by Matt Gilbert
Somewhere, in the corner of his perception, he heard what distinctly sounded like a guttural call for javelins. Impossible. Mei, what would they do if they knew I was hearing voices?
His five opponents cursed and threatened, dancing about, probing at Caelwen and his lone ally, a young, inexperienced guardsman from House Veril, of all things! Politics and blood be damned! Caelwen would have given his left testicle to have Lorinal at his back instead of this green fool. Lorinal was stupid and uneducated, but the man could fight.
Caelwen’s breath was ragged and loud in his helmet. This was insane! Where had these people come from? Not that it mattered. They were going to be the end of him, it seemed. As they closed their circle tighter and tighter about the two combatants, Caelwen clenched his jaw. He would take as many with him as he could.
He heard the voice again, distinctly now, from behind: “Javelins away!”
Caelwen sighed in dismay. He would have preferred to go as he had lived, clear headed, instead of collapsing into self-delusion. He had heard tales of men who, in their last moments, lived entire lives of fantasy in which they were saved. He had never imagined he would be one for that. It was a bitter thought.
When the man in front of him suddenly sprouted a very real-seeming javelin in the middle of his forehead, Caelwen was uncertain to be relieved or frightened. His confusion ramped as the rest of his opponents brandished thin, unhealthy appendages from their bodies.
What is going on?
He came back to his senses as he heard his young ally shriek like a woman, “Southlanders!”
This could not be a fantasy! Why would he hear terror in the man’s voice if this were some soothing reaction to impending death?
The enemies in front of him were dead. Caelwen spun on his heel just in time to see his underling rush headlong toward a shield wall of at least a dozen Southlanders. Caelwen cried out, “Solinas! Stand down, you idiot!”
It was far too late. The young fool would be butchered. These men were hardened killers, and their blood was up. Their shields and short, brutal blades were already streaked with gore. Try as he might, Caelwen could not help but feel his guts churn with guilt, knowing it was his fault. He should never have allowed politics to influence his rosters.
Solinas slammed into the foreign soldiers, his swings wild and harmless. Caelwen forced himself to watch. It was his duty to suffer that, his punishment for failing. And yet, the butchery he expected never came. The Southlanders slammed Solinas to the ground with their shields and pummeled him into submission, some cursing him as a fool, others praising his bravery even as they pounded him into unconsciousness.
This done, they turned to him, raising shields and weapons again. Helmets blocked their features, but dark, savage eyes regarded him carefully, watching for his reaction. One stepped forward and lowered his sword and shield.
“Ilaweh is great!” the man called out in a voice Caelwen found, to his shock, that he recognized. But from where?
As if he heard the question in Caelwen’s mind, the Southlander snapped loose his chinstrap and jerked his helmet off by its horsehair crest. Sandilianus, the one Southlander he knew by name, offered him a fierce, joyful grin. “We have unfinished business, you and I!”
Caelwen, despite his ringing head, found he was still capable of chuckling at the irony. “So we do.” He bowed deeply to the Southlander. “Can we hold our business until we put an end to this scum?”
Sandilianus jammed his helmet back on his head. “That we can, Caelwen Luvox.” He stepped to his side and opened a hole in their ranks. “Have you a shield, demon man dog?” He cackled at this, as if it were the height of humor.
Caelwen flashed a vicious grin of his own. “I’ll find one.”
Ahmed had no idea how it had occurred. He had begun this battle with his brothers, but something had happened. War was chaos. What else could be said? There had been a fight, one of many, and he had found himself on the other side of a writhing, screaming mass of enemies. Since then, he had been on his own, trying to peer through the smoke and chaos to locate his men, and fending off enemy stragglers as needed.
It was more than stragglers, now. They had taken notice of him, a lone, easy target, and came in twos, then threes. He put them down in small groups, but they seemed to have unlimited numbers.
The group harassing him seemed to grow despite his best efforts to reduce it. He had killed several, or at least so he assumed. Who had time to verify that a downed enemy was dead? He blocked, slashed, occasionally fled, the only concern in his mind the urgent need to stay alive himself. Once a dog fell, he had no time to care what became of it. He moved on to the next.
