Glen

The soft Spring of War

-Crack on the wall-

Part I

(An eerie familiar name)

It must be stated here again that Prince Nout’s deteriorating condition didn’t stop him from getting into a heated argument with his older brother, over his decision to head straight for Rida, without securing his flanks first. Despite Prince Atpa’s ‘Army of the Desert’ approaching Sadofort from the southwest, there was a massive open corridor to the southeast, down the ‘Merchant Path’ and Hiyil Castle. The old enlarged brick fort guarding the road to Lazuli Peninsula once upon a time, now had been relegated to a policing center for the caravans heading for Tirifort and Eikenport. It couldn’t prevent reinforcements from reaching Rida, as the territory it was responsible for was vast, unguarded desert and kilometers upon kilometers of empty coastline. It just didn’t have the numbers.

While a force under an ambitious noble named Kuntur-Ki Tsuparin, scion of the famed Tsuparin family of the Arena Masters of Fu De-Gar, second son of Dekerut-Ki ‘The Cruel’ Tsuparin and brother to general Karit-Ki ‘The White Scorpion’, was rushing up the coastal road from Eikenport and could reach Hiyil Castle sometime in the summer, there was a window of opportunity there for Sir Robert to escape the noose, regroup and if he received reinforcements threaten the Khan’s main army.

Prince Nout wanted the Van Durren spawn to remain trapped in Raoz and seeing his brother was set on heading to Rida, he asked for the scythed Chariots, now useless in a siege and five hundred riders to pin the Issir Knight and force him towards Sadofort and Prince Atpa’s approaching army. The Prince Heir begrudgingly agreed to save face, as Nout’s daring night assault, has handed him a famous victory on a silver platter. Thus his younger brother, still very ill from his ordeal at the swamps, but no less determined to finish the war that summer, left later that evening. They had to tie him up on his warhorse, to prevent him from toppling over.

They both had agreed that Kuntur could reinforce Hiyil Castle and act as a blocking force, to prevent any landings from the High King’s armies, if Sir Robert was neutralized. The Gold Leopard had once again read the strategic situation perfectly and applied the correct remedy to fix a potential problem, missing out on what no intelligence, or insight, could ever have provided him.

An ambitious Issir family’s backroom deals.

Lord Sirio Veturius

Circa 206 NC

The Fall of Heroes

Chapter IX

(Sir Gust De Weer,

-Crows in the Desert-

Miracle at Endless Dunes,

Summer 189 NC)

Most people were looking at him as if he was something alien and he couldn’t blame them. Disbelief and confusion, even a little bit of hatred. The simple people didn’t know who he was, nor were interested in learning the details. All they could see was that with the High King’s force knocked back and the Duke losing Sir Henry, the fate of their city fell on the shoulders of a young man, the Lord of Altarin apparently, who instead of leading the defense of his own city and avenge his grandfather’s death, had run to hide in Rida.

“Phon’s man asks, if he should have Qanuq escorted back to us, milord,” Stiles reported and Glen stared at him, unable to figure out what the hells he was talking about.

Then he remembered.

Ah.

“He sent a bird?”

“He has a local working for him, milord,” Stiles explained, pulling at the bindings of the plate the Duke’s guards had given him. A single piece of plate covering his chest, from the neck down to his waist and another for his back. Glen had refused the heavy iron gauntlets and the great-helm. He was feeling weighted down already and he had to remove his old armor to put this one on. At least it looked fairly new, he supposed.

“Tell him no, I can’t deal with this right now.”

“I will, milord.”

Glen sighed and looked at the warhorse they had brought for him. It was covered in mail making it cumbersome, but it was a magnificent beast. A dark brown shinny mane, long and finely groomed with expressive dark honey-colored eyes.

“What’s its name?” He asked one of his escort guards.

“Outlaw, Lord Reeves,” The experienced man frowned. “It was meant as a jest, but it stuck. He’s a good horse, though the Duke never used it. Its father won twenty duels in Midlanor and Riverdor for the De Weers.”

Glen had no idea who those people were.

“It’s a decent name, I suppose,” He stared at the guard. “The Duke is very generous.”

“Aye, my Lord.”

“Give me a hand then, sergeant,” Glen said with a grunt and Marcus, who was standing behind him moved faster than everyone else and all but lifted him on the saddle.

Right, Glen thought a little embarrassed, staring at the open West Gates. Luthos, since ye have been slacking lately, I’ll need all that leftover luck back today.

“Let’s see what these people have to say,” He announced loudly and after the initial shock, most of the guards cheered and even chuckled finding it funny, although Glen had been dead serious.

