Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (46 page)

The warnings had been shouted just before dawn.  Soldiers on the march, crossing the River Mendanaria.  The command staff of the Sharron Army gave orders, and sergeants rode off quickly.  The massive forces were shifted, and moved into position.

The ground was still wet from rain during the night.  The sunrise would go unnoticed, as the sky was overcast.  Appropriate, Cam Murtallan thought, as he glanced up.  Grey skies over a land that would soon be churned to mud. 

As much as the attack had been predicted for New Year’s Day, no member of the Sharron command staff was surprised that they were striking nearly two weeks early.  This had been an unusually mild winter, and as the Season of Stillness drew to its close, it was evident to everyone that there would be no more ice, and likely no late winter storms.

The Medaelian invaders had waited long enough to allow the entirety of the fighting Sharron Army to come to the Vann Region.  Whether that was unintentional, or a planned show of just how large a force Wilnar-Medira had assembled, was anyone’s guess.

As the last units had arrived in place, Cam questioned who would do their duties around the Kingdom in their absence.  It was explained by General Bodrir and the King that local constabularies would call up special militias to take the positions that were vacated of necessity.  Also, in other critical posts, Royal Guardsmen would fill in.

They rode out of Vanntir to meet the approaching force.  At the King’s insistence, Cam was beside Varlock-Sharron, flanked by General Bodrir, General Sopirr, and the rest of the command staff. 

Cam had chosen not to add any further armor, and the only weapon he had included was his rapier.  A shield had been given to him for protection from enemy arrows.  He did not feel a staff would be of much use in the coming battle, and he had no experience with a range weapon like a bow or crossbow.

Varlock-Sharron was attired in plate armor, black and dull.  Cam learned it was incredibly well articulated, and surprisingly light.  The King wore a simple, open faced helm.  He was clearly equipped for battle.  The Generals were similarly attired.

The Sharron Army were divided in ranks of archers, crossbowmen, pikemen, mounted and footed swordsmen.  Those on horseback wore platemail, those on foot wore chain and leather armor.  Weapons varied from longswords to broadswords to claymours to maces and pikes and longbows and crossbows.  Some even held rapiers, like Cam.

Almost fifty-thousand Sharron Army soldiers moved into position.  The ground was already becoming muddy. 

They halted about a mile from the river.  The land before them was mostly flat, undeveloped prairie.  Cam had learned farms were never established here because of constant skirmishes.  More than a half dozen fights had occurred on this plain before.

“I wish we had enough light to see what comes,” commented General Sopirr under his breath.

“I doubt they’ll send negotiators in advance this time,” remarked General Bodrir.

“Why don’t they just charge in?” asked Cam of the King quietly, nervously.

Varlock-Sharron continued to peer forward.  His voice was soft, and somewhat tense.  “Warfare of this nature is complicated.  When you invade in waves, knowing your numbers to be greater, you can sweep in without a second thought, as the Anarian invasion occurred.  But when you face an army of nearly equal size and composition, to run in blindly invites quick defeat.”

“So, what, we’ll pause a mile apart and face one another until someone charges?” questioned Cam.

“No.  Likely the archers will shoot first.”

“Oh, well, that’s comforting,” replied Cam sarcastically.

“Warfare has been done like this for a long, long time now,” remarked General Bodrir, an equal tension in his tone.  “Two large armies facing one another cannot just launch blind attacks.  There is an odd sense of order to a battle such as this.”

Cam was silent, now, considering.  On paper, it hadn’t looked like this.  He came to realize there was much about strategy he was yet to understand. 

“Hold here, General,” ordered Varlock-Sharron.

“Yes, sir,” replied General Bodrir.  “Sergeant?”

A large, burly sergeant beside the general turned in his saddle.  “HOLD!” he cried in a great voice.

Others repeated the command, and the forward motion of the Sharron Army came to a stop.  The rumble and clatter of advancing soldiers ceased, and was replaced by a low, dull roar.  Ahead, similar sounds were heard.

“There!” someone barked.

Others shouted, and pointed to the east.

