Chapter One
A group
of people burst through the underbrush of a vast forest, entering a large green
meadow. They were followed by more until the clearing was almost filled. A
rider at the head of the march looked around, and dismounted to talk to a man
on foot standing next to his Thendra. The rider was a tall man with black hair
and dark green eyes. He wore body armor engraved with Arcanic runes and had a
small handgun in the holster at his hip, the color matching that of the 24 Staegler
Assault Rifle strapped to the saddle of the reptilian beast he had just
dismounted. He wore a small circlet on his head with ancient symbols, marking
him as the Crown Prince of Kalathek.
Still
talking to the man next to his Thendra, he raised his voice and struck him with
the flat of his hand, knocking him down. The white-haired man muttered
something under his breath, scurrying away before the rider could do anything
else. A younger man said something to the older one as he passed by him and
walked over to the rider, giving him a cup. The rider drank, and dismissed the
younger servant.
“Lareth!”
a gruff voice called out. A battle-worn man came to the rider, out of breath
from running. He had several large scars running down the length of his face. He
walked toward Lareth, his hand on a powerful Relaithi handgun. The weapons
could only be used by practitioners of magic, or Arcana. Lareth left his
Thendra to graze, and the two embraced briefly. “Lareth,” he said again, “the
scouts have returned. The closest village is more than thirty miles away, and
they were all abandoned.” There was a long silence between the two before
Lareth began to speak.
“How
big were these villages?” he said in an irritated voice.
“They
didn’t look like they could have more than forty or fifty people apiece.” The
man replied calmly. The Crown Prince might be able to intimidate others, but
never his own uncle. “Lareth, we have to get moving if we are going to make it
to any of these villages tomorrow.”
“I
know,” he was eager to fight in battle again; he had enjoyed the thrill of the
first battle he fought at Ithamar. He had expected a great fight when they had
reached the Nathalael border, but it had been abandoned. His tone was
frustrated, even angry. “Uncle, I thought there would be more people in this
place. The only Nathalael we’ve found were the ones in Ithamar, and they
weren’t even in their own country!”
“I
did too. Do not get too excited for battle nephew, or you will be looking for
excuses to make war, whether there’s a real fight or not.” Lareth did not
reply, but instead turned away from him and walked over to his Thendra.
“I
hate this jungle, uncle. We haven’t come across any Nathalael yet.”
Reuel
walked off looking grim, and disappeared into the crowd. The old man, a soldier
named Javan, came back with another cup. He handed it to him, and paused for a
moment, as if he were gathering the courage to say something. “My lord,” he
said, “the men are wondering when we are going to leave.”
Fury
bubbled up in him until he could contain it no longer. “We leave when I say we
leave!” He roared. He struck the Javan
again and he stumbled, his nose bleeding.
His
face was clenched tight in pain, but he straightened it after a moment, forcing
himself not to show it. “I will tell them what you have said, my lord.” He
replied stiffly, and walked slowly back to a group of men that were talking
loudly. When he told them what Lareth had said, the group began to talk more
quietly and dissipated. Javan walked away from them, talking with the servant
who had brought Lareth the cup earlier, a young man named Elan. He was still
talking with him when Lareth told the troops to mount and leave. After ten
minutes, the march began again, this time more quickly. They walked eight more
miles before setting up camp and preparing to eat.
The
two hundred and fifty or so cooks distributed among the Sharad groups came to
the campfires of their groups and began preparing a thick stew for evemeal. The
small clearings interspersed through the stretch of forest they were in was
soon filled with talking and laughter and the occasional gunshot fired by drunk
men that were consequently given penance and had their weapons taken away.
Lareth finished eating quickly and left his uncle and generals to talk amongst
themselves. He wandered through the camp, catching pieces of men’s
conversations as he passed. He paused as he heard his name, and listened more
to the conversation the men were engaged in.
“Are
those two men still being punished for the, er, disagreement, that they had
with the Prince and his uncle?” One of them asked. Half of the group laughed
when he said it, and the other half looked as if they didn’t want to be there.
One or two tried to change the subject, afraid that they would be told off and
punished as Javan and Elan had when they argued with Lareth’s uncle about where
to go. After several minutes of being pressured by the rest of his Sharad, he
finally began to talk about something else.
