by Cas Peace
“Remember, lads, we are not to engage Rykan in combat. Our purpose is as decoys. We will only fight if absolutely necessary, to retain his interest and fuel his anger. We are not to engage him before he reaches the Plains. The Hierarch has other plans for him—vital plans—and we’re here to help them succeed. Is that understood?”
They roared their agreement and Marik grinned, wheeling his horse to lead them deeper into the forest. They would have to strike southwest for quite a way in order to skirt the main troop column and avoid the skirmishes that frequently broke out on its flanks. For Marik to succeed in his task, he would have to be quick. Anjer didn’t want news of the Hierarch’s reserves reaching Rykan before this maneuver had a chance to work. Knowing this, the Count and his band made all possible speed through that day, resting only briefly. They made a late and hasty camp, and before he slept, Marik quested for contact with Ephan.
His Artesan skills were scarcely even Apprentice strength, so Marik had to rely on Ephan recognizing his psyche. As soon as the General realized who it was, he immediately accepted the link. Ephan wasted no time on pleasantries.
Count Marik. How soon can you and your men join us?
Sometime before nightfall tomorrow, General. I’m pushing as hard as I can, given the terrain, the weather, and the bad light.
Make sure it’s no later or we risk losing this chance. Kryp’s troops are holding Rykan for now, but they can’t do it much longer. I can spare you fifty men, Count, but I’ll need to send the rest to reinforce Kryp. Otherwise Rykan could break through and destroy our advantage.
I understand, General. We’ll be moving before first light. I’ll contact you again tomorrow.
Ephan broke the link and Marik checked his sentries. Then he went to get what rest he could.
He and his men were moving before the sun was fully up, the forest dark and still under a covering of snow. The going was tricky, treacherous for the horses, and they had to skirt sporadic outbreaks of fighting between small units of Ephan’s men and outriders from Rykan’s forces. By midafternoon, however, Marik was nearly ready to position himself for his risky but essential undertaking.
Using his feeble Artesan powers, he contacted Ephan, showing the General where he was. The pale-eyed man rode into the camp at nightfall, bringing Marik his extra men. He was accompanied by the commander of one of the units detailed to effect the pincer movement. The three leaders, plus those Marik had chosen to help him coordinate his swelled forces, sat down to discuss the minutiae of their strategy.
The temperature was dropping and a light snowfall began. Marik hoped it would last. A good covering of snow would conceal his troops and aid their surprise move on Rykan. Ephan’s units would begin their push just after dawn, as soon as there was enough light to see by, hopefully catching the enemy before they were fully alert. A good overnight freeze would slow everyone’s reactions, so it was essential for Marik’s and Ephan’s men to be up and limbered well before dawn. Warm men and horses would move faster than those still cold from their blankets.
“Drive your men in fast and sure, Count,” said Ephan as he took his leave. “Force Rykan as far south as you can. My units will harry the rest of the column northward, where they’ll naturally run to close ranks with their fellows. A good, fast execution should see Rykan well out of touch with his men inside a couple of hours. Then let him chase you back toward the Plains. Kryp and I will give you all the support we can. I wish you good fortune.”
Marik grinned and flipped Ephan a salute. He had a good feeling about this and went to his rest well content.
He had his men up long before dawn. They were tense with anticipation and quickly had the camp dismantled and the horses saddled. Marik rode through them, as much to keep warm as to give final instructions. Xeer was at the head of Ky-shan’s band, and Nazir was in charge of Ephan’s troops. All knew their place in the general plan. Marik and his own men, each one a trusted retainer, were the spearhead. They would drive deepest into the enemy in search of Rykan.
Finally, Marik received Ephan’s instructions to proceed to their positions where they would await his signal telling them the drive had begun. The snow had continued to fall during the night, but dawn brought rising temperatures and the wind was noticeably warmer. This meant melt water dripping off trees and down necks, and the going underfoot would turn slushy. Those on horseback wouldn’t have much trouble, but the majority of the enemy was on foot and would find the going treacherous.