One could see the Prince’s army constructing siege machines, both catapults and trebuchets and starting the process of digging in around the soft slopes Rida stood upon. While his force was large, the Prince couldn’t hope to assault Rida from all sides and most of his army had covered the west and south approaches, leaving the river side and the east covered by screens of fast riders.

Glen glanced at the walls behind him as they descended towards the flat fields surrounding the city. The land quickly dried up the further south one went, as despite the massive river’s presence, the desert encroached every year closer to the sloped plateau and no amount of waterworks, or narrow canals could stop it.

Yeah, Glen decided, sitting up straighter on his horse. Everyone needs reinforcements it seems.

“Can he take the city?” Glen asked Marcus, who was riding next to him, the sergeant carrying the truce colors leading their procession.

The ex-legionnaire, of the engineering corps, scrunched his jaw this way and that mulling it over. Then stooped, spat down a solid amount of material and grunted.

“Ayup.”

Glen was expecting a lot more words than that.

“What about the walls?”

“Upper side is mudbrick at places,” Marcus explained. “The old wall was more solid, but never got repaired properly, I reckon. Not everywhere. While attacking up the slope, gives the Duke’s men more height to work wit, it’s a gentle one.”

“It’s a big city,” Glen countered.

“The city won’t fight on the walls,” Marcus replied. “These guards and the men Sir Henry lost the other day will, them former won’t now, I reckon. Without ‘em, that’s a lot of wall to cover.”

“How long?” Glen asked, feeling more depressed with each new piece of information.

“A week to set up the machines, unless they have engineers aplenty. Another to pound at the weaker spots, create a hole. Then they will come.”

“That seems too fast,” Glen griped, eyeing the Cofols contingent, about fifty of them. Cataphracts amongst them, their armour and masks shinning in the late afternoon sun. Richly dressed officers and bodyguards, slaves carrying refreshments mixed, men and women. The Prince stood straight on a white stallion, wearing white leather pants and polished chain armor, with a strikingly red cape, embroidered gold lines running the length of it.

“Not when yer at the receiving end of it,” Marcus commented. “The Duke can drag it out, make a second stand at the palace, a better place to fight it out, if ye ask me, but the city populace might revolt, if they are left to the Cofols and turn against him.”

“What will happen then?”

Marcus snorted, managing a grimace of distaste Glen hadn’t seen before.

“Bunch of nasty stuff,” The hale soldier rustled finally.

“Who is coming before the exultant Prince Heir? Who will plead with the triumphant son of the Eternal Khanate?” The Cofol official asked, gold scepter in his hand striking the ground, the Prince’s entourage letting out a sonorous exclamation, led by his slaves, the women and men wearing that jewel-adorned costume under their shrill cloaks, their hands thrown up, palms at a sharp angle, as if they were holding an imaginary load, or even the sky.

One of the women stood side saddle atop a beautiful ashen descrier, her tanned small feet encased in gleaming silvery, tall and strappy heeled-sandals that reached a hand above her ankles. The silver-looking straps on them, on a second look by a distracted Glen, made out of white-silk strands and interwoven glass beads.

Diamonds.

No other part of her body was clearly visible, since she was covered from head to below her knees by a long white spider-weaved veil, weighted down by small colorful gems at its hem. Glen realized he was holding the ancient dagger in his hand, having unsheathed it unwittingly.

Kill her…

“Sir Glenavon Reeves, Lord of Altarin, shall be Duke Winfield’s liaison,” The guard sergeant announced, not bothering to climb down his horse, earning a mean stare from the Cofol official.

What the hells? Glen wondered in the meantime, returning the dagger in the fine leather sheath, he’d gotten out of the Gates armory.

What was that?

“Which Reeves is that?” The Prince asked him, in well-spoken common.

Glen forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand, still rattled and glancing constantly at his hands, now kept tied on the horn of his hard-leather military saddle.

“His grandson,” He replied looking at Prince Sahand, both men facing each other on top of their horses about two meters apart, as the Cofol official and the sergeant had moved away.

“Hmm, I was told he was lost,” Sahand commented, his voice really pleasant to the ear. He’d a handsome face, a trimmed beard, expertly penciled -a shade of dark blue- olive-colored eyes and a well-built warrior’s body under his expensive armor.

“Not everything we hear is true,” Glen quipped finding his rhythm, but then he felt a jolt running through him and he flinched, just as the Prince nodded with the hint of a smile, agreeing with him.

Seize the chance, you fool!

