Twixt Heaven And Hell (29 page)

To survive beyond that point, Pyre would have to change its ways. Farming, herding, fishing the rivers – these things would need to become Pyre's means of support. Just as they were for Bastion.

A snarl curled the upper edges of Traigan's mouth. He did not enjoy the prospect of emulating the enemy – but if an army was not fed, it could not fight. This was one of the hard-and-fast rules that the Warlord had known in his bones since first he began to lead men to battle. Attempting to bend it in any way invited disaster.

Of course, such a change in their methods of support would mean more men spared from the army to till fields and tend herds. With fewer men to fight, Traigan's hands would be increasingly tied to defense instead of attack. Reviewing the circumstances again, it became all the more clear to him that he needed to squeeze Bastion now, before his traditional methods of supply died.

Looking up to one of the messengers who stood in silent readiness by the entrance to his personal rooms, he had already opened his mouth to give orders when the curtains parted and another of their number entered.

"Warlord, the Sorcerer Ertellin sends for you. He says, 'There have been developments that he will wish to know immediately.'"

Traigan knew the quote was verbatim – and likely uncannily similar to the original utterance in inflection as well. Not that inflection always meant a great deal when working with Ertellin – known amongst the commanders of Pyre as the Madman. Mad though he was, Ertellin was Pyre's most prolific researcher. Traigan rose at once.

"Return to your station. I am coming."

The messenger was off like an arrow from the string. Traigan rolled the maps upon his desk neatly, tying them with thin cords of leather and signaling to a clerk to return it to its place in the archives. As he left the room, the Thralls moved from positions along the walls to follow, the messengers pointedly keeping their expressions blank as the unsettlingly inhuman figures moved past.

The Thralls took up their stations. Two in front of the Warlord, four trailing. By their peculiar connections to him, they knew when he would turn, when his pace would quicken or slow. They did not glance about as normal bodyguards would. Those ember-glow eyes remained fixed ahead.

The apartments inhabited by the sorcerers were a second palace, but not connected to the central seat of power. It was a vast complex of buildings, added to at various times over the years as the sorcerers' ranks had expanded. One entire wing, however, had long since been appropriated for use by Ertellin and his ilk, the men who pushed further into the depths of magic's capabilities.

Ertellin himself was one of the eldest of living sorcerers, bald as an adder and nearly as friendly. He was also quite insane, manifesting violent mood swings that commonly claimed lives – though usually of his labor force, cripples and slaves, rather than the other sorcerers who joined him in his work. Somewhere inside his fractured mind remained an understanding of who was expendable and who was not.

Though the sun was past its zenith, the day's heat had not yet loosened its grip. To the north it was well into fall, but around Pyre the flat and largely treeless land paid little heed to that season. Summer would give way only for winter. If Traigan did not manage a last gain before the snows buried the border, there was unlikely to be any significant fighting until the thaws. There, though, Pyre held the advantage – snow fell but lightly here. Traigan would continue to gather warriors and supplies from the outlands in the interim.

There were no guards stationed at the outer doors of these apartments. There were only three types of people here – sorcerers, slaves, and more recently Traigan's messengers. The messengers were also spies, of course. Until he had a cadre of fully trained sorcerers who were completely loyal to him, little that went on inside these buildings could be taken for granted. He trusted in the Thralls to protect his person, but the old guard of sorcerers could cause trouble even without attacking him directly.

He wound the route to Ertellin's abode by memory, the Thralls keeping pace. It may have been his imagination, but to Traigan's eyes their movements looked crisper here, more alert. They had been given to him to guard against magic, and now magic was all about them. Sorcerers learning, investigating, training. Comfortable as their lives might be in the upper ranks, the younger magicians who served on the border were subject to rigorous standards of readiness.

Ertellin gave no sign of noticing that anyone had entered his rooms, though he must have felt the Thralls. Ertellin ignored them and the Warlord both, his back bent over a low desk in the far corner of the room.

Traigan waited, a sign of respect he gave to very few people. This man, though, had to be handled delicately. If one of the strange moods had hold of his mind, than interrupting whatever work he was about could send him into a railing rage – and if, in his madness, he struck out at one of the figures he now shared the room with, he would be dead before Traigan could stop the Thralls from doing their work.

Eventually the sorcerer's back straightened, and there was a small
puff
from the table accompanied by a bit of smoke. Ertellin grunted – in amusement or anger, Traigan could not tell. When the man turned to regard him, his eyes were thankfully clear – and sane.

"Warlord," Ertellin said. He gave the funny half-bow that the sorcerers had adopted as the proper deference, paying the Thralls no mind.

"You sent for me," Traigan said. The rest of the sentence was implied in his tone:
Make it worth my time.

"Yes," came the reply. "I have come to several conclusions I thought you would be interested in hearing."

