Shadow Of The Mountain (7 page)

Coming to an entrance Tenlon found two Amorian soldiers standing stiffly at attention. In full armor, they wore short swords at their side and held tall spears. Their cloaks swayed in the stormy wind as Accostas spoke to them.

“Alert King Healianos that the mage apprentice, Tenlon, is here.”

One of the sentries handed his spear off to the other and opened the flap, entering with the message.

Tenlon thought he misheard the tall warrior through the thunder.

“Did you say the king?” he asked with shock. “Why have you taken me to see the king?”

“I don’t know what he wants, but this is where our road together ends, little mage,” Accostas smiled again. “Just wait here until you’re called upon. And don’t look so frightened! I doubt he’ll execute you. He hardly ever does that himself.”

Tenlon turned to Desik to see if this were all a jest, but the other warrior was already walking away into the dark.

“Be sure to drop to your knees when you see him,” Accostas said as he withdrew into the night. “It might assuage some of his anger!”

“Why would he be angry with me? I‘ve done nothing!”

Accostas threw up his hands as he disappeared from sight, voicing no answer.

Tenlon muttered a curse under his breath. The king?

This was madness, all of it. Pure madness.

Chapter 3

Kreiden Baelik relaxed on a velvet-upholstered couch in the war room of the king’s tent, rubbing a red apple on his sleeve. Still in his battle armor and cloak, his filthy riding boots were perched on a matching plush footrest. He ran a hand through his tangled blond hair and looked around.

The tent was suspended above the ground on a massive platform, with a floor of polished wood covered in thick rugs. The chamber had a high ceiling and was well lit by lanterns and flickering candles. Several brass braziers were spaced about, radiating the area with warmth. A large wooden table covered in maps and parchment sat at the far end of the tent. Stools surrounded the table, dwarfed by the king’s high-backed chair of oak, which was engraved with the motif of a rearing horse, glossy and shining in the lantern light. Weapon racks with various blades and spears were set behind the table and there was an ornate, full-length mirror standing near a side wall that sectioned off another of the tent’s many chambers.

The champion took a bite of the fruit in silence, watching the king. His brother was poring over the scouting reports and casualty numbers of their first exchange with the Volrathi. Kreiden knew the numbers were not good.

The king had doffed his cloak and armor for loose riding boots and a simple white tunic with leather trousers. The thirty-one-year-old Amorian leader had premature flecks of silver through his hair, but his thick beard was still black as moonless night. His breastplate and helm had been cleaned and now rested on an armor tree in the far corner of the chamber, scratched and dented though still in fine shape.

As the king’s First Sword, Kreiden had ridden with Healianos the entire day, watching the man and protecting him where he could. The king always rode with an escort of superb light cavalrymen during battle, but the man had a tendency to push deep into enemy lines, letting his sword carry him away from their protection. Kreiden never tried to pull him back, only pushed in deeper beside him. Eventually the men would catch up. They always did.

The day had been soaked in blood and Kreiden knew his longtime friend was distraught over the massive losses they had taken, and rightly so. Kreiden could feel the shadows closing in on them. They were in trouble.

Draxakis and the fleet had been wiped out and most of Amoria’s lead mages had been slain. Kreiden was a student of war, a strategist. After engaging the Volrathi on the field for the first time, he knew how this battle would end. They were savagely outnumbered and no Amorian allies had come to their aid. Morale was low and without Draxakis their chances of surviving this were meager at best.

Even more troubling were the reports that large forces of the enemy were beginning to flank them, almost certainly attempting to cut off any chance of escape. Not that it mattered. Retreat was never an option.

Kreiden tilted his head back and closed his eyes, thinking of better days. Thunder rolled across the sky far above.

He thought of home, seeing beautiful Talia in his mind: smart and strong-willed, with long dark hair, deep blue eyes, and a stunning smile that could melt your soul. The idea of dying here and leaving her alone filled him with terrible anguish, but the thought of not standing next to his king at the end brought a sense of panic with it as well. He was split into two men, with only one life to sacrifice.

