Rise and Fall (Book 1)

by Joshua P. Simon

  And no one will come for me. Even to Father, I am nothing.

  Panicked, Tobin attempted to raise his sword in a defensive position but his body ignored the command. His head slumped on his wide shoulders, unable to even lift his gaze past a few feet in front of him, just far enough to see black leather boots come into view. A hand grabbed his arm. Silent curses screamed in his mind, incapable of voicing his anger.

  The sun was bright that morning but not so bright to cause the sudden white glare. At first Tobin thought the effect came from the sorcery working against him, but a chorus of yells erupting from the clansmen around him told him there was something more. With head hung low, Tobin blinked away the cloudiness and saw a man collapse in front of him, clutching at his eyes. The rope fell at the man’s feet. Tobin realized that a hand no longer held his arm, and life returned to his deadened limbs. He lunged with his short sword, stabbing the clansmen lying before him through the side. He started for the shaman, but a familiar shout above the confusion halted him.

  He spun and saw Nachun astride a black horse, another at his side. Slung on the empty saddle rested the bow and quiver he had left behind.

  Tobin covered the distance in haste, flinging himself atop the empty mount. Reaching for his bow, he pulled free an arrow.

  “What are you doing? We’re running out of time.” asked Nachun.

  “Then go,” said Tobin as he drew back the bow. Nachun stayed at his side. Taking aim, Tobin fired and watched the arrow sail across the disorder of horse and human, piercing the neck of the Warchief, toppling him from his mount.

  He kicked the horse forward and Nachun followed close behind. Without a word, they raced across the unforgiving desert as fast as the animals and land would allow before reaching the rim of hills that circled Munai.

  Approaching the ridge, Tobin unsheathed his sword once again and holding it aloft, let out a warning to any of Walor’s scouts patrolling the area. They descended the last rise. A horn blew somewhere close by, signaling the others of their arrival. Good.

  Tobin pulled up on his reins.

  “What are you stopping for? We must tell your brother!” said Nachun panting, forehead covered in a sheen of sweat.

  “No,” said Tobin, turning in the saddle. “You go. We stick to the plan. I need to help Walor recall his scouts and organize our archers. Tell Kaz that I questioned one of their scouts. If we believe what he said, they come with three thousand men on horseback and ten shamans.”

  “So many?” said Nachun surprised. “Then those we saw were not their full strength.”

  “No, I suspect they were sent ahead to prepare for the main force.”

  “How much time then?”

  “Maybe an hour. Probably sooner.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. What can we do about the shamans? We were not expecting so many and all of ours are with my father’s army.”

  “I was only in Nubinya for a short period, but I picked up quickly that their offensive skills are effective but limited. Their defense is almost nonexistent. They can deflect an arrow like that shaman near the oasis did with your ax. But he was ready, and I doubt that under a more stressful situation these shamans would be as effective, especially while trying to attack. Expect them to be heavily guarded, shielded perhaps, and stationed in the middle of their columns for added protection. Their armor may be thicker too, but they still have the same weaknesses as any other warrior.”

  Tobin nodded. “I will spread the word. Make sure you tell Kaz as well. And also tell him where the two scouts we passed are located. It may be of use.” Nachun gave him a nod farewell and kicked his horse into a gallop as he headed toward the village.

  I didn’t tell him thank you. That’s twice he’s saved my life.

  Tobin hoped that when this was all done, he’d be able to rectify the situation and show his gratitude. But he knew nothing was guaranteed. Odd, but the recent events had brightened his mood; in fact he found himself smiling as he turned his horse toward a small camp of Walor’s scouts and a group of archers. His smile would be unsettling to most but to him it made sense. The Orange Desert Clan warriors they would face were not women and children, not helpless victims of war. Nor were these fishermen caught unaware as they rested in their beds. No, these were warriors—men he had been trained his entire life to fight. And it felt good knowing the men he would kill today would not add to his haunting dreams.

