With Footfalls of Shadow

by Donogan Sawyer

  Viebke laughed warmly, “The thought does tickle me.”

  “So how went the Chamber Session, sister?”

  “It went quite well. They all seemed very excited at the prospect of the arena war. Most of them are happy with Arconus, and do not want any surprises, but I convinced them to support the victor, either way. They agreed they should seek as much stability as possible once the conflict is over.”

  “Once again, Mr Chairman, an excellent job.”

  “Thank you, dear,” answered Viebke, and took another sip of her tea.

  “Tell me,” Bianka said, “are you certain about summoning Maurious as the Ta’raa guide?”

  “It would hardly be appropriate for Argus to fill the role, sister. He is currently fighting for the other side.”

  “Yes, but it was Argus who trained Foster as Sha’grath, and you know he can be quite resourceful when it comes to gaining access to the palace.”

  “My mind is made up, Bianka. I believe it must be Maurious. I have spent many hours meditating on this. I believe he has the right spirit to guide the Hundred Years’ King.”

  “I agree he is a good man with a good spirit, but Argus’s views are more in line with our own.”

  “Do not forget that Lyra is a sister. She will be there to ensure that our interests are protected.”

  “That is my point, sister,” Bianka retorted. “Lyra cannot be trusted.”

  “I will not argue that the girl has a mind of her own, but her heart is strong and kind. It was her kindness that led to her defiance of you.”

  “She let escape all the girls who we were considering to replace the Oracle. If the Oracle had not recovered from her fever, we could never have conducted the transference, and we would have been set back millennia.”

  “Oh, I do not think so, sister,” replied Viebke. “I think we put too much store in that ritual. I think we often put too much store in our own importance. We have a role to play, but the fates will be fine without us.”

  “I understand your views, Viebke, but that is the kind of attitude that young minds such as Lyra’s are not mature enough to handle.”

  “You still blame me as much as Lyra for the incident, don’t you? It was twenty years ago, sister. Can we not move on?”

  Bianka collected herself. “I have moved on. I merely bring up the point now to persuade you that Argus may be the better choice as the Ta’raa guide.”

  “Bianka,” she answered tersely, “you are second eldest. You are in charge of finding the new Oracle. I am the eldest. Once the new Oracle is chosen, she is my responsibility. It is also my responsibility to choose the Ta’raa guide. Should you one day become the eldest, these duties will fall to you. As it is, you will just have to accept my decision. Should Liam Foster prevail in the arena, we will summon Maurious.”

  “Of course, sister,” she said, idly pushing a stone around with her foot. She gave it a soft kick and watched it tumble down the mountain. It gained speed as it fell, bouncing violently off of the rock wall a few times before falling out of sight over a lower ledge.

  “Of course,” she repeated. “You are the eldest.”

  ~Æ~

  The dawn of the first day of battle broke, and Theron sent five hundred of his best men into the arena. He intended to make a statement. He held many of his elite in reserve, but he had put together a strong contingent to test Foster’s capacity and to make an intimidating introduction as to what lay ahead. The King had not yet arrived at Sarhani. He would be there in another two or three days. The soldiers eagerly climbed the slope up to the arena and diligently followed orders to spread out across the back of the grounds. They were well-trained and well-armed, and Theron hoped they would dominate the battle to a point where Foster’s army would surrender before the King’s arrival. This was a proud day. This was the first day of battle in the Foster Rebellion. General Theron felt certain that by the end of the war he would have solidified his position in history, and earned himself a place of honour in the King’s council.

  As the last of the men filed into position, Theron thought again that Arconus had made a good decision to conduct the war in this manner. Such grand theatre, not seen in thousands of years, would inspire the nation. Word of the battles fought here would be recounted in every tavern in Jeandania. Songs would be sung for generations about the fair chance the King gave to the undeserving rebel.

  Not a quarter of an hour had passed before the pedestrian gates of the city opened and men began filing out. Liam was at the head of the line; followed by the Ganta, the Talon and General Riley. He would dearly love to see the popular general fall, the general who had ascended the ranks of the army faster than he. Pity he had escaped them at Jayden, but his alliance with Foster now fed into their hands. Of course, the rebel general would fall in league with the rebel Foster.

