In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 4

Chapter 4 - Modred

After a long, repetitive few weeks in the saddle, Modred and his patrol passed under the enormous gateway of the Outer city, and began their ascent of the great hill over which Laternas appeared to be draped. The city sprawled out in every direction, radiating out from the crest of what was in truth a small mountain, where sat the Inner city.

The Inner city was the seat of Laternae power; the home of the king, his council, and the leading members of the city nobility. No lancers had set foot in the Inner city in the last century: the king relied on the Royal Crossbowmen for personal protection.
There was a great rivalry between the two main arms of the military, Modred reflected. He knew that he was viewed as beneath the men of the Crossbow regiments, while the Lancer Corps commonly held that the Crossbowmen were simply toy soldiers, fit for the parade ground but not for any actual fighting. If that were true, then it was just as well that they had not performed much of a military function since the founding of the Laternae state; the Lancer Corps was relied upon to keep the agricultural hinterland of the city safe.
“This city is an amazing sight, even if it is of human construction.” Startled, Modred snapped out of his reverie, glancing sideways to see that Althalos had caught him unawares.

In the week since they had left the border, Althalos still rode awkwardly by virtue of his unhealed wrist. In an effort to immobilise it, he had fashioned a makeshift sling from some spare material, but it did not seem to have improved at all.
“We as a race are capable of wondrous things; this city is not even the largest, see some of those further west. If only your kind had given us a chance...” At this, he received a sharp glance from Althalos.

“How much do you actually know of those times?” Modred looked over at him, seeing centuries of wars and sacrifice in Althalos’ clear blue eyes.
“As much as any man, I suppose. We were born into slavery as a race, and your kind were our masters for millennia, imposing heavy taxes, murdering at will, tearing down any of our small achievements. Then, generations ago, a group of men, including Agravain the First, also named ‘the Liberator’, our first king rose up, gathering armies, and drove you out in a decade of bloody war.” As he finished, Modred looked again at Althalos, and was unnerved to see shock plain in his features. “What, you didn’t know this?”
Althalos closed his eyes and composed himself before replying, “I didn’t know...I didn’t know that this was the human perception of my kind. To understand our rule over the humans of the west, you must know the history of our race. We originated in the east, on the other side of what is now named the Ethernath waste. We began to spread in every direction, ruling over the peoples in the far east and the north. We even crossed the southern sea, and found the lands at the bottom of the world. Eventually, yes, we did move west and cross the waste, and came to these lands... You must understand that along with this expansion, we were advancing in every field. Our capital, at Astypalaea was the home of countless scholars, studying every topic you could possibly imagine. We were the pinnacle of civilisation, unmatched technologically, and our military might was the greatest in the world.”

Here he paused to swallow, “Are you sure you wish me to continue? You will almost certainly not believe the rest.”
Enthralled, Modred nodded dumbly, unable to speak.
“To us, you were tribes of savages, not interested in advancement. We tried to build schools, we tried to teach you the arts, warfare and philosophy, but you had no concern for learning. You were simply content to fight amongst yourselves, raiding each others’ villages for the sake of cattle, so yes, we did make examples, but only as a last resort to keep the peace. Your kind respected nothing but strength, so we simply proved our strength. We policed the roads, slaughtering the raiding parties we came across, and so you named us oppressor.”

Althalos stopped as Modred looked as though he might speak. “I realise it is difficult to hear, it must contradict everything you have ever been told.”  Still slightly shocked, there was only the sound of hooves on cobbles as Modred struggled to form the question he wanted to ask.
“If it is as you say though, why was there the War for Liberation?” it was Althalos’ turn to shoot a quizzical look at Modred.
“The War for Liberation? There was no war between our peoples as far as I know. I need to describe to you the fall of our empire for you to understand the circumstances of our departure from the west. As I said, we were advancing unchallenged in every direction. Here our history is a little unclear: a group of explorers in the far east found something, we don’t know what. Some argue that it was an ancient and haunted tomb from the dawn of time, others that it was a cave so deep that it was as black as darkest midnight. Whatever it was, the explorers woke something, some unknown, corrupting terror, and it changed them. When they stumbled half-mad into their camp, they had been mutated. Grey-skinned, with dark eyes and brilliant white hair, only three of the party of fifteen returned, with tattered, blood-stained clothes. They would not speak, but the other members of the expedition did what they could for them.”
***
Althalos

