Conflict (23 page)

While they dragged her on and she struggled to break free, fear overcame her body. She could feel it rising through her stomach, clawing at her throat, throbbing anxiously, leaving her short of breath.

They were taken to the men who were attired as birds, amid drumbeats and chanting from the crowd. She tried to calm her nerves, which were gnawing at her insides like a hungry wolf.

She recognized Asti in the first row, guarded by two warriors, looking at her with eyes filled with sadness.

Several warriors grabbed her unfortunate partner. The poor man struggled, but he was brought under control with brutal speed. They tied him to the totem with strong ropes, accompanied by the shamans’ prayers and the ritual chants of the crowd. Two corpulent, strongly-muscled Usik held Aliana by the arms, not taking their eyes off her for one moment. The man with the claw went across to the prisoner, then amid prayers and wide gestures poured some substance over his whole body. It was reddish, had a strong bitter smell, and drenched him completely. Then the Shaman took an unusual whistle and lifted the beaked mask to uncover his mouth. With it he played the same note several times, long and steady, towards the North, in the direction of the endless forest.

The people moved back, away from the totem. The warriors who were holding her dragged her back, while the prisoner struggled uselessly against the ropes, screaming desperately. A great human circle, keeping a safe distance, formed behind the totem.

The Shaman whistled again, this time three short notes, and then moved back.

In the distance, above the evergreen forest, a shadow appeared. Aliana tried to identify it without success. It was coming swiftly towards them. As it came near, the blurred shadow took the shape of a monstrous bird of immense proportions, with black feathers on its body and red on its neck and head. The chanting stopped, and a foreboding silence filled the air. The great bird glided in front of the totem and with a chilling croak landed on the edge of the platform in front of the wretched prisoner, who was screaming his head off in a madness of terror. The size of the bird was nightmarish, even greater than that of the giant eagle Aliana had ridden.

Suddenly it straightened and spread two colossal wings, black as night. The red feathered head and the enormous beak, long and yellow, scared Aliana. The prisoner seemed no more than a doll beside a bird as huge as that. The great creature croaked again, shaking its wings.

And attacked the man.

While the audience, overawed, sighed and exclaimed at the macabre scene, the bird dismembered the prisoner in the blink of an eye. Aliana was forced to look away. The powerful beak and sharp claws tore the body and spattered blood and guts on the totem and the floor around it. Nobody moved to prevent the creature as it fed on the human flesh and organs. Once satisfied, it took off with part of the poor wretch’s mutilated body.

Horrified, Aliana watched it fly away.

The chants and drumbeats sounded again; the sadistic ritual was continuing. The man in command moved his arms frantically in imitation of the great bird, and the crowd went wild. He made signs for Aliana to be brought to the totem.

My time has come.

While she was being tied to the totem, panic drove her mind to the verge of madness. The crowd went on with its ritual chanting and the drumming grew louder. Aliana was shaking like a leaf.

The Shaman repeated his triple call, and the killer bird appeared gliding above the tree tops, seeking more flesh to feed on.

Her mind grasped at the one thing which could keep her calm: her Gift. She summoned her inner energy, seeking to ease her nerves with her healing skill as she watched the monstrous bird descend.

It landed in front of her, raising a whirlwind of dust and air which hit her like a furnace blast.

Panic overwhelmed her.

Raising itself on its claws, the creature extended its black wings. The ruthless eyes in the sinister red head fixed themselves on her. It opened its long yellow beak and gave a deafening croak.

A terrified silence filled the air.

Aliana knew she was on the verge of being torn to pieces. She closed her eyes and in the midst of her terror felt something unexpected. The medallion which hung hidden under her corselet, which she had completely forgotten, sent forth a flash, as if waking up with the desperate situation its wearer found herself in. Suddenly she felt the precious jewel charging itself with the strength and power of her own inner energy

The great bird croaked again, chilling Aliana’s blood. It was preparing to attack!

The medallion showed her mind unknown golden symbols, which slowly formed words. The secret words were rearranged by the medallion until they formed an incomprehensible utterance of power. The gem in the medallion was conjuring as if it possessed an intellect of its own, without Aliana being able to take any part in what was happening. Her body, her inner energy and her mind were being used by the medallion.

The monstrous bird launched itself at Aliana with a chilling sound of death.

