by Kal Spriggs
“You are the only warrior to be wounded in the last battle and that by a river stone.” Nanamak said. “Hardly auspicious.” The Ancient shook his head, “Or perhaps that river stone holds the spirit of some great warrior, eager to prove himself. I shall have to have one of the Enchanters interrogate it, to see where its true loyalties lie.”
Simonel stared at Nanamak for a long moment, “You're teasing me.”
Nanamak shook his head solemnly, “I would never do that, my King.”
“I –”
“My King, they have almost reached the perimeter, shall I signal the Spiritwalkers and Enchanters to begin?” Ceratul asked.
Simonel did not know whether to welcome the interruption or not. “Yes, Warmaster. After they begin... so will we.”
The older warrior pursed his lips and gave a perfect imitation of a wood finch. A moment later, Simonel felt the first stirring of energy. His gaze went to the central knot of the Armen raiders and he saw movement there that suggested they'd brought at least one of their own shamans.
The ground trembled as the spirits of the forest answered the call. A moment later, out of the burned scar, a tangle of blackened branches arose. Simonel could feel the anger of the spirit that manifested, a primal being of the forest. Raw waves of rage washed through the forest, followed by the manifested spirit. It stood on two broad trunks, blackened and scorched, burned branches wove out of the chest to form four arms, each ended with talons made from the scorched bones of forest animals.
One of the Armen beserkers charged it. One of the arms lashed out and threw the man's broken body thirty feet through the air. The spirit had no voice, but the waves of anger that poured from it and its own twisted form spoke of its purpose.
The Armen backed away from it, many readied their weapons while their shaman or enchanter readied some counter.
Behind their new line, vine-wrapped stone constructs tore free from the earth. Despite their heavy bodies, they moved with speed and grace, their lithe stone bodies a mixture of hunting dog and great lions. The first of them ripped into the back of the Armen line. The impact tumbled men through the air.
Simonel felt the blood rise in his veins. He surged to his feet, as the world slowed. A single graceful leap took him to the top of the embankment that sheltered him. Three long strides later and he had drawn his sword. A war cry burst from his lips as he felt his blood rise.
He covered the remaining sixty feet in what felt like a single movement. He seemed to have all the time in the world. The Armen moved with almost painful slowness. He watched an arrow, loosed by one of his men, went past slow enough that he felt tempted to snatch it out of the air.
And yet that moment of eternity ended and suddenly his world dissolved into chaos. A screaming Armen face rose before him, ax drawn back to strike. Simonel's sword struck first, a powerful stroke that took his enemy's head off his shoulders. Simonel ducked under a body, sent flying by the forest spirit. He slashed forward at another enemy.
He spun as he felt something slam against his shoulder, turned by the high magic weaves worked into his leather armor. He found himself face to face with a surprised Armen raider, ax drawn back for another swing. The man went down with a scream as one of the stone constructs latched onto him from behind.
Simonel spun again as some sixth sense warned him. A bolt of flame passed through the spot he'd stood in. He saw it slam into the forest spirit, and the detonation shredded a dozen Armen nearby. Simonel tried to spot the source of the attack, but he had to dodge a thrown ax. He saw that attacker go down, one of the People took the warrior's arm off at the shoulder.
An Armen, his mouth open in a scream of fear or anger, came straight at Simonel. Simonel ducked the man's wild swings and brought his own blade across to stab up under his leather armor from behind. The man, little more than a boy, stared down at the blade, and his dark eyes met those of Simonel. He coughed blood and slumped. Simonel withdrew his blade as he sought out the next threat.
His gaze ranged through the battlefield. He saw the People, their movements glorious and terrible as they stalked the battlefield. He felt only a passing sadness as they gave the Armen wounded finishing strokes. He felt nothing at all as he watched the stone constructs as they loped in pursuit of a handful of Armen in retreat. He felt the warm summer breeze as it caressed his sweat-damp face. His fingers caressed the rough leather texture of his sword hilt.
