by James Abbott
‘That’s good enough for me,’ Xavir said.
*
Later that afternoon, when what little sun there had been was obscured by cloud, Xavir felt the heavy gaze of his daughter upon him. She was riding at his side. For some reason he seemed taken aback by how tall and noble she looked when on horseback. She looked composed. Elegant. As if she didn’t have a care in the world despite what they were about to face. He suspected it was a mask.
‘Do you think we’ll die?’ she asked casually.
His reply was almost born of instinct. It was always the way before war that people wanted to talk about such things. ‘One day. Maybe today. Maybe during the battle. Maybe in a year or ten. Death is the only thing that’s certain about life.’
‘You don’t seem to care much about dying.’
‘I’ve asked myself the same question a hundred times, in a hundred similar situations. One day I became bored of asking it and when I rode to war we stopped talking about it.’
‘Well, I am scared.’
‘It’s fine to be frightened,’ Xavir said.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘But everyone else seems to be fine. They’re saying how they’re looking forward to war. They can’t wait to show Mardonius what’s what.’
‘They’re likely lying,’ Xavir said. ‘They’re terrified, for the most part. Relax. It’s your first battle. Battles are different from smaller skirmishes, like the one we had at Golax Hold. The latter is more sudden and you have less time to think – and worry. Battles loom. There’s the weight of politics and tactics surrounding them. There is too much thinking. Such contemplation changes how one views the situation. Everything seems more important. But at the end of it all, it’s just swords against flesh, only more of it.’
Xavir’s small band continued along the dirt road towards Stravir City. He regarded them once again: black-helmed, black-shielded, and swords at their side, they looked the part, at least. They had received good training, and had decent weapons upon them. Their faces were set grim and attempted to hide all manner of nerves.
These men were only one night’s ride away from the capital now, but they would not be heading directly for it. Instead, as the Dacianarans aimed to plan their attack shortly before sunset tomorrow, Xavir would be taking them on another route entirely.
The Tide of War
They poured down into the treeless valley below and headlong into the wind, a thousand savage Dacianarans. Most rode the large wolves of their country, with a hundred archers following on horseback.
This was what life was about. How could Lupara have forgotten?
Thundering down the slopes upon her great wolf Vukos, with Faolo and Rafe riderless at her flanks, she had rediscovered a part of her soul that she had neglected for far too long. Blue and black facepaint was cast around her eyes and cheeks, her hair was decorated with silver ornaments and wolf teeth, a broadsword rested on her back, and an axe was gripped tightly in her hand. Katollon rode only yards behind and had encouraged Lupara to take the position at the tip of the fang formation that was biting into the valley below.
Stone lookout posts on the capital’s borders, each manned by five or six Stravir soldiers, were swallowed whole by the Dacianarans. Axes cleaved slack-jawed heads clean from their bodies and wolf-maws savaged those who dared to raise a sword in response. The tribal surge advanced across ruined farmland and abandoned homesteads, vaulting broken fences and clattering into Stravir defences. Up on the hilltop, a beacon was lit, signalling the alarm. Good. It was what was needed. If they could lure the full might of the city’s defences out of the gates, Xavir’s mission would be made that much easier.
Hour by hour, mile after mile, the Dacianarans decimated station posts and watchposts until they caught sight of the Voldirik encampments, their tents tall like a sails, across the muddied fields. Beyond them could be seen the high walls of Stravir City, a stark black against the grey-blue drizzle.
A wild cry went up among her kinsmen.
The shimmering bronze line of forty elegant warriors rose up before them. Instinctively Vukos veered towards the line and Lupara held her axe at the ready. The Voldiriks were slow to respond to this sudden charge; they seemed completely unprepared as Lupara directed her tribe into the mass. There was a sickening crunch as mud, blood and broken shards of wood and armour flew like sparks from a hammered anvil. Bodies fell, almost all of them covered in bronze armour. Lupara broke through the line and surged with her warriors into thirty more of the armoured warriors, who were hastily taking a formation. Ever more Dacianarans filled in behind her to deal with the first line of Voldiriks, easily overwhelming those who were left. Lupara scanned the lines: no wayseer here, no magic.
