Each day farther from Tratec, he and his men marched closer to the storm. Although the rain was mild, the tempest’s shadowy wings remained a fixation in the sky, casting everything below in darkness. Worse yet was the wind, a blustering gale whipping in every direction, beating on his face with rainwater that had fallen days earlier.
Three days of marching, three within wind, shadow, and grey, gloomy mist, he arrived at the warfront. A few hours before dusk, his company came to rest on the western slope of a great ridge, the last crest of earth before the broad valley of the Gholesh. There the Crossroad came to an end, fading against the ridge like a sword blunted against stone.
It was at the ridge’s bottom he bid his men to stop. What lay before him was not just a hill, but a heel of earth running for many miles up and down the river bank. Its western side was a steep, heavily-treed flank of stone and soil, while its eastern side overlooked the waters of the river Gholesh.
“Therian,” he called into the mass of men at his back. “Therian, lad. Come forth!”
Therian appeared soon thereafter, leading his slender courser by its reins. “Yes, Sire.”
“You’re nimble as any. Clamber up that ridge and tell us what you see. Lothe will send his own scouts, but I want to hear it from you.”
“In a heartbeat.” Therian handed his reins to Bruced and sprinted up the slope.
He watched Therian go. The evening mist was thick as soup, oozing like grey broth between the oaks astride the ridge. He feared Therian might see nothing, that the mist might be just as heavy on the ridge’s far side, but sooner than he expected the lad reappeared, wide-eyed and panting.
“Lothe’s men are up there too.” The lad sucked in several great breaths. “They saw, same as I.”
Bruced piped up. “Saw what? Quickly now.”
Therian took a deep breath, vast and heaving. In the failing light wandering between the mist, his eyes were dark and full of fear. “The river’s all but invisible. The mist is on the water like a shroud, like smoke from a big fire. I climbed a tree and saw the damage from the flood. It’s bad, milords. Hundreds of houses are torn apart, and the trees’ broken bodies all a mess.”
“And the water?” Rellen asked.
“Gone down. The flood’s passed.”
Bruced crossed his arms. “Broken houses and drowned trees are all well and good, boy, but your eyes tell more than that. So just say it then. Did you see the enemy?”
Therian looked to Rellen, to Bruced, and to Saul, all gazing like old oaks down upon him. “Aye, I think so,” he said with a shiver. “I went to the last tree on the ridge and climbed up. I saw movement, sure enough. There were torchlights in the mist. They were moving down into the valley on the far side. The river’s low enough. If they’re the enemy, they might be able to cross.”
“How many?” Rellen questioned.
Therian gulped. “Thousands. Tens of thousands. Tis no fog on the far river bank, but smoke.”
“Take us to see it,” Rellen ordered.
Therian led the way. With Garrett, Saul, and Adarros following, Rellen climbed the slope right behind the lad. The footing was treacherous, the soil slick and littered with rotting tree limbs, but eventually he reached the top of the ridge. The mist was lesser here, the evening sky painted with vast violet shadows above the river valley.
“Where are they? I see nothing but fog,” worried Adarros.
“There.” Saul pointed with his staff.
Rellen gazed across the valley. Fires uncountable winked into his sights, bobbing like candles on the river’s far bank. The long, smoking rows of firelight looked like serpents with scales of flame, streaming down the far slopes before plunging below the mist. So many. He trembled. We could never count them all.
“Perhaps we should have fled.” Adarros cowered. “Look how many.”
“See how they move,” Saul crouched atop a boulder. “The floodwaters are gone. They mean to cross the river, and soon.”
Rellen stood on the ridge top, straining to catch any sound made by the enemy, but from the depths of the valley issued only a distant rumble as their torchlights passed lower and lower. Even the storm was oddly silent, the rain absent despite a sky clogged with sickly clouds. Others soon joined him atop the ridge. He knew the Barrok men by the clatter of their armor. Lothe’s here. He heard the warlord’s voice, cold and calculating. How brave will he be once he sees this?