  A few hundred men with shields and decent weapons followed. Some had tattoos on their faces, and then he saw something he never expected. Women started filing out as well, each one pushing a small catapult in front of her. Most of the women had shields and swords on their belts. This would be a short war indeed if they were already forced to use their women in battle.

  Theron’s men talked to each other, quite bemused that they might be fighting women on the first day. They erupted in laughter when one of the women tripped, falling to the ground and spilling the contents of her ammunition bag on the ground. She calmly stood up, righted her catapult, and replaced her ammunition back in the pack, stopping only once, apparently having cut her finger on one of the projectiles. What an odd first salvo this would be.

  When all of Foster’s soldiers were in place; the women in front with the catapults, the men behind; Foster tapped his sword on the ground three times slowly. It seemed a fair indication that they were ready, and Theron gave the signal for the horn.

  His men started ahead gingerly, cautious in this unfamiliar setting, but the blood lust caught up to a few of them, and they began to howl, then charge full speed at Foster’s army. This excited the rest, and Arconus’s army was on the attack. Foster stood patiently waiting, Theron knew, until they were spread out well enough for the catapults to have maximum effect. Theron was impressed with the discipline of the women. With an army charging at them, waving swords and howling, not one catapult fired prematurely.

  “Fire,” came the order from Foster, followed shortly by, “Fall back. Now fall back behind us. Fall back.”

  The catapults were small, and could not be heard over the din of soldiers, but a dark haze of projectiles filled the air above the King’s army for a moment, many of them pausing to look up. The weapons appeared to be nothing more than stones. The full complement of ammunition rained down on the men, but no one fell. In fact, examining the damage inflicted upon them, the soldiers started laughing at their pathetic enemy. Then they charged again.

  A few made it to the front line of Foster’s army, and were cut down easily, but the rest started slowing down. The shouts died away, and Theron heard one scream, and then another. Suddenly it seemed his entire army was falling over, howling in pain. A few stood, apparently unharmed by the catapults’ payload, but were reluctant to continue fighting while the rest of their army lay writhing on the arena floor.

  “What has happened?” Theron asked the captain nearest him.

  “I don’t know sir,” he answered. “Witchcraft?”

  A soldier came up to him carrying a bowl. He lifted it up to the general. In it was a stone wrapped in thorns. “This is what they threw at us, sir.”

  “Poison,” Theron realised.

  “They all seem to be holding their crotches, sir. What kind of poison could do that?”

  “The kind that would only affect a man, captain. Raise the flag. The day is lost.”

  A great cheer erupted from Foster’s soldiers and those watching from the palace walls.

  ~Æ~

  Liam stood atop the gates with Brandi and his core of advisors nearby, watching as Arconus’s army dragged away the
ir dead. They could still hear the screams of some of the survivors.

  “We won the day,” said Blade to Liam, looking down over the wall. “That was a nasty potion, Maurious.”

  “Yes, it was cruel. It galls me to use it. I’m a healer, not a killer. Most of the men will die from the poison. A few will survive, but will be crippled for life.”

  “War is galling, son,” said Verkleet. “No matter the weapon, men will suffer. In war the goal is to make the enemy suffer more than you.”

  “We did not lose a single man today,” offered Riley.

  “Or woman,” noted Lyra.

  “Thank the gods for that,” said Liam. “I hope I never have to send women into battle again.”

  “I thought we did just fine,” said Brandi.

  Liam put an arm around her. “You were brilliant, my dear, just brilliant. It was just very difficult to see you out there in danger.”

  Brandi punched him playfully in the chest. “Okay, you had to suffer watching Lyra and I on the front lines today. We have to watch you risk your life every day until you win or die. Now at least you have a taste of how we’ll feel for the remainder of this war.”

  Liam had never considered that point of view. “Well, Brandi, if you ever feel the way I felt today, then I’m sorry. It just galls my sense of honour to have women fighting for us.”

  “But we won,” Lyra reminded them.

