Art of War

by Triantafyllou, Petros

  “But why? Recruitment hasn’t been a problem.”

  “The army isn’t made of criminals, lad. Just a good chunk of it.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  She shrugged. “It is what it is. For all I know, old Griz and Talp there were wrongfully accused. Maybe King Arkus’ new war taxes left them broke, and they stole to feed their families." She smirked again, seeing the look of incredulity on Scythe’s face. “Maybe, but not those two. They’re as crooked as they come.”

  Scythe sighed. “It’s just…not what I was expecting.”

  “And what were you expecting?”

  “Something…something more. Something nobler, I suppose.”

  “Hmm,” she mused. “The king sends us the scum of his dungeons to help defend humanity, but he doesn’t force a single one of his pampered chevaliers to sail east. Now that bothers me.”

  Scythe considered this. He supposed he hadn’t seen any of the knights since leaving the ship. There’d been so much going on, he hadn’t really noticed their absence. Now this huntress brought it up, it did seem glaring.

  “In fairness, don’t the dragons bear the brunt of the fighting? They’re better suited for it after all.”

  The huntress snorted. “If they’re so damned tough, why do they need us? Take that march today, what was the point in that?”

  “We were retreating?”

  “Retreating from what?” she said. “We had a battle with the demons long before you arrived. They tried to take the Nest but we beat them soundly back. So why leave?”

  Scythe bit his lip, but was sure of one thing. The dragons knew their war craft. They wouldn’t make a foolish decision. “I’m sure they have good reasons.”

  “You really are new out here, kid.” She looked around again. “How about another bite to eat?”

  Scythe sat up straighter. “Go on.”

  “Look at you breaking the rules,” she said. “Just be subtler.” She ferreted around in her bag and pulled out and unwrapped two strips of salted pork. She really had meant a bite to eat. There wasn’t a lot, but he hadn’t seen much meat since boarding the ship and was grateful for it. Its deliciousness lasted for a few brief seconds. He savoured it. Gulped it down.

  Then felt horrible.

  A sense of dread clouded his thoughts. This wasn’t what he imagined it would be like. Scrounging for food from one stranger and nearly beaten by others.

  “Mum didn’t want me to become a hunter,” he said. “She wanted me to stay and help dad in the workshop.”

  “Clearly you disagreed.”

  “I packed up as soon as I turned sixteen and could join. I wasn’t very nice about it, looking back.” A vivid memory of his crying mother running after him through the streets blazed painfully before him.

  “You can miss home, Scythe. It’s allowed.”

  “I only just got here.”

  “That’s when we miss it most,” she said. “You should take a boat to the Dales rather than the capital when you get leave.”

  “If I make it that long.”

  “You’ll make it,” she said. Something behind Scythe drew her attention, and her eyes widened in alarm. “Lie down and pretend you’re still out. Now!”

  “What?” Scythe spluttered.

  “Just do it.” She shoved him down. “You’re dead to world, hear me? Don’t move a muscle.”

  Scythe did as he was told, long past the point of questioning her. The crackle of the fire magnified as he focused on his hearing, tuning into the world around him as hunters were taught to do. After a moment, he began to hear the stirrings at the other campfires. Low voices talking in hurried whispers, heavy feet pressing into the earth. He even felt the pulse through the ground as he honed in on it. A small group were now heading their way. The huntress got to her feet to meet them.

  “Can I help you, Legate?” she asked.

  “What’s wrong with this one?”

  “He’s seriously dehydrated from your forced march.” She sounded bold, considering she was speaking to the head of a dragon legion.

  “The humans are to move camp one league to the north. Can he walk?”

  “Does it look like it?” she said. “And nobody moves camp during the night, what’s going on. North is back the way we came.”

  Scythe couldn’t help it any longer. He risked opening an eye by a fraction. Towering over the huntress was a dragon warrior, his wide shoulders draped in a crimson cloak, his torso armoured in golden plate. A plumed helmet topped his head and his expression was grim as a morning after the bottle. Flanking the legate were two dragon legionnaires, equally well-armoured and standing as though carved from stone.

