The Seer King: Book One of the Seer King Trilogy

by Chris Bunch

  Mikael Yanthlus and Chardin Sher’s other sorcerers had sensed nothing, and so the astonished Kallians were sent reeling, rolling up their own lines as our Numantians drove against them. They tried to hold, but it was no use, and they fell back through the forest. But it wasn’t the orderly withdrawal as planned, but a staggering retreat.

  The dragoons returned for their horses, then followed the Kallians, so there was a bit more than a half-mile gap between the two armies. This was exactly what Tenedos wanted, he told me later, for he wasn’t sure how discriminatory his grand spell would be.

  I still shudder to think what it would have been like to be a Kallian, shaken by the dragoon assault from nowhere, trying to save himself, trying not to give in to his fear, when the forest itself attacked him.

  Branches reached down, striking like clubs or whips, smashing men to the ground. Roots rose from the soil and tripped men, and then curled around them, strangling them, crushing their bones.

  Some Kallians went mad — and perhaps they were the lucky ones — seeing their native earth rise against them. Trees tumbled, with never a warning crack, and fell on command groups. Brush pulled at men, holding them back, keeping them from fleeing, keeping them immobile, as their eyes shot up, hearing the snap of a widowmaker and seeing it tumble down.

  Crows rose screaming as their familiar perches shook, and the creatures of the forest darted out of their winter burrows in panic as the forest moved about them, far more than the worst disturbance a storm could bring.

  This was the first of the two Great Spells Tenedos launched in the Kallian War. It was impossible. No one could cast it, had ever heard of it being cast before, I learned. But it had been created, created by one man. Men whispered he’d sold himself to demons, but then shook their heads. No. Even that price wouldn’t give that much power. No one knew how he could do it, but he had, and so the fear and respect his name carried grew.

  I knew not of what was going on, but I did feel a queasiness, a disturbance, but laid it to fatigue or perhaps a chill I’d gotten in the forest My attention was locked on the snow-touched treeline, and then men came out of the woods, shouting, thousands of them, only a few in any sort of formation. They kept turning to look back into the forest, expecting demons to pursue them, but instead, from their right flank, came the blast of bugles, and 10,000 cavalry men charged.

  I’ve said the Kallians were brave men, and so they were. Commanders bellowed orders, and some men and units had the guts to form squares to repel our charge. We ignored them and smashed into the mass of the Kallian Army.

  Our charge lost momentum, and now we were a sword-swinging body of horsemen, trying to beat our way through the rabble. A man lunged with a pike, and I brushed it aside with the flat of my blade and sliced his arm away. Another man aimed his bow, but Karjan was behind him, and he, too, went down. Then something came at me, and I ducked aside, barely recognizing it as a regimental standard on a spear. Lucan reared in fear, sending me falling back across his haunches to the ground.

  I managed to tuck and fell across a body, rolling to my feet, sword still in hand. Three Kallians shouted glee, seeing a dismounted officer, and pushed toward me. I moved to the side, so they were in each others’ way, parried the first man’s thrust, cut his face open, and he lurched back, and I lunged under his arm, spitting the second. The third had his blade back for a slash, but I kicked him in the stomach, then drove my knee into his face as he bent double.

  Karjan was beside me, hewing down at the Kallians, his horse as battle mad as he, lashing out with its hooves. I pulled myself up behind him, and we shoved our way out of the throng, seeing a welcome phalanx of Numantian horsemen ride toward us. Then I was safe, and we were on clear ground, and I shouted to turn, and attack once more.

  The dragoons came out of the forest and attacked as we came back on the Kallians from the rear, between them and the safety of their capital. They hit the few resolute units on the field, standing off from their squares and using archers to break them and send their soldiers fleeing like the others, and the killing went on.

  Then there was nothing but white flags and shouts for mercy, quarter, surrender.

  Less than 25,000 Kallian escaped from the field that day. But among them were Chardin Sher and his master wizard, so the war was not over.

