That strategy might work for one on one combat, but it was a stupid plan when fighting in formations. The man was so preoccupied attacking Cat that he failed to notice Boris’s spear coming at him and was too slow to avoid the strike. Boris quickly shoved his spear forward and over the man’s shield, striking him squarely in the chest, knocking him off balance and throwing off his aim as his spear whistled harmlessly over Cat’s head.
“You’re out!” an officer yelled as the man howled in frustration, jumping to the back of the formation and out of the melee.
Torrin growled in anger as his spear was ripped from his hands by a soldier to Cat’s left. By now most of the spears had been lost, knocked from the warrior’s hands or even broken, and the remaining solders now fought with short infantry swords. Cat had thrown her broken shaft at Torrin. He blocked it with his shield, but she was able to simultaneously draw her wooden practice sword. There was no one to fill the gap to Torrin’s left as the warrior closest to him was frantically defending himself. Torrin’s line had lost more fighters than Cat’s line, and despite their reserves, had widening gaps in the front line. So he was forced to fight furiously to avoid the strikes from Cat and Boris. It appeared to Cat that Boris was taking an extra interest in Torrin, perhaps noticing that they had attempted to gang up on her, or maybe he just didn’t like him. After all, he was not well liked by most.
“Push forward!” Boris yelled, eager to exploit the gaps in the line before them. Swords and shields banged together as her platoon used their greater numbers to push them back on their heels. Cat growled and used her speed to duck, block, and strike, focusing her attention on Torrin but being careful to watch the flanks of her comrades. Several times she lunged to the right and left, blocking blows meant for her comrades, while using her speed to strike at Torrin, always looking for an opening.
Being forced to cover more ground, Torrin leaped back and forth along the line, yelling maniacally as he narrowly avoided strike after strike coming at him from all angles. Cat had to give it to him; he was fighting bravely and skillfully. But then she saw her opening. Boris came at him high with his sword forcing him to raise his shield and expose his mid-section. Cat glanced to her left and saw one of the few remaining spears descend towards the man on her left flank. She had to make a choice. She could jab her sword forward and strike Torrin in the chest, or lunge to her left with her sword and deflect the spear meant for her comrade who was preoccupied with another fighter. It had to be her sword as she didn’t have enough time to get the shield in the right position to intercept the spear. Without further thought she pivoted to her left, snapped her sword forward, and deflected the spear just enough to cause it to go harmlessly above his head. With relief that her deflection was true, she noticed her comrade on her left quickly glance at her before jabbing his own sword forward to strike the spear wielder in his exposed stomach.
Torrin growled as he blocked Boris’s strike, his eyes widening momentarily as he realized he was exposed. He saw Cat turn her attention from him to an opponent on his right. He narrowed his eyes, capitalizing on his opportunity, and lunged forward hoping to hit Cat in the side.
Her peripheral vision caught his movement as he came at her. Cat, like her father, was known for her quickness and agility. He had given her the nickname. Everyone thought it referred to her real name, Ca’tel, but in fact it referred to her speed and agility. She fought on her toes, her knees slightly bent, her center of gravity low, enabling her to change direction quickly. As she deflected the spear away, she lunged back to her right, ducking incredibly low beneath Torrin’s sword, and popping up on the inside of his sword arm, a feat aided by her diminutive size. It had happened so quickly that he didn’t even have time to wipe the gloating sneer off his face before Cat’s fist, the one holding the wooden sword, struck him under the chin, snapping his head back and knocking him to the ground.
“Get back in formation!” Boris yelled to her right.
Cat lifted her shield to block another soldier’s strike as she scooted back a few steps. Feeling a moment of relative safety with her comrades beside her, she had a quick moment to smile as she pictured Torrin’s face just before she struck him.
