Guardians of the Lost (18 page)

After a final glance over the wall at the rapidly increasing numbers of the enemy, Onaset accompanied his king to hear what his enemy had to say.

 

Raven was about to depart, when he heard the horns sounding the alarm. A Trevenici warrior, who had been on duty at the wall, came back to report. “There's an army out there.” She shook her head gloomily. “Looks like a siege.”

The Trevenici exchanged grim glances. Instead of glory on the battlefield, the Trevenici must endure months, perhaps years, of being under siege, trapped in these city walls that they detested, sleeping and eating with nothing to do except to exchange verbal insults with the enemy. Worst of all, with no way to return to visit their tribes.

“Well that's that,” said one. “I'm not staying to die of starvation.”

“You had better make haste, then,” the warrior said. “The order has been given to close the gates.”

At this dire news, Raven leapt onto his horse's back, kicked his heels into the animal's flanks. He knew better than to try the main gate. He knew of a wicket on the eastern side of the wall, one used by those who had business in the city after dark when the main gate had been closed. He would try that.

Unfortunately, word of the enemy had spread throughout Dunkar by this time, and the streets were clogged with people. The main street was impassable. Raven's horse was battle-trained, accustomed to the clash of arms and the smell of blood and the screams of the wounded and dying. The horse was not accustomed to small children darting under its belly, the shrill cries of gossip-mongers and the smell of fear. The horse pricked its ears, rolled its eyes and balked.

Then some drunkard had the bright idea that he should steal Raven's horse and use it to escape the city. The drunk grabbed hold of Raven's leg. Raven kicked at the fellow and sent him head over heels into the gutter.

Turning his horse's head, Raven managed to extricate himself from the mob. He tried another street, a narrow side street, and found that it was not as crowded. Still, he had to proceed slowly, keeping his horse under tight control, as people burst suddenly from doorways, crying out to know what was happening. Raven finally reached the wicket gate, to find that it was closed and barred.

“Open the gate,” Raven called from horseback.

The soldiers glanced up at the sound of the order, but, seeing only a Trevenici, they shook their heads. Dunkargans are not adverse to having the Trevenici fight and die for them, but that doesn't mean that they have to like them.

“Go back to your rat-meat stew, Barbarian,” said one shortly. “No one gets in or out. Seraskier's orders.”

If Raven had been a Dunkargan himself, he would have tossed a few argents on the ground and the gate would have been opened for him with no more questions asked. The Trevenici had never been able to understand the concept of bribery, however. Raven slid off his horse's back and went to argue.

“The Seraskier's orders do not apply to the Trevenici,” he said, which was perfectly true. “I am a Captain. You are obeying an order. You will not get into any trouble.”

“I know I won't,” said the guard, glowering. “Because I'm not opening the gate.” He cast Raven a scathing glance. “You're not getting paid to run away.”

Angry at the insult, desperate to leave this city, Raven laid his hand on his sword hilt and heard the rattle of steel behind him. He looked to find himself surrounded by six more guards, swords in their hands and dark expressions on their faces.

Trevenici are fearless in battle, but they are not foolhardy. Raven knew when he was beaten. He raised his hands, to show that they were empty, and then returned to his horse. Mounting, he galloped
off back down the street, sending people leaping for the gutters or the alleys to escape the pounding hooves.

 

While Raven was trying to flee the city, the herald from the enemy was permitted to enter, passing through a wicket gate located at the main gate and into the city proper. The herald was a human, not one of the strange monsters—much to the disappointment of the townspeople, who had been hearing rumors about these creatures from those on the walls and wanted to see one for themselves.

Fearless and proud, the herald rode with calm dignity through a throng of angry Dunkargans, who had come to see and curse the enemy. He had a thatch of blond hair and a beardless chin. He might have been sixteen at best, but he already sported a battle scar on his face and he rode his horse and carried his sword like a man accustomed to warfare. He wore a tabard of rich material featuring the image of a phoenix rising from flames and he bore the same device on his shield. No one could recall ever having seen such a device before.