“So it’s true.” Lothe thundered to the ridge top. “The enemy has more men than we, and by the looks on your faces, he has the vantage of fear. A fine view, this ridge, but no place to stage a battle. We’re too high for our archers to be effective, and the slopes are too steep for footmen or cavalry. If we attack from here, every man will slide down this ridge face like a stone on wet leaves. So tell me, Lord Gryphon, where does the valley open up? Where must the enemy come out?”
It was Garrett who answered. “To the south, an hour’s march.” Garrett spoke to Lothe as an equal. “The ridge flattens and the Gholesh falls below the earth. There are two cliffs, both sheer to the water, but sloped enough that we might mount them from the forest side. Between the cliffs, a barren slope leads down to the river. Assuming the enemy knows this, they will ascend the slope and flood into the forest.”
“Then south we go,” declared Lothe. “Take your men and lead us, Rellen. We’ll be right beside you.”
Lothe and his men descended. Saul, Therian, and Adarros followed. Alone with Garrett, Rellen remained atop the ridge, watching as the enemy torches crowded into the valley fog.
“A hard fight awaits us,” said Garrett.
“The vantage is ours,” he said, though he hardly believed it. “They don’t know we’re here. We’ll race them to the cliffs and drive them back into the river. I can almost taste the victory. Tonight we’ll dine on lamb and mead. Their helmets will be our soup bowls, and their swords used to butter our bread.”
Garrett grimaced. “You know the sacrifice about to be made. Do not take it lightly.”
“Lightly? I—”
“Confidence is one matter,” Garrett cut him off. “Boasting is another thing entirely. Lothe knows what we are up against, same as you. This is no barbarian horde. This is an invasion masterminded with great forethought. Look to the sky. The storm brings change. The war has just begun.”
He lowered his head. He felt as though Garrett were the master, and I the apprentice. He rather hated the humility of it. “I just want it finished,” he grumbled. “There are more important things than war.”
“Perhaps,” said Garrett. “But for tonight, Andelusia will wait.”
Feeling hollow inside his chest, he spun to begin the long climb down the ridge, but something stopped him dead in his tracks. A sound issued from the valley fog, the thunder of a man’s voice trumpeting through the twilight. The dusk was deep, and the snaking fires made a sharp red line in the bowels of the shadowed valley, but it was the voice he paid attention to. The distant cant was somber, a numbing, nameless eulogy. It echoed up from the valley’s bottom, reverberating against the clouds like a beast in mourning.
“What’s that?” he asked Garrett.
“A wailing husband, a dead man’s chant, a ghost; I do not know,” answered Garrett. “I do not like the sound of it.”
“Nor I. What do we do?”
“We go to the cliffs.” Garrett’s gaze was inky dark, the day’s dying light failing to catch his face. “We make our stand in the valley. And if by chance we find it is the enemy who chants, we find the chanter and put him down.”
Black Tide
Deep in the heart of Velum, all things were shrouded in shadow. The mist clung close to the earth, draining the color from every leaf and blade of grass. High above the valley, the failing sun dipped below the horizon, giving off a grey light as the day perished.
It was far below, beneath the sun’s waning, the Gholesh found its sudden end.
At the valley’s end, a waterfall thundered and crashed, and beyond the f
alls the earth forever swallowed the river. The southward rushing waters plunged into the mouth of a yawning chasm, an inky abyss darker than a starless night. The river folk called it the Gholesh Chasm, and aptly so, for its bottom was deeper than any man knew.
Stallion trotting at his side, Rellen halted in his tracks and surveyed the scene. The forest was at his back, and the way down into the valley just ahead. A pair of vaulted cliffs flanked the path down to the river, two towers of craggy rock lording like kings over a broad expanse of pebble-pocked earth. The waterfall boomed in his ears, drowning his hopes of hearing the enemy.
“This is the place,” Garrett told him. “The easiest way out is here. The enemy will ford the river upstream and walk the banks along the cliffs.”
The twilight gloomed on the path before him, draping the way down to the river in shadows. It was a gentle slope, slinking toward the shore of the dark, rushing water. Behind him the forest was thick, tall river trees between which the spears and swords of Lothe’s host bristled.
“Will they come tonight? Or tomorrow?” he asked no one in particular.
“It does not matter,” answered Garrett.
