The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall
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Kahn Taruk smiled for the first time. “I have sent in the Shadows.”
Saricon Battle Plans
1. Split our forces and send the majority of our army to attack Eltus while six thousand attack Lyone, the border garrison into the land of Dy’ain.
2. Take the city of Eltus so we can control the Dynel Strait. Then send ten thousand troops through the secret pass in the Pyres Mountains.
3. After controlling Eltus and the Dynel Strait, send a fleet of men to the shores of Dy’ain while our second army secretly crosses the Sil Desert to enter the lands of Dy’ain from the north. All the while our third Saricon army takes Lyone and enters Dy’ain from the west, marching towards the city to meet up with the main Saricon army.
4. Both armies, in the dead of night, converge on Cythera and take the capital city of Dy’ain.
1
Chapter
The Saricons arrived on the shores of the southern lands of Belorth, and with them came the winds of change. These strange foreigners arrived in 4880, the tenth cyn. Every fifty years a new cyn begins, and within two cyns the Saricons had conquered the kingdoms of Karak and Enoreth, and had then set their eyes on Vyalia and Ulstare, two cities ruled by the nomads of Anoroth, a people who worshiped nothing but their own strength, their steel, and their bloodlines. The advance of the Saricons was thus halted. So they moved north, towards new lands and new conquests, bringing with them new foods, new weapons, and a new faith. They were followers of Heln, an ancient and power hungry god. As an historian, I try to look at these events objectively and without bias, but the more I have learned about these Helnians, the more difficult that has become. To me their name conjures up mostly images of violence and domination, and I see nothing but large brutal warriors with pale skin and yellow hair, their weapons streaked with the blood of their victims. I see towns burning and I hear the screams of women and children, while the cold blue eyes of the Saricons focus only on their next conquest.
Before one cyn had passed the Helnians, as they came to be known, had reached their blood soaked hands into the island nations of YaLara and Argos, and even as far as the kingdoms of Kael, Gilia, and Layona. But again their bloody conquest was halted. For these kingdoms, though politically separate, had been unified by an intense zeal for their religion. They were all followers of their gods, Argon and Felina, and became known as Argonians.
It was in 4400, fourteen cyns ago, that a solitary cattle herder witnessed a vision of the two gods as they descended from the sky. The nameless herder spent three days in a trance as Argon and Felina communed with him. They spoke to him, delivering their message, providing guidance and rules for living, and demanding obedience. He spent the next five years writing down their teachings, sharing and preaching them to anyone who would listen. His intense zeal and fervor gradually won over the hearts of the people and the new belief system was embraced and strengthened within that time. The year that Argon and Felina descended from the heavens became known as The Year of the Great Change, and marked the beginning of the Argonian calendar. Eventually the writings and sermons of the lone herder were collected and preserved in the Argot, their holy book, which became the foundation of Argonian belief. The herder never gave his name, believing it would be vain, and so he became known only as The One, and is revered by the Argonians almost as much as they revere Argon and Felina.
And for the past fifty years these two belief systems, Helnian and Argonian clashed. The Saricons, foreign conquerors fought for power, control, and dominance, while the Argonians, a collection of different peoples used the one thing they shared in common, the strength of their faith, to unite them against this new enemy. But the Saricons were not only fierce in battle, they were smart, and experienced in the tactics of subterfuge and intrigue. They coveted the lands of Layona, Gilia, and Kael, but most of all they desired the lands of Dy’ain. For it was here that the precious metal, Kul-brite, could be found.
The Kingdom of Dy’ain, ruled by House Dormath, was the most powerful kingdom on the coast of the Alsace Sea. They traded in precious stones, but most of their wealth and power came from the many Kul-brite mines throughout the Devlin Mountains, the massive range of mountains whose tall peaks protected their western border. It was this rare metal that was used to forge the only weapons capable of holding the energy channeled by a Merger. The metal was so rare and costly, that wars were continually fought for its control. The Helnians desperately wanted to possess the mines, but House Dormath controlled them. But, true to their reputation, the Saricons had created an intricate plan of conquest. These newcomers, the followers of Heln, had crossed the Alsace Sea, and with them came the winds of change.
