Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (47 page)

“He got the message, sire,” replied Cam.

“So we are prepared,” responded the King.

They finally reached the lines, and rode back to the rest of the command staff. 

“Majesty, we are in readiness,” said Colonel Pirvarn, looking at Cam with wonder on his face.

“Good,” replied the King.

“They shan’t wait long to strike,” commented General Sopirr.

“Arrows incoming!” came the shout almost instantly.

“Shields!” barked General Bodrir.

Cam reached behind, grabbed the shield from the back of his saddle.  He saw them arcing above, a flurry of arrows.  He crouched upon his saddle, beneath his shield, just as he’d been instructed.

They whistled around him, and he heard men cry out and horses whine, along with the sound of metal hitting wood and flesh and armor.  He felt a glancing impact from his shield, then felt a solid hit.  Peering at the underside, Cam noted the arrowhead lodged to the left of his arm.

Suddenly, his horse whinnied, and dropped beneath him.  Cam rolled, breaking a few shafts imbedded in the ground along his path.  He managed to end up in a crouch, beneath the shield.  Soon, the first storm of arrows stopped.

“Archers, return fire!” ordered General Bodrir confidently, lowering his shield and rising up in his saddle.

Archers raised bows, and let loose their own hail of arrows.

Cam glanced to the side, and saw his horse down, howling piteously.  An arrow was lodged in its right eye.  Men and horses were wounded and dead here and there, and a cacophony of noise reached his ears, metal on wood, horses stomping, men shouting, muttering, cursing and crying.  The arrows of the Sharron army arced high above towards the opposing force like a flock of speedy, slender birds.

“Arrows incoming!” came the alarmed shout again.

“Archers, second volley!” called General Bodrir urgently.

“Shields!” commanded General Sopirr, ducking quickly beneath his own.

Cam ran to his fallen horse, but was too late.  The arrow had pierced too deeply, and the poor animal was dead.  More ammunition fell around him, glancing off his shield.  Two more missiles impacted and stuck.

“Archers, third, fourth and fifth volley!” ordered General Bodrir with an uncanny calm.  The projectile weapons clearly did not phase him in the least.

“Arrows incoming!” someone exclaimed with obvious worry once again.

More missiles fell, and more men yelled out as they were wounded by the continuing storm. 

Suddenly, the sound changed, and it seemed to Cam a moment as if the ground itself shifted as the enemy began to move.

“Charge incoming!” came a tense shout.

Cam glanced up, and could hardly believe his eyes.

Thundering ahead of the main body of the enemy forces, a huge number of mounted soldiers charged.  Cam could not count them.

“Cavalry first ranks, Broadhead formation, make ready to charge!” shouted General Sopirr, lowering his visor.

“Archers, make ready!” added the King with steely determination.

“Cavalry second ranks, standby, Arrowhead formation!” called General Bodrir.

Everything shifted as positions were taken.

“Cavalry first ranks, Charge!” cried General Sopirr, spurring his horse.

“Honor of Sharron!” called Varlock-Sharron defiantly.

              “Honor of Sharron!” answered the shouts of the amassed army.

Cam recalled strategy laid out over the past few days, but still found himself stunned when faced with the actual fighting.  The utter detachment in the shouted orders of the Generals and King unnerved him.  Cam felt his heart racing, breath catching in his throat as the world around him seemed to go mad.  But beneath it all, he felt the center of his being, his power, and the very knowledge of it began to calm him.  He composed himself once again, and observed the well plotted tactics in action.

As planned, General Sopirr led the charge of over ten-thousand mounted soldiers, in a long line, stretching out across the field.               

The enemy force had a more narrow charge, but it was two lines.  As they came closer to the Sharron forces, they moved apart, to the sides, spread out to overtake the advancing Sharron charge.

“Archers, stand-by!” ordered Varlock-Sharron warningly.

From the center of the Sharron charge, several trumpets bellowed at once.  All of a sudden, the Sharron charge broke in half, wheeled about, and spread apart, breaking right and left, riding off behind the main body of Sharron forces.

The advancing Medaelian charge slowed, faltering, no longer faced with mounted soldiers from Sharron.  They quickly recovered and rode on, however, towards the body of the Sharron forces.

“Fire!” cried Varlock-Sharron tersely.

Arrows and crossbow bolts lanced out, striking at the Medaelian charge.  Horses and soldiers went down, as the Sharron Army archers raked the Medaelian horsemen.

“Cavalry second ranks, with me, Charge!” commanded General Bodrir, spurring his horse.

