Army of the Dead (35 page)

“Lord Saycher,” Emperor Marak said, “I am ordering you to come to Khadoratung immediately to discuss the fighting in the east. I am placing Marshal Berman in command of the armies.”

“He will retreat,” objected Lord Saycher. “You cannot allow him to cut and run without putting up a fight. I protest this decision.”

“I am aware of Marshal Berman’s intentions,” replied the Torak, “but I am also aware of your reservations. I intend for something in between to occur, but that is no longer your concern. Do not misinterpret my commands. I am pleased with your service, and this is not meant as an insult or rebuke to you or the Morgar clan, but I want you back here in Khadoratung. Is Marshal Berman there?”

“I am here,” the marshal said loudly.

“Can you hold the Motangans for an hour?” asked the Emperor.

“At a cost,” nodded the Balomar marshal. “I can move the archers forward and threaten with a cavalry charge. That should buy us an hour, but we will lose many archers.”

“Do it,” commanded the Emperor, “and start the retreat. Stage the retreat with fallback archers if possible, but get those most vulnerable headed for the third trench. Use the cavalry only after the Motangans have moved out of sight of the second trench. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly,” answered the marshal. “Are you planning on sending reinforcements? Why the hour delay?”

“Reinforcements are coming,” smiled Marak, “but not anything that you or the Motangans would expect. Give the orders, Marshal. Time is running out.”

The mage reported that the air tunnel had dropped, and Marshal Berman called for the air mages to gather around him. He started issuing orders to put the delaying plan into action. The Khadoran archers moved forward under a hail of Motangan arrows. The mages and infantry began a run towards the third trench several leagues away. The Khadoran cavalry charged towards the trench, but turned away at the last moment. The Motangan archers panicked each time that it appeared as if the Khadoran cavalry would leap over the trench. After several charges without any attack, the Motangans began to ignore the cavalry. Marshal Berman ordered the horsemen to withdraw and set up defensive positions beyond the view of the second trench. The requested hour sped by, and no word came from the air mages regarding any reinforcements. Marshal Berman began to doubt the help that Emperor Marak had promised.

Unexpectedly, shouts rose over the din of the battle from the north end of the fighting. Marshal Berman rose on his toes to see what the commotion was about, but he could see nothing. The shouting grew louder as it came closer to the knoll that Marshal Berman stood on. The shouts came from both sides of the trench, but still the marshal could see no reason for it. He frowned in frustration.

Suddenly, he saw the source of the commotion. His mouth fell open as he watched the dragon soaring just above the level of the ground on the enemy’s side of the trench. It held Motangan soldiers in each claw, and Emperor Marak sat on its back. The Balomar marshal’s eyes grew wide as he watched the emperor throw magical spells at the Motangans. Sheets of fire flew from one hand while spinning blades of light emanated from the other. The marshal shook his head in disbelief. The dragon tossed the Motangan bodies into the crowd of enemy soldiers and snared two more while flames shout out of its mouth.

Marshal Berman watched the dragon speed by, knocking hundreds of Motangan archers into the trench. Other Motangans tried to turn around and flee, but that was impossible. There was no room for them to retreat. Magical fireballs started soaring towards the speeding dragon as the Motangan mages tried to kill it or its rider, but the dragon was flying too low and too fast for them to hit it. Some of the fireballs flew into the Khadoran archers, but even more fell on the Motangan side of the trench. The enemy mages were too far from the trench to be effective.

As the dragon sped out of view, Marshal Berman gazed back along its path. The enemy side of the trench was bare of humans for a dozen paces beyond the rim, and the Motangans were not pushing forward any more. In fact, those nearest the rim were trying to force their way further away from it. Far to the south, the dragon rose into the sky. Some Motangan mages still tried to reach the dragon as fireballs flew into the sky, but its altitude was too great. Unexpectedly, a voice spoke loudly to Marshal Berman. It was the voice of the Torak.

“Start a full scale retreat, Berman,” the Emperor said. “I will try to buy you time with the threat of another pass by the dragon. Do not delay.”

Within seconds the voice was gone. Marshal Berman did not attempt to reply to the Emperor’s message. He started snapping off orders to the air mages. His attention was split between the retreating armies and the dragon. While he tried to keep a close eye on the retreat to make sure that no problems were occurring, he could not help watching the dragon swoop lower whenever the Motangans tried to approach the rim of the trench.

