Circle of Reign

by Jacob Cooper

  “High Lord Marshal Tulley leads the enemy at this front. Brendar and Garreth at the middle and southern fronts respectively. Here, there are eighty thousand against us, more than five times our numbers. I have twenty five thousand at the middle front and ten thousand in the south. I do not know the enemy numbers there, however.”

  “Yes, General. But what are our chances?”

  Roan hesitated and Therrium thought he could see the answer in his eyes.

  “I believe,” Roan said, “we have no choice and so the odds do not matter.”

  “You have been in worse odds, if I remember correctly.”

  Roan looked away. “Perhaps, Prime Lord. But then I had…” Roan didn’t finish, obviously regretting what he started to say.

  “Then you had Lord Kerr by your side. Is that what you meant to say?” Therrium wore a sad smile.

  “I apologize, Prime Lord. I meant to speak no disrespect or to cast doubt.”

  “No General, of course not. I wish he were here, too.”

  “I sometimes wonder if he knew,” Roan said.

  “Knew? Knew what?” Roan was obviously deliberating on whether to say more. “Antious, what is it, my friend?”

  Roan sighed and looked as if he were about to confess a long-held secret. “Sometime before he was killed, Lord Kerr asked me to come see him. His message was strange, cryptic. It was as if he had something to tell me, but he never got the chance. Somehow, I feel responsible in some way. It’s a hard feeling to describe, Prime Lord.”

  “I know you were friends. Inseparable, actually, when you were young. Hear me now, Antious, nothing that has happened can, in any way, be laid at your feet. But, I’ve distracted you long enough. Carry on, General.”

  “Yes, Prime Lord.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Rembbran

  Day 29 of 1st Dimming 412 A.U.

  THERE IS A PAIN that few have known, and no one knew it better than Rembbran. None alive could understand it, comprehend it, transcend it. The pain itself was transcendent, occupying its pathetic host until the host writhed in obedience to its will, until all thoughts fled save for how to serve the pain, how to temper or quell it. This was what the pain desired—all focus and thought of the host upon its existence, its presence. Agony, its higher name, was a demanding master, commanding all waking hours to be centered upon it.

  The pain had started to morph into a cloud of miasmic torment and despair, filling Rembbran and striving to choke out reality, to create a world of perception where elements that would conjure the greatest torture and cruelest taunts were projected constantly to his senses. Shapes and shadows from the corner of his eye, ghosts of past agony that reached out with malevolent jeers toward him. Agony was indeed a cruel and arduous master. Its tentacles had fully ensnared him, crushing and ripping all thoughts of escape from him.

  But now, hope. It was a strangely positive feeling for a chase-giver to grasp onto with such fervor. The anticipation of a Dahlrak’s fulfillment would bring excitement to the most docile of Rembbran’s kind, if such a trait existed within a Helsyan. But hope: this was truly an odd emotion. It was a common belief among his order, though unsubstantiated, that the pain and suffering of an unfulfilled Charge would be tempered greatly if a Charge was executed on a relative of the escaped prey. Due to the High Duke’s shaken confidence in him after his failure and erratic behavior, Rembbran was not part of the extermination of Lord Kerr’s family shortly after his death. Would a cousin be a close enough relation to temper the ever-present agony brought on because of the Kerr youngling? This small bit of hope Rembbran now clung to that might be only myth was nonetheless enough for now.

  Rembbran’s last encounter with High Duke Wellyn was almost surreal. Maynard was impossibly defeated but none survived to speak of his fall. Wellyn would not appoint a new leader at that time, but Rembbran was granted the lead in this most unusual mission. A mass Dahlrak had never before been ordered and still technically had not been. The final order would be given by the High Lord Marshal to begin once Rembbran arrived. The danger a mass Dahlrak posed to the chase-givers themselves was usually cause enough to avoid it at all costs, but Wellyn was not himself; not in control or rational.

  Being Charged with an Archiver, Hadik exterminating the Archivers, a surprise attack on Hold Therrium.