They thundered forward, another ten-thousand mounted soldiers.  The force spread out, in the shape of an arrowhead, charging into and through the ranks of the Medaelian cavalry.

              The meeting of the charge was incredible, as men and horses collided, swords flashed, steel rang on steel, blood spurted.  Men howled in pain and the heat of battle.  Horses whinnied and snorted.  The field was a damp and muddy disaster.

At first, the Sharron cavalry was outnumbered, though they had surprised their opponents with both a non-standard charge, and the previous arrow-storm.  But as they closed in, hacking and slashing, the situation began to even out.

But it was not to last.  The first Sharron cavalry ranks had again come about, and now rode into the advancing Medaelian forces and their allies, coming in from the flanks.  Suddenly, the Medaelians found themselves overwhelmed.

Though the numbers were more or less equal, the psychological effect of the un-conventional Sharron tactics took its toll.  The Medaelian cavalry had met its match.

Cam watched, fascinated, as the mounted soldiers hacked and slashed, deftly controlling the large animals beneath them with knees and spurs.  The air smelled of sweat and blood and steel and earth.  Sounds of hooves in mud, steel on steel, metal on flesh, cries of battle and pain became a loud jumble. 

Suddenly, a new sound, a shout of some sort from behind the fighting cavalry, and the roar of thousands of men running upon the soft ground.

The Medaelian footsoldiers were charging into the fight.

“Foot coming!” came various calls from the body of the Sharron forces, a mix of tension, confidence, warning, and even excitement.

“All forces, Charge!” ordered the King with a detached determination that nearly made Cam shiver.

Soldiers began to advance forward, nearly at a run.  Cam drew his rapier, felt himself moving forward.  He stood not far off from where Varlock-Sharron sat his horse, surrounded by guardsmen.  His sword was in his hand.

Cam saw the first of them meet, weapons flailing.  It was chaotic.  It was hard to tell what was happening at the head of the battle.  A few horse-mounted soldiers in the enemy’s colors, having broken free of the cavalry battle, rode towards the King.

Varlock-Sharron spurred his horse, as did his guardsmen.  They ran for the advancing enemy cavalry.

              At first, they had been attempting to flank the Sharron Army footsoldiers.  Now they faced Varlock-Sharron and his guards.  They met, swords flashing.

Cam watched with awe as Varlock-Sharron rode at an opponent, ducking low to dodge his stroke.  He rose up, swinging, and removed the man’s head from his soldiers.  He spun his horse and blade around, coming back swinging, removing an opponent’s arm.  He spun his sword again, thrusting it through the visor of another.

Cam noticed several enemy soldiers coming towards him.  They must have broken free of the main clash of forces, or else they were cavalry who had lost their horses, he realized. 

He felt his heart begin to race again, but he remembered both his meditations and rapier training with Lyrra-Sharron, and calmed his nerves. 

The first opponent charged, and Cam dodged to the left, slicing his rapier up across the man’s unprotected throat.

The second had a longsword, and came at Cam, swinging.  Cam ducked, then met the next stroke with the guard of his blade.  He broke the lock, and altered his stance, thrusting the tip of his blade into his opponent’s chest.

The third and forth attacked savagely, forcing Cam back, trying to defend.  He stumbled over some debris on the ground and tripped, landing on his rear.  They came closer.

One fell forward, a crossbow bolt in his back.  As the other turned, a sword swept down, removing his head.

General Sopirr was riding up, his crossbow discharged.  Varlock-Sharron reigned in his horse beside the general.

“Well fought, Cam.  Looked like you needed some help with these,” remarked the King.

“Thanks,” replied Cam, slightly stunned.  The speed and brutality of the fight was unexpected, and his sense of time was completely askew.

              “We’ve halted the first advance,” replied General Sopirr, breathing hard, gesturing towards the fighting.

Cam stood up and looked, and was horrified.

They hacked and fought.  Shouted as they attacked.  Screamed as they dropped.  Swords flashed.  Limbs were hacked and removed.  Blood mixed into the mud.  Horses scurried, with and without riders.  Men rolled on the ground, crying out as they died.  Arrows whispered from bows at short range.  The carnage was terrific.

“Move in the flanks,” ordered the King.

“Flanks, advance!” called General Sopirr.

His order was repeated, and carried on.

“Move the re-enforcements closer.  Get ready to bring them in,” commanded the King with that unnerving detachment.

General Sopirr rode to one of his officers.  The man bowed his head, and rode away from the battle, towards the re-enforcements.