As he moved his men into position, Marik did his best to keep warm. The grey light slowly penetrated farther into the trees, and finally he heard the sounds that told him the assault had begun. Screams and roars and the clash of steel echoed through the forest. His men were fidgeting, anticipating the command to move, and Marik’s own stomach curdled with tension. He was more excited than afraid, more avid for revenge than fearful of the consequences.
He signaled his men to draw swords, waiting impatiently for Ephan’s command. When it came at last the sun was well up and so was Marik’s blood. Eagerly, almost joyfully, he yelled, “On, lads!” and his entire unit forged ahead, the horses straining at the rein. The forest resounded with the clamor of fighting and it all seemed horribly close. The cold air conducted sound well, and Marik kept his eyes alert as he rode toward his goal.
When they caught sight of men fighting, Marik gave a prearranged signal. Smoothly, his own unit surged to the fore while Nazir’s split left and right. Xeer’s command brought up the rear. Putting heels to their mounts in this diamond formation, they charged at full speed into the gap between Rykan’s men and Ephan’s. The commander in charge of Ephan’s units now turned his men northwest to herd the column after their fellows. Marik was left to complete the sundering and force Rykan to turn southwest.
As expected, there was fierce resistance. Rykan’s elite guards, identifiable by their black and silver uniforms, were experienced warriors, trained by the Duke himself. Fearlessly, they came at Marik’s men, determined to beat them back. Once or twice during the mêlée, Marik caught sight of an officer in black and scarlet, but he saw no sign of the great lord himself.
Marik and his spearhead concentrated on driving their wedge deeper into Rykan’s position, leaving the other units to distract and engage his men. Marik fought hard while his warhorse helped with hooves and teeth. His men crowded close around him, protecting him, more intent on advancing than killing the enemy. Although resistance was stout and continuous, they made good progress, and suddenly Marik caught sight of someone he had been watching for, as his presence was a sure indication that Rykan must be nearby.
The man was dressed in the black, silver, and scarlet of a general, but his cloak bore a pale blue trim. Ungainly and fat, he sat astride a powerful, stocky warhorse. He was wheeling the animal about, trying to see what was happening. Although he held a naked sword in his hands, Marik knew he wasn’t much of a swordsman. He drove straight for him, roaring his name.
“Sonten, you slimeson! Stand and fight, you miserable coward! Where’s your master, running safe somewhere? Tell him I’ve come looking for him. Tell him I’ve a score to settle!”
Even as Marik roared his challenge, other members of Rykan’s elite guard converged on him. Madly, he drove them off, still heading directly for Sonten. He saw the General turn pale at the sight of him and spur his horse away, running from Marik’s onslaught.
Not quite as reckless as his words suggested, Marik checked he was not alone before kicking his horse after the frightened General. His other units were doing their work, forcing Rykan’s guard further away from their fellows and preventing them from hindering Marik. This left the Count free to follow Sonten, who was sure to lead him straight to Rykan.
Sure enough, through the press of trees Marik soon made out a core of men, all mounted, all wearing the colors of Rykan’s elite guard. Sonten galloped straight for them, yelling, “Your Grace, your Grace! We must ride, we are surrounded!”
You miserable excuse for a man
, thought Marik, remembering Sonten’s condescending manner when they had spoken in Rykan’s palace. He had been so superior, so confident, when Marik was trapped and in fear of his life. Now the sword is in the other hand, thought Marik. Now we’ll see what sort of general you are!
The men Marik could see were huddled together, gathered around a central figure mounted on a fiery bay stallion. He heard a deep, commanding voice yelling orders and recognized those silken tones. He smiled grimly. Then he saw the bank of crossbows leveled at him and his men and abruptly yanked his warhorse to a squealing, dirt-showering halt.
He screamed, “Back, BACK!” and his command veered away, scattering wildly as the multiple thunk of bows sounded, heralding the deadly bolts. One grazed Marik’s sleeve, tearing the fabric but missing his skin. He heard the harsh cry of a stricken horse and saw one of his men go down. Unable to help, he left the man to fend for himself, knowing he would sell his life dearly.
