canyon. Heading south towards the Wytung Mountains, a long column stretched along the banks of the Kaltara River. They were unconcerned about being observed by anyone, as the Wound of Kaltara was fairly inaccessible. Nor were they worried about anyone noticing evidence of their passing, as they left no human footprints. The loin-clothed men rode on the backs of large ferocious cats.

  Kyata, tribal leader of the Zatong tribe of the Chula, raised his hand in an unspoken command to rest. The Chula warriors silently dismounted their beasts and gathered in small groups to refresh and eat a meal. Ukaro, head shaman of the Zatong tribe, sat next to his brother Kyata.

  “Your words about the Wound of Kaltara are true,” smiled Kyata. “No one has appeared on the rims of the canyon since we entered it. It is easy traveling and yet unobserved. You have done well.”

  “The peaks of the Wytung Mountains can likewise be traveled in secrecy,” smiled Ukaro, his long mane flowing fluidly as he stretched his neck. “It is along the coast of the sea that I am concerned about. I am not sure where the Motangans might position spotters.”

  “Perhaps your son could be tempted to fly his winged warrior over the area?” posed Kyata.

  “The Torak has much to worry about,” Ukaro shook his head. “I will not trouble him for a such a trivial matter. The Chula know how to move unobserved, even if it is in a foreign land unfamiliar to us. We will reach Alamar without giving notice to the invaders.”

  “Do you have any knowledge of the strength of the enemy in Alamar?” asked Kyata.

  “Nothing accurate,” replied the shaman. “We will send scouts before us, but I think that the Motangans would not leave the port city unsecured. They have sufficient men to leave five or ten thousand to guard the city without concern for the troops. Alamar is needed by the Motangans to unload supplies. Without it, they are cut off from their Island of Darkness.”

  “Then we shall remove it from their hands,” grinned the chieftain.

  Chapter 9

  Winds of Change

  Kruffel could barely keep his eyes open as he piloted the skimmer westward. He had gone for days with only short naps to refresh his body, and the tension of the battle had drained his energy. The old fisherman turned his head to scan the seas around him in search of any other skimmers that might have survived the battle. Dawn was still hours away, and Kruffel could not see any other ships around them.

  Unexpectedly the boat slewed sideways as the swell picked up the skimmer and carried it sideways. Kruffel’s eyes jolted open as he fought the tiller to correct his course.

  “You are falling asleep,” Dasra said groggily as he woke up. “Let me take over for a spell.”

  “I accept,” Kruffel quickly replied. “Check our friend first and see if he is still alive.”

  Dasra moved to the man that they had fished out of the sea during the attack. The man was a skimmer pilot from a small village in Fakara that neither of the men knew well. His skimmer had been sunk in the heat of the battle, and Kruffel had hauled the man aboard.

  “He is still alive,” reported Dasra, “but he is burning up. How long to Raven’s Point?”

  “I have no idea,” sighed Kruffel. “I am not sure how long I dozed off for. I am glad that you woke up, although I know you have not had much more sleep than I have. I must rest my eyes at least.”

  Dasra moved to the stern and grabbed the tiller, allowing Kruffel to move to the bow and close his eyes, but as tired as he was, the old fisherman could not fall asleep right away.

  “I cannot get the battle out of my mind,” Kruffel said, his eyes still closed. “On one hand I am elated at the number of Motangan ships we sent to the bottom of the sea, but on the other hand I think of all the men we lost. They were brave men, and they will be sorely missed.”

  “Their l
ives were not lost in vain,” Dasra replied. “I have no idea how many behemoths we sunk, but it was a lot. The losses were certainly large enough to be severely felt by Vand’s armies. I can only hope that it will be enough to make a difference in the battles to come.”

  “I must sleep,” Kruffel replied after several moments of silence. “Wake me if you see any other skimmers.”

  * * *

  StormSong nudged Lyra, and the Star of Sakova opened her eyes. Lyra sat up and gazed around, but it was too dark to see very far.

  “You wanted to be notified when the armies were in position,” StormSong said softly. “We just received word that they are all set. We need to pull back ourselves now. Sorry to wake you.”

  “Thank you, StormSong,” smiled Lyra as she rose from the ground. “What time is it?”

  “A few hours before dawn,” answered the Sakovan warrior, her voice soft and hushed. “It took longer than expected for the armies to position themselves. They are unfamiliar with the terrain of the heartland.”

  “Let’s hope the same can be said for the Motangans,” replied Lyra. “Have they moved at all?”

  “Not a bit,” StormSong shook her head. “They have not even sent out scouts this night.”

  “After last night,” Lyra said, “I cannot blame them. They must be getting tired of losing men every night with nothing to gain for it. Will there be enough of a trail for the Motangans to follow in the morning? We don’t want them getting lost.”

  “We will blaze a trail that even the simplest of trackers can follow,” StormSong assured the Star, “but we need to start doing that now. The people are nervous with you this close to the enemy.”

  “Then we shall leave immediately,” promised Lyra, “although we are not that close unless they have moved while I slept. We have caught every one of their scouts in the past. They do not move as quietly as Sakovans.”

  “We will take no chances,” shrugged StormSong. “I will gather the others while you get ready.”

  Lyra grabbed her pack and put it on. She retrieved her rapier and dusted the dirt off her clothes. She stretched while she waited for StormSong to return with the chokas.