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-- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 10 08/03/90 Cir 957 --
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-- Contents --
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Ghosts of the Past Max Khaytsus Nober 15, 1013 and
Janis 16-17, 993
Campaign for the Laraka II John Deucette & Yule 6-12, 1014
Carlo Samson
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Ghosts of the Past
by Max Khaytsus
<b.c.k.a. khaytsus@tramp.Colorado.EDU>
"Sir!" a young guardsman ran into Captain Koren's office.
Captain Koren and Lieutenant Kalen Darklen exchanged a look of
irritation.
"Did they ever teach you the polite way to deal with a closed
door, soldier?" Lieutenant Darklen stood up.
The guard quickly straightened himself out -- it was obvious he
had run a long way -- saluted his two superiors and asked for
permission to speak.
Kalen sat back down. "I want you to take a night shift for the
next two weeks," he said. "Perhaps I can inspire some manners in you
by keeping you near by. Hopefully you will remember that you should
knock before entering. You will start tonight."
"My current shift ends at sunset, Sir," the young guard
protested.
"When I was your age," Captain Koren finally spoke, "and Dargon
was half the size it is now...and there was twice as much crime, we
had a shortage of guards and an abundance of criminals. I remember
moving into the guard house to supplement man power day and night. Now
report before I decide to give you a years worth of night shifts!"
Kalen hid a smile as the guard straightened out into exemplary
posture of attention.
"Sir, after last week's fire by the docks, the old building was
completely torn down and yesterday the men rebuilding it started
digging up the old foundation to put in a new one..."
The passive `so what?' expression on his superiors' faces made
the guardsman hurry up with his report. "This morning one of the
workers stopped the patrol I was with and showed us what they found.
There were skeletons under the foundation...and this..." He stepped
forward and handed Koren a metal pin.
Turning the pin in his hands, Koren stood up. "Kalen, have you
ever seen this before?" He handed it to his friend.
Kalen took the pin and examined it. "It's the same as the plaque
in the entry way."
"Do you know what it is?" Koren asked the guardsman.
"No, Sir. I recall hearing a noble once lived in this building,
before it was given to the town guard. I assumed that the pin belonged
to a noble... maybe one of those bodies."
"This building," Koren said, "belonged to the Ducal General, Sir
Connall Dargon, brother to Duke Anton Dargon. He gave it to the town
guard when he was awarded the Barony of Connall in 889, as at that
time it stood taller than most buildings and was made of stone.
"The pin and the plaque are symbols that the town guard once
used. They were changed over to the new ones on New Years Day, in the
year 1000."
"But wasn't Fionn Connall the brother of Clifton Dargon the
second?" the guardsman asked. "Wasn't he the one awarded the Barony of
Connall?"
Koren sighed, disappointment deep within him. "And after your
patrol tomorrow, I want you to go down to the hall of records and find
out the history of the Barony, now County of Connall. I will be
expecting your written report in two days. If I feel it lacks quality,
we will discuss this further, understood?"
"Yes, Sir," the guard answered, no longer willing to talk or
argue. His mouth has gotten him into more than enough trouble for one
day.
"That body has to be at least fourteen years old," Lieutenant
1Darklen said when the Captain of the Guard looked back to him. "I'd
like to take a look."
Both men stood up and followed the young guard out of the office.
"You don't have to go, Kalen," Koren said, remembering Kalen had been
taking the night shift ever since the trouble with the provincial Mob
began. "You've been up for a while..."
"I am curious," the Lieutenant said. "Sounds like an old case."
Koren chuckled. "Then get my horse ready. I will be right there."
He stopped by a desk in the lobby. "Where is Lieutenant Shevlin?" he
asked the guardsman sitting there.
"He left on patrol a while back, Sir," the man answered. "He is
patrolling the market."
"And Lieutenant Milnor?"
"She hasn't come in yet, Sir."
Koren thought for a moment. "If either of them shows up, have
them meet me at the tavern that burned down last week."
"Yes, Sir," the guardsman nodded.
"Oh, and has there been any word on finding that crazy mage,
what's his name?"
"Cefn an'Derrin," the guardsman said. "Lieutenant Shevlin filed a
report yesterday. The owner said he was paid enough to rebuild and is
not interested in charging anyone."
"Listen to what I say, not to the owner," Koren answered. "If
he's spotted in this town again, I want enough men watching him to
make the King's personal guard look like a cadet convention! I don't
want crazies running around my city, setting fires to seedy joints.
Next thing you know, they'll be burning down the keep!"
"We didn't touch anything, Captain," the work foreman said,
taking Koren directly to the skeletal remains. "We couldn't. Your men
told everyone to leave and remained in the pit. I hope you can finish
this soon. The fresh lumber will be brought tomorrow and we're already
a day behind schedule."
"Stop rambling, Tarnak," Kalen told the foreman.
The group came up on a narrow wooden stair leading into a ten
foot pit.
"You'd better go first," the foreman said. "They drew steel on me
when I tried it."
Kalen tested his footing on the stairs and went down first. He
was met by two guards who saluted him and remained at attention until
Captain Koren stepped down. "Which way?" he asked, brushing the dust
from the stairs off his uniform.
"Right this way, Sir," one of the guardsmen pointed to the
opposite wall.
"Lead on," Koren told him.
"When was this building built?" Kalen asked the foreman as he
edged past the remaining guard on the stairs.
"I don't exactly know," the man said. "Depending on who built it,
there should be records in the town library or in the archivist's
possession in the keep. Judging by the design and condition, I'd say
about twenty years ago."
"That sounds right for what the Captain was saying."
Koren and the two guardsmen with him reached the shallow pit
first. It was some ten feet across and three deep. In it lay two
skeletons. Koren hopped down into the hole and started looking around.
The other four men stood on the edge waiting.
"What was this?" Kalen asked.
The construction foreman shrugged. "A grave, no doubt. This all
was covered over by the foundation. It's not even necessary for the
building. Wood a good foot deep was used to cover this over, to take
1the weight. Whoever laid it knew there were bodies under here."
"Kalen!" Koren called out of the pit. "I want a doctor to look at
these skeletons and a mage too."
Kalen gave an order to one of the men and jumped down into the
pit after his Captain. "What did you find?" he asked.
"Nothing," Koren shook his head.
"Tarnak says whoever built this building knew the people were
under it," Kalen reported. "I hope they were already dead."
"I hope so too, Lieutenant, but we may never find out. Right now
I want to check when this tavern was built, by whom and if any
disappearances are recorded for that time. Guards in particular."
"Tarnak guesses it was built twenty years ago," Kalen said. "Did
many guards disappear back then?"
"No more than now," Koren said. "Maybe one or two a year. It
happens. This is a dangerous line of work we're in."
Kalen knelt next to his superior, studying one of the bodies.
"Did you find something?"
"Look at the forearms on this one," Koren pointed.
Kalen took a closer look. "His hands were cut off!"
"So we've got two dead men, one quite possibly a guard, buried
under a building twenty years ago. Which one had the pin?" Koren
called up to the guard on the edge.
"Neither one of them really had it," the man said, jumping down
into the pit to show Koren where the pin was found, but at that time a
woman in a uniform similar to Kalen's appeared at the edge of the pit.
"Captain Koren," she called down. "I was told to drop by here
before going on patrol."
"Ah, Lieutenant Milnor," Koren looked up. "Are you with your
men?"
"They're up on the street waiting for me."
"Do you have a medic among them?"
"Yes, Sir. Is someone hurt?"
"Everyone's fine. I just want him to take a look at these
bodies."
Ilona Milnor looked down the side of the pit, seeing how to get
down best without getting her uniform dirty. Kalen hurried to her aid.
"Right here," he said, reaching up. The woman accepted his hands and
jumped down.
"Get Moor for me," she told the guard in the pit.
The guard nodded and after telling Koren where the pin was found,
climbed out and ran off.
"What happened here?" Ilona asked, looking at the two skeletons.
Kalen quickly told her the story of the mornings events while
Captain Koren examined the area again.
"Anything?" the two younger officers joined their superior.
"Nothing," he shook his head. "The clothing is too old to tell us
much," he said, pointing to a mostly decayed rag lying by a wall.
Kalen attempted to pick it up, but the cloth crumbled into dust
at his touch. Beneath it he scooped up a few rusty buttons and handed
one to Koren.
The Captain again shook his head. "Upper class, definitely. I
wonder which of these bodies it belonged to..."
There was sound of running footsteps and two guardsmen appeared
at the side of the pit. Jumping down, they saluted the officers and
awaited instructions.
"Moor, I want you to take a look at those bodies and make a
report before they are moved," Koren ordered. "Urone, go find records
for when this place was built and by who."
The two men started at their respective tasks. Koren thoughtfully
looked on as the medic examined the remains. He turned over in his
1hands the broken forearms of one body, all along shaking his head,
then took a closer look at the skull.
"Sir?" Kalen put his hand on Koren's shoulder.
"Uh? Yes?" The man turned around. "What is it?"
"Just the way you looked, Sir," Kalen said.
"Oh, it's nothing," Koren sighed. "I was just wondering if that
was someone I knew once. It will be twenty-five years this winter
since I first came here, you know. All those boys who never came back
home from their patrols..."
"It's a dangerous job," Kalen said. "You said it yourself. It
could happen to any of us."
"That it could," Koren sighed again and went over to the medic.
Behind him Kalen felt Ilona wrap her arms around his torso. "It
scares the hell out of me when he starts eulogizing like that," she
whispered.
Kalen turned and put his arms around her. "Don't let it get to
you. Let's go see what they're doing."
"I don't know about this skull," Moor was saying to Koren. "It's
missing teeth, but I don't know if they fell out or got knocked out. I
don't even feel competent enough to guess..."
Kalen knelt by the second skeleton before Moor got to it. This
one did not appear to have any broken bones and the teeth seemed to be
all in place.
"I can tell you this one is male," Moor went on. "Or rather used
to be..." He turned to the second body and looked up at Lieutenant
Milnor. "A lot of help I am," he smiled.
"I already sent for a doctor," Koren said, "but you may as well
take a look first. One learns to take initiative in this job."
Moor got back to work and Ilona bent down next to Kalen to better
see what was being done. She leaned with her hands on the ground to
keep her balance and immediately brought them back up. "Oh!"
Everyone looked at her as she picked something up from the
ground. It was a finger bone with a silver ring still around it. She
removed the ring, turned it over in her hand and gave it to the
Captain. He examined it, turning it over; a silver ring with a crimson
red stone and small letters engraved on the side. It struck him as
very familiar and then a deep pain made it obvious what it was. He
turned away from the others, kneeling on the ground, tears building in
his eyes. There was only one person that skeleton could have been.
Kalen and Ilona exchanged a look of confusion, then Kalen got up.
"Captain? Are you all right?"
Adrunian Koren wiped his eyes and brushed back his grey hair. It
was not fitting for his men to see the Captain of the Guard this way.
He turned. "I am fine," he said. "Lieutenant Milnor, resume your
patrol. Darklen, go home. Get some rest. The Duke doesn't like having
to pay extra." He walked over to the other side of the pit and started
pacing.
Ilona stood up and walked over to Kalen. Moor got back to
examining the skeletons, pretending he did not see the exchange.
"Go ahead," Kalen told Ilona. "I'll make sure he is fine before I
leave."
She kissed him quickly and he helped her out of the pit. "I'll
come for you after your shift."
Ilona Milnor left in the direction of a lone guard pacing by the
staircase.
Kalen turned and leaned against the edge of the pit. His
relationship with Ilona was more than professional, but Koren never
seemed to mind that. Kalen even suspected at one time that Koren
promoted her because he did not want stories of a Lieutenant seeing a
mere guard. Ilona, of course, proved competent in her position and
1affair between equals wasn't enough for others to gossip about.
Kalen watched as his Captain measured the pit back and forth,
wondering what that ring Ilona found was. Could it have belonged to a
lady Koren loved? He couldn't recall any useful stories about the
Captain's past and saying a quick prayer to the Goddess Randiriel for
Ilona's safety, walked over to Koren.
"Sir?"
Koren looked over. "Didn't I tell you to go home?"
"Yes, Sir," Kalen said, "but I was wondering if you had breakfast
yet."
Koren shook his head. "I eat over paperwork."
"So that's where the stains on my reports come from..."
Koren smiled grimly.
"Would you care to join me for breakfast?"
The Captain grumbled for a bit, but with some more convincing on
Kalen's part, finally accepted the offer and they went to a small
tavern a couple of blocks away.
"Kalen, I know what you're trying to do and I am very grateful,"
Koren said after placing his order.
Kalen ordered as well. "Do you wish to talk about it, Sir?"
"Just Adrunian," Koren said. "We're not on duty." He fell silent
for a moment, then started talking again.
"Let me tell you a story..."
***
Deanir knocked on the boss' door and entered. Seadon Rohden
followed him in. "Lord Rohert," Deanir said, bowing to his uncle, "the
shipment just left."
Jaipena Rohert, a grey haired man in his sixties, looked up from
the book he was reading. "Any trouble?"
