Markan Throne
An Ilvenworld Novel
by
Nicholas A. Rose
Copyright 2011 Nicholas A. Rose
Cover: Joleene Naylor
Editor: Stephanie Dagg
Book One of the Markan Empire Trilogy
Novel Length
Also in the Markan Empire Trilogy:
Markan Empire
Markan Sword
Novella Length
The Gifted Trilogy:
Gifted Apprentice
Gifted Hunter
Gifted Avenger
***
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 – Marching To Marka
Chapter 2 – Jewel Of The World
Chapter 3 – A Throne Recognized
Chapter 4 – Zenepha's Day Off
Chapter 5 – Roads To Marka
Chapter 6 – Murder
Chapter 7 – Escape
Chapter 8 – Running
Chapter 9 – Riding South
Chapter 10 – Plots
Chapter 11 – Manumission
Chapter 12 – Ilven And Gwerin
Chapter 13 – Flying Cloud
Chapter 14 – Beshar
Chapter 15 – Kytra
Chapter 16 – Siege
Chapter 17 – First Blood
Chapter 18 – Reprisal
Chapter 19 – Hejiller
Chapter 20 – Truth Will Out
Chapter 21 – The Wraiths Attack
Chapter 22 – Treachery
Chapter 23 – A General Once More
Chapter 24 – Marka Must Live
Chapter 25 – The Duel
Epilogue – Reward
Chapter 1
Marching To Marka
Belaika shivered in the predawn gloom and stared up at the heavens, mouth open with wonder at the display of shooting stars. While his silvery gray eyes were turned upward, his earpoints twitched as he waited for the whistle that must come, informing him of the intentions of his master's enemies.
Other sounds came from behind, where the army readied itself for battle. He shivered again, this time not from cold. Although an army scout, subject to the same discipline as all other soldiers, he did not like battles. His kind were scouts and messengers, and not expected to fight.
Pitched too high for human hearing, the sharp whistle reached Belaika and he stiffened, stretching up to his full height to acknowledge it with his own whistle. He trotted through the outer row of wooden stakes, twisting his way between the defenses and heard the whistle repeated as scouts relayed the message to the flank camps.
Most soldiers acknowledged him as he passed. He returned their greetings with nods and smiles. Infantrymen formed up before the earth bank and small detachments of mounted cavalry were behind them, all in full view of the approaching enemy. Behind the earth bank stood the war machines: ballistae and huge mangonels.
He reached the yeoman. "Donenya, I heard," he said.
"How far?" asked the yeoman.
"Five milas, closing." He gave the rest of the message.
The yeoman nodded. "Go and tell the boss," he said.
"Se bata."
As he turned away, soldiers lifted a hopper full of spears and positioned it on the ballista. Along the rank of ballistae, more men did the same. The green fire had been prepared the night before, but the huge cauldrons were not yet lit. The bombardiers hated green fire: they said the only thing worse than handling it was having it land on you. The throwing arm of the last mangonel was now being hauled down, so it could not be seen until too late. These war machines – although in one line – were three ranks, each with a corresponding row of marker posts in the field, masquerading as advance stakes. All the mangonels had been ranged the previous day, pins locking the throwing arms into their respective ranges, and colored boards attached to each machine to tell the bombardiers which stood in which rank. Red for the first – or furthest – markers, white for the second and blue for the third. The men already positioned at the advance stakes had orders to turn and run, lulling the enemy into a false sense of security. They wanted him to believe he faced just a small force, not the full army.
Joining the paved road on which the army was camped, Belaika began to run, only slowing as he approached his master's large tent. Orders were shouted, repeated over and over as the yeoman did his work. Despite being well known to the guards outside, he was challenged at this tent.
"Akram," he said.
"Pass." The guard nodded and relaxed the spear that had been leveled against Belaika's chest, more for show than real threat. The guard winked at the scout. "He's awake."
Belaika nodded and pushed through the tent flap. He doubted if many had slept well.
