By the peculiar way of children, Kaylie wouldn’t believe it from her parents – but she took it as truth from Darius. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Why, my soldiers are learning more of it right now.”
Balkan gave him a puzzled look. Maggie gave him a thankful one, for Kaylie excused herself from the table, heading into the spacious sitting room to practice her needlework.
“Darius, I could swear you were speaking truth just now.” Balkan said, perplexed.
"I was." Darius told him the events from the marketplace – but omitting his heated exchange with Lazarus. “I have about a third of my men helping the armorers each day. First they’ll be throwing up a building to work in, but after that they should be able to turn out the new armor at a good rate.”
Maggie shook her head. “It’s silly that the Council hasn’t already seen to this. What’s more important than keeping our men safe?”
“Keeping tradition, avoiding change, ensuring that we fight the War in exactly the same way it’s been fought since the Forging,” Darius grumbled. He would have continued, if not for a warning look from Balkan.
“Maggie, perhaps Kaylie would like some company?” Balkan asked, though he had little need. Maggie knew well enough when the wizards needed privacy. She kissed her husband and exited the room.
“Come, Darius. I’ll show you my recent work,” Balkan said, rising from the table.
As a wizard, Balkan was subject at any time to be sent to the lines for battle or command. This was technically true for any wizard within Bastion. However, the Council kindly took his status as a husband and father into consideration. Thus, Balkan had not been away from Bastion in over two years. His duties fell to research and instruction. He was one of the principle teachers of the acolytes, the wizard-apprentices, and also spent a great deal of time delving into new areas of magic.
Balkan took Darius deeper into his home and into the bedroom that he shared with Maggie. They crossed the room and Balkan paused before a door on the far wall to dig a heavy iron key from a pocket. He fitted it into a large lock that served primarily to keep Kaylie from satisfying any momentary curiosities she might develop.
Balkan let the door remain ajar. Entering the room, he gave a practiced flick of his hand and several lamps sprang to life, bathing the small chamber in light.
A pair of bookshelves had their place near the door, along with a finely carved and comfortable-looking chair for perusing the contents thereof. A desk occupied the wall opposite the reading chair, and the final wall was taken by a workshop table covered with woodworking tools and a few scraps of lumber. It was to this that Balkan went, waving at Darius to follow.
“Take a look at this, my friend. What do you think?”
It was a carving of a frog, akin in shape to one of the small creatures that might be found in the grass by the river near Bastion. It was as large as the wizard’s open hand, far larger than what it – somewhat – resembled.
It wasn’t particularly well-carved either, the eyes being ill-defined and the legs too thick. Darius stated as much, saying “I think you still need practice, Balkan. This is what I was to see?” he asked, genuinely confused.
“Observe the circle upon its back, Darius. Press it firmly with your finger.”
Darius did as much; his index finger feeling the shallow groove that defined the small circle as he pressed it into the misshapen oaken frog. He looked back up at Balkan, who gestured impatiently at the frog.
“Watch, watch!”
Darius returned his eyes to the carving. For a moment nothing happened, and then he was startled to see the thing shudder. At first he though Balkan was working magic on the carving, but there was no such activity from his friend. With wonder he gazed upon the frog as it shuddered twice, moving its legs a bit each time. Then with a jerk it leapt from the table, landed a few inches away, and was still once more.
Darius’s mouth hung open in amazement. “Balkan! How did you do that?”
“Impressive, isn’t it? Look closely, very closely, at the frog. What do you see?”
Darius picked up the wooden object and peered at it intently. Myriad markings – most of them about the trunk of each leg – were sunk into the wood. He looked at the circle he had pressed to create the miraculous effect, and saw that the grooves were in fact more markings.
“What are they?” Darius asked.
Balkan turned and flipped up the lid on a finely wrought iron box. From within he lifted a scrap of white cloth.
