The Chronicles of Lumineia: Book 02 - The Gathering (9 page)

"What
about Draeken’s generals?”

They were
interrupted by an elf bearing food and drink. The ancient historian thanked the
bearer and reached for the glass pitcher. Pouring himself some amber liquid, he
took a sip and sighed. The elf gave a short bow and departed as Sirfalas
returned his gaze to Braon.

“Ah, to your
question. Draeken’s army is led by four supreme beings—one of which has already
been killed. Death, the assassin and wielder of fear, was slain by Jack and
Taryn. The other three will be just as dangerous, if not more so. War is the
leader of the army, the general that you will pit your mind against. From the
ancient descriptions he is said to be huge. Over twelve feet tall and completely
armored with sharp metal shards, he will be more vicious than anything in his
army. ”

“The other two
are forerunners, meaning they ride in advance of the army to weaken opposition.
Plague brings disease. Not much is known about what he looks like, except that
he unleashes widespread sickness. Much of his ability is governed by distance.
The closer he is, the sicker you become.”

“Can he be
killed?” Braon asked.

“I am sure it
is possible, but I don’t know how. I only have two accounts of soldiers that
survived an encounter. Both were archers, and they chronicled that anyone who
got within fifty feet began retching and falling to the ground. Then they grew
diseased and died. The two archers wrote that they shot him with several
arrows, but it didn’t seem to affect him. It is my belief that he is, in a
literal sense, a combination of ailments, and no conventional weapon can hurt a
disease.”

Braon took a
moment to mull that over and chewed on some meat. Sirfalas allowed his
companion to eat in silence, waiting patiently as he worked his way through
some bread. When Braon had considered several ideas he bobbed his head. “Who is
the last one?”

The historian
cleared his throat to answer and said, “The last being created by Draeken is Famine.
Crops withered and food spoiled if he came too close. Just like Plague, his
ability is also controlled by distance. Time seemed to be a factor as well. For
instance, soldiers rations wouldn’t spoil overnight, it took days for the food
to go rancid, unless he was physically closer, in which case the men felt
themselves get hungry, and then weaker, before they perished. Some bodies were
found in the fetal position, holding their stomachs as if they died in agony.”
He shuddered. “The drawings show them so skinny they looked like a skeleton
inside of a sack of skin.”

“Did anyone
get close and not die? Did anyone hurt him?” Braon asked. He did his best to
keep the creeping desperation from appearing in his voice.

“I do have a
single story of a survivor, although I doubt its word.” Getting up he moved
back to the shelf and perused the stacks of scrolls until he found the one he
wanted. “Ah, this is it.” Returning to his seat he gingerly unrolled the stiff
material and scanned the writing. “It is a story of an unnamed blacksmith in a
town where Famine passed through. Everyone in the village wasted away and died,
but this man did not.”

He paused and
mumbled to himself for a moment before he came to what he was looking for.
“Let’s see . . . that’s right, I didn’t remember.” Looking at Braon he pointed
at the parchment. “The author said the man was extremely overweight, and
managed to get to a horse. When Famine came after him he threw his hammer at
the being. It struck him on the arm, and the fiend appeared hurt and backed
away, allowing the blacksmith time to escape.” Sirfalas chuckled and took a
swallow of juice. “The report indicates that both the horse and the rider were
much skinnier after that.”

“Hmm,” Braon
mused aloud. “So perhaps he can be hurt, but no one can get close. Interesting.”
He stared off into space while he finished the meal, his mind reviewing
possible strategies against all he’d learned.

Suddenly aware
of his impolite attitude he blinked and looked at the kind historian. “Thank
you for all you have shared with me today. I have learned much, and will probably
return soon.”

Sirfalas
laughed, a soft wheezing sound, and smiled. “I researched extensively prior to
your arrival. I shall now devote myself to further study so we have more to
discuss.”

