by Robert Brady
Lee knew she had to get out of this room. She couldn’t fight Angron, much less three Uman-Chi. Her mother had never taught her the more complicated spells for translocation or a seeking, however she wasn’t without her guile.
Powerful magic had been used to build Central Communications, woven intricately to tune this place to one frequency and to allow others to tap into it. With her sight as a sorceress, she saw those magix flowing through the marble walls like so many worms.
Picking a spot as far opposite the room’s one door as she could see, she extended her will, she reached into the marble, and she unraveled them.
She let the magic run free.
“No!” Angron shouted, and raised a hand toward the same spot, taking the power, re-weaving it, containing it from the chaotic expulsion it would seek on its own, that would destroy the palace and a good portion of the city if she let it.
She struck another place, and another.
The other Uman-Chi were wide-eyed. They knew better than she what it meant simply to release such power from this place.
She had no warning before she felt the sword razor-sharp at her neck. From behind her, D’leer had two fingers beneath her eyes, her left hand over Lee’s mouth.
D’leer, who’d been with the family for years.
“Your father will still want you, even if you’re blind,” the Uman hissed into her ear. She began to pull Lee from the rest of the Wolf Soldier squad. To her left, they broke apart to pass her.
Except for Hectaro, who plunged his sword in one fluid motion into D’leer’s hip. The other Wolf Soldiers turned on him as one, D’leer screaming, “Kill him!” his father and Tartan Stowe running to his aid.
Lee pulled her head from the wounded Uman’s grip. Hectaro punched D’leer in the face with an armored fist, even as another Wolf Soldier brought his pike down across the young man’s back. Lee saw Hectaro’s face twist with pain, heard his father call his name.
Tartan Stowe plunged his sword into one Wolf Soldier’s breast, punched another in the throat, then turned on his heel to kick a third. Hectar wrapped his sword up with another, while D’leer and Hectaro both fell to their knees.
The Uman guards charged as the walls wavered under the Uman-Chi’s efforts to contain the damage Lee had done. For a brief moment, Lee wondered if that had been too much. Her mother had warned her never to affect the magix that had been cast here, even with the best of intentions.
Her Andaran blood steeled her. Lee Mordetur would be dead before she’d be the captive of Uman-Chi scum.
A Wolf Soldier guard engaged an Uman. Another struck Hectar across the back of his neck with hilt of his sword, dropping the older man. Tartan stabbed that one through the neck, then abandoned his sword for the pike in the hands of the Soldier who’d struck Hectaro. As that warrior pulled his sword, Tartan heaved the weapon into the back of a distracted Uman-Chi.
The Caster actually exploded. All of them fell back, covered in the red entrails of the dead Wizard. The Uman guard was cast like so many rag dolls against the wall around the door where she’d hoped to escape. The room shuddered, however Lee could sense that Angron had the place almost under his control.
The orb wavered. Perhaps now she could use it to contact her mother!
Hectaro couldn’t have been thinking that as he leapt to his feet, took her like a doll around the waist, and leapt for it. Almost every being in the room screamed, “No!” as the two of them passed into the brilliance of the altered orb.
The orb had been tuned to the room—the room had been taken out of tune. Lee extended her unskilled will, trying to meld with it, trying to commune with it, trying to discover some way to keep them alive inside of something that wasn’t in anyone’s control any more.
Still, she thought as her consciousness seeped away from her, better than being the captive of Uman-Chi scum.
She couldn’t have been prouder of Prince Hectaro Gelgelden if she’d tried.
* * *
A flight of spears crashed into the combined Fovean armies, where the front and second ranks had crashed into each other in an effort to avoid the onslaught.
Chaos erupted. Karl actually saw two warriors end up skewered while fighting for a shield when the spears fell. Seeing the fight among the combined troops, the third and fourth ranks were backing up into the fifth, afraid they’d be the next targets if more spears fell.
