by MJ Blehart
“I hope we get a chance to fight the King and his command staff,” remarked General Torma, remounting his horse.
“I’ve no doubt, it would be a good fight,” replied Sir Ulnar, mounting his horse. “I hear tell Varlock-Sharron is an absolute master of the sword. I want that proved.”
“He will not run away from this,” stated General Grom-Valock confidently. “You will see. Make ready to move out!”
“General!” came a cry from a look-out, pointing. “More reserves, sir!”
“What?!” exclaimed the General, turning to look.
The first group of twenty-thousand had stopped, just behind the current fighting. It was unmistakable. Coming up behind them, row upon row, stretching over a half a mile, were more re-enforcements.
He could hear them advancing, feel them moving. It was the single largest force he had ever seen.
The fighting slowed, and nearly came to a halt all across the battlefield, both sides looking startled.
General Grom-Valock cursed. “I...I don’t believe this. How many?”
The two allied commanders were bobbing their heads, moving their lips, counting. They stopped, and looked to one another, and did so again.
“It can’t be,” stated Sir Ulnar, unable to hide his shock.
“They have over one hundred and twenty thousand more soldiers out there,” added General Torma with awe.
“It must be a trick!” exclaimed General Grom-Valock.
They were stunned. The fighting had all but subsided. Even the Sharronians looked shocked.
In the distance, a single voice was heard faintly. “For the Honor of Sharron!”
It was like a wall of sound that hit, as all the reserves, in one voice with the power of a hundred thousand voices, responded, “Honor of Sharron!”
Soldiers muttered. The confidence of the Medaelians and their allies was broken.
“You were wrong, General,” remarked Sir Ulnar angrily. “Varlock-Sharron did have something up his sleeve. I am not killing my forces on this field today.”
“It has to be a trick!” stated General Grom-Valock hoarsely.
“How do you fake that many soldiers?” asked General Torma. “No, it’s no trick. And we are through. This alliance ends here.”
General Torma raised up in his saddle. “Soldiers of Cordianlott! Disengage from combat! Break formations, and retreat! Reserves, form up on your battalion commanders, and start marching north, now! We are leaving!”
“No!” croaked General Grom-Valock as those orders was repeated. “You cannot.”
“My orders from my King supersede those of yours,” remarked General Torma. “If victory is certain, fight on. If it is not, return home. I go now, and take my forces with me. When they are done with you, I suspect they will chase us down as well. I hope to get home and call up my reserves to be ready for that.”
“We’re not being paid enough for this,” stated Sir Ulnar. “We were told we would have superiority in numbers. This is no longer in our favor. I have my orders.” He also rose up in his saddle. “Dominion Forces, about face! Quick-time, clear the field! Let’s go home!”
“You cannot!” repeated General Grom-Valock, getting his voice back. “You signed treaties! Our kingdoms have an alliance.”
“It’s over,” said General Torma, riding away after his forces. “Tell your King best of luck, and on behalf of King Pol Juron of Cordianlott, I hope Varlock-Sharron kills you quickly, rather than via slow torture.”
“I’d retreat now if I were you,” commented Sir Ulnar, also riding away. “You’re going to be out-numbered about ten to one.”
General Grom-Valock stared after them, and their retreating forces.
He turned, and faced the impossible army before him.
It was over. He couldn’t win this one after all. This would, no doubt, be his final defeat.
Maybe he could keep his head out of a box bound for Penkira.
*****
They came, over a hundred thousand soldiers, marching up behind the reserves.
Varlock-Sharron and his command staff were stunned. They looked so real, felt so alive. It was a very, very good illusion.
As they got closer, Varlock-Sharron saw Cam, standing perfectly still, eyes closed. In very deep concentration. Beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead.
The King felt their approach. A wicked smile breaking across his face, he cried out as loud as he could, “For the Honor of Sharron.”
To his utter shock, they shifted. The illusionary reserves raised the cry in one voice composed of a hundred thousand, “Honor of Sharron!”
His ears rang a while after that. The shout had been deafening, especially this close.
Cam did not move, but was beginning to sweat.
