Nightlord: Shadows

by Garon Whited

  The one that wants me dead—at least, as far as the hired help knows—is the Prince of Byrne, doing business as the King of Rethven. The thugs are aware that they could have been deceived, but I have to ask myself why anyone would bother. If all went well, there would be no problem. If things didn’t go well, they were likely to be killed on the spot. Surviving to be interrogated—or “squeezed,” as Tort put it—was quite unlikely.

  Still, another tally mark for the Prince of Byrne. I may have to see what he’s up to, just for my own peace of mind.

  I’ve also relocated the Royal Forges and my cadet knights to Karvalen. They’ve packed up their families and moved into the mountain without a single qualm about it being haunted. When His Majesty the Demon-Slaying Hero and Lord of Night says he took care of the haunting, that seems to settle the matter. They’ve picked out their quarters and everyone seems more than a little pleased in almost every respect.

  Almost, anyway. They seem a little put off by the large, steaming baths; very much a holdover from Zirafel, these bath-caverns. Not something they really go for in Mochara or Rethven. It’s taking some getting used to. So far, they’ve simply segregated two caverns, one for women, one for men. I’m not arguing; they’ll sort it out for themselves.

  Kavel has also moved right in. The mountain has caverns apparently made to be forges. He’s quite pleased and has already set up shop, complete with new blower and everything. He likes the stone molds for swords, axes, and other flatware; it speeds up the process of forging the things, somehow.

  And, having mentioned it, I recall how it helps. Lots of weaponsmiths in Zirafel. Their chief export was Civilization. It was pricey, but the barbarians paid in blood.

  I also remember what those pagoda-like pillars on the top of the mountain are for. They’re chimneys, vents. Wind causes an updraft, sucking air up from inside the mountain. The heart of the mountain heats air, pushing it upward, but these are on the other end of that process, pulling air out. Very helpful, actually, once we got a forge lit. Smoke goes straight out.

  Charcoal. We need charcoal. Lots of it. I’ve spent a lot of time and effort in making the forge as efficient as possible—heat reflection, thermal radiation adjustments, heat-transfer recycling, the works—but we have to burn something, and wood has so many impurities…

  Fortunately, we have a guy who makes charcoal professionally. I picked his brains on how it’s made, had the mountain build him a charcoaling facility, and brought him a couple of tons of trees.

  I mentioned that to Timon, in Mochara. He didn’t have that many seedling trees on hand. I’ve got him doing nothing else for the next little while, and I’ve planted all his current seedlings. As soon as we have more ready, I’ll plant those, too.

  I’m an ecologically-minded “green” vampire. Said like that, it sounds silly, if not stupid. But I don’t feel silly for planning generations in advance. Immortality problems, remember?

  The mountain, helpful soul that it is, has also provided an internal gymnasium with all sorts of fixtures—ladders, balance beams, a wall-climb, a swimming pool, and so on—and I’ve been thinking up new wrinkles. I’ve added a rope-climb, marked out a running track—my, but they do despise running; I can’t say I blame them—and other elements of an obstacle course. I’ve spent a while reviewing every war movie I could think of, looking for tortures… I mean, “training.”

  One of their new exercises is a balance thing. Some large logs have been cut into two-foot sections. These are stripped and smoothed so they roll well. We put three or four in a row, so they can all roll, one after the other. A good kick to the nearest one sends them all rolling along the floor. The objective is to kick them, then run along the tops of the rolling logs until you get in front of them all.

  They do it in armor. It helps avoid broken bones, but not twisted ankles. Win some, lose some.

  Cadets also help with plowing. Farmers get to use horses with the multi-bladed plow; the cadets get to haul a regular plow as a team. The horses get hitched up for the duration; the cadets get to rotate, since they can’t all pull at once.

