by Robert Brady
The battle, Zarshar realized as he began to die, hadn’t been that important to him.
* * *
From her vantage point on the raised platform, Raven watched Zarshar fall to the Emperor. She watched the Fovean army hurl itself at the Eldadorian Regulars, grinding away squads by the score. The enemy wounded seemed far fewer. The Eldadorians fought amazingly hard when they knew they only had to keep it up for fifteen minutes, and then could rest for hours after.
A rank of Wolf Soldiers was 5,000 strong; a rank of Eldadorians could hold them with 2,000. When Foveans fell,they had to be replaced with men specialized in the correct positions—shieldmen or swordsmen or pikemen. All of the Eldadorians did the same thing.
By the time two thirds of their army had been killed or wounded, all of the Eldadorians had yet to fight. Now Theran lancers were slashing at their northern defenses, running in wide circles, picking them off with lances, which were being replaced by the Emperor’s supply lines.
Meanwhile she’d tried everything she could think of against their enemies. She’d tried to make the molecules in the air spin into a super-hot plasma—they’d made it rain. She’d tried to shake the earth—they’d quelled it. She’d tried to bring down lightning on them, heat their weapons, even fired sonic booms in the air over them by spontaneously making whole volumes of air super-cool. Every time, she’d wrapped up something pretty as a package, they’d dispelled it before she could stop them.
At least Glynn was doing no better. She seemed upset that her people had spontaneously disappeared. She’d tried to coordinate her attacks right before and right after Raven’s, but nothing had worked. She’d coordinated both their efforts with Krendell and that hadn’t worked, either. They hadn’t been attacked once, but they hadn’t been able to get through, either.
“This makes no sense,” Glynn admitted finally.
“That we came here at the request of your King, who abandoned us, or that most of my Dorkans are dead?” Krendell spat. He reached out to the sky and pulled down more lightning, but it dispelled harmlessly above their enemy.
“Rest assured Angron Aurelias fights the enemy in ways you could not imagine—” Glynn began.
“And yet, still, we lose,” Krendell said.
Raven shook her head. “We can argue all day, but the fact is we’re stuck here, and we can’t get through. If we can’t hurt their army, can we strengthen ours?”
That got their attention. Krendell looked to Glynn.
“We can imbue their bodies,” he said. “Give them strength.”
“I can increase the oxygen on our side of the battle lines,” Raven said. “Maybe even rob it from their side? With moreair for us and less for them—”
“Yes, try it,” Glynn interrupted her. “I’ll see what I can do to make our shields stronger. We’ll last longer if we can’t be touched.”
Raven turned her attention to the battlefield. She imagined all of the air around them, imagined the spinning molecules and, as she focused, she lowered their temperature, created a giant heat sync in her mind and let the kinetic energy flow out of it. She saw the frost on the breath of their warriors, and knew she’d draw in all of the air from the plains around them, as the oxygen around their warriors contracted and created a vacuum.
She was about to tell Glynn and Krendell she thought it was working, when the platform lurched beneath her. Glynn reached down with an open hand, trying to reinforce the structure, when the whole thing slipped forward and began to crumble.
Krendell winked out of sight, a snap and a flash the only evidence of his being there. Glynn, fighting to keep the structure together, couldn’t follow him, and Raven didn’t know how. Together, the two women surfed the platform to the ground.
* * *
Shela Mordetur watched the tower fall. The stupid Wizards upon it had protected its structure, but had neglected its base. She’d done the same thing years before when she’d defeated the Uman-Chi in their own city.
Fools.
She’d left her horse a daheer to the east and walked in—she sprinted the rest of the way now. She’d seen Raven on top of that tower, and she’d seen Raven fall. She’d see her die now, a dagger in her heart as she’d promised her husband.
She approached the crumpled remains of their wooden tower cautiously. They’d left a rear guard, but the rear guard had stood under the platform to keep out of the sun. Many of them could be heard moaning. Most would moan no more. None of them seemed a threat to her.
