by MJ Blehart
A few others, like Alran, Khelvan, and Bormann, had been named Sergeants, and wore cords of black. A convenient way to increase order and organization. They were acting as a real military force.
She glanced back, noting again the lowered sails. The oars were out, hauling the large ship upriver. Behind were three more ships, another frigate, a cutter, and a snow, with the rest of the Falcon Raiders.
After much discussion among her officers, Lyrra-Sharron had selected a total of three hundred for this mission. The remaining two hundred were sent to Gara-Sharron, to be at the direct disposal of the Regent to assist in maintaining order while the Army was away. Most of those were newest among the Falcon Raiders, but still accepted their mission without argument.
Lyrra-Sharron wore a tunic and long, heavy skirt. They were disguised as merchants, a caravan from Dulvaln, sailing up the Mendanaria to Penkira. The Sharron Navy officer in command, Captain Zid Grovarn, had been born in Dulvaln, and knew much of the workings of the merchant class and their ships.
One of her father’s best ideas, long ago, had been to make the naval vessels of Sharron inconspicuous. A casual observer would easily mistake them for merchantmen, until close examination revealed naval officers and the like on deck. This strategy had fooled enemy ships more than once, and had virtually ended piracy around Sharron.
Thus they rowed upriver, virtually ignored. Wilnar-Medira was so focused on his upcoming battle on the Sharron border, that he had no patrols along the riverbanks, or on the river itself, for that matter. With only a small coast, however, Medaelia did not have much of a navy to speak of.
The sound of someone clearing his throat brought Lyrra-Sharron out of her thoughts, and she turned to face Dak standing behind her, in his non-descript browns and greys.
“Dak,” she intoned.
“Lyrra-Sharron.”
“What has you up so early?” she asked.
He approached, crossing his arms. “I’ve always been fond of sailing. My grandfather was a fisherman. He’d take me sailing with him sometimes. I always wake with the sun as is, but there is something special about it when I’m shipboard.”
Lyrra-Sharron grinned. “This is only my second time on a ship. Once, when I was very young, I went with my mother and father and sister to Kelfarn, where my father took us on a brief trip in a newly commissioned battleship. I believe it was a galleon. This is smaller, of course, but equally impressive.”
Dak was bobbing his head at that.
“Something troubling you?” she asked.
Dak actually shrugged. “This whole thing is just so...”
“Odd?” she finished for him.
He glanced towards her, but said nothing.
Lyrra-Sharron was glad she was not the only one feeling like that. “I know. I have been thinking about where we have come, since we began. It is hard to believe we reached the resolution we did. You could never have told me things would work out this way. I also cannot believe how close we came to destroying my Sharron.”
“You’ve been very quiet since you and your father parted company.”
She turned from him, looking out over the river. “I know. I have been doing a lot of thinking. So much has changed.”
“Care to talk about it?” questioned Dak.
Lyrra-Sharron shrugged. “It is…just in the back of my mind, nagging. The people we touched, in ways both good and bad. Everything I planned, everything I prepared…all for naught.”
“You feel you failed?”
“No, it is not that. It just…it is all different.”
Lyrra-Sharron could feel Dak’s eyes boring in, waiting for her to continue.
She frowned. “I guess...I guess I never realized how selfish my plans were. How narrow my vision had become. My perceptions were clouded, so deluded. All my plans, based on years of misconceptions and misunderstandings. It all changed so fast, became clear so quickly. I would not think something so simple as hearing the words ‘I love you’ from my father could convince me I had erred. On top of all that, I have also found myself thinking about Cam.”
Dak stood beside her now, looking out over the river. “He’s played quite a part in all this.”
Lyrra-Sharron snorted. “In all this? You realize the destiny he has? If he truly is The Seeker...”
“You doubt?”
“No,” said Lyrra-Sharron instantly. “After everything that has happened? No. He is The Seeker. No other Sorcerer has ever regained his power, once lost. All of the books I have read that make reference to the loss of that power only mention the death of the sorcerer involved. The world is changing, Dak.”