"One sailor said he would report us to the town guard when he
found out what the cargo was," Seadon reported. "The Captain promised
to throw him overboard when they get far enough out at sea."
"Fine, fine," Rohert said, laying the book down. "Now I want you
two to put together the group to raid the caravan leaving tomorrow.
Deanir, I want you to make sure Seadon knows his way around. We'll be
doing this a lot now."
The two men bowed again and left. "How big is the caravan?"
Seadon asked outside in the corridor.
"Twenty wagons at last count and still hiring guards. I had
Liriss sign up on it. He'll keep us informed until we're ready."
"Can we do it in one day?"
"No. We have to be ready in a few hours. I was thinking of
ambushing them."
"I don't think we'll make it," Seadon groaned. "Do you want me to
sign on as well just in case?"
"No, no. That's all right. "One man is fine. I'd rather put
together the party that will ambush them. I'll start gathering the
people right away. I want you to find Liriss and see how the caravan
is doing. Meet me after sunset at the Hungry Shark. Alone."
The caravan grouped in a large camp just outside the town gates.
People ran back and forth in preparation for the next day's departure.
There were at least two dozen wagons standing around, together with at
least that many tents. A few armed men wandered among them.
Making his way between the wagons, Seadon spotted Liriss sitting
by a small fire with two other men. A fat pig hung on the spit over
the flame and periodically one or the other of the men would poke it
with a stick and then turn it over. Seadon hesitated as to whether he
1should approach Liriss with other people around, but soon decided it
would be less obvious if he would call him aside, rather than simply
stand by a wagon, having people walking by stop and look at him.
"Liriss?" he called out, approaching the fire.
The young man turned to look behind him, then recognizing Seadon
said a couple of words to his companions and got up. Seadon waited a
few feet away, not wanting to let the other men have a close look at
him.
"New plans?" Liriss asked him.
"No. Just getting last minute information," Seadon answered.
"We're still leaving at day break," Liriss said. "We're supposed
to have twenty-eight wagons by then and about forty guards."
"Forty?" Seadon asked. "Rohert only has twenty-two men total!"
"Well, I told you last week he's too old for this line of work,"
Liriss motioned. "Things aren't how they were when he was our age."
"In this town you either work with him or against him and the
town guard is after you either way."
"I want him to retire," Liriss said. "Even if I have to convince
him myself. I think I can turn this business around, make a big
profit."
"That's between the two of you," Seadon shrugged. "My only
concern is how we're going to take forty men."
"I've been working on that," Liriss smiled. "The two I was
talking to are all ready on our side."
"Rohert won't like you adding people to the take."
"They're not taking anything."
"So what did you promise them?"
"A piece of the action," Liriss smiled, taking the hilt of his
sword. He pulled it up from the scabbard, "and this is the action." He
slammed the sword back down. "They'll be of use."
"We'll need more than two men," Seadon said, "providing they stay
with us long enough."
"I also took the liberty of obtaining some poison for the
guards," Liriss said. "We will need no more than a dozen men."
"Poison?" Seadon asked. "For forty guards and all the merchants
and travelers?"
"Just enough for the guards on the night watch. We only need to
catch the caravan off guard for Rohert's attack to work."
"All right then. Make sure you're on duty tomorrow night. I'll
tell Deanir your plan."
"Good. I'll be ready."
Seadon scanned the caravan. There'd be more to take on than
Liriss thought. "See you tomorrow night."
The two men walked off in different directions, Liriss putting
together his plans and Seadon pondering how to stop them. Poison was a
new twist. He slowly walked through the city gates, looking at the two
guardsmen patrolling along the road.
Seadon walked over to the side of the road and slowed his pace.
One of the two guardsmen started down the road towards him. Seadon
smiled to himself. "Your place at midnight," he whispered as the guard
passed by him.
Seadon made it to the designated meeting later than he should
have. He spent the evening at the tavern, discussing the plans with
Deanir and later dodged back and forth across town, trying to lose the
spies following him around.
Seadon Rohden was not a criminal. Just the opposite, he was a
town guard. A new one -- only three weeks on the job -- but none the
less, a guard. He came to Dargon when a childhood friend, Glenn
Aposhyan, known here as Adrunian Koren, sent for him a message saying
1that new guardsmen were needed at this frontier town, to which he had
come some five years before.
Seadon, a mere two years younger than his friend, spent his early
years working as a mercenary for hire and guard for a week. It was
just the experience needed to become a town guard, particularly now,
when crime was on the rise and people needed to fight it were looking
for easier, quicker ways to make money.
When the Captain of the Guard heard that a trustworthy man,
unknown in Dargon, was available for hire, it was arranged that a
guard would meet Seadon in Tench, brief him and leave everything else
to fall in as a lucky `coincidence'.
And so Seadon embarked on a month long journey, first to Tench
and then to Dargon, where he would join the criminal underworld and
aid the town guard. It all went well, except that a few days before
reaching town, his wife, Nadya, gave birth to their first child, a
baby girl.
Seadon almost turned back to Tench, willing to forget his new job
and duty, but was reminded by his wife that what he was doing was more
important and she and the girl would manage. This appeal to his sense
of duty convinced Seadon to go on to Dargon, but he could not stop
cursing himself for agreeing to the job when he had a family to think
about.
Having set up his wife and daughter in a boarding house in an
area that happened to be safe, but cheap, Seadon started his job, at
first by watching the market and the docks and later following people
he thought were the individuals associated with the local underworld.
On his fourth day in Dargon, Seadon made contact with a man named
Liriss, a professional cutthroat in his mid twenties, who, by chance,
failed at his attempt to relieve a merchant of his gold and was nearly
apprehended by a pair of guards.
With a lot of luck and careful timing, Seadon aided Liriss in his
escape and having made this friend, was soon pulled into the world of
the underground.
By this time he had done a couple of jobs for the organization
and reflected well in the eyes of Jaipena Rohert, an elderly man who
appeared to be everyone's grandfather on the surface, but on the
inside was the undisputed boss and practically owner of Dargon's
underworld.
Of course Seadon's successes were insured by the town guard. One
or twice each week he would meet with a Lieutenant or even the Captain
of the Guard and make a full report, including plans and projections.
They were all very small, up to now. This was going to be the job in
which Rohert and his men were to fail miserably. The planned raid on
the caravan was just the large event that the Captain had been waiting
for and now, being able to plan for it was going to make all the
difference in the world. The next two days were to deliver the blow
that was going to destroy large scale crime in Dargon.
Seadon walked past the door he was to enter, throwing a careful
glance back. With the street seemingly empty, he turned back to the
building and knocked twice. The door was opened by a plump elderly
woman who quickly ushered him in and rebolted the door. Inside were
four guardsmen, including Adrunian Koren and the Captain of the Guard,
a dignified woman in her late forties with lightly greying hair.
"Where you followed?" she asked Seadon as soon as he was inside.
"I don't think so," he answered. "Deanir has been sending men to
follow me all week, but I think it's sheer jealousy. He wants to
impress his uncle with his good work."
"Is that how you make a report?" Adrunian mocked him.
Seadon straightened out to stand at attention and repeated what
he said, appending a "Ma'am" on the end.
1 The Captain smiled. Formality was not her concern for the moment.
She indicated a chair. "Take a seat." One of the guards helped the old
woman out of the room. She was there only to make it look normal for
passers by outside.
Seadon sat down at the desk next to Adrunian and the Captain sat
opposite to them. The other two guardsmen remained standing.
"What happened? Are they getting ready?"
Seadon shifted in his seat. "The caravan is to be attacked on its
first night out. The plan is to poison the guards and kill those
sleeping."
"How many men are involved?"
"A dozen. Most of them are on their way already. I am to leave
first thing tomorrow morning. They gave me the night to make an excuse
to my wife. They don't know she knows."
"Good. I'll have the caravan master informed tomorrow," Captain
Byer said. "Anything else?"
Seadon shook his head. "A dozen men is about half of Rohert's
resources. If you take them, you'll probably take him...or hurt him
enough to stop him, in the least."
"All right. You did well. Go along with their plan until you know
we're present. Try not to kill anyone."
"Yes, Ma'am," Seadon answered.
"Dismissed, soldier," the Captain said and got up.
Seadon and Adrunian got up as well. "Almost over," Seadon smiled.
"We'll have a lot to talk about when it is," Adrunian said. "Five
years is a long time to catch up on."
"And this time you won't drink me under the table," Seadon
laughed. "I've learned to hold the liquor well."
Adrunian chuckled himself. "It's hard to believe you already have
a daughter. You'll have to age quicker now. Be more responsible."
"I wish I could be home more often," Seadon sighed. "I feel like
I'm hurting them by doing this."
"You best go then," Adrunian told his friend. "You'll be away for
a few days."
Seadon looked over to Captain Byer talking to the two guards. She
nodded her consent for him to leave and he went to the door.
"Give my greetings to Nadya," Adrunian slapped Seadon on the
back. "See you at the raid."
***
Captain Koren took a lengthy sip from the glass. "That was the
last time I saw him."
"And you never found out what happened?" Kalen asked.
"We suspected," the Captain said, "searched, asked questions...
Rohert's nephew had a problem with new people. He was paranoid as
hell. I guess Seadon was followed that night after all... Strange
thing is we never heard of Deanir again either. He must have been
frightened off by the raid."
Kalen nodded. He had no way to comfort his friend's deep wound.
"I'm sorry, Sir."
"Don't call me `sir' in here, Kalen. I chose to have breakfast
with a friend, not a subordinate."
Kalen hid a smile by taking a swallow from his glass. "So you're
sure it's him?"
Koran dug into his pocket and pulled out the ring he found on one
of the bodies. "This is Seadon's wedding band. It's identical to the
one Nadya wore...she was found floating in the ocean a few days after
the raid. Her ring is in my office."
"Maybe we'll learn what happened now that we found the bodies,"
1Kalen said. "We need to identify the other one."
"I hope so," the Captain said. "I want you to reopen the case,
Kalen. I want their killer and I want to know what happened to their
daughter."
"I'll get on it as soon as we get back to the guard house," Kalen
said.
"No you won't," Koren repocketed the ring. "I wasted your entire
morning. Go home and get some rest. I'll leave you instructions for
the evening."
"Yes, Sir," Kalen answered mockingly. He handed the money for the
meal to a passing bar maid and the two men left the tavern. As they
passed a table near their own, the man sitting there studiously looked
down at his half finished meal, then got up, paid and quickly left.
"So they finally found them," Liriss smirked to Kesrin. "I'm glad
you told me. The town guard is so slow these days, you almost forget
they're out to get you."
"Just doing my job, Lord," Kesrin answered. "It sounded like a
story you might want to know...but obviously you already do."
The crime lord leaned back in his chair, a crooked smile frozen
on his face. "Let me tell you, Kesrin, I am that story. It was the
high point of my first few years on the streets.
"After my parents died, I was left to mingle with the slime in
the alleys, until one of Rohert's men made the yearly urchin
collection. Those that could be used were left, myself included; the
rest were sold or drowned -- no one seemed to mind back then and
Rohert considered it a public service -- you couldn't get away with it
these days. The guards keep a firm inventory of the urchins now.
"After some time of picking pockets and picking locks and
climbing through open windows, I gained a position of trust and some
power and started seeing things I did not like. Rohert was soft. It
was like a mouse doing the cat's job. He lost money and people right
and left and his nephew, Deanir, a remarkably ambitious fellow of my
years was just waiting for the family business to fall into his hands.
"I never believed the old man had what it took to control crime
and his little heir was far too greedy to expect reasonable
improvement..."
***
Deanir paced the room in a nervous frenzy, waiting for his uncle
to appear. It was the middle of the night, a day before the biggest
job and he just caught a spy in their ranks. It would be hard to top a
night like this.
"My Lord," a man entered, "we have the prisoner's wife
downstairs. Do you want them together?"
"No, but make sure that they know we have both of them.
Cooperative prisoners are easier to deal with. Let them know they have
a lot to lose."
As the man turned to leave, Rohert entered through a door across
the room. "You hold on there, Bradan," he stopped the guard and turned
to Deanir. "What happened?"
"Seadon Rohden is a spy, uncle," the young man answered, doing
his best to appear relaxed. "I had him followed to a meeting with the
town guard."
"Really?" Rohert paused thinking. "Bring Liriss here. I want to
know just how this man made it in."
"He is with the caravan, uncle. He will lose his job."
"Good. If he loses this one, it will go much worse on him.
They'll be short handed, so they will hire on someone else without
1checking him out. Go now! No. You go, Bradan. I need to speak with
you, Deanir."
Liriss nodded grimly to the information Bradan revealed to him.
The old man was weak, but better not to be crossed. "We have to make
our move tonight," he finally said, having heard all there was to
hear. "Take care of Deanir, then have one of the men loyal to Rohert
take my place with the caravan. The town guard can help me take
control."
"What about Rohert?" Bradan asked.
Liriss smiled. "By morning Dargon will be mine."
The two men soon reached the building Rohert made his base in and
went in different directions, each thinking of how best to accomplish
his task and gain the rewards that a job well done would bring.
