Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)

Chapter 22

W
est of the Monolith Mountains were the three Western Kingdoms. The northern most was Scaltzland, a kingdom of warriors and warrior priests who lived in the great forests and mountains, hunting, fishing, battling the northern hordes, and mining and smelting ores.

To the south lay the farming kingdom of Dernium.  It was a bountiful land of sunshine, fresh water and fertile soil.  Hardworking farmers tilled vast fields that produced vegetables and grains.  They herded cattle, sheep and goats.  They were good at what they did, but they weren’t soldiers.

Between these two kingdoms and on a direct line with the Great East-West road was Chadmir, a kingdom of merchants and traders who lived off the commerce that came through their lands. 

With Barlon Gorth’s conquest of Netherdorf, the three kings hurriedly arranged a meeting.  As usual, the northern and southern kings traveled to Pogor, the capitol city of Chadmir.  They met in the sandstone castle’s light, airy council hall that towered over the thriving business district. Large windows opened to fresh spring breezes that whipped the countless colorful flags, pennants and banners marking the multitude of tents and shops in the streets below.  Three chairs were arranged around an oblong table in the room’s center.

King Petre of the nothern Kingdom of Scaltzland sat closest to the door.  He was tall and muscular, his body honed by life spent as a warrior.  He ruled over a populace of warriors and hunters.  He arrived that day with a troop of his personal guard.

Seated mid-table was King Daggon from the southern farmlands of Dernium. He was a blocky man who tilled fields along with his people.  He also brought a contingent of guards.

As host, King Fasoom sat at the head of the conference table.  He was rotund with a disarmingly pleasant smile that hid a tough attitude for business.

“I say we teach this upstart a lesson,” said Petre, scowling. He stretched his lean frame, slouching in his chair.

“You're always ready to fight,” said Daggon, whose bulk hardly fit his ornately carved chair. “He’s got what he wants.”

“I'm not so sure,” said Fasoom.  “And there are problems other than with what he wants.  Barlon Gorth now controls the only trade route between us and the Eastern Empire.  Tariffs could become a problem, and even if not, trade will suffer if he doesn't keep the roads open.  Perhaps Petre is right.”

King Daggon scowled.  “Trade, war, what talk is this?  Peace is what we need, peace to grow our crops, peace for you to handle your trade and you to mine your metals.  Peace is what I've sought, in our names.”

Daggon pulled out a leather tube, uncapped it and withdrew a rolled sheet of vellum.  He unrolled it and ceremoniously laid it on the table.

“Daggon, where did you get this?” asked Petre, craning his neck to get a good view of the document.

“An emissary of Lord Gorth, Shalmuthe, brought it in hopes we could strike a peace treaty before anyone did something rash. You see, this pact guarantees peace and is already signed by myself and Barlon Gorth.  It has ample provisions for your signatures. Sign it.  It guarantees peace for all. 
And
, you’ll note, it includes mutual defense provisions should the Northern Hordes attack us again.”

“I don't know,” said Fasoom, taking up the thin document in his chubby hands.  “I'll have to read this carefully, have my advisors study it.”

“Take your time.”

Petre's frown deepened.  “If Barlon is content with his little conquest, why didn't he set
himself
up as king in Netherdorf instead of that old soldier?  What is Barlon saving for himself'?”

“He doesn't want power.  He just needed the croplands to feed his people.”

“Yes, you know about crops, Daggon.  You and the people of Dernium are great farmers, but you know nothing of men. Barlon Gorth is not done.  We should crush him now and restore King Tirmus to the throne in Netherdorf.  Tirmus is an honest man.”

The wiry leader of the northern kingdom locked eyes with the broad shouldered farmer.  Each glared at the other stubbornly refusing to be the first to look away.

“I think we should wait a few days until I can dissect this treaty,” said Fasoom.  “Wars are costly.  Inaction can cost more.  Let us feast and enjoy each other's company for two days.  On the third, we shall meet and discuss this until we reach a decision.”

Petre nodded.  “I can't go to war by myself.”

“And I can't have peace if you do not,” said Daggon.

“Done.” said King Fasoom.  He waved his hand for food, and the many rings on his hand flashed like twinkling stars.

#

On the third day, King Petre of Scaltzland paced the Council Hall impatiently.  He was a head taller than most men but his lack of bulk belied an amazing strength and quickness.  He was in extraordinary shape for one who did most of his work seated on a throne.  He had renounced the easy life.  He seldom over-ate and never drank to excess.  Daily he honed his skill with arms, testing himself against his captains and officers.  He took seriously his royal position as commander of the Scaltzlandian army.  Often he led companies against the northern barbarians.  Few knew the sword at his side still held a touch of ancient magic.  He preferred to let his men think it was his skill that felled the enemy. Today he chafed at the tardiness of his fellow Kings.  He had barely endured the wait imposed by King Fasoom while his advisors evaluated Gorth’s treaty.  As far as Petre was concerned, war was the only logical answer.  Daggon was always slow to see the danger.  His people were happy tilling their fields and milking their cows.  Worse, they thought everyone else should be happy doing the same.  Fasoom, on the other hand, was more pragmatic.  His prosperity depended on trade and therefore he better understood relations between nations.  Surely, he would not be fooled by Gorth’s maneuver.

