Rising Vengeance (The Anarian Chronicles Book 1)

by Stephen Trolly

  “The Deshika have returned to Anaria. It is unfortunate, but … General Druoth has apparently been a spy, possibly for quite a long time now. He turned on the Dragon Hearted.”

  “It can’t be.” She shook her head, almost laughing. “Whatever the two of you have been drinking, I would like to try it.”

  “We aren’t joking.” Edya still looked like she thought it was all a joke. “Much as we hate to say it, we know what we saw.”

  She was about to say something else, but she looked into Erygan’s face, and lost most of her confidence. She looked into Marrdin’s, and lost the rest. She knew then that they spoke the truth. “I have to send out messages, and quickly, to the Morschcoda and armies now under my command.”

  “My men will take them.”

  “Thank you Morschcoda Erygan, but Drogs must go. You, at least, could help them to go quicker.”

  One of her men had followed her and spoke up now. “General, what is the message, and I will see that it is delivered.”

  “Thank you, Captain. The message … The Deshika have returned to Anaria. All orders from Makret Druoth are to be ignored dating back to the start of the month.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I don’t think there is any need to disclose to Anaria at large, yet, that Makret Druoth has betrayed us.”

  “The Morschcoda that these orders go to will know that that is exactly what they mean, Commander ... Sorry, General Reeshnar.” Erygan’s lips wrapped distastefully around the word sorry, but he hid it well.

  Marrdin agreed with him. “Every one of us has had to replace a rogue commander of some kind. Thank Lasheed it was never anyone like Makret Druoth before now.” Edya looked at Marrdin, and knew he was right, but she could not think of any other way to give her message. The captain she issued them to stepped out to give orders, and then came back.

  “The messages will be off within the hour.”

  “Good. Now, leave us, and prepare the Brotherhood for battle. I have a feeling that Makret will be coming for us soon.” The man bowed and left.

  “General, there is something else you should know.” Erygan paused and looked around to make sure no one could hear him. “Taren stayed behind at Agrista. He intends to sell his life dearly, and hopefully, take Druoth with him.”

  Edya sat down heavily, her limbs suddenly weak. Marrdin produced a small glass bottle, which turned out to contain rum. He poured a glass full, which, as any Drog would have done, Edya poured down her throat without even thinking. Marrdin looked impressed, but Edya’s thoughts were already passed the excellent rum. She found her voice at last.

  “The thought of Makret being a traitor, it just isn’t possible. And the thought of Makret and Taren, fighting to the death.” She shook her head. “They were closer than brothers.” Marrdin refilled the cup that she held out to him.

  “And with the sword, they suffered few rivals, except for each other. It will be a spectacular display of sword mastery, no matter the consequences for Anaria. For if Taren falls, not even Dishmo Kornara will stand against Makret and whoever else has joined him. If Taren succeeds, we still lose, for I doubt that he will escape from Agrista, and we shall have lost two of the greatest military leaders Anaria has ever known.”

  * * * * *

  Taren watched as the column of Deshika marched towards the city. He could clearly see Makret leading the soldiers, as he knew Makret could see him. When they were within hearing distance, he spoke. “You will go no further.” A laugh went up in response. Taren noticed in a detached sort of way that Makret alone did not laugh, maybe because he knew that Taren was right. As long as he stood there, the Deshika would not enter the city. “You will turn around and leave these shores, or you will die here, wishing you had taken my offer.”

  “We do not fear you, pathetic human.” Makret winced, and he alone seemed to notice the change that happened in Taren.