Althalos closed his eyes, steeling himself. “That night, madness took the camp. The only survivor told us a story of horror and blood: the mutants killed their own comrades during the night, feasting on their blood. We knew then that the corruption extended beyond their features...they had turned to vampirism. Not much else is known until mutants began appearing in our eastern provinces. The war descended on us without warning...It decimated our eastern provinces; whole cities were lost. Before we knew what was happening, we had lost almost the entire eastern half of our empire. Since then, we have been steadily falling back towards our capital. At the same time, our casters have been converting the eastern parts of what you call the ‘Ethernath’ waste into more habitable land, nurturing life from the sand itself.”
As he finished, Althalos swallowed to wet his throat, and Modred realised that they had been talking for most of the distance up the hill to the Lancer Corps barracks. Tentatively, Modred slowed his horse, deep in thought. Althalos increased the pressure on his own reins to stay level.
“So then...the savages, their migration...it is the fault of your people?” Try as he might, Modred found it difficult to keep the accusation out of his voice.

Sighing quietly, Althalos replied calmly, “Yes, it is, but the fault for the war between your peoples does not lie with us.” Modred opened his mouth, ready with an angry retort but then realised that what he was about to deny was in fact true. His mouth remained open dumbly for a few moments before he realised and hastily closed it.
They arrived at the entrance to Lancer Corps barracks, and so his embarrassment went unnoticed by Althalos, who was busy now examining the gateway, with its enormous ironbound doors, murder holes, and all the way up to the hoarding which protruded like a bulbous growth imposingly out over the street.
“This looks like a fortress in its own right...Why would you need a fortress here, if there are curtain walls around the main city, and then the inner city walls as well?”

Modred welcomed the opportunity to once more show the pride he felt for his city. “This is one of four such strongpoints placed at the points of the compass around the outside of the perimeter of the inner city. They are built to harry any attempted siege of the inner city, should the outer city fall. To lay siege to the inner city, an enemy would have to take two of them, which no one in history has ever managed. This is the main barracks of the Lancer Corps, and it is where the Lord Princips resides. We are the field army of the glorious city of Laternas, and we have never yet been defeated in the field.” Finishing with a flourish, he waited for a response from the elf, although he was not entirely sure what to expect.
According to history, the cavalry of the early kingdom had been decisive in casting out the oppressors, and it was the legacy of these first heroes upon which the Lancers entire tradition was based. He had therefore always assumed that elves were no more martially capable than his own race, or perhaps less so. To have heard just how incorrect his histories were served to challenge this assumption, further so than seeing Althalos fight had done. Whatever response he had been expecting, he was disappointed; Althalos simply nodded politely.
***
Ingvarr

Cresting the rise, Ingvarr was grateful for his first view of Sarpsborg in far too long. The journey had passed uneventfully following his talk with Katja, and he had watched the landscape change from a barren wasteland into the sandy waste of his home. Santorp  was by no means special, there were thousands of such settlements dotted around the waste, all of which had started life as a couple of tents next to one of countless oases. Many had developed into fully fledged settlements, but Sarpsborg remained the capital of the Ethernath tribes. Now, the few tents had transformed into a small town, still based around the oasis; one of the larger on this side of the waste. Animal enclosures radiated out from the wood and mud brick structures, as each newcomer had marked out his territory. Having travelled through wastelands and then the Waste for the past few days, the abundance of life was incredible to behold. Goats wandered around their fields, picking at the grass fed by the water from the oasis and horses, some of the greatest in the world, were seemingly everywhere.
The Waste horse of the Ethernath had originated in the foothills of the Northern Mountains with the Ethernath people themselves. As hardy as the people who bred and rode them, each horse stood at least as tall as a man at the shoulder, at the same time managing to be slender and agile, very different to those of the Laternae, which were bred purely for strength. Although not necessarily as powerful as their Laternae counterparts, the Ethernath waste horses were able to travel for days with little rest, food and water. As well as this, they were matched for their pace over short distances only by the horses of ‘the Enemy’.

