Shadow of the Ghost Bear (The Tale of Azaran Book 2)

by Arbela, Zackery

  "We must withdraw," said Nerazag. "There will be other battlefields."

  "Withdraw..." mumbled Ganascorec. "Yes...withdraw..." His fluttered then closed and his head bowed against his chest.

  Nerazag pressed a finger against the Kings throat. "A pulse," he said. "Still alive."

  "What of his mind?"

  "I do not know. I need to get him to a quiet place. Away from here..."

  "Then go." Tarazal drew his sword. "I will cover you."

  "What are you doing..." But Nerazag's question faded as Tarazal galloped off towards the battle. Going after Azaran. The Master's command superseded all else, so a case could be made that Tarazal was acting in good faith. But under the circumstances it was quite inconvenient.

  Nerazag shook his head. "No discipline," he muttered. "The fool...come, Great King, we must withdraw!" He took hold of the Kings horse and led him back towards the forest, headed east. The sound of battle faded behind and he put from his mind, turning instead to a more immediate need - keeping Ganscorec alive for the next few days.

  "They're breaking!" The shout went up from the rebel line. And indeed it was so - the Hawks of Bronze were departing the field in fear, turning tail and headed back towards the forest. Gwindec and his men raised a shout, mustering what strength they had left and pressed forward, literally climbing over piles of corpses to stab at the fleeing backs of the enemy, even as the Iturei chased after, their hatchets and knives blood slick from heavy use.

  Azaran pulled both swords free from the bodies in which they were embedded, both dropping to the ground with a groan. He looked about and saw no one else within striking distance, only the backs of the enemy as they ran for their lives.

  He lowered his weapons, the serene trance fading along with the warmth of the runes. Other facts made themselves present at the moment...he was covered in blood, most of it belonging to someone else, though a few shallow cuts on his arm and torso now made themselves known. One of them would likely leave a scar, he guessed in an absent way. He was tired but could not rest just yet. The Hawks of Bronze were broken, but there were still more of Ganascorec's men in the trees, Eburreans of his clan who were presumably loyal to the King who was also their chieftain...

  Except none of them came out of the trees. He spotted a pair of riders fleeing the field, one of them wearing the silver crown of the King. He was slumped in his saddle, perhaps an arrow had found him. The Eburreans in the trees beyond were turning about and headed eastwards, unwilling to die in the glade along with the mercenaries.

  So, it was a victory. He let out a sigh of relief. There were no guarantees in life, especially when it came to warfare. It was just as likely that this day would have ended with their bodies lying on the ground, while Ganascorec exacted a vicious toll on the Iturai. But the day turned otherwise. They had won and for now that was enough....

  He felt the approach a moment before he heard it, the drumming of hoof beats on the ground, the heaving breathing of a horse mingled with that of a man. Azaran jumped to the side, dropping to the ground only half a heartbeat before a sword would have taken his head, close enough that the flat of the blade brushed against the top of his hair. He rolled away and to his feet, both swords still in his hands.

  Tarazal slowed his horse, turning around and ready for another charge. His gaze was on Azaran, a sword of impressive size clasped in his right hand. He gave the horse a kick, spurring it into a gallop, intent this time on simply running his target down. Azaran gripped both swords, keeping his body loose, idly calculating the chances of taking down the horse by cutting its feet and figured that the odds of survival were too low to even consider...

  A arrow sprouted from the horses neck. The beast squealed as hot blood spurted out, indicating the shaft had cut a vein. The charge ended in the horse rearing up, tossing Tarazal out of the saddle. He hit the ground and bounced several times, then rolled to his feet, his arms and face scraped and bruised, his sword landing point first ten feet away. He stood, then dove out of the way again as Azaran came charging at him, both blades whisking past his face. Azaran gave chase, stabbing and cutting, each time hitting only air, Tarazal dodging each blow at the last possible instance before it hit. He ran past his sword, grabbing the hilt and spinning about, parrying a pair of blows from Azaran with almost contemptuous ease.

  "Too slow," he said. "You've lost a step!"

