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

by Arbela, Zackery

  "So, we leave them for the crows."

  "Which is something the Ghelenai would do, were the situation reversed and it were Rhennari swinging from those branches. How we treat the dead is indicative of how we treat the living..."

  "So we cut them down...or not? Make up your mind Segovac. Those three aren't likely to venture an opinion on the matter." Azaran waved a hand at the tree.

  To this, Segovac gave no reply. He turned about and walked back into the camp, lost in thought. After a moment, Azaran followed after, leaving the oncoming crows to their meal .

  The chieftain of the Uttarans emerged from the headquarters tent with a smile, suggesting that he'd gotten all, or at least most of what he was after.. The army would not starve tonight. Snatches of argument drifted out of the opened flap, voices raised in frustration, or simply trying to be heard over one another. Gwindec now spoke with the envoys from the Mabhrenas and Lessanirs, which meant matters had become more complicated.

  The Lessanirs were the great clan of the south, holding territory at the Spike of Taran, the tip of the long peninsula that pinched off access to the Green Sea. Many ships passing back and forth through the narrow straits of Taran's Moat docked at their stronghold of Audunum, just north of the straits, where they might restock of victuals, trade the goods of the Great East, the Far South or Utter West for the produce of Eburrea, or simply heap gifts at the feet of the chieftain in hope that this year he would not unleash his fleet and close the straits, as had been done in the past. They were the wealthiest clan and controlled a swath of smaller vassal clans across the south of Eburrea.

  The Mabhrenas were the great clan of the north, their lands pushed up against those of the Betasean's, regarded by great and small alike as the most backward and violent of Aelen's Folk. The Righteous Path of Saerec, to say nothing of the Ghelenai, had no sway among the Betaseans, they held to the ancient ways of honoring the gods. Law and custom among their clans tended towards violence as a way of settling disputes. The Mabhrenas and their vassal clans were undoubtedly influenced by this. Big hulking men, their leaders wearing vests of otter skin decorated with silver skulls, similar to what their neighbors to the north wore. To the Aranacs and Colamnacs they scarcely seemed Eburrean at all. Yet they held the north in a steel grip, with fifteen clans sworn to follow their chieftain come what may.

  The flap thrust open as Azaran and Segovac approached. Gwindec emerged, followed by the Eburrean Rhennari, followed in turn by a fellow wearing a coat of imported silk cut in the Hadaraji style, which looked strange compared to the Eburrean trousers and tunic he wore beneath it, and a fellow in otter skin vest and wool trousers bound about the calf with red cords. The Lessanir envoy and his Mabhrena counterpart. The former looked absurdly pleased with himself, the latter merely annoyed. They glared at each other and went their separate ways. The Rhennari went off in another direction in search of something to eat. Gwindec remained where he was, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to stave off a headache.

  "How went it?" asked Azaran as the two men walked up.

  "Loudly," came Gwindec's answer. "That Mabhrena may look an oaf, but he bargains like a fishwife during a famine."

  "Will they stand by you?" asked Segovac.

  Gwindec lowered his hand. "The Lessanirs will not support us against Ganascorec...but neither will their hinder us. They will keep their warriors at home - any demands from the King for their support will go unanswered."

  "Waiting to see who wins," Azaran observed.

  "Typical from that pack of merchants."

  "And the Mabhrenas?" asked Segovac.

  "They are with us...in spirit at least. They will send men south to fight for me...but it will take time to get a message to the north, time to muster the men and march them south. And when the harvest comes the Betaseans will raid, as they always do..."

  "So what price did they demand in return?"

  Gwindec smiled ruefully. "The chieftain of the Mabhrena has four daughters. He offers the hand of one in marriage...after the fighting is over. Plus gifts of gold and silver from the vaults of Bellovac, if we capture them..."

  "When we capture them," Azaran interjected. "Keep your doubts to yourself."

  "As you say. When we capture Bellovac, we are to send him a fair gift from the piles of treasure he assumes is lying within. He leaves it to me to decide what constitutes fair, but it will not be cheap."