  * * *

  Plans changed once Kaz received the news from Nachun. The old plan called for Tobin’s group to harass the enemy with a company of longbows, firing when the Desert Clan came within range. Once engaged and distracted with falling arrows, the remaining Kifzo would move in on foot, relying on the Kifzo’s skill to overcome any disadvantage in numbers. The tactic was a familiar one, but given the additional shamans and mounted soldiers, Kaz opted for a more deceptive approach—one that required a great deal of work with little time to accomplish it.

  As luck would have it, Tobin’s earlier encounter with their foe and Nachun’s sorcery must have given the Desert Clan something more to consider. Overly cautious, almost two hours passed before their riders were spotted, giving them enough time to accomplish Kaz’s plan.

  The Desert Clan riders descended the rimmed slope of hills in the distance, pausing at their base to form battle lines. Tobin watched the scene alone, situated once again on the hill across from the village’s animal pens.

  In the daylight, the mound of scalding sand looked no different than any other he had grown intimate with these last few days. Yet, the broken gravel and jagged black rock that covered its surface seemed a starker contrast under the watchful eye of the sun.

  Even from far away, there seemed to be a sense of hesitancy about the desert warriors’ movements. With weapons drawn, they stared out across the empty land that separated them from Munai. They expected us to meet them head on.

  Then, without warning, the riders set off at a gallop, racing across the open land as would the sound of thunder travel across an empty sky. Rising battle cries filled Tobin’s ears. Dispersed throughout the mass of some three thousand riders, ten shamans became visible, each surrounded by men with large wooden shields. Just as Nachun said.

  The riders reached the village at full charge. The first line of warriors passed through the far side of the settlement unopposed. Coming to a halt, they turned, twisting to and fro in their saddle, scanning the land around them. They anticipated the Kifzo to use the cluster of huts as cover but to the naked eye Munai appeared deserted. Weaving around these huts while circling the village’s exterior, confused riders searched within the disordered mass of bodies. Shouts of frustration tickled Tobin’s ears.

  With skill, two Kifzo worked their way into the fold atop stolen black horses. If Tobin hadn’t known where Ral and Ufer were coming from, or what to look for, even he would have missed them attired in confiscated garb taken from the two scouts Tobin had killed. Kaz personally selected them to infiltrate the Orange Desert Clan forces based on their ability to blend in. Their unique skills had been key during Bazraki’s rise as leader of the Blue Island Clan some years ago.

  Tobin peered down on the scene and spotted what looked to be the lead Orange Clan Warchief, assailed with questions from his men. At his command, half a dozen riders broke out from the group and galloped off toward the coast between hills narrowing from either side. They rounded a bend and disappeared only to return a short time later while standing in their saddles and pointing off toward the coast. Sword aloft, the Warchief barked an order and without reforming lines, the riders began spurring their mounts forward in clumps.

  This may work.

  Tobin drew his bowstring back. His eyes flickered about, patient, waiting for the two Kifzo below to make their move. There.

  Tobin had to give the shield bearers protecting the shamans credit. Despite the tangled mess below, their guards never faltered. In the group closest to Tobin, an opening appeared as the shield and rider fell to the g
round. Ral slipped quickly away from the group as Tobin released his shot and hit a shaman just under the left armpit. The shaman folded over his mount.

  A similar opening appeared soon after and this time Tobin struck his target through the neck. Those around the shaman shouted out at the dead man wavering in the saddle.

  Tobin smiled—two arrows and two shamans. The commotion that resulted worked further against the desert riders as they sought an enemy they could not find.

  Tobin chanced another shot. The arrow zipped through a small crevasse. A shaman wailed, an arrow protruding from his back. Warriors looked in Tobin’s direction, assessing the trajectory of his shots. He was in no situation to confront anyone, so he set off, unwilling to engage the Orange Desert Clan alone.

  * * *

  Skirting the valley below, Tobin traversed the desolate mounds of sand that led to the coast. Following the contours of those bleak hills, the uneven land provided a dangerous ground for the frantic pace he maintained. As he weaved along, he did his best to leave false trails where possible, hoping to distract anyone who might follow. He stole the occasional glance down to the valley floor, peering through a cloud of dust kicked up by another group of riders.