  "You talk too much!" Azaran shot back, launching a complicated series of slashes and cuts that would have reduced any other man to a pile of severed bloody chunks. Tarazal swatted them aside without even blinking. "Is that it?" he taunted, "I am not impressed..." He knocked aside a final blow from Azaran's left, and somehow knocked him off balance, pulling the younger man forward. A hard shock sent Azaran stumbling, his left sword falling from a suddenly numb hand.

  "You fight like a savage," said Tarazal. "Slow, undisciplined. So die like one! HA!" And with that Tarzal threw himself into the attack. Azaran barely fended off the first blow. The second snapped his remaining sword in hand just above the hilt. The third would have severed his right leg at the knee if he hadn't jumped away just before, instead taking a razor-thin cut along his thigh.

  Azaran tossed the stump of the blade away and rushed in, grabbing Tarazal's arm at the wrist and twisting it. Tarazal bent slightly, grunting as he was pulled off balance for a moment. Then he shifted about, letting his arm move forward in the direction Azaran was pulling, then shoving his shoulder into Azaran's chest with terrific force, knocking the other man onto his back. Azaran rolled to his feet, then went flying again as a hard kick took him in the side, just below his ribs. He tried to rise, but another kick struck him, knocking the breath form his body and sending pain radiating out from his lower back to every every limb, indicating a pressure point had been struck with great force. Had he been an ordinary man the shock might have killed him. As it was, Azaran was barely able to remain conscious, mouth open in a silent scream.

  Tarazal walked over. He reversed the sword so that it pointed down, grasping the hilt in both hands and pointing the tip at Azaran's neck. "Now die, traitor," he said. "You will remember this!"

  His muscles tensed for the final stab...then he fell away as an arrow struck him in the side, punching through the chain mail coal and finding his flesh. Tarazal stumbled back, slamming the sword into the turf to remain his balance. He looked up, face a mask of shock and pain. "Not so easily," he growled, moving back towards Azaran and raising the sword again for the killing blow. Another arrow him in the side, followed by a third striking his thigh.

  Tarazal grunted and stumbled back. He looked at the the coming band of Iturai charging across the field, the archers fitting new arrows to string. He looked at Azaran with frustration. "Another time," he said. "Learn to fight, traitor!" And then he turned and fled, running across the field, the arrows in his body slowing him only slightly. He reached the tree line and disappeared, following the rest of Ganascorec's army eastward.

  Hands reached down and grasped Azaran under the arm, helping him back to his feet. The pain faded and some semblance of life returned to his limbs. He heard voices yammering at him and shook his head. "What was that?"

  "Are you all right?" Segovac stood beside him. The Rhennari had a spray of drying blood staining his left arm, but otherwise looked unharmed. More of Gwindec's rebels passed by, shouting curses and insults at the backs of their retreating enemies. "That fellow took you down hard..."

  "Fine..." Azaran hissed as a spasm of pain clenched his back. "Never been better..."

  He shrugged off the hands of those helping him and to his relief did not fall back to the ground. "We...we must give chase," he said. "The enemy is confused. We have the advantage. Send men after to harry their rear. Don't give them a chance to regroup..."

  "Do no such thing!" Gwindec came up by him. "Let them leave," he commanded.

  "If they stop and reform," Azaran protested, "They will come right back. This will have been for nothing..."

  "They aren't
coming back," Gwindec cut him off. He pulled off his helmet, looking tired to his bones. "They'll keep going until they leave the forest."

  "If the King..."

  "If Ganascorec has any sense, he's on a good horse a mile ahead of his men, along with any Hawks of Bronze who survived. He must get to Aeresia before word of this spreads. Two weeks from now half the clans of Eburrea will be in revolt. He must prepare for it, while he still can."

  "You know all this how?" Azaran asked.

  Gwndec opened his mouth, but it was Segovac who answered. "The law of the universe, Azaran. What we do to others will in time be turn against us, for good or ill..."

