Shadow Of The Mountain

by D. A. Stone

  The headless assassins were the lucky ones. Amoria had men who were very gifted in the art of conversation, men you wouldn’t want to meet in the nightmarish depths of the dungeons. True masters of the craft, they’d learn whatever they needed from you whether you wanted to reveal it or not.

  At dawn the next morning, the fourteen-year-old boys were the youngest Amorians to ever receive the green cloaks. They were hailed as heroes, but the deaths of so many brothers cast a shadow over the triumph.

  The surviving students of the attack spent the next several days with the wounded. Skilled surgeons were brought in, but the boys were dying and nothing could be done except make them comfortable. Much wine was drunk amongst them those days and nights, and they sat as family will during such times. Together in life, as it was said, and together in death.

  Prince Healianos secretly commissioned the finest body artist in the capital to mark them all with the bronze dragon tattoo along their forearm, connecting each to the rest for all time.

  “Simply because you’re passing through the Veil before us,” he had told his brothers before they died, “does not mean you go alone. You are never alone.”

  By the end of the week only six survivors remained from the attack, the rest succumbing to their wounds. That was over fifteen years ago. Since then, the bronze dragon tattoo was allowed on only the most decorated of soldiers.

  “You’ve seen worse,” Kreiden assured his king, “and you’ll see us clear of this.”

  Healianos looked to the champion, his expression unconvinced.

  The man let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping beneath weight unseen. The champion had never seen him so low. It was unsettling. His sword brother was always a mountain of strength, both in the public eye as well as in private. Kreiden had had no idea how much he’d leaned against such an immovable object until now, and seeing the cracks spreading across his surface was perhaps the worst blow of all.

  “Kreiden,” the king began, his face tight with tension, “we lost contact with the Stonewall garrison a few hours ago.”

  “Stonewall?”

  Kreiden sat up, shaking his head as if to force the mere notion of it to falsehood. He tossed his apple core into a burning brazier and it began to sizzle.

  “There are five thousand men holding Stonewall. How could we lose contact? They’re a few miles outside of our own damned capital! The Volrathi haven’t even made it out of the flatlands!”

  “Last word received from Stonewall was that Gallan soldiers were approaching in force,” Healianos said. “After that…nothing.”

  “Horseshit!” Kreiden rose and moved towards the table, sweeping away several pieces of parchment to reveal a large map of their journey beneath. “There must be a storm blocking the message birds, or a sickness in the flock. Something!”

  The king could hardly answer. “The birds continued to come in at regular intervals last night and all through the morning, and then they just stopped. I sent riders out, but they’re still days away.”

  “And what of the Seers? We still have one at the garrison, don’t we? Have the girls tried reaching out to…”

  “Braiden tells me the littlest cannot reach her sister there. She’s either dead or was forced into hiding. Nothing else could explain it.”

  The champion felt hot, feverish. His hands started to shake and he reached out to steady himself on a stool. Talia was in the capital and the Stonewall garrison was supposed to be enough to protect her, to protect Corda.

  This whole venture had been doomed from the start. More was against them here than they knew, but understanding that now availed them nothing. They were bogged down in the mire and it was pulling them deeper every minute.

  Kreiden fought for calm but couldn’t see past his own blinding anger. His large hands gripped the seat of a stool so hard that he felt the wood groan beneath the pressure. He wanted to draw his sword and march back out into the field, striking down any of the Volrathi he found. The battle was not yet over and they’d make these Volrathi bastards pay.

  “Our convoy getting hit, the Gallans pulling out,” Kreiden said, trying to wrap his head around it all. “Losing the dragon fleet, the mages. Stonewall…This is calculated, Healianos. This is planning, preparation. These aren’t opening moves, but closing ones.”

  “We are in it now,” the king agreed. “The light cavalry is still in good shape and the heavy infantry’s losses weren’t entirely appalling. We still have some time to turn things around.”

