by Andy Remic
NINE
Army North
Leanoric sat his charger on the hill just outside the ruins of Old Valantrium, and thought about his father. To the northeast, he could see the distant gleaming spires of Valantrium, one of Falanor’s richest, most awe-inspiring cities, constructed by the finest architects and builders in the land, its streets paved with marble painstakingly hewn from the Black Pike Mines in the south-west of the staggering and awe-inspiring mountain range.
What would your father do? he thought, and despair settled over him like a cloak.
Leanoric turned his charger, gazing west. He could just make out the gleaming cobbles of the Great North Road, which some called his finest creation. A single, wide avenue, it ran for nearly sixty leagues through hills and valleys, through forests and moorland, dissecting the country and linking Falanor’s capital city Vor in the south, with the major northern university city of Jalder. The Great North Road was an artery of trade and guaranteed protection, patrolled by Leanoric’s soldiers. It had been successful in banishing thieves, solitary highwaymen and outlaw brigands, sending them either further north into the savage inhospitable hell of the Black Pike Mountains, or south, across the seas to worry other lands.
What would your father do?
Leanoric rubbed his stubble, evidence of three days in the saddle, and turned his charger again, scanning for his own scouts due back from Old Skulkra and Corleth.
The rumour, delivered by an old merchant on a half-dead horse, had sent prickles of fear lacerating Leanoric’s spine and scalp.
Invasion!
Jalder, invaded!
Leanoric smiled, a bitter careful smile, and placed his Eagle Divisions in his mind; he had twin regiments of eight hundred men each camped on Corlath Moor, three days march from Jalder; he had a further battalion of four hundred men stationed at the Black Pike Mines at the west of the range, maybe a week’s march, longer if the coming snows were heavy. Further north, he had a brigade of sixteen hundred infantry near Old Skulkra, and close to them a division of five thousand led by the wily old Division General, Terrakon. And another brigade to the east of Valantrium Moor, on manoeuvres.
Within two weeks he could muster another four brigades from the south of Vor, and descend on Jalder with nearly twenty thousand men—the entire Army of Falanor. Twenty thousand heavily armed, battle-trained soldiers, infantry, cavalry, pikemen. But…but what if this was nothing more than the ravings of some drunken, insane old merchant? Some bastard high on blue karissia, frothing at mouth and veins, and with his speculative fear putting into action the slow mechanical wheels of an entire army’s mobilisation?
It had not escaped Leanoric that winter was coming, and thousands of soldiers were looking to return to their homesteads. Leanoric had already delayed leave by three days; every hour, he felt their frustration growing, accelerating. If he didn’t release his northern armies soon, they could become trapped by snow as the Great North Road became more and more impassable. Then, Leanoric risked insubordination, desertion, and worse.
Leanoric ground his teeth, sighed, and tried to relax.
If only his scouts would bring news!
It was a bad joke, nothing more, he told himself. The garrison at Jalder was more than able to cope with raiding brigands from the Black Pike Mountains; with outlaws, rogue Blacklippers and the occasional band of forest thugs.
Leanoric considered the old merchant, who even now was being tended by Leanoric’s physicians in his own royal tent. The man could no longer speak, his skin burned and peeling as if half cooked over a fire. Eyes wide, the man—they still had not established a name—had ridden in on a horse which promptly collapsed and died, ridden to death, iron-shoes down to the hoof, foam ripe on mouth and nostrils. The tortured merchant had babbled, incoherently at first, then delivered his news in fits and starts between wails for mercy and cries for the king to spare his life. It had been…Leanoric searched for a word…he sighed, and ran a hand through his short, curled golden hair. It had been distressing, he thought.
So. What would his father have done?
