Deadly Intentions (Blood Feud - Volume 2)

Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance between the characters, places or events and any
other work of fiction or fact are purely coincidental and in no way
reflect real people, places or events.

Note
from the Author

As is often the case with fantasy novels,
this sequel continues to adventures of Tristan Vallious. I felt as
though the first novel was setting the stage for the second, though
I have yet to start working on any others in this world. I guess
that’s the rebel in me, I’ll stick to certain preconceived notions
and then stick my nose up at others. To anyone who knows me in my
personal life, or has befriended me on various social media, this
will come as little surprise.

Be sure to check out my personal website at
www.davidtemrick.com

Thanks again to you all.

Cheers,

David Temrick

Tristan Vallious swore under his breath. In
the distance he could make out the silhouettes of five abnormally
large humanoids. Even with the sun setting behind the mountainous
monsters, Tristan could easily tell they were giants. They towered
above the war machines at their feet, and they cut a wide birth
around them as they lumbered toward his forces.

“Hold damn you!” He shouted.

Many of his most battle hardened men and
women exchanged startled glances and whispered hoarsely to one
another. Tristan could hardly blame them; one giant was a force to
be reckoned with. After three days and nights of endless fighting,
five of them would break the back of his army. If his reserves
weren’t here in the next hour he was going to have to call for an
orderly withdrawal along the entire centerline.

“Archers!” He shouted. “Pick your
targets!”

All along the earthen breastworks the Bandit
King’s forces began to push their way through. The first enemy
cleared the wood and mortar wall and ducked down, waiting for his
comrades to catch up. Tristan watched in detached fascination as
the enemy waited, gathering more soldiers together in preparation
for an organized attack. Until three days ago he would have called
the occupation of Terum a rabble of unorganized mercenary
companies, many of who didn’t get along with one another. Three
days ago that changed completely. Large organized groups of foot
soldiers preceded their more valuable archers while cavalry kept
their flanks in place.

The enemy outnumbered his forces three to one
and until their re-organization, the fight to regain his new
kingdom was proceeding quickly. With the Bandit King’s forces now
organized and attacking in concert rather than blindly engaging
him, all of his effort was bent towards holding the ground he’d
already won rather than any attempt to push forward. It was clear
that someone somewhere had finally gained control over the invading
army and was bending it to their will. Tristan doubted very much it
was this so-called Bandit King; it was far more likely that someone
had ingratiated himself or herself in his inner circle and was
counseling him well in the art of war.

As the enemy gathered on the other side of
the first breastwork, he smiled.

“Loose!” Tristan shouted.

As one, over a hundred archers fired their
arrows at the attackers. Their missiles took a score of enemy
soldiers down. His momentary joy was quickly extinguished as he
watched more bandits pour over the breastwork. He would have found
the flood of soldiers mildly amusing if they hadn’t been beaten
into an organized mob. Whoever was in command of the invaders knew
how best to use the rabble of mercenaries, conscripts and murderers
to good effect. Everywhere along his forward positions they
punished his army, punching holes in their defenses and rolling up
his lines at a whim.

“Hold!” Tristan shouted.

He waited for the opportune time to take as
many of the enemy as possible. More soldiers poured over the
battlements, running headlong across the killing gap. Tristan had
erected two sets of breastworks, creating a large, reasonably level
field between the two armies. Many of the Bandit King’s soldiers
fell into spike pits dug by Tristan’s engineers, while others
spotted the traps and avoided them. In avoiding the killing holes,
they were forced to take their time and became perfect targets for
the Prince’s archers.

“Fire!” He shouted as the first of the enemy
soldiers come within twenty yards of his forward position.

Bowstrings snapped all around the Prince as
he continued to monitor the assault. Another wave of enemy soldiers
was almost on top of them and getting closer by the moment. Tristan
forced himself to wait until the last moment before shouting his
orders at the cadre of archers surrounding him.

“Fire at will!” He shouted.

Another volley of arrows took another score
of enemy soldiers. Still more of the enemy forces crossed the
twenty yards between the makeshift breastwork-killing field and the
Vallius army. An increasing number of enemy soldiers cleared the
breastwork by the moment, though his archers did an admirable job
of keeping them from reaching his lines. Foot soldiers waited,
their swords drawn and shields held up in case any of the Terum
soldiers got close enough. The archers were mostly lined up behind
two columns of infantry to keep them as safe as possible. Even so,
enemy soldiers beat holes in Tristan’s defensive line, getting in
behind the protective columns and hacking his archers to bits.

Flying companies of veteran soldiers waited,
under the command of their captains, to plug the holes as they
appeared. Those companies were being sorely tested as more and more
Terum soldiers closed in on their forward positions. Tristan had
been fighting this delaying action for far too long. He was anxious
for his reinforcements. He’d received word were on their way,
though they might as well be years away if he couldn’t find a way
to keep his lines intact.

For close to a year Tristan had been leading
his army into Terum. His force had traveled into Terum largely
unmolested, until they met with the first signs of resistance in
the shape of a large fort. The crude structure had been hastily
constructed right on the road from Kenting to the capital of Terum,
Kumia.

The Prince had decided to proceed
politically, as his commanders suggested. He ordered camp to be set
up just outside of bowshot. Tristan sent an emissary to the fort
announcing himself as ruler of Terum. He wasn’t quite sure what he
expected at the time, though when his emissary returned with two
irritating messages, he had to fight to keep his temper in
check.

