Remnant Pages Spearhead

by J.B. Kleynhans

  Drissil’s motive was simple; Stelinger was nowhere to be found. There was a brief meeting this morning when the Commander gave orders to march into the Basin and mentioned the possibility of contact today. Just by the mention of it Drissil’s skin was sent crawling.

  Now, on the eve of breaking into the Basin Stelinger was missing. Drissil’s suspicions were confirmed moments later when Welce approached him in an urgent run.

  ‘Sir! I saw Commander Stelinger and his champions take leave, they mounted and slipped into a branch some hundred yards back.’

  ‘Damn it!’ bellowed Drissil, realizing that whatever was happening it was decisively not in Lanston’s favour.

  It was thereafter that Drissil took command and brought it all to a halt. He wasn’t going to march Lanston into the unfamiliar when Stelinger was acting like a jester. Paranoia wasn’t a quality of Drissil, but sound instincts were, and it was this that drove him to send out scouts of his own. Up till now Stelinger used men whose loyalty Drissil had come to question. Drissil did not want any of it before, and he sure wasn’t going to allow Stelinger’s favouritism to cost the army their safety.

  Then of course there was that little matter of the tremors that hit the canyon yesterday. Everyone had been rather sure that the Fallen were trying to bury Lanston in a landslide with their magic. Stelinger had dismissed the notion and revealed a bit more of himself to Drissil.

  It was as if he just doesn’t care anymore.

  For now 4100 men waited in frustration, the heat of the day and the pressure of the situation making all concerned tense and irritated.

  Then it got worse…

  ‘Archers! Targets in the sky!’ shouted a Captain.

  Drissil cursed in immediate aggravation as he cast his eyes to above, wondering what in hell’s name they’d done wrong to invite a flight of winged enemies. He squinted into the sky…circling above them were… Volje!’

  To the men around him Drissil cried for a halt, praying silently that those beyond earshot would not shoot.

  Rangers! The Rangers are here!

  Drissil’s thoughts were echoed by his men’s voices, tensed bowstrings slowly forgotten as the wings came in close. The five Volje landed gracefully in the field before the pavilion and Drissil was awed to see nine warriors dismounting.

  Cid, Brunick, Alex, a Valkyrie and no one less than Olexion the First Ranger himself along with four other Rangers.

  The last few moments for Drissil felt like fever dreams.

  The Rangers were looking well groomed and armed as always, and the Valkyrie at a glance was the same beautiful woman Drissil had seen that night in the pavilion. Cid, Brunick and Alex though looked pretty battered as they stood together, the eyes of the camp on them despite the company they kept. They had no armour anymore, dressed only in their casuals and their weapons, each carrying some freshly healed scarring.

  Drissil watched Cid stepping forward. His vest and leggings were tattered and torn, his hair and beard as messy as it could ever be. He even seemed a bit malnourished.

  But he carried the spear at least, and with it looking peculiarly more the upright man than Drissil had ever seen him before. He appeared like Lanston’s lost shepherd and Drissil was sure that for first time since Bennam’s departure, Lanston finally had a Commander again.

  He approached the group, feeling as though he could hug the fool from Rogana.

  ‘I don’t think I have ever been more happy to see you,’ said Drissil in genuine relieve.

  Cid chuckled. ‘Thank you for not shooting at us. Last we heard we were traitors of some kind.’

  ‘How could I? I have a missing Commander and you come arriving here on Volje like some kind of godsend,’ said Drissil airily.

  ‘We had hoped the Rangers’ presence will protect us till we can explain ourselves,’ confessed Cid.

  ‘I hope it’s a short story,’ said Drissil.

  ‘No, it’s not, but do not worry Colonel, right now I know even better than you the need for haste.’

 

  They were inside the pavilion and Cid explained everything.

  ‘Stelinger’s a turncoat,’ said Drissil to himself as though testing the idea aloud.

  ‘Given our plight, I’m not even surprised. If I could get my hands on him now…’ he boasted, roaming the tent confines and massaging his hands together.

