by Brian Bakos
I choose not to disguise the truth. Any story I make up would only cause further suspicion.
“We intend to overthrow the bandit gangs,” I say. “Clyde is to summon aid from my father, King Bertram of Sopronia – a wise and just monarch.”
Gilbert breaks into a wide grin. The change in him is astonishing.
“Then our second condition is this,” he says. “Take into your service any of our men who wish to fight by your side.”
I clasp Gilbert’s hand.
“Agreed!”
31: Mountain Calamity
Clyde squinted up the slope until the icy terrain merged with the sky. Instinct, more so than vision, told him that he was near the summit. He shifted the pack on his aching shoulders. The steep mountain mocked his discomfort, and a biting wind struck his face.
The weather was turning ugly fast. A dark spot had appeared in the sky off to the north and was growing rapidly larger. This would not be an ordinary storm like before, either. The air crackled, making his hair stand on end.
If only they could reach the sheltered lee in time! The exposed ground on this side offered no protection.
“Hurry, Niels!” he shouted.
A reply floated up from a struggling figure. “Coming!”
Niels had been a useful guide, but his strength was failing. Clyde himself was badly tired, and only fear of the coming storm kept him moving.
Yesterday, severe weather had forced them to camp among the boulders of the lower slopes. The experience had left them chilled and feverish, yet they’d pushed doubly hard today to gain time.
Niels caught up, breathless. Clyde placed an arm around his shoulders.
“Come on, it can’t be far now,” he said.
They trudged, arm in arm, their labored breathing the only noise in the chill silence. To the north, the darkness drew nearer. The sky began to boom, like the approaching footsteps of some evil giant.
“I see the top!” Niels cried.
They broke into a stumbling run while a dark, boiling wall of snow roared toward them.
“Hang on Niels!” Wind tore the words from Clyde’s mouth.
The storm hit with an unearthly roar, knocking them flat. Their packs tumbled into oblivion.
Clyde lay stunned while the end of the world raged all around. Deadly cold pierced him to the core, and time became meaningless. Then the fury seemed to grow distant. He was scarcely aware of himself any longer. His body grew numb.
A still functioning corner of his brain screamed: I’m dying!
But he could do nothing. The alarm in his mind grew faint. It was so peaceful now, all he wanted to do was sleep.
Then someone was shaking him. He looked up to see Niels’ face looming out of the maelstrom.
“Get up, Clyde, you must win through!”
Clyde felt himself begin to move. He staggered to his feet somehow, and his befuddled mind cleared a bit.
“Let’s go!”
He grabbed Niels’ arm.
“I can’t ... leave me,” Niels said.
He tore off his sheepskin coat and thrust it at Clyde.
“Take it!”
Then he lurched off into the storm’s embrace. In a moment he was gone.
“Niels!”
Grief tore Clyde’s heart. He very nearly collapsed, but the echo of Niels’ bravery kept him upright. He wrapped the extra coat about himself and began walking again. The snow was much deeper now. He slogged through it on numbed feet.
Keep moving. Just five steps more ...
Cold punched through him. Total whiteout, frozen death everywhere.
Must keep moving, moving ...
Something snapped inside him, and his body no longer obeyed his will. But at that same moment, the ground leveled out. Clyde reeled a few steps and fell.
He lay, gulping the wind’s fury into his tortured lungs. With a last burst of strength, he rose to his feet and charged ahead. The storm began to loosen its grip. The sun peeked through the raging snow. Clyde opened his arms wide.
The ground disappeared. Clyde was tumbling downhill now, the jagged rocks punching into him. He thrashed about desperately, trying to stop.
Finally, he did stop.
The wind had ceased, and Clyde felt the sun’s warmth upon him. He forced opened his eyes. Above him, a pure blue sky; below, a landscape of incredible beauty.
This must be heaven!
Everything went black.
32: War in the Eastlands
War has stalked the Eastlands for almost three weeks now.
