Chapter Eight, Price of Betrayal
Bloomsvere 24th, Dul’Garon Province
On the West bank of the river Abaddon, Mordaunt breathed in the wild scenery around him. Here the air circling about was ancient & primal in its range, overlooking ripe soil & abundant forests. He felt a nameless force in his belly, a constructive fire with frozen light rising from the altar of his spirit. Yet this muse wrestled with another, a phantom of Malderath. Mordaunt peered back at the Drakoni encampment behind, at these souls he’s fully responsible for. He admired the resilience of his warriors. A world of war consumed all of them. A trail of rations, thankless conditions & ever shorter rest was their lot. Yet his company held fast to discipline and uttered no complaint for their adversity. For they knew their purpose blessed and their unifying hatred far exceeded their fears.
Under his leadership they raided plenty. Cut through outposts yet knew when to steer from battles they could not win. But a festering futility lived in patience. As did awareness that with every battle won their fate never truly advanced. How much could this amount to, this way of petty warfare? How much could they really hinder the Magistrate’s endless muscle? This campaign into Dul’Garon yielded nothing but constant ducks & retreats when not waiting. They took no new holds and knew too little of their foes to know effectiveness.
The champion craved the cutting thrill of combat. The rush of wicked men’s blood splattering in the wake of his sharp steel. He could be freed from the cage of his thoughts through the dance of death, losing himself to the riptide of organized chaos. But now there was naught to do but languish and wait for further orders. Drakkon crossed to the east side of Abaddon to negotiate with an ‘abruptly appointed’ Consul. While he’d been left with the sleepy position of staying behind to ensure the enemy don’t flank nor recover lost ground. Baron’s almost ever-present music was one of the only boons of this assignment. But sonnets could not wake his soul like the song of sword & sundered flesh.
The moment his thoughts turned to the bard’s music his tune ran louder. Mordaunt saw the minstrel strolling towards him, idly strumming pleasant chords. “Ho!” He called. “Come to spill swilled insults against my character, singer? To laugh at my confinement by the wayside?”
“Nay, comrade, only to hear from your mind! Wiser than mine in ways of war.” Baron shouted with a slight staccato, the result of the mead he’d been pouring along his gullet well throughout the day. He chewed on wild Halcion leaf & the bitterness still in the air between them. But the brotherhood they serve and the rallying empowerment in their cause left solid enough standing that there should be no uncordial cracks in their camp. Tense scrutiny of the other blended with budding respect, terse harmony under shield. “And perhaps move thy mouth to share cups?”
Mordaunt greeted his comrade with strained smile before turning his blue gaze once more to the heavens. “Hail then, brother-bard! If I am to speak freely, I feel wasted here when there is land yet to win and richer grounds than these to hold... Ah, I see drink has taken thee. What fresh muse this?” For the first time in a while he chuckled, seeing Baron tumble backwards and forwards. But even agog his fingers found the strings & their sounds expertly (even if the rest of him was far from sober equilibrium).
“Ah yes, ‘twould be odd to see a gleeful Mordaunt in the face of icy patience.” Baron jabbed humorously. Followed his retort with a blech. “As for the drink? I drink to that Drakkon takes the reins! I simply celebrate the peace we may reap following this meeting our Lord holds with the enemy. Think about it: taking the throne of Abraxas without drawing sword, should our Lord use his Word to get us through the gates and closer to Crestfall.”
The bard sighed. “But this ‘holding down the fort’ can make one weary. Bloody Hels! Every young man in that campsite glows for something more in his eyes; a dream of glory he wishes to win and be immortalized by – as in songs & tall tales of heroes! Or of a lass to woo or stead to tend back home. Better here where I am needed than the moldiness of any noble court too high to look out beyond the rim of its arse!”
Mordaunt laughed again. Although he was never partial to jesters, minstrels & poets – feeling they dwelt in self-indulgent realm of fantasy, caring not for the affairs of the world but more for what means could depict its burning - Baron was a jack of legendary caliber. Truly one of the few who could crack his brooding bravado to let humor slip in every now and then. Even when a thorn in his side and not privy to his strategies, he sensed that Baron was a good man, moved by a passion more than lust for adoration. “Many an ambitious boy and bold fighter seeks his story to be told. For a bard’s favor to earn them eternity in the annals of our world’s story. But history has only so much room on its grand tabula. Only great men realize that they must carve their name into the stone with sword.”
