Chapter 3: Siege (Part 2)

Nogalos, Kingdom of Semidur
Day Seventy-Two of the Siege of Demula

Guard Captain Tamahra Barranon strode through the austere stone hallways of the Semiduroin palace in Nogalos. Passing a spacious window alcove, Tamahra could see the great capital of the Semiduroin sprawling like a jewel into the southern distance, a city of almost a million people. From rooftops and short towers, banners flapped that proclaimed the barons that governed each of the city's twenty-seven barony-districts. From the window, too, Tamahra could see the canopies and crowds of the innumerable bazaars being held at any one time in the squares of the city. He could almost imagine the cries of the vendors and the bawling bargaining of the buyers.

But from this height, at least twenty-five paces above the rest of the city, precious little could be heard save for the gentle whoosh of the spring wind. Tamahra hurried along anew through the empty echoing corridors of the palace, his sense of mission already chiding him for delaying time by that window. He passed servants, rushing in the opposite direction, carrying boxes of cutlery or other assorted items meant for serving guests at a meal. Occasionally, Tamahra would salute the passing members of the royal household that he saw rushing in that same direction. The banquet was beginning; Tamahra quickened into a trot, determined to see the King before he left his apartments to descend into the Grand Diners' Hall where the guests would already be arriving.

Not a moment too soon; he caught His Majesty Rodrano IV at the entrance to his private apartments, his twenty-man guard forming up on either side of him, ready to escort him to the Hall. Stopping in front of Rodrano, Tamahra turned to face his left shoulder to his king, bowed--it was only when permission was expressly granted that one could speak to royalty face to face.

Rodrano signed that Tamahra should speak. Another bow, and Tamahra requested permission to walk beside Rodrano. Granted, and the procession began its stately way to the banqueting hall. 'Your Majesty,' began the guard captain, 'I bring news. A group of adolescents await in the gardens between the Grand Gate and the Inner gate, in answer to your call. I have seen their machie, and if your Majesty permits me to say so, it has great potential for the power you need, and is worth your time seeing.'

Rodrano did not slow down his pace, but his eyes lit up in earnest. 'It has been more than two moons since my son began the siege, and that good-for-nothing has committed so many mistakes that he has allowed the Voruna army to enter their stronghold, knowing full well how impregnable it is, leaving our army powerless to destroy it, mighty as it is. Well, they have come forth, at long last. Someone, at last, from this wide land! And just when I was wondering why no one had come forth at all among the millions I rule. If these have truly come up with something that can breach the walls of Demula then I will gladly double the promised reward.'

'Well, your Majesty, permit me to suggest that the reason why no one has come forth so far is most probably your threat of penalty on those whose ideas failed to live up to your expectations. Furthermore, these young ones came from the far west carting the materials for the engine all the way, on foot.'

'Ah, yes. The penalties. Let us speak no more of it. Guard Captain, lead us to where they wait.' Turning to his seneschal, Rodrano addressed the older man. 'Ardon, go to the banquet and inform the guests to wait at my pleasure, for I wish to attend to this matter first. If they ask further, just say that it is a matter of utmost importance for the kingdom.' Without waiting for his seneschal's bowing withdrawal, Rodrano proceeded onwards. Tamahra hurriedly took the lead before his king, guiding him down from the upper levels of the palace into the public lower levels of the compound and into the inner courtyard. Behind them towered the edifice of the palace, its inner half built upon a rocky hill leading to a cliff precipitating into the raging northern sea.

Ahead of them, the Inner Gate loomed, eight paces high in a strong masonry-and-brick wall of twelve tall, set with gold and bronze. The four guards at the gatesaluted as they recognised the King in the failing light and beginning flickerings of the first suddenly-manifest torches. Beyond the inner walls lay secondary buildings and servant's quarter, and flanking the two-hundred-pace path to the Grand Gate, a great garden stretched for the same length to either side. Halfway down the path, as the entourage moved past an obscuring stand of trees, Rodrano saw it.

A massive contraption stood in a clearing next to a small grove of maples. A rectangular base of massive wooden beams stood on four great wheels rimmed with a thin layer of copper. A great arm stretched vertically upwards from the base, terminating in a metal cup huge enough for a man to curl up within. A rope as thick as a wrist joined the arm to a huge winch at the back of the machine. As Rodrano drew closer to the machine, he espied a pile of huge stone balls lying next to a pulley system clearly designed for lifting the boulders into the cup. The entire siege engine's size astounded him, towering three times his height.

As he approached, a group of teens resting on the ground spotted the soldiers making their way over, and hustled into frantic action. They numbered about ten, and seemed only to be about sixteen years of age. One hurried up to the approaching men.

'Your majesty, we are ready for the demonstration. We will not fail you.'

Chapter 3: Siege (Part 1)

The wispy dust cloud rising above the hills bordering the Demula plains was the first warning Horusha had of the approach of the Semiduroin army. His sharp eyesight, honed by many years with the bow and arrow, estimated the distance, automatically, at eight karas; less than three hours’ march away, now. Silently offering well wishes, the gate commander of Demula’s gate fortress, the linchpin of the entire defense, hurried up one of the narrow spiralling stairs of the fortress, up into the keep in the centre the fort, and into the round tower at its very top, commanding a dizzying view of the entire plain before the Voruna capital, brightly lighted in the noon sun, high at its zenith.

He hoisted two flags up on the flagpole that stood high above the tip of the tower’s conical roof, bright red over bright yellow, the signal to the Prince, waiting in the citadel, that the enemy was near. The red below the yellow would mean that the enemy could be seen; time enough for that in a while. From one of the arrowslits he viewed the reply that was hoisted above the citadel’s highest tower—an Erennin banner, with a yellow flag above it. With the signal to defend the wall, the citadel gates opened, and men dashed out of it, fully armoured, racing to their places, while the city became a hive of action, men who were off-duty racing to their assembly grounds just behind the walls, doors of inns and houses and shops banging open as they raced to action. The walls quickly filled up with men; the twenty-pace wide ramparts upon the cliffs only sparsely defended, with ten soldiers every ten paces, but the fortresses guarding the gate, the harbour and the areas without cliffs east of the gate swarming with thousands of men, all holding falxes or waiting with shield and sword and spear to meet the assault against the forbidding walls protecting entry into the city. The womenfolk were nowhere to be found, mainly because Talamioros had ordered that they remain in their houses unless it be set on fire. From his high vantage point he could see the cloud of dust drawing nearer; already it seemed to be only two hills away from entering the plains.