  But we’d met the enemy on the field of their own choosing, fought them with our new tactics, and defeated them handily. We’d taken heavy casualties, but only among the heavy cavalry, Linerges’s infantry, and the skirmishers. The blood-price was acceptable.

  Now the way was open to Polycittara.

  We reformed on the far side of that dread forest and made ready to fight on.

  • • •

  The next morning, a letter finally reached me:

  My dearest husband,

  I cannot say how ashamed I am of myself for not writing you. I cannot offer any excuses, except that the death of our child struck harder than I thought, and it was as if I was dead myself, wandering about feeling like my heart had become stone, unable to talk, let alone write.

  I am weeping now, hoping you might forgive me, for I had no right to feel such selfishness while you, the one who means more to me than life itself, are just as alone, and in desperate danger.

  I will always be indebted to our dearest friend Amiel who dragged me out of my morass of despair, and told me what a fool I was being. She has given me the greatest comfort since our son died, and I hope you will love her as I do for it.

  Now I realize, we must move on. We have a life together, and there are other days, and other times. I still want a child, want several children, but now I want you, just you. I want to feel your cock hard inside me, feel you scatter your seed in me. I want the taste of you, warm and salty in my mouth.

  Please try to understand me, Damastes, as I am trying to understand myself. I know I’m very young, and very foolish, but I am still learning how to love. Please still love me. I am yours for always, as you know.

  Marán

  I’d no more than sealed my response to this, feeling the leaden weight I’d carried for too long fall away, and hoping the war was almost over, when my tent flap was torn open and Yonge stumbled in.

  “Drink with me, Numantian,” he ordered, and plunked a nearly empty bottle of brandy down on my table.

  I uncorked the bottle, and touched it to my lips, seeing that, as drunk as he was, he’d barely notice what I did. I was right He grabbed the bottle, drained it, and pulled another from a pocket inside his cloak.

  “So, what do you think of our famous victory?” he slurred, his voice hard, angry.

  “I’m sorry to hear of your losses,” I said.

  “Sorry? Yes, Numantian, I guess you are.”

  “Yonge,” I said, “why are you angry with me? I had nothing to do with what happened.”

  Yonge glowered at me, then slowly nodded.

  “No,” he agreed. “No, you didn’t Guess I’m angry at everybody, and nobody. Nobody but one.

  “You know how many men got killed, whittled away, a man here, a man there, a squad here, a company there? Damn near half my skirmishers.

  “They aren’t like other soldiers, you know. Takes time to train a man to not want to go blazing out with a sword, but take the measure as he’s taught, and tell it to others, and let them fight.

  “Prob’ly takes longer than to build a cavalryman.”

  He drank.

  “Wonder why that bastard did it to me.”

  “Tenedos?”

  “He’s the only bastard I can think of. Told me what to do, and I did it. Did it without arguin', knowing what’d happen.

  “Damn the bastard.”

  “What would you have done?” I said, trying to be diplomatic. Yonge, in a mood like this, was looking for a fight, and I knew the Men of the Hills seldom used fists to settle their differences. Even drunk, I had no confidence I could defeat his knife. “He said he was using you as a feint, to cover the dragoons.”

  �
��You believe that?”

  “I do.”

  Yonge stared at me very hard.

  “You remember, a long time ago, I said I wanted to study honor from you?”

  “I do. But I think you’re now a better one for me to study,” I said.

  “Shit on that. I still think you tell the truth. You don’t think there was any better way to start the battle? You don’t think my men were thrown away?”

  “Why would Tenedos want that?” I said. “He knows how valuable the skirmishers are. Hells, man, he created the force.”

  “He did,” Yonge grudged. “I don’t know why we was sacrificed. But I feel we were.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” Yonge heaved a deep sigh. “Hells. Maybe I’m just drunk, and mournin'. Maybe that’s all.” He lifted the bottle, and, to my amazement, finished it.