"Enya," he began, "they are five milas away, coming fast. They move one mila every fifteen minutes, but their war machines are five milas further back, moving one mila every twenty-five minutes. The yeoman knows."
Marcus Vintner, allegedly descended from the first Mark and claimant to the vacant Markan Throne, looked up from his map. Light crystals provided plenty of light in the center of the otherwise dim tent. As the canvas partition that normally screened off a sleeping area was tied back, Belaika glimpsed untouched bedding, for Marcus had slept with his head on his arm at the map table. Belaika stood a little taller than his owner, his appearance more striking thanks to the gray, green and brown skin paint that covered his body, with vivid slashes of black across face and chest. Despite this, Marcus had the real presence. Belaika's silvery gray eyes, cat-slit black pupils narrowed against the brightness of the tent's interior, and his pointed ears betrayed his race and hence his status.
The smile Marcus directed at his sylph was, however, genuine and warm. "Good." He pushed dark hair away from dark blue eyes. "Ask Kelanus to join me."
The sylph paused, toying with the black leather collar about his neck. "They come as you predicted."
Marcus's smile broadened and his eyes sparkled. "This is the only road to Marka from the north." He stroked his chin, thinking aloud. "Even so, Branad won't expect us to be waiting for him here. What about the rest of them?"
Belaika shook his head. "Too far away still." A thought struck him and his earpoints twitched. "The shooting stars. Did you see?"
"I have seen them before. Go to Kelanus. I need him here."
"Se bata." Belaika bobbed a quick bow and ducked back out of the tent.
Marcus reached for the still steaming cup of alovak and savored its distinctive odor before sipping the black liquid. It might be his last. His personal sylph – Jenn – had served breakfast hours before. She should now be with the nurses, ready to help with bandages and equipment.
Today would decide who reached Marka first. Shivering, he fancied destiny walked beside him. Today should be decisive. Before he could restore Marka to her rightful place he must end the civil war between the various claimants.
He looked up as his general, Kelanus Butros, with Belaika close behind, entered the tent. The real military leader had just walked in: Marcus knew he was just the claimant to the throne and a figurehead. He had learned military tactics as a child, but Kelanus knew war. He had served Marcus for two years, after being dismissed by Branad. A decision his rival might rue today.
Kelanus stood beside the map. "Too late for looking at that now," he remarked, bass rumble resonating in Marcus's chest. "Word should have already reached the other camps."
Marcus grinned, knowing how that had been achieved. The sylphs had suggested that they could be used as scouts even before he had taken over from his father and, together with professional military scouts, he had begun a training program fifteen years ago. That program had changed beyond all recognition since.
They had originally intended using the sylphs as m
essengers, as their hearing range was better than that of any human. This meant they could whistle messages to each other without threat of interception. Nobody initially realized that these sylphs would soon replace humans in the role of scout. There were now in excess of three hundred sylph scouts who had proved their worth over and over. Many were here, but a few were scattered throughout his lands, serving the small detachments of the army dotted about.
Kelanus had at first doubted the sylphs' value, but misgivings soon evaporated and he proved an enthusiastic convert. Now he would never think of using any but sylphs for scouting. Not only was a sylph's hearing far superior to a human's, but also their eyesight. They could see as well as cats in the dark. Kelanus's only regret was that sylphs were too pacific to be warriors as well. But this would have broken ancient precepts concerning sylphs and warfare.
Marcus's thoughts turned back to the plan. His opposite number and distant cousin, Branad, marched on Marka from the north and, as both men knew the other was invited to Marka, he doubtless expected a delaying attack somewhere along the way. Nobody knew what game Marka's Supreme Council played, but it was obvious the two rival claimants would meet sooner or later and that the outcome would be bloody.
"He's coming to meet you," said Kelanus, "and leaving his war machines further and further behind. Branad will launch straight into the attack when he makes contact."
"Just cavalry and mounted archers?"
