Chapter 19

Balii rode to the shadows of the wall, where it disappeared into the northern cliffs. He looked up to the top of the abandoned wall and back to the battle raging in the courtyard. Patting his Masckarl on the head, he whispered in its ear. The slinky white steed coiled back onto its hind legs, and its head wiggled back and forth, judging the distance. Balii leaned forward and clutched the reigns. After whispering a prayer, he gave the command and the steed exploded forward, taking one bounce and jumping. The white blur flew through the shadows to the top of the wall, landing perfectly on all four paws. The animal shook its head and licked its lips with a long pink tongue.

Balii put a hand to his own head, clinging to consciousness from the surge of blood to his feet. After he could see clearly—or at least see the snowflakes that blurred everything clearly—he scratched the furry left ear in front of him. A shout interrupted him: “Fleeing the battle already, scum?” Balii locked his gaze with that of a broad-shouldered man, followed not closely by a boy. The figure pulled a broadsword over his shoulder. “Death has found you!”

Balii retorted quickly: “I fight for your emperor, Talibor; I go to slay my own race and my Magisters. Believe me and you will live.”

“You lie,” the grunt voice accused and strode ever towards Balii.

“Do you want to die, stranger?” Balii threatened and brandished his sword.

“Your empty threats do not intimidate me, come and feel my wrath.”

No sooner had these words been spoken that each paused in recollection.

“You were…” the man began in epiphany.

“It was you in…” Balii exclaimed. The thought of an unfinished challenge boiled in their souls. The boy stepped backwards, eyes moving between the two.

“I am Falcor, grandson of Harken, former prince of the Masoks, founder of this great city, whose personal weapons have been desecrated by your hand. I will end your misery tonight!”

“I am Balii, captain of the Masoks. Your insolence matches that of your grandfather. You will die for your insults!” Balii snapped and dismounted his beast. As Balii flipped his sword to his hand, Falcor rubbed his blade his fingers to focus his mind. Emain took a chance and broke the eerie silence that held the two in a circling pattern.

“Falcor. If he knows something about the weapons, you don’t want to kill him.”

“Shut up, Emain. I want to kill him. And that’s that.” Falcor muttered, his whole body coiled like a spring, ready to explode forward.

“Seriously Falcor, I don’t think…”

“Right. You’re not here to think. Now get to the inner fortress while I…”

Balii made his move and Falcor caught his advance; their clash of steel joined the resounding clangs erupting from the surge at the gate. They swiftly became partners in a deadly but artful dance of thrusts, slashes, and parries.

Emain certainly wanted to help, but dared not interrupt this battle for pride. This creature, Balii, had to be able to get them to the weapons; wasn’t that the justifiable reason for which he had risked his life five and half times over the past week? He answered the question affirmatively. But his only thought was to find Fiora—she and she alone could pacify Falcor so they could retrieve these weapons before the whole city came crashing down in blue fire.

Running, sliding his way to the infirmary, Emain’s thoughts didn’t stray from the task at hand. While he might have been paralyzed by the battle around him, struck by the sheer amount of blood accumulating in the courtyard, the sense of adventure ignited a blaze of adrenaline in his veins. He jumped the final set of stairs and squeezed past two wounded soldiers attending a friend in much worse condition.

“Fiora!” he shouted, but his voice, like a moth beating against a window, had little effect. He moved inward, past cringing, dying men. The atmosphere was thick, warm, tight—an opposition to the courtyard beyond. A hand snatched at his tunic; a voice pleaded for water, but he had none to give and pulled away. The further he strode, the more he retreated from himself—he wanted to help, but there were so many. What possible difference could he make? An impossible task, to think he could help. He denied himself the chance to wish to aid; his eyes glazed, narrowed into a tunnel of focus searching only for Fiora. He made no contact with the dying, with the injured. And he found he was glad.

“Emain! What are you doing here?” a female voice from his right shouted. Fiora shouted another order and took Emain by the shoulders. “What’s going on?”

A light snapped on in his eyes, and Emain, struck by his confidence, said, “Falcor has found the Masok who stole the weapons from Talorn. He called himself Balii…”

“Balii! Good! If they’re fighting together, they ought to be able to get the weapons…” Fiora began, but Emain shook his head in interruption.

“No. That’s the problem. They’re fighting together; they’re fighting each other on the outer wall.”

“Wait. No. Balii is on our side!” Fiora protested.

“Well, I couldn’t stop them. Both seemed quite intent on ripping out the other’s throat…” Emain said, but Fiora grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the entrance.

“Come on!”

They raced back to the wall, Emain wondering how in the world she could stop them, Fiora wondering how she would stop them. They reached the inner wall quickly and dashed along the northern cliffs. There, where the wall widened and split from the mountain, stretching across the valley, two figures danced, spinning and slashing under winter’s encouraging breath. Emain sensed Fiora’s will hardening, compacting into a glowing fiery ember, and he decided neither of the two in combat would give freedom to thoughts of vengeance under penalty of her wrath.

Indeed, when she came within earshot and shouted, “Falcor! Balii! Stop this now!” they did. But still, the two held their weapons ready. “What are you doing? You are on the same side!” Confusion seemed to take its time ambling away, so Fiora attacked it. “I believe some introductions are in order,” she said, calming slightly, to Emain’s relief. “Balii, this is my brother Falcor. Falcor, this is Balii, former Captain of the Masoks, now defector and servant of Lord Talibor.” Emain avoided Falcor’s eyes, even stepped behind Fiora a bit.

Balii was the first to lower his sword. “You were a magnificent foe. May you be more so as a friend.”

Falcor swung his sword to its sheath on his back and glanced at Emain’s foot, the only part of the boy he could see, and shook his head. “If my sister trusts you, I’ll be honored to fight beside you,” he finally grunted.

Fiora stepped beside them and joined their hands. “Okay. Now we have some weapons to retrieve, correct?”