Leanoric considered the former king, dead now the last fifteen years. After a lifetime as Battle King, a warrior without peer, huge and fast and fearless, a man to walk the mountains with, a man with whom to hunt lions, Searlan, King of Falanor, at the age of fifty six had been thrown from his horse and broke his neck and lower spine. He’d hung on grimly for three days as specialist physicians and the skilled University Surgeon, Malen-sa, tended him; but eventually the life-light, the will to live, had faded from his eyes as his paralysed limbs lay limp, unmoving, and understanding sank as if through a sponge to penetrate his brain. He would never walk again, never ride a horse, never hunt, dance, make love, fight. In those last few days, as realisation dawned, Searlan had lost the will to live; and had died. The physicians said, eventually, after much consultation, that death had occurred through internal bleeding. Leanoric knew this to be untrue; it had been his own blade that pierced his father’s heart, at Searlan’s request, one stormy night as Leanoric sat by the bedside holding back tears.
“Son, I will never walk again.”
“You will, father,” said Leanoric, taking the old man’s hands.
“No. I understand my fate. I understand the reality of the situation; I have seen these injuries on the battlefield so many, many times. Now my turn has come.” He smiled, but the smile shifted to a wince, then a gritting of teeth as he fought the pain.
“Can you still not feel your toes?”
“I can feel my heart beating, and move my lips, but my fingers, my toes and my cock all remain out of my control.” He laughed again, although he struggled to perform even that simple function. “I am lucky I can still talk to you, my son. Lucky indeed.”
Leanoric squeezed his fingers, although there was no movement there, no return pressure.
“I love you, father.”
Searlan smiled. “You’ve been a good boy, Leanoric. You’ve made me proud, every single day of my life. From the moment the midwife brought you squealing from your mother’s cut womb, covered in blood and mucus, your tiny face scrunched up in a ball and your piss carving an arc across the room—to this moment, here and now, there has been nothing but joy.”
“There will be more joy,” said Leanoric. Tears filled his eyes. His throat hurt with unspent sorrow.
“No. My time in this world is done.”
“Let me fetch mother.”
“No!” The word was like a stinging slap, and stopped Leanoric as he rose from the stool. “No.” More gentle, this time. “I cannot say my farewell to her; it would break my heart, and hers too. It must be this way. It must be death in sleep.”
Leanoric stared hard into his father’s eyes.
“I cannot.”
“You will.”
“I cannot, father.”
“You will, boy. Because I love you, and you love me, and you know this is the thing that must be done. I would ruffle your hair, if I could; even that simple pleasure is denied me.”
“I cannot!” Now, he allowed tears to roll down his cheeks. Leanoric, rarely bested in battle, the son of the great Battle King who had led a charge against the Western Gradillians, suffering a short-sword blow to the head which cracked his skull allowing shards to poke free—and never uttered a whimper. Now, he allowed his fear and anguish to roll down cheeks from eyes far too unused to crying.
“Let it out, son,” said Searlan, kindly. “Never be afraid to cry. I know I used to tell you the opposite,” he coughed a laugh, “but I was making you strong, preparing your for kingship. You understand, boy, what I ask of you? It is not just for me; it is for all of you, and for Falanor. The land needs a strong king, a leader of men. Not a dribbling old fool in a chair, unable to wipe his arse, unable to ride into battle.”
Leanoric looked into his father’s eyes. He could find no words.
“Take the thin dagger, from the chest behind you. I have a wound, here on my chest, from fencing with El
ias a few days ago; by gods, that man is fast, he will be a Sword-Champion one day! I want you to pierce my heart, through the wound. Then plug it using cotton, don’t let blood spray anywhere. It will look like I died in my sleep; that my heart stopped beating.”
“I cannot do that to you, father. I cannot…” he tasted the word, “I cannot murder you.”
“Foolish pup!” he raged. “Have you not listened to a single word I said? Be strong, damn you, or I will get one of the serving maids to do it, if you have not the mettle.”
Leanoric stood, unable to speak, and took the dagger as instructed. He took a cotton cloth, and placed it over his father’s heart. Then, looking down into the old man’s eyes, he watched Searlan smile, and mouth the words, “Do it,” and he pressed down, his teeth grinding, his jaw locked, his muscles tensed as Searlan spasmed, gritted his teeth, and with a massive force of will did not cry out, did not weep, did not make any other sound than a whispered…“Thank you.”