As she approached, she recognized the faded blue dress she’d seen Glynn Escaroth wearing. She circled to the right of the pile of timbers on cats’ feet, nervous she’d attract the attention of the enemy’s reserves. Most of them were looking back at the twisted remains of the platform, but none of them were moving.
She admired the discipline—Karl Henekhson supposedly led them. He’d remembered his Wolf Soldier training.
The dress stirred—Glynn Escaroth still lived. Well—she could fix that.
She barely saw, more sensed the green blur of a Slee as it launched itself at her from the grass at her feet. Shela barely had time to raise a defensive spell as long, adamantine talons reached for her and dragged like nails down a chalkboard on her defenses.
The thing fell into a crouch and bared its teeth on her, placing itself squarely between Shela and the rubble. Shela raised a hand full of flame—these things feared fire, she knew from her time on the Andaran plains and in Wisex, their island city. She’d burn it, and it would run.
Instead it leapt at her again. She recreated her defensive wall, then dropped it when the Slee fell back. She raised the fire again, and she cast it at her enemy.
It leapt into the scrub and vanished. She’d seen Slee do this in their swamp as well—she’d never imagined they could do it on dry land.
She’d never seen one disappear so completely, either.
She sensed the motion behind her as the Slee struck again. Shela turned on a flat heel and released the flame, scorching the air as the Slee dived away at the last minute. It slithered back into the scrub, invisible again.
To the west, horses were coming toward the platform. She had to assume these would be mounted warriors. Yes, she could kill them all if she had to. No, she couldn’t do that and defend herself from the Slee.
Her husband had wanted her to bring a few squads of Wolf Soldiers to protect her, and she’d demanded she could move more easily alone. Once again, he’d been proven right. She found it uncanny how he just sensed these things.
This time she didn’t sense the motion when the Slee struck, it just launched itself from a bush right in front of her. She tried to raise her shield defense but couldn’t do more than trap its tail. The Slee hung for a second in mid air, then dropped its feet to the ground and slashed at Shela.
Shela’s leather harness ripped away, her breasts bobbing free as the Slee left eight red lines along her ribs. She gasped at the pain, stepping back, her heels slipping out from beneath her. The defense wavered, then came apart completely when her back hit the hard ground.
The Slee flew over her body and hit the ground behind her. She saw its tail whip over her head when it turned to make the killing strike.
She extended her will, and found the Slee’s life entity. She took hold of it, wielding her power and, seeing the talons that reached for her eyes, she crushed it.
The ground shuddered when the Slee’s body struck it. She felt the talons on her, lifeless, limp. She took a moment to collect herself, knowing those horses were getting closer.
Knowing she had to be hidden when they arrived, because drained and wounded as she was, she’d never outrun them to her own horse.
She pushed herself to a sitting position. Her ribs burned in pain. She applied her will to stitch the skin up where the Slee had torn it, leaving angry red scars. She could see the puddles of blood on either side of her. They’d be on to her no matter what.
The world swam for her. She’d lost too much blood. She wasn’t gett
ing away from this—not this time. She pulled herself past the Slee, toward the scrub.
But the Slee was gone now—that seemed odd. She could have sworn she’d killed it. It was in the nature of these things that sorely wounded, they would slink off and find a place to die. This one must have done that.
Hearing the hoof beats, she reached for what she thought must be a branch, and instead found a discarded spear. It was a beautiful weapon—long bone handle overlaid with scales, sturdy shaft with a wicked barbed end. She took the thing in both hands and used it to push herself erect, getting a better perspective on the area around her, deep as she was in enemy territory.
The enemy approaching her was a single female in the white robes of a Druid. Her long blonde hair trailed behind her as her mount pounded to the precise spot where Shela waited, as if she had been drawn there.
“I don’t know you, Druid,” Shela said, leaning on the spear. She’d begun to sweat—she’d not be able to defend herself if this one had allied herself with the other Foveans.