  “Indeed you did,” said Liam. “Well done, both of you, and all of your lady soldiers.”

  “We demoralised them,” said Riley, “and tales of the poison jacks will reach the ears of all who come next.”

  “It should give us a small advantage,” agreed Liam. “But we have almost used up our entire supply, and they have sent out teams to sweep up the grounds. They will have the area cleared in a few hours.”

  “Liam,” Riley said earnestly, “we killed over three hundred of Theron’s army today, and we haven’t lost a single man. It has been a long time since I have known a victory without losing any of my men. Today was a great day.”

  Liam smiled. “Of course you are right, general. Today was a great day. Now we must get some rest. Tomorrow we will be out there fighting.”

  ~Æ~

  Maurious walked into his father’s quarters. It was late and Verkleet was sitting on the floor in a corner, reading by candlelight.

  “You know father, there is a perfectly comfortable chair you can sit on over there,” he said.

  “Oh, yes I know,” Verkleet answered. “But it is too perfectly comfortable. I fall asleep almost immediately when I sit there. And besides, I have been reading like this for the last twenty-seven years. I don’t know how to do it another way.”

  “I’ve missed you, father,” Maurious said softly.

  “And I you, my son.”

  “Why have you been so long in hiding, father?”

  “Who said I’ve been in hiding? I just ran out of things to do for a while, that’s all,” he replied. “This is much more fun, though, don’t you think?” He laughed.

  Maurious laughed along with him. “Yes, I suppose it is,” he answered, and realised that he was right. The danger and risk were no less clear to him, but he also had hope. He recognised at that moment that he had not felt so alive in years. His father always had a way of reducing things to their most basic, important core.

  “You know, father, I believe I have something that belongs to you,” he said reaching into his pocket and pulling out the Æhlman Message Box.

  “I see,” said Verkleet. “So you are now a part of this too, son.”

  “It would appear so.”

  “But do you not see what is wrong?”

  Maurious thought through his answer. He had studied the box, and was able to develop a vague sense of the message it contained. He searched his thoughts, and allowed the vibrations of the box to run through him, and suddenly he understood.

  “Although this box is meant for you to have, it is not mine to give,” he said.

  Verkleet nodded softly.

  “Who is this man I see?” asked Maurious. “I think he is coming here now. I sense he is bringing danger.”

  “Oh, yes, my son,” answered Verkleet, encouraging him to continue.

  “This man brings with him an army, and ...” Maurious caught his breath.

  “Yes, my son. I believe what you see is correct.”

  “Oh, father, no,” Maurious protested. “Is this the purpose of the box?”

  “Perhaps, son, in part.”

  ~Æ~

  There was a knock on Filos’s door.

  “Come in, it is open,” he called.

  The door opened and a huge figure filled the doorway. Filos was startled at first, so unaccustomed to seeing anything else rivalling his size. Then he was shocked to see his older brother’s head duck through the doorway. He stood up and walked over to embrace him.

  “Stenos, brother. It is truly good to see you,” he said, in the Ganta language.

  Stenos held his embrace for a moment and finally released him. “And you, brother. I had forgotten how truly ugly you are.”

  “I feel for you, Stenos, because though I am indeed an ugly, I was always the prettier brother.”

  Stenos laughed heartily, and clapped his brother on the back.

  “Well,” said Filos, walking to the ale barrel he kept in his room, borrowed from the King’s carriage, “I look forward to hearing about all the news from home, but I must first ask, what brings you here?”

  Stenos accepted his tankard, and answered, “We have come to fight.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, brother. The witch managed to persuade about a hundred-and-twenty of us to come.”

  “That is incredible. A sister came across the northern desert to recruit you for this war?”

  “Yes, three actually. The one who spoke was fairly convincing, but even more convincing was the voice of our father.”

  “Then it is indeed true. She is a Death Walker. I was fairly certain already. Dear gods, what did father say?”

  Stenos smiled at his brother. “He told us all how proud he was of you, and that you would be here in Sarhani fighting for Liam Foster. He said he knew the affairs of the short-lived do not generally concern the Ganta, but that if we let dictators like Arconus rule without resistance, their troubles will eventually become our troubles. More importantly, though, he spoke of his, and your belief in this Liam. Tell me, Filos, truly.”