Cam noted the light was sufficient, now.  He could see them.  He had read the reports, been told how many to expect…but the sight of it was something else entirely, beyond anything Cam could have imagined.

Arrayed before them was a force of innumerable soldiers.  Composed similarly to the Sharron Army, but with three distinct banners amongst them.  They, too, were coming to a halt.  Just under a quarter of a mile separated these two immense armies.

“Do we have a count yet?” asked the King.

Cam turned, noted the Generals lightly bobbing their heads, apparently estimating enemy strength.  General Sopirr soon answered, never taking his eyes off the opposition.

“Looks to be around sixty-thousand, sire.”

“Can’t see if they have re-enforcements behind or no,” commented General Bodrir.

Cam was astonished.  He realized that the Generals, with long experience at warfare, had some method of counting such a large force quickly. 

Recalling the maps and plans they’d been working on, Cam realized that it was less likely they counted actual soldiers, and more likely they counted companies, battalions, or regiments of soldiers.  The break-down of the massed military body had been explained to Cam, but until he saw it before him, it had remained an abstract concept.

A small group rode out from the enemy formation.  Forming a clear pattern Cam could not identify, they had a large banner and were all mounted on horseback.  Behind the banner they had a white flag.

“I’ll be damned,” commented Colonel Pirvarn.  “They are sending a parley.”

“Majesty?” questioned Major Jun-Shilla.

“Bodrir.  Sopirr.  Callan.  Hir-Sharron.  Murtallan.  My guards.  With me,” commanded the King tersely.

He spurred his horse, and was immediately followed by them.  Captain Hir-Sharron carried the Banner of Sharron, and Captain-General Callan carried the white flag of parley.  They rode forth, Cam preparing for some kind of deception.

They slowed in the middle of the space between the armies as they approached the opposing squad.

“Isn’t this dangerous?” asked Cam quietly, feeling nervous.

“Under a white flag, they cannot and will not attack.  That would be General Grom-Valock of Medaelia in command, and he is a principled soldier, even if his King is not a man with honor,” said Varlock-Sharron softly.  “But be ready for anything, just in case.”

Cam knew what the King meant.  He was there for additional protection.  Civilized or not, these were, after all, the commanders of the enemy army.

They were visible, now, all decked out in plate armor.  Only Cam in his leather was out of place.  They rode behind three banners, the rampant lion before the flaring sun on a field of purple of Medaelia, the four silver stars topped with a gold, five point crown on a field of green of Cordianlott, and the seven birds, a raven, a swan, an eagle, a crow, a dove, a hawk, and a peacock, arranged in a circle between laurels on a white field of the Allied Dominion of Lirdarra. 

One man came closer, flanked by two others.  He had a grey beard and round, weathered face.  He wore grey plate armor similar to the black worn by Varlock-Sharron and his generals.  The men behind him, one quite large, with an oily black goatee and rust-red platemail, the other tall and thin, clean shaved in nearly white armor, both wore looks of self importance.  The lead stopped, and raised a hand.

“I am General Kiran Grom-Valock, Commanding officer of the Medaelian Army, representing his Royal Majesty, King Aldo Wilnar-Medira of Medaelia.  Whom do I address?”

His voice was low and melodic, and extremely confident.  Varlock-Sharron rode to him, flanked directly by Bodrir and Sopirr.

“I am General-Master Varlock-Sharron Anduin, Commanding officer of the Sharron Army, and King of Sharron.”

              “Well.  Well well well,” remarked General Grom-Valock.  The other men behind him shifted uneasily.  “Your Majesty, it’s been many years, now.  I expected you would look...older, somehow.”

Varlock-Sharron smirked wickedly.  “I have aged slowly, General.  I still lead my own.  I see your King still prefers others fight his battles for him.”

“Do you dare insult my King?” questioned the General.

“No more than he insults himself, General.”  His expression changed immediately as he inclined his head towards the men behind Grom-Valock.  “Who are these?”