“Hold the line—tell them to hold those lines!” Karl demanded of his runners. The word went out; the lines from the third on began to stiffen. Leaders took hold of their warriors. To the north, Karl saw the dogs had retreated from the cavalry. Maybe now they’d be able to get some help—
“Power’s fury!” Zarshar swore beside him. Atop the crest of the hills to the north, the pennons of thousands of Theran Lancers snapped in the breeze. At their center, a gigantic white horse stood with an armored rider.
Drums began to beat to the west and to the north. Trumpets sounded. That meant one thing:
The Conqueror, come in person! No wonder the Uman-Chi had run—how far behind him could Shela Mordetur be? When the troops realized that, they’d be running for their lives, throwing their shields at the advancing enemy.
“Charge!” Karl bellowed. The runner boys looked up at him on his horse in surprise. “Send the order in—every rank, every division! Charge!”
They sprinted off to deliver his orders. Old Ulminar on a rawbone mare to his left, and Zarshar to his right, regarded him.
“That’s Lupus the Conqueror up there,” Karl informed them. “When they realize they’re fighting him, this whole army will think they’re through and run for their lives.”
Zarshar grinned a wicked grin, showing his red teeth. “Unless they’re engaged already, you mean,” he said. “Then they’ll have no choice but to fight for their lives.”
“We still have the numbers,” Ulminar said, turning back to the fight. “If he didn’t bring his Bitch with him—”
“We’ll deal with that if we have to,” Karl said, and drew his own sword. “Right now, I’m more worried he’s going to cut back through those lines of Andarans, most of them unhorsed and the rest with no lances.”
* * *
Under Karl’s verbal lash, the combined Fovean army crossed the battlefield and engaged the Eldadorian Regulars, through the teeth of another volley of spears. Two ranks of five thousand scattered or dead, he drove in with the third and fourth behind it, holding back the remaining five and a half for reserves, and for when he’d have to call back these.
“The one problem we never seem to overcome,” Karl informed Ulminar, from the center of the army. “You have to go in with a first wave, and they’re always likely to die. You can show up with as many troops as you want, but you can’t fight with them all unless the ones in front can be pulled back or die.”
“Normally we send in waves,” Ulminar informed him. “But we’ve seen Wolf Soldiers engage, then move to the side as more troops come in.”
They heard a whistle blow. There was a shudder from the front lines. Karl missed what had happened.
“As close as this is, there’s nowhere to move them to. You essentially end up throwing the men at each other, and having the living walk across the bodies of the dead.”
They continued to watch. The fighting had to be fierce. To the north, the Eldadorians had begun the charge forward, their dogs with and alongside of them, the Andarans mostly unhorsed and almost none of them with lances.
The whistle blew again. The front lines shuddered again. Again, Karl missed it.
“What is that?” Ulminar asked him. Karl admitted he didn’t know, and once again put two fingers to his temple.
“Are you there?”
“What?” Raven demanded of him. She was weary, he knew. She was trying to find a way around the enemy’s magic defense.
“Can you hear that whistle blowing?”
“No.”
“Did you before?”
She paused for a few moments. “I
could have—why?”
“Every time we hear it, the front line shudders. I’m about to commit another rank of warriors—what can you see from there?”
“Wait.”
They waited. The din of fighting, metal against metal, against wooden shields, thundered before them. To the north, the dogs once again engaged the Andarans, this time with Theran Lancers right behind them. Even ready for them, the Andarans couldn’t keep ahead of or out of the way of the dogs. Many of them fell; very few of the dogs died or were turned. As the Eldadorians swept in after the dogs, the Andarans fell by scores and hundreds. A good portion just ran out of their own fear.
Karl could see Blizzard with Lupus astride him, leading the charge, trampling the conquered with steel-shod hooves, now bloody up to his belly.
The whistle blew again, and the front lines shuddered.
“Oh—I saw it,” Raven informed him.
“What’s going on?”
“When the whistle blows, the warriors fighting on the Eldadorian front line all give a push with their shields, then fall back. The warriors standing in columns behind them all take a step up, and the next row fights.
“What?”
