Hunt for Valamon

by Mok, DK

  “Where are the perimeter guards?” demanded Falon. “Where’s the core defence? There’s nothing between here and the edge of the city!”

  King Delmar and his chorus of advisors filled the room like gargoyles, silent and impassive.

  “Your Highness, how did your negotiations go?” said Duke Rassar dryly.

  Falon turned to the king.

  “Your Majesty, I think there are factions within the enemy alliance. If their army splinters, we can defeat them with a series of brief, targeted strikes, retreating back to the fort between—”

  “We will wait for reinforcements from Horizon’s Gate,” said King Delmar.

  “Your Majesty, the city—”

  “Will understand,” said King Delmar. “This fort has withstood countless sieges, and within its walls our enemy cannot touch us. However, if we allow our army to be lured out, our reinforcements may not be sufficient to comprehensively overwhelm the enemy. One city is a small price to pay for the fate of our empire.”

  For reasons of childish convenience, Falon had always referred to an abstract diagram in his head that depicted Valamon standing on one side of a chasm, and Falon, King Delmar, and Queen Nalan standing on the other. This diagram was vaguely labelled “Suitability to Rule”.

  In this moment, standing beneath the creaking chandeliers of the grand hall, surrounded by rows of faces that seemed suddenly alien to Falon, the diagram in his head was abruptly replaced by an image of Falon standing on one side of a vast, yawning chasm, with King Delmar on the other. This diagram did not yet have a label, but Falon had a feeling he’d know it shortly.

  He had the surreal sense that, although his father stood mere feet away, he was actually looking at him from a great and growing distance. A forceful silence enveloped the hall, and Falon looked at King Delmar with calm conviction.

  “Protect them, and they will rise to defend you,” said Falon. “Show cruelty, and they will tear you down. The people out there—our people—will not remember how sensible our strategy was. Every single person out there who loses a parent, brother, lover, or child will remember that our doors remained shut while the city was massacred. That is what they will remember.”

  Falon looked around the room, committing every face, every expression to memory before striding from the hall. The time for talking was over. Now was the time for shouting.

  He rode swiftly to the barracks, where many of the soldiers had already gathered in loose, uncertain groups across the sprawling yard. They could hear the screams echoing over the walls, but no one had called them, no commands had been given. There was a ripple through the crowd as Falon rode into the yard—a mixture of relief and apprehension.

  Falon wheeled his horse before the mass of soldiers, his eyes blazing in the torchlight.

  “Our city is under attack,” said Falon. “Our reinforcements are days away, so I call for volunteers to join me in an advance defence. Who follows me?”

  There was a spirited roar of “Aye!” from the soldiers.

  Falon looked across the sea of faces grimly.

  “This is not a war chant,” said Falon. “This is not a general affirmation. This is not a team-building exercise. When I ask you this tonight, I speak literally. Which of you would follow me into battle, into war, into hell? Who would follow me to death and dishonour, to suffering and shame, to execution and exile? Who follows me against the wishes of the king himself? Which of you would follow me then? And so I ask again, who follows me?”

  A deafening roar of “Aye!” thundered through the yard, and on the far edges of the city enemy soldiers paused at the sound that carried across the night.

  For some of the soldiers in the yard, they responded out of love for their country and the knowledge that theirs was the honourable path. For others, it was out of the reassuring impression that Falon always seemed to know what he was doing. But for most of them, it was out of the fervent belief that if you said “Nay!” or mumbled half-heartedly, you’d bloody better not be here when he got back. And he would be back.

  As the silver wedge of moon rose into a clear night sky, three thousand Talgaran soldiers rode through the gates of Algaris Fort, the drawbridge slamming tightly shut behind them.

  Maybe I’ll never be king, thought Falon as he rode out into the seething city. But right now, who gives a damn?

  SEVENTEEN

  The camp surged and pulsed like an amoeboid entity, and Haska rode fiercely around its edges.

  “Hold your ground!” roared Haska. “You swore yourself to this alliance; so help me gods, the next commander who breaks formation answers to me!”

