by Emery, Ben
Almost hoarse from shouting, the lieutenant met the first of his enemies: a small man confidently wielding an axe. Galarus brought up his shield and ran through him, knocked him to the sodden ground and felt his boots crush over him. Placatas was at his side, and the legionaries of the Ninth slammed into the Vahc like a hammer blow. The speed of the charge carried them forward, through two ranks of the horde, flattening men with their shields. Galarus speared a second attacker in the face, and a third rose to meet him. Still running, the lieutenant swung his shield across his body, connecting with the assailant’s jaw and sending him reeling to the ground. His spear lodged in the torso of a fourth and he drew his sword, hacking maniacally at the press of bodies around him.
With the appearance of allies, cheers erupted from what was left of the Legions, and a fresh counterattack began. The Vahc, confident in their near-victory, were forced on to the back foot, as sword and spear and mace bit into their numbers, and the grass beneath them became sticky with the blood of their own.
Galarus and his men surged forward, heading for the very centre of the battle, where the fighting was hardest and numbers thickest. The flanks of the legionaries began to reform as the Vahc began to fall back under the renewed strength of their foes. Only surrounding the General did the conflict still rage proper. With the abandonment of formation, the legionaries in the centre now fought a brawl; one on one with their Vahc counterparts.
Galarus and a handful of the Ninth managed to fight their way into the messy skirmish, and could see the General himself, valiantly fending off attackers. The horde fell about him in a chaotic maelstrom of bloody death and torment, as every one of them focused their murderous intent against the one man that was holding the Legions’ defence together. On either side of the General his men tried to keep up, defending their commander as best they could.
And then Desturum appeared. The warlord was a large man, all muscle, and carrying an enormous poleaxe. With one clean swipe he felled two of the General’s men, and clattered the broad blade off the shield of the General himself, sending him staggering to one side.
Galarus fought his way through a pair of Vahc that tried to stand against him, slicing through the neck of the first and driving his blade into the chest of the second. Finding open ground he charged at Desturum, only to be knocked easily to one side by the haft of the warlord’s poleaxe. The weapon rose into the air, and in one swift movement fell toward the downed lieutenant. In a flash, his father was stood above him, shield raised, and the blade rang off steel. The warlord swung again, but the General was ready, parrying the swipe to one side and countering with a quick riposte. Desturum slipped past it with ease, and took a step back to steady himself. Galarus scrambled to his feet and took a position at his father’s side, shield raised and sword ready.
The warlord hefted his poleaxe in his hands, and swung mightily at the officers. Galarus ducked under it, and his father met the blade with his shield once again, chopping down upon its shaft with his sword, severing the weapon’s head. Galarus, staying low, slashed his sword into Desturum’s right leg, cutting it to the bone, bringing the Vahc leader to his knees. The General met the malevolent stare of the Malign as his blade sank into the warlord’s neck, easily sliding deeper through his body. Blood bubbled upward, as all around him the Vahc crumbled.
Galarus straightened his back, blood-drenched and exhausted, at his father’s side, as the legionaries chased down the fleeing horde, slashing at the routing men as they slipped on blood and entrails. He looked around hastily for Placatas, whom he was glad to see slam a mace down into the chest of a pleading Vahc warrior. The Ninth stood proudest amongst the survivors, some of them barely able to keep on their feet for the fatigue that consumed them. More had fallen, he could tell, as those that still lived made their way toward their lieutenant.
His father wordlessly clapped a hand upon his broad shoulder, grinning through the blood and grime that coated his face. The world had changed, he thought, as he stared out over the field of bodies. And still it changed.
Chapter One
Caldoa
10 Years Later
Villanus the Fourth closed the old, cracked leather book with a sigh. It had been weeks since he had last slept properly, and the night was already nearing its end. He rubbed his heavy eyes with his thumb and forefinger and pushed his tired frame up from his desk, his bones creaking in protest, as they did more often these days. In the corner of his large room, the single torch he had been reading by cast a dim orb of light.
This was the eighth historical account of Banmer he had read in half as many weeks, and he was still no closer to finding the answers he sought. Still, they were a pleasant enough read, despite not having yielded much he did not already know.
He headed for the balcony, the velvet curtains that usually held out the light billowed toward him as he walked, almost beckoningly. There were others he could ask, that much he knew. Indeed, there were many whose heads were filled with the same unfurling mass of unanswered and unrelenting questions. He would, perhaps, write again, and more broadly, to the scholars of Meddas in the east, to see what they knew. He had only seen the archives and libraries of the Ebbal Tower once in his life, but it was a sight he would never forget. If the answers he sought could not be found amongst their laden bookshelves, almost groaning under the weight of the vast array of ledgers, books and tomes, then he would have no other option but to go straight to the source itself.
