by Pedro Urvi
The Shaman hit her again and again.
Aliana turned her face away from the blows and saw Asti looking at her. The sadness in her face had vanished. Its place had been taken by a wide smile and a sparkle of pride in her eyes.
Men of the snow
Lasgol and Yakumo rode into the giant military camp of the Norghanian invasion army. It had been set up to the East of the Fortress of the Half Moon, eight hundred paces from the Rogdonian walls, inside the wide pass of the same name. They had chosen that spot, in clear sight of the defenders, with the unequivocal intention of driving fear into them. Thousands of Norghanian soldiers milled around in the valley like a tide of red water and white foam, completely blocking the way out of the pass to the East. The host was so huge it was breathtaking.
Lasgol and the Assassin had been intercepted by a mounted patrol as they approached the camp, and now they were being escorted into it by a dozen blond riders with winged helmets. As they made their way through the camp, Lasgol became more and more worried by the enormous military power concentrated there. He was leading the horse which bore his prisoner, well tied and gagged. He had even blindfolded him, as much to avoid trouble as to prevent his slanting eyes arousing the curiosity of those they met on their way.
There were thousands of tents all around, decorated with the colors and emblems of the Norghanian armies. They seemed to be entering a maze with no way out. From the flags waving proudly in the wind he could see that at least three of the five armies were gathered there. Looking at the number of tents raised along the plain in front of the pass, he calculated that there must be something like thirty thousand fierce men of the snow.
To the East he could see the banners of the Thunder Army. The plain had been completely taken over by hundreds of round red tents with white diagonal stripes, presumably General Olagson’s men. The daring and ferocious officer was well known and respected for taking part in battles alongside his men as one of them. It was said that only a respected few were as good as he was with a sword. The men of the Thunder Army were renowned for their savage charges. When they marched, the echo of their footsteps was so loud that their enemies lost courage as fear filled their hearts, and when they attacked they did so with such furious energy that the enemy defenses collapsed. It was said that there was no charge which that infantry had not won, no city they had failed to take.
Lasgol stopped Trotter and looked at the officers giving orders and organizing tasks: the coming and going of soldiers carrying weapons from one place to another might look chaotic, but he knew how well organized this army was. The hierarchy was well established, and orders always went to the right destination. An endless caravan of big carts pulled by enormous draft horses slowly passed him, carrying vast quantities of supplies: mainly food and drink, he guessed, to sustain the troops. If they were getting ready to lay siege to the fortress, the whole army would need to be well fed and the lines of carts would soon multiply. King Thoran’s administrators in Norghana must already be organizing the delivery of more supply caravans from all the main cities and villages of the kingdom.
Looking westwards, Lasgol could make out the banners of the Snow Army, Norghana’s heavy infantry. Their rectangular tents were snow-white, in keeping with their name. These men were the most powerful infantry of the whole continent. They had no rival in one-to-one combat. The rough soldiers of the snow destroyed their enemies without pity, with axe or sword, protected by their round shields of wood and iron. They crushed anything that got in their way. Only the Cavalry could stop them, and unfortunately for them and as they were all well aware, Rogdon had the best in Tremia. The Rogdonian Lancers were unequaled. The ferocity and skill of the men of the snow were well known and Cavalry aside, there was no army that did not fear them. The winged helmets which distinguished them, also snow-white, woke terror in their enemies. They would be led by General Rangulfsen, an intelligent man, a good strategist and a great leader. Rarely had he been forced to retreat in past campaigns, and since he had assumed command of the Snow Army he had never been defeated.
Trotter neighed restlessly.
“You don’t like all this fuss, do you?” said Lasgol, patting his neck to quiet him down. “Don’t you worry, you’ll soon be fed and taken care of, my dear old traveling companion.”
He went on towards the more easterly area of the camp.
“More spirit, more energy!” a veteran one-eyed soldier on his left shouted to an infantry squad who were practicing with sword and shield.
