The Contention (2 page)

“We know King Sigrant is coming with a superior force, but I think it unlikely that he will be brash in his attack and will likely move only as fast as his slowest unit. He will want to strike us with strength in order to decimate us. That being said, we have about three weeks to prepare. We need to buy more time; we must delay him by any means we are able. Any suggestions would be welcome,” Garret invited, looking around the room first to Sulvis, then to Seth, and finally to Sara and Linaya.

“I have a proposal,” Seth said, breaking the momentary silence. “I will send my troops west to harass King Sigrant’s men during the night. I won’t have them engage openly, but quietly wreak havoc by starting fires, cutting horse tethers and other such things I am sure they will enjoy.” Then Seth paused a moment. “Wait, I have another idea that will help us immensely. Whilst most of my men will do as I have suggested, since my troops can communicate over great distances, I will command that they leave a sentry every few miles. Through them we can get constant up-to-date information on Sigrant’s progress, as well as troop movements, and if we are lucky they can discover what these great fire-breathing beasts are.”

“That is perfect!” Sulvis the senior army general nearly shouted. “I do wonder, though, how much your men’s harassment will slow King Sigrant and his armies. There must be something more we can do to buy us time.” He added, pulling a map from the pile of documents Garret had earlier flung from his desk.

The room remained silent many minutes while Sulvis studied the map, tracing his old, gnarled fingers over lines barely distinguishable upon the ancient parchment of the page. Then slowly the veteran’s mouth fell open, and his eyes widened in realization.

“I have found us a means by which to buy a significant amount of time, but it will require a lot of work,” Sulvis stated.

*****

The young messenger raced westward upon a mount from the king’s personal stables at a reckless speed, the king’s urgency still ringing in his ears. The great white beast of a horse surged ever forward, its hooves churning up the soil and throwing dust and grass into the evening breeze. Messengers were selected for their size and ability to ride, and Darion was a perfect fit. Having been chosen in the same Choosing ceremony as the new king, Darion was also new to his role as a lookout and messenger for the kingdom of Valdadore, but for him, the role he was chosen into was akin to a dream. Nothing else in the world felt more perfect than racing through endless fields with the wind in his face, a born and bred charger surging beneath him following his every cue and command. Thus Darion rushed on to do as he was ordered: a task assigned to him by the king himself, a task with dire importance to the kingdom. It was Darion who had brought the news of the invasion by King Sigrant to the king’s ears, and it was now his task to return to his post to gather information about the opposing army. The excitement flowing through Darion’s veins was like nothing he had ever felt before. For the first time ever he was on a real mission; his deeds could save the kingdom. As the wind roared past his ears and through his sandy hair, Darion changed his position upon the great mount. Lowering his body and kicking the beast’s flanks he pushed the war horse to even greater speeds.

For hours Darion raced on upon his mount. Average horses could make the ride in five days at a steady gallop, but Darion hoped to make the trek in just two. Of course, he knew that it was his mount that would establish the pace they could maintain. Thus far he was impressed by the animal’s resilience and stamina. Even in darkness the beast charged on, as if it had been given the same orders as its rider. Darion clung to the reins and kept to the edges of the fields where they were level, running parallel to the road. Sticking to the soil instead of the cobblestones would likely preserve his mount’s shoes. By the light of the stars and one of Thurr’s luminescent moons, Darion led his charger onward, hoping to make the river within an hour’s time, where he could allow the beast to graze and drink momentarily as he also ate a quick snack. They would both need their energy.

As the night progressed, the sky became more and more clear as the temperature fell steadily. Winter was finding its way further and further south by the day, and before long the lower regions of Valdadore would see their first snowfall. Darion passed the time scanning ahead for dangers, peering between the foggy blasts of steaming hot breath from his charger’s nostrils. Darion was a small, wiry young man, and was beginning to feel the cold. As such he planned to pull something warmer to wear from his pack when they reached the river. The night deepened as the small man on his giant war horse thundered on, though with clearing skies and more and more stars casting their illumination upon the world below, the deed of riding during the night was not overly perilous.

