Lonen's War Read online

  They’d reduced the incursions for a time, but the enemy rallied, sending more golems until there seemed to be two for every one that fell. And forcing the Destrye to abandon Dru’s lakes, one after another to be drained by the golems’ unquenchable thirst and the endless chain of wagons taking the water away in barrels that held far more than seemed possible.

  Finally, it became clear that all of Dru would wither and die, and the Destrye people would erode to nothing under the relentless onslaught. For every step they took forward, the enemy set them back two. So the king had sent his best trackers to follow the supply chains and find the source of the monsters. By dint of years of effort and many lives lost, they’d located the puppet masters, those who stole the Destrye’s most precious and lamentably finite resource. The scouts had brought back the first descriptions of the crimson-robed men who wore smooth metal masks and commanded tremendous—and impossible—magics.

  Getting within reach of them had taken more months of slow effort.

  Alby cut apart two of the golems Lonen had cleaved with his axe, while Lonen hacked up the other. No more immediately surged into the space, not with the way his men had moved their perimeter. Lonen took advantage of the momentary lull to study the flow of the battle, beyond the center section under his command.

  They’d come farther than the Destrye ever had before, reaching the apparently placid shallow brackish bay where a once mighty river had once emptied to the sea. The sudden treacherous bore tides had drowned a number of Destrye and their mounts, too entrenched in the silt to escape the onrushing surf that arrived with a roar like thunder. Finally, though, they’d learned to time their crossing to the moons, then found this strangely hot and barren land on the other side.

  The plain of battle might be teeming with the featureless, waxy, pale golems as always, but for the first time their troops had cleaved through enough of them to come within sight of the golden-masked sorcerers who directed the monsters, and the towers of the walled city of Bára beyond.

  King Archimago had thrown everything into this conflict, and the battlefield showed it, teeming with bold Destrye warriors. He’d even committed his sons, Lonen fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with his three brothers. After all, of what use were a king’s heirs if all their people died?

  They’d done well, pressing the enemy ever back, drawing within sight of the distant walled city that spawned the foul magic users. But then they stalled against the bulwark of those cursed sorcerers, who’d turned out to wield even more devastating magics than the scouts had reported.

  To the right, a legion of Destrye surged, making swift inroads. Too swift, it turned out, as they drew the attention of one of the sorcerers. A tall man in a golden mask raised his hands and fire flew from them, forming a blazing ball that shot into the merciless blue sky, then rained down on the Destrye troops. The men screamed, hair and clothing catching fire, then disappeared from view as they fell.

  The battle mages only seemed able to send the fireballs within a certain distance, not unlike an archer’s range. They also avoided singeing their golems, which had a distressing tendency to melt into a viscous substance that clung and singed Destrye flesh if a fighter remained too close. It became a tricky proposition as more golems fell before the Destrye’s iron, opening a gap between the front line of assault and the long phalanx of golden-masked men on their platforms—and creating a clear path for the fireballs.

  Taking heed of the lesson, Lonen gave orders to draw his men back. “Keep it tight and steady!” he shouted.

  Under Lonen’s feet, the earth rumbled and shifted, making him stumble to catch his balance. Relieved of the incessant need to hack through the golems, Lonen observed what he could as they withdrew. He scanned the Báran mages and, sure enough, another had his arms upraised, his faceless mask pointed off to the left, where Lonen’s older brother Nolan led his forces. Another rumble, like thunder from below, and the ground cracked open, a jagged black lightning bolt of doom. Destrye and golems alike spilled over the crumbling edges like precious water through the bottom of a broken bucket, plunging into the great crevasse.

  The despairing cries of falling Destrye added to the screams of those burning, though the golems remained, as ever, eerily silent. Lonen fought a similar plunge of his heart. Not Nolan, his laughing dreamer of a brother. Surely he’d stayed well back and remained safe.

  His older brother Ion forged his way through Lonen’s line of sight from the other direction, a line of blood dripping from a score down his temple and cheek. Lonen set his own men against the wedge of Ion’s battalion to hold a perimeter against the golems surging from the fore, and to cleave a larger path for Ion’s men. Lonen himself took down five more of the things, chopping them with his axe like so much firewood, ignoring how the pieces feebly plucked at his boots as he stepped on them.

  Spiking the warriors’ boots with iron nails to further decimate the golems had been another of King Archimago’s strokes of genius.

  “We have to take out the mages or we’ll be entirely lost,” Ion gritted once he got close enough. “Father says pull back. The closer we get, the more easily they employ those greater magics.”

  Lonen bit down on an argument. To come so near and withdraw felt very much like defeat. But of course they were right. It made no sense to destroy the golem army only to dash themselves against the implacable forces the battle mages wielded.

  Nodding, he set his men to creating a new perimeter, fitting them against the forces on his other flank, directed by his brother Arnon. Ion moved on with his battalion, taking over those between Lonen and the great crack in the earth, all that remained of Nolan’s section of the battlefield.

  Was Nolan even now clinging to a crumbling lip—or writhing broken at the bottom of the chasm? He couldn’t bear to contemplate it.