  Rembbran liked this new side of the High Duke that was starting to reveal itself. More reckless, more ruthless. More like me. Wellyn was changing.

  He did not know the games or designs that Wellyn orchestrated, nor did he or any other chase-giver care. Emeron Wellyn held the Urlenthi, the Stone of Orlack. To a chase-giver, he who held the Urlenthi was the Stone. Others had held it before him, and to those predecessors the Helsyans also gave obedience. Senthary, Hardacheon or even the Ancients were no different in their eyes. He who held the Urlenthi commanded his kind by some decree of the Cursed Heavens, some axiom that limited Rembbran’s race from free reign upon the world. The bond between the chase-givers and the Urlenthi was strong enough to prevent any disloyalty to the one who possessed it. This was the natural order of the Helsyan psyche.

  “Someone must hold a rabid dog’s leash,” Hadik had often sneered.

  The most Rembbran could do was fire back with words. What he wouldn’t give to dispatch the Master of the Khansian Guard, but being Charged with Hadik was unlikely to occur anytime soon.

  His Helsyan brethren were spread out along the Arlethian borders with the Realm’s armies. Four were with him. The target of the Dahlrak was the same for all chase-givers, but the strategy was to put as many Arlethians between them as possible in pursuit of the final prey. This would cause the most destruction of the Arlethian armies possible as they hunted. Careful instruction as to the routes they would each take throughout the land as they made their progress were agreed upon so as to minimize the possibility of a chase-giver coming between the prey and another of his kind under the Charge, but Rembbran knew it was impossible to completely avoid. Someone being simply positioned between a Charged Helsyan and the quarry would not be enough to expand the Dahlrak to include that person unless a deliberate challenge was levied to the chase-giver or in some way his progress toward the target was hindered by another, even if that hindrance was unintentional. The entire Arlethian army would be a welcome hindrance to Rembbran and his brethren. The hope of handing out so much death in such a massive Charge left him seething with near ecstasy. The pain was not quelled but this new hope gave him strength enough to endure it for the time outside the Kail.

  As instructed, Rembbran sought out the High Lord Marshal upon arrival to the war camp to deliver his message scroll. His four brothers followed. Tents and campfires stretched out almost as far as the eye could see. He heard all around the sound of steel as sparring exercises were carried out. A few tents down the line loud laughter broke out followed by a large burley man knocking out a few teeth of the one laughing. The laughs became insults as other soldiers nearby chose sides in the quarrel. A young fair-skinned, yellow-haired man eventually spied Rembbran and his company searching the camp. He wore the emblem of a Field Marshal.

  “Courier?” he asked.

  “Of a sort,” Rembbran answered dryly.

  “Very well. You may deliver your message scroll to me and I’ll see it gets to High Lord Marshal Tulley. I’m the Duty Officer for the day.”

  “I am to hand deliver my message personally to the Lord Marshal,” Rembbran snapped. “It is directly from the High Duke and will go from his hand to mine to High Lord Marshal Tulley’s.”

  “I assure you, courier, it is quite safe in my possession.” Looking over Rembbran’s shoulder, the Field Marshal asked, “What message requires five escorts to—”

  A low growl from beneath his hood interrupted the duty officer as Rembbran became impatient. “You will take me to the High Lord Marshal without delay, boy.”

  The young Field Marshal’s eyes darted between the five strange men concealed behind their loose robes and decided he did not wish t
o see the next level of aggravation the courier was capable of, so he capitulated quickly.

  “Of course. Follow me, please.”

  He turned to lead the way to the High Lord Marshal’s tent. They approached a rather mediocre gray tent, indistinguishable from any other save for the two guards that lingered casually near the tent’s opening. Rembbran realized this was all by design. The leader would make quite a compelling target for the enemy so they made sure his tent did not stand out. The two soldiers who appeared to be bored and not paying attention to anything in particular were, upon closer inspection, constantly watching and taking in their surroundings. They glanced at Rembbran and those with him, quickly looking away to give the appearance of lacking interest, but returning their glances often. He could see their minds mentally calculating and assessing. Bodyguards, he realized. Impressive for mere Sentharians.