Balii nodded. I’ve given instructions to Jumai to meet me at the Magister’s tent. We will kill them and seize the weapons. If we can distract them from the main front with those weapons, Jumai will signal Lord Daril, who waits in ambush. Victory will then be ours.”

“How do you plan to infiltrate their headquarters?” Falcor asked bluntly. Emain reappeared from behind Fiora, hoping Falcor was distracted enough by battle planning.

“I am Masok. I will disguise myself and claim to have news that will turn the battle in their favor.”

“And if they discover your identity?” Falcor edged.

“They won’t,” Balii stated.

“Well, Skippy and I would be more than happy to create a distraction.”

Balii’s eyes lit up with that cold glow of delight. “Great. Come with me.” While he whistled Strati to his side, Falcor bypassed Fiora and pulled Emain close, lowering his head to the boy’s left ear. “If you ever use my sister against me again,” he said softly, “I will tear your arms off.” Emain quivered and struggled free. “Now, let’s go find a supply tent to burn.” Falcor’s words lit a fire in the boy’s eyes.

They found Balii whispering something inaudible to the beast. He beckoned them to climb aboard. Falcor hoisted himself behind the Masok and yanked Emain aboard. “Right,” he said, finding his balance, “I think we’re ready. You’d better get back to the infirmary, Fiora.”

She objected—planted her hands on her hips. “It was our mission from Valimor to recover the weapons. I won’t stay behind, Falcor.”

“Do you have your bow? No. No weapons, no go. Plus, they need you in the infirmary.” Falcor did his best to sound convincing. It didn’t work. Then Balii destroyed his argument.

“Fiora can take my bow. I won’t need it—not where I’m going.” Falcor sighed. Emain took special notice of the ruffles in the great beast’s fur when it breathed. Fiora left the silence intact and mounted the beast behind Emain, who wondered what poor Strati must be thinking—with four passengers straddling him, nonetheless. The boy also shivered when Fiora clasped her hands around his waist. He tried to swallow, but couldn’t. He also tried to breathe.

Balii took hold of the reigns and eased his steed towards the open space beyond the wall. The Masckarl crept to the edge and peered down. It leaned over and let its front paws slide down the rock wall a bit. After extending as far as it could and Balii faced nearly straight down, the beast lunged to the ground and absorbed the shock of landing; nobody had been lost, Balii quickly deduced. Emain tried to blink the blood from his head. Fiora clutched his stomach viciously. Falcor held his head as it swam. When their minds cleared, all four took a deep breath and watched the enemy soldiers press themselves into the gap, trying to break through the breach in the wall. Balii patted the beasts, urged it onward. Strati kept to the shadows and concealment came naturally, due to the considerable snowfall. He crept around the boulders and rocks littering the battlefield, lingering next to the mountain itself. At last they flanked the invading army and Balii ordered his steed to sprint off into the night and the open Plains of Raida.

As they rode further into the plains, the wind picked up and blew snow sideways, forming great drifts of snow on the slightest hills. When Balii could no longer see the orange glow behind him, he halted his steed, turned, and began afresh to the southeast. At last, he found the rear of the army—the location from where the signal shot had risen. When forms began to appear, he pulled up on the reigns and his Masckral slowed. After dismounting, he helped Fiora down and unstrapped his bow and quiver. “May they grace you with accuracy and bless you with speed.” She nodded in silent appreciation, while Emain and Falcor dropped to the far side of the beast. Balii addressed them when they came around. “The supply tent will be slightly to the north of our position. Ten minutes from now, create your disturbance. Jumai and I will come to your aid with the weapons shortly after. Now go!”

The two split off north and Fiora began to follow them, but Balii snatched her arm. “Will you stay with Strati?” She hesitated and glanced after her brother. “Falcor will be fine—if I couldn’t best him, none of our warriors will,” Balii encouraged. “But I fear for Strati. He will be hidden, but if a patrol comes close enough, he might be discovered. He will protect you if you will protect him. Will you do what I ask?” Fiora nodded. Balii blinked. “I thank you, then.”

He turned and whispered to the beast, patting its head. “You must stay here until I call, then find me with all speed!” A small whine escaped the beast’s lips. “I will not forget you, my friend. Now, stay still and be quiet! Fiora will stay with you.” The creature sank into the snow and curled into a ball with pale luminescent eyes.

Balii kissed it on the forehead and turned his cape inside out, wrapping it around his armor. After nodding farewell to Fiora, who sank into the snow against Strati, he dropped to the ground and began to crawl in the direction of the army. His movements became sleek and invisible in the snow. He progressed rapidly towards the back lines. Soon he found scouts pacing across the flanks, searching for any attempt at an ambush. But with his skill, he snuck past their trained eyes and soon found the rear defenses—two lines of soldiers with torches, ready to battle an attack on the flanks. Beyond them were the supply animals and the Magisters’ transports. He saw fresh tracks beside him of the giant Gnera. They had been moving forward with the army—this interested him. Perhaps the Magisters meant to fight?

While he lay unnoticed on the ground, a flash of blue light arrested him. It caught the attention of the soldiers as well. The flash illuminated everything in the general area for a minute and Balii worried momentarily of his concealment, but decided this was his chance. He rushed forward nimbly, sprinting on all fours, right through the lines while they watched the bolt arc towards the fortress. He crawled underneath a standing Gnera—until he realized what the effect of the impending explosion on the fidgety beast would be. He rolled out from under it and tossed his cape over himself, lying face-down in the snow. Then an earth-shaking blast erupted from ahead and cheers broke out in the camp. The falling snow soon covered any trace of Balii, who regulated his breathing and closed his eyes. He tried to envision where the blast had come from and how far away it was.