Leanoric cleaned the blade, replaced it on the chest, cleaned his father’s wound using a sponge and water, and replaced the old bandage over Elias’s original sword strike. Then, slowly, his hands refusing to work properly, he pulled the covers back over Searlan’s body. Gently, he reached down and closed his father’s eyes, silently thanking him for being a hero, a great king—but most of all, the perfect father.
Now, sitting atop his charger with the weight of the country across his own bowed shoulders, Leanoric took a deep breath and wiped away a tear at the memory. I hope, he thought, I will have such courage at the time of my own death.
A horse galloped towards him. It was Elias, Sword-Champion of Falanor and Leanoric’s right-hand man, general, tactician and adviser. Elias saluted, and rode in close. “One of your scouts is approaching, yonder.”
“From Jalder?”
“No, he wears the livery of the Autumn Palace.”
“Alloria?” Leanoric frowned; it was rare Alloria troubled him when out with the army. She would only send a rider if there was…an emergency. Coldness and dread swept through him.
The horse, heavily lathered, ran into camp and Leanoric, with Elias close behind, spurred his mount towards the rider. Soldiers helped the rider dismount, and as the person practically fell from the saddle it was with shock they realised it was a woman, in a tattered, torn, bloodstained dress. She wore the livery colours of the Autumn Palace; but beneath that, she wore defeat and desolation.
“Gods, it’s Mary, Alloria’s maid!” She looked up, and dirt and despair were ingrained in her skin, and in her eyes. She saluted the king, and dropped to one knee, head bowed, weeping, although no tears flowed. The horror of past hours had bled her dry.
“King,” she said, words burbling, body shaking, “I bring bad news.”
Leanoric leapt from his horse, and turned to the nearest soldier. “Man, go and get a physician! And you man,” he pointed to another, “bring her water.” He rushed forward, caught Mary as she went to topple, and found himself cradling the pretty young woman, her face filthy, blood in her eyelashes.
“Who did this to you?”
“The soldiers came,” she sobbed, “oh, sire, it was terrible, and Alloria…”
The soldier returned with water, and Leanoric forced down his panic, despite the look in Mary’s eyes which made him falter, made a splinter of ice drive straight through his heart. In a strangled voice, he said, “Go on, Mary, what of Alloria?”
“Great king, there has been…an attack. On the Autumn Palace.”
“By the gods,” growled Elias.
“What of Alloria?” repeated Leanoric, voice quiet, a strange calm fluttering over his heart, his soul. He knew it could not be good. He knew, intrinsically, that his life was about to change for ever.
“She has been taken,” said Mary, averting her eyes, staring at the ground.
“By whom?”
“He had white, pale skin. Long white hair. Bright blue eyes that mocked us. He said he was part of the Army of Iron. He said his men had taken the garrison at Jalder…And…”
“Go on, woman!” Leanoric’s eyes were burning with fury.
“He has taken Alloria with him.”
“What was his name?” said Leanoric, voice emotionless.
“Graal. General Graal.”
Leanoric turned to Elias, but the man shook his head. He returned to the shivering form of Mary, and she glanced up at him, pain in her face, in her eyes, then looked away.
“There is more?” said Leanoric, softly.
“Yes. But for you alone. Can we go to your tent?”
Leanoric stood, picking up Mary in his arms and bearing her swiftly through the camp. Fires burned, and he could smell soup, and stew. Men were laughing, bantering, and leapt to their feet saluting at his rapid approach. He ignored them all.
Elias pulled back the tent flaps, and Leanoric laid Mary on a low bed of furs and silk. She coughed, and Elias closed the tent flaps, offering the woman another mug of water which she thankfully accepted.
“Can we speak in private?” said Mary.
Leanoric nodded, their eyes met, and Elias departed. Alone now, with shadows lengthening outside, Mary reached up to Leanoric, put her hand on his shoulder, her eyes haunted in a curious reversal, from subject to monarch, from young to old, from naive to wise.
