Echo of the High Kings (The Eoriel Saga Book 1)

by Kal Spriggs

  She saw no need though. The last of her people moved through unopposed. She saw a half dozen Armen flee to the south, towards the main battle. The rest remained on the ground. Kerrel looked over at Jonal. Her cousin had taken a nasty cut across his left cheek, which leaked blood. A smear of blood ran down his saber. “Signal first and third platoons to advance,” Kerrel said.

  He gave her a nod, and he moved with calm purpose as he drew his trumpet to send the call. Kerrel saw second platoon form up in a screening line while the other two platoons broke down into squads and moved up the hill.

  “Now for the fun part,” Baran said from behind her.

  Kerrel waited a moment for her headquarters element to form up on her before she followed the rest of her people up the hill.

  The first thing she noticed, as she drew near, was the reek of rotting flesh. She found the source, on the edge of camp. A dozen bodies hung splayed on frames at the edge of camp. All showed signs of torment and torture. They were all men, though with the decomposed state of some Kerrel found it hard to tell.

  “I can see why the locals hate them so much,” Baran said.

  Kerrel just nodded. She had seen worse, but that did not mean she found such things acceptable. They rode past the first tents, and found a scene of orderly chaos. Armen women and children gave shrieks and screams as her people herded them through the warren of the camp. Behind those riders walked several of her men detailed to searching the camp for holdouts and valuables.

  Kerrel and her party pushed through the crowd and continued towards the center of the camp. She reigned in only as they came to a large wooden pen. Two of her men stood guard outside it, while the rest of the squad had dismounted and gone inside. Kerrel felt gorge rise in the back of her throat as she stared at the women and handful of children within, many skeletal with starvation. They stared back at her with hollow eyes. She saw Sergeant Iveran drape a blanket over one of the naked women, who trembled with terror at his touch.

  “Captain,” Baran said.

  Kerrel ripped her gaze away from the slave pens, “Yes?”

  “We need to push on, Captain,” Kerrel could hear the anguish in his own voice, but also the purpose.

  “Yes...” Kerrel let out a deep breath. “Let's go.”

  They rode past the pens and then through another cluster of tents. These tents were larger, their fabric of finer material, and flags hung from the tops of most of them. On the far side, a beaten dirt area marked the center of the camp. A dozen wooden poles planted in the dirt stood at the center of the area.

  The harsh crack of a whip on flesh drew caused Kerrel's head to snap around.

  An Armen woman stood near one of the poles. Chained to the pole, tiny hands locked in the manacles, stood a young boy. A mass of bleeding scars covered his back and he hung from the chain, barely conscious.

  Kerrel kicked her mount into movement and drew up her horse only a few feet away from the woman. “What is this?”

  The woman looked up at her. She looked old, though with the rough lives that the Armen lived, she could be just in her thirties. The lines and wrinkles of her face spoke of work and toil, and the grimace she gave Kerrel showed no fear. “This is how he learns to be a man. His father, Chief Ranak Prall, will want him to be strong, not weak like he is now.” With that, the woman drew back the whip and lashed it across the boy's back.

  Kerrel dismounted, saber drawn, “You will not strike that boy again. Do you understand me woman?”

  “He is my son and my blood. I will make sure that he remembers to be strong, even if you weak southerners take him away, he will remember me,” the woman drew back her whip again.

  Kerrel stepped forward and caught her wrist. The woman struggled against her strength for a moment, then gave a cry and drew a hidden knife with her left hand.

  Kerrel brought her saber up on instinct and the woman gave a scream as the saber sliced through her wrist. Kerrel release the woman, and she stumbled back, only to swing her whip at Kerrel's face.

  Before she could duck, she heard a meaty thunk, and the Armen woman toppled soundlessly to the ground. Baran looked down at her from horseback, his own sword covered with the woman's blood. “Careful, Captain. Or did you not listen to your own lecture?”