Setting off as soon as the relieved refugees had caught up with him, Ingvarr led the ragged group down into the town. They attracted more than a few odd looks as they went if nothing else then for the presence of two Forerunners. As they reached the centre of the town, Fyodor motioned for the group to remain while he strode over the door of the Council member’s house. Ignoring this, Ingvarr followed him up to the entrance, arriving just as the door creaked open. In the doorway stood a familiar and wizened, old man named Ingimirr. Despite his advancing years, the man stood tall and well-built; the only indication of his age the deepening creases of his face and the grey laced through his hair. “Fyodor, Ingvarr...what are you doing here? What happened?” Looking past the two hulking Forerunners, he saw the ragged group of survivors, “Who are these people?”

Shocked by the councilman’s apparent lack of composure, the two Forerunners gestured to the interior of the house. “We should go inside; we don’t want to create a scene.” Fyodor again took the lead, eliciting a look from Ingvarr. Ingimirr stepped aside, allowing the two enormous men inside. Ducking to avoid the door frame, they entered the simple house. Every house was similarly sparse: all ground floor and typically consisting of two main rooms; a bedroom and then a living space. The living space was cluttered with a table, a few chairs, and a fire pit in the centre for warmth. There was no need for a fire to cook upon, as the community tended to come together for the evening meal before the massive fire pit in the centre of the settlement. As this was the house of a councilman, the living space was as expected, but with the addition of a thick carpet on the packed earth floor, the likes of which was very rare among the Ethernath. In one corner also stood a cupboard, also unusual; their people generally owned little which they would place in cupboards, as most would be hung up around the walls.

Ingimirr followed them in and sat down in one of the chairs, motioning for them to do the same. “What happened? Why have you returned?” The Forerunners were still unprepared for this lack of self-control from a member of the council. “Our migration was attacked and destroyed, barely a day into Laternae territory. What you saw outside were all the survivors we could find.” Unsure how to answer the second question, Ingvarr paused, before resuming eventually, “Why have we returned? We thought it...unwise to continue given our losses.” Sighing, Ingimirr’s head bowed almost until it touched the table before him. “It appears they have scouts all along the border; they know when we cross in numbers.” Ingimirr stayed where he was, seemingly unresponsive to the fact that largely unorganised migrations were doomed to fail. Shaken by this, Ingvarr repeated his words, assuming he had not heard. “I heard you before...” Both Forerunners could see that Ingimirr was struggling deeply with himself. “...no it doesn’t matter, was that all?” Still concerned at the lack of emotion, Fyodor nodded his assent, and stood up in preparation to leave.

Ingvarr remained seated, mentally preparing himself for what he knew would come following his words. “I did have some ideas about the problem we have. We need to make the migrations more organised, and they should be far more armed.” Ingimirr looked up at the last statement, his mouth already opening to object. “Yes, it would be an army, and yes it would be aggressive, but I see no alternative, considering the blood of our people that has been shed.” Ingvarr answered the question before it had formed and then plunged heedlessly on. “I have been thinking on our trip back: we need to organise a new form of tactics, and create an overall strategy. We need to combine our strengths to create units of horse archers; their lancers will be useless if they are not allowed to close.” Seeing how unconvinced Ingimirr seemed, his voice turned to an almost pleading tone, “please, allow me to try; is it not worth even trying if we can save so many lives? We can do this.” Ingvarr finished as fiercely as he could to a council member, and his words seemed to have had an effect.