As the cheers subsided, he lifted his head ever-so-slightly to peer in front and behind him. The soldiers he had dashed past turned back to watch the rear and those before him tended the animals or stood in formation, waiting to serve the Magisters’ purpose for them. He began to crawl forward again, keeping low in the ankle-deep snow. His eyes searched the formations ahead of him. They didn’t seem to be regular at all. Puzzled, he crept closer. Then, his hand fell on what he thought was melted snow. He searched the dark spot on the faintly lit surface. Grabbing a handful of the snow, he sniffed it. Nothing. He carefully tasted the snow. It was blood-soaked.

He understood that he was now amongst the wounded—he could spot the forms lying on the frozen snow, with a few medics standing or crouching around them. He kept moving forward, slithering between the wounded soldiers and their attendants. Like a fleeting shadow, he crept silently towards the command position, where he would fulfill his task. He would kill the Magisters and save Harken, though he did not know how he would approach the Magisters, most likely surrounded with a battalion of soldiers. At once, an idea struck him. He searched for a pool of blood on the snow-covered ground. None were large enough for his purposes.

Epiphany struck again. He crawled behind a soldier with two arrows buried in his chest. Without a sound, he reached around the soldier’s neck and gave a sharp twist. The warrior died without a sound. Balii freed one of the arrows from his body with a quick jerk, and placed his hands in the free-flowing blood. Bathing his face and staining his armor, he disguised himself as an injured soldier. The Magisters would be hard-pressed to identify him now. He stood and surveyed the area. A medic ran to him.

“Hey, if you are wounded, lay down!” he shouted at Balii. Balii turned and pointed to the dead soldier.

“I think he just died!” Balii said. The medic ran to his side and felt for a pulse. There was none.

“He is dead,” came the reply. The medic rose and looked at Balii. “You shouldn’t be moving yourself…now lay down!” Balii shook his head stubbornly.

“I must speak to the Magisters! I have important information for the outcome of the battle.” Balii urged. He was not lying, for what he would deliver would be the end of the battle. The medic looked at him.

“Why did you not talk to them on your way in?” he asked.

“I was unconscious. I awoke just as this one was in his death throes. Now I must speak with the Magisters!” came Balii’s quick response. The medic glanced at him, and then nodded approval.

“Okay, but hurry back. You’re in no condition to fight.” At that the medic left to tend to the other patients. Balii limped slowly towards the command post, wholly feigning injury.

-¤-

Jumai had reached the gap in the wall, and now fought in the crater and among debris. Here was his point of departure. He finished off a last warrior and spun. A charging soldier let loose a terrific slash. Jumai could have easily parried it and killed the attacker, but instead he faced the attack and lowered his weapon. He knew his armor would take the brunt of the blow. The blade ripped across his chest, tearing through his armor and slicing through his scaly skin. Jumai staggered back, and fell backwards to the ground. Blood oozed from his cut—he coughed to maintain the illusion of its severity—and went limp, staring up into the sky. The men behind him were astonished and occupied the Masoks’ minds. Soon the men were pushed back. He coughed again and rose shakily, his hand clutching his wound. He wiped his face with his free hand, smearing it with blood, and staggered further into the Masok lines. Soldiers patted him on the back as they pressed forward to fight and stepped around him. Jumai partially examined his wound: nothing incredibly serious. He had leaned back just far enough to avoid critical injury, but it still pained him to breath. At last he reached the end of the forward battalions and he could see the command post ahead of him. As he stumbled towards the post, a medic found him and directed him to the ‘medical area’. He refused. “I must talk with the Magisters…important…information for them.” The medic’s concern dropped from his face.

“Another injured soldier just said the same thing…” he said, his eyes narrowing on Jumai. Jumai nodded.

“He was my brother. I sent him back with the information…he is grievously wounded, though. I didn’t suspect him to make it this far. Let me go to him. Where is he?” Jumai lied, though pleased that Balii had managed to play the part of an injured soldier. He figured that should cover the both of them…he only hoped Balii had appeared “grievously” wounded to the medic. The medic thought a minute and pointed to the command post.

“Go! You may catch him if you hurry. But come directly back to me after you deliver the information—that slash will do you in if you are not careful.” Jumai nodded, and rushed off in a hunched gallop, for his wound, while no longer bleeding, did ache. As he approached the ring of soldiers, he saw a form limping ahead of him. “Brother! Wait!”

-¤-

Balii knew that voice. He turned to see Jumai running towards him. At last Jumai caught up with him. Balii looked at the slash through his armor and the blood-stained armor on his body. “You really did get wounded didn’t you?” Jumai nodded and cringed.

“I’ll be okay. What about you? When the medic told me another wounded soldier had asked to see the Magisters I told him you were my brother, carrying grevious wounds. By his response, I supposed I was correct.” Balii looked down.

“Well this isn’t my blood…if that’s what you’re asking. Wipe your face again…you still look too recognizable.” Balii ordered and Jumai obeyed. “What about me, do I need anything?”

“No, you look ‘grievously’ injured,” Jumai laughed.

Balii nodded. “Shall we do what we set out to do?” Jumai glanced at Balii and closed his eyes.

“Yes, let us.” The two walked to the command post, Balii giving a shoulder to Jumai, which he gratefully leaned on. Two guards stepped forward. “What business have you with the Magisters?”

Balii answered in a rough, scratchy voice, “We have information that concerns the outcome of the battle.” The guard nodded and stepped aside. The two thanked them and stepped inside. Out of the haze, a rock, sloping upward from the ground, appeared. A shelter had been stretched across it. At the base, small stairs had been built to ascend to the top of the rock. Balii and Jumai stepped up onto the rock. The tent sheltered the back half of the rock, while the front half would give a particularly good view of the battlefield, as it stretched out above the valley that led to the walls of Harken. Underneath the tent, surrounded by torches, the Magisters conversed. Jumai coughed and they turned their attention to the Magisters. Without flinching or showing any bit of nervousness, Balii hailed them. “We come to bring important information of the battle to you, Excellencies,” he said in the same gravelly voice.