Lareth
heard his name mentioned several more times, usually followed by several jokes
about his leadership. His temper grew much shorter after the third time, and he
had been tempted to punish them. But Reuel had scolded him after attempting to
punish another group of men for things similar to what the men at the fires had
been doing tonight. His uncle had told him to stop being a short-tempered child
and to avoid using extreme punishments for soldiers he thought were
disobedient.
He
retired to bed early that night, and was trying to get his sleep when his uncle
came in. The tent was big enough for someone to live in, which was almost
exactly what Lareth had been doing since the beginning of the campaign. Reuel
looked like he had gotten out of bed to come to Lareth’s tent. His clothes were
rumpled and his usually perfect hair was disheveled. He stood there for a long
time, looking distant. One of the guards outside sneezed, and Reuel stepped
outside again to dismiss them. When he came back in, he walked over to the
table and pointed to several dots on the large map that rested on it. “I have
received news that Nathalaen have come across the border again and attacked
Thrain.” He looked worried when he said this.
“That’s
less than fifty miles away from Kingseat!” Lareth exclaimed. He got up and
began to pace around the perimeter of the tent, running his hand through his
hair. “That area is almost completely unprotected, especially after we left for
Ithamar!”
“Helorum
has sent soldiers to protect the region until our return.” He said. “You don’t
need to worry.” His tone was reassuring, but his expression betrayed him.
“We
need to reach Mahujah soon, so we can do some real damage.” He said. “There
isn’t anything we can do about Kingseat, but they won’t attack anymore if we
hit them hard.”
“There
have also been more attacks at Ithamar.” His uncle told him. “The garrison we
left behind held up pretty well, but the attacks are getting more and more
frequent.” Lareth continued to pace around the room. Ithamar had been taken by
the Nathalael in one of their first attacks, but Lareth’s army had taken it
back upon arrival. The room was silent as Lareth paced and Reuel sat looking
thoughtful.
“Sit
down Lareth.” He finally said. “You aren’t fourteen anymore. Sit down and stop
running your hand through your hair.” He sat down on his bed but said nothing.
“They
are probably expecting us to retaliate at Mahujah. But what if we split our
forces and had one group attack Melthre and then join the first group at
Mahujah? That would be the last thing they would expect.”
“If
we split our forces in two then we won’t have sufficient numbers to take either
of them.” Lareth said. Reuel must be losing his grip if he thought that kind of
thing would work.
“But
we have the element of surprise on our side.” Reuel said. “We would have heavy
losses at Mahujah, but if the second group succeeded than we could take the
city from behind. I’ll talk with the generals about this. Get some sleep.” With
that, he stood up and left the tent, the entrance flapping shut behind him.
Lareth lay down and finally went to sleep after an hour of troubled thought.
He woke
up the next day to find the King’s Company, as his father had called them
before their departure, all ready packing up and preparing for the day’s march.
When Javan saw that Lareth was out of his tent, he started taking it down. At
first, the fool man had expected the Crown Prince to take down his own tent, as
if he were one of the soldiers. He had learned quickly that he was wrong.
They
had marched almost ten miles when they stopped for noonmeal. Elan brought him
his meal, but spilled the wine all over Lareth when he tried to give it to him.
The combined stress of the upcoming split between his forces and his initial
anger at Elan shortened his temper considerably, and he responded violently, hitting
Elan until he fell to the ground. “Clumsy fool!” Lareth shouted. Everyone in
the area was looking at him, but he no longer cared. When he was down, Lareth
began kicking him violently, shouting the entire time. Several of the nearby
soldiers moved forward to stop him, but froze when they heard the gunshot from
the Relaithi.
Lareth
paused for a moment but moved to kick Elan again. Another gunshot rang out
across the clearing, louder this time. Reuel came past the edge of the crowd,
the Arcanic weapon smoking from the shots that had been fired. His uncle’s
expression was one of fury, showing anger almost never seen in public. He
grabbed Lareth by the shoulder and pulled him to a spot away from everyone
else, where they could talk without being heard by anyone else.
“What
do you think you’re doing? I’ve tried to ignore your treatment of those two for
the past few days, but this is ridiculous!” His expression had not changed, and
his tone showed a side of him that Lareth had never seen him before, one that
made Lareth flush shamefully and think about his words before he spoke.