Footsteps sounded outside in the hall.  Finally, Petre thought and walked to his seat.  He sat down as the door opened and Fasoom entered with Daggon.  The shorter merchant king had one arm around his bull-like companion, a bottle of wine swung loosely in his free hand.

“Ah.” said Fasoom, raising the bottle in salute as he saw Petre. “You are already here.”

“You're late.”

“There's no hurry.  Important decisions are best not rushed.”

Fasoom crossed the narrow space between the door and the table, and went around to the head of the table to seat himself.  Daggon worked his huge frame into his chair.  He laid the treaty on the table.

“I have examined the document carefully,” began Fasoom.   “I believe Gorth is sincere in his attempt to make peace.”

“Why?” demanded Petre.

“He is weak.  His army is no match for ours.  He has no political power, neither in the free cities nor within the Empire, and he does not have the resources to support a war against us on this side of the Monolith Mountains.”

“So, you favor signing this.”

“Yes.  I have already done so.  Only your signature is needed to make this binding.”

Petre looked from Fasoom to Daggon.  He hated it, hated turning on a friend like Tirmus.  If things were reversed, Petre felt sure that Netherdorf would declare war on Gorth.  And he would never trust a man who attacked one Kingdom without warning while seeking peace with those at his back.

“I won't sign.”

“You'd wage war without us?” yelped Daggon.  He nearly rose from his chair, his face reddening.

“No.  My minister will sign in my absence.  I will live by it unless Gorth gives me reason to do otherwise.” Petre rose.  “I'll send Durk up to sign it.   I'm going back to Ferd.”

“Give my regards to your Queen,” nodded Fasoom respectfully.

“Yes, from me too,” added Daggon, heaving himself up to leave.

And so the peace treaty was signed and the kings returned home.

Chapter 23

B
efore King Petre returned to his capitol city, Barlon Gorth massed his troops, confident that the Western Kingdoms languished under a false sense of security.  His men numbered only 15 brigades of 250 each. Along with them he had the 75 Knights of the Habichon under Lom’s command, plus Razgoth and Varg.  The rear column consisted of hundreds of smiths, armorers, men of medicine, cooks, butchers and porters.  Cattle drivers drove the herds stripped from Netherdorf and wagons loaded to bursting with wheat, flour and rye.  Ale was in short supply but hundreds of tiny streams flowed down from the Monolith Mountains and supplied water.

Varg strode beside Barlon's nervous horse.  The demon’s magical stride effortlessly covered the miles of road from Barlon’s castle through Chamber Pass to Chadmir’s border.  Barlon rode proudly atop his beautiful warhorse at the head of the column.  His thick hair streamed out from under his polished steel helm.

Razgoth rode at Barlon’s immediate flank, along with Lom, whose dark purple armor dulled even the bright sunshine.  Next to them rode General Ecker.  Directly behind them were the brigade captains and Sir Jarlz who now wore the purple armor of the Knights of Habichon.  Despite putting Jarlz in a suit of the Habichon armor, Barlon did not put Sir Jarlz under Lom's command instead keeping him as a personal bodyguard.

Barlon’s army moved slowly.  It took two days to get through Chamber pass.  Finally, at sunset on the second day Barlon paused on a hilltop overlooking the Chadmirian border fortress of Bal.  Its flag fluttered proudly in a light breeze.  The last rays of the dying sun gave its colors a final burst of clarity.

“Camp tonight,” he said turning in his saddle to address his captains.  “No fires!”

The captains scurried away to get their troops bivouacked. Within minutes, a special crew pitched a large command tent.  Smaller tents sprang up serving as quarters for the commanders.

A cook’s tent appeared but the half dozen cooks milled around not sure what to do without a fire. Barlon gathered his leaders in the command tent.  Razgoth, Varg, Barlon, Ecker, Lom, and Sir Jarlz crowded around a table covered with maps.  Barlon stood at the head, Varg at his shoulder, the rest spread back away from the foul, ugly creature.

“The plan is simple,” said Barlon.  “In the morning, six supply wagons and 30 troopers from 1st Brigade will proceed to Fort Bal.  General Ecker will lead them and request provisions and water from the fort’s guard. The General will explain that you are enroute to Pogor with gifts for King Fasoom.  They have no reason to suspect anything and courtesy demands they allow you in. Varg, Sir Jarlz and ten of Lom’s men will be hidden in false bottoms in the wagons.  Once inside, you will attack just before mid-watch ends.  Take the gatehouse and hold the gate open until we arrive.  Above all, let no one escape. We do not want to warn Fasoom.”

