Desperate Times (Fate of Periand Book 1)

by Ben Marshall

  ***

  It was already the onset of a warm and pleasant evening by the time Antonio managed to extricate himself from the coliseum, his path having been barred for several hours by the celebrating spectators, and the fear of an attack by Lucius Tigris attempting to avenge his defeat. Now the wide streets were all deserted as the Champion of Champions slowly walked upon the smooth paving, the silence broken only by the sounds of birds and his own breathing. He had no warning of the warriors watching from the alleys either side of the road he was travelling upon, was unaware of the inaudible signals they were sending each other before a gruff voice spoke out behind him.

  “Antonio Gaius Larentius, Commander of the Kings’ Cavalry?”

  “Who is asking?”

  “Gallows, Mighty Gladiator, and I have been sent to escort ye to a vital meeting to be held within the Fire Elven realm of Pathos,” the Dwarf replied, stepping into the light from the hanging torches that lined both sides of the city’s central road as it ran from East to West.

  “And why do you seek me over the diplomats of my people?” Suspicion was heavily present in the question, the soldier’s hand reaching for his sword in expectation of an attack.

  “Ye see that I carry a weapon with which I could fight ye, yet instead I keep me hands free of me axe and do not wish to be forced to do battle. Me master told me to approach the winner of the tournament rather than a diplomat because the decision that ye must make at the meeting is a personal one, and only a warrior would be able to do what is required afterwards.”

  “And if I refuse to attend?”

  “Then you shall be taken by force, because our master doesn’t have the time to waste persuading you to change your mind, or for your Kings to command you to attend,” spoke a second voice as two figures stepped from the shadows to surround the warrior of Charad. Of these two newcomers only the speaker could be readily identified as Elven, though both moved with a grace that could only be possessed by the Elder Race, and both seemed more than capable of carrying out the spoken threat.

  “All our master wishes is for you to attend, knowing that the matter to be discussed is of vital importance to you and your nation. The decision you make at the meeting’s conclusion will either heighten the chances of success in the quest that must be completed, or shall seal the fate of your faction and, ultimately, all of Periand and the other landforms in this world,” the second Elf finished, drawing Antonio’s attention as the soldier of Charad continued to reach for his blade.

  “In that case I shall attend, but if I find that your master’s true intentions are foul I shall slay him mercilessly and my people shall bring death and destruction to your homeland.”

  “I doubt you would be successful, though the duel might provide some entertainment, but Lord Katchanga is a warrior of his word,” the first of the Elven speakers told him with a tone of utter boredom. “Now let us depart, for time is already against us.”

  The four warriors entered the alley to reach the waiting mounts, Gallows appearing to be unenthusiastic about travelling once more upon the winged horse as he jumped onto the beast’s strong back. His race were loath to ride the steeds when upon the hard earth, and both he and Brietrin had failed to enjoy the ride across the mountain ranges and the wide Lumnashae upon his previous assignment, their unease heightened by the greater peril if they should fall. None of the warriors noticed the observing figure of Lucius as he looked down upon them from the tiled roof of a nearby villa, his cloak of wolf fur drawn tightly about him as he wondered what his faceless master would make of this latest development.

  ***

  October 8th, 1190

  The past week had been filled with news both good and ill as Katchanga had made final preparations for tonight. The wind had borne upon it the news of success in Berinan and Charad, along with the promise of imminent success within Rinahuil Forest, yet each night had been steadily less favourable for the Lord of the Vale, as he kept his silent vigil over proceedings within the palace where Aithan Curith and his family dwelled. Each night, as he was now, had seen the ancient warrior don his dark cowl and leave the sanctuary offered by the small group of trees that huddled a little way inside the boundary of the royal estate, his task once more of reconnaissance and the elimination of potential problems. These problems had been many, the ongoing conflict upon Camentar’s disputed Eastern border causing heightened levels of activity from the four hundred guards, who patrolled both inside and out of the palace as it gazed over Wolanionan. Long years of experience, combined with the concealment his cowl offered in the deep shadows of night, meant that entry to the building was beguilingly simple for the Elf, but beyond that it seemed as if Fate meant to challenge him beyond the ability of most beings that walked the lands. Fear of attack had caused Aithan to keep his torches lit, forcing the shadows to retreat from much of the interior, and it had taken one of his incursions just to calculate the route by which he must pass from floor to floor, if he was to reach without incident the chamber where Enyatar slept. Here another problem was obvious; how to return bearing the burden of the young Prince. Even if Enyatar came voluntarily, it was by no means a good possibility that they would exit, because the King would not welcome the arrival of the Elf, and certainly wouldn’t tolerate any effort to remove his son from the safety of the palace, while the Berinain force continued to sweep West in the reclamation of their lands.