  ‘You have done every man here a great favour by rousing your suspicions and stopping the march. Had you gone oblivious into the Basin the army would have met a force it is not prepared for,’ said Cid.

  ‘Don’t get too fond of me just yet, we still have to escape these bastards and that will need a solid plan of retreat,’ said Drissil.

  Cid shook his head. ‘Any attempt at escape will see us cut down, the Fallen already control the surrounding valley and we will not be able outmanoeuvre them, even if we do engage in hit-and-run,’ said Cid. ‘Imagine trying to flee through the narrows with four-thousand men, haunted by strike parties and Reavers attacking from higher ground.’

  Drissil did not seem ready for this piece of information. ‘But you said there are more than ten-thousand of them ready to fill the Basin, come on man, we cannot go toe-to-toe with that!’ said Drissil.

  ‘We have little choice Colonel,’ said Olexion, ‘we all saw the Fallen’s position, we have to act soon if we wish to entrench ourselves in the Basin.’

  Drissil sighed, doing some quick thinking.

  ‘Well then, Cid, I suggest you take point as the Commander, as is your right, I’ll back you up,’ said Drissil.

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ asked Cid, more out of courtesy than anything else.

  ‘When my scouts return to the camp with word of the Fallen force they will follow you blindly if they must Cid, they will trust you.’

  ‘Good!’ exclaimed Olexion, ‘do you have a plan yet Cid?’

  Cid realized everyone was looking expectantly at him. He in turn looked at Stelinger’s map tables. Like always he ran the numbers through his head, visualizing the Basin; its entryways, its slopes and its potential pitfalls.

  ‘Yes I do. Drissil, get the officers in here, and the magi as well, above all else we’ll need precision and therefore understanding in all our faculties.’

  Drissil left the tent.

  ‘Everyone gather around the table,’ said Cid to his party, ‘and look lively, we need to play an outfit capable of winning.’

  The first part of any plan Cid could fathom today would always involve isolating command, baiting those Shadow Priests in close enough so that Olexion’s Rangers could take them out. At least that way the Fallen on the surrounding highlands would not attack unless provoked. After that it might all become a straight brawl and Cid was worried that even his best preparation would not break the strangle hold the Fallen would have on them.

  Cid instructed vehemently, moving the figurines on the maps in presentation, the pavilion squared full with men of rank.

  He stood there looking like a vagrant, yet now every single officer’s attention was vested on him. The situation called for decisiveness and even the most hot-headed of soldiers wasn’t going to question his authority. At the moment Cid’s ability made him the undisputed Commander for this battle, official entitlements could wait.

  In his mind he was back in that room, sitting across Bennam, calculating, fingers testing the weight of his chess piece on the precipice of making his move. Bennam as an opponent would often play like one assuming defeat, testing Cid’s logic with unexpected and costly moves. Till now he did not realized how much this was to prepare for him for days spent warring the Fallen. For there was no courtesy or calculus that would take in consideration human life; if the Fallen had to win by using every last drone they would still consider it a victory. On their part there would be no surrender and no retreat, no threshold Lanston could reach by taking a few quick kills, and it limited his plans to nothing outside absolute victory over a greater force.

  Some clever stratagems c
ame to mind, as Cid pictured allotted men finding themselves on places where the Fallen would be hard pressed; the stage, the mesas, the pinnacle, the plateaus encircling the premises…

  Knowing the land, measuring the numbers, calculating the outcome. And still he doubted greatly. He was not going to allow himself right now to worry about Bennam’s intentions, or about how much of this he was responsible for. Nonetheless Cid would have welcomed the Bennam he knew at his side now, the one that would put fire in the men’s eyes and then take one of Cid’s plans and make it even better.

  Alone and without the Commander though Cid was left to answer the question of what Lanston would need to do to secure survival when the worst of the Fallen were to be unleashed. The answer came hesitantly, the idea of it bold and glorious, though so trodden with risks that utter defeat was the only other possible outcome. He would not have promoted the idea, save that for today, their lives might depend on it.