But from the left there came a ground-shuddering thump and a slobbering roar. A huge beast lurched into view. As tall as a church spire, it clambered out of an old mineshaft, scattering timber frames with its rise. Many-limbed, grey-skinned and with three misshapen maws where only one should have been, it began to lumber towards the battle.
Lupara called for the left flank to attack this new threat, and Katollon broke free from the melee to lead an assault. She focused on the Voldirik massing in front of her. Every one of the strange race had to contend with both rider and wolf. Consequently, Voldirik warrior after warrior crumbled to the ground before her wolf-mounted kin. A few bronze-helmed warriors showed more tenacity and elegantly whittled some of her men from the flanks, but they were soon overpowered. Drowned by the weight of the wild assault.
The Voldiriks here were finished, and all the riders turned to watch Katollon’s savage detachment spiral around the enormous beast. A horn summoned forth the Dacianaran archers. A hundred men and women, their faces covered in red paint and fur draped across their shoulders, rode forwards on horseback. Both hands on their bows, and showing a level of balance and agility that Lupara had almost forgotten, they began to fire repeatedly into the tall beast. The thing groaned with every arrow strike that met its target, but many just bounced away. The archers quickly realized that its skin was too thick to penetrate, so instead aimed for one of its four eyes, or its open maws. Meanwhile Katollon and a clutch of wolf-riders circled the beast, darting in to attack and withdrawing so as to make it take a misstep. Eventually dizziness got the better of it, and the creature slipped on the mud. It tumbled sideways, crunching on top of one rider. The wolf struggled free from the mud but the warrior was unconscious. No sooner had the monstrous figure fallen than Katollon and his kinsmen cleaved their axes repeatedly into its head. Thick gouts of blood drenched the three riders. The monster’s arms twitched, but eventually a final axe-stroke connected with a vital nerve at the base of its enormous neck and the thing let out a roar – before falling into silence.
Drizzle turned to rain. Paths turned to bloody mud. The howling cries of the Dacianarans filled the air and the thousand-strong force surged once again along the valley. They vaulted upwards, not wanting to be trapped in the valley bottom and invite a swift defeat from above, and the nimble wolves thought nothing of the ascent.
The Dacianarans swarmed towards the capital.
*
Xavir rode calmly at the front of his small band of warriors. The din of war rose in the next valley as Lupara’s army advanced towards Stravir City. Directly above, on the hilltop, was the fierce blaze of the warning beacon. The brightness up there meant the lookouts would fail to see the clutch of warriors who advanced in stealth down here.
He took a small, lesser-used path from the main road which spiralled down to a muddied track that was covered in overgrown vegetation. Xavir had to briefly dismount and cleave through thicker clumps with the Keening Blades.
Their progress was slow.
‘Where the hell are we headin’ boss?’ Davlor wiped his nose on his sleeve.
‘Into the hillside itself.’
‘You what?’
‘It’s the way into the city,’ Tylos observed.
‘How come y
ou know?’
‘We were told,’ Tylos declared. ‘Were you not listening to everything Landril and Xavir discussed?’
‘Well, yeah, but . . .’
‘You’re an idiot.’ Jedral shook his head. ‘How you’ve lived this long is beyond my comprehension.’
‘Quiet,’ Xavir hissed. ‘The watchmen may not be able to see us, but they will hear you.’
‘Sorry boss,’ Davlor whispered, hunching slightly as if he’d be overheard.
Xavir cleaved one final pine branch out of the way and it revealed a lichen-covered rock face. He smiled, leaned forwards, paused. It was still here.
There were old markings on the stone – the letters that spelled out Cedius’s initials and the tunnel number. This one was the third. Xavir felt for the edge of the rock and eventually found a small crevice. He levered one of the Keening Blades in the crack and gestured for Tylos to do the same with his weapon.
‘Will it not ruin the blades?’ Tylos asked.
