by Ben Marshall
***
“What’s the latest report on the entrenched Camentari?” Agaron asked for the fifth time that day, the moon still several hours from reaching its highest point during the journey through the darkness of night.
“Little has been added to the previous reports I have received, Your Majesty, though one thing of note should be mentioned. Though the soldiers we know of remain within their fortified holes within the village, the last scout to return has sworn that he heard movements within the trees that could only have been made by humanoid beings. One scout has yet to return, and he was supposed to report in well before now, his route taking him through the area that the sounds came from.”
Barinya Escafaust was worried as he told his King this news, worried by what it could mean if unknown people were wandering through the throng of straight-backed cedar trees that ran between the small fishing village and the camp of the Berinain army.
“Are there sufficient sentries to protect our camp perimeter, or at least watch all directions for an attempted assault from these unknown people or the cowards who hide within the village?”
“Yes there are, should none of them be struck down by people clearing the way for an assault. Will you not now reconsider your choice to be with us upon this campaign to reclaim our territory?”
“I have made my choice, General, and I intend to hold to it until I am forced to return to my palace. I know it is not necessary that I am here, but then again this entire war was unnecessary.”
From the day that the messenger had passed on Katchanga’s suggestion the King of Berinan had been amongst the ranks of his country’s army, as the Eastern Elf had known he would be, and slowly he was beginning to reconsider his position on the decision to withhold Barinya from the meeting, but time was not a luxury that could be indulged with, and already the concealed warriors knew their master felt enough had been lost. Dark green cloaks wrapped about their frames, concealing the short swords that were strapped to their backs, the group of twenty archers fanned out behind the Elven maiden who led them, her hood drawn over her plumed helmet, and all watched the bustle of activity from the restless men within the clearing of the small wood with inscrutable gazes.
“Remember that we are not to kill any of these men, merely to neutralise the threat of failure.”
The maiden told the band of Elves, the few who had served within the ranks of their master since his time under Carrassiel, in an almost inaudible whisper that would have sounded only as the wind to the humans within the camp. Each raised a gloved fist to their hearts in acknowledgement of the command, and slowly the central soldiers inched along the branches above their comrades, while those upon the edges of the loose formation moved towards the flanks of the sentries closest to the tent that had been identified as being the King’s.
“Return to your tent Barinya, or you will be useless to me when we attack with the coming of daybreak.”
The silhouette of the Berinain General was seen to bow in the light of the fire that burnt beneath the canopy, and the archers watched him exit with a military stride that carried him swiftly to the other end of the camp and his own tent. The maiden watched all this silently before signalling to the elite members of the band of archers her master had placed under her command. These twenty chosen warriors crept towards the sentries, with a silence and skill honed by over twelve centuries of combat beneath their female commander, as no more than mere shadows within a darkness that was barely penetrated by the glow of firelight from the camp. The moon remained stubbornly behind a cloud, its silvery glow unable to reach the ground below as the warriors moved to the tree line. The maiden followed three warriors around the perimeter, to come upon the tent of General Escafaust still under the protection of the young wood, and heard only the soft snores of the General in response to their movements.
Raising two fingers locked together she signalled the attack, and to the sentries it must have seemed as if the forest came to life as the Elves launched from the trees and bushes, gloved hands clamping tightly over Berinain mouths as others reached to prevent the drawing of weapons against the ageless group. Outnumbered and surprised the sentries were soon subdued and dragged into the bushes, to be bound and gagged by ropes created from twisted vines, and only two tasks remained to be done this night. Their faces turned away from the direction that had once been patrolled by the captured sentries, the remaining guards having dismissed the noises as the passing of the wind when their comrades made no calls of alarm, none saw the three Elves who entered Agaron’s tent, two placing their hands upon their bows while the third drew a scroll from the inside pocket of his cloak. This scroll was kept in a roll by a scarlet ribbon, knotted around a golden seal bearing the head of a roaring lion, and it was placed quietly upon the floor beside the sleeping King before the trio emerged and returned to the shadows. Seeing them emerge from the tent the Elf maiden entered Barinya’s own quarters, seeing him still slumbering peacefully before her. His armour and weapons lay beside him, within easy reach in the event of an assault, and she silently picked them up and handed them to a comrade who stood at the open flaps. She turned sharply as the human's axe rapped against the breastplate, bringing her longbow before her as the General stirred, his eyes blinking open sluggishly. He had barely removed the blurriness of fatigue from his vision, noting the beautiful helmeted face beneath the hood, before he was blinded by an explosion of pain as the stave of the longbow was struck against his temple. The last thing he saw before darkness enveloped him was the thin trickle of blood upon the blades that were set into the stave, seeing the figure of the maiden stooping over him with the same ropes of vine that had been used upon his sentries.
