The scent of freshly baked bread with warm honey and herbal imbued tea, slowly wafted in, tantalizing our grumbling bellies.
How did Zelaphiel’s staff manage to bake fresh bread in the middle of the wilderness?
The sun barely peeked over the horizon, when we walked out, holding hands. A breakfast table filled with an assortment of sausages, a few varieties of bread and some pitcher containing steaming hot drinks greeted us. Zelaphiel sat at one corner, dazzling in the rays of the morning sun. His long brown hair flowed down from the crest of his head to his shoulders like a waterfall.
Sensing our presence, the high-elf stopped cutting the morsel on his plate, swallowing whatever he was chewing before turning to us.
“Please, I invite you to break bread with me. It is just a humble breakfast, the least my people could organise given our location,” said the Grand Paladin humbly.
Under the pretext of clearing our heads in the morning breeze, we extracted ourselves from his invitation. We left the high-elf behind and sauntered further away from the camps; trailed by a slow gentle breeze bristling the leaves behind our path.
*****
Once we are out of spying distance from all interested parties except one, I straightened my back and leaned on Lyria’s arms. She lowered her head and placed a sweet little kiss on the crown of my head; not a lust-filled passion-induced kiss but a kiss with non-callous affection.
“Rils,” she started apologetically, “it was wrong of me to force you into accepting anything. But should you decide to join hands with the Warlord, I cannot stay by your side.”
Only silence, broken by the chirping of birds followed. Lyria twiddled her fingers uncomfortably. Something was eating her from the inside.
“He is probably either trying to ascend or become the Demon Lord,” said Lyria, with furtively measured words.
The bid to the throne of the Demon Lord was evident, even to the ignorant. With his Cambion status and the blood of some infernal demon flowing in him, the title of the Demon Lord, the will to control demons on this world, to rule over them, was his birthright. But his aim for Ascendancy was out of normal. In fact, there is never a sliver of normalcy when Ascendants are involved. Most Ascendants die during the nascent stage, either to the treachery of the heavens or to the ploy of the demons, failing which to the jealousy of other Ascendants. And the few who survived, fade into obscurity, saving their own hide. What good does reaching out and grabbing immortal powers do, when all it entails is to scurry like rats in a sewer for the rest of life?
Nudged from my internal thoughts by Lyria’s gentle caress, her callous fingers pushing a failing tendril of hair from my shoulder, I oriented myself toward matters at hand.
“I will defend High-Crag pass,” Lyria’s face brightened with my response. Her eyes twinkled as she pulled me closer into a rib-cracking hug.
“Sooner or Later, Sinvaintra would suspect. When that happens, every drow house would wage war against her. Delyn would need a safe place,” I revealed cautiously -- aware of the interloping presence.
Even though I have decided to stand in the way of the One-Horned Warlord’s ambition, the how of it still eluded me. My own mercenaries, The Aberrant Irregulars, would amount to a pitiful four hundred at best, trained in guarding caravans and would definitely not perform well against an huge engagement.
For Duke Lothmar and Grand Paladin Champion Zelaphiel to set aside their differences and forge an alliance would mean that the One-Horned Warlord has amassed a sizable number under his banner. Nothing short of a desperate vision of at least a hundred thousand abominations marching towards his doorstep would force Zelaphiel to consider extending his resplendent offer to Duke Lothmar.
Four hundred against a hundred thousand! and that is a conservative estimate.
Four hundred mercenaries guarding a dilapidated ruin of a hold against a ravening maddened horde; standing defiantly, without fear and doubt -- would have been a great tale for tavern bards and romantic scholars to elaborate on. The grim reality is that half of the Aberrant Irregulars are goblins, who would desert at the first sign of the onset of terror.
Seizing the moment of my ruminations, Lyria stole another kiss. This time from my lips. I huffed and glared daggers at her for her impudence. Not that I disliked the brush of her inviting lips against my own. Her kiss was always a welcome distraction but she could have warned me before stealing the moment. Had she given an inkling of her intention to the sweet intimacy, I would have savoured the tender forbidden exchange.
“When you have that pensive look on your face, I could not resist the urge,” defended Lyria playfully.
I huffed; a warm current of air fuelled by my anger escaped from my flaring nostrils.