“I am Vedeen,” she said, extending a hand. “If you will allow me, I will take you to a safe place, Empress.”
Shela nodded, and took the Druid’s hand. Vedeen dragged her up into the saddle behind her with a surprising strength. Shela wrapped one arm around Vedeen’s middle and lay her cheek on the back of Vedeen’s shoulder.
The mount charged off, but Shela really couldn’t say she knew to where.
* * *
A Volkhydran boy named Eric, a rare blonde nearly fourteen years of age walked the battlefield after the Battle of the Foveans, as it was being called, where the united Fovean armies had been soundly defeated by half their number of Eldadorians, perhaps less.
The Conqueror himself had battled the Hero of Tamara. Eric could already imagine the songs the troubadours would be creating about a battle between such legends.
He’d never seen so many dead bodies. His startling blue eyes found Men, Uman, horses,dogs—ripped apart by lances,shredded by swords—the enemies who fought so hard against each other lay together so peacefully in death. If only they’d learned this lesson first?
When the Conqueror’s son had invaded Volkha, the call had gone out to every Volkhydran city and town for support. Count Tezzen from Myr had responded with 1,000 Men, but came from so far north they’d missed the battle.
The grandson of an important commoner, a brewer named Terok, he’d come to represent his family as its only living male. He’d had an uncle, but he’d died before the boy’s birth.
Fortunately he already stood taller than his mother, Aileen, and not much shorter than most Men. His father had left Aileen to guard a caravan and been lost with his uncle.
Most of the warriors were looking for survivors—allies to save and enemies to question. There weren’t many of either. One spoke of a Swamp Devil killed by the Conqueror, and Eric had wandered off to find its body.
Supposedly he’d died where the Theran Lancers had overwhelmed the Andarans. Judging by the bodies, Eric had found the spot, but not the body.
Without warning, he tripped over a discarded sword and landed right on his face. In a cuirass and chainmail shirt, he made a huge clank when he landed, and snapped the sword he’d been given.
He’d liked that sword—a gift from his grandfather. He’d snapped it right at the crossguard. He pushed himself to his knees and threw the hilt aside in disgust. By his ankles he found the weapon that he’d tripped over.
He’d expected to find a simple footman’s sword or an Andaran scimitar, and instead found a gleaming black blade with an exquisite steel basket around the leather-wrapped hilt. He stood and picked the weapon up, noting the perfect balance to the blade, four feet long.
If he’d been any shorter, he wouldn’t have been able to keep it. Aileen had informed him that his father had been tall—he showed promise of the same. He swung the sword experimentally now, the whirring sound through the air telling him that, although discarded in a battlefield where horses had run, the blade remained true.
He tried to sheath the sword in the scabbard over his shoulder but found the weapon too long. In the end he drove the point through the scabbard. He’d get a new one back in Myr. Right now, the Emperor’s army was marching on to Hydro, and all of the warriors expected the city to fall. King Gharf Bendenson had already ordered all reserves to Vol, to keep the Emperor from wrapping up the river.
This had been a dark two months for Volkhydro, but with the body of the Swamp Devil forgotten, the boy nearly fourteen whistled to himself quite happily as he set off in search of Tezzen to show off his new prize.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Last Stand
Vedeen stood naked before the Green One, foremost among the Druids, bound to the center tent post in a pavilion to the west of Hydro, the next city in the Emperor’s path.
She’d delivered Shela Mordetur to the Eldadorians, when surely Shela would have fallen to the Fovean army, or what remained of it. Karl had withdrawn from the field with barely twenty thousand and no horse after their platform had fallen. When that happened, Ancenon Escaroth and Dilvesh had rained down hell fire on what the Eldadorian Regulars hadn’t already devastated.
True to Raven’s word, she had earned no favor with the Emperor for her actions.
“Little sister,” Dilvesh informed her, “you must understand—you were among our enemies, as no Druid should be, and clearly aided them—”
“I gave them no aid!” she insisted.