The left Magister’s eyebrows raised. “Oh? And what is that?”

“But,” said the Magister seated to the right, “come in first. Oh! You both are wounded…please, sit!” Jumai and Balii entered and found two cots waiting for them.

“We come to tell you that…” Balii began, but Jumai collapsed into a fit of coughing. He put his hand to his mouth, leaning on the cot. As the coughing subsided, he told the Magisters that he would be fine. He despised the taste of the blood he had sucked into his mouth from his open hand, but the illusion was all that mattered. As Balii started again, Jumai coughed again, allowing the blood to spew from his mouth and collapsed to the floor. “Somebody…get a medic!” The two soldiers beside the Magisters looked at the Magisters who nodded and sent them out the door to find the medic. Balli looked back to the Magisters and knelt in front of them, apologizing for bringing his brother, secretly marveling at Jumai’s ingenuity. Not only had he managed to empty the tent of the guards, but he had given Balii an opportunity to approach the Magisters. As he spoke, his hand drifted to his sheath. He looked back up to the concerned faces of the Magisters. They had no idea of his intentions. The left Magister began to speak.

“Do not worry about your brother, he will be taken care of…” Balii glanced at the robes of the Magister on the left. He carried the Blade of Anduir-Siil. This was the one he would attack first. He waited. “…please, rise and tell us what you came to say!” In one quick motion he rose, drew his sword and plunged it deep into the left Magister, whose eyes widened and mouth fell open. The other Magister reached for a weapon and opened his mouth to yell for his guards, but an arrow pinned him to the chair through his throat. Balii turned to see Jumai rise, holding his bow and reaching for another arrow. Balii thrust the sword deeper, finding the wooden back of the chair. He stepped back to join Jumai. He lost his gravelly voice and Jumai stood without any sign of pain.

“The news was that of your downfall, brought to you by none other than Balii and Jumai, true Captains of the Royal Army, loyal to Csii. May you find no peace in the afterlife.” Blood now soaked their white garments, and for a few moments they clung desperately to life. Then the light faded from their eyes. The Magisters were dead.

Balii pulled his sword from the first Magister and took the Blade of Anduir-Siil, and Jumai removed the Longbow of Druin-Kiil. They had only moments before the guards would return with the medic. Jumai looked to the folds of the tent, “Can we slip underneath?” Balii nodded.

Then shouts began to rise, to echo through camp. Some turned to screams—others to orders. The ground began to tremble. Jumai glanced at Balii, whose eyes glistened with pride. “What is it, brother?” he asked.

Balii walked to the entrance, no longer bothering to leave secretly. “It is our distraction.”

Chapter 18

Jumai’s fingers tightened around the handle of his sword. His eyes narrowed and brightened. The fallen snow clothed him in a layer of white. He crouched, assuming his battle stance, and brought his blade diagonally across his body. The muted light flashed off his shining armor and polished blade. In front of him rushed the entire force of his own blood and flesh; instead of joining them, he now stood, ready to oppose them. He flexed his muscles and clenched his jaw. He gazed into the eyes of those charging him, sensing the confusion and fear they possessed. Each soldier of Csii mentally hesitated to attack their own captain, even if a banished one, for they knew the skill he possessed.

Jumai sprang forward like a cat and leaped straight into the Masok river. Unlike lord Boltor’s spinning and slashing style, Jumai moved at angles, dodging attacks down and to the side and countering with thrusts upward and opposite. With incredible speed he zigged and zagged forwards and backwards, remaining unscathed by enemy weapons. Augmenting his fighting style, he let his limbs flow with his momentum and punched, tripped, and kicked other soldiers. He sprang forward and thrust his sword deep into the chest armor of an attacking warrior, slid it out as he ducked a swipe to the side in a crouch, slicing the legs of another.

Continuing in his random pattern of jabs and slashes, Jumai left a trail of wounded and dying Masoks for the men behind him to finish. He dashed left and right, evading and attacking in subsequent turns. As he moved forward, towards the rubble that once stood as the proud gate of Harken, he fell into an unbreakable rhythm of slaughter. Any who opposed him quickly fell. Soon the men behind Jumai were jogging to keep up with him, plunging their weapons into the wounded and attacking the warriors to each side of the wedge Jumai had driven into the flood of Masok soldiers. Men rushed in behind Jumai, to keep him from being surrounded. Still Jumai advanced, slaying all in his path. He pushed forward, elegantly leaping and thrusting, hardly parrying or blocking attacks.

-¤-

Choking through smoke, dust, and cascading debris, Falcor emerged from the tower, which only partially stood, missing its entire left side. “Emain!” he roared. Dazed soldiers stumbled from the tower in pairs, and Falcor encouraged them across the courtyard to re-arm and join the main ranks. When he called Emain again, an answer came from the northern wall to his right.

“Falcor!” he shouted and raised a bloody blade. “I got one!” Just then, a volley of arrows soared over the wall, all but one missing Emain—that lone arrow stuck in the folds of his cloak beneath his triumphant sword. With wide eyes, Emain crouched and looked back to the tower. Falcor read his intent to descend to the courtyard and shook his head.

“It’ll collapse any minute!” he yelled. “Go around to the inner fortress; I’ll meet up with you there.” Emain seemed ready to comply, when his head turned back to the tower. “Hang on,” he relayed distractedly and raised his index finger. Falcor cringed and directed two wounded to the infirmary. “There’s someone in here!” Emain’s voice echoed from within the tower.