The muse-led bard slid off his instrument. Offered his fellow sips of what he soaked in; what was, from the smell, ale, or a mixture akin to rum, which Mordaunt refused kindly. “I dream of a world where great men can rise from the lowest of gutters and, through their own strength, free themselves of societal fetters. Alas, for that dream to become reality, I must steel to it when awake, not be lulled into stupor of ‘dream’ provided by drink. Ah, but I am grateful for the company. ‘Tis an honor to fight – or wait - beside the famous songster-skald!”
“Aha! That is a great point, Mordaunt! Ever more the daunting realization, isn’t it?” Baron slumped clumsily against trunk of a wild Halcion, ridiculous grin overwriting his face. “True that those who hear my songs are often not the stuff of myths themselves, born of the soil that raised them. Yet myths & arts inspire the common folk to excel at those small victories of the mundane sort. & without them history would have no backbone!”
A royal hawk’s arrival routed conversation. The bird cried and slit the way with wings of small tempest. It made straight to their hillside encampment, screeching maddening alarm as it flew over Abaddon. The trained flyer flapped about the dizzied bard’s head. Mordaunt caught the avian messenger’s scroll.
“’Tis Aris’ hawk! Helwind!” proclaimed Baron. Mordaunt passed the weathered missive and eyed him with anxiety. The bird, proud of its mission, perched itself along Baron’s shoulder as he read, and Mordaunt gaped. The soldier could not fight against the sudden suspicion that the very waltz of mortality he’d been idly contemplating started its step & pace in real time. “It is written in the tongue of druids, olden speak.”
“What does it read? Damn it, poet, speak the runes!”
“The rough of it is a cry for help with urgent emphasis... He says Drakkon is about to be entrapped by Argus under the guise of their negotiations at the Dale of Dul’Garon. This Vizzari consul has a band of Dread Knights and assassins lined up to cut at the head of us! We are to come under fire with hellish fury! Bloody fire! They may swoop in against our Lord soon with fiercer talons than we yet faced. He asks of us to act boldly with preeminent strike. Says we can invert the trap. The Druid is in their camp and gives directions. Pleads we intercept their company at once...”
Mordaunt reacted on instinct. “Ready the Karve and prepare to board with the best company we can fit.” His voice, authoritarian and unshakeable. “We must seize this moment or be lost to obscurity & misery! We will bleed their perch!”
“This could be a trap? Mordaunt surely, we must consider caution?! We only have one sizeable craft here. And if we abandon our fold, we will open ourselves to attack from more fronts. What if Argus coerced Aris to write this? If he plots a ruse to lead our battalion from this very station that we forsake defending our Lord or his gains? We have few steeds and-”
Mordaunt scoffed at craven caution. “I am ashamed to have thought more of you, even in all this debauchery. Yet, this reluctance now? Chaos cracks all our planning and our enemy slithers to swallow our Light. Besides, Aris would not lie to us. What course would that serve? This missive arrives to us by wing of a hawk of lords. Look now!” He pointed past the restless river to the sudden plumes of smoke, signals leading a line across the way. “Across Abaddon! Tis another signal from the druid. He begs our aid!”
Shoving Baron irritably, the commander ran to ring the camp bell-drum. The off-putting ping & pounding of the signal attracted his flock. Most assembled after a minute of its holler. “Hear me, warriors! It frightens me to admit, but the Living Light of all our lives is threatened! Across stream & dale the snakes constrict upon our Lord. With blades hidden beneath slimy scales, they aim to desecrate the truce and our faith for their malefic supremacy. Let them achieve nothing but self-annihilation! Will you cross Abaddon to crush these devils? Come with me if ye yet have courage and sail against the red tides of Vizzari!”
Unprecedented disquietude arrested the embankment. Few of them desired to give fierce fight this moment and fewer still were those left sober enough to be competent with their arms. All of them knew that their remaining boat could carry only enough to be a nuisance to the Vizzari legions, or else their amusement. Most had resigned themselves to the liberty of intoxication, pissing away the day while they waited for news of Drakkon’s congress with enemy Consul. This news was far from that safe shore.
Seeing this indecision, with many of his Drakes away with their endangered Lord, Mordaunt boards the Karve himself. He steps on the ship as if to sail alone to a death to make any Valkyrie blush, swooning at his boldness. Spits at the shore with disgust for the cowardice of those planted there. Frowning, he orders the loitering boatmen to steer over the river, to what no doubt would be a valiant launch to futile end.