  It was obvious he tried to put strength behind the words, yet it all sounded so limp and hollow.

  Kreiden had nothing to add, not anymore. The world was falling apart and even attempting to hold the pieces together felt foolish.

  “I’m sorry, Kreiden,” the king continued. “Honestly. I wish I could send you back for her, but I can’t. I need you for something else. A matter of importance.” The champion waved off the notion.

  “Argos agreed to watch over Natalia if anything went awry.”

  “Good,” Healianos answered, eyeing the map on the table. “Argos is as fine a man as they come.”

  “I’ll not be leaving here for her anyway. You and I will finish this together, just as we always do.” The King shook his head.

  “Not this time. I will stay here with the army, though you,” he said carefully, “will not. I have a task for you, one that matches your skill. This is your last assignment as my champion.” Kreiden rubbed his eyes before moving to a small table and pouring himself a goblet of water.

  “Must you speak so morbidly?”

  “You’re going to take ten good riders out. There’s a mage apprentice that needs an escort to the port city of Ebnan.”

  “Korando?”

  The king nodded. “It is imperative that he break through the ring of Volrathi circling us. The boy must get to the city.” The king’s gray eyes focused on his champion. “The ride will not be easy, Kreiden. Reports on the flanking positions do not bode well for us. Riders have been spotted…and Blackwolves. Many Blackwolves, more than we’ve ever seen.”

  The beasts had been spreading through the realm from unknown origins, wreaking havoc on the more rural villages and communities, with it soon becoming clear they were hounds of the Volrathi. More like bears than wolves, they had black fur and prodigious stamina, razor-sharp, elongated teeth, and massive shoulder muscles hidden beneath tattered gray cloaks. They also ran like the winter wind.

  “I wish I could send you out with a hundred riders,” the king told him. “But too many men would attract unwanted attention. I think tight and fast is your best option.”

  “You still have men who can do this, Healianos. It doesn’t have to be me.”

  “Of course it has to be you.” The king rested both hands on the table. “I need you on this ride more than anything else in the world. If I could keep you here, I would, but I won’t leave this to anyone else.”

  “Fine. When the task is done, I’ll return…”

  “Just stay with the boy until Korando, then you can do as you please,” Healianos said soberly.

  “It would please me to return to the army, but your point has been made.” The king reached across the table and they gripped hands the warrior way, wrist to wrist. “It’s not easy being king, is it Healianos?” the First Sword asked.

  “No more so than it is to be a king’s champion. Tell me, why haven’t you asked why the apprentice is so important? I’d be curious if it were myself.”

  “If you wanted me to know, you’d have told me.”

  “It’s best if I don’t.” The king moved around the table. “You need only know that he is of great importance to us. You must protect him, Kreiden, and see him to the coast. Gather your ten and leave as soon as possible. Braiden and I will brief the boy.”

  Almost as soon as he spoke, the heavy entrance flap of the chamber swung open and one of the sentries entered. The man was lean, his face and armor polished to a shine.

  “King Healianos,” he
said tightly, “the apprentice, Tenlon, is outside awaiting you.”

  “Give us a minute, then send him in.” The sentry disappeared through the flap. “He can ride, brother,” the king said. “That’s why he was chosen. Would you like to meet him?”

  “Later. I have a message to send out. I already have the men in mind for the journey and I’ll return shortly to brief you. Time, I’m guessing, is a scarce luxury?”

  “Send to Talia and gather your men,” spoke the king. “I won’t be here when you return.”

  “So it shall be,” the champion replied, wishing there was more to say. He made to leave but paused at the canvas tent flap.

  “Goodbye, Healianos,” he said simply.

  “Farewell, brother.”

  ***

  Tenlon nervously adjusted his gray robe and stood waiting outside the king’s tent beneath the storming sky. The sentry had returned but said nothing, standing almost motionless next to the other guard.

