Ulrik dead.
Another of his friends gone.
Their squad had started with ten and was down to only five survivors.
Survivors. That was all they were. Not defenders. Not heroes.
When he was dead, no one would care or remember, except his sweet Svea.
The rest of the attack passed in a blur for Heikir.
Dimly, he remembered loosing arrow after arrow. Drinking stale water from a tin cup that was handed to him. More men and women dying around him from both jukari arrows and vormag sorcery, which snaked over the walls in glittering violet lines.
The jukari never seemed to thin until they melted away behind Truula, back from where they’d come. Many stood on the second wall’s battlements, yellow eyes watching the defenders.
Heikir and Bersi sat there exhausted, fingers bleeding. Heikir noticed squads of soldiers marching up the stairs, evacuating the severely injured and ferrying the dead into the citadel.
Three of the lord commander’s black-armored soldiers of the Steel Fist came for Ulrik, and Heikir stirred himself. He planted his feet wide, standing between the soldiers and the corpse.
“No! You’ll not take him.”
“Lord commander’s orders. Try to stop us and you’ll be whipped for insubordination.”
Bersi grabbed Heikir by the arms. “Let them. I don’t want to lose anyone else today. We’ve suffered enough.”
Heikir’s sudden burst of strength left as quickly as it had come. “Aye,” he said wearily. “We’ve suffered enough.”
When the corpse was gone, they descended the stairs and made their way along the inside of the wall to their tower. Heikir glanced at the northern gates.
The gap between them looked to have widened a finger’s width. A young sorcerer sat in the usual position, but his mouth gaped, and he’d torn open the top buttons of his shirt, as if he were overheating and needed cool air on his skin. To his side lay a crafted amulet, misshapen and melted.
Heikir sat by his belongings and imagined he could still smell Svea’s scent on his blanket. He held the sorcerer’s red-fletched arrow in his hands, its runes glowing a soft yellow in the darkness.
“You’d better take that back soon. Best to do it now.”
“I will, Bersi.” All he needed to do was get this over with, and then he could rest.
He rose and grabbed his bow, leaving his quiver. The glowing runes on the sorcerers’ arrow kept catching his eye as he walked through the darkness.
What was the point of all of this? It was madness. They were starving and being whittled away one by one.
Maybe the lord commander was hoping to hold out until one of the Mahruse Empire’s armies arrived and their powerful warlocks turned the tide of battle.
No, no one was coming, that was obvious. The only wonder was the lord commander and his nobles and sorcerers hadn’t yet found a way to slink away to safety.
Heikir trudged along shadowed streets away from his tower, toward the citadel. The street opened into a paved square, from which rose another tower. This one was unmanned but commanded a view of the northern gate from atop its high battlements. If the gate broke open, sorcerers would be stationed here to flay the creatures as they tried to get through, or so he imagined. He was no strategist, just a farmer.
He stopped then, a chill night breeze caressing his lank hair and sallow skin. The tower door was open.
His hands gripped his bow and the arrow until his fingers ached. Heikir had to slow his breathing and force himself to relax. Without a conscious decision, his feet found the doorway and began to ascend the stairway. His lungs and thighs burned by the time he reached the top.
Countless stars pierced the night sky, and he let them shine upon his upturned face as he breathed deeply of the cold air. Heikir turned to face the west and imagined he could float, out over the city, across the walls, and all the way to Svea.
He moved to the northern parapet. It was a good seventy yards to the ground and two hundred yards from here to the gates. But he was standing on a higher vantage, and really there was no difficulty to the shot.
Heikir nocked the sorcerous arrow and aimed. Drew a breath, released a little, held it, then loosed.
Glowing runes traced an arc against the night. Descended to strike a barrel of oil.
There was a flash of orange and a thunderous crack. Flames leapt up and swirled across the wagons piled against the gates. Shouts of alarm reached him. The sorcerer stationed there stood, limned in the flames’ orange glow. He turned and pointed up at the tower.