On several occasions, the Motangan mages came close to hitting the dragon. Enemy archers also took a shot at trying to hit it, but the marshal swore that the dragon laughed at them whenever they tried. He shook his head in disbelief. Not only did he not believe in dragons, but also he could not believe that the Emperor was a mage. He had fought alongside Marak at the battle of Balomar and would never have guessed that he held magical power in his hands. He wondered what the Khadoran soldiers would think of an emperor who was also a mage.

Marshal Berman pushed the thoughts from his mind and concentrated on the retreat. He smiled broadly when he received the message that the infantry had reached the third trench. When the message came in that the mages were also crossing the bridge, he knew that the Emperor had saved the day. The Balamor marshal waved to the dragon and ordered the archers to retreat. He called for his own horse and ordered the air mages to mount up. As he rode past the defensive cavalry positions, he saw the dragon high in the sky heading north. He smiled broadly and waved even though he knew his gesture would go unseen. As far as the marshal was concerned, he was thrilled to have an emperor mage.

Myka circled high over the second trench until the Khadoran infantry and mages were safely beyond the third and final trench. The Torak spoke briefly, and the dragon banked away to the northwest. Emperor Marak gazed down as the Khadoran soldiers waved at the dragon overhead. He smiled inwardly and wondered what the ramifications might be when others heard about the dragon and the emperor mage that rode her. Both were secrets that Marak had held closely, but the time for such secrets was over. Marak sighed anxiously as Myka headed for the Khadoran city of Sintula where the armies of the Imperial Valley were gathering.

Sintula, the third largest city in Khadora, was situated at the convergence of the Lituk and Khadora rivers. The skies around Sintula were already thick with smoke as the Khadorans burned their fields to prevent the food from falling to the enemy. Whatever crops could be harvested were already on their way to Khadoratung to feed the refugees and fill warehouses for the armies to draw from.

Myka flew into the thick smoke, seemingly unconcerned with the lack of visibility. Marak’s eyes teared with irritation, and his lungs felt taut as he inhaled the heavy smoke. The time in the clouds of smoke seemed to last forever, and Marak inhaled deeply when the dragon flew out of the smoke. He looked down at Sintula, its white buildings contrasting with the dark green forests and brown fields surrounding it. He wiped the tears from his eyes and coughed to clear his lungs as Myka turned into a spiraling descent. As the dragon dropped lower, the citizens of Sintula noticed her. Fearful shouts rose up to greet the Torak as people scurried through the city streets to find shelter from the huge beast.

Marak gazed beyond the city to a sea of tents in a newly cleared portion of the forest bordering Sintula. Colorful banners flew from long poles outside the tents, and the Torak sought out the colors of the clans that formed the Lords’ Council. Near the center of the makeshift camp he saw the purple and yellow of the Neju clan. Nearby were the banners of the Organila, Nordon, Scratti, Walkan, and Aritor clans. A large open rectangle sat in the center of the six encampments.

“Head for the large rectangle in the center,” the Torak said to the dragon. “The soldiers do not know of you so be careful. And try not to frighten them,” Marak added with a chuckle.

“Bah,” snorted Myka as she turned her snout downward and dove at the troops. “I am a dragon. Humans are supposed to fear me. Hang on.”

Officers shouted orders and soldiers scurried to defend themselves as the dragon approached. Arrows started flying upwards towards the dragon long before she was within range. Myka responded by belching long flames towards the ground, and some of the soldiers ran for cover, but most of the Khadorans held their ground.

“Hmmph,” scowled Myka. “Are they so foolish to stand there when I can burn their flesh before they hurt me?”

“Not foolish, Myka,” smiled Emperor Marak. “They are brave men. They understand that you can bring death upon them, but they are standing for their country and their loved ones. I advise a gentler approach.”

The dragon suddenly shot upward to stay outside the range of the Khadoran arrows. Marak drew the Sword of Torak and held it high. It was a gamble that immediately paid off. While some soldiers saw the sword as threatening, others recognized it for what it was. As Myka circled over the encampment, a resonating chant rippled through the Khadoran armies. It began in the Nordon camp and spread outward as bows were lowered and swords were held high as a form of salute. The sound drifted upwards and brought a smile to Marak’s lips.