  I put a guy named Paddew on the plow for steering. He’s probably the smallest man on the field. He wasn’t a knight when I woke up; he was a farmer. He wanted to be a knight, though, and joined in when trials started. He’s not the strongest, nor the fastest, and definitely not a swordsman; his best martial skills are with staff and spear.

  What he really has going for him is enough heart for a herd of horses and the wolf pack chasing them. He ran with us, climbed with us, hauled with us… if he ever gets into a real fight, the enemy will have to do more than behead him; they’ll have to dismember him. Even then, the hands might crab their way forward to attack. He just doesn’t stop. He impresses me.

  He makes me think of a guy I knew, back home. He was barely passed the initial physical because of his height and weight; he was awfully short and skinny. But he passed and came back from boot camp because he gave everything he had to anything they told him to do. Up a rope? He attacked the rope. Cross a river? He parted it. Fight someone with the padded staff? It was a fight to the death.

  Yes, Paddew reminds me of him. What was his name? It’s in the pile of memories somewhere, I’m sure.

  Paddew wasn’t happy about having to steer, but I pointed out two things: First, it was an order, and second, he was the only one who knew how. Anyone else—everyone else—might swing a sword better, but this was something he alone knew how to do. He seems ambivalent about it, but the chance to be the most skilled person on the field—and vital—really helps his morale.

  Interesting note. They seemed less than enthusiastic when I announced this new team- and muscle-building exercise. Then I looped the leather straps over my own shoulders, took the lead position, and started dragging a plow through the dirt. There weren’t any fistfights about who got the second-man spot on the rope, but it was a close thing.

  What was it Patton said about an army being something like spaghetti? You can’t push it, you have to pull it? I think he meant something about leading from the front. It seems to be working. This isn’t about getting any actual plowing done. It’s about working together as a team, which is something they need work on. Well, teamwork and cardio.

  There was some laughter from spectators. I invited them to come try it. The laughter went away.

  I spent that day pulling a plow with them while Bronze watched. Bronze is amused.

  Bronze and I have also gone through the Eastrange, scouting out the route from Mochara to Baret. Most of it is something a man can walk along, albeit with some difficulty. A few places were so steep they required Bronze to kick a foothold into a mountainside with every step. In theory, an army could go that route, but only in single file, and at a crawling pace. At least, until it came to either of two nasty gorges. Then they’d have to climb down, avoid being smashed and drowned by waves on rocks, and then climb back up.

  I think we could build stairs down one side and up the other for each gorge, but that would shoot down the idea of carts and wagons. It wouldn’t be a road, it would be a footpath. At least, I wouldn’t call it a road; Rethven roads barely deserve the name. We’ll just have to build bridges.

  That might be easier than I thought.

  I asked the mountain about the canals and their attendant roads. It’s started extending a new road from the end of the southern canal, heading westward. After two days of work, it’s managed to… how do I put this? The seaside wall of Mochara is made of stones, stacked and mortared together. Well, it was. Now, it’s all one solid piece of stone as the mountain has… incorporated? Subsumed? Merged with?

  At any rate, it’s all one big rock, now, and a narrow strip of rock seems to be oozing westward, widening gradually as the leading edge progresses. It seems slower, now, as it moves along the ground instead of through the stone of the wall. Does it matter whether it’s moving through stone or soil?

  I plan to get a wagonload of gravel and lay a line of it down for t
he mountain to follow, just to see if that speeds up progress. If not, it’ll be weeks before the road reaches the Eastrange. But if the mountain can grow a road, it can grow bridges. That’s my hope, anyway.

  I spent more than one night with the mountain, trying to be sure it understands about bridges. I really hope this works.

  I was expecting Bob to visit me today. He didn’t make it during the day, which wasn’t terribly surprising, so I was on my covered patio-terrace-balcony-thing as soon as sunset stopped prickling. I looked north and west, expecting to see him and his escorts.

