Desperate Times (Fate of Periand Book 1)

by Ben Marshall

  “You said when we were in my palace that Katchanga is hurting from the memory of me, but why should that be? We haven’t looked upon each other for over a century,” she suddenly asked as their keen eyesight saw the shoreline of Pathos, the realm of the Fire Elves.

  “He is hurting because he considers the incident to be a testament to the weakness he believes he has within his mind. The fact that he could not control what has become a part of him is a fact that weighs heavily upon him, and no words of counsel can persuade him otherwise,” Lonariel answered, sadness in his tone as his eyes strayed towards the southwest, and the barely visible shore of a densely forested region many miles south of the coast they were heading towards.

  “Is that the vale?”

  “Indeed it is My Lady, a realm that cannot be entered without the consent of its Lord. His guardians are many, both animals and warriors of the Elven, Dwarven and Mannish factions patrol within the ancient forest, all within striking distance yet invisible to even the keenest of eyes when they watch you through the mists.”

  “Can we at least fly over the blessed land so that I may gaze upon the rumoured magnificence? The realm is said to be the last surviving view of Western Periand as it was before the coming of the Elves, and more significantly the coming of Men, one of the few places in the world where Nature’s Order hasn’t been overcome by the Destructive Races.”

  “Alas, My Lady, but we cannot, for even that is forbidden without Katchanga’s approval.”

  “What would be the harm in our looking at it?”

  “While your identity is unknown? The perceived possibilities are that you could create a fire that would bring ruin to much of the forest, and Katchanga’s troops will not allow such destruction to be even possible.”

  “We can announce our presence and identities, but I won’t miss out on what may be my only chance to see the Vale.” Halarniel’s voice was firm and her mind decided as she tapped the sleek flanks of her mount and bade it turn towards the forest that remained barely visible far to the south. The Loremaster sighed before signalling with his thoughts that the wyvern should follow the slowly diminishing figure of the Forest Elf.

  It took nearly two hours of flight at the hippogriff’s steady pace before the coast just beyond the tree line appeared below them, a short stretch of white sand before the shadows beneath the forest covered the ground, the wide tops of the many oaks barely reaching above the swirling mist. Even as her mount flew above the realm Halarniel felt the fatigue from its long flight begin to disappear in the face of warm waves of calm that flowed over them. She heard whispers within her mind, her troubles slowly leaving her for the few minutes she enjoyed above the realm before a strict voice broke her train of thought.

  “Why have you come to the Vale of Mist, She-Elf?” Ullyssil demanded, his unseen eyes looking upon her before turning slowly to regard Lonariel, his tone becoming all the more angry.

  “You know of our laws and yet you transgress? How can you so knowingly go against the wishes of Katchanga after the honours he has bestowed?”

  “It was my fault, warrior, for I desired to look upon the rumoured realm of Nature’s Most Favoured. I was told of your laws by Lonariel, and he is here only because his duty was to bring me to his homeland and I would be lost if he hadn’t come to be able to guide me from this land after my visit.”

  “And you are who within the service of Nature?”

  “I don’t care for your tone, warrior. I am Halarniel, Ruler of the Elves who dwell within the city of Faluvii.”

  “Well greetings, My Lady, I am sure, but you must understand that we do not take lightly such incursions into our lands.” It was then that the Forest Elf noticed that Ullyssil was accompanied by a further twenty-four warriors, each suited in dark plate armour that had upon the left half of the breastplate the symbol of Nature above a small engraved image of a bright silver tiger. Their faces were completely obscured by their basinet style helms, their sight offered solely by thin slits while their jaws were guarded behind a jutting piece of finely-crafted steel that resembled a linear portrayal of an eagle’s beak. Each of the twenty warriors was seated upon a winged horse of black or dark-brown colour, the mounts’ bat-like wings beating the air with powerful yet rapid strokes as they hovered only a metre from the pair who had broken the law. The warriors all held javelins within their gauntleted fists, the tips of each weapon pointing towards the intruders in readiness if the intent of either of them had been foul.

  “Now, My Lady, would you care to explain to me why you have decided to fly above our lands, when your destination lies many miles to the north?”

  “I would look upon the ancient land that is legendary among my people, and once more upon the face of its Lord who is most favoured of all who serve and protect Nature’s Order.”