We move quickly and attack the disunited northern gangs, while to the south of us, Afflis bides his time and gathers strength. Whatever thrill I once felt about our rebellion has long since departed. I am sick to the depths of my soul with all this suffering.
I’ve seen little of the actual fighting, though, as Talbot always insists that I stay behind in camp. Yesterday, my frustration boiled over.
“I’m going, whether you like it or not!” I said.
“As you wish,” Talbot replied. “Just bear in mind what would happen should you fall in battle. Do you think the rebellion could continue without you?”
I knew he was right; Talbot is always right. So, I stayed behind again.
Common people flock to our side. Numerous bandits have deserted their gangs and joined us as well. Talbot recruits as many of these men as he can use and sends the rest away. Many return home to join the various uprisings convulsing the land. Old scores are being settled, violence is everywhere, and the whole country is aflame.
I’m told that the Eastlands are a long, narrow territory fronting on the sea. The sea! Would that I live long enough to behold its glory.
As far as I have been able to discern from various interviews, the Eastlands are, perhaps, two thirds the extent of Sopronia.
A map of them would appear something as follows:
I keep myself busy in camp with archery practice. More important, the training I received from the Royal Physician is proving useful to our wounded.
One man took an arrow in the chest. When he first came in, I thought he was hopeless. But somehow I managed to draw out the arrow and cleanse the deep wound. Now, as I change the man’s dressing, I am astonished at the extent of his healing.
I gaze away from my patient and toward the mountains. The peaks are shrouded in icy mist, frigid and mysterious. The dark suspicion that Clyde has perished upon them grips my heart.
“Where are you?” I murmur.
“Beg pardon?” my patient says.
“Nothing ... nothing,” I say.
I finish bandaging, and my patient stands up to go.
“Thanks, my lord. I feel ever so much better.”
He backs away, bowing reverently, his right fist over his heart.
These men put me to the test. Many almost seem to worship me like a god. Right – and I can’t even save my dearest friend!
***
The raiding party returns. Talbot and Norman dismount and continue toward me on foot. Their gait is not that of confident men.
“Report,” I say.
Talbot hesitates, looks at Norman, then back at me.
“Afflis has come,” he says. “We have seen his encampment some miles east of here.”
My stomach turns to ice.
“So soon?” I gasp.
Talbot nods and wipes his brow.
“I suspect he will attack today or tomorrow,” he says. “They outnumber us badly and are better armed. We cannot prevail in open battle.”
My mind reels. I take a step back, then another.
“We are nearly boxed in,” Norman says. “To the east, Afflis – mountains to the west, and to the north, the impassable Barrens.”
“We must attempt an immediate breakthrough to the south,” Talbot says, “then retreat over Windy Gap. Fight our way over if we have to.”
I am appalled at this avalanche of evil tidings and am quite unable to speak. Icy sweat gl
istens on my face and runs down my armpits.
“My lord?” Talbot says.
“You mean ... we should abandon the campaign?” I manage to reply.
“Yes,” Talbot says.
“What of the people who have risen against the bandits?” I say. “Without us in the fight, they’ll be slaughtered.”
“A regrettable outcome,” Talbot says, “but we simply cannot go on. The hoped for aid has not arrived.”
“You believe that Clyde’s mission has failed, then?” I ask.
“Yes, I do,” Talbot says. “Otherwise, help would already be here.”
I look off toward the mountains and bite my lip to keep myself from weeping outright.
“Perhaps we could return with the Sopronian army and resume the campaign,” Norman says.
“I think not,” I say. “Scheming men at court have the King’s ear. They’ll persuade him to make a shameful peace.”
My commanders say nothing. They are experts on the battlefield, but I know the Sopronian court.
“Besides,” I say, “Afflis has surely left forces in the south to deal with us. We’d be heading into a trap.”
“We might defeat them,” Norman says.