Braon smiled
in return and allowed his gratitude to show on his face. “Thank you again.” He
stood and inclined his head, sweeping his hand to invite the historian to go
first. As he followed him through the maze of records, he continued to examine the
different possibilities. Hardly noticing the departing wave of Sirfalas, he
exited the archives and headed towards the House of Runya.

Slipping
through the twilight city he arrived at his destination and hurried inside. Pausing
to leave a note for Lariel to request the dining hall as his strategic command,
he returned to his room and sat on a tree bench that grew out of the balcony.
Pondering, he didn’t see the sun set or the stars begin to twinkle in the sky.

Deep in his
mind he ran through the battle that was coming. Attack, defend, counter-attack.
Time and again he set the pieces and ran the battle until he’d found the best
placement for his troops—for now. A lot would depend on which races came, and
how well he was able to integrate them into his army.

Once again he
wished for a second in command. With a sigh he rose and prepared for sleep. His
eyes on the battle to come, he climbed into bed. As he lay awake trying to create
a better strategy, his heart began to sink. If nothing was added, the best he
could see them surviving was not seven days . . .

It was three.

Chapter
7: Captain Arrow

The afternoon
sun filtered through the thin canopy as Aroet wearily leaned forward and rubbed
the neck of the big roan. Zel tossed his head in response to the touch, but
lacked the energy for a more typical playful reaction. In that moment Aroet keenly
missed the spark of mischief in the big animals’ personality. He sighed,
remembering brighter days with his stallion.

Tall and broad
shouldered, Aroet carried himself in a manner much older than he appeared at
first glance. With brown hair and smooth skin, he looked more like a flag
bearer than swordsman. Upon closer inspection, others would notice the square,
firm jaw, and a certain depth to his brown eyes that only came with experience.
Over the last five years of his captainship, more than a few swordsmen had
learned to respect both his weapon and his leadership skills.

Seasoned
soldiers to the last man, the survivors of his five hundred rider command rode
dejectedly around him through the northern foothills of the eastern kingdom.
So
many dead
, he thought, once again fighting the despair that had threatened
to engulf him over the past few weeks.

Although he
fought it, the image of his father being torn from his saddle during the battle
at Terros sprang to his mind. With a supreme effort of will, he tightened his
jaw and shut out the image. There was no time for grief. He was down to less
than two hundred men, and he was lucky to have them. The black army had invaded
so quickly that few had been fast enough to survive their onslaught.

The eastern
villages had been struck first, and scarcely a handful had made it out of the
valleys to warn the middle cities. With just days to prepare, they had been
overrun in hours, and the black creatures had spread like wildfire. Without
mercy, the horde slaughtered everyone, and drove the entire population of
Griffin towards the great lake. Nearly half of the country, numbering over two
hundred thousand, had sought refuge at Terros, only to be massacred a few days
later.

Aroet had
never seen such courage as he had that day. His father and the core of the
griffin army had defended the city as thousands of ships sought the safety of
the open waters of Blue Lake. Every one of them had willingly perished,
granting their people time to escape.

So many
dead,
he thought with a shudder
.

Of the vast
country that had been Griffin, Aroet estimated a third had made it out alive,
mostly by boat. He still held hope that the southern villages had been warned
in time to flee to the southern kingdom of Talinor. Deep down he doubted they
could have outrun the speed of the invaders, but hope and luck were the only
reasons he was alive.

“Captain
Arrow,” his lieutenant said, using the nickname his younger brother had given
him when he was too little to pronounce his name.

Aroet faced
the man riding at his side. Of average build and older, his next in command
sported a week old beard that matched his salt and pepper hair. Brusque and
blunt, he had been a minor officer his entire life, mostly due to his inability
to restrain himself when a superior gave a stupid order. Aroet felt lucky to
have gained the man’s respect.

“Lieutenant
Fisk,” he said with a nod, ready for the day’s report.

“We are down
to one hundred and eighty seven men—.”

“Who did we
lose?” Aroet interrupted, wiping his forehead, and then realized he’d only
smeared the grime.

Fisk sighed,
“Baron and Holdr.”

