The Rise of Kings (The Flameweaver's Prophecy Book 1)

by Emery, Ben

  From the darkness of a doorway behind him, a shadow emerged. A knife blade, already smeared red, found the same gap in the armour as it had done before. The point expertly slipped between the ribs, finding the heart. The guard died before he hit the floor. The shadow deftly removed from a concealed pocket the key to the heavy, now unguarded, wooden door, unlocked it, and slipped inside. Only darkness lay within, no other guards being thought necessary. The shadow swept down the stairs silently, reaching the cells and torture chamber below. The prisoner was still strapped to the board at the far end of the room, hanging limply by his restraints. His breathing was short and shallow. Hastily, the bonds were cut and the bloodied body collapsed forward into waiting arms.

  ‘W…who are…you?’ The voice cracked as the prisoner stammered.

  ‘A friend,’ was the answer. ‘I will get you outside of the city, and beyond. You must tell our brothers everything. War is coming to our lands.’

  Every inch of the city streets had been lined with crowds of people cheering as King Rural made his way back to the White Palace. Scores of Order priests bowed low as he entered the Holy District and started the circuitous ascent up the pillar of white stone with only one thought on his mind: the Marble Throne.

  A train of guards and sycophants, priests and Kingmakers followed him into the shade of the vaulted throne room, silent for only a second as their new king lowered himself to the raised cushioned seat of power over all Alloria. Another wave of cheers and applause was unleashed as his backside met the throne, and Rural smiled warmly at his followers. One face in particular stood out to him; Oliune. The old man was beaming like no other, and Rural was sure he saw him wipe a tear from his eye.

  With the raising of a royal hand the noise faded expectantly as Rural looked around the room.

  ‘Thank you all,’ he said, genuinely. Without the support of many in this room he would not be sat where he was now, though there was one he wished to thank above all others. ‘A night of feasting and song awaits us all,’ he continued. ‘But for now I am in need of some rest. The grandeur of this day has somewhat taken its toll.’

  There was a brief silence before men and women, disappointed, began to quietly file out of the great double doors at the end of the room. Only Oliune remained, waiting in a far corner, until just he and the king were left. When the last of the room’s occupants had disappeared from view, the old man made his way to the base of the raised dais upon which the Marble Throne was sat. He offered a lingering bow, and when he arose his eyes had once more begun to water. Rural pushed himself to his feet and quickly descended the short marble steps to his friend and embraced him fondly.

  He felt Oliune’s bony hands pat him on the back, and his mind was cast back to the last time the old man had hugged him. It was more than twenty years ago now, and a day that Rural had burned into his memory for the rest of his life. It was the day his adoptive parents had died. It was Oliune that had been the one to break the news to him, a boy barely into his teens. They had, Oliune had said, succumbed to a fever that had rapidly overcome them, and ripped the life from them in the span of a single night. The nature of their deaths meant that the young Rural had been prevented from seeing their bodies, and they had been burnt, along with others who had fallen victim to the same illness. Hundreds of pyres had burned for days to dispose of the diseased corpses, and Rural had been left alone again, as he had been when he first entered this world.

  He squeezed Oliune again, tighter this time. The old man had been like a father to him since then, and even before. It was Oliune that had guided him through the political labyrinth that was the Order, to a seat in the Council of Kingmakers, and, ultimately, to the Marble Throne.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Oliune offered, still grinning.

  ‘Thank you, Oliune,’ Rural replied. ‘Everything is going according to plan.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ Oliune suddenly became sterner. ‘What of the Bleaksmith seal? The thought of it struck me the other day and you mentioned nothing of it last we met.’

  Rural smiled reassuringly at the old man. ‘We have it, Oliune. There is no need to worry.’