The messages themselves were more or less
benign, or at least that’s how Tristan viewed them with a large
army under his command. Of course, in retrospect he should have
known better. The first message was quite simple: ‘Turn around and
go home.’ Tristan would have laughed if it hadn’t been delivered to
his emissary at sword point. However, it had and that fact alone
grated his nerves.

The second message was not quite as laughable
and it created whole other series of problems. It quite simply
outlined the new regime of King Boris.

It appeared as though a mercenary captain had
reassembled what had been left of the force that attacked Sutten
almost a year ago. Mercenary companies, tribes of trolls, goblin
engineers, and orc warriors, bolstered those forces. Now, it
seemed, they added giants to their numbers. Trolls and goblins were
blood enemies, so how Boris had forged them into a united fighting
force was beyond his understanding and even his spies couldn’t
discover those details. Tristan theorized that it had something to
do with magic, the air stank with it. One of the boons that came
from his destruction of the
Draconis’ Bane
cult had been the
experience to put name to the strange feelings he often felt when
in the presence of a magic user.

At times it was simply a tingle behind his
eye, or the hair rising on the back of his neck. Typically these
warnings sprang when he was around unrefined blunt magic users. The
more gifted or experienced the magician, the harder it was for him
to pinpoint the threat. Whatever spells were being employed to keep
this invading army in check wasn’t remotely subtle. The air felt
like a weight beating down on him like a hammer. It was certainly
powerful, but made no attempt to hide its power, nor its purpose.
Even so, his spies still seemed unable to explain the presence of
the magic.

Along with the charge of ruling Terum, his
father had given him a small band of spies to use. King Dion had
explained that most of the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms employed
spies in some form, otherwise one just couldn’t keep track of the
changes in others countries. Tristan’s spies had ferreted out
several other compelling facts.

Boris had the aid of a lover whom no one
seemed to have ever seen or heard the name of. He’d enlisted
hundreds of bandits and mercenaries, and then seized control of
Terum. Tristan’s spies had also learned that every Terum citizen
who was not serving in the army was crucified, or impaled and left
for dead. Their families were forced to watch as the twitching
remains of their loved ones died before their eyes and then were
pressed into service.

The women were taught how to tan and smith
while the children became cook’s monkeys, servants and messengers.
The men were mostly used as wall fodder, though some of them took
to their new duties with some pride. Shortly thereafter the newly
crowned King Boris had arranged for orcs, trolls and goblins to
join his army, though none of the spies could discover how he’d
accomplished this. The entire force Boris now commanded was putting
pressure on Tristan’s lines everywhere. Experienced soldiers were
scattered among the rag tag band of conscripts and bloodthirsty
mercenaries, and then the lot of them would be released on already
exhausted Vallius soldiers.

Until three weeks ago, regular messengers in
the form of half-starved children began appearing all along his
lines. They delivered messages to his commanders, offering each of
them lands, bribes and titles if they would take their forces and
leave, or turn them on their Prince. Some of them might have been
tempted if they hadn’t realized that the prizes and boons Boris
offered were Vallius lands.

The congress of Lords in Metao had been loath
to send Tristan more men, even though he sent regular weekly
requests. So the Prince had one of his own messengers ride back to
the capital with the last girl Boris had sent from Kumia Fortress.
She bore King Boris’ offer to one of Tristan’s generals to the
council. The offer was for the entire eastern half of Vallius and
title if he would turn his army on Tristan and then march on
Kenting Keep. The council had sent word that an additional fifty
thousand men were on the way. If they arrived in the next fifteen
minutes he could use replace his exhausted soldiers with them and
hold the front line.

“Hold the line!” Tristan shouted over the
grunts and screams of both armies.

The first of the enemy approached his
position. He and his commanders pulled their swords and prepared
for the battle to begin in earnest. Tristan blocked the overhead
strike from an enemy and kicked him backwards. His comrades
trampled him as they continued to pour through the breach they’d
punched in his forward line. A mercenary woman stepped in front of
him and lunged forward, attempting to impale Tristan on the tip of
her bastard sword. The Prince backed up as he swept her blade
aside. In an impressive show of strength and dexterity, she allowed
her blade to be carried to the side and altered its momentum into
an overhead strike. Tristan blocked the blow, though he felt it all
the way down to his heels.

He stepped forward and punched the woman
square on the chin, hoping to at least knock her off balance. She
merely smiled, her teeth bloodied by his punch and spat out a glob
of blood before stepping forward and driving her knee into his
stomach. The wind was knocked out of Tristan and he dully realized
she’s punched an inch wide hole in his stomach with the spike on
the top of her shin guards.

The woman slammed the butt of her sword into
Tristan’s forehead and sent him reeling backwards. He brought his
sword up defensively and deflected a blow meant to decapitate him.
She grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head backwards,
raising her blade for a killing stroke. Tristan jabbed the woman in
the throat, forcing her to back away and allow him to regain his
feet.

He shook his head and stood up shakily,
preparing for another onslaught. She snarled as she readjusted the
grip on her large sword and rushed forward, bringing her sword down
on him. Tristan had enough of trying to block her powerful strikes
and dodged to the left, allowing her to stumble past him. She
looked over her right shoulder just as Tristan brought his scimitar
down, severing her head from her shoulders.