With night so near, Rellen gave a last glance to Lothe’s host. He glimpsed riders and footman scurrying to find their positions between the trees. He saw knights seated atop restless mounts, their lances tilted to the earth, their gazes set on the path to the river. Behind the knights, clusters of archers and swordsmen kneeled on the soft, damp ground, waiting anxiously for the first sign of the enemy. In the center of them all stood Lord Lothe, as impossibly calm as Garrett.
“Lothe will have his soldiers up all night, sleepless for nothing,” he said at length. “I say you and I climb the ridge and get back to camp. The better to see the enemy by.”
“Right behind you,” Garrett agreed.
The day was dead. He and Garrett arrived at the top of the northernmost cliff. Breathless from the ascent, lantern swaying in his grasp, he strode into the clifftop camp Marlos had prepared. The Gryphon company rested here, along with Barrok’s three hundred knights and several hundred Mormist soldiers. Their campfires burned low on the rocky, forested slope, the light just enough for Rellen to peruse Marlos’s preparations. Swords and spears glinted in the firelight. Archers were stationed at the cliff’s edge, ready to rain death into the valley should the enemy approach. Heavy stones were heaped in piles, available for hurling should every arrow be spent. A stone for every skull. Rellen nodded with satisfaction. We’re as ready as we ever will be.
He lumbered through the trees, weighed by worry as much as by his armor. “Look at them,” he said to Garrett. “Ready to give their lives, all of them.”
“Indeed.” Garrett cut a stark figure in his cloak and hauberk, moving through the men like a black-sailed ship.
“No matter what happens here, they’re already heroes.”
“Very true.” Garrett nodded.
“You’re quiet tonight. Too quiet.”
“I am always quiet.”
He raised his lantern and proceeded ahead of Garrett. He meandered amongst his fellow soldiers, saying his hellos and boasting of the enemy’s imminent destruction, though his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts slid back to the lonely tower of Verod, to Andelusia. He yearned to be back with her, to have her in his arms. The snapping fires reminded him of her hair, and the smell of the trees made him daydream of her kiss. If we fail here, she’ll die.
All the more reason to win.
Alone, he wandered to the cliff’s edge. The valley was steeped in darkness, the blackness so dense he could not see the Gholesh. He clung to a tree overlooking the vale and stared northward. He half expected to see the enemy thundering up the riverbank, but he heard and saw nothing. After a while, he returned to the clearing where most of his companions sat, and by the campfire light searched their faces.
Bruced.
His gaze fell first upon his hulking friend, who leaned against the broadest tree upon the clifftop. Those were the days, he recalled his childhood. He and Bruced had passed many seasons together, many years of plotting mischief in the halls of Gryphon Keep. The troublemaking, the drinking, even the brawls, he remembered with a smile. Would that we could do it all again.
Marlos.
He glanced next to the captain of Gryphon’s guard, who sat motionless astride his horse. Marlos was only four years older than he, but carried himself as a man many years wiser. Of all the servants of House Gryphon, Marlos was the most learned, and the most faithful. For Graehelm I live, but for Gryphon I die, he always says. Ever since Father appointed him high captain, he’s lived up to it.
Eventually, his wandering led him back to the cliff edge. There he saw Saul of Elrain leaning over the rock wall, peering into the valley like an owl searching for its prey. He had grown to respect Saul. It was Saul who had rescued him from certain death on the fields of Mooreye, and for that he was held in high regard by all the men of Rellen’s company. He set his lantern down, kneeled upon the rock, and tried to follow Saul’s hawkish gaze into the darkness of the vale.
“What can you see?”
Saul did not respond. His stare was too intense, his concentration unbreakable.
“You’re busy. I’ll come back later.”
Saul extended his staff, pointing into the night. When his spoke, his voice was grave. “I spy a distant flame. I think it’s many, gathered close. They’re moving this way. They might be a vanguard.”
“A vanguard?” Eyes narrowed, blood racing like fire through his arteries, he peered into the valley and saw the same as Saul. At the edge of sight, a group of firelights weaved and bobbed in the night. They looked like wolves’ gazes hunting in the darkness, burning red as angry stars in the valley deeps.