  The seal of the Bleaksmiths of Gerder was a brand used to mark their metal wares as their own work. Everything from weapons and armour to pots and pans; if it was made by a Bleaksmith, it bore the insignia of the Gerderian anvil crossed with a sword. It gave such items value, and thus was not readily come by. Though simple enough a design, there were intricacies within it that proved impossible to replicate for almost any smith in Banmer, even for the price Rural had offered. It was said that no amount of money could ever purchase a Bleaksmith’s seal, for the buyer could make back his money tenfold.

  So it was that this one had been procured through theft. For the seal, in the grand scheme of things, would play its part: a part no less significant than the wooden trinket of the Tribal assassin.

  ‘That is good,’ Oliune slipped effortlessly back into a smile. ‘Come, my boy,’ he said, almost lovingly, ‘let us talk of idler things, and let the world play out what it can, before we do what we must.’

  Chapter Four

  The following month had been difficult for the recruits of the New Ninth, as Galarus pushed them harder and for longer, with a fervour that surprised even some of the lieutenants. Attais had gotten used to the weight of his new armour well enough, and was at the front of the pack whenever Jaxon insisted upon running the city walls. Already proficient with the sword, thanks to the regular training sessions he had had with his father, he had easily become one of the best in the unit. With only days before they were due to leave for the campaign against the Tribes, talk turned to rumours of their enemy.

  ‘I heard they were cannibals,’ Coran had said one evening.

  ‘Pah!’ Draiden scoffed. ‘They ain’t monsters. You make them sound like the Vahc. No one had a bad word to say about them two months ago.’ He bit off a hunk of bread from the loaf he was making his way through, half chewed it and continued speaking, spattering his audience with soggy crumbs. ‘I tell you what though; they’re led by a Saltskin.’

  Attais remained silent; it wasn’t the first time he had heard this rumour. The magic-wielders of Wan’Dring, known as Wandeer, kept to themselves for the most part, other than visiting the coastal cities to trade. People were discouraged from interacting with them for any reason other than business; they were a valuable source of income for every city they made port in, and it would not do to have large crowds turn up simply to stare at them. It was because of this that many that had had no contact with them regarded the Wandeer with a great deal of trepidation. Thus, it was unusual for one of them to live among the mainland population of Banmer, let alone lead a faction of them.

  ‘You’ve all heard about the Saltskins, haven’t you?’ Elmbard’s low voice spoke over the others. ‘Powerful race they are, their magic keeps their island afloat and circling the Outer Sea; supposed to have been descended from the shamans of the Old North, from before the Scouring, is what I heard anyway. Strange looking folk, too; all of them tall and thin, with pale skin and shock white hair. That’s where they get the name Saltskin from.’

  ‘Course we’ve heard of them,’ Coran answered him. ‘They’re supposed to live forever aren’t they?’

  Once a year, when their island was close enough, the Wandeer landed on the coastline northwest of Caldoa, and the merchants of the city flocked to do business with them. Thus, the population of Alloria was familiar enough with them to exchange half-stories of these strangers.

  ‘Well then, you know how strong they are,’ Elmbard continued. ‘You don’t keep a whole island from sinking without having some power behind you.’

  The recruits around him remained silent.

  ‘If the Tribes are led by a Wandeer,’ the spearman concluded, ‘then we are in for a real fight.’

  Attais barely slept the night before the army was due to march westward. He doubted many of the new recruits were actually asleep either. Other than Elmbard,
whose snoring could be heard from quite a distance, to the point that it would have kept the young swordsman awake, had he been able to sleep. The New Ninth had, for several weeks now, been rehoused in the vacant barracks of the old Ninth Legion. It was a large square building, three storeys high, and located on the eastern side of the Merchant District. Along with the Seventh, Eighth and Tenth Legions, whose barracks were spread across the same quarter of the city, the Ninth maintained order while not required to train.

  Attais’ bunk was on the middle floor, among a mixture of swordsmen, spearmen and macemen. The soldiers had been ordered to mix with those outside of the men they trained with, and would be directly fighting alongside. For he and Coran this wasn’t a problem. Already friends with Draiden and Elmbard, the pair had been introduced to several of the macemen and spearmen, but this was not true of everyone, and, while the New Ninth had yet to suffer the ordeal, arguments and disagreements between individuals had been known to escalate into brawls between whole segments of a Legion.

