In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 12

Chapter 12 - Althalos

The three of them were set loose with their horses the next day, and Althalos welcomed his flea-bitten horse. Having travelled so far together, the familiarity that had grown between horse and rider was something Althalos appreciated. Jorge had joined them, as a representative, and Althalos had scowled at him when he realised the short man was to accompany them. He had been right: the place he had been held had been underground. When they emerged into the sunlight, Althalos looked around, trying to get his bearings. They appeared to be in the middle of nowehere, but Jorge immediately set his horse walking in the direction he insisted was west. The journey to the border would take weeks, and Althalos could not say he was thrilled at having to spend so much time with the little man.

Both Tobrecan and Sceotend seemed a little the worse for wear and remained quiet for much of the first day’s travelling, and Althalos took advantage of the sleeve to ask Jorge all the questions he had not had the opportunity to ask Sophia.
“What happened to the girls we saved?” The four of them were riding in two pairs, and it seemed likely that the two behind could hear, so Althalos asked for their benefit as much as anything.
“They were returned to their village, despite their assertions that they wanted to join us.” Jorge only answered grudgingly, but Althalos knew he was supposed to be an aid as well as a spectator.
“And who is ‘us’?” Althalos had guessed by now that they were some form of freedom fighters.
“...we are simply resisting the Lancers, rather than bending over for them as the damn Parliament would have us do.” Jorge took a while to answer, and even then he didn’t really answer the question. Althalos hesitated and then looked away, examining the rocky hills around them. It was a while before either spoke.
“And what of Sophia? Who is she?”

“Depends who you ask. No one really knows the whole story.” Jorge seemed deliberately evasive, so Althalos pushed on.
“I am asking you. What do you know about her?” Althalos was eager to learn more about the intriguing woman he had met so briefly.
“She is the daughter of some merchant from Carchemish, but she has strong convictions, and wants Saphracians not to live in fear of their northern cousins. That is why we wiped out that Troop.”
“You did that? How many of you are there?” Althalos’ eyes widened at the news.
“Our numbers are constantly changing, and we are spread the entire way across the country. My best guess is maybe 20-25,000 total.” Jorge clearly did not want particularly want to share information, and looked uncomfortable at having done so, glancing back to check the men behind weren’t listening. Althalos was not impressed by the figures, knowing that if the Republic was to gather all its military in one place, they would number nearer 200,000 than 20,000, of which some 40,000 would by Lancers. Of course, this was never likely to happen given Laternas’ position; surrounded on three sides by hostile territory.

After that Jorge refused to answer any more questions, and the group lapsed into silence. The weeks passed at a crawl. They were travelling across the countryside rather than using roads, which slowed them down significantly. The terrain as well was difficult to traverse. The hills undulated gently enough, but they were littered with tiny, steep-banked streams which took them often hours out of their way. The earth beneath them changed from the wild grasses and ferns, often growing to their knees, and soon they were riding through the wide plains that formed the west of Saphrax. The grass was short and tough, and they had left trees behind them some time ago.
Ahead of them and only just visible, were the ______ Mountains. Huge rises of rock, mountains and cliffs rose up out of the plain as a physical wall to isolate the Expanse, and it meant that its inhabitants were able to closely monitor human presence within their borders. They controlled the flow through the narrow mountain passes with massive border forts as far as Althalos could remember. He could not remember anything about the people themselves though, and had been struggling to for their entire journey. It the end he decided that it probably  didn’t matter , because they would surely have changed since he had last been this far west.

It took them another four days to reach the base of the sheer cliffs, and Althalos found himself unable to see the top, even when he craned right back in the saddle. They then spent another three days travelling north along the side of the mountains, searching for a pass.
When they eventually found one, Althalos almost wished they hadn’t. The border fortress was grim and foreboding, and looked to have been hewn directly from the mountain-side, with the approach to the gate horridly exposed, and turning back on itself several times in the shadow of the black, rock walls.
“Who wants to go first then?” Sceotend had lost his usual easy humour and instead just sounded nervous above all else.
“I’ll go. They wouldn’t hurt a cripple.” Althalos spoke with a forced grin and waved his damaged wrist. Even in his own ears, the attempted levity was painful to hear.
“Rather you than me.” Tobrecan’s usual, gruff manner had reasserted itself in the last week, and Althalos was glad