Heroes of the Crystal Star (Valcoria Book 1)

by Jason James King

  I pray this letter finds you quickly,

  Sitrell Trauel,

  Commander of the fifty seventh regiment under Lt. General Ostek.

  9 Aylor 1026 GD

  The letter was dated two weeks ago, that meant if what Trauel had said was accurate, they had four weeks before the enemy army started its march to the capital. Dyon shook his head in disbelief. Emperor Lorta himself? The Aukasian Emperor would not have come in person unless he was absolutely confident that his army would be victorious, a confidence that seemed justified. Not only could the Aukasian army strike at the heart of the country facing only little resistance, but Commander Trauel had written that they possessed a weapon technology against which there was no defense. What could that be? More efficient war machines? Perhaps higher yield firebombs? From what he had seen, the Aukasian military lagged behind Amigus when it came to new technologies, what little they had having mostly been stolen from Amigus.

  Amidst all of Dyon’s competing questions, one troubled him more than anything else: How was he supposed to help defend the north while under siege in the south? I can’t move my troops out of Sayel Nen, he thought, not without setting the city up to be taken by that massing army the moment we’re fifty miles north. He shook his head. But if Salatia Taeo falls, we’ll be facing attack on all sides.

  “It looks like he nearly killed himself getting here,” a new voice said.

  He looked down at the unconscious messenger, now being tended to by a fat, silver haired man in a white smock―Doctor Laren.

  “Will he live?” Aun asked.

  Doctor Laren hesitated. “I believe so. But he needs a lot of water and some food. I think a beef broth, for if he is starving, solid foods may just make him vomit.”

  “Very good, Doctor. Please be certain to send for me when this man wakes.” Dyon looked again at the crumpled letter in his hand. “I want to personally commend him for his sacrifice and bravery.”

  Aun stood. “What are we going to do?”

  Dyon shook his head and walked away from the crowd.

  “They will need us in order to fend off this attack.” Dyon kept his voice low.

  “There’s an army massing on our doorstep, growing in numbers at an alarming rate. If we fall back…”

  “We are not going to fall back,” Dyon snapped.

  The two men rounded a corner, entering an empty connecting hall. Dyon stopped, surveying their surroundings to ensure that they had privacy.

  “Then what do we do?” Aun asked.

  “Shards!” Dyon growled. “It’s like deciding whether to walk or jump off a cliff.”

  Aun nodded in agreement. “None of our options have seemed good as of late.”

  Dyon’s logic told him to send a small part of his army to Salatia Taeo under Aun’s command and retain the bulk of his force to defend Sayel Nen. A Brigade―almost ten thousand troops―would provide an adequate reinforcement army. He almost gave the order, but something stopped him. That plan didn’t feel right. What else was he supposed to do? Would ten thousand be enough? He considered sending half of his army, a number closer to twenty five thousand, yet that still seemed inadequate for some reason.

  Dyon had experienced flashes of illogical intuition before, not often, for he was a man to act on well planned tactics more than gut feelings. However, those few times in the past when he had taken a leap of faith and trusted his intuition, it had made the difference between success and failure. Was this one of those times? Did he need to trust in…what? What was he trusting in, superstition? He might as well just open the gates and let the Aukasian army into Sayel Nen as soon as send away half his force.

  Again, Dyon opened his mouth to give the order but his tongue wouldn’t let him. What was it about the situation that gave him pause and made him doubt the clearly logical course of action?

  A leap of faith.

  “Aun, rally the other generals.” Dyon paused again, this time scared out of his wits over what he was about to do. “I’m leaving you and your brigade here to defend the city while I march with the rest of our forces to aid in the defense of Salatia Taeo.”

  “Sir?” Aun asked, his tone incredulous. “You are leaving?”

  Dyon nodded. “As soon as possible.”

  “But, the coming siege!” Aun protested.

  “If you plan carefully, you should be able to hold off that army for weeks, maybe even months.”