Karl could imagine it in his mind. The issue he’d just discussed with Ulminar—this let them refresh their frontline troops—they didn’t have to die to be replaced. There seemed to be about fifteen minutes between whistle-blasts. This meant that, with 20,000 warriors lined up 1,000 across…
“A warrior only fights once every four hours, not allowing for deaths in the ranks, and then only for fifteen minutes,” he heard in his mind. “If our warriors fought for that long they’d be worthless, and theirs would be fresh.”
“War’s Whiskers,” Karl swore allowed. “We’re actually outnumbered.”
“What?” Ulminar demanded.
Karl turned to him on his horse and explained what he’d heard from Raven. “No matter how much I recycle my lines, they’ve got me outnumbered. We’ll wear out hours before they do.”
To the north, the Therans had engaged the Andarans and were already pushing through their lines. Karl moved two ranks from the back of his army to the north side, to provide shield wall protection against the coming charge.
The whistle blew again. His warriors in the third rank were lagging. He readied the fourth to replace them.
Zarshar seemed to be missing. Karl didn’t need to guess where he had gone.
* * *
Zarshar loped through their long lines of squads, between pikemen and shieldmen, to race north and to himself engage the Theran Lancers.
Well—not all of them. He had a single one in mind.
He’d seen Blizzard and Lupus the Conqueror atop that hill, waiting for him, and Zarshar knew right then this would be his last day. He’d never doubted the fight to take the Emperor’s life would kill him—he’d tried to sell his life for that goal before. He’d been stopped, by none other than this ‘Jack,’ who now fought against him, and better than he’d ever hoped to.
He’d have liked to take Jack’s life, but he didn’t kid himself that he could wade through an army of Eldadorian Regulars. Here on the plains, in the heat of battle, there would be chaos, and Zarshar knew he would single out the Conqueror, and there take him.
Nothing mattered after that.
Zarshar loped out of the ranks of Fovean warriors and onto the plains, his long legs stretching, moving him faster than most horses could travel. Before him, Men and dogs swarmed about a battlefield, the Conqueror in the middle of it, his great sword red with blood. As soon as he saw a clear path to the Emperor, he roared his challenge.
Many heads turned. By now most of the lances were broken, most of the Andarans down, their horses scattered. A dog not unlike their own turned and leapt for him, his great jaws slavering, its huge paws extended. Zarshar plucked it out of the air and in one motion turned on a clawed heel and hurled it at the Emperor. True to its breeding, it knocked Lupus the Conqueror from his saddle.
His horse began bucking and kicking out his back legs. Lupus landed on his back on the plains, his warriors rushing to encircle and protect him. Another squad of them peeled off and charged for Zarshar, several with their lances down, the rest with swords out, to take the Swamp Devil before he could follow up his threat.
Too late! Zarshar sprinted for the fallen Emperor, his great long legs stretching to cover the ground between them. Trapped in his armor, Lupus shook his head and tried to roll off of his back.
Seeing Zarshar, he whistled one shrill note. Zarshar expected to see his horse, but instead one of the dogs ran to him, and Lupus gripped it by it great, spiked collar and spoke some word to him.
It leapt forward, pulling the Emperor up to his knees. As his warriors’ horses pounded to his side, the Emperor regained his sword and made ready for Zarshar.
Zarshar was tempted to leap directly at the Emperor. Grapple him, he knew, and he was guaranteed the win. Lupus already had his sword ready, however, and Zarshar didn’t want to impale himself on it. Instead at the last moment, he turned to the right, opposite the Emperor’s sword arm, and reached for the Man’s face with his extended claw.
He should have felt sweet flesh curl through his claws. Instead the Emperor switched hands and met the claw with his sharp sword edge. Before he could withdraw his hand, the Emperor had claimed two fingers, sending them spinning away as the Devil passed.
Now Zarshar was behind the Emperor. He turned on his heel again, the Emperor having planted his sword in the ground to push himself up. Zarshar knew he had the victory now. He reached out with his good right hand for the Man’s exposed neck.
He’d barely touched the blonde hair when a lancer’s weapon crashed into the back of his steel breastplate. Zarshar lurched forward, caught the Emperor by the middle of his own back armor, and ended up actually pushing Lupus to his feet.