Then the horn blew and everyone stopped fighting. Stepping back and away from the platoon they were fighting everyone finally had a moment to survey the damage. Cat counted fifteen men left on her team from the original thirty, every one of them panting and sweating as they tried to catch their breath, some bleeding from various ‘non-lethal’ blows to their bodies. The opposing team had only eight men remaining. They had won.
A thin man with a dark beard tapped his sword on her shield. It was the man that had fought on her left, the very same man she had saved from the spear strike. “Nice work,” he said. “I’m Ballin.”
“Thanks. I’m Cat.”
“I know.”
Then he walked away. She was suddenly exhausted and her wooden sword felt as if it were made of lead. Her arms burned with fatigue but she still managed a smile as she glanced over and saw several men try to rouse Torrin. She had knocked him out.
“Don’t think that’ll make him like ya,” Boris laughed.
Cat smiled. “He nearly had me. Thanks for your help.”
Boris shrugged. “Just doing my job.” Then he walked off to get some water.
Job, Cat thought. It was her job now as well and the reality of it suddenly struck home. For the first time she wondered if she had made the right decision in joining the Legion. After all, it would be no easy life.
10
Chapter
What is it that makes someone heroic? Is it bred into them, as many of the nobility believe? Is it taught, similar to teaching someone how to read and write? Or is it a trait that any person, noble or commoner, can possess? Perhaps it is a gift from Argon and Felina? Perhaps we all have a penchant for altruistic behavior that just needs to be nurtured by the right circumstances or mentors. I do not know the answer but the selfless acts of some people have always inspired me. I’ve witnessed various acts of bravery and have read about many more, and every time I always wonder how I would react in the same situations. Would I show bravery while facing adversity and danger? Could one tell if one would rise to the occasion just by looking at them? I think not. Heroes can come in any size and shape. Clearly, a warrior, trained to fight, who gives up his life protecting his people is a hero. But so is a child, homeless and starving, who faces his or her problems head on and spits in the face of adversity. A widow raising her children alone while running a small farm is also clearly a hero.
War is a terrible thing. The dark shadow of it suffocates everything, but always there is a glimmer of hope, a flame lit by heroism. The dark hand of death accompanies war, but always, whether it’s a farmer protecting his family, a young boy picking up a blade in defense of his home, or a Dygon Guard standing before a horde of Saricons, there are heroes to beat back the darkness. I hope that if I’m ever faced with choosing between the fear of death and an act of heroism, that I act heroically, that my actions will help bring light into the darkness. I would hope that I would act heroically, but to be honest I do not truly know. My future actions are unknown to me, and that alone brings me great consternation.
Journal entry 101
Kivalla Der’une, Historian, Keeper of the records in Cythera, capital of Dy’ain
* * *
5091, 14th cyn after the Great Change
King Enden Dormath, wearing full battle armor, stood upon the western wall looking out to the Dark Sea. It was mid-day and the fall skies were clear. Off in the distance along the western shore were dark shapes, nearly a hundred, their billowing white sails dropping as their anchors dropped into the water. They were miles away and just specks on the horizon, but he could tell, even at such great distance, that it was a sizable force. The Saricons had arrived.
Jarak was also in full armor, armor fitting for the future king of Dy’ain. The silver polished steel was in sharp contrast to the blac
k cape he wore. Daricon and Jarak, along with the remaining forces from Lyone, had arrived in Cythera nearly a month ago. Every moment of every day since then had been a whirlwind of preparation. Scouts had been sent west, and south, constantly looking for signs of the Saricons. A few days ago they had returned with grave news. The small army of Saricons that had taken the garrison was now on their way to Cythera, destroying anyone and anything in their path. Scouts had also been sent north and they had not yet returned. King Enden wondered when they would arrive with news of reinforcements from Tanwen and Kreb, and their absence had given him considerable trepidation. After all, the ships on the horizon were not trading vessels. They were outfitted for war. “What do you make of it, Father?” Jarak Dormath asked.
“Hard to say at this distance,” the king said. “I have scouts out now. But my guess would be that there are around a hundred ships. Each ship can carry no more than two hundred men.”