Journal entry 14
Kivalla Der’une, Historian, Keeper of the records in Cythera, capital of Dy’ain
* * *
5087, the 14th cyn after the Great Change
Brant Anwar lowered his head and lifted his left hand, dropping his shoulder and taking the powerful blow on the fleshy muscular part of his forearm. It hurt like hell but he growled through the pain, drawing forth a rush of aura energy into his right arm as he snapped his right fist forward, firing into the man’s nose as if it were the point of a ballista bolt. One could hear the crunch of cartilage as his nose collapsed, splattering blood into the air.
Brant leaped back as his opponent stumbled, his eyes rolling back into his head as he fell backwards, crashing onto the dirt floor with a heavy thud.
The crowd surrounding the combatants was silent for a moment as they stared at the fallen fighter, waiting to see if he would move. When it was obvious he wouldn’t they erupted in a chorus of applause…while those who had bet on the wrong man swore in anger.
The fight had been tough one. Brant’s opponent had come from a mining camp on the other side of the Devlin Mountains, and the local inhabitants had anticipated the fight with much excitement. Brant had gone undefeated since he had started fighting nearly six months ago. The other fighter, who Brant had learned was called Janrick, was strong and had a wicked right jab. But after several rounds, Brant had finally broken through his defenses. But he hadn’t gone unscathed. His left eye was almost swollen shut, and he had numerous bruises on his heavily muscled, sweat drenched body. Despite his superficial injuries, Brant felt charged, the combination of adrenaline and aura energy filling him with vitality. He had won, again.
Jorna, Brant’s father, walked up behind him. The man was an impressive figure himself, standing near six feet and covered in sinewy muscles. He was nearly fifty five years old, but a lifetime spent working the Kul-brite mines had a way of filtering out the weak. They didn’t last very long, and Jorna had been working them his entire life, moving from one mining camp to another among the many that lay scattered throughout the Devlin Mountains. Long gray hair draped his craggy sun dried face which was covered in black and silver stubble. Bristly gray eyebrows rested on an overly pronounced brow, accentuating his dark, deep set eyes, dull and devoid of emotion. Jorna was not a man prone to smiles.
“I’ll get the winnings. Meet me back at home,” his father said brusquely.
Brant watched his father push his way through the crowd towards the winning table. Thanks for the kind words, Father, Brant thought to himself. But he smiled inwardly, laughing at himself for expecting anything more from his father. After all, he had never shown any tendency toward being a kind or loving father. Despite the money his fights had earned for them, he had yet to hear a word of praise, or see a sign of gratitude. Perhaps it was a result of a lifetime spent in the mines. For Brant himself had grown into a reserved, hard young man, prone to occasional fits of anger. He was quiet, almost taciturn, and had little use for mindless banter. The way he saw it most words seemed meaningless and empty, used mainly to deceive or to stroke someone’s ego for personal gain. He hadn’t learned much from his father, except how to fight, and to keep to oneself, to protect oneself from others, who, according to his father, were only out for themselves, despite the useless words they toss
around to make you believe otherwise.
Several people from the crowd congratulated Brant on his win, smiling happily as they too had won some coin on the fight, and were already anticipating the wine and ale they would soon be drinking. There were others, however, that glared at him menacingly, their stares alone carrying the weight of a sword point piercing his flesh. They did not like losing their few, hard earned coins. Brant had no illusions that several of them would relish literally driving home that point. But Brant had a reputation. Despite his age, he was not someone to trifle with. He had just turned eighteen, but one would never know it. The young miner was even taller than his father, and more heavily built. He too had been working the Kul-brite mines since he was fourteen, and the constant swing of pick and hammer had built layers of dense muscle. Yet, in defiance of his bulk, he was incredibly quick and agile.