He chuckled to himself at the very thought, a smile creeping onto his lined face. That was not even close to an option. The night air was cool, and the marble of the balcony beneath his feet was colder still. Resting himself against the pillared stone balustrade he breathed deeply as he surveyed the city sprawled out below him. He was a man of average proportions, with a soft face and eyes to match. A head of dark but steadily-whitening hair was trimmed and combed neatly, the odd strands of which were blown out of place by the gentle breeze that rolled into the room. His jawline, usually clean shaven, was etched with a thin stubble he thought unbecoming of his rank. Were it not for his title, it was unlikely that he would stand out in any crowd.
He was well in to his final year as the Voice; ruler of the Allorian capital of Caldoa and leader of the Order, the powerful religious sect that had replaced the line of kings almost half a millennium ago. After a decade of a reasonably uneventful reign, and with the names of his potential successors already being whispered behind closed doors, he was eager to step down and return to the days of placid normality. Only three more weeks, he thought to himself. He might even travel to Meddas personally, once he was free of the confines of his title.
After all, there was little to keep him in Caldoa. He had exhausted much of the city’s archives, and he had never married nor fathered children. All that kept him here was the Order, and he was ready even to be rid of that. It had been his father’s wish, and family duty, that he joined the Order as a young man, and it had been his father who had secured for him the Marble Throne ten years ago. Villanus had wanted neither. He was a devout man, no one could argue otherwise, but his belief in the expansion of the religion itself had wavered. That, coupled with a second-hand experience of the politics of the Order, that concerned neither the poor nor those in need, meant that Villanus had not been aggressive in its advancement, and that suited him just fine. Still, the position had had its perks, and he was free to pursue his own intellectual interests, while the menial troubles that came with running a city were delegated to his council of five Kingmakers.
He pulled his white cloak tighter about his shoulders and shivered. Clouds obscured the moon, and only patches of sky and a handful of stars were visible. Dawn had not yet scaled the Allorian Mountains to the east, and, to the west, the plains that eventually fell into the Outer Sea were shrouded in darkness. He turned his attention instead to the city laid out beneath him. Caldoa, beautiful as it was to be looked upon from above, was speckled with a scattering of candles and torches that burnt content
edly in homes and shops, and lined the high walls that encircled the city in the distance.
From his quarters in the White Palace, built atop a jutting pillar of natural white stone, he could see all of Caldoa sprawled out below. The Holy District, itself walled within the heart of the city, lay at the foot of the palace. To the north sat the many-storeyed houses of the Residential District, still dormant at this hour of the night. West and south was the Market District, home to all manner of shops, inns and, should one look in the right places, brothels. Behind him, obscured from view by the western façade of the palace, the forge fires of the Military District glowed endlessly, ready to roar into life. It was here that the headquarters of the Legions were located, and the expansive training ground that opened up around it in three directions expectantly awaited the arrival of new recruits.
The Shining Legions, Villanus thought to himself, a sliver of pride swelling his chest. Their reputation now, under his reign, was greater than it had ever been, even moreso than the legendary warriors of Allor First-King; founder of Caldoa and revered fighter in his own right. Their triumph over the Vahc hordes of Desturum the Malign a decade ago had been the first thing to celebrate since he had become the Voice, and the accounts of what were now known as the Incursions were widely documented, told and retold with increasing admiration for the veterans of the conflict. Villanus had read many, if not all of these, including a handful of first-hand reports from the lieutenants and General himself, and he had consequently seen fit to reward the city’s saviours handsomely.
He took a deep breath, the sweet, night air filling his lungs. He stretched out his back, which yielded a satisfying crack as he did so. He had been reading for too long again, and his already hunched posture was only worsening with each hour he spent round-shouldered over books at his desk. But it was worth it. He was so close; he could feel the answers teasing him, just beyond his reach: who they were, where they came from, why they were here. All so close. He had other questions as well, less important, in the grand scheme of things, but all of them he believed to be linked, and each kindled the bonfires of his curiosity.
The closed book upon his desk was testament to that. It was one of the oldest military histories he had discovered so far, and so far removed from those of a similar nature in the palace’s library that he assumed it had been altogether forgotten. It had been written by one of Allor’s closest friends nearly a thousand years ago; a man who had later become one of the initial five Kingmakers to serve the First-King. He had been too young to have lived through the Scouring himself, but his grandfather had, and in recording the deeds of Allor he had included stories of Banmer before its remaking. Tales of the Wars of the Faithful, the slaughter of thousands at the hands of the Pious, the Shamans of the Old North, and the final cavalry charge of the Nolvum hunters.
It was the last two of these that had stirred Villanus’ tired mind the most, and urged him onward through the last musty pages in the futile search for answers. Horses had not been seen in any number since before the Scouring, and these days they were more myth than fact. People spoke of them as though they were the fiction of a child’s imagination, and for that they could not be blamed. The horses had simply disappeared.
The Shamans, Villanus had thought, would hold even more of the answers he sought, but their stories were few and more folklore than anything else. Besides, they had been among the first people targeted by the armies of the Pious, and none were said to have survived. And those who relentlessly occupied his waking and sleeping mind would not be decimated by a bunch of fanatics.
He closed his eyes and thought for a moment, the breeze gently tousling his hair. They would be somewhere to the east now, beyond the mountains and the walled town of Valgaard that stood across the only route through them, perhaps north of the Free City of Gerder. Maybe closer, he could not tell for certain.
