Fortress of Radiance

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  “And what of the humans in Carthum, this legion of Rome and Earth?”

  “Eradicate that dwarven war band, then send your columns to deal with them,” Krix said. “You also have one hundred thousand warriors around Lyre, do you not?”

  “Slightly less, but the actual numbers matter little,” the minion said.

  “You can pull reinforcements from them, say another forty thousand, fifty if you must.”

  “That army has grown soft,” the minion hissed with displeasure. “Too long have they been idle, sitting on pacified civilians.”

  “Then harden them up with a campaign,” Krix said, suddenly irritated again. “Deal with the dwarves. Throw your warriors against this legion. At worst, it will tell us what kind of a threat we face. At best, we remove the threat.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the minion said. “And what of the gnome problem around Lyre?”

  “Gnomes,” Krix spat. Like the goblins, they always seemed to be a problem, creating a series of endless headaches for him. “We ignore them for now. Leave them to their depths, trouble them not. The elves will be our focus. We need to hurt them before they choose a new warden, who I fear may come to the logical conclusion their only hope for survival is to work with the humans and dwarves. Should that occur, our task of subduing this world will become complicated.”

  “There is something else,” the minion said. “An agent of the High Father has arisen.”

  “I have not sensed that,” Krix said, surprised to learn of this news.

  “Her powers are still slight,” the minion said, “but they are growing. She was here. I fear her presence is not only tied to Rarokan, but the lost Key. It is the only explanation that makes any sense to me.”

  “I see.” Krix thought that was not good news. For nearly a century, he had been searching for the Key that would unlock the World Gate that led to Istros. It had been hidden well, or more likely lost to the mists of time. Events on Tannis had suddenly become complicated, especially if an agent for the High Father was hunting for the Key.

  “She sensed me,” the minion said, “and I her.”

  “We will need to deal with this agent, before she gains her full potential,” Krix said.

  “Yes, my lord,” the minion said, “and I fear that will have to be soon. She travels back to Carthum with the sword bearer.”

  “That presents an opportunity for you,” Krix said. “Don’t fail me like Harak. Now, do as I’ve instructed.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the minion said with a bow. “It will be done.”

  Krix snapped his fingers, exerting his will. With it, the forest faded away. He blinked as the projection ceased and the walls of his office in Krakkaen Keep reappeared. Lien, his chief aide, a fellow human, waited. Lien was someone else who was not only capable but completely reliable.

  “Summon the scribes,” Krix said. “We have orders to dispatch.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Lien saluted and left, stepping through the door to the headquarters where his clerks worked.

  Krix went to the window that overlooked the great keep’s courtyard. Below, a wyrm waited. She had been fed, harnessed, and saddled. He rested his hands upon the stone of the window sill. After the orders had been cut, he would travel to the World Gate and step through to Longtow. There he would report in person to the council that the sword had at long last been claimed. Rarokan was finally in play.

  Though he had resisted doing so, he would return with the dread sertalum, the noctalum’s sister race. Nothing on this world or any other would stop him from ultimately claiming Rarokan for his own. It had been so written.

  End of Book Two

  Enjoy this short preview of Marc’s First book:

  STIGER’S TIGERS:

  Chronicles of an Imperial Legionary Officer

  One

  Two road-weary riders, both legionary officers, crested the bald hill and pulled to a halt. A vast military encampment surrounded by entrenchments and fortifications took up much of the valley below them in a shocking display. Smoke from thousands of campfires drifted upward and hung over the valley like a veil. After months of travel, the two riders were now finally able to set their eyes upon their destination—the main encampment of General Kromen’s Imperial Army, comprising the Fifteenth, Eighteenth, Twenty-Ninth, and Thirtieth Legions. These four legions had been dispatched by the emperor to put down the rebellion burning through what the empire considered her southern provinces.