“He
spilled my wine all over me, uncle,” Lareth began to explain, but Reuel laughed
harshly.
“He
spilled your wine, did he? Did he do anything else?” He said with contempt.
Lareth flushed again, this time with embarrassment. “I understood the
punishment you put on those two at first, but that should have ended days ago!
Why do you treat them like this?”
“I
don’t know, uncle.” Lareth lied. The punishment he had given them four days ago
was for speaking out against Reuel, their commanding officer. The punishment
itself was five lashings each and cleaning up after meals for three days. But Lareth
had always hated commoners, and the way those two had talked, as if they knew
more about the area than his uncle, had pushed him off the edge.
The two
had already been getting on his nerves for weeks, and he had been looking for
an excuse to make them miserable. He hated them with an unreasonably hot fire,
and he knew it would eventually have to stop if he was ever going to be a good
commander. Reuel began to calm down, but he was still tense with released
anger.
Reuel
echoed Lareth’s recent thoughts as if they were his own. “Well, it has to
stop.” he told him. “Their punishment ended yesterday, and I don’t remember
them being your personal servants.” He left Lareth in the shady spot they had
been talking in, and bent down to talk to Elan, who was being tended by Creed
Healers. “Your punishment is over.” he said. “It should have ended yesterday,
but my nephew seems to hold a grudge against you and your elderly friend.” He
stood up and went to tell the cooks that Elan and Javan’s punishments were
over, and that someone else would have to clean up.
Lareth
walked back over to the pavilion that had been set up for him and several of
the higher ranking officers. He paused when he heard his name spoken by a
soldier standing in a circle of other men, and stopped to listen.
“What
did he get attacked for this time?” One of the men said.
“I
heard that the boy spilled wine all over his spoiled majesty.” Several of the
soldiers broke out laughing. “Ah, well,” the man said, “at least the poor kid
was released from his punishment.”
“Aleneth,”
one of the other soldiers said cautiously, “I think we should change the
subject.” He sounded nervous. “You never know who might be listening, and the
Prince might give us a punishment like Elan’s,” He grimaced, “Or worse.”
Aleneth made a motion as if to dismiss him, but one of the others spoke up as
well.
“I
think Garanel’s right.” He said. He looked over, and met Lareth’s eyes. “I
definitely think it’s a good idea. I think the Prince himself is listening to
everything we say!” Aleneth left the group after hearing these words, looking
like he had seen his own dead mother come back to life. The others turned to
see if the man was telling the truth, and they scattered when they saw Lareth.
Lareth turned and walked away. The soldiers had made fun of him while he was
not around, but were fearful when he was. What
kind of leader am I? He thought. His tutors in the Royal Palace
had taught that a good leader ruled by love rather than fear, but it seemed
like he was doing exactly what they said not to do.
Lareth
shook his head and dismissed those thoughts immediately, then went to where the
Thendra were grazing and mounted. “Prepare to march!” he called out to the
surprised soldiers. Many of them were still eating, but rushed to their horses
when they heard him, their food forgotten. The cooks stopped their work and
began to clean up quickly. Reuel, who was still talking to Javan and Elan,
barked them a command and walked briskly to his Thendra.
“You’ll
be getting complaints about this,” Reuel said to him, “you didn’t give the
troops enough time to eat.” Lareth waved his hand, the same gesture that had
been made by Aleneth. Again those thoughts about his leadership skills came to
his mind. He tore his thoughts away from commanding and watched the hurried men
clean up their noonmeal. After twenty more minutes of rushed preparation, the
company was ready to leave. As soon as the soldiers were all ready, Lareth set
off at a fast pace, kicking his heels into his Thendra’s ribs. They continued
at this pace for almost an hour, but soon Lareth realized that his men were
slowing down. He turned back and galloped back to where the soldiers were
riding and stopped in front of them.
“Who
said you could stop?!” Lareth demanded. “I don’t remember saying you could slow
down!”
One
of the men near the middle of the group called out to him. After looking at him
for a moment he recognized the man. It was Aleneth, the man who had been
mocking him earlier. “The Lord Reuel said we could slow to a more reasonable
pace!” He shouted. Several of the other soldiers backed him up, saying the same
thing. Lareth was struggling to contain his seething anger when his uncle came
from the rear of the company.
