Michael smiled, the first time all day. Tiberius’s words always had that effect on him, and now more so than ever. “I’m sorry, my friends. You have led me so far and through so much turmoil and strife on this fool’s errand. And now look at where we have arrived.”
Shayla placed her hand on his knee and stared him hard in the eyes. “We were led here by order of our emperor. We continued the path because we believed in you and your mission. And we remain here because as long as evil men continue to seek dominion over the innocent and weak, they must be swiftly cut down. Nothing that has happened to us since we left the city has been by chance. We were meant to be here in this moment. Either by Frijigzah’s will or The Warriors will, or even mighty Kazduhl’s will. Maybe all three led us here. Either way, we will stand and fight. And if necessary, we will die.”
Michael nodded, his spirit reassured, and his mind at ease. An hour or so later, they departed from the barracks. Tiberius and Shayla stood in the village square, observing the villagers running to the inn. Michelle had cleared the larder that lay hidden beneath the floor, and with some help from the dwarves, had made more than enough room for all the villagers who needed guarding against the oncoming battle. Constance and her rangers flew to the trees as silent as shadows. Bow and arrows in hands, beginning to search deep into the woods beyond for any sign of the enemy. Michael had remained in the stone and wood barracks, his young face peering out the windows at all that was transpiring. Tygahl and his newly friended dwarven warriors stood at the gate, his massive chest already expanding in the frigid air.
“Arrows will come first as they did before,” Tiberius said, at last, a coldness growing in his heart. “Though if the storm persists as I think it might, it will lead their arrows astray.”
Shayla nodded in agreement. “Though it will also lead our own volley astray as well,” she added.
“Tis true. Though I aim to reserve our archers until the enemy is in the trenches. As we must conceal Michael’s power for as long as possible, so too must it be for all the might we shield behind these walls. The enemy will outnumber us, yet we must have them think our numbers are at least equal to their own.”
“I agree, my friend,” she answered, weighing her dragon fashioned helm in her hand. “Kazduhl has brought me this far, and if I fall in this noblest of efforts, I will be welcomed in his den.”
Tiberius nodded in reply and began to focus his mind on the approaching night. After a moment, he patted her shoulder and departed for the ramparts that had been erected atop the walls. There he found the villagers, clad in their homespun leather armor with crude swords and spears. Yet, for the drabness of their garb and arms, their spirits were strong and resolute. In their eyes, he saw the fire of battle and the defiance against tyranny. Shayla flew into the trees behind the village with the rangers, donning her steel helm.
The snow was falling faster and heavier now. In a few short hours, the whole area they stood in would be knee deep with snow, and the harsh cold would start to weigh on them. Great flakes were beginning to hang on Tiberius’s cloak and beard, yet he paid them no mind. He pulled his pipe from within his cloak and started to breathe in the much-needed tobacco. He pushed his Sight further, scanning the tree line that lay some two hundred yards away from the walls. In the distance he could make out small critters coming and going, seeking shelter from the storm that now threatened to break. Yet nothing else stirred in the deepening night that had come upon them.
Chapter 21
The High Sorcerer
Tiberius stood gazing out into the silent forest. His Sight extended further than he had used since the war, scanning for any sign of the approaching army. Yet, for all his skill, nothing appeared to him. Perhaps the army from White wouldn’t come tonight. Perhaps they had yet to marshal their forces for the push north from White Fyre. Perhaps his father’s vanguard had met them on the road and had wiped them out. Despite all these desires, his reasoning and experience in war bid him remain vigilant and reserve.
An hour or more, he stood motionless upon the rampart, sucking in the strong tobacco from his pipe and peering into the night. Another hour or more, he held his vigil when far off in the distance, an unexpected but all too familiar sight surged into the black cloudy sky.
A sickly green light like flames from a hearth burst into the night sky, sending all the forest animals nearby into a frenzy. Shocked cries echoed all around him. The cold air around them seemed to retreat against the strange and evil sight. Tiberius jolted back from the shock so fast he almost fell off the ramparts. In an instant, he heard a faint thud next to where he stood.