He had hoped to find something to put his back against, but there was precious little in the way of cover. The scrub land where the Nihlosians had made camp was damnably clear. He had fought well, but there were simply too many, and he was too tired.
There were six circling him, and for the moment, it seemed none of the others had taken notice. If he could get clear of this bunch, he might have a fighting chance of survival, but he was exhausted. He needed a few moments, just long enough to catch his breath, and he wasn’t going to get them. It might as well have been six hundred as six.
He swung about him as best he could, holding them at bay for the moment. They were fools and cowards, and the slightest thrust toward any sent them back-peddling in fear. If he were less mortal, he might have held them at bay forever, or at least until support could arrive.
Now, though, his arms were tired, sagging. His sword was heavy in his hand, his arms wailing in exhaustion. His shield had grown in weight tenfold, and each blow it blocked was slower. If these dogs had any courage, he would already be dead.
It suddenly irked him. Why did they not wolf-pack him and end this dance? He was not afraid to die. He was anxious to meet Ilaweh, and anger rose in him that these fools lacked the prowess to beat a tired warrior of moderate skill. He spat toward them, cursing them, daring them. “Cowards! Dogs! Kill me! Ilaweh awaits!”
How grand it would be, to stand before Ilaweh, knowing he had fought well and true to the last. Could a warrior ask for anything more? And yet these wretches hesitated. He could not simply throw down his arms and welcome them with open arms. Why did they not come?
An Elgie slashed at him, halfhearted, and Ahmed parried the blow, despite his desire to see an end of things. “You will earn this, cowards!”
From off to his side, he heard a commotion, and smiled. More of them. This, then, was the end.
But it was not more Elgies. Four Nihlosian soldiers, running and screaming as if pursued by demons, plowed into his final scene, ruining everything! Ahmed, resolved to die, found himself shocked into near paralysis by this new and unexpected development.
The Nihlosians, still screaming, hacked at the Elgies with mad abandon. For a moment, Ahmed thought they must be truly fearless warriors, but he quickly realized that this was not a battle for supremacy, merely passage. The Nihlosians hewed at the Elgies as they would trees or vines in their path, using their swords more like machetes than weapons, all the while screaming not from fury, but stark, raving terror. Their lips were flecked with spittle, their faces pale and stretched even for their own kind. Wide, bulging eyes stared at him, past him, without seeing.
As the cultists parted before them, confused and in disarray, the Nihlosians surged forward. They swung at Ahmed as well, the force of their blows like hammers, maniacal woodsmen felling trees. He was barely able to raise his shield in time, and his bones wailed at the shock. His knees gave way, and he fell to the ground. Rather than finish him, the Nihlosians simply stepped over him as if he were a log, still hacking with mad abandon.
Ahmed covered himself as best he could with his shield and held on for dear life. If he was to meet Ilaweh, he would do so with pride, but now living seemed the more admirable goal. Feet stomped about him, bashed his shield, his face. Screams and blood filled the air.
Now came yet another, neither Ni
hlosian nor Elgie. He bore a blade in either hand, and swung with the speed of a demon. More blood flew, more screams erupted, and corpses fell like cord wood.
It was only a few seconds, and more fled than died, but it was a massacre nonetheless. The silence following was as ominous as the sounds of battle preceding it.
Ahmed coughed and raised his shield. Four corpses lay on the ground, all bleeding from multiple wounds. Two were Nihlosian, the other two Elgies. Amidst the carnage, the man with two blades knelt, breathing hard, clearly near collapse.
They eyed each other as Ahmed staggered to his feet. The newcomer made no hostile move, but stiffened slightly, wary. Ahmed leaned against his shield and simply observed the man, trying to divine his intent. He would be tall if he stood, a powerfully built man, pale of skin, but at least his hair was black. A curious, pale nimbus surrounded him, hazy and indistinct. Ahmed blinked, blaming the smoke, but the aura remained.