In his mind, he saw again the blood and violence. He saw again the eyes of the Armen boy he killed at the end. A part of him wanted to weep. Yet he remembered the fallen bodies of his own People and the deaths of those who'd done these Armen no harm, yet died anyway. That other part of him felt only grim satisfaction that he prevented more harm to his people.
A darker part of him remembered how alive he felt in battle. That darker part spoke of hunting the fleeing Armen, of bringing terror to their camps and reveling in battle on them and the others like them who dared to challenge him. This last part Simonel fought down, and with care, bottled that part away. The rage and power could be let out when needed, but no good King could let such things rule him.
“My King, the enemy is routed. Will you join in the pursuit?” Ceratul spoke, his voice a little breathless. Simonel opened his eyes and met those of the Warmaster. Ceratul's pupils had dilated and Simonel could hear the warrior's heart beat in the veins on his neck, a steady rhythm that spoke of excitement.
“No, Warmaster. I leave that to you. Ensure that our people search the bodies for clues. The Armen could not have marshaled the spell that opened us to these attacks. But they may have something that links them to the true origin of the threat.” Simonel forced himself away from the thrill that lurked at the edge of his mind. The temptation remained, despite his discipline.
He watched Ceratul lope away. Nanamak stepped forward, his steps slow and measured. Simonel saw the same hunger in his mentor's eyes. A red stripe marked his face where an enemy's arterial blood had splashed. His dark eyes held barely restrained hunger, but his face was calm and his breathing came in an even and measured pace. He peered at Simonel, as if curious, “So... you feel it too?”
“Yes, I see what you meant.” Simonel answered. “It's... I've never felt so alive. Yet...” His stomach twisted as he saw the eyes of the last man he'd killed. Little more than a boy. “I've never felt so unclean.”
“It is a savage, glorious, terrible thing,” Nanamak said. “The only clean thing about it is when you have victory and you know your cause is just.”
“What about...” Simonel swallowed again, “What about those who let the blood-lust take them?”
Nanamak shrugged, “Some sate themselves and later learn to avoid it. Others, they become addicted to it. It is an affliction that many of the People learn to deal with. In the hunt, you feel an echo of that exhilaration, the joy of battle. And... there are other ways to satisfy that hunger.”
***
Lord Admiral Christoffer Tarken
The Boir Sea, East of Boirton
Seventh of Igmar, cycle 999 Post Sundering
The suspended three foot sheet of almost perfect glass quivered slightly as Admiral Christoffer Tarken stepped into the low cabin, followed by Captain Elias and the Lieutenants Gunnar and Hennings. The faintly visible etchings across the surface of the mirror marred the reflection, but those marks made that mirror the purpose of their visit.
“Admiral, thank you for coming so quickly,” Master Lorens said. The ship's wizard looked haggard and worn. “I don't know how long the message will play, the enemy has generated a lot of interference.”
Christoffer Tarken nodded politely. He gave the wizard a slight smile, “Thank you for your assistance Master Lorens. No one else on the ship can match what you've accomplished. I think we've set a record time so far for our voyage from Port Riss.”
The portly wizard gave a wan smile, but fear still haunted his eyes. He, like much of the crew, came from Boirton. Like the others, he drove himself beyond exhaustio
n every day in an effort to speed their course south. His skin had taken an unhealthy pallor, and Christoffer made a mental note to speak with Elias about ensuring the man got some sleep.
“Admiral, give me a moment to attune the symbol,” Master Lorens said. He worked quickly. Christoffer had more than a passing education on the Artificer's School, and he had to admire the quick and efficient movements of the ship's wizard as he activated the control symbols. While he didn't doubt he could do the same, it would have taken him much longer.
