“Then you shall die!” said Derwyn, rushing at him. Gella cried out with alarm as he brought his
blade down, but Aedan ducked beneath the stroke and seized his wrist.
As they struggled, Laera snatched up a dagger from her night table and raised it high over her head, rushing at Aedan. But before she got halfway across the room, there was a soft, whistling sound, and a crossbow bolt burie itself in her heart.
Laera stopped and gasped with shock. The dagger slipped from her fingers as she stared with disbelief at the bolt protruding from her chest. She looked up to see Ariel standing in the open doorway, a crossbow lowered at her side. The duchess shook her head, then collapsed to the floor.
“Laera!” Derwyn cried, rushing to her side.
Aedan glanced at his wife with surprise.
Ariel lowered the bow. “I told you that if she ever tried to harm you, I would kill her.”
Mhoried and Markazor, then through a narrow mountain pass in Mur-Kilad leading to Kiergard.
In the northern highlands of Markazor, where the goblin vassals of the Gorgon had swept down from the mountains and extended their domain, they had to fight the troops of King Rozgarr, who had been ordered by his master to attack the Anuireans on their approach. But Rozgarr’s goblin forces had faced the mightiest army ever assembled in the empire since the Battle of Mount Deismaar, and they didn’t stand a chance.
On his march through Alamie and Mhoried, Michael had picked up troops from Duke Alam, who had mobilized every available man, leaving behind only a skeleton force to guard his northern borders against incursions by bandits from the Five Peaks. Flaertes of western Alamie had sent more troops, as well, all that he could spare, and additional reinforcements had arrived from Avanil and as far away as Osoerde, Elinie, and Dhalaene. MoerThe Army of Anuire stood drawn up in lines at gan of Aerenwe met up with them near the borders the entrance to the Valley of Shadows. The valley of Markazor, having force-marched all the way from was over twenty miles wide, flanked to the north his domain on the southern coast with every ableand south by the steep and rocky mountains of the bodied man within his province to avenge his Gorgon’s Crown. Nestled in the foothills of the daughter’s murder. Avanil had sent more troops, as mountains to the north and rising high to overlook well as Ghieste and Diemed, and even the tiny citythe city of KalSaitharak spreading out below it were state of Ilien, on the banks of the Straits of Aerele, the obsidian towers of the castle known as Battle-had sent a detachment of mounted knights who had waite, the fortress of the Gorgon. ridden without rest to join the march.
They had marched all the way from Seaharrow News of the Empress Faelina’s death and the ciralong a hidden forest trail once used by Arwyn of cumstances surrounding it had spread throughout Boeruine in his repeated forays against the duchies the empire, carried by swift dispatch riders who of Alamie during the War of Rebellion, across the stopped at every town and city that they came to northern plains of Alamie and the highlands of and sent more riders out, so that the news could be
disseminated as rapidly as possible. It had not taken long for the true story to come out. Aedan had ordered the army to comb every house in Seasedge and the surrounding area in search of Callador. They had found him in a rooming house in town, where he had been hiding in wait until Laera could manage to secure more suitable quarters for him and replenish his magical supplies. They took him by surprise, in bed, without a struggle, and he was brought before the grief-stricken emperor, to whom he confessed everything in a trembling voice. Those in attendance listened, horrified, as the story of his betrayal came out, and when he was through, they called for the most dire punishments that they could think of.
Some cried out for the wizard to be hanged, others demanded he be drawn and quartered, while still others called for burning at the stake. As Callador listened to these angry cries for his blood, a fierce tremor seized him, and he cried out in terror, clutching at his chest, and fell lifeless to the floor. He was an old man, and his heart could not take the strain.
Michael ordered his body burned and the ashes scattered to the winds.
Derwyn of Boeruine had listened to the wizard’s story numbly, unable to believe the extent of his wife’s treachery. In despair, he prostrated himself in front of Michael and begged for his forgiveness, swearing he would lay down his life if need be to avenge the empress. Michael had forgiven him, for in truth, he was blameless in the matter, and Derwyn ordered that Laera be buried in an unmarked grave in the most remote and desolate place his men could find. He did not wish to know where.