The last five karas’ approach to the walls of Demula were made across the open grassland, and despite himself, a veteran of Falcorea Field and earlier, Horusha shuddered as he saw the black mass slowly making its crawl towards the isthmus connecting the city to the mainland. The Semiduroin were slightly shorter on average than the Erennin, slightly darker, and still slightly wild; like the Ismaransi if they had adopted military tactics, removed the tattoos from their bodies and put on proper clothes. Many of them carried ladders for the escalade, thirty paces in length, they were heavy and strong and required ten men to carry, wide enough for three men to climb side by side. Just in front of them were several thousand archers, their bows held at the ready, full quivers hanging at their side, or on their backs. Here and there he could see huge rams, tree trunks occasionally sheathed with bronze, being transported on carts. The Semiduroin were armed with a veritable arsenal of weapons, the spear being predominant, but swords, some obviously looted from Erennin corpses, and hatchets, of various shapes and sizes, were also easily seen among the crowds. They advanced in a neat line, forming up into battalions of thousands, arranging themselves in huge blocks on the plain, archers in front, ladders behind, and the assault troops following behind. Each carried a standard; their discipline was equal to the Erennin troops, standing silently, waiting for orders to move towards the walls of the massive gate fortress facing them.

Horusha heard someone calling his name. “What is it?” He yelled down to the soldier on the keep’s roof, just outside the lofty tower.

“Prince Talamioros is here, commander. He wishes to see the fortress commander.”

“Tell him I’ll be right down.”

Hurrying down the stairs, he exited the keep. Talamioros was standing at the battlements between the two great towers, holding a falx and a small buckler, his sword belted to his waist. He was well-armoured and helmetted. His recognisable grey warhorse was tethered to one of the parapet's merlons; it had surely come up by one of the wider staircases built into the walls—no spiral staircase in the fortress could possibly accommodate a horse. He was chatting with two of the soldiers standing at the battlements, but stopped as soon as Horusha approached. As soon as the fortress commander was aware the Prince had noticed him, he snapped to attention and saluted.

“I’m here to look at the enemy, and to see how the fortress holds out against them. Also, as you can see,” Talamioros said, hefting his falx, “I also wish to try my hand at fighting, although my job demands that I should stay out of combat. But I cannot resist.” He smiled, a broad grin that made Horusha notice that the prince was glowing, almost exuding a palpable energy that raised the spirits of everyone around him, increasing their confidence and making them grip their weapons with a restive impatience. “Also, more importantly, I believe my commanders should know what it is I plan. I came to tell you of it.

“You will have a thousand soldiers here in the fortress, five hundred on the walls to either side of the fortress, and another four hundred in the two great towers at the other ends of the sectors of wall.” He pointed to the left and right, at two towers, twenty paces tall and wide enough to hold over a hundred men each at the top level, that stood on top of cliffs that jutted out alongside the isthmus, so sited that any assault force would not only come under fire from the fortress but also from the towers, enfilading into their sides. Already the towers bristled with bowmen; the walls were covered with many more. Along the walls joining the towers to the fortress, too, a triple line of archers stood, ready to unleash devastating fire upon the enemy, protected from attack themselves by cliffs, already five paces high, just to either side of the fortress. Behind them, strewn across the spacious wall-tops, whole bundles of arrows, spare bow strings and bows were placed, ready for use. More were stored in the corridors and rooms that spread like a warren through the walls. Men were beginning to assemble the great crossbows that would fire stones, bolts and assorted other projectiles at the attacking enemy.

“You will fight with these men; every three hours your men will be replaced by another unit of identical numbers. You yourself will be replaced every six hours. The crossbow crews will be replaced every six hours, with you. If you need reinforcements, hoist a signal; I will be in the tower at the Great Circle in the centre of the city. I must be kept informed of what is going on, when I am not myself here already, fighting. I don’t suppose you need me to tell you that this is the most important point of the defence; if this falls and we cannot defend the breach, then Demula has fallen. You can rest assured as long as I have reinforcements I will give this fortress priority. I have a surprise in store for the Semiduroin once they have been weakened throwing themselves against these walls—and throw themselves against it they will. They have no other choice.”

Horusha nodded. Talamioros patted him on the shoulder, his palm making a sonorous ringing noise against the bronze armour. “I will remain on the wall; but not in command of the fortress. You will command as if I was just an ordinary soldier. I’ll leave when I want to, of course, but till then, you are the general.”

Then Talamioros went to join the soldiers waiting in their squads of ten, behind the lines of archers standing at the wall’s edge, and the conversation was over. Horusha returned to the keep roof, from where he could easily shout orders and be heard, and see the enemy’s actions with ease. Archers already lined the battlements five deep at every single place on the keep that could give them a view of the enemy, and up on the fortress towers, which the keep roof just managed to draw level with, several hundred more archers clustered, both on the main roof and in the smaller towers rising yet a few more paces in the centre of the already lofty constructions. Picking up a bow and a quiver of arrows from a pile of spares, he moved through the archer lines to the forefront. A Royal Guard, he nevertheless was equally skilled with blade and bow; and he preferred the bow to the sword these days, to be frank.

Horusha viewed with some impassivity the three battalions of men breaking away from the lines of squares darkening the plain. Moving quickly towards the isthmus, Horusha quickly calculated the distance, realised that the leading battalion were already within range ten minutes ago, when they were still almost four hundred paces away. The height of the fortress had imparted a mighty advantage to the archers’ range. Nocking an arrow to his bow, he raised it up into the air, shouting, ‘Archers on the lower wall, take aim at the archers in the front! The rest aim at the troops!’

The order was passed on, and in seconds every single bow from flank tower to wall to fortress was lowered to aim into the solid mass of men moving towards the gate, the bowstrings stretched taut, ready to unleash death upon enemy. Normally they would have raised their bows at this range, to make the arrows fly farther; but at this range that was hardly necessary; direct aiming and firing would suffice. The enemy began to dismantle the palisades set up in front of the gates, the entire assault slowed. Three thousand men were held up by a thin screen of wood, and the delay, as well as the very formation itself, men packed together in a solid mass as if they were in battle, would prove to be their undoing. Horusha did not hear the order he gave to fire; he was busy aiming into the mass of men taking axes to the wood. When the order came, the loud thwap of bowstrings sent a storm of arrows straight into the men, all aimed shots. The first row of archers, who had been the only ones firing, moved to the back through gaps in the lines, and the second row immediately fired. In an endless cycle, a hail of shot rained without respite upon the hapless Semiduroin down below, who, faced with such accurate fire from front, right, and left, broke and fled, throwing down their ladders and running, only to be cut down by aimed shots from marksmen in the towers.

The first palisade was down; not a single Erennin had yet fallen, whether by swordcut or arrow. But the Semiduroin had already lost most of their three battalions; Horusha could only count some seven hundred staggering, even crawling back to the lines. Some were still staggering and falling, an arrow in their backs where none had existed before. A man on a white horse rode up to the survivors; he seemed to be speaking to them. Riding through the battalions, he set five more in motion, gesturing wildly. This time the battalions came on at a slow jog as Horusha unleashed the arrows again, in flights this time, rather than row by row of archers. The arrows tore apart their attempt at covering their formations with shields, but they came on this time, determined to break through and assault the gates at all costs. Another five thousand more came running up to reinforce the attack; by sheer weight of numbers the assault force won through the palisades, even while being enfiladed by deadly, and now almost point-blank, fire. Arrows began shooting up from the Semiduroin formation as the ladder-carriers reached the walls. An arrow took an archer in the throat just four paces away from Horusha, and he quickly moved back to safety, conspicuous as he was, the only heavily-armoured archer on the walls. Raising the ponderous weight of the ladder took all ten men’s efforts, but eventually the first lines of men began climbing up the ladders.

