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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