“What was that?” Shayla asked in a low, harsh tone.
Tiberius stared at her for a moment, but before he could offer an answer, another green flame burst into the sky. Then another. And another. Before long, the whole of the forest beyond them seemed to be alight with great fiery verdant pillars. His eyes scanned the woods frantically for any sign of what was to come next.
Fear took hold of him as he turned to face the Dragoon again and said, “We saw those flames in the Bradford Woods, Shayla. We saw the flames, and soon after, fought the undead soldiers.”
Shayla stared holes into his face. Under her scaled helmet, he could see fear and anger burning bright in her black eyes. “This is the evil that comes forth. A necromancer?” she asked.
“I am no necromancer, heathen!” a voice cried out from the woods, penetrating every corner of the field and the village. As he spoke, the green flames vanished as if for dramatic effect. Even in the darkened barracks of the Imperial rangers, Michael was driven to his feet with shock. For to him, the mighty voice had seemed to come from within the room. After a quick survey, he realized that he was still alone in barracks. He ran to the window and pressed his young face against the frozen glass, eager to see what was going on outside.
Back on the wall, Tiberius and Shayla turned in unison to examine the woods. As if on cue, hundreds of torches illuminated the darkness. In the firelight, Tiberius could see a great host of soldiers, all clad in white armor, marching towards the village. Here and there were many on horseback and more and more carrying bow and arrow. And beyond them, he saw what he feared most of all—the shuffling, disorganized march of the undead.
“Whose voice was that?” Tiberius heard someone amongst the ramparts ask him.
“I do not know,” he replied, bewildered.
“Aye, you know that voice,” a quiet, calm voice said from behind him in the village square.
He turned and locked eyes with Catherine. She alone stood amongst the empty space behind him. “You know that voice, King's Son. Though time has moved on, and you choose instead to lie to yourself out of fear and disbelief. You know that voice well.”
Tiberius stared at her hard until realization crashed on him like a felled tree. He turned again to examine the approaching army. “That’s the voice of a dead man, Shayla. A man who summoned the most powerful magic this world has ever seen. A man who called down beasts from legend to smite the Narzeth. A man who turned the entirety of Vermillion Pass into a graveyard.”
He turned to face his companion as she shook in her dragon armor. “That is the voice of High Sorcerer Cycret. Yet how he is here now, and with this host of White’s men, I do not know.”
“Cycret? The wizard who…” Shayla started but was quickly interrupted.
“Do not speak my name, heathen!” the voice said.
In the barracks, Michael continued to press his face against the window to see anything outside. He furiously wiped the windows free of the fog from his breath, not wanting to miss a single detail of the events unfolding around him. Growing frustrated, he threw the door open to the frigid night, the wind from which extinguished all the candles and the mighty fire that had been burning in the hearth.
Tiberius turned to face the trees, his fear becoming replaced by an inconsolable rage. “I do not know how you are here, Cycret,” he bellowed out into the night. “But you and this host of
traitors you ride with will not come near this village!”
A mighty roar of laughter erupted over the assembled army before them. Slowly, the middle of the formation began to stand aside as a figure dressed in robes of brilliant white glided through them. At his side, clad in simple white leathered armor, was the former ranger, and now Supreme General, Arythag. All whom the figure passed bowed low in reverence as he floated through their formation, coming to a stop in the open field. Tiberius pushed his Sight to examine the pair as they strode through the ranks.
The Sorcerer's robes were pristine and unblemished with immaculate stitching and adornment sewed into the hem of his clothes. In his hands, he carried a majestic white staff. But in the hood of his robes, he saw no face he recognized. In the deep black of the white hood, he beheld a mangled mass of concaved and broken bone held together by small slivers and wisps of stretched leathery skin.
