Third of Nirakos

Year 1182 of Emancipation

It is true in every army that success is always rewarded by more work. It was no different in Svaleta. Seventy soldiers had marched into Narandir to kill Mishtar, led by Ertas Coldheart. Less than a dozen returned, beaten and bloody, but victorious. Among them was Rangir Folmae, a young man who had earned the respect of those in his company for his fighting skills in the past weeks. He and Ertas had held the line as Mishtar tested Svaleta’s defences, and then led the mission into the Forest. They had buried far too many men beneath that green canopy, too many friends who had been husbands, brothers, and sons to now-broken families. There had been no opportunity to rest. When they returned, Ertas was given command of the regiment, a force of three hundred men. Rangir was installed over a company, eighty soldiers, only some of whom had been blooded fighting orcs and strange beasts from the Forest.

Ertas barely had time for his arm to heal of its wounds before the order came from the capital to march northwest to reinforce the defences north of Arborshire. They would join another regiment north of the river that passed by the city and protect it against the Aliri Empire’s second prong. With the liberation of Larton, the elves were putting their best forces into this second front. There could be no more sieges, according to Ertas’ orders, not without the death of every Svaletan soldier stationed across that river. If the Aliri took Arborshire, they could cut off the Quarries and their mineral wealth, then raze Hirton and follow the roads to the capital. Every soldier knew that Svaleta’s greatest weakness was the very thing that made it such a valuable and contested land. There was simply too much space, too many opportunities for invaders to march unopposed. Once the northern rivers were forded, there were few natural defences to slow down any attackers. A relatively few stand up battles would decide the fate of Svaleta.

All of this went through Rangir’s mind as he marched at the head of his company’s column. The air was filled with the sound of clinking metal as the regiment marched across the open plains. At least, he thought, the south was now secure. With the new alliance between Svaleta and Narandir, the army was no longer facing two enemies. If the mage Belkai was to be believed, Ashelath had invited both Narandir and the Aliri to war. If that was true, it was a genius plan, Rangir had to admit. Had it succeeded, and if Mishtar had used his power to march north, then Svaleta would have been squeezed until it collapsed under the weight of twin invasions. While his men recovered from their wounds in Narandir, he had spoken privately with Belkai. Taking the opportunity, he’d asked her why Mishtar hadn’t simply attacked.

“Wasn’t that his aim?” he had asked. “Didn’t he want to crush Svaleta?”

“He always feared your Kingdom,” Belkai had replied. “That’s why he stayed hidden for so long. Nor did he fully believe Ashelath’s lies. There was still some good in him.”

“And yet you killed him.”

“He was going to do the same to me before you attacked,” Belkai had snapped. “And he would never have succeeded against Ashelath. He would have fallen, one way or another.”

It still didn’t make much sense to Rangir, but it was the objective truth. Mishtar had simply tested their defences but made no real attempt to destroy Svaleta. He thanked the gods for that much, at least. So now they marched north to face elves. But not the ones that we’re now allied with, he reminded himself. It was strange. Like most Svaletans, he’d been raised to hate all elves without differentiation. Strangely though, he had never gone so far as to hate the ‘Lowborn’, the half-breeds who had an elven parent. He’d served with enough of the Lowborn to know that they deserved better than Svaleta gave them. Perhaps he’d have to rethink elves as well, if Narandir was now a friend. Strange times indeed.

***

Echtalon cursed the Brilhardem as he and his surviving soldiers made their way over the bridge spanning the first river south of the Aliri border. The second front had certainly come this way, exactly according to Echtalon’s plan. They had taken no pains to bury the Svaletan soldiers who had been killed in their vain attempts to slow down the Aliri forces and had burned the smaller villages that they came across. He had only been a matter of days away from entering Larton and crushing what few defenders still remained. Without the Brilhardem’s interference, Rignar’s Hold would have belonged to the Aliri. Nonetheless, there was still a chance to pluck victory from the jaws of defeat. So Echtalon had led his men west, ready to take control of the second front. Setbacks or not, he was still the commander of the Aliri’s eastern armies.

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Lost in thought, he almost missed the signs that they had reached the front’s rear guard. Only a familiar scent made him stop and take note of his surroundings. They were in an open plain so typical of Svaleta, with a small wood to the west. He turned towards it and raised his hands out to show he wasn’t a threat. Two elves emerged, clad in Aliri armour. One raised a bow and trained it on the general, and he knew that there were more hidden from view.