The suspended mirror quivered, and then vibrated, a tinny voice spoke, distorted past recognition, “...of Defense Baron Richtoffen. A sizable Armen force has besieged Boirton with an estimated forty thousand troops. They have established a blockade of the harbor with some six captured ships and several dozen of their own vessels. All merchant ships are advised that the Boir Sea is not safe. Military vessels and garrison forces are advised not to use their Signifiers, the enemy possesses captured ones and has the capability to...” the voice shuddered out. “...will not yield. Armen have executed envoys sent to discuss peace. Do not trust any offers of surrender or appeasement. I repeat this is Minister of Defense Baron Richtoffen...”
“It just repeats after that, but fades in and out, Admiral.” Master Lorens said. “There's a lot of interference, I'm pretty certain that the Armen captured more than one Signifier. To produce the levels of interference, they must have at least three.”
Christoffer nodded, “I see. Is there any way to track them by the signal they put out?”
Master Lorens nodded, “Yes, sir. We'd need at least two ships to get a good plot of where they are. I'm certain that they can attempt the same thing, however, if we try to reach another ship to coordinate with.”
“But there are no other ships,” Lieutenant Henning said. “With Port Riss burned and Boirton under blockade, we must be the only warship remaining at sea.”
“Nonsense,” Captain Elias said. “The ships of the South Fleet survive, as do those detached on independent orders, right Admiral?”
Christoffer nodded, “Yes. We have other ships. But the enemy certainly has us in a vulnerable situation. We cannot communicate effectively, not without their knowledge. They also must have made extensive preparations, with numerous tribal alliances to muster such powerful force.”
“Our army could lift the siege, could they not, sir?” Lieutenant Gunnar said.
“They could... but it takes time to muster them, to assemble a relief force. It takes further time for them to march.” Admiral Tarken nodded at the wizard, “Master Lorens, could you bring up the map?”
The wizard nodded, and a moment later the surface of the mirror transformed into a detailed map of the Duchy of Boir and its surroundings. “If I remember correctly, we have some five thousand soldiers at Brachsenhaven, and another five thousand at Neubergen, both positioned in the north as a hedge against invasion there. To the west, there's the First Mountain Brigade, another three thousand men stationed in the outposts along the Rampart and the Mountains of Maratha.” He frowned, “We have some fifteen thousand troops in various garrisons along the southern border with the fallen Duchy of Taral.”
“We're spread too thin to respond in force,” Lieutenant Hennings said.
“Thank you for restating what I just said,” Christoffer said, his voice dry. He watched the young Lieutenant flush. The lad would learn to think before he spoke, or he'd find more than a humorous rebuke... regardless of his family connections. “The solution, such as it is, is that we must eliminate the main threat to our forces, we must capture or destroy those ships that they use to disrupt our communications.”
“But, sir, Master Lorens just said we need a second vessel to properly track them,” Lieutenant Hennings said.
“We don't need to track them, we know exactly where to find them,” Captain Elias responded. The ship's captain looked up, his eyes bright and his face eager.
“Precisely,” Christoffer pointed at Boirton. “The blockade.”
***
“What bothers you, Elias?” Christoffer asked, once the two had moved to his Admiral's Quarters to make a more detailed plan. They could have done the same in the Captain's quarters, but Christoffer already had the maps out and it gave them both some privacy to discuss matters best kept from the crew.
Nikolas had retired after topping off a pair of brandy glasses for both of them.
“How did they marshal a force of forty thousand?” Captain Elias muttered. “They haven't the logistics for that, not without assistance.” He gave Christoffer a level gaze, “I am not certain that we could marshal that large a force and keep it supplied for a siege.”
“You think the Darsktar Kingdom has a hand in this?” Christoffer asked.
“I don't know, sir, but it would explain their sudden strategy and their ability to move so many troops. It's not unlike them to send advisers and gift the Armen weapons.”
“True,” Admiral Tarken said. He pursed his lips in thought. “It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last. Also, I wouldn't be surprised to hear that the Norics from Taral or one or anther of the Vendakar Houses have pitched in as well.” He shrugged, “Though I wouldn't put it past some rogue nobles within Boir, either.”
“Seriously?” Captain Elias asked.