  “I am not human.” Taren’s voice was cold as ice, sharper than the Dwarven Steel he wielded. His next words came through clenched teeth, but they were clearly heard nonetheless. “No one. Calls. Me. HUMAN!” Taren charged, not caring that he had left the relative protection of the gates. The first thing he did was execute the Deshik warrior, a War Chief, he noticed in the same kind of detached way that he had noticed that Makret had not laughed, with extreme violence and prejudice. As a blur of blue steel and flesh, the whirlwind that was Taren chopped all four hands off of the War Chief. Next went the warrior’s arms below the elbows, all four of them. The rest of his arms from the shoulders followed bare moments after. In three strokes, taking maybe two seconds, so quickly was Taren moving in his rage, he hewed the War Chief’s feet, knees, and then the remainder of his legs off. The War Chief landed upright, his head, once towering nearly nine feet above the ground was now just five feet from it, and by some force of his own will, or some unknown malicious magic of Taren’s, the Chief was still alive. And then Taren removed his head. Deciding that the crime had not been punished enough, he waded into the Deshik ranks. Within one minute, over fifty Deshika had been so thoroughly slaughtered that it seemed there must have been one hundred attackers, not just one. Nor did Taren stop there. His vengeance was not yet complete, and he was determined, now, that everyone who had heard that one Deshika call him human should die for the simple crime of hearing the word. He was not human. He was far more, and being far greater, he held humans in contempt. They were lesser beings, weaker, short lived, and Ringless. Finally, Taren’s caution overcame his rage. He had destroyed over two hundred Deshika, and now stood alone in a field of bodies. The Deshika were retreating, routed, back to their camp. Makret stared at Taren, as if waking from a dream. Not even he had known the true depths of Taren’s loathing of humans. Their eyes locked for a split second, and it seemed to some of those watching from the walls that the two men struggled with each other, but it was over before many had noticed, and Makret turned his Mordak back to his camp. Taren watched him all the way, and then turned and walked proudly back to the gate, where he waited eagerly for the next attack the Deshika Chieftains would send towards the city.

  It was not long in coming.

  At the Roof of the World

  Taren was exhausted, and the Deshik forces seemed endless. He knew that Makret was only using them. They were tools, nothing more. The Kindler’s most favoured servants had always been Morschen and Morschledu who had turned to his ways. The Deshika had their chieftains, but they could easily be overruled by any one of The Kindler’s more favoured beings. All this rushed through Taren’s head and was immediately forgotten as he raised his sword once again to fight off yet another crushing wave of enemies amongst countless waves that were still going to come. The three hundred men and women who had stayed with him were all reasonably skilled with a bow, and they had done their best, many times already, to end as many of the Deshika as they could before the stream reached Taren. That stream was forming again in the far distant camp, for the third time already that day. Perhaps he should have called for reinforcements, and then he could have fought back, but he could not charge them alone, nor could he even take those three hundred that stood behind him. So he held the gate. The Deshika were charging, and the arrows from the defenders pierced rank after rank of the foul beasts. Many fell, several lines in the middle broke and fled, but still, well over one hundred held on as they always did and came for Taren. If any got past him, they would quickly be dealt with, but none ever rushed by him into the city. They knew, because Makret knew, that their whole force could be in the city, but if Taren still stood in the gate, they would have the same trouble getting out. And so they spent hundreds of lives, pouring soldiers into the breach in the walls, only to have a hundred run to their camp in defeat. Taren wondered for a fleeting moment why the bodies never seemed to accumulate. He knew his men came down every night, and often during the day, to find all the arrows that they could, but even after only three days, Taren doubted that a single person on the wall above him had half of the arrows they had
at the beginning of this nightmare. He did hear occasional whisperings from his soldiers, wonderings as to why the Deshika did not use their catapults against the city. That was simple enough. The Deshika would remember from their first attack five years before that Agrista was a city of ice and stone. Too hard to break by catapult and nothing that would burn. All this passed through Taren’s mind and was gone, as once again, hundreds of Deshika warriors tried in vain to end his life.

  * * * * *

  “It’s been three days since you arrived, and we’ve had no word from Taren.”

  “General Reeshnar, we know. Taren all but ordered everyone to leave the city.”

  “But if we go now, then-”

  “General, we hate waiting as much as you do, but now, both the Warship and the city are beyond our aid. The Brotherhood charged in before, and if I am not mistaken, you yourself were one of those with Taren during that battle.”