The herald was given a guard of the Seraskier's own handpicked bodyguard, for the Dunkargans are a volatile people and every single one of them believed beyond doubt that the detested Karnuans had hired this army to attack them. There were shouted demands to behead the messenger and send his body back to Karnu. The Seraskier's men kept their swords out, struck with the flat of the blade at any citizen who drew too close. The herald regarded them all with a jaunty grin and a raised shield to deflect thrown vegetation.

He arrived at the palace and was not kept waiting, but was brought straight to the king. Moross sat on his throne in great state, attended by his ministers and members of the nobility. One and all, with the exception of the Seraskier, they expected the herald to state that he was from Karnu. Moross had his answer prepared, defiance to hurl into the teeth of the Karnuan king, who was, in fact, a distant cousin.

The herald entered with the same jaunty smile. He had been deprived
of his sword and shield and boot knife. King Moross stared hard at the device of the phoenix on the tabard and glanced at his ministers, who shrugged. This was not a Karnuan device, at least that anyone recognized.

Advancing, the herald made a perfunctory bow. With elaborate ceremony, he drew forth a scroll, unrolled it, and began to read.

From Prince Dagnarus, son of King Tamaros of Vinnengael to His Most Serene Highness, etc., etc. Moross, King of Dunkarga.

I, Prince Dagnarus, as a son of Dunkarga, am grieved to see the state of war that exists between those who should be clasping each other by the hand and terming each other brother. This civil war has plunged a once great nation in ruin and made of Dunkarga, a land once proud and puissant, a shabby beggar in the streets of the world. I, Prince Dagnarus, propose to end this ruinous war and to raise Dunkarga once more to the level of strength and prosperity that will make all of Loerem look upon Dunkarga with jealous eyes and fear in their hearts.

The following are my terms: My troops and I will be permitted unopposed entry into the city. I will be named Seraskier and will be given command of all Dunkargan troops and the Dunkargan war fleet. The present king, my cousin, will continue to rule. I am to be consulted in all important decisions. In return, the city of Dunkar will be spared the ravages of war. Those citizens who support me will prosper. Those who oppose me will be given a chance to improve their opinion of me. If these terms are not accepted, my armies will launch their assault at dawn tomorrow. In that instance, the city and its people can expect no mercy.

King Moross listened in bemused amazement. Dagnarus. Who was Dagnarus? He could remember no Dagnarus who had any claim to Dunkarga. And yet there was something familiar about the name…He glanced about at his ministers, who looked offended and outraged, but also frightened. Seraskier Onaset was grim.

The herald fell silent, stared expectantly at the king. King Moross knew what his answer must be, but he did not intend to make it arbitrarily. In particular, he needed to talk to Onaset, who had made a sign to him.

“We will take this under consideration,” said King Moross, cold and imperious.

“Do not consider long, Your Majesty,” said the herald. “My lord is not a patient man and if I have not returned by sundown, he will begin the assault.”

The ministers muttered angrily at being given this ultimatum and by the free and easy, sneering manner in which it was delivered.

Moross silenced them with a glance. He announced that the herald would have his answer when he was prepared to give it and not before. He then ordered that the herald be made comfortable and given food and drink. The herald bowed, turned on his heel, and departed. Moross was immediately surrounded by clamoring ministers, their voices raised in shrill and bellowing protestations that not so much as a single pebble from a Dunkargan alleyway be handed over to this bandit. Moross caught Onaset's eye. The Seraskier made a most emphatic sign that he needed to speak to the king in private. Moross dismissed the ministers, who expressed their support for His Majesty, and then departed. Their vociferations could be heard even after the great golden doors were closed with a resounding boom.

“Well, Seraskier?” King Moross asked. “What are we to make of this?”

“Did you note the name ‘Dagnarus,' Your Majesty?”

“Yes, of course, I did,” King Moross returned. Now that they were alone, the king dropped the royal “we,” spoke man-to-man to his Seraskier. “I have been trying to think—”

“Prince Dagnarus, second son of King Tamaros of Old Vinnengael.”