“You should get used to these both -- receiving and delivering -- smooches. After all, it gets extremely cold in High-Crag Pass.” Lyria contorted her lips in an ‘O’ shape as if sucking on a red plump cherry; leaving very little to the imagination. It was so unlike Lyria. I have rarely known her to dance with such playful flirtiness. I wager letting go of her long-guarded secret liberated her from her self-imposed prison.
“You have been there?” I asked ignoring her coquettish attempts.
“Just a motley collection of buildings. It started as a rest and stocking place for caravans moving up the pass. Just an inn with a stable, small smithy for minor repairs, all huddled together against the harsh gales,” she shrugged.
“Against harsh gales? that means strong and thick stone walls right?” I asked with my interest piqued.
“High stone walls, no embankments or archery slits or guard towers. If that is what you were considering” Lyria replied; reading my thoughts.
“I am not thinking of cooping inside or preparing for an extended siege. Zelaphiel would make sure that no reinforcement or supply lines exist for us. I have Arlene, a ranger who feels comfortable in the terrain; Rodo and his werewolves -- again, the mountainous terrain is no challenge for them; and Zaehran with his ascetic training, all capable warriors on their own but none of them can defend.“
Lyria hopped a few paces over rocks and extended her hand, pulling me gently closer to her. With our shared closeness, my aroused blood rushed through my veins, setting me on an amorphous path; amplifying all my reined pleasures including my propensity for systematic violence.
Seeing my almost meditative gaze, she slowly coaxed me; urging me to verbalize my thoughts.
“It is a winding trail through the mountains. The Warlord would be hindered to bring his heavy artilleries or cannons. Moving uphill is a laborious task. Arlene, Rodo or Zaehran can move faster, and we can cripple their heavy artilleries before they get within striking range.“
Lyria patiently listened. Encouraged by her undivided attention, I continued.
“They would have to move up the trail in a single file and Maapu has goblin sappers and Ogre Rock hurlers in his company. A few unfortunate rockslides can be arranged to thin the herd. If we could get some cannon and a supply of incendiaries, we will hinder their progress. With two hundred strong shields and an equal number of archers with no latency between draws, we could rain volley on them. The horde will be broken before they reach the hold.”
It is hard to plan without knowing the individual units and their numbers in the Warlord’s forces. Goblins will scatter when they lose two to three percent of their army while humans or elves would lose morale at five percent and at ten percent, disobedience will manifest and at twenty percent, the army will flee. A charismatic and acknowledged Paladin like Zelaphiel might hold the morale till thirty-five percent but beyond that, the primal self-preservation instinct overrides every other emotion.
If we concentrate the firepower on the bigger goblin clans and mercenaries in the Warlord’s horde and ignore the renegade orcs, trolls, ogres and the rest; whose morale cannot be easily depleted; with any luck, the casualties add to anywhere between fifteen to twenty thousand, we would have a broken army at our doorsteps.
“If you trying to use terrain advantage and mobility to lower the horde's morale, as you did in the bog earning your latest moniker, I would advise you against it. For he can enforce his indomitable will on his warriors even with a sixty percent loss.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Again Lyria’s voice carried a great myriad of conflicting emotions. Though her eyelids fluttered and her heart raced every time she looked at me, it is those moments when her attention was not on me, that she had a faraway look in her silvery grey eyes.
“Then we will have to disperse a few rotten carcasses; pollute every stream and source of water and let the plague slow them down.”
“The Warlord has the allegiance of at least a half-dozen arch liches. Any warrior, either lost to our blades or to the plague will just rise again to swell their numbers and therein lies the main hurdle,” Lyria looked at me, her eyes filled with futile hope, almost as if expecting me to provide answers.
Every race has a morale gauge. For some like the goblins defined by fecundity and self-preservation, it bleeds faster and for some like orcs, their race tempered by savagery and glorified violence, the gauge falls slower. An undead army, on the contrary, suffers no loss of morale nor are they shackled by the needs of logistics. Their slow staggering advance; only countered by an equally resolute army of Paladins. I surmise this is what Zelaphiel had in mind all along. A horde; predominantly composed of undead; stumbling down the High-Crag Pass, towards Fort Halcyon where his Paladins and Priests would liberate the realm from the unholy creatures by chanting their holy invocation -- safely behind their walled citadels.