“Twenty thousand,” Jarak added.
Daricon came up the steps along the inner wall and joined them. His face was red as if he had been running. “I was just given word. How many?” he asked, squinting as he gazed along the coastline.
“Could be twenty thousand men, but I’ll know more when my scouts return,” the king replied. “We can’t forget the twenty five hundred coming from Lyone. You did well reducing their numbers, both of you.”
“What are our numbers?” Daricon asked.
“Within the city we have ten thousand Legionnaires not including my Sentinels. We should be seeing reinforcements from Tanwen and Kreb soon,” King Dormath replied, trying to sound hopeful.
“How many Legionnaires will we be getting from Tanwen and Kreb?” Jarak asked.
“Two thousand each,” King Enden Dormath replied running his hand through his long hair. “I put a call out to all the provinces requesting retired Legionnaires. That should bring in another couple thousand.”
“Let’s not forget our Dygon Guard. Fifty of them are worth a thousand men,” Daricon said, trying to lift the spirits of the weary king. Clearly the stress of the coming conflict had kept King Dormath from sleeping well; he was obviously worn out.
“That is true.”
“Brother, let us all eat together this evening in the great hall. We need to rest. I’ve had Jayla working on a special dinner since yesterday. You have not met her yet, but I think it wise that you taste her cooking first.” Daricon was smiling and Jarak joined in, the thought of the brusque headstrong woman meeting his father was quite amusing.
“I agree, Father. Her food is fantastic.”
“Very well. But after dinner I want all the officers to meet in the council hall. We will need to discuss the information brought to us by our scouts and what to do about this fleet.”
“It will be done,” Daricon said.
“Are we going to send our fleet and army out to meet them?” Daricon asked.
The king sighed. “That will be the focal point of our conversation this evening. Now, if you will excuse me. I need to meet with my quartermaster.” King Dormath strode from the battlements and made his way down the steep stairs of the inner wall.
“You should bring Cat tonight,” Daricon suggested.
“She has guard duty tonight patrolling the eastern wall.”
Daricon shrugged. “Perhaps another time. I’ll see you this evening.” Patting Jarak on the shoulder he followed his brother, leaving Jarak gazing out to the ships beyond. It was a foreboding question. Would they be able to withstand the Saricon horde when so many in the past had not? He did not like the idea of inheriting the position of king when he had no kingdom to rule.
It was near dark and Jarak was in his quarters preparing for the evening meal when he received a summons. His father had requested his presence in his study. He was nearly ready, wearing a beautifully tailored shirt, tunic, and breeches, all made of soft gray cotton and hemmed with silver thread. The tunic was trimmed in bright blue silk and the center was adorned with House Dormath’s symbol embroidered in silver. It was cinched tightly around his waist with a black belt, his Mage Stone embedded in its polished silver buckle. He wanted to hurry as he had planned on paying Cat a surprise visit on the wall before he made his way to dinner. Now he would be pressed for time and more than likely late for dinner.
He quickly made his way through the palace passing several guard rooms in the process. The Sentinels were on alert, which was customary for the elite warriors. But now there was a more palpable feeling of danger with the Saricons so close, and that had put them on edge. No one wanted anything to happen to their king on their watch. Jarak greeted the last guard standing before the locked door of the king’s study. The warrior acknowledged his prince with a bow, unlocked the door, and stepped aside.
Entering the well-appointed and luxurious room, he found his father sitting in a soft leather chair by the roaring fire. There was a second matching chair beside him with a small table, its legs carved into realistic replicas of a wolf’s paws set between them.
“Father, you asked to see me.”