  Kerrel gave him a grateful nod and then turned to the young boy. She unlatched the manacles and lowered him to the ground. He had the Armen coloring, long straight black hair, dark skin, and pale blue eyes. He stared at her without comprehension, his eyes wide with pain and shock. “Have one of the medics come to treat him,” Kerrel said.

  “Yes, Captain. Perhaps you should mount up and continue the battle?” Baran said. “Sergeant Telan can watch the boy.”

  “Yes, of course,” Kerrel went back to Nightwhisper. As she mounted, she looked around. The knots of women and children had drawn closer, and she saw her people had begun to separate them, as per Lord Hector's instructions.

  She understood those instructions better now, especially after the sight of how an Armen mother instructed her children. The memory of the slave pens still made her nauseous. As Kerrel waited for her men to finish their tasks, he heard a trumpet call from the south. Her heart rose in her throat as she heard the signal for an approaching force. That tension eased a moment later as they signaled the army to be friendly.

  She looked over at Baran, “Let's go greet Lord Hector.”

  ***

  Chapter Eight

  Captain Kerrel Flamehair

  Near Fort Isolation, The Lonely Isle, Duchy of Masov

  Twenty-Fifth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Kerrel dismounted from Nightwhisper and gave Lord Hector a sharp salute. “We have seized the Armen raid camp, sir. We took a handful of wounded from the defenders, but nothing serious.”

  “Excellent,” Lord Hector returned her salute. She noticed a bandage on his left arm and spots of blood that stained his armor. “You may pull back your people to rejoin the formation. I have detailed men from the reserve to guard the prisoners and the loot.”

  Kerrel nodded at her headquarters section, “Pass that on and Baran please get with Commander Nasrat and find out where our section of camp lies.” She turned back to Hector. “You participated in the battle, sir?” Kerrel asked.

  He gave a grimace, “I had no choice in the matter.” He looked around at his own officers, “Walk with me.”

  Kerrel passed the reins of her mount over to Jonal. She walked alongside Hector as he walked towards a cleared area to the east of the Armen encampment. “The Armen numbers matched what our scouts reported. They had more of their holy men and shamans than we expected, but our witches mitigated that.” He gave her a sharp look, “What we did not expect was for them to focus their entire force on the center formation.”

  “Your unit?” Kerrel asked, surprised.

  “Indeed. In fact, they funneled themselves to hit just at the center, and left their flanks open to the other two battalions. They nearly broke through at the center, and I was forced to commit my reserves to hold.” Hector paused, and his eyes studied her, as if he searched for some answer on her face.

  Kerrel met that gaze with one of surprise and puzzlement. She could not imagine what might make the Armen choose such a suicidal and reckless strategy. Not unless they saw some target worth the destruction of their force. Even then, she thought, I can hardly imagine them sacrificing themselves unless they truly hated--

  Sudden understanding made her jaw drop, “They knew you were there.”

  He nodded, and he seemed relieved for some reason. “Yes, they knew where I had positioned myself and their best shock troops led the charge at my company.”

  “You think a traitor...” Kerrel frowned, then she felt her face heat, “You thought I was the traitor?”

  “It made a certain level of sense,” Lord Hector said, “And some suspicious minds suggested how an unscrupulous mercenary might see an opportunity to loot the raid camp and escape with such a prize in the confusion.” Kerre
l saw him shoot a quick glance at where Commander Nasrat walked next to his daughter.

  “I see,” Kerrel said. “I trust my surprise excuses me from such suspicion?”

  “Well that... and how you followed my every order,” Hector said. “Which is a relief. I did not think you would betray me, but I would have had to take precautions if you showed any signs of violating my orders.”

  “Precautions?” Kerrel said.

  He shrugged, “You are popular with your troops, so I would have to make your death seem to be from one of the Armen, but if I suspected you harbored treasonous intentions I would have to remove you. Your popularity, both with your own people and some of the other mercenaries is too dangerous to allow if you stand against me.”

  Kerrel stopped so suddenly that one of the officers ran into her from behind. She almost didn't feel him slip a scrap of cloth into her left hand. She stared at Hector, who stood patiently, a slight smile on his face. “Whenever I think that I finally understand you, you manage to overturn how I see you in a few words. Are you certain you don't come from the Duchy of Asador, perhaps you spent a few cycles there as a sell sword?”