Kreiden still had a few friends back at the capital who’d keep an eye on her, and there was no question as to where he’d be when the end finally came. He was First Sword of Amoria, second only to the king. He’d follow Healianos to the Black Gates with sword in hand. They’d been there before and made it out. Perhaps they could do it again.

He looked to the large man behind the table, burdened by the deaths of so many, charged with protecting a nation that was now scarcely more than an open lantern’s flame against the storm. Kreiden couldn’t imagine what torturous thoughts were spinning through the king’s mind. He didn’t want to.

“A tough start, no doubt about it,” he broke the quiet. “But tomorrow is another day. We will tighten the ranks and whittle the large bastards down, bit by bit, until there is nothing left of them. Then we can drink too much, like we would after battle when we were younger men. I don’t care what ails a man, copious consumption of wine is always the best medicine.”

“Today was the only day,” the king’s voice rumbled, rising in anger. “Draxakis, our mages…the men. Our spines have been broken. Had they not granted us this reprieve and simply turned their dragons loose, this battle would be over by dawn. Not that we can tell when dawn is because they’ve blotted out the sun with their damned magic!”

Healianos grew so angry he slammed a massive forearm against the table, causing it to slide across the wooden floor. Kreiden heard a small vial crack beneath the blow, covering several maps and the king’s arm in black ink.

A sentry hidden behind one of the canvas walls poked his head in at the disturbance, then quickly vanished after seeing all was well.

Healianos grumbled something incoherent, pulling a nearby cloth to wipe away the mess on his sleeve and skin. A bronze dragon was tattooed along the inside of his forearm, curled up nose to tail. Kreiden watched his king work the cloth over the image, wiping its scales clean. Visible body art was not permitted for soldiers, but exceptions had been made for a very select few. How Healianos received his was a story Kreiden knew well.

Many years ago, when the king was just a prince, there was an attack on his life while he trained at the Orantak Infantry Academy. Assassins from Varishna breached its walls beneath the cover of night, hoping to find young Healianos a quick and easy kill.

The boys of his barracks were caught by surprise, outnumbered, and unarmed. Those who fought and lived long enough for the academy guards to arrive were commended for their valor and ferocity in the fight. By the end of the attack, the twenty students of Healianos’s barracks had been reduced to nine, with three heinously wounded.

The instructors later estimated that the young boys had killed sixteen men—some with illegal knives kept near their bunks, the rest with swords taken from fallen assassins.

When help finally reached the students, the attack was quickly put down. The academy guards took six prisoners and beheaded the rest on the parade ground.

The headless assassins were the lucky ones. Amoria had men who were very gifted in the art of conversation, men you wouldn’t want to meet in the nightmarish depths of the dungeons. True masters of the craft, they’d learn whatever they needed from you whether you wanted to reveal it or not.

At dawn the next morning, the fourteen-year-old boys were the youngest Amorians to ever receive the green cloaks. They were hailed as heroes, but the deaths of so many brothers cast a shadow over the triumph.

The surviving students of the attack spent the next several days with the wounded. Skilled surgeons were brought in, but the boys were dying and nothing could be done except make them comfortable. Much wine was drunk amongst them those days and nights
,
and they sat as family will during such times.  Together in life, as it was said, and together in death.

Prince Healianos secretly commissioned the finest body artist in the capital to mark them all with the bronze dragon tattoo along their forearm, connecting each to the rest for all time.

“Simply because you’re passing through the Veil before us,” he had told his brothers before they died, “does not mean you go alone. You are never alone.”

By the end of the week only six survivors remained from the attack, the rest succumbing to their wounds. That was over fifteen years ago. Since then, the bronze dragon tattoo was allowed on only the most decorated of soldiers.

“You’ve seen worse,” Kreiden assured his king, “and you’ll see us clear of this.”

Healianos looked to the champion, his expression unconvinced.

