by Damien Lake
Marik returned to the hillock. He arrived in time to hear the last Screamer go off, arrows of a unique pitch that everyone recognized as the signal to make their way back to camp.
“It didn’t go off as well as I’d ho—”
His words were interrupted by the tortured screams of souls in purgatory. Gibbon spun so quickly his footing slipped, sending him to the ground. Even Torrance jerked in surprised fright.
Marik’s eye twitched. He recognized that sound, would remember it long after old age had sapped recollection of his own name and history. The southern archers had gotten a lucky shot after all…and taken one of the white-robed sorcerers controlling the beasts. At least two Taurs, by the sound, were clutching their skulls, screaming in either pain, fury, confusion or all three. Within moments they would begin a rampage against every living creature within reach of their claws.
He looked worriedly to Torrance, who immediately re-gathered his poise, saying, “I believe you should send a rider to intercept the archers from the northern position. They ought to approach their tree-lines to provide covering fire against any Taurs that might move into the corridor seeking our men.”
“Right,” Marik agreed. “Gibbon, find the nearest man with a horse and send him off! I’ll keep watch…just in case.”
Watching the battle movements from above reminded him forcefully of the diorama Tybalt had tested him with. No different did the scene below unfold, with individual auras moving in accordance to the movements of other auras. He could see the shadowed forms of men within each, adding to the disjointed sensation that he looked down on carved soldiers representing larger forces, reenacting great battles from the past.
Three Taurs had slipped their mental bonds. They were the only enemy elements still battling. Surviving white-robes had directed the other ten beasts to return.
Curiously, he could see a man who had fought through the press of bodies to the ruined town’s outer edge. He stood only feet away from the soldiers. What drew Marik’s attention to him was the slight shift in the etheric mists surrounding his body. Marik focused his attention.
No serious change could be seen when he examined the mass diffusion. The free-floating mists appeared the same as everywhere else. It was only the act of change that enabled him to see it in the first place.
He envisioned a straight line inked across parchment. A knife carefully cut a perfect circle in the center. Hands rotated the circle halfway. Because the line was perfectly straight, at the completion, the line and paper would appear whole, unbroken. The change was only discernable while it took place.
What magics did this man employ? It must be sorcery, since he could see the robe draping his shoulders plainly. The color was lost to the differences in planes. He would recognize magecraft, had learned the traces magicians left on the etheric. Here was the answer to a question he had wondered about. It seemed clear that any branch of magic would affect the raw energies composing the etheric plane. Sorcery was harder to detect, yet it could be done.
It meant little right then, but later it could mean a great deal.
The man swooned. Two soldiers steadied him on his feet. Marik paid close attention, seeing one of the rioting Taurs slow in its rage. After a moment it turned, making its way back to the others. Both soldiers slung the white-robe’s arms around their shoulders and carried him back to safety.
Enough quarrels had found marks in a second Taur to slow it. One crossbowman steadied his aim. His shot tore into the monster’s throat.
Unfortunately, that would be the only undisputed victory of the night. The last Taur attacked with such frenzy that branches were snapped, bursting in every direction as lethally as the flying quarrels. Archers quickly scattered after flesh was shredded by the wooden shrapnel.
Shots from the northern forces followed the lone Taur that had been leashed at the cost of great effort on the white-robe’s part. None were close enough to cause any concern to the Arronaths. The last of the southern archers finally retreated in the face of such wanton destructive force by a single creature.
“As soon as the last archers come in, we need to put up a scouting screen to our rear. It looks like they won’t be coming after us in the dark but we need warning if they start repositioning at daybreak.”
Torrance nodded in agreement while Gibbon returned from lower down the hillock. “A meeting with the three force leaders as soon as we return to camp will help bring a successful conclusion to the skirmish.”
“You call that a gods damned success?” Gibbon barked. “I’ve rarely seen a battle plan go as badly awry!”
“It is always a success to learn vital information about an enemy, lieutenant. We lost very few men, yet I believe we will find that we learned much of value.”
“I must have been watching some other battle,” Gibbon snarled.
“We’ll put that off until we have a chance to review everything,” Marik ordered. “Mistakes are supposed to be learning tools,” he quoted Harlan, a comment made on the road to Kingshome long ago when Chatham had been exploding with criticism about Marik’s swordsmanship blunders. “I think we’re all glad that these weren’t mistakes serious enough to cause permanent damage. Or worse. Let’s get moving before it gets light enough to reveal who we really are.”
* * * * *
Nine horses shuddered in exhausted trembles. The tenth had fallen to the ground. Weak kicks disturbed the dusty earth. Saliva worked into a foam girding its equine lips.
Xenos paid it no obvious attention. In fact his mind was focused with far greater devotion to its approaching death than to Major Mellcoff, who had descended in person to greet his new commander. Poor though they were, the escaping life energies from the animal were a sweet refreshment following the hard journey. He had found no opportunity to perform services with his few faithful owing to the need to make the highest possible speed.
It had been years since he felt his power at such a low level.
