by K. J. Coble
Vohl tried not to flinch. That kind of thing had actually been happening with alarming regularlity, of late. He shook his head. “Illah just said she’s leaving.” He glowered at her. “That’s right, isn’t it? You’re done with the Valley? You probably won’t be back?”
She opened and closed her mouth several times. Finally, jaw set, she replied, “I don’t know.” She cast a side-glance at Jayce. “It...may be a long time.”
Dodso glared at them both a long time. “Well...thanks for leaving me.” He stared down at the maps, lifted one to view another without obviously knowing what it was he was viewing. “I suppose you can go, if that’s all you’ve got to say.”
Illah watched him for a few moments. Finally, with a bitter turn of her lips she turned and withdrew from the tent without looking back. Jayce hesitated, locking gazes with Vohl. “I’ll be seeing you, then, Vohl Rhenn. Muddle. Dodso.”
“Yeah, sure,” Vohl said with a shrug, like it was nothing, like he didn’t give a damn. He hated himself for doing it, but the green tide of hurt and jealousy still held sway over his mouth.
Jayce seemed to fight himself for a moment before finally leaving.
“Damn it!” Dodso struck the maps from the barrel to the ground. He shook his head at Vohl and Muddle. “What are going to do now? What the hell are we going to do? The others are going to find out and then I’ll have a devil of time holding the rest here.”
Vohl stared at the empty entrance, the sway of tent flaps still disturbed by the passing of his friends. Suddenly, nothing felt right. What was he doing here, tangled up in armies and politics and the comings and goings of the Empire again? Across the lake, in Eredynn, the Loving Imp waited on its master to return, the girls floundering to keep business under control, the hearth fire burning low as the customers dwindled away.
He started for the exit.
“Vohl...” Muddle rumbled at his back.
He stopped, holding a tent flap back, and looked at the other two.
“Where are you going?” Dodso asked. His eyes widened. “You’re not thinking of leaving, too?”
Vohl opened his mouth for an answer but found he didn’t have the words. Unable to explain himself, he turned and strode from the tent.
Dodso’s howls of outrage followed him down the hill.
Chapter Two
Warnings Ignored
While Satu Vennitius watched from his couch in the Hall of Audience, Kodror Aigann accepted a scroll tube from an aide in Imperial livery. Waving the messenger away, Aigann uncapped the tube and slid a roll of parchment free. The man’s rat-like face went even more feral in a smirk as he noted the seal. “It’s another progress report from the glorious commander of the Expeditionary Force. Shall I read it to you?”
Vennitius leaned back on stacked pillows and accepted a goblet of wine from one of his more attractive servant-girls. Warmth from the hearth prickling the back of his neck, made his smile lazy as he replied, “Just summarize.”
Aigann cracked the seal and skimmed the terse lines of the dispatch. His smirk blossomed into a full grin. “It’s the same as before: Dodso insists the barbarians are destroyed as an organized threat and beseeches you to release the army of its obligations.”
“You see?” Vennitius said between quaffs of wine. “Did I not tell you? He hangs himself by his own rope.”
Aigann brayed with a sycophantic laugh that managed to grate on Vennitius’ otherwise buoyant mood. “Yes, sir. Though I must ask; how long do you intend to keep him out there?”
“As long as I can get away with,” Vennitius grumbled. He emptied his wine and gestured for another. With his goblet refreshed, he swirled the fluid, thoughtful as he watched the glimmers of rich red. “In all seriousness, I can only hold them so much longer, perhaps a couple more weeks. Many of those men will be needed here for the work of the Valley. I already hear grumblings of crops untended from the landowners. So...two more weeks. Yes, that should suffice, I think. By then much of Dodso’s celebrity will have faded and the men trapped with him will have forgotten his part in their victory and have thoughts only for home.”
“He will still be a champion of the State,” Aigann hazarded.
“Bah!” Vennitius gulped down more wine, suddenly annoyed with the other man. “People forget champions. They forget glory.”
“Even Dodso ‘the Likeable’?”
