by J. S. Morin
That set off a general panic among the rest of the horses, beasts intelligent enough to realize there was something horrifically wrong. Anzik silenced the rest of them as well, and his head swam as the vast wave of aether crashed down over his senses. He stumbled to the nearest empty-Sourced horse and refilled it, easing the pain of too much stored aether. Each horse he fixed made him feel a bit better, both in eased pain and eased worry.
With the ruckus he had caused, it was too much for Anzik to have hoped that he had not drawn attention. Behind him, he saw a small human Source approaching the stable: the stable boy.
“Hey now. What’s wrong in there?” the lad called out as he approached. “Skunk got inside with ya or somethin’?”
The horses were all quiet and gathering themselves up on their feet again, but the boy had heard too much already. Anzik’s eyes turned toward the stable door, waiting for the boy’s image in the aether to merge with the light, to see him as a person rather than just a Source.
He was a boy about Anzik’s own age, perhaps a summer or two older, but bigger and with the healthy look of a lad raised in fresh air.
“Hey! What are you doing in here, scaring my horses?” the boy demanded.
I am sorry. I will go. Please do not tell anyone I was here. Anzik meant to say it aloud, but the words only echoed in his own head. His tongue felt like a sack of flour in his mouth, limp and heavy.
“I asked you a question, kid. What you doin’ in here with my horses?” the stable boy persisted, approaching threateningly.
Anzik held the Staff of Gehlen clutched close to his body, but it did not seem like much of a weapon in Anzik’s hands, scrawny as he was.
Nothing! I did not kill them! They are fine, see? Anzik’s eyes widened as the stable boy was not accepting either his apology or his excuses. He took a step backward. Please leave me alone. Please!
“Fine, then. Looks like I get to pound ya.”
They were the stable boy’s last words. When Anzik fled the stable, he left his would-be assailant standing mutely, staring at one of the horses, slowly leaking unhealthy aether.
* * * * * * * *
“Curse you, Jinzan!” Narsicann scolded, a rarity in open Council. “You should have told us as soon as it went missing.”
“I had hoped that I would be able to retrieve it discreetly before it became an issue requiring the Council’s attention,” Jinzan responded defensively.
“How long has the boy been gone?” Kaynnyn asked, sounding concerned. “I cannot imagine Anzik on his own in Zorren.”
“Nor could I, until now. I am finding myself impressed with his resourcefulness, despite the inconvenience he is causing,” Jinzan admitted.
Anzik had always been possessed of more promise than usefulness. He has a Source that burns like a little bonfire and a draw many adult sorcerers would envy. He casts nearly all his spells in his head and sees aether as clear as daylight. If the latter had not driven him to the edge of madness as a young child, he might have become a warlock one day. Jinzan still held out hope for his son, despite all practical evidence that he was a lost cause, but it was not his job as a father to give up on Anzik.
“What if someone has already taken him?” Narsicann asked. “Did you think of that when you decided not to enlist help looking for him?”
“No, but I remembered his pet dog.” There were uncomfortable looks shared about the table. They all knew that the boy had dabbled in necromancy recently. “I preferred to send folk he knew and would recognize. He is young and naive, more so than even most boys his age. He might be taken by treachery, but I would like to think that if there had been brute force involved, we would have felt the aether rock under the force of him using that staff to defend himself.”
“Not all of us notice such things, Jinzan,” Varduk commented somberly, trying to diffuse a potential argument to get the conversation back on course.
“If he truly tried to use it to its fullest extent, you might,” Jinzan said. He had felt the awesome power when he had transferred himself halfway across Koriah after the Battle of Raynesdark, using the staff’s draw to give him the aether he needed.
“If they have been turned to undead puppets, so be it. That staff needs finding. We will be cautious and they will bring no harm to the boy, but we cannot let it wander loose in the city,” Narsicann ordered, looking over his shoulder to see that one of his assistants nod to him in understanding and hasten off to carry out his command.