"And some infantry. Branad is not so big a fool as to believe only cavalry wins battles."
Marcus wondered who had taught Branad that; he rather suspected that man stood in the tent with him right now.
Kelanus continued. "So long as we appear to fight defensively, he'll swallow the bait. He always does. When he realizes war machines are here, he'll push forward even faster to avoid the worst they can offer. That's common sense and gives us a further advantage: he'll leave his infantry behind."
"Makes life easier for the snatch squads." Marcus could not restrain a shiver at the mention of the new snatch squads. These were men trained to dart through a battle and capture the enemy leader directly.
"You wanted Branad captured rather than killed outright." The inventor of those snatch squads narrowed his eyes. His tone hinted that "killed outright" was the wiser option. "Snatching him is the only way I can think of. Even then, there is no guarantee of success."
"What I want," retorted Marcus, "is minimum bloodshed. This so-called civil war has dragged on long enough."
He fumbled for his gold necklace and stared lovingly at the miniature of his wife painted and enameled on it. The less killing the better. Like his own, Branad's army had always acted honorably. It had never pillaged its way across the countryside, nor had it caused any more damage than could be avoided. Branad and Marcus had embarked on charm offensives to win people to their point of view. Marcus wanted to win both armies and both sets of people.
However, Marcus had seen enough battles to know that once the fighting started, anything could wreck the best plan. And there was a further complication.
"Why has Branad divided his army?"
Kelanus smiled. "Ranallic's idea, I suspect." The General tapped the map. "Perhaps part of his plan for when he reaches Marka. Or to search for the rest of our army. No doubt there are hundreds of little known ways to Marka through the forest, where we might be hidden."
"We are all here."
"Let's hope Branad doesn't know that. At least, not until it's too late."
"And if he has a Gifted one in his ranks?"
Kelanus shrugged. "The sylphs have given no warning of sudden changes in direction. I assume they are still in contact?"
Belaika narrowed his eyes and his earpoints slanted forward.
A scowl briefly crossed Marcus's brow. "Once they find something the size of an army, they don't lose it again. Belaika assures me they are headed the other way."
"All right, I trust the scouts; I learned my lesson about that some time ago."
Belaika wore a satisfied expression, while giving the impression he was not really eavesdropping. He settled back on his heels again.
Marcus continued. "We can't risk having that army swing round to cut us off, or join with Branad."
"They cannot reach us today. If they change course, the sylphs will give warning. Concentrate on what is in front of us for now and worry about the rest another time. It is the only way a soldier can deal with these things."
Marcus wanted this war over and done with; he was a politician, not a warrior. He stared glumly at the map table.
"You'd better get ready," suggested Kelanus. "It'll begin sooner than you think."
Marcus nodded and turned away. Once again, he pulled his gold necklace free to stare at the image of his wife. He took strength from it, imagining he could breathe her scent.
Whatever happens, fight with honor. He recalled his father's words, the ones Zandra repeated whenever he left her for the field. He brushed his lips gently across the miniature before tucking it under his shirt again. As Marcus left the tent, Belaika drew himself upright and followed his master.
As usual when not scouting, the sylph felt he was underfoot as he scurried after Marcus, the claimant strapping on his sword and what little was left to don of his armor. Stablehands had already prepared Jablon, Marcus's warhorse, and the animal stamped a foot in greeting. The sylph regarded the horse warily. Sylphs did not feel happy around large animals at the best of times, and this one was trained to hurt. Jablon liked to go in with his head and shoulders, all of which were armored accordingly, complete with lethal spikes.
The Imperial Bannerman – Adrewa – waited while Marcus mounted. He carried the Vintner Standard: a gold dragon's head on a dark blue field. Belaika shivered as Marcus and the bannerman joined the rest of the army and a cheer went up.