“Relax,
Lareth. I told them they could slow down.”
“I
didn’t think my orders could be contradicted by anyone, even you, uncle.” He
said in a dangerously quiet voice. “I thought that I was the one my father gave
command to. I don’t remember him putting you in charge.”
“Your
father said you could have command of the company to practice leadership.”
Reuel said to him calmly. “He told me to come so there would be someone to rein
you in if you got out of hand.” He turned to the soldiers. “Continue marching.
We will stop when we have gone five miles, and then we will split into two
groups.” When the men heard this, many of them called out questions. “I will answer
your questions when we are ready to split.” Reuel said. This command infuriated
Lareth. His uncle had only gone over it once, and Lareth had not approved it.
Reuel began to ride away when Lareth started shouting at him, unable to contain
his fury.
“I’m
not finished with you, uncle!” He yelled. He was furious now, and looking for
someone to take out his anger on. He gave several terrified men punishment for
not keeping up, and rode back to the front, still seething. He saw Aleneth and
was about to give him a punishment even worse than the old man’s when Reuel
came up from behind him. “Nephew, you had better watch your temper for the rest
of the march.” He told him. “I came to rein you in, and I can remove you from
command and even punish you if I have to!”
After
that, Lareth struggled to keep his temper in check. I don’t remember father saying anything like that when we left, he
thought bitterly. He was riding near the middle of the procession now, and was
looking at the forest around him. He saw several figures dart between trees,
and wondered what they could be. There weren’t any Nathalaen around this area.
After a few seconds of thinking he remembered his uncle telling him when they
entered the forest that the area would be crawling with Nathalaen, and that the
only region more heavily populated surrounded the Temple of the Sun, the Nathalaen capital.
Suddenly gunfire erupted and several men behind him yelled commands to their
inferiors. He quickly took his Jarafin out of the case on the Thendra and started
loading it.
“Ambush!
We’ve been ambushed!” his uncle yelled over the noise. Several of the men took
cover and fired their rapid-fire weapons into the thick undergrowth before
being shot themselves. Lareth barely had time to load his gun before he was
knocked from his Thendra by an unarmed Nathalael soldier. He grappled with him
for a minute or two, but the warrior hadn’t thought that Lareth would already
have a loaded weapon. Lareth pulled the trigger on his weapon, and the man went
limp. Lareth struggled to get out from under the weight of the corpse. He took
cover from behind a rock and shouted commands to the other soldiers who were
under cover.
He
had seen Nathalael before in Ithamar, but this group looked completely
different from the ones he had seen before. While the ones in Ithamar had been
dark skinned, these were very pale, probably from the lack of sunlight under
the canopy of the forest. They were taller than the Nathalaen in Ithamar, and
they wore thick ceramic plates for protection. He heard the violent sounds of
battle, the sounds of men dying and screaming in pain. This was only the third
battle he had been in, and this one almost overwhelmed him. He heard a man next to him go down with a
bullet to the leg, yelling in pain as he fell. For a moment, Lareth was
overwhelmed by the sounds of death and pain and the sight of blood.
He
snapped back into the present as another of his men fell to Nathalael gunfire.
He adjusted the sights on his rifle and shot the Nathalael multiple times before
running over to the soldier. The man was dead before Lareth got to him. He
turned the corpse over and checked for a pulse. Lareth heard several guns fire
and got up, bullets tearing up the ground to his left. He ran to a large tree
and put his back to it. Several Nathalaen soldiers shot at the tree, and a
sharp pain lit up in Lareth’s arm as he realized that the Nathalael had bullets
that could punch through the thick trunks of the Greatwood trees.
A gunman
was attacked by one of Lareth’s troops, but two more confronted him. They
attacked him with small caliber handguns, shooting him in the chest several
times. The bullets were stopped by his Kevlar vest before they could penetrate.
Lareth shot at them, but he missed before the soldier killed two of them with
his 18 Jarafin. He turned toward the third one, but was shot again. The
soldier’s Kevlar vest had grown too weak from the other attacks, and he fell to
the ground. Lareth shot again, this time hitting the Nathalael soldier in the
leg and in the shoulder. The man limped away before being shot by another
soldier from the King’s Men.
