by Tim Stead
“I will give you some advice, Captain,” he said to the man. “Like you I am a man trained in war. I have always sought to overthrow my enemies by force of arms and the use of strategy, but there are some things that a sword cannot kill, and others that should not be killed. You cannot win this with so small a force. You need help, and White Rock will not provide it, indeed we will see that no other does. The help must come from your own people. You must win them over.”
The captain stared at him for a minute, and then suddenly seemed to crumble. His shoulders dropped an inch, his eyes fell from Darius’s face to the ground, and his voice became quiet.
“You speak the truth, General, I suspect, but we have not the skill, and we obey only the King. He will not give up his throne.”
“Carry our message to your King, Captain. Tell him that we are here to help bring peace to Samara, but also that my lord’s patience is not infinite. Speak to your enemies, and you may find that they are not your enemies at all.”
So they had parted, with a spark of understanding between them, or so Darius thought. What the man said to the King he did not know.
The night was as busy as the day. The various militias and gangs that claimed authority over sections of the town came out in the dark, fearful of an open confrontation with royalist troops.
He was beginning to believe that he would achieve his mission effortlessly. The strength and authority of White Rock and their mere presence outside the city was beginning to have the desired effect, and Darius’s dark hints about what Serhan might do if no resolution was reached were shepherding the warring parties towards the conference table. Once there, things would be easier. Serhan himself would come from White Rock and his will would be known to all.
He was in a good mood then, sitting quietly on his own studying maps of the city and who laid claim to what. It concerned him a little that he had not yet heard from the trader guild. They seemed to control most of Morningside with their collected militias, but from what Serhan had told him they were connected to the King, though not controlled by him. It was an odd situation, but he had been told not to expect too much trouble there.
“General Grand.”
He turned and looked at the guardsman. The man seemed calm.
“What is it?”
“Sir, a black door has opened within sight of the camp, to the west.”
“Is anyone coming through it?”
“Guardsmen, sir, but we can see no colours.”
“I will come.”
He carefully folded up his maps and placed them in a leather satchel, putting that inside his tent. He wondered why Serhan had changed the location of the black door. Perhaps he thought it was time that Samara saw the forces available to him. It didn’t matter. Now that he would have the full strength of his command he could begin to exert real pressure. He had thought many times of taking troops into the city, and with these numbers it would be possible. Just a few patrols to start with, to gauge the mood of the people – those that weren’t running private armies.
He walked to the west wall and joined a small group of officers and men gathered there. Like the guardsman who had come to him they were calm, though like himself they seemed a little puzzled.
In the distance he could clearly make out the stark and obvious black rectangle of the door, and out of it poured a contingent of guardsmen. There were already over a hundred of them marshalling before the doorway. Like the others he could make out no colours to indicate if they were from Skycliff or any other domain.
As he watched them his puzzlement turned to unease. The contingent that had come through the door was forming up defensively to protect those still coming through. He would not have expected his reinforcements to do this. They knew that they were coming into a relatively safe situation. Because it was daylight there would only be a few of the King’s men patrolling in the area, and a force of four hundred would have nothing to fear from them.
Perhaps their commander was just being cautious. It was an admirable trait.
“How many men do you make it, Captain?” he asked.
Captain Horlor was clearly making an effort to keep track. His lips moved, his fingers worked to an unheard beat and his gaze was unmoving.
“About three hundred, sir.”
They watched a while longer.
“How many now, Captain?”
“More than four hundred, sir.”
The men continued to pour from the gate and take up defensive positions. Five hundred. Still more. It was a very large force. Perhaps Serhan had managed to put together a larger contingent than expected. Perhaps not.
“Captain, go down into the camp and have the men ready themselves. Make sure that the gate is secure.”
He was aware of the movement behind him, but continued to stare at the massive force emerging from the door. The most disturbing thing was not the size of the force. In a defensive position; even a rough and ready one like their own; he was sure that they could repel a force of that size. What worried him was the black door. The only person that he knew that was capable of creating such a thing was Serhan. Could there be another?
When the door closed he had counted around seven hundred men.
He stayed on the wall, wishing now that he had made it just a little higher, watching the men organise. They were a well drilled force, no doubt of that. In a swift ten minutes they had aligned themselves into a defensive position, but were making no move to consolidate it. Within the heart of the force he could see figures conferring, but they were difficult to make out clearly.
The lines of men opened up on the side facing him, and three men rode out. One of them was carrying a flag of truce.
Well, talking was better than fighting.
Darius scrambled down from the wall and walked to the gate to meet them.
“Open it,” he called to his men. “Three riders under a flag of truce.”
The gates opened and in a short while the three men rode through. Darius looked up at the officer leading the group and the man looked down at him.
“Captain Portina, I had not expected to see you here,” Darius said.
“I am glad to find you well Captain Grand, or is it colonel now?” Portina said as he swung down from the saddle.