“Torak! Torak! Torak!” chanted the soldiers.

Myka continued to circle, basking in the chant, as the large rectangular area was made clear of soldiers.

“They love you,” the dragon remarked.

“As they will come to love you,” grinned Marak. “Be on good behavior. These people are our people.”

Myka did not respond as she spread her wings wide and glided towards the ground. The chanting continued until the dragon was on the ground and then wild cheers erupted as Marak slid off of Myka’s back. Waiting at the edge of the cleared area were the members of the Lords’ Council. They bowed in respect as the emperor approached. Other clans’ lords gathered around to hear the words of the Emperor.

“There are still secrets that you keep from us,” greeted Lord Patel of the Nordon clan.

“A few,” smiled Emperor Marak. “Perhaps it is time to end the secrets. I am glad that you recognized me up there. I would hate to see a battle between friends. The dragon is named Myka. She is a formidable foe.”

“Actually,” offered Lord Jamarat of the Neju clan, “we did not recognize you. Latril used an air tunnel to let the armies at the trenches know of the danger presented by a dragon behind their lines. They told us of your attack on the enemy.”

“Then you already know more of my secrets,” sighed the Torak.

“That you are a mage?” asked Lord Kiamesh of the Scratti clan. “How is that possible? For generations all Khadoran mages have been female. Now all of a sudden, male mages appear. It makes no sense.”

“The Chula have male shaman,” replied Marak. “The Qubari and elves have male mages. So do the Omungans and Sakovans, and obviously the Motangans do as well. Why should Khadora be any different?”

“Because for generations we have closed our eyes to the truth?” proposed Lord Chenowith of the Walkan clan.

“Precisely,” nodded Marak. “There is one more secret that I have held from you,” he frowned. “Perhaps now is the time to reveal it.”

“I advise caution,” warned Lord Chenowith. “Perhaps there are some things that are best kept concealed.”

The other lords looked at Lord Chenowith questioningly, but Emperor Marak suddenly saw the Walkan lord in a new light.

“You know?” he asked softly.

“My father discovered it,” Lord Chenowith nodded. “I read it in his papers.”

“And he said nothing?” frowned the Emperor. “Why?”

“I cannot answer that question,” replied Lord Chenowith. “He did not confide in me regarding such things.”

“What is it?” demanded Lord Quilo of the Organila clan. “What drastic thing could be so terrible that you would not tell your friends?”

“It is not us that Marak fears,” interjected Lord Patel. “It is the reaction of our Khadoran brothers and sisters that he fears, and maybe his fears are justified. Perhaps Khadorans must be fed the truth slowly. Our ways have been ancient and barbaric. Only time can heal such things.”

“You know as well?” Marak asked in surprise. “How can this be?”

“Am I the only one in the dark?” asked Lord Faliman of the Aritor clan. “I demand to know what is being discussed. There must be no secrets between us if we are to defeat the Motangans.”

Lord Patel sighed and nodded at the Aritor lord. “Faliman is right,” he said softly. “It is hardly a secret to anyone who has been paying attention to events around them. We have been told about the Time of Calling. We know that it is heralded in by mixed marriages. We also know that the Astor is half Qubari, and the Star of Sakova is half Sakovan. Your secret, Torak, should be a surprise to no one.”

Marak smiled tautly and nodded. He inhaled deeply and said, “I am half Chula. My father is Ukaro, head shaman of the Zatong tribe.”

Silence and shocked faces surrounded the group after the Torak’s announcement. While the members of the Lords’ Council nodded with understanding, the other lords gasped openly. It was an awkward moment, but Marak felt unburdened that the truth was finally known. Unexpectedly, Lord Kiamesh started laughing.

“That’s it?” chuckled Lord Kiamesh. “Your big secret is that your father was a Chula? For a moment I thought you might reveal that you were a mage or rode a pet dragon.”

“Or that you were the first Emperor of Khadora to unite all of the people of this continent in a common cause,” grinned Lord Chenowith.

“Or that you were the most accomplished warrior ever to walk the fields of Khadora,” smiled Lord Quilo. “It is no small wonder about your Chula heritage. I have learned to appreciate the Chula after witnessing what they are capable of. They did, after all, take Alamar with only a thousand men.”