  Filos thought for a moment. “In his heart, he is Ganta. He does not yearn for the throne, only that Jeandania be at peace. His power comes from the love of the people, not from his ability to control them. Verkleet told me a story that I think sums up the man. When Liam was in prison, awaiting trial, he ended up in a cell with a Walvaai named Verkleet. Now, to Liam, Verkleet was just a crazy old man but Liam was kind to him, sharing his food and treating him with respect. In one of their conversations, Verkleet asked him why he was following this path, and he answered because his daughter deserved a father who would do the right thing for Jeandania.”

  “Is that a tear in your eye, you ugly old sot?” Filos asked his brother.

  “No,” Stenos said, wiping the moisture away. “It’s spit from your slobbering mouth, you big cow.”

  Filos put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Brother, if ever there was a man fit to wear the crown, it is this man.”

  Stenos nodded slowly. “This is what I hoped you would say. Now I am convinced. We will fight with you, but only for one day.”

  Filos looked at his brother askance. “One day?”

  “Call it a bargain, brother. The witch ...”

  “Please call her by her name, Brandi.”

  “Of course. Brandi told us that we would be most useful if we only fought when needed, and kept the enemy unaware of our presence until that moment of greatest need.”

  “There is sense in that.”

  “The strategy also helped in the recruiting. I would have been here regardless, but there were f
ew who would have come to fight a war of undetermined length with undetermined outcome. To say we are coming to fight for a good cause among the short-lived for one day was a much more palatable proposition.”

  “Well, brother, I am glad you are here. Now, please sit. Let’s trade stories for an hour or two,” he said, pouring another ale for each of them. “Did you not meet with some resistance on your way here? I’m sure you were very stealthy, but surely one-hundred-and-twenty Ganta could not go unnoticed.”

  “Oh, we were noticed a few times,” his brother answered casually. “It was never a problem.”

  Filos thought for a moment. “No, of course not. How’s mother?”

  ~Æ~

  On the dawn of the second day; with General Riley, Blade, Filos and Darryck at his side, and the remainder of his five hundred men behind him, Liam again took to the arena. In the next quarter of an hour, five hundred of Theron’s army emerged. Liam could tell that they were mainly conscripts, poorly prepared and carrying poor weapons. Once all were assembled, the bell rang. Today, perhaps because of the previous day’s surprise attack, there were no charges or war cries. Liam and his men marched confidently to the centre of the arena. The opposing army halted its advance twenty feet from Liam, and he realised they were all staring at him. Liam had seen legends fight before, and now he realised that he was one. As Maurious has reminded him, he was now Liam Foster, the Sha’grath, The One Who Could Not Be Killed, The King Hunter, The Wind Wielding Sword. The King’s army formed a spontaneous semi-circle around Liam, inspiring an idle fantasy in him, which he used to taunt his opponents. “I suppose if no one wants to fight, that makes us the winners.”

  ~Æ~

  Douglass McDreally was trying to appear brave in front of his little brother, Francis. Douglass was a big man, but had never been in battle before. Francis was even bigger than he. But Francis’s mind had always been a bit slow and Douglass was afraid he would not survive the day. Douglass had always looked after his brother, and in return, Francis idolised him. The two of them had been conscripted from their father’s farm a few weeks earlier to stunt the Foster Rebellion. For all Douglass knew, Foster would have been as good a king, if not better, than Arconus; and Douglass would certainly have preferred to let Foster and Arconus sort it out between themselves, but they had been offered a choice. They could either fight for Arconus for 50 Lucre per month, or they could hang. Francis had been brave while the soldiers made their offer, but only because he did not quite understand what they were saying. Later that evening, after Douglass had explained things to him, Francis had cried. Douglass had done what he could to comfort his brother, telling him how he could become a hero, and have songs sung about him for generations to come. Since then, Francis had seemed to have accepted their situation. Now they were standing twenty feet from Liam Foster.