by Jeff Wheeler
“Why are we missing one of my commanders?” Ballinaire said. His voice was strong and angry. Twenty warriors fanned out around him, filling the cellar. They were his personal guard, and he had seen to their training. The sculpted black ivy and leaves of their armor matched his. Had General Dairron ever been one of them? Dujahn didn’t know that. There was still so much to learn. He kept perfectly still, inconspicuous.
“Commander Phollen is near Sol, my Lord,” Mage answered, bowing his head slightly. “I will speak on his behalf.”
“Were my instructions not clear?” Ballinaire snapped. “I wanted all my commanders here tonight. Has he rebelled against me? Why isn’t he here?”
“Certainly not, Lord Ballinaire,” Mage answered with patience and calm. “He sends his regrets, but it was not possible to make it here in time. He has to provision the regiment overseas, and he struck a deal on some stout Sheven-Ingen blades. But you may expect his arrival within the week.” The green eyes narrowed triumphantly. “The summons is finished, his regiment has gathered. He will come to take Landmoor as you ordered. When all is ready.”
Dujahn inhaled slowly, grateful that Folkes had hurried to the meeting. He would not have wanted to answer to Ballinaire for any reason. My apologies, Lord Ballinaire, but Commander Folkes was just too drunk to obey the summons. I’m assuming he’ll arrive after he’s cleared all that Spider Ale out of his bowels.
The leader of the Bandit Rebellion relented and nodded his head curtly. “I trust for good reason, Sorian. I trust he made every attempt to be here. In addition to the Shoreland Regiment, you speak for the Drugaen Nation as well?”
Mage nodded. “Naturally.”
The Drugaen were somewhat of a mystery to Dujahn. He knew little of their race other than that they were sturdy, blocky fellows who had been enslaved by Sorian to work the mines of the Ravenstone. He knew there were two factions within the Drugaen Nation – the Faradin and the Krag. The Faradin had revolted and proclaimed their freedom and still fought to uphold it. The Krag were still loyal to some Sorian who had enslaved them a thousand years ago. The Krag were superstitious and followed anyone who could muster some spark of magic. And it didn’t surprise him that another Sorian, like Mage, had met their need.
Ballinaire bowed his head. His gnarled, gloved hand trembled with age as it stroked his short white beard. Dujahn did not take it as a sign of weakness. No, Ballinaire was still strong enough to keep General Dairron from usurping his place, two Bandit Commanders from killing each other, and a pair of Sorian at his disposal. Dujahn wanted to chuckle. The King of Dos-Aralon didn’t know what he was up against.
“The time for war has arrived,” Ballinaire said suddenly. His eyes went across every face in the room. “No more waiting or plotting. No more attempts at insurrection. We have come far and fought boldly. The swords of both armies have been sheathed in blood again and again. But this time, it will be different. By year’s end, we will sup in don Rion’s palace. The valley will be ours at last.” Dairron glanced at Miestri, surprised. Folkes took a long swallow from his goblet and wiped his mouth. “Our efforts have stirred rebellion, to take what was wrongfully denied me after the Purge Wars. That insufferable king owes me a debt in blood, and I will take payment in blood. I promise you,” he added with an excited edge in his voice, “That our ranks will swell as the flood engulfs the valley and those who support Dos-Aralon. King Birtoss don Rion will lose his crown, and those who defy us will be no more. No more knights of Owen Draw. No more dukes of Amberdian and Cypher. Even Iniva and the Yukilep will come in line or crumble.” His eyes glittered with hatred. It was an emotion so intense in feeling and conviction that Dujahn felt it coiled deep within the old general’s bones. “When I march to war this time, they will all fall. Every one.”
“When?” General Dairron interrupted, his eyes gleaming and wary.
“Tonight,” Ballinaire answered. “It begins this instant.”
General Dairron stepped forward, his eyes exultant. “You’ve considered my plan then? Shall we seek a union with Avisahn, combine with them to destroy Dos-Aralon?”