  “Orders from the prince,” the legate said. “I don’t relish having to partake in spreading the word, human, but time is of the essence. Get him up and get moving.”

  “He can’t just get up.” She snarled. “What are the rest of the wounded doing?”

  “Taking up my legionaries in order to move them,” said the legate. He turned to one of his men. “Pick him up.”

  The huntress took a step between Scythe and the dragons. “Wait. I need to pack his gear properly.”

  “Do it quickly,” the legate said. “Onto the next fire,” he added to his companions, “I’ll send someone back for the whelp. You have ten minutes.” The dragons stomped off.

  Scythe let his breath go, unaware he’d even been holding it. What was going on? This didn’t feel right.

  The huntress knelt by his side, busying herself with pretending to pack up some equipment.

  “They’re gone,” Scythe whispered. “You don’t have to—”

  “Don’t speak. I’m giving you the food,” she said, barely moving her lips.

  “What? That’s yours.”

  “Shhh. Just don’t eat it all at once.”

  “You can’t—”

  “I can, I am, and you’ll be fine,” she said.

  “Won’t you need it?”

  She paused in her work, looked to him, then returned to her task. “Last time this happened I lost my finger.” She hesitated again. “Find me after, if you like.”

  But her voice didn’t fill Scythe with confidence. He wanted to say more, do more, but didn’t know what. He was utterly out of his depth.

  She tied a knot with an air of finality. “You’re dead to the world, remember? Give one hint you’re okay and they’ll send you marching to the front.” She glanced behind her, then snapped her attention back to him, a fervour in her eyes. “Don’t let that happen.”

  “Why are you helping me so much?” Scythe said.

  She leaned in closer, so that no one else could possibly hear her words. “I have a soft spot for idiots like you. Try and live. Go home. You’ve still got a home to go back to.”

  “What’s your name?” Scythe said, louder than he ought to but he had to know.

  “My name’s Aifa.” But before Scythe could say more, she scrambled to her feet. He closed his eyes to feign his ill constitution and, soon enough, a pair of rough hands were lifting him up. He felt his knapsack, bow, quiver, and sword get piled on top of his limp form, followed by the bobbing up and down of movement.

  He never had a chance to say it.

  Thank you, Aifa. He nigh on sang it in his mind. He wanted her to hear him somehow across the rapidly growing distance between them. Thank you for saving my life.

  Scythe feigned unconsciousness for what felt like hours. Inside, he fought a desperate battle with himself, pitting his relief at not being sent to front against his guilt for not being there. Aifa’s behaviour had been worrying. Clearly, she thought something terrible would happen. Could he really just lie here in the dark, eyes screwed shut as though he could block out the world? Could he run from it all?

  Sleep claimed him before he decided. When he woke again, he was surrounded by the sick and wounded; the true sick and wounded. Missing limbs, blood-stained cloth wrapped wounds, the sickly smell of rot and decay. His being here was a lie. And
it was cowardly.

  Gingerly, he got up and tried to slip away. He didn’t have to try hard, no one was paying much attention to him. Beyond the rows of the dead and dying, he could see some dragons facing north, their backs turned to him. Some were pointing north and, against the bright sky of the morning, Scythe saw smoke rising. Not the thick black smoke of a fire, but the wispy, guttering smoke he’d heard came from demon blood.

  A battle raged.

  Scythe made it to the where the dragons were standing, just beyond the camp’s boundaries. A wide flat plain lay before them, a perfect spot for a pitched battle with plenty of room to manoeuvre. So then, why weren’t these dragons up there in the thick of the fighting? Ahead, he couldn’t see any signs that the dragons were there at all. What he did see horrified him.

  Humans fleeing, running, hobbling, or crawling in desperate flights from the vast horde of writhing darkness that was the demon army.

  Mad senses of duty and honour flared in Scythe’s chest, and he darted forward, weapon-less but intending to do his part nonetheless. About ten strides out, a hand grabbed him by the collar and lifted him bodily from the ground. The dragon walked him back to their line and set him down between two strong legionaries.

  “No use you running out there,” the dragon brooded. “Not after doing so well in escaping it.”