Vennitius glared at Aigann. “Look, it will work something like this. I will allow him to release specific contingents, one at a time, claiming that we are ‘scaling-down’ his operations, but still concerned about the threat. We will slowly bleed away men until it is only handful left with him. He will return last with a skeleton crew, no parades, no march of victory into the district capitol, just a few tired yeomen skulking back into town.”
“And what if some still do remember?”
Vennitius shrugged. “By then there will begin to have been questions about his leadership. Allegations will surface. With the disgruntlement in the field over the lengthy aftermath of the battle, they won’t be hard to manufacture. Someone might ask why the barbarians weren’t crushed outright and why such a bumbled mopping-up was required, at all.”
Aigann smiled as he crumpled up Dodso’s dispatch.
“By such means,” Vennitius said, “we will tarnish what glory Dodso will bring back with him. That arrest that you so covet, Kodror, may become a possibility.”
“I stand humbled before such political acumen,” Aigann said with an exaggerated bow.
Vennitius groaned inwardly at the scheming, little fool, wondering how long it would be before he was forced to manufacture his arrest. He downed the rest of his wine in sloppy fashion, cursing as it spilled from the corners of his lips. He waved for the servant-girl. She returned and he allowed her to blot away the stains across his robes, admiring the womanly swell of her hips out of the corner of his eye.
Fantasy and the pleasant wobble of wine-numbed thought were jolted away by a knock at the Hall’s door. Growling, Vennitius sat up, brushed the girl away and gestured for one of his aides to admit the newcomer.
Paelito, Praetor of the Valley Legion, marched into the Hall with the creak of well-oiled leathers, clenching a battered twist of parchment. He came to stand stiff-backed before Vennitius, balling up his free fist and clapping it to his chest in salute.
“Speak, Praetor,” Vennitius said.
“Strategos, I have word from one of our southern patrols of a goblinoid force on the move towards Candolum.”
Vennitius stiffened. “What? How many?”
“Hundreds, if the report be true.” His jaw clenched, his hawk-like nose giving the expression the likeness of a bird of prey stirring itself to action. “The report is marked with the seal of Speaker Oplexu.”
“Oplexu is a known paranoid,” Aigann said with a dismissive sniff. “He didn’t even bother to offer up his own Levies for the expedition against the barbarians.”
“The word comes from men I trust,” Paelito replied, not bothering to offer Aigann even a sideways glance.
“How close are they to threatening Candolum?” Vennitius asked.
“They may already be at its gates,” Paelito answered.
Vennitius shook his head, for a moment feeling a very real quiver of uncertainty. “How did they muster so quickly? How did they know to strike at so opportune a time, with much of our strength on the other side of the lake?”
“They are like fungus, Strategos,” Paelito replied, “grown into every crack of the Valley. It’s not hard to imagine they got word of the muster against the barbarians and gathered in anticipation of our weakness.”
“Perhaps...” Agiann began, features paled. “Perhaps it would not be so bad an idea to recall the Expeditionary Force?”
“No!” Vennitius snapped with more vehemence than he had intended, sending a jolt through even the stone-faced Paelito. He paused to recompose his wits. “No,” he said more reasonably, “it would take too long to re-assemble them from the...f
rom their current operations and get them back across the lake.”
“The balance of the Legion is still in Eredynn,” Paelito said.
“Yes...” Vennitius nodded, the wheels of his mind grinding their way free of the wine to spin into new schemes. “Yes, I have the Legion.” He looked up at Paelito. “How quickly can you assemble them?”
“The First and Cavalry Cohorts stand by, as always, at a moment’s notice,” Paelito replied with a proud upward jut of his chin. “The infantry will need slightly more time, but I think I can have them shaken out by dawn. I would recommend the Veteran and Engineering Cohorts remain behind in reserve.”
“Of course,” Vennitius said, waving off the details. He glanced at Aigann. “Have my servants prepare my armor and horses.”
“Strategos?” Aigann’s throat bobbed.
Vennitius grinned at Paelito. “I will ride out at the head of the Legion and we will drive south and rout this upstart rabble from our lands!”
“Very good, Strategos,” Paelito said with a deep and apparently-touched bow.
“Go now, Praetor,” Vennitius said. “I will see you at dawn.”