Lareth
saluted to the soldier that had killed the gunman, and ran to where his uncle
was fighting, shouting for his men to rally. Reuel had several large gashes on
his face, and his gun hand was bleeding badly. Lareth was almost to the ditch
his uncle was taking cover in when something hit him in the side, where his
Kevlar didn’t protect him. He staggered and fell to the ground.
He looked
up and saw a Nathalael soldier that had pulled out his pistol. Lareth shot the
man and tried to get up, but he was hit by a sudden wave of nausea and almost
passed out. He gripped his Jarafin feebly, but he knew that there was nothing
he could do to defend himself against someone with a rifle. A Nathalael had his
gun aimed at Lareth, but red blossomed in his neck and he was thrown several
feet by the bullet that had ripped through his throat.
Lareth
caught a glimpse of the soldier that had taken down the Nathalael, and recognized
Elan. He pushed his conflicting emotions aside and tried to get up again, but was
hit by another wave of nausea and looked down, seeing the bullet hole in his
side and the pool of blood at his knees. He looked over to the where he had last
seen Elan standing and saw him on the ground with several gunshot wounds in his
head. Another Nathalael aimed at Lareth, but began to run when he saw
something. Lareth tried to turn his head so he could see what it was, but the
nausea hit again and Lareth emptied his stomach on the ground beside him. He
lost awareness for several seconds, and came to when he heard hoarse shouting.
He
heard shouting again, and the Nathalael that had started to run crumpled to the
ground. The old man that had been Elan’s companion moved before the man could
get up again, shooting him in the head. The body fell to the ground, the earth
darkening with blood. Several soldiers started firing at Javan, but several of
the King’s Men came to his aid. Together they fired at the Nathalael, killing
some of them and scattering the rest. The Nathalael soldiers regrouped and
attacked the King’s Men. Most of them went down in the first wave of bullets.
Lareth saw Javan go down with a shot to the chest, the wound bleeding
profusely. They saw Lareth and dismissed him, instead attacking a group of
King’s Men trying to come to Reuel’s rallied group of soldiers.
Most
of the soldiers that had heard Reuel’s rallying call had come to him, and now
fought in a coordinated group. Several other clusters of men were struggling to
hold their own, and began to push the Nathalael back when they became more
organized. Reuel fired his Relaithi several times while yelling, and saw
Lareth. He came to where Lareth was lying, shouting “retreat!” He pulled Lareth
up and put him on his Thendra, who had not bolted at the sound of battle. He
fired his Relaithi at a cluster of Nathalael that were taking cover behind a
large boulder. The bullet punched through the rock and went through one of the
soldiers. He fired again, and called retreat several more times.
Suddenly
the ground underneath Reuel began shaking, and a large fissure opened up
underneath his feet. He swore loudly and concentrated on the crack, filling it
up before throwing an Arcanic attack of his own at the other Arcanist. The Obliterator
was not used to direct attacks, it seemed. He was thrown into a tree and landed
on the ground, his body deteriorating rapidly. The King’s Men began to mount
the remaining Thendra, but there were many that could not find a mount. They
began to ride, fighting several pursuing Nathalael as they fled. They rode as
quickly as they could, most Thendra carrying two or three soldiers. The
Nathalael pursued them for almost ten miles, firing their guns at the company,
but they vanished into the forest after they had ridden ten miles. Their ambushing
force had been about the same size as the King’s Men, but the Nathalael had had
the element of surprise on their side for several minutes.
They
rode for another three miles and then slowed to a walk. Several of the men
asked that camp be set up, but Reuel told them that they had to go at least
five more miles before they could stop for the night. Lareth wondered why his
uncle was making the men march, even though the Nathalael had retreated, but
was too faint to ask him. He had been healed by an Arcanist soldier with little
experience so that he wasn’t bleeding anymore, but the wound was still
life-threatening. He had to be taken to a Creator as soon as possible.
When they
were ready to set up camp, Lareth was taken to a healer. The healer was a
member of the Arcanic Creed, Arcanists who spent their lives studying various
methods of healing and magic. Healing was the center of their religion, so they
studied for years until they became skilled enough that they could heal
life-threatening wounds that couldn’t be treated anywhere else.