Desperately gambling that there was no second bank of bowmen, Marik roared at his men to wheel and charge before the bows could be re-armed. They abandoned their flight immediately and followed the Count as he reversed direction and came at Rykan once again.
Marik’s other units were now approaching from two different directions, driving the enemy before them. Rykan saw them and yelled to his men, suddenly advancing to meet Marik. Unwilling to engage him directly, Marik swerved his horse, drawing Rykan’s guard with him and forcing the Duke to follow or be left unprotected. He caught the malevolent yellow glitter of Rykan’s eyes as the Duke briefly locked gazes with his most despised foe.
He was yelling something, but there was too much noise for Marik to hear what it was. The Count let his warhorse run before the enemy, not getting too far ahead. He was relieved to see Xeer and the pirates veering right and left through the trees, harrying Rykan’s guard and even cutting some down. The shrieks of the fallen and the roars of his pursuers filled Marik’s ears. He forced his attention back to Rykan and caught another glimpse of that dark, predatory face as Rykan urged his guard to capture the Count.
Taking a brief moment to check his direction, Marik found he was heading too far southwest. He needed to turn now and run farther north while not letting the Duke close too soon with the rest of his troops. He hoped that Ephan’s commander had shepherded the column far enough north by now so he would have room to play cat-and-mouse. The last thing Marik wanted was for Rykan to lose interest or suspect an ulterior motive, so he swerved his men aside and had them melt into the trees, hoping to see Rykan and his guards go pounding past.
To Marik’s annoyance, the Duke hadn’t entirely lost his caution. He had counted heavily on Rykan’s eagerness to capture him and hadn’t fully considered the man’s natural cunning. Rykan, it seemed, suspected a trap and was holding back.
Marik now pinned his hopes on Nazir. His men were farther behind and wouldn’t have seen what had happened. They would only know that the enemy had faltered and would see their chance to wreak havoc among the rearguard. Soon, more screams and ringing steel told Marik his luck was in. By the sound of it, Nazir’s units had crashed full-tilt into the back of Rykan’s, scattering them like windblown leaves.
Marik grinned in satisfaction and began leading his company back to where he thought Rykan might be. He circled to the south, as quietly as possible, his men riding cautiously through the woods. Those with crossbows held their weapons ready.
A movement in the trees ahead caught Marik’s attention and he barked a command. The bowmen let fly and leaped forward. In that instant, Marik found himself to the rear of his group, but as he urged his horse onward to catch up, the animal gave a bubbling scream and crashed to the ground, a crossbow bolt embedded in its ribs. Marik was flung from the saddle, but the rest of his men went flying ahead, unaware what had happened to their lord.
Marik hit the ground hard and bounced, coming to rest against a tree. He lay still, stunned by the fall. Slowly, his head cleared and he rolled groggily to his hands and knees, hoping some of his men were within call. There was silence all around as he kneeled in the slushy snow. The light was already beginning to fade as the short winter day waned toward evening. The mission had taken longer than he thought.
A horse snorted close by and he heard its rider dismount, hopefully coming to his aid. Instead, to his everlasting horror, he heard a familiar, gloating voice, its deep, silken tones deceptively mild.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the treacherous Count Marik. Who would have thought it, eh, Sonten? Only a few weeks ago this man was parading about my palace, taking my hospitality, and enjoying the entertainments I provided. Trying—quite successfully—to convince us he was a pathetic, whining coward. Yet all the time he was plotting to stab me in the back by ruining my plans and liberating a valuable captive.
“Look at him now, Sonten, already on his knees before me, hoping, no doubt, to beg my forgiveness. What do you think? Should I forgive him for betraying me, his rightful overlord, and for depriving me of my quarry and throwing my careful plans into chaos? Should I welcome him back with open arms and allow him to help me obtain my victory?”