  “Why aren’t you helping?” Scythe said.

  “Following our prince’s orders,” the dragon said. He looked to Scythe as though he were stupid for not understanding. “Prince Darnuir wished to draw the demons out for a fight. They learnt their lesson at the Nest.”

  “And we were the bait,” Scythe said. His whole body sagged.

  “There,” another dragon exclaimed, pointing to the south east this time. “The prince arrives.”

  Scythe whipped around. There, moving like a herd of golden bulls, a legion of dragons charged into view. They would have outstripped horses the way they pushed themselves. From the southwest, another legion emerged. Together, they swept up the battlefield, causing the earth to quake, and reached the battle in half a minute. The columns of shining gold pivoted right and left, slamming into the exposed demon flanks with impunity.

  “Glorious,” sighed the dragon nearest Scythe.

  “Hail the prince,” another called.

  “Hail Darnuir!”

  Scythe wanted to vomit. He did. And while he clutched to his heaving gut, his awe of the dragons became the very bile in his throat. So, this was the dragon prowess he’d heard so much about. This was the dragons’ art of war.

  From the Author:

  I hope you enjoyed this short tale set in the world of Dragon’s Blade. As you can see, though I draw on many traditional elements of fantasy, I don’t do so in the usual ways. A fast-paced epic fantasy awaits those who wish to delve deeper into my world with book 1, The Dragon’s Blade: The Reborn King. It is this Dragon Prince, Darnuir, who takes the leading role in the trilogy, and he has a lot to make up for.

  Arrogant. Scornful. Full of Pride. Darnuir cares little about the damage he’s done to the faltering alliance against the demonic forces of the Shadow. He thinks himself invincible, right up till a mortal wound forces him to undergo a dangerous rebirthing spell, leaving him a helpless babe in human hands. Twenty years pass and with the alliance between humanity, dragons, and fairies fracturing, Darnuir will have to uncover the secrets of his past, seek redemption for his sins, and rally the disparate races if they are to survive.

  Only Darnuir can do this. For he’s the last member of the royal bloodline and only he can wield the Dragon’s Blade...

  For those about to delve into my books, I thank you, and hope you enjoy!

  Michael R. Miller

  A Battle for Elucame: Leah

  R.B. Watkinson

  Their torches flared, burning the walls and ceiling as they trotted faster down the narrowing tunnel. Closing fast, the boots of the Murecken soldiers and blood-priests pounded their pursuit, now certain of their quarry.

  “Spirits! They’re close.” Leah’s heart hammered with equal measures of fear and nervous energy. “Only fifty yards behind us, if that.”

  “It’s a big group, too. Must be fifty or sixty of them.” Richa stopped next to Leah, panting hard. He tugged at the fake iron collar around his neck. “Bollocks, but I hate wearing this blasted thing. It feels too damned real.”

  “That’s why we’ve got to wear them.” Using her Wealdan-sight, Leah studied the glowing wire-like Wefan-patterns running within the rock near the tunnel’s end. She spotted, the area where the Wefan-patterns changed minutely and knew Uncle Kharad stood just two feet from her, but she sensed neither him nor his magik. His Wealdan-cloak camouflaged him and the entrance to the smaller cave too well, along with a whole lot of Freed itching to get their blades into the Murecken.

  “Are they there?”

  “Yes.” Leah nodded.

  “Good,” Richa answered, patting the hilt of his short sword. “Looking forward to using my new weapon.”

  “Hurry, you two.” Joff stood in the cavern’s entrance, her bald head washed with green light. “Get in and be bait. You know your roles.”

  In the cavern, the torchlight didn’t quite reach the ceiling. Up there, clumps of luminous fungi grew, filling the cavern with their strange glow. For these lowest levels of Elucame, it seemed almost bright.

  The work was quick and bloody.

  Leah tugged her knife out from between the blood-priest’s ribs and ripped the Blodstan from his neck. Already boiling with smoke-like tentacles of Ascian, she threw the lumpy red gem as far and fast as she could. The Freed had learned to get rid of the Blodstans after realising the Murecken channelled their Ascian, or blood-magik, through them. The gems also healed wounds fast, making it hard to kill the bastards.