‘Archers on the lower wall, continue firing from the keep! Soldiers to the front!’

As Horusha’s voice rang out above, the squads and companies waiting behind the archers quickly ran forward, arranging themselves loosely before the walls as the archers filed back through the soldiers, into the keep, from which they maintained a deadly fire through the arrowslits and battlements at the Semiduroin appearing above the walls. The assault was already beginning to falter; yet more Semiduroin came up, another five thousand of them. This time, though, their archers, protected first by shields, then by a breastwork of grotesquely mutilated bodies, gathered together and engaged the men on the flanking walls and towers in an arrow duel. As the arrow-storm falling on the Thelomanni slackened, a ragged cheer rose among the enemy, quickly gaining strength as they surged forward with new energy, racing up the ladders to engage the Erennin in battle.

The instant Talamioros saw the first ladder come up against the battlements, he moved to take his position before it, raising his falx to one side, ready to swing with all his force. The first heads appeared, they came three at a time. His swinging falx took off the heads of two of the men, an arrow streaked over his shoulder to lodge in the throat of the third with a soft thud. All three fell off the ladder at the same time, tumbling down into the mass of men waiting to ascend, eliciting mild screams and shouts of fright.

The crossbows were assembled; they began pouring forth an amazing volume of stones and bolts at the army waiting to ascend the walls. The arrows were taking their toll, but now that shields were raised and some Erennin archers had been killed, fewer fell, but still, some four thousand already lay dead, many had an arrow or two sticking into them.

All around Talamioros the battle was raging; he had been forced away from the ladders, and now men were pouring onto the fort. His falx had made the Semiduroin pay heavily, swings regular as pendulums beheading almost a hundred before one had managed to block his swing, leaping onto the battlements to engage the prince in combat. He was a good one, very good, in fact.

Talamioros found himself pressed back, away from the ladder where more Semiduroin were now leaping across the battlements to meet sword with sword. He had eventually killed the man; but not without a cut along his left upper arm that had long stopped bleeding, but still faintly throbbed. Dancing his deadly way through the noise and rage of fighting men and the whistle and thuds of crossbows and bows firing hotly, he retreived his shield. Holding the falx one-handed, he slashed his way through the crowd of Semiduroin, clearing a huge radius around his sweeping sickle blade into which no Thelomanni dared to enter. Lopping off a few more heads that appeared above the ladder for good measure, Talamioros dashed back into the fray.

There were almost twice the Semiduroin on the walls now as there were Erennin, but yet more were coming; the almost endless stream of men clogging the isthmus was not breaking and running, the arrows were not falling fast enough even though there were enough arrows left to kill the Semiduroin army twenty times over. Talamioros dashed towards the keep; the door was hurriedly opened for him, then shut again. Horusha was waiting for him; Talamioros shouted so that all the archers could hear.

“I want you to get burning brands. Set your arrows on fire and shoot them so that they lodge in the ladders. I want those ladders on fire. Now! This’ll never end, otherwise.”

As Talamioros dashed down to the ground floor, he observed from the corner of his eye arrows with flaming cloths dipped in pitch tied to them embedding themselves with a thwock into the ladders. With a nod he raced out of the fort, to the first assembly point, among some buildings thirty paces from the gate fortress proper. About a thousand men were waiting there, in the streets and in the buildings. They stood up and saluted as soon as Talamioros came into view.
“We need reinforcement. Go up to the gate fortress now. One of you, go get the next reinforcement group to move up. Hurry! We’re losing the fight.”

As the thousand men clattered off towards the gatefortress, Talamioros paused to wipe the blood off his falx, then followed. It was not going well; the defenders were being forced back towards the keep, and their numbers had seriously dwindled. The timely arrival of the thousand men, debouching from the numerous staircases hidden within the keep, behind the towers and simply in trapdoors in the floor, slowly, but gradually turned the tide as more and more of them appeared. When Talamioros joined in too, the defenders took heart once again, and with a cheer, they forced the enemy back. Forming a shieldwall across the fortress’ roof, the reinforcements, still holding their spears, advanced phalanx style while the survivors of the original group regrouped behind. Meanwhile, almost like a miniature Falcorea, Talamioros and the Guards among the reinforcements waded into the midst of the enemy, carving through them with falxes and swords. After what seemed like two hours, the last Semiduroin surrendered to the Erennin. Without ladders remaining, the only ones against the wall charred and burnt—the fire-arrows had been most efficacious—there remained nothing to do but for the enemy to retreat in utter disorder, pursued all the while by the arrows of the Erennin, once again fired with deadly accuracy.

Talamioros was covered in blood; little of it was his. Raising his falx, he roared, a wordless shout of triumph. And, among the littered dead, the survivors cheered as the arrows streaked past them overhead into the backs of the shattered Thelomanni.

Chapter 2: Departures (Part 7)

Demula had been transformed by the time the ships from Maksuma returned to the harbour, disgorging its cargo of men and horses. The walls were covered with wooden roofs that would protect the men from arrows fired at them. The people in the city were busy bringing in food and supplies, piling up stacks of wood and stones near the walls to be used as missiles. The womenfolk were busy making arrows under the careful eyes of the fletchers, while day and night the forges rang as armour was forged for the men rushing from all corners of Erennia to enlist. With the arrival of the survivors from Lamauk and the remainder of the Guard from Ylldelia, there were now almost fifty thousand soldiers within the walls of Demula, almost equal to the capital’s population, as well as another three thousand marines that could be called to the defence of the city if need be. It was becoming slightly crowded, and still the stream of men from the plains showed no signs of stopping.

With the armour, too, swords were being forged, straight blades as long as a forearm with wicked diamond points, and long falxes, blades like scythes half a pace long fixed onto a long hilt the same length, sharpened along the concave edge, powerful enough to take a head off with one swing. Talamioros had rewarded the soldier who had come up with the design for that weapon a week back, immediately giving a sack of gold to him and ordering production to commence.
Talamioros was sure they, the Thelomanni, would come for Demula; they now knew where the Erennin army was, and they would never leave an army undefeated behind them. Yet another rider had come from Maksuma three days ago, reporting that the Semiduroin had entered Maksuma in triumph a week ago, and were marching with all speed to assault Demula’s wide walls with their all their might.

The gate fortress facing the neck of land was the key to the defence; the rest of the city’s walls being located on sheer cliffs twenty paces high on average. Talamioros often walked around inspecting the defences, admiring with awe the amount of money and effort the Voruna had spent preparing Demula; it was obvious that the walls, an unbelievable twenty paces thick, had been hewn from the solid bedrock of the cliffs, not merely built on the plateau. In fact, the entire city had been levelled from the plateau, which originally stood at least ten paces higher. It was an amazing amount of rock they had moved, and the stone now stood in piles behind the walls, ready to fly forth at the enemy that dared to assault the city. The prince had, on one occasion, asked Lalikai, “How old is Demula? When did Arboru build it?”