The frown on General Grom-Valock’s face deepened a moment, before he released an exasperated breath.  “Yes, quite.  May I present General Gil Torma of Cordianlott,” the man in white armor rode a step forward.  “and Sir Ulnar Tiv of Lirdarra.”  The man in rust-red armor came closer.  “And these?” he gestured to the Generals behind the King.

Bodrir moved forward.  “I am General Sir Malov Eisnarn Bodrir, Deputy commanding officer of the Sharron Army.”

Sopirr joined him.  “General Sir Portav Sopirr, Deputy commanding officer of the Sharron Army.”

“Of course,” General Grom-Valock acknowledged.  “We’ve not seen one another in quite some time, Generals.  I see you chose Sir Portav to replace the late Sir Delban?”

General Bodrir said nothing.

General Grom-Valock pressed on.  “Be that as it may, we have come forth to present the terms of his Royal Majesty, King Aldo Wilnar-Medira of Medaelia.”

Varlock-Sharron crossed his arms.  “Excellent.  I like a good yarn as much as the next man.”

General Grom-Valock’s face grew stern, his tone terse and harsh.  “You will break up this force, and surrender the Vann Region to us.  You shall then pull troops back from the Vann Region, creating a demilitarized zone for one mile along the border.  You will then relinquish, before witnesses, your claim as Second Prince of Medaelia.  Lastly, a free-trade zone is to be established between the Vann Region and the Kingdom of Cordianlott.  These things you will do, or we shall strike.”

Varlock-Sharron was silent.  He turned to Generals Bodrir and Sopirr.  “Well, that is rather equitable of Wilnar-Medira, is it not?  He wishes us to roll over and play dead.”  He turned to the opposing parley.  “General Torma, Sir Ulnar, how about you join us, and we will just wipe out the Medaelian Army?”

Both men looked momentarily shocked, but turned away.

“They are our allies, Varlock-Sharron,” remarked General Grom-Valock smugly.  “We have the mightier force this day.  You cannot win, and this defeat will cost you far more than the Vann Region and a title.  What say you?”

“What say I?  You have never commanded a ‘mightier force’.  In fact, I am quite certain the only reason you command the Medaelian Army at all is because you never had enough of a spine to be more than a yes man to your superiors.  You may be a passable soldier, but you are undoubtedly an exceptional bootlicker.  You have nary a true military victory to your credit, and have only shown marginal effectives at bluster.  I am surprised that either of your allies here allowed you to retain command of this Army, as I am certain both are more capable leaders than you.  So go back to your forces, Kiran Grom-Valock.  The only message I intend to return to your King is your head, in a box.”

“I shall enjoy watching your Army suffer defeat, and your Kingdom crumble,” replied General Grom-Valock red-faced.  He turned his horse, spurred it, and, flanked by all who had ridden with him, galloped back to the Medaelian Army forces.

Varlock-Sharron watched a moment longer, then gestured, turned his horse, and began to ride back at a slow walk.

“Shouldn’t we get clear faster?” asked Cam, finding himself increasingly agitated.  “Won’t they attack when they reach their own forces?”

“No, Cam Murtallan,” replied General Sopirr.  “He may be an ass, but he’s an honorable one.  They’ll wait until we have reached our forces.”

“I do so enjoy trading insults with him,” remarked the King flippantly.  “Hopefully I have infuriated him enough that he will make a critical error or two.  Alright, Cam, as we discussed earlier.  Tell Colonel Pirvarn to move the flanks, and ready for assault.” 

Cam acknowledged that, and focused.  “Power within me, magic of sorcery, power beyond sight.  Stretch my voice to the ear of Von Pirvarn.  Let me speak with him alone, across the distance at which we stand.  Let me be heard, and him in turn, by my power...Hear!”

He felt the shift, could hear those standing with Colonel Pirvarn, an eighth of a mile away.  “Colonel Pirvarn?”

“Cam Murtallan?” the voice was startled, even though he’d expected this.

“His Majesty wants the flanks shifted, and all troops ready for assault.”

“As ordered, tell his Majesty we will be ready,” he replied, awe in his voice.

Cam nodded his head to himself, and felt the power release.