Against his better judgment, Falcor scrambled into the tower and up crumbling stairs. Where the tower wall was missing, he saw Talibor rallying to push back the new wave of invaders. Where the tower stairs were missing, he climbed up stone debris and hauled himself up to the second level. Emain squatted beside a pinned soldier: Nilor. Falcor forgot his regret and scurried to his fallen elder’s side. “My friend…I…”

Nilor lay beneath a part of the collapsed floor above, breathing shallowly and creating a small plume of dust at the tip of his nostril. He shook his head, straining his eyes upward, grey-powdered eyelashes flickering with his spirit. “I think…” he began, sputtering. “I think I found the rubble pile.” He smiled weakly. Falcor forced a choked laugh. Emain dropped to his knees and fingered a loose bit of stone. Words had no place in the silence entwining the three. There they rested, until Nilor’s eyes drifted into a further, more peaceful rest than he had known in life. Falcor bowed and closed the empty eyes; Emain clutched the hilt of his blade. Another concussion outside drew them from their prayers.

“We must join Talibor in the courtyard,” Emain ventured, eyes focused on the dead man. The kneeling man hesitated. “Falcor?”

“Come, Emain,” he said suddenly. “To the inner walls.” The two scrambled across the walls, now littered with rubble and lifeless bodies—coated with the white linen of snow.

-¤-

“What do you need, Valimor?” Talibor wondered. The tactician turned, eyes searching the snow-covered rock beneath his feet. “What is it?” he asked again. Valimor lifted his eyes to Talibor.

“It is lord Sachus; he has set himself up as Emperor of Ashton.”

Talibor’s eyes grew wide in disbelief at the answer Valimor gave. He stood, speechless in the descending snow. “How?” came his only reply. Valimor shrugged and knelt.

“My forces are loyal to you, Talibor, as are Boltor’s, I assume.” Valimor stated simply. Boltor quickly dropped to his knees. Talibor gazed at them both.

“Stand up—we have a battle to fight! We shall deal with Sachus later,” Talibor snapped. Valimor rose, but held Talibor’s gaze.

“I am afraid he has ordered our forces to pull out, immediately. If we do not, he shall claim us traitors and perhaps even attack us with his forces. In fact, I believe his army may be marching to the city at this vary moment.” Talibor’s face distorted in anger. He shut his eyes and swallowed slowly.

“Sachus knows we won’t pull out. But could his forces arrive before the invasion is stopped? That is the question,” said Talibor. His fingers tightened into clenched fists, as he pondered lord Sachus. His breaths came lightly and quickly. Boltor glanced out over the courtyard and the battle raging throughout it.

“Lord Talibor, look!” Boltor yelled. Talibor rushed to the edge and gazed downward. A great wedge of soldiers had broken through the waves of Masoks pouring through the breach. It had nearly cleaved the attacking lines in two. Talibor squinted. In the front, enemy soldiers seemed to collapse around a central point.

“It is Jumai,” Talibor noted. He looked back to Valimor. “He is a true warrior, but we must follow his example and do everything in our power to defeat this army before Sachus’ forces arrive.”

“I agree. Go, lead your men. I will send our reinforcements to the courtyard,” Valimor stated. “It will be a long night.”

Talibor turned and mounted his horse. Boltor jumped on behind him and they rode back down to the battlefront. Through the small gate at the base of the inner walls and down the streets, the stallion trotted. Past the archers busily firing into the invading crowd and the incoming reinforcements, they rode. At last, they reached the wedge pushing towards the gate and they wormed their way to the front lines. When they came within reach of enemy soldiers, Boltor bailed off the horse, landing smoothly in a crouched position. Talibor rode off to aid the southern edge and Boltor strode confidently towards the northern front.

His aim focused on the wall. He dodged a slash and impaled the attacker and spun into a graceful series of parries and strikes. Like a whirlwind he moved through the lines of enemy soldiers, ripping a path right through them. His men followed him as he drove forward, striking and blocking fluidly like a streaming brook. His blade flashed bluntly in the orange glow, each flash felling another Masok. The men behind him, inspired by his presence, gave a cry and pushed forward with Boltor. The men began to move quickly towards the wall. It loomed large in front of them, a shadow behind the curtain of snow. At last Boltor slew the last enemy between him and the stone wall. He turned towards the gate. Behind him, the cut-off circle of Masoks was quickly overrun and slaughtered. He pushed along the wall, his movements hastened without worry of enemies on all sides. He glanced across the sea of invaders and found Talibor’s silhouette moving down the wall opposite the gaping hole. He refocused on approaching the demolished gate, and leaped into battle. The archers had moved forward and fired concentrated volleys in the breach, but their arrows fell less and less often as they had to pull their arrows from fallen victims. Soon Boltor and Talibor met in the middle of the gate and pulled back to the open courtyard littered with the bodies of thousands of Masoks. Surprisingly few men had died so far in the Battle of Ara-Min. Archers re-formed on top of the wall and fired at the incoming enemies. Boltor sighed and rested on his sword. Talibor dismounted, but held his steed close.

“We may be able to hold this position until dawn,” Talibor said. Boltor nodded.

“If it wasn’t for Jumai…where is he?” Boltor wondered. Talibor glanced around the courtyard and towards the black hole that had been the gate.

“I don’t see him…do you think…” Talibor left the implications unstated. Boltor hung his head.

“He was a brilliant warrior. Absolutely terrific,” he praised.

“And loyal to the end…a faithful friend, even if a defector,” Talibor echoed. The two bowed and let the small moment of silence linger. Then they stood. “Boltor, I thought you were gone when the wall was breached. How did you survive? Tell me, quickly.”

“Well, my lord, I remember watching that blue bolt arc towards me. I thought I had no chance of survival, but I jumped anyway. I’m still not sure why I did, but I sure am glad that I did. As my feet left the rock, I was lifted up, as if I ascended to the heavens on wings. My flock was rocks from the wall. All around me, like wing-mates, they flew. At last I felt myself descending, falling back to the earth. I watched the stone of the courtyard approach me at an increasing speed. But then, something happened. I slowed and was gently set down on the stone floor, completely unharmed. I looked around and saw a white furry face above me. Balii leaned over the top of the Masckarl’s head and whispered something to me. I forget what it was. And then, he was gone. I rose and joined the battle.”