“Oh, he commanded it built about a year after he first arrived in Arboriel…Demula took a very long time to build. It’s only been about four years since the city was completed.” Talamioros could only gape as he imagined thousands of people swarming over the land with hammers and chisels to pry stones out of the ground, levelling it and shaping the smooth walls that now surrounded Demula in the form of fortresses and walls.

Talamioros could see the Erennin fleet about a kara out to sea from the northern towers, keeping watch on the harbour in case the Semiduroin attempted to blockade the harbour in an attempt to starve the Erennin out. He had spent many nights in council with Lalikai and the other commanders in the army, poring over the maps of Demula and the surroundings, trying to puzzle out what the Semiduroin would try to do to take the capital and destroy the army.
Soldiers who later saw Talamioros coming out of the citadel, often after going in at night, would say he was tired, but radiant, and almost triumphant. They also noted the absence of women entering his apartments at night when everyone of them was enjoying themselves with the womenfolk after waiting for the army to arrive. He was committed and his eyes burnt with power and the strength of command; none who saw him doubted their commander’s abilities, and every single soldier, and even the citizens, put their faith in him. Surely, here was the man to defend Demula. If not him, then who else?

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The scouts returned to the encampment late in the evening. “My prince! They are there in Demula. There are fifty thousand of them inside the walls, and they have been well supplied. The city walls are well-defended, and they have many warships in the harbour.”

Liocana, crown prince of the Semiduroin, flapped his reins irritably as he sat on his horse, watching the massive army he had brought with him pack up their tents and get into line of march. They were amazingly slow at getting into order and no matter how many times he had taken the unit commanders to task he had not seen any improvement in speed. He turned his attention back to the scouts waiting expectantly for his question.

“I sent four of you. Why did only three come back?”

“We managed to get Uryk into the city, my prince. He is going to enlist as a soldier and be our spy.”

“Impressive thinking on your part; he might be useful in opening the gates of the city later on. He will be rewarded for the danger he has chosen to face. Return to the cavalry. We march.”
Riding down the long line of soldiers beginning their long shuffle towards Demula, Liocana told them then everything the scouts had told him; he believed in letting his army know what they faced. He was confident of victory; after all, he had received thirty thousand more men in reinforcements from his father the king just two days ago, together with so much of last year’s surplus harvest that surely he was carrying the entire country’s granaries with him in carts behind his army. With his soldiers now safely in excess of a hundred thousand in strength, he would be able to overwhelm the enemy by sheer numbers, not to mention confidence.

“The enemy capital is just half a day’s march away! If we capture the city, we conquer the country, and its gold mines. It means riches for all of you, riches and slaves to make you own lives so much more comfortable. We must take the city by assault; we may not starve them out. We have no fleet; we cannot surround and starve them out. Therefore let every man gird himself strongly and bravely race to the attack! We have defeated their army in open battle and taken two defended cities. How much more difficult can this city be to take?”

A cheer followed the crown prince as he galloped back to the end of the almost two-kara-long line, and the Semiduroin army wended their way through the hills to their final objective. They feared nothing now; after all, what was another city when the previous few had fallen so easily?

Chapter 2: Departures (Part 6)

Aragin tossed fitfully on his bed. He could not sleep; everytime he tried the memories would return, and even on those occasions when he managed to drift reluctantly into the Land of Dreams, he would be plagued by dreams harping on it. Aragin had been at Lamauk, a boy who had never taken up a spear before. The moon shone its cold light on his face, and its disc seemed a face of pity, filled with pain. He stared at it, his forehead glistening with sweat, breathing steadily and not moving. Slowly, his eyelids drooped and he drifted off into sleep again, for the third time that night.

The Erennins had marched out of their camp early in the morning, twenty five thousand strong, their horsemen leading the long line, the soldiers turning to the left and right, ten rows at a time, marching off to the opposite ends of the line, until a long line of spearmen faced the Semiduroin on the planned battlefield, just across the river from the village of Lamauk. In front of them was a plain, in the distance of which could be seen the Thelomanni camp. Quickly, the enemy arrayed his forces, marching out of the camp quickly and in order.

To everyone’s horror, the enemy was not at all like the Ismaransi—they were perfectly disciplined, and all carried spears, like the Erennin. They stood in rank and file like the Erennin, and some even wore Erennin breastplates with the crossed crescents blazoned on the front, undoubtedly looted from the dead in Abubey. Their phalanx was far deeper than the Erennin. They marched forward resolutely, their horsemen thundering forward to open the battle while the enemy footmen were still two hundred paces away. Outnumbered, the Erennin horsemen were struck to flight, chased off the field by the Thelomanni. They gave a good account of themselves that day, killing more than being killed.

But it was no use; they fled off the field, and without the cavalry, the foot were left to face the full assault of the enemy’s eighty thousand foot—surely there must be that many, at least. As soon as the first Erennin arrows began falling among the Semiduroin, they raised a fearsome cry and raced towards the Erennin lines, still in formation, staying close together, spears at the ready to strike. Sarian led the Erennin forward, countercharging the Semiduroin—to allow the Erennin to receive the shock of impact stationary was suicidal. The two sides met with a fearsome crash, many men being knocked off their feet, others sent flying over the heads of others, the slightly spread-out lines of men suddenly compressing at the meeting, the rear ranks pushing on the front ranks, each trying to stab at the throats of the other, or stab somewhere, simply put. They held ground, the Erennin held their ground, not giving it up without a fight. Many hundreds fell on both sides, more on the Thelomanni because of their poorer armour. The Erennin had become proficient at aiming their spear thrusts, and many of the enemy went down with wounds in their chests, just next to the square armour plate protecting their chests. But it was not enough; even though every Erennin took down three Thelomanni with him, it was still not enough, and the shoving certainly went the way of the Thelomanni, whose thicker phalanx meant more people shoving at the Erennin line than the other way round.

The centre of the Erennin line bent backwards, the soldiers taking step after step backwards to prevent being pushed under the churning sandals of the armies, struggling for purchase on the morning dew-slick grass. Then, like a monster rising from its sleep, in response to an unheard command the Semiduroin closed ranks, filling in the gaps in their lines, and stepped forward, pushing against the mighty effort of the Erennin. It was at about this time that Sarian fell beneath the feet of the enemy, and a great cry went through the Erennin.

“Haihai! Haihai!” With every cry the Semiduroin edged forward, left foot leading. With each almighty push Erennin fell beneath their shields, to be stabbed to death or simply crushed under the milling mass of feet both Semiduroin and Erennin.

