Dillen had known them for just a few months. He had been an initiate of the Blades of Onzyan for only a short time when he was summoned to serve as a messenger in the headquarters of Dictator Andorset. It was a high honor, and Andorset had never tired of pointing that out to Dillen or the magnitude of the favor that he had done him by bringing him aboard.
It was a great distinction, Dillen admitted. Yet he suspected that it had not been pure altruism that had caused the dictator to offer him a place at his side. The Genemers were an ancient family of Solios, possessing a lineage that could be traced to the foundation of the Basilean state and beyond. Many had been the Genemer that had held exalted positions in the church or in the uppermost ranks of the army. General Andorset himself was a man of gentle birth, but he had come only from the lower gentry. "A mere country squire in origin," Brother Bartolomo had snarked on one occasion. The dictator was therefore very sensitive to rank and was assiduous in cultivating young nobles of more lofty status than his own. Two other young paladins were currently serving as horse messengers for the general. Both Stevven Orroy, a daredevil of a horseman from Cortia, and Arkbald Nell, a Sparthan youngster who hardly needed to shave, were scions of families as old and distinguished as Dillen's own. It could not have been pure accident that had caused Andorset to offer all three of them - each a thirdborn son of a Great House - positions on his staff. The dictator was employing those young men whom he expected would one day wield great influence within their respective houses. Basilean society, like all others, was based on a web of patronage and reciprocal loyalties. Andorset, a canny politician if there ever was one, was ingratiating himself with men who might in time come to hold enormous power.
If Andorset had hoped to establish a solid relationship with him, then Dillen thought that the general must now be very disappointed. His recent misstep was just the latest in a string of gaffes that had seen the dictator sour on the third son of House Genemer. People were often difficult for Dillen to fathom, and he had been unable to help but step on the general's toes. He had hoped to make a good impression, but adjusting to military life had been a trying experience. Dillen had never truly felt that he had been called to serve as a paladin. He preferred his books and would rather have devoted his life to scholarship and indulge as much as possible his love of languages. He thought perhaps to become a churchman, like so many of his ancestors had, but his father, a bluff and hearty man with a passion for battle and the tournament, would not countenance such a pacific career for his son. He'd sent the youngster for training in the arts of war as soon as he was of an age so that Dillen might take his place in the Holy Army of the Golden Horn without delay.
Dillen had proven to be a good warrior, with reflexes that made him one of the better swordsmen among his peers. His riding skills were top-notch too, a legacy of the lifetime of riding that he'd done on the several country estates owned by his family. They had served him well in his role as a courier delivering messages on behalf of the general. In time, he might rise higher in the ranks of the Blades of Onzyan, but only if he could break his habit of annoying his commanding officer, whose word would carry no little weight among Dillen’s superiors in his chapter. Dejected, Dillen removed a tiny book from his saddle bag, a bestiary of creatures mundane and extraordinary that he expected to find within the Green Lady’s strange wood.
*****
The Basilean army soon reached a spacious clearing. Tall maples and lofty oaks rose all about the edge of the space, their leaves turning rich browns and yellows in the lowering autumn sun. It was not large enough to accommodate the whole of the army, but it sufficed for Andorset. He called a halt, and the order to stop marching filtered slowly backward through the army, which was stretched out for a mile behind the vanguard in the trackless forest. He next ordered that his tent be set up in its exact center of the clearing. A crew of ten men deftly erected the general's gargantuan tent and had it pegged in place with ropes within minutes. They'd had much prior practice in putting up this movable palace of canvas and wood.
With late afternoon turning into night, Andorset held a meeting of his senior officers, as was his customary practice. Dillen was invited to attend, as apart from ferrying missives for his commanding officer, the primary purpose of his service with the general's headquarters was to learn how a general thought, acted, and commanded his subordinates. He stood at the rear of the tent, silent. The deliberations of the small band of counselors ordinarily went very smoothly, with the staff delivering crisp, to-the-point reports to the general. On this evening, however, there was dissension. Brother Tebald, commander of the army's cavalry contingent of paladin knights, spoke out first.
