Wycaan Master: Book 02 - The First Decree

by Alon Shalev

  A small group entered the room with Ilana and Sellia. “You have guests,” Sellia announced.

  Seanchai turned to see the stout, red-haired dwarf, Ruffminsk, from the artisan clan, Dan Zu’Ulster. Behind him, Seanchai recognized the young dwarf who had made him the pipe and flask. He was carrying a large package wrapped in burlap.

  “Welcome, Ruffminsk and Thorminsk,” Seanchai said. “To what do we owe this honor?”

  “Well met, Seanchai, son of Seantai,” Ruffminsk said and bowed. “We come with a message from our Clan Leader, Dugenminsk. He regrets to send us in his stead, but the hour is near, and he prepares our troops.”

  Seanchai nodded. “What can I do for you?”

  Thorminsk set the package down on a flat stone and began unwrapping it while Ruffminsk spoke.

  “When you dined with us during the Clansfelt, we said we had three gifts for you. Pipes and hip flasks are not what are required in times like these. Thorminsk is one of a very few who specializes in King’s Mail. He uses intricate techniques to create a thin but powerful mail that fits close to the body. It is capable of repelling most blades and even fire. It will never rust or lose its suppleness. Parents hand these down to their children for generations. It is very slow work and takes years to create a single suit.

  “Thorminsk has been working on this for some time. This morning, he finished it, and we request that you honor us by wearing it into battle.”

  They all looked upon the blushing Thorminsk, who held the long tunic up. “This might be too long,” he said, and Seanchai noticed his slim hands were shaking.

  Seanchai stepped forward and took the mail. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s . . . wow! It’s so light.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Don’t let its weight fool you,” Ruffminsk said. “The King’s Mail is the mail of monarchs. Most dwarves can only dream of owning one, for they are beyond value.”

  Seanchai slipped it on. Indeed, it was a bit big, but Thorminsk approached with a set of tools and began adjusting it. Seanchai noted how he carefully saved every link, and then something occurred to him.

  “Thorminsk, if you have been working on this for some time, how come it is not shorter and wider to fit a dwarf?”

  The young dwarf reddened. “If you were an expert in our craft, Wycaan, you would notice that this is a fusion of two mails, each of a subtly different mixture of metals. It is very unprofessional, but given the time constraints, I had little choice. If we all come through this alive, I would be honored to finish your mail as it should be made.”

  “I think the two-tone adds character,” Ilana said.

  Thorminsk grimaced, Seanchai smiled, and Sellia rolled her eyes. But Seanchai then had another thought.

  “If these King’s Mails are so rare, where did you have another to combine with the one you were making?”

  “It is of no consequence,” Thorminsk said. “I am honored to have the opportunity to create one for a Wycaan. As a child, I heard the stories, and I dreamed that one day I would make the armor of the Wycaans.”

  Seanchai looked at him, and the dwarf glanced away and met Shayth’s gaze. Shayth shook his head. “Let me guess. This specialization is something that has passed through your family?”

  Thorminsk looked to Ruffminsk for help, but found none forthcoming. Shayth continued. “Your family probably owns a King’s Mail of its own, an heirloom. Did you combine the mail of your family?”

  Thorminsk looked like he was about to bolt. Seanchai didn’t help by immediately trying to take the tunic off. “I can’t accept this from you. It is your family’s most prized possession and source of wealth. I–”

  Thorminsk spun round and his voice, though high, was sharp, and there were tears brimming in his eyes. “What good is wealth if we are all dead? What good is a family heirloom if no one from the family lives? Tomorrow, many of my people will sacrifice their lives for our freedom.

  “I have little talent on the battlefield, but in the craft of the dwarves I have no living equal save my teacher. When the battle is over and victory assured, the legends told by my clan will remember that the victorious Wycaan led us to freedom wearing a coat of arms made by Thorminsk, son of Dorenminsk, of the Clan Dan Zu’Ulster. You dishonor me by not accepting my gift.”

  Seanchai took a deep breath.

