Army of the Dead (40 page)

“And you will be destroyed upon reaching the Island of Darkness,” added StarWind. “Should any of you make it that far.”

“What about contacting someone on the Island of Darkness that the premer knows?” suggested HawkShadow. “There must be someone there who survived that Doralin would know.”

“An excellent idea,” General Valatosa nodded approvingly. “Almost any of the troops left in Teramar would know the premer or myself.”

“Teramar is not much of an option,” frowned Lyra. “The troops there refused to surrender. They were all killed. There were many prisoners taken in Sudamar. Would that be sufficient?”

“All killed?” balked Doralin. “That is hard to believe. No, Sudamar is not acceptable. That city is under Premer Shamal.”

“What about Vandamar?” asked General Valatosa. “Surely people survived there?”

“Some,” frowned Lyra as her blue cylinder winked out. “I will contact them and find out which officers survived.”

Premer Doralin looked curiously at the Star of Sakova and wondered why she dropped her protection spell. He was soon distracted by Lyra’s conversation as she talked to someone through the air tunnel. He wondered if she would try some ruse to trick him. He listened intently to the names being mentioned by the person on the other end of the air tunnel. He recognized none of them.

“Wait,” interrupted General Valatosa. “Did you say Santiock? You know Santiock don’t you, Doralin?”

The premer nodded, and Lyra requested that Santiock be brought to the air tunnel.

“Do not say anything to Santiock,” warned the premer. “For me to believe you, I must be sure that the man is not being coached.”

Lyra nodded and a few moments later Santiock’s voice came through the air tunnel.

“Who am I speaking to?” asked Santiock.

“This is Premer Doralin,” declared the premer. “General Valatosa is by my side. Where are you standing right now?”

“On the roof of the temple,” answered Santiock. “How is it that you are speaking to the elves? Have you joined them as well?”

“As well?” frowned the premer. “What do you mean?”

“Xavo and Lady Mystic deserted,” answered Santiock. “They helped the elves defeat us.”

“Defeat you?” questioned the premer. “What do you mean? Are you in Vandamar?”

“Where else would I be?” quipped Santiock. “What is going on here? How is it that you are talking to the elves and do not know about the fall of the island? Is this some kind of trick?”

“No trick, Santiock,” sighed the premer. “The Sakovans are asking for our surrender. They told me that Motanga has fallen, but I didn’t believe them. Is the whole island under the control of the elves?”

“All of it,” confirmed Santiock. “They attacked the southern cities first. Our armies were tricked into meeting them in the center of the island. Only my army remained in Vandamar. We could not hold out against the elves. Are you going to surrender?”

“Break the connection,” Doralin said softly to Lyra.

Lyra nodded and dropped the air tunnel. “I trust you are now assured that my words were the truth?”

“I am,” nodded Doralin. “How will my men be treated? What will happen to them?”

“Your men will be well cared for,” answered the Star of Sakova. “We will immediately bring in wagons of food. Your men will be required to give up their weapons. We cannot take the chance that you might change your mind.”

“Understandable,” agreed the premer. “Then what?”

“Your army will be escorted to Alamar,” explained Lyra. “They will be put to work restoring the city that they destroyed. When the war is over, your men will be set free and reunited with their families. I imagine that some will want to return to Motanga, but others will be welcome to stay here. These are details to be discussed later, but I plan to treat your men fairly and kindly. There has been enough suffering.”

“Your terms are generous,” smiled Premer Doralin. “More generous than mine would have been. I accept.”

Emperor Vand bowed low and backed out of the special room in the temple at Vandegar. He hesitated for a moment at the doorway as his eyes roved over the magnificent vista of towering volcanoes. A strong odor of sulfur filled the air, and loud crackling sounds emanated from one of the lava flows. He cast his eyes at the great demon one last time before turning and exiting the room.

Vand strode purposefully from the special room to the throne room of the temple. A dozen black-cloaked mages milled about the room in quiet conversation. They fell to silence as the emperor entered. Vand walked to his throne, which was flanked by six black demons, their stony faces masks of hatred.

“Get me Tzargo,” demanded the emperor.