But Baron found the iron in himself, even if this mettle was forged by shame, sending it out the rest of the camp. “Spiritual warfare is commenced. At this crux & fulcrum of fates ‘tis time the Dread Serpent is damned to the void as prophesized - or else coil about the world and all our throats! I beseech ye follow your hearts yet harden them for battle. Pursue the hunt of liberty! To those of you cripplingly fearful of death and our enemies I beseech you to remain here and wet yourselves, while better men go meet their fangs with teeth & claws!”
“But to those of you willing to stand; I ask you to come with us and strike down the viper! While the waters we tread are indeed dangerous we ride to Drakkon, with his pre-eminent Blessing! Faith & fury hail our masts, we who fly against tide! Fly upon wing of Creation’s Storm! Set your sails for He whose winds stretch as wing & thunder & terrible tides; yet who is in Elderath, our earth, & yay, in Malderath! Let this Dale ahead be not tomb but marked by striking Trident of our courage!”
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Their courage assessed the group’s mood shifts. A good number choose to follow Baron to the boat. Near fifty men cram onto the ship, but their initial reluctance to do so upset Mordaunt, who scowled over the hull the whole way across. He felt himself alone against the elements, opposed to all rationality & physics. To fail this rescue would make the venture of freedom nothing more than a fleeting dream devoured by punishing existence. But Baron’s presence sows muse of mythic clout. Marshals his music for those aboard when their champion said naught. Though scared his strumming strings & belting arias resound in their chests. Evoking echoes & homage to heroes of old.
The winds over Abaddon mock the company’s pursuit. They call forth currents as a bulwark and scream all the way through to the east bank. Yet heroic melody brands them with bravado of warrior’s call. Invigorated they pounce with speed of forest cats, trampling bank which might soon be their sinking grave. Before charging Mordaunt signals the bard back across the channel to ‘woo more soldiers from their lulled gluttony’. Baron knew him hellbent on this endeavor – no matter where it led – and thus sang louder than his terror. Rushing on rapids to siren more soldiers to northeastern end.
Mordaunt led those fiercest among the hesitant through treads so green they made their souls seem pallid. Utters no inspiration to those who followed him. Real men, he figured, obey only the law of their conscience, and secure it by sword. So, he left them to simmer in their silent ponderings to decide in that last hour what sort of men they truly were. While their captain gave no speech their hearts’ ears yet heard Barong’s tilting tales.
But what were arias of fanciful flight against foe so menacing? Crimson bark towers lurched up from the vale to usurp Solaris’ rays. Vipers in faceless red-black helmets patrol the monstrous parapets their thralls constructed about the dell. Greater swarms of them concentrated north of the quarry, where Drakkon awaited council with Vizzari ambassadors. Gazing into the waking depths ahead the advance company spun that song of living myth into kinesis.
From afar they gleaned the shape of their Lord, who stood exposed with few emissaries by him & small band of Drakes some hawk’s wings away. Yet his boldness could be sensed across the way. He saw the crop of reapers looming by crest, felt their menace. But called out with steady voice. Halting the scourges of serpents slithering out from their pylons. Suspicion that a trap to spring against their own awaited them arrests the asps’ valor. For surely, such a brilliant conqueror could not be so naïve as to lie down in spiked bed.
That the Living Lord wavers not, stuns balance of the Vizzar’s lethal lunge. Instead of charging they shuffle over cautiously to him. The northernmost host remains posted on the hill, with their numbers casting cloud instead of rolling avalanche. They cave to doubts. Their wary wonder rouses disaster, to hark the call of imminent horn. Not from the Dread cornet but a barbaric blaring from the wilds.
Mordaunt’s horn raises its challenge from the south. He splits their band into three fronts, each with horns. Sends the lesser spears to the sides of the brush woods touching the encampment. From the west another Drakoni trumpet sounds. Then, with vigor to embody the gods in war, signals charge. Slashes up the rear & seizes a sentry tower. To hear then a Dread echo stake sound against his fury. Thunderous voice, apocalyptic in its terrible reach, sunders the gorge as red Knights come to clash against the relieving company.