“Take him to the horses, we’ll join the pair of you shortly,” she whispered as she helped the two male warriors beside her to lift him.
“At once Shadow,” they whispered in unison as she departed, referring to her with the name bestowed when Katchanga and his soldiers had started to oppose Carrassiel. With one archer carrying their captive across his shoulders, and the other acting as his eyes to avoid the raised roots and other obstacles found within all woodland areas, the pair made quick progress towards the south, avoiding the village to the west lest the Camentari had positioned scouts close enough to observe movements within the trees, and soon came upon the gathered horses within the small clearing. Despite having departed the scene ahead of their comrades, the pair still found themselves to be the last to arrive, each warrior seated upon their dark steeds behind the stunningly silver-hued steed of Shadow.
“Lay him in front of me, and with haste before the camp can be fully roused,” she commanded, forgoing the whisper now that stealth wasn’t required. Her voice sounded similar to that of Halarniel, holding the same oneness with the soft wind that flowed through the wood, yet it was blended with the same hardness that made Katchanga’s so distinctive. Already the Berinain troops could be heard advancing through the wood, torchlight dancing in the distance, and with mighty wing beats the mounts were airborne, all save Shadow’s fading into the darkness while her own stood out as a beacon, as the group returned to their homeland with all the speed that could be mustered.
Agaron did not accompany the warriors who set off in pursuit of the strange attackers, his attention drawn by the bound scroll. Sliding the ribbon from around the coarse parchment he gazed upon the golden seal, his memory stirring to fill his head with images of past battles, and a golden Elf who had fought so magnificently beside him. Turning his eyes to gaze upon the fine lettering in darkest black ink, the King of Berinan could not suppress a sharp intake of breath as he read the short passage:
You have no doubt recognised the seal of my master that bound this scroll. This is to inform you that my master could wait no longer for you to accept his request, and even as you read this General Barinya Escafaust is being taken to our sacred land. He shall not be harmed more than is necessary, and should he cooperate with my master’s wish that he attend the meeting in the Fire Elven
lands no hand shall be raised against him. All we wish is for him to attend this gathering and decide, when all the facts are known, whether he shall participate in the tasks that must be performed afterwards. Should he agree to be a part of that venture you shall be notified with all haste, however if he should refuse my master he shall be returned to you with similar speed. My master holds great faith in your abilities to lead your men, and is aggrieved that this matter required tonight’s actions to occur at all.
Sinking to the floor as he re-read the scroll’s contents Agaron forced himself to focus on how he was going to replenish the morale that had been lost with the disappearance of his respected General, but the image of Katchanga continued to creep into his thoughts and turn the remaining hours of night into restless periods of worry, fear and doubt.
***
“People of Charad, the final duel in the opening day of our celebrations is about to begin! As these games celebrate our liberation from the Dark Forces all those years ago, our noble Kings are proud to give you the victors from our noblest of Houses; Marcellus Galleus from his manor within our Southern regions, Lucius Tigris from the North, and Antonio Gaius Larentius from right here in the region of Kelinan!”