  So focused on what lay behind him and to the sides, he became careless to what was in front, nearly falling victim to an arrow from his own clan. Walor spotted him with longbow drawn. Tobin came to a tense halt. Walor shifted his neck to the side with a loud crack and a smile crawled across his face. He swung his bow down and fired it toward the next group of riders. Tobin relaxed and grinned back.

  Fifty other archers joined Walor, raining flight after flight of arrows down on each group of desert warriors that made their way up the dusty trail. An equal number of archers fired on the hill just opposite them, where the valley was at its most narrow. With the desert riders coming in range in such small groups, the land below changed from a drab orange to a bright red, stained with the blood of those who would never reach the shore.

  “Looks like its working. Not sure what’s going on along the beach though. How long before the last of them make it to us?” asked Walor as he pulled another arrow loose from his quiver.

  “Soon. I’d guess another six or seven hundred left.” said Tobin.

  “Shamans?”

  “I think four made it down in the first wave. I shot three. So, that leaves another three left unless Ral and Ufer got anymore.”

  “Three by yourself? Ral and Ufer will have to get at least one a piece or they’ll never forgive you for taking all the fun.”

  Tobin shrugged. “They gave me a shot on two of them. They can have credit for those. It makes no difference to me.” He glanced over and noticed many of the other Kifzo were near the end of their quivers. Tobin grabbed three out of his own before passing the rest down to Walor. “Here. Take what you need and pass these along. We’ve only got enough for a few volleys.” Walor grabbed two arrows for himself, setting each of their blue dyed tips down point first in the loose sand at his feet before tossing the quiver down to the next warrior.

  Tobin heard the advance of beating hooves long before he saw the swarm of desert warriors round the bend. Animal and warrior had reorganized, forming a solid sheet of shadow that cascaded down the weathered trail, leaving behind a whirlwind of austere powder in their wake. “No word from the beach, you said?” asked Tobin.

  “None,” said Walor in a grim tone.

  Tobin grunted in response. Walor gave a nod as if reading his thoughts.

  The Kifzo drew back bowstrings as the desert warriors howled over even the thunderous hooves of their mounts. Riders crossed an imaginary line in the ground and a hail of arrows filled Tobin’s intervening space. Bodies tumbled from their saddles, falling left and right, blue shafts piercing orange and black armor. Two successive flights followed the first.

  I’m out.

  Tobin dropped his bow and with quivers empty, other Kifzo did the same. The Kifzo shouted war cries down to the riders who now broke off and climbed the smaller hills in an attempt to reach their position. Shamans unleashed three quick bursts of sorcery, hitting the slopes in a blast of heat. The Kifzo scattered to avoid becoming easy targets. Out of habit, Tobin reached for his throwing axes but his belt loops were empty. Cursing, he remembered where he had left them and with a sigh pulled free his sword instead.

  Within moments, ringing steel, blood curdling screams, and sliding rock joined the cacophony of sounds. Another flash of sorcery struck the hillside less than twenty feet from where Tobin stood, killing a half dozen men—Kifzo and desert warriors alike. The concussive jolt knocked him from his feet and in his fall, he bruised his head on half-buried rock. He rolled to his knees amidst blurred vision. Outnumbered, without mounts, and unable to match their sorcery. Curse you Father, for not allowing us the support of even a handful of shaman. He lifted his clouded gaze and his heart sank. Warriors galloped down from the beachfront, wheeling their weapons in the air. Dying in battle. Perhaps Father will find some pride in me for that.

  But as his eyes came into focus, Tobin saw that these warriors were not of the Desert Clan. Their armor shone dull blue and murky gray, rather than the orange and black now swarming the hills like ants on an overturned mound. A flash of sorcery reached that approaching group of Kifzo only to dissipate before impact. Tobin grinned. Though he could not see his face among the throng of Kifzo, he knew that Nachun had survived.

  Desert riders who had yet to scale the heaps of sand before them, wheeled in an attempt to reform lines to face the oncoming charge. Their efforts were frantic and futile as the Kifzo smashed into them in a blood-frenzied rage.