“Even so, they’d delay us so much that Afflis could strike us from behind with his main force,” I say.
“That’s true,” Talbot says, “but it just isn’t possible – ”
All my bottled-up stress and pain erupts, a mad windstorm roars in my ears.
“I’m not interested in what isn’t possible!” My voice cracks. “Tell me something that is possible.”
Talbot and Norman step back, astonished. I force myself to calm down.
“Forgive me,” I say. “I know that you advise what you believe to be right ... It’s just that I grieve for my friend.”
“We share your sorrow, my lord,” Norman says.
I force back tears.
“My mind tells me that Clyde has perished. But my heart cannot accept it.”
“He is beyond our aid,” Talbot says. “Let us discuss matters about which we can do something.”
I try to push aside my grief and concentrate upon our appalling difficulties.
“Tell me about these ‘Barrens,’” I say.
“They lie 12 miles north of here,” Norman says. “Very dangerous territory, men cannot cross them.”
“How do you know that?” I say. “Has anyone tried?”
“Well ... not that I am aware of,” Norman says.
“It’s common knowledge that the Barrens are impassable,” Talbot says. “They are an evil place of swamps and ferocious beasts.”
“I’ve heard such things before,” I say, “superstitious rot, mostly.”
Talbot and Norman look unconvinced.
“Don’t you see?” I say. “The Barrens are the last place Afflis will expect us to go. We could come out again in an unpredictable direction – keep the initiative.”
My officers do not reply.
“Have you a better plan?” I say.
“No, my lord,” Talbot says.
“Then we head north immediately,” I say.
My officers hesitate, and I think that they will choose to defy me. But they spin on their heels and start to organize the men for a quick march north.
33: To the Barrens
We head north on the double, 275 strong. Our ranks include hard-bitten veterans and raw recruits, goat herders and former bandits – all of us brothers in arms and equal subjects to the fortunes of war.
The weather is the usual chill overcast, and my heart is as cold as the surrounding air. The last softness has been wrung from it – it is now just a lump of rage and determination to smite our enemies.
By noon the men begin walking more slowly, talking among themselves in low voices. Tension fills the air.
“They are figuring out where we are going, my lord,” Talbot says. “You must officially tell them our destination.”
I nod.
“Let’s rest a while first,” I say. “This place seems as good as any.”
“Break for the midday meal!” Talbot calls.
All around us, men wearily set down their arms.
“Double rations for everyone,” I say.
Talbot gives me an ironic look.
“The men will appreciate Your Lordship’s generosity,” he says.
“The less we have to carry through the Barrens the better,” I say.
***
The men sprawl about the coarse grass, feasting on their extra rations. I recline in the grass as well, and Talbot rests against a nearby rock.
Norman joins us. The atmosphere becomes relaxed, almost fraternal, but, as seems in keeping with my nature, I cannot resist an impulse to disturb the peace.
“Are we following the right course?” I say.
“With all due respect, Highness,” Talbot replies, “it is rather late for such questions.”
“Still, I keep worrying about the adversity our men must endure,” I say.
“Your Lordship never promised us a holiday outing,” Norman says.
I look over the troops. They are a scraggly lot, but tough and resolute – even if they lack sufficient weapons. Some have nothing better than wooden staffs to arm themselves with.
“Why is the enemy always so well armed,” I say, “while we have to scrape by on whatever weapons we can capture?”
“The gangs get their weapons in trade with the pirates,” Talbot says.
“Oh?” I say. “And where might these pirates be found?”
“Their ships call along the coast,” Talbot says. “But mostly they keep to their own port. It’s north of here, perhaps 25 miles.”
I chew on my rock hard biscuit, contemplating this new information. A scout returns then on horseback, and my commanders go off to see him. I feel some relief at their absence.
I stretch myself out and imagine myself back in Sopronia. The rough ground becomes a fragrant meadow. I can almost feel the warmth of an imaginary sun on my face as I doze off ...
