by James Abbott
Things were, Landril conceded, going well. His role was satisfying. But how long would they have to wait?
That answer came soon enough.
*
A man on horseback arrived that same afternoon. He was one of Grauden’s scouts, who had been dispatched to spy on Stravir City. His cloak flying behind him, his mare thundered towards the manse. He dismounted before the horse had properly stopped, landed running, heading straight to Valderon and Landril, who had been talking tactics in General Havinir’s old library.
The messenger was breathless and sweaty, hunched double, his face and brown clothing covered in grime.
‘The people,’ he panted, pressing his hands to his knees, ‘are being turned into Voldiriks.’
‘Steady yourself,’ Valderon cautioned, helping him upright. ‘Tell us everything.’
‘In Stravir City,’ he continued, ‘citizens are being . . . they’re now being turned into Voldiriks. Morphed. The process is in its early stages, but it will begin to happen on a massive scale. Civilians are being herded together. There are things called spawning tanks. People are being lowered and altered. So that they become Voldirik people. Their body changes. Their minds are no more. They are essentially dead – they remember nothing.’
‘How do you know this?’ Landril said in horror. ‘What evidence?’
‘Visual. I managed to use one of your passageways – the southern sewer system.’
‘The abandoned one.’ Landril nodded. ‘Go on.’
‘I saw it happening. The tanks are within the city. It was a mass execution. Those people who are not successfully transitioned – or who put up a fight – a worse fate awaits them. Their bodies – warped and showing all signs of horrors – are taken to another state, another tank, and they are turned into what I can only describe as monstrosities. Two or three, or more, are bonded together; their skin is discoloured and changes texture; eyes seem to sprout from their flanks. Extra, clawed limbs grow. I saw what I could, and returned as quickly as I could manage. I have not eaten in two days.’
‘By the Goddess, the things that attacked us in the forest,’ Landril observed to Valderon. ‘What this man is describing tells of the provenance of these beasts.’
Valderon thanked and dismissed the messenger. ‘Is it simply madness?’ Valderon turned to Landril. ‘How can a king do this? We must hurry, else thousands will be transitioned. That is worse than death.’
Landril moved to the window, the pale light falling across his face. ‘Something does not sit right. I cannot believe that even Mardonius would condone such madness.’
‘We can prepare no longer,’ Valderon declared. ‘No more training, no more acquiring resources. Though we number few, we cannot wait. Are we agreed we march on first light?’
Landril nodded grimly. ‘We’d better let Xavir and Lupara know.’
*
A horn blew repeatedly throughout the valley. Thousands of soldiers fell silent. Birds flickered through the treetops and above the canopy in response. The forest stirred in the waning light of the afternoon.
Soldiers began to disassemble their tents and gather their belongings. Horses were mustered and ration carts made their way through the camp collecting what supplies the men had gathered for the journey. There was an air of discomfort around the scene, Landril observed from the hilltop. Despite all their planning, now the hour was upon them there was a nervousness about what they were to face.
The Dacianarans were first to disappear off into the night. Landril had plans for their barbarian allies to be utilized far ahead of the Stravir fighters, and the savage warriors were up for any challenge. Black paint smeared around their eyes, and draped in all manner of animal skins and feathers, they sped on their mighty wolves away from the manse and through the glade. At the head of the wolf pack was Lupara, with Katollon – perhaps symbolically – situated slightly behind. Their wolf howls could be heard in the distance, but the Dacianarans left the grounds of the manse feeling considerably empty and quiet.
Landril walked in haste back to meet Xavir, who was standing alongside Tylos, in what had been the dining room, but had been changed into a storage facility.
‘Spymaster,’ he declared, stepping aside, ‘I have chosen my men.’
Landril peered behind his bulk and could see only the former men from Hell’s Keep seated at the dusty table. ‘You’re sure you need no more skilled men?’ he asked. ‘I would rather you get in securely to execute your plans. Your getting to Mardonius quickly is crucial to this operation.’ What Landril did not say was how he lacked faith in the abilities of the former prisoners.
Xavir gave a feral grin, obviously knowing what Landril was thinking. ‘These men broke out of a mountaintop keep. I think they can break into a walled city without being seen, especially on the route I will be using. Besides, they will be with me. Where there are people in danger, we will do our best to help them – or at least we can hold off whatever atrocities are about to be committed until the Black Clan is through the city’s gates. Though we may already be too late.’
Landril frowned. ‘And your daughter, will she remain with the witches after all?’
‘I will be going with him,’ came a voice.
Landril turned around, slightly startled, to see Elysia standing behind him, with her bow across her shoulder and her arms folded. ‘I wish you wouldn’t creep up on people like that,’ he muttered.
‘It’s a skill that will be of use,’ she replied, walking to her father’s side.
‘Does Birgitta know of this?’
‘She does.’
‘And what did she think?’
‘She thought I could think for myself.’
‘Well, there we have it,’ Landril replied, addressing them all. ‘The battle ultimately rests in your hands if you are going into the heart of the capital for Mardonius.’