  High Lord Marshal Tulley was a humorless man of some renown in the Realm for his prowess in military strategy. Though only middle aged he was mostly bald. He had graduated at the top of his class from the Erynx Military Academy and hailed from a long line of Marshals of the Eastern Province. All his recognition, however, was based upon hypothetical situations and carefully simulated battles. The Realm had not been to war for two decades, not since the Orsarians. Small squabbles had inevitably risen throughout the years, but these were settled without much attention or concern. A few years after the war ended, he had gone to the Runic Islands where the Orsarians had landed in preparation for their invasion and studied the aftermath. The four isles were completely desolate. In a bold move, Parlan Wellyn had sent a preemptive strike force to the islands and utterly destroyed the invading force. Tulley had been in the Erynx Military Academy when the war ended, missing it by a matter of cycles. This had always bothered him.

  He returned his mind to the present. The task at hand would be a severe challenge and require all his attention and knowledge. His efforts here along the northeastern Arlethian border would validate his life’s study and pursuit. Knowledge and preparation would soon turn to action. He was at the head of the combined forces of Houses Orion from the Eastern Province as well as Gonfrey from the North and several minor houses. Other Lord Marshals from the East were given command of contingencies at the two fronts south of him. His current total complement numbered above eighty thousand soldiers. Surely, despite the speed and skills of wood-dwellers, they did not stand a chance against the size of his forces.

  A duty officer pulled a flap of Tulley’s tent back and entered, followed by a hooded figure that failed to reveal his face.

  “High Lord Marshal, a courier,” the duty officer announced and motioned to the concealed man behind him. “Well, five couriers, actually.” The duty officer sounded concerned that the other four had remained outside the tent, out of his sight.

  Tulley looked up from studying charts and maps of the surrounding area. His efforts were focused on devising a stratagem that would lure the wood-dwellers out from their defensive holds in their forest, where they seemed rooted. His gaze quickly returned to the materials spread out before him.

  “I see,” he replied nonchalantly. “Thank you. You are dismissed, Field Marshal.”

  Without word or warning, the courier threw down in front of Tulley the scroll containing the seal of the four-pointed star, the sigil of House Wellyn, forcing his attention. Tulley raised his eyes at this until his forehead wore a brace of thick ridges across it. The courier gave no reaction to the obvious look of annoyance that would cause Tulley’s men to shy away, begging his pardon. The hooded man that stood before him did not beg his pardon. Finally, Tulley broke the seal and read the orders sent by the High Duke. Confusion was increasingly expressed as he read the transcript. He raised his eyes again and looked over the parchment to take in the man and noticed that his visitor was not dressed as a typical courier. No, this man was something else.

  “Do you know what this scroll says?” he asked the faceless courier in disbelief.

  “I do.”

  “So, I am to order a charge beyond the Arlethian lines, into their own forest, where they have the advantage, tonight at first moon. Simultaneously, I am to say a set of words to you that make little intelligible sense.” Tulley paused. “I’m not used to being ordered into action by those who are not present, courier. This is odd, to say the least.”

  The man removed his hood. A shorn head with long hanging narrow ears and small ridge-like gills rippling up the ridge of his nose faced him. The colorless tattoos of ancient glyphs and symbols drew gasps and a bodyguard drew his steel amid a curse.

  “As the High Lord Marshal has no doubt surmised by now, I am not a mere courier.” He smiled, revealing the most feral expression the leader of the Realm’s armed forces believed he had ever seen. It was sadistically inviting and revolting all at once.

  “Indeed,” Tulley said, his surprise poorly veiled. “So, out with it then. Who are you?”

  “Do you understand the orders given to you, High Lord Marshal?”

  “Understanding the words isn’t the hard part. Trying to understand why we would be pressed into such a position to attack an enemy of such lethality on their own ground is slightly disconcerting, wouldn’t you say? Wood-dwellers are the most deadly race in all the Realm and here you are telling me—”

  “No,” his visitor interrupted. “They are not the most deadly.”