"We must push on, my general, and find the Green Lady as soon as possible," he pleaded. "This host is but a weak legion in strength, and is in a bad way here, vulnerable to sudden attack. The ground is uneven and the way narrower than a keyhole. We are slowed, and most of our army is still strung out far along the line of march."
Brother Bartolomo, master of the men-at-arms and paladin infantry, echoed the sentiment more bluntly. "This is a terrible place to stop for the night. We are nearly blind too. In our sudden haste to leave the Golden Horn, we were unable to include a wizard in our ranks who might scry the enemy’s presence with his magecraft. Our own scouts have found nothing, but the enemy is about, believe you me. We also lack the aid of even a single Elohi. Let us begone, and either force march our way to the folk of Galahir, or else fall back a league or so. We passed a much larger and more defensible open space not too far back in which we could erect a proper, fortified camp."
Andorset laughed harshly. "Alas, that both of my lieutenants should lose their courage on the same day! You take too much counsel of your fears, which are unreasonable. If we go forward, then we shall march all night and simply arrive exhausted and incapable of action. If we go back, we will waste time on the morrow retracing steps we have already taken. Our scouts have found no sign of the enemy because they are not here, but engaged elsewhere. No! We stay here. Tomorrow, at dawn, we shall set out once more, and make contact with the Galahirians."
There would be no arguing with Andorset's decision. It was standard procedure for a marching Basilean army, when it made camp for the night, to surround it with a ditch and an earthen rampart surmounted by a staked palisade. It was often the case that the soldiers of Basilea would find themselves deep inside hostile territory, far from the support of friendly forces. A strong camp might not be as impregnable as a high-walled castle, but it would be stout enough to fend off all but the most determined attack. More importantly, the ramparts, guarded at all times of the unlit hours by watchful sentries, were sufficient to prevent an assault by surprise. Basilea's armies must never be taken unawares, all agreed. Within the camp, the good soldiers of the Golden Horn could sleep soundly under the guard of their brothers who stood sentinel upon its earthen walls.
So important was this cautious practice, Dillen had been taught, that often an army might halt its progress with much of the light of the day still left when a good location for the camp had been found. Better to be safe and secure in the howling wilderness than to take a risk all for the sake of a few more miles of distance. Unhappily, Dillen noted, the present spot was neither safe nor secure. Less than half the army might be accommodated in this glade, and it would be not till after nightfall that the last soldiers of the straggling column reached it and learned that they would have to pitch their tents between the thick trunks of the trees. The men, especially the common footsoldiers, thought the wood bewitched. Asking them to sleep outside the confines of a regular camp would do nothing to lessen their fears.
"I beg you, Dictator Andorset, to reconsider your decision," Tebald urged, "and allow the army to press on. If we march through the night we will surely make it to the rendezvous with the Lady's people."
Andorset's eyes narrowed with irritation. "When did my fine warriors become such fainthearts? Was it not you, Brother Tebald, who single-handedly held the Gate o
f the Elohi at Plenoria? Have the Hearth Knights now lost their mettle?" Andorset tapped his chest. "Not this one." He turned his head slightly to fix his gaze upon Brother Bartolomo. "And was it not you who led the charge of the Blades of Onzyan that broke the back of the orc horde at Stemkor? The orcs were routed that day as a result of that very charge. Please tell me that you are the same men, or have I chosen my subcommanders unwisely?"
Both paladins were silent for a time. Dillen prayed to every Shining One he could name to open the dictator's mind to the good counsel of his lieutenants, but Andorset remained adamant. Tebald relented first, undone by the general's questioning of his courage. "No, my general," a chastened Brother Tebald answered. "I am one and the same." Bartolomo said nothing, nodding his assent to Andorset's order, but his eyes were full of his misgivings. The army would stay where it was.