There wasn’t a single seat left occupied within the mighty coliseum, as the speaker’s booming call was drowned by the cheering that erupted from the gathered people of Charad, each of the three greatest warriors from the Empire receiving standing ovations from those who had supported them throughout many duels. A reputedly bloody and barbaric undertaken, such gladiatorial bouts were undeserving of such an ill description as they focussed more on the virtues displayed in combat, with valour, honour and simple skill being the main points, rather than the single-minded destruction the other factions considered them to develop in the many participants. The aim was to be the sole warrior remaining in combat, but it was rarely achieved by the slaughter of a warrior’s foes, the objective to pursue the less obtainable goal of an opponent’s disarmament instead of vanquish. Any warrior can slay another, any fortuitous stumble allow the opportunity for a kill, and so no gladiator could find honour and recognition in such a victory that would not be tenfold with the disarming of his opponents, making the many champions present this day true heroes to plebeians and nobility alike as the citizens of the Empire gathered within the stands.
“The men who shall stand before you have already won glory in the defeat of their valiant foes this day, and now it is in their hands and the hands of the Gods who watch us from their thrones upon the Shrouded Mountain, Yarallium! I am sure that they shall not be disappointed by the spectacle our Diarchy now provides; a three-way duel between all of our Champions of Champions until only one can claim Lordship over this day’s combat!” More tremendous applause as the three men entered upon the ceremonial chariots of gold and jewels, their arms raised in salute to all who were watching and applauding them. Marcellus Galleus had entered the competition as the underdog, being barely over 160 centimetres in height when compared to the 180 of his shortest opponent. Born in the mighty city that sprawled across the plains to the South of the Empire, the lifestyle required within such a location making him lithe and slender while the sun had tanned him a rich golden-brown, he appeared more akin to Hessani’s hunters far to the North in Barid rather than the broad-chested and clearly muscular warriors he now faced. Lucius resembled one of the powerful tribesmen from the clans, understandable when it was considered that his family’s region had been claimed through many long years of war with the clans during the aftermath of the Age of Conflicts, and was more than head and shoulders taller than Marcellus, as their chariots rode upon either side of Antonio.
Antonio Gaius Larentius, on the other hand, was just like any of the countless men who were gathered in the stands that surrounded the sandy arena. Standing a little over 180 centimetres in height, a bushy beard of dark brown covering the lower half of his face and extending down to his barrel-like chest, he resembled an overgrown Dwarf as he stood proudly in his polished plate mail and purple cloak lined with white fur. A small scar ran across his right eye, a sign of a long series of conflicts both in the coliseum and upon the battlefield at the head of his group of heavy cavalry. His fearsome and stern appearance was a misleading first impression, the façade broken as his face split into a wide grin when he saw his wife and children in the front row; his daughter scattering rose petals upon the ground before his chariot while his son waved a wooden sword boisterously, and his wave of greeting was returned by his family and the friends who were gathered around them.
The three combatants were driven to the very centre of the arena, the chariots turned to face the two Kings as they sat resplendent upon their thrones of gold, and dismounted amid the cheering as the charioteers brought their vehicles about to head towards the remaining three sides. The chosen weapons of the three warriors were placed upon the ground at their appointed position and the chariots were withdrawn, all eyes once more upon the silent combatants. The Kings of Charad stood as one, causing a great silence to fall across the coliseum as all waited for the traditional signal, and raised their right arms in salute.
“May honour be brought to this arena! Let the Gods know our worth!”
“We shall not fail!” the three warriors returned, though Marcellus spoke the words in his regional dialect, and they raised their arms to cross over their hearts before raising them high to return the salute. The cheers reached a rapid and deafening crescendo as the combat was started, by a wave of the serpent-headed sceptres held by each of the Kings, and the three warriors ran to their weapons.