  Well, if Bob was in that bunch, he was certainly taking his security seriously. They were streaming out of the tunnel behind the waterfall, running to catch up with the guys in the lead. My current estimate put them at two thousand, give or take, with more still pouring out and no signs the flood might let up. It looked as though they were grouped in company-sized packets—maybe two hundred infantry apiece—each led by a mounted officer, an elf. These ten or so lead companies were entirely orku, with a few ogres attached to them.

  Their equipment was interesting. Their armor was higher in quality than I recalled, both in design and in materials. It seemed to consist mostly of brigandine and chainmail. They were all armed pretty much identically—one-handed axes with a pick on the back of the head, like cross between a military pick and a battleaxe, or a shortened guisarme-voulge—and carried metal body shields. Auxiliary weapons had some variety, but usually included a sling.

  The ogres were also armored, but had no shields. Instead, they carried tree-trunk clubs appropriate to their size, currently slung over their backs to leave their hands free. Twenty-four of them—four groups of six—hustled along, each group carrying an iron-capped ram.

  Behind this vanguard, streaming out of the tunnel, were galgar, all dressed in lighter armor and carrying small crossbows and big knives, hustling to catch up. Even farther behind, there were companies of mixed races, more militia than army. And they still kept coming out.

  I watched for a while. At a steady jog, they finally dumped about twelve thousand troops onto the road. They didn’t pause to regroup, just streamed east at their best speed, not waiting on the stragglers.

  In all of that, there was no sign of Bob; and with my eyes, at night, I would have picked him out, no problem.

  That’s no escort. That’s an invasion force.

  Next on my list, I thought, is to get Kavel to make some big, loud alarm bells.

  I settled for casting a mental sending spell to everyone in the mountain: Wake up! We may be attacked within the hour! Get up! Get dressed! To arms!

  Having done that, I then thought about Firebrand and assembled a spell. Much like a location spell, it would range outward until it hit the target, but I didn’t need it to be strong enough to echo back the location. I just needed it to make contact at all.

  I pumped power into it, aimed it generally northward along the Eastrange, and chucked it as hard as I could.

  FIREBRAND!

  Contact! Shock, surprise, pleasure.

  Boss! You’re awake! About time! Where are—

  And a sizzling crackle threw mental sparks all along our connection. The connection dropped like a cell phone down a mineshaft.

  That wasn’t a lack of signal. That was interference.

  All right, second choice. I cranked up my communication spell again and focused on Bob, this time.

  BOB!

  Crackling. Interference. Someone was using the magical equivalent of active jamming.

  I looked westward at the oncoming horde.

  It was a good thing I was already dead; I didn’t have to fear for my life. All I had to fear for was the lives of everyone in the city. And my corporeal existence, but I’m kind of used to that.

  At least I know there’s an afterlife.

  I looked again at the horde. I wasn’t comforted.

  After a brief discussion with my personal guards and Kelvin, we decided that holding the city was impossible. We just didn’t have enough people to man the walls. If the invaders were smart, they would simply surround the place and attack from all sides at once. That would overrun us in less than an hour.

  As cities go, it’s a tough nut to crack. If you can’t defend it, though, any fortification is just a bunch of rocks to climb.

  “If we don’t defend the city,” Kammen asked, “what do we do? Defend the inner wall?”

  “I’m thinking that, yes,” I said. “We have enough people for that, and we can make getting those rams up to the gate a serious problem. Unfortunately, the rams are small enough they can actually use them on that little piece of road in front of the gate.” I added, “I’ll be redesigning that.”

  “We are not well-supplied with arrows,” Kelvin pointed out. “We are not well-supplied in any respect, I should say. It is a magnificent fortress, but it is garrisoned as an outpost, no more. We have barely taken the city; we do not have a firm hold on it.”

  “We could retreat to Mochara,” I suggested. Kelvin nodded, thoughtfully.

  “As much as it pains me to give ground to an enemy, I fear I must agree. Although they might pursue us,” he said, “I think it more likely they would occupy the mountain.”