“Now that we have something being done about that missing staff, I thought of another question for you, Narsicann,” Feron piped up cheerily, trying to lighten the dour, contentious mood that was threatening to cast a pall over the remainder of the meeting.
“Yes?”
“You mentioned that you had lost men in Kadris. Does that mean we have none now, or are there still assets we can avail ourselves of?” Feron asked. “I have this idea, you see—”
“The ones left are untethered,” Narsicann interrupted. “They have general orders, but do not report back on any schedule, and are left to their own resources. It is safer for them if they do not have our people trying to contact them. As such, I have no count of exactly how many are left, or where they are now, but they are men and women I trust completely and whose loyalty I do not question. Save your suggestion for when we have new recruits to send in; I will not try contacting any of our current spies in Kadris.”
“Ooh, up to anything mischievous?” Feron grinned. Jinzan was spared the council's scorn as it turned to Feron and his insipid questions.
“Since word could not reach Kadris in time, I suppose there is no harm in revealing that there is a plan in place to coincide with the first day of springtime,” Narsicann relented, trying to placate the simpering fool of an interior minister. Feron was brilliant in his own work, but he was so bothersome at Council. Everyone just wanted him to shut up so they could finish.
“Something for a wedding, perhaps?” Feron pressed.
With no further business requiring attention, a quick glance among the other four members ended the High Council’s session by mutual agreement, leaving Feron’s question unanswered as they got up simultaneously and left. A few chuckles from the outskirts of the room followed their departure, many from Feron’s own underlings.
* * * * * * * *
“How long will it take us to get there?” Though he looked like a trader from Gar-Danel, he spoke with Faolen Sarmon’s voice. He sat up front in the wagon, next to the driver. A team of four horses—fine, strong animals, native to western Megrenn—pulled them along.
“Three days, at this rate,” replied a man who sounded—but did not look like—Aelon Beff. Faolen’s magic was making them appear as foreigners so that they did not attract undue attention as they trekked northward to Megrenn territory. The wagon, the horses, and the clothes they wore were taken from actual Gar-Danel traders that had the misfortune of being in Kadrin at the time Aelon had been assigned by the warlock to find them a cover story. The goods they carried in trade were plundered from the Song of Night, which Faolen’s magic had fooled into plowing into a sandbar.
“So many people on the road. You would never think that we were on the very threshold of war,” Faolen commented. Kadrin citizens streamed southward, seeking safety in the heartlands. Megrenn and other foreigners ambled alongside Faolen and his companions on their way north, to Anywhere-But-Kadrin, the continent’s most popular place for anyone not of Kadrin blood.
“Dunno ’bout that,” Jodoul’s voice came from the back of the wagon, where he and Tod diced as best they could on the bumpy road. “Folk know what’s good fer ’em. War ain’t it.”
“Yeah. It’s like them huntin’ dogs what can smell fear, ’cept in reverse,” Tod observed sagely.
Faolen furrowed the brow of his borrowed face, unable to follow the analogy as it was spoken, but understanding what Tod probably meant.
“So once we got that staff, then what?” Jodoul asked.
“I do not
expect to have that question troubling us for some time yet,” Faolen replied. “Like as not, it is either under lock and ward, or in the hands of that sorcerer who stole it in the first place. The opportunity to gain it may take some time in the arranging.”
“Or we might just all die tryin’,” Aelon suggested, keeping an open mind about their options.
“In the meantime, we will worm our way into their confidences however we can manage. If we cannot make a play for the staff immediately, we can find other ways to disrupt them and divert them,” Faolen continued.
I travel with three who barely speak Megrenn, and speak it with a Kadrin accent, not a Gar-Danel one, Faolen thought. I must remember that they are the expendable ones here—my cover. I must retrieve the staff and bring it safely back to Warlock Rashan. Barring that, I must see it destroyed. I will save their lives if I might, but I must not risk my mission by it.