  The awful stench of the encampment had been on the wind for hours. This close, the smell of decay mixed with human waste and a thousand other smells was nearly overpowering. What should have been relief at finally reaching their destination had turned to incredulous horror. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it. Imperial encampments were typically highly organized, with priority placed on sanitation to reduce the chance of sickness and disease. The jumble of tents and ramshackle buildings laid out before them, surrounded by the fortifications, spoke of something much different. It told of an almost wanton criminal neglect for the men who served the empire, or perhaps even incompetence in command.

  An empty wagon, the first of a sad-looking supply train, rumbled around past the two riders, who refused to give way. The driver, a hired teamster, cursed at them for hogging the road. He took his frustration out on a group of dirty and ragged slaves sitting along the edge of the road. The slaves, part of a work gang to maintain the imperial highway, were forced to scramble out of the way, lest the wagon roll over them as it rumbled around the two travelers.

  An overseer resting on a large fieldstone several feet away barked out a harsh laugh before shouting at the slaves to be more careful. One of the slaves collapsed, and yet both riders hardly spared him a glance. Slaves were simply beneath notice.

  The supply train’s nominal escort, a small troop of cavalry riding in a line alongside the wagons, was working its way slowly up the hill toward the two officers and away from the encampment. Much like every other legionary the two travelers had come upon for the last hundred miles, the cavalry troop was less than impressive, though somewhat better looking in appearance. Their armor wasn’t as rusted and had been recently maintained.

  Several empty wagons rumbled by the two, which saw additional invectives hurled their way. They ignored the cursing, just as they had disregarded the wagons and the plight of the slaves. Where they had come from, it would have been unthinkable for someone to hurl invectives at an officer, who was almost assuredly a nobleman. At the very least, a commoner would invite a severe beating with such behavior. Here in the South, such lack of basic respect seemed commonplace.

  One of the travelers had the hood of his red imperial cloak pulled up as far as it would go and tilted his head forward to protect against a light drizzling rain, which had been falling for some time.

  The other had the hood of his cloak pulled back, revealing close-cropped brown hair and a fair but weather-hardened face, marred only by a slight scar running down the left cheek. The scar pulled the man’s mouth up into a slight sneer. He looked no older than twenty-five, but his eyes, which seemed to miss nothing, made him look wise beyond his years. The slaves, having settled down in a new spot, watched the two warily.

  As the first of the cavalry troop crested the hill, which was much steeper on the encampment’s side, the lieutenant in command pulled his mount up.

  “Well met, Captain,” the lieutenant said. The lieutenant’s lead sergeant also stopped his horse.

  The cavalry troop continued to ride by, the men wearing their helmets to avoid the drizzling rain but miserably wet just the same. The lieutenant offered a salute, to which the captain simply nodded in reply, saying nothing. The captain’s gaze—along with that of his companion, whose face was concealed by the hood of his cloak—remained focused on the encampment below.

  After several uncomfortable moments, the lieutenant once again attempted to strike up a conversation. “I assume you came by way of Aeda? A miserable city, if you ask me. Can you tell me the
condition of the road? Did you encounter any rebels?”

  The lieutenant shivered slightly as the captain turned a cold gray-eyed gaze upon him.

  “We saw no evidence of rebels,” the captain replied in a low, gravelly voice filled with steel and confidence. “The road passed peacefully.”

  “That is good to hear,” the cavalry officer replied. “I am Lieutenant Lan of the One Hundred Eighty-Seventh Imperial Horse Regiment. May … may I have your name, Captain?”

  “Stiger,” the captain growled, kicking his horse into motion and rapidly moving off the crest of the hill, down toward the encampment.

  The lieutenant’s eyes widened. Stiger’s companion, without a word or a sideways glance, followed at a touch to his horse, leaving the lieutenant behind.

  The door to the guardhouse opened and after a moment banged closed like it had undoubtedly done countless times before. Stiger and his companion stepped forward, their heavy bootfalls thunking across the coarse wooden floorboards that were covered in a layer of dirt made slick from the rain. The floor had not been swept in a good long time.