By afternoon it was over; the bulge that the Semiduroin had pushed into the Erennin line burst, the Erennin line breaking in the centre, its soldiers streaming away in fear and fright, throwing down their weapons and only holding on to their shields, running from the field of battle on which the Semiduroin were rejoicing, victorious. Some of the Semiduroin in the rear ranks had tried to pursue them, only to be cut down as groups of men banded together to face them; but the vast majority had been tired enough that they were perfectly satisfied with catching their breath and occupying the field of battle while their priests came up from camp to offer praise to their gods.
It was providence that the enemy cavalry had long pursued the Erennin horsemen far away; if the horsemen had pursued them the Erennin would not have been able to escape in such numbers to sanctuary in Maksuma. It was sheer poor fortune that the Erennin in Voruna had not been armed with swords; else they might have been able to turn the fortunes of the battle.

Still, as it was, of the twenty-five thousand soldiers that went to Lamauk, some sixteen thousand returned behind the walls of Maksuma, the nearest city. A fifth of these were horsemen, the rest scattered across the country, making their ways back to their separate homes.

Aragin knelt by the bedside of Tessemaut, childhood friend and, since last autumn, brother-in-law. He had been wounded in the side by a spear thrust that, by some freak chance, pierced through the metal at a weak spot and driven almost all the way out the other side. Tessemaut was dying, and through the five days he lay on the bed, trying to catch breath to say a word, his wounds infected, oozing yellow pus over the sheets, and as the infection found its way into his intestines, he started writhing in agony; Aragin saw all this. On the fourth day, he was screaming in pain, his face ashen white, and no painkilling herbs the doctor gave him would help. On the morning of the fifth day, Tessemaut drifted in and out of consciousness. In his final lucid moment, Tessemaut made a kind of sobbing, whimpering noise; blood flowed from between his lips. He opened his mouth to speak; and more flowed, staining his tunic and sheets with an angry, livid red. Then, Aragin, for once getting a clear look into his brother-in-law’s mouth, vomited, shaking in fright.

Tessemaut had bitten his tongue off in his agony.

“No!” Aragin bolted upright in his bed, sweat dripping from his brow and every muscle in his body shaking. He was breathing hard, and his sheets were thrown off the bed onto the floor. The cool wind drafted in through the window, combining with the sweat to make him shiver in the cold. Nightmares like this always plagued him, memories of different scenes he had lived through in the two weeks since the fateful march to Lamauk. But this scene had never appeared before, and it scared him. Seared into his mind, he was trying not to relive the scene, gory and wrenching as it was.

Aragin bent down, reaching beneath his bed. Pushing aside his cuirass and his shield, his groping fingers found his pack, and removed from it a piece of parchment about a span long on each side. It was crumpled, tear-stained and splattered with blood, the ink on the parchment running slightly but still largely readable. In a mad scrawl across the parchment, two sentences rampaged, a slight tear along one word bearing mute witness to the violence of the writer.
“Bring me poison. Tell your sister I am sorry I cannot come back.”

The last words of Tessemaut, written, not spoken. Agreeing to his last wish, Aragin had called a doctor and asked for poison to put an end to his agony. The doctor had looked over Tessemaut, pronounced that he could not live beyond the next few days, and produced a small bottle of ravensbane, once common as the sand on the seashore back in the Old Kingdom, now painstakingly cultivated in order to produce the small enough quantities that the apothecaries sold now. By the count of five it was all over, his brother-in-law’s contorted features relaxing into a calm expression. It was the last he ever saw of Tessemaut; that evening, as the sun disappeared beneath the hills to the west, his body was burned on the beach, together with twenty others, on a great pyre.

Pain filled him, and Aragin clenched the parchment in his hand, the loss keen within him. Drawing a deep breath, crying just a little bit, he smoothed out the parchment, slowly, read and re-read the words, feeling the bloodstains and the tear in the parchment. They found him later sitting up against the wall that his bed was placed against, reading those sentences over and over by moonlight. Looking up at the door suddenly swinging open, Aragin mutely stared at the faces filling the corridor beyond the door. All familiar faces, members of his arrbotai, his unit of a hundred men,

“Aragin! Get up…we’re leaving Maksuma. We’ve got orders to head back to Demula!”
A puzzled murmur so soft that the others had to lean in to hear it repeated. “Orders? Who’s giving us orders? We have a new commander?”

“Prince Talamioros; he’s arrived in Demula with ten thousand men, and he’s called up fifteen thousand more from the countryside around the city. Now he wants us to go and join him. He’s sent ships to sail us north.”

“Alright; I’m coming. Give me sometime to get my things together.”

Aragin put on his armour and his helmet, buckling on the small knife that was his only other weapon, grabbed his pack and went downstairs to the common room, where he picked up his spear, propped in the corner. They were already all waiting for him, ready to leave. He nodded in greeting to them and those who had not yet put on their helmets did so, arranging themselves into march order, in two lines of ten. About to march out the open door down to the docks, a hoarse shout halted them.

“Ay! I have something for each of you. My best wishes to all of you; drive the invaders out and take back what is ours.” It was the innkeeper, Bersalas, bustling towards them from behind the counter, holding what seemed to be necklaces. Aragin’s tired eyes registered them eventually as charms, blessed by the priests, meant to bring luck and strength to the wearer. He didn’t believe they really did that, but it would have been impolite to refuse, and he murmured his thanks as the plump jovial fellow put on on him, rapping the bright newly-polished bronze of his breastplate and giving Aragin a bright smile before moving on to the next person in line.

When they finally reached the docks half an hour later, it was already filled with soldiers climbing on board the ships by the gangplanks and by the nets hung on the side of the ships. The ships were filling up fast, but yet more arrived to take the remaining soldiers gathered on the shore. From where he stood Aragin could see two ships filled with horses on deck, and belowdecks, yet more horses stuck their heads out of the windows at the side. At the rate the loading was going, they would be done and under way by morning; the sailors were rushing men on board, and the soldiers were not bothering with anything but getting on board. They seemed eager to quit Maksuma. Men whom only a few days back had slouched at street corners, dejected and saddened by the loss of comrades and the taste of defeat now stood tall, walked tall again, ready to go to battle once again. It was rather laughable now, though, when less than half the men standing at the docks held spears, the rest having thrown theirs away in the flight from Lamauk. Aragin had no doubts, though, that when the time came every Voruna would stand strong and fight the enemy again, and die standing, determined to never suffer a defeat like the one at Lamauk.

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Chapter 2: Departures (Part 5)

When the storm came it came with astonishing rapidity. Physically buffeted by the wind and waves, the ships tossed precipitously on the sea, losing their neat formation and creaking ominously. Leaks were sprung which were immediately caulked, almost in a panic, and men lay in their bunks and hammocks fearfully wide awake as the ship swayed and dived, some whimpering, some of the new recruits still screaming for their mummies. Many retched, even those who had gotten used to the sea. All the while the horrible whistling of the wind through the shutters and the constant clatter of armour and weaponry around the crazily shifting deck set everyone’s teeth on edge. The driving rain on the deck made it impossible to hear any speech short of a shout, and even the sailors had abandoned the deck to come into the hold to dry off, the lanterns fastened to the wall giving off a warm heat that was utterly comforting after the bitter cold of the winds outside. It was almost as if winter was showing that it was not willing yet to give up its hold on the weather to spring. Clutching themselves, the men shivered.