Faolen looked to Aelon and the two rough scamps that gambled in the back of the wagon. He did not dislike them or anything …
Chapter 10 - First Strike
The ground rumbled as they advanced, beating a slow, irregular rhythm. Iron plates as thick as a man’s thumb rang against one another, covering the enormous beasts they protected like insect shells. Perched atop his walking mountain of flesh and iron, General Hellmock peered through the tube of the farseeing lens, and tried to confirm his scouts’ reports.
The High Council had ordered a coordinated assault to begin on the first day of springtime, but they had not been privy to the reports he had been given. Kadrin forces were marching to reinforce Temble Hill, his intended target for the invasion’s first strike. The city was reported to be nearly deserted, with the peasants fleeing to the interior of the Empire with whatever they could carry. They were staffed with their normal garrison and the city would normally be fine to hold off a siege for a few days until help arrived. That was why they sent the monohorn cavalry.
Three hundred monstrosities lumbered along under Hellmock’s command, the largest such force in the Megrenn Alliance. Ten thousand infantry supported them, with regiments from most of the kingdoms of the alliance represented. Two thousand archers were along as well, but they would play a larger role in holding the city once it was taken. Hellmock’s army did not have any siege weapons in the traditional sense—not even any of Councilor Jinzan’s new weapons, which Hellmock quite admired—but the monohorns had provisions that rendered those optional.
With the prospect of facing a larger force if he delayed, Hellmock took it upon himself to order the attack a day early.
* * * * * * * *
On the walls, spotters had been watching the approaching Megrenn force uneasily. Temble Hill had prepared its soldiers to be ready to defend the Empire, as they were on the front lines of its defense, but drilling in the practice yard with spears and shooting arrows into hay bales was unlike the prospect of facing a charge by monohorn cavalry.
“They are getting close. This looks like the real thing,” Colonel Polarch called out to the archers along the battlements. “They would not risk entering our range if they did not intend to continue forward. Bows to the ready, men. Await my command.”
All along the walls, soldiers and knights ended what respites they had been taking and got to their feet. There were four hundred of them left in the city. The rest had gone south to escort the peasantry to Munne, which was better prepared to withstand Megrenn’s army. Once they had seen the peasants safely removed, they had been told to turn north and head back to Temble Hill. If all was going to plan, their return was what had prompted the Megrenn to attack early.
* * * * * * * *
“Looks like many of the ones up on the wall are knights, sir.” Lieutenant Carva handed the farseeing lens back to the general. “Maybe close to half.”
“They must see us with monohorns and know that the fighting will be within the city gates soon, no matter how many archers they put up there. The knights just want a better view in the meantime,” General Hellmock said.
The monohorns were armored to stop ballistae, so arrows were nothing to them; even the eyes of their ponderous helms were shielded with mesh cages too tight for an arrow to slip through. The creatures did not see especially well to begin with, so the obstructed view was no great loss.
Carva and Hellmock watched as a crew worked with a mobile crane to lift a great battering ram onto the yolks of two pair of monohorns. The device was the closest they came to a proper siege engine and they brought but one with them. That one was more than enough, according to the logistics officers who had to manage the massive, unwieldy weapon. Four docile monohorns stood by as two dozen infantrymen swarmed about them, the footings of a small construction site. The caged eyes of the monohorn helms had solid cups that could be raised and lowered to blind the creatures completely. So long as they went uninjured, being blind caused them to freeze in place; aeons of evolution had made them instinctively fearful of loose footing and not seeing where they were walking. It made the work safer if the beasts kept still.
Once the ram was in place, Hellmock ordered the advance. The monohorns with the ram took the fore, and the bulk of the heavy cavalry followed a short distance behind. Monohorns were not swift beasts, but they could work up to a brisk pace with enough room. They were also not agile beasts, being somewhat more nimble than turtles—elderly turtles at the least. However, what they lacked in speed was more than compensated for in their titanic strength and near imperviousness to most weapons. They carried hundreds of gallons of armor on their backs, and riders as well, without showing the least burden. Strip the armor off and their hides could still turn aside many sword blows. The four with the ram were larger than average specimens and barely slowed by a ram that must have weighed a thousand gallons.