“War is coming,” replied Dak.
“Is that not why we go to Penkira?” asked Lyrra-Sharron ironically.
Dak turned to her. “I don’t mean this skirmish. I mean the world will face terrible war soon. ‘And only The Seeker will know it discovered, for only The Seeker may wield The Source. Knowledge of Wizardry will be recovered, returned to the world with great show of force.’”
She faced him. “That does not necessarily mean war.”
“No?” asked Dak. “I think it does. ‘Great show of force’ implies some kind of conflict, and conflict, especially that of a prophecy, is usually war.”
Lyrra-Sharron considered that.
“I know I haven’t really commented on our current situation,” continued Dak, “but you did the right thing. His Majesty brought with him to Tarmollo the truth.”
She eyed him curiously then. Saw something in his face she’d never seen before. “I am glad you approve, Dak. I do not say so often enough, but your opinion is important to me.”
“I’m with you to the end, Lyrra-Sharron,” replied Dak, suddenly looking uncharacteristically uncertain.
She found herself leaning towards him, lost in his eyes. The look there was something she wanted, something she craved. She found herself wanting very much to kiss him. She leaned towards him, found him leaning down towards her...
“Your Highness!” called Captain Grovarn.
The moment broken, Lyrra-Sharron and Dak both spun rather quickly, facing astern towards the ships’ captain.
He was a short man, slightly bow legged, bald, with sun-dark skin and ropy muscles. He wore a plain vest and baggy breetches, a simple enough disguise. He walked with a slight limp, coming closer.
“What is it, Captain?” asked Lyrra-Sharron, trying not to sound disappointed. She felt somehow cheated.
He was just before her, and bowed his head, first to her, then Dak. “Your Highness. Lieutenant Dak. As ye well know, we have passed the fork of the river now, and my look-out reports there are troops along the south bank. However, they seem to be ignoring us. They are marching at a good clip, westward.”
“No real surprise, that,” Lyrra-Sharron acknowledged. “Tell the lookout to keep us posted if any approach the bank. Anything else?”
“Nay, your Highness. We shall be at the point of disembarkation late tonight or early tomorrow.”
“Very good. Thank you, Captain.”
He bowed once more, and walked off.
“Well,” Dak began, sounding uncomfortable. His next words tumbled out in a rush. “I’m going to see to the others, make sure they’ve been watching for rust on their weapons, with the damp air about the river and all. Maybe set up drills in the galley, clear the tables and such. Check the horses below decks. At any rate, we’ll speak later.”
Before she could respond Dak was walking away. Far too quickly for her liking.
Lyrra-Sharron was torn between shouting at him to turn back to her, and stomping her feet upon the deck like a petulant child who did not get what she wanted. Instead, she turned back to contemplate the river before her, feeling the motion of the ship.
She found her feelings regarding Dak Amviir were mixed, and complicated. Yet she had no choice but to set them aside for the time being. The Princess had a difficult mission before her.
They were ready. The task ahead of her and her Falcon
Raiders was more clear than it had ever been. She was an agent of the Crown, now, rather than a rebel set against it. She had a bigger, more important goal. Her objective truly was the salvation of Sharron.
Chapter 35
The warnings had been shouted just before dawn. Soldiers on the march, crossing the River Mendanaria. The command staff of the Sharron Army gave orders, and sergeants rode off quickly. The massive forces were shifted, and moved into position.
The ground was still wet from rain during the night. The sunrise would go unnoticed, as the sky was overcast. Appropriate, Cam Murtallan thought, as he glanced up. Grey skies over a land that would soon be churned to mud.
As much as the attack had been predicted for New Year’s Day, no member of the Sharron command staff was surprised that they were striking nearly two weeks early. This had been an unusually mild winter, and as the Season of Stillness drew to its close, it was evident to everyone that there would be no more ice, and likely no late winter storms.
The Medaelian invaders had waited long enough to allow the entirety of the fighting Sharron Army to come to the Vann Region. Whether that was unintentional, or a planned show of just how large a force Wilnar-Medira had assembled, was anyone’s guess.