At this final moment, when everything seemed lost, the medallion cast a virulent spell of Earth Magic. She watched in astonishment as a brutal avalanche of stones and rocks hurled itself on the creature with unusual violence. Hundreds of rocks issued from Aliana’s chest with enormous speed and brutal power, striking the killer bird. Horribly battered and injured by that controlled storm of stones, the great bird moved back and attempted to take off, but fell to the floor instead. Its injuries were too severe. It gave a final squawk of pain and then, before the stunned crowd, it died.

Aliana could not believe her eyes. She was alive! The Ilenian medallion had saved her at the last instant with that amazing spell. Her inner energy, which until then had only been used to heal, had been employed by the medallion to perform that spell of Earth Magic. It was something both amazing and overwhelming.

A graveyard silence settled on the platform. The Usik could no more believe what they had just witnessed than she could herself.

The evil Shaman, walked up to the fallen bird. He took off his mask, and she could see that he was overwhelmed with sadness. She saw tears running down his cheeks, as though the great bird had been deeply important to him. With eyes filled with rage he stared at her, then fell into a fit. His face was red, and he was shouting and gesturing like a madman. Aliana feared he was going to cut her throat there and then for what she had done.

All the Usik ran away, abandoning the platform, fleeing from the anger of the possessed Shaman.

He came close to Aliana, spat on her face and slapped her frantically, all the time yelling insults she could not understand. Pain exploded in her face, but she bore it in silence, holding on to the fact that she was still alive, at least for a little longer.

The Shaman hit her again and again.

Aliana turned her face away from the blows and saw Asti looking at her. The sadness in her face had vanished. Its place had been taken by a wide smile and a sparkle of pride in her eyes.

Lasgol and Yakumo rode into the giant military camp of the Norghanian invasion army. It had been set up to the East of the Fortress of the Half Moon, eight hundred paces from the Rogdonian walls, inside the wide pass of the same name. They had chosen that spot, in clear sight of the defenders, with the unequivocal intention of driving fear into them. Thousands of Norghanian soldiers milled around in the valley like a tide of red water and white foam, completely blocking the way out of the pass to the East. The host was so huge it was breathtaking.

Lasgol and the Assassin had been intercepted by a mounted patrol as they approached the camp, and now they were being escorted into it by a dozen blond riders with winged helmets. As they made their way through the camp, Lasgol became more and more worried by the enormous military power concentrated there. He was leading the horse which bore his prisoner, well tied and gagged. He had even blindfolded him, as much to avoid trouble as to prevent his slanting eyes arousing the curiosity of those they met on their way.

There were thousands of tents all around, decorated with the colors and emblems of the Norghanian armies. They seemed to be entering a maze with no way out. From the flags waving proudly in the wind he could see that at least three of the five armies were gathered there. Looking at the number of tents raised along the plain in front of the pass, he calculated that there must be something like thirty thousand fierce men of the snow.

To the East he could see the banners of the Thunder Army. The plain had been completely taken over by hundreds of round red tents with white diagonal stripes, presumably General Olagson’s men. The daring and ferocious officer was well known and respected for taking part in battles alongside his men as one of them. It was said that only a respected few were as good as he was with a sword. The men of the Thunder Army were renowned for their savage charges. When they marched, the echo of their footsteps was so loud that their enemies lost courage as fear filled their hearts, and when they attacked they did so with such furious energy that the enemy defenses collapsed. It was said that there was no charge which that infantry had not won, no city they had failed to take.

Lasgol stopped Trotter and looked at the officers giving orders and organizing tasks: the coming and going of soldiers carrying weapons from one place to another might look chaotic, but he knew how well organized this army was. The hierarchy was well established, and orders always went to the right destination. An endless caravan of big carts pulled by enormous draft horses slowly passed him, carrying vast quantities of supplies: mainly food and drink, he guessed, to sustain the troops. If they were getting ready to lay siege to the fortress, the whole army would need to be well fed and the lines of carts would soon multiply. King Thoran’s administrators in Norghana must already be organizing the delivery of more supply caravans from all the main cities and villages of the kingdom.