“Majesty, look!” called General Bodrir, sounding awed.
The King turned, and could not miss the enemy reserve forces breaking up, and leaving the field. It was clear the allies of Medaelia would not press this fight.
“It’s working!” exclaimed General Sopirr.
The fighting had stopped, the Sharron forces as amazed as their enemies. The astonishment began to wear, as the hundred thousand illusionary reserves halted, readying their weapons.
The battle became total chaos. Command of the Medaelian forces faltered. The enemy, almost as one, turned, and began to flee the field.
“Sharron Army - Pursue!” cried General Bodrir, nearly gleefully.
As the illusionary soldiers cheered, the real reserves and the rest of the army came out of their shock, and charged after the fleeing Medaelian forces.
“Let the Cordianlotts and Lirdarrans go,” ordered Varlock-Sharron. “I shall deal with King Pol Juron and President Von later. Bring me General Kiran Grom-Valock, alive, if possible.”
“What if, Sire, he just has to be killed?” asked General Sopirr innocently. “I mean, what if he resists being brought to you?”
Theatrically, Varlock-Sharron sighed. “Oh, fine, if he just happens to be impossible to capture alive, kill him.”
“As you will, Majesty,” said General Bodrir, unable to hide his smirk. He raised up in his saddle, and shouted. “Capture the Medaelians! Don’t kill if you do not have to! Let the allies of Medaelia go!”
The cry was echoed, as the generals charged ahead.
Varlock-Sharron watched the disarray as the enemy forces fled.
Time passed. Medaelian soldiers were either surrendering as they were caught, sometimes individually, sometimes as whole units, or putting up a desperate fight. But the battle was not yet over. The illusionary army remained, looking bored. The dull rumble of conversation, indiscernible from this distance, the occasional laugh, or cough, and blades being slapped against shields or running against one another reached the King. An extremely good illusion indeed.
Varlock-Sharron looked at Cam. He stood perfectly still, unmoving, eyes closed. He barely breathed. Sweat was pouring down his face now, the only obvious sign of his exertion.
The Generals soon returned, riding up with a man on a horse between them. He looked tired, and broken. His right arm hung oddly at his side, clearly broken.
They reined in just before the King, and the Generals saluted.
“Your Majesty, as requested, Kiran Grom-Valock of Medaelia,” stated General Bodrir proudly.
“Alive,” breathed General Sopirr with a note of disappointment.
“How did you capture him so quickly?” questioned Varlock-Sharron.
“We suspected that he would be behind the bulk of his forces, and rode around the perimeter,” recounted General Bodrir. “He was there, barking orders, trying to reorganize.”
“When he saw us riding towards him, General Grom-Valock leapt to horseback,” commented General Sopirr, taking over the narrative. “He threw a soldier or two in our wake, but we took them down and gave chase.”
“Finally, Portav and I boxed him in,” concluded General Bodrir. “He tried to get away, but his horse was spooked by mine, and he
fell. That’s how his arm was broken. He didn’t resist once we had him unhorsed.”
“Well, then, General. It would seem this fight has not gone nearly so well as planned,” stated the King triumphantly. “Your allies have abandoned you, and we now outnumber you, what, better than ten to one or so? Would you like to hear my terms?”
Grom-Valock looked at the King, and bowed his head forlornly.
“Excellent. Surrender the Medaelian Army to General Bodrir, and myself. Reign in your forces, and have them drop their weapons, and stand down upon the field. You will also relinquish command of the Medaelian Army to General Bodrir. We will halt our own forces, and stop the killing. Your soldiers will not be harmed, once they surrender.” The King looked at his generals. “Did I leave anything out?”
“An apology would be most appropriate,” remarked General Bodrir. “For the continued border skirmishes, and the death of General Sir Delban Grandol.”
“Oh, yes, that is a good idea,” replied The King. “You were, General, directly responsible for the death of Sir Delban.”
Grom-Valock growled. He was otherwise silent, his eyes swimming with anger and contempt. Finally, he began to shake his head. “I will accede to your terms. I surrender. And I am...” he stopped, eyes defiant as he glared at them. “I cannot believe you demand this of me. You do realize that he fell for a rather obvious trap?”