  He noticed two more sentries in dark-green cloaks circling the tent with tall spears. Suddenly the heavy entrance flap reopened and a warrior with long golden hair ducked out. He was tall and wide-shouldered, with a curved saber at his side. He stared at Tenlon as he took the few steps off the platform past him, saying nothing.

  Tenlon turned to watch him leave, noting the warrior’s easy stride beneath the green cloak. He desperately tried to remember where he’d seen the man before, but it wouldn’t come to him. His mind must be too muddled from everything, he decided. Normally he didn’t forget anything, especially a face.

  When his gaze returned to the tent entrance, one of the sentries was holding the flap open for him to enter.

  “King Healianos will see you now.”

  Tenlon took a deep breath, gathered himself, and stepped up onto the tent’s platform.

  The area within was well lit and warm. Moving through a sparse hall, he approached two more guards who ushered him through to another chamber. Seeing the king behind a large table examining reports, his breath caught in his chest. The wooden floor was polished and the many rugs were the finest Tenlon had ever seen.

  He took in his first real look of King Healianos. Without the golden armor he didn’t seem as colossal as he had earlier in the day, but even in the simple white tunic he still cut an imposing figure. Energy and strength emanated from him like heat spreads from a fire.

  At first there was no response from the king and Tenlon felt ill at ease, unsure of what to do. Remembering the words of Accostas, he dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

  “Damn it, stand up!” the king’s deep voice boomed. “Which one of those idiots told you to bow to me?” Tenlon rose quickly to his feet. “Well?”

  Tenlon struggled to find an answer. He was so nervous.

  “Doubtful if it was Desik, unless he’d been drinking.” The king thought about it for a moment. “Which is possible after a day like today. Still, I’d say it must’ve been Accostas. I’ll have a word with that one, not to worry.” The king walked around the table before Tenlon, resting a hip on the edge, waving him over.

  “Come closer. It’s all right; I’m not going to fuck you. My, you are even smaller than I was told! That’s good. Very good.” The king was looking Tenlon up and down now. “So, do you still compete?” The words were hung up inside Tenlon’s mind, tangled and twisted. He suddenly felt thirsty.

  “In…horse races you mean, sir?”

  “No, turd-eating contests.” The king said the words with all seriousness. “Yes, horse races! I’m told you beat out a few of my light cavalry riders last spring. I didn’t see the race but know the men. Good riders. Not easy winning those races when you’re as young as you are, but you’ve got the frame for it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Why was everyone so interested in that race, though? Had he done something wrong?

  “First Mage Braiden tells me you wished to study dragons at Odenna and that you did very well on the entrance exam. He also told me you qualified, so you would have made it. Congratulations.”

  “I…that is all I ever wanted to do,” Tenlon said as he exhaled a deep breath.

  “Yes, I know, a sad state of affairs.” The king waved his hand, moving back behind the table. “Draxakis fought with Shadowfist so many years ago, and had we been able to breed him, today would have been a very different day. But that is not a discussion for the here and now. I‘m sure you are wondering why you were brought to me.”

  “Very much, sir.”

  The king cleared his throat. “I have something here that I need to get to the coast. An artifact. You are a mage apprentice and a good rider, so you will carry it for me. Kreiden Baelik will accompany you, along with a small escort.”

  At the mention of the champion’s name, Tenlon immediately recognized the golden-haired warrior near the entrance. First Sword to the king? This continued to get worse.

  “The old mages dug up all sorts of antiquated shit from Corda’s archives before the battle, texts and artifacts I’ve neither the time nor inclination to begin to understand. Anything they thought to be useful was brought with us. And now…” The king shrugged his shoulders. “Should we fall here, there are a few pieces that cannot be allowed into enemy hands. You will be carrying one such piece to safety.”

  Tenlon was frightened now. This was really happening. He was just a boy, a student, not a warrior-in-training. It all sounded like an extremely dangerous task, even with an Amorian escort. Anything could go wrong on such a ride, especially with the Volrathi so close.

