Equilibrium: Episode 5

by CS Sealey

  ABOUT EQUILIBRIUM: EPISODE 5

  The Ayons lose their king, making way for a deadly new leader.

  King Samian is dead. In the aftermath of the fateful battle in the castle, Lord General Archis Varren launches a full-scale invasion of the south, determined to deal the Ronnesians a blow they will never forget.

  Stationed at Kilsney, Captain Rasmus Auran is the first to witness the fury of the Ayon attack. Forced to retreat, and hounded by their northern enemy every step of the way, Ronnesian hearts begin to despair.

  Yet Te’Roek provides only a temporary sanctuary, for Varren is determined to see it fall and will not stop until he rules the city from the castle itself.

  CONTENTS

  ABOUT EQUILIBRIUM: EPISODE 5

  MAPS

  EPISODE FIVE: 368 Third Era

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  ABOUT EQUILIBRIUM: EPISODE 6

  ABOUT CS SEALEY

  COPYRIGHT

  EPISODE FIVE

  368 Third Era

  CHAPTER 50

  Delseroy had long since ceased being a city of civilians and traders. Once, fifteen thousand Ayons had walked its streets, stoked its furnaces, manned its shops and patroled its battlements. Now it was teeming with soldiers from every corner of the empire and beyond, some one hundred thousand of them. Never in the history of the Ayon Empire had such a great number marched together. Banners lined the streets of the capital, draped from the houses that had opened their doors to billet soldiers in any available space they had. All military buildings were overflowing, as were all the guest houses, public halls and inns. Some captains and commanders had even been housed in the castle itself and, over the past month, tents had spread across the countryside near the town of Rhóhn. Ships and barges choked the harbor and all available wharfs were occupied, so most had been ordered to weigh anchor back along the Great River Divide. It was not just space that had become an issue in the capital. Farmers were struggling to provide the necessary supplies to feed the ever-increasing number of soldiers. Where previously produce had gone to waste at the markets, now every last potato and lettuce leaf was bought and eagerly consumed.

  Despite the new arrivals, the city was subdued. Mothers kept their children indoors, sheltering them from the talk of the inevitable war and the increased traffic of carts through the streets. Those who ventured out hurried from doorway to doorway with nervous eyes. But the arrival of the straggling transport vessels from northern Airgyl brought a ripple of relief – soon the soldiers would depart.

  “They are more than ready to do battle, general,” Captain Maxis reported, saluting smartly as he stepped onto the balcony of the guard tower. “It will take them the remaining daylight hours, though, to board their designated ships.”

  “Have the supply consignments been organized?”

  “Yes, sir. They will move into position when the riders are despatched, which should be within the hour.”

  “Excellent,” General Varren said, clasping his hands behind his back. “I am sure the king, may his spirit be at peace, would forgive my sudden move. Barely two days cold – it’s hardly a worthy amount of time to mourn a man who would have been such a great leader.”

  “My lord general, may I speak plainly?”

  “You may.”

  “Then, my lord,” the young captain said, joining him at the balustrade and looking down to the docklands, several stories below, “it is imperative that we begin the campaign immediately. His Majesty had already made it his highest priority. Any further delay, I believe, is not only an insult to his memory but you would be directly disobeying a standing order from the monarch himself. Despite the fact that he is no longer among us does not mean he is no longer our king. Until another claims the throne, his orders still stand.”

  Varren glanced at the man he had summoned and smiled. “I knew General Carter was no fool when he promoted you, Maxis. Some declared you were too young, but I myself was made a lord at fourteen and named King Corhillar’s chief adviser only a few years after that. You have the promise of becoming a great commander. Perhaps, one day, you will be general.”

  “Not while you are at the helm, sir.”

  Varren chuckled to himself. “I have a job for you. It requires cunning and courage, and I believe you have more than enough of both.”

  “Anything, sir.”