Liriss reached his target first. He found Rohert in his office,
sitting in his chair, seemingly asleep. `This is too good to be true,'
flashed through Liriss' mind. He spotted Rohert's eating dagger lying
on the table and picked it up. He contemplated the irony of dying by
one's own tools but as he made it to the other side of the table, the
old man's eyes opened. "You should not leave these unattended, Lord,"
Liriss handed the weapon to his superior.
Rohert eyed him, took the dagger, but did not say a word.
"I was told you wanted to see me," Liriss went on. "Did something
happen?"
"Rohden contacted the town guard."
"Are you sure?" Liriss was surprised at his own surprise. He knew
the facts. It has been quite a surprise when he heard it himself for
the first time from Bradan and that he was able to duplicate that
reaction pleased him.
"Why don't you tell me a little more about him?" the old man went
on, ignoring the counter question.
"He helped me avoid the town guard," Liriss said. "I took him to
a bar, bought drinks. We talked. He told me he was new in town and
looking for a job. I arranged a meeting between him and Deanir. He's
got a wife and daughter. That's about it."
"Did you check on him before arranging that meeting?" Rohert
asked, replacing the eating dagger on the table.
"No, Sir," Liriss said. "I always thought it was the job of the
man doing the hiring. Besides, he was in town for only a few days.
There was no one to ask."
Rohert got up. "And so it is. Rohden is from out of town. He did
not have a rep. Now he does."
"How do you want to handle it?" Liriss asked, realizing Rohert
had no ill plans for him, but it was too late to change his plan.
Another opportunity may not come any time soon.
Rohert went over to the window overlooking the market. It was the
window Liriss would get to know well in the years to come. "We can't
take the caravan if the guards know..."
Liriss picked up the dagger off the table and walked over to the
window as well. "What about the men you sent out yesterday?"
"Send someone out to intercept them," Rohert sighed and turned.
The dagger in Liriss' hand found it's way to the old man's stomach.
"Didn't I tell you not to leave this lying around?" he grinned.
Having sent a man to take Liriss' place, Bradan made his way to
Deanir' personal quarters. In just a few hours these luxurious
apartments would be his very own. The verdict on the current master
was all ready out. It was time for a change of ownership.
As he knocked a young woman opened the door. "Can I help you?"
Bradan drew his sword. "Guess." He followed the woman inside,
1only to find Deanir undressed and in bed. The coward gave up so easily
that there was not even a story left to tell to the grandchildren.
Everything simply fell into place.
***
"And that's all there is," Liriss finished telling the story.
"Rohden was obviously working for someone, though he did not admit it.
He was a strong man. Didn't even crack when we tortured his wife. I
finally had him buried alive under a building. I'm sure his character
made a solid foundation."
A partial smile escaped Kesrin's lips. "What about the other one,
Sir?"
"The other isn't even worth a mention," Liriss said. For some
reason his voice had a pleasant, self gratified tone. "Deanir got on
my nerves so much over those few years that I had him beaten until he
was purple all over, cut his hands off personally and buried him with
Rohden. Let it be said they died in the same war.
"I had to let Bradan go after some time as well. He grew
obnoxiously greedy after a few years. Acted just like Tilden."
Kesrin smiled. "Whatever works, right?"
"That's right," Liriss said. "Drowned Rohden's wife and kept
their girl. My revenge..." He stopped, thinking about the little girl
that grew up in his care. She was a good girl when she was young...
"Do you know who the girl is?" he asked Kesrin.
"No," the man shook his head. The story which Liriss told him was
a good twenty years old and he had no clue which of the twenty year
olds working for him it could be. Liriss had a talent for finding
people, even with the town guard watching his every move.
"Kera," Liriss intoned, his voice sounding like breaking glass.
"I made a mistake at the start...but I will have it fixed."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Campaign for the Laraka: Part II
The Juggernaught Unleashed
by John Doucette and Carlo N. Samson
Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
6 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Lord Morion leaned against the hearth, every muscle in his weary
body crying out for rest. When he was first ushered into the Lord
Mayor's study, he'd been offered wine and a chair by a very
industrious servant. Morion declined rather harshly (the poor servant
had yet to recover from his fright) for he knew that if he stopped for
so much as a few minutes, he would succumb to sleep.
"Where is that man?" Morion said aloud. He adjusted his armour
for the tenth time in as many minutes in a vain attempt to stop its
chafing. He'd been wearing it ever since the battle on the beach north
of Shark's Cove on the last day of Melrin that saw Sir Ailean of
Bivar, Knight Captain of the Northern Marches, and two thousand
Baranurian soldiers die with another seven hundred wounded in a futile
effort to repel the Beinison Empire's amphibious landing there. Morion
was now in command of the twenty-eight hundred survivors he'd led away
from the battle at Ailean's order. Morion had been ruthlessly driving
his men and women towards Gateway Keep in the Royal Duchy. It was
there he intended to make a final stand. Being outnumbered
nine-to-one, all he could hope to do was delay the enemy long enough
for Sir Edward Sothos, the Knight Commander, to gather what forces he
could and prepare Magnus for a siege. Morion knew his chances of
substantially hampering the enemy's progress were slim, but he must
try. Magnus lies one hundred twenty-six leagues beyond Gateway Keep,
less than a three-day forced march. If Morion failed, Baranur was
lost.
The door to the study opened and the Lord Mayor of Port Sevlyn
stepped through to greet his guest. "I apologize for keeping you
waiting so long, Lord Morion. Urgent matters required my attention."
"What matters?" Morion snapped.
"I hardly think that tone is warranted, my Lord. I was seeing to
the Militia's organization."
"I'm sorry, Lord Mayor. It's been a long and disappointing week."
"So your messenger told us," the Lord Mayor said as he crossed
the room to his desk. "Won't you be seated, my Lord?"
"Not to seem ungrateful, but no. I fear if I sat in that chair I
would be asleep in moments. Sleep is a luxury I can't afford."
The Lord Mayor nodded in sympathy. "I understand." He paused for
a moment, clearly reluctant to bring up the next point of discussion.
"When will they arrive?" 'They' referring to the Beinisonian army
coming up the Laraka.
"My scouts say three days," Morion said tonelessly. "Perhaps
more, perhaps less."
"Three--but we can't be ready that soon! I'll have to order the
gates shut now! We won't be able to bring in the food or livestock
from the surrounding farms! Those supplies were necessary to feed your
men.
Still, better to have the sheep in the house causing a stink than
outside feeding the wolves, as they say. We'll just have to tighten
our belts more than anticipated. I suppose we could try getting
supplies in by riverboat at night. What do you think, my Lord?"
Morion had crossed to the study's only window. He stood there
with his back to the Lord Mayor, looking down on the plaza. There was
much activity, none of it to do with buying and selling goods. People
were running this way and that with no apparent purpose other than
1panic. There were a few who did not panic. The soldiers of the Militia
were one group. Morion saw a squad from the Regiment based in Port
Sevlyn tramp hurriedly past on their way to the town's walls, hands
clutching tightly at longswords or busy adjusting straps on their
leather armour. The other group that was immediately visible was a
group of perhaps twenty people energetically loading supplies onto
carts. Morion could see a grey-haired merchant, and a wealthy one at
that, directing the chaos with grim efficiency. A man who knows the
storm is coming and is trying to get what he can to safety, Morion
thought.
Morion had become so lost in his own thoughts that he failed to
notice the Lord Mayor speaking to him. "What was that, Lord Mayor? I'm
afraid I've got a great many things on my mind."
"Perfectly understandable. I asked your Lordship's opinion on
bringing supplies in by riverboat at night."
"I don't think you will be needing extra supplies."
"Not need extra--? We must have more supplies, my Lord. There
simply isn't enough to feed the population and the increased
garrison."
Morion turned from the window to face the Lord Mayor. "There will
be no increased garrison, Lord Mayor," Morion said, the fatigue and
stress of the past six days evident in his voice. "I only stopped here
as long as I have to ask you to order the Militia to come with me."
The Lord Mayor's face went grim. "You mean to abandon us to the
enemy?" he asked with barely suppressed anger.
"You forget who you speak to."
"Forgive me, my Lord," the Lord Mayor said with great sarcasm.
"It was my understanding the Royal Army existed to protect Baranur's
citizens from harm."
"There are reasons for my actions. Not that I am accountable to
you or anyone save myself. But I do not want it said that I callously
left the people of Port Sevlyn to the mercy of the Beinisonians.
You will listen to my reasons, Lord Mayor, in silence." Morion
explained the situation to the Lord Mayor. Port Sevlyn was simply too
large for Morion to adequately defend with the force under his
command. There was nothing else to do but retreat to Gateway Keep.
"You give us to the enemy as you would meat to a pack of wolves!"
the Lord Mayor shouted.
"Yes!" Morion shouted back. "I need time and I'm willing to
sacrifice Port Sevlyn to get it!"
"How dare you!" the Lord Mayor practically screamed. "The King
will hear of your actions. Then let us see how long you keep your head
on your shoulders!"
"If I can't delay that army long enough there will BE no King!"
Morion forcibly quieted himself. "All of Baranur is at stake,
Lord Mayor," he said in a normal tone of voice. "What happens in the
next few days will mean the difference between a chance for survival
and no chance at all. I don't expect unquestioning obedience from you.
You're not a soldier and I know such a sacrifice is alien to you. Give
me the Militia and surrender the city. The Beinisonians might be
delayed half a day figuring out what to do with you. At least it will
be something."
The Lord Mayor of Port Sevlyn looked down at his hands for long
moments. When he spoke, he did so quietly and Morion was forced to
strain to hear him. "You are right when you say I am not a soldier.
From the time of my youth I was being prepared for the day when I
would assume the title of Lord Mayor. For most of my adult life, Port
Sevlyn has been my world. Now it is threatened and I can do nothing
about it and that makes me angry. You have reminded me of my higher
duty to my sovereign. It has been too long since I lived up to that
1obligation."
"I am considered an honourable and just man by most," he said and
then added with a smile: "Even if I drive a hard bargain at times." He
looked up at Morion. The look in his eyes was one of resignation. "I
will do what you ask of me. The Militia will stay here. We shall hold
the enemy as long as we can. And now, if you will excuse me, my Lord,
I have preparations to make." So saying, the Lord Mayor rose and left
the study.
Morion turned back to the window and gazed out upon the doomed
city. The merchant was still there, over-seeing his own preparations.
He'd been joined by two women, one of the same age as he with a regal
beauty that went beyond physical appearance, the other a much younger
vision of the elder. Morion watched the man as he pleaded with his
wife and daughter. He won't leave until his life's work is safe and
they won't leave without him, Morion thought. Finally, after many
minutes of sometimes heated discussion, mother and daughter left for
the docks after tearfully embracing husband and father. The man looked
after them until they were out of sight and then threw himself into
his preparations once more.
"I hope you succeed. I wish you luck." Morion put his helm on,
adjusted his sword and again unsuccessfully tried to relieve the
chafing his armour was giving him. "You knew this was coming, Sir
Edward. You sent too few men to Ailean. The responsibility for this
death and suffering is yours. When next we meet, there will be a
reckoning." Morion turned from the window and stalked out of the
study.
Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
6 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Sir Edward Sothos was having a most peculiar dream. He dreamed he
was in a castle in a kingdom called Baranur and that a very annoying
person was pounding on his door. Wait a moment, he thought, that's no
dream. "Come!"
The door opened and torch-light streamed in, silhouetting a tall
slender figure. "Edward," the figure said, "a messenger has arrived
from Lord Morion."
"All well and good, Jan," Edward said, forgetting in his
half-awake state to address his friend by her nickname, "but is that
any reason to wake me from the first sound sleep I've had in two
weeks?"
"Sir, I assure you this is important."
Edward sighed. Another night's sleep ruined. "Well come in then.
And light a lamp, will you?" Jan closed the door and stumbled over to
the table near Edward's bed. After a few minutes of fumbling, she
managed to light the small battered lamp Edward kept as a momento of
his days as a wandering knight.
Edward squinted slightly, his eyes not yet adjusted to the light.
What he saw made his eyes open wide. Jan was dressed in a nightgown
that did a barely adequate job of concealing her.
"What's the emergency?" Edward asked.
"A messenger has just arrived from Lord Morion, sir," Jan said
tightly.
"Lord Morion?" Edward repeated, a sense of dread coming over him.
"Sir Ailean is dead, sir," she said in a subdued voice.
"Dead?"
"Yes, sir. Lord Morion reports that the Beinisonians landed
approximately twenty thousand men. Ailean stayed behind with a
rear-guard to give Morion time to extricate the bulk of Ailean's
force. His Lordship also informs you that both Regiments of the
1Pyridain Borderers are no more." Jan paused for a moment, reading the
last of the message. "Sixteen thousand Beinisonians are marching down
the Laraka. Heading for Magnus."
"What!?" Edward flung the bedclothes off him and just as quickly
reclaimed them. The shock of hearing of his former squire's death made
him forget he wasn't wearing anything. Jan, blushing furiously,
quickly turned around.