Traigan gestured for him to continue.

"The symbols you spoke of: I know of no such things. Nor would I expect to find any. Not least because Demons wear no clothing." Ertellin smirked at his own joke. "More importantly, such symbols represent a codification of knowledge that is... beyond their purview."

Traigan had already heard what he needed to hear on the matter – there was no way to duplicate the achievements of the wizard, Balkan. The Warlord was intrigued, though, by the intimation of further knowledge into the Demons' nature.

"What do you mean?" he asked. Ertellin smiled, pleased that he had baited the Warlord.

"Whatever their origin, the Demons embody chaos and disorder. A written script requires organization of thought and meaning that is beyond their grasp in a very basic way."

Traigan moved on. "You had other... conclusions?"

With a sudden, manic twitch, Ertellin nodded. His movements – which had been so deliberate before – became faster, more youthful somehow. It was a sudden and complete change in his body language, and Traigan knew the man was entering one of his strange humors.

Ertellin's eyes brightened with excitement even as Traigan's mood darkened in anticipation. "It could be done, yes. The question is finding it. None who know where to go! No, no. The spell must know. We don't need memory, no, we need a beacon. We use these often. Every day! Most have forgotten. Not I."

The man's eyes turned again as quickly as before – rage filled them now, so pure and unrestrained that Traigan again feared Ertellin would attack him, only to have the Thralls reduce him to a shredded pile of meat in response.

The hatred burned for only an instant though, and was itself replaced by a cringing, cowering look. Whipped dogs did not look so broken. Normally Traigan would enjoy the expression from a sorcerer – but not this one, and not now.

"No... there is no guarantee..." Ertellin continued, only his new dejected tone providing a break in the rambling. Traigan did not interrupt. There was nothing to do but hope the mad episode lifted before he grew impatient enough to leave.

"Too much to consider. And the Shield! The border has it, but very weak. Angels expect conflict there. To penetrate their vigil so far beyond... can't ask
them
. Never about the Enemy, never again. They won't tell. They resent the questions."

Ertellin had turned his back on the Warlord – or perhaps on the Thralls, who now were the subject of furtive glances from the sorcerer.

"Never any guarantees for us, no. Nothing can be certain. I cannot say what can work. I cannot - "

He stopped speaking abruptly, his mouth slowly closing. One hand came up to wipe his chin where a thin line of spittle had crept its way down from his lips. Ertellin straightened and turned in one smooth motion, again the man that Traigan had first found in the room.

"Forgive me, Warlord," he said slowly. "That time was... very bad."

Traigan wondered how much of the 'mood' remained in the sorcerer's head. Any memory at all would indeed be unsettling.

"But brief," Traigan said, not wishing to dwell on the madness. "Do you remember what we were speaking of?"

A nod in answer. "Yes.” Ertellin blinked a few times, gathering his thoughts again. “I have not worked out every specific, but I believe it possible. We have many of the necessities in place already."

Ertellin elaborated, and Traigan's mood sank again. Prices must always be paid, he supposed. If the enemy managed to create a weapon of magic for mundane soldiers, any attempt of Pyre's to stop their advances would mean nothing. To deny them that, no cost was too high.

"You're certain, then?" Traigan pushed.

"No, Warlord, not certain. Nothing can be certain," Ertellin replied, unknowingly echoing his own mad rambling. "But nearly so. I am
almost
certain that we can strike into Bastion itself."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The land to every side was flat, featureless plain that stretched to the horizon. Only to the northwest did it vary, beginning to roll and undulate. Darius turned a slow circle in place, and counted exactly four trees, all far to the west.

Darius went back to kneeling by the only aberration in the mighty green expanse – a small hill, no more than a dimple – anywhere else it would barely be noticed at all. Here, it was the only thing
to
notice. Over seventy of his Gryphons were clustered at its base, concealed on the western side. It was so low that a kneeling man just barely disappeared behind it – helped by the sizable patches of knee-height grass. Each man had swatches of it thrust through bands at his elbows and thighs, and their armor dulled with the same dirt that covered the ground. The camouflage would only keep them hidden when viewed from at least a few hundred feet away, but that was more than sufficient for the purpose.

The Gryphons had lain in their positions for nearly two hours, occasionally tensing muscles to ward off stiffness. Not a word had been spoken nor a movement made – the resilience surprised even Darius. The rest of the soldiers waited beyond the horizon, sent away once it was clear the plain could not possibly hide them all. The patrol they intended to waylay would not be large, and with Darius present even seventy men was substantial overkill.

The Enemy was approaching now, about thirty figures inching closer, slowly growing larger. They had been visible for only a few minutes – except to Darius. It would be some time before they reached the men who lay silent and still before them, waiting patiently to send them to their deaths.