“This fight is very even,” observed the King.  “Something is not right here.”

Cam could say nothing.  The carnage horrified him.

A cry went up among the enemy forces, as the Sharron flanks rode in.

“We have them now, sire!” exclaimed General Sopirr.

“Ready the re-enforcements,” said the King.  “If that is all they have, we should be ready to finish this.”

General Sopirr was about to move, when he pointed.

They turned, and saw General Bodrir riding for them, hard.  He reined in, raised his visor.

“The fight goes well?” asked the King.

              “We took out most of the first ranks of their cavalry,” replied Bodrir.  “But look what just advanced behind them.”

Varlock-Sharron stood his saddle.  It was unnecessary.

Behind the Medaelian army, another force had gathered.  A very large force.

“By the crown!” hissed Varlock-Sharron.

“We were told the Lirdarrans provided only two battalions,” Bodrir commented.

General Sopirr frowned.  “Damn.  That looks more like twenty battalions.”

Cam could see the worry.  “Remind me again.  How many soldiers make up a battalion?”

“A thousand,” said Varlock-Sharron distractedly, clearly counting.

“Twenty thousand re-enforcements?” questioned Cam, anxious.

“No,” replied Varlock-Sharron, too calmly.               

“Looks like King Pol provided almost his entire army for this one,” stated General Sopirr quietly.

“More like sixty-thousand,” added General Bodrir.

“Half the Lirdarran Army.  All the Medaelians.  All the Cordianlotts,” remarked Varlock-Sharron.  “Not good.”

Cam was too stunned to comment at the King’s understatement of the situation, and did the math.  The enemy had almost twenty-thousand in reserve.  They were outnumbered three to one.

The fight was even no longer.  Wilnar-Medira had surprised them. 

Varlock-Sharron and his generals may well have been the finest military strategists in the world, but even they would be hard pressed to best such numbers.  The prospects had just become truly grim. 

Cam pondered to himself whether he would have been better off with Lyrra-Sharron and the Falcon Raiders after all.

Chapter 36

Second Lieutenant Andim Noros of the Falcon Raiders looked up at the walls of Penkira before him.

Nearly half of the Falcon Raiders, one-hundred and forty, were with him.  At his side, Second Lieutenant Kallan Val-Sharron was crouched, also observing their objective.

“Has enough time passed?” asked Kallan, anxious.

“Not quite,” replied Andim.  “Patience, son, patience.  She needs enough time to reach the palace.  Then we can start.”

“I really think Nadav or Torman would have been better here,” remarked Kallan.

“No, lad,” Andim remarked.  “She needs them with her, for the raid on the palace.  We did this at Brivarn successfully.  She’s confident we can provide well here.”

Kallan shook his head.  “I don’t know. Aside from Palace Guard, how many soldiers do the Medaelians have in Penkira?”

“From what we’re told, almost none,” replied Andim.  “We’ll be fine.  We’re just a diversion, after all.”

Kallan swallowed hard, fingering his bow.

“Mikar,” Andim hissed.

The big Falcon Raider approached him.

“Take your people.  Move.  Await my signal.”

Mikar nodded his head once, gathered his people, and moved out.

“Kallan, get your people.  Go.  Good luck, son,” said Andim.

“You too,” replied Kallan.  He gestured, and several Falcon Raiders came with him.

They were near the river, which passed beside the walled city.  Guarded canals passed into the municipality itself, but here the bank was five feet high.  Beneath this bank, the Falcon Raiders were spread out. 

Penkira had not been attacked since the time of Gara-Loros Anduin, and with the current situation, the normal patrols had been cut.  Not the wisest decision on the part of Wilnar-Medira, clearly over-confident with his current conquest.

Andim glanced up at the wall.  Guards walked atop it, paying almost no attention to anything below.  They were the targets.

He took up a banner, and waved it in the air several times.

He dropped it, turned, and aimed the crossbow he had at a guard on the wall.

Simultaneously, Falcon Raiders all across the bank opened fire.

The walls were only fifteen feet tall, but thick.  No arrow holes, as in Gara-Sharron, but crenelated battlements from which Medaelian archers could shoot.  The city of Penkira really served the purpose of delaying an attacker from reaching the Palace.  The Palace of the Crown of Medaelia had far better protection.

Soldiers fell.  A cry went up.  They were under attack.

More arrows flew out, in both directions.  Then the Falcon Raiders moved, shifting away from this part of the wall.

Andim’s orders had been simple.  Create a diversion.  Occupy the Medaelians.  Lyrra-Sharron wanted a chance to reach the palace, and gain entry therein.