  Leah watched the life bleed from the man’s eyes. Whenever she could, she’d snatch that breath of time to see death steal a blood-priest’s spirit.

  Staying low, she moved on, careful of her footing on the uneven floor, her feet whispering over the dust and blood. She spotted a blood-priest wrestling with one of the newer Freed, Torig. The priest’s whip and two fingers lay in a pool of blood on the floor. The combatant’s grunted, red-faced, veins protruding, each gripping the others’ wrists, daggers in their other hands, all slippery with blood. Blood-magik coiled from the blood-priest’s Blodstan, slow to respond to his need, which meant he was weak in the Ascian. Leah’s knife found its way between his ribs, puncturing a lung, piercing his heart.

  “I had him, Leah,” Torig complained.

  “You did,” Leah agreed. Ignoring Torig, she crouched and ripped the Blodstan from the dying priest’s neck. The link gone, its magik died as it flew across the cavern. She stared into his confused eyes. “Not what you lot expected was it? To be beaten by a bunch of ex-slaves? You arrogant bastards had it coming, and you’ll get more of it.”

  Warned by a change in the air, Leah rolled toward her attacker’s legs, dodging the sword that came for her. Surprised, the Murecken soldier overbalanced, an opportunity she used to slice through the back of his knee. Screaming, he toppled, and Leah left him for Torig to finish. She searched for the next Murecken, wanting, needing it to be another blood-priest.

  Leah spotted Uncle Kharad and Alan working together at the upper entrance to the cavern, stopping any Murecken from escaping that way. Uncle Kharad blocked the blood-magik of the priests, and Alan cut them down with his sword, a method that’d proven an efficient and safer way to fight against the Murecken. Most of the Freed now fought in pairs.

  No more than half a day later—measured by the hunger in her belly—the screams and crash of battle ended, replaced by the groans and cries of the wounded and dying. With others of the Freed, Leah helped any wounded Murecken reach the path to their god, Murak, and marked them all with the clawed hands of long dead writhen to make it look like the creatures had rebelled against their masters. She wondered if the ploy would fool the Murecken for much longer.
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  Leah found a ledge of rock in the least bloody corner of the cave and began cleaning her knives. She’d barely started when Lance, a fair-haired boy a year or so younger than her, scuttled over. She’d killed a blood-priest, pulling him along like a dog on a chain not long ago, and Lance followed her about like an annoying puppy ever since. Sitting next to her, he looked up, his blue eyes crowded with terror. She sighed and rolled her eyes as he crept under her arm and pressed his head against her chest. Maybe the sound of her heart comforted the annoying brat. His narrow shoulders heaved, and Leah let him stay.

  “Wonder how they’re doin’ in the other caves and tunnels.” Richa hunkered down nearby. “Six ambushes in one go. Alan and Kharad are getting’ ambitious. Spectacular bit of Wealdan-magik goin’ on down at the other end of the cavern, too.”

  “We’ll know soon enough how well it all went,” Joff said. She slid down with a bump on Leah’s other side and started cleaning her short sword. “And Alan’s right, we’ve no time left to be careful anymore. We’ve got to free all the other slaves and captives fast and kill as many blood-priests as we can before they get wise to the fact there are so many of us Freed. And that it’s not the writhen that’re attacking their patrols.”

  “I’m happy to kill as many damned blood-priests as needed.” Leah had lost count of the number she’d killed a while back.

  “We know, Leah. We know,” Joff said, sighing.

  “You got a problem with me, Joff?” Leah slitted her eyes at him.

  “No, Leah.” Joff shrugged. “It’s just you get so focused on killing blood-priests, you forget other Freed might be about or needing help. One day, you’re going to get someone else killed, is all.”

  “One day?” Leah snorted. “In case you haven’t noticed, there are no days here, Joff.”

  “Just one never-endin’, bloody killing-filled night,” Richa muttered. “I dream of the sky. Day or night, doesn’t matter to me. I need to see the big blue again.”