They all eyed the Medaelian General contemptuously. He growled once more. “Fine then, if I must…I am sorry for the death of Sir Delban.”
“I accept your surrender,” said Varlock-Sharron.
The King glanced over to Cam Murtallan. Even though they had the opposing General in custody, everything still rode on the Medaelian belief that they were vastly outnumbered. The Sorcerer was sweating heavily, and beginning to shake.
Grom-Valock winced as he shifted his broken arm. He once more was shaking his head, defiance in his eyes as he spoke again. “I relinquish command of the Medaelian Army to General Sir Malov Eisnarn Bodrir.”
“Witnessed,” stated General Sopirr.
“Witnessed by the Crown,” added The King. “Alright, Grom-Valock. Order your people to stand down.”
Kiran Grom-Valock slowly raised up on his horse. As loud as he could, he cried out. “Medaelian forces! Stand down! It is finished!”
General Bodrir also raised up in his saddle. “Sharron Army: Hold! Cease all hostilities!”
It was a total mess, and the phantom reserves continued to mill about, still looking bored, but cheering the orders to surrender. The various forces on the battlefield slowed, as the orders from both sides of the conflict were called out.
Cam Murtallan still stood there, sweating profusely, shaking more obviously, guarded by Colonel Pirvarn and Captain Hir-Sharron. Varlock-Sharron willed him to hold on just a little longer, so the combat could cease.
After several minutes, the majority of the fighting had stopped, the soldiers on both sides looking stunned. The Medaelians could not ignore that they were overmatched.
“All Medaelian Forces: Drop your weapons! Surrender, and no harm will come to you!” cried General Grom-Valock.
It was not a speedy process, but soon, as small pockets of fighting continued, the majority of the Medaelians dropped their weapons.
“Do not harm the unarmed Medaelian soldiers!” ordered General Bodrir. “Keep them guarded, but do not harm them!”
The orders were passed on, echoed, and slowly carried out. Soon, bewildered Medaelians stood upon the field, unarmed. The Sharron Army surrounded them, weapons at the ready. Here and there across the vast plain the combat was still winding down, but as a whole, it was finished.
Varlock-Sharron was impressed. The fighting was mostly over. The phantom reserves continued to remain in place, milling about, preparing weapons, laughing, muttering, stamping, a dull roar less than a quarter mile away.
The King got off his horse. He walked to Cam. “Cam Murtallan?” he said. Nothing. The Sorcerer was shaking violently, the effort of maintaining the illusion clearly taking its toll on him. “Cam Murtallan, it is over. You can end this, now.”
Cam remained unresponsive, shaking, soaked from his own sweat. He suddenly took a deep breath, as though he’d been holding it in all this time, and the phantom army simply vanished.
General Grom-Valock cried out in shock. “I knew it was a deception!”
Varlock-Sharron glanced towards him. “A very good illusion, and an astonishingly good Sorcerer.”
Cam Murtallan opened his eyes, proceeded to collapse. Colonel Pirvarn and Captain Hir-Sharron caught him between them. He did not speak, but gave them a look of deepest gratitude.
Varlock-Sharron chuckled. “Well done, Cam Murtallan, well done!” Pirvarn and Hir-Sharron continued to support the weakened Sorcerer.
The King of Sharron turned to his Generals, and the stunned former commander of the Medaelian Army.
“Bodrir, Sopirr. Take Grom-Valock, and have him order his commanders to gather their people, so we can round them up. Have our forces take the Medaelians’ weapons. Re-organize, and divide up the remainder of our forces. Have half take charge of the prisoners, and get the other half ready to march into Medaelia.”
“It shall be done, your Majesty!” responded General Bodrir proudly.
They saluted, and rode off, leading the still clearly bewildered and dismayed Grom-Valock’s horse between them.
Varlock-Sharron looked to Cam. “You did it, Cam Murtallan. You saved my army, you saved my crown, and you saved my Kingdom.”
Cam smirked weakly, still supported by the Colonel and Captain. “So I suppose you want to arrest me now, right? I am an illegal Sorcerer, after all.”