"Commander," Edward said with embarrassment, "perhaps you should
return to your own quarters so that both of us might more
appropriately attire ourselves."
Jan blushed even more furiously than before as she realized what
she was wearing. "Yes, sir," she said and then fled the room, her face
the colour of her hair.
Several minutes later, Edward had just put on his robe when a
nock sounded at his door. "Come!" The door opened and Jan entered the
room, this time attired in a heavy gown she had picked up years ago
during her first and last visit to Dargon City.
"Much less distracting, Coury," he commented, causing Jan to
blush slightly. Edward frowned. Jan's been acting strange lately.
We'll have to talk later. Edward retrieved Morion's message from the
table and sat in a chair while quickly scanning it.
"Nehru's Blood," he cursed softly. "What have I done?"
"Sir?" Jan asked, confused. She sat next to Edward. "Have I
missed something?"
Edward smiled ruefully, the expression softening his scar's
effect. "When Marcellon and I 'found' Luthias in Pyridain, Luthias
told us that he was tortured for information regarding the Laraka's
defenses. He said Beinison was planning a large invasion of the
Laraka. Just how large he wasn't sure. I notified Sir Ailean, may he
know The Reaper's Acceptance, and instructed him to prepare a
reception for the Beinisonians."
"I never thought they would attack so soon. I was certain they
would wait until the storm season was safely past. Just as I thought
they wouldn't attack until spring."
"Surely you can't mean you blame yourself?"
"I am the Knight Commander. Ultimately, EVERY act the Royal Army
undertakes is my responsibility. But in this case...in this case, I
waited too long before ordering the Militia to join Ailean. And now we
face the greatest crisis of the war thus far."
Jan didn't argue with Edward's answer; it was in accordance with
everything her instructors taught her at the Royal Academy. "What are
your orders, sir?"
"Send a messenger after Luthias," Edward said after only a
moment's pause. "Order the General to turn 'round and make for Magnus
with all haste." Edward stood and walked over to a cabinet. He opened
it and sorted through the various maps until he found the one he
wanted.
"Here, Coury. Hold this up against the wall, would you?"
Stretching her arms wide, Jan held the map up while Edward poured over
it. Lost in thought, Edward did not become aware of the intimate
nature of their stance for several minutes. When he did, he quickly
disengaged himself and put the map away.
"Hmmm. Yes. Well. Send a runner to General Wainwright are you
getting all this?"
"Yes, sir," Jan replied. "Sorry, sir."
"Send a runner to General Wainwright. Have him put the garrison
on alert. And wake the King."
"Now?"
"Yes. Now. If the situation becomes any worse, I may have to ask
for the Edict. Go. We don't have much time."
1 "At once, Your Excellency."
Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Lord Morion galloped to the front of the column stalled before
the entrance to Gateway Keep. He'd given instructions for his force to
enter the small fortification situated on the fork of the Laraka where
its mountain tributary joined the larger body of water while he
scouted the surrounding terrain. He'd just finished the two-hour-long
reconnaisance and was looking forward to a hot meal and a warm bed for
the first time in many days. The sight that greeted him now was not
one to gladden his heart or soften his anger.
"What's the delay, Commander?" Morion called as he reigned
sharply in.
"The Castellan refuses to open the gate, my Lord," the senior
Regimental Commander replied.
"Refuses to--have you told him who we are?"
"Yes, my Lord. He says he has orders from the Lord Keeper not to
let us in."
"Ho, Castellan!" Morion shouted up at the wall. "Open this gate!"
"Who's that?" a man called from the battlements.
"Lord Morion of Pentamorlo. Now open this damned gate before I
break it down!"
"I cannot, my Lord. The Lord Keeper has decreed you are not to be
allowed admittance."
"In the name of His Royal Majesty," Morion said through clenched
teeth, "I ORDER you! OPEN THE GATE!" Morion could see indecision on
the Castellan's face. The man turned and sent a runner off to the gods
knew where. After several increasingly tense and angry minutes of
waiting, a young man dressed in robes appeared on the wall next to the
Castellan.
"What seems to be the problem, Lord Morion?" the green-eyed man
asked in a neutral tone.
"My men and I require entrance and this fool won't open the
gate!"
"Then what is the problem? Castellan Ridgewater is following my
orders. I do not want you inside Gateway's walls nor on my lands. Take
your force and leave."
"Perhaps you do not understand the gravity of the situation,"
Morion said, trying hard to remain calm. "There is a large Beinisonian
force headed upriver and they shall surely attack Gateway. Let us in
and perhaps we can hold out long enough for reinforcements to arrive."
"Gateway has no need of your assistance, Lord Morion, we are
quite capable of defending ourselves. If His Majesty scolds you for
not being here, feel free to inform him I acted on my own authority."
Morion straightened somewhat in his saddle. "Lord Keeper, you are
defying the King's order! If you force me to, I will storm the gate."
"I highly doubt that, my Lord. I believe your force would be more
concerned with their own safety," Ne'on said. His nostrils flared and
he seemed to swell with power. In an instant, the ground under
Morion's men turned to molten lava and men and women screamed as the
searing-hot liquid ate at armour and flesh. Then, as suddenly as it
appeared, the lava ceased to exist. "Don't you agree?" Ne'on added, as
the panic among the assembled Regiments subsided. The white-robed
Keeper with the ghostly appearance spoke inaudibly to the Castellan,
and left the wall for his own quarters.
Morion cursed in rage. He could not fight magic as powerful as
this. Nine days he had driven the two thousand eight hundred men and
women under his command at a brutal pace in order to reach Gateway
1Keep ahead of the enemy. And now, all that effort, all that hardship
was for naught. Not knowing what else to do, Morion ordered the senior
Commander to turn the men around and make camp on the south bank by
the ford they'd crossed over the Laraka's tributary.
The Beinisonian juggernaught was coming and Morion's last hope
had been snatched away. When the enemy arrived, he and the men and
women who followed him would die.
"I wish you were here, Kimme. Just to see your face once more."
Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
The Main Body of the Beinisonian Expeditionary Force flowed over
the fields and meadows towards its destination: Port Sevlyn. The Lord
Mayor stood on the battlements and watched them come, rank after rank
after endless rank, the morning sun glinting off weapons and armour.
An unstoppable juggernaught that wanted Port Sevlyn for its own. "But
I shall deny you this city for as long as I am able," the Lord Mayor
said aloud. "You will find us an expensive morsel."
The men and women of the Militia Regiment head-quartered in Port
Sevlyn watched the enemy come as well. All were frightened. Most had
never even trained together, at least not in Regimental strength. They
were light infantry, their armour and weapons their own. Their tunics
were the only pieces of equipment the Royal Army supplied. They faced
an enemy who outnumbered them thirteen-to-one and far out-classed them
in terms of armour. An enemy who knew war because it was their
profession. For all their shortcomings, for all their lack of
professionalism, one very important thing could be said of the
Militia. They didn't run. That said something about the depth of
feeling each had for their homes and family.
Joachim Vasquez lowered the spyglass. They can't have more than
one thousand men, he thought. And light infantry, to boot. This should
be easy. "So why do I have this feeling?"
"Sir?" Colonel Conti asked.
"Nothing, Colonel. Merely thinking out loud." Vasquez sat his
horse for several moments more, staring at Port Sevlyn's walls.
Perhaps they'll listen to reason. "Colonel Conti, get us two shields.
We're going to parley with them."
"My Lord Mayor!" the Commander of the Militia called out. "Two
riders approach under shield of truce!"
The Lord Mayor hurried back up to the walls he had so recently
left. The Beinisonian army had halted it's advance half a league from
the city. Detachments were making their way around Port Sevlyn to the
north. The city would be completely surrounded in an hour.
Two riders bearing white-painted shields rode unhurriedly toward
the walls. The rider on the left wore a scarlet cape. That and the
gilding on his breastplate suggested he was a high-ranking officer.
The second rider, from his appearance, was only slightly inferior to
the first.
The two stopped just inside earshot. The higher-ranking of the
two shouted in barely adequate Baranurian, "I am Field Marshal Joachim
Vasquez, commander of this army. Who commands Port Sevlyn?"
"I do. Lord Mayor of Port Sevlyn."
"Your Worship, will you surrender the city to me?"
"I think not."
"Many will die needlessly. I greatly outnumber you. Should you
force me to attack, I will still take Port Sevlyn. The only difference
will be the number of young men on both sides who will perish."
1 "If you want my city, Field Marshal, you must pay the price. I
assure you it will not be cheap!"
"You will not reconsider?"
"I had thought my meaning plain. Or are you hard of hearing?"
"So be it!" Vasquez wrenched his horse's reins around and rode
back to his troops. Within minutes, the enemy were on the move.
Vasquez had committed perhaps the most grievous sin an officer could
make; he let his emotions get the better of him.
Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Conn Alrod stepped back from the wall as the grappling hook
sailed over the battlements and securely lodged itself. The rope went
taught with tension. Conn stepped forward and looked down. Two
soldiers were climbing up the rope. Conn shook his head in wonder at
their state of mind. He allowed them to get halfway to the top before
cutting the rope free of the grappling hook. The two tumbled to their
deaths.
A ladder clattered against the wall not two feet from where Conn
stood. He ran to the nearest basket of rocks and man-handled it over
to the ladder. Grunting with the effort, he strained and pushed,
finally managing to wrestle it to the top of the battlement. With one
last push, he sent sent it over. He was rewarded by the screams of the
Beinisonians climbing the ladder.
Conn heard a scrabbling sound to his right. A Beinisonian
appeared, gripping the rope of another grappling hook. Conn couldn't
deal with the enemy soldier because more were approaching the top of
the ladder. Cursing in frustration, Conn heaved with all his might,
trying to push the ladder away. No success. The first Beinisonian was
almost to the top.
A soldier of Conn's Company had engaged the Beinisonian on the
rope, who by this time had gained the battlements. A second enemy
soldier had already appeared. The first Beinisonian cut down his
opponent with ease. Conn suppressed an oath. The dead soldier had
celebrated her nineteenth birthday only days before.
A third Beinisonian appeared on the rope. Conn glanced to his
left and saw the first of the enemy soldiers on the ladder reach the
top. Conn did the only thing he could. He ran.
"There! We've gained a foothold!" Field Marshal Vasquez
exclaimed. "Attacking prematurely has caught them off-guard."
"I hope so, sir," Colonel Conti replied. "I hope so."
The Beinisonian wedge was growing alarmingly. Unless it was
contained, and soon, the siege of Port Sevlyn would end very quickly.
Conn shouted frantically for his Senior Sergeant to gather every
available man. "Hurry, Patrick!" Five Baranurians were trying and
failing to hold the wedge.
The Sergeant came running with a squad at his back. He'd had to
seriously deplete the number of men defending the rest of the
Company's frontage to gather this many. Conn drew his sword. "Musn't
keep them waiting, eh, Patrick?"
"No, sir," the big Sergeant agreed, a wide grin on his face.
Conn turned to his men. Filling his lungs with air, he shouted,
"At them, lads! Charge!" Conn threw his band at the wedge with a fury
born of desperation. He lost his sense of time. Everything seemed
covered in a red haze. All Conn knew was that he had to reach the
ladder and push it away. He hacked and stabbed blindly into the
struggling mass of Beinisonians, Patrick Havercamp beside him,
1grinning fiercely all the while.
A sword was thrust at Conn's face. He beat it aside and struck at
his attacker. He felt the blade bite but could not take the time to
see if his opponent was dead or merely wounded. A body fell at his
feet. He stepped over it, concerned
only with reaching his goal. A
Beinisonian appeared in front of him. Conn thrust his sword into his
enemy's abdomen, twisting his wrist to turn the stroke into a killing
one.
Conn ripped his sword free and suddenly, he was at the ladder. A
Beinisonian reached the top of the ladder and stopped, surprised, when
he saw not a friend waiting but a foe. He died, Conn's blood-smeared
blade in his throat.
Confronted with his goal, Conn came back to himself. He sheathed
his sword and bent to the task of pushing the ladder away from the
wall. His back was wide open to attack, but he trusted Patrick to ward
him as he had done in the past.
Conn summoned all his strength and still the ladder wouldn't
budge. He pushed until his face went red and the veins stood out on
his neck and still nothing. He was about to give up and look for an
alternate method when suddenly the ladder moved, seemingly on its own.
It was then Conn became aware that Patrick was beside him helping to
push the ladder away. Conn also noticed the sounds of battle had
diminished somewhat.
"We did it, sir."
Conn sat against the battlements, chest heaving as he took much
needed air into his lungs. "Yes we did," Conn gasped out. When his
breathing was under better control, he heaved himself to his feet.
"What's the bill, Patrick?"
"Ten, sir."
"Damn! Damn damn damn!"
"Captain Alrod!" a voice called from the right. "They're on the
wall again!" Cursing fate, the Commander, the gods, Conn gathered the
ten survivors and led them against the new Beinisonian wedge. It was
going to be a long day.
Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Lord Quillien Thorne sat heavily in his favorite chair. He said
nothing for several minutes, causing his family to worry. "We won't be
leaving," he announced to startled gasps. "The Beinisonians control
the river. Any attempt to leave by ship would be suicide. We'll just
have to wait out the storm."