  "In addition to marrying his daughter," said Azaran.

  "Aye...his daughter." Gwindec shot Azaran a warning glare.

  "A fair price," said Segovac. "It will not aid you in the coming fight with your uncle, but it will help in the days that follow after."

  "You are assuming we will win." Gwindec looked skeptical. "Unless Saerec has whispered otherwise in your ear?"

  "I am merely an optimist," came Segovac's reply. He rubbed his chin for a moment, fingers scrabbling over growing stubble. "When do we break camp?"

  "An hour after dawn." Gwindec looke relieved to change the subject. "In two days time we reach the lands of the Veteronag clan. They are sworn to the Aranacs and may prove troublesome. More clans like them lie between us and Bellovac."

  "Some will fight," said Azaran. "Some join us. And some will let us pass and be thankful the cost is not higher."

  "Here's hoping the first is rare," said Segovac, "and the second plentiful. But one thing that may help way opinions in this matter is a reputation for mercy, even to the worst of your enemies."

  "We have no prisoners to release," said Gwindec.

  "I do not refer to the living." Segovac pointed towards the tree where the dead witches hung. "Before we go, you should cut them down and see that they burn on a decent pyre."

  "The Ghelenai?" exclaimed Gwindec. "Are you serious?"

  "Do I give the impression of being otherwise?"

  Gwindec shook his head. "They are murderers! You would show honor to those who are completely lacking it?"

  "Prince Gwindec..."

  "The chieftain of the Uttarans told me about those witches." Gwindec cut him off. "They came here in the spring and killed seven young men, including two of the chieftain's own sons. No reason was given. When the clan rebelled they fled and were dragged back by their heels. The chieftain put the noose about their necks himself and that was a mercy compared to what most in the stronghold wanted!"

  "I don't discount the severity of their crimes," said Segovac calmly. "They paid the penalty with their deaths and face worse in the afterlife. But how we treat the dead is a sign of how we treat the living. If you cut down these Ghelenai and allow the rites to be performed, word will carry ahead. People will know that Gwindec is not like his uncle, he respects the traditions of his people, he rules with righteousness Those inclined to resist from fear of your vengeance will know themselves to be safe and give their allegiance to your standard."

  "Or at the very least allow us to pass through their lands unmolested," added Azaran.

  Gwindec pondered this for a moment. "All right," he finally agreed, a mite grudgingly. "Cut them down."

  "A wise decision, my Prince," said Segovac.

  "I'll remember that," said Gwindec, "the next time a black knife comes for my throat.

  The army crossed into the lands of the Veteronag's two days later. As hoped, the chieftain met them with only a small bodyguard and was greeted with honor by Gwindec. A short negotiation took place, the results of which were that the warriors gathered at the clans stronghold formed up by the side of the road east and shouted chants of praise as Gwindec passed by. A band of men came out to join in the journey east. And just like that, their clan severed its loyalty to the King.

  More clans followed suit in the days that followed. Emissaries rode ahead, knocking on the stronghold gates of every clan that lay between the army and the Aranac stronghold at Bellovac. By and large they capitulated. Most were content to let Gwindec pass by. A few sent men to join his army. At Azaran's insistence they no longer accepted offers of feasts to mark the
coming downfall of Ganascorec. Speed was paramount now. Anyone who could not keep up was told to return home. To the rebels credit, few took up the offer.

  They met their first real resistance a weeks march from Bellovac, at a crossroads where a northward branch of the road forked away. Gathered there were nine thousand men from three clans that remained loyal. They had dug trenches across the road and surrounded fields and filled them with stakes. When then army approached they raised their weapons and shouted their defiance.

  A quick council of war was summoned. "We should go around," said Gwindec. "We outnumber them, but they are dug in deep. If we attack the losses may be heavy.'

  "No, we should attack," said Azaran.

  "To what end?" Gwindec shook his head. "They are a threat to us only in their resistance. they do not have the numbers to attack..."

  "The danger is not in the deaths they might inflict," said Azaran, "but in the damage to morale. The only men in this army who have seen combat against Ganascorec were the ones who fought in the Glade. The rest joined up after and they are yet to be tested. They make brave boasts, but look in their eyes and you will see their fear."