The Kadrins did not even bother them with many arrows as they closed the distance to the gates.
* * * * * * * *
“Off the wall. We’re done,” Colonel Polarch ordered. “Light the ropes and mount up. Get to the south gate. Your lives depend upon it.” The colonel then followed his own advice and slid down a ladder to ground level.
All around him, men were untethering horses that had been set waiting for them in the streets. There were enough for every man to make his escape if they hurried. The Megrenn force was hurrying to arrive in the city before Kadrin reinforcements could get there, and had not taken the time to surround the city with even a token force prior to attacking. Marshal Brannis’s plan had counted on that.
On the wall and in the city just inside it, catapults filled with fist-sized rocks stood ready to be fired. They had all been rigged with oil-soaked ropes and piled with kindling. When the long length of rope finally burned through, the catapults would fire and then be set afire. The rocks would slow the monohorn charge and might incidentally kill a few if they lost their footing at a full run.
As he mounted his white mare, Colonel Polarch looked to the city gate. The runes that normally reinforced it had been scratched to ruins, leaving the gate nothing but a thick wooden barricade. It would stand against the Megrenn ram as well as a wicker basket might against a smith’s hammer. Though it would cost him his life to stay, the colonel wished he could be there when the monohorns crashed through that gate …
… and into the massive pit dug just beyond it.
Colonel Polarch spurred his mount, and galloped for the southern gate, near the rear of the organized retreat. He grinned wickedly when he heard the crash of splintered wood and the great bellowing screams of the monohorns. By nightfall, his force would meet with the “reinforcements” coming up the road toward them, and they would all make for Munne to make a stand in earnest.
Chapter 11 - The First of Springtime
Iridan plodded down the halls to the practice yard. He knew that this being his wedding day would offer no reprieve from his warlock training—he had asked. The world seemed a bit fuzzy, but he hurt less than he had before a half bottle of wine had eased his searing headache and made the so
reness in his shoulders and hips—a remembrance of the previous day’s beatings—easier to ignore.
He squinted his eyes, and blinked hard against the intrusion of bright daylight as the sun shone low in the sky when he exited the palace. He saw his father and his opponents for the morning waiting for him, as well as more curious onlookers than were usually permitted to watch his training. Jafin and Moln had been replaced days ago as his antagonists; he had gotten the better of them a few times too many for Rashan’s liking. The new boys were almost fully trained, carrying the title of squire officially. Bairn and Kolm were their names and Iridan had taken an instant dislike to them.
“Morning, little warlock,” Kolm called out to him. He stood more than a full head taller than Iridan and was close to Brannis’s size, though he had not finished filling out his body with muscle the way Brannis had.
“We won’t be having it easy on you. No weddings going on in the yard,” Bairn added. Bairn lacked the size and reach of Kolm, but he was the stronger fighter of the two. “We’ll keep from bruising the important bits, though, eh?” He turned and winked to Kolm.
Braggarts. If Rashan was not here to protect you, I could turn you to ash and you know it.
Ever since the two of them had taken over his arms practice, Iridan had been limping his way to bed each night. Unlike with the younger boys, Iridan could not wait for these two to make mistakes; they did not make any that he could notice. Rashan had picked from among the best at the School of Arms. Iridan wondered whether he would begin facing veteran soldiers if he survived long enough to beat these two. With the beatings he had suffered at their hands, though, he wondered if he would make it.
“Enough talk. Arm yourselves and get to work,” Rashan snapped. Iridan had noticed that the warlock spoke differently depending on his audience. Privately he was friendly, thoughtful, and soft-spoken. Around the Inner Circle, he was an orator, projecting confidence and weaving tapestries of logic and rhetoric. Among lesser underlings, especially soldiers, he was short-tempered, all business, even rude.