They were in position again, and this time had a special set of weapons ready.  Quickly igniting rags soaked in oil, flaming arrows were fired into the city.

Andim once more counted himself and his forces fortunate the normal patrols along the river were not here.  The operation would have been far more complicated, if not impossible, had they been.

Soldiers of the Medaelian Palace Guard were coming from the main gate, looking for the position of their assailants.  Andim was surprised to find Palace Guards on the city walls.

The Falcon Raiders were spread out quite a bit, striking from different positions, shifting, attacking again.  They were making noise.  They just needed to do it a while longer.

To Andim’s astonishment, few guards remained on the walls, and were now roaming near the main gate, awaiting a forward assault.  It was painfully obvious this was not their regular duty post.

The veteran made a snap decision.  “Bormann, change of plans.  Take these men.  The Medaelians want a fight...so go give it to them,” Andim ordered.

Bormann grinned wickedly, as he took his people, and charged.

Andim watched with satisfaction as his diversion continued to confuse the guards.

*****

King Aldo Wilnar-Medira was in his study, examining his maps, when an out-of-breath guard entered the room.

“Majesty!” he cried.

Wilnar-Medira turned to him, slowly.  He was contemplating the attack that should have begun this morning.  “What is it?”

“Sire, the guards at the outer walls are under attack!”

“Under attack?” replied Wilnar-Medira with a laugh.  “That is preposterous.  By whom?”

“They haven’t seen their attackers yet,” replied the guard, still somewhat out of breath.  “I was dispatched by the Captain after the second volley.  Arrows.  Some flaming.  From the river bank.”

“And no forces are visible?” questioned Wilnar-Medira with some concern.  Aside from his Palace Guard, and the Penkira Police forces, he was less well defended than would be the norm.

“No, sire,” responded the guard.

The King scratched at his chin.  “Who could be attacking us?  This must be a ploy on the part of Varlock-Sharron.  He’s trying to scare me out of Penkira, perhaps.  Or else one of my allies is contemplating betrayal.”  He gave that a moment’s consideration.  Both armies were too deeply committed to this action, neither the Lirdarrans nor Cordianlotts would have anyone to spare to challenge Penkira.

A possibility did come to him, though.  “Perhaps a band of marauders, having noted the Army’s departure, are being overly bold.”  There was no place safer than this palace.  “No matter.  Dispatch re-enforcements to the walls, and put the rest on high alert.”

“Sire, these are palace guards!  They’re not familiar with defending the city itself.”

Wilnar-Medira glared angrily, causing the man to wither before him.  He was not even an officer.  “What difference would that make?  Do not think to question my commands! They are still soldiers.  They can manage.  The city must be defended.  Carry out my orders!”

“Yes sire!” replied the guard, bowing out.

The King did not like when anyone questioned him and his choices, let alone a lowly guard.  General Criv-Kurlirra had been relieved of his normal duties, and dispatched to the front along with the other officer whom he’d been speaking with, and a company of the least experienced members of the Elite Guard.  Wilnar-Medira would not have the head of the royal guards making light of his king’s beliefs.

He had partly relented, though.  Thus the battle was happening today, two weeks before the end of Stillness, the start of the Season of Planting and the new year.  Let the Sharron Army prepare, too late, to meet his attack.  They were for more outnumbered than even the Sharron Warlord’s sources could have learned.

Wilnar-Medira turned back to his maps.  The battle would have begun by now.  He wished he could actually watch it as it happened.  Of course, he admitted to himself, he was as close to the battlefield as he’d care to get.

It was not that he was afraid to fight.  Indeed, he was a fairly skilled fencer.  But he preferred to leave warfare to his generals and his army.  The King’s place, to his mind, was his throne.  It was the business of others to carry out his bidding.

Wilnar-Medira’s thoughts returned to this new problem.  Who would be attacking Penkira?  In broad daylight, no less?  He considered sending for Count Vular-Murtona, but figured that the man would not hide any intelligence he may have gleaned with regards to plans against their security.  An attack here would put him in danger as well.

Wilnar-Medira knew the Sharronians would have the entirety of their army facing his, and Lirdarra and Cordianlott were allied with him, most of their forces committed to the same battle.  The deals with their leaderships were too good for them to turn on him.  Rannora hadn’t had a real army since the Ontseer invasion, and Nevarna’s forces were almost totally defensive.  It could be no more than a small force of some kind, which his Elite Guard troops should be capable of handling.