This battering declaration is rivalled by the joining of yet more. Horns of rear divisions, pursuing across the stream, roar terror. More unseen bands howl entrance into battle. Sentinels & steeds hidden across Dul’Garon double the Drakoni strength, singing woe to wyrms. Ungodly and moribund tones tuck in every thicket. Lugubrious alarms sweep as slaughter rides the dome of the dale. Champions’ charge disorients the defenders of the snake’s camp.
With force & nearness bolstering bolts bellow from trumpets of Mordaunt’s fellows. Against the knights of the Serpent rushing to meet in contest. Racket of death-cries berates his ears. Yet doom pronounced itself not, though the first taste of mettle near overwhelms them. For the host on that hill sits with the cavaliers uncommitting to stampede, looking on in indifference.
Soon after the discordant blasts and splintering of shields they herald, more arise to their flanks. Baron & the rest of the Drakoni give chase. Though in that chaos their arrival is less banner of hope than linen-flag in monsoon.
The ride of dread cavalry eclipses all else. Panicked shrieks & pained shouts hail. Dying men join the macabre chorus swirling about the blood drenched scene. Gasps & retches of soldiers, poisoned, damned to agony by snake’s black tongue, spit upon wicked tips of spears & arrows. As these bolts lodge into Drakoni flesh and hammers break brittle bones beneath Vizzari scales, Mordaunt knows only blinding screen of vengeful frenzy. Left without time for thought amongst the tearing of men’s throats. Hate & instinct propels his sword & blesses his shield with fiery Aegis.
Mordaunt takes no notice of how more of his Drakes even the field. Trample it, in all its green splendor, gaining ground & weaving horse & arrow through serpentine lines. A prime portion of his spirit surrenders unto death; to what comes in that red fog of rending bodies. Pulse of valor, courtship for Valkyries, infuses a will for sacrifice. He commits to slaying this head of the serpents; earning a seat in the undying pantheon of legend to cut down the one he figured to be Argus.
A crowning triumph even in throes of violence’ thralldom, mortal hatred cuts carmine maelstrom. Every swing inspires faith in the motions of fate, guiding rhythm. Primordial power imbues him, moving in swollen subconscious. Knowing they would not be scattered to dusty footnotes in rivals’ reports. Thus, he changes course from a martyr of this day to a conduit of grand and unifying purpose; to live beyond it, see the war’s death before knowing his.
Baron too, feels supernal stamina imbue sword and song. As his relievers mantle cloaks of berserkers & join the shattered lines of fangs & scaled terrors, coronach of battle rings. Brotherly chant of their hearts’ hymn hails the glory of cause, drumming over defeatism of dirge. Melody bonds them, by shield wall bolstered by fraternity. To the vipers coiling Mordaunt about quarry entrance this melody bounds by dark portends & throats innumerable, failing to break the berserk trance. Then verse joins Drakoni brawn, singing motif of bloodied myth.
Over the eastern edge rises a fresh battalion. Dressed in crimson sheen armor but vocalizing strange, tribal shouts & songs like no clan of this land. From one throat three cords expunge in unison, amplified by their brethren. Heron appears at their head, leading more Drakes, throngs of soldier-serfs, grooms and horse thieves all sharing thread of enmity for Vizzari. All the east demanded end to that governance, ready to be liberated from it. Come forth as hue of snowstorm in middle night, streaked by bloody eclipse. “For a free life for all! Our swords shine before Solaris and Creation’s Star for all ye folk under Light of redeeming Lord!”
They spring forth. With cerise glow of righteous wrath, they roll over the Vizzar. With brute blows & shattering of skulls they scatter the serpents’ main line. Save the war hounds who hunger to feast on fight with the infamous Drakes, & with greater appetite for the throats of these betrayers and the ungrateful rabble with them, the serpents stumble.
The locus of Dul’Garon’s defenders trembles thin, struggling for turf as more combatants ambush their flanks. Typhonic cascade punishes their Consul, who looks to consult his bravest for savior’s stratagem but finds few retaining fortitude beside him. High above the vital breadth of their legion, mountainous shape of countless riders, refuses aid. Waiting to test the tides of battle beneath banners, not of red but gray. Apathetic to any but the victor.
Argus, amid crimson clamor, aims to flee. But upon that northern perch those client knights lift neutrality for crest of his enemy. They wave white banners, gilded with orange & sapphire emblem of Living sun, encased as stormy orb. Flow of fortune abandons him. Those freshly purchased, yet unsated, cavaliers pulverize the last of the true Vizzari patriots. Proclaiming the fledgling consul as prisoner to their pincers.