‘Ordinary steel, yes, but not our weapons,’ Xavir replied.
The two men began to ease back the rock, and a huge slice of the granite began to inch backwards. Inside lay a musty smell and utter darkness.
‘What is it?’ Davlor asked, his mouth hanging open.
‘One of four old mine tunnels that were developed for King Cedius to use as a method of escape, should he need to.’
‘How did you know it was here?’
‘I had it built. Well, only this one. The other three had been there before my time, but too many people knew of them. This – only Cedius and myself were supposed to know of it.’
A roar went off in the distance, the noise carrying on the wind.
‘We should enter,’ Xavir declared. ‘The Dacianarans are making progress and Valderon’s army will likely be marching upon the city very soon.’
‘So where’s the tunnel going to take us?’ Davlor asked.
‘Within the second city wall, and under one of the old banking houses. This is a narrow passageway, so take caution. The air will be musty. Don’t let it affect you. Elysia, do you have the arrow?’
His daughter stepped forwards without hesitation and withdrew an arrow from her quiver. She whispered something in the witch tongue and the arrowhead began to glow into a white light that illuminated the tunnel.
Xavir placed his hand on her back and steered her into the darkness. Together they entered the old escape tunnel of Cedius the Wise.
Tip of the Spear
It was what Valderon had waited years for – to lead an army, to be at the very front of a line of thousands. He never thought it would be like this: an army of renegades marching upon the city of his birth, to wrench that city free from the grip of a tyrant king. No one had talked about what would happen afterwards. Valderon’s future, so far as he could see, ended with this siege.
He rode together with Landril and the witches. They had travelled for a day now, camping by the road overnight with scouts silencing any passers-by who might have spread word back to the capital. With every gathering mile, Valderon felt an increasing tightness in his chest. They travelled in the wake of the Dacianarans, who had trampled wildly across the farmland and empty homesteads as they cut a path through to the capital. Occasionally Valderon observed Voldirik corpses in the mud, sometimes one of the Dacianarans.
‘All signs of the battle are fresh,’ Landril remarked. ‘Lupara and her tribe are perhaps the better part of the day ahead.’
‘Should we hasten our pace?’ Valderon demanded. ‘People may well be dying.’
‘We are as expected,’ Landril said. ‘By the Goddess, we are on course.’
‘Then tomorrow morning the fighting commences.’
‘If Lupara has played her role,’ Landril said. ‘One can never fully trust—’
‘She will have,’ Valderon snapped. ‘She can be trusted. It is you that cannot trust anyone.’
‘You may have a point,’ Landril said.
‘If it was up to you to do the fighting then we’d never stand a chance. Her skills are in war, as are mine.’
‘No, you can do other things as well,’ Landril observed.
‘How so?’ Valderon had, in a peculiar way, come to see Landril as someone he could confide in. There was a viciously sharp intelligence within the spymaster, and Valderon respected his opinion – even if he did not always agree with it.
‘Your ways are with people,’ Landril replied. ‘That is what makes a leader. Any fool can stand at the front of this rabble and die with a sword in his hand. But you can convince and inspire with all the passion of a Stravir hero.’
Valderon shrugged. ‘You have much confidence in a man you barely know.’
‘This much I know. You spent time with a great many of these soldiers behind us. Whilst I slept at the manse, you camped out with them. You took to Grauden’s men and made them like an extended family to our original band of freed men. Even Xavir – he has been critical of you far less than any of us, and he took your council willingly. These are the qualities that make a leader. I had my doubts, I will admit, in your abilities. I wanted Xavir to lead, but perhaps he is too damaged from what has gone before.’
Valderon remained quiet.
‘Lupara, too, is bewitched by you.’ Landril left the sentence open but Valderon did not take the bait.
‘On that matter,’ he replied grimly, ‘there is nothing to discuss.’
‘An honourable man, I see. Despite the temptations of the wolf queen.’
‘Not a concern, spymaster. This is where Xavir and I remain similar: matters of the heart have bruised us more than any weapon can. And while we have mended ourselves, we have also hardened. There are walls in our minds so robust that not even the wolf queen can scale them.’