As the last units had arrived in place, Cam questioned who would do their duties around the Kingdom in their absence. It was explained by General Bodrir and the King that local constabularies would call up special militias to take the positions that were vacated of necessity. Also, in other critical posts, Royal Guardsmen would fill in.
They rode out of Vanntir to meet the approaching force. At the King’s insistence, Cam was beside Varlock-Sharron, flanked by General Bodrir, General Sopirr, and the rest of the command staff.
Cam had chosen not to add any further armor, and the only weapon he had included was his rapier. A shield had been given to him for protection from enemy arrows. He did not feel a staff would be of much use in the coming battle, and he had no experience with a range weapon like a bow or crossbow.
Varlock-Sharron was attired in plate armor, black and dull. Cam learned it was incredibly well articulated, and surprisingly light. The King wore a simple, open faced helm. He was clearly equipped for battle. The Generals were similarly attired.
The Sharron Army were divided in ranks of archers, crossbowmen, pikemen, mounted and footed swordsmen. Those on horseback wore platemail, those on foot wore chain and leather armor. Weapons varied from longswords to broadswords to claymours to maces and pikes and longbows and crossbows. Some even held rapiers, like Cam.
Almost fifty-thousand Sharron Army soldiers moved into position. The ground was already becoming muddy.
They halted about a mile from the river. The land before them was mostly flat, undeveloped prairie. Cam had learned farms were never established here because of constant skirmishes. More than a half dozen fights had occurred on this plain before.
“I wish we had enough light to see what comes,” commented General Sopirr under his breath.
“I doubt they’ll send negotiators in advance this time,” remarked General Bodrir.
“Why don’t they just charge in?” asked Cam of the King quietly, nervously.
Varlock-Sharron continued to peer forward. His voice was soft, and somewhat tense. “Warfare of this nature is complicated. When you invade in waves, knowing your numbers to be greater, you can sweep in without a second thought, as the Anarian invasion occurred. But when you face an army of nearly equal size and composition, to run in blindly invites quick defeat.”
“So, what, we’ll pause a mile apart and face one another until someone charges?” questioned Cam.
“No. Likely the archers will shoot first.”
“Oh, well, that’s comforting,” replied Cam sarcastically.
“Warfare has been done like this for a long, long time now,” remarked General Bodrir, an equal tension in his tone. “Two large armies facing one another cannot just launch blind attacks. There is an odd sense of order to a battle such as this.”
Cam was silent, now, considering. On paper, it hadn’t looked like this. He came to realize there was much about strategy he was yet to understand.
“Hold here, General,” ordered Varlock-Sharron.
“Yes, sir,” replied General Bodrir. “Sergeant?”
A large, burly sergeant beside the general turned in his saddle. “HOLD!” he cried in a great voice.
Others repeated the command, and the forward motion of the Sharron Army came to a stop. The rumble and clatter of advancing soldiers ceased, and was replaced by a low, dull roar. Ahead, similar sounds were heard.
“There!” someone barked.
Others shouted, and pointed to the east.
Cam noted the light was sufficient, now. He could see them. He had read the reports, been told how many to expect…but the sight of it was something else entirely, beyond anything Cam could have imagined.
Arrayed before them was a force of innumerable soldiers. Composed similarly to the Sharron Army, but with three distinct banners amongst them. They, too, were coming to a halt. Just under a quarter of a mile separated these two immense armies.
“Do we have a count yet?” asked the King.
Cam turned, noted the Generals lightly bobbing their heads, apparently estimating enemy strength. General Sopirr soon answered, never taking his eyes off the opposition.
“Looks to be around sixty-thousand, sire.”
“Can’t see if they have re-enforcements behind or no,” commented General Bodrir.
Cam was astonished. He realized that the Generals, with long experience at warfare, had some method of counting such a large force quickly.