One of the mages slipped out of the room and returned shortly with the head premer. Tzargo walked towards the throne and fell to one knee, his head bowed in reverence.

“Rise,” commanded the emperor. “Tell me what is happening with the invasions.”

Premer Tzargo rose and stared at the emperor. He dared not let his eyes wander to the faces of the demons for it was said that such a single glance invited a most horrible death.

“There has been little word from the Sakova,” reported the premer, “but the war in Khadora is going well, although slower than we expected. Here in Fakara, Cardijja’s men are following the Meliban River to the east. They have not yet encountered any opposition.”

“Such a rosy picture you paint,” sneered the emperor. “Why has there been no word from the Sakova?”

Tzargo’s left eye twitched at hearing the emperor’s words and the tone in which they were uttered. Something unpleasant was about to arrive. The premer hoped that the emperor’s wrath could be deflected onto someone other than himself.

“I am not sure what Doralin is up to,” reported Tzargo. “In violation of his orders, he has failed to report in regularly. I would like permission to replace him. He has become undependable.”

“Is Doralin alone in his failure to report?” asked the emperor, ignoring Tzargo’s request to replace the Premer of Teramar.

“No,” Tzargo replied nervously. “There are some major problems with the air tunnel spell. While we have regular reports from Premer Shamal and Premer Cardijja, we have been unable to contact Premer Doralin or any city on Motanga. Cardijja recently sent three ships to Vandamar in an attempt to discover the problem with the spell, but he has lost contact with them. He also sent ships to Duran for supplies, but the ships returned empty. They have been unable to even locate the city.”

“You are failing me, Tzargo,” scowled the emperor. “You hold a prestigious position that many would kill to obtain. The enemy is making inroads on my empire, and you are totally unaware of it. Why is this?”

Premer Tzargo’s hands began trembling, and he quickly clasped them behind his back. Sweat began to form on his brow.

“I am not aware of any enemy successes,” Premer Tzargo said softly. “I have our mages working on the problems with the air tunnel, but they seem to be incapable of discovering its flaw.”

“There is no flaw in the air tunnel spell,” declared Vand. “Have you even considered the ramifications of that?”

“But,” frowned Tzargo, “that makes no sense. Why can’t the mages contact anyone then? Do you suspect that our mages are duplicitous?”

“Hardly,” sneered the emperor. “I expected better from you, Tzargo. You disappoint me greatly.”

“I apologize for my failings,” replied the premer. “My devotion to you has never wavered. Whatever my failings, I vow to correct them immediately. Tell me what must be done to please you.”

Emperor Vand glared at the premer for a long time. The room was absolutely silent as no one dared to draw attention to himself. When the emperor finally spoke, it was like the loud crack of a whip breaking the silence.

“Doralin has left the war,” the emperor spat. “He allowed his forces to be bested by a mere girl. Alamar has fallen, and Duran no longer exists. The elves have infested the Island of Darkness, led by the elven king your men allowed to escape from the prison he was assigned to. Explain to me how you have not failed me.”

Premer Tzargo’s mind whirled with the emperor’s words. Suddenly the real reason for the failure of communications became clear. A third of the Motangan army was gone, and there was no longer a source for precious supplies. The burning of the fields in Khadora suddenly took on a more ominous meaning than the mere elimination of spoils.

“As I thought,” scowled the emperor. “You have no excuse. I am changing your invasion plans, Tzargo.”

“Of course,” nodded the premer. “What will you have me do?”

“I want Shamal’s forces to move quickly to lay waste to Khadora,” explained Vand. “I want Sintula, Chantise, and Khadoratung totally destroyed, and I want it done now.”

“Shamal’s men are currently advancing on the third trench,” reported the premer. “Once they get past that obstacle, they will be upon Sintula quickly. Chantise and Khadoratung will be crushed soon.”

“That is not soon enough for my liking,” retorted the emperor. “Abandon your slow and cautious route. Use the mages to destroy the third trench instead of slowly trying to overwhelm the enemy.”

“Such methods will be costly,” Tzargo warned as he felt a measure of relief over the change in topic. Battle strategy was something he felt at ease discussing. “Using the mages so early in the battle will put them in harm’s way.”

