“My king,” the elite bowed at the waist, “the encampment is located a couple of miles away, southwest from here, by a river, rudimentary branch huts on a flat stretch clearing. No defenses per se.”
The elite looked at Master Baccus.
“All females, as far as I could see. Young adults mostly, some youths and children; none looked much older than thirty.”
Confusion etched its mark of fine lines and furrowed brows on the officers’ faces. They were about to ask questions when the king preemptively raise a hand.
“Let him finish,” he ordered.
“I estimate their numbers at forty, maybe fifty, but no more.”
The elite paused for a second; discomfort almost flashed across his face but was reined in before it fully formed.
“They were aware of my presence,” he said matter-of-factly. “I would assume they know we are here.”
“Yes, I thought it would be such,” Master Baccus said.
The temple runner turned to the king.
“The Sisterhood, as I feared, my lord,” he said.
“The what?” Lord Garnly, a burly middle-aged man and captain of the city watch, cut in.
“Thank you, Gewaltt,” the king said with a nod, ignoring the interjection.
The elite bowed again, took a few steps back and then blended out of sight into the wet grayness of the woods. The king stood up and the men around him followed suit.
“Then, that’s it,” he said, his tone somber.
“My king, with all due respect, what did he mean: ‘All females’?” Lord Calvert, the captain of the Alymphian Army, asked. The sinewy man looked shocked and confused, almost apprehensive. Though, to his defense, all the officers present did.
“You can’t possibly-”
“Lords,” the king interrupted, “you are full of questions, and deservedly so. Unfortunately, I have few answers for you.”
King Rhegard looked at each man in turn. Besides Lord Calvert and Lord Garnly, Lord Hanrt, Rakard and Lornt, all Lieutenants in the Syndjya division of the Alymphian Army were present, as was Sir Lorfred, the captain of the castle guards. They were all fine men and good officers. Their men trusted them, and that would be crucial to their endeavor.
“We are faced with an unprecedented threat,” the king continued. “Yes, Lord Calvert, females; women, youths and children. But do not let their appearances dull your resolve. They are far more dangerous than you could possibly think.”
The king hesitated for a second. He had spent most of the past few hours thinking of a way to talk to his lords. How could he have them do what needed to be done without them losing respect for him, or worse? A mutiny at that point would be a disaster for the whole kingdom. He knew that they were all men of principle, mostly unspoiled by the horrors of war. What reason did he have to ask them to kill seemingly unarmed children and women? Master Baccus’s words? If only he could get the temple runner to demonstrate to his lords as he had done for him the previous day. But Master Baccus would refuse. The king knew that. The temple runner had warned him that he would need all his strength to protect him and Prince Hedgard once they engaged the Sisterhood. He would have to lie to them.
“But is it really a lie?” a disquieting voice boasted at the back of his mind, the nauseating thought sending untold fear down his spine.
“For Alymphia,” the king half-encouraged, half-commanded himself.
“They are agents of Cythra,” he said. “They will be using the forces of Undoing the scriptures have warmed us of.”
Gasps caught mid-throat rose around him and the men involuntarily turning to Master Baccus. The temple runner, his features hard lines streaming with rain, simply closed his eyes and nodded his concurring.
“Hethens’s Breath on us,” the lords whispered, fear punctuating their invocation.
“Anyone speaking a word of this to the troops, or to anyone else for that matter,” the king forced his voice to harden considerably, “will be executed on the spot for treason to the crown, is that clear?”
Grunts of agreement arose in response. The king did not know if it was the right course of action, but he feared that the troops would lose their resolve if they learned that they were to face such an unnatural enemy. Since the previous night, rumors had been running wild amongst the men and he did not want to shake their steadiness any further. He was terribly aware that few of them had ever been near a battlefield. And once the engagement started, any sign of weakness or hesitation on his part would erode the already tenuous cohesiveness of the units. He would have to address the troops before they headed to battle. He’d have Master Baccus address them as well. Most regarded the temple runner highly and anchored much in their faith as well.
“What can we possibly do against the forces of the Undoing?” Lord Calvert asked.
“Master Baccus has encountered them before,” the king said. “From what we know, only a few of them will be able to unleash the powers of Cythra upon us, while the rest will serve as…”
The king searched for words that would not come. He glanced at Master Baccus.
“Master Baccus, maybe you could tell us more,” he finished.
“Indeed, my king.”
The temple runner stepped forward to address the half-circle of lords. He knew what the king expected of him. The lie he had told was a necessary one. And although it was a lie, it was close enough to the truth for him. As temple runner and head of the Breath of Hethens, it fell to him to impart credence and conviction to the men, his word would go unchallenged; his authority in that matter was above even that of the king.
“Given their numbers, I would guess that ten or so will be unleashing the Undoing at any one time. The others will serve as an energy source, the Breath if you will, to power the Twisting of What Is by the… let’s call them Undoers. Although, that does not mean that the rest of them will not be a threat in the traditional sense. But, if we have any hope of victory, we will need to identify the Undoers as fast as possible and neutralize them immediately. All is not lost my lords. They have just crossed the Great Barrier and in order to do so, especially with such a great number of them, they most certainly had to use their dark art extensively. That means that they are still recovering and will not be able to unleash their full potential on us.”