  “This land is closed to all who are not of its citizenry until such time as Nature would have them enter, and such is not your time, and neither may you look upon the face of Katchanga for he has gone to attempt what no other being can, as I too must soon depart.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I, and the others selected by Katchanga, are soon to depart this land to perform the tasks that are required if the meeting of the Western Nations is to be complete.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  When Words Fail

  October 6th, 1190

  Cries shattered the silence within Rinahuil Forest, accompanied by the unmistakeable ring of steel upon steel, scaring flocks of nesting birds into frantic flight. The Camentari had finally launched an assault upon the camp of Morambeth, after becoming emboldened by rumours that his troops were deserting him, though this was a gross exaggeration of affairs as they were discovering to their detriment. The main problem for the Half-Elf was that new recruits were in short supply, due in no small part to the encounters with Katchanga and Ullyssil, and that the more recent arrivals had become wavering in their resolve to fight for his cause. The more experienced and seasoned veterans of his army had remained as stout-hearted as ever before, their loyalty unfaltering as they had trained beneath his increasingly cold gaze. Since his humiliation of such a swift disarming at the hands of Ullyssil, though the torment was felt only by him since it had served as a powerful indicator to his troops, just how amateurish their own skills were in relation to such professional soldiers, he had grown ever more resentful of failure on the part of his warriors. As a result those of his warriors who remained were now far superior to the level of prowess an outsider would believe them to possess, and they were proving their mettle and martial ability now that their camp was coming under assault from the regional garrison of Camentari soldiers.

  Wearing only toughened leather, as opposed to the chain mail of their foes, the Valinian foresters neutralised this disadvantage as best they could, by utilising their familiarity with the terrain to maximise their defence. Rinahuil was an ancient forest, its heart having seen before the birth of Men, and such years had seen the sheltered earth become thick with the trunks of countless mighty trees, their branches barely separated from those of their neighbours if they were parted at all, and such a natural occurrence was of perfect use to Rothil’s squad of three hundred dedicated troops. The original force had been principally trained in archery so that they might carry out the many raids upon traders without the risk of death at the hands of the armed escorts, and as such many still favoured the longbow over melee weapons. Only a third of the Valinians had been upon the ground when the invaders had arrived, the rest of their number firing into the mail-clad force of over five hundred warriors from their vantage point upon the branches overhead, yet all were concealed within both the trees and the thick bushes that lined the trails within Rinahuil. Though the local garrison boasted a hundred skilled archers within its ranks, they could do little to prevent the waves of arrows that rained upon them, with such swiftness that it was impossible to gauge the positions that were taken up by the see
mingly invisible defenders.

  Thanks almost exclusively to their thick shields blocking a higher kill rate from the hidden archers, most of the garrison were able to come upon the high wall of felled logs that surrounded Morambeth’s camp; but they needn’t have bothered with the attempt at passing through the killing zone. This was the moment the foot soldiers of the rebels had been waiting for, training since they swore allegiance to their leader’s cause, and with terrifying war cries they charged upon the ill-prepared flanks of their ambushed foe. The trails had originally been formed by the movements of the animals that shared the forest with the Valinians, as they had travelled to and from the river Asceron, though some had been adapted for use by the Men who now claimed dominion of the region, and none were wide enough for more than a few people to be side by side across them. Forced by the undergrowth to march in a line through the trail, rather than in formations that would have granted them full use of their numerical superiority, and without their supporting cavalry, that had made the difference upon so many of the battlefields they had fought at over the years, the Camentari were forced to take the defensive and hold the flanks as best they could, while their comrades moved between the battle lines to try and escape the trail, so that they might surround the foresters. Had their horses been able to ride through the forest, the darkness and howls of invisible wolves within Rinahuil causing them to bolt with fear before they could even reach one of the bridges over the calm river Asceron, a far more effective attack could have been mounted against the foot soldiers that were outnumbered five to one. Had the Camentari been able to use their key troops against the warriors all would have gone ill with Rothil’s men, but the ambush had been set to perfection, and instead the axes and swords of the rebels were brought to bear against the swords and shields of the garrison, while the archers upon their elevated platform continued to rain their deadly shafts down upon the exposed backs of their luckless foe.

  It took many agonising minutes for the Camentari to bring some order to their ranks, the flanks starting to push the rebels back and creating an all too crucial space between the two battle lines. Footmen rushed through the gap, reinforcing the exposed side of the lines, and gradually formed a semi-circle that attacked the rebels from more than one direction, and pressing the smaller force into tight circles as they now faced battle upon their formations’ head and flanks. The garrison had suffered tremendous losses within the short time they had been struck by the concealed warriors, nearly a third of their original number laying dead from the weapons of the rebels, but their training and equipment was still superior to that of Rothil’s troops, and the Half Elf cursed to himself as he silently signalled to the fifty archers closest to him to follow, as he moved along the natural walkways within the trees, to reach a sheltered series of thick bushes that were well out of sight from their enemies. Emerging onto the trail behind the column of Camentari the group drew spears and shields, after checking to ensure their swords were secure within their scabbards in case they were required. Silently yet swiftly closing the gap towards the unaware garrison the front two rows of soldiers crouched while the two rows behind them knelt, forming three heights of spear-armed warriors. At the head of the group, sword and knife held ready for the next stage of his attack, Rothil signalled with his left hand for the remaining warriors in his group to attack. The volley of thrown spears struck easily through the chain mail of the garrison force, creating a hole in the rear of the column that was soon filled by Valinian warriors, their swords and axes striking furious blows upon the soldiers responsible for so many atrocities against the families and friends of the rebels. Morambeth fought with his Elven agility combined with a passion that was unmatched by any of his warriors. More than a century of life within the simple society of Valinian life had given him many qualities that were admirable when viewed without prejudice, such as patriotism, loyalty, valour and an indomitable spirit, and when the powerful energies from all these qualities gave him added strength, to combine with the swiftness of foot and blade with which he fought, few of the soldiers could stand before him for any length of time. Knocking aside a wild sword thrust with his own blade, the rebel leader sent his slender knife through the breach in his opponent’s defence, before the Camentari warrior could even register that such a gap had been created, while in the same fluid series of movements he spun to meet another challenger. Sheathing his knife as he withdrew it from the bloody hauberk of his previous foe, Rothil kicked out with his booted right foot as he locked blades with the opponent and sent him staggering. Maintaining a fierce grip upon the hilt of his own weapon the Half Elf kicked again, throwing the warrior completely off balance, and he felt the Camentari soldier’s grip loosen upon the trapped blade. Using his free hand to grip this second sword, the rebel twisted it free from the gauntlet of its stunned owner, and turned it under his hand to bring it upwards sharply beneath the ribs, puncturing a lung.