Marcellus was the first to reach his cache, slinging his small, square shield of rough-hewn timber across his back and snatching up the first of his two javelins, his brown eyes surveying his opponents in search of a weakness. Though Antonio was the shorter of his opponents, and also the less intimidating when weighed against the fearsome Lucius, it was this appearance of placidity and calm order that persuaded Marcellus to strike against his Northern counterpart rather than the professional soldier. A heavy mace and a jagged-edged sword held within his arms, a roared challenge upon his lips, Lucius, nicknamed “The Tiger” for his ferocity and brute strength in combat, was halfway across the arena in pursuit of the crouching figure of Antonio when the javelin struck, the point passing cleanly through his left thigh and sending a thick spray of warm blood to stain the golden sand. Stumbling from the impact, the heavy weapon throwing him to the side before he could complete his stride, Lucius roared in pain and anger, turning his blue eyes upon the assailant. Using his sword to break the shaft of the javelin, he pulled the bloody weapon free with a snarl before rising from the sand to run towards his foe. The second javelin made contact against his right shoulder, passing through the bulging muscle and fuelling the warrior’s rage. The gap closed and Marcellus barely managed to bring his shield before him in time to absorb the colossal impact from the mace. Shards and splinters flew from the wooden defence, and the smaller of the Champions was thankful that he was forced backwards, as the sword was thrust into the air where he had been standing only moments before. His heel caught a rock as he retreated, sending him sprawling as the barbarian-like warrior continued to advance with rage burning in his eyes, and Galleus barely regained a defensive stance as the sword was brought crashing down upon the shield, the mace coming across his body and making heavy impact with his left elbow. The strike was accompanied by a sickening crunch, and bolts of pain shot across his arm and ribs as he watched the shield drop from his crippled hand.
Fear showing in his eyes as he saw the uncontrollable intentions of Lucius, the slender warrior ran to his cache to pick up his last weapon, a trident over a metre in length. His left arm hanging limp and lifeless at his side, Marcellus forced himself to focus through the pain as he watched his deadly opponent charge towards him, both weapons brought out to the juggernaut’s sides in readiness for a final, deadly assault. Now Antonio started his own time of participation by sending his own javelin
hurtling towards The Tiger as he ran to prevent a kill, the weapon passing just inches from the North-born Champion’s head and causing him to pause just beyond the range of the raised trident.
“I will not be part of a fight remembered for the cold murder of a participant!” the soldier bellowed at Lucius, his own weapon held in his hand as he closed to striking distance. This weapon, a large yet finely balanced sword with a lion-head pommel and silver wings and guard forming the hilt, cut across the wild path of The Tiger’s own blade and sent the arm across to hinder the swing of the mace, Antonio using the force of the swing to help shift his body across and behind his opponent.
Standing only upon his toes, his heels slightly raised and his weight balanced, the Champion from the Kelinan region was able to lunge through his opponent’s defence as Lucius turned to face him, the flat of his blade brought sharply upwards to strike against the fingers that held the sword as he kicked out for the Northern Champion’s midriff. Dropping his weapon to clutch at his torso The Tiger swung madly with the mace, the weapon’s shorter range allowing it to be easily knocked aside before Larentius swapped hands and freed his right arm to grip the wrist of the hand that held the heavy bludgeon. Dipping his left shoulder as he dived in the professional soldier sent his opponent to the ground, twisting the held arm as he did so to force the mace to be dropped, ignoring the grunt of shock and the cry of pain his actions conjured. Continuing to apply pressure upon the joints of The Tiger’s arm, bringing his foot down upon his opponent’s exposed throat to prevent him from trying to counter the attack, Antonio commanded him to yield. With an angry and resigned nod Lucius conceded, though the officials overseeing the combat signalled for a pair of sentries to intrude and ensure that there was no foul play. Releasing his grip upon the twisted arm Larentius now turned to face Marcellus, but the South-born Champion knew he was too injured to continue, using his trident as an aid to rise while he hoarsely called out his surrender of the fight. The spectators, who had watched the participation of the Kelinan Champion in awed silence, now roared the praise of his victory, the honour and prestige heightened by his efforts to save Galleus from death at the hands of the outraged Lucius. It remained only a formality for the officials to present him with the crown of golden leaves that was the symbol of a Champion of Champions, though few heard the words that accompanied the award over the spectators as they all shouted his name.