  "Your uncle has ruled these lands for over twenty years," said Segovac. "Most of the men who follow you have never known a world where his word wasn't absolute."

  "It's not enough to tell them they can win against his strength." Azaran spoke forcefully. "They must know it by their own experience. Only then will they believe it to be true. "

  Gwindec pondered this. "What do you have in mind?"

  Soon after the war horns sounded and the army assembled into battle formation. The infantry advanced on a broad front, spears lowered as they approached the lines of trenches and stakes. The men behind them shouted curses and insults, daring the rebels to attack.

  Gwindec marched in the front with his men, his brightly polished mail coat and silver helmet (a gift from the grateful Colamnac clan) making him stand out. He bellowed an order. Horns sounded, drums beat and the army ground to a halt.

  He stepped forward a few steps, removed his helm so the men on the other side could see his face. "You men!" he shouted. "I am Gwindec of the Aranacs! Hear my words and know them for the truth! Ganascorec is a false king and false chieftain! The gods curse those who swear allegiance to the dishonored! They will curse you if you block this army from its righteous cause!"

  Raucous laughter and curses came from the other side.

  "Clear away," Gwindec declared. "And you may return to your home with your arms and honor! Those who wish to join us will have a place among our ranks! But if you resist, know that we outnumber you! If we must clear the road by force, you will pay the blood price!"

  A burly fellow shoved his way to the front of the enemy ranks, place a foot on one of the stakes. "Run how to your mother, boy!" he bawled. "Her milk is still wet on your face! And take this with you!" He flung a javelin towards Gwindec. It arced though the air and struck the ground ten feet ahead of his boots.

  Gwindec sighed and placed the helmet back on his head. "So be it!" he declared. He marched back to his lines, looking straight ahead and not so much as glanced towards the area south of the road itself.

  A traveler standing on the road looking north and south would have seen much the same thing in either direction; at least a mile of open country, perhaps spotted here and there with the occasional flock of sheep, beyond which lay the dark green smudge of a waiting forest. The only real difference lay half a mile south of the road, where a narrow gully ran through the fields, hidden behind stands of grass and bushes so thick that some walking in a southerly direction wouldn't see the drop until he stepped into it.

  And it was quite a drop, the gully deep enough to hide all of a man save the topmost inches of his head. According to men form the local clans, it used to be a stream running out from some large river to the north. Then a few generations back one of the clans to the north decided to divert the water in another direction, the better to irrigate their crops. Those living down stream naturally objected, and when diplomacy failed reached for their weapons. A short battle ensued and those living upstream won the argument and the water. Those down stream, unable to water their crops save through the goodwill of the clouds and rain, eventually moved on. Now the gully was dry, with grass and vines clinging to its insides, only ever noticed as a hazard to wandering livestock, as the skeleton of a sheep with a broken leg could attest.

  But on this day a band of men moved through it.

  Azaran heard Gwindec's windy declamation to the enemy and their response. By now, if all was going to plan, the rebels would be marching forward in battle line, with Gwindec in the front, as if intent on storming the enemy position regardless of their stakes and ditch. The men on the other side were doubtless steeling themselves for some blood work to come.

  "Come along, we shouldn't keep the enemy waiting," he called back to the hundred men following after him. A chorus of chuckles came in response. They were a picked band, mostly drawn from the hardened fighters who'd stuck with Gwindec after his first rebellion, supplemented with veterans from other clans, men for whom mere ordinary danger was reckoned boring. They now followed after Azaran, who was fast becoming something of a legend among these Eburreans. Those who'd fought at the Battle of the Glade told tales that seemed to grow with each new recitation, inflating his deeds with each telling around the camp fires. If they were to be believed, 'Asharan' (the Eburreans couldn't pronounce the z sound in his name) could slay a dozen men with each blow, regardless whether or not he was actually holding a weapon. That when he stamped his feet half the enemy army fled in fear, that he ripped off the heads of foreign mercenaries and hurled them as missiles, striking a hundred dead with each throw. Azaran found the whole thing ludicrous, but under the present circumstances a reputation for daring deeds in the heat of combat was not a bad thing to have.