  The men and the one woman looked on as Cid used the figurines as to how he was envisioning the battlefield. Cid nurtured satisfaction in his chest as he found understanding among the Captains, having been fearful that the plan would be too abstract or too bold on the account of their lack of preparation, that many arguments would spark. Today that did not happen.

  Without reluctance Cid assigned Brunick as the leader of the melee specialists and Alex Captain over a regiment of archers. He would mostly leave Vanapha to her own devices, but he plotted her into a sequence he was developing, suggesting to her how best to contribute.

  Cid kept routing his stratagem back to the Rangers, as he knew their presence alone was a great reinforcement for everyone’s doubt. In reality they did provide the edge that Lanston needed and Cid planned most of the battle around their speed and aerial abilities.

  When Cid finished he sent out the Captains to get word out to prepare the army for the march, to make for the Basin.

  As the Captains left the tent a mage came before Cid who had stood out of sight near the entrance. He recognized the man as master Jartiveld, the leader and coordinator among the Lanston Sekhaimogists, an ageing yet sturdy magician. He was a man Cid rarely spoke to save for instances where Jartiveld came to point out flaws of Cid’s allocation of their arts. He did not disappoint.

  Gravely he said, ‘Colonel, your plan to shield the men from the Fallen catapults will not work. Their projectiles are too much for us to stop on such a scale.’

  ‘Maybe a little faith will make a difference,’ said Cid at the man.

  ‘Our arts do not work that way!’ said Jartiveld.

  ‘No? I spoke at length with a Summoner these last few weeks, who confessed to me that the emotion - let's call spiritual volition - of a man could strengthen the arts.’

  ‘An impractical suggestion that is! We will die under the flames of the Dey’illumra if what little courage we have fails us!’

  ‘How about this then: when you tend to a man to heal him, you hook his soul into the process, allowing his will to survive to help the magic, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Jartiveld tentatively, his face unsure as though he didn’t actually like agreeing with Cid on anything.

  ‘Then allow the soldiers to help, weave the power of their courage into your spell,’ said Cid.

  ‘What courage?’ ridiculed Jartiveld.

  Cid was growing agitated. ‘The spell can work and you know it. Master Jartiveld, if you do not feel confident to lead the magi then I must appoint another in your place.’

  Jartiveld stood closer, his theatrical voice becoming low and serious, ‘I am one who has fought most of my years next to Bennam Colonel, I may be cautious, but I am no coward. If you ask me to go out there then I will, words of mine indicating otherwise are merely on the account of sparing men’s lives from needless deaths.’

  ‘Master Jartiveld, I hold you in the same esteem as Bennam did, for I would not have tolerated a mouth as wise as yours if I did not need you. There will be courage magician, just make sure you weave your spell like you’re supposed to,’ said Cid.

  ‘Ha, a fine model of the old Commander you are Colonel. I will weave the spell then, but you must do something about the men, they are not ready,’ said Jartiveld already leaving the tent.

  That last statement worried Cid, knowing the mage was right.

  Drissil came to Cid’s side, shaking his head. ‘They never really are military men like they should be.’

  ‘Yes, but men like Jartiveld are fighting men, and they do belong with us,.’

  ‘This Summoner you mentioned, was it he that caused the tremors yesterday?’ asked Drissil.

  ‘Yes, he lost his mind to the severe nature of his magic and we had to stop him.’

  ‘What was he like? As a Summoner I mean?’

  ‘Powerful and ageless and strange, yet helpful, even with the circumstances of his death he convinced me in some way that the Kingdom will one day have to renounce its harshness toward the magical kind. If we survive this, I want the kingdom to re-think its stance toward magi,’ said Cid thoughtfully, his words left to hang in the air.

  Outside they heard the growing reverberation of men mobilizing to set course north.

  ‘Come with me Cid,’ said Drissil, ‘let’s get you in some armour.’

  The narrows seemed empty leaving the pavilion then, as the many surrounding tents were already loaded on the wagons and filed in behind a slow march kicking up a healthy swirl of dust despite the rains.