Overall he was a striking young man, handsome only in the roughest sort of way. His nose had been broken three times and was now slightly crooked and swollen on one side. Yet one could still see remnants of its once regal structure. His wide angular chin, covered in a soft growth of short black hair gave his face a look of strength and determination. Waves of black hair cascaded past his ears and down to the base of his neck. The hair on his crown was pulled back tightly and tied behind his head. It wouldn’t do to have his sweaty hair fly into his eyes during a fight. And his eyes were his most striking feature. They were a luminous, almost iridescent green, the light green of spring’s first leaves, but etched with thin tendrils of blue and gray. It was difficult for most people to notice his other features, so compelling was the intensity of his gaze.
Brant picked up his threadbare long shirt and put it on, the thin material clinging to his sweaty body. He moved through the dispersing crowd toward the tent entrance, pushing aside the heavy canvas that kept out the brisk mountain air. He paused momentarily, taking in a deep breath of fresh air, and looked about. It was dark, but fires were lit around the tent and several could be seen flickering down several alleys formed by the hundreds of heavy tents that made up the homes of the many miners that worked the camp. The simple structures were called bilts, owned by the king and rented to the miners, the money taken from their pay each week. The rent was high, leaving little left over for luxuries. But they were worked so hard that they rarely had time for luxuries anyway, the occasional fights providing their main source of entertainment. Sometimes the wardens, the king’s men who worked, ran, and guarded the mines, would allow miners to come in from other nearby mines to fight the local talent, as they had done this night.
The bilts were of an ingenious design. The long poles were expertly cut so they interlocked in a way to hold up the heavy waterproof canvas. The open structure was strong, waterproof, and designed to be taken down and easily transported from one mine to another. The Devlin Mountains were peppered with Kul-brite mines, and if the production of one mine slowed, the small mining villages were loaded up and brought to a new location, always following the veins and deposits of this precious metal.
Brant flexed his hands, working out the soreness that was slowly creeping into his muscles. He sighed as he looked up at the mountain bathed in the soft blue light of the luminous moon. Tomorrow would be a tough day he thought. He knew he would be sore and bruised from the fight, but it mattered little; he would still be expected to work the mines with everyone else. But he had done it before, and he knew he could do it again. They worked seven days a week, and the hours were long, filled with crushing stone and moving rocks from deep within the mountain to the Separation Tents where specially trained wardens methodically chipped away rock to expose whatever Kul-brite steel they could find. The metal was extremely bright, mirror-like, and it was easy to spot in the small crushed rocks brought in by the miners. From there the wardens used precise tools and techniques unknown to the miners to separate the metal from the stone, an amount as small as the nail on one’s smallest finger worth more than a miner’s yearly wage. Other precious stones were also found in the process and sorted; everything from gold to diamonds and rubies. Needless to say the Separation Tents were guarded more heavily than the king himself.
The wardens were elite fighting men, taken from the best soldiers that House Dormath, the ruling family of Dy’ain, could find throughout their kingdom. Each warrior was trained further, in both combat and various skills associated with the mining of Kul-brite steel. Wardens were skilled and extremely tough, but even they were no match for the Dygon Guards, warriors with the Way that exhibited sufficient strength and aptitude while at the warden training camps to move to the Advanced Warden School. There they were forged into the strongest, most skillful, tough, and intelligent fighters in all of the lands of Corvell. These warriors were typically sons of the various lords throughout Dy’ain, all eager for the honor of becoming a Dygon Guard, warriors who sole job was to protect the Kul-brite caravans as they transported the rare metal to the various smithies throughout Dy’ain. It was very rare, but occasionally brigands or Shulg nomads, tribes living throughout the steppes bordering the Devlin Mountains, worked up the courage to attack the caravans. The draw of a king’s ransom in Kul-brite steel had a way of interfering with good judgment. Having the temerity to attack one Dygon warrior, let alone fifty, was as good as slitting your own throat. Theft at the mines was also virtually nonexistent. All miners were checked entering the mines and leaving the mines, and anyone caught with Kul-brite metal would be sentenced to death.