  “Name and purpose?” a bored ensign demanded, his back to the door. A counter separated the ensign from any newcomers. He was sitting at a table, attempting to look busy and important by writing in a logbook. After a few moments, when the ensign heard nothing in reply, he stood and turned with obvious irritation, prepared to give the new arrivals a piece of his mind. He was confronted with two wet officers, one a captain and the other a lieutenant.

  Stiger locked the ensign with a piercing gaze. The ensign was old for his rank, which was generally a sign that he was unfit for further promotion. Instead of forcing such a useless man out of service, he was put in a position where he could do little harm and perhaps accomplish something useful. It had been Stiger’s experience that such men became bitter and would not hesitate to abuse what little power was available to them.

  Flustered, the ensign tried again. “Name and purp—”

  “Captain Stiger and companion,” Stiger interrupted, with something akin to an irritated growl. The captain slowly placed his hands on the dirty counter and leaned forward toward the man. The ensign—most likely accustomed to dealing with lowly teamsters, drovers, corporals, and sergeants—blinked. His jaw dropped. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, before remembering to salute a superior officer, fist to chest. Stiger said nothing in reply, but gestured impatiently for the ensign to move things along.

  “Forgive me, sir,” the ensign stammered. It was then, as the lieutenant who accompanied the captain pushed back the hood of his cloak, that he noticed Captain Stiger’s companion was not human. The ensign’s mouth dropped open even further, if that was possible.

  “Lieutenant Eli’Far,” the elf introduced himself in a pleasantly soft, singsong kind of voice that sounded human, but was tinged with something alien at the same time. Eli was tall, whipcord thin, and very fair. His perpetually youthful face, complete with blue almond-shaped eyes and sharply pointed ears, was perfect. Framed by sand-colored hair, perhaps it was even too perfect.

  “I have orders to report to General Kromen,” Stiger stated simply, impatient to be done with the fool before him.

  “Of course, sir,” the ensign stammered, remembering himself. He slid a book across the counter. “If you will sign in, I will have you escorted directly to General Kromen’s headquarters.”

  Stiger grabbed a quill, dipped it in the inkbottle sitting on the counter, and signed for both himself and Eli. He put down the quill and pushed the book back toward the ensign.

  “Corporal!” the ensign called in a near-panicked shout.

  The guard corporal poked his head into the guardhouse.

  “Captain Stiger requires an escort to the commanding general’s headquarters.”

  The corporal blinked as if he had not heard correctly. “Yes, sir,” he said, fully stepping into the guardhouse, eyes wide. “This way, gentlemen,” the corporal said in a respectful tone. It was never wise to upset an officer, and even more irresponsible to offend one from an important family, no matter how infamous. “I will escort you myself. It is a bit of a ride, sirs.”

  The two traveling companions followed the corporal out of the guardhouse. They stepped back into the rain, which had changed from a drizzle to a steady downpour. Eli pulled his hood back up, once again obscuring his features. Stiger left his down. They retrieved their horses from where they had secured them and mounted up. The corporal also mounted a horse that was waiting for such a purpose and led them through the massive wooden gate that served as the encampment’s main entrance. Stiger was disgusted to see the sentries huddled for cover under the gate’s overhang. Those men should have been on post despite the weather.

  Stiger had thought it impossible for the stench of the encampment to get any worse, yet it became much more awful and unpleasant once they were clear of the gate. It made his eyes burn. He had only ever once encountered a worse smell. That had been years before on a distant battlefield, with the dead numbering in the many thousands under a brutally hot sun, rotting quicker than they could be buried or burned.

  Massive numbers of tents and temporary ramshackle wooden buildings spread out before them, amongst a sea of mud flowing with animal and human excrement. The three worked their way slowly through the muddy streets with rows of tents on each side. They came upon a small stream, muddy brown and swollen from the day’s rain, running through the center of the encampment. The stream was threatening to flood nearby tents.