Looking westwards, Lasgol could make out the banners of the Snow Army, Norghana’s heavy infantry. Their rectangular tents were snow-white, in keeping with their name. These men were the most powerful infantry of the whole continent. They had no rival in one-to-one combat. The rough soldiers of the snow destroyed their enemies without pity, with axe or sword, protected by their round shields of wood and iron. They crushed anything that got in their way. Only the Cavalry could stop them, and unfortunately for them and as they were all well aware, Rogdon had the best in Tremia. The Rogdonian Lancers were unequaled. The ferocity and skill of the men of the snow were well known and Cavalry aside, there was no army that did not fear them. The winged helmets which distinguished them, also snow-white, woke terror in their enemies. They would be led by General Rangulfsen, an intelligent man, a good strategist and a great leader. Rarely had he been forced to retreat in past campaigns, and since he had assumed command of the Snow Army he had never been defeated.

Trotter neighed restlessly.

“You don’t like all this fuss, do you?” said Lasgol, patting his neck to quiet him down. “Don’t you worry, you’ll soon be fed and taken care of, my dear old traveling companion.”

He went on towards the more easterly area of the camp.

“More spirit, more energy!” a veteran one-eyed soldier on his left shouted to an infantry squad who were practicing with sword and shield.

“You’re just like a bunch of weaklings from the rich cities of the east! Isn’t there any Norghanian blood in your veins?” a younger officer shouted to the practicing soldiers.

Lasgol smiled. He himself had suffered those terms of endearment during his training in the Royal Army, something he remembered nostalgically but not fondly. He was no soldier, he had never wanted to be one. But in order to become a Royal Forest Ranger he had had to go through military boot camp.

“They like to keep the soldiers with their swords well honed, don’t they, Trotter?” He looked back to check that the lethal Assassin had not disappeared. The thought seemed absurd the moment it came into his mind.
How could he disappear when he’s surrounded by the whole Norghanian Army?
He shook his head and went on.

Right and left he saw several squads exercising, some practicing in pairs with swords, others carrying out maneuvers of attack and defense in small groups, still more trying their marksmanship, shooting arrows at large targets set a range of different distances apart. Lasgol felt like joining the archers, but he resisted the impulse. He had important matters to attend to. He looked at his fellow countrymen: tall, strong and powerful. True beasts of war, brutal men born and trained to kill. They were truly terrifying. One soldier broke his partner’s shield with a brutal axe stroke and burst out laughing. Lasgol stared at him: blond, almost albino, with a beard of the same color, he had the build of a white mountain bear. No matter how brave the enemy, in the face of these warriors there was little they could do, they would be destroyed and trampled.

There were soldiers on guard-watch all over the camp. Their bodies tensed involuntarily at the sight of the Assassin passing, escorted by the riders.

The kitchen section impressed the Tracker, who had never in his life seen so many butchers, cooks, apprentices and kitchen hands together. They busied themselves cooking in countless pots of enormous size, which were placed along an empty space filled with other similar fires. Nearby, in various pens put up for that purpose, hundreds of cows, pigs, sheep, goats, hens and other farm animals were safely kept. A little further back several barns had been built to store wheat, oats, fodder, salted meat, cheese and many other foods.

The sheer scale of the logistics overwhelmed the Ranger.

They arrived at the eastern zone of the great camp, and after clearing two squares where the officers rested, Lasgol saw several command tents. They were easily identifiable, much bigger, more luxurious and elegant than those of the soldiers. Behind them, forming an endless cloth barrier which closed the rearguard of the camp, were hundreds of round red-and-white tents, with the banners of the Blizzard Army flying in the wind. This was the mixed army, the least known of the three gathered there, but fundamental when it came to facing enemy armies. It was made up of a mixed, multifunctional group. On one hand was the light cavalry of the south of the kingdom, for scouting, rearguard and flank attacks, as well as raiding missions to destroy supply lines. On the other hand, were the essential archers of the snowy forests of the northeast, without whom it was not possible to gain positions, take fortresses or punish the enemy infantry and cavalry. And finally the foot lancers, whose job was to face the cavalry with their long spears, and also to carry ladders and battering rams during assaults on enemy fortresses.

This supporting army was led by General Odir, a man with an explosive character, short–tempered and extremely abusive manners. He was capable of yelling an officer’s head off. His men feared the surliness and malice of his character; he commanded on the basis of terror, and with success. He was a clear example of how brutality and savagery could triumph in the Norghanian army. He was a man to be avoided at all costs.