“You’re just like a bunch of weaklings from the rich cities of the east! Isn’t there any Norghanian blood in your veins?” a younger officer shouted to the practicing soldiers.
Lasgol smiled. He himself had suffered those terms of endearment during his training in the Royal Army, something he remembered nostalgically but not fondly. He was no soldier, he had never wanted to be one. But in order to become a Royal Forest Ranger he had had to go through military boot camp.
“They like to keep the soldiers with their swords well honed, don’t they, Trotter?” He looked back to check that the lethal Assassin had not disappeared. The thought seemed absurd the moment it came into his mind. How could he disappear when he’s surrounded by the whole Norghanian Army? He shook his head and went on.
Right and left he saw several squads exercising, some practicing in pairs with swords, others carrying out maneuvers of attack and defense in small groups, still more trying their marksmanship, shooting arrows at large targets set a range of different distances apart. Lasgol felt like joining the archers, but he resisted the impulse. He had important matters to attend to. He looked at his fellow countrymen: tall, strong and powerful. True beasts of war, brutal men born and trained to kill. They were truly terrifying. One soldier broke his partner’s shield with a brutal axe stroke and burst out laughing. Lasgol stared at him: blond, almost albino, with a beard of the same color, he had the build of a white mountain bear. No matter how brave the enemy, in the face of these warriors there was little they could do, they would be destroyed and trampled.
There were soldiers on guard-watch all over the camp. Their bodies tensed involuntarily at the sight of the Assassin passing, escorted by the riders.
The kitchen section impressed the Tracker, who had never in his life seen so many butchers, cooks, apprentices and kitchen hands together. They busied themselves cooking in countless pots of enormous size, which were placed along an empty space filled with other similar fires. Nearby, in various pens put up for that purpose, hundreds of cows, pigs, sheep, goats, hens and other farm animals were safely kept. A little further back several barns had been built to store wheat, oats, fodder, salted meat, cheese and many other foods.
The sheer scale of the logistics overwhelmed the Ranger.
They arrived at the eastern zone of the great camp, and after clearing two squares where the officers rested, Lasgol saw several command tents. They were easily identifiable, much bigger, more luxurious and elegant than those of the soldiers. Behind them, forming an endless cloth barrier which closed the rearguard of the camp, were hundreds of round red-and-white tents, with the banners of the Blizzard Army flying in the wind. This was the mixed army, the least known of the three gathered there, but fundamental when it came to facing enemy armies. It was made up of a mixed, multifunctional group. On one hand was the light cavalry of the south of the kingdom, for scouting, rearguard and flank attacks, as well as raiding missions to destroy supply lines. On the other hand, were the essential archers of the snowy forests of the northeast, without whom it was not possible to gain positions, take fortresses or punish the enemy infantry and cavalry. And finally the foot lancers, whose job was to face the cavalry with their long spears, and also to carry ladders and battering rams during assaults on enemy fortresses.
This supporting army was led by General Odir, a man with an explosive character, short–tempered and extremely abusive manners. He was capable of yelling an officer’s head off. His men feared the surliness and malice of his
character; he commanded on the basis of terror, and with success. He was a clear example of how brutality and savagery could triumph in the Norghanian army. He was a man to be avoided at all costs.
The small group of riders reached the Guard of Honor, who formed a protective rectangle around the commanders’ tents, day and night. The escort of light cavalry withdrew, leaving Lasgol and the Assassin with the Guard. Both dismounted. Immediately a young officer appeared and looked at the Royal Ranger suspiciously, arching one brow.
“Who goes there?” he demanded.
“Lasgol, Royal Forest Ranger and Tracker of Norghana,”
The young captain stared at him incredulously.
“I know I don’t look like one at the moment, but I assure you that I’m here on an official mission of his Majesty King Thoran.”
The officer looked Lasgol up and down, then turned his attention to the Assassin. Finally, he said: “Wait here, don’t move.”
He turned and addressed his men.