  “When we attack Kilsney, the Ronnesian garrison there will most certainly be something of an obstacle for us. They are led by Commander Tiron and Prince Korrosus of the Tareks, as well as a seasoned bunch of captains.”

  “What do you wish me to do?”

  “They captured Commander Sheon in the attack on Kilsney,” Varren said. “When the Ronnesians retreat, they will most likely kill their prisoners. I want you to storm their keep and free him before the main attack takes place.”

  “Of course, general.”

  “You may take whomever you need to ensure the success of this mission but I must insist that you also take Vrór, as he will be the key to getting inside their encampment unscathed. May I count on you, Maxis?”

  The infantry captain was thoughtful for a moment and then nodded. “I will need to set off before the others, general.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I will choose the best men I know.”

  “Good. Have them go to wharf seven. Your ship has been made ready for you.”

  The captain saluted smartly, strode back inside the tower and headed for the stairs. At the top, he paused before turning back. “My lord general,” he began, somewhat reluctantly.

  Varren turned his head. “Yes, Maxis?”

  “I was at King Samian’s funeral ceremony, sir, but something was not entirely explained and my men are asking questions.”

  “The queen?” Varren asked, clenching his jaw at the mere thought of the woman. “Yes, I imagine so.”

  “You said that she was a traitor and has converted but – ”

  “That is correct.”

  “But she was a Teronian, sir, and that is a neutral state.”

  Varren sighed and faced the captain. “As unbelievable as it may seem,” he said bitterly, “she has indeed sided with the Ronnesians. Regardless of her heritage, she has not returned to her homeland, choosing instead to fight against us. Therefore, she has been stripped of royal privileges and will be treated as any other enemy of our cause. That woman is no longer the queen of Delseroy.”

  “Yes, general,” Maxis said and quickly withdrew.

  Varren turned back to the sight of the docklands and groaned. The empire was without a royal figurehead and that had spelled the downfall of many other empires in history. He had not forgotten Prince Nildemar, Samian’s banished half-brother, but he was reluctant to fetch him from his sanctuary in Airgyl. Varren received monthly letters from the prince’s tutor, reporting on his progress and, though the fear of the empire collapsing without a king was weighing heavily upon Varren’s shoulders, the prospect of having a boy ruling an empire on the brink of war was an even greater worry. Airgyl was far from the reach of even Queen Sorcha – Nildemar would be safe there until the crisis was over. Then, once the Ronnesians had been defeated, Varren would fetch the boy and instruct him just as he had done with Samian. Until then, however, the Ronnesians would remain ignorant of Nildemar’s existence, the forgotten prince.

  A bell tolled from a nearby tower, then others across the city took up the chime. One, two, three. The loading of soldiers had been taking place for six hours. If the liberation of Commander Sheon
went according to plan, Kilsney would be in a state of chaos by the time the main army arrived. Varren could only imagine what several months as a prisoner of war would be like in such a crude encampment, where the jails were little more than iron cages. Commander Sheon would have been lucky if his cell had been sheltered from the elements. There was also the chance that Sheon’s fiery temper may well have forced any one of his Ronnesian captors to deliver him an early death. Despite this, Varren was optimistic, as recent reports suggested he was still alive. Sheon was a highlander from the northernmost reaches of West Turgyl and a great warrior. He was a man who could be relied upon to carry out military orders to the letter. He would have spilled no secrets even under the worst kind of torture. He was simply too proud an Ayon.

  After another hour had passed, the docklands appeared to be returning to their normal level of activity. Ships pulled away one after another, leaving the wharfs free for trading vessels once more. Varren watched until only two passenger ships remained. He saw Galenros moving along the wharf to board the larger one with Lhunannon. Then, a short while later, Captain Maxis and a group of fifteen men walking down to the second ship, Vrór trailing behind them.

  At last, Varren thought with satisfaction, the Ayon Empire is going to war.