Varlock-Sharron chuckled again. “True. But what kind of an ingrate would I be were I to have you hanged, now?”
He raised his voice. “Captain-General Callan, Captain Hir-Sharron, Colonel Pirvarn, please witness this. I hereby revoke the law banning Sorcery in Sharron.”
“Witnessed,” responded the commander of the Royal Guardsmen proudly. His armor was dented on the right side of his breast plate, where a blunt weapon had impacted, but he was otherwise unhurt.
“Witnessed,” repeated both Pirvarn and Hir-Sharron.
“We shall do this formally, soon,” continued the King.
“What will become of Grom-Valock?” asked Cam, slowly recovering his strength, leaning less on his supporters.
“We shall return him to Wilnar-Medira.”
Varlock-Sharron frowned, remembering. “Of course, if Lyrra-Sharron succeeds, Wilnar-Medira will be no more.”
Cam had finally regained his equilibrium, and stood on his own again. “Let’s hope the Falcon Raiders are succeeding.”
Varlock-Sharron’s thoughts went out to Lyrra-Sharron and the Falcon Raiders, in Penkira. The Sharron Army had beaten the odds and emerged victorious. Did Lyrra-Sharron as well?
Chapter 38
The throne room was large, and opulent. Only three ways in or out, one for servants, one for the King alone, and the main double doors.
Dak Amviir stood near those double doors, listening for any outside. In the center of the room, Princess Lyrra-Sharron and King Aldo Wilnar-Medira had been facing one another and circling for some time now. Neither was willing to engage. For some reason that escaped Dak, Lyrra-Sharron still held only the one blade. He had expected her to draw her second, or at least a dagger. But he said nothing, and observed quietly.
Wilnar-Medira no longer looked so confident. His face was drawn and weary, uncertain. He lightly beat Lyrra-Sharron’s blade with his. She made no move.
They shifted to circle the other way. Lyrra-Sharron beat Wilnar-Medira’s blade, and he took a step back.
“Exercising caution, your Majesty?” asked Lyrra-Sharron contemptuously.
“You do not sit on your throne for twenty years without caution, Princess,” responded the King of Medaelia. “This reckless behavior of yours will only leave your father without an heir.”
&
nbsp; “Quite possible,” she replied nonchalantly. “But then, if you find the point of my blade in your chest, you have no heir at all.”
Wilnar-Medira made no response.
Lyrra-Sharron beat his blade again, and moved forward. He took another step back. They circled.
It came with no warning. Wilnar-Medira beat Lyrra-Sharron’s blade twice. He made a move, a half lunge.
The Princess shifted to the right, pushing away at the blade with her left hand. She took a step back, returning to en guarde as Wilnar-Medira did the same simultaneously. Her black leather gauntlet was torn, blood on her palm.
“The first of your blood I draw this day,” commented Wilnar-Medira haughtily.
“The last,” replied Lyrra-Sharron deadpan.
She lunged, he parried with his sword. She recovered and lunged again, this time he parried with his dagger. She used her left hand against the flat of the rapier, pushing it up and away as she stepped in closer.
Wilnar-Medira dropped and rolled along his back, coming up in a crouch, facing her.
“That was very impressive, your Majesty,” she said condescendingly.
He was breathing a bit too hard to respond.
She pressed, he parried. He countered, attacked, and she parried. He lunged, she side stepped, then came in, at close range, her blade locking his, her hand pressing on his wrist, holding his dagger at bay.
“If you yield now, I will not kill you,” said Lyrra-Sharron simply.
His response was a push with both arms, firmly, forcing Lyrra-Sharron back. She was again en guard.
Breathing hard, Wilnar-Medira pressed in. Lyrra-Sharron ducked, then dove forward, reaching behind her back, drawing her dagger. She came up, swinging.
Wilnar-Medira sucked in his stomach and jumped back. His breath exploded in a loud groan, and Dak noted his tunic was torn along his chest, blood welling up.
Lyrra-Sharron arose, and pressed her advantage. She used both blades to take Wilnar-Medira’s out and down, then moved in. But he dropped to his back and rolled, taking several quick strides back.