  “I accept this fine work of King’s Mail, Thorminsk, son of Dorenminsk. I am honored that Clan Dan Zu’Ulster sees fit to let me wear it into battle. And I like the two-tone, as well.”

  Everyone laughed, and the red in Thorminsk’s cheeks deepened even more as the powerful elf swept him into his arms. “Thank you, Thorminsk,” he whispered into the dwarf’s ear. “May I be worthy of your skills and your sacrifice.”

  “You will, Wycaan,” the young dwarf replied. “I know you will.”

  At that moment, the great horn of Hothengold was blown. One long, rich note hung over the entire city. Seanchai straightened and surveyed his friends.

  “It is time,” he said, and picked up his Win Dao swords.

  SIXTY TWO

  General Shiftan led a battalion of humans and pictorians up into the pass under cover of dark. The goal was to establish a stronghold on the high ground to protect the main body of the army as they entered the mountain range.

  Though he was confident that he would achieve this by going up at night, he had nonetheless employed a large convoy of troops. His own soldiers were battle-experienced and disciplined. He believed the pictorians were a wild card, but General Tarlach believed in them, and he had faith in Tarlach.

  As they moved through a steep, walled section of the path, however, General Shiftan learned abruptly that this was not going to be as easy as he thought. Darkness was a double-edged sword. He heard the whistles of arrows long before he saw them, followed by grunts and cries from his soldiers as they fell.

  “Circle,” he yelled, and his troops fell into a tight ring, shields interlaced above them to provide protection. “Umnesilk, move the pictorians to the cliff walls.

  The first boar cried a guttural order and the pictorians moved slowly, holding shields absurdly small for their huge bodies. But Shiftan observed that no pictorian fell, though a few limped to cover.

  “First Archers, fire with brands,” he called. “Second Archers, shoot on sight.”

  A wave of flaming arrows flew into the air, illuminating the sky. The general could discern nothing, but his second wave of archers instinctively shot a wave of arrows up to the ridges above them.

  “Advance together. Umnesilk, bring your troops along the walls.”

  The army slowly advanced. Occasionally, a soldier fell as an arrow slipped through, but the shields quickly closed. The walls of the ravine narrowed, and suddenly, it was not arrows, but large rocks and boulders that were raining down on them. As a few of his soldiers staggered and fell, General Shiftan halted the advance.

  “Soldiers, kneel. Brace against your shields,” he shouted. “First Boar Umnesilk, secure the heights.”

  Shiftan surmised that the pictorians had engaged the rebel dwarves several minutes later when the rockfall ceased. He ordered the army to lower their shields and sent one company up to aid the pictorians on either side.

  As he did, a horn was blown. Dwarves swarmed down to the ravine floor, and the battle became hand-to-hand. Shiftan felt the surge of adrenaline as he cried out to his troops to fight. He raised his sword and cut into the closest enemy dwarf.

  How long passed, he could not tell. How many dwarves fell to his sword, he did not count. Shiftan was a battled-hardened veteran, and his body and mind entered an automatic state of fluid consciousness.

  Then, through the dust, he saw a taller warrior. The figure approached him. My dear friend Tarlach, this one dies for you. “Come meet your sentence, Shayth, you traitor,” Shiftan yelled, though he doubted the boy heard over the melee.

  Shayth reached him and swung his sword. The general deflected it with his shield and locked swords on the follow through
. He gasped as the deep blackness of Shayth’s eyes.

  “You aren’t Tarlach,” Shayth growled. “Where’s the worm?”

  “You’re not worthy of meeting him in combat,” Shiftan spat back.

  Shayth suddenly spun their blades and sent Shiftan off balance. With one swift movement, he kicked the general’s knee and sent him to the ground. His blade immediately pressed against the older man’s throat.

  “I won’t kill you, General whoever-you-are, but take a message to Tarlach. Tell him I’m waiting. Tell him this time, we finish it.”

  With that, he kicked hard into Shiftan’s thigh, deadening his leg. Shiftan almost passed out from the pain. He was aware that his troops had surrounded him and that he was being lifted. He heard the voice of his second-in-command shouting orders.