There was a long moment of silence. The concern on the faces of
his wife Rolanda and his daughter Jannis was plain to see.
"Quillien," Rolanda asked softly, "will the city hold?"
Lord Thorne shook his head gravely. "There's not much chance of a
successful resistance. The enemy is too strong; it's only a matter of
time."
"But we can't just stay here," Jannis said. "What will we do?"
"The only thing we can do," Lord Thorne replied. "Hide in the
vault until this is over."
"And pray that it will be over soon," Rolanda said.
"It's only a matter of time," Commander Karellan said to his
assembled Company commanders. The six Captains and four Senior
Sergeants took the news calmly. They had known what the Commander had
told them since before the battle began. "We lost two hundred men
today. Among them four Captains and six Sergeants. And that was
against perhaps a third of the enemy's force. We'll lose a great many
1more tomorrow.
I know the situation is hopeless, but you must impress upon the
men the importance of continued resistance. It is vital we give Lord
Morion the time he needs to prepare at Gateway. Nothing else matters."
Karellan sat. "Dismissed."
Main Body camp outside Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Joachim Vasquez was not a happy man. He had lost eight hundred
men dead or wounded in the day's fighting. And the worst of it, he
thought bitterly, is that my stupidity is to blame. "I should have
waited until the city was surrounded before I attacked." Colonel Conti
refrained from commenting.
"The scouts report no sign of enemy activity in the countryside,
sir. They don't even seem to be making an attempt to relieve the
garrison."
"These Baranurians are more ruthless than I thought. They know we
must take Port Sevlyn. We can't afford to leave a threat to our supply
line unmolested."
"Then why didn't they reinforce the garrison?"
"Simple, Colonel. They're setting up defenses further along our
route of march. They need time. And they are quite willing to
sacrifice one of their cities to do it." Vasquez looked Conti full in
the face. "We may be in for a longer war than we expected."
Vasquez stood and began pacing back and forth in the small
confines of his tent. He had a most difficult decision to make. The
strain was evident on his face. Finally, after many minutes of
agonized indecision, Vasquez had reconciled his warring emotions.
"Colonel," he said, voice grim, "we must make an example of Port
Sevlyn. As much as I detest this order, I must give it to you. The
Baranurians must be shown the price of resisting us."
"What do you mean, sir?" Conti asked, a cold sensation creeping
up his spine.
"When the city falls, the survivors of the garrison and half the
populace are to be put to the sword."
Conti closed his eyes.
"May Sanar forgive us," Vasquez whispered.
Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
9 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
"With all due respect, Sire, this is not the time for this
discussion."
"It is the only time for this discussion, Edward. If Lord
Morion's report is accurate, the Beinisonians will have reached Port
Sevlyn by now. For all we know, the city may be in enemy hands as we
speak."
"Exactly my point! If Port Sevlyn has fallen, Connall won't be
able to reach Gateway in time to prevent it falling as well. And if
Gateway goes, the enemy will be knocking at Magnus' gates next."
"Yes. Which is why we will discuss this now. While we still have
time."
"Yes, Sire." Edward took a seat in the War Room, formerly used to
house last Nober's Council sessions.
Haralan occupied the seat next to Edward, his long-time friend
and advisor. "Edward," Haralan began, "this is personal. That's why I
wanted us to be alone. You and Commander Courymwen have been seeing
quite a lot of each other lately, haven't you?"
"What do you mean?" Edward asked even though he had a fair idea
1of what Haralan was getting at.
"People--important people--have taken notice of you and Commander
Courymwen's `visits' to some of the taverns and inns in Magnus. There
has been talk. I see you understand the situation. These people have
suggested that your mind isn't on the war."
"That's absurd! Have I not embraced Baranur as my homeland? Did I
not reject my birthright in Galicia? What more must I do to prove I am
no outsider?"
"Easy, Edward. This is me. I know you are loyal to Baranur. But
there are powerful nobles who would like to see you gone and their
candidate in your place. Edward, they may be able to turn your
friendship with your aide into the kind of rumors that destroyed my
niece's marriage. If they succeed, you could well lose all
respectability as Knight Commander. When that happens, you cease to
become an asset. Indeed, you become a liability."
"Is Your Royal Majesty ordering me to terminate my friendship
with Commander Courymwen?" Edward asked formally.
"That would be my last resort. But I will so order if I am forced
to," Haralan said with regret.
"May I be dismissed, Your Royal Majesty?"
Haralan sighed. "Yes. You may" --the sound of a door slamming
interrupted Haralan in mid-sentence-- "go." Haralan sighed once more.
"This is a problem I can do without."
Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
10 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Conn woke to a perfectly sunny day. He'd had a difficult time
sleeping. Lying on hard stone, in leather armour, was not terribly
conducive to a good night's rest. He groaned and wearily hauled
himself to his feet. He turned to look out over the battlements. The
camp fires of the enemy ringed Port Sevlyn. Just over twelve thousand
men were stirring, preparing to once again throw themselves at the
hopelessly outnumbered defenders.
Patrick came over and silently offered his commander and friend
some cheese and half a loaf of bread. Conn ate his breakfast in
silence, staring at the bodies piled up at the base of the wall.
"Today or tomorrow, Patrick."
"Yes, sir."
"I wish I knew if Fayonna was safe."
"Yes, sir."
Suddenly, Conn stiffened. He turned to order the stand to, but
Patrick was already off. He'd seen Conn's reaction and had guessed its
cause. The Beinisonians had finished breakfast and now they wanted to
play.
Main Body camp outside Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
10 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Vasquez's heavy infantry Regiments marched out one hour after
dawn. Conti had passed on the order to make an example out of Port
Sevlyn. The men of the Regiments that had suffered during the previous
day's unsuccessful attack were eager for revenge. The remainder of the
soldiers accepted their orders because they had been trained to.
Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
10 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Conn delivered a backhand chop to the throat of his adversary
that sent the Beinisonian staggering back, his life pouring out onto
1Port Sevlyn's walls. The Beinisonians had attacked with their entire
force, twelve thousand men. The eight hundred or so defenders were
hard pressed to hold them. But by some miracle, hold them they did. It
was already past noon and the third assault on the walls was well
underway. Conn had been fighting for seven hours. To him, it seemed
like an eternity.
The enemy had established fighting wedges at several points along
the wall. Conn and the other Company commanders spent virtually all
their time and energy leading their small reserves against a wedge
whenever one was started. All Conn knew was what was in front of him.
And that was the five or so survivors of the newest wedge on his
Company's section of wall.
"Forward!" Conn snarled and led his fifteen men and women against
the five enemy. His blade seemed a part of him, an extension of his
hand. He reached out towards an enemy soldier, felt resistance, and
then his arm was red up to the elbow.
"Well struck!" Patrick said. Conn hadn't even been fully aware of
what he'd done. It was as if his body was on automatic. He looked
around, leaning on the battlements to give his weary, aching body some
kind of reprieve.
Through a strength born of sheer desperation, the men and women
of the 2nd Quinnat Militia Regiment were keeping the Beinisonian
invaders from gaining a lasting foothold on the walls. But at what
great cost. Many a young Baranurian lay sprawled in death. Many more
were grievously wounded.
Trumpets sounded to the north, east, and west; three notes rising
in successive octaves. The Beinisonians withdrew from the walls,
formed their Regiments into line-of-march, and slowly proceeded to
their encampments surrounding Port Sevlyn, the setting sun casting
shadows over the battlefield. Port Sevlyn had survived another day.
Gortholde's Hall, East Quarter, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
10 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
A large group of soldiers from the Huscarl Regiment known as
Magnus' Maniacs had cleared a space in the centre of the common room
and were heavily involved in a drinking contest that could only be
described as monumental. Thunderous cheers issued from the group
periodically as the contest neared its zenith. None of the other
patrons of the tavern seemed to take notice; it was best not to
attract the Maniacs' attention unless you could fight well, drink
large quantities of ale, and had a somewhat warped sense of humour.
Even then it was usually better for all concerned if you were involved
with them for as brief a time as possible.
Seated in a shadowy corner away from the rest of the patrons was
a man wearing a black tunic over a battered suit of chainmail armour.
A very expensive-looking amulet hung from a chain about his neck. A
tankard sat untouched on the table in front of the dark-haired man.
Incredibly, the man was asleep, completely oblivious to the noise
surrounding him.
A tall, red-haired young woman wearing the blue-and-gold uniform
of The King's Own over a suit of chainmail entered the tavern. She
nodded a greeting to the proprietor as she walked over to the bar to
speak to him.
Gortholde was an aging, retired warrior who had gambled his
life's savings to buy the tavern. The gamble had paid off handsomely
and now Gortholde was well-off, if not wealthy. Most of his customers
were soldiers. Gortholde had a soft spot for those who served in the
Royal Army. Any soldier who frequented his establishment could expect
good drink for low prices. Gortholde's Hall was THE spot for off-duty
1soldiers to relax and unwind after a day's work.
Gortholde stiffened to almost-attention as he answered the
red-haired woman's questions; she wore a Commander's uniform and old
habits do die hard. He pointed in the direction of the black-clad man.
The woman thanked him and proceeded to thread her way through the
revelers, tankard of ale in hand.
She pulled up a chair and sat facing the dark-haired man. Only
then did she realize he was asleep. Smiling and shaking her head, she
rose and went around the table to waken him. "Edward," she said
shaking his shoulder, "wake up."
Edward Sothos woke with a start. "What? Oh. Coury, it's you," he
said with relief.
Jan laughed. "Of course it's me." She returned to her seat. "So.
What do you need to say to me that can't be said at the Castle?"
"Gods, I'm tired."
"You look it. Why don't we go back? You need sleep. This can wait
'till tomorrow, can't it?"
"No. I have to check on the supply situation and brief the King
and his advisors tomorrow. That will keep me busy all day and most of
the night."
"All right then. So?"
"We've known each other for...three years now?"
"Four last month."
"Four years. You're...twenty-four, aren't you?"
"Last Janis," Jan replied.
"Twenty-four and a Commander already. That is quite an
accomplishment for one so young."
"Edward, I'm only eight years younger than you are."
"Not 'till Yule seventeen."
"Okay, so you won't turn thirty-one for another week. Edward, I
don't see where all this is going."
"You are a good officer and I won't--I can't--do anything to harm
your chance for success."
"What do you mean?"
"Jan, there's been talk," Edward said quietly.
"Talk?" Jan repeated, feeling wary. Edward called her Jan only
when he was discussing something serious.
"About us. Certain people have noticed we've been spending time
together recently. There has been gossip that...that we--"
"That we've been sleeping together???" she asked, astonished.
"Yes," Edward said, face lowered. "I'm sorry, Jan. It seems that
some nobles would prefer another Knight Commander and they are willing
to go to great lengths to discredit me. You were caught in the middle.
I am to blame."
"But surely no one would believe these...rumors?"
"They have reached the King's ears. He pointed out that truth has
nothing to do with this situation. If this developes further, a
scandal such as that surrounding Lysanda's marriage could ensue."
"You'd be stripped of your office!" Jan said hoarsely.
"That isn't what I'm concerned about."
"What then?"
"You. I won't have your reputation sullied in this manner."
"What will you do? What can you do?"
Edward stared at the cold fireplace. "If we were in Galicia, my
course of action would be clear."
"What?"
"It doesn't matter. This is not Galicia."
"I want to know. What would you do if this was Galicia?"
Edward turned his head to look his friend straight in the eyes.
"Marry you."
1 Jan nearly dropped her ale. She sat back, too dumbfounded to
speak.
"As I said, this is not Galicia, so the whole idea is moot. I
shall handle matters." Edward rose. "We should go back now."
"I think I'll stay here a while," she said slowly and carefully.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes," she said looking up at Edward. "Go get some sleep."
"Good night, Coury."
"Good night." Jan remained sitting in the dark corner long after
Edward had left, her ale untouched. Edward's statement left her with a
great deal of confused emotions and thoughts to reconcile. Jan stayed
until Gortholde locked up. She went to sleep hours later in her
quarters, nothing resolved.
Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur
11 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Edward stood in front of the wall-map of Baranur in the War Room.
He faced the assembled nobles and began his briefing. "My lords, the
situation in the south is grave. The line from the Westbrook-Pyridain
border south to the sea has been completely shattered." Edward paused
as gasps of astonishment raced through the room. "The Beinisonians
attacked with seventy thousand men, according to the reports. I must
point out, however, that many of the despatches arriving from the
field are confused. Any organization that once existed is now gone.
"Just how bad is it?" a minor scion of House Tallirhan asked.
"The only organized force in the Southern Marches is comprised of
what little forces are in Duchy Westbrook. The remaining Royal Army
forces are running north and west. Lord Kinsley has informed me of his
intention to deny Pyridain City to the enemy to the last. He has the
Duchy's Household troops and the remnants of the Assault Brigade. The
three Regiments fled to the city when the main line broke.