The pavilion had no furniture, just the tent pole at its center, planted in the ground. The pavilion had a peaked canvas top and four walls, capturing the month of Destruction’s heat inside. The Green One, the Emperor, his son, his wife still leaning on that spear Vedeen had found her with, Thorn of the Daff Kanaar, Ancenon Escaroth, three generals whom she didn’t know, and the Man whom she knew as ‘Jack’ only added to that heat in the close confines.
No woman should be so exposed before so many, she thought.
They’d let her ride with them for two weeks, preserving her dignity, gently chiding her to tell them her secrets. She’d insisted she could not—these were prophetic times, and she in her opinion the prophet who would tell it all. She’d known the truth of the song when Glynn first sang it, and it had spoken to her of her role. If she hadn’t, then she’d have heard Jack speak in the ‘oldest tongue,’ the secret language of the Druids, and known anyway.
She’d explained this to the Green One, choosing her words carefully, as even he was a particle in the prophecy.
Today they’d dragged her out of her tent by her hair, stripped her naked and bound her to a pole. No Druid, as far as she knew, had ever done another so. The Trinity forbade it, much as this didn’t seem to bother Dilvesh much.
“Let the warriors have at her,” one of the generals said. He was a stocky Man, gray haired, armored like the Emperor, a scar on his face under his eye, horizontal, not vertical like the Mark of the Conqueror.
“A few dozen in and she’ll tell us anything we want to know.”
The Emperor’s cold blue eyes told her he’d consider that plan if he felt he had to. Above all, however, she must not tell him what she knew. The gods revealed in their own good time—and that time clearly had not come.
“Black Lupus, you must not—” Ancenon began, but the Emperor raised a hand.
“Why turn on your friends?” Lupus asked, stepping forward.
The sweat ran down her body, from her temples to the insides of her thighs. The tent was stifling hot with its flap closed—however that was preferable to the leers that she’d receive, were it open.
“They are no friends of mine,” she said. “Your own man, there, can tell you—I joined as an observer, nothing more.”
Lupus nodded, looked down at her feet, let his eyes travel rather obviously up her body. The general’s words rang in her mind.
She’d had no man in her life and wasn’t eager to release her maidenhood that way.
“Why save the Empre
ss?” he asked her.
He didn’t seem angry, but it was said, “Fear the Emperor in his anger, be terrified of him in his calm.” This was a man as cold and decisive as a snowstorm in the Great Northern Mountains, with all the fury behind it.
“I knew that, after refusing to help them in another battle, Glynn’s fellows would turn against me. I thought I could ingratiate myself with you, if I saved your dearest one.”
Dilvesh and Shela exchanged glances. She shrugged; he turned back to Lupus and whispered something in his ear. Most likely, he reported they couldn’t read her, because as a Druid she was immune to truth saying.
“So this is two of them who’ve changed sides,” Thorn said, looking sideways at Jack, and then at her. Jack didn’t seem to react to that. “All for some song most people can’t hear; some riddle the people who hear, can’t solve.”
“Except for her,” the Emperor said, still looking at her with those icy blue eyes. “She’s worked it out. She knows who the six in the song are, and she knows what’s become of them.”
I know whether you win or lose, you mean, she thought to herself, and that’s what you really want to know.
Without turning away, he asked, “What sort of power does she have, Green One?”
“She’s a Druid, like I am,” he said, “though not so strong. She’s the Guardian of the One—or she was supposed to be when I left her there. She draws on the natural Trinity.”
“So we just can’t let her parade around, and hope she doesn’t change sides back,” the Emperor said.
Shela looked at her, then at her husband. She pulled a long sickle dagger from her belt.
She saw the disappointment in the Green One’s eyes.
“Make it quick,” Lupus said, taking a step back.
Despite herself, she felt a tear run down the side of her face.
“Ave Maria,” Jack shouted, stepping forward, “gratia plena, Dominus tecum.”
Vedeen didn’t know the words—no one really spoke the oldest tongue anymore, merely remembered certain of the phrases.