  “Get him out of here,” the officer barked.

  “No,” Shiftan rasped. “Where is he?”

  “The boy has fled, General Shiftan, sir,” the man supporting him said. “They all have, the cowards.”

  Seanchai had not been involved in the first engagement with the Tarlach’s army, but he led the second wave. Rus’ik Armsgarten had anticipated that the pictorians might get past the first ambush. He was right.

  Shayth’s company gradually retreated uphill into another tight gorge. As Shayth gave cover, fighting furiously with the two lead pictorians, his group fled through the narrow corridor. A whistle from above was the signal for Shayth to spring back. As he did, a huge boulder rolled down and crushed one pictorian.

  The other pictorian, unharmed, hesitated when he realized that he was alone. His pause was fatal, as Shayth’s big broadsword plunged though the side of his armor.

  Shayth quickly followed the dwarves. The boulder would not hold back the pictorians for long. When they broke through, they rushed in single file through the tight corridor. A few more fell to boulders, but a dozen made it past.

  A small complement of archers, led by Sellia, waited for them. Following her instructions, the archers aimed at the pictorians’ exposed throats and sides. They held their bows until all twelve were assembled.

  The pictorians stared at Seanchai, who stood alone about thirty yards from them, smiling broadly, with his arms folded across his chest. Slowly, he drew the Win Dao swords from their sheaths and even in the dull dawn light, they flashed their challenge. The Wycaan made a few practice arcs with his swords and the whoosh of the blades cut the air.

  One pictorian yelled a response and began to run forward, swiftly followed by the others. The archers were ready instantaneously and released their arrows, felling ten pictorian soldiers before they could reach Seanchai. One of the two that made it through did so with three arrows protruding from his body.

  Seanchai dodged him, pushing his own weight to speed the giant’s momentum into a rock. The huge, horned creature toppled over, and Shayth removed his head with a double-handed blow of his broadsword.

  The other pictorian was more measured in his approach and exchanged a few blows with Seanchai. Though large, at least seven feet in height and just as broad, he was agile but every move was matched by the elf. Seanchai could probably have finished him quickly, but knowing that many dwarves were watching, he wanted to show them that he could deliver. Finally a blur of sword blades descended on the retreating pictorian, and one connected with the great creature’s throat.

  The pictorian went down slowly onto its knees and stared at Seanchai, who whipped his swords in two quick circles before sheathing them.

  “Well fought, pictorian. You meet your end with honor.”

  Seanchai didn’t expect the pictorian to understand, but even so, the beast looked relieved and nodded as it toppled and gasped its last breath.

  A cheer rose around the canyon.

  “Come, my friends,” Seanchai called. “We’re just beginning.”

  SIXTY THREE

  The Emperor’s army continued to fight for a foothold in the mountain range throughout the next day. Dwarf resistance was met at every point, as heavy casualties rose for those trying to ascend into the pass.

  But gradually, General Tarlach’s superior numbers began to tell, and the his army made ground. As the sun descended, a horn blasted a signal, and Tarlach knew he had won this round. The fighting became sporadic and then ceased.

  He ordered his troops to create a defensible net and set up temporary camp. Word went out for officers to report to a hastily established central command. Auxiliary supplies were brought up throughout the night. By the end of the next day, Tarlach planned to begin building his base camp in full view of Hothengold.

  The reports from his officers offered little. This was the dwarves’ terrain, and they were expected to mount an intelligent defense. But the sheer numbers of the Emperor’s army could wear them down. This war was going to prove costly, but Tarlach was willing to pay the price.

  General Shiftan limped in and sat heavily on a chair. “What happened to you?” Tarlach asked his old friend. “Did you get too close to a mule?”

  “He was a stubborn ass, to be sure,” Shiftan said and relayed the encounter with Shayth. “He’s good, my friend. I saw him dispatch several of my troops, and when I reached him, he finished me off quickly.”

  “Perhaps you should listen to him and let me meet him,” Tarlach said.