“I hoped they might not come.” Saul grimaced. “Leastways not tonight.”
Rellen was already gone.
Sprinting, he came to Marlos first. The Gryphon captain was still atop his horse, brooding over the camp beside the sanctuary of a shadowed oak. He took Marlos by the sleeve and tugged him near enough to whisper. “Tell the others, but be quiet about it. Riders are in the vale. Only fifty, maybe fewer. We couldn’t see their banners. Take two hundred and put a watch on the shore. Whatever you do, don’t attack. Our numbers must stay hidden.”
Marlos nodded. He prodded his horse forward, snapping his fingers at several nearby knights of Barrok. In a flash, he and the knights vanished down the slopes atop their steeds.
Rellen ran next to Bruced and Therian, who were seated together beneath a barrel-bodied tree. “Therian, it’s time,” he said to the lad. “Run to Lothe. Tell him riders are approaching. If they’re the enemy, Marlos will deal with them. None must escape, or our trap will be foiled. Make Lothe aware of our plan.”
Therian paled, but just as quickly jumped to his feet and dashed downhill, bolting down into the darkness toward Lord Lothe.
“I should go with him.” Bruced rose, casually slapping a cloud of dirt and dust from his palms.
“No.” He shook his head. “What sort of fool would send away his best warrior on the eve of battle? Stay put. I’ll be right back. I’ve something for you.”
After a swift jog to the tent Marlos had prepared for him, he returned, bearing the weapon he had carried all the way from Gryphon. The two-tined spear was as deadly an instrument of war as any, its twin blades gleaming in the light of Bruced’s campfire. “Remember this?” He dropped the haft into Bruced’s hands.
Bruced marveled. “How could I forget? And here I thought Lorsmir melted it down.”
“I had him remake it. I should’ve given it to you sooner.”
“Yes. You should’ve.”
While Bruced gazed the length of the beautiful weapon, Rellen’s hand fell to the pommel of Lorsmir’s sword. I’ve not freed you since my tower, he remembered. Soon you’ll be tested, I think.
His fingers trailed along the leather-wrapped hilt handle. For the first time in more than a month, he felt its power call
ing to him, a blistering pulse pounding beneath his fingertips. “We have our steel.” He tightened his grip. “Time we used it.”
He slapped Bruced on the arm and beckoned him to follow. Twisting through the dark columns of trees, they came together to the edge of the cliff, where Saul and several others peered over the cliff edge. “The fires.” He halted beside Saul. “Still coming?”
“Still coming,” said Saul.
He teetered at cliff’s edge, gaze narrowing in the darkness. A dozen breaths, each one chillier than the last, and the valley gave up its secrets. He made out the glow of some fifty moving torchlights. A scouting party, he assumed. Or skirmishers maybe.
He saw grim, armored horsemen holding their flames aloft, riding southward. Their armor was neither silver, nor beaten iron, nor steel, but black and mirrored as polished obsidian.
He watched them come, his heart blasting against his ribs. Every man on the cliff became still. He saw the enemy gallop nearer to the valley exit, and it was all he could do not to tear down the slopes to greet them with Lorsmir’s blade. The riders were masked, faces clad in darkness, ghostlike warriors whose torches scattered precious little of the night. They slowed as they reached the clearing between the cliffs. He heard their murmurs as they moved away from the Gholesh, heard the slosh of their warhorses’ hooves as they plodded through the saturated soil. He watched them fan out, probing with blades drawn, approaching the jaws of Marlos and Lothe’s trap.
I dare not breathe.
They’ll hear me.
A last moment of terror, a few whispered words for Marlos’s safety, and the trap sprang. From darkness leapt sweeping death. The knights of Barrok, so patient in their hiding place, thundered out of the forest and descended upon the Furyon riders like an avalanche from Mormist’s highest mountain. Lothe’s men swarmed the slope between the cliffs, stinging with swords and spears. So great was the enemy’s surprise that many of their horses reared, throwing riders and dashing their heads upon the rocky slope.
Though surrounded, the Furyons were not easily finished. Who are these men, who would stand and fight these odds instead of run?
Down the Dark Path (Tyrants of the Dead Book 1) Page 27