Darius lifted an eyebrow. The cloth was from the hem of an Angel’s robes, having a supple and unearthly quality that no material created by men could capture. Then his eyes widened in sudden realization. The runes about the hem were like the ones on the wooden frog.
Darius took the cloth from Balkan. It was warm, despite having lain in an iron box in a dark room for some time. Looking at the runes, he could discern nothing from them. He had always taken them for granted.
“Balkan, what…” Darius worked to form a proper question. Balkan merely stood there, enjoying his friend’s discombobulation. Finally, Darius managed to bring words forth.
“Balkan, what is this new wonder you’ve worked? And where did this come from?” he said indicating the scrap of Angel-cloth.
“To answer your last question first, it came from Gabriel’s robe. I had merely to ask, and he removed it. He didn’t even appear to be tearing the cloth. Incidentally, the next time I saw him his robes were whole again.”
Balkan referred to the Archangel Gabriel, chief of the Cherubim. Angels of Gabriel's order were the guardians of the secrets of magic, and had taught its use to men when first the Choirs came to earth.
“And the runes? The frog? How?”
“I have been examining that scrap of cloth for months, Darius. Since before you left Bastion this most recent time. Before that I’d been studying this tome.” Balkan produced a thin leather-bound book from elsewhere on the table. “I’m not the first wizard to take interest in these runes, it seems. I can find no name for the book’s author, but it was written soon after the Forging, judging by some of the notes.
“The runes are a language, Darius. You have heard the Angels speak when using magic, yes? Of course you have. Their greatest magics are always accompanied by words. That is what caught my attention. The Cherubim have been teaching us magic for three hundred years, and none of it is vocal. By the Sword, any soldier can tell you that the Angels sing in battle…”
That much was true. Darius had heard it many times, in the scramble to avoid the area where the Aeonians fought. Whenever a Demon exploded into the world to assault the men of Bastion, an Angel was never far behind, streaking to earth to confront it and rescue the soldiers from the other-worldly wrath. Around the terrible cacophony of battle – the shrieks of men both wounded and well, the clash of steel upon steel from all directions, and the roars of the Demon itself as it confronted its ancient foe – one could always discern a hauntingly beautiful voice risen in song.
Darius let Balkan go on for awhile before finally stopping him – his friend became quite absorbed in sharing his work with others, despite the fact that he was often trying to explain a year or more of research in a few moments.
“Hold, Balkan. Hold!” Darius held up a hand to halt the flow of words. “You’re saying you’ve learned the Angelic runes? You’ve learned their language?”
“Oh Heaven! No, not remotely. But here, look at this symbol,” Balkan said, pointing to a single rune upon the cloth. “Most of the symbols on that wooden frog match this one. It signifies movement. That alone. Movement. Not any particular kind of movement, just movement itself – the concept, the idea.
“This symbol represents ‘life.’ This one: ‘order,’ or ‘nature,’ or some combination of the two, a representation of the proper order of things, whatever those things may be. In this case, the proper order of a jumping river frog.”
“Balkan, slow down,” Darius said, still overwhelmed with the idea.
Just as he’d managed to work magic in a new way only a handful of days before, it seemed that Balkan had discovered a new path of his own.
“I’ve been experimenting with these for months, as I’ve said. Most of the time I would inscribe a rune upon a piece of leather or wood and then let magic flow into it. From the way it reacted I could get a sense of what it meant.”
Balkan took a deep breath. “This frog was supposed to be a gift for Kaylie’s birthday, but it took me far longer than I’d thought to turn all the meanings into something useful. Plus, as you’ve said,” Balkan said with a rueful grin, “It’s ugly. I’m not much of a wood carver, but you have to admit – I’m quite a wizard.”
“That you are, my friend. The possibilities behind this are… beyond endless. How many symbols are there on that cloth?”
“One hundred and thirty-seven,” Balkan replied immediately. “- on this strip alone. I’ve discerned the meaning of fourteen, and have some idea on another five.”