  CHAPTER 51

  Captain Maxis understood this mission was unlike anything he had experienced before. Only twenty-two years of age, he had risen through the infantry ranks quickly, from training recruit at fourteen, skirmisher at fifteen, scout at eighteen and straight to captain, skipping deputy altogether. He had a gift for swordplay, a keen eye and quick strategic mind. “Cream always rises,” Carter had once told him. But if he had thought having the mage Vrór as a companion was merely for his protection, he quickly understood otherwise. They had sailed down from Delseroy at the tail of the Ayon fleet, but while Maxis and the leika had spent the night at Rhóhn, the men he had handpicked from his own battalion had continued west, crossing the Great River Divide on a barge. If all went well, they should have already arrived at their destination and be in hiding, waiting for Vrór’s signal from above. Maxis and Vrór had studied a map of the encampment, which Vrór had made himself on a previous scouting expedition. According to the mage, the prison block was the most secure building of the encampment.

  “This sss prison of theirs,” he had said, pointing a claw-like finger to a square structure on the parchment, “has wood and iron gates, but a stone base. It can hold maybe sixty men in two wings, north and south.”

  “And Commander Sheon is definitely there?”

  “When Galenros last saw him, he was sss still alive,” Vrór had confirmed. “However, each wing has only one way of getting in or out.”

  “So if we run into trouble, we’re trapped?”

  Vrór had grunted.

  “I see,” Maxis had said quickly. “Then what of Sheon himself? Should he be incapable of walking, let alone fighting, which I assume is the case, someone will have to carry him.”

  Vrór had uttered a bitter growl. “Varren has assigned me that honor.”

  They flew away from Rhóhn at sunset, as the Ayon fleet were preparing for the journey down to Kilsney. Maxis clung to the shimmering feathers of Vrór’s conjured eagle and tried not to look down. He had scaled cliffs and traversed high canyons when he had been a scout, relying on nothing more than a pair of guide ropes, but had never been afraid of heights until this moment. He wished he had traveled on horseback with the rest of his men and sacrificed the hours of strategic planning for the safety of having ground beneath his feet.

  Darkness had well and truly embraced the land by the time the two of them spotted the Ronnesian encampment on the opposite bank to Kilsney. The flickering flames of the torches along the battlements were small but immediately visible in the blackness. Maxis felt the eagle begin to dive and grasped its feathers tighter, reluctant to even touch Vrór. The mage was sitting in front of him, one hand clutching the beast, the other grasping his strange weapon, keeping perfect balance. The wind rushed past Maxis’s ears in a deafening roar and he felt his ears pop. Though he felt lightheaded, he focused his mind on clinging to the eagle’s feathers. If he lost his grip, he highly doubted Vrór would bother to retrieve him, either before he hit the ground or afterward.

  At last, they leveled out, two hundred yards from the outer wall of the encampment. The eagle let out a screech, the signal to Maxis’s men to begin their diversion.

  Circling above once more, Maxis spotted fifteen flickers of light as his men struck sparks from their flint rods. Moments later, his men were propelling small flaming pots over the high wooden fortifications. The pots exploded against the battlements. Each man had been supplied with five pots and so a great deal of havoc was wreaked in those few minutes before the guards atop the wooden parapets realized what was happening. This was the chaos Maxis and Vrór had waited for, and the leika angled his eagle into another dive. Maxis mustered his resolve as the ground rushed up to meet them. From Vrór’s lips spilled a cackle of malicious glee.

  The eagle reared and landed heavily inside the encampment, its talons sinking into the hard earth as though it were mud. Vrór leaped from its back, raising his staff and twirling it around his body and over his head, eager to summon. Maxis slid from the eagle’s back and hit the ground hard as a bright red jet of light hurtled from the staff’s head. It twisted in the air, struck a tent, causing it to collapse in on itself, before another of Vrór’s unnaturally large and malicious-looking eagles appeared.

  “Get to the damned prison!” the mage shouted, glancing at Maxis.