“Very well, start training and organising your riders, I will send messengers out to call the council here, and to gather the tribes for recruits.” Too grateful for words, Ingvarr exploded out of his chair, gripping the old man’s forearm tightly. As the two nodded to each other, Fyodor turned and walked out of the house with Ingvarr following not too far behind. “I notice you didn’t mention your meeting with Katja?” Ingvarr missed a step; he had not realised anyone else had been paying attention enough to see her approach him. “I think I’m going to take it one step at a time. He doesn’t need to know that yet.” They both turned as they realised that Ingimirr had appeared at the door behind them. “Fyodor, you must go east, you will be trusted by the easterners. Bring back the councillors please. The council must meet.” Fyodor’s face dropped, and he threw a mistrustful glance at Ingvarr. “But Ingimirr, surely I am needed here?” The councilman considered carefully before replying. “I agree, you are needed here, but you will be more useful in gathering the tribes. Rest here tonight, but then go tomorrow morning.”
***
Kendryek

Upon reaching the barracks, Kendryek had no time to settle back into his quarters. In fact, as soon as he dismounted and his feet touched the ground, a runner approached him, ordering his presence at a command meeting. Tired as he was, he realised it would be better to get it over with. At times like this, he almost looked forward to his comfortable retirement, now less than six years off. Nearly sixty, Kendryek had served in the Lancer Corps for around forty years, since the age of nineteen.
Shaking off these depressive thoughts, Kendryek began across the courtyard, handing his horse to his squire. He reached the doors to the main hall and slipped inside the colossal door. As he made his way towards the back, and the stairs up to the Lord Princips’ meeting room, he could not help but tilt his head back to stare at just how high the ceiling was.  The fort was built around this hall, with a courtyard in front, the stables below it, and living quarters positioned all around it.

When he arrived outside the command room, Kendryek was wheezing unhealthily, illiciting looks from the guards posted. It seemed that his advancing years had not aided his physical prowess. He paused to regain his breath before pushing the door open and entering. The room was slightly gloomy; there were no windows, so the only source of light were candles positioned around the central table. Books were placed on shelves in one corner: histories, books concerning the art of warfare, and endless sets of maps.
Currently seated at the table were six of the eight Troop Colonels; all powerful Lords in their own right and yet somehow his equal. At the head of the table, lounging back in his seat was the Lord Princips himself. A tall, black-haired man, Kendryek had come to terms with the fact that his commander was nearly a full decade younger than him.

The man’s rise was remarkable. Knighted for actions during the Cantari Schism, it seemed barely any time before the man made Colonel. When he had at the age of twenty, he became the youngest in history. He had been appointed Lord Princips by the king almost exactly a decade later following his predecessor’s somewhat suspicious death. The man’s hard, stone grey eyes bored into him as he entered the room.
“Ah, Lord Kendryek, I am sorry you were not able to rest, but I needed a report on casualties.” His voice was soft, and surprisingly high-pitched. The last man who had jested about this perhaps unusual characteristic had been the last that he had personally killed. Kendryek hadn’t seen it, but it had apparently not taken long. The fight ended exactly three seconds after it began, with the man shorter by a head, and a solitary drop of blood blemishing the Lord Princips’ blade.

“Sir, no problem sir. My report: we repelled another invasion, slaughtering it entirely. We have no exact number for casualties inflicted, but we believe it to be nearly ten thousand. We lost only thirty-three men inside the camp, and another twenty out on patrol.”
“A full patrol? How?” The Lord Princips leant forwards, steepling his fingers.
“That is still unknown but they were discovered by a second patrol which found them mutilated. That is not the only bad news however...Althalos was, and still is...incapacitated. It seems he was bested and the wrist of his sword arm is crippled.”
Leaning forward, the Lord Princips’ face was a mask. “He was bested? I was under the impression that was impossible.”This with a wry smile which was echoed around the table with snorts and quiet chuckles.