Topping a small rise, Darion spotted the river meandering in the distance, appearing as a broken shimmering reflection of the sky that stretched from one horizon to the other. Moments later Darion slowed his charger to a trot as they approached the river’s edge. Looking around and up and down the river, Darion could see nothing to tether the beast to while it drank and grazed. However, as this was one of the king’s personal mounts, Darion released the reins and, hoping he was correct, gave a simple verbal command.

“Stay,” Darion said, anxiously watching the beast for several moments to see if it would heed his command. Seemingly understanding, the beast did not attempt to wander off, instead first taking its fill of water at the river’s edge, then grazing upon the thick, lush grasses along the bank. Satisfied that he would not be left stranded, Darion unslung his small pack and pulled out a thick, woolen shirt as well as a few strips of dried beef which he consumed within seconds. Putting on the wool tunic, Darion stood once again. Flinging his small pack back over his shoulders he pulled the straps, cinching the bundle tightly to his body. As Darion turned to regain the reins of his mount, he heard the whinny of another horse from somewhere in the darkness across the river. The sound caused him to hesitate slightly, and it was that which saved his life, at least temporarily.

From the darkness across the river, as Darion paused to locate the source of the other horse in the vicinity, a series of noises, thoomp, clank, thoomp, clank, thoomp, clank, sounded in rapid succession. Darion attempted to spin and locate these new sounds, but in the process tripped over a small stone that sent him crashing to the ground in a twisted heap. His clumsiness allowed him to witness the series of whistling whooshes that lanced over him and watch in horror as a volley of arrows embedded themselves into his mount, each strike ending in a thud.

Though the animal screamed out in pain, it was an imperial war horse and was trained to protect its rider at all costs. Instead of panicking and fleeing with all haste as most horses would have done, the great white charger spun and leaped over its fallen rider with a snort before crashing through the meandering river to the far bank. Darion stared on, frozen momentarily, as he realized that his mount intended to attack their unseen foe. As his charger was lost from sight, Darion listened and distinctly heard a man shout a curse before again the strange sounds filled the night-time air. Thoomp, clank, thoomp, clank, thoomp, clank. Over and over the sounds came, accompanied by hooves beating the ground, but eventually, after several moments, all the noises came to a halt with the death scream of Darion’s mount.

Darion had no idea how many foes hid within the darkness, though he assumed it must be many with so many arrows launched seemingly simultaneously. Though his first inclination was to regain his feet and run back in the direction he had come, Darion fought his urge to panic and slid on his belly towards the river’s edge. Once there, he carefully positioned himself and lowered himself into the river in total silence. Crossing to the far bank, to hide within the deepest shadows, Darion allowed the slow current to pull him downriver as he scanned the bank for a place to hide.

*****

Mordal Whispen led his black mount eastward at a slow and calculated pace. Once crossing the border into Valdadore he had wrapped his stallion’s hooves in thick leather to muffle its footfalls and obscure its tracks. He guided the beast slowly over the foreign terrain, his senses straining for any sign of approaching danger. The night was growing colder, but Mordal liked the cold. As men cooled they moved slower, thus making them easier targets. Though he was not the top of his order, Mordal had been requested for this particular job by name. This would have swelled the ego of a man of honor, but to an assassin, an ego was something that could ruin his reputation.

It was a task of two parts, this particular mission, and though Mordal knew the first portion would be fairly simple, the second might prove most difficult. Thus far Mordal was intrigued, if not disappointed, by the fact that the roads had been clear nearly the entire journey into Valdadore. It was as if new King Garret was still unaware of King Sigrant’s plans to invade. The roads had seen very few travelers these last several days, apart from a handful of merchants whom Mordal ignored. Simple merchants were not his concern, Mordal reminded himself on two occasions, though he could not help but wonder as to how much coin was in their purses.

His orders were to lay down any messenger he should come across so as to destroy communications from Valdadore’s outposts to its capital. Thus far however Mordal had not seen a single one, and the mission was beginning to get entirely too boring. If he did not have someone to kill soon, Mordal was considering visiting a brothel to play cat and mouse before slitting a few throats, just for fun. It was while Mordal, amused by these thoughts, was stroking his black, pointed goatee that he first heard the horse thundering towards him in the distance. Merchants did not ride so fast at night. Finally Mordal would have himself some entertainment.