“Wait,” Darius said. “You said this was meant for Kaylie? She could make it jump as well?”
“Yes. You see, it requires no magic from us. The symbols are capable of drawing power from all around themselves.”
Darius leaned towards his friend and speared him with an earnest stare. He spoke his next words slowly and deliberately.
“Balkan, are you telling me that you have created a way for magic to be worked by somebody who is not a wizard?”
Darius’s friend looked at him blankly for a moment. Then dawning realization animated his features as wonder spread over his face. “By the Choirs, so I have. This is… quite important, isn’t it?”
“I think it is, Balkan. I truly do.”
Over the next hour, they decided that a great deal of research still needed doing before Balkan brought his work to the attention of the Council.
“I’ll need to enlist acolytes to help me test the runes,” Balkan stated, sitting in the large comfortable chair while Darius perched upon a stool. “And have a proper laboratory set up.”
“And,” Darius said pensively, “You’ll need to find somebody who can carve a proper frog.”
Chapter Eight
Torrey stumbled into the bushes to relieve himself, nearly tripping over his own feet on the way. He was glad none of the others were paying attention – he was always loudly boasting that a mountain dweller was hardy and sure-footed. If his comrades saw him stumble in these lowlands – with hardly any proper hills even, much less mountains – he would never hear the end of it.
Torrey grinned in the dark as he loosed the laces on his breeches. Chances are, even if they had seen, none of them would remember it come morning. One of the others, a good bloke, had produced two skins of a rough, tasty drink as soon as they’d set camp. The soldier claimed to have saved it all the way from Riverside, waiting for a good reason to celebrate. They had all agreed that being pulled off the border for the first time in six months qualified.
Two skins wouldn’t have been enough for even a swallow amongst the hundred men in the camp, but several other men had wine they’d managed to wheedle out of the officers before the split. Wine didn’t have the kick of the other stuff, but plenty of men accepted it all the same. Torrey had decided to try something new. The warmth in his belly had been fierce after the first swallow, and had since spread to his limbs.
It was a clumsy heat, Torrey decided as he tried – thrice – to lace up his breeches. He chuckled at the way his fingers fumbled the familiar motions.
The camp was a stone’s throw away, and Torrey could still clearly hear the singing and yelling. The latrines weren’t dug yet, which was why he was watering the plants. He imagined they’d be put somewhere out here. The army had split off into smaller groups of one or two-hundred in order to stave off the ‘camp smell’ - that foul stench that accompanies any large group of soldiers. It could be staved off yet longer if they placed the latrines as far as conveniently possible from the orderly rows of their tents.
Torrey hoped they’d be here for at least a ten-day, maybe even a full fortnight, though there was no telling. The skirmishes and raids on the front made for constant attrition, and the officers never did bother to ask the soldiers if they were ready to go back to the fighting yet.
Before he started back to the company of his fellows, Torrey took a moment to look out at the land. The grassland stretched to the horizon many miles away, illuminated by the nearly-full moon and broken occasionally by the silhouette of a tree. It had an eerie beauty that was sharply removed from the cluttered vistas of his tribe’s mountainous home.
As the mind of a man in his cups will, Torrey's wandered down many paths; Past battles, futures hopes. Past lusts, future loves. He contemplated them all -
- until the sky was lit with a pillar of fire, as if the sun had decided to rise again in fury – on the wrong side of the world.
At first Torrey thought he was having a vision, as men say wizards oftentimes do. Surely, this great inferno in the sky was not real? Then a great wind ripped across the grassland and Torrey was nearly knocked off his feet by the blast of hot air.
Then the world was dark again. The rough light that cast aside the moon’s humble brilliance had dazzled Torrey’s eyes and ruined his vision. Instead of the wanly-lit grassland that he had beheld only moments before, he saw only darkness – and the afterimage of the great flaming spear he had beheld, dancing before his eyes.
When he had recovered his wits, Torrey became aware of one more thing. The peace of the night air had not returned with the sudden vanishing of the flame. The stillness was broken now – with war cries.