“Ah, yes.” King Moross was relieved. “That is where I have heard it before. So that is how he claims to be a son of Dunkarga and my cousin. As I recall, Dagnarus's mother was Emillia, daughter of King Oglaf.” Proud of his knowledge of his lineage, he was nettled that he had not recognized the name. “She was his second wife. Dagnarus was the one who reputedly brought down Old Vinnengael, if we are to believe the old legends. Quite appropriate that this bandit has taken that foul name. I suppose he could be some sort of great-great-grandson,” Moross continued, musing, interrupting Onaset who had sought to break in. “If I recall my history,
the original Dagnarus could have populated a small village with his by-blows.”

“What if this is the original Prince Dagnarus, Your Majesty?” Onaset asked. “As he claims.”

King Moross looked severe. “Really, Seraskier, this is no time for levity—”

“Trust me, I am not joking, Your Majesty,” said Onaset. “According to history, Prince Dagnarus was a Void worshiper. He was cursed by the gods, made Lord of the Void. He was said to be powerful in Void magic.”

“Prince Dagnarus died in the destruction of Old Vinnengael,” said Moross.

“His body was never found, Your Majesty.”

“What are you saying, Onaset?” King Moross demanded impatiently. “That we are being attacked by a two-hundred-year-old Void lord?”

“I am saying, Your Majesty, that we may be under attack by the power of the Void. I urge Your Majesty to take this into account in your decision making.”

“So you would have me surrender?” King Moross was astonished.

“I did not say that, Your Majesty—”

“I would be ruined. The people would be furious. You said yourself that this enemy will find it impossible to take this city—”

“Recall your history, Your Majesty. Old Vinnengael was a city ten times larger than Dunkar and ten times better fortified. And it fell to the power of the Void.”

“They might cast some sort of evil spell on us?” King Moross asked uneasily. “Can they do that?”

“I don't know, Your Majesty. I don't know that much about Void magic, thank the gods. I do find it regrettable that the High Magus chose this time to leave. His advice in this matter would have been invaluable. Perhaps we could send a messenger—”

King Moross shook his head. “Impossible. I was sent word that he boarded a ship this morning and they sailed with the tide.”

“You did not speak to him?”

“No, his departure was quite sudden.”

“The High Magus sets sail at the first sign of this enemy,” Onaset said. “Perhaps his sudden departure is his advice, Your Majesty.”

Moross shook his head, but said nothing. Clasping his hands behind his back, he began to pace. “What a terrible decision, Onaset. If I go to war, I doom my people to the horrors of war and if I surrender I open the city to an army of Void monsters. We know that they have human slaves. What is to stop them from enslaving us all? Can I trust the word of a man who holds a knife to my throat? No, no, Seraskier. I will not even consider it.”

He halted in his pacing, turned to Onaset. “Am I making the right choice?” he asked, almost pathetically.

“I believe so, Your Majesty,” Onaset replied. “But we should seek assistance and advice from the magi of the Temple, those who remain.”

“Yes, of course.” King Moross paused a moment longer, then gave a sigh and straightened. “I will send this herald about his business. Arrogant wretch. Make what preparations you need to make to face the dawn attack, Seraskier.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Onaset bowed.

“And gods' fortune to us all,” the king added.

“We will need it, Your Majesty,” Onaset said.

 

In their camp, the Trevenici were also making preparations, although not the kind that the Seraskier would have approved. The Trevenici were making preparations to leave Dunkar.

The Trevenici warriors were never required to remain in Dunkar long. The Karnuans constantly sent raiding parties into the disputed no man's land that lay between Dunkar and the Karnuan city of Karfa 'Len and it was the Trevenici's duty to drive them back. Raven had been planning to lead his troop to take up patrol duty in the region this very week.

The Trevenici liked this assignment, for it left them free to roam the land, sleep in the open, show their courage in battle. Well-trained soldiers, the Karnuans were a superb military force. Fighting Karnuans meant that a Trevenici warrior had a chance to gain
glory in battle and raise his standing in the tribe, not to mention the bounty money paid by the Dunkargans for Karnuan heads.