Kendryek forced himself not to join in, knowing the kind of arrogance the elf had displayed the last time he was in the city. Despite this, Kendryek felt that Althalos’ attitude had changed as he become more accustomed to humans.
“Ok, very well. Your Troop is on a stand down period. The two Troops on patrol are already gone,” said the Lord Princips, nodding to the empty seats. “Enjoy your week off, but then you will be needed to train some of the new men we have coming in. Report to the north gate next week, training is outside the city.”
“Yes my Lord, your will be done,” came Kendryek’s deferential reply.
“Good,” with an almost reptilian smile. “Now, Lord Fraomar, you are to take your Troop north to Aesernia to support Lord Swift’s Troop on their patrol. We have heard troubling rumours about the activities of the nobility in Cantar, and it may provide an opportunity.”

Looking at the next man along the table, he continued to give instructions. “Lord Trymman, you will conduct a punitive patrol into Saphrax, the last payment has not arrived. Move into their territory burn a few villages and go to Aram for an explanation.” At this, Kendryek perked up in his seat.
Saphrax was supposedly a protectorate of the Republic. In reality, their relationship was more uneasy. The parliament in Saphrax had realised long ago that Laternas was more than capable of conquering them. They had offered to pay a tribute of sorts instead. Every year, massive quantities of gold, fish and oil was transported from the coastal region. This year apparently, it had not arrived however. If so, it would be the first time since the Schism, when they had thought to take advantage and rise up. It had been very short-lived; it had been put down by a single Troop, which had defeated the Saphracian army in a single day of battle, and then razed their old capital to the grounds. It was the first and last time they had rebelled.

In unison, the two Colonels replied. “Your will.” Both men were younger than both Kendryek and the Lord Princips, and had not experienced an actual war. Kendryek could see, looking to both faces, that they wore smiles of anticipation. He decided mentally that there would be unnecessary casualties in both of these ventures and suddenly wished that, despite his overwhelming weariness, he could lead one of them. It was not that they seemed negligent, only ambitious. Ambition could cost lives just as much a negligence however, and Kendryek was tempted to speak up. But no, it dishonour, both himself and them. The rest of the meeting passed uneventfully and eventually Kendryek was allowed to go to his quarters, where he stripped off his mail before flopping down onto the bed and falling asleep almost instantly.
***
Qira

The next morning Qira woke when the first rays of sunlight crept in through the window. She felt amazingly revitalised, and was pleased to see a note slipped under her door. It invited her to breakfast with her father. As she had grown older, such occasions had become increasingly rare. Her father had enjoyed teaching her about how to be a noble child, but now his attention was focused more on her younger sister, and her education.
Qira did not at all begrudge Lillah their father’s time, nor did she blame her for the loss of their mother any longer, as she once had. Their mother had died birthing Lillah, and Qira, who had been six at the time, had blamed the new arrival for the sudden disappearance of their mother for at least a few years after. It was only once both of them had started to grow up that Qira had started to acknowledge her affection that she felt for the small bundle of energy.

She dressed quickly, eager to share a meal with her father. When she opened the door she saw a different guardsman now posted outside it. She nodded to him on the way out, idly commenting on the temperature as she did so. It was unusually warm even for summer, and she pitied the man, dressed as he was and sweltering beneath layers of leather and mail.

The walk to her father’s door did not take long, and she arrived to find an amazing spread of food set out on the solid, pine table. Bread, thick, churned butter, a wide range of cheeses and cold meats formed the main part of the breakfast, but there was also a bowl full of shiny green apples.
Qira greeted her father politely before sitting in the place to his right. The hunger from the past month had begun to make itself apparent when she was surrounded by such an abundance of food. The two of them loaded their plates and began to eat, Qira perhaps more vigourously. In between mouthfuls, they exchanged idle chat. Her father enquired about her hunt, and how successful she had been. She answered politely but succinctly, eager to fit as much food into her mouth as possible, while still maintaining as much dignity as possible.

