Shadow Of The Mountain

by D. A. Stone

  “Furious at the loss of her eggs, Kra-and went on a murderous rampage like never before. Hundreds lost their lives and the small Danaki army was powerless to stop her. The mystics, however, had ideas of their own.

  “For months they examined the egg. They touched it, feeling its power and magic surging through them. Spending so much time with it, the mystics were affected by its magic. They suffered terrible hallucinations in their sleep as Kra-and’s egg poisoned their minds.”

  “How could an egg poison someone?” Tenlon remembered wondering. “It hadn’t even hatched yet.”

  “Dragons were creatures of this realm long before man. Some say they can read minds and control our bodies, if they so choose. The main point of the story is that even before it is hatched, an egg still possesses a dragon. And since it already had a proclivity towards violence from its mother, the egg was set to be a vile creature, yet still it wanted more,” the man paused. “Do you know what proclivity means?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course you do. So, it wanted more power, more strength. It wanted to be greater than its mother.”

  “What did the egg want?” Tenlon asked.

  “It wanted to fly…”

  Tenlon awoke beside Graille, not sure what had happened. He hadn’t been sleeping much on the march and seeing Draxakis fall must have triggered something inside him. He’d passed out from stress and exhaustion. The dream was something from his youth, but already it was slipping away like figures through the fog. Looking around, he saw the rest of his class scattered across the hillside beneath the wide storm cloud that formed earlier in the day. Graille told him Paktorian and the twenty apprentices had never returned.

  It seemed that after the Amorian fleet was routed, there was a lull in the battle. Tenlon couldn’t understand it, for the day was lost.

  The flats whispered the sounds of death in their ears, moaning and screaming beneath a rumbling, lightning-forked sky. Tenlon tried to shut out all the terrible sounds from his mind, but the act was impossible. He just sat there and stared at the ground, his mind buzzing and blank, lost. Hours passed. He knew not how long.

  “Tenlon.” A portly apprentice was tugging at his sleeve.

  He lifted his head up.

  “What is it, Forgan?”

  “Soldiers are looking for you.”

  The boy nodded in the direction of two green-clad warriors walking through the hillside, speaking to sitting apprentices. One apprentice pointed in Tenlon’s direction, and the warriors began to make their way towards him.

  “How do you know they’re looking for me?” questioned Tenlon, a queasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach.

  “They’re asking for you by name.”

  The warriors approached his group.

  “We are looking for a boy named Tenlon,” the taller of the two told the nearby youths.

  Tenlon began looking around, pretending that he wasn’t who they were searching for. Stupid, for certain, but he had a terrible feeling upon seeing the soldiers and wanted nothing to do with them. No good could come of it.

  The ruse might have worked, had it not been for the chubby finger of Forgan pointed at his head from behind.

  “Are you Tenlon?” the second warrior stood above him, voice hard.

  “Yes,” he muttered, looking to Graille for support but finding none.

  The leather and iron-plated breastplate of the warrior creaked as he bent down, crouching uncomfortably close to him. His hair looked to be reddish-brown and cropped short, the dark stubble on his face flecked with gold. His eyes were green and alive with fire, although the rest of his face looked tired below the gloomy sky.

  “I have had…a long day,” he told Tenlon, who noticed for the first time mud and blood splatters on the warriors green cloak and boots. “I think you should stand up when I speak to you,” he said quietly. “Because sometimes, when I’ve had a long, shitty day…a day like today…” His hands snapped out and grabbed Tenlon’s robe, wrenching him to his feet. “My hands will have a will of their own, and before I know it I’m holding a dead body and I can’t remember what happened.”

  The warrior’s grip lifted his small frame nearly off the ground. Tenlon saw strange tattoos covering the man’s right arm, extending all the way to the back of his fist. Only a select few of the king’s soldiers were allowed to carry any such markings. This was not a man to anger.

  “Desik,” spoke the taller warrior softly, his tone calm. “He’s frightened enough as it is.” Desik peered closely at Tenlon, hands tightening on his collar like heavy vices.