It would not, in the end, matter.  He was safe here, in his palace.  No one had entered the Palace by force in over two-hundred years.  No one would enter now, either.

*****

The Falcon Raiders had arrived in groups of no more than a dozen at a time.  They had approached from nearly every entry point to Penkira, so as not to draw attention to themselves. 

Getting into the city had been very easy.  Security was lax, and it was obvious that those at the various checkpoints were not normally positioned there.  They had hardly been searched, and even allowed to carry the multiple weapons one or two were discovered with. 

It was unexpectedly sloppy.  Clearly Wilnar-Medira anticipated nothing happening in his Capital, or he’d have had more thorough security measures. 

Lyrra-Sharron and company walked casually towards the Palace.  They were still broken into small groups.  One, led by Torman, would remain outside, to attack the palace gate with a frontal assault.  Another, led by Varnon, had been left at the docks, where they’d stir up chaos, so as to draw the attention of the Penkira Police.

The rest would gain entry to the palace.  If hers and Dak’s plan worked, it would be easy enough.  Thus far, nothing they had seen led any to believe it would be of much difficulty at all.

Wilnar-Medira had dispatched his entire army to the front.  Lyrra-Sharron had learned this from an enforcer the Falcon Raiders had captured upon reaching Penkira.  All that remained was the Penkira Police, and the Palace Guard. 

In Gara-Sharron, the Army, Royal Guardsmen, and local Constabulary worked closely together to protect the capital city.  They trained together, and were virtually interchangeable, for situations like the current one, where a part of the three forces was diminished for other reasons.

In Medaelia, the army alone normally handled guard duty atop the city walls and at the various points of entry to the capital.  The Police were responsible for handling crime and disorder in the city itself, and Palace Guard seldom left the confines of the castle. 

The enforcement entities were all-too obviously ill prepared to take over this particular duty station.  They didn’t even know what they were looking for when they’d searched the Raiders entering the city.  Causing chaos would be easy with a situation like that.

Still, Lyrra-Sharron was concerned.  Her father would be facing an enormous force.  Perhaps one that was too large even for him and his generals.  But it was far from where she was, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.  So she remained focused on the task at hand.

The palace was looming before her.  Walls of forty feet, arrow slits and high battlements, and only three gates in or out.  The guards would not be alert to their presence, nor any threat, yet. 

She and the other Falcon Raiders roamed about casually.  There were merchants with open carts within a few feet of the fortress walls.   Lyrra-Sharron had always heard that the Medaelians placed undo emphasis on proximity to the crown, so peddling wares near the palace was considered a major accomplishment. 

After all that she had studied and learned over the years, Lyrra-Sharron hoped fervently she was right about how it would all play out.

A guard came riding up swiftly, and was immediately admitted to the palace.  No doubt reporting the attack on the city walls.  She looked around, saw Dak, and gestured to him.

They went towards the third gate of the palace, on the eastern side.  Lyrra-Sharron hoped her recollection of Sir Garvol’s maps was accurate.  This gate was meant for guard access only, he had believed. 

She’d long ago memorized the maps Sir Garvol’s spies had sent back to Gara-Sharron from here.  This gate issued into a main courtyard, from which guards and other soldiers would muster and depart.

Wilnar-Medira had grown careless enough to allow vendors to set up tents along the walls, near the gate.  Since none other than soldiers came or left through this gate, he didn’t give it a second thought.  The Medaelian Crown seemed only to anticipate a frontal assault of some sort, never a sneak attack. 

Of course, no force capable of this sort of attack had ever been available to any foreign force before.

Taking over the tents nearest the gate, Lyrra-Sharron on the one side, Dak on the other, they captured the vendors, then bound and gagged them.  No one would be killed, these were innocent bystanders.  It happened swiftly and quietly.

Positioned as planned, they made ready.

The gate was thrown open, and a few more than two dozen horses thundered out.  As they rode clear, the heavy doors began to swing closed.

The people of Penkira, over the years, had come to ignore the palace itself.  They’d been so intent on the Guards riding out, they hadn’t even noticed the men and women on foot sneaking through the open passageway.  Not that they could do anything if they had.

The soldiers inside were caught completely off-guard, and were captured or killed before they could cry out.  The gate was held open, and the rest of their forces, ninety-eight Falcon Raiders, swiftly came into the courtyard.  

Varnon had a dozen with him at the docks.  Torman had four dozen still milling about near the main portcullis. 

Nadav was the last, signaling to Lyrra-Sharron to have the entranceway closed.