He sighed, almost breathing their name as he did so. Wandeer. Isolated on their island of Wan’Dring, that rode the currents of the Outer Sea and upon which no man had set foot, they were the greatest mystery ever to fall upon Banmer, and, he was certain, the root of all other mysteries at which he grasped so blindly. They were magic-wielders, powerful beyond all else, and Villanus would give anything to just talk to one of them for an hour. Just to ask his questions and have them answered would be worth more than he could muster if he were to plunder every inch of the city. Though they visited the mainland often, to trade with the various towns and cities that could reach the coast, it was widely held that they not be talked to of anything but business. Where this unspoken rule had come from Villanus was unsure, and he had spent two days looking into any written record of it himself but had found nothing. Still, it would not be wise to upset them; that much was merely common sense.
There had been rumours, from one or two Caldoan traders brave enough to travel to the Tribal Territories in the west, that one of the Tribes was led by a Wandeer, and Villanus had entertained the thought of a venture into the arid deserts. But of those three Tribes he was unsure which the rumours referred to, and the hostile environment, let alone the hostile relations between the Ironhand, Torncloud and Wornsea themselves, had dissuaded him entirely.
So, it seemed, Meddas was the only option left to him. At least the roads were safer now than they had been some years before. Plagued by clans of brigands, the Free Cities had done well to recover as well as they had. Gerder, the Metal City, home to the Bleaksmith ironmongers; the clifftop fortress of Crimstone; the pirate city of Bannerbridge; the central metropolis of Meddas; and Auprem, the southern City of Sand; united as ever, had, through combined military action, rooted out every last one of the bandits and put them to the sword. Since then, trade between Caldoa and the east had never been more prosperous.
Still, they were not entirely at peace. Bannerbridge still fought skirmishes with the Vahc upon the murky waters of the Inner Sea, and Auprem, on the eastern lip of the Blacksand Desert, was in a state of perpetual conflict with the nomads of Fallentower Oasis. But Meddas was safe enough, and Villanus had no reason to visit anywhere else.
And, at least, he knew he would be welcome in Meddas. He cast a glance over his right shoulder into the greying dark behind him, to where a letter lay atop a sheaf of papers upon his worn, wooden desk. The wax seal, now broken, had borne the sun-rise insignia of the Meddaean Ministers, and its contents, a single link in the lengthy chain of correspondence he had had with one particular Minister, related to yet another theory they had been discussing concerning the Wandeer. The letter itself had been delivered by a messenger bird, this one unique, in that it had been trained to find its way to Caldoa.
Such intelligent creatures, Villanus thought idly.
The birds were not found outside of the Free Cities, and no other nation in Banmer used them to communicate with one another. In Alloria, all of the outlying towns and villages surrounding Caldoa could be reached within a day by a runner, but given that the Cities were so scattered throughout the east, the birds were a far quicker and more practical method of contact. Consequently, they were well cared for and used frequently. Villanus enjoyed the fact that he alone, outside of the Free Cities, had his own personal messenger bird. Even if it did only deliver to one man in one city.
The reply to Villanus’ latest speculations contained within the rolled parchment had been interesting. The theory to which the Minister’s thoughts pertained concerned the Fog Banks; thick swathes of impassable grey cloud that hung like a curtain in every direction around the fringes of the Outer Sea. Those that had been brave enough to try to find passage through them had never returned, and some, less courageous, had travelled to the very edges of the swirling mists, only to report of endless thunder storms that bellowed within. Villanus had long since thought these Fog Banks a Wandeer creation, while others argued they were a by-product of the Scouring, since there had been no record of them prior. The Minister, however, was in agreement, and had offered his hospitality should Villanus find the opportunity to visit M
eddas, to engage in collaborative research, as he had put it.
Again a light gust reached him on the balcony outside his room and the sound of a flag softly spluttering to his left caught his attention. Twin pillars of pale blue on a white field, it was the flag of the Order, and, intentionally, the same emblem yet reversed colours of the Caldoan standard, first devised by Allor himself. When the Order had first been established, centuries ago, its founders had aligned themselves with both the royal bloodline and the city. Every time he looked at it, Villanus thought how ironic that had turned out to be. After all, the line of kings had not ended accidentally.
He was torn from his thoughts by the squeal of his door on its hinges as it was edged open. He turned sharply and poked his head back into his room to squint through the near-blackness, appalled that someone had entered his room without knocking, regardless of the early hour. He stormed inside, unable to clearly make out the intruder. Before he could say a word, the blade of a knife glimmered briefly and was lost between his ribs. Villanus gasped as the air escaped from his punctured lung. His vision clouded, and he clutched at the figure before him, unable to distinguish anything from the shadows. His fingers found a necklace, and he held onto it tightly, easily pulling it away from the assassin’s throat. The knife drew out and plunged into his chest again, forcing him backward, back onto the balcony and over the side. The last thing Villanus saw before his body shattered on the ground was a clear, dark sky, and the gleaming of the stars.