“Did they hurt her?” snapped Leanoric. “Tell me! What did they do to her?”
Mary opened her mouth, and some tiny intuition made her close it again. What if, she wondered, Graal’s abuse of the queen made her a less than valuable commodity? Maybe, and as she looked into Leanoric’s eyes she felt a terrible guilt at her thoughts, but maybe if she told him the truth, told the king of the violent rape by General Graal, maybe he would not want her back at all. After all, it was only a few short years since Alloria’s betrayal…
“He…bit her,” said Mary, finally.
Leanoric stared at her, without understanding. “What do you mean? He bit her?”
“I know it sounds…strange. Metal teeth came out from his mouth, long metal teeth, and he bit Alloria in the throat and drank her blood.” Mary closed her mouth, confused now, aware she sounded like a mad woman. She risked a glance at Leanoric. “Graal said he had taken Jalder, he had taken Jangir, and would march on the capital, on Vor. He said if you stood in his way, he would kill Alloria.”
“Do you know where he has taken her?” Leanoric’s voice was frighteningly soft.
“Yes. She has been sent to a place called Silva Valley, in the heart of the Black Pike Mountains. Graal said it was the home of the Army of Iron. What are you going to do, Leanoric? Will you rescue Alloria? Will you stand against this man who drinks blood?”
Leanoric stood, and turned his back on Mary, his soul cold. He opened the tent flap, ushered in a physician and stepped out into fast-falling dusk. Around the camp laughter still fluttered, and Leanoric had a terrible premonition. Soon, there would be little to laugh about.
“What is it?” said Elias, stepping close.
“Walk with me.”
They strode through the camp, past the outlying ruins of Old Valantrium and up a nearby hill on which a beacon fire had been lit. Leanoric pushed a fast pace, and reaching the top, he finally turned to Elias, his face streaked with sweat, his eyes hard now as events tumbled around him, fluttering like ashes, and he set a rigid course through his confused mind. He knew what he had to do.
Jangir had a garrison brigade posting of sixteen hundred men. If Mary was right, if it had been taken…and if Graal had infiltrated as far as the Autumn Palace, and therefore had men in Vorgeth Forest, and could even now be marching with his army on Vorgeth, Fawkrin, or further east to Skulkra and Old Skulkra…Leanoric’s mind spun.
How could he not know?
How could he not realise his country was under attack? Infested, even.
“What are we going to do?” said Elias.
Leanoric gave a grim smile that had nothing to do with humour. He pulled on his battle-greaves. In a vo
ice resonant of his father, he said, “Old friend, we are going to war.”
Standing there, as the sky streaked with red and violet, as he watched his world, his country, his beloved Falanor die under a blanket of darkness, Leanoric outlined his plan to his general, and his friend.
“These bastards have come from the north, taken Jalder, and taken Jangir. So their forces amass to the west of the Great North Road, somewhere around Corleth Moor, maybe Northern Vorgeth; this makes sense, these damn places are desolate, haunted, and people try not to go there because of the twisted history of Jangir Field. A good place to hide an army, is what I’m thinking.”
“What then?”
“I have a brigade at Gollothrim, and a division here at Valantrium. We can pull our battalion down from the Black Pike Mines, and we have a brigade near Old Skulkra. If we can surround the bastards, hit them from each flank and make sure the Black Pike infantry emerge from the north…well, we can rout them, Elias. They’ll think the whole damn world has descended on them.”
“We need more information,” said Elias, warily. “The size of the enemy force. Exact locations. Does this Graal have heavy cavalry, spears, archers? Are his men disciplined, and do they bring siege weapons?”
“There is little time, Elias. If we don’t act immediately I guarantee we will be too late. This Graal is a snake; he is striking hard and fast, and taking no prisoners. We did not see him coming. It is a perfect invasion.”
“Still, I advise despatching scouts. Three to each camp with your plans following separate routes, in case any rider is captured; we can code the messages, and pick hardy men for the task. I’ll also arrange for local spies to scour Corleth Moor; we can send message by pigeon. I have a trusted network in the north.”