Heikir watched the conflagration intensify as wood crackled and damp timber hissed and whistled. In no time, the gates were ablaze and the stone walls around them glowed red with heat.
He saw archers and soldiers already heading toward the citadel. It might be crowded, but they would at least stand a better chance if they worked together to repel the jukari and vormag or wait them out until help arrived. They’d have plenty of time until the blaze burned itself out and the jukari breached the wall.
Boots thumped up the stairs toward him. The lord commander’s soldiers, presumably. And they wouldn’t be merciful.
Heikir dropped his bow and stepped onto the parapet.
“I’m sorry, Svea,” he said.
He looked up at the stars again and leaned forward.
Wind whipped at his now-baggy shirt and trousers.
Gray stone rushed to greet him.
Dear Menelaus
Laura M. Hughes
I don't wish to waste any more time on you than I must, but there are some things that have to be said. Fear not - I shall try and use small words (and large letters). I sincerely hope you're able to pry your thoughts away from wine, wenches and war for long enough to read what I have to say.
Actually, it's about the latter - war - that I wish to speak. You and I both know that history is written by victors. The winners, the aggressors, the strong. Which means that the history of war - and of most things - is written by men. Men like you. You say it is an art. You lie. There is no art of war. Only war.
The start of war, now, that's something worth debating. For instance, you say I launched a thousand ships. I say: did I? Really? Apologies; not me, but my face. Quite the feat! As though I slathered myself with makeup and then trudged along the beach, slapping buttocks and calling encouragement to those fine, brave Greek captains of yours.
But surely this cannot be true, because you - and others like you - have always insisted that war is a man's game.
But you see, that possessiveness is also your downfall, at least where logic is concerned. For if women are not allowed to be players - only pieces - how then can we be held accountable for the result? For the consequences of the ultimate 'man's game'?
Therein lies part of the problem. That word: game. You look at your kingdom and see naught but pawns and territories, imagined slights and dreamed-of victories. You seek pieces, but never peace. You make the rules and you set the board and you wait. Because with men like you in seats of power, there is no such thing as peace. Only waiting.
Yes, dear husband, I know all about the oath you signed. You and the other kings. In your eagerness to preen, and maim, and kill, you signed the Oath of Tyndareus - a brotherly bond with a pretext flimsier than the papyrus on which you wrote it. (And named after your fellow king - oh, how that must have grated at your ego!)
Swearing to find - and revenge - insult where none is intended, the lot of you displayed an inflated sense of self-worth and an ego that would make Narcissus blush. You men - and your insistence that war is the heart's blood of humanity - would plot Apollo's course with yourselves at the centre, and without regard for the chaos and ruin the rest of the world would suffer in consequence.
Is it any wonder I fled across the ocean with the only man in the Aegean who thinks differently? The only man who cries my name with more passion than he does Ares'?
Though I admire her staying power, I have not Penelope's patience, and for g
ood reason. Monogamy is all well and good if you've had the fortune to choose your own spouse. When you've been bartered for, though - like livestock at the market - you'll soon learn that fidelity is overrated, and that marriage - much like war - is no more or less than the proverbial desire for more cattle.
Life is choice. We are the decisions we make. Your soldiers fight and die because you teach them that that is their only path to glory. As though spilling blood beneath Ares' uncaring eye is somehow more honorable than hunting the boar that feeds your family, or sowing the crop that feeds your village.
'For Ares!', you cry as you embark on your gleeful slaughter. 'For glory!', you shout. 'For Greece!' Perhaps you should stop calling others to war, and instead listen to the cries of those left behind.
I have never gone to war. Of course I haven't (it's a man's game, remember? I'm not allowed to play). I have read about war, and I have heard of war, but I have never done it. Still, I can well imagine that sensation of victory, the visceral thrill of success, even if I cannot claim to understand it. Why then must those of you who seek it cloud your intent and invent false purpose? Why not call it what it is?