Seeing his muscle routed, force split, he swears off battle with embitterment. The only escape: to cut an exit. The Consul strikes final bargain with his waning spirit. Musters Dread entourage, wearing proudly the crest of Vizzarion with holy venom dipped on the tips & edge of serrated blades. To intercept his challenger, unseat rival Lord from the helm of victory. But though fewer the Drakoni argue berserk. Their full count shrouded; his men succumb to undertow of grave fear.
Argus’ pride was unequaled of his ‘virtues’, in all but his great cowardice. His knights lay decimated by the manifold mettle of Mordaunt & the many passion-possessed men, of working backgrounds as much as warrior’s. He squirms from the front. Fleeing, he prays for the first time since his stable years.
All ears crack under crests of horns & hooves. They boast from the wood, bows launching harassment at frightened flyers upon horse. Baron charges forth from the edge of battle, astride his steed and pursued in loyalty by twenty cavalries, mounted by tribesmen and Heron’s scouts. Further rallies arise from misty bush, proclaiming ownership of skies & wilds. With their Champion too far to fell Argus, the skald makes it his task.
But those true Knights of Th’uul et Fel, of Serpent’s ageless cult more than Argus’ claim, among them fight ever fiercely. Their captain, having marked Mordaunt’s tactics & Baron’s boastful pursuit with quick glance, raises counter charge. Their lances pierce the enemy flanks. Quake the enfolding faceless fury with crushing ram. Yet hammers crash upon the helmets of their guard. Though their bolts drive back their pursuers their numbers leak to disarray. Their steeds slump, slain, against tower-shields and returning fire. Halted dead, but undying in fight.
As the War-Geist in Baron funnels through to him, the Consul panics. In fatal ploy, Argus, but a toy of his fright, breaks their files, splits every way. Stampedes over their fellows’ formation in flight from the three-pronged lancers. But the Vizzari honor guard catch the bard, on heel of their dishonored ‘Prince’s’ dash. One of these elite slings an arrowhead that nears its mark with malevolent intent.
Baron topples from his horse. Arrow strikes piece of his coarse armor. Its venomous tongue splints mail & chest plate; scrapes bone to yield light flesh. The storm-hooves nearly trample the skald. Leaving him in dusty cloud and misty blood showering from slaughter above. He sinks into the stirring dirt for dark spell. The leather over his plating refuses to rise. His chest still, voiceless & unbreathing among the white weeds sprouting, stunted, in the spray. Lain amongst the ‘snows’ of Bloomsvere spring, the mantles of wild wreath petals and the pallid dead.
Mordaunt announces feral yell. Wrenching barbed point from corpse of a serpent lackey he drives it after the blasted bowman who’d sent Baron low. This target, fearful from the felling blow, prepared another arrow for the neck of this avenger. The arrow launches half-heartedly. For its deliverer found himself impaled seconds before loosing the lethal black diamond. Lance thrust divides his head squarely, no mercy for the brain matter behind elegant open helm. The snakes’ last martial mind leaks onto weeds.
Argus, surrounded by unkillable foes imbued by demoniac conviction, tosses his rapier aside. Morosely slumps from his horse and kneels in humiliating supplication. “I surrender! Men of the Vizzar lay low all arms! We will greet them with diplomacy, in peace & gracious hospitality!”
Waves of lances & spears lower, lulling blood tides. Half a dozen Drakoni rush to cart off the honorable skald, still seeming in the sleep of death (to all but those most fervent in faith, to him, their Lord’s miracles, and what alchemy might save him). The rest of Baron’s band shuffle from shrouds & shrubbery to assist Mordaunt, and their allies, in seizing the weapons of the defeated.
Many wyrms suffer the shame of surrendering their arms to peasant crusaders. Only when the swords, bows, pikes, and round shields were abandoned, collected in a convenient pile, did their former wielders realize they’d been greater in number than the foe who bested them. In the fields of mind and bellicose contest they’d lost, their strength subverted and shaken. They’d bowed to ruse & caved to fear of unknown force. Bent low by but a modest company, engorged by treachery & opportunists. Yet the beaten soldiers’ stares shot more spite to Argus than they did the men parading about their camp with the exuberance of conquest of impossible odds....