“General Grand,” he replied, “Commander of the army of the northern domains.”
“General,” Portina said, “I am here to inform you that my lord Borbonil of Ocean’s Gate wishes to speak with you.”
46 Allies
Serhan perched high on the walls of White Rock, feeling the warm stone at his back, and watched another contingent of fifty guardsmen approach across the plain. It was dry, cold, and thin trails of dust blew eastwards from boots and hooves. He had offered to bring them by way of a black door, but their commander had said, irritatingly, that they preferred to march. It was a slow process. They moved steadily at the tireless pace of old soldiers, and even from here he could see heads bent against the wind and the dust.
These were men from Far Delve, which at least was one of the closest of the old Faer Karan fortresses. There were already two hundred men from other domains gathered here. They talked as starved men eat, with a desperate friendliness that saw new comradeships burgeon amongst them. They argued, ate, drank and trained with cheerful enthusiasm and soon the babbling mass of them would be shipped out to Samara and it would be quiet again. Irritating as the noise was, Serhan was not sure that he preferred the quiet.
They now awaited men from High Green and East Scar. These were late additions to the alliance, and still recovering from the disappearance of their Faer Karan lords. East Scar had been allied with Gerique, and so followed the model that he had developed, but High Green was different, and its present ruler was the former Colonel Whin Navan, an impressive man.
High Green was an island fortress, and two days voyage out from Ocean’s Gate. In Faer Karan times it had become isolated, and the ships that plied the route had fallen into disrepair. Now Navan was tryin
g to rebuild his fleet, but had sent one of the two small ships that he still had to the mainland to seek news. The officers he sent had landed in Blaye and from there, acting on what they had heard, split their group, half returning to the island and half riding hard to White Rock.
Lieutenant Kinsal and five men had ridden up to the gates no more than a week ago, boldly demanding entrance, and within a few hours of meeting them Serhan had travelled with them to High Green.
Before this he had known the name, as he knew the names of all the Faer Karan places, but he had never been there, and never had it described to him.
High Green was a place of high magic.
An age ago some great mage had created the place. It had not been built. The entire fortress was made of trees, living trees. Their great trunks and branches curled and curved about the place, making walls, parapets, floors, towers, and everywhere there was the green of leaves. It stood in the midst of the forest, unafraid of the encroaching trees, embraced by them. He suspected that the forest owed its allegiance to the fortress, and would rise to defend it if needed. There was no sign of weakness here.
Navan had quickly realised that without the magic of the Faer Karan the trees would probably become just trees again. The walls would no longer close up, and the floors would twist out of shape. He had begun to build a new fortress, a very human one, about a mile closer to the coast on a rocky promontory that looked over the blue water and faced the mainland. There was a small town here with a harbour. Its pretty white buildings decorated the coast for a few hundred yards, reaching out towards the twin headlands that protected the deep water between. The new fort on the southern headland cast its shadow over the harbour.
Not content with building, Navan had sent men to all the towns and villages on the island, and convened a meeting at which he established his right to rule. In essence he had done what Serhan had done, guaranteed security and peace in exchange for supplies.
Serhan had liked the man almost at once. He was calm, practical, and seemed intelligent. He had certainly moved quickly in the crisis that had followed the abrupt and shocking disappearance of the Faer Karan.
Navan also understood the importance of Samara, although it mattered less to him than many others, and agreed almost at once to send a hundred men, only asking a few days grace to select those who would serve.
He had taken Serhan back to the old place, the tree fortress of High Green, and Serhan had drawn in its great magic, had read the spells that shaped the place, and learned much about imagination and greatness. It seemed to him that each ancient mage, in creating his dwelling had sought to outshine the others, to create something unique and full of wonder.
So it was that he left High Green, promising to return, feeling the world a better place for what he had seen and heard.
Now he waited and watched the men of Far Delve march to White Rock. Tomorrow the High Green men would be ready, and the day after that he would travel to East Scar and collect another fifty. With those numbers Darius should have what he needed, and news from Samara was good. Soon he would go there himself, and one way or another they would find a solution.
“My Lord.”
He turned. It was Cora. She looked tired. She was now playing the role of White Rock’s colonel, shuffling the incoming troops around the various barrack rooms and messes so that contingents from various domains could stay together, trying to manage the excitement that gripped them all.
“What is it, Cora?”
“There is a disagreement between the captain from Skycliff and the Lieutenant from West Plain, and they will not accept my ruling. They ask that you arbitrate.”
“I see.”
This was happening more often. Robbed of their colonels the officers were seeking to assert the independence of their own domain, and the only higher authority they would accept was Serhan. It had to stop.
He followed Cora down to the courtyard. Many of the men turned to watch him as he passed, and conversations died away. He briefly greeted one or two of the men to whom he had been introduced, and watched their surprise that he should remember them.
