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.”