“Not everything indeed,” The Prince repeated a bit impressed and apparently completely oblivious of Glen’s turmoil, the young man reeling on the saddle as another jolt of current almost threw him off the saddle. He grabbed at his saddle with all his strength, his jaw clenched hard, teeth grinding and his head spinning. Glen thought he smelled burned incense. He was going mad surely at the most inopportune moment, driven insane in the middle of the fucking negotiation—

SLAY THE WITCH!

The voice roared and Glen snapped his head and caught sight of the veiled woman looking at him, which wasn’t strange, as he was one the two most important people present, the other being… her husband?

Wait…

“Lord Reeves,” Prince Sahand started. “The Duke lost, let’s not drag this out more that it’s needed. Had he been naught but a coward, the Duke would have come to face his vanquisher today and given up the city.”

That’s her, Glen thought, trying to find a way to balance quite a number of problems, like fighting to keep the insane voice in his head silent, understand what was happening to him, listen carefully to the Prince’s words and keep his eyes discreetly on the veiled woman. It must be. The Zilan female Emerson and Glen had learned about months back, almost a year now. The Heir’s spouse that Duke Gideon had insulted presumably.

You came to see it for yerself, Glen thought, another jolt raking his body, but he felt less surprised now, as he could sense, it couldn’t really harm him. Similar to a lightning-bolt falling nearby, or right next to him that caused no damage.

“Let us avoid needless loss of life, Lord Reeves. I’ll be magnanimous. Surrender Rida and with it Raoz, convince Duke Winfield to give up, before the sun sets and I shall not enslave its citizens. These are my words,” Prince Sahand finished and stood back on his horse.

Glen licked his dried lips slowly, the sun burning his forehead and sweat beads forming, a couple of them trickling down the edge of his brows annoyingly.

“What will happen to the Duke?” He asked, trying to keep his voice calm and professional.

Prince Sahand frowned, his nostrils expanding and then turned on the saddle and stared towards his spouse. The veiled woman came forward, her mount following an unheard command, since she wasn’t even holding the reins as Glen noticed.

Horses will never tell on me, Lith’s voice reminded him.

“Winfield’s life is forfeited,” The woman announced, in a clear singing voice, standing next to the Prince. It didn’t hold Lith’s color, Glen realized. It was more sensual, her timber stronger.

“The Duke won’t accept that,” He told them both truthfully. “If you really want to avoid bloodshed, you should give him an out.”

Prince raised his brows surprised at his courage. Although it wasn’t courage, as much as Glen actually trying to find a way to solve this diplomatically. Before Prince Heir could respond though, the woman moved again and approached Glen even more, her horse covering the distance between them without hurrying and came to stand this time, next to his own mount.

“Winfield’s life is forfeited,” The aloof woman repeated again staring straight at him. Glen realized his right hand was on his dagger again.

Fuck is going on here?

“I heard ye the first time,” He retorted defensively, forcing himself to let go of the weapon, before everyone took it the wrong way and attacked him, returning her veiled stare, only to realize she wasn’t looking at his face now, but lower.

“Where did you get this?” The veiled woman gasped and there was a craving mixed with pain laced in her tone now, her words colored like a lullaby.

Glen cleared his throat, realizing her face under that intricate web of strands was hauntingly beautiful. She probably knows as much as Lith.

“I found it,” He croaked, fully aware that on top of her husband, there was a literal army watching him gawk at the Khanate’s Heir spouse.

“Why him? Why now?” The woman probed.

“I don’t understand,” Glen replied.

“I was talking to Gimoss,” She hissed.

“Who’s that?” Glen quizzed, seriously confused.

The woman pulled back, her demeanor changing in an instant. She reached for the reins and turned her horse around, her mouth moving as she did. Her words a condemnation.

“You are lying.”

There wasn’t an ounce of doubt in her voice.

Damnit.

The veiled woman reached her spouse, gave him a silent look and then continued until she reached the first line of officers that parted and let her through, closing back up, behind her.

“You heard Lady Lenar,” Prince Sahand said, forcing a dumbfounded Glen to turn his eyes on him. “Give up the city and Duke Gideon, or everyone’s life, is forfeited.”

What?

“That wasn’t…” Glen tried to say, but the Prince had turned away from them, his people slowly following after him. “The fuck is this bullshit?” Glen asked turning to Marcus.

Marcus grimaced and then stared at the sun above their heads, probably gauging how much time they had, until sunset.

“She wants blood,” The ex-legionnaire replied. “Reasoning with the Prince won’t help us.”

Ye should’ve worked more on the woman was his meaning.

Although Glen’s mind worried on their way back to solve a different mystery. Well, several as a matter of fact, but mainly what troubled him was…

Who in Luthos crooked toe was Gimoss?

The name both eerie familiar, as much as completely foreign.

The worst plaguin' combination.