Impossible at it seemed, the fury of the storm unleashed upon lasted two full nights, growing even more intense at times, so that the ship itself seemed to be shaken around by a giant’s hand, leaking so badly that at one time water was coming in through fifty different places at once. When the storm finally abated the next morning, Talamioros came above deck to a ravaged fleet, the wood of the almost brand-new ships pitted and scarred and dented where ships had dashed together, the ships no longer aligned in neat staggered rows. Almost as if it were laughing at them, there was no trace of a cloud in the sky and the sun was beaming at them as if nothing had happened the night before. Talamioros resisted an urge to shake his fist at the sky, ordered a report from all ships.

The final count was two triremes lost, and three transports sunk. That added up to over two hundred soldiers and thirty horses—one was a horse transport—as well as a hundred civilian oarsmen and another fifty marines. Talamioros comforted himself; it could have been worse. Far worse. As he stood on the railing watching the horizon, Lalikai joined him, silent. All the way till the sunset, he only said one sentence—“Terrible storm yesterday night, it was.”

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The battered fleet arrived in Demula’s harbour two weeks later. The storm had done them the favour of blowing them much faster towards their intended destination than the speed they would have otherwise travelled at. Disembarking, their legs wobbling slightly as they touched dry land again for the first time in a month and a half, the soldiers were greeted with cheers of welcome and relief. Quickly regaining back their stable feet, the Guards gave the people a spectacle, boosting their spirits as they marched through the streets in perfect order towards the citadel, around and within which they would be staying.

Work began on strengthening the walls and fortresses of the city the next morning, Talamioros engaging the entire citizenry of the city to move stones and rocks, gather wood, make arrows and prepare other missiles to hurl at the enemy. Engineers constructed catapults and gigantic crossbows to hurl stones at the enemy. Pots of pitch and oil and water were amassed in preparation for repelling enemy escalades. At the gate fortress, a monstrous edifice of heavy stone lying across the bridge of land guarding the sole entrance by land into the city, Talamioros added three palisades of stout wood stretching across the bridge to delay an enemy assault and slow him down for the arrows raining from the battlements high above, leaving only narrow gaps at the sides for sorties. The same was done for the other two fortresses on the south side, guarding the only two possible landing points from the opposite bank, which was only a hundred paces away and parallel to the south of the city. Within three days Talamioros had called all the veterans of the Ismaransi campaigns and the Exodus to arms, swelling their numbers from ten thousand to almost twenty-five. Still serously outnumbered by the enemy, but an improvement in the odds nevertheless.

Spring had come, but there was yet no news at all of the battle that was supposed to have been imminent once the thaws began. Then, on the fifteenth day after the groundhogs stuck their heads out of their holes and the animals came out of hibernation, a shout was raised from the gate fortress.

“Rider approaching! He’s being pursued by about fifty horsemen! He carries an Erennin banner! The ones behind…they’re not.” As the horsemen came closer they could see arrows stuck in his bronze breastplate. It was thankfully thick enough to prevent any wounding, but his horse was tiring and wounded with two arrows, and soon the enemy would be able to ride him down.
The gate fortress commander, in the absence of Talamioros, who was in the citadel, ordered a report sent to the prince while the gates opened. Filing through the palisade entrances, two hundred Erennin horsemen thundered, Guard and ordinary soldiers combined. Arranging themselves into two wedges, the horsemen charged with wordless cries into the flanks of the disordered group of enemies with a great crash. In the first contact, at least ten enemy riders were knocked out of their saddles by the impact of the lances carried by the Erennin, and within minutes the poorly armoured enemy horsemen had been slaughtered to a man. Removing the corpses’ armour and weapons, the Erennin sortie group escorted the lone horseman back into the city. Talamioros met the man at the gates.

“Your name? And where do you come from, that you were chased by those horsemen?

“Salomb, sir. I…I bring news from Lamauk. We fought there, but they were too many and too strong, and we lost the battle. Many were killed there, and Sarian also. We are now without a general, but have managed to retreat into the city of Maksuma. The enemy army did not follow us; they headed south to besiege Arrakuwa. I was chased by those Semiduroin my entire journey here. They caught up with me a league south of here and if you had not helped when you did—” Salomb left it hanging.

“We will not leave them there. We have many thousands here now and we are strong enough to defend this city, though not meet the enemy in open battle. Morkalla!” A short man ran up, one of Talamioros’ aides and escorts.

“Run down to the harbour, and get fifty ships going to Maksuma, where they will pick up the remaining survivors of the battle. Bring them back here with all speed. Go!”

Salomb looked up at Talamioros, and a look of amazement entered his eyes. “Who are you?”
“I am Prince Talamioros of Erennia, the commander of the Voruna army, and now, in the absence of any higher-ranked officials, also the new governor of Voruna. Now, go in and refresh yourself. If you have any wounds the doctors will dress them for you. You have done well.”
Talamioros entered the gate fortress, with its two massive towers rising over thirty-five paces into the air, easily as large as the ones that lined the walls of Ylldelia. Climbing the steps to the highest level of the tower, he leaned on the battlements and looked out onto the plain stretching distant beyond the city, tried to imagine a vast army such as had only been seen in the Old Kingdoms, encamped before the gates of Demula. Speaking to no one in particular, he said, “So; the Semiduroin are not coming. Yet. Let them come.”

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Chapter 2: Departures (Part 4)

The troop transports were preceded by almost the entire Erennin navy, two hundred triremes, sharp powerful rams at their prows and manned by marines so skilled on the water that they could throw a spear lying down on deck. Following the neat line of warships, the troop transports followed, once cargo ships with huge holds, now carrying a different cargo. Two hundred bluff-bowed ships, each nearly forty paces in length, waddled through the water, horses and men and materiel piled high. The weather was good; most of the crossings in the past two decades had been smooth and uneventful. Merchants had plied the water, their ships growing in size since they could afford to put more of their eggs in one basket than before. Pirates were not known in this ocean. Storms were nonexistent, apparently. Lounging on deck, Talamioros could almost make believe he was just on a pleasure cruise to some coastal city in Arboriel.

But the men in armour and the nervous neighing of the horses spoiled all that. The ships were crowded, and it was hot and stuffy down in the hold. The food was bad, to say the least. Salted meat and arkasiz—a kind of flatbread that insects did not want to touch and most humans as well—was hard to choke down, and for once you heard the soldiers groaning when dinner was announced. Of course, there was also the constant sound of retching. Talamioros might have thought it impossible, but some of the soldiers had still not gained their sea legs, and often heaved up the contents of their breakfast on deck or into the sea. Seasickness was a curse, and Talamioros had come very close to throwing up himself on many occasions. But that was over, now; he was used to the gentle rolling of the sea.