You say glory, necessity, pride; I say barbarity, greed, arrogance. War is a search for glory, for that particular sense of joy and satisfaction that comes from staking one's life on the outcome of a gamble. The search for a cheap thrill, with a cost too dear for Midas, and on a pretext that more or less amounts to 'My neighbour has a thing. I want it'.'
Helen of Troy. Helen of Sparta. Why can't any of you just say 'Helen'?
No cattle we, the women of Sparta. Not the cowering prey, but the watching hunter. Not the way of Thetis, but of Artemis. We bear arms as well as children and stand fearless toe to toe 'gainst mighty Ajax or brave Achilles.
And yet, for me, the path of Demeter, of Hera. For why kill and die for a stranger when you can live and love for a person?
I can almost see you frowning, husband. Still you wonder why any woman would choose a short but happy life over a long and miserable one. That failure - nay, refusal - to understand speaks to a deficiency in your character, not mine, and 'tis pointless for me to speak any more about it. Suffice to say that it is small wonder to me that joy and passion should win victorious over the domestic strictures set down by a council of walking phalluses such as yourself.
Calm yourself, husband. You think I am saying that men are entirely to blame? No. Athena, Aphrodite and the rest are just as guilty in their own ways. But did we compel those brave, foolish souls to embark across a sea of blood? I think not. That, dear husband, is on you, and others like you.
I imagine you're well into your cups by now, so I'll keep the rest short. Fear not, I'm almost done.
While Athena might scorn and Ares may scoff, I say that war—and glory, and honour—is not about whether you fall in a blaze of glory, or shrivel up and die of old age. Nor is it about whether you get to drive a chariot between adoring crowds, or just rot by the roadside. Really, it's about where you stand in line for the Styx—front, or back?
I doubt I'm the only one in no rush to jump the queue to Hades; to meet the lord on his throne of bones, with his cloak of souls and crown of skulls. But by all means, continue to waste the lives of those loyal to you. Continue to fill the underworld—and the ferryman's pockets—and don't even bother trying to wash away the blood of thousands that already stains your hands. Meanwhile, I'll be over here, growing old in comfort, warmed by my home's hearth and my lover's gentle arms.
So carry on, dear. And when the ships' shadows creep over the horizon; when the chariots thunder across the sand, and fire rains down from the sky, ask yourself: which would be the better way to die?
Warborn
C.T. Phipps
I awoke inside the summoning circle. The moons were high in the sky, and the stars shimmered even as the air was cold and unforgiving. I was in the middle of a cornfield where a larger circle had been cleared away to create the demonic sigil in secret. I had never been summoned before, at least before my death, so I was a trifle disorientated. I mean, I’d barely completed my transformation into a war demon.
It took a moment for me to even register the pretty blonde-haired woman wearing a simple black and white Purifier's dress with an apron and a long loose-fitting coif. She looked to be about nineteen, and I found myself reminded of my first wife. I’d found her with our children with another man after I’d returned from a five-year-campaign. She’d told me how I’d abandoned her, how she hated me, and how I had no place in my home or in the lives of our offspring. I’d taken it…poorly.
Do not judge this woman by she whose murder damned you, I thought. Regrets didn’t save you from the Seven Circles.
Looking her up and down, I noticed she held the decapitated form of a chicken in her hand and that the circle was made of blood.
"Oh, that's just offensive," I said, frowning.
"What?" the woman said, blinking.
"Summoned with a chicken," I said, chuckling. "Oh, the men in the Iron Garrison will laugh about this tonight.”
“Iron Garrison?” the woman asked.
“Where the damned soldiers who fight forever are garrisoned,” I told her. “The Northmen think of it as their paradise. I think of it as simply continuing life as I did it before.”
"I do not understand," the woman said, a little too innocent to be believed. "What do you—"
"It doesn’t matter," I said, dryly. "So, what do you want for your soul?”
"What?" the woman said again.