  Haska turned Ciel around before the Dorset battalion, the silver-helmed general facing her gravely.

  “We wait no longer,” said the Dorset general. “Stay if you wish, but the Dorset will not sacrifice our one chance at victory.”

  “If we fracture, we fall,” growled Haska. “So I say again, General, hold your position.”

  The Dorset general slid his faceplate shut and rode towards the perimeter, his troops marching to follow. Haska suddenly charged, and what happened next would become a matter of some debate, but the end result was the Dorset general lying unconscious on the churned earth, his leg at an unpleasant angle.

  “A disciplined army is no place for rogue action.” Haska gave each silver-helmed soldier the distinct impression that she was taking specific note of them. “Divided, we fell before. That will not happen again. Do I make myself clear?”

  The soldiers looked at the motionless form of their general. Certainly, they greatly outnumbered her, and they couldn’t really understand why they weren’t attacking the enemy. However, she was the Half-Faced Lord, and her horse was giving them really bad vibes, and there were an awful lot of archers standing behind her.

  “Wylen, shoot the next soldier who breaks formation,” said Haska.

  “Yes, Lord Haska,” said Wylen, nocking an arrow in her bow.

  There was a loud snick as fifty other archers did the same. Haska headed towards the next battalion, and Barrat’s horse fell into a trot beside her.

  “How many is that?” said Barrat.

  “Four generals, two commanders, a captain, three colonels, and one of those guys with the ringlets.”

  “The infirmary will be busy.”

  “Not as busy as if we’d let them go.”

  The formations were reluctantly oozing back into shape, minus a few gaps where Jaral’s soldiers had been.

  “The Talgaran reinforcements arrive in just over a day,” said Barrat.

  Haska was silent, the campfires glowing dully on her mask.

  “What are you fighting for, General?” said Haska.

  It was the first time Haska had seen Barrat caught off-guard, but he recovered quickly.

  “With all due respect, Lord Haska, a privilege of my position is not having to answer that question.”

  “As long as you know the answer,” said Haska.

  She gazed across the fields and farmland, to the threads of smoke rising from Algaris.

  “We hate and rage and fight for so long that we forget what we’re really fighting for,” she said. “And when we forget that, we become less than what we should be.”

  It had taken her until now, until here at the edge of Algaris, to realise how close she had come to losing herself. How very nearly she’d become what she thought she needed to be—a creature that had no place beyond war, a thing without hope of redemption.

  “Hold formation,” said Haska. “If at dawn the Talgaran flag remains at full mast, launch the attack. Military targets only. Tell Lady Amoriel she has my deepest gratitude for her assistance. As do you, General Barrat.”

  Barrat’s expression was like thousand-year-old granite. Unhappy thousand-year-old granite.

  “You’re going into Algaris on your own?” said Barrat.

  “I know. A highly inadvisable tactical manoeuvre. I suppose you can give a Fey a title, an army, and all the military advice you like, but in
the end, she’s still a Fey.”

  Haska rode towards the capital, gliding through the waving grass.

  “Delmar’s reign ends tonight, General,” she said. “If I’m not back by dawn, watch for the flag.”

  Haska didn’t look back as she galloped across the dark green fields, a sense of clear purpose cutting through the mess of emotions. It was common for daughters to ignore the advice of their mothers, even if that mother was a war hero and rebel leader. It was perhaps because of this that Ilis del Fey had etched a single character on the hilt of her sword.

  Every time you draw this sword, remember what you’re fighting for, so you know who you should be fighting and when to stop.

  Haska had always thought it an overly sentimental lecture, but now, riding to meet her father’s executioner, the slayer of her people, the man who had obliterated her homeland, she finally understood what her mother meant.

  She was fighting for her people’s future, not their past.

  Haska closed her hand over the single word carved in the steel.

  Love.