“Dalton's heirs retained much of his wealth, and he had strong ties with the Armen and the Vendakar too for that matter. Others, some from good families, have planned or pursued similar goals.” Christoffer looked down into his glass of brandy, lost in thought. “You've heard what happened with my own son, I presume.”
Elias hesitated, “Not the details, Admiral.”
“I tried to keep most of the details out of the news sheets,” Christoffer said. He downed the last of his brandy in a single drought. “But even the most loyal families sometimes have bad apples. While I too would like to think outside involvement in the Armen's sudden strategic proficiency, we cannot forget the threat of ambitious men. I'm certain that Grand Duke Beckett and his advisers have taken that into account, we cannot lose sight of that ourselves.”
***
Lady Amelia Tarken
Amelia stumbled out of the trees and into the river. The cold water burned against her feet and calves like icy fire. The shock seemed immediate and yet distant in a way. She sank slowly to her knees in the water. The rocks and pebbles of the bank bit into her legs. The cold water washed up to her waist. It burned against her skin, so cold, and yet she realized it was the first thing she really felt since...
Her mind shied away from what her brother's minions had done to her.
She cupped her hands and brought the water up to her lips. It felt twice as cold going down as it did on her skin. She felt the cuts and bruises across her body now, they stung where the water washed across her skin. Looking down at herself, she saw her nightgown remained little more than dirty rags. She bit back a sob at the dirt and blood that covered her pale skin and her mind again shied away from the other filth, the pollution that the stream could not wash away.
She grabbed a handful of river sand and used it to scrub at her body. The abrasion didn't do anything for the pollution of her spirit, but her body emerged from under the dirt and grime. She dunked her head and dragged her fingers through her blonde curls, then scrubbed at her skin. Her motions became almost frantic, as the cold water seemed to wash away the dirt but to leave some other stain.
She didn't know how much time passed, but she'd gone pink and her body began to shiver with cold when she finally stopped. She stood and waded further out into the river. Something seemed odd about the forest on the far side. Its trees seemed somehow aware of her presence. She pulled the rags of her nightgown against her as she stopped, mid-river, waist deep in the chill water. She glanced over her shoulder. The woods behind seemed darker now and she felt again the agony and shame of what had happened to her there.
She turned her head forward again and waded determinedly the rest of the way across the river. She would
not give up. Her brother's dark purposes would not end her. She would not die a pawn in his evil schemes.
As her foot struck the sandy bank of the far side of the river, she felt an almost electric shock run up through her foot and into her body. She froze as the world around her seemed to come to life. She could smell the sweet scent of honeysuckle and hear the soft whisper of the wind in the leaves. She saw a red fox peer at her from the undergrowth near the bank.
Amelia shook her head, suddenly bemused. Another thought struck her, then, and she nodded slowly. The sudden return of feeling and the lush green grass only reinforced the notion that lurked in the back of her mind. I've gone mad, she realized. It provided the only explanation for the return of feeling and the sudden improvement of her spirit and health
True or not, she'd face it on her two feet, she decided. She took another step, and with both feet on this new shore, she stepped into this mad future.
***
King Simonel Greeneye
Simonel watched from the trees as the woman stumbled out of the river. Her blond hair had gone wild and unkempt. He could see the bruises and abrasions on her pale skin. Her ragged nightgown, and the rope chafed rings at her wrist and ankles suggested that her abusers had kidnapped her.
The problem, as Simonel saw it, lay in why they let her live and whether the woman's body had become host to something else.
“What did Barathan have to say about the ritual site?” Simonel asked.
“Blood magic and a ritual designed to appease a dark spirit,” Nanamak said. “Rape, torture, and soul-binding.”
“So it is unlikely that her soul survived the ritual?” Simonel asked.
Nanamak didn't have to answer that question. Simonel knew enough to understand that the woman's spirit, damaged in the ritual, probably succumbed to the pain. Her body, robbed of the energy of her soul, would have become an inviting host to any malignant spirit nearby. With the dark ritual used to strip the People's defenses, a great many such spirits would have swarmed to the site.