  “Sydias!” Aun gripped his arm. “You can’t abandon Sayel Nen!”

  Dyon shook his head. “I will return.”

  “To bury the dead?” Aun snapped. “For that is all that will be left of us by the time you do.”

  Dyon placed a firm hand on his friend’s left shoulder. “I need to do this, Aun. I don’t know why, I just do.”

  “All you’re going on is a hunch, then?”

  “Please Aun,” Dyon’s voice became earnest. “It sounds insane, but I feel something pushing me to do this.”

  Aun shook his head. “We would be playing right into the enemy’s hands.”

  Dyon removed his hand from Aun’s shoulder. “Aren’t you usually the one trying to get me to have a little faith? Well now I need you to prove yourself not a hypocrite. I’m finally taking a leap of faith, and I need you to support me.”

  Aun took a deep breath. “All right.”

  “Now, summon the other generals and have them report to me in the war room.”

  Aun saluted and then jogged away.

  Dyon shook his head as he watched Aun turn a corner and disappear from view. I just hope that this time my leap doesn’t take me to the bottom of a canyon, and Sayel Nen with it.

  Tyra watched as Dyon turned away from her and strode purposefully down the red stone corridor. Reaching that one had been a challenge, though getting a message through to creatures of Dyn was always difficult. Everything had to be communicated in thoughts and feelings, not like the direct contact possible with those of the Kalyra. Then again, even if General Dyon had been of the Kalyra, she would have needed to explain quite a bit in order for him to accept her as more than just a hallucination. Humans were such dense beings, addicted to empirical evidence in order to accept anything. Had she been so narrow minded when she was Dyn-bound? It didn’t matter. She had accomplished what she had intended. Dyon would take the bulk of his force north, hopefully arriving in time.

  Free will! Tyra scoffed. Sometimes it was far more of a hindrance to YaJiann’s children than a blessing. Still, it had protected them, it just made persuading them to do what was right an excruciating experience.

  She looked north, seeing beyond walls and over hundreds of miles to the capital city. Yuiv was there, safe for the moment. She smiled as she saw the boy fumbling with the buttons of a junior gentlemen’s suit. He was so innocent, so pure. Not ready for anything that was coming.

  Her smile faded. So much was coming.

  Part III

  The wizened old Sage asked Adariel if she were willing to die for her husband, to which she answered, “yes.”

  Chapter 19

  The Battle of Hirath

  Emperor Lorta gritted his teeth as he worked to repress another rising wave of nausea.

  The image of Hirath, magnified through his telescope, quivered as his horse trotted over the pockmarked plain, making the silhouette of the city on the twilight horizon look as though it were suffering a perpetual quake. Although his army had marched steadily toward Hirath since sunset, there was still no sign of activity in the city, no alarms, no rallying defense force, no evacuation. Odd that. Perhaps the people of the city intended to surrender without a fight, in which case who was he to second-guess the gods of fortune if they chose to smile upon him. Before the night was through, Hirath would be his, and then he would take Salatia Taeo.

  Lorta lowered his telescope. The boy emperor sat atop a handsome white stallion, well muscled, and dressed in mount armor. Lorta wore the beige of the Aukasian military uniform over which was fitted a polished, iron breastplate embossed wit
h the rearing lion of Aukasia. On his head rested a silver and red plumed helmet with an open visor. His black cape billowed in the wind as he rode behind several rows of infantry, all of whom were armed with Niazeride hand units.

  “Why is the city dark?” Lorta demanded.

  General Salache, riding at his left, answered in his gravelly voice, “I do not know. I sent a group of scouts to move in for a closer look an hour ago. They should be returning soon.”

  Lorta didn’t acknowledge his chief general’s comment, but simply stared ahead at the city. The absence of light and activity was a good omen, wasn’t it?

  Forty more agonizing minutes elapsed before Salache’s scouts returned, riding up to give their report to the chief general. They spoke in a low tone that was just soft enough that Lorta couldn’t make out what was being said. Irritated by this as well as having had to wait so long, he announced in a sardonic singsong tone, “I grow impatient for news!”