  There was some spirited debate about that. Nobody liked the idea of retreating—running—from the oncoming horde. On the other hand, nobody liked the idea of making an heroic last stand, either. Or, rather, they liked the idea of an heroic last stand, dying at the very last after building a mountain of corpses, but were open to other suggestions.

  I already knew what I was going to do, but it helps to let them work around to the only feasible solution themselves.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” I said. They quieted and listened. “You four know me well enough to answer this question. Do I give orders a lot? Or do I usually make requests?”

  They agreed that I usually asked, rather than commanded.

  “We take them as orders,” Seldar pointed out.

  “You are the King,” Torvil added.

  “And I appreciate your loyalty in that regard. Now, when I do give a direct order, what does that mean?”

  “Since Your Majesty makes an issue of it,” Kelvin said, “I presume it means you want it obeyed, without argument, without question, and without hesitation.” The other three nodded agreement.

  “Good. I now order you to gather up everyone in the mountain, take all the horses, and escape in the longboat. You are charged with saving the civilians’ lives.”

  They looked as though it was physically painful, but they clenched their teeth and saluted. I dropped my illusions so that I reverted to my nighttime coloration. They’ve seen it before, but they still shudder with something like fear every time.

  “And,” I added, smiling, deliberately showing a lot of very sharp teeth, “I’ll take care of the army.”

  There were a lot of arrangements to be made, but we worked quickly. The civilians fit on the canal boat; the draft horses hauled it down the southern canal. The knights either rode in the boat or rode their horses, depending on whether or not they had a horse. It was a tight squeeze to get everyone headed south, but we managed. The group headed off at about the speed of a fast walk, but they had a head start and could keep going like that indefinitely, or until they reached Mochara.

  While everyone evacuated, I took a moment to give the mountain some orders. Rather than take the time to merge with the stone and discuss things, I built a spell structure, put my commands into it, and had the spell play that back for the mountain at geological speeds. Close off the air vents in the great hall. Shrink the internal corridors, both in height and width. Put a ridge along the walls, next to the pivot-doors, so they only open one way. Adjust the pivot-doors themselves; tilt the pivot axis just a trifle, and make them ever so slightly out of balance so they gradually swing shut on their own.

  With that done, I double-checked my armor, defensive spells, and guts. All seemed in good order, aside from that terrified little spot somewh
ere around my stomach, so I mounted up on Bronze.

  The canal road on the south side of the western canal dead-ends in a rock wall in the Eastrange. The army was therefore marching along the north side. That meant to get to the main bridge across the lake-moat, they either had to ford the canal or cross at the canal-bridge. While orku, elves, and ogres could do it without too much trouble, galgar and any of the shorter races would have to be assisted. I was pretty sure horses—normal horses—wouldn’t manage it easily or quickly, if they could do it at all.

  I picked my spot at the highest point of the arched bridge over the western canal. I worked on my defensive spells while Bronze walked us out there. I raised a deflection spell, because the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and hostile people bother me. I also wrapped Bronze and myself in my gravity-warping spell and took the time to tighten it down to about fifty percent of normal gravity. When we ran—I certainly planned to run—I hoped we could pound over the lake-bridge and simply jump over the wall.

  The outer wall needs more gates. Mental note.

  I drew my sword and held it across my lap. Everything was going to go just fine. Everything. I kept telling myself that, all the while being thankful my palms don’t sweat when I’m dead.

  Then we waited. We were both tense, but Bronze felt a little eager. Well… maybe I had a little anticipation, myself. I don’t like fighting; I just do it when I have to.

  Or do I? Taking stock, I have to wonder… Am I actually starting to enjoy this? Me, the untenured professor and computer programmer? When did that start? Does it come with being a human-hunter? Or with being a king? Or is it just part of human nature, brought out and to the fore? Or all those lives I’ve swallowed from cultures that regard killing someone as an acceptable solution?