“The Shae?” Ballinaire coughed, amused. “What have the Shae ever done for us? When have they ever sought an alliance with me? I tell you, General, the Bandit Rebellion will spread like fire through dried weeds this time, until this entire valley is ablaze. I will not bargain – I will not cajole with those fools across the river. I will march on this valley until the governors and princes and kings cry to me for peace, until they submit to the rule they denied me so long ago.” Lord Ballinaire shook his head slowly. “My plans have nothing to do with the Shae. We will conquer don Rion, the Yukilep, and even the Shae. We will do it alone.”
Dairron shook his head. “My Lord, we number no more than a tenth of what don Rion can put in the field. The lowlands are vast, we cannot attack with total surprise. And yet you suggest we can siege and break the city of Dos-Aralon before the winter snows? With all the other Dukes collapsing on our flanks like lions? And we can do this…by ourselves?”
“Listen to him,” Miestri said assuringly. Her black eyes glittered with mirth. She spoke to Dairron but her eyes were on Mage. The two Sorian glared at each other, almost defiantly. Folkes watched Ballinaire and Dairron. He missed out on the interplay.
“You are wrong, General,” Ballinaire replied. “We already know that don Rion can put more in the field than we can.” He shook his head, his fist tightening. “But now numbers are of no consequence. A smaller force can withstand a mightier one through many advantages.”
Dairron’s eyebrows raised. “What? You will taunt him into attacking the mountains? You know he won’t. Or do you think this fortress is enough to stand against him?” His laugh was cold. “I could take this castle in a fortnight. It certainly won’t stop don Rion. Prince of Fire,” Dairron swore, “I enjoy your rhetoric, Lord Ballinaire, but you must convert my sword too. Our men won’t fight fed on stuffed morale or promises. We cannot match don Rion’s ability to wage war without an alliance. And the Shae are the only way. Their chief city is across the river from our enemies, vulnerable...”
“You are the one mistaken, General. I say that our forces not only can match don Rion’s, but can defeat them with minimal casualties. Listen to me, my friend, my cautious commander. Not even the Shae will be able to stand against us with their timid sparks of Silvan magic. I tell you that don Rion’s head will hang rotting on a spike in the entrance gate of Dos-Aralon!” Ballinaire reached into the pouch he wore at his belt and produced a handful of green moss with flecks of blue and violet. It dripped moisture on the floor. Dujahn stared at it. He remembered the digging crews in the forest. He hadn’t been able to get close enough to see what they were digging up.
“What is that?” Folkes said, his face pinching with curiosity. “It looks like...moss.”
“Where did you find that?” Mage demanded, leaning forward. To Dujahn, it looked like the Sorian was about to come out of his robes. “It doesn’t exist any more. It was all destroyed...”
“No, wise one,” Miestri countered with a trace of mock in her voice. “There is more of it…here.”
* * *
The sun sneaked through the gray folds of the cloudy sky, swelling the haze with golden hues. The morning fog lingered over the damp marsh grass, swirling thick enough in some pockets to gutter out a weak candle. The field beyond the northern walls of Landmoor was quiet, save for the lilting warble of swallows and the occasional shriek of a jackdaw. Dujahn crept up and nestled behind a droopy bush. He waited.
The Sorian Miestri stepped through the shrouded pasture, her black robes hissing against the thick stalks of marsh grass. Two figures flanked her, gripping ash longbows fitted with bodkin arrows. Each wore drab green cloaks that hid their faces and concealed the glint of fine mail. She walked straight through the field, not deviating at all as the fog roamed about her. A shadow loomed ahead, but she walked steadily toward it until the form coalesced. It was huge, hulking. Dujahn kept his dis
tance, but stayed close enough to see them both. He could not stop looking at Miestri. He hadn’t been able to since the night before. This was his chance…what he had been preparing for. To get into a circle of Sorian and learn about them. The knowledge would be worth enough to buy a village…maybe even a castle.