King Enden Dormath looked up from a ledger. He still appeared tired, his sunken eyes surrounded by dark circles. But his worn appearance was in sharp contrast to the rich colors and textures of his clothing. He wore a long royal robe of gold silk, the hem trimmed with plum colored velvet on which had been embroidered a golden filigree of intricate scrollwork. The trim around his neck and cuffs was made from the pelts of tarangers, small rare animals that lived in the bonet trees found aplenty in the Dy’ainian steppes. The animal’s fur was gray and brown with streaks of white and extremely soft. But the reclusive creatures were very smart and difficult to catch, making their rare fur quite expensive. The queen and king preferred the furs over any others. His long dark hair, streaked with wisps of gray, was pulled back from his eyes and held in place with a small gold band, engraved in patterns of branches and leaves.
The king smiled and motioned for Jarak to sit. “Thank you for coming. I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. The officers and the men who were at Lyone have expressed admiration and praise for your skill in combat and perhaps more importantly, your character. I know it was tough for you there, but by all accounts you have grown into a man worthy of the Dy’anian throne.”
“Thank you, Father, but you have already told me,” Jarak smiled.
The king waved him off. “I know, but let me relish my pride. You have performed beyond my expectations.”
“Thank you. I must admit that I originally did not agree with your wisdom in sending me to Lyone. But once there, I realized that the only way to learn to lead was to actually lead. I will admit, however, that Daricon deserves much of the credit. He taught me much.”
King Enden nodded his head. “He is a great teacher and a worthy man. But remember, he only showed you the road. You are the one who chose to walk it. Do not discount what you have done.”
“I will not, but I still have a lot to learn.”
This time King Enden laughed. “As do I. You will never know it all, and that is half the battle.”
“I suppose you are right. Was there anything else, Father? I have a quick errand to run before dinner.”
“As a matter of fact there is,” the king said as he stood from his chair and walked over to the wall. His back was turned to Jarak so he could not see what he was doing. When he turned around and walked back, Jarak could see he was holding a sheathed blade. “I have a gift for you.”
Jarak stood, his eyes taking in the sheathed weapon held in his father’s hands. The weapon was a long sword, its sheath black and unadorned. The pommel was wrapped in black leather interspersed with silver wire. The wrap was perfect, clearly done by a master. The cross piece was silver, adorned in the middle with a dark stone with red veins, the ends slightly flaring forward. The inset stone, which Jarak noticed was on both sides of the cross piece, was a calimite, his birth stone. But it was the end of the pommel that caught his eye. Engraved into the metal was a beautifully rendered
depiction of House Dormath’s symbol, crossed swords before a mountain, the rising sun’s rays shining behind the peaks. The emblem was quite small but carved in such intricate detail that one could see the designs carved into the handles of the crossed swords along with ridges and valleys of the mountain peaks. It was obviously the work of a master artisan. “You had a sword forged for me?”
“Not just any sword.” With that the king drew the sword from the scabbard and held it before him. Jarak stepped back in disbelief. It was polished to an incredible sheen, the Kul-brite steel vibrant, reflecting the subtle light from the room off its mirror-like surface. “This is a Kul-brite blade made by Caleren. It does not have an equal. In the pommel is a Mage Stone, and not just any Mage Stone. When held by an Aura Mage, the wielder can use the energy stored in the Mage Stone to bring forth fire across the blade.”
Jarak’s eyes were wide with astonishment. “You mean like a Merger can? Like Daricon’s blade?”
“Yes. The fire is limited to the amount of energy stored in the stone. You can task energy and fill it like any Mage Stone. But it will not create any other spell. Master Caleren linked the stone to the exact steel in the blade. I don’t know how he did it, but there is no other like it. Here, take it,” he said, handing the blade to Jarak.
Jarak reached out, holding the blade gently before him with awed reverence. He marveled at the workmanship. It was simple in design, but more beautiful than any ornamental blade he had ever seen. It was light and balanced perfectly. Jarak looked closely at the base of the blade, his eye noticing a small mark.
“That is Caleren’s mark.”
Jarak saw a decorative C with a similar T next to it, the lines curved and fluid. “What does the T stand for?”
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