“I apologize,” he said with a winsome smile. “I am afraid I missed that. It has been a long day, you understand.”
“Perfectly, councilor. I mean…general. Sir.” Mellcoff’s uncertainty was betrayed by every line in his face. “I have received no orders to the contrary from the command sections. General Adrian appears to have been killed by the locals across the mountains and Colonel Mendell has assumed command. But no instructions have been sent to me by him, or any officers serving him.”
“I see. This is your reasoning behind slowing the Citadel’s forward advance, is it?”
Mellcoff reddened under his sunburned features. “The previous orders had been posted by General Adrian. Until proper communications with the leading officers is reestablished, I must assume that continuing recklessly along the former plans puts all the elements at the same risk the general suffered.”
“Then let us assume that any threat posed by the Galemarans would be best met by applying the greatest force. I expect this mobile bastion to resume its best speed for Galemaran soil within the hour.”
Xenos siphoned away the last dregs of the horse’s energy before pushing past Mellcoff. The major’s fingers twitched from his efforts not to speak his mind.
A flight of Wyverflies waited nearby. Xenos ignored them. Most court nobles, council members and esteemed members of Arronath’s society believed that making an entrance into a Citadel on a Wyverfly’s back offered a grandiose image. In truth, only expert riders from the Wyverfly Corps could comfortably sit or control them.
He continued past the egotistic parade Mellcoff had prepared, marching to the method of entry any experienced army officer always chose first. The lifts. Mellcoff had descended on one when Xenos’ dust cloud had ridden into view. Not expecting to share it, he had come on the smaller version.
Xenos stepped across the stone square to the granite tablet set into the far railing. No words were needed for his faithful to understand what to do. Four squeezed onto the lifting platform with him. The other five would wait below, glaring at
Mellcoff until the heat was only a minor contributor to the man’s sweat.
Beside the tablet, a steel can was riveted to the railing. Xenos withdrew a pinch of rich, dark earth from it. He scattered it across the alien letters carved into the tablet…letters few but he could have deciphered. In a deliberate intonation, he said, “Hark, as the bindings to natural law are broken, rise now under the contract of Humus.”
At the closing syllable, the stone under his feet vibrated. Within moments the platform lifted from the ground.
His faithful clutched the railings. Xenos kept his eyes on the dark hole in the Citadel’s underside directly above. The distance closed rapidly, wind rocking the lift more than its movement did.
No part of the Citadel’s exterior had been worked by human hands. Its surface underneath was as jagged as a mountain slope ravaged by avalanches. The hole this lift belonged to lay between three stalactites large as watchtowers, sharp as daggers.
When they rose past the tips, with stone passing them on all sides, lifthands threw ropes down to them. Xenos caught one, the other two snatched from their uncoiling fall by others. They threaded the ropes through iron eyelets in the railings.
Shouted commands from the lifthands had Xenos’ group pulling the ropes through the rings tight as they could manage. Their platform slowed for the last thirty feet. The Citadel had drifted since Mellcoff had taken the trip down. A straight rise with no guiding ropes would have crashed the railings against the underside of the entry-hole’s edge.
Tugging on the correct ropes realigned the platform. It made a smooth entry. The last ten feet proceeded at a pace agonizingly slow compared to its speedy ascent. When it came to a halt, lifthands tied the ropes securely and pushed a walkway out over the three feet of empty space.
The platform, immobile, was as steady as the stone from which it had been made. Xenos crossed the wooden plank without a care for the dangers of slipping. His men followed with traces of hesitancy.
This particular entry bay housed six small-sized lifts. The large, cave-like room contained no shadows thanks to the oil lamps set every ten feet along the walls. Two crews serviced the six lifts, which meant they had very little to tend to with only one in operation. Each of the other five were tied tightly in place over their exit holes.
Walking to the command chambers meant climbing several hundred steps to the center of the Citadel. The hallways were clearly marked, not that it mattered very much. Every existing Citadel possessed the same interior as the others no matter their exterior faces. Though having never entered this particular one, he already knew where to find his personal quarters, the supply caverns, kitchen areas, Wyverfly roosts, barracks halls, training centers, water supplies, Healing wings…everything.
Two branches down the hallway their noses were assaulted by a strong animal musk. To allay any doubts, Taur growls bounced off the walls. Taurs could never be penned very far from the largest lifts the Citadel utilized. They could not be controlled so thoroughly as to ride a Wyverfly without problems, nor could the flies support their incredible weight. Herding them to the lifts already stressed the handlers’ abilities enough.
His men quickened their step. Although they eagerly sought the glory of his holy services, primal chaos such as the Taurs embodied appeal little to them.
Hard, short breaths huffed from each faithful when they arrived outside the command chambers. Xenos alone looked as if he had just stepped from his bed after a comfortable nap. He entered without knocking.
Ten eyes looked at him from five faces. He recognized two. That would not do. Soon he would need to expunge the foreign three and replace them with loyal followers who understood god’s glory. The man he could easily cycle into a makeshift job while making him believe he had moved up in the ranks. Both women would be problematic.