Marik’s heart sank and he retched. Trembling in every limb, he raised blurred vision to the cruel, dark face towering above him. Looking his death full in the eyes, he vowed to follow Sullyan’s example and never give in to this monster, no matter what he did. In that terrifying moment, Marik fully appreciated how Sullyan had felt, lying naked and helpless at this brutal man’s feet. His admiration for her increased tenfold.
Sonten, who hadn’t dismounted, sniggered. Marik saw Rykan smiling down at him, white teeth gleaming in the murk.
“No, I don’t think I should, Sonten. I think I should just cut out his craven, treacherous heart and stuff it in his lying mouth. I think I should kill him where he kneels.”
Marik spat bile onto Rykan’s boots. He never saw the kick aimed at his head, but he did feel it connect with his temple. It floored him instantly, drowning him in pain and darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sullyan paced the Tower battlements constantly during the daylight hours following Marik’s departure, never resting, pausing barely even to eat, and then only when forced to by Robin or Pharikian. She knew both men despaired of easing her throughout this time, but couldn’t shake her looming sense of doom. Her inability to use her powers to watch over the Count only increased her frustration.
This profound unease had manifested long before he had ridden out to play his part, full of confidence. Had she been able to contact or watch him she wouldn’t have felt so helpless, yet it was vital that her presence be concealed from Rykan. She couldn’t risk him catching so much as a hint of her psyche. Even using Robin was a risk, as his pattern possessed a uniquely Albian aura. She felt thwarted, restrained as never before, save only when under the numbing effects of Rykan’s spellsilver.
Anjer was still at the Citadel. He wouldn’t take the field until the final battle was joined. As his pattern of psyche was already known to Rykan, he had offered to relay the sequence of events. Having learned Marik’s pattern before the Count left, the Lord General was subtly tracking it, staying in the background so as not to disturb him. However, as he was in overall command, Anjer was also coordinating with Ephan and Kryp and couldn’t concentrate solely on Marik. After telling Sullyan of Marik’s successful engagement of Rykan’s elite guard, he had broken off to deal with a query from Kryp. By the time Sullyan’s hand on his arm urged him to regain contact, all he could sense was blackness.
“Please, my Lord,” she begged, “try again.”
Her heart beat frantically while she waited. When his eyes regained their focus and he reluctantly shook his head, she froze, a sense of helplessness overwhelming her. It was all she could do to restrain herself from running to the horse lines for Drum and riding out herself. Eyes filling with tears, she hugged her cloak tighter. Desperately, she whispered, “Can you tell if he lives?”
Anjer nodded slowly. “Yes, his pa
ttern’s still there. He’s unconscious, I think.”
She bowed her head. “He should never have been allowed to do this. I knew something dreadful would happen.”
+ + + + +
Robin watched Sullyan turn and move stiffly away, lost in sadness. Anjer glanced at Robin. “She’s not prescient, is she?”
The young man shot him a look, dark eyes full of worry. “The truth is she’s been deeply unhappy about asking Marik to do this from the start. Just don’t go reminding her it was her idea, my Lord. You may regret it.”
Anjer grunted and turned back to the battle. Robin followed Sullyan along the wall at a discreet distance, Almid and Kester doing the same. The twins were constantly on duty as bodyguards, although if the state of Vanyr’s face when he finally appeared was anything to go by, he had been taught a harsh lesson. He stayed well away from Sullyan, and Robin was thankful for this small mercy.
+ + + + +
By the time Marik regained consciousness the light had faded fully from the sky. He ached in every limb and there was a dreadful throbbing in his skull. He felt sick, immediately regretting a rash movement which only served to tell him he was trussed like a felled boar. He stifled a groan, reflecting dismally that things could only get worse.
As if to confirm this, a sharp kick in the ribs made him gasp.
“Ah,” said a satisfied voice. “He’s awake, your Grace.”
Marik heard soft footfalls and a pair of long legs, clad in black breeches trimmed with silver and scarlet, appeared before him. Raising his eyes to Rykan’s, he held the Duke’s gaze. Rykan smiled, showing his teeth, and crouched beside his captive. “Tell me, Count,” he said idly, “what did you do with her?”