“General Echtalon?” The second elf asked as he stepped forward and returned his sword to its scabbard. Echtalon didn’t recognise him, but that was to be expected.

“What’s the situation?”

“The main camp is about four miles south,” the lookout told him. “We’ve destroyed at least a regiment’s worth of Svaletans so far. The scouts have reported a blocking force at the next river defending Arborshire.”

“Faelin keeps you well informed,” Echtalon said, and the lookout nodded. He kept his joy in check, and Echtalon appreciated the professionalism.

“The general believes that the more we know, the better we will perform.”

“Can you take me to her?”

“Yes sir.” The lookout called out to his comrades and told them that he was escorting the general’s group.

“What’s your name, son?” Echtalon asked as they began moving.

“Scout Folstel, sir.”

“Your army has done well, Folstel.”

The scout nodded his thanks but didn’t answer. Echtalon was used to that. His reputation as a fierce warrior and brutal strategist was well known throughout the Empire. Even in Svaleta, his name was mentioned only in whispers. That could all change with the failure at Larton. This second front had to succeed.

It was a fairly short walk to find General Faelin under a pavilion standing around a map table with her lieutenants. Folstel stood nearby, ramrod straight, and called out,

“General Faelin, General Echtalon approaches.”

“Dismissed, Scout,” Faelin responded, and slowly turned to face her superior. She hadn’t aged much in the six years since Echtalon had last seen her, still the same youthful face with dull grey eyes, framed by wavy brown hair. She was a master archer, and even though Echtalon was ten years her junior, he had handpicked her to lead one of his army groups when he was appointed over the eastern forces. He had never had reason to regret his decision, and she would always be in his debt for her promotion.

“A word, Faelin, if you will.” Echtalon knew that his advance messengers would have arrived by now, and this was not a discussion to be had in front of subordinates. Faelin nodded, dismissed her lieutenants, then when they were alone asked quietly,

“What the devil happened at Larton?”

“What have you heard?” Echtalon studied her map as they spoke, but his mind barely processed the information.

“Rumours say that Narandir itself marched to face you,” Faelin said, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I assumed that there was some counterattack from inside the city.”

“Would you believe that the rumours were correct?” Echtalon cursed. “Their leader was a Brilhardem.”

“The Silent Order came to Svaleta’s aid?”

“I don’t know about that. She may have been acting on her own. The Silent Order has never shown interest in that Forest.” Echtalon shook his head. “All I know is that she slaughtered the witches as if they were just insects. And Narandir’s creatures smashed our lines. Svaleta barely needed their cavalry.”

Faelin was silent as her mind processed that information. “The Angmir were always said to be invincible.”

“Not anymore.” Echtalon fought off his rising anger. “But it’s done. What’s the situation here?”

Faelin studied her patron for a moment before answering. He was tired, angry, but not broken. He would take control here, she knew. There was nothing that she could do about that, though she knew that she could guide him to wise counsel if she needed to. “We have two regiments here. So far we have faced only scattered forces, maybe the equivalent of one regiment, and none of them put up much of a fight. We crossed the first river easily enough.”

“Your faint towards King’s Crossing was successful,” Echtalon told her. “Had Narandir not arrived, the Svaletans would not have had any reinforcements.”

Faelin nodded her thanks. “There is one regiment fortifying the next river. My advance scouts say a second is coming north from the Last Outpost. They will arrive in four days.”

“When will you strike?”

“My last two regiments arrive in six days. When they have assembled, we will strike.”

“You are giving them too much time to dig in,” Echtalon warned. “They will be ready for you.”

“They already are,” Faelin told him. “My scouts report extensive trench works, each filled with oil. They will take time to navigate. There is only one bridge to Arborshire. We will sneak a company in by boat to seize it and ensure that it is not burned if we break the Svaletan lines. So that takes out a hundred fighting men. The Svaletans have set up a funnelled, multilayered defence that will take days of hard fighting to penetrate. If we strike now, we will still be fighting when the second Svaletan regiment arrives. We need overwhelming numbers, or else the assault will fail. That much is certain.”

Echtalon was silent, and Faelin said, “I know you look for a quick victory, General. The truth is, if Larton had fallen, then their forces would be too divided to resist. But now we must adapt. You’ve always respected my patience, General. It’s made me a good archer, and a better leader. So trust me.”

Echtalon nodded, accepting her logic, as much as his instincts demanded satisfaction for his failure. “I trust you.”