“Guards, don’t let them try anything.”
Without another word, he walked away to the tents.
The Guards of Honor surrounded them at once, swords and shields at the ready.
Lasgol waited calmly. He knew his people well: frugal in words and with the manners of a mountain bear. On the other hand, manners were not so highly regarded among his race.
After a short while the officer returned. Coming up to Lasgol, he said: “Follow me.”
“My horse…”
“Of course.” The officer turned to two of his men. “Tend to the horses immediately.”
The men saluted and took away both horses.
Lasgol followed the Captain of the Guard of Honor toward the commanders’ tents, with the Assassin behind. Six guards escorted them attentively.
They passed several spacious, luxuriously-made tents: high-ranking officers and court dignitaries, obviously, he thought. Finally they reached one that was somewhat smaller and more discreet. The Captain saluted the four guards at the door and walked in.
Lasgol followed, with the Assassin following him and the escort beside them.
“Well, well, well, look what the frozen winds of the North have brought us…” said a hissing voice.
Lasgol stopped and found himself in front of General Odir. He had briefly known the man at court, and could find nothing positive to say about him. He was tall and strong, middle-aged, with copper-colored hair and a thick beard. His light eyes sparkled with a light that hinted at a touch of madness, a danger of dementia, expectant and threatening.
“Good morning, General Odir,” Lasgol said with a slight bow.
“There’s nothing good about the morning, nothing at all, Ranger,” he replied roughly, with his eyes fixed on the Assassin.
Another voice came from behind a large round table with several maps spread out on it: “I see you’ve brought us a surprise, Royal Ranger.”
It was General Rangulfsen. Beside him General Olagson was rolling up a thick map.
“My Generals,” said Lasgol, and bowed.
“Tell me Ranger, is this who I think it is?” General Rangulfsen asked. He was small compared with the average Norghanian, and his features were more like those of a westerner than of someone from the freezing North, with brown hair and eyes and an aquiline nose. His eyes and expression hinted at sharp judgment and high intelligence.
“Yes Sir. It’s the Assassin. I’ve captured him as I was ordered and I’m bringing him to be interrogated.”
Lasgol stood behind the Assassin and took off the blindfold, letting it fall on the floor.
The surprise of the three generals was great. Their jaws dropped as they tried to understand what they were looking at: a man with slanting eyes!
Suddenly General Odir drew his sword and lunged at the Assassin like a wild animal, ready to skewer him.
“No!” shouted Lasgol, and tried to stop the General, but he was an instant too late.
The Assassin, who was standing with his hands tied at his back and gagged, slipped sideways with unimaginable agility and coordination.
General Odir, borne along by his own momentum, went past him and collided with the six Guards at the entrance of the tent.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing, you idiot?” General Rangulfsen said, outraged.
“Ha ha ha! What a beast!” sneered General Olagson, revealing his toothless mouth and the big scar that ran down his right cheek. This man was strong as an ox and nearly seven feet tall, with a prominent belly and scars on arms and face which told anybody who dared look at them that he was a true Norghanian warrior.
Lasgol came between the Assassin and General Odir, who was recovering his balance and cursing all the frozen ice gods with mad rage.
“Don’t you dare touch him!” shouted General Rangulfsen.
“I’ll kill him!” yelled Odir, brandishing his sword once again and lunging at Lasgol and the Assassin.
The sword came down towards the Tracker.
Another one flew swiftly through the air and blocked the stroke.
Lasgol looked to his right and saw General Olagson blocking Odir’s sword with his own.
“Don’t even think of it!” he told Odir. “I’ll cut your throat before you strike again.”
Odir looked at him, his eyes filled with rage and staring out of their sockets.
“You’ll pay me for this, fatso. Mark my words.”
“If you call me fatso again, you’ll have nothing to remember.”
“You’re an unhinged fool!” General Rangulfsen said angrily. “We need to interrogate this man. Move away from him!”
“Stop it!” came a sharp voice at the entrance to the tent.