  “I pissed an hour away looking for you. Next time you answer when we call your name, yeah?”

  Tenlon nodded repeatedly and his feet were once more placed on solid ground. He smoothed out the wrinkles of his robe with shaking hands. Desik stepped away, stretching his arms above his head.

  “He wasn’t going to hurt you,” the other warrior assured him. “My name is Accostas and that was Desik. We are looking for an apprentice named Tenlon. Something of a horse racer, if I’m correct.” He paused for confirmation. “Am I correct?” Tenlon was still rattled.

  “I like…I like to ride.”

  Accostas eyed him carefully, hardly convinced.

  “You are correct,” Graille intervened, breaking the strange silence. “He is indeed a fine rider.” The soldier still wasn’t sure.

  “Last spring back in the Willows, you took the purse atop an ivory stallion? You dusted three light cavalrymen?”

  “That was me,” Tenlon said, making sure to choose his next words with care, not knowing the direction this was heading. “Though it was a gelding with a strong late charge. Your men were heavier than I. Timing is everything.” Accostas peered more intently at Tenlon as if sizing him up. A smile spread across his face.

  “Indeed it is,” he said after a moment. “You are coming with us now.” The words lacked warmth, leaving no space for argument. Accostas headed towards the other warrior, expecting him to follow.

  “My Lead Mage told me to stay here until ordered by a superior,” Tenlon blurted out, halting the tall warrior in his tracks. Accostas sighed. Desik came in close, eyes blazing.

  “We are your superiors,” he hissed. “And you have been summoned, so you are coming with us. You can walk at our side like a man, or you can be carried, whining like a frightened child. Which shall it be?” Tenlon looked from Accostas to Desik, their twin gazes blocking him into an uncomfortable corner.

  “I’d like to walk,” he said lamely.

  “Good,” Desik answered.

  The two soldiers turned and began to leave, certain now that he’d follow. Tenlon gave a mystified look to Graille, who only shrugged his shoulders.

  Defeated, he followed them in a daze, feeling as if he were floating outside his body and watching himself move. He didn’t want to be an apprentice anymore and no longer wished to train dragons. Heavy thunder rumbled above and his body began to shake with so much fear that his teeth rattled.

  He wished to be anywhere but here and anyone but himself.

  ***

  His legs had to work frantically to keep pace with the two striding warriors, both of whom were moving with urgency. The thunder above the flats had not diminished and lightning periodically streaked across the sky, illuminating the massive cloud that had formed earlier.

  They made their way along a main path behind the Amorian camp. Hundreds of fires had been lit and men were sitting around in their armor, trying in vain to find some semblance of comfort amidst the shroud of battle and death.

  The three approached several large tents sparsely lit by torches. Tenlon asked if that was where they were taking him. The taller warrior spoke.

  “No. That’s not a place you would enjoy, I think.”

  As they came closer to the tents, Tenlon agreed with Accostas. It was certainly not a place he would enjoy.

  Screams of pain burst from the area, cutting through thunderclaps as the stench of blood and other
foulness assaulted him. Outside the tents, torches cast a flickering glow against an endless line of dead soldiers wrapped in the coveted green cloaks of Amoria. A tent flap opened and two men in blood soaked leather aprons emerged carrying a body wrapped in green. They unceremoniously dropped the dead soldier on a nearby pile.

  Tenlon stopped walking and felt as if he might vomit. He knew there were more tents like this spread throughout their camp, hundreds maybe.

  “Come now, little mage,” Accostas said gently, pulling his arm. “This is not a place for reflection.”

  Tenlon hurriedly continued on, trying not to look at the long lines of dead soldiers they passed. There were so many.

  “Some of them are my age,” he said.

  “They fought well,” Accostas nodded. “Best not dwell on it. We shouldn’t have taken you this way, but it is the shortest route. I apologize.”