Landril smiled at that.
*
The night passed without event. The solders’ slumber was disturbed only by each other’s noise, jokes and debate, and soon enough they found themselves on the road close to the capital. It was a brighter morning, with sunlight skimming across the damp grassland behind, but as usual, by noon, cloud was gathering.
Valderon, Landril and Birgitta rode far up ahead, away from the main force. Tracking the Dacianarans’ trail of carnage, it was not long until they came within sight of the city.
It had been years since Valderon had seen the capital. The hundreds of spires that marked the central quarters were mired in drizzle. A hazy light broke through momentarily, illuminating the mirrored roof tiles of the vast palace – the residence that King Mardonius had made his home. Two large granite walls stretched across the front of the capital. The rock had been carved out of the neighbouring hills hundreds of years ago, and built in a way so it seemed that the two hills either side of the city reached arms around as if embracing the people and their homes. Just beyond, far in the east, was a wide river that met the Sea of Rhaman. The flatlands glimmered in the green-grey light.
Valderon was so distracted by the sight of his home that he almost missed, for a second, what was happening in the plains a mile before the southern, main gates of Stravir City. The Dacianarans were here – and if Landril’s calculations were accurate, they had been so since the night before. Opposing them, thousands of bronze-clad figures of the legions and the Voldiriks swarmed across the land. The tribal army had divided itself into five nimble forces. Wolves easily outpaced the horses, drawing and feinting repeatedly to break up the Stravir columns. They had achieved much already on the left flank by the look of it, but the volume of the Stravir forces, largely Voldirik warriors here, was staggering, more than their calculations.
The ground thundered with the vibrations of war.
To Valderon’s right, the spymaster unfolded a waxed-paper map of the region. After consulting it for a moment he scrutinized the scene before them like some prophet divining the future. The paper fluttered in the breeze. Cries from the distance came and went on the same gusts.
‘We should continue on the valley route in,’ Land
ril declared. ‘No need to disappear up into the hills. Lupara’s aim was to draw the Voldirik and Stravir forces forth from the city and keep them there.’
‘This, they have done,’ Valderon replied. ‘You looked surprised at it.’
‘Relieved.’
‘So what are we waiting for?’ Valderon asked. ‘We must get on with it, for the sake of the people.’
Landril turned to Birgitta. ‘When will your avian friends arrive?’
‘They were supposed to come this morning.’
‘Wonderful – so a no show,’ Landril replied, grimacing.
‘They will come,’ Birgitta assured him. ‘But if they do and we are still up here talking, then all will be pointless.’
‘You have a thirst for war all of a sudden?’ Landril asked, amused.
‘I have an urge to get it all over with.’ Birgitta rolled her shoulders.
‘She’s right,’ Valderon said. ‘We should go. Let’s muster the forces.’
*
They returned to the column of soldiers and the Black Clan continued the final mile to the battlegrounds: the plains before Stravir City. Witches returned to the command of their former clan, spreading themselves out among the throng of soldiers; despite their old allegiances, today they were all one family, all one clan. The witches’ first instruction had been to cast each division of the army in shadow as best they could, and to mask its presence for as long as was possible. Staffs were held aloft, and the witches muttering in a tongue that Valderon could not comprehend. A purple light shot from Birgitta’s staff back towards one of the other witches; that woman’s then connected to another staff, and so on, until all the witches were united by a crackling web. Then that light faded, leaving a strange shadow above them, as if clouds had gathered. He hoped it was more effective than it looked.
Ragged banners fluttering in the breeze, the Black Clan filtered onto the plains from the farmlands of the south. Half a mile or more either side, the land began to rise up into the rocky outcrops that protected two sides of the capital. Right in the centre was this army of shadow, with Valderon riding in the centre of the front column of cavalry. The majority continued on foot, marching at pace. Noises rose up: of metal clashing with metal, of vast numbers of people and horses swarming across the terrain. The main road was covered now in bodies.