In addition, I have relieved King's General Tegran of his command
in Pyridain and placed all troops under Lord Kinsley's orders." Again
Edward paused, waiting for the storm to break. His wait was a short
one.
"How dare you!" Lord Ethros of House Northfield shouted at the
scarred warrior. "General Tegran is one of the Kingdom's best
soldiers. You have not the right to relieve him! Just who do you think
you are, outlander?"
"I," Edward replied in a cold voice, "am Knight Commander of the
Royal Armies. Tegran is a soldier of that Army and thus subject to my
authority. He was a good warrior once and is now a good administrator.
Administrators will not win this war. Any man who does not perform is
useless to me and a boon to the enemy."
"You are not a native of Baranur! A Baranurian would know how to
honour brave soldiers. A Baranurian would--"
The King interrupted violently, slamming his hand on the table.
"Enough! Sir Edward is not far enough below your station for you to
speak to him so, Lord Ethros! Bickering such as this will get us
nowhere and will only serve to aid the enemy. Sit down and be silent!"
Haralan turned to Edward. "Continue, Sir Edward."
Edward bowed slightly. "The major calamity occurred here," Edward
said, indicating a spot on the map eight leagues from the
Baranur-Beinison border, "at Oron's Crossroads. Best estimates
indicate an enemy force twenty to thirty thousand strong engaged our
main concentration north of the crossroads. Our forces numbered
nineteen thousand five hundred; fifteen thousand Royal Army and
Southern March Militia and four thousand five hundred House forces."
"The battle was an even struggle until Dame Martis ordered a
1withdrawal to a more defensible position. It was at that point that
some nobles refused to comply. Their vainglory would not permit them
to follow orders. The result was that the Royal Army units began a
withdrawal while a significant portion of the House units did not. As
Nehru would have it, the centre of the battle-line was composed
largely of House units. The enemy seized upon our confusion and sent
his cavalry into the breach. The centre disintegrated and the flanks
were left isolated and exposed. Very few Regiments survived to conduct
something even approximating an orderly retreat."
"What's the butcher's bill, sir?" King's General Wainwright
asked.
Edward took a deep breath and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.
"The Combined Host of Baranur has suffered eleven thousand dead,
wounded or captured. The 8th and 10th Baranurian Regulars, 16th and
19th Baranurian Archers, and 1st Pyridain Militia have been wiped out
to the last man and their Colours taken. In addition, the forces of
Houses Equiville, Bivar, Redcrosse, and Othuldane are gone." Only two
men remained unaffected during Edward's recitation of the casualties
suffered; General Wainwright because he was an old soldier and had
seen much during his long and illustrious career, the Duke of Quinnat
because his mind was on matters closer to home.
"Dame Martis gathered what she could and retreated into Duchy
Westbrook. All told, seven Regiments moved into Westbrook. Most are
well-off. The 4th Pyridain Militia is little better than an expanded
Company and has been attached to the 3rd Pyridain Militia to make up
for that Regiment's losses. The 2nd Pyridain Militia has been
destroyed. Their remnants have been attached to the 1st Baranurian
Rangers.
The officers of the Regiments not involved in the battle seem,
for the most part, unable or unwilling to halt their units and face
the enemy. I trust in the ability of the various King's Generals to
bring such action to a halt, but the process will take some time.
Rumors have spread word that the defeat was worse than the men are
being told and the mens' morale has fallen sharply. Rebuilding it will
take some time."
"Aside from the forces under Dame Martis and Duke Araesto's son,
what force have we to oppose the Beinisonians?" the King asked.
"The Equiville and Leftwich Militias and a very few Royal Army
Regiments."
"Good God!" Wainwright exclaimed.
"We may yet need the gods' assistance before this war has run its
course." At that moment, the great double doors opened and a slightly
nervous Daniel Moore entered and slammed to attention. "What is it,
Captain?" Edward asked with a slight trace of concern in his voice.
"Sir, the sentries at Southgate report a sizeable force
approaching the city."
"How large?"
"Regimental strength, sir. Eight hundred to a thousand men, sir."
"How could they have slipped so large a force this far north
un-noticed?"
"It's got to be the vanguard of a larger force, sir," Wainwright
commented, "otherwise the 6th would have dealt with them."
"The 6th--Nehru's Blood! That's who they are! I must have
forgotten to inform the garrison Commanders in the confusion over the
landings on the Laraka."
"Speaking of which," Lord Ethros said, the scorn in his voice
apparent, "what exactly IS the situation?"
Edward ignored Ethros' tone. "Your Grace?" he inquired of Duke
Quinnat. "Would it please Your Grace to make your report?"
Quinnat looked at Edward with tired eyes. When he spoke, his
1voice betrayed weary exhaustion overlying the pain of seeing his lands
occupied. "No, Sir Edward, it would not please me." He sighed. "But I
shall do so. My Ducal Guard and I made a wide sweep to the north of
Shark's Cove. A Regiment garrisons the town and there are two more on
the border with Kiliaen. The Beinisonians are using the town as a
staging area for their Navy as well as the invasion. I had not the
force to attempt an attack so I journeyed to Port Sevlyn. It is under
siege. By how many men, I do not know; we ran into a Battalion of
light infantry, skirmishers. We clashed briefly and I was forced to
retreat further east before swinging south to Magnus. I lost one
hundred and fifty good men that had been serving me for years. I could
gain no other intelligence regarding the enemy."
"Nor have I," Edward commented, resuming control of the briefing.
"The last report I have is from Lord Morion five days ago. He states
that he expected sixteen thousand men to march on Magnus. Given Duke
Quinnat's observations, we can approximate the force besieging Port
Sevlyn at thirteen-to-fourteen thousand. The garrison numbers one
Militia Light Infantry Regiment. I believe we can assume that the city
has fallen and that Gateway shall come under attack very soon."
"Why would they not attack the Crown City directly?" the young
lord of House Tallirhan asked.
"Because Gateway is too large a threat to leave in their rear, my
Lord", Wainwright responded. "Even were they to besiege it, Gateway's
catapults would make the river a death-trap for any ship trying to
sail to Magnus. Indeed, that is the only reason Beinisonian warships
are not anchored off Kheva's Bridge."
"What have we that could stop them?" Ethros asked.
"Lord Morion has taken the survivors Sir Ailean's command to
Gateway. He has the better part of three Regiments. I have ordered
Count Connall to return to Magnus at once. Upon his arrival, he will
be made Knight Captain of the Northern Marches and sent north with the
Hussars.
The Huscarls, Militia, and Legion of Death shall remain in the
city as a safeguard should the Beinisonians by-pass Gateway and
attempt to take the city by storm. That concludes the briefing, my
Lords."
"Thank you, Knight Commander," Haralan said.
"Sire," Edward said, "the 6th Regulars shall arrive shortly. May
I suggest a parade? The 6th have fought the Beinisonians well and I
think they deserve the accolade."
"Very well. We shall meet you at the Warrior's Way in two hours?"
"That would be fine, Your Royal Majesty. Captain Moore?"
Moore, who had been standing unobtrusively behind his commander
since bringing the news of the 6th's arrival, snapped to attention.
"Sir?"
"Have Commander Courymwen turn out the garrison for a formal
parade to take place in two hours. I expect both of you to be
present."
"Sir!"
"Off with you, then."
Moore saluted and left. Haralan stood and those assembled stood
with him. "Good day, gentlemen," he said and departed, the rest bowing
to their sovereign. The nobles left to conduct their personal business
leaving Edward and Wainwright alone.
"What, Artemus?"
"You're pushing yourself too hard. I wasn't going to say
anything, but I must now. You've got to get some sleep."
"Sleep? Sleep?! Artemus, how can I sleep?" Edward turned and
pointed at the wall-map. "Look at it, Artemus! The Beinisonians are
pouring across the southern frontier and I've got nothing to throw at
1them except some Militia units. And up north, they've landed twenty
thousand men on the Laraka. For all intents and purposes, Duchy
Quinnat is under Beinisonian rule. And if that wasn't bad enough,
Magnus is cut off from the sea. I don't know how long the overland
trade routes will be able to handle the city's needs. And you tell me
to sleep?"
"Edward, you must sleep. If you don't, you won't be much use to
anyone. I've watched you since you assumed your post four years ago.
You're good. Very good. But I sometimes wonder if you were cut out for
all this. It seems to me that you would much rather be a simple knight
serving your lord than responsible for warding an entire Kingdom."
"There is some truth to that," Edward admitted. "There are times
that I long for simpler duties and responsibilities. All my life, my
only dream was to serve the Emperor as a Knight of the Imperium. I
suppose that has something to do with it. But that doesn't mean I
don't want this as well. I'm not just serving my King, Artemus.
Haralan is my closest and dearest friend. As long as he wants me as
Knight Commander, I shall gladly fill that role."
Edward paused for a moment and went to stand in front of the huge
map. "Artemus," he said, gazing intently at the huge depiction of
Baranur, "the Kingdom is in grave danger and I don't know that I can
save it." He turned. "I shall die, if need be, to save my friend's
lands, but just between the two of us...we're going to lose this war."
Edward turned back to the map. "And there's not a blessed thing I can
do to stop it."
Wainwright sat his horse, back ramrod straight, his eyes raking
over the massed ranks of the 6th Baranurian Regulars as the
grey-haired veterans paraded through Southgate. The Warrior's Way was
lined with troops. The King's Own in their blue-and-gold dress
uniforms; The Royal Horse Guard, their dark blue dress tunics giving
them an arrogant air; the three Huscarl Regiments in their white
tunics, battle-axes gleaming; the four Militia Regiments standing out
in their scarlet uniforms. All stood rigidly to attention as the eight
hundred and thirty-seven members of the 6th marched by.
The Regulars halted. Speeches were given. The Knight Commander
spoke of the unmatched quality of the 6th and the often over-looked
benefits experience can bring. King Haralan spoke of the admiration
all Baranur had for the brave soldiers of the 6th who alone had fought
the Beinisonians to a bloody stand-still before they were forced to
withdraw.
Wainwright watched Edward all through the proceedings. Just
before they had left the War Room, Wainwright had managed to persuade
Edward to get some rest immediately after the parade. The knight's
revelation to Wainwright that he felt the war lost was probably just
the result of a much delayed, much needed slumber. Wainwright prayed
that was the cause. As a Baranurian, Wainwright refused to accept the
notion that his Kingdom might be conquered. As a soldier, he was
forced to admit the situation looked desperate. Everything hinged upon
events taking place on the Laraka. If Gateway Keep fell, the
Beinisonians could lay siege to Magnus, thus cutting the capital off
from the rest of the Kingdom. And that would mean the death of
Baranur.
The speeches were concluded. The 6th resumed its march, turning
right and passing through the huge gate in the final wall barring
access to the King's Keep. As Wainwright passed through the massive
gate, his thoughts drifted north.
Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
11 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
1
Conn paced back and forth on Port Sevlyn's western wall. He
glanced for the fifth time at the little group huddled at the base of
the wall near a small inn. Patrick saw his commander's glance and gave
him a gesture of reassurance. Conn waved back, secure in the knowledge
that Patrick had Conn's Company ready to move at a moment's notice. My
Company, he thought sadly. Conn's Company had diminished frightfully
since the siege began. There were scare one score left out of the
hundred Conn had led into battle two days previously. Most of the 1st
Quinnat Militia's companies were in the same state.
Commander Karellan had placed Conn in command of the west wall
and given him one third of the Regiment's remaining strength to defend
it. He'd done the same with the two other surviving Captains. All
told, three hundred exhausted men and women warded Quinnat's capital.
They were pitifully few compared to the horde encamped on the plains
before the city.
Port Sevlyn had been a city untouched by the ravages of the
world. One might have said there was a slight touch of innocence to
the place. No longer. War had come to Port Sevlyn and left its brutal
mark. On the walls and the fields near the base of the walls lay one
thousand three hundred corpses, Baranurian and Beinisonian. The blood
of Port Sevlyn's children stained her battlements and towers. The
city, and its inhabitants, would never be the same again.
Conn was growing irritable. It was late afternoon and still the
enemy had not come. He couldn't understand why the Beinisonians had
not attacked. Strangely, he felt himself growing angry that they did
not come. The gut-wrenching fear as a grappling hook thudded home and
the odd joy of battle seemed so much a part of him now that he almost
wished the enemy would attack.
Conn caught a sign of movement from the enemy camp. The
Beinisonian Regiments were on the move again. They marched slowly,
almost sedately, toward the city. Each Regiment was drawn up in three
tightly packed ranks. And waving from stout poles of polished oak flew
each Regiments' Colours, the very heart and soul of a Regiment.
Guarding the Colours were each Regiments' best warriors. Conn counted
the Colours of four Regiments coming at his section of wall. The day's
work was about to begin.
Patrick Havercamp hacked and slashed at the enemy, his face a
mixture of anger and worry. His friend, Conn Alrod, was somewhere
ahead and in trouble. When the Beinisonians had gained the battlements
in two places, Patrick had known it was time to commit the small
reserve Conn had placed under the Sergeant's command.