Aroet bobbed
his head, placing the memory of the two men into the same vault that held his
father. Grieving would be a luxury . . . if he didn’t die first. “Understood,
continue.”

“Thirty-seven
are wounded, and three are in critical condition.”

“Will they
survive?” Aroet asked.

Fisk shrugged,
and the silence hung in the still air. After a moment, Aroet accepted the
likelihood of more losses and glanced at Fisk to continue.

“We have
rations for about a week, but are running low on water. We will need to restock
before we reach the northern fortresses.”

“How far are
we?” Aroet asked. Even though he knew the answer, he hoped it would be less.

“Eight days
ride,” Fisk replied, “Unless we run into enemy patrols.”

A horse
nickered somewhere to their left, and they both looked to ensure all was well.
They weren’t the only ones to do so. Since they had left the battle at Terros,
they had crossed paths with two of the black patrols. The sole reason they had
survived at all was due to incredible grit his men had displayed. Each battle
had cost them over a hundred lives.

So many
dead
.

“Has our
runner come back from the northern forts?”

“Just arrived
a few minutes ago,” Fisk said, causing Aroet to swivel his head and fix him with
a glare.

“Why didn’t
you say so first?” he demanded.

The usually
dour Fisk grinned. “You always ask about the men first anyway.”
Aroet’s lips tightened in disapproval, but he couldn’t deny the statement.
Choosing to ignore the breach, he asked, “What did the messenger say?”

The grin
broadened. “The northern forts haven’t been attacked, and they still have nearly
ten thousand men.”

Aroet allowed
a small smile, his mind buzzing at the first good news in weeks. If they could
make it to the north edge of the kingdom and the untouched battalion, they just
might have a chance to survive. Unbidden, the question over who the invaders
were came to mind again, cooling his sudden rush of elation. Since they
appeared, the question had been unanswerable, and it had caused no end of
speculation in the days leading to the destruction of Terros. Someday he might
find the answer, but for now he shoved it aside as he had before, making room
for the glimmerings of a plan.

Escape to the
northern battalion. Identify their attackers. Find a way to destroy them.

Although only
the first step was clear, it was the first time that Aroet had any idea of what
to do—even though he would never have admitted that, even to himself. He smiled
savagely. Soon he could take the fight to them.

“How is
morale?” Aroet asked.

Fisk opened
his mouth to respond, but a cry of agony rent the air, freezing every man in
his saddle. An instant later, snarling rippled through the forest from the east
and the sounds of battle burst out.

“By Skorn’s
blade,” Fisk breathed, “another patrol. What do you want us to do Captain?”

Aroet wheeled
his horse to face his lieutenant, speaking fast. “Get five of our fastest
riders to me. We will lead them west before heading north. You call a retreat
and take everyone else north. We both know they fight the strongest first, so
make sure the men know not to fight, just run! This won’t work unless they
focus on us!”

Fisk frowned,
“I don’t think sacrificing yourself will do any good, Captain. The men need
you.”

“I don’t plan
on dying, lieutenant,” he growled, patting his horse. “Zel still has enough in
him to get me out of here. Now stick to your orders!”

Fisk nodded,
still frowning, but began calling out names and issuing commands. In moments,
horsemen took their places and the men of the east fell back towards their
position.

“I hope you
know what you are doing Captain . . .,” Fisk murmured from beside him.

“Trust me,” Aroet
replied with a confidence he didn’t feel.

The eastern
flank came into view as riders collapsed towards the center. Behind them, the
shadowy figures darted after them, howling for blood. So far all he could see
were the dogs, but he knew the others would be right behind them.

“Send a few
arrows into them to get their attention,” Aroet said to the five around him,
drawing his own bow as well.

At Fisk’s
command, the entire eastern flank broke north in a clean turn as Aroet and his
chosen men launched several volleys of arrows into the roiling dark mass. They
were rewarded with yelps of pain and several of the dogs crashed into trees.
Although a few followed the riders north, the rest turned with a fury towards
Aroet.