  “I am honored, sir, but…” The words already sounded so lame it damn near made him cringe. “You must have others who can handle this.” A look of annoyance flashed across Healianos’s bearded face.

  “The artifact is heavy so I need someone small. The artifact needs to have its enchantments adjusted, so I need someone familiar with the Arts. I have no desire to send good cavalrymen into hostile territory to protect some random mage who rides like a fucking old woman.” His words gained force. “My lead mages have all been slain and their understudies will likely follow them in a few hours. You will do as I order, without question. And you should consider yourself lucky. I’m giving you a horse and an escort out. Few will get such a chance in the coming hours.”

  The king seemed to be fuming now, his anger held in check by some unseen thread that was twisted and frayed, in danger of snapping any second. What could he say to the king or even begin to offer? What could anyone offer the man except compliance?

  “I will do what you ask of me,” Tenlon told him softly.

  “I knew you would.”

  Suddenly the flap of the tent’s entrance opened and an Amorian soldier began making his way backwards into the chamber.

  To Tenlon’s horror, the man was carrying a corpse towards them with the help of another. The body was garbed in black armor and the two seemed to strain under its weight. It was the first time Tenlon saw a soldier of the Volrathi up close.

  The corpse was dropped on a sheet of canvas and Tenlon stared at the largest man he’d ever seen. His neck and arms were bulging with muscle and veins wrapped around his biceps like buried snakes. There was a nauseating gash on the top of his head that exposed his insides, and when the soldiers dropped him Tenlon swore he saw a chunk of skull and brain dash out with the blood. The young apprentice thought he might vomit.

  “A bigger one, just like you asked,” one of the soldiers said, breathing hard. The king bent down and began to examine the giant, waving Tenlon over. Hesitantly he made his way to the king’s side, teeth gritted against the bile rising up in his throat.

  “Notice anything?” the king questioned.

  “Besides the fact that he’s built like a bull?”

  “Yes, besides his obvious size. Look closer,” the king said. “Look at his eyes.”

  Tenlon leaned in, pulling his gaze from the terrible head wound, examining the man’s eyes. The pupils were a perfect black, like deep pools of ink. The rest of his eyes were a normal
white, and Tenlon knew something was wrong. No one had eyes like that. There was something vile about the man lying on the floor, something unnatural. Tenlon suddenly felt too close to the body and thought it might reach out and crush him.

  Maybe the man wasn’t dead, his mind screamed. Maybe he was just pretending so he could get closer to the king and kill him. Tenlon rose and backed away a pace.

  “His eyes are black as night. What is wrong with him?”

  “Nothing,” the king answered. “They are all like that.”

  Tenlon had no reply. He knew the great army called itself the Volrathi but had no idea their men were so large. Lightning cracked against the sky outside and he remembered the clouds that had pulled together, swirling around the battling mages. Dark magic had changed the weather and created the storm, which still hadn’t stopped. In fact, it seemed to be growing in strength. That was real power.

  Amoria was the greatest army in the realm, and if they lost so much on the first day, then other nations would surely suffer the same fate. Draxakis was no longer here to protect them. Amoria was alone and far from anyone resembling an ally.

  “I don’t think I can do what you ask of me,” he whispered.

  Healianos ordered the two soldiers to take the body outside. Tenlon stared into the black eyes as they wrapped him up and carried him out.

  “I have much to do,” the king told him calmly. “You are the one I choose. This is not a discussion.”

  Tenlon’s frail shoulders dropped. He nodded in agreement.

  “Braiden!” Healianos bellowed, startling the young apprentice.

  The heavy canvas of an inside wall was pulled aside and an old mage with wrinkled skin and a wispy, white beard poked his head in.

  The king walked back to his reports on the table, speaking to Tenlon without looking up. “This is First Mage Braiden. He will instruct you on what you are carrying and where you will be carrying it to.”

  Even though the conversation appeared to be over, Tenlon felt as if he were in a daze, replaying everything in his mind, seeing again the dead giant’s eyes of black.