  Still on one knee, a war cry drew his attention away from the excitement and Tobin half-rolled, half-dove in time to avoid an arrow flitting across the air toward him. The rider threw down the short bow he held, and replaced it with a scimitar, as he galloped toward Tobin, high in the saddle.

  Overconfident fool.

  Crouching, he unsheathed the dagger at his thigh. He flipped the dagger over, catching the blade with his fingers, and whipped it forward. Sinking hilt deep into the horse’s unprotected chest, the mount buckled, throwing the rider. The clansmen’s scimitar skidded across the sand as he crashed to the ground. Tobin was on him in a few short steps, sword cutting through boiled leather and sliding between ribs. The desert warrior gasped. Tobin twisted his wrist and wrenched the sword free. He watched the man’s life drain away and felt nothing.

  Expecting another attacker, he spun about, but was surprised, disappointed, to see the battle ending. Though a few small pockets of fighting remained, many desert warriors were being rounded up, and in some cases, dragged to a common area where they could be watched. Somehow in the moments it took him to finish the rider, the Kifzo had overwhelmed the Desert Clan. Many threw their weapons to the ground rather than face death.

  What could have caused such a sudden change?

  Smoldering figures caught Tobin’s eye as he worked his way down the incline. Burned to a shriveled husk, the bodies leaked grayish smoke into the air. Many of those charred figures held the remnants of what appeared to be shields at their side.

  Protectors of the shamans. He snorted. Effective against arrows but useless against other shamans. Useless against Nachun that is. To kill so many by himself! He shook his head in disbelief.

  Tobin looked up at the sound of scraping sand to see Nachun dragging a rattling corpse, the bones strapped to its person no longer a pale white, but black as tar. Nachun dumped the body on top of two others in similar condition. Ashes fluttered up, strengthening the already pungent smell of burnt flesh that hung in the air. “You’ve done well today.”

  The shaman turned, his face at first a scowl, until recognition reached his mind and a friendly smile formed in its place. “Yes,” he said gesturing to the pile of death he had created. “I heard from Ufer you had a hand in taking out the others,”

  “So he made it out then? And Ral? They deserve credit.”

 
; “Ral died according to Ufer.”

  His loss will be felt. He was about to say as much when a deep voice sounded from behind.

  “Brother, I see you decided to join us.” Tobin turned round and saw Kaz. Sweat and blood covered the man, armor torn and gouged. He looked at the graze on Tobin’s arm and chuckled. “It looks like you injured yourself. Let us hope it heals better than your ankle.” He paused, coming to a halt. “Lucky for us and for you,” Kaz said, “that Nachun was here to finish the task I gave you.”

  Nachun cleared his throat. “Tobin, Ral, and Ufer killed many of them. I would think you pleased at their work.”

  Kaz glared at Nachun through narrowed eyes and then turned to meet Tobin’s. “And you would be wrong. Their task was to kill them all, and Tobin was given the lead. The failure is his to bear. And a man like Ral is not easily replaced. Father will be displeased to hear of his death.”

  And what would it take to please Father? You seem to be the only one with that answer.

  “I take it by your silence you have nothing to say, Brother? Good. You are in charge of counting our dead. I want to know every man who gave his life today. As will Father.”

  “As you say,” said Tobin.

  Kaz turned, barking more orders as he strode through the masses. Tobin watched him for a moment and then started to walk away. Nachun called out to him with a reassuring smile, “You did do well, and we will celebrate our victory tonight, together.”

  Tobin shook his head as he eyed Kaz. “I will not be part of any celebration tonight. I promise you that.”

  * * *

  He swayed in the saddle of his agitated mount. The animal plodded along, impatient with the slow pace Tobin kept. He was dressed in the same leather armor he had worn since arriving some weeks ago, gray and blue in color, matching the stone that covered the islands of his birth. Daggers were at his thigh and boots, throwing axes once again looped at his sides, sword strapped to his back. A longbow and quiver rested across the back of his mount, atop a small pack. The pack only further annoyed his horse and it snorted in frustration at him. Twice Tobin took out his anger on the animal, each time just after a nip at his leg or hand. Yet, the beast persisted.