Women’s minds were harder for males to manipulate without detection. With his strength considerably low after constant use during the long journey with no opportunities to replenish, it might be unwise to attempt any forays into their psyches. Cross-gender work would have to wait.
“You should know who I am. Start by giving me the current status of all known operations at this time.”
One of the women instantly stood to be first. “We have current reports from each of our holdings across the kingdom of Tullainia. Occupied lands have been subdued with only sporadic incidents of rebellion by the locals. Along the northern border with Perrisan, we—”
“Stop,” Xenos ordered. She blinked once. “That is fine, and to be expected. But I was sent by King Lambert, sovereign of Arronath and all its domains, to rectify the grievous error committed by former General Adrian. It is against Galemar to the east that he failed, allowing our military structure to crumble and the ignorant peoples therein to learn too much about what faced them. Therefore it is to repair this damage that I have been sent.
“To that end, all towns under occupation will remain so with the exact number of soldiers needed to maintain the peace. The northern border forces will offer no aggression toward the Perrisans unless they attempt an illegal border crossing. All non-essential personnel will make their way to the Galemar camps which, I understand, are still intact. To regain control, we must present a strong front against which the enemy has no hope to stand. Is that clear?”
The woman nodded. Less convinced expressions met him from the other two non-believers. They were the type who would need a semi-plausible reason to keep their morale high.
“The kingdoms of Merinor are very much in the shape of a horseshoe that faces east,” he explained. “Along the gulf’s southern shore runs Tullainia, Galemar and then Nolier. Perrisan bridges the south to the north, where Rubia occupies the western shore, followed in line by Olander, Gusturief, finally the city states of Vyajion. Since we cannot war against the whole continent as one, we must capture the southern kingdoms first, enabling us to work our way north through the Perrisan deserts and the Stygan Gulf until we locate the seeds of evil that pose so great a threat to our homeland.”
His voice was wisdom, his expression compassion. He needed no higher power to use against mindless career soldiers like these. All he must do is play the part.
The two faithful had swollen with pride in their secret cardinal. Even the other three appeared ready to work tirelessly to aid the war effort. Perhaps these three were open to higher callings after all. He would need to test them before long. Far better to convert new followers than commit the few he already had to immutable positions.
He set them to working on logistics. They were aware of the force dispositions across Tullainia. Soon they started drafting orders that would be subsequent to multiple reviews before they were sent, shifting men across the landscape as markers across a game board.
Xenos watched the two women for a short time. They proved to be the dual scryers. Military code ordained that two should always be present in the command chambers. Their talents worked the scrying rings set into the walls, or they empowered the thin wire rim encircling the round command table to reflect the ground below the Citadel.
“So you have completely failed to raise any of the anchors across the mountains?” He carefully kept his true feelings of pleasure at bay, only allowing concern to enter his voice.
“Yes sir,” the second woman answered. “All the items we transformed into scrying anchors must have been destroyed in Adrian’s last battle. Except for one in a crate in Colonel Mendell’s base camp. It was packed away as soon as they returned to secure their hold. No one must realize it’s one of the scrying anchors, or else they would be using it to contact us.”
“You say not a one survived that battle?”
“Not that we can find, no.”
“How very curious. What would you say are the odds of that? Granted, a few are always destroyed by stray blows, yet every single one?”
“It has seemed rather strange,” she admitted. “It must have been a calamity over there. Or else the locals scavenged them all and destroyed them to keep
us from watching them.”
“Looking at these new facts, I am left wondering how accurate the information is that Adrian truly fell in service to his duty.”
“Sir?”
“Did any person ever report seeing the general’s corpse?”
“No. The entire force was destroyed. Only a few survivors who managed to flee in spite of their injuries reported a tremendous cloud of fire bursting over our men. Most were killed instantly. We’ve been trying to locate the general every day but none of us are sure which of his items was serving as his personal anchor.”
“I find it difficult to believe Adrian could have walked into a situation where such powerful magics were being brought to bear.” He contained his smile, knowing the truth but finding it convenient to misstate it. “In fact it strikes me as highly suspicious. Are you aware of how many devious snakes plotting against our sovereign we have rooted out among the nobles lately?”
“Of course not. Sir.” She looked uneasy.
“An astonishing number. Here we have an experienced general leading his men into a record-breaking ambush. No one can verify whether he has died or still lives, since all the scrying anchors have mysteriously been destroyed. Another record broken. Is it not possible that Adrian acted deliberately, that he realized his own machinations were on the verge of being uprooted, and chose to seek clemency in a foreign kingdom?”
“That…sir, that sounds pretty farfetched. I mean, considering the sort of man the general was.”
“I have seen the noblest of souls prove to be vipers with poison in their fangs,” Xenos announced for the entire room to hear. “Draft a new order immediately. Former-General Adrian may have escaped death, using this tragedy as a screen to escape his impending fate. We might recapture him when we break the Galemaran resistance. Any soldier finding him is to restrain him, then escort him in force to the Citadel.”