As the story spread, the people of the empire responded, not only knights and warriors, but common people, too, who came with pitchforks, spears, daggers, longbows, and whatever other weapons they could get their hands on. As the Army of Anuire set off on its march to the Gorgon’s Crown, villagers lined their route and stood watching silently, their hats removed when the emperor passed by. And as the army marched, it grew, every soldier imbued with a grim purpose.
In northern Markazor, where they met the forces of King Rozgarr, they rolled right over them. They sustained losses, but not nearly as severe as those that they inflicted, and Rozgarr’s troops were routed.
They fled in disarray and the army moved on into Mur-Kilad.
In the mountain pass of Mur-Kilad, they were attacked by dwarves, who fired down on them from the heights and rolled rocks down on the troops.
But the mountain dwarves who fought them lacked the resolve for a serious engagement. They were a conquered people who were forced to labor hard under their awnsheghlien master, and they put up only a token resistance when foot soldiers swarmed up the steep slopes of the pass to drive them out. Still, losses were sustained, but the army kept on with determination through the harsh and broken land.
In Kiergard, the southerranost domain of the Vos, they passed within sight of the city of Esden, but the grim Vos inhabitants declined to offer combat, though their army had assembled to watch the Anuireans go by. They were no friends to the empire, but they had fought long and hard for centuries to protect their land against incursions by the Gorgon’s
savage troops. They would not help, but neither would they hinder.
However, as the army headed north through Kiergard, news of their march spread, and the taciturn common people of the Vos came out from every small village and farm, bearing provisions for the troops. For generations, these simple, hard-working people had lived under the Gorgon’s depredations, and as they came out to feed the troops with whatever they could spare, they wished them luck and the blessings of their god.
Finally, the Army of Anuire stood on the high ground at the entrance to the Valley of Shadows.
Battlewaite, with its obsidian walls and towers, loomed ominously in the distance above the Gorgon’s city of KalSaitharak. As Aedan glanced at Michael, at whose side he had ridden all the way, bearing his standard, he saw that same grim, stonefaced expression Michael had maintained ever since their march began. And he was worried.
The punitive campaign against Thurazor, which had been the reason for the army’s arrival in Boeruine, no longer mattered. All Michael wanted was revenge against the Gorgon. The Michael of old had returned, driven and obsessed, but to an extent Aedan had never seen before. The air around him seemed to vibrate. Michael was once more in his element, but this time, it was different. He barely spoke at all, except to issue orders. Lord Korven had asked to be included on this march, but the old man had served in his last campaign. He had gone lame, and his strength was failing him. He could still sit a horse, but no one believed anymore that he could fight. Michael had thanked him, but ordered him to
remain at home with his grateful wife and children.
Michael was the general on this campaign, delegating nothing. He personally saw to every last detailing When they had marched halfway across Kiergard, he had stopped the troops on the outskirts of the forest and ordered siege towers built. Squads of men with axes had gone into the forest and felled tr
ees for the purpose, fitting and lashing and pegging the logs together to form three wooden siege towers for the assault on Battlewaite. Large logs were sawed for planks with which to construct the wheels to move them. He also ordered the construction of two trebuchets to hurl boulders at the fortress walls, and large logs were stripped and fitted with handholds to make half a dozen battering rams.
A score of scaling ladders were constructed, and archers took the time to make more arrows.
They did not rush unduly in any of these tasks, for there was no point to it. They would have no advantage of surprise. Raesene knew they were coming.
They would meet on his home ground in the Valley of Shadows, on the plain outside KalSaitharak.
Michael knew the Gorgon would be just as busy assembling his army and making preparations to meet the attack.
Now, they stood upon the high ground above that plain, looking down at the opposing army drawn up to meet them. Aedan knew Raesene would not order his forces forward to attack. That would give Michael the high ground. The Black Prince would wait until they came down to him.