“What of the troops inside Bal?” asked General Ecker.

“Kill them.”

“And if they surrender?”

“Lock them in their own jails and we'll decide what to do with them later.  Any other questions?”  Barlon glared around the room.

The group dispersed.  Each man retired to contemplate the coming action.  Barlon left while a few were still looking at the detailed maps. Outside Razgoth was waiting.  Varg was nowhere to be seen.

“Excuse the intrusion, sire,” began the wizard, his hands clasp deferentially in front of his robes.

Barlon nodded for Razgoth to continue.

“I wonder about Varg.  He accompanies you everywhere and seems content in your service.  Why? It goes against all I've read about the entrapment of demons.”

“He is our trusted ally.”

“Ally?  He is a Demon Prince.  A thing of darkness.  He cannot be trusted.  He is probably feigning allegiance until such time as he can free himself from the amulet.  Then we are doomed!”

Razgoth’s face distorted with worry and terror.  Barlon almost laughed.  Magic was nothing compared to a mutual agreement.

“What have you done?” demanded the wizard.

“Promised Varg what he wants.”

“And what is that?”  Razgoth's furrows deepened.

“His freedom.”  Barlon chuckled, as if it were a terrific joke.

“His freedom.”  Razgoth visibly shrank from his ruler.  “This is no defenseless peasant, sire.  If you grant him his freedom, we'll be doomed.  There is little magic left anywhere in this world that can stop him.”

“Who said I'm going to give him his freedom?  It is only one more ploy in my arsenal.  He believes me, he trusts me.”  Barlon laughed.

“Sire, you endanger us all.  When Varg realizes your lie.” Razgoth looked around, suddenly wondering where the demon might be.  “If he hears us talking. . .” he mumbled, and then to Barlon.  “When does he expect you to release him?”

“After we conquer the Western Kingdoms.  He knows that is my only interest.”

“And when you don't free him, Varg will do his utmost to pervert your every command until he can get the amulet from you.”

“Be still.  You worry too much.”  Barlon's face darkened and Razgoth winced.  Instead of a blistering harangue, Barlon smiled, patted his wizard on the shoulder and said, “We'll handle Varg when the time comes.  Until then I have a devoted servant.”

“Where is he now?”

“I sent him to intercept the night patrol from Fort Bal.  He seemed to relish the idea of feasting on human flesh.”

Barlon turned into his tent, leaving Razgoth alone in the darkness.  The wizard stared blankly at the closed tent flap, his gray eyes wide.  The idea of a struggle with Varg ate at his mind. Eventually, the mage returned to his tent but he did not sleep.  Instead, he studied passages from the ancient tomes in his trunk.  To call a demon was one thing, to return him, something else.

#

As the sun came up six supply wagons and accompanying troops ground their way toward Fort Bal.  General Ecker rode tall and proud leading his modest force.  Soon they reached the base of the stone walls of the Chadmirian outpost.  The fort stood massive and imposing at the junction of the roads from Netherdorf, Zalmon, Pogor and Ferd.  It had long guarded the entrance to the Western Kingdoms from the east through Chamber Pass.  No wars had been fought in years and the legions stationed there had grown slack with inaction.  Nonetheless, they stood their watches diligently.

“Who seeks entrance?” called the guard from above the gate as General Ecker brought his command to a halt.

“General Ecker, King of Netherdorf.  I need water and rest before I continue to Pogor.”

“What is your business in Pogor?”

“I bear gifts for the king to seal our treaty of peace.”

“Wait,” said the guard.  He turned from the wall and scurried to a point on the inner wall where he could look down on the courtyard below.

“Sir,” he called to an officer busy in conversation below. “General Ecker is here from Netherdorf.   He seeks water and shelter. Shall we admit him?”

The officer glanced up.  “Any sign of the night patrol?”

“No, sir.”  The guard waited for an answer, waited a moment more, and then asked again, “Sir, shall we admit General Ecker?”

“Yes, yes,” waved the officer, already distracted by his fellow officers again.

Slowly the gates clanked open.  General Ecker pranced in on his resplendent stallion followed by his troops and the squeaking wagons.  They proceeded to a spot to the left of the gate near the outer wall.  Once the party was inside, the huge iron gate clattered down.

General Ecker studied the interior defenses.  The lookouts atop the walls were not armed with bows or crossbows.  Those inside were in disarray.  A moment’s observation assured him that the nervous activity was due to their concern for the missing night patrol and not fear of treachery from his party.