  Viable options were all as uncertain of success as it was possible to be, without an outright guarantee of failure, but the time for deliberation had been lost as whispered warnings of further armament by Moragil, and news of the Bastion’s vassals mobilising, had reached his ears. Bringing the cowl tight about him, his weapons sheathed so that they would not make sounds that would warn the sentries of his presence, the Lord of the Vale raised his hands in a silent plea for success on this final stage of his task and emerged from the trees. Wraith-like, his every move silent in the still night, he ran the short distance to the palace wall to hug the shadows barely before the patrols turned the corners either side of his position. His breathing was soft and shallow, any sound perceived to be just the passing of the wind as it drifted across the estate, rustling the coloured leaves as they clung desperately to the trees, and he moved only his hands to grip the edges of his concealed sai blades in case he was discovered.

  The guards didn’t linger, their human senses too weak to detect the hidden warrior, and they retraced their steps to complete their patrol of the area unaware that he moved along the shadowy wall in pursuit of the one whose path led back to the nearest entrance. Here another obstacle was to be faced; four guards charged solely with guarding the doorway from intruders. They faced both each other and the land that could look upon the entrance, covering all sides from an advancing foe. The shadows were longer upon this side of the palace, the moon having risen upon the other, but that would not help if his movements were noticed by just one of the watching guards. Under different circumstances he would have used what magic he had been endowed with in the previous Age, would have used the dark powers he had been gifted, to complete the task with ease, but such an action would cause more problems than it solved. It would reveal the continued existence of such a force to a nation and culture that had long since dismissed it as fantasy and myth. A success without resorting to such means would highlight the weaknesses in Aithan Curith’s strategies throughout the continuation of Olgerd’s conflict; would highlight the immense flaw in trusting to numerical superiority in the face of experience and familiarity with the terrain.

  His back towards the wall, his eyes gazing at the gathered guards from beneath his cowl’s hood as he slowly advanced, Katchanga brought his right hand down to brush across the dew-coated grass, the leather pad lifting slightly as an invisible force pulsed through his outstretched limb and revealed the marking of an oak tree that covered the back of his hand. The wind bore a faint whisper upon its breath as he closed his eyes, his lips forming silent words as a pale silver light shone from h
is hand. The lone conifer that stood before the doorway gave a heavy creak, like an ancient giant stretching after a long slumber, and the wind spiralled about it to cause the stunted branches to wave in what moonlight wasn’t impeded by the silhouetted palace. The silver light was extinguished without its glow having been seen by the guards, the patrolling sentry having long since turned to round the corner once more, and the ancient warrior smiled inwardly as the natural curiosity of humans took control of the guards.

  “What unnatural power set itself upon the tree and took control of the wind?” one soldier was heard to remark as he raised his halberd before him and advanced towards the conifer with his comrades, each one feeling the hairs upon their neck raise as the icy chill of fear ran across their spines. None were beside the doorway as the warrior’s dark form slid through to step once more upon the ornate floor of the palace. The light from the torches that hung along the walls and the edge of the lavish stairway cast a dim glow over much of the floor, the shadows to be found only where that glow was prevented passage by the armour and other decorations that displayed the former wealth of the nation, and Katchanga was forced on several occasions to face the full exposure of the dancing flames as he hastened to crouch beneath the stairway, sounds overhead notifying him to the suspicions of a lone guard as he descended to the entrance hall. This soldier descended slowly, his every nerve tingling as his senses were stretched to their limit in his efforts to locate the source of the shadow he had seen. No warning had come from the guards outside, though they could be heard upon the stone steps and the grass as their chain mail rattled beneath their breastplates, so no intruder seemed to have breached that line of defence, yet the shadowy figure could never have been mistaken for another guard. The Elf had been silent in his movements, as he always was, and as the human's feet stepped from the lowest of the stairs, the guard had started to convince himself that his mind had played tricks, as the wind caressed the torches within their brackets. It was only as he turned to return to the upper level that he saw the crouching figure, saw the glowing eyes of gold as Katchanga swung out from his hiding place to bring the hilt of one sai against the Camentari soldier’s temple. Darkness erupted in his mind, blinding him temporarily as he received another strike and felt the warmth of his blood as a thin trickle ran down his head, and he didn’t see the ground as he collapsed onto it. He released his hold upon the weapon as he fell, but the action had been anticipated by the Elf as he stretched out his right arm to catch the falling halberd, his body swung to stand upon the right-hand side of his opponent, as he gripped the unconscious soldier by the back of his neck. Laying the weapon down with almost complete silence he brought the soldier across his shoulder and carried him into the near total darkness beneath the stair, retrieving the halberd to place it beside its owner within the shrouding darkness. Satisfied that his actions had gone unnoticed by the others, confident his foe would not be discovered until the task was concluded, the ancient warrior ran swiftly to the uppermost level, and the passageway that led to the living quarters of Prince Enyatar.