The general’s Dragonshrike hunched forward, its glossy black scales shifting as its serpentine-scaled wings shrugged and its eagle-like head swung around toward her. It’s thick beak opened, hissing. Glassy black eyes blinked once. The leather shoulder harness creaked and General Dairron eased from the stirrup straps and landed on the grass with a soft sound. His glinting plate mail was gone, replaced by a black riding uniform made from thick sections of leather stitched tightly together at the elbows, shoulders, and knees. He tugged his gloves on securely. Dujahn squinted and cocked his head. He advanced to a closer shrub, careful of every step. Not too close…just enough to listen in…carefully…
“That was a brilliant performance last night, General,” Miestri said, stepping up to the tall Bandit. “You actually seemed surprised and angry. Did you see the look on Mage’s face?”
“I think he nearly choked,” Dairron replied smoothly. “You’ve done well down here, Miestri. Does the old fool have any other orders for me this morning?”
“Which old fool?” she replied with a silvery laugh. “Yours? Lord Ballinaire is growing impatient for you to leave. He had hoped you would be gone before dawn.”
Dairron shrugged. “Patience has never been his foremost quality.” He sighed. “I’m furious he ordered you to stay in Landmoor. I need you in the Kingshadow, not frittering your talents down here.”
Miestri’s voice was light, almost musical. “It is a pity – but necessary. It is still too early to let the top spin out by itself without any coaxing. And I discovered the hall below the tunnels where the Silvan Records were kept. They date back half a millenium, so we may find what you’ve been searching for. The information about the Crystal will certainly be very useful now.”
“But it is information that Lord Ballinaire could also use,” he warned. “The fool is going to get himself killed this time. No more border raids, no more splintered agreements. He’s digging a hole deep enough to bury us all.” He shook his head angrily. “We’ve come too far for him to ruin everything.”
“He just may live, Stanjel. What if he discovers the secret of the Everoot?”
“Isn’t that why you are staying then?” Dairron reminded her. “Make sure that he doesn’t. And make sure the other Sorian doesn’t convince him to abandon the idea. Not only did Mage look shocked, but greensick as well. He knows everything about that plant. Who is to say he doesn’t know about the Crystal as well?”
“Don’t fear the old man,” Miestri replied. “He is waning. And when he falls, I will take his dominion. He never knew about the Crystal. He never knew what the Shae did to protect it. That is our advantage. Just be sure your army never leaves the mountains, General. I will meet you in Vale when it is time to take command of the Bandit Rebellion.”
Dairron shook his head and chuckled. “You saw Ballinaire last night – he doesn’t consider the Shae a threat! When they find out, every Crimson Wolfsman in the whole banned eastern forest will be down here with the Silvan high army behind. If my plan is going to work, I don’t want them finding out too soon. Nor do I want any needlessly killed. Laisha Silverborne won’t support me if she thinks the Bandit Rebellion are nothing but Shae-killers.” He paused. “Unless we can get her to believe that Dos-Aralon is.”
“I’ve already begun the arrangements,” Miestri said. She cocked her head. “Your care for Silverborne’s daughter is quite beyond me. You know it is Forbidden to the Shae to cavort with you.” Her voice was low, seductive. “Is Laisha truly worth all that trouble?”
“She is worth any trouble. Prince of Fire, not only is she fair, but cunning, too! She rules that kingdom, not her father. We have always fought against the Shae, Miestri. If we manage it right, they will fight for us.” He nodded to her escort. “And not just the Shae from the Wilderness of Vale, but all of Avisahn.”
Dujahn stopped breathing. This was worth even more than he thought. Folkes was an idiot – he would never rule the Rebellion. It would be Dairron and Miestri – he knew it instinctively. This was the kind of plotting that the East Kingdoms did, not some out-of-the-way protected vassalage. The scheming was cold and utterly ruthless. Dujahn loved it.
Miestri bowed her head. “As I have said, I am already engaged in that effort.”
“Good.” He rubbed his lip. “The meeting with Lord Ballinaire changed our previous plan, but it can also help us.” He folded his gloved hands together over his mouth. “Ballinaire is leaning over the edge of the pit he’s dug. I want to do what I can to push him in.”