Lasgol turned round and saw with relief that it was Count Volgren, First General of the Army.
“Can’t I leave you for one moment without you trying to kill each other? I’m wondering what will become of this campaign with such exceptional leadership.”
“He’s Orten’s murderer, I want justice!” demanded General Odir.
“What you want is revenge, which is something totally different,” said Count Volgren, “but you won’t have it. I forbid anybody to touch this man, and if anyone disobeys me I’ll cut off his ears, then his tongue and lastly his balls. Is that clear?”
The two struggling generals looked at each other and put away their swords. The tension decreased, but remained floating heavily in the air.
Count Volgren went up to Lasgol and said, more calmly: “It’s good to see you back safe and sound, young Ranger. I understand your predecessors in this hunt weren’t so lucky.”
“Thank you, Sir. Unfortunately they didn’t survive the mission.”
“But you did, and not only that, you’ve brought us back the Assassin alive for us to question him and find out whatever really happened that fateful night.”
“This snow leopard cub looks thirsty,” Olagson said. “Have them bring some good Nocean wine, quick!” he ordered, and a servant who had been standing in a corner hastened to carry out the order.
“Yes, we ought to celebrate this moment,” Volgren said. He walked to the Assassin and studied him carefully. “Is he a Chosen?” he asked Lasgol, raising one eyebrow.
“Yes, he’s a Chosen, Sir.”
“That’s dangerous, very dangerous,” General Rangulfsen said. “He must be chained.”
“Yes, feet, arms and head. Tightly, and make it hurt,” added Odir.
“I don’t think it’ll be necessary, but if you wish…” said Lasgol.
“We must take precautions with him here. Bring me shackles!” Count Volgren ordered.
In a few moments the Assassin was completely chained, sitting on the floor on a rough bearskin rug.
The three Generals and the Count were watching him, visibly intrigued.
The Assassin closed his eyes as if he were meditating, impervious to their scrutiny.
“Where the devil is he from?” General Odir asked.
“Hanged if I
know!” replied Olagson.
“He’s certainly not from this continent,” General Rangulfsen said. “There’s no race like this foreigner’s on the face of Tremia.”
“A foreigner from a distant country, another continent… curious… very curious…” Count Volgren mused.
“Has anybody else ever seen or heard of this race we have in front of us?” Olagson asked.
They all shook their heads.
“Lasgol, you’ve given us a nice surprise,” Count Volgren said. “This is something we weren’t expecting at all. Would you mind telling us the whole story of how the murderer of the King’s brother was captured? I’m sure it’ll be a fascinating one.”
“Of course, as you wish, Sir.”
The Generals sat back in robust wooden armchairs lined with bear-skins and drank the Nocean wine the servant diligently offered them. Odir asked for a horn of beer, spurning the wine of the men of the desert, and Olagson joined him after downing a glass of the sweet wine in one gulp.
Lasgol told them concisely about the chase, from the day the mission had been entrusted to him up to the present moment. He changed only one thing: the Masig had escaped after hitting the Tracker, and he had not been able to catch her. Deep down he knew that a lie would be the only way of justifying his weakness before those implacable men from the ice.
“Hah! What sort of a Royal Tracker is this, knocked out by a Masig! A woman!” Odir laughed at Lasgol, the beer-foam covering his blond moustache.
“The truth is that the prairie wildling made a fool of you, Tracker,” Olagson teased.
“Let him be, it’s been a real ordeal in Masig territory no less!” Rangulfsen said. “But what’s important is that he’s brought us the Assassin alive.”
“True. He’s managed to capture an enemy agent, and one with the Gift at that, it’s a real feat,” said Count Volgren.
“Thank you, Sir,” said Lasgol. “If you’ll allow me, I’d like to reveal the fact that this Assassin isn’t an agent from Rogdon. I’m absolutely sure, my Generals. Therefore the attack on the western kingdom mustn’t take place, it’s not justified…”