Paelito smote his chest again and spun to leave the room. Aigann swept across Vennitius’ gaze in the commander’s wake. “Sir,” he squeaked, “is this wise?”
“You wanted the High Office, Kodror,” Vennitius said, getting up from the couch, “now you can enjoy it, if for a short time.”
“I...well, yes...”
“Ah, Dodso,” Vennitius rumbled, as much to himself as to Aigann, “you will return to Eredynn with your glory, only to discover I have found glory of my own!”
AL OPLEXU PUT FINGERS to his teeth only to find he had already gnawed the nails down to reddened nubs. Clenching the hand into a fist, he smote the battlements of Candolum’s wall and asked, “How many more of them can there be?”
The woods south of the wall had long been cleared away to make room for wheat fields. A cackling mass of scuttling, glittering-eyed goblinoids now trampled the open ground, spilling into camps whose fires cast the land in a foul-smelling pall. Groups scurried forth to plant sharpened stakes in an uneven line just out of longbow range, hardly formal siege works, but a deterrent against a cavalry thrust from the town. Fresh columns poured from the forest beyond the fields, emerging to a high-pitched warble of catcalls and inter-tribal insults from their fellows. An almost carnival-like atmosphere hung about the gathering horde.
Glastrom, leaned against the battlements at Oplexu’s side, grunted thoughtfully. “There are thousands out there now, and more coming up.”
“I thought you said ‘hundreds’ before?” Mannatus bleated from Oplexu’s other side.
Glastrom’s jaw clenched, but he otherwise displayed no annoyance at the priest’s barb. “When we observed them south of here, that number was accurate. Obviously, others have been drawn to the prospect of loot.”
Crowds parted to the rear of the horde, making way for a line of stooped figures standing head and shoulders above even the goblins’ tents. The massive brutes angled clubs over mountainous shoulders that appeared to be small uprooted trees. Monosyllable grunts carried over the chatter of the host like kettle drum beats.
“Ogres,” Glastrom muttered. He shook his head. “The more I see, the less this makes sense.”
“What?” Oplexu asked the officer.
Glastrom gestured at the center of the growing lines. “There are more ordered camps in the middle; those are hobgoblins. They despise their smaller cousins, are more likely to fight them than fight alongside them. And the ogres...they’re dim-witted brutes, but still with enough pride to normally avoid goblin-kind altogether.”
“You’re suggesting they’ll begin brawling amongst themselves?” Mannatus asked hopefully.
“No,” Glastrom replied with a grim tone. “What I’m saying is that they shouldn’t be gathering together here, at all. These disparate elements despise one another more than they hate even humankind.” He put his knuckles to his lips and the skin tightened at the corners of his eyes. “It’s as I said before; it’s almost as if some...higher intelligence guides them.”
Oplexu noted Mannatus making panicked signs to the Saint and rushed to cut off the outburst he sensed coming. “So, what are we to do now? We’re completely cut off. Our lookouts report a smaller column already on the other side of the Aleil, moving to our northeast to cut off the highway.”
“Yes, the scum must have forded the river south of here and marched north parallel to the host in front of us,” Glastrom said. “I’ve sent some of my men to assist your Levies in barricading the bridge and preventing a break-in there.” He glanced down along the wall and Oplexu followed his gaze.
Men and boys of Candolum lined the battlements, some in leathers or lamellar with swords and spears, others without even helms, armed with converted farm implements. Archers, local huntsmen mostly, lingered close to merlons, as did a handful of crossbowmen from Oplexu’s personal guard. Wide eyes stared at the gathering doom and grew wider, exchanged nervous glances with friends, neighbors, and kin while the tang of their sweat and fear filled the air.
“Defending a fixed position is the simplest of tactical problems,” Glastrom said finally, professional calm hiding any doubt the officer might feel. “Your walls are good and we’ve ample numbers to hold what is actually a fairly compact perimeter. I’d prefer more archers, but...” he shrugged. “I suggest we pull some of the stouter lads back from the wall and form them into reserve parties, ready to plug any holes. I’ll detail a few of my men to command them.”
“Then what?” Oplexu asked, not really wanting to know.
“Then we wait for them to attack,” Glastrom replied, “which they must do soon. Eredynn must know by now of our plight. The Legion will only be days away. All we have to do is hold them off until then.”