  “Guess I’m not thinkin’ straight,” he said, and stood. “Sorry to bother you. You’re a man of honor, like I said. An’ I trust you.”

  His eyes slid closed, and he toppled. I caught him before he hit the ground, and eased him down. I called for Karjan, and we made a rough bed for the general with my cloak and a pillow. He muttered something about honor and blood, then began snoring. I little wanted to be inside his head in the morrow.

  I tried to go to sleep, but the absurd thought stayed with me: Why had Tenedos chosen such a sacrificial way to begin the engagement? It was another answer I wouldn’t have for years.

  • • •

  Now Tenedos’s magic held Chardin Sher firm in its vision, and because of that many lives were saved, both Kallian and Numantian. If he had not been able to track him through sorcery, we might have decided Chardin Sher would retreat to the capital, gone after him, and mired ourselves in street butchery. Probably the Kallian assumed we would do just that, and give him some time to regroup, for he fled past Polycittara, and took refuge beyond.

  The Numantian Army ignored the bait of Polycittara and marched after him. Two weeks after Dabormida we came on his final refuge.

  It was a huge brown stone fortress, walls many yards thick, that occupied the entire top of a solitary peak that commanded the center of a fertile valley. It was the ultimate refuge, and I think all of us thought the same thing:

  We would all die here, under these grim battlements, before we would destroy Chardin Sher.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE DEMON FROM BELOW

  The nameless fortress had an evil reputation. It had been built centuries before by a meditative order, its battlements intended to give shelter to the priests and simples of the surrounding country men when raiders threatened. But as the centuries passed the order became fascinated with the dark arts, and it was said they were more feared than any brigands. All manner of evil was attributed to these priests, including human sacrifice to demons.

  One storm-tossed night, the story went, nearby peasants heard screams from the fortress, screams far louder than any human throat should be able to produce. A few of the bravest chanced peering into the night, and saw all of the citadel’s lights flash bright and then go out as if they were a single candle snuffed by a giant hand.

  The next day, no one came out of the citadel, and that night it remained dark. So it went for a week until one courageous young man chanced climbing the ramps to the entrance, and found its iron gates blasted open, as if a giant hand had ripped them away.

  He entered, and found no sign of any of the priests. Nor was there any indication of what had happened, neither bloodstain nor corpse to be found.

  The stronghold sat vacant for almost a century, then an outlaw baron took and held it, and once more the valley paid a bitter price for “protection.” Three generations of this family held the fortress, each lord more baneful than the last.

  Finally, Chardin Sher’s father mounted an expedition against the current baron and, by deceit, gained entrance. The baron was taken, tried for his crimes, and quartered below the citadel. His women and children were reduced to commoners and sold as slaves. Perhaps the fortress should have been left empty, or even razed to the bare rocks. But it was not Chardin Sher’s father and then his son made it their last refuge, adding to its defenses.

  Now it was surrounded by the Numantian Army. There were three choices: to reduce it by sorcery; to attempt to storm it; or starve out Chardin Sher, his magicians, and his retainers.

  Tenedos tried magic first, and his assembled magi used the natural force of the season to send storm after storm against the towers. The magicians within, led by Mikael Yanthlus, not only used defensive spells to lessen the effect, but sent their own conjurations against the soldiers below.

  The normal spells of apprehension, fear, and such were accompanied with incantations intended to bring sicknesses and plagues on us, fortunately countered by Tenedos’s magicians before more than a handful of victims were stricken.

  The storm spells were cast again and again, and then it seemed they took on a life of their own. It was awesome to watch the dark bulk of the citadel against the night as winds screamed against it and lightning slashed from the skies, thunder rocking the valley.

  It was awesome — and harder on us in some ways than on those inside, for at least they had shelter. We had nothing but canvas, and the winds laughed at our tents and ripped them to shreds. The fields were sodden muck, and the fanners fled the wrath of the Numantians.