“How can you be sure of that,” the king asked.
“Your elite came back alive, my king. That is the only possible explanation. As he said, they knew of his presence. The fact that they did not end him means only one thing: that they are still recuperating from the crossing and are thus considerably weaker than they normally would be. I suspect that in that state they will not attempt anything until overtly threatened.”
“Humph, at least a sliver of Hethens’s Breath on us on this horse-piss of a day!” Lord Garnly grumpily let out as he pointlessly shook the rain off his leather tunic.
The lords echoed him with their own snorts of approval.
“Good!” the king thought, “they’re taking heart!”
“How do we identify those Undoers?” Lord Calvert asked.
“That will be tricky,” Master Baccus continued. “They might be the ones moving less than the rest; maybe sitting, but maybe not. There should be something different about them, though it might be subtle. Also remember that any one of them can become an Undoer at any time.”
“That will be the jobs of the elites,” the king cut in.
“Gewaltt!” he called out.
A couple of seconds passed. Then the tall elite was amongst them as if he had never left.
“My lord,” he inclined his head in deference.
“Four of you will be sent ahead. You will not engage the enemy. Position yourselves to maximize your coverage of their camp, and observe. Once the troops charge in, there’s bound to be a change as some of them will initiate the Undoing. You will spot those and relay that information to us. If you have an opportunity, take them down.”
“Indeed, my king,” the elite bowed before
disappearing once more.
“Now, given what we know,” King Rhegard continued, “how shall we proceed?”
“They have their backs to a river, my king. I suggest the Press,” Lord Calvert said cunningly.
His lieutenants nodded their approval and a small smile lit the king’s face.
The Press was a well-worn military tactic used to overtake an enemy’s position when it presented only one plane of defense, usually due to the terrain or natural formations. Archers would fan out behind the bulk of the troops, spread out from each other and far enough from the enemy’s position to make it difficult for enemy archers to hit any single one of them while still allowing them to unleash a rain of arrows onto the defenses. The first offensive line, the Spear, was a focused charge whose purpose was to breach the enemy’s defenses and push into the camp, its goal being to reach the other end of the camp as fast as possible and force the enemy’s defenses to split in half. Directly behind the Spear, the other units, in various formations depending on the situation at hand, attacked the whole length of the entrenchments, preventing the enemy forces from focusing on the Spear.
King Rhegard could immediately see the advantages of such an offense. It would have to be tweaked to accommodate for the layout of the Sisterhood’s encampment, the forest setting and the ‘Undoing’ problem. But it did fit their situation. They debated strategies for twenty minutes and agreed on a plan of attack. Orders were relayed down the command lines and the troops were debriefed on their specific roles. The twenty archers of the company would fall behind the rest of the troops. They would wait for specific targets to be pointed out to them by their officers and would focus their arrows on them exclusively. They would be the safest. But their job would be difficult. They would have to be constantly on the move to be able to track their appointed targets, which more likely than not would be changing constantly. And the relatively dense forest foliage and the overall low visibility imparted by the ongoing storm and the decline of the day would make hitting specific targets from a distance challenging to say the least. The Spear would be composed of the most seasoned soldiers. The rest of the men, soldiers, castle guards and city watchmen, would conduct the main frontal offence. The biggest unknown of the whole operation was that no one really knew what to expect from the enemy.
“My king,” Sir Lorfred asked as they were concluding their meeting, “shouldn’t we tell the men of what they are to face? If only so that they do not hesitate to strike their enemy when they come face to face with them?”
“Indeed, Sir Lorfred,” the king replied, “Master Baccus and I will address the troops shortly.”
The king looked beyond the circle of men assembled around him and into the gray veil of rain and trunks surrounding them. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought of what awaited them a couple of miles away. He clenched his fists at his side to ward off the apprehension rising in his chest. He would lead men to their death today, including his own son, his only son. For an instant he wished he had not brought him along, for it seemed only death awaited them that day. And yet, he knew that Hedgard had to be present if one day he were to be the rightful ruler of Alymphia.
“A king leads his people by example,” his own father always said.
During the thirty years of his reign, King Rhegard had learned that to be true; at least if one was hoping to bring change and garner the approval of his people. The king returned his gaze to his men.
“You have your orders,” he said. “I will address the men in ten minutes. We will depart in twenty. May Hethens’s Breath be upon us; today more than ever!”
“Glory to Hethens!” the officers replied, as they brought their fists to their chest plates.
Ten minutes later King Rhegard was standing in front of the troops alongside his son and Master Baccus. The rain had not let up and its constant, wet chatter enveloped the ashen day. Downslope, the men awaited in formation, the officers standing in front of their units.
“What do I say?” the king wondered anxiously. “How does one justify the killing of women and children? Make it not only acceptable a notion but an imperative, a good deed?”