  Entering the passageway another of Aithan Curith’s errors of judgement was seen by the silent warrior as he crept along the wall. Overconfidence in his large number of guards had caused him to leave the entirety of the passage in darkness, the patrolling guards barely able to register the moving hole of deeper black, before they were struck by the swift attacker who continued along to the furthest chamber in the row. Here at least he found a tough challenge that had been placed in his way by the fears of the King of Camentar; two heavily armed guards with both halberds and swords, standing before the twin doors that offered entry to the Prince’s private quarters. An attempt to defeat both without a fatality was impossible, the ensuing noise sufficient to wake even the heaviest of sleepers, to arouse the rest of the Palace Guards so that they could surround him, and Katchanga almost sighed as his hands closed upon two of his knives, the weapons balanced for throwing rather than wielding in melee. With a deft flick of his wrist he send the first blade skimming across the unprotected throat of his nearest adversary, the second striking the second warrior as he turned to watch his comrade fall into the pool of blood, with only gurgles able to be produced from his shattered throat. The impact of steel upon the wooden floor seemed deafening after the long silence of but a few moments ago, and every muscle of the Elf’s frame grew increasingly tense as the moments turned into minutes without the sounds of soldiers rallying to his position. After what seemed to have been an agonising eternity, even to the soldier who had lived for three millennia, he forced himself to relax and continue with his important task. Placing his hands against the iron door handles, each one crafted in the image of a recurved bow, he pushed them open with a hushed glide across the fur rug that lay across the floor. The dead eyes of the bear glinted up at him from lifeless sockets, the eyes replaced by dark gemstones that glittered in the firelight, and it was almost impossible for the Guardian of Nature to contain the nauseous feeling of revulsion. Even the tribes of Barid placed the skinned furs of dead beasts upon the ground, but they at least had the decency of removing and burying the head so that it would not see the torment fate would subject it to. Despite his desire for silence, knowing he risked everything by his actions, the warrior took one of his reclaimed knives and set about removing the head. Casting it into the fire that roared in the centre of the wall to his side, the acrid smell of burning fur tormenting his nostrils, Katchanga saw the sleeping form of the young Prince upon a low couch before it, his chest rising and falling slowly beneath the loose woollen blanket that had been draped about him. The Prince was certainly young indeed, looking to the Elf to be no more than in his early twenties, the short beard of light brown matching his wavy hair and making him appear slightly older than he must surely be. A thin scar ran across his right eye, an accident from a training duel perhaps; a sign that he still had much to learn before he would be truly proficient with his chosen weapon in times of war. A light tan could just be distinguished from the fire’s glow upon his handsome face and muscular body, but as he lay there he seemed to maintain a childish innocence that his sheltered life had not allowed him to lose as it would have been in a nation like Barid or even Valinia. Judging by the sight of his broad shoulders he was at least topless beneath the blanket, and the cool autumnal night would be most unwelcoming for him, causing the Lord of the Vale to survey the Prince’s living quarters. His eyes came to rest upon the light tunic of dark blue that rested over the back of a small chair, and he draped it over his arm as he looked for other items that would prove essential if the meeting in the Fire Elven realm went successfully. He found two short swords resting in their scabbards beside a blue shield emblazoned with a golden cockatrice, a third weapon lying upon it. This third weapon resembled a mace, though the head was separated from the shaft by a small length of thick chain, and from what experience he had of these weapons Katchanga knew it to be capable of considerable damage when wielded by a warrior truly proficient in its use.

  Gathering the weapons together, wrapping them in a blanket similar to the one that lay over Enyatar, the ancient warrior found the Prince’s chain mail and surcoat resting beneath the shield, the surcoat matching its decorations, and draped them over his other arm before heading over to the couch again. Placing the garments over the back of the furniture, pulling back his hood as he did so to reveal his golden skin and hair, the Lord of the Vale smiled as he tapped the nearest shoulder of the young Prince, crouching before him in the firelight. The grogginess in Enyatar’s face was swiftly replaced by an expression of pure shock at the appearance of this stranger, and he attempted to strike the Elf with his fist as he twisted into a sitting position. The strike was easily blocked, the ancient warrior gripping the outstretched wrist and pulling the Prince to his feet. Releasing the youth as he took a few paces back, Katchanga chuckled aloud and indicated for him to get dressed in the provided garments.

  “I wish thee no ill, Prince Enyatar, but I shall be forced to un
less thee cooperate with me tonight.”

  “What…what do you wish of me?” the youth stammered as he donned the tunic, his green eyes not leaving the face that watched him with boredom across it.