Arythag looked the same as ever, save for the long dark hair he had now grown. His bright blue eyes shone out in the night; his own Sight focused intently on Tiberius. “I see your stubborn dedication to the emperor is still as strong as ever, Tiberius!”
“I see you have abandoned reason and justice for madness and evil!” Tiberius replied.
“You are a traitor, Ranger! You and the Imperial rats who desecrate His Majesty’s dominion! You and your ilk will flee these lands!” the undead voice spoke again.
“Traitor!?” a great voice raged into the darkness. “You dare call us, free people of the empire, traitors!?”
In a flash, Tygahl the Berserker, flew high and over the walls into the field. He stood heaving in the sharp cold air studying the enemy in front of him. The rage of the Father filled his body as if never before, and the urge to kill, to rip this heathen undead sorcerer limb from limb overtook him, and he began to charge. But with a simple wave of his hand, the Sorcerer let loose a powerful wave of wind that hit the behemoth of a man square in the chest and sent him flying several yards back.
The defenders on the wall looked on in shock as Tygahl Rogers, master of their village and berserker of the Imperial army, was knocked unconscious. At once, Tiberius ordered the stoutest men on the wall to retrieve him and bring him back within their defenses. In the distance, he could see a gnarled evil smile creep on the undead man’s face.
“This is your last chance, Commander Tiberius,” Arythag called out again, drawing his sword. “Flee now, and these people and their homes will be left in peace!”
“You say ‘peace’ yet draw your sword for battle!? You betray your own words just as you have betrayed these people!”
Shayla looked urgently at Tiberius. “What will you have me do?”
Tiberius looked around him and saw fear on the faces of the villagers. Whatever power had been drawn before them, tonight was more than he had imagined. In his shortsightedness, he began to despair. Whatever forces had conspired to raise this man from the dead had almost certainly granted him the power he had long possessed in life. And that was not a power Tiberius was prepared to contend with here on the edge of the empire.
“Trust in yourself, King’s Son,” a voice called out.
He turned to the small dwarf in the square. No fear or doubt was shown in her wizened stone face, and instead, she wore a knowing smile that eased his doubtful mind. “No,” he said at long last to his companion. “We must temper our aggression. The plan remains the same. But if the opportunity presents itself, do not hesitate to strike against him. Beware! Cycret was the High Sorcerer of the Magi. You saw the power he wielded at the Vermillion Pass, and Arythag will undoubtedly be swift in his attack against us.”
Shayla nodded in understanding and flew back to her post amongst the trees. She drew her staff close to her chest and stared at all that was unfolding in front of her. Tiberius’s heart and soul hardened at what was sure to come, forcing the fear he had felt to burn low. He withdrew his sword and removed his heavy cloak. In the dim light, he inspected the blade and thought on the countless battles it had been a part of since its forging. He thought of his father wielding this same sword in the war. He thought of his ancestors who had carried this same weapon. In his mind's eye, he could see them all stretching back to Alexander himself. A pained smile broke his face, knowing that their spirits were with him tonight.
He turned his attention back to the field. The knights from White were laughing and smiling in their close ranks beyond. Swarms of the undead were rallying, their twisted, half dissolved faces blank and impassive. “Tiberius!” Arythag called again. “This is your last chance! Flee now with your lives or stand here and die!”
“Easy choice, Arygath,” he replied. Tiberius pushed the cold out of his senses and instead stood rooted in place, waiting for the inevitable wave to crash upon them. He steadied his breath and began to brace himself.
“So be it, Ranger,” Arygath replied, retreating into the ranks of his army.
***
Michael began to grow impatient inside the foyer of the barracks. Whatever evil that had come with the King’s men had decided to reveal itself early, and the urge to find his companions began to take hold of him. But Tiberius told me to stay put, he thought to himself. Would it not be prudent to listen to one who has fought in more battles than I have even read about? In the end, he decided to keep pacing and waiting.