He had judged the truth to be too much for his officers and had already lied to them.
“Agents of Cythra,” he had told them. But superstitious as the troops were, that could be too much for a lot of them. What had motivated his officers would certainly paralyze the majority of the men, or render them prone to panic. He had to find another reason to justify his decision, another lie.
“For the good of Alymphia,” the voice of reason whispered to him.
The king remained impassible as he surveyed the wary men rigidly standing before him. Most were greener than they should have been on such a mission and looked miserable in their soaked uniforms. Close to two hundred pairs of eyes were expectantly fixed upon him. They needed him to strengthen their resolve, cast away their fears and doubts. And he needed them to be strong, fearless and do the unthinkable.
“For the good of Alymphia…”
“Yes,” the king acknowledged, “that has to be it, but how, why?”
“Tainted…”
“A coup…”
“A threat to the throne…”
“Tainted…”
“Yes, diseased…”
“That’s it, they are diseased!”
“Contagious!”
“The Brathen of Old!”
The king now knew what to say. He did not smile, but he allowed the corner of his eyes to crease with satisfaction.
“Small victories,” he thought, “I’ll take anything today.”
He stepped forward, hands resting on the hilt of the sword at his waist. He had donned his war helmet which, like the rest of his armor, was an elaborate shiny affair. It covered most of the upper half of his face, save for oval openings for his eyes and ears, and it ran down to his jawline. The rain resounded loudly as it fell restlessly on him, but the discomfort did not show on his face.
“Soldiers of Alymphia,” he shouted. “Today our kingdom is in peril. Alymphia is in grave danger and our people are threatened. Our people need us; need you!”
He paused deliberately for a second before going on.
“Early yesterday we received troubling information. A tribe of foreign warriors crossed our borders; a tribe of female who carry the Brathen of Old.”
The troops broke into a low, confused whisper the officers reprimanded at once. The king ignored it and continued.
“The elites were sent ahead and confirmed it. Those foreigners carry the pestilence of old. The blight our elders tell stories about. The affliction that the Book of Hethens warns us about.”
More hushed exclamations buzzed alive into a fearful chatter. The king raised his voice further, imbuing it with a natural authority.
“Today Alymphia needs you to be her heroes! We will face women and children that carry the pestilence and we will strike them down to save our families from the horrors of the Brathen! Take honor in your duty. Take strength in your purpose. Today you are heroes!”
“For Alymphia!” the king roared, slamming his gauntleted fist to his breast plate.
“For Alymphia!” echoed hundreds of voices as so many fists struck armor.
Once the clamor receded back into the omnipresent blather of the rain, King Rhegard introduced Master Baccus.
“Before we move out, Master Baccus will bring the blessings of Hethens upon us.”
The king stepped back and locked eyes with Master Baccus. The temple runner knew what was expected of him. He nodded his understanding to the king and stepped forward. Standing where the king had an instant prior, he looked over the men before him in silence, connecting inwardly with them, letting the words form and come forward in his mind before addressing them. When he felt ready he raised his arms in front of him.
“Children of Alymphia,” he boomed, “in this dark hour we close our eyes and turn to our breath.”
Hundreds of eyes closed shut and half as m
any heads bowed down in silent reverence.
“May our breath be one with the Breath of Hethens as we recall the turning of the Undoing.”
Master Baccus closed his eyes as well. The words he had recited countless times effortlessly floated up to the surface of his consciousness and when he continued two hundred voices spoke with him.
“For it is written:
Hethens saw the world of men and breathed upon it all that was good.
And Cythra saw it too and what he had done, she sought to undo.
The Breath was constricted of Matter and Thought
And impeded was the resolve of Men.”
The men opened their eyes and Baccus went on.
“And so, that which is not freely given, flowing, and unbound we seek to remove. And that which weighs on us, in the name of Hethens, we resolve to part with. For only in our lightest of states can we truly be one with the Breath.”
Master Baccus opened his eyes onto the crowd of soldiers and its eerie stillness. He let the rain fill the space left by his dissipating words, its ceaseless drumming punctuated by the low rumble of thunder. In that too quiet of an instant, an unusual peace filled him. A sense of belonging he had not felt since crossing the Great Barrier unexpectedly swelled in his chest. From his soaked robes to the warming presence of the men before him, from his king a few steps behind him to the moments that he knew would inevitably follow, all felt exactly right, in its place somehow despite the precariousness of their situation and the horrors he undoubtedly would soon have to face again.
“How strange,” he thought, “how I have become what I only used to pretend being.”
He brought his hands back to his side and smiled, an unknown energy now filling him with confidence in their endeavor.
“Children of Alymphia,” he said, fresh hope crackling in his voice, “take heart! Today we become heroes as we find resolve in our breath! We will undo the twisting of Cythra by removing the corrupted, so that the Breath may flow in our land. Today, we do the will of Hethens and our actions are blessed by His Breath as He looks upon us! Today, we become heroes to our homeland!”
The WorldMight Page 18