  On the floor above the stone ceiling at which Attais had been staring for countless hours now, slept another several hundred men of the Ninth, as was the case for the floor below, alongside a score of vacant cells on the ground floor which were reserved, when necessary, for any lawbreakers.

  After what felt like an age, the grey dawn had dragged itself through the small windows of the barracks, and the Ninth Legion was roused to action, putting on their armour and forming up into a column that would snake its way through the city streets, thronged with citizens wishing their warriors farewell.

  With Placatas at the front of his New Ninth, flanked by two standard bearers each holding aloft the Caldoan banner, the tumult of the crowds that had turned up to send them off was matched only by the uniform rap of military boots on the flagstone streets. Their steel armour shone brilliantly in the morning sun, bearing testament to a nickname the soldiers had gladly adopted; the Shining Legions.

  Outside of the city, Galarus and Jaxon were already waiting with the Tenth, formed up in well-practiced ranks, in front of hundreds of ox-drawn carts carrying provisions of food, water, spare equipment and so forth. Atop the wall, standing over the gateway, King Rural had made the effort to see the departure of his forces, surrounded by his usual entourage, consisting of the Kingmakers and several attendants.

  ‘I thought kings led their armies from the front?’ Placatas mumbled to the General as he approached them.

  ‘Hmm,’ Galarus grunted. ‘Fat chance of that, I think. We should be lucky he showed up at all.’ He turned his attention back to the assembled soldiers in front of him. ‘Let’s get moving.’

  Placatas and Jaxon nodded and jogged back to the heads of their respective Legions.

  ‘Legions!’ Galarus bellowed. ‘Move out!’

  With that, the ranks swayed into a timed step along the westward road, the chorus of heavy boots on the ground echoing off of the city walls. The carts fell in behind the legionaries, and the procession began their slow progress voicelessly, toward war.

  The road that led to the Arm of Allor, that connected Alloria to the Tribal Territories, wound through farmland and past villages as it struck out from the city. Some of the inhabitants of these settlements had travelled the short distance to the main road to watch the Legions pass by, several of the soldiers having originated from such places. None turned out in such force as the population of Legio; it seemed as though the whole village had emptied. The men, each of them soldiers of the former Ninth Legion, stood to attention as Galarus passed them, several greeting their former officer with a muttered ‘General.’

  Attais, fortunate enough to be on the left side of the column, was able to pick his parents out from the crowd, and they in turn spotted him. His mother cried quietly as she waved her son off to battle, while his father stood up straight and saluted. Attais nodded at both of them, careful not to fall out of step with the legionaries around him, biting back the urge to say anything. It had been difficult enough the day before, when each of the recruits had been given leave to visit their families before departing, to say their goodbyes. He had sincerely promised his mother that he would return and his father that he would fight bravely and do him proud. Both promises he fully intended to keep, should the enemy let him.

  It was morning of the seventh day on the march before the army reached the Arm of Allor, which took a full two days to cross on its own, being the strange formation that it was. Some forty miles of raised rock that jutted upright out of the sea, less than a hundred yards wide with at least a fifteen foot sheer drop into the churning waves on either side. Yet it was the only way to reach the eastern coast of the Territories, the rest of the coastline being made up of cliff face and rocky outcrops that were unapproachable by sea.

  Not that approaching by sea would have been an option; Caldoa had no fleet to speak of whatsoever, nor did it have a need for one, its interests lying far from both the Inner and Outer Seas. The only passage to the interior of the western lands was through a broad canyon carved between the two halves of a plateau known as Gamga Ridge; the same plateau that backed onto the seafront. It was estimated that it would take another day to navigate the winding corridor, cast into perpetual shadow by the towering flanks of the Ridge.

  Galarus called the army to a halt at the mouth of the canyon, where the land broadened briefly between the Arm and the yellow stone walls of Gamga.