Ahmed reached out a hand and stepped forward, cautious. The stranger nodded and took the outstretched hand, and Ahmed gave him a pull to help him up. As he did so, the man’s sleeve slid down his arm a bit, and Ahmed gasped in shock. The tattoos on his arm were unmistakable. Crows, and a mailed, clenched fist with spikes driven through: the marks of Elgar!
Had his head been more clear, his reflexes less worn, Ahmed might have reacted on impulse and attacked. But something more than exhaustion stayed his hand and begged him to withhold judgment. He locked eyes with the man, calling upon his talents. Who are you?
There was not a trace of evil in him. His were hard eyes, yes, eyes that had seen much battle, but they were innocent nonetheless.
Ahmed stood dumbfounded for a moment, memories of his lessons as a youth echoing in his head: Yazid explaining how he had a special gift, a talent for judging men, for knowing the smell, the taste, the feel of evil. And yet it failed him now, of all times?
No. There were other lessons to which Ahmed had given only half an ear and had both boxed for sloth. All he could remember now was one salient point: the followers of Elgar had not always been villains.
Some had been great heroes in the old days.
Ahmed held a firm grip on the man’s hand, staring into the warm, hazel eyes, searching, but nothing changed. This is a good man. Ahmed shook his head in amazement at the contradiction. “You saved my life,” he said, his voice more of a croak than speech. He coughed again at the dust.
The stranger shrugged, his pointed beard quivering as he offered a hesitant, crooked smile. “So it seems. Should I have?”
Ahmed grinned back at him. “Don’t you know?”
The man withdrew his hand and gave a slow, contemplative nod. “You are a good man. But you are not of the orders I know.” He paused, curiosity brimming in his eyes, marveling. “You are new.” He took a step back and scanned the battlefield, searching for something, then glanced back at Ahmed. “I must save myself, too, friend. And one other.” He turned to leave.
“Wait! My name is Ahmed Justinius.”
The stranger smiled and nodded. “Logrus.” He offered a slight bow, then turned and faded into the smoke and chaos.
Ahmed stood long moments, bemused and wondering. Had anyone attacked him, they would have found him a very easy target, but as Yazid had often said, Ilaweh sometimes watched over fools.
Ahmed was roused from his musings by the sound of a familiar voice. Sandilianus, in his command tone, shouted over the noise, “’Ware right flank!”
Ahmed ran toward his brothers.
Maranath pulled his tent flap aside and gazed out on the battle. While he couldn’t say for certain why a pack of Elgies was running about setting things on fire, he certainly had several ideas. “Do you suppose they are here to rescue Aiul, or just to have their vengeance on you?”
Ariano shot him a withering glare, then stepped past him to take her own stock of the situation. “You’re not actually concerned, are you? About them?”
Maranath was about to respond when a familiar voice called, “If you’re concerned about anyone, old friend, you should be concerned about us.”
Maranath turned, shocked, toward Maklin Yorn. Sadrik Tasinal hovered over the elder’s shoulder, looking rather smug. Their presence was no accident, and it couldn’t be a good thing.
Maranath gave them a nod of welcome. “What brings you two here?”
Maklin regarded him with a cool gaze for a moment before replying. “We might ask you the same!”
Ariano stiffened at this. “We are pursuing Aiul to stop him from meddling in Torium!”
Maklin raised an eyebrow. “Torium, eh?” His expression was as triumphant as it was accusatory. “A clever lie!”
Maranath was shocked at Maklin’s tone. “Now see here, Maklin! Just what are you accusing us of?”
Maklin opened his mouth to speak just as a group of Elgies spilled out of a larger tent behind him. They seemed to be both fighting and fleeing at the same time. Was there someone in the middle of that herd of cats? Maranath couldn’t tell.
Ariano jumped upward a few inches and settled immediately back to the ground. She let out a howl of fury, reached to the ground for a stone, and hurled it at Sadrik, barely missing him. “Stop it, you little shit! You interfere with me at your peril!”
Sadrik looked back at her, eyes wide, shaking his head in denial. “Not me, grandmother.”
Ariano’s voice took on the strange, harmonic tone once again as she replied, “I am no relation to you, boy!”