Surprisingly no emissary came to the General to discuss provisions, water rights or quarters.  The timing couldn’t have been better.

General Ecker turned to his captain and whispered, “You may proceed.  Notify those in the wagons to wait until your men are spread out and ready.  You will strike the first blow.”

The captain turned away and within moments his men began to casually disperse throughout the garrison, positioning themselves next to a Chadmirian soldier without drawing undue attention. A few more minutes and it would be too late for the fort’s troops.

The captain returned to Ecker’s side and was about to say something when the General saw the garrison commander and several of his lieutenants heading toward them.  The General motioned his captain to silence.

“General Ecker,” said the fort’s commander, tossing a casual salute.  “This is most inopportune.  However perhaps you can do us a service.”

“What is that?”

“Did you see any signs of a patrol?  Our night patrol is missing.  Twenty-five horses and riders without a trace.”

The commander studied Ecker and his captain diligently.  His lieutenants, likewise, craned their necks to check out the wagons, the few guards left near them and the soldiers fanning out through the courtyard.

The General feigned giving the question consideration while his sword hand inched toward the hilt at his hip.  Imperceptibly, his captain also prepared for battle.

“No,” said General Ecker.  “We didn't see any signs of anyone in Chamber Pass.  Perhaps they strayed up some side canyon.”

As the fort’s commander started to reply one of his lieutenants touched his elbow.  The lieutenant’s head was looking straight at one of Ecker’s men mounting the stairs to the battlements.  The General knew what was coming.  He yanked out his sword and in one smooth motion slashed across the commander’s neck, killing him where he stood.  At the same time Ecker’s captain had his sword out and chopped down on the nearest lieutenant.

The courtyard erupted.  Each of Ecker’s men lashed out at the nearest Chadmirian soldier.  Cries filled the air.  Twenty died in the first seconds. Troops from both sides rushed to join the fray.  Hundreds of Chadmirian bordermen poured from their barracks where they had been on alert status.  Quickly Ecker’s men were outnumbered and overwhelmed by the enemy’s fast response. 

The remaining Chadmirian lieutenants pulled their swords and attacked General Ecker and his captain.  To the general’s left two of the Chadmirians pressured the captain, forcing him back and away from Ecker.  In a moment these officers were joined by a handful of soldiers and the captain fell to a dozen sword blows.  General Ecker retreated toward the wagons desperately parrying repeated thrusts.

At the wagon, the general’s attackers faltered.  Suddenly the general found himself disengaged as Varg stepped past him into the cluster of enemy soldiers.  The Demon-prince had grown.  He stood ten feet tall and sported two sets of vicious claw-tipped limbs.  Their sinewy black muscles bulged like tree trunks.  Without hesitation, Varg waded into the line of soldiers.  Two of his arms tore the throats from the nearest two lieutenants.  The rest of the soldiers hacked madly at this towering fiend.  Their swords clattered uselessly off his rock-hard hide. Two more died without realizing their mistake, another fell wounded.

Now the Chadmirians backed away, stark terror in their faces.  One or two swung again, half-heartedly, not believing the impotence of swords against this thing of darkness.  They died for their hesitation.

General Ecker exhaled with relief.  Free from battle he surveyed the situation looking for places to send his reserves.  Varg quickly decimated the enemy ranks near the wagons.  At the parapet stairs, the garrison troops momentarily held back Ecker’s soldiers.  But dark purple knights moved to the stairs, their armor unscathed by the defenders’ swords.  The darkness that followed them steadily advanced up the steps until soon they finished the last few men atop the wall.

Other purple clad warriors cleaved trails of blood and carnage through the massed troops in the courtyard.  At the gate a handful of stubborn defenders worked valiantly to hold the gatehouse.  Signals from the walls reported Barlon’s arrival and the defenders redoubled their efforts to stem the inevitable.

Sir Jarlz moved to the head of Ecker’s gatehouse contingent, his swordplay a symphony of destruction, his purple armor a breakwall against his enemies.

Just when Ecker thought all had gone perfectly, he saw a lone figure sneaking across the rooftops of the central building.  The shadowy form was small, either a boy or woman.  Ecker watched as the shape ran to a precarious ladder on the side of the west tower.  There, hand over hand, the figure scrambled up toward the tower rooftop where Ecker saw a huge cage of homing birds.

“Archers!” he yelled.

Once the figure reached the top it would release dozens of messengers, all bearing a message of treachery.

“Archers,” the general screamed again as the first bowmen ran up.  “Shoot him,” he snapped and pointed at the figure.

The first archer's bow twanged and a steel-tipped shaft clattered into the rock wall.  The figure flinched sideways, almost losing his grip on the ladder.  A second and third arrow launched.  Both missed.

The slim figure reached the top of the ladder, ready to slip over onto the tower roof where he'd be safe from arrows.