I rolled my eyes. "This conversation is on the verge of becoming very dull. You have created a Daemon's Circle in the middle of a corn field and made a blood offering, pitiful as that may be. I'm assuming you're not doing so just to see if it would work, Goodwoman—"
The woman looked behind her, clearly not having expected it to work. "Laura."
"Goodwoman Laura," I said. "There are three kinds of payment you can offer in a demon contract. Your soul, blood, or—"
Goodwoman Laura then started undressing, at first with reluctance, then with a bit of excitement even as she looked me over. Before long, the Purifier was nude before me. It was not an unpleasant sight, even though I had my pick of the women of the World Below as the Hell of War was next to the Hell of Lust. The Archons in Heaven hated the body and, between the two sins, I was surprised anyone over the age of twelve went to the Four Paradises.
"Ah," I said. "Well, I suppose that will do. What do you want?"
Goodwoman Laura smiled, and it was a somewhat devilish look. I'd seen the same one on countless women across the empire. Life was not particularly kind to daughters, housewives, and women in general among the peasant class. The discovery you had the attention of a demon (a process that hammered out the flaws of Earthly ugliness) made the sale of oneself an all-too-easy transaction. It made me wonder if the witch-hunters would do better to hang and burn less witches and simply find them better husbands.
"I want you to kill my parents," Goodwoman Laura said.
I burst out laughing.
Goodwoman Laura lost her smile. "This is not funny."
"It is, actually," I said, shaking my head with amusement. "I'm sorry, Laura, but you really don't need me for this. I've killed thousands, sacked cities, and tortured my fair share of nobles who thought they were invincible—and that was before I died. All you need for this is some mushrooms or maybe a knife while they sleep."
Goodwoman Laura stared at me. "They're Warborn."
I lost all mirth. "Ah, yes, well, that is a different matter."
"I'll tell you everything I know," Goodwoman Laura said. "They're—"
I shook my head. "Payment first."
One might think me callous for taking advantage of a young woman who was clearly driven by dread, and you would be right. However, I have a defense: I’m a demon. The Archons saw fit to condemn me for the life I’d led, and when I prayed for forgiveness, they denied me a chance at atonement. I would never see my children again or
be able to do anything but evil, so I did what evil was enjoyable.
Laura, at least, did not seem to mind and squealed underneath my care. I did not feed on her life-force, much, but made a point of establishing a witch’s bond between us. She believed she could simply pray away the use of black magic, and I was amused at her naiveté. Even so, I decided I would help her. Warborn were a threat us all.
Even demons.
"It happened when my father and mother were scavenging after the village was sacked," Laura said, lying naked against my body in the middle of the summoning circle. "The empress’ army rolled on through and—”
"You don’t need to explain more,” I said, able to guess the story. War never changed. Whether it was the enemy or your side, armies often went hungry in the Telllarus Kingdoms. If there were villages nearby, they invariably didn’t stay hungry for long. It was human nature to put yourself and your mates first over some random peasants.
“I want to.” Laura blinked, then moved forward with her story. "They found Priest Hardwin's home held many treasures. They were things from his days when he worked as a state inquisitor. He had many books of magic and objects taken from the witches he killed. Things he’d hidden and my parents hoped to sell.”
"Of course. That would explain why you have a book for summoning demons.”
Laura looked away. "My mom could read a little. One of the spells in one of the books talked about summoning beings like you—”
“Warborn are not like me,” I corrected. “Not in the slightest.”
Laura looked down. “No.”
Laura paused. "Whenever our neighbors' fortunes weakened, ours increased. I live in a two-story house and my parents own all of the farms for the next ten miles. I did not question it when it was good."
“And people started killing each other,” I said simply.
Laura nodded. “My father was made chief of the rebuilt village and learned to talk to the others. He assembled an army from the surrounding villages and had no trouble starting to loot them. It turned into a full-fledged revolt.”
Art of War Page 4