But soon I awake with a start. Talbot, Norman, and the scout loom above me, their faces grim as death. I scramble to my feet.
“What is it?” I say.
“Afflis is coming,” the scout replies. “His force is not more than three miles distant.”
I struggle to overcome my shock.
“How many men does he have?”
“Around 500,” the scout says, “all of them well armed.”
Talbot slams a fist into his palm.
“I’ve underestimated the scoundrel!”
The news shoots a lightning bolt of terror through the men, but they maintain their discipline.
“Form up, quick march!” Talbot bellows.
34: On the Edge
Within minutes we are moving rapidly over the final hills to the Barrens. An invisible hand seems to push us along with urgent haste.
Then, we suddenly halt, as if confronted by a stone wall.
Directly in front of us, thick underbrush grows from puddles of slimy brown water. Gnarled trees rise up through this dense tangle, and a rotten smell hangs in the air.
The men whisper among themselves in frightened voices. Fighters who willingly confront death every day tremble in their boots.
I am suddenly hot and loosen my collar.
“This place stinks,” I observe.
Talbot nods.
“Some great evil once lived here,” he says. “Perhaps it still does.”
“You read a great deal into a simple odor, Captain,” I say.
“These Barrens echo of old wickedness.” Talbot looks over his shoulder. “Our soldiers feel it, too.”
Norman approaches.
“The men fear to advance,” he reports. “There is talk of retreat, desertion even.”
Talbot’s eyes flash.
“Desertion? I’ll make them regret – ”
“It’s all right, Captain,” I say. “Let me speak to them.�
��
I walk toward the troops; their murmuring ceases as I come near. A silent wall of frightened men stands towering above me. If only King Bertram was here! Never in my life have I felt so overmatched by circumstances. But I have to speak.
“Soldiers of the King!” I say. “A powerful enemy pursues us. We must move on.”
A cold shudder runs through the ranks.
“We’ll fight for you, Highness!” one cries. “Against Afflis or any other man.”
The others shout agreement.
“Your bravery is unquestioned,” I say. “However, we lack the strength to face this enemy in open battle.”
I gesture to the wilderness.
“From inside the Barrens, though, we can strike by surprise. Should Afflis try to follow, we can ambush him.”
“But the tales of this place!” another soldier protests. “They warn that no one can enter and come out alive.”
“I don’t believe that,” I say. “Yes, it will be difficult passage, but not impossible.”
Many glance back over their shoulders, as if planning to run. A very tall and powerful-looking man steps forward and salutes.
“Trooper Hobbs reporting, my lord.”
“Say your piece, Hobbs.”
He glances back at the others for support; then begins to talk.
“Your Lordship, Afflis is only a man, but the horrors in this place are unknown. Besides, these Barrens are beyond the borders of our land.”
I move closer until I am bare inches away, Hobbs towers above me like a steeple. I look up, straight into his eyes, and he takes a step back.
“We are all far beyond our own borders,” I say. “Myself most of all.”
I walk down the ranks.
“It is not too late to turn back, though,” I say. “You may, if you wish, give up the struggle and return to your old lives.”
Excited chatter breaks out; Hobbs silences it with a severe gaze. I pause before a group of former bandits.
“You men can go back to being thieves,” I say. “Afflis has room for you in his rat pack. Unless, of course, he chooses to hang you instead.”
The reformed bandits look at the ground.
“You others – farmers, shepherds,” I say. “Afflis needs your labor. He has loyal followers to reward, and what better way to obtain wealth than by beating it out of your hides?”
“Your Lordship!” Hobbs says. “We do not want to be slaves. Not to Afflis nor anyone.”
“Then free your minds from superstition,” I say. “Defy this wasteland and those who told you it cannot be crossed.”
I draw my sword. I feel the power of our warrior ancestors surging in my heart. My voice comes to me as if from afar, as if spoken by another.