By the peculiar trait of a predator, once their prey was in sight time seemed to pass more quickly. Darius waited with his eyes fixed on the leader whose eyes slowly passed back and forth over the landscape. Darius wanted the enemy as close as possible before he struck.

Once again the head swiveled past the hill – and then quickly returned. Something there had caught the man's attention. He began to raise his hand to halt the column – but even as his lungs filled to voice the command, he died. Darius hit the man with an invisible fist of magic, shattering his ribs and snapping his neck as he was thrown back into the line of his fellows, knocking many over. Darius stood as he struck, ordering the attack. His men, though, had begun to move even before he did, long used to Darius's version of a signal.

The hill burst into a swarm of grass-clad men shouting war cries as they were finally able to heed the desires of their hearts; to rush headlong at the foe. Some of the enemy did run – they were dealt with by magic. Though the Gryphons could likely catch them in a chase, the others had a few hundred feet of head start, and the fort to which they would run was just over the horizon. It was important that it not have any warning.

Most stood and fought, though. Their leader's sudden death had made abundantly clear that a wizard was present. All they could do was die bravely.

Darius kept his own involvement to a minimum. There was supposed to be a sorcerer in the fort, and though it was a small post that would merit only a mediocre commander, Darius could not be sure of the man's abilities. He dealt with the few who fled, and let his well-trained soldiers take care of the rest. With nearly three Gryphons to every foe it did not take long. When the last enemy died, the victors prowled the ground of the short conflict to ensure that all the fallen were dead. Even the Enemy did not need to suffer the despairing moments of pain of a life violently ended.

"Thirty-two," Pollis announced after counting the corpses.

"Thirty-two more tears shed for the lieutenant," another added with a grim smirk.

"How many do you reckon need to die before we can count Robert well-mourned?" Pollis mused.

"All of them," came the reply, and there were nods of agreement from all around.

Most of the men had gathered in a loose circle. When Darius went to see why, he found one of his own men on the ground, clutching the upper edge of an arm wound that bled alarmingly – before Darius could speak, the wounded man did.

"It's shallow, Captain," he assured. "I'll be fine."

"Aye, and maybe learn to move 'is arse next time someone swings a great bloody axe at him," drawled another man who sat bandaging the arm. "You would think with three men to their every one we could have let the recruits sit this out."

The Gryphons laughed, and the injured man's face flushed to match his mangled arm. He was far from being a recruit.

"He was
fast
," he said plaintively.

"It only takes one stroke to kill a man," Darius said, and his words ended discussion of the matter. He motioned Pollis aside while the others began to pile the bodies for the crows – there were fortunately no Gryphons to bury, and despite their ribbing every man was aware that even a small skirmish usually claimed lives.

"Send one of the men to fetch the rest," Darius told his new lieutenant. "And -"

The rest was lost when a man shouted Pollis's name. They both went over to a soldier who knelt by one of the fallen enemy.

"Polley – now who does that look like to you?"

The face, pale in death and set distractingly close to the long jagged slash across neck and chest, was the spitting image of a bald Emanuelle, Pollis's cousin.

***

The warrior cleared his throat gently, having no bell or servant boy to announce his presence and request for his commander's time. Mortigern had grown woefully accustomed to such inconveniences. The tiny, drafty fort did not really merit a sorcerer – some chieftain or another should be stuck here, freezing in the winter and baking in the summer, dying of boredom.

Mortigern let the soldier wait. He assumed that anything important would have been spoken immediately. He would never understand that his irritability – made all the worse by what he deemed an insulting post – and habit of punishing even minor annoyances with pain or death made the definition of 'urgent' very narrow indeed. He finished etching his name into the clay, finishing the daily report. There was no globe here, and all reports had to be set into cumbersome clay tablets and taken by hand to the closest large camp, many miles behind the border.

"What is it?" he finally asked.

The soldier spoke in an even, respectful voice. It had taken many lessons before they learned the proper tone in which to address him, the proper mix of respect and deference.

"The patrol has been sighted, sir," was the reply. "They appear to be missing some men."

"They are nearly two hours late," Mortigern said. "How long does it take a man to die?" he mused aloud, knowing very well – and from personal experience – that a man could be killed in the blink of an eye, or by inches over many days, or anywhere in between. Even as he griped he rose. Handing the tablet to the man, he said, "Give this to the runner, with orders to inform the camp that the tardy patrol has arrived."

It had been the one thing of interest in an otherwise entirely routine day – one which fit the maddening tedium of his life. He did the best that he could to keep things lively, sending out raids and patrols and otherwise making as much trouble as he could. Due to the large battles of Pyre's recent history, however, reinforcements were getting very hard to come by – and his activities tended to bleed his little fort of men at an alarming rate.