*****
"Not surprised am I," Bartolomo declared as he placed the reins of his warhorse into those of his squire, a zealous youth named Jedd. "Once Andorset has made a decision, he is as stubborn as a mule. Virtually immovable. Very certain in his judgment, no matter how many may question it."
"He was not always thus," added Tebald, who was busy removing his coat of mail before retiring to his tent. "It was Amola. That is what changed him."
"What happened at Amola?" Dillen asked while sharpening his sword in the ruddy glow of the firelight,. "That was a great victory."
"Aye, it was," Bartolomo agreed, "but the dictator lost his only son there. He's grown rigid since."
"He blames himself?"
"Yes," replied Tebald, "but it was not merely his son's death that has changed him so. I was there with him. We were attacked by orcs. His senior officers convinced him to withdraw our forces beyond the Irasus River. A good portion of our army was holed up in a redoubt. The enemy was bound to overwhelm them. But Andorset thought they would be better off staying where they were and weathering the storm in place."
"Their insistent pleas managed to change his mind, at last," continued Bartolomo, "but events did not go as well as hoped. Though most of our army made it across, the forces ordered to abandon the redoubt were run down by the orcs and cut up badly. Some survived, but many more fell. One of the slain was Andorset's son, Alexan."
“The dictator thinks that it was his vacillation, that he listened to the counsels of others, that caused Alexan's death," said Tebald. "Not so, I say, as do most others too, but Andorset, ever since, has reproached himself for going against his own judgment. Now, when he makes a decision, it is final."
"Such inflexibility is hardly a good quality in a general," Dillen said. "Was it not Ebar Teft who wrote that 'a willingness to adapt is the one constant quality that a good general must possess' in his Treatise on War?"
"Indeed, it was," smiled Tebald. "I did not expect a Blade of Onzyan to be so well-read in the classics. I had thought you all to be merely rich horsemen with no time for intellectual pursuits."
Dillen grinned, and Bartolomo let out a hearty laugh. "Every now and again we are blessed to find a thinker in our midst. The Hearth Knights of the Unquenchable Flame are not the only ones in this army with a bit of learning."
*****
"The sky is gray and threatening," Dillen said. "We'll have rain soon.”
"Then we'd best be on our way," Tebald yawned, emerging from his own tent. "We have tarried here too long, and the folk of Galahir are in need of our aid."
Morning could not have come fast enough for Dillen. There was something unnerving about being in Galahir. It was not merely that it was a forest. All forests made him uneasy, being dark and filled with wild animals. No, Galahir felt alien in a manner that defied ready explanation. This forest seemed alive and hostile in ways that went far beyond what he had experienced elsewhere. He felt as if eyes were always upon him, as if the denizens in this forest were inimical to Men to a degree far greater than the beasts of the woods in the world outside.
The host of Basilea had been dispatched to bring succor to the beleaguered peoples of the wood. Even now, the Green Lady and her warriors were defying the onslaught of the denizens of the Abyss. Though the blackhearted fiends were hurling themselves against their defenses, the brave inhabitants of the forest had held the line against repeated assaults.
But only just. An urgent plea had come from Galahir, in the Lady’s name, written in black ink upon a broad golden leaf. It had begged Basilea to send help to stem the dark tide that threatened to overwhelm her wood. There were those in Basilea who were skeptical of the Lady and her people. Wiser, and more generous counsels, though, had prevailed. Time was short. An expeditionary army of scarcely a half-legion in size was hastily assembled from amongst the city's militia, and the several hundred paladins, mostly Hearth Knights of the Unquenchable Flame and Blades of Onzyan, still resident within. Inside two days, the Basilean host was marching north to Galahir. Andorset, an experienced general, had been appointed commander of the force, and within a fortnight, the army had reached the eaves of the wood. The dictator had been an odd choice as general. Dillen had listened closely to the impassioned debates of Basilea’s foremost nobles before the Hegemon concerning whether the Holy Host should be dispatched in response to the request for aid. Andorset himself had been one of the voices that had argued most loudly against sending an army to the wood and he had also expressed a deep distrust of for the Lady and her people.