“That is amazing. Well, my friend,” Talibor finished, “see that the ‘gate’ holds. I must counsel with Valimor. Our tactics may have just changed.” Boltor nodded and raced back to the front lines, spinning and slashing through the enemy lines. Talibor remounted his stallion and rode back up to Valimor.

Chapter 17

The silence outside interrupted Falcor and invited his curiosity. He ducked beneath the tent flap and into the evening chill. Fiora followed, but Emain relaxed further into the pillows and promptly fell asleep.
"It's so quiet," Fiora noted, shivering.
Falcor folded his arms, locking away a part of himself his sister might—would—try to invite outside with teary eyes, trembling lips, and quivering chest. And with the same, Fiora glanced to Falcor. "Don’t go. There are other…" she began, but Falcor silenced her with a sharp gaze.
"I must. I need to go," stated as simply as he knew how.
"Please? Just stay awhile longer," she said, as if reaching for something drifting downstream, to be lost forever. He turned and took his sister by the shoulders and she averted her eyes from his.
"I cannot stay. You have a place here, caring for the wounded. You are necessary here, just as I am necessary in my place, beside my brothers, fighting for my emperor. Let me go." And with that he turned and strode up the inner wall stairs and then climbed up to the command post.
Fiora whispered a final farewell and rubbed a final tear from her cheek. Then she hastened back to the infirmary to help with Altam’s preparations—or to make sure he had even started.
-¤-
Taking the steps to the command post in two’s, Falcor bent his will to the moment. There would be time to think—later. When he reached Lord Valimor, he saw the river of light advance to their final position and halt. Answering his unasked question, Valimor stated, "I want you to hold the gate." Falcor nodded and turned, but Valimor stopped him with a word. "However, do not be afraid to give it up, should they breach it."
Again, Falcor tipped his head in acknowledgement and proceeded back down the stairs. His heartbeat needed no encouragement from the exercise to rise as he descended the stairs in two’s.
When he reentered the tent to retrieve his armor, he found Emain snoring. Falcor gave him a slight kick as he strapped on his hauberk. The boy twitched, yawned, and rolled onto his side. Falcor shook his head. "Emain…they’re here. We’re to hold them at the gate." Emain muttered something incomprehensible and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Come on, get up!" Falcor demanded.
Emain’s hands moved back across his scalp, sending his already unkempt hair in wild directions. He licked his dry lips and raised his eyebrows. Another yawn took him. "What did you say?" Falcor looked at his boot and then back at Emain, who stuck out his lower lip to match his eyebrows in capitulation. "Right, the gate. I got it."
"Good. Now grab your stuff, we need to…" Falcor began, but the battle cry and hiss of arrows interrupted him and snapped Emain from his trance. With the winds of adrenaline in their sails, the two strapped on the last of their armor and sprinted to the gate. A soldier met them with eager eyes.
"Lord Boltor has the walls; are you commanding the gate?" he yelled over the din of the battle. Falcor nodded.
"How many in each tower?" Falcor wondered.
"Forty in Ara-Bast. Thirty-three in Ara-Kale, my lord," the soldier replied.
"Good. Keep Bast; I’ll take Kale. Go, brother, for Harken!" Falcor ordered. The man repeated his last phrase in the traditional manner and crossed to the base of the southern-most tower, erected some seventy feet in front of and fifty degrees from parallel to the main wall. Falcor turned to the northern tower, Kale, which was somewhat smaller than its sister tower, but an integral part of the gate, and beckoned Emain to follow him.
The two entered the base of the tower and followed the spiraling staircase past firing archers to the top, where he could direct the volleys of the towers to critical locations. An older man, outfitted in heavy steel armor, marched right to him with a smile plastered on his face. Falcor grinned.
"Nilor!" he exclaimed as the two embraced. "What’s the situation?"
"Nothing suspicious—yet. Boltor’s men seem to be holding the southern wall. No attempts to storm the gate at this point; so we’re keeping busy helping with the northern wall—odd angles and such." Falcor smiled and sighed, bit his lip and lowered an eyebrow.
"Good work. We’ll just hope the weather holds." It was Nilor’s turn to laugh.
"You always took the cold, didn’t you? Well, since you’re here, I’ll check on the rubble supply." He winked. "Never can have enough rocks to throw at them." Falcor assented with smile and turned back to Emain. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"Huh? Me?" Emain wondered. Then he opened his hands and shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose I was waiting for you…"
"The enemy is crawling all over our walls and you were waiting for me? What do you think that bow on your back is for? Fashion?" Falcor remarked.
"Okay, point taken," Emain sighed and edged his way to a crenellation. Falcor shook his head and began patrolling the tower.
-¤-
Lord Talibor watched the lines rush the wall and his archers decimate them. His blank eyes gave no expression of the possible outcome of the battle while the ocean of torches stretched far into the snowy night. Each falling flake dimly reflected the pale orange light, bathing the battle in a soft flickering haze. Soon the flying arrows gave way to the sounds of battle—the strike of steel to steel and the screams and yells—as the ladders rose. He studied the battle intently alongside lord Valimor. "I think my friend, it is time for the catapults. They have shown no intention of using the ‘sacred weapons’ to bring down our defenses. Lord Boltor has held the first attack. Let us counter," he said, as more and more ladders propped against the wall. Valimor turned his gaze to Talibor.
"It is too early. If we do not need to use them, let us wait for a more opportune time," stated Valimor. "Besides, it seems our soldiers are superior to theirs. Let us wait."
"No, I think we ought to hit them now, while they press forward. They will be compacted and tightly spaced. We could destroy them!" argued Talibor.
"Or make them desperate," Valimor rebutted. "If they are aware of their desperation of breaking through the walls, they may try anything…including the ‘sacred weapons.’"
At that moment, a blinding flash of light caught their attention. Talibor stared at the rising blue bolt. Valimor watched, his mouth agape and eyes transfixed on the streak of blue energy. "That must have been the…signal?" Valimor wondered. Talibor nodded.