  As Cid followed Drissil to a lone standing provisional tent he asked, ‘my horse, Cilverhoof, I don’t suppose he’s still around?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask. He is a grand stallion that one. Don’t worry Commander, I saw to him myself and he’s never been in better shape.’

 

  Ever since the ambush in the forest Welce had walked with a dread in his mind. Now that dread was alleviating. Even as he moved along his fellow soldiers he considered their fortune; Cid had returned, and that with the Rangers on his side.

  How did he do it?

  What’s more, there was a Valkyrie involved and a rumour was spreading fast that Brunick, Cid’s Mason friend, was a genuine Stoneskin. Best of all the Captains let them know just now that they will all be joining the fight. It was unusual for a man to shrug his fears just before a war, but Welce couldn’t help feeling better off knowing Lanston had powerful allies and that Cid was at the command. He knew the other soldiers were still doubtful and unsure, but then Welce had been there when Cid made them survive that ambush in the forest. He was counting on the Colonel to do so again.

  Cid smiled as he stroked Cilverhoof. Three quarters of the camp was already mobile, leaving only a small cluster of utilities yet to depart. Much like Mindevhier, Cilverhoof was another extension of Cid’s personality of war and it was only now, with both his steed and his spear, that he felt re-emerged as a soldier.

  Drissil provided him with a spare set of armour which he dressed in without delay. He also outfitted Cilverhoof with a customary light chestplate and faceguard, the horse patient as he tugged the belts to even lengths.

  Prepared, the last few tents were folded and stored on the wagons, the non-combat personnel destined to watch over the supplies and keeping out of the sight in the narrows. Cid and Drissil galloped side by side to join with the slowly advancing march. Cid had left it to each of the Captains to inform their men on the plan essentials. For the Lanston army to win their discipline would have to be immaculate, their foothold unwavering. A single fracture could cause the army to be overpowered by the Fallen, that much was a given.

  Moreover it gave the Colonel the incentive to address his men personally. Cid and Drissil caught up with the back of the march, leaving the slow moving supply trains far behind. Drissil had an inkling of Cid’s intentions as they began riding an aisle through the rough count of 3000 marching men.

  Cid nodded at Drissil and the man swept a Lanston horn from his saddle bag, blowing it loudly for all to hear.

  In the nar
rows the Lanston army became deathly quiet, stopping and directing their stares to the two Colonels, who were still dividing the men as they rode to the fore.

  ‘Listen well men,’ said Cid, rearing his voice as loud as he could, his words carrying undiminished through the canyon. The sudden clout of thousands of eyes made Cid break out in a sweat and his stomach twisted so that he felt unsteady on his horse. Even a man like Bennam rarely had the need to attend to this many soldiers at a time. Cid swallowed hard as he and Drissil turned at the front of the march, facing Lanston.

  He settled his gaze over the soldiers, seeing his own stony uncertainty on their faces. At first Cid’s intention was only to remind the men to keep cool and keep disciplined, to listen to their Captains. That he realized, was going to be a far cry from being enough.

  Tutored under Bennam Cid knew full well when a host of men were ready for fighting or not; when they would match up with a fire on the inside or when they would merely raise their arms so that death be not imminent.

  These men were lost, betrayed. They did not march out hundreds of miles to be lied to, abandoned, and then set up for death. Cid appreciated that this wasn’t their fight, even though their survival depended on it. Men did not enlist, say long goodbyes to families, and make sacrifices to be driven to this point.

  His voice echoed: ‘It is good to be among you again, brothers.’ He swallowed hard again, finding no truth to tell that would encourage them, lifting the helm from his head, holding it on his lap.

  ‘Some of you might still be a little surprised to see me, I know my friend Drissil here was. A good man he is… he saved many of us today. Even as you look upon me now you’re wondering whether you should trust me, and if there is anyone left to trust at all,’ said Cid.

  Cid’s silence became long, even awkward. He spotted Vanapha in the crowd, her gaze fixed on Cid as well. She gave a slight nod, urging him on. He took a breath, pushing past the pit in his stomach and the dryness in his throat.