Now, Patrick and his men were attempting to push the second wedge
back and link up with the small group of soldiers, led by Captain
Alrod, who were valiantly struggling against twice their number some
twenty yards distant.
A Beinisonian lunged at the Sergeant. Patrick side-stepped neatly
and slammed his knee into the man's groin. The Beinisonian doubled
over more from surprise than real pain, but the result was the same.
Patrick grabbed the Beinisonian's chin-strap and roughly bent his head
back. A quick jerk of Patrick's sword and the man's life poured out
his severed jugular.
"Keep at the scum, lads!" Patrick shouted at his men as he tipped
one enemy soldier over the battlements to fall screaming to the ground
below. Patrick scanned the scene of battle and caught a brief glance
of his friend. He was about to shout encouragement when he saw Conn go
down.
Fear and rage chased each other across Patrick's face. He and
Conn had been friends since childhood. When Conn's wife Fayonna gave
1birth, Patrick became the boy's godfather. Patrick had always
protected his friend from danger during their youth and the tendency
naturally extended into adulthood.
Roaring like an enraged bear, the big Sergeant launched himself
toward his friend. He hewed his way through the enemy ranks as a
farmer harvests grain. Some few Beinisonians tried to stop him but he
beat them down and ripped their life away as if they didn't exist.
Their comrades, terrified of this seemingly unstoppable
gore-splattered apparition unleashed in their midst, broke and ran.
Those following behind the Sergeant raised a mighty cheer and
surged forward. There was not a single Beinisonian left alive on the
wall within the space of five minutes.
Patrick knelt beside his friend and gently, carefully removed
Conn's helmet. Patrick gave a heartfelt sigh. The wound that had
felled his Captain was superficial. Patrick leaned over and ripped a
strip of cloth off a dead Beinisonian's tunic and used it to bind his
friend's wound. "Conn," Patrick called. Nothing. "Conn," he called
more forcefully.
Conn groaned and stirred. "Who's there?" he called in a voice
groggy with pain.
"It's me, sir. Patrick."
"I can't see," he said. He reached for his eyes but the Sergeant
restrained him.
"Nothing to worry about, sir. Just a little blood, is all. Be
still and I'll clean it off." Patrick wiped the blood off his friend's
face, making Conn flinch when Patrick came too close to the cut on
Conn's scalp. "Sorry, sir."
Conn waved Patrick's apology aside. "Help me stand." Patrick
lifted Conn to his feet with a gentleness surprising for a man his
size. "Thanks."
"You all right, sir?" Patrick asked with concern.
"Just let me get my strength, Sergeant." Conn rested against
Patrick's bulk, letting the throbbing of his head wound slowly lessen.
After a minute or two, he pushed himself away from Patrick. "Okay,
Patrick. Let's get back to work."
Patrick grinned. "Yes, sir!"
Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
11 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
"Sit, Captain, sit," Commander Karellan told Conn. "How's the
wound?" he asked not unkindly.
"Fine, sir," Conn lied. He felt as if someone was taking a
sledgehammer to his head.
"Good," Karellan said then lapsed into silence.
That can't be the only reason he called me here tonight, Conn
thought. "Sir?"
"Yes?"
"Was there something specific you wanted to speak to me about?"
Karellan sighed. "Yes, Captain, there is." Karellan paused again.
When next he spoke, he looked at a set of figures on a scrap of paper.
"The casualty count's just come in. One hundred twenty-three
effectives including one Senior Sergeant, one Captain and myself." He
looked up at Conn. "Not a very formidable force, is it Alrod?"
"Enough to give those bastards something to remember, sir!"
"That's the whole point, isn't it? Make them pay in blood for
this city."
"It's not going to be pretty when they take the city, is it,
sir?"
"No, Captain, it's not." Karellan ran his fingers through his
1greying hair. "We can't hold the walls any longer. Come daybreak,
we'll pull the men back and wait for the enemy to come." The Commander
rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to banish some of his weariness.
"Alrod, I'm charging you with holding the gate."
"But if we abandon the walls--?"
"What use is there holding the gate? As long as we hold the gate,
and the keep for that matter, we make it that much more difficult for
the enemy to move through the city. They'll be forced to spend the
time to destroy us."
"Yes, sir," Conn replied without much enthusiasm.
"Take Sergeant Havercamp and forty good men and hold the gate,
Conn. Hold it as long as you can and when you think you can't hold any
longer, hold some more."
"Where will you be, sir?"
"The Lord Mayor and I and the rest of the garrison will barricade
ourselves in the keep. We may not last long, but we cannot disgrace
the Duke by giving his home to the invaders without a fight. That's
all," he said, rising from his chair. He gripped Conn's hand in a firm
hold. "Good luck, Captain."
"And to you, sir."
Rolanda Thorne looked up as her husband came through the door.
"Well, Quillien?"
"The news is not good," he said, putting his cloak away. "As I
expected. You'd best have Jannis come in and hear this."
Lady Thorne went to get their daughter. The look on her husband's
face and the tone of his voice frightened her more than she cared to
admit.
"Would it be all right if Tassy and Garrett stayed with us?"
Jannis asked after her father had explained the situation as explained
to him by the Lord Mayor.
"I thought they'd left town, but I heard from Rayna that they
were still here."
"Of course they can stay with us," said Lady Thorne. "Rayna too,
if she wants."
"Okay. I'll go over right now and tell them."
"Be careful, Jannis," Lord Thorne warned. "Take your dagger
along."
"But the invaders haven't gotten into the city yet, Father,"
Jannis replied.
"These are dangerous times," said Lord Thorne. "Do it anyway."
"Just a moment," said Rolanda. She went over to a display cabinet
and took an object off one of the shelves. "Take this."
"Your sundagger?" Jannis asked, accepting the enchanted blade
from her mother.
"When Brynna gave me this I never thought I'd need it," said Lady
Thorne. She instructed her daughter on how to invoke the magic of the
dagger; Jannis listened carefully, then left. Lady Thorne watched her
from the window, wishing that they all were someplace far away from
the conflict.
Main Body camp outside Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
12 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Vasquez stood outside his tent gazing at the pre-dawn sky. Storm
clouds loomed and a chill wind was blowing from the north. A fitting
omen for today's work, Vasquez thought. Today would be the last day,
of that he was certain. Vasquez had lost four hundred more men
yesterday and he knew the defenders had paid dearly also. He expected
1no more than two hundred would face his Regiments when the attack went
in. And then would the soldiers of the Beinisonian Emperor take their
revenge on those sheltering behind Port Sevlyn's walls.
The young Field Marshal splashed his face with cold water and
returned to his tent to finish drafting the report he must send the
Emperor on his reasons for giving the order to destroy Port Sevlyn. As
he set pen to paper, he could hear the shouts of the Sergeants calling
the men from their slumber. The final day of the siege had begun.
Main gate, north wall Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
12 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
Patrick gently shook his Captain awake. "It's morning, sir. Time
for breakfast."
Conn sat up slowly and carefully. The pain from his scalp wound
had lessened only slightly during the night. "What's the fare this
morning?"
"Campaign rations, I'm afraid, sir."
"Well, I suppose it's better than nothing at all."
"Only just, sir."
Conn bit a chunk off the slab of thrice-baked bread and washed it
down with a large mouthful of water. "Have you checked the men?" he
asked his friend.
"I have, sir. They're scared, the lot of them, but they'll do
fine when the time comes, sir. They know this will be the end of it
and there's a few wondering what the enemy's going to do once they're
over the walls."
"Well, let's hope that Vasquez character rides tight reign on his
troops."
"From your lips to God's ears, sir."
"Right, Patrick," Conn said, getting to his feet. "Let's see if
we can get an inspection done before they hit us."
Conn and Patrick walked throughout the barbican, talking to the
men and women, reassuring them that they would fight bravely and well
and reminding them that every second's delay did harm to the enemy.
They were on the wall between the two towers of the barbican when
the Beinisonians began to move. "Okay, Patrick," Conn said turning to
the Sergeant, "down you go."
"But, sir! Don't you think I should stay with you?"
"No, Sergeant. I need a good man to hold the gatehouse. That's
the weakest part of the barbican."
"Yes, sir." Patrick drew himself erect and threw his life-long
friend a salute with parade-ground precision and then hurried down to
the gatehouse.
Conn surveyed the enemy formations closing on the walls. From his
observations, he guessed that no more than one Regiment would attack
the gate. He laughed at the thought. He was so used to fighting off
three and four Regiments at once that one Regiment of a thousand men
hardly seemed worth noticing. War can be absurd at times, he thought.
Main gate, north wall Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur
12 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
"You five! Come with me!" Conn said, leading half the men he'd
put on the wall between the two twenty-foot diameter round towers on
either side of the gatehouse down to the gatehouse itself. With only
forty men to defend two towers, a twenty-foot section of wall, and a
thirty by twenty-foot gatehouse, all of which were collectively named
a barbican, Conn could do nothing but divide his men evenly, ten men
to each area. The towers were holding for the moment and no one as yet
1had thought to assault the wall, preferring to try and batter down the
stout gate below the battlements. The gatehouse, on the other hand,
was in serious trouble.
The enemy had scaled the walls in three score places and were
pouring into the city. The Regiment assigned to wrest the gate away
from its defenders had completely surrounded the barbican and was
concentrating its efforts on the gatehouse. The eleven defenders were
barely holding only because those clamoring to gain entrance outside
the walls were being thwarted by the iron-reinforced oak gate, thus
allowing the commander of the gatehouse to use his entire force
against those Beinisonians who had scaled the wall and were slowly
forcing the portcullis. Even allowing for the confined spaces of the
gatehouse, eleven could not hold out long against one hundred.
Conn led his five into the gatehouse. The enemy had forced the
portcullis halfway up and were getting through in larger and larger
numbers. Four of the defenders were down. The remaining seven were
being slowly pushed back towards the gate. "Follow me!" Conn shouted
and led his men into the fray to bolster the defenders. "Patrick! To
me!"
Patrick cut down his opponent and joined his Captain. "Nice of
you to join us, sir!"
"Can't let you have all the fun!" Conn shouted over the smithy's
din of combat. Conn's head was pounding in time with the blows of the
battering ram being used on the gate.
"What's it like topside?"
"We're holding. Barely, but holding."
Commander Karellan backhanded one Beinisonian with his gauntlet,
sending the man staggering with blood flowing from his broken nose. A
second enemy soldier rushed the disarmed Militia Commander, hoping for
a quick kill and the prestige of defeating the enemy leader.
Karellan backed up and quickly ripped his cloak from his plate
armour and wrapped it around his right arm as a makeshift shield. The
Beinisonian charged, his sword sweeping in a gleaming arc towards the
ex-Royal Army officer. Karellan brought his cloak up to meet the
attack. The Beinisonian's sword cut into the thick cloth and Karellan
quickly entangled his enemy's sword in the now-useless cloak.
Before the Beinisonian could recover and free his sword, Karellan
grabbed the man by the back of the neck and rammed his opponent's face
down into his knee. The enemy soldier fell, stunned. Karellan raised
his foot and smashed his boot down on the unconscious man's neck,
killing him instantly.
He looked around and saw the man whose nose he'd broken coming
after him. Karellan put his shoulder down and charged. He collided
with the man's chest, the momentum of the charge carrying both men to
the edge of the keep's battlements. The Beinisonian scrabbled at the
stone trying to keep from falling. Karellan recovered first. He
planted his hand on the man's chest and shoved, sending him to his
death below.
He stepped back from the battlements' edge and picked up a sword
discarded in the fighting. Not quite what he would have preferred, but
it would serve. Karellan allowed himself a minute of rest before
re-joining the fray. His vantage point afforded him an unobstructed
view of the gate. From the keep, it looked as if the barbican was
being buried in ants. "That's it then," he said to no one in
particular.
"Get back, Patrick!" Conn shouted. Conn had been forced to pull
his men out of the towers and off the wall in order to hold the
gatehouse. Thirty-one men and women, most of them still in their
1teens, were formed into two fighting wedges, one wedge struggling
against the Beinisonians forcing their way past the now-upraised
portcullis, the other preparing to receive the enemy on the other side
of the battered gate being held closed only by Patrick Havercamp's
strength and the gods' help.
The Sergeant turned and ran to the dubious safety of the huddled
group of defenders. Seconds later, the beam holding the gate shut gave
way with a sharp crack and the enemy poured into the gatehouse
shouting a victory paean. Patrick yelled defiance back at his enemy
and led his group against the foe.
The Beinisonians far outnumbered the defenders, but in the
confined space of the gatehouse, superiority of numbers meant nothing.
For several moments, the Baranurians in their leather armour pushed
the enemy steadily backward, the bodies piling up at their feet. But
it could not last. The defenders took casualties as well, and the
Beinisonians had many more men to lose. Weight of armour and years of
experience soon began to take their toll. Now, more and more of those
falling were Baranurian.
Finally, the enemy had compressed the defenders into a small
circle in the centre of the gatehouse. Combat ceased as a figure in
splendidly gilded armour and wearing a scarlet cape fastened by a
platinum clasp strode through the gate. The man, only a few years
older than Conn, made his way to the forefront of his troops.