***
Tiberius and the undead Cycret stared at each other from across the field for several heavy minutes. Neither the villagers nor their encroaching foes dared make a move lest it erupted into an all-out battle. Now was not the time to initiate it, Tiberius reasoned, now was the time to wait for their volley. For in his long life of fighting, he had learned that against a superior force, a counterattack was often the best way to achieve victory. Lighting burst over the battlefield, illuminating every corner of the darkened wood. A burst of laughter escaped the hooded sorcerer. He shoved his great staff into the ground and slowly raised his arms as flurries of snow began to pelt the field and wood. Neither side moved in anticipation of what was to come next, the tension so palpable it threatened to break under its own weight.
In one motion, he dropped his arms and the cries of “Loose!” echoed out over the King’s army. The distinct sounds of snapping and whistling cut through the storm as thousands upon thousands of white shafted arrows flew high into the night sky. Cries of “Brace!” and “Shield!” were called out over the village as every defender rose their makeshift shields in anticipation of the volley. The whistling grew louder and louder until great thuds echoed around them.
Arrow after arrow rained down on them from all directions. Screams of pain rose up over the crowd of villagers. Some had been too slow to raise their shields and paid the price. Arrows penetrated their arms and legs, tearing bone from muscle and forcing screams of pain throughout the village. More cries of anger rose up to drown out their pain. The will to fight was still strong in the villagers, and by will alone would they fight on.
After more than a minute of constant barraging did the last arrow land amongst them. “Recover,” Tiberius ordered. “Archers! Make ready!”
“Nock arrows!” the chief archer called out. “Ready! Loose!”
More breaking and whistling broke out over the village, minuscule in comparison to the King’s archers. They flew high into the sky and began to turn down upon the army of invaders when Cycret again raised his hands above him. All at once, the arrows from the villager’s dissipated in an instant, turning to snow above them. Tiberius watched as the snow that had just been arrows drifted to the ground in front of him. He stared dumbfounded at the power that was displayed before him as more laughter came from the woods beyond the village.
***
Michael shook his head in frustration as he continued to pace back and forth within the barracks. He had seen the arrows fall in the village and heard the return fire, but now a thick silence penetrated the town. He wrestled with himself for several tense moments until a powerful hotness began to emerge from within his robes. He
had felt it the day he had called down magic against the attackers. Yet this time, he didn’t hesitate or ignore it. He thrust his hands deep into folds of his robes, and after grasping the wand by its ebony grip, began to sprint to the wall to join his friends.
More cries of nock and loose erupted over White’s army as a thousand more arrows flew high into the sky. Again, the villagers braced for the inevitable impact. More cries of brace were called out, but even more of the villagers were shot down. Many had been frozen with fear, and in their shock, now lie dead or in agony upon the ground.
***
Michael heard the whistling approaching the sky and ducked under a nearby food cart. The heavy THUNK! from the arrows struck hard against the heavy wooden cart pushing his face down into the snow. He was sure one of the arrows would break through and find its mark on his head. He shut his eyes and clenched the wand tighter in his hands. The heat it gave off threatened to burn him, and the urge to raise it up was overwhelming.
With the simple twist of his wrist, he could turn those arrows into roses or large drops of water. But he was determined to temper his urges, remembering Tiberius’s command to remain hidden. The arrows continued raining down upon him. Each strike against the cart forcing his head down further and further into the snow trodden ground.
***
High in the trees, Shayla stared at the mayhem happening below. She could feel the restlessness of the rangers around her yet continued to force them into patience. Despite her own feeling of helplessness, she remembered Tiberius’s words. Their plan would remain the same. Though she hoped, sooner rather than later, the plan would actually start happening. She gripped her spear tightly and continued to peer out at the enemy far in the wood.
***
This can’t be their plan, Tiberius thought under his shield. They can’t mean to wait us out and barrage us all night. Why would Cycret reveal himself so soon if they mean to just wear us down with bow and arrow? His mind raced on what to do next. They must mean to draw us out, he finally realized. Yet, for what purpose, he did not know.
The Spirit of The Warrior: The Axton Empire book 1 Page 26