“Ignore the liches and him. what would you need to defend High-Crag pass?” asked Lyria.
To see her, selectively ignore the throngs of undead about to crash on our paltry force and have her focus only on me; to hear my voice; was both exhilarating and aggravating at the same time.
“Trust my words,” she said. There was a certain infallible hard grit in her voice that was hard to ignore.
“I would need a shield vanguard supported preferably by wood-elf archers to defend the pass and heavy infantry with crossbowmen defending the hold,” Furrows knitted on my brows as I continued, ”An abundant supply of explosives, the hold walls mounted with ballistas and cannons, and the structure have to be reinforced to support them. I would need stone masons, carpenters and more importantly, I need siege engineers. Finally, every healer, surgeon, pharmacist and herbalist that we could tempt.”
“Even with all the preparations, our chances are slim, almost none. The phylactery of the liches would undoubtedly be guarded by death knights and wights. Victory is denied till they stand,” I completed.
Lyria had an unexpected calmness exuding from her, despite my cynical but realistic assessment.
“Don’t worry about the liches, for I will confront the one behind,” added Lyria. A morose and melancholic sigh followed. “When he knows, he will personally lead the charge. He cannot resist the call of blood.”
Lyria’s intense expression almost camouflaged an underlying sadness. Her bright silvery eyes gleamed with unshed tears. As the wind blew, ruffling my unkempt hair, Lyria reached out to shield me. Her wild scent, carried by the breeze and the effect that it had on my own heart, urging it to throb rapidly, made it difficult to focus on the task at hand.
Eventually, Lyria offered the first piece of practical advice for the morning.
“Asterlund is rebuilding. We will find stone masons and builders there. I could ask my sister to put her standing to good use,” she volunteered, “But I should make haste to Ellisinore,”
“Draft a letter to the High Archoness. I will see to it delivered,” I said with a grimace. It was now my turn to act mysterious. “I have my ways.”
*****
As Lyria left, with the immediate task of putting a request to the High Archoness, her infectious positivity still lingered. I took the moment to enjoy the fresh morning breeze. Satisfied with the way our conversation went, I called out.
“Provost, if you have something to discuss. I have cleared my schedule for you.”
Vitalia fluttered from around the corner with an apologetic shrug.
“Magistra,” she said as she wiped dew drop from her clothes even though there was clearly no need for it, “I was worried about your mental state after last night.”
Of course, she accidentally overheard our private conversations. To the best of my knowledge, there has never been a recorded incidence of a fae murdered by a drow. Vitalia was a hair’s breadth away from being the first.
Somehow, only the residual taste of Lyria’s lips on my mouth hindered me from unleashing a verbal barrage against the fae. In hindsight, her thoughts always imbibe me with a calm soothing warmth.
“If we were to put a request for crossbowmen with House Wysteria, how would you predict the Duke’s response?” I asked.
“The Duke would support our request but the poor girl would be isolated further,” replied the fae. The morning rays of the sun crashed against her gossamer gown, dancing in a brilliant spectrum of light. In contrast, her face darkened with every word.
“Please Magistra, you cannot go ahead with it, reconsider,” she said with a hint of suppressed anger.
Neither her ethereal presence nor her earnest-sounding plea gained any sympathy from my meticulously considered plan. This is very much a gamble as it is warfare -- a fact that someone holding the court title of a Provost should have realised.
Duke Lothmar would decree, forcing Jessbeth to deploy Captain Jorrell with a contingent of her own knights. A move that would further deny the support of one more faithful vassal. Though Razzia and Theodore would do everything in their power to protect Jessbeth, without the armed martial presence of Captain Jorrell, Westerleygates is all but a gilded prison for Lady Jessbeth Wysteria.
On the contrary, should my gamble at High-Crag Hold, pay off, Jessbeth will have an impregnable sanctuary.
“Also pass the word to Caelor of the Viridian Dawn Rangers or to Elphene, that Arlene is standing against the threat of the One-Horned Warlord,” I continued.
Vitalia’s feature contorted. She hissed a violent threat. A sudden strong gale picked up, growing in proportion to her rising anger. I staggered, struggling to hold my footing against the turbulent gale. Every hair on my body stood up, the water in my eyes dried while my lungs struggled to hold air. I gasped; desperately. Vitalia herself shimmered, transmogrified and melted slowly into the wind. Only her deep accusatory gaze and the outline of her face remained.