  ‘We’ll bed down here for the night,’ the General instructed his lieutenants. ‘Post sentries at the entrance to the gorge and issue the men with double rations of food and water. It’s going to be a warm night, and a hotter morning.’

  ‘Tough to believe the weather could change so much so close to home,’ Placatas observed.

  The temperature above all else had changed dramatically, the air becoming noticeably drier and heavier as they breathed it in, and the fertile farmlands of Alloria were a stark contrast from the barren and rocky terrain in which they now found themselves.

  ‘Won’t be easy to fight in,’ Jaxon said matter-of-factly.

  ‘The men will be fine,’ Galarus replied bluntly. ‘Keep them well hydrated,’ he told the quartermaster who had approached to receive orders; a skinny man, whose name escaped him, but he knew to be in the service of Paeran Kingmaker.

  ‘What about the return trip?’ the quartermaster asked almost mockingly, as though Galarus were new to the practices of a campaign.

  ‘You heard me,’ the General retorted curtly. ‘Besides, I very much doubt we’ll need to provide for all of the men for too much longer.’ He stared at the quartermaster, who lowered his head, mumbled incoherently, and went about carrying out his orders.

  The heat of the following morning was indeed oppressive, a far cry from the cool breezes that washed over the verdant fields of Alloria. The camp was dismantled hurriedly; the soldiers eager to move out of the glaring sun and into the shade of the canyon that lay in front of them. There was little conversation between the troops; their entrance into enemy territory a reminder of how close they were to battle.

  Attais had been fighting a rising tide of nerves for the past few days, dramatically worsening since having left Allorian soil. Coran had admitted to feeling the same. That being said, they took comfort in the more relaxed attitudes of some of the older legionaries. Elmbard and Draiden in particular had done their best to buoy the spirits of the men around them, and the veterans of the Tenth, all of which had seen real combat before, were generally less anxious.

  The Legions fell back into line once more, proceeding into the eastern maw of Gamga Ridge. The cliffs on either side rose steep and high above them, casting endless shadows across the ground. Despite everything, the soldiers appreciated how much cooler it was in the shade. The sound of their boots reverberated up the canyon walls, making it sound like twice their number advanced toward the enemy. All else was silence. No birds or animals could be heard calling, let alone seen.

  At the head of his men, Galarus’ gaze constantly swept
the cliff tops above them for any sign of movement. This would be the perfect location for the Tribes to set an ambush, and with no cover to hide behind or way to engage the enemy, it would be a massacre. Once or twice, in his peripheral vision, he was certain he saw a fleeting glimpse of something; a shadow perhaps, but nothing more. The sooner they got out of here the better.

  They had been on the march for the best part of a day and a half, following the serpentine trail of the valley floor. Galarus hoped they were nearing the other side; the last thing he wanted to do was have the men spend another night in here. Entirely unsure of how far they had come, and how much further was left to go, the General was pleasantly surprised when, beyond the next protruding pillar of rock, he could see the sharp gradient of the cliff faces give way to steep banks of shingle. Sunlight streamed down unhindered onto the broadening canyon floor; the western slopes of Gamga Ridge. And there, blocking the mouth of the gorge, some half a mile away, and glittering in the midday sun, were the assembled warriors of the Tribes.

  ‘Form ranks! Spearmen to the front! Form up on me!’ Galarus’ orders echoed around them as the army hurried into position, spearmen of the Ninth streaming around the skirmishers of the Tenth to join the General at the fore. Where the canyon had opened up, it allowed for lines two hundred men wide; five ranks of spearmen, supported by three of swordsman and two of macemen. Galarus positioned himself at the centre of the front line, while Jaxon commanded the right flank and Placatas the left.

  Attais and Coran found themselves in the second rank of swordsmen, in between the Caldoan centre and left. It took little more than a minute for the Legions to assemble themselves into their well-rehearsed battle-ready ranks, and then, for what felt like hours, neither side made a move.