There was nothing to see but the clouds above and the water below. The navy’s sailors were doing all the sailing, and there were no oars so the soldiers did not have to do any rowing. There was nothing to do but engage in conversation, walk around the deck like some caged animal, or engage in some mock combat to keep in shape and practice. Often, duels, trios or even small melees could be seen on other ships, wooden swords, staves and real armour being used as groups fought it out using every fighting style they had, parting with bruises all over but in high spirits. Talamioros often watched in great amusement, but also with a mild pang of sadness as he knew no one would fight him; the last time he had fought for fun, he had faced ten Guards alone in Myrgora barracks, and they had all parted with seriously blackish bruises on areas of the body that would have been fatal wounds had real weapons been used. After meeting together in the Guard encampment outside Ylldelia, the word had spread, and now no one at all would challenge Talamioros, and it was simply not done for him, as their superior, to challenge them. Especially when he was their commander; it would merely seem like he was boasting to them, making them feel inferior. He had to make do with the salutes or even cheers that followed him wherever he went. Talamioros had to face the truth; he was seriously bored.

In Talamioros had taken to brooding day to day at the railings, occasionally poring over the map of Erennia-in-Arboriel that had been left on the ship. He had written the word Voruna on the area marked out as Erennin; Lalikai had earlier mentioned that the Arboriellin Erennin called their province by that name.

The afternoon was cool and there was an unnatural amount of clouds in the sky—it seemed that the very earth was trying to shake off the cloak of winter and put on the mantle of spring. The sun being obscured, it was quite comfortable to read on deck. Talamioros had spread out the map on the wood, and around him were a scattering of curious soldiers also come to find out more about the land they were headed for, a province of the kingdom that they had never seen. Quite often, too, these were the ones who, as quickly as they had come to squat by the map, also quickly departed to make an offering of their previous meal to the goddess of the sea.

Most of Voruna’s major cities were coastal; the conquered city of Abubey was one of the few that had been built inland. On the northwest tip of the province, jutting out into the sea, was Demula. The capital of Voruna, as Talamioros knew, it was well-garrisoned and strongly-walled, as was almost every other major city. But what was it like? Almost on cue, Lalikai descended on one knee beside Talamioros, seemingly appearing from nowhere.

“Reading the map, I see, my lord. Is there anything you would like to know about Voruna?”
“Well, you could start by telling me of the enemy. You have told me they are called the Thelomanni, and that they are like the Ismaransi of old, fighting without armour and fierce. But yet I do not see a Thelomanni realm, but several—see, there are two bordering Voruna…”

“My prince, Thelomannia is a divided realm. It is ruled by a high king from their capital of Tal’tial, but he has little power. These realms you see are actually separate Thelomanni kingdoms held together nominally by the High King. They do not act in concert, which is why our armies can concentrate against Semiduros Talos,” replied Lalikai, tapping his finger on the more northern neighbour of Voruna.

“I don’t believe I haven’t asked this before. How many men have you in your army?”

“The field army, or including garrisons?”

“Both.”

“Well, the field army alone has about twenty-five thousand men. With garrisons added, it could go up to as many as fifty thousand. But many of the garrison soldiers also work at other jobs in the city when they are off-duty, so they are not very well-trained. We lost almost four thousand of them in Abubey. When the city was taken they fled, and those who remained were allowed to leave with their lives. The garrison troops are only good behind walls.”

“How many men do you think the Semiduroin have?”

“About forty thousand, I should say. At least, that many presented themselves before Abubey. They conquered the city by sheer weight of numbers. And trickery.”

“Oh? Trickery…how?”

“Abubey had one wall facing a forest just thirty paces away from it. They attacked our exposed walls with rams and most of their men, so most of the garrison defended the attacked sectors, leaving the forest wall unguarded. We thought it would have been enough protection, the trees. Who was to know the Semiduroin used the trees as cover to come right up to our walls. One night, while most of the enemy assaulted the exposed walls, six thousand of them came right up to the wall, slaughtered what guards there were—very few, I can tell you—and went down into the city unopposed. Before we knew it the gates were opening and it was all over. Only five days from beginning to end.”

Talamioros nodded. He pointed at the capital. “My first task when I arrive in Voruna is to organise the defence of Demula in case the enemy army arrives there after the defeat of the Voruna army. In the case of a victory, which I think rather unlikely given your description of the way the Thelomanni fight, we will concentrate our forces at Demula, and strike for the Semiduroin capital, Nogalo.” He pointed at the coastal port, about sixty leagues away to the west. “In the meantime describe Demula briefly to me.”

“Demula is situated on a plateau that juts out to sea, almost an island, really. Not like Ylldelia, the whole of Demula sits on the plateau. It is only connected to the mainland by a very narrow neck of land, only some one hundred paces across. There is a citadel built on the highest part of the island, just overlooking the harbour where the plateau terminates in a cliff almost eighty paces high. Apart from the harbour and several places along the southern side of the city, Demula is completely surrounded by cliffs. A very defendable place. Its walls could rival Ylldelia’s, I think.”
A trumpet sounded from one of the distant ships, and these were echoed by others, followed by the running of a string of flags up the masts of every ship. Puzzled, Talamioros stood up and called to the sailor in the tiny crow’s nest at the top of the mast.

“You up there! The lookout! What do those flags mean? I can’t read navy signals!”

The lookout peered down, recognised Talamioros. “My prince! There’s a storm coming up, right behind us!” He pointed towards the stern, where, just visible and approaching fast, a line of angry grey clouds stretched from horizon to horizon. Even from this distance Talamioros could see the occasional flashes of lightning illuminating the underside of the clouds, and the greyish gossamer-curtain of the rain falling onto the sea. Biting off an epithet, Talamioros ordered all the men belowdecks as the sailors battened down hatches and prepared the ship for the storm’s impact. Of all the ships the storm had to visit, it had to be these, carrying the elite of Erennia’s army. When the storms had hit the unlucky ocean-crosser, invariably their ships would be badly damaged, barely limping into port. Some never made it out of the storms. Talamioros fervently wished the storm would fade quickly, but in the face of such might, there was really nothing left to do now but to sit tight, pray hard, and hope as few men would be lost as possible.

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Chapter 2: Departures (Part 3)

By nothing short of a miracle, Talamioros arrived in Ylldelia before the week was over. The already-fading winter snows, though far less brutal than in the Old Kingdom, still slowed them somewhat, and it was only by sheer willpower that he managed to get his contingent within sight of Ylldelia’s citadel that quickly, almost quicker than was humanly possible. He raced up the road to the capital at quickstep pace, a thousand Foot and two hundred Horse Guards. Leaving the palace staff to billet the tired Guards where they could, Talamioros made his way to the Palace, entering the empty Great Hall at noon, striding across its length to a side door which he opened. Stepping into the anteroom behind the throne, itself almost half the size of the Great Hall itself.

There, Jodias and several of his advisors, generals and aides were bent over a table on which was spread out a map of Arboriel. They were silently conversing, making notes on pieces of parchment and constantly giving orders to the attendantes swarming around them. Planning the invasion involved a lot of work, and Talamioros felt a short irrational pang of guilt for not helping to plan for it. Upon hearing the not-too-soft creak of the door opening, all the officials stopped their work and looked up, the murmur and rustle of sound filling the room coming to a stop.