The war cries of the Enemy.
Torrey fumbled for the axe upon his belt. Drink again made fools of his fingers as they quested against the straps that held the weapon to his hip. Before he could bring the haft to his grip, they were upon him. From out of the darkness they streamed, finally drawing close enough that Torrey’s ruined sight could make them out in the moonlight. It was just like any other nighttime raid – except that Torrey was very, very far from the border, far from the fighting. Far from the danger.
The first marauder to notice him came straight on, and though his wits were confounded by the wicked liquor of Riverside, his instincts saved him. He ducked beneath the man’s blow and fell to the ground. His hands abandoned their quest for the axe and reached instead for his knife, a smallish thing good only for eating supper. As his attacker twisted again to swing his weapon – a cruel, serrated slashing spear – Torrey leapt into him. The spear shaft clouted him on the side of the head, but he drove his dagger into the man’s throat.
They fell, both thrashing about. But Torrey had the upper hand, for the man’s strength fled quickly with his throat cut. Torrey’s hands and chest were hot with blood.
Then a spear took him in the back.
Torrey felt only a sting – but when he attempted to rise again his legs refused to move. The best he could do was roll over onto his back, away from the corpse beneath him.
His eyesight already fading, he beheld still more of the fiery pillars in the distance. One, two, and more, they exploded from the sky like lightning from an evil storm.
Torrey realized his air was short. No matter how deeply he gasped, he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. As his vision faded to black, his last sight was of the angry fires against the sky – and his last thought was that something had gone horribly wrong.
Chapter Nine
By candlelight, Arric poured over the latest string of reports from the front. These were written reports, from all the commands not considered important enough to be assigned a Globe to contact Bastion by more direct means.
The war slumbered, it seemed. In Arric’s mind, the conflict he had fought all his life had taken on the aspects of a natural beast. When it hungered, men died. When it slept, soldiers could rest as well. And when it felt playful… well, cats generally amused themselves with the mice they caught. Directly before devouring them.
&n
bsp; If Arric had anything to say about it, the War would soon feel playful again – but the Enemy would be the mouse this time. Bastion had nearly twenty thousand men camped in a deep valley to the south of Fortress Nebeth. Eighteen Wizards were there. Entire new spells had been devised to divert the enemy's eye and keep the preparations secret, and the Angels themselves were aiding the plan.
Soon, Arric would give the order, and the soldiers of Bastion would flood out of their hiding place to fall upon the nearby encampment at Cairn. Though it was not a proper fortress, Cairn had been occupied long enough that the Enemy had erected substantial earthworks for its improved defense. Surrounded by dense forest to the south, and sheer cliffs and the river to the west, it was highly defensible. Once Bastion’s forces took it, a true fortress would be erected and they would have a stronghold to rival Fortress Nebeth jutting deep into the Enemy’s lands.
Just a few more days, Arric told himself. To get all the soldiers they could into the valley, to make sure the enemy had no inkling of their plans – they had experienced scouts keeping an eye on Cairn to make sure no sudden influx of troops spoiled their attack. Thus far everything was going well.
Arric would eventually look back and realize that should have been his first clue that trouble lurked.
A breathless acolyte appeared in the doorway and Arric looked up in alarm.
“Sir! Urgent news from the globes, you’re needed!”
Arric burst from his chair. As he followed the young man out his mood began to quickly sink. He felt in his bones that this was no raid warning, nor news of an overrun border fort. Such things, though terrible, were relatively commonplace. Arric felt disaster in this.
The globe room was crowded and noisy. Over two score globes – each a perfect sphere of the purest crystal, magically linked with a twin somewhere out in the lands controlled by Bastion – filled the tables on special iron stands. Wizards tended them at all hours, collecting reports and messages from the border. The room was in chaos, every man present shouting at once. Arric grabbed the arm of Thurstan, the wizard currently in charge.
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