‘Would you rather it rested in any other hands?’ Xavir replied.
He shook his head. ‘You must leave before us, then. Get to the king. Cut the head off the snake and, with luck, the rest of the body dies.’
‘Our horses are ready, we’ll leave now,’ Xavir said, patting Landril on the back. There was not even a hint of fear about their plan, which was audacious at the best and hopeless at the worst. Here was a man who had been waiting for a long time to do what he was about to do.
Landril stared at the huge form of Xavir, clad in black and with the Keening Blades sheathed over his shoulder. It was the vision that Landril had wanted for so long to see challenging Mardonius for supremacy. Now the day had come he wondered if the older warrior was up to the task. ‘You are not one for emotional goodbyes, no doubt,’ Landril continued, ‘but good luck.’
Xavir nodded, striding out of the room, followed by his daughter and the remaining men from Hell’s Keep.
Davlor was last to leave, and as he did so he grinned at Landril. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll look after the boss.’
‘You can barely look after yourself,’ Landril replied, then held Davlor’s arm. The two men glanced at one another. ‘You do everything you can to stop anything happening to the boss, okay? He is our greatest weapon. Don’t get distracted. Don’t start going off to save people dreaming of heroics. Get to the king.’
‘Relax,’ Davlor replied, his palms in the air. ‘I’m good with a sword now, anyway.’ He laughed and walked away.
Landril watched them leave the manse.
Their horses sped away and his nerves grew even further stretched. Landril had been manipulating and planning so much over the past few months – but what was happening now would be outside his control.
There was one more thing on Landril’s agitated mind and he strode into the trees to find her. It took several minutes, but Birgitta was there. Weeks ago she had told him to meet her at this hour if he wanted to see a feat with his own eyes, and that hour was now upon them. Indeed, even though he was early, she was there, with the other women standing cloaked, and in a circle, within the darkness of the trees.
Birgitta was next to a statue of the old Sixth Age king, Vaprimok, but on the statue itself were perched two large brown falcons. ‘You’re early,’ Birgitta said. ‘I knew you couldn’t wait.’
‘I’m glad I did not disappoint.’ Landril eyed the women in the shadows, who were watching him every bit as keenly as the two birds.
‘It was not a lie, then,’ he continued.
‘By the source, did you think it would be?’
‘No, no, I merely thought it unlikely. But I like to be proven wrong on occasion.’
‘Well, they have come. Marilla –’ Birgitta gestured to the woman in black – ‘possesses outstanding techniques in communicating with these creatures.’
Landril glanced again at the falcons. Both noble creatures, one had a white head, the other was entirely brown. Their feathers glimmered.
‘And you’re confident this will work?’
‘No,’ Birgitta replied, ‘but it can’t do any harm.’
‘Then continue, with whatever it is you need to do,’ Landril said.
Birgitta stepped towards one of the other witches, who revealed a net behind her. Inside was what looked like witchstones, but they had been encased within a wooden frame. Birgitta scooped one out with her right hand and showed the object to Landril.
‘Two witchstones of opposing forces have been bonded together. It was incredibly difficult to do this, not to mention dangerous, but we managed. And, by the source, they will create a powerful reaction when they are dropped from a great height.’
Landril raised an eyebrow. None of the other witches had responded yet. They, too, were standing like statues. ‘And you expect the falcons to do this?’
‘No.’ Birgitta laughed. ‘That would be ridiculous and dangerous.’
One of the birds squawked loudly, its call muted in the confines of the trees.
‘I mean no offence, friend,’ Birgitta said to them, then turned to Landril. ‘No. The falcons are going to transport these five dozen devices to the Akero. It is they who will aid us.’
‘The Akero answer only to themselves,’ Landril said.
‘When was the last time you spoke to one?’
‘Admittedly, never,’ Landril replied.
‘Well, I have recently, and they have vowed to help us rid the country of the Voldiriks. We are not the only ones to suffer from their incursions,’ Birgitta replied. Landril spotted a messenger tube inside the net and said, ‘This is your message to them?’
‘It is.’
‘May I see it?’
‘No you may not.’
Landril sighed.
‘Not everything is within your control,’ Birgitta replied.
‘More’s the pity,’ Landril said. ‘Does it explain the tactics of battle?’
‘You must trust us,’ Birgitta repeated more forcefully.
Landril’s shoulders sagged. ‘Fine.’
‘Now then . . .’ Birgitta gestured to the other witches, who moved forwards to gather the large net. The one Landril assumed to be Marilla stretched up towards the birds and whispered to them in a piercing tone. Whilst she spoke to the falcons, the other sisters began to strap the net to the legs of the birds.
In unison the sisters stepped back.
The falcons extended their large wings, and with repeated firm downward pushes, as though struggling with the weight, the birds began to rise from the statue and then up through a gap in the canopy.
A moment later, the birds and their cargo vanished out of sight. Landril looked around and the witches were back in their original position, as if this had been some religious ceremony of sorts. It felt as if Landril had missed half of what was actually going on here.