  Elhan watched the blood slowly clot beneath Seris’s fingers, and it was like watching a puddle evaporate on a cloudy day. She turned at the sound of claws clattering across the cobbles, and a sharp-toothed man lunged towards her, dressed in animal skins with the heads still attached. Elhan sent him flying over several rooftops before turning back to Seris, who remained kneeling beside a young man in a baker’s tunic.

  Seris drew back with a gasp, and the disoriented baker sat up woozily, patting the spot on his stomach where, moments ago, he could see his insides.

  Seris struggled to his feet and moved to the next prone figure on the street, placing his hands over the gash on the woman’s neck.

  A wave of startled yelling surged across the city, and Elhan saw a tide of red tunics on horseback charging down the street and into the fray. Swords and shields clashed amid a storm of arrows, and there may have been a bugle blast, which ended unfortunately abruptly for the bugler.

  Seris knelt obliviously in the gutter, his robes soaked in blood, his arms red to the elbows. His skin was a disturbing shade of white, and his hands were starting to shake. But still he moved from person to person, body to body, as though it mattered. As though it mattered more than his own survival.

  Elhan grabbed a sword as it swung for Seris, yanking the rider off his horse and throwing him under a passing set of hooves.

  “Seris,” said Elhan, “is this your plan, because it’s got great big holes in it, and so will you. No one likes a dead cleric.”

  He didn’t look up, gently pushing a bone back beneath the flesh.

  “This is what I do.”

  “Get yourself dramatically killed?” said Elhan. “They’re all going to be dead tomorrow anyway.”

  Seris helped the whimpering child to her feet, and then turned to Elhan, streaks of blood on his face and through his hair. His eyes were as hard as the rocks that occasionally fell from the sky and left impact craters the size of paddy fields.

  “It’s called a purpose,” said Seris. “A compass that guides your steps, through all the fear and fury and uncertainty of life. You’ve never stayed still long enough to find that purpose, Elhan. You’ve never wondered why you’re here. You’ve never tried to find meaning in this life you’ve been given. Did you ever try to find Olrios? How hard did you really try to break the curse, Elhan? Or did you think that, as long as you kept running, it would never touch you, only those left in its wake?”

  Elhan stared into Seris’s eyes, and suddenly, in that moment, she felt as though all the high, wide walls she’d built around herself had shattered into dust.

  She could feel something rising through the mess of feelings thrashing inside her, something calm and powerful, something old and forgotten. She could hear music—blood and laughter entwined like a half-remembered song.

  There was the briefest flash of silence, and a shadow seemed to loom from within Elhan, falling across the city.

  “I know why I’m here,” said Elhan, and her voice was deep and resonant.

  She looked across the jagged rooftops, to the Talgaran banner snapping at the summit of Algaris Castle, against a backdrop of smoke and fire.

  “Elhan?” said Seris, suddenly aware that something Very Bad was happening.

  “’Til curse is broken by the heart,” said Elhan. “It’s not an action. It’s a place.”

  Cold washed over Seris as he pushed himself quickly to his feet.

  “Elhan, I didn’t—”

  She turned to Seris, her eyes glowing with a thousand tiny reflections.

  “The heart is where it ends. With him.”

  “Elhan!”

  Seris reached for her, but she was already gone, vanishing into the darkness like a streak of fire.

  As far as negotiations went, Valamon had to say it was pretty dismal. He was fairly certain he’d just been disowned, and Falon could be pretty stubborn about things like that. It also looked as though Haska had decided to attack Algaris anyway, which meant he could probably expect an execution-related welcome, but Valamon still hoped that the situation could be salvaged. He was a firm believer in the fact that things could always get worse, and he was going to do everything possible to make sure that they didn’t.

  Rows of archers lined the perimeter of Haska’s camp, although, oddly, they were aiming at the soldiers inside the encampment. Valamon felt it was best not to draw attention to himself by asking awkward questions, and instead rode discreetly through the boiling mass of disgruntled soldiers towards the sound of Barrat yelling commands.

  “General,” said Valamon.