  Maxis ran, knowing he had to take a vaguely north-easterly route through the tents to the prison and that Vrór would follow. He heard a screech and cursed in fright as a gust of warm air passed over his head and the horned tail of a winged abomination missed his ear by a matter of inches. All about them, the leika’s creatures were darting down, grabbing surprised Ronnesians as they emerged from their tents or plucking them from the avenues between as they fled. The arrows fired at them by the archers on the battlements passed harmlessly through feathers, fur and hardened scales as though they were made of smoke. A bell began to toll loudly from within the camp, calling men to arm themselves and fight.

  Then the prison building was ahead and, with a great blast of magic, Vrór blew the iron gates off their hinges, crushing the guards in the room beyond. Curses echoed around the walls of the prison, blotting out even the cries of the eagles outside. Maxis drew his sword.

  “Search for sss Sheon down there and deal with whatever obstacles you encounter,” Vrór said, pointing to the left-hand door in the guard room. “I’ll take this sss passage.”

  So the two parted and Maxis gratefully slipped back into the mentality of conventional combat. No longer having to worry about magic, he brought his sword down upon the guards who came running up the corridor. Swinging his blade in almost elegant movements, he dispatched a dozen unprepared men before reaching the holding cells. All of the individual iron gates were firmly bolted, except one.

  Maxis hurried forward and, finding a Ronnesian readying to deal the prisoner within a swift death, quickly kicked the jailer to the floor and dispatched him. The Ronnesian’s sword rang as it hit the stone floor and his body fell across the corpse of a prisoner he had already killed. Maxis offered his hand to the survivor huddling in the corner of the small, dark cell.

  “Captain Maxis, Ayon infantry,” he said. “If you’re capable of wielding a sword, I suggest you take his and defend yourself.”

  The man was dazed but took the hand offered him and rose shakily to his feet. Spying the sword, he bent and picked it up, testing the weight. Maxis nodded, recognizing the mannerisms of a seasoned soldier beneath the man’s emaciated features. He snatched up the keys from the jailer’s limp hand and unlocked the remaining cells. Half of the prisoners assured Maxis they were strong enough to wield weapons and hurried back up the corridor to plunder the dead guards for swords or knives.

 
; Maxis approached the last cell, unlocked it and slid the bolt across. The gate needed a little more encouragement to open than its fellows and, impatiently, Maxis kicked it back. He hurried into the cell and bent down beside the single occupant slumped in the corner. The man’s eyes were closed and, for a horrifying moment, Maxis thought he was too late. He cursed and put his hand on Commander Sheon’s shoulder and shook him. As quick as lightning, Maxis felt his arm grasped in a hold as strong as iron and his sword wrenched out of his hand. Then Sheon was straddling his middle and the blade was pressed into the skin of his neck. Maxis gasped in surprise as he saw the madness in the commander’s eyes.

  “C-Captain Maxis,” he stammered quickly and shakily. “Ayon infantry. Came here to rescue you, sir!”

  Sheon regarded him suspiciously, not withdrawing the blade. “First rule of combat?”

  “Show no fear in the face of your enemies,” Maxis responded mechanically.

  “Fourth.”

  “Strike only when the blow will be true.”

  “Seventh.”

  “Obey your orders even if they lead to your death,” Maxis said, angling his neck away from the blade. “And with respect, Commander Sheon, sir, if you kill me, the general will be somewhat displeased.”

  “General Carter sent one man to rescue me?” Sheon asked, leaning back a little and regarding Maxis with a look of doubt.

  “No, General Carter is dead. General Varren sent me with Vrór and fifteen of our best men to retrieve you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A lot has happened since your capture, sir,” Maxis said. “If you would be so kind as to let me up, I’d be more than happy to fill you in.”

  Sheon nodded and rose to his feet, showing no signs of fatigue after his long imprisonment. In fact, for a man who had been kept in almost pitch blackness for months on very little food and drink, Commander Sheon appeared to be in remarkably good shape.