"I think so. If that is the power of the bow Balii told us of, we ought to launch those catapults now." Valimor met his gaze and smiled.
"Let’s show them the true power of Ashton!" he exclaimed and Talibor grinned.
"Fire Catapults!" he yelled, and the six huge war machines roared to life, flinging the huge boulders over the walls. Talibor watched with pleasure as each stone smashed into the soldiers and bounced through the formations. Finally they rolled to a stop, leaving a trail of destruction behind them. Talibor listened to the orders streaming from the courtyard and saw the catapults reload. Each catapult was adjusted a few degrees and cocked back into firing position. The new projectiles were loaded and waited to be released. Talibor lingered for a moment, allowing the enemy to reform the broken lines, and then yelled the firing command again. Another set of boulders plowed through the enemy formations. As he waited for the catapults to reload, a loud thud echoed through the city. Cries of "brace the gate" filled the air. Talibor looked at his companion, Valimor. "I must go lead my soldiers. I leave the tactics to you now.
As he turned to walk down the stairs, his eye caught a glimpse of blue light. Descending from the storm above, the bolt fell lightly through the snowy atmosphere, and Talibor watched its long descent to the field of battle below. It seemed as if it would land right on top of the enemy lines. At last it illuminated the armor of all the Masok warriors below it and hit the ground in the midst of the army. Talibor watched in amazement as an azure explosion erupted from the ground, engulfing the surrounding soldiers. He watched an invisible force knock each and every soldier in its outwardly expanding path to the ground. He braced himself on the crenellation, but the shock hit him like a sack of bricks. He tumbled to the floor and gasped for breath. A thundering roar blasted him and then echoed across the plains. He rose to find all the other soldiers standing and wondering what had happened. A large smoking crater now existed where at least a thousand Masok soldiers had been.
Valimor stood and his eyes grew wide.
Talibor surveyed the scene with a scrutiny rivaled only by eagles.
The ladders had been demolished by the blast and Boltor and his men quickly finished off any Masok warriors on the wall. The archers had begun firing into the soldiers ramming the gate, but Talibor knew what would happen next. The Magisters had to know now the power of the weapons. He rushed down the stairs and sprinted through the city to the Courtyard of Ara-Min. His soldiers surrounded the gate, bracing it against the ram. Talibor rushed through his lines of men filling the courtyard and yelled to Boltor. The man on the wall turned from commanding the archer division, giving Talibor his attention.
"Get your men off the wall!" he shouted. "The Magisters will target it!" Comprehension dawned on Boltor’s face. He began ordering his soldiers off the wall and Talibor commanded his soldiers to retreat from the gate and ordered the archers descending from the wall to the rear of the courtyard. A stable hand brought his steed to him, and he mounted the stallion and donned his helmet. He heard Valimor’s orders for the catapults to fire and the subsequent firing. "Men of Ashton!" he commanded. In a short strange silence, the soldiers looked up at him. The dull thuds of the boulders landing and bouncing echoed in the background. "No matter what happens next, you will not let them through the courtyard! Tonight is our night, and we will hold them here!" The men turned to face the walls. The last of the soldiers were descending the staircases and forming up with the rest of the soldiers.
"Boltor!" Talibor yelled. "Get off the wall!" Boltor nodded and motioned for the rest of his soldiers to descend the stairs. They left their posts and streamed down into the courtyard. He checked to see if any remained and turned to Talibor, giving him a thumbs up signal. Then something caught his attention. Talibor couldn’t understand why Boltor wouldn’t come down, for he knew the danger. Then, the dull orange night scattered as a bright azure radiance filled the sky. Talibor watched in horror as Boltor, silhouetted against the blue light, scrambled to the edge and jumped. Then all disappeared in a blinding flash and rock, men, and earth flew high in every direction. Talibor flew off his horse onto the cold hard stone of the courtyard and all the soldiers were again knocked off their feet.
When Talibor looked again, huge chunks of rock landed among the men and the city. A gaping hole filled the place where the gate used to be, and smoke filled the air. Falcor stumbled out of the base of the tower, dazed and searching for someone. Talibor stood and remounted his steed. "Rise, Men of Ashton! This is our test: do not let them through!" Talibor commanded. His soldiers formed up and readied themselves for the upcoming battle. Through the haze poured the first line of invaders. "Archers! Volley!" he ordered and a hail of arrows flew over the courtyard, pelting the rushing soldiers.
"Again!" he ordered and another storm of arrows soared overhead. Still the Masok warriors streamed into the courtyard. "Steady!" shouted Talibor, watching the line approach. "Charge!" he ordered the second before the invaders hit. Spears were thrust forward and swords swiped upwards. The crash of the lines began the battle for the courtyard.
Talibor watched intently as his line held. "Archers—fire at will!" he commanded and arrows rained on the river of soldiers entering the city. His line was holding and the battle began to disperse through the ranks, clear cut lines becoming harder to identify. "Move forward!" he ordered and the soldiers behind the front lines began to press forward.
The soldiers formed an arcing wall around the entrance blown by the Magisters and began to push the soldiers back. Soldiers sliced and pierced armor, chopped and slammed bodies, and swung and thrust swords into the enemy while arrows flew overhead. Talibor noticed a certain section of the lines failing and his steed slowly waded through the sea of soldiers. At last he reached the enemy and his steed bolted forward as his sword flashed from side to side. Soldiers pushed up behind him, finishing off the soldiers he wounded. His horse bounded through the crowd, crushing all in its path. He turned in the sea of Masoks and made his way back to his own lines, still hacking and slashing all around him. He struck down a few more on the enemy’s front line and re-entered his own line, pulling his stallion around to watch.