“If they come,” Mannatus said sourly.
“They will,” Glastrom growled, showing emotion for the first time as he turned to glare at the priest. “And we will hold. Whatever doubts any of us have, we must not let the men hear of them. Is that understood?” Something close to rage glimmered momentarily in his eyes as he flicked them back and forth between Oplexu and Mannatus.
A shriek tore across the sky, a sound somewhere between a vulture’s cry and a snake’s hiss of rage. Glastrom spun to the wall as Oplexu searched the heavens.
A serpentine shape descended from the low-hung overcast, reptilian wings spreading to throw a shadow over the wall. The defenders of Candolum cringed behind the battlements, a murmur of fear spreading along the line as the creature made a pass high above. A beat of wings sent it into a dive for the heart of the goblinoid host and Oplexu spied a pair of figures on its back as it hurtled by, momentarily churning the air with a stench of excrement and amphibian oiliness. Jeers rose from the horde, horns blatting and cacophony of weapons beat against shields rattling against the stone of Candolum’s wall. The beast buffeted the air beneath its leathery wingspan and slowed to a landing near the ordered circles of hobgoblin yurts.
“Saint Reniburn save us,” Mannatus intoned with another of his reflexive signs of warding.
Glastrom blinked once before the cool of his professional poise returned. “Speaker Oplexu,” he said warily, “perhaps it would be best if you relocated to a more secure spot.”
“If...” Oplexu had to fight down the knot in his throat. “If you think that is best?”
“I do.” He nodded out over the wall. “That thing can ferry troops over our defenses; not many, but they could be enough to seize personages of prominence.”
“Then I’ll return to my tower until I’m needed,” Oplexu said without bothering to hide his relief.
“No,” Glastrom replied with a headshake. “It’s too near the wall and would be exposed, were there a breakthrough.” He glanced over his shoulder, to the fortress-like spires of Saint Reniburn temple. “The church is the most secure structure, with the confluence of the rivers protecting its fl
anks—” he grinned unpleasantly at Mannatus “—if that is all right with Your Grace?”
Mannatus gulped. “If...if one of the Saint’s children isn’t safe there, where on this forsaken world is he?”
LONADIEL SLID FROM the wyvern’s back to join Satayebeb. The horde parted before her, opened a corridor through their masses to the large cluster of tents at the heart of the Blood-drinkers’ camp. In a wave, they fell to their hands and knees, heads bowed in sudden silence. Lonadiel noted even the massive forms of the ogres stooping low. Satayebeb passed through and they arose again in her wake, eyes flicking with unconcealed malice over Lonadiel, trailing behind her.
She may be their goddess, but he was still nothing to them.
Near the front of the massive, stretched-hide tent erected wherever Satayebeb went now, the hobgoblin warlord, Groon Blood-drinker, and the twitchy goblin chieftain, Brathug Foulstench, rose at her approach. Satayebeb halted before them and turned to regard the town walls, crowded with human onlookers. She smiled, the hellfire glimmer briefly stoking in her eyes.
“Mistress,” Blood-drinker began hesitantly, “we have them surrounded. I am informed—” he nodded sideways at the goblin “—that tribe Foulstench has moved to cut the Imperial Highway. They have scouts watching the north. So far, no relief has been sighted coming down from Eredynn.”
“You have done well,” Satayebeb said without deigning to look at the hobgoblin.
“We have parties out, constructing ladders and battering-rams,” Blood-drinker continued. “We can assault as soon as those are complete.”
“Call them back in,” Satayebeb said. “We have no time for a prolonged siege and will not need war engines, anyway.”
“Mistress?” Blood-drinker blinked and exchanged a nervous glance with Foulstench.
“I will see to breaching the walls.” Satayebeb offered him a blazing-eyed smile that sent him into an involuntary bow, the goblin chieftain falling to his knees beside him. “What I will need of you, loyal warlord, is a band of your best shock troops, for after the walls have fallen. The holdouts are likely to fall back to there—” she nodded into the distance, at the spires of the Temple of Saint Reniburn “—and I will have need of eager slayers when the time comes to root them out.”