  A rickety wooden bridge, which looked as though it had been hastily constructed to ford the small stream, appeared at risk of being washed away by the growing rush of water. Unconcerned, the corporal guided them over the bridge and to a large rough-looking building directly in the center of the encampment. An overhang and porch had been constructed onto the building, almost as an afterthought, but probably in response to the rain and mud.

  Several staff officers on the porch loitered about in chairs, idly chatting and smoking pipes or playing cards, as the three horsemen approached. It was clear this was the main headquarters. A rough planked boardwalk that looked like it might sink into the mud at any moment connected the building to a row of larger tents and other nearby buildings. The porch and boardwalk served the purpose of saving the officers from having to get their perfectly polished boots muddy.

  A dirty and ragged slave, ankles disappearing in the muck, stepped forward to take the reins of their horses as the two officers dismounted. Stiger tried to avoid thinking about what was in the mud as his boots sank into it.

  “Good day, sirs.” The corporal saluted and swung his horse around, riding away before anything more could be required of him. Stiger understood that the man was relieved to be on his way. It was said that bad things tended to happen around Stigers.

  “This camp is an embarrassment,” Eli said quietly to Stiger. “It is very unfit.”

  “I hazard half the camp is down sick,” Stiger responded in sour agreement. He had never seen a legionary encampment in such a state. “Let us hope we are not detained here for months on end.”

  The two walked through the mud and up the steps to the front porch of the headquarters building, where they hastily kicked and scraped the muck from their boots. The headquarters building was not at all what one would expect for the commanding general of the South. The finely attired officers on the porch purposefully ignored the new arrivals. Stiger hesitated a moment and then stepped toward the building’s entrance, reaching for the door.

  “Where exactly do you think you’re going?” a young staff captain sitting in a chair demanded disdainfully without looking up from his card game. The man was casually smoking and took a rather slow pull from his pipe, as if to show he was in charge.

  Stiger turned to look at the staff captain, who wore expensively crafted legionary officer armor over a well-cut tunic and rich black boots. The armor was highly polished and the fine red cloak appeared to be freshly cleaned and brushed. There wa
s not a hint of mud or dirt anywhere on the officer. He almost looked like the perfect toy soldier. Stiger took him to be of the soft type, a spoiled and pampered nobleman, likely from a minor yet wealthy house. At least wealthy or influential enough to secure his current position. Much like the ensign in the guardhouse, Stiger had also unfortunately encountered this kind of officer before—a bootlicking fool. Stiger’s lip curled ever so slightly in derision. The bootlicker, more concerned with his fawning entourage of fellow officers, did not seem to notice. Eli, however, did. He placed a cautioning hand on Stiger’s arm, which had come to rest upon the pommel of his sword.

  “I am ordered to report to General Kromen and that is what I intend to do,” Stiger responded neutrally, casually pulling his arm away from Eli’s restraining hand. The elf sighed softly. “Unless, of course, the general is not present. In that event I shall simply wait for his return.”

  “Oh, I believe the general is in,” the captain said with a sneer. “However, you do not get to see him without my personal permission.”

  Several of the other officers snickered.

  “Perhaps you should say … please?” one of the other officers suggested with a high-pitched voice. The others openly laughed at this.

  Stiger’s anger flared, though he kept the irritation from his face. The captain was likely an aide to the general, a player of camp politics, working to control access and thereby strengthening his powerbase. He was the kind of man who was rarely challenged openly. He was also someone who would most definitely hold a grudge if he was ever slighted or offended. In short, he was another arrogant fool, and Stiger loathed such men.

  Suffer the fool’s game or not? Stiger was new to the camp and the last thing he wanted was to get off on the wrong foot. Still, the captain’s manner irritated him deeply. The man should have behaved as a gentleman, and yet he had blatantly offended Stiger. Should he continue, Stiger would be justified in issuing a challenge to satisfy honor. Somehow, Stiger doubted General Kromen would approve of him killing, or at best maiming, one of his staff officers on his first day in camp.