Seeker (The Source Chronicles Book 1) (49 page)

“They’ve been irksome to my King, and my nation, from time to time.” said General Torma.  “King Pol will be pleased to see the Sharron Army broken, and trade across the Vann Region untaxed.”

“President Von expects us to be taken far more seriously by the rest of the continent after this,” continued Sir Ulnar.  “Though I still question why he sent me, rather than one of my two superiors.”

“You’re getting paid well enough, Sir Ulnar,” stated General Grom-Valock, barely containing his dislike of this relatively inexperienced soldier, clearly attempting to cut another deal with the Medaelian General.  “And you get your bonus after we overrun Sharron.  My King lives up to his many promises.”

“If Varlock-Sharron hasn’t any tricks for us,” remarked Sir Ulnar skeptically.

“Where would he suddenly get a larger army?” asked General Grom-Valock with clear exasperation.  The man was insufferable.  “He doesn’t do conscriptions, and he’s too proud to hire mercenaries.  And aside from your Lirdarran forces, the Winsottans haven’t been heard from in over two decades, now.  His resources have their limits, and we have all the advantages.  He knew we were allied, but did not know how large the forces you led would be.  He has what he has.”

Before they could say more, a lookout pointed, and shouted, “Enemy reserves sighted!”

General Grom-Valock looked towards them.  As estimated, twenty thousand.

“You see,” said the General smugly.  “There they are.  All Sharron has left to offer.”  He smiled broadly.  “I’m sure Varlock-Sharron is pondering his fate, now.  My Lords, prepare to move in our reserves, but only as needed, continue to hold units back.”

“I hope we get a chance to fight the King and his command staff,” remarked General Torma, remounting his horse.

“I’ve no doubt, it would be a good fight,” replied Sir Ulnar, mounting his horse.  “I hear tell Varlock-Sharron is an absolute master of the sword.  I want that proved.”

“He will not run away from this,” stated General Grom-Valock confidently.  “You will see.  Make ready to move out!”

“General!” came a cry from a look-out, pointing.  “More reserves, sir!”

“What?!” exclaimed the General, turning to look.

The first group of twenty-thousand had stopped, just behind the current fighting.  It was unmistakable.  Coming up behind them, row upon row, stretching over a half a mile, were more re-enforcements. 

He could hear them advancing, feel them moving.  It was the single largest force he had ever seen.

The fighting slowed, and nearly came to a halt all across the battlefield, both sides looking startled.

General Grom-Valock cursed.  “I...I don’t believe this.  How many?”

The two allied commanders were bobbing their heads, moving their lips, counting.  They stopped, and looked to one another, and did so again. 

“It can’t be,” stated Sir Ulnar, unable to hide his shock.

“They have over one hundred and twenty thousand more soldiers out there,” added General Torma with awe.

“It must be a trick!” exclaimed General Grom-Valock.

They were stunned.  The fighting had all but subsided.  Even the Sharronians looked shocked.

In the distance, a single voice was heard faintly.  “For the Honor of Sharron!”

It was like a wall of sound that hit, as all the reserves, in one voice with the power of a hundred thousand voices, responded, “Honor of Sharron!”

Soldiers muttered.  The confidence of the Medaelians and their allies was broken.

“You were wrong, General,” remarked Sir Ulnar angrily.  “Varlock-Sharron did have something up his sleeve.  I am not killing my forces on this field today.”

“It has to be a trick!” stated General Grom-Valock hoarsely. 

“How do you fake that many soldiers?” asked General Torma.  “No, it’s no trick.  And we are through.  This alliance ends here.”

General Torma raised up in his saddle.  “Soldiers of Cordianlott!  Disengage from combat!  Break formations, and retreat!  Reserves, form up on your battalion commanders, and start marching north, now!  We are leaving!”

“No!” croaked General Grom-Valock as those orders was repeated.  “You cannot.”

“My orders from my King supersede those of yours,” remarked General Torma.  “If victory is certain, fight on.  If it is not, return home.  I go now, and take my forces with me.  When they are done with you, I suspect they will chase us down as well.  I hope to get home and call up my reserves to be ready for that.”

“We’re not being paid enough for this,” stated Sir Ulnar.  “We were told we would have superiority in numbers.  This is no longer in our favor.  I have my orders.”  He also rose up in his saddle.  “Dominion Forces, about face!  Quick-time, clear the field!  Let’s go home!”

“You cannot!” repeated General Grom-Valock, getting his voice back.  “You signed treaties!  Our kingdoms have an alliance.”

              “It’s over,” said General Torma, riding away after his forces.  “Tell your King best of luck, and on behalf of King Pol Juron of Cordianlott, I hope Varlock-Sharron kills you quickly, rather than via slow torture.”

“I’d retreat now if I were you,” commented Sir Ulnar, also riding away.  “You’re going to be out-numbered about ten to one.”

General Grom-Valock stared after them, and their retreating forces.

He turned, and faced the impossible army before him.

It was over.  He couldn’t win this one after all.  This would, no doubt, be his final defeat.

Maybe he could keep his head out of a box bound for Penkira.

*****

They came, over a hundred thousand soldiers, marching up behind the reserves.

Varlock-Sharron and his command staff were stunned.  They looked so real, felt so alive.  It was a very, very good illusion.

As they got closer, Varlock-Sharron saw Cam, standing perfectly still, eyes closed.  In very deep concentration.  Beads of sweat began to appear on his forehead.

The King felt their approach.  A wicked smile breaking across his face, he cried out as loud as he could, “For the Honor of Sharron.”

To his utter shock, they shifted.  The illusionary reserves raised the cry in one voice composed of a hundred thousand, “Honor of Sharron!”

His ears rang a while after that.  The shout had been deafening, especially this close.

Cam did not move, but was beginning to sweat.

“Majesty, look!” called General Bodrir, sounding awed.

The King turned, and could not miss the enemy reserve forces breaking up, and leaving the field.  It was clear the allies of Medaelia would not press this fight.

“It’s working!” exclaimed General Sopirr.

The fighting had stopped, the Sharron forces as amazed as their enemies.  The astonishment began to wear, as the hundred thousand illusionary reserves halted, readying their weapons.

The battle became total chaos.  Command of the Medaelian forces faltered.  The enemy, almost as one, turned, and began to flee the field.

“Sharron Army - Pursue!” cried General Bodrir, nearly gleefully.

As the illusionary soldiers cheered, the real reserves and the rest of the army came out of their shock, and charged after the fleeing Medaelian forces.

“Let the Cordianlotts and Lirdarrans go,” ordered Varlock-Sharron.  “I shall deal with King Pol Juron and President Von later.  Bring me General Kiran Grom-Valock, alive, if possible.”

“What if, Sire, he just has to be killed?” asked General Sopirr innocently.  “I mean, what if he resists being brought to you?”

Theatrically, Varlock-Sharron sighed.  “Oh, fine, if he just happens to be impossible to capture alive, kill him.”

“As you will, Majesty,” said General Bodrir, unable to hide his smirk.  He raised up in his saddle, and shouted.  “Capture the Medaelians!  Don’t kill if you do not have to!  Let the allies of Medaelia go!”

The cry was echoed, as the generals charged ahead.

Varlock-Sharron watched the disarray as the enemy forces fled.

Time passed.  Medaelian soldiers were either surrendering as they were caught, sometimes individually, sometimes as whole units, or putting up a desperate fight.  But the battle was not yet over.  The illusionary army remained, looking bored.  The dull rumble of conversation, indiscernible from this distance, the occasional laugh, or cough, and blades being slapped against shields or running against one another reached the King.  An extremely good illusion indeed.

Varlock-Sharron looked at Cam.  He stood perfectly still, unmoving, eyes closed.  He barely breathed.  Sweat was pouring down his face now, the only obvious sign of his exertion.

The Generals soon returned, riding up with a man on a horse between them.  He looked tired, and broken.  His right arm hung oddly at his side, clearly broken. 

They reined in just before the King, and the Generals saluted.

“Your Majesty, as requested, Kiran Grom-Valock of Medaelia,” stated General Bodrir proudly.

“Alive,” breathed General Sopirr with a note of disappointment.

“How did you capture him so quickly?”  questioned Varlock-Sharron.

“We suspected that he would be behind the bulk of his forces, and rode around the perimeter,” recounted General Bodrir.  “He was there, barking orders, trying to reorganize.”

“When he saw us riding towards him, General Grom-Valock leapt to horseback,” commented General Sopirr, taking over the narrative.  “He threw a soldier or two in our wake, but we took them down and gave chase.”

“Finally, Portav and I boxed him in,” concluded General Bodrir.  “He tried to get away, but his horse was spooked by mine, and he fell.  That’s how his arm was broken.  He didn’t resist once we had him unhorsed.”

“Well, then, General.  It would seem this fight has not gone nearly so well as planned,” stated the King triumphantly.  “Your allies have abandoned you, and we now outnumber you, what, better than ten to one or so?  Would you like to hear
my
terms?”

Grom-Valock looked at the King, and bowed his head forlornly.

“Excellent.  Surrender the Medaelian Army to General Bodrir, and myself.  Reign in your forces, and have them drop their weapons, and stand down upon the field.  You will also relinquish command of the Medaelian Army to General Bodrir.  We will halt our own forces, and stop the killing.  Your soldiers will not be harmed, once they surrender.”  The King looked at his generals.  “Did I leave anything out?”

“An apology would be most appropriate,” remarked General Bodrir.  “For the continued border skirmishes, and the death of General Sir Delban Grandol.”

“Oh, yes, that is a good idea,” replied The King.  “You were, General, directly responsible for the death of Sir Delban.”

Grom-Valock growled.  He was otherwise silent, his eyes swimming with anger and contempt.  Finally, he began to shake his head.  “I will accede to your terms.  I surrender.  And I am...” he stopped, eyes defiant as he glared at them. “I cannot believe you demand this of me.  You do realize that he fell for a rather obvious trap?” 

They all eyed the Medaelian General contemptuously.  He growled once more.  “Fine then, if I must…I am sorry for the death of Sir Delban.”

“I accept your surrender,” said Varlock-Sharron.

The King glanced over to Cam Murtallan.  Even though they had the opposing General in custody, everything still rode on the Medaelian belief that they were vastly outnumbered.  The Sorcerer was sweating heavily, and beginning to shake. 

Grom-Valock winced as he shifted his broken arm.  He once more was shaking his head, defiance in his eyes as he spoke again.  “I relinquish command of the Medaelian Army to General Sir Malov Eisnarn Bodrir.”

“Witnessed,” stated General Sopirr.

“Witnessed by the Crown,” added The King.  “Alright, Grom-Valock.  Order your people to stand down.”

Kiran Grom-Valock slowly raised up on his horse.  As loud as he could, he cried out.  “Medaelian forces!  Stand down!  It is finished!”

General Bodrir also raised up in his saddle.  “Sharron Army: Hold!  Cease all hostilities!”

              It was a total mess, and the phantom reserves continued to mill about, still looking bored, but cheering the orders to surrender.  The various forces on the battlefield slowed, as the orders from both sides of the conflict were called out. 

Cam Murtallan still stood there, sweating profusely, shaking more obviously, guarded by Colonel Pirvarn and Captain Hir-Sharron.  Varlock-Sharron willed him to hold on just a little longer, so the combat could cease.

After several minutes, the majority of the fighting had stopped, the soldiers on both sides looking stunned.  The Medaelians could not ignore that they were overmatched.

“All Medaelian Forces: Drop your weapons!  Surrender, and no harm will come to you!” cried General Grom-Valock.

It was not a speedy process, but soon, as small pockets of fighting continued, the majority of the Medaelians dropped their weapons.

“Do not harm the unarmed Medaelian soldiers!” ordered General Bodrir.  “Keep them guarded, but do not harm them!”

The orders were passed on, echoed, and slowly carried out.  Soon, bewildered Medaelians stood upon the field, unarmed.  The Sharron Army surrounded them, weapons at the ready.  Here and there across the vast plain the combat was still winding down, but as a whole, it was finished.