“Indeed,” Miestri agreed. “What else would you have me do, General?”
Dairron pointed north, away from the city. “One small favor. The Shoreland regiment is camped in the Shadows Wood. While Mage hurries to Sol, do what you can to stir dissension in the regiment. See how many officers and Kiran Thall will follow you. Cause some havoc,” he added with a grin. “You’re so good at that.”
She laughed. “That would prove entertaining. Ballinaire is preoccupied with hoarding his find in the swamp. He won’t know what I’m doing.”
The Bandit General smiled. “Then I will prepare in the Kingshadow. You are my eyes and ears in Landmoor. I especially want to know how he reacts to what we do.”
“What about Folkes?” she asked with a little yawn. “He knows something is happening.”
“Leave Folkes to me. Either he joins us or the Duke of Owen Draw and the Governor of Iniva hangs him on a rope. I’ll give him a chance to decide.”
“Be sure you teach him the consequences.” She smiled, and touched Dairron’s arm affectionately. “Safe journey, General,” she said with a nod and stepped back a few paces. “These beasts hate the moors. You had better go. But if you fly near Avisahn again, be sure to stay out of bow range. They may be waiting for you with their own alerion this time.”
The Dragonshrike twisted its shoulder to the grass and Dairron gripped the leather harness and pulled himself onto the saddle as it straightened itself. Cinching the leather straps around his legs, he looked down at the black-robed woman with midnight dark hair and gave her an etched smile.
“If there are, I will deal with them. Remember why we are here,” he said from above, offering her a simple nod.
Miestri smiled and flashed him a sultry grin. “Oh, my memory is very good, General. I will join you in the Kingshadow as soon as I am able. It has been very dull in the Vale recently. Wars can be amusing.”
Dairron nodded and slid his arms into the harness fittings. He touched a glass orb at the saddle’s pommel and the Dragonshrike rose on its legs, its huge razor-like wings unfolding as it flexed its shoulder muscles. The plumage was dark on the back, like a crow’s.
Dujahn squinted, staring up at the looming silhouette. He was perfectly still.
“Do you think the spy has heard enough?” Dairron stated. “The one over by that bush.”
“I’ve let him listen in on us,” the Sorian replied. “Venay shaye nu!“ Miestri ordered crisply in Silvan. Her two escorts whirled around, their longbows pulled tightly and arrows aiming straight for Dujahn.
He cringed in the mud, not daring to move. From the mist came a whisper of cloth and Miestri appeared in her flowing black robes. He stared at her midnight eyes. She was going to kill him. She was going to rip out his entrails.
“An early morning stroll for the Gray Legion spy…Dujahn, isn’t it?” Dairron asked, folding his arms casually and leaning forward in the saddle harness. “Or can you think up another inane excuse that’s more convincing?”
“I came…I came to seek you out, General,” Dujahn spluttered. “The Gray Legion can help you. We want you to rule Dos-Aralon. The other nations fear it more than anything.”
Miestri reached into
her robes and withdrew a sphere of red glass. Something twitched inside of it, an orange smoky light that hungered to reach out and snap at him. Dujahn watched it, mesmerized – terrified.
“I came to help you!” he insisted. “By Achrolese, I swear it! I have information about Folkes. About don Rion and the Shae!”
“I know,” Miestri replied. “And you will.”
VIII
Dawn broke into the little camp by the river over a haze of fog. Thealos had noticed it getting thicker each morning the further south they went. The day began as it typically did, with Tomn trying to coax the ashes back to life with fresh wood and a snapping flint-stone. Tannon was always one of the first up, sharpening the brace of knives he wore with a slow methodical ring from a whetstone. Not that the knives needed it, but the sound was nearly impossible to sleep through. Beck and Hoth came awake more slowly, each stumbling a few paces into the surrounding glen to relieve themselves against a tree. Thealos writhed in disgust.
“You look tired,” Tannon mumbled to the cook between the ringing strokes on the whetstone.