  One night was marked by bolt after bolt, and it seemed certain the fortress would be, must be, broken and shattered to the smallest stone as it stood against the night, its bulk sheathed with white light. But when the dawn mist blew away it still stood, seemingly untouched. Then someone noticed a narrow crack down one side. We tried to feel hopeful, but if that was the best Tenedos’s wizardry could produce it would be a very long siege.

  Two days later, Tenedos summoned me. He was not living under canvas, but had taken over a guildhall in the nearest town. I found him there, and was about to jest about how comfortable our leaders chose to live, but clamped my mouth shut, seeing how drawn and gray his features were. He looked far worse than any horseman or private, and I realized this war of spells was as exhausting on him as hand-to-hand fighting would be for me.

  I asked his health, and he said he was well, and then inquired as to mine, as to how Marán was doing, was she managing all right, and so forth. He took me into his own chamber, and told me to sit down while he made tea.

  He brewed a fragrant, warm concoction, and let it steep. I drew in the smell, and felt the long chill in my bones from living rough for so long dissipate a little. He poured me a cup, and offered a tin of sweets that must have just been sent him by Rasenna.

  I took one, just as a small alarm bell tinkled in my mind. I attempted to turn it into a joke, saying that, no doubt, with all this buildup I was about to be asked to do something completely insane, such as storm the fortress single-handed.

  “Just so, Damastes,” Tenedos said, and there was not an ounce of humor on his face or in his voice.

  “Sir?”

  “May I sit down?” This was unusual, my commander hardly needing my permission for anything. I nodded. He poured himself some of the tea, then let it sit and grow cold, ignored, while he considered his words.

  “Damastes, we must destroy Chardin Sher. There can be no truce, no surrender except unconditional, or he’ll try to usurp our rulers again.”

  “Of course.”

  “I do not know if the army can stand up to a long siege, quite frankly. We have no training, nor, with our new policies, the supply train that would allow us to keep Chardin Sher’s fortress invested. Nor do we have the engines for such a battle, and it would be several months to build or have them built and transported to the faraway area.

  “I know it is my army, and they obey me absolutely, but I fear if we just sit here the Rule of Ten will find a backbone somewhere, and begin meddling once more.”

  “We can hardly take that bastion by storm,” I pointed out.

  “No,” Tenedos a
greed. “Nor, although you did not hear it from me, will magic work. I have more power than Mikael Yanthlus, and with my magicians far greater strengths than he and his staff can ever produce. The problem is all he need do is defend, which takes less energy than to attack. The best my mightiest incantations could produce, and this was calling in debts owed creatures of other worlds, was that storm that managed to chip the citadel’s paint.

  “Pfah! I like this but little.”

  “So somehow I am going to be the solution to everyone’s problems,” I said.

  “I was serious, Damastes. Let me explain. There is something dark, something evil, about that fortress, as you know if you’ve heard anything of its history. I don’t know what it is exactly, but I have managed to contact this thing, this power, and woo it to do my bidding. You may not ask what its price is, but it is terrible, but not to be paid for some time to come, fortunately.

  “But this thing, force, demon, whatever it is, desired something else before it agreed to the bargain.

  “If it is to act as I wish against Chardin Sher, I must be willing to prove my sincerity, or maybe commitment is a better word.” Tenedos sat silently for a moment, then went on. “A certain service must be performed by someone I love, a service that could mean that person’s life, or the force will not grant my wish.”

  “So I’m to be a hostage?”

  “More. You must enter the fortress and, on the floor of its innermost courtyard, draw a symbol and pour a potion out Then the bargain is sealed.”

  “I assume I die in the process?”

  “Not necessarily,” Tenedos said, but he looked very unsure. “If you manage to make entrance, do what you’re required, you could well have time enough to escape if you’re not discovered.”

  “And what are the chances of that,” I said, feeling my guts cold within me. “As a matter of fact, how do I know that this demon or whatever it is will keep its bargain?”