Reuel and
several other men carried Lareth on a stretcher to the tents that had been set
up for healing. He heard the wounded men groaning in pain from their wounds,
waiting for one of the Healers to attend to them. As he waited, memories of the
Hall of Miracles in Kingseat surfaced. The Hall in Kingseat, Kalathek’s
capital, was the place where the most talented healers studied. Many of the
healers in the King’s Men had been hired for use after battle, when the number
of wounded would be large. He assumed that this healer would be one of those
from the Hall, but he could be wrong. He heard Reuel talking with one of his
scouts in a heated tone.
“We
haven’t found any traces of the group that ambushed us.” The Scout said.
“They
have to be close to the area that they ambushed us at, don’t they?” His uncle
asked. “They can’t travel that quickly.”
“It seems
like they can, or we would have found them” The man responded.
“Than we
have no idea where they are.” Reuel said. “We need to reach the main group
quickly, before the Nathalael have time to mount another attack.”
Lareth’s attention turned from Reuel’s
conversation when the healer finally got to him. He was a large, bulky man with
a thick beard and hair that went down to his shoulders. The man began to work,
removing the clothing around the wound. He was about to start when Lareth
noticed something.
“You
aren’t going to reassure me or anything?” Lareth said.
The man
snorted. “Did you want me to?”
“No.”
“I didn’t
think so.” The man said, and with that he began to do his work. Blood gushed
out of the wound as the man worked. He figured that the wound probably had to
bleed for a while so the man could heal it completely. His mind began to grow cloudy,
and he realized before he passed out that he had lost too much blood.
_________________________________________
Javan
woke up with a severe headache. He tried to get up, but the pain in his head
flared. He lay down again and looked around the room he was in. The walls were
dripping wet, and appeared to be made of stone blocks. They were covered with a
thick green plant that Javan assumed was mold. He sat up and continued to look
around, remembering his days fighting the Nathalael over forty years earlier.
That war had lasted for almost a hundred and fifty years, but it had ended with
the battle of Alash
Island and the Treaty of
Kingseat. He had joined the army as a young man in his twenties that wanted to
see the world, and returned home as a
battle-scarred man that had seen too much.
Battle had become familiar for him during that campaign, and he thought he
would be unaffected by fighting in battle again, more than forty years later. He
had been wrong. He had taken it all in stride until the most recent battle. He
remembered Elan being killed by an ambushing gunman, and the gunman being
killed by Javan. He had lost control of himself when he saw Elan dead. The boy
still had his whole life ahead of him, and some soldier had taken that away. He
had gone into a blood rage, the first since that last battle on the island.
With
a loud creak the door opened, and Javan’s thoughts snapped back into the
present. A light skinned man came into the room and closed the door behind him.
He looked a lot like the Nathalael that had ambushed the King’s Men, but he
wasn’t wearing the ceramic body armor used by them in battle. The man could
pass for Kalathi, if he wanted to. He had dark eyes and light brown hair, with
a Nathalael rifle strapped to his back. He sat down on a chair next to Javan’s
bed and began to talk.
“My
name is Rathenel, of the tenth-level lords. I own a large group of farms here
around the city of Mahujah.
I have just returned from the auction. You will be living with me for a long
time, probably the rest of your life, unless of course I sell you.”
Javan
heard the word sell and paled visibly. “What do you mean, sell?” He had heard
rumors that the Nathalael still traded slaves, but rumors were almost never
reliable. “Am I a slave?”
“That
is not the word I would have used,” Rathenel said, “in this land we use the
word Salashien. In your language it would mean something akin to servant
of the chosen”
“Are
you the chosen?” Javan asked bitterly.
“That
is what many of my people call themselves. We believe that the knowledge of our
ancestors and our annual communion with the Gods raises us above the other
people of the world.” Several questions came into Javan’s head when he heard
Rathenel say this, but he held them in. “We believe that this exaltation gives
us the right to take the Irithed, or the lesser ones, as our servants.”
“What
gods do you commune with?” Javan said tentatively. He knew from experience that
Nathalael got touchy when they were asked about their religion. “And how do you
get the knowledge of your ancestors?”
“You
will find the answers to all of your questions talking to the other Irashen,
and to members of my family. But now, I must go. You are free to walk about my
household, but don’t try to escape, or the Tharadrek hunters will find
you, and the punishment for running is death.” After saying this, Rathenel got
up and left the room, leaving the door to creak shut behind him.
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