  Fortunately, the press of battle, of staging their retreat while holding a firm line at their backs, required all Lonen’s attention. If his brother had indeed died, there would be time enough later to mourn.

  If Lonen even survived that long.

  They gathered hours later, wearied, covered in smeared ash and blood, in King Archimago’s tent: Lonen, Ion, and Arnon, and their father.

  Nolan had not been found. He was lost, along with an entire regiment of brave Destrye.

  Their father leaned his head in his hands, visibly aged since they’d engaged in battle that morning, on top of the years he’d already piled on in the past months of fighting to get within striking distance of their faceless enemy. Ion dismissed the retainers, the captains of other regiments. This moment was for family.

  Stepping around the table, he put a hand on their father’s shoulder. “We don’t know he’s dead.”

  The king laughed without humor, a sharp crack like the one that had rent the earth. “Would you wish him alive and trapped below ground with those monsters? Perhaps captured and tortured by those sorcerers?”

  A dismal thought that hadn’t occurred to Lonen. Nor to his two remaining brothers, by the expressions on their faces.

  “It could be I was wrong to bring us all here,” Archimago said into his palms, his voice weak, nothing like the robust warrior who’d taught Lonen everything he knew.

  “We couldn’t know their powers would be so enormous.” Ion gripped their father’s shoulder. “There was no way to know, short of this battle.”

  Lonen leaned his axe against the table, shoulders tired and aching now that he’d stepped away from the fight. His men would be exhausted, too, and they’d soon have to rotate out the ones holding the defensive line around the encampment. Two hours of rest at a time, no more. So far the sorcerers hadn’t pursued their forces, which made no sense. True, the golems continued to attack, but why not open the earth beneath the Destrye tents and rain fire and storms on them from above? Had Lonen been in their position, he would have pressed the advantage, eliminating his enemies from under the sun forever. If only.

  “There wasn’t any way for the scouts to assess a thing t
hat never showed until now,” Arnon added, catching Lonen’s eye. “We had to walk this path to discover what we now know.”

  “Besides”—Lonen took his cue from his younger brother—“you made the only choice you could. We were forced into the offensive. Had we stuck to the old ways, the Destrye would have surely perished.”

  Their father raised his head, eyes dark in his weathered face. “And now we will be decimated in one fell swoop, immediately instead of through slow erosion.”

  “Even if we all die on this battlefield,” put in Arnon, always the philosophical one, “the Destrye are not destroyed. This assault has at least provided a diversion for the rest of our people to escape to a new place. A land where they can live in peace.”

  “A caravan of women guarded by boys and old men.” The king shook his head wearily, staring at his hands on the scarred wooden table covered with maps of all the territory they’d crossed. “If only I’d sent Nolan with them. He would be still alive and the Destrye not scattered to the tides.”

  Lonen and his brothers exchanged looks over their father’s head. It wasn’t like him to second-guess his decisions. None of the choices had been easy ones—even though they’d seemed simple, forced on them by their ruthless enemy. But now the king seemed already defeated, as if they’d lost the war instead of the day’s battle.

  In truth, they’d lost a great deal that day. Perhaps more than they could recover from, and yet—

  “Why haven’t they come after us?” Lonen found himself saying aloud.

  Arnon frowned at the change of subject, but Ion, their father’s heir, nodded in approval. “It’s a good question, and we should take that into account in planning our next strategy.”

  “Our next strategy?” Their father looked from one of them to the next, his blank black eyes seeming to see only the grief-filled images that haunted them. “There is nothing more we can do except attempt to flee. They’ve destroyed half our forces.”

  “But why only half?” Lonen persisted.

  “Only half?” Arnon echoed incredulously. “That’s ten thousand men who died in our service that you’re dismissing.”

  “They died to protect our people,” Lonen growled, “for the very same reason you and I fought today. Not for a throne but for their wives and children who were forced to flee even as they marched away from them. And yes, I say ‘only’ because they could have killed us all. The fireballs, the earthquakes, the thunderstorms—you saw the power of their magic. Why aren’t we all dead?”

  “Because we pulled back,” Ion said, looking thoughtful. “We’re out of range now.”

  “Exactly,” Lonen replied. “And something is keeping them from pursuing and keeping us within range. What?”

  The king sat up straighter. “We need to find out. That could be the key to emerging from this debacle victorious after all.”

  In the silence of his skull, Lonen thought victory might be a little much to hope for. Forestalling total destruction of the Destrye, however, remained a hope, however slim. With his mother, his sisters, and his beloved Natly on their way to who knows where, he’d resigned himself to never seeing them again, never feeling the kiss of Natly’s lovely lips, the silk of her darkly oiled hair. If he could buy them a better life with his death, then it would be well worth paying.

  “Yes.” Ion sat at the table, nodding at his brothers to follow suit. “Call in the captains and every scout we can recall. We need to pool our information and plan our strategy.”

  ~ 3 ~

  At long last, the next morning, the Báran army returned.

  Oria held vigil from her tower as always, Chuffta beside her, though Queen Rhianna had long since descended to greet her victorious husband and sons. Somewhere in the cheering throngs below, beneath the shredded flowers tossed from high towers all around, they’d be embracing and celebrating the joyous day.