  Tulley had some type of small recognition in that moment as his visitor’s stare penetrated deep enough for a shudder of cold to flow through his body. He did not know who this man before him was, but he was keen enough to sense an unfeigned, genuine malevolence emanating from him. Tulley and his men were soldiers. Well trained and disciplined. This man, standing in his thick hooded robe, was not a soldier. He was a killer.

  “We shall proceed as the High Duke commands,” High Lord Marshal Tulley finally responded.

  “That is a wise decision, Lord Marshal.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  Prime Lord Banner Therrium

  Day 29 of 1st Dimming 412 A.U.

  THE ATTACK COMMENCED AT FIRST MOON. Scouts had reported to Lord Therrium constantly as the sun was setting that it appeared the Realm’s forces were making preparations. Alrikk had confirmed that he could feel greater activity coming from the enemy’s camp as well.

  “Iron workers shoeing horses, probably cavalry. The sound of metal being ground against stone as well,” Alrikk had reported as his palm lay flush against the Triarch in which he and Lord Therrium held watch. “Blades, axes, spears, and arrows being sharpened by the feel of it.”

  The enemy being camped just outside the edge of the forest made it easier for the scouts to watch them without actually revealing themselves or getting too close to the border of the trees. Without question, however, Banner thought he would happily give up that advantage in favor of the Realm’s forces not being so close to their lands.

  The portion of his forces that he accompanied along the northeast run of their border numbered around fifteen thousand. They were nestled among the trees roughly a quarter league behind the edge of the trees that had assumed the role as an imaginary skirmish line. If either party crossed it, the other side would no doubt interpret that action as the beginning of an assault. Banner’s scouts, however, were much closer to the tree line, though still out of view from the enemy’s scouts. Watching, listening, feeling. Lord Therrium surmised that similar preparations and plans were coming together at the other two fronts along their border. It made sense that the enemy would launch a simultaneous attack all along their border, from the south to the north. It’s what I would do, Banner thought.

  When first moon arose, the ground started to tremble as more than eighty thousand soldiers let out a battle cry and rushed into the borders of Arlethia.

  “My Lord, we must see you away from here!” Alrikk said, concern threading through his words. The Senthary were only a few hundred paces off.

  “Hold,” Therrium said. “Wait, be silent. Let the plan devel
op.” Banner Therrium drew his sword.

  I am a sturdy bough rooted deep in fertile soil. I am iron and steel, molded from the fires of adversity. I am life to those behind me, death to those in front. I am Arlethia, and she is me. I am her silent shield, her impenetrable armor, her terrible sword. She is my strength and my all. Those who stand against her stand against me, and shall swiftly fall.

  General Antious Roan was roughly seventy-five feet high anchored to a tree, repeating in his mind the Arlethian Warrior’s Creed. He held an unearthly silence, his breathing slow and steady.

  He looked across his position and on either side, seeing thousands of his soldiers who held the same silence. The glint of their light armor in the rising moonlight was the only detectable sign of their presence to the untrained eye, but that was dulled greatly by the layers of mud with which they had swathed themselves. They were spread out over what must be a quarter-league. Some were at his same height, others higher. None lower. He would be the first into the fight. It was the way of Arlethian officers.

  They were coming, the Senthary. Many of these attacking soldiers he and his army had no doubt trained over the years in various exercises and simulated battles. Back when they were still countrymen.

  Roan looked down and saw below him two thousand Arlethian soldiers positioned on the ground with shields and long spears, each with a sword sheathed at his side. The ground detachment was one hundred paces west of his position, just barely deeper into their borders. The enemy approached from the east. He prayed Colonel Bohdin would execute his orders flawlessly. Any hope of victory depended on this initial feint. The man was competent and loyal, but had never served in battle. Very few here actually had, not since the Runic Islands. Most in the ranks were not old enough to have served in that short war. Roan himself was but a lieutenant at the time, serving under Lord Thannuel Kerr, newly appointed as Provincial Lord of the West.