He gazed for several seconds at the defiant group of Baranurians.
His eyes locked with Conn's and the expression in them was one of
sincere regret and remorse. Slowly, silently, the man raised his sword
in solemn salute and in that instant, Conn knew that no prisoners
would be taken. Conn returned the salute and sent his Fayonna a silent
farewell.
The man shouted a command in a foreign language and the packed
mass of Beinisonians surged forward. One by one the defenders fell
until only Conn Alrod and Patrick Havercamp still stood, fighting
back-to-back as they had so often done during their shared childhood.
Conn hacked and chopped and lunged at the enemy. Facing such
overwhelming numbers in such a small space, he could not help but
connect. Two men fell dead at his feet and another reeled away
clutching his arm before the first of the enemy blades struck. He felt
a sharp stab of pain as an enemy sword bit at his leg. Conn delivered
an attack that was parried and before he could recover, a second blade
had lanced through the ribs on his right side. A third blade stabbed
upward into his face and Conn fell to his knees, the pain unbearable.
A fourth stroke severed his head from his body, ending his pain and
his life.
Patrick felt his friend go down and knew his own time was at
hand. Thus far, he was untouched, a pile of bodies strewn about him.
With his friend gone, the enemy now came at him from all directions.
The big Sergeant flailed about with his sword , but to no avail. He
fell across Conn's dead body, pierced in three places.
With the fall of the gate, the way was now open for the bulk of
the enemy force to enter the city. Regiment after Regiment streamed
through the bloody human wreckage of the gatehouse and fanned out
throughout the city. No mercy would be shown to the inhabitants. Where
initially this had been due to orders, now the cause was revenge. Men
whose bloodlust had been fired by seeing their friends butchered and
bleeding for three days were turned loose on an unsuspecting city.
Their orders were to put half the populace to the sword; their
officers would have a difficult time ensuring the blood-letting did
not go further.
The Regiment battling for control of the keep in the city's
1centre had cleared the battlements of the enemy and its soldiers were
stalking the few remaining defenders through the keep's corridors.
Within the space of half an hour, the last defender had been dragged
out kicking and screaming and then executed.
Quillien Thorne heard the screams issuing from the direction of
the city's gate and the realization of what was happening struck him
like a thunderbolt. He ran throughout the house shouting for everyone
to go immediately to the wine cellar. Once certain that everybody had
gone down to the cellar, Lord Thorne followed.
"What is it Quillien?" Lady Thorne asked with some alarm. "What's
wrong?"
"A massacre! The Beinisonians have begun killing people!"
"Killing people?" Jannis gasped. "Why--what for?"
"Oh gods," muttered Garrett, clenching his fists nervously. "Pack
of animals, all of them. I should've been a warrior instead of a
healer...." His wife Tassy drew close to him and laid her head against
his chest. Rayna turned pale and brought her white lace fan up in
front of her face, as if to shield herself from the horrors of the
situation.
"We'll be safe in the vault until the worst has passed," Lord
Thorne said. He crossed the room to a certain wine rack, reached up
and removed the fifth bottle of Blue Royal from the left. He then
pushed in on the section of wall revealed by removing the bottle.
There was a click and Lord Thorne slid the panel upwards.
The wine rack moved aside to reveal a door on which was set a
silver handle pointing up. Lord Thorne grasped the handle and turned
it clockwise through 270 degrees. Next, he pushed in on the handle and
the door slid silently back, allowing access to the extensive vaults
in which Lord Thorne had hidden the possessions of his merchant house,
the Lands' Rim, when he first learned of the landing at Shark's Cove
twelve days' previously.
Lord Thorne ushered the group into the entrance-room of the
vaults and closed the door. In the cellar, the wine rack slid back
into place. No indication remained that anyone had even been in the
cellar.
Inside the vault, Lord Thorne organized the group and had them
make the entrance-room ready for their stay. The room was thirty-feet
square and had doors on three walls; the wall through which they had
just entered the room and on the walls to the right and left of the
exit door respectively. On the wall opposite the entrance to the
cellar was a mosaic depicting a lone sailor about to cast a harpoon at
an onrushing dragon whale. Mounted above the cellar door was a stuffed
shark's head. Lord Thorne glanced at the head and was satisfied; the
eyes were glowing white, indicating the secondary magical defense was
inactive and it was safe to leave the room at any time.
When the room was presentable, Lord Thorne spoke to his charges.
"I know you are all frightened. We are safe here, they will not find
us. We shall wait for a time and then leave Port Sevlyn."
"Then where will we go?" asked Tassy.
"Magnus. The King must know of what has transpired here. Now get
some rest, all of you. When we leave, we must move quickly." As he
himself made ready to rest, he considered just what burden Fate had
given him; he and his wife had to shepherd this group of young--oh how
young they were!--people through an occupied city and two hundred-plus
leagues of possibly enemy-held and very hostile territory. He was glad
that his son Brannon and his daughter- in-law Caramina had already
left Port Sevlyn on the _Sun Hawk_, his fastest trading vessel. His
other ship, the _Royal Trader_, was on a routine cargo run to Magnus;
he was certain that when her captain heard the news of the invasion he
1would take the ship and its crew to safety. His thoughts then turned
to his oldest daughter Brynna and his young niece Mandi, both of whom
had left on an expedition to the south about a year ago. He hadn't
received word from Brynna in months; he prayed that her quest was
successful, and that her ship wasn't anywhere near Beinison waters.
He knew he could count on his wife and daughter during the rough
times ahead, but of the others he wasn't completely certain. Rayna was
almost the complete opposite of Mandi--quiet, shy, and reserved,
although she had begun to become more open ever since she met Cydric,
a young man on Brynna's crew. Of Tassy and her husband Garrett he had
no idea how they would perform. There were so many details to worry
about. One problem at a time, he thought. One problem at a time.
Several hours later, the group was well-rested and ready for the
start of their long trek. Lord Thorne walked over to the mosaic of the
sailor, reached out and pressed the thumbnail of the man's left hand.
The sound of stone grating on stone issued from the wall and a small
section swung back to reveal a narrow passage leading to the stables.
Thorne lifted a torch from its sconce and proceeded down the
passage, the rest of the group following behind. The passage sloped
gradually upwards and after a short time, the group came to the
entrance to the stables. Thorne opened the secret door and motioned
the rest of his party out of the passage.
They were immediately assaulted by heat and smoke and the sounds
of terrified screams. "It's worse than I thought," Lord Thorne said.
"We'll have to be very careful." Cautiously, he opened the stable
door. The scene before him was one of horror.
A vast column of thick black smoke rose from Port Sevlyn's
northern district. The invaders had fired the poorer section of the
city and seemed to be driving the inhabitants before them. The screams
and the fire were drawing ever closer. The stench of burning flesh
filled the air.
"We'll try and skirt the eastern edge of the fire," Thorne told
the group. "Perhaps in the confusion we can reach the gate
unmolested." The six quickly set off down the street, hoping to avoid
a confrontation. They were remarkably successful, twice having avoided
large groups of Beinisonians with bloodied swords. They had just
turned north for the gate when disaster struck.
The group was proceeding up a narrow street when four soldiers
appeared from an alley and quite literally almost ran into Lord Thorne
and his party. From the look of their armour and weapons, it was
obvious what the four Beinisonians had been doing in the alley.
One of the men said something Thorne couldn't recognize. The
tone, however, was quite clear: "Kill them." Another objected,
indicating Jannis, Tassy, and Rayna. The first seemed to consider his
comrade's comment and then said something that made all four laugh.
During all this, Lord Thorne had attempted to talk his way out of
the predicament. "Good sirs," he said, knowing they couldn't
understand his words but hoping his tone would make his meaning plain.
"Perhaps we can come to an understanding? I have gold and will pay
quite well were you to forget you saw us."
The Beinisonians paid no attention, however. The prospect of
having three young women outweighed any attempt to try and negotiate
with the old man before them. The flash point occurred when a soldier
grabbed Tassy.
Garrett saw the soldier grin wickedly at his wife and immediately
threw aside everything his training as a healer had taught him about
respecting human life. He launched himself at his wife's assailant,
and the two tumbled to the ground.
The other three soldiers were just as stunned as everyone else
1and they took a moment to recover from their disbelief and go to the
aid of their comrade. A soldier was raising his sword to strike
Garrett's head from his shoulders when an intense flash of light sent
all three soldiers staggering, their eyes blinded by the bright light.
Lady Thorne put her sundagger away and stepped away from the
still-struggling figures on the ground.
Despite the Beinisonian's armour, or perhaps because of it,
Garrett worked his way into an advantageous position and had gotten a
strong hold on his adversary. The Beinisonian struggled, but to no
avail. Garrett violently and repeatedly smashed the soldier's head
into the ground; the Beinisonian eventually stopped resisting and went
limp.
"Run!" Lord Thorne shouted. "Quickly! Before they recover!" The
group ran hard for several minutes then slowed to a quick jog. Before
long, they came in sight of the gate. Soldiers formed a protective
cordon that would prevent anyone from entering or leaving unless the
commander at the gate wished it. Thorne brought the group to a halt
and quickly moved them out of sight of the detachment at the gate.
"What do we do now, Father?" Jannis asked.
"Perhaps we can bluff our way through."
"But how?" Lady Thorne asked.
Rayna spoke for the first time. "Why not pass ourselves off as
pilgrims?"
Thorne looked at the young woman with admiration. "That just
might work. We'll do it. All right, everyone, pay attention. We're
going to follow Rayna's suggestion. Let me do all the talking and
don't lose your heads." The last comment had been directed at Garrett.
Lord Thorne calmly led the group out onto the street and
proceeded toward the gate. They were stopped by the soldiers guarding
the gate. One of them sent for his commander and made it clear to
Thorne and his party they were to wait and not to do anything out of
the ordinary.
Thorne waited with growing anxiety. Now was the moment of truth.
An officer dressed in impressively gilded armour and wearing a scarlet
cape walked over to the group flanked by two guards. He spoke briefly
with the soldiers who stopped the group and then asked several
questions of Lord Thorne in perfectly fluent Baranurian. Lord Thorne
grew more and more worried, for it was evident that the officer either
did not believe Thorne's answers or took offense with followers of
Stevene. The questions were becoming harder to deal with and Thorne
knew his party was lost. Just then, the officer questioning the group
was called away.
A second officer with gilding even more impressive than the
first, and whose cape was fastened with a platinum clasp, had called
the first officer to him and the two were now involved in a low
discussion.
"What's the problem, Colonel?" Vasquez asked.
"They say they are heretics, followers of Stevene on a holy
pilgrimmage," Conti replied.
"And?"
"And...they are heretics, sir. That alone condemns them."
"Are you saying they should be killed?"
"No. sir. You know my feeling regarding that subject. But should
we not refuse them permission to leave the city?"
"Are they who they claim?"
"Hard to tell, sir. It is possible they are who they say, but I
find it too much of a coincidence they should be starting a
pilgrimmage now."
"Yes, Colonel. I agree." Vasquez studied the group. From their
look, he was quite sure they were lying. "I'll handle this, Conti."
1Vasquez turned and regarded the spectacle of the flaming city before
him. "Colonel," he said, "the killing has gone on long enough. Round
up a Regim
ent or two and bring order to this madness."
Gow be praised, Conti thought. "What of the fire?"
"Contain it and let it burn itself out. Have the Regiment
assigned to the garrison handle that aspect, Colonel. I want to be
organized and on the march by dawn tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." Conti saluted and departed to carry out his orders.
Vasquez walked over to the group waiting patiently beyond the
cordon. He could see the nervousness on the old man's face. "Go." The
old man's eyes narrowed slightly; clearly he was suspicious of
Vasquez's intentions. "Go," Vasquez said again, not unkindly.
"Thank you, Honored Sir," Thorne said, carefully hiding his
immense relief. "May Stevene smile upon you."
Vasquez watched the group make their way through the
blood-spattered gatehouse and out into the countryside. "Sanar walk
with you," he said quietly. He watched them for several more minutes
and then turned to go about his business. Port Sevlyn had cost him one
thousand nine hundred dead or seriously wounded. With the detachment
of a Regiment to garrison the city, Vasquez would have just under
eleven thousand men to complete the march on Magnus. There was much to
be done by morning.
To the southeast of Port Sevlyn, the soldiers of the Light
Regiments of the B.E.F. turned from their vigilant watch to the south
to watch the black smoke from the dying city climb ever higher into
the sky. The men stared at the marker of Port Sevlyn's funeral pyre
until the Sergeants rather harshly reminded the men of their duty. The
men shrugged and turned to the south once more, keeping watch for the
Regiments of the enemy that weren't coming.
At least, not in their direction.
Not immediately.
Lord Thorne and party made their way east throughout the
remainder of the day, the smoke behind them sending a clear and
unmistakable message to all who could see it; the juggernaught was
unleashed like a wolf among lambs and the wolf was hungry. The
campaign for the Laraka was beginning to heat up.
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1 (C) Copyright August, 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd
<White@DUVM.BitNet>. All rights revert to the authors. These stories may
not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the
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