‘Well that’s that then,’ Birgitta said, her mood completely different now, much lighter than before. The oppressive air had vanished. Had there been strange magic lingering all along?
‘I suppose we should get a move on,’ Birgitta announced.
‘How long until the Akero will reach Stravir City?’
Birgitta shrugged. ‘They’ll come when they come.’
‘Hardly words by which I can plan a battle.’
‘By the source, you’re going to be insufferable now, aren’t you?’ Birgitta said.
Landril had heard enough and seen enough to warrant heading back to the manse. ‘We must gather our things. The Dacianarans are away, as are Xavir and Elysia.’
‘She’s gone, then,’ Birgitta said.
‘She went with Xavir.’
Birgitta nodded. ‘Let us pray he watches over her.’
‘I think,’ Landril said, ‘that the safest place to be may well be beside that man.’
‘Not where he’s going,’ Birgitta said. Her eyes were welling up, but she composed herself. ‘He is marching into the dark heart of this mess, and he is taking the little sister with him.’
Landril began to walk back along the forest track, but turned to ask: ‘Why do you call her little sister, when she’s taller than you?’
‘Because she was not always taller than me.’ Birgitta raised her staff, and within a heartbeat Landril could no longer see her.
Scent
Xavir could still smell blood.
Ever since their journey from the manse, for a night and a day, he had smelled it, though there was none around. A memory had trigged the aroma. This was how things always smelled during war. Blood. Horse shit. Mud. Rancid wounds and charred flesh. The air would be full of it. It had been many years since he had prepared for a battle on this scale, and now the memories came back to him. In a curious way, these sensations were calming. They were all he had really known of life.
There was also the damp smell of rain from the night before, and leaves drooped heavy with water. Ahead was a haze of blues and greens. The forest was brightening. He and his men had slept for only a couple of hours, some of the others more so on horseback, and he would permit them another small camp before they reached the city walls.
The other men did not say much. Dressed in armour that had been refined and coloured black at the manse, they looked the part of soldiers, but would they behave like them? Xavir felt responsibility for them – they had followed him to freedom out of Hell’s Keep but they’d had no reason to follow him into battle now. This was not their fight. Yet their loyalty to him stood firm – he couldn’t have asked for more than that from his own brothers in the Solar Cohort. And so from Tylos to Grend, and even Davlor, these few were his men now and he would look after them. He may not have been able to protect his sworn brothers but the least he could do was try to ensure that these men survived the oncoming battle. Tylos approached him now to comment on the conditions ahead. The man from Chambrek rarely showed anything other than a calm and neutral expression, but today it was obvious there was a weight on his shoulders.
‘I will look to you to be my second pair of eyes and ears,’ Xavir commented.
‘It would be an honour, Xavir.’
‘Would it?’ Xavir asked. ‘Would it really be an honour? Of all the things that could be honourable, why walking with me into a city that’s far from your homeland?’
‘There are people who need liberating,’ Tylos suggested.
‘But you and I both know that atrocities happen every day somewhere in this world.’
For a moment his eyes relaxed, his gaze became softer. Tylos seemed contemplative. ‘Those years in Hell’s Keep – we could have wasted them. We could have rotted. I would have been a madman muttering fine poems in the darkness. Don’t smile. But you insisted we sorted ourselves out. You made us work in the gloom until our muscles burned. You stopped us killing each other over nothing. You may have used fear at times to achieve it, but those of us who were wise could see that you were doing it to maintain some sense of ourselves.’
The words warmed him to the bones as much as any campfire.
‘Now, the wisest of those men—’ Tylos continued.
‘Naturally you include yourself in that category,’ Xavir put in.
Tylo
s gave a wide smile. ‘Naturally. The wisest – those of us who thrive on poetry, say – could see that you looked after us because you missed the brethren. You missed the comradeship, if what we had in there could be called that. Now I can see it was the Solar Cohort that you missed. We will be a poor substitute tomorrow.’
‘You all followed me when there was no need to. You had lives of your own you could have returned to after your escape. But here you are. I could ask for no more loyal comrades than that.’
Tylos shrugged and relaxed his posture. ‘Why is it that we have not simply vanished into the night? Because we feel we owe you something.’
‘You owe me nothing,’ Xavir replied.
‘There are some debts that transcend material possessions. The poet Tharmantalus once said—’
‘You never shut up about the poets, you people from Chambrek.’
‘It is how we measure our greatness.’ He grinned.
‘Enough of this sentimental nonsense,’ Xavir said. ‘I have a favour to ask.’
‘Name it,’ Tylos said, puffing out his chest.
‘If I fall in the battle before anyone else, I would like you to protect Elysia. Whatever debts you feel you owe me, apply to her.’
Tylos raised his eyebrows. ‘Of course, of course. Perhaps not entirely surprising, I must say, but may I ask why such concern for one you have known for so little time?’
‘Blood is blood,’ Xavir replied.
The man from Chambrek laughed at that. ‘As you wish, Xavir. You have the word of an honourable man from the south.’