  He heard horns sound and drums beat, and the tramp of twenty thousand feet coming to a halt Azaran didn't need to see what was happening to know - Gwindec halted the men a hundred yards short of the enemy. Shields went up as sling stones and the occasional arrow went out from the enemy lines. A gap opened in the rebel ranks and then with a yell a band of fellows, unarmored for swift movement and carrying slings or javelins rushed forward and peppered the enemy defenses until they ran out of ammunition, replaced by a fresh pack of men who would do the same thing. The men on the receiving end raised their shields and ducked down. Some might be struck and a few even killed, but neither was the primary purpose. The slingers and javelin throwers had but one goal - to keep the enemy's focus pointed forward, away from the hidden gully running past their southern flank.

  Azaran heard the whistling of sling stones and javelins, followed by the clatter as they hit shields and bounced off stakes. The enemy responded with taunts and insults, cursing the rebels as unmanly for standing off instead of coming forward to be slaughtered. Gwindec ignored them, though the men in the front ranks did lock their shields in case the enemy threw good sense to the wind and went on the attack. But they also held their position and suffered through the barrage with growing anger and frustration.

  "Pick up the pace!" he commanded, dodging past thorny bushes and thick stones half-buried in the ground, waiting to trip the unwary. The sounds of the javelins and sling stones flying passed by on his left, mingled with cries and curses from their targets, then drifted behind him. He kept an ear on the sound, marking the distance passed by the position of the sound.

  When he'd gone perhaps two hundred yards past the enemy army, Azaran called a halt. He waiting for the rest of the men to catch up. "Here," he said. "Over the top. Quickly now!"

  One of the men knelt down, interlocking the fingers of both hands and forming a stirrup. Azaran placed his foot in it and man heaved him up, Azaran using the boost to all but fly out of the ditch. He scrambled over the grass, turning his head leftwards to stare at the backsides of the enemy.

  The rest of the men came out of the ditch. All we
re armed with a sword or ax, many of the weapons two handed in design. Forming a shield wall was out of the question here, speed was the important thing, speed and aggression. None of the enemy warriors had so much as glanced back. Part of Azaran couldn't help but shake a metaphorical head - veterans would have at least set up some kind of rear guard to prevent against this exact thing from happening. But the men facing off against Gwindec's rebels were no veterans. Raw levies for the most part, young men, many barely out boyhood. Experienced warriors were scattered through their ranks as a leaven, but it wasn't enough, and most of those were at the front, daring the rebels to attack.

  "No time like the present." Azaran reached behind and pulled a longsword slung across his back. He pulled away the scabbard and dropped it to the ground, resting the flat of the blade against his shoulder. Behind him the rest of the men pulled out other weapons, men edging away to give their comrades enough room to swing without threatening the limbs of their comrades.

  Azaran pointed to the enemy rear. "At them!" he commanded.

  With a shout the men sprang forward, trotting across the field, then breaking into a run perhaps a hundred yards out. A hundred pairs of feet drummed on the turf, a hundred throats raised a wild war cry that sounded closer to beast than man. The men in the back ranks of the enemy turned around, eyes widening with shock at the site. Warnings were shouted, someone shouted for the men to lock their shields. A moment later Azaran and his men crashed into them.

  After that the world contracted for Azaran, his field of view limited to the men directly in front and those coming up from behind. A spear stabbed at him and was chopped in half with a single swing of his sword. A second blow knocked down the man holding it. A space quickly cleared out around him, as the men in the rear ranks edged back to get out of range of that massive sword moving so fast it was little more than a gray blur. More of his men closed around to the left and right, swinging their own weapons, driving deep into the enemy ranks through sheer momentum and aggression. Their ranks were disrupted and confusion quickly spread through the enemy. Men ahead turned about to see what was causing a ruckus to their rear, even as clumps of men pulled away to avoid being chopped down from behind.