  "Ganascorec rules through fear." Gwindec glared at Segovac for a moment before continuing. "He is a bear ruling over a pack of dogs. The curs follow at his heel, because they know one swipe of his claws will tear them apart. But now we just cut away some of those claws." Gwindec gestured about the glade, now littered with the dead and dying. "The bear looks weak. And some of the dogs may take the chance to pull him down."

  "Half the men who followed him into the forest today will be against him by the weeks end," said Segovac. "And when you leave this forest, Gwindec, and march on Bellovac, they will flock to your standard."

  "Do you see that in a foretelling?" Gwindec asked, sounding unconvinced.

  "One does not need a foretelling to see what's right in front of him."

  Gwindec thought on this. And for a moment he allowed a smile to cross his face. "Best see to the wounded," he said, turning around. He caught sight of the glum look on Azaran's face. "Cheer up, friend Azaran! This is a famous victory and we have you to thank!"

  Azaran looked to the east, where Tarazal had run, along with the answers to so many questions. "As you say," he responded. "A victory."

  It did not feel like a victory.

  Chapter Eight

  A month passed. The summer solstice came and went, marked with bonfires lit an hour before dawn to welcome the rising sun, followed through the day by feasts, festivities and the inevitable fistfights in every village, hall and farmstead across Eburrea. Drink flowed like water, men poured libations over idols to gods and household spirits, many of the rough stone and wood figures seeing the light of day for the first time in years. The Ghelenai did not make their presence known this time around, the black knives did not punish those who transgressed their laws. Like many others during this summer, they found themselves facing a future turned uncertain.

  King Ganascorec did indeed reach the Colamnac stronghold of Aeresia before the rest of his army. Those who saw the King arrive would later state that he looked rather poorly, slumping in the saddle like a man who'd had far too much to drink, and seemingly kept upright only by the ministrations of a young warrior who never left his side. He disappeared into the into the bedchambers of the Chieftain, which he'd appropriated for his stay, and emerged an hour later seemingly restored to good health, though observant types did note a certain glassiness to his eyes. Orders were given and a contingent of Aranac clansmen formed before the gate, men from families whose loyalty to the King was certain. They seized enough horses from the stables to give every man a mount, then rode eastwards out of Aeresia without another word. The newly raised chieftain of the Colamnacs chased after the king on foot, shouting questions and receiving no answers, stopping only after they'd ridden beyond the range of his voice.

  A few hours later the army that had marched into the forest appeared at the gates of Aeresia, first small groups of exhausted men, followed by whole contingents. Dirty, hot and demoralized, they sprawled out before the gates of the stronghold, calling for their King to come forth. The chieftain slammed the doors shut and for a few tense hours there was a standoff. Every man able to bear arms within the stronghold took to the walls as signal fires were lit, a plea to the Colamnacs and their associated clans to gather their warriors and come to their aid.

  The incipient bloodbath was finally headed off when a group of Aranac notables approached the gates under a flag of truce. They surrendered their weapons and were admitted inside, where before the gathered Elders and notables of the Colamnacs, they relayed news of the disaster in the forest. The Hawks of Bronze were wiped out, their bodies covering the Greeting Glade to the point that the grass could not be seen. The powers of the Ghelenai proved useless and indeed the witches were among the first to flee, riding past the warriors in the trees, many of them barely avoiding trampling men in their path. The Eburrean warriors from the eastern clans who had followed Ganascorec into the forest were allowed to leave in good order and unmolested, but they were now perilously short on rations. The King had gone ahead and the news was that he would await them at Aeresia with food and drink. Yet they arrived to find the gates of the stronghold locked and no sign of the King Where was he?

  At which point the Chieftain of the Colamnacs hesitated, but prompted by glares from the clan elders, admitted that Ganscorec was gone, fled to the east, leaving his army behind. Much argument cursing followed this. The Aranacs swore it was a mistake. The Colamnacs stated otherwise, some of them growing quite distressed at the thought they were being lied to. The Aranacs remembered where they were and demanded to search the place, to make sure the Colamnacs were not engaged in any skullduggery. The chieftain did not answer, indeed said nothing more for the duration of their visit. The clan elders agreed, which in itself was taken as evidence they were telling the truth. A quick inspection of the great hall took place, during which it was agreed that Ganascorec was well and truly gone. The Aranac envoys apologized to the Colamnacs for any aspersions to their clans honor and humbly requested that they send forth food and drink for the hungry men outside. The clan elders agreed, stating that such would be provided in the morning.