The small group of riders reached the Guard of Honor, who formed a protective rectangle around the commanders’ tents, day and night. The escort of light cavalry withdrew, leaving Lasgol and the Assassin with the Guard. Both dismounted. Immediately a young officer appeared and looked at the Royal Ranger suspiciously, arching one brow.

“Who goes there?” he demanded.

“Lasgol, Royal Forest Ranger and Tracker of Norghana,”

The young captain stared at him incredulously.

“I know I don’t look like one at the moment, but I assure you that I’m here on an official mission of his Majesty King Thoran.”

The officer looked Lasgol up and down, then turned his attention to the Assassin. Finally, he said: “Wait here, don’t move.”

He turned and addressed his men.

“Guards, don’t let them try anything.”

Without another word, he walked away to the tents.

The Guards of Honor surrounded them at once, swords and shields at the ready.

Lasgol waited calmly. He knew his people well: frugal in words and with the manners of a mountain bear. On the other hand, manners were not so highly regarded among his race.

After a short while the officer returned. Coming up to Lasgol, he said: “Follow me.”

“My horse…”

“Of course.” The officer turned to two of his men. “Tend to the horses immediately.”

The men saluted and took away both horses.

Lasgol followed the Captain of the Guard of Honor toward the commanders’ tents, with the Assassin behind. Six guards escorted them attentively.

They passed several spacious, luxuriously-made tents:
high-ranking officers and court dignitaries, obviously
, he thought. Finally they reached one that was somewhat smaller and more discreet. The Captain saluted the four guards at the door and walked in.

Lasgol followed, with the Assassin following him and the escort beside them.

“Well, well, well, look what the frozen winds of the North have brought us…” said a hissing voice.

Lasgol stopped and found himself in front of General Odir. He had briefly known the man at court, and could find nothing positive to say about him. He was tall and strong, middle-aged, with copper-colored hair and a thick beard. His light eyes sparkled with a light that hinted at a touch of madness, a danger of dementia, expectant and threatening.

“Good morning, General Odir,” Lasgol said with a slight bow.

“There’s nothing good about the morning, nothing at all, Ranger,” he replied roughly, with his eyes fixed on the Assassin.

Another voice came from behind a large round table with several maps spread out on it: “I see you’ve brought us a surprise, Royal Ranger.”

It was General Rangulfsen. Beside him General Olagson was rolling up a thick map.

“My Generals,” said Lasgol, and bowed.

“Tell me Ranger, is this who I think it is?” General Rangulfsen asked. He was small compared with the average Norghanian, and his features were more like those of a westerner than of someone from the freezing North, with brown hair and eyes and an aquiline nose. His eyes and expression hinted at sharp judgment and high intelligence.

“Yes Sir. It’s the Assassin. I’ve captured him as I was ordered and I’m bringing him to be interrogated.”

Lasgol stood behind the Assassin and took off the blindfold, letting it fall on the floor.

The surprise of the three generals was great. Their jaws dropped as they tried to understand what they were looking at: a man with slanting eyes!

Suddenly General Odir drew his sword and lunged at the Assassin like a wild animal, ready to skewer him.

“No!” shouted Lasgol, and tried to stop the General, but he was an instant too late.

The Assassin, who was standing with his hands tied at his back and gagged, slipped sideways with unimaginable agility and coordination.

General Odir, borne along by his own momentum, went past him and collided with the six Guards at the entrance of the tent.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing, you idiot?” General Rangulfsen said, outraged.

“Ha ha ha! What a beast!” sneered General Olagson, revealing his toothless mouth and the big scar that ran down his right cheek. This man was strong as an ox and nearly seven feet tall, with a prominent belly and scars on arms and face which told anybody who dared look at them that he was a true Norghanian warrior.

Lasgol came between the Assassin and General Odir, who was recovering his balance and cursing all the frozen ice gods with mad rage.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” shouted General Rangulfsen.

“I’ll kill him!” yelled Odir, brandishing his sword once again and lunging at Lasgol and the Assassin.

The sword came down towards the Tracker.

Another one flew swiftly through the air and blocked the stroke.

Lasgol looked to his right and saw General Olagson blocking Odir’s sword with his own.

“Don’t even think of it!” he told Odir. “I’ll cut your throat before you strike again.”

Odir looked at him, his eyes filled with rage and staring out of their sockets.