  “Until Taren returns, or his heir is appointed, I am in command of Drogoda and its empire.”

  “Taren still lives, so, while you control the army, you have little say in what happens throughout the rest of Taren’s holdings.”

  “The High Generals of Drogoda are second only to our country’s Morschcoda. It has been that way for millennia. As the Morschcoda is not here, I am in command of his empire, not just his armies.”

  Erygan was as frustrated as Edya was, but he knew Taren better than most did. “Edya, the Deshika will be expecting a last minute charge from our forces. And I doubt that this is their only army. This is a test, and if Taren falls, Makret passes it. If this force is destroyed, than whoever is really in charge will unleash everything: Morschen who have been idle for centuries, possibly even countries that we have never heard of marching from the west over the mountains. If Taren falls, then Anaria will be looking to Alquendiro, looking for Taren’s true heir. We need to know who that is.”

  “So, you know it’s not his sister.”

  “It was always a weak lie to hide behind. Anyana married a Ristan Prince. Elich, were he still alive, would answer to you. So, who is Taren’s heir?”

  * * * * *

  Taren sagged against the wall. He had spent three long days fighting, and longer nights sleepless, with little food and no rest. It was only a matter of time before he fell underneath the crushing weight of those whom he slaughtered. Still, he could only fight on, delaying that moment as long as he could, while at the same time, making it both sooner and more inevitable. “It is a grim sort of fate” Taren said to no one. “To know that the duty assigned to you is the one which means your death. Cutting away the ties to life, and cutting the wrong one only makes the death sooner or more painful.”

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, Makret was debating with the Deshik War Chiefs.

  “He has slaughtered us, like we are your pathetic kind.”

  “Who is more the coward, War Chief, if you turn away from a city guarded by fewer than five hundred men?”

  “Your kin is weak, depending on other forces to fight the battles you dare not. There is no true honour in fighting them.”

  “And yet one of my ‘kin’ has the blood of thousands of your greatest warriors still drying on his blade. You saw not even seven years ago the valour of the Morschen, and now, you dare to call it to question?” Though it had only been five years, Makret knew that to say seven would make a greater impression on the inferior minds that he was surrounded with. “Especially now, when three hundred stand against a force that is still ten times more than ten times their number, and greater even than that.”

  The War Chief straightened up to his full, impressive height, well over nine feet tall. “We will belittle their strength as we choose.”

  “Then you will not choose to do so in front of me.” He stared at each of the seven War Chiefs in turn, as one by one, all broke under his gaze. “I will lead this army, but I will not have our forces lied to about what it is that they are going against.” He faced each of the seven again. That was the thing he hated most about the Deshika. Seven was a number of evil, and it was the number most revered by the Deshika. Their years were seven months of seventy days, though they had ten holy days, seven at mid-year and three others starting the day before the Silver Moon, making their year the same length as a Morschen year. Makret may have joined them, but in his mind, he cursed their customs. ‘I guess one must be prepared for evil when one consorts with The Kindler’s spawn.’ He dared not voice these thoughts, for though he was in charge, if the War Chiefs rose against him, the rest of the Deshika would follow. “Am I understood?” The Chiefs nodded. “Good. Now, we need to find a way to through that gate.”