  Barrat cut an imposing figure at the best of times, but astride his grey mare, which stood over eight feet tall, he was a behemoth. Barrat looked at Valamon with an expression similar to the one he had worn upon first meeting the prince.

  “Didn’t think you were coming back,” said Barrat, his tone suggesting that Valamon’s return was more of an inconvenience than anything else.

  “Sorry. I did have to ride through several thousand Goethos soldiers to get here. Not to mention a Teset battalion and a company of mountain clans. I suppose you did notice they were missing?”

  “And I suppose you have noticed the Talgarans haven’t surrendered?”

  “Lord Haska gave me three hours,” said Valamon coldly. “They rode after two. That was not the agreement.”

  “Welcome to politics. You may as well go home, prince of Talgaran. War breaks at dawn, and you deserve to fight alongside your people.”

  “I’d prefer to save them, thanks all the same. Where’s Lord Haska?”

  “Trying to be her mother,” said Barrat grimly.

  Valamon paused.

  “Is her mother dead, by any chance?”

  Barrat turned his horse away, pushing through the bobbing sea of armour.

  “General!” called Valamon. “It’s not too late to stop it.”

  Barrat didn’t turn around.

  “Do you know much about Giral ants, Your Highness?” said Barrat.

  “Giral ants?”

  Valamon didn’t think it was an appropriate time for cryptic metaphors. However, he reached into his reservoirs of half-remembered geography lessons, where his greatest skill had been dodging things thrown at him by scholars frustrated by his blank expression.

  Giral ants, common in the southwest Adzil region. Colonies of ants often went to war over resources and territory. Giral ants were known for tunnelling into enemy nests and sending a lone soldier ant to assassinate the quee—

  Valamon quickly filled in the blanks.

  Lord Haska. On her own. Algaris. The king—

  Valamon leaned hard into the wind as his horse pounded out of the humid camp and into the slick, open fields, the night blurring around him.

  Gods, this was going to be messy.

  Elhan had no idea that so many clichés were true. It was as though a veil had been lifted. Her eyes had been opened. It was like
sunshine after the rain had gone. When this was all over, she’d have to tell Seris how everything made sense now. She had a purpose.

  She was the one who was going to fix everything.

  As she ran through the city, she could feel the power welling up inside her, as though the streets were tributaries flowing into her veins. She could feel the crackle of energy lifting from the stones, from the air, from the people, all weaving to her will, just like Seris did with Eliantora’s sorcery. But Elhan’s was better, bigger, stronger. Hers wasn’t going to make a graze scab over. Hers was going to rip the skin off the world and give it a brand-new face.

  Elhan could see the curtain walls of Algaris Fort looming ahead, and arrows pinged around her, each missing by a mile. Tunics and armour, red and black, surged around her, swords swinging, hooves kicking, but all she heard were the snap of bones and the broken screams, and her hands were warm and wet, but that didn’t matter.

  She could remember a time when she hadn’t even needed to use her hands. All she’d had to do was think it.

  Elhan stopped at the massive stone walls—twenty feet thick and sixty feet high. Those walls had withstood sieges, wars, fire, and flood, but they wouldn’t withstand the Kali-Adelsa.

  The ground rumbled beneath her feet, and unseen currents buffeted her. There was a noise like the earth itself was screaming, and a chasm opened up in the ground, snaking through the city towards the heart of the capital. Like a bolt of black lightning, the chasm struck the towering walls, and with a deafening crack, a gaping tear was riven in the stone. For the first time in history, Algaris Fort had been breached.

  “Hello, world,” said Elhan, stepping through the newly torn archway.

  In some ways, it had been a very long night, and in others, it had been surprisingly brief. But in the end, it was a night like any other, and there’d be many more like it.

  “Check your supplies!” bellowed Barrat. “Once we leave the camp, we’re not coming back!”

  The camp filled with the clatter of soldiers checking and rechecking their weapons, adjusting their armour, murmuring last prayers. There was a familiar rustle of silk, and Barrat reluctantly turned around.