Nevertheless, and much to Dillen’s surprise, Andorset had been chosen to lead the host to war on account of his excellent battle record. A solid, if unimaginative, commander, the dictator, a Hearth Knight of the Unquenchable Flame, was the highest-ranking lord paladin left resident in the Golden Horn. In addition to the tragic, but ultimately successful defense of Amola, Andorset had won victories at Plenoria, Coponia, Neora, and Yast-Edeless. In the eyes of the Hegemon and the great lords of Basilea, Andorset was a man to whom they could safely entrust an army. Dillen had heard that said many times of the dictator by his father and his fellow aristocrats. Caution and calculation, not daring brilliance, were the hallmarks of his generalship.
The young paladin wondered what they might say of him now, if they could see how deaf he had become to the counsel of others. A collegial style of generalship had long been the norm in Basilea. No one man, no matter how elevated his rank, could ignore the advice and entreaties of his fellows without repercussions of some kind. The warriors of Basilea, whether grand paladins or common footsoldiers, were all subjects of the same kingdom and had to live together when campaigns ended, helm and armor were removed, and weapons were set down at fireside. A commander who was so close-minded as to discount the reasoned proposals of his officers would eventually hear about their displeasure, and possibly suffer a rebuke from his king and comrades after he had laid down his command.
Dillen saddled his own horse, as he did not yet have the right to engage a squire, and whispered softly in the animal's ear. He lifted himself up easily into the saddle, casually grasping the reins with one hand. Bartolomo frowned unhappily. "You are much too spry for so early in the morning, Brother Dillen. Some of the rest of us old men have not quite awoken from our slumber yet. Have a care not to show off so in before the elderly men of this good host."
"I grieve that I have distressed you so, Brother Bartolomo. Forgive me my eagerness and youthful energy."
Bartolomo eyed Dillen closely. "You know, Tebald, he says that with such sincerity I almost believe him. Almost, but not quite."
Tebald was busy buckling his sword belt about his waist. He did not look up. "I believe him entirely. Even now I can hear his tears splashing to earth. He is clearly deeply distraught at having caused you pain by his display of a vigor that has long since deserted you. Thus he weeps."
"Yes, of course, that must be it," Bartolomo rumbled. The older paladin sat down heavily on his pack and began eating the small breakfast that Jedd had prepared for him. "I will ignore you both now.”
*****
"Report, Damathana."
&n
bsp; The succubus folded her ebon bat wings smartly behind her and stood to attention. "I have observed the Basileans since they entered the wood, Lord Zelgarag. They wander about it like lost children, fumbling in the darkness, trying to find their way to the Lady." Damathana did not blink as she spoke.
"They are vulnerable?"
A thin smile, cruel and alluring, curled Damathana's full ruby lips. "Yes, Lord. Just as you predicted. They are many, but the narrowness of the path through the forest has forced them to thin their line. Only two or three men may walk abreast along the winding way through the trees. They are further slowed by the need to throw planks over rents in the earth to let their animals pass. They have broken camp and are now corralled like cattle, ready for the slaughter."
"Fools," Zelgarag growled. He brushed aside a gaggle of imps that cavorted around the crude throne that had been carved for him out of a sorcery-withered tree stump. "They think that they are safe. They believe that we are far from them, and that they have merely to march and arrive like heroes to bolster the defense of Galahir." Zelgarag stood. Damathana caught her breath as he rose to his full height. The champion of the Abyss was a paragon of all that the warriors of the hordes of Hell might hope to be. Great wings, leathery and blood red, spread out behind him, casting ominous shadows in the morning twilight of the forest. Zelgarag's dark star was on the rise, and Damathana intended to ascend along with it.
Tales of Mantica Page 29