A dozen or so men remained in the mess tent where the fight had occurred as Brant left to go home, but no one said a word to him, or to each other for that matter, as they headed to their own bilts. Most of the miners were already thinking of bed, knowing that they would be up soon with pick in hand and the wardens yelling at them to work harder. Several wardens patrolled the alleys, dressed in silver armor, their red capes fluttering behind them as they watched the workers with dark hooded eyes. They carried long spears and from their leather belts hung long curved swords and daggers.
Brant made his way down the left alley to their bilt, the last one on the right. The wooden door was unlocked; after all they had nothing a thief would want. The open interior was sparse and simple. Two cots, covered in thick wool blankets, sat on opposite ends of the square room. At the base of each bed was a wooden trunk filled with their few possessions. A wide metal brazier containing burning red embers sat in the middle of the room, the smoke from the coals drifting lazily to the small opening at the top of the bilt, which was designed in such a way to let smoke out but protect the brazier from the outside elements. The room smelt of sweat and smoke, an aroma you might expect from two men who spent their days working in dark and dingy mineshafts. A small wooden table and two chairs completed the furnishings, all property of the king. Leaning against the far wall was a collection of picks and hammers, tools of the trade.
On the table was a clay jug filled with cool water. Brant sat down at the table, sighed tiredly, and took a long pull from the pitcher, nearly draining the contents in several deep gulps. The cold fresh liquid quenched his thirst and drove away the dryness in his mouth brought on by the fight. He leaned back, looking up at the canvas ceiling, sighing wearily.
The loud clang of the door as it slammed shut snapped him from his reverie. His father strode into the room and tossed him a small bag of coins which jingled as they hit the table. “There you go, boy.”
Brant looked at the bag as his father warmed his hands over the coals. “How much did we get?”
“Why don’t you look in the bag and not bother me with useless questions?”
Brant did. There were two gold dracks, three silver shikes, and five copper tiggs. It was a decent haul, but he had expected more. “I thought there would be more.”
Jorna grunted, ignoring the comment. Brant had no doubt that his father had taken most of the coin.
“How much did you take?” Brant asked, his frustration evident in his voice. Brant had had a suspicion that his father had been
pocketing most of the coin ever since he started fighting. His father had begun teaching him how to fight from the time he had taken his first steps. The physical and mental abuse of these lessons had, over time, solidified a strained, and less than caring, relationship. And once he had started fighting for money, they seldom talked or saw one another. They typically worked in different shafts, and his father spent most of his nights spending his new coin on cheap norg, a powerful alcohol made from the fynel root found in the steppes.
Jorna, who had been warming his hands over the hot embers of the brazier, stopped and turned his menacing eyes on his son. “What did you say, boy?”
“You heard me.”
Jorna was a big man, but he could move as quickly as an angry bear if he had to. In a blink he lunged toward Brant and hit him in the face with the knuckle side of his left hand, the powerful blow knocking his son’s head back and tipping the chair over, as Brant fell, his head hitting the ground hard. “You got what you deserve, boy! And be thankful for it!” he yelled as he straddled his son’s prone body.
Brant growled angrily, pushing his father off and struggling to his feet. Jorna had once been a powerful and successful fighter in his own right, and despite his age Brant knew that if they fought now, that one, or both, would get seriously hurt. He was already tired from the fight, and he had no desire to get into a scuffle with his father. He wiped the blood from his lip, and glared at him with undisguised hatred. Then he spit blood on the ground at his father’s feet, took one long stride that brought him to the table where he grabbed his bag of coins and stormed through the wooden door, slamming it behind him.
The morning came quickly, much too quickly, the mining bell ringing loudly throughout the camp. It was time to get up, grab breakfast at the mess tent, and head into the mines. Brant sat up slowly, his aching body reminding him of the previous night’s fight. He looked over at his father who was sprawled out on his cot, presumably still drunk. After he had left that night, he had walked around the camp, hoping to loosen up his aching muscles, calm himself, and give his father enough time to get drunk and pass out. The cool night air had done him some good and by the time he returned to their bilt his father was either asleep, or passed out, either one preferable to another violent confrontation.