“Father. Sirs,” greeted Talamioros, stepping into the room nodding to those within it.

“You are most welcome, my son,” replied Jodias, stepping away from the table and coming up to Talamioros to embrace him. Stepping back, he looked the prince from head to toe. “You have grown much older since I saw you last. How many years has it been since I gave you governance of Myrgora? Five? Ten?”

“Ten, father. I have seen thirty-six summers, and you…you’re not so young yourself anymore.” They smiled as both considered Jodias’ greying, almost-white hair and wrinkled frame.
“Aye, you know why I called you here, of course. Tomorrow you will take command of the Guards and sail west to reinforce our forces in Arboriel. Once there, you will take command of the entire army and drive the invaders out. Some of the Guards, about a third of the number, have not yet arrived. They will sail to you when they have been assembled. But you will take what you have and go to Demula first; the situation is critical.”

Motioning the prince over to the table, Jodias pointed to a city in the middle of the Erennin lands, hugging the coast. “That is Abubey. It was stormed at the beginning of winter. The enemy is now in winter quarters there, and we have only just received the news. Lalikai here,” Jodias motioned to a man dressed in armour, fair and well-built, “comes from Arboriel, a lieutenant among the soldiers there. He will tell you what has happened.”

Lalikai saluted the prince, fist on chest. “My prince. And my commander. When I left Demula for Ylldelia, the army was preparing to march once the spring thaws came. The governor, Sarian, he planned to meet the Semiduroin in battle somewhere in this area.” His roving finger delineated a circle somewhat to the east of Abubey, between it and Maksuma. “By the time we arrive there, unless the enemy intentionally avoids him, which I think most unlikely, he will have fought the battle. He will then try to drive the army back northwards.” The finger moved past Abubey, northwest past Erennin boundaries into a land labelled Semiduros Talos. Forming the western boundary of that land, there was a thick mountain range which, to all appearances, appeared impassable except for a flat narrow plain in the north between it in the sea. Realising he was being distracted, Talamioros swept his attention back to Erennia-in-Arboriel. What he saw disconcerted him.

“And what if the army is defeated?”

“Well, I suppose it would retreat into Maksuma. The walls are thick and strong and can withstand a direct assault, I think. Sarian never made plans for a defeat.”

Only someone with his ear directly in front of Talamioros’ mouth could have heard the muttered “Fool!” Looking at the distance, if the Guards could not arrive in time to relieve Maksuma, then there would be no way for the two armies to combine, and Sarian’s troops would be either trapped in a besieged city, or stormed and slaughtered. Talamioros nodded. “You can tell me everything else on the ship. Are we all ready to leave?”

“The ships are already at Itayra, stocked and provisioned.”

“Then order the Guards to embark. We leave by this evening.”

Chapter 2: Departures (Part 2)

They came through the gates in two rows, the Horse Guards leading with Talamioros in their midst, followed by the Foot Guards in their neat ranks, four abreast. Passing through the streets, one might have noted that they moved noticeably faster than was the usual stately procession. Winding through the wide avenues, they stopped before a gate, just wide enough for five men abreast to march through, and high enough for horsemen to enter without dismounting. Within, the gate guards saluted, fist on chest, as Talamioros rode through. The prince of Erennia entered a garden, a large expanse of grass and trees and flowers, many of which had been planted by himself. His villa lay ahead, beige sandstone overgrown with ivy and other creepers. It looked expressively rustic, and often raised his spirits after a gruelling day of arbitration or travel. But today he did not feel right; the house gave him nothing but a sour feeling in his gut, confirmed a moment later as the front door was yanked forcefully open and the doctor rushed out, running straight towards Talamioros. The look on his face was ominous, and the prince knew the news before he heard them spoken.

“I tried, your highness, but I couldn’t save them. They were too far gone. I am afraid not a one is left. I am sorry. Forgive me, my prince.”

Talamioros waved him aside, thanking him in a murmur. He walked slowly into the house, back straight and head high. Despite his grief he forced his voice steady and said, “Bury all seven of them under the apple tree in the southwest of the garden. That was where most of them buried their bones and trinkets anyway. They would like it there.” He quickly made his way to his apartments, flinging open the door, telling his door guards not to allow anyone to enter the corridor while he sprawled on the bed, bawling like a child, letting the grief out where no one else could see or hear.

What seemed an eternity passed before Talamioros sat up from his bed, his pillow wet through and his eyes dry and swollen. He dragged himself to the edge of the bed, taking several deep breaths, then washing his face to minimise the swollen eyes. Flinging open the doors to the corridor, he walked out of his room, his sandals scraping along the rough floor. The afternoon light shone through the windows lining the corridor, warming Talamioros’ face. As he reached the end of the corridor, he heard a commotion.

“…don’t care, I must see him now! It is urgent!”

“I am sorry; but the prince left orders not to be disturbed until he came out. If you will not tell us what it is, we cannot let you through.”

“Look, we’ve gone through this a thousand times, alright? It’s an urgent message from the King, his father, and it is a matter of national importance! It is only for his ears alone, and I have my orders! I cannot tell it to you. Now, let me through, or it’ll be on your head.”

“If you will not stop pestering us we will be forced to throw you out, baron. You will wait, or you will leave.”

Talamioros broke in. “Bariten,” he called, referring to the guard who had spoken by name, “Bariten, let him through. I’m coming out.”

He came within sight of the corridor’s end, saw his guards standing athwart the corridor, spear levelled across it so none could pass. Beyond that, the red face of Baron Miksuvin, one of his father’s aides. The Baron pushed past Bariten and bustled his ample frame towards Talamioros, performing a bow in mid-stride to save time.

“My prince, I bring an urgent message from your father the king. Can we—?” Miksuvin motioned towards Talamioros’ room, indicating he wished to be out of earshot of the others.
“What you have to say, you say it here. I trust my Guards completely. Speak; what is it?”

“Your father wishes you to come back to the capital. Myrgora must be handed over to someone else to govern. He needs you now, for your skills in command, not in administration.”

“What is it? Another Tului border incursion?”

“No; something far worse. Erennia-in-Arboriel is under attack; we just received the message sent by fast ship from Demula. One of the Thelomanni kingdoms has sent an army into our lands there, and have already taken a major city, Abubey, by siege. We have lost the control of our gold mines. The last we heard, the army in Arboriel was marching to battle. I do not know how it is now with them, but King Jodias has deemed it necessary to send reinforcements. As Commander of the Guard you are to lead the Royal Guard to reinforce the army in Arboriel.

“I, of course, only tell you this informally. But Jodias will officially give you your orders and record the decree when you arrive at Ylldelia. Jodias wishes me to tell you that you are expected to arrive at Ylldelia with all the Guards in Myrgora by the end of this week.”

Talamioros was horrified. “The end of this week? That means we’ll have to set out now!”

Miksuvin smiled broadly. “Precisely.”

Talamioros yelled to the guards in the corridor, “Get ready to leave! Now! Call the others. We leave Myrgora as soon as possible.”

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