  Hector gave a slight laugh, “No, but I realized the precarious nature of my position from the beginning and I have studied those who stayed in power after seizing it,” Hector shrugged, “I've even read ancient histories, from before our ancestors left the homeworld and came here. And if I must chose to be loved or to be feared, I will chose to be feared.”

  “Very well,” Kerrel said. “So what are you going to do about this traitor?”

  “I will investigate further,” Lord Hector said. “And I will find him, or her. In the meantime, I need to manage the aftermath of this battle.” He stopped on the hillside.

  Kerrel saw that Hector's guard detail had herded the women and older children out of the camp, and towards their direction. Lord Hector had turned to watch them come down the hillside.

  Kerrel glanced down at the scrap of cloth in her hand. She recognized the eight pointed star, as well as the logo beneath it in a language dead long before men had come to Eoriel. Aut Inventiem Viam Aut Facium. Beneath the phrase she saw a roughly sketched map and a time.

  Kerrel looked over her shoulder, but Hector's officers stood in a clump, and she could not tell which one of them had run into her and slipped her the message. She looked past them and saw that the camp followers had moved up nearby. The group included men who would fence the loot from the camp, and those who would then sell and trade goods to the mercenaries and soldiers to separate them from their new found wealth. Kerrel knew from experience that the merchants, whores, and fences were unavoidable. Lord Hector, like many good commanders, had instilled some military discipline into them. That prevented them from becoming a distraction during the battle, and made them an asset afterward, when bulky goods could be exchanged for coin.

  She saw a handful of men step forward from among the camp followers. Kerrel frowned, disturbed by their appearance. Two of them wore robes and she recognized their caramel complexions as from being Vendakar. Their fine robes and the jewels that glimmered at their wrists and necks showed their wealth. The third man looked like a nobleman, though his dress seemed more like that of Boir than of the Duchy of Masov, with a buttoned shirt and lace cuffs. His closely trimmed mustache and beard also was more typical of Boir. All three men had entourages of servants and guards.

  “Who are they?” Kerrel asked.

  “Business associates,” Hector said. “One of the ways I seek to make this war pay for itself, beyond the looting of the Armen.”

  Kerrel watched the men with puzzlement. She looked between them, and the prisoners for a moment, and then felt her stomach churn, “You cannot be serious.”

  Hector raised an eyebrow, “What?”

  “They are slavers, aren't they?” Kerrel asked in a low voice.

  “Yes,” Hector shrugged, “A bit of symbolic turnabout, don't you think?” He looked over at the Armen women and older children. “We've found that the boys are lost causes after about twelve cycles of age. The Armen are rougher on women, so I have the locals interview them more thoroughly. The ones we feel to be dangerous, as well as the Armen wounded... we cannot afford to guard them.”

  “So you sell them as slaves to the Vendakar and...” Kerrel frowned, “And who is that other one?”

  “His name is Attrimar,” Hector said. “He's less of a slaver, more of a fence. He does, on occasion, buy some of the more pretty young boys and girls for his other enterprises. I understand that his method eventually sees them freed and with a valuable set of skills.”

  “He's a pimp,” Kerrel said, her voice harsh. She felt a sudden desire to wash her hands, and a sick voice in the back of her mind reminded her the part she played in this. “This is disgusting.”

  Hector nodded, “Yes. But also quite lucrative. I'll make almost as much off the sale of potentially dangerous prisoners as I will off of the loot from the dead and the camp combined.” He looked over at her, “And I need to pay for mercenaries like you somehow. You seemed upset before at how my taxes strained the people of the Duchy. This should make you happier, should it not? I am finding ways to ease the burden on my people.”

  Kerrel felt gorge rise in her throat. “Sometimes you're a monster.”