Marcus acknowledged it with a wave of his gauntleted hand. Kelanus joined them and the army formed up. The reserve units remained behind, while the rest moved slowly downhill along the road. They gave the appearance of reinforcing the forward units, where Belaika had earlier waited for the signal. Those manning the mangonels and ballistae added their voices to the cheers; pikemen and archers looked up from their work, but remained silent.
As the army came to a halt amid the jingling of harness and armor, the cheering stopped and an eerie silence descended. Even the birds were quiet. Saddles and leather creaked as the waiting began.
Belaika's breath came in short gasps as he fought fear. His earpoints already lay back in his hair and felt as though they were about to tuck themselves away. A few sylph scouts remained behind the barricades, none so far forward, or so exposed. Most were beyond the barricades, eyes and ears open for any surprise moves. They would be as afraid as he was.
He glanced quickly into his master's face. The dark blue eyes were calm, face still and relaxed, exuding confidence and optimism. No fear to be seen there, nor in any of the human faces. Yet Belaika knew the humans were frightened, that they feared death as surely as any other animal. They were just so much better than sylphs at hiding feelings and emotions. Their faces hid fear as war helmets hid hair.
"Stand close, Belaika."
The sylph nodded, though he needed no reminders of his duty. It felt safe behind the stockade, beyond the range of enemy arrows and missiles. Belaika had enough experience to see that the enemy soldiers would be unable to get their war machines within range before Marcus deployed all three ranks of his own. For those who managed to get closer after the bombardment, there were archers with arrows of fire and pikemen with their bristling weapons. Belaika knew the enemy would be forced to close the range as quickly as possible, which would also play into his owner's hands.
Behind the stockade, light cavalry prepared their lances and armored cavalry readied their horses. Behind them stood infantry with short swords and shields. All were ready to leap out from behind the stockade, both to help defend the retreating squads of men intended to draw Branad ever further forward and to m
aintain the illusion of being the real reserve. Beyond the stockade, to either side on small hills, were small detachments of cavalry, to give the impression of waiting to fall on the enemy's flanks.
But, beyond the war machines which Branad would not see until too late, beyond the small detachments of men, stood the real army. Belaika scanned the hillsides. Thousands of men were hidden there and not even he could see a sign of them. They would push behind Branad's men, cut off their retreat and capture the opposing war machines. If everything went to plan.
Belaika sighed. All living creatures died eventually; he supposed this was as good a day to die as any other.
Without further warning, it began.
Belaika shivered at the rhythmic thrumming of spears and swords against shields.
Someone bawled, "First marker!" The ballistae launched their first salvo and the mangonels hurled rocks and green fire against the foe. He heard the first screams.
"They come exactly as we hoped."
The sylph stared up at his master. How could his voice be so calm? Was his heart not hammering against his chest? Did he not want to flee, to run and hide somewhere safe?
The light cavalry readied themselves, making final adjustments to their snowy pennons. Those strips of cloth at the lance ends would not remain pristine for long.
Behind, the ballistae and a few of the mangonels managed a second dispensation of death and destruction, or perhaps some of the throwing arms had not released properly earlier. Such things happened often.
"Second marker!"
Jablon snorted, as did many of the other horses. A moment later, Belaika also smelled the coppery stench of fresh blood. He kept his head down, knowing that the enemy was close now. He sensed, rather than heard, the missiles from the second rank of war machines pass overhead. The screams and cries were louder, nearer.
He dreaded the touch of his master, knowing he would want a message carried. He would take it if he must, but he was fully aware of the risks. His earpoints tucked away as screams and howls continued. Men and possibly even sylphs were dying out there and he didn't want to hear.
"Third marker!"
Belaika never heard the third rank of war machines launch their missiles, but he did hear the results of the salvo, pots containing green death bursting to shower men and animals with fire that could not be extinguished, flames that could not be escaped. Most men from the war machines now took up pikes, as did most archers. Yelling and shouting, light and heavy cavalry joined the fight. Time for hand-to-hand fighting: difficult, dangerous and bloody.
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