The disputing officers were in the courtyard. The Lieutenant looked hot. The Captain looked self satisfied.
“So, colonel, what is the issue?” he asked Cora, ignoring the men.
“Rank, sir. The Captain insists that as he is a higher rank the lieutenant must accept his orders. The Lieutenant insists on the independence of his contingent.”
“And your recommendation?”
“That the Lieutenant be made up to Captain for the duration.”
“That seems equitable.”
“My lord,” the captain protested, “he has not the experience.”
Serhan looked at the man and the captain stepped back, shut his mouth, dropped his eyes.
“Captain, you are ill advised to question my decisions, the decisions of my colonel, and the decision of this officer’s lord, who has seen fit to entrust him with this contingent. You and he will both take orders from General Grand, and while here in White Rock from my colonel. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Serhan turned to go. He was annoyed that these men should seek him out to solve their trivial problems. They respected him, yes, and would abide by his words, but he had expected something more.
He had taken no more than ten steps on his way back to his rooms when a shimmering of the air caught the corner of his eye. Guardsmen moved quickly to be out of the way. Some leaped to one side, some retreated. He heard swords drawn.
Soul Eater was in his secret chamber, many yards from here.
He turned and stepped into the walls of White Rock, knowing that he had to reach the sword, while behind him, in the midst of the assembled guardsmen, the black door formed.
47 Choices
“It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”
Tarlyn Saine stood on the balcony overlooking the city. It was a picture of chaos. Even from here they could see fires and barricades in Gulltown, and the streets of the old town were deserted. At least in the upper reaches of Morningside they were safe for the moment. The guild members had combined their militias into an effective force, shielding themselves from the unpleasantness taking place the other side of the river. The king was busy elsewhere, and did not chose to trouble them, but he felt sure that things would come to a head soon enough.
“Surely there is some hope in White Rock?” Ella replied.
“They have adopted a clever strategy,” Tarlyn conceded. “But they do not know everything that is going on.”
“You could tell them.”
“Ella, we must look to our own survival. If I warn them now it will seem that I am taking sides, and if White Rock should fall here, then we would fall with it.”
“It is just a message, father. I could carry it myself.”
“I forbid it.” Tarlyn spoke quickly, and his voice was firm, his face concerned. This was just the sort of hasty action that his daughter would undertake. “The plains outside the city now swarm with spies and soldiers. It is far too dangerous.”
“Then what must we do?”
“Hold to ourselves, and look to see who wins. They must allow trade, and it is to the victor that I will give my loyalty.”
“Then you have none.”
“Ella!” They were probably the harshest words that she had ever spoken to him, and it hurt that she should say such a thing. “My loyalty is to the house of Saine, to my family, to you.”
“Then there is no right or wrong?”
“You are young and idealistic,” he said. “We must be practical. We cannot force events, but must ride them. What happens is just that. Right or wrong have no part in it.”
“White Rock will win, father.”
Tarlyn sighed and turned from the city to face his daughter again.
“You have an idea that White Rock somehow represents goodness, justice, and the right way, but I can tell you that all tyrants are the same, e
ven when they start out with a good heart. Nobody rises to power without wishing for it, and once there nobody stays in power by being fair and just. Then there is this idea on the streets that this Serhan person, Gerique’s seneschal of all the foolish notions, has defeated the Faer Karan. You think this is likely?”
“I believe it to be true, father.”
“We will see what happens when they arrive. You must learn not to prejudge events, Ella.”
They both turned to a clatter on the stair and Corban arrived. He looked as though he had run all the way up from the town.
“What news?” Tarlyn asked.
Corban held up his hand for a moment while he regained his breath, then took a cup of water and drank it down before answering. His face was red with running, and his flushed features were grim.
“Three days, father. They will be here in three days,” he said.
“What else?”
“They have taken the city of Pek, and bypass Darna. They march directly for Samara.”
“What news of Pek itself?”
“Hundreds dead, perhaps thousands. Many buildings are burned. The King of Sarata commands, and has, by most accounts, over two thousand men. Many of them are guardsmen who he has persuaded to his cause. Some say that two entire domains march with him.”
“So many?”
“Some say more.”
Tarlyn turned to Ella.
“Now do you see,” he felt vindicated, but it had a bitter taste. “White Rock has less than four hundred men camped on the plain. They will be overrun. The King, too, will fall before such an army, and if the King will fight alongside White Rock it is still not enough.”
“We must protect Calaine, father,” Corban said.
“As much as it grieves me, my son, she is the heir to the throne, and will stand with her father, whatever his fate. I do not see a good end to this, not for them.”
Just three days. So the army had crossed the Sybelline River, would even now be marching towards the unsuspecting troops out on the open plain. They would have a couple of hours warning, nothing more. It was the largest army in the world and would sweep all before it.