“Then they must cast their spells quickly,” shrugged the emperor. “Whatever their losses, I want those armies here in Fakara. Crush Khadoratung and the country will be ruined. We can return later to mop up the fragments of their civilization.”

“You want Shamal’s force here in Fakara?” puzzled the premer. “Cardijja has faced little opposition after the initial surprise attack. He hardly needs more men to find and defeat the Fakarans”

“Cardijja is to stop searching for the Fakarans,” stated Vand. “The key to our victory now rests in destroying Angragar. Cardijja is to continue eastward to the coast. He will find the ancient city and destroy it totally. Shamal’s forces will search western Fakara after he crushes Khadoratung. Between the two armies, we will find the capital of our enemy. When Angragar is reduced to rubble, all opposition against us will cease.”

“I understand,” Tzargo nodded. “Should I make plans for the retaking of the Island of Darkness?”

“That is unnecessary,” Vand shook his head. “My time of exile is over. Vandegar will become the center of the world once again. Find Angragar, Premer Tzargo. Find it and destroy it. Your life depends upon it.”

With a wave of the emperor’s hand, Premer Tzargo was dismissed.

* * *

Marshal Berman stood on a ridge with a good view of the third trench. He watched as the Motangan archers pressed forward to the edge of the ridge and knew that the time to start an orderly retreat had arrived. He was disappointed that the enemy army had advanced so quickly, and he knew that before the day was done, the first elements of the Motangans would be across the trench. He called for a mage. The woman came forward without delay to receive instructions.

“Have the mages begin retreating,” ordered the marshal. “Inform the infantry to prepare to follow the mages. Make sure that they know that they are not to cross the rivers until they reach the city. The only bridges left standing over the rivers are at Sintula. Also,” he continued, “make sure that the cavalry commanders are informed of what we are doing. This will be a major battle for them, as the retreat to Sintula will be much longer than the other retreats.”

The mage nodded and began issuing commands through her air tunnel. Marshal Berman turned and saw the commotion to his rear. He nodded in satisfaction that the retreat was beginning. When he turned his attention back to the trench he was surprised to see the enemy archers retreating. His brow crinkled in thought as he wondered what the Motangans were up to.

“Belay those orders,” Marshal Berman said to the air mage. “Something is different with the Motangan approach to this trench. I wonder what they are up to.”

The Khadoran marshal watched with curiosity as the Motangan archers drew back. He subconsciously heard the air mage sending the messages out, but he tuned them out as he watched the battle cease. The Khadoran archers were left with no targets to aim at, as the Motangans pulled back out of range. Unexpectedly, a large swarm of black cloaks appeared at the vanguard of the Motangans.

“What they are up to is magic,” said a female voice beside him.

Marshal Berman glanced to his left to see who was talking. He saw an elderly woman, but not the air mage that he had just given directions to.

“You should remain with the rest of the mages,” cautioned Marshal Berman. “This is too dangerous a location for you unless you are called for.”

The old mage ignored the marshal and wove an air tunnel. He frowned at her as she began issuing orders to the mages. He listened as she ordered the mages to advance to the front lines.

“What are you doing?” snapped Marshal Berman. “I do not want our mages in harm’s way. Cancel those orders, or I shall have you removed from this ridge.”

“I am doing what the Torak has commanded,” the woman replied, unafraid of the marshal’s wrath. “I am Glenda. We are about to be attacked magically. I strongly advise you to withdraw your archers immediately. The area around the trench is about to become a magical killing field.”

Marshal Berman immediately turned to the other air mage who had been handling the orders to retreat. He marched towards her in a sour mood.

“I want to contact the emperor immediately, “ he snapped. “Find out who this Glenda is and if he has issued orders to her to countermand my commands.”

“Glenda is the emperor’s mother,” the air mage said softly as she wove an air tunnel to Sintula. “She is in command of the mages.”

Marshal Berman frowned as he heard the air mage request the emperor. Marak’s voice came through a moment later.

“What is happening?” asked the Torak.

“I am not sure,” admitted Marshal Berman. “Motangan mages are coming forward. A woman mage is issuing orders that countermand my own. I understand that she is your mother. Is this true?”