  Hector gave her a single nod. “And that is what I found necessary to fight the Armen. They don't fear death. They don't even fear pain. I tried staking prisoners out, like they do to the men they capture. That doesn't bother them.” He gave a sigh, “I have found, however, that this terrifies them. Their women sold to brothels and their wounded bound for the Vendakar slave caste. It is inhuman, but if it makes even a handful of them hesitate from invasion, then I must try it.”

  ***

  Lady Amelia Tarken

  The Eastwood

  Twenty-Fifth of Igmar, Cycle 999 Post Sundering

  Amelia sat up, awoken from her sleep by... something. She looked around the tent the Wold had given her. She spent a late night in discussion with Tirianis, she'd felt tired this afternoon, and so she lay down, just for a moment.

  The soft pillows and the drowsy afternoon had caused her to sleep, yet she didn't think much time had passed. Little seemed to have changed,

  The soft sound of the wind in the trees continued undisturbed, yet...

  She frowned and gathered her feet under her. Amelia cocked her head, tried to hear what noise might have disturbed her. The afternoon sun outside the tent seemed inviting, and the merry laughter of the Wold suggested she should not worry.

  But something felt wrong. Amelia smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress as she stepped out into the sunlight. She let her feet guide her as she wandered. She looked around, puzzled by the feeling of unease which only grew.

  She found herself outside Simonel's tent and hesitantly, she called out, “Simonel?”

  He swept the flap back and gave her a broad smile, “Come in.” His dark hair hung in braids down either side of his reddish-bronze face.

  She opened her mouth to greet him, but then all of her unease focused in one crystalline moment. Without thought, she leaped forward and tackled him to the ground. She felt him go still with shock underneath her. She stared into his green eyes as a dozen emotions flickered through them until he finally seemed to settle on puzzled anger. He opened his mouth to speak.

  That was when the column of fire cut through the tent at waist height.

  Amelia let out a curse and rolled off him. She flopped onto her scorched back. The tent both ignited and collapsed. Amelia let out a scream as flaming cloth descended towards her.

  She felt a grip of iron clasp her ankle, and something yanked her out of the flaming tent just before it would have fallen on her. She looked over at Simonel, who still held her ankle with one hand. His sword was drawn and readied in his other.

  “Thank you,” He said. He spun on his heel and charged towards the source of the attack. Amelia wanted nothing more than to stay on her back and gulp
air. Instead she stumbled to her feet. She heard screams, cries of pain.

  She looked over to her right and saw a young woman, hand clutched on a savage burn across her shoulder. With horror, she saw a man, dressed in black, creep out of the shadows with a drawn sword.

  Amelia gave a curse. She reached down to grab at the severed tent pole. She ran forward and swung the flaming end as hard as she could at the stealthy attacker.

  She caught him in the back of the head. Sparks exploded and the wooden pole bounced out of her hands. The masked man dropped limply to the ground. The wounded woman turned and saw her and then the downed attacker. She did exactly what Amelia wanted to do and let loose a scream.

  Amelia shook her head, even as she picked up the attacker's sword. “Quiet, if there's more, they'll–”

  Another masked man ran around the front of a burning tent with a sword and dagger in his hands. Amelia shoved the girl to the side and lunged with her stolen sword. This new attacker deftly blocked her attack with his dagger in a move that trapped her sword. She let go and leapt back as he swung his sword.

  Amelia hopped backwards and looked for any weapon as he advanced on her. She picked up the broken tent pole again as she passed the first downed attacker.

  The girl had ceased her screams. The man advanced past where she cowered with only a quick glance. Amelia bit back a curse at the girl. Didn't she realize that she must fight, Amelia thought, or we'll both die?

  The man staggered as the girl kicked out at his knee from the side. He gasped in pain as he collapsed forward. Amelia lunged forward and planted the burning end of the pole in his face. He gave a scream and let go of his dagger to clutch at his eyes.

  Amelia grabbed the dagger, even as she struck him again in the face with the pole. He waved his sword at her blindly, but she timed a lunge and stabbed as hard as she could. She felt the dagger drive into his neck under his chin. He gave gurgled cry as the wound gushed blood.