  With archers bringing down the tightly packed warriors within the column’s centre, and the frenzied assault from both ends of the garrison’s position, it took only a few minutes of further combat, before the wavering morale of those who remained locked in fierce duels with the cloaked rebels, was all too clearly broken beneath the relentless gaze of the ancient oaks, that formed the dark forest surrounding the two forces. As their commander fell at the last, holding off a curved axe with his shield, while he hastily parried the blade of a second rebel with his own, before he was struck upon the face by the swordsman’s wooden shield, opening himself up to a final downward chop from the axe across his exposed throat, the few surviving members of the garrison held their hands up in surrender.

  “The foe is vanquished; so let no harm come to the survivors while you serve me.”

  The statement from Rothil was delivered fiercely, stopping a few of his rebels who were still feeling the strongest rush of adrenaline from the battle, but he didn’t look with hatred upon the faces of those who served the nation he despised. This surprised him immensely, for whenever he had dreamed of the encounters that he had known would come, he had felt burning fury as he looked upon the conjured visions of foes, and now for the first time since the start of his campaign he thought deeply about what Katchanga and Ullyssil had told him during their unexpected visits to his camp. For the first time he saw the garrison for what it truly was, a group of warriors serving at the command of a Monarch few would ever see. Many of the garrison had been mere children when Valinia was conquered, and he knew he couldn’t punish them for their rulers’ crimes.

  “Blindfold them and return them to the border of the forest, that their failure shall stand as a signal that we shall not fall to the tyranny of the Curiths.”

  With a cheer of victory and praise of their leader the rebels went about their task, and within minutes Morambeth found himself alone outside the towering wall of his camp. Suddenly the bushes upon his left rustled, the noise and movement created by a creature or creatures larger than any of the natural predators who roamed Rinahuil Forest. Turning sharply, his longbow drawn with shaking fingers and an arrow notched in place, the Half Elf gazed into the dark interior of the dense foliage, his wary eyes piercing the gloom and seeing a golden pattern upon a crouched figure of blackest hue. The pattern resembled a tangled vine, and the rebel knew he had seen its kind before though he could not place its source immediately. He searched for the eyes of the hidden being, but saw only more darkness as a terrible wave of cold dread swept across him. Fear of such unknown dangers overtook him, causing him to release the shaft into the concealing area, hearing with concern the metallic sound of contact. For the briefest of moments the pattern shifted, revealing itself to be a large shield shaped like the scale of an enormous reptilian creature, and it was then that the Half-Elf placed the source of his memory of the golden vine. Firing another arrow, Rothil gripped his sword with alarm as he heard only the thud of it striking soft earth rather than a being’s flesh, seeing fading mist as he cautiously parted the bush’s branches to find not
hing to indicate that anything had once been present within its heart. Even his first arrow lay upon the ground, its tip coated only with the dark brown stain of mud. Had he dreamt the vision? Had the words of an archaic soldier affected him so much and so devastatingly, that he might destroy his hopes of success through paranoia? Thankful that none had seen his acts of what could have been madness, Morambeth replaced the bent and broken boughs of bush, and entered his camp with innumerable concerns within his bewildered mind, unaware that even now the same armoured soldier was watching, from the leafy head of an oak whose branches spread over the wall of the rebel camp, and planning his next move. He remained unaware that, in looking at the stout shield of patterned Dragon scale, Ullyssil noted the arrow had only penetrated the length of the tip, despite having struck from less than ten metres away. He knew only that his men returned a few hours later, by which time his vision had been cast from his memory and forgotten as he had sat in isolation. It was only when the remote solitude of night came to fully envelope him that he was reminded of the golden pattern and the shifting shield, bringing to him the words of Katchanga’s soldier in the brooding silence. We shall meet again, Rothil son of Baloran, but under more hostile circumstances. We shall meet again.