The man let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping beneath weight unseen. The champion had never seen him so low. It was unsettling. His sword brother was always a mountain of strength, both in the public eye as well as in private. Kreiden had had no idea how much he’d leaned against such an immovable object until now, and seeing the cracks spreading across his surface was perhaps the worst blow of all.

“Kreiden,” the king began, his face tight with tension, “we lost contact with the Stonewall garrison a few hours ago.”

“Stonewall?”

Kreiden sat up, shaking his head as if to force the mere notion of it to falsehood. He tossed his apple core into a burning brazier and it began to sizzle.

“There are five thousand men holding Stonewall. How could we lose contact? They’re a few miles outside of our own damned capital! The Volrathi haven’t even made it out of the flatlands!”

“Last word received from Stonewall was that Gallan soldiers were approaching in force,” Healianos said. “After that…nothing.”

“Horseshit!” Kreiden rose and moved towards the table, sweeping away several pieces of parchment to reveal a large map of their journey beneath. “There must be a storm blocking the message birds, or a sickness in the flock. Something!”

The king could hardly answer. “The birds continued to come in at regular intervals last night and all through the morning, and then they just stopped. I sent riders out, but they’re still days away.”

“And what of the Seers? We still have one at the garrison, don’t we? Have the girls tried reaching out to…”

“Braiden tells me the littlest cannot reach her sister there. She’s either dead or was forced into hiding. Nothing else could explain it.”

The champion felt hot, feverish. His hands started to shake and he reached out to steady himself on a stool. Talia was in the capital and the Stonewall garrison was supposed to be enough to protect her, to protect Corda.

This whole venture had been doomed from the start. More was against them here than they knew, but understanding that now availed them nothing. They were bogged down in the mire and it was pulling them deeper every minute.

Kreiden fought for calm but couldn’t see past his own blinding anger. His large hands gripped the seat of a stool so hard that he felt the wood groan beneath the pressure. He wanted to draw his sword and march back out into the field, striking down any of the Volrathi he found. The battle was not yet over and they’d make these Volrathi bastards pay.

“Our convoy getting hit, the Gallans pulling out,” Kreiden said, trying to wrap his head around it all. “Losing the dragon fleet, the mages. Stonewall…This is calculated, Healianos. This is planning, preparation. These aren’t opening moves, but closing ones.”

“We are in it now,” the king agreed. “The light cavalry is still in good shape and the heavy infantry’s losses weren’t entirely appalling. We still have some time to turn things around.”

It was obvious he tried to put strength behind the words, yet it all sounded so limp and hollow.

Kreiden had nothing to add, not anymore. The world was falling apart and even attempting to hold the pieces together felt foolish.

“I’m sorry, Kreiden,” the king continued. “Honestly. I wish I could send you back for her, but I can’t. I need you for something else. A matter of importance.” The champion waved off the notion.

“Argos agreed to watch over Natalia if anything went awry.”

“Good,” Healianos answered, eyeing the map on the table. “Argos is as fine a man as they come.”

“I’ll not be leaving here for her anyway. You and I will finish this together, just as we always do.” The King shook his head.

“Not this time. I will stay here with the army, though you,” he said carefully, “will not. I have a task for you, one that matches your skill. This is your last assignment as my champion.” Kreiden rubbed his eyes before moving to a small table and pouring himself a goblet of water.

“Must you speak so morbidly?”

“You’re going to take ten good riders out. There’s a mage apprentice that needs an escort to the port city of Ebnan.”

“Korando?”

The king nodded. “It is imperative that he break through the ring of Volrathi circling us. The boy must get to the city.” The king’s gray eyes focused on his champion. “The ride will not be easy, Kreiden. Reports on the flanking positions do not bode well for us. Riders have been spotted…and Blackwolves. Many Blackwolves, more than we’ve ever seen.”

The beasts had been spreading through the realm from unknown origins, wreaking havoc on the more rural villages and communities, with it soon becoming clear they were hounds of the Volrathi. More like bears than wolves, they had black fur and prodigious stamina, razor-sharp, elongated teeth, and massive shoulder muscles hidden beneath tattered gray cloaks. They also ran like the winter wind.