Recalling the maps and plans they’d been working on, Cam realized that it was less likely they counted actual soldiers, and more likely they counted companies, battalions, or regiments of soldiers. The break-down of the massed military body had been explained to Cam, but until he saw it before him, it had remained an abstract concept.
A small group rode out from the enemy formation. Forming a clear pattern Cam could not identify, they had a large banner and were all mounted on horseback. Behind the banner they had a white flag.
“I’ll be damned,” commented Colonel Pirvarn. “They are sending a parley.”
“Majesty?” questioned Major Jun-Shilla.
“Bodrir. Sopirr. Callan. Hir-Sharron. Murtallan. My guards. With me,” commanded the King tersely.
He spurred his horse, and was immediately followed by them. Captain Hir-Sharron carried the Banner of Sharron, and Captain-General Callan carried the white flag of parley. They rode forth, Cam preparing for some kind of deception.
They slowed in the middle of the space between the armies as they approached the opposing squad.
“Isn’t this dangerous?” asked Cam quietly, feeling nervous.
“Under a white flag, they cannot and will not attack. That would be General Grom-Valock of Medaelia in command, and he is a principled soldier, even if his King is not a man with honor,” said Varlock-Sharron softly. “But be ready for anything, just in case.”
Cam knew what the King meant. He was there for additional protection. Civilized or not, these were, after all, the commanders of the enemy army.
They were visible, now, all decked out in plate armor. Only Cam in his leather was out of place. They rode behind three banners, the rampant lion before the flaring sun on a field of purple of Medaelia, the four silver stars topped with a gold, five point crown on a field of green of Cordianlott, and the seven birds, a raven, a swan, an eagle, a crow, a dove, a hawk, and a peacock, arranged in a circle between laurels on a white field of the Allied Dominion of Lirdarra.
One man came closer, flanked by two others. He had a grey beard and round, weathered face. He wore grey plate armor similar to the black worn by Varlock-Sharron and his generals. The men behind him, one quite large, with an oily black goatee and rust-red platemail, the other tall and thin, clean shaved in nearly white armor, both wore looks of self importance
. The lead stopped, and raised a hand.
“I am General Kiran Grom-Valock, Commanding officer of the Medaelian Army, representing his Royal Majesty, King Aldo Wilnar-Medira of Medaelia. Whom do I address?”
His voice was low and melodic, and extremely confident. Varlock-Sharron rode to him, flanked directly by Bodrir and Sopirr.
“I am General-Master Varlock-Sharron Anduin, Commanding officer of the Sharron Army, and King of Sharron.”
“Well. Well well well,” remarked General Grom-Valock. The other men behind him shifted uneasily. “Your Majesty, it’s been many years, now. I expected you would look...older, somehow.”
Varlock-Sharron smirked wickedly. “I have aged slowly, General. I still lead my own. I see your King still prefers others fight his battles for him.”
“Do you dare insult my King?” questioned the General.
“No more than he insults himself, General.” His expression changed immediately as he inclined his head towards the men behind Grom-Valock. “Who are these?”
The frown on General Grom-Valock’s face deepened a moment, before he released an exasperated breath. “Yes, quite. May I present General Gil Torma of Cordianlott,” the man in white armor rode a step forward. “and Sir Ulnar Tiv of Lirdarra.” The man in rust-red armor came closer. “And these?” he gestured to the Generals behind the King.
Bodrir moved forward. “I am General Sir Malov Eisnarn Bodrir, Deputy commanding officer of the Sharron Army.”
Sopirr joined him. “General Sir Portav Sopirr, Deputy commanding officer of the Sharron Army.”
“Of course,” General Grom-Valock acknowledged. “We’ve not seen one another in quite some time, Generals. I see you chose Sir Portav to replace the late Sir Delban?”
General Bodrir said nothing.
General Grom-Valock pressed on. “Be that as it may, we have come forth to present the terms of his Royal Majesty, King Aldo Wilnar-Medira of Medaelia.”
Varlock-Sharron crossed his arms. “Excellent. I like a good yarn as much as the next man.”