Maranath laid a calming hand on her shoulder. He couldn’t let this get out of hand, not now of all times. “I feel it, too. It’s not them. It’s something else, something very strong.”
It was like a weight pulling, dragging him down, hardening the world. He turned slowly, trying to get a sense of direction. The other three followed his lead, and all four found themselves facing the pitched battle going on amongst the Elgies.
Maklin spoke for everyone: “Mei!”
Aiul shook his head, struggling to clear his thoughts. Killing Logrus was still very much on his mind, but Logrus was not convenient. He would kill him later, perhaps, if he were not too tired. For now, there were other, more pressing matters to attend.
Aiul brought the fist-shaped mace down on the head of yet another Elgie, bashing the skull into a shapeless, bloody pulp. More Elgies swarmed around him, in fives and tens as they were able to gather and attack, but their numbers were meaningless against the juggernaut. He hurled the heavy mace about him as if it were a bamboo stick, cutting a swath through them as they approached. He had reach on them, and his speed and stamina was inhuman. None could get close enough to scratch him without being cut down.
Oh, this is the gift Elgar promised! His soul sang with the knowledge. Unlimited vengeance!
Ariano cried out, “Great Tasinal and Amrath! Look!” She slapped the back of Maklin’s head and pointed at Aiul. “Look at what he's wearing!” Maklin turned on her, hand raised to strike her back, and froze, the anger on his face fading to shock as he saw what she was pointing at. He slowly lowered his arm and gaped in astonishment.
Maranath was certain he already knew what Ariano was excited about, but his gaze was drawn to it, even so. The small amber sphere dangled from Aiul’s neck by a simple thong, swaying back and forth. To Maranath’s surprise, it was glowing, lighting Aiul’s face from beneath, casting shadows that made him appear demonic.
I didn’t know it did that.
“His hair,” Ariano murmured. “Why is his hair white?”
Maranath merely shook his head. Not a clue.
Sadrik leaned toward Maklin and tapped his shoulder cautiously, wary of being caught in the crossfire between him and Ariano. “Is that the Eye of the Lion?”
Maklin shot Sadrik a brief look of annoyance before turning back to Aiul in fascination. “No, you idiot, that’s a cheese sandwich.”
Maranath couldn’t help but chuckle at this. Maklin was an old friend, with emphasis on the ‘old’ part. They had all grown more can
tankerous as they aged, but Maklin had started that way. “It’s a piece of the Eye,” he told Sadrik “The one from Nihlos. Can you feel it?”
Sadrik nodded, looking slightly ill. “Like a boot on my neck.”
Maklin turned back to face them, his jaw set. “You won’t have it, you know! You’ll have to go through us!”
Maranath was, for a Meite, slow to genuine anger. The sharp words, the grandiose pronouncements, the shouts and insults and bickering, such things were mundane, part and parcel to the craft. It was rare that he found himself provoked to more than wry, cynical amusement, rarer still when he found himself motivated to abandon barbs for genuine threats.
Now, though, he was truly angry. Suddenly, things were clear. His old friend suspected him of treachery, and had come here to capture him. Such arrogance, and at such a critical moment! It was infuriating!
“That is enough!” he roared. The earth beneath their feet trembled as Maranath clenched his fists repeatedly, gritting his teeth and pinning Maklin with his gaze.
Maklin glared back at him, unshaken. “I don’t want to fight you, Maranath. And not because I'm afraid of you. You’re like a brother to me!”
“A brother you condemn without trial, without even allowing him to speak?”
Maklin shook his head in vehement denial. “Oh, that’s hardly the case! You had ample opportunity to speak! Or did you forget where I lived?”
Maranath’s anger faded as quickly as it had come upon him. He felt a grin spread across his face. “The last time I remember you paying me a visit was—”
Maklin’s eyes bulged. “You shut up about that! It was a long time ago!”
Sadrik raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “Oh, no, do tell. I have the distinct sense there is a woman involved.”
Maranath laughed aloud. “A long time indeed. It must be fifty years!”