  After passing the surgery tents, they cut towards the front lines, weaving their way through campfires and sitting soldiers. Many of the men Tenlon saw were talking quietly, sharpening their short swords or splayed out across the grass to gaze up at the clouds. Some were eating and a few were even sleeping, snoring heavily into the night.

  You wouldn’t think that they had just lost their entire dragon fleet, Tenlon thought, or that they might all be dead in a matter of days.

  This battle was folly. Healianos must have known the size of the Volrathi force and that without help we could not stand. A head-on attack against such might was foolish and now the bloodline of Draxakis was dead. There would be no journey to Odenna for Tenlon, no more dragons to study. Their land would now slip into chaos and the violent storm cloud that thundered above would extend over the hills, reaching toward his homeland to bury it in darkness. Few men would be left to protect Amoria and certainly not enough to stop this terrible threat.

  After nearly half an hour, they approached an elaborate tent lined with torches, so massive that it could’ve held a city market beneath its canvas.

  Armed guards seemed to stop them every few paces, speaking quietly to Tenlon‘s escorts. Upon seeing Desik, all questions would cease and they’d be waved through.

  The Amorian standard of the bronze dragon fluttered above on high poles and more green-cloaked guards walked the tent, poking at corners or the base of walls with their spears. Other men with leashed hounds walked the area, their animals carefully sniffing the ground before moving on.

  Coming to an entrance Tenlon found two Amorian soldiers standing stiffly at attention. In full armor, they wore short swords at their side and held tall spears. Their cloaks swayed in the stormy wind as Accostas spoke to them.

  “Alert King Healianos that the mage apprentice, Tenlon, is here.”

  One of the sentries handed his spear off to the other and opened the flap, entering with the message.

  Tenlon thought he misheard the tall warrior through the thunder.

  “Did you say the king?” he asked with shock. “Why have you taken me to see the king?”

  “I don’t know what he wants, but this is where our road together ends, little mage,” Accostas smiled again. “Just wait here until you’re called upon. And don’t look so frightened! I doubt he’ll execute you. He hardly ever does that himself.”

  Tenlon turned to Desik to see if this were all a jest, but the other warrior was already walking away into the dark.

  “Be sure to drop to your knees when you see him,” Accostas said as he withdrew into the night. “It might assuage some of his anger!”

  “Why would he be angry with me? I‘ve done nothing!”

  Accostas threw up his hands as he disappeared from sight, voicing no answer.

  Tenlon muttered a curse under his breath. The king?

  This was madness, all of it. Pure madness.

  Chapter 3

  Kreiden Baelik relaxed on a velvet-upholstered couch in the war room of the king’s tent, rubbing a red apple on his sleeve. Still in his battle armor and cloak, his filthy riding boots were perched on a matching plush footrest. He ran a hand through his tangled blond hair and looked around.

  The tent was suspended above the ground on a massive platform, with a floor of polished wood covered in thick rugs. The chamber had a high ceiling and was well lit by lanterns and flickering candles. Several brass braziers were spaced about, radiating the area with warmth. A large wooden table covered in maps and parchment sat at the far end of the tent. Stools surrounded the table, dwarfed by the king’s high-backed chair of oak, which was engraved with the motif of a rearing horse, glossy and shining in the lantern light. Weapon racks with various blades and spears were set behind the table and there was an ornate, full-length mirror standing near a side wall that sectioned off another of the tent’s many chambers.

  The champion took a bite of the fruit in silence, watching the king. His brother was poring over the scouting reports and casualty numbers of their first exchange with the Volrathi. Kreiden knew the numbers were not good.

  The king had doffed his cloak and armor for loose riding boots and a simple white tunic with leather trousers. The thirty-one-year-old Amorian leader had premature flecks of silver through his hair, but his thick beard was still black as moonless night. His breastplate and helm had been cleaned and now rested on an armor tree in the far corner of the chamber, scratched and dented though still in fine shape.