  The Aranac leaders went back outside to relay the news to their men. Those who stood on the stronghold walls and listened to the disputations that followed earned an education in Eburrean profanity. Curses headed on the head of a King - he was a coward, a snake, a bastard son of any number of barnyard animals or women of loose morals. His queen was denounced as a whore and worse, and any number of threats were issued against those who continued to support them. Many advocated breaking camp that night and marching straight back to Bellovac, where a growing number of inventive punishments might be inflicted on the man who only yesterday was their unquestioned lord and Master. But the lack of food and need for sleep put a halt to that and it was agreed that the matter should be taken up in the morning after a full nights rest and a proper breakfast.

  Meanwhile disputations of a different sort took place within the walls of the stronghold. Discussions that quickly turned to arguments, followed by what sounded to those outside like a massive fistfight.

  Dawn came, and with it the the arrival of the first Colamnac contingents from the countryside. When they marched up to the walls of the stronghold and demanded to know what in hellfire was going on, they were met by the elders with the news that the old chieftain was no longer in charge, having found a cell in the dungeons a more amenable place than the great hall. The question of who would succeed him was still being sorted out. But one thing was certain - Ganascorec no longer had authority over their clan.

  Thus was the situation when Gwindec and his merry band rode out of the forest, headed straight into the center of the Aranac camp. The bounty of ten thousand gold pieces on his head was still in effect, but no man made any effort to claim it. Leaders of various contingents gathered for an impromptu meeting. Gwindec made a short speech, pointing out that the King had effectively left them behind to die under the arrows and hatchets of the Iturai. That this did not happen was due primarily to the intercession of Gwindec, who had no desire to bring harm to his brother Eburreans. A chieftain who abandoned him men in the field was reckoned no true chief, so how much more was this true of a man who claimed kingship over all the clans? It was noted later on that the Rhennari Segovac was by Gwindec's side, offering advice and mediating many of the negotiations that followed. The end re
sult was all the Aranac clansmen who followed Ganascorec west forswearing their allegiance and together with the Colamnacs declared him a false king.

  Nine days later, an army fifteen thousand strong marched out from Aeresia, headed straight for Bellovac. Messengers went ahead to proclaim the news, and as they passed by village and farm, more men turned out, armed with any weapon they could find, sensing that history was about to turn and intent on being part of it.

  "Look here, Goddesses Three! Look here! See the gifts your daughters bring!"

  The Ghelenai stood before the blood pit, raising her black knife high. Flames burned in the bronze sconces shaped like curling snakes set in the stone walls, reflecting off the eyes of the men and women gathered in the subterranean chamber and making the place even more stuffy and warm. Sweat shone on the witches face as she prayed, the thin white shift she wore soaked through and clinging to her curves. The golden belt around her waist, the silver necklace and bracelets seemed to gain shades of blood red in the light, a hint of the actual bloodshed to come.

  "Hear these words, Goddesses Three! Though fire you brought wisdom into their world, and through fire do we give honor!" The witch circled about the pit, keeping a safe distance away from the edge. Packed into the bottom and glowing brightly were piles of wood chips. "Come to us! Your daughters call on you!"

  The Ghelenai raised her knife high. Standing across from her with several other witches was Brannegaia. The Queen watched this with solemn face, her arms crossed before her abdomen in respect. As soon as the black knife thrust high, Brannegaia touched a ring on her right index finger. Those who were watching might have seen a faint flicker of light.

  The torches on the walls abruptly winked out, their flames disappearing. At the same time the wood chips in the pick ignited seemingly on their own. Red flames tinged with green on the edges whooshed out, touching the roof of the chamber, which was long ago burned black from previous flarings. The Aranac nobles gathered about the chamber stepped away uneasily, the hairs on the backs of their necks rising at the sight, the very air seemingly charged with energy.