There was a distance of several miles separating them, so neither Aedan nor Michael could make out individuals among the opposing troops. They could
not tell at this distance if Raesene himself was leading them, but Aedan could not imagine the Gorgon remaining in his castle when the opportunity he had awaited for so long had come marching to his door.
For centuries, he had nursed a deep hatred of the Roeles, his halfbrother’s descendants, and now it would be settled, one way or the other, once and for all.
As the two opposing armies faced each other, Aedan’s thoughts turned back over the years to a time when two much smaller “armies” had faced each other on the plains of Seaharrow. At this distance, the bodies looked small, and he could easily picture them as children. For a surreal moment, that was how he saw them, in their little suits of armor with their wooden swords and shields, grim-faced and very determined as they prepared to reenact the Battle of Mount Deismaar.
Now they would reenact it once again, in deadly earnest. In years to come, the bards would sing the ballad of this battle, the Battle of Battlewaite. Or perhaps they would call it the Battle of the Gorgon’s Crown. They would sing of all the brave men who were about to fall here, and they would extol the glory of the victor-whoever he may be.
Aedan wondered if Vaesil would compose one of those ballads and if he would survive to hear it.
Strangely, for the first time in his life, he felt no fear before going into battle. Just a sense of nervous expectation. Perhaps that wasn’t a good sign. Vaesil would enjoy the irony of this, he thought. If he knew the entire story, he would doubtless include it in his composition, the story of two boys who fought a play battle in their childhood and grew up to relive it
for real. Only this time, there would be no arguments about who would play Raesene. Raesene was here himself to act out his own role, much more powerful and dangerous than he had ever been.
There would be real goblins shouting their ululating war cries instead of children snarling as they played pretend. There would be real gnolls, with their wolfish teeth and snouts instead of little boys howling in imitation of beasts they had thankfully never before encountered. The only thing missing was the elf contingent, who would not be here to turn the tide of battle at the crucial moment.
The past had come full circle, with the dark forces of the traitor prince faced off against the lineal descendant of the original Roele.
Only this time, there were no gods to intervene and shake the earth.
This battle would be fought to the bitter end by alltoo-mortal men.
The troops waited in expectation for Michael’s traditional address before each battle, but Michael simply sat astride his horse, staring out at the opposing army. He had a faraway look in his eyes, almost as if he weren’t seeing them but something else. Perhaps a row of armored children arrayed across the plain.
“Sire,” said Aedan. “Sire?”
Michael turned toward him. There was a strange look upon his face-distant, dreamy. His eyes, so often angry and full of fire in the past, were calm.
“Sire, the troops are awaiting your address.”
“Ah,” said Michael softly. He rode his horse out in front of them, and a hush fell over the army.
For a moment, he simply sat there, his gaze scanning the ranks. Every eye was on him. He gave the
shortest speech he had ever given in his life.
“It ends here!” he said, his voice ringing out clearly He drew his sword and held it high over his head as he turned his mount.
“Advance!”
Aedan trotted up beside him with the standard as the army moved off at a marching pace down the slope into the plain. Across from them, standing perfectly still, was the Army of the Gorgon. They were as motionless as statues, all dressed in black armor, pennants fluttering in the breeze.
There was no sound upon the field except the steady tramping of feet and the clinking of armor and gear. Inexorably, they closed the distance.
Michael rode silently, staring intently straight ahead, his gaze scanning the opposing ranks for some sign of Raesene. When they had almost reached the bottom of the slope, Aedan noticed Michael stiffen, and his gaze locked on. He looked in the same direction. For several moments, he could not pick out what Michael saw, and then he spotted it and wondered that it did not stand out more clearly It was the first time he had ever laid eyes on Prince Raesene, and he saw that the stories they told about his size were true. He sat astride the largest warhorse Aedan had ever seen, a black Percheron with tufted hooves and a long, dark, flowing mane. But as large as the horse was, its rider dwarfed it. He was easily three times the size of a normal man, incredibly massive and wide, dressed in black armor like his troops except for the red dragon emblazoned on his breastplate. Next to him stood his standardbearer, holding aloft the black and red colors of Raesene-a red dragon rampant on a field of black, surmounted by jagged lightning.