He noticed one soldier in particular fighting he struck fiercely and rapidly, slaughtering all in his path. The figure spun and slashed with skill that rivaled his own. He somehow knew where each enemy would attack from and parried with a flowing grace. His counters were swift and deadly. He watched the soldier lead his part of the line forward, like the bow of a ship cutting through the sea. Talibor was impressed. He urged his steed forward again to fight beside this warrior. At last he bounded back into the flood of enemy soldiers with his sword slicing and slashing enemies within his reach. His own men flooded in behind him, pressing towards the gate. When he came within shouting distance, he yelled to the soldier, beckoning his divided attention. The man glanced his way and Talibor gasped when he saw the face. It was Boltor’s.
-¤-
Valimor watched the battle unfold from the command post. He bit his lip when he saw Talibor ride into the battle. The fool! He’ll get himself killed! thought Valimor to himself. The haze from the gate had faded and only falling snow remained to obscure his vision. The lines seemed to be holding, if not gaining a bit of ground. 5,000 soldiers in such a confined area would be difficult to defeat, especially with the archers shooting in the rear. But a huge sea of orange still loomed beyond the walls, waiting to rush in. It would be a long night.
"Sir," a voice behind him said. He turned to find a messenger bowing. "I have word from Ashton. We are to withdraw our forces immediately and return to the defense of the city." Lord Valimor scrunched an eyebrow.
"Whose authority does this message claim?" Lord Valimor asked, thoroughly confused.
"The Emperor of Ashton, Lord Sachus himself," stated the messenger. Valimor pounded his fist on the rock wall and exhaled quickly.
"I should have known!" he muttered to himself. "That low-lying, filthy, little…" He clenched his jaw and buried his face in his hands, leaning on the wall. "Ride back and tell Sachus that we fight a battle to protect Ashton, and the true Emperor of Ashton leads us in that battle. Now go!" The messenger’s eyes grew wide and fled the fortress. Valimor gazed back out over the battlefield. Another 15,000 Masoks waited to enter the city. None could leave without jeopardizing the lives of the others. And Lord Sachus had been at work at the Citadel. He worried about the lives of the senators Talibor had entrusted the state of the empire to. He knew them both—they were good men. But Sachus…how could he? Anger burned in Valimor’s veins. Were there any good men left in the empire that were not fighting for it this very moment? Balii’s words began to ringer truer and truer in his ears. They must hold the defenses here, not only because the Magisters might wield a great power, but because the only loyal men fought here. If this invasion wasn’t stopped here and now, there indeed would be little chance of survival.
And yet, without knowing it, Sachus played right into the hands of the enemy. Valimor hated to let the thought of fighting a battle on both sides enter his mind, but it might just turn out that way. He hung over the edge and gazed into the dark orange blur the air had become. Below him swords clashed and soldiers fell. Outside the walls, an army bent on their destruction awaited. And after this battle, only more conflict awaited in Ashton. Valimor pondered their situation in the now increasing snowfall. He thought of Talibor and the risk of allowing him to fight. If he died, they would have no chance of reclaiming the empire. The mere thought of Sachus leading the empire brought a shiver down his spine. Valimor knew Talibor must survive—and with enough men to combat lord Sachus, who must have ordered his legions from Salca, his home, to the Citadel. Besides Ashton and Padras, Salca claimed the largest armed forces units in the Empire. Yes, Talibor must survive.
"Jador," Valimor called.
"Yes, my lord?" he answered.
"Find lord Talibor and tell him I must speak with him," said Valimor. The soldier bowed and ran down the stairs and through the inner gate. Valimor took up his post above the battle. He rested his hands on the walls to find them covered with a few inches of snow. So peaceful, this night. Why must we battle for our future in such serenity? thought Valimor. The city was being transformed, overlaid with a blanket of purity, covering the pools of spilt blood.
-¤-
"Boltor!" cried Talibor. The man turned and acknowledged him with a nod and parried another attacking soldier and kicked him to the ground. Talibor stabbed a soldier in the neck and swung his sword around to his left and sliced right through the breast armor of another. Boltor spun and slashed, felling two more. He lowered his shoulder and drove another warrior to the ground and brought a hammering overhead blow down on him. Then he swung his sword around and opened up an attacking soldier.
"Yes, friend?" he gasped and parried another chop. Talibor busied himself with another two Masoks as Boltor finished off the attacker.
"I thought you jumped…" he yelled, as his stallion mowed over a soldier in front of it. Boltor blocked another slash from behind him, spun the weapon around and impaled the Masok.
"I did…" he said, breathing hard. He parried two more soldier’s strokes, punched one in the face and thrust his sword quickly back into the other. Talibor swept his sword in circles from left to right slicing and slashing warriors. Talibor found a break and glanced at Boltor.
"Boltor! Behind you!" he yelled. Boltor spun and parried the strike, kicked the soldier to the ground, and buried his sword in the fallen soldier. Talibor struck down another invader and looked back to Boltor. A Masok directly behind Boltor swung his blade over his head, aiming for his exposed back. Talibor yelled and urged his steed forward to help. Instead he plowed into two other attackers. He watched in horror as the blade neared the oblivious Boltor. At the last second, the attacking Masok jolted and fell, an arrow sticking through his neck. Talibor looked to find Jumai string another arrow, aiming for anyone who would dare attack his friends. Talibor smiled and Boltor rose, evading another swipe and jabbing his blade forward.
"My lords!" Jumai said, working his way forward and picking off soldiers with deadly accuracy. Boltor and Talibor turned. "Lord Valimor requests your presence at the command post immediately. Do not worry about the line, I will hold it. Go now!" Talibor shook his head and stretched a hand to Boltor who mounted the horse behind him. The stallion took off, proudly bearing the lords of battle to the command post. Jumai did not watch them leave and instead, turned to the battle. He flipped his bow across his shoulders and drew his sword. A light of fire ignited in his eyes. The line would hold.