The conversation soon moved away from her hunt, and she was happy to listen to him recount what had happened at court in the time since she had last attended. It appeared there was some sort of rebellion occurring on the Western Plain, and Lord Nahash was hard pressed to contain it. Similarly, on the southern border, the hated Laternae were becoming increasingly active, with patrols being spotted all along the boundary.
Apparently, her father had called a full meeting of the court, to take place in about a month’s time. The purpose was twofold: on the one hand to decide what would be done about the various crises facing the state, and on the other hand, it was timed to coincide with hhis younger daughter’s birthday. Lord Kang reported only one thing of actual alarm: one of the northern lords, a certain Heber of Guicheng, was complaining publicly about the timing of the meet. He claimed that it was right in the middle of the northern harvests, which meant that his prolonged absence would disrupt his district. Heber was the only one however, and Kang believed it was all simply posturing on principle.
Qira was somewhat reassured by his assessment of the situation. While his brilliant tactical mind had won him the rule of Cantar, it was his impressive political instinct which had allowed him to maintain it. He rarely missed the undertones or hidden intentions behind any of his subjects’ actions.

The meal passed pleasantly, and it was not until they were each biting into apples that Qira realised she had not yet seen her sister. It was not through neglect, but she had been exhausted last night, and her overwhelming excitement at having been asked to breakfast with her father had driven any thought of  Lillah from her mind.
She enquired casually as to her younger sister’s whereabouts, keen to go and find her. Lord Kang looked at her knowingly however, and warned her against it, at least for the morning.

“She is at her lessons. You should not interrupt her, they are important for her education. Wait until midday, and then find her.”
Qira nodded in acceptance, despite that she missed Lillah fiercely. She knew better than to go against her father. He had never gotten angry with either of them. Even when she had been younger, and had pulled her sister’s hair or hit her out of spite, her father had never shouted. He had merely pulled her away with a vice-like grip, and shut her in her room, closing the heavy door behind her and posting a guard outside. She had hammered on the door with her tiny fists, screaming and crying, hurling abuse through the door at the guard, her father, anyone who could hear.
He had not reacted. Whether he stood outside, or simply left, Qira never knew, but she always beat out her anger on the inside of the door, and eventually she would tire of her frustration. Even then her father had not returned. The polite request for her to attend him would come the next morning, and he would then proceed to calmly tell her that her sister should be among the most precious of things to her, and that she certainly was not to blame for the death of her mother, and that it was the Cloak that had taken her for his own. Nothing her sister had done had caused it.
The message had not sunk in the first few times, but eventually, as she grew older, she had begun to understand his point, and the instances when such tactics had been required had become fewer and then stopped altogether. As soon as she accepted her father’s words, it had become impossible not to love her sister.

Six years younger than Qira, Lillah was highly energetic, and was rarely unsmiling. She had the youthful exuberance that Qira had only recently lost. Qira was grateful for her, for she always seemed able to brighten any room she walked into. Even the dour guardsmen had seemingly adopted her, and Lillah had gained an army of uncles to replace the mother she had never known.
After the delicious breakfast, Qira nearly felt ill with the amount of food she had eaten, and so decided to go and pass the time in her father’s garden. Despite the cold weather of Cantar, the garden was a wonder to behold. Through the careful selection of plants and then the attention devoted to them by her father, the overall effect was stunning. There was a whole kaleidoscope of colours present, and when combined with the overpowering mixture of aromas, the garden was a pleasure for her senses as she stepped out into it. Compared to the dull, endless, snow-covered pines that she had seen for the past few months, the beauty of the garden was a welcome change.

Qira moved in amongst the beautiful whites, reds, yellows, greens, pinks and blues of the foliage, and lay down on her back on the perfectly-kept  grass that made up the floor. She did not quite realise just how tired she still was, and she fell asleep quickly, lulled by the silence of the enclosed area.
***