The Emperor turned, the horseman passed. Zarshar barely had the time to rip a handful of flesh from the offending beast’s flank, and then the Black Adept faced the Conqueror.
The horse screamed. Lupus held up his left hand, a look of concern on his simian face. Zarshar could hear the other warriors reining in. Lupus himself squared off on the Swamp Devil alone—apparently wanting singles combat, or at least not to risk any other horses or warriors against the Swamp Devil.
“You seem ready for a fight,” the Emperor told him, approaching slowly.
“Your last,” Zarshar said, crouching now, his arms wide spread, the stumps where his fingers had been leaking brackish blood.
In fact Zarshar’s magic usually protected him from steel weapons. It surprised him the Emperor’s sword could cut him.
Lupus smiled. “A lot of people have told me that,” he said. “They’re all dead, and I’m not.”
Zarshar took a swipe at Lupus’ face with his injured hand, to distract him from a swipe at his leg with his right. Lupus fell for neither, and nearly touched him with that sword again. Zarshar fell backward then dropped to a heel and a palm, reaching for Lupus’ ankle with a taloned foot, but again the Emperor defended himself with his sword, this time cutting Zarshar across the calf. Zarshar stood and ignored the pain.
Lupus was barely sweating. He began to circle to his right, to Zarshar’s wounded side.
“Even if I fail,” Zarshar informed him, “there will be others of my kind to come for you. We’ve been studying your Empire. If I fall, those who remain will take you.”
Lupus laughed. “Those who remain?” he asked. “Are there any? I guess you’ve been away from home.”
Zarshar’s eyes narrowed. He took another swipe, trying to get a shoulder, a knee, something to twist the Man’s armor, to slow him down and let Zarshar within the guard of that sword.
“Or didn’t you know that I promised the first warrior who could come to me with the horns of ten Swamp Devils one of Blizzard’s get?”
Zarshar’s jaw actually dropped. Every Andaran with a horse would be bound for the Swamp of Devils for a bounty like th
at. There would be whole tribes massacring his people to pool the horns and to collect ten, to improve their herds with Blizzard’s seed.
Lupus lunged forward, and Zarshar responded just a second too late. The Sword of War plunged into his stomach. The Emperor turned it as he withdrew, pulling out a long rope of entrails.
Zarshar leapt back and felt the weird tug as his guts were literally ripped from him.
Lupus pressed the advantage. Zarshar raised an arm defensively to protect himself from the cutting sword, and saw it sheared away below the elbow. Black blood pumped like a fountain from the stump.
Zarshar roared and reached for the Emperor with his wounded hand, and Lupus trimmed that away as well, then took a portion of his right leg on the back swing.
Zarshar fell to his knees. He’d never been so easily humbled.
“My—my people,” Zarshar stammered. He hadn’t even realized he could care. He’d killed his own kind by the dozens, but to intimidate them into following him, not to collect their parts.
Lupus whistled for his mount. Blizzard, having collected himself, trotted up to Lupus’ side. With a wary eye on Zarshar, Lupus sheathed his sword and reached for the stallion’s mane, then stepped up into the stirrup and pulled himself up onto the stallion.
He regarded Zarshar from that vantage point.
“I don’t need your people,” he said, the contempt plain on his face, “and I can’t control them, so I’m getting rid of them. Just like I did with you. You’re the Black Adept, aren’t you?”
Zarshar fell face first into the grass, feeling the life slip out of him. He twisted his neck around to see the mounted Man, wishing he had the strength, if not to bite, at least to drive his horns into the stallion’s side, to take at least one thing from the Emperor.
He nodded.
Lupus nodded back. “Good,” he said. “A lot of your people called for you or promised you’d lead them in revolt against me. Good to know I don’t have to worry about that.”
Lupus trotted away without a backward glance. He had other things to worry about. He hadn’t even bothered to cut away a souvenir, to save the rent cuirass or take a horn. Lupus didn’t even bother to finish him.