  * * * * *

  Taren watched the distant camp with renewed interest. Smoke was rising from one of the larger tents in the camp, one that had been identified by several far-sighted archers as the command tent. Eight beings, one obviously Makret, were seen often either going into or emerging from the tent. He assumed that they must be War Chiefs, but he was no closer to killing them than he was of slaughtering the rest of the army camped before him. But, he had found one thing, one single solitary thing, to respect in the Deshika, his most hated enemy. They did not shirk from a fight. They knew what he was capable of, had seen him do it attack after attack, day after horrible day, but still, at the command of their War Chiefs, or Makret, they launched themselves at him recklessly. He was startled out of his relentless study when the Ristans who had stayed began moving around him. They dared not venture far into the field for fear of dead that were not so, so part of their duty was to stab all the bodies they could to ensure every one of the brutes was really dead. It was a nasty business, and Taren regretted the necessity of it, but it had to be done. Already, his fellows had put to death forty that had survived the flying arrows, the pounding feet of their compatriots, and Mishdonkar. A cry went up from the field in front of Taren. “Forty one” said Taren grimly as a short man raised his sword in defiance against the unnatural armies that were massed against them. A woman with a bloody bandage on her left arm where a Deshik arrow had ripped away a chunk of flesh offered him a piece of course bread and a small lump of cheese, which he accepted gratefully, as well as a mug of cold water. As he took the food, his eyes settled on the bandage, and he regretted that he was not skilled in healing. It was for him that she, and most of the others, had taken brutal injuries, a surprising number of which were poisoned and life threatening. He had lost … he could not even remember how many of those with him had already fallen since the nightmare had begun. It was at least fifty, but it could not be as many as one hundred. Over thirty were in no state to fight because of the injuries that they had taken from Deshik arrows, aimed with more luck than skill. The store of their own arrows that were undamaged was rapidly diminishing, even with the deaths and injuries, he doubted that even one hundred of his soldiers had more than thirty arrows to shoot before they had to retrieve from beyond the wall.

  “At least they will leave us alone for now,” the woman who had given him food said.

  “For now, but they will return ere long.”

  “And soon, there will be nothing left to do but die.”

  Taren ripped a chunk off of the bread and offered it to the woman. She ignored it, so Taren put it in his mouth, chewed for a second, and swallowed. “If I thought any of you would go, or had a way of getting you out safely, I would make you leave.”

  They stood together silently for several minutes, sheltered in the shadow of the arch of Agrista’s great southern gate. “There is a way” she whispered.

  “What?” He did not feel any excitement at the thought that he might soon be alone at the roof of the world.

  “The ice caves. They lead from the palace into the hills south of the city. I thought all the major cities in Anaria had something like them.”

  “Not Alquendiro, it stands on an island. Our only retreat is the water.”

  “That would make sense for your people.”

  “That isn’t the poi
nt. There’s a way out of the city. You and the rest can leave.”

  “No. I’m recently ascended to my post, and I don’t know how to find the caves, and those that are with me weren’t palace people either. Even if we could, you can’t seriously suggest that we abandon our home. We won’t, not while one who is not of our blood defends this city.”

  “You don’t understand. This fight is between Makret and me. While I stand here, they can’t turn their attention to other countries. Sooner or later, Makret will leave the safety of that camp and he and I will fight. Because of the powers that he and I both wield, it may be that this city won’t be worth defending once he, or I, or both are dead.”

  “You would level the city?”

  “To prevent the Deshika from having it, I would do far more.”

  “We won’t leave.”

  “I won’t let you stay.”

  “I’m not asking for permission, Morschcoda.”

  “I’m not in the mood to give it.”

  “Who will respect us if we go?”

  “After four days holding a city against one hundred times our number? I would have someone live who witnessed the last stand of Agrista.”

  “And of you?” She raised an eyebrow at him.

  This woman had sharper eyes than most, to see what even Marrdin and Erygan had had to be told. “And of me,” he nodded.

  The woman turned back to Agrista. “This is my home, and has been for my entire life. If it must fall, I would be here.”

  “Then I would know the name of the last person I talked to in this life.”

  She looked up at him and her tight lips relaxed into the closest thing to a smile that any of them could give. “Gelinia Eshtarin.” She stopped then added “General Gelinia Eshtarin, of the Crystal Sword.”

  Taren recognized the name. Eshtarin men ran rampant throughout Rista’s military history, as well as through Drogoda’s own bloody past. There was something else, though, something that he could not quite place about Gelinia Eshtarin and her family history. Not at the moment, at least, so he let the matter drop without saying anything. Instead, he feigned ignorance about news he had already heard. “General? But I thought …”