What Aedan at first took to be a helm he realized after a few moments was not a helm at all, but Raesene’s head. The Gorgon rode bareheaded into battle, bony protrusions on his crown and two large black horns curving upward from his temples. He was still too far away to make out the Gorgon’s features, but he was grateful for that. He wondered if the legends were true about the Gorgon’s being able to slay with just his gaze. If so, how was it possible to fight such a creature?
Rank upon rank of goblins, gnolls, and ogres faced them, augmented with human mercenaries, for whom Aedan felt the greatest contempt of all.
What kind of men would willingly serve an awnshegh? A creature who had once betrayed his own people to the Dark Lord.
Behind him, Aedan heard the steady tramping of feet and the rattling and squeaking of the siege engines at the rear as they rolled forward, drawn by teams of horses. They would not come into play at this stage of the battle, and perhaps might not come into play at all unless they could not turn the Gorgon’s troops and break them, force them into a retreat back into the obsidian fortress.
The enemy waited as they advanced steadily. A mile…. A thousand yards…. Eight hundred …
seven… six…. When they were about five hundred yards apart, the Gorgon raised his sword, and a loud cry went up from his forces as they charged, the cavalry leading the way as they thundered across the field toward them.
“Charge!” Michael screamed, and with their battle cry of “Roele!
Roele!” the Army of Anuire surged forward.
Michael headed straight for Raesene, with Aedan galloping at his side.
The hoofbeats of the horses made a sound like rolling thunder as they flew toward one another, the foot soldiers running behind them.
The mounted sections met first, and the field filled with the sounds of blades ringing upon blades.
Michael met the Gorgon, but they had time for only a quick exchange of blows before they were separated by the plunging
beasts around them.
Then both armies met with a clashing sound of metal on metal, and the air was filled with the noise of battlemen screaming, gnolls howling, goblins keening, ogres snarling, horses neighing, and above it all, the ringing clatter of swords and shields and spears. Archers on both sides loosed several volleys into the rear ranks of the opposing force, and then there were no more rear ranks as both armies melded into a vast melee as wild as it was deafening.
Aedan tried to stay beside the emperor, but it was impossible with so many bodies surging all around him. His standard fell, the shaft chopped in half b a wildly swinging blade, and one of the foot soldiers picked it up and held it aloft as Aedan reached for the shield slung from his saddle and lashed out all around him, killing and maiming to survive.
The gnolls fought like the half-beasts they were, using teeth as well as blades. One sprang up behind Aedan on his horse, and Aedan twisted, feeling teeth snap on his helm as he brought his shield around and knocked the creature off. A mounted mercenary charged him, and they engaged, Aedan with unabated fury and hatred of this traitorous human, who had sold out his own people for a few pieces of gold. Controlling their horses with their knees, they exchanged blow after blow, each blocking the other with his shield until one of the mercenary’s blows got through. The blade whooshed toward Aedan’s head, but he twisted aside at the last instant, avoiding a stroke that would have split his skull right through the helm. The point of the sword grazed the side of his face, just below the eye guard, and opened up a gash from cheek to jaw. Aedan ignored the pain, screaming through it as he lunged at his opponent. His sword took the man just beneath the arm, and the mercenary fell, screaming, to disappear beneath the swirl of bodies all around them.
The rocky and uneven ground they fought upon made footing difficult for both men and beasts, but it also meant less choking dust was raised.
Still, a small cloud formed over the field of battle as the bodies milled around, slamming into one another with a frenzy. Even in the chill of this northern clime, Aed’an was soon drenched with sweat beneath his armor. His arms ached from wielding sword and shield, which grew heavier as the battle drew on, and the muscles of his legs felt as if they were on fire from gripping his mount’s flanks and exerting pressure to turn it. His breath came in hoarse gasps as he fought, and every spare moment he could seize, he glanced around him wildly, searching for some sign of Michael, whom he had lost in the milling throng.
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