Around him now were a mere two hundred warriors, plus however many were now returning from their apparently mauled patrol. Had those men disappeared entirely, Mortigern would have expected a raid – the last bout of such things before the area became buried in snow. It seemed now that his men had simply run into counterparts from the Enemy, and had themselves a little skirmish. There were rarely winners or losers in such an event; the two sides shouted at each other, killed a few of each, and then ran off thinking they had done their duty.

***

Darius trudged in the middle of their column. To the back and front of him were the Gryphons' fiercest fighters, as well as Emanuelle – who'd been shaved bald by several of his gleeful comrades. There were only twenty-three of them in all. Only that many serviceable suits of leather armor had been found on the enemy dead, the rest rent in ways that made it plain men had died in them. The Gryphons' own armor was noticeably different from miles away, the hundreds of metal scales that reinforced the leather being all-too conspicuous for this kind of work – something Darius had not considered all those months ago.

The fort in the distance was a meager affair – a base of mud brick topped by a wooden structure. The brick extended for about half the length of the structure, giving a tiered appearance in mimicry of many of the more grand fortifications on the border. The walls were mud-slathered timber only about ten feet high at their low points and rising to thirteen above the brick foundation. The majority of the quarters and store rooms would be underground – the brick forming the ceiling of the first floor, dug into the earth until a man would stand with his head just barely above the ground.

The wizard glanced over his shoulder. "Ambran. How many inside again?"

"It can hold around three-hundred, near as we can tell, sir," Ambran replied. He had been stationed on this stretch of the border before he joined the Gryphons, and had raided near the fort often. "But I'd be surprised if it is actually at full strength, what with the goings on recently." He was also familiar with the reputation of its commander, who was notoriously aggressive and spent his men's lives like colored pebbles in a children's game.

Ambran had been the one to suggest their current bold – some would say suicidal – plan. A few voices were raised in caution, but in the end the desire to sting the Enemy in Robert's name prevailed.

It all depended on who the enemy commander was. If the rumors making him a sorcerer were true, than the plan hinged on his early death. Else, all the Gryphons had to do was protect Darius as he ripped the tiny fort to intermingled splinters of wood and bone.

"Heads down men," he instructed. He kept his voice low even though their destination was yet too far away for them to be overheard. "Look tired. We're supposed to be fresh from battle."

"We
are
fresh from battle, captain," Pollis pointed out from his place just behind Darius. He had his left arm up in a fake sling, his sword exchanged for one of the strange short spears the Enemy used. "The blood on this armor is plenty real,"

"Well, act like it's
yours
."

***

"Must have been a right bloody time," one of the soldiers in the tower said.

Mortigern agreed. One thing he could say for the men under his command, his rigorous demands kept them in prime fighting condition – for as long as they lived. The men who approached now had a gait that suggested they were near complete exhaustion. Hopefully their leader would have a good story for his master.

The narrow gates were already open in readiness – everyone knew Vayet's bald pate, even if the man was too fatigued to lift his head.

"I want additional guard and a night patrol," Mortigern ordered as he descended from the tower. "If the Enemy is patrolling this far into our territory, they might be readying for a deep raid."

He spoke to no one in particular – responsibility for carrying out his orders fell to whichever soldier happened to be near when he gave them. By the time he reached the dusty brick of the raised courtyard, the returning warriors were inside the gates, looking somewhat confused about what they should do next. Mortigern put it down to his own presence – no doubt they had seen him on the tower, and didn't want to depart until given his permission.

The obedience brought a smile to his face. He called to Vayet. As the bald man raised his head, Mortigern saw that he too wore a smile – and didn't look tired at all.

Then he realized that this wasn't Vayet, and he began to shout for his men to seize the imposters. A moment later, he felt a spell lash out at him from somewhere in the file of imposters. His shout became a strangled squeak as he bent all effort towards defending himself. He was aware of all his men turning to him at the strangled cry.

The infiltrators had no such hesitation. At a shouted a command and they moved as one, rushing the entrances to the lower levels. Several stayed back – six men guarding a seventh, whose eyes were fixed on Mortigern.

Years had passed since the last time Mortigern had matched blows with a wizard, but the threat of imminent death helped jog his reflexes – and while the Warlord's opinion of his worth as a commander had landed him in this root-cellar of a border fort, his abilities as a sorcerer had never been in question.

His men, caught by surprise, did not fare well. Mortigern had spent his entire reign weeding out those with even a spark of leadership or independence, and with their commander otherwise occupied the warriors hesitated and died to the seasoned teamwork of the enemy.

Eventually the din of battle penetrated into the warrens below the fort, and a few warriors made their way upwards to look about. The first head out of the shallow tunnel was removed from the shoulders beneath it by the invaders guarding the entrance. His fellows wisely did not follow, but fled back down to retrieve the rest of the fort's defenders.