  As the king’s First Sword, Kreiden had ridden with Healianos the entire day, watching the man and protecting him where he could. The king always rode with an escort of superb light cavalrymen during battle, but the man had a tendency to push deep into enemy lines, letting his sword carry him away from their protection. Kreiden never tried to pull him back, only pushed in deeper beside him. Eventually the men would catch up. They always did.

  The day had been soaked in blood and Kreiden knew his longtime friend was distraught over the massive losses they had taken, and rightly so. Kreiden could feel the shadows closing in on them. They were in trouble.

  Draxakis and the fleet had been wiped out and most of Amoria’s lead mages had been slain. Kreiden was a student of war, a strategist. After engaging the Volrathi on the field for the first time, he knew how this battle would end. They were savagely outnumbered and no Amorian allies had come to their aid. Morale was low and without Draxakis their chances of surviving this were meager at best.

  Even more troubling were the reports that large forces of the enemy were beginning to flank them, almost certainly attempting to cut off any chance of escape. Not that it mattered. Retreat was never an option.

  Kreiden tilted his head back and closed his eyes, thinking of better days. Thunder rolled across the sky far above.

  He thought of home, seeing beautiful Talia in his mind: smart and strong-willed, with long dark hair, deep blue eyes, and a stunning smile that could melt your soul. The idea of dying here and leaving her alone filled him with terrible anguish, but the thought of not standing next to his king at the end brought a sense of panic with it as well. He was split into two men, with only one life to sacrifice.

  Kreiden still had a few friends back at the capital who’d keep an eye on her, and there was no question as to where he’d be when the end finally came. He was First Sword of Amoria, second only to the king. He’d follow Healianos to the Black Gates with sword in hand. They’d been there before and made it out. Perhaps they could do it again.

  He looked to the large man behind the table, burdened by the deaths of so many, charged with protecting a nation that was now scarcely more than an open lantern’s flame against the storm. Kreiden couldn’t imagine what torturous thoughts were spinning through the king’s mind. He didn’t want to.

  “A tough start, no doubt about it,” he broke the quiet. “But tomorrow is another day. We will tighten the ranks and whittle the large bastards down, bit by bit, until there is nothing left of them. Then we can drink too much, like we would after battle when we were younger men. I don’t care what ails a man, copious consumption of wine is always the b
est medicine.”

  “Today was the only day,” the king’s voice rumbled, rising in anger. “Draxakis, our mages…the men. Our spines have been broken. Had they not granted us this reprieve and simply turned their dragons loose, this battle would be over by dawn. Not that we can tell when dawn is because they’ve blotted out the sun with their damned magic!”

  Healianos grew so angry he slammed a massive forearm against the table, causing it to slide across the wooden floor. Kreiden heard a small vial crack beneath the blow, covering several maps and the king’s arm in black ink.

  A sentry hidden behind one of the canvas walls poked his head in at the disturbance, then quickly vanished after seeing all was well.

  Healianos grumbled something incoherent, pulling a nearby cloth to wipe away the mess on his sleeve and skin. A bronze dragon was tattooed along the inside of his forearm, curled up nose to tail. Kreiden watched his king work the cloth over the image, wiping its scales clean. Visible body art was not permitted for soldiers, but exceptions had been made for a very select few. How Healianos received his was a story Kreiden knew well.

  Many years ago, when the king was just a prince, there was an attack on his life while he trained at the Orantak Infantry Academy. Assassins from Varishna breached its walls beneath the cover of night, hoping to find young Healianos a quick and easy kill.

  The boys of his barracks were caught by surprise, outnumbered, and unarmed. Those who fought and lived long enough for the academy guards to arrive were commended for their valor and ferocity in the fight. By the end of the attack, the twenty students of Healianos’s barracks had been reduced to nine, with three heinously wounded.

  The instructors later estimated that the young boys had killed sixteen men—some with illegal knives kept near their bunks, the rest with swords taken from fallen assassins.

  When help finally reached the students, the attack was quickly put down. The academy guards took six prisoners and beheaded the rest on the parade ground.