  “No,” Shiftan winced as he stretched his leg. “I underestimated him. And there’s something else, something you should pay heed to. There is something about him that draws you into his rage, like a tornado sucking you in. I’m sure you can better him, Tarlach, but only if you stay detached, and that might not prove easy for you.”

  Rus’ik Armsgarten sent dwarf units to assail the Emperor’s army throughout the night. Every hour or so, another intrusion of missiles, burning arrows, or dwarves with hand weapons would attack from one side or another.

  The plan would not inflict serious damage on the huge army, but was meant more to deny them a good night’s sleep. Recognizing this, General Tarlach withdrew a number of divisions to sleep in the center of the camp and stationed auxiliary forces to maintain a defensive perimeter. When dawn broke, the dwarves withdrew.

  It was at least five hours into daylight before the empire’s forces began to advance toward the capital once more. As the day progressed and the troops were met with no more than a few skirmishes, Tarlach began to wonder whether he would see the main force of the dwarf army emerge.

  One of General Shiftan’s riders galloped toward him, bringing his horse to an abrupt stop and jumping down. The man saluted badly, too excited for military etiquette. They were in a battle now. Tarlach would overlook such ineptitudes.

  “General Tarlach, sir. I bring news from General Shiftan. His troops have intercepted a group of fleeing dwarves. They have them pinned down and will block additional exits within the hour.”

  General Shiftan had taken a large part of the army during the early part of the previous evening around the southern side of the mountain range to cut off the escape route of the fleeing dwarves. The plan was to attack from both sides. If dwarves were indeed fleeing, Tarlach didn’t intend for more than a few to get through.

  “Go refresh, man. We’ll tend to your horse, and then you’ll return to your battalion.”

  The man saluted and disappeared. Tarlach went to eat, satisfied that things were going as anticipated. But before he finished his meal, another messenger burst into the eating area. Tarlach’s guards sprung up, but the high-pitched voice of the messenger carried.

  “I have urgent news for General Tarlach. Let me pass.”

  Tarlach stood and walked over to the man. “What is it?”

  “General Shiftan requires reinforcements. He instructs me to tell you that his forces have been attacked by two more groups of dwarves led by the elf and the traitor. His troops are pinned down. He requests the pictorians.”

  Tarlach turned to one of his officers. “Find First Boar Umnesilk. His units are in the advance. Tell him to prepare his troops to move out with
haste, and for him to come here.”

  He turned back to the messenger. “Come, sit, and tell me more.”

  “We found about fifty of the buggers in the mountains,” the soldier told him. “All ages – male and female. But when we surrounded them, they quickly closed in formation and produced weapons.

  “Surrounding them laid our lines thin for an attack from behind, and they were waiting for us, hiding in small caves, I think. I saw the white-haired one with the two curved swords, my lord. He attacked from one side. Archers were waiting for us on the ridges above, and the traitor led an attack from the right.

  “There were also the dwarves in the middle. There weren’t many, but they were very disciplined, very competent.”

  Tarlach nodded. “Go find the other messenger and tell him to be ready to return with the pictorians. He should take another horse if he thinks it necessary. You take care of your horse and eat. Be ready to relay a message at any time.”

  The soldier stood up and saluted. He wheeled round to go and banged straight into the eight-foot mass of First Boar Umnesilk. The pictorian didn’t flinch, but the man fell back onto the table. He jumped to his feet and drew a short sword, but froze when he saw whom he faced. Umnesilk hadn’t moved.

  “Steady man,” Tarlach said. “We have enough fighting on our hands.”

  “My fault,” growled Umnesilk, raising his massive hands to the side, palms facing the man.

  Though he was signaling the universal sign of peace, the pictorian could just as nonchalantly have snapped the man in half, Tarlach thought.

  The man nodded and scuttled away. Expressionless, Umnesilk turned to Tarlach. “You send, General?”

  “How soon can your troops move out?”

  “Now. We have weapons, need nothing more.”

  Tarlach smiled. “How quickly can you make it to the other side of the mountain? The paths are rocky and steep. It is about twelve miles. At a brisk walk, how long will it take you?”