  The scouts glanced at the emperor, then back at Salache, their faces looking horror-struck. Salache dismissed them with a nod and they broke formation and rode toward the rear of the column.

  “The city looks to be abandoned,” Salache said.

  Lorta snarled, “What?”

  “Hirath has been vacated.”

  “What does that mean?” Lorta bellowed, his temper rising.

  Salache shook his head. “I am uncertain. Perhaps travelers spotted our column and rode ahead to warn the city authorities, who then ordered an evacuation.”

  “Impossible!” Lorta snapped. “My Imperial Guard left no one alive for miles, travelers or otherwise.”

  “Whatever the cause,” Salache said, a hint of irritation in his tone, “I recommend that we halt our march and set up camp. I do not believe it wise to continue on until we send a reconnaissance force to search the city for threats.”

  “That would take days!” Lorta turned to the Medasylas riding hooded and cloaked at his right. “Sage? Do you perceive anything?”

  The Medasylas hesitated before answering, “Nothing is coming to me.”

  “But if there were something awry, you would sense it, yes?”

  “I believe so, Your Highness.”

  “Then it is decided,” Lorta said feeling relieved. “We continue on.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Salache dipped his head in deference.

  Lorta caught his chief general shooting the Medasylas a baleful glare before he turned away to relay orders to one of his lieutenants. Still jealous? Pathetic. Perhaps he would get lucky and Salache would fall during the taking of Salatia Taeo, it would save him the trouble of having to assassinate him later.

  Sitrell watched from a flat rooftop as the mass of black to the east steadily moved toward the city. “It looks like they’ve taken the bait,” he said to General Valek, who stood at his side.

  “Good,” the general replied. “Perhaps the Creator is with us after all.”

  Sitrell nodded and then wiped his forehead with the back of his right cuff. Despite the chill night air he was sweating profusely.

  “Are you well, Commander?” Valek asked. “You look a bit pale.”

  “I am fine, sir,” said Sitrell, holding his breath to keep the pain from showing on his face.

  He felt Valek’s suspicious stare linger on him until one of the General’s subordinates drew his attention with a report. While Valek wasn’t looking, Sitrell pulled a white handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at his wet forehead. I have a fever. Sitrell gently felt under his coat and was discouraged to find the portion of his shirt that covered his wound soaked through. He withdrew his hand and surreptitiously sniffed it. Blood and pus. He cleaned his hand with his handkerchief before stuffing it back into his coat pocket.

  During the course of the army’s march to Hirath, Sitrell’s sutures had begun to tear. He wasn’t sure how or when, but soon after, the skin around his wound became irritated and hot with infection, oozing blood and pus. Now the infection had spread, causing him a fever among a variety of other unpleasant symptoms. His sense of self preservation screamed at him to seek out one of the army’s doctors, but if he did that and his true condition were revealed, Valek was sure to relieve him of duty.

  Sitrell glanced down at his feet where he had placed the Niazeride counter measure on the roof’s slate surface. I need to do this. I have to know.

  He knew that his plan was reckless at best, but seeing Jalek and Yuiv’s eyes shine with crystal light while they performed miracles that shouldn’t have been possible had caused the pendulum of his faith to swing from atheistic apathy to wild fanaticism. I can be in no more greater danger than I am in this day, and my sickness will just add more weight to my need. He would duplicate Taeborn’s Second Wonder. He would force his father to return from the grave to save him.

  Something was wrong. Rayome’s natural instincts were enough to tell him that, but every time he listened for the Voice to try to gain insight into the danger he was met with nothing. Perhaps that wasn’t exactly true. He did feel his mental connection to the belt, but every time he expected it to open up to him there was silence. It felt as though the Voice were there and trying to communicate with him, but something was holding it back, restraining it, blocking it.