“Arlene will never approve of this. Approaching the Viridian Dawn should be her own accord. You are making decisions for her. By doing this, you are underestimating her agency as an adult to make her own decisions -- to live her own life.”
Undaunted by her ephemeral display of anger, I took a deep breath, adjusting the tangled mess of hair.
“My daughter does not approve of me either, but here I am securing a future for her.”
Vitalia replied. Her voice rang clear, concise and most importantly, controlled.
“Maybe,” she imposed a small pause to seek my undivided attention and then continued, “Maybe if you had provided your daughter with space to express herself, you would have had a better relationship with her.”
“And maybe you should step down from the moral high ground of a stage that you so love occupying,” Pure undistilled anger spilled. My words twisted and coiled, like slithering envenomed serpents, poised ready to strike.
“I am not the one snooping around at night, deriving sinful pleasures from people’s intimate lovemaking noises.”
The fae staggered as if punched in the gut. Gone was her phenomenal display of rage-induced elemental storm. She stood suspended in the air; grey and colourless like a proud butterfly stripped of its vibrant wings leaving only the hollow dull moth that she is.
She struggled futilely for an excuse but every shred of reason escaped her grasp.
“If playing the courier is below your dignity, then please find Master Proudwick and deliver my instructions to him,”
Vitalia looked almost as if her hearing failed. She slowly descended and sat on a small moss-covered rock with her legs bent and ankles tucked behind.
“Do you have any insight on the recurrence of Demon Lord and Hero?” asked the fae. Her features composed themselves as she slowly ran her ethereal fingers over the verdant mossy growth, coaxing them to dance with her fingers.
“The never-ending struggle between good and evil, a complex balance validating the equilibrium of this world, an endless cycle of wicked punished by the virtuous,” I scoffed at the childish notion, “Such binary notions may serve as a simplified tale but we are both prudent enough to look at the multifaceted reality.”
“True indeed.” At her beckoning, a small breeze picked up clearing the debris in my path, “At any given time, there are always individuals with potential, set apart from their peers, abilities destined for greatness. The Demon Lord or a champion of justice is just two plausible paths of a multiple branching destiny.”
“Be it their racial predomination or the circumstances of their laboured life, tieflings usually complete the conditions necessary to fulfil the role of a Demon Lord, more often than other races, just like how the requirement of charismatic, charming and natural-born leader for a hero is most often filled by an Aasimar than other races. But, in principle, irrespective of the race anyone can become the Hero or a Demon Lord.”
The way I quizzically raised my eyebrows, Vitalia knew that she had me exactly where she wanted; with my ignorance exposed and looking up to her for answers.
“Arlene, in fact, at this moment, has the sixth highest probability to succeed as a Hero,” uttered Vitalia with pride mingled with a hint of amusement swinging in her voice, “That mage companion of yours, would probably rank among the top twenty candidates. Even the Orc Overlord Urganza is on the list of top hundred candidates. But the important fact is, the Demon Lord and the Hero need not always be enemies. They could be friends, or even lovers.”
“Frankly I do not see where this conversation is leading towards,” I shrugged at her long-winded talk.
“Because what is known as a common established knowledge is often not so well established,” she snapped back like I was one of her petulant students. Her way of belittling me for the affront.
“I have seen Aasimar and tiefling overcome their inherent racial hatred and fought together as sworn brothers.” The very wind around her stood still as she continued, “I have witnessed Aasimar falling in love with tieflings and form a loving family. I am a living witness to Aasimars healing their wounded tiefling blood-brothers.”
Her eyes hawked in scrutiny and in self-satisfaction. Like a vulture celebrating the death of its prey.
“The tale of her accursed demonic blood killing your daughter,” her voice turned sharp, almost a sibilant note, “is fabricated.”
“Magistra,” Vitalia reverted back to her formal way of speaking; assured that she had her silent revenge, “I urge you to exercise caution, at least till I return. There is something I need to research; something crucial but I will only speak my mind when I am certain of my claim.”
Without further exchange, I returned alone to the busy breakfast table where Antilorwe patiently waited for my presence.