  “You’ll see them soon enough, and it would be difficult for you to withstand that level of energy.”

  “Yes, yes—I know.” Yet another drawback of not yet mastering hwil. Oria, like all those gifted with sgath, tended to absorb any and all energy around her. She’d always been excessively fragile. Without the skill to ground the sgath and feed it to another, she overfilled, which resulted in shameful meltdowns. Chuffta served as a buffer for her, but he could do only so much. Living within the walls of Bára helped, of course, and being up in her tower made a huge difference, something her mother had known and insisted on since Oria was very young. She couldn’t remember any other life.

  Mostly Oria had played alone or with perfectly hwil nurse-priestesses, and even as an adult she descended from her tower only on the most tranquil days for brief appearances as the sole royal princess or to attend critical temple ceremonies. Otherwise, only those with perfect control of their emotional output were allowed to visit or wait on her. Thus she spent most of her days on the sunny terrace with a nearly complete view of Bára, biding her time to suddenly understand hwil, watching real lives from above.

  “Princess.” Alva, her lady-in-waiting, came out and curtsied, no whisper of emotion emanating from behind her smooth mask. “Her royal highness Queen Rhianna asks me to tell you that the family will convene for the midday meal in the second-level salon so that you may join them.”

  “Thank you, Alva. Tell her I look forward to hearing the news.” Oria had already bathed and dressed for the day, so she had nothing to do but wait. And pace around her small perimeter, observing the jubilation of the city. Hours yet to kill. If only she could fly like Chuffta, she could zoom into the sky and circle above everyone, at least able to see the victory parade.

  “Perhaps use this time to practice meditation?” Chuffta suggested in a gentle tone.

  Oria sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was sit and attempt to calm her mind. But as always, her Familiar offered good advice. Her family showed thoughtfulness in coming to her; they all had excellent control, and naturally, all were masters of hwil. Energy would likely still run high in the room—particularly as a meal of the royal family required more than her few servants—and she’d handle it better if she at least attempted to ground herself beforehand.

  She plopped herself down onto the sun-heated tiles, folding her legs and arranging her skirts around her so the raw silk wouldn’t wrinkle, forcing a change of clothes.

  “Would you like me to guide you?”

  “Yes, please.” With Chuffta’s help, she could go deeper, get closer to mental stillness than she could without. Not that it was enough to come anywhere near the state of hwil others described, something she failed to do, over and over.

  “Shh. Let go of those thoughts. You are who you are. I love you as you are. Forget the expectations. Hwil is different for everyone, and you’ll find your path to yours. Now, imagine a deep blue lake. Lovely, pure, and warm. You’re standing on the shore, warm water lapping your toes. It is peaceful, restful. You step in, the water lapping around your ankles. You go deeper, the water surrounding, embracing, accepting you. With each step, you count backwards from one-hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven…”

  Oria followed along, seeing and feeling as Chuffta suggested. Absorbing the directions from his mind-voice was easier than when her teachers guided aloud. Mostly because they always seemed to have that tone. Though they offered her the deference due her rank, they still condescended to her untutored ways. Especially High Priestess Febe.

  “With each step, your thoughts dissipate into the water. The cool, deep blue water fills your being, giving you peace, joy, calm.”

  Chuffta didn’t judge her, and she calmed, sinking into the deep waters. Still, part of her stood aside, wondering if there might be fish in the lake. If so, what kind would they be? She’d never seen a lake, of course, but she’d read descriptions and pored over the illustrations. Bigger lakes and oceans had fish that lived in them, apparently. So there could be many of them, schools of fish brightly darting about. Flashing here and there. Then scattering at the approach o
f a predator. Large and sharp toothed, it arose from the depths of the water, an immense shadow that resolved into the hard face of an axe-wielding Destrye warrior. What had happened at the battle? Had the Bárans vanquished the enemy entirely, banished them back to whatever wilderness they’d emerged out of? Impatience to know rippled through her. How much time had passed—would lunch be soon?

  “Nearly,” Chuffta said. “And that’s enough for now.”

  Abruptly Oria recalled that she was meant to be meditating. The same thing happened every time. She always started out with the best of intentions, then got distracted along the way, her thoughts turning to more interesting ideas than a pure, deep lake, enticing as that image might be. “Sorry,” she said, chagrined. Sometimes it seemed she’d spent her life apologizing for the same failure, over and over.

  “Then don’t apologize. This is not a failure. The window will open for you when you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready! I don’t know how to make myself be more ready than this.”

  Chuffta laughed in her mind. “You cannot force this. It must come in its own time.”

  “Wonderful. Just like lunch.” She stood and offered her forearm for Chuffta to hop onto. “We might as well go down and wait for them.”

  The lizard spread his wings for the short flight from the balustrade to her, his claws sinking into the leather padding of her sleeve, his sinuous tail winding around her wrist. All her gowns were made with thick shields on her left forearm and shoulder, so he could accompany her everywhere. Ironic, as she so seldom left her tower, but it spoke to the eternal optimism that she’d take her mask at any moment and be free to walk about Bára like everyone else.