  As Rayome mused, he realized that the Voice’s clarity had been diminishing with each mile they closed on Hirath until he could no longer feel anything but a faint presence. What did that mean? The only other time he had felt the Voice struggle to communicate with him had been six weeks ago when he had seen the vision of an Imperial Guard stealing his Niazeride Counter Measure, the image in his mind blurred and distorted.

  Rayome glanced at the enormous transport wagon rolling several feet behind, one so big that it had to be drawn by a team of eight oxen. The enclosed rectangular, wooden box sat on six wheels, each as tall as a man. Inside was Rayome’s greatest technological achievement, an invention that was truly his own. He had constructed the Niazeride hand units, but they were only copies of someone else’s work. His Niazeride cannon however, that was of his own design, borrowing only the fundamentals of the ancient’s energy weapon technology.

  He had constructed the weapon, a thing that Gevan decried as a monstrosity, not so he could overawe his enemies by its sheer destructive power, but to be used as a tool to cut through the wall encircling Salatia Taeo, a wall said to be constructed of the legendary alloy Eralium. Contemporary scholars almost unanimously agreed that the invention of Eralium had been one of the ancient’s greatest achievements, even greater than their flying machines or massive explosives. It was understood that the metal was very difficult to synthesize even for the ancients, its base materials comprised of a variety of rare elements whose identities had been lost to history. Eralium was purported to be impervious to kinetic force once it cooled, requiring an energy weapon to destroy it. When the counter measure turned up missing, Rayome fitted the casing of his cannon with a protective shield, one that would protect the internal circuitry from the pulse emitted by the device should it be used against them.

  Of course, Lorta’s army could just batter down Salatia Taeo’s east gate—a structure that was built of iron and not Eralium for some unknown reason—but that would take far longer and give the guards opportunity to rain ball and powder down upon the Aukasian forces. The cannon’s sustained beam would carve through the Eralium wall like a scalpel cut through flesh, eliminating the threat posed by the sentries and denying the Amigus army time to rally a defense. Yes, his cannon would play a key role in bringing down the stronghold of his enemies.

  Rayome turned his intense stare onto Gevan. For some reason he had been acting increasingly distracted and nervous ever since they arrived in Lisidra. No! He would never betray me. His show of nerves must be a result of his inexperience with battles.

  Gevan surveyed his surroundings as he rode with the army through the vacant cottages and abandoned farms that made up Hirath’s pastoral suburbs. Where were Amigus’ soldiers? Had they kept their own coun
sel and fallen back to Salatia Taeo? He supposed that course of action wouldn’t really change much. Perhaps it would even increase his chances for success. But I don’t want Father that close to the capital. Every step they took closer to their old home seemed to stoke the fire of Rayome’s vengeful ardor, making the man more intoxicated with hate.

  Gevan glanced at Rayome riding just ahead of him with the Emperor. Since they took Lisidra, Appath had changed in his attitude toward Gevan. He was colder and spoke to him far less. Gevan had apologized for his “fears” as well as his suggestion that they withdraw, but he could tell that Rayome had discerned the insincerity of his tactical apology. He no longer trusts me. That was both worrisome and frustrating as the foundation of Gevan’s plan involved him convincing Rayome that they needed to flee the Aukasian army in order to preserve their lives. Why is he not worried for his safety? Does that thing he wears around his waist grant him some kind of protection?

  Gevan caught Rayome’s glance as he was staring at a large wagon transport behind him. He held Rayome’s stare as long as he could before yielding and finding another focus for his attention. There was something new in those eyes, something that hadn’t been there before. Was it suspicion? That was there and had been for several months, albeit not as intense since they took Lisidra. There was something else though, stirring in Father’s eyes, something that wasn’t him or at least not him as he was supposed to be. It wasn’t their occasional crimson glow, though that was very disturbing. No, what Gevan felt when Rayome stared at him made him shiver, for it was as if something else were looking at him. Not the twisted mad version of Rayome, but something distinct and alien, something evil.