Pinching his great black stallion’s ear before dismounting, Mordal gave the beast a silent command to remain where it stood. Then sliding down from the beast, Mordal whispered a silent prayer calling upon his blessing from Abernash and felt the power wash through him as his vision blurred slightly before refocusing, and all of his muscles relaxed before becoming unnaturally taut. Reaching up to the saddle of his mount Mordal removed the newest weapon in his arsenal, a gift given to him by King Sigrant himself. Though the weapon was of gnomish make, it was of simpler design than most of that race’s monstrosities. Mordal had already tested the mechanical weapon for flaws and found it much to his liking. It was a weapon that could change not only the art of assassination, but also the art of war, and as such Mordal took a moment to admire the weapon as he loaded it.

The stock of the weapon was like that of a large crossbow, although a long hollow tube was mounted on it that protruded out beyond the stock by about two hands’ lengths. Upon the back end of the tube, nearest the user, was mounted a round plate in which a hole into the tube was visible. The rest of this plate had a slot carved into it that began deep at the point of the hole, but became shallower as it wound around the plate until it was barely perceptible where it met the hole once again. Attached to that plate was another plate, though the outermost edge of this one was notched at regular intervals in what gnomes referred to as a gear. Also mounted on the plate was a tightly-wound spring that fitted into the groove of the previous plate. Upon the end of the heavy spring was a small, round-tipped hammer head of sorts. This plate interlocked with a crank on the outside that the user would turn, causing the plate to turn and the spring to follow the guide around in a circle. As the spring followed the track it became more and more compressed until it reached the hole where it would uncoil, and its head would strike the projectile in the tube, launching it out the other end. The real genius of the weapon, however, was in the narrow guides atop the weapon that the creator called a hopper. The projectiles were loaded into the hopper, which could contain forty shots, and as each projectile was fired, another would fall into place within the tube thus allowing the user to continue firing without reloading.

The projectiles were another amazing feat of gnomish creation entirely. Though upon first glance they looked very much like a traditional arrow, if slightly short, there were two major differences between the two. Whereas an arrow had a notch to fit a string and fletching to guide the arrow straight, these gnomish designs had neither. The butt end of the dart-like projectiles was solid steel to withstand the force of the spring-loaded hammer, and in place of fletching, the entire shaft of the projectile had a groove that spiraled down its entire length that was said to cause the shaft to spin through the air keeping it on target. Though Mordal did not know if in fact this was the way the long darts worked, he had yet to see any shot veer off to one side or another and for that reason he presumed the gnomes were on to something big.

Listening as the approaching rider neared, Mordal scanned the surrounding area with his blessed vision. Locating a suitable spot, he headed off the road slightly towards the river. Focusing intently upon his surroundings, Mordal invoked the second part of his blessing, then winced as the pleasure coursed through his body, and he and his clothing began sprouting grass and reeds, camouflaging him perfectly with his surroundings. There he waited patiently and silently until his target came into view. At first Mordal thought himself spotted as the rider slowed his mount, but quickly realized his mistake as the great white charger was led to the river’s edge to drink and graze.

The man upon the great white horse was nothing of immediate concern; in all actuality he appeared just a boy. In the night, aided by his blessed vision, Mordal could see everything as plainly as day, and as such he scanned the boy and his mount for any sign marking him as a messenger. Unable to locate any scroll cases, Mordal was nearly ready to leave the youth to his own musings, assuming him to simply be out at the river to meet his young lover or some other such engagement, when the boy stood once again to reclaim his pack. At that very moment, something metallic flashed from the boy’s tunic, and even at a hundred yards, Mordal recognized the medallion marking the boy as a royal courier. Raising his gnomish weapon to his shoulder, Mordal took aim just as his black stallion did something completely out of character. To Mordal’s dismay, the stallion trained to serve only him whinnied from where he had been left, drawing the boy’s attention. Seeing his quarry turn and register the sound, Mordal quickly began to turn the crank on his weapon. As the boy again turned to locate this new sound, he abruptly went down in a heap, seemingly struck by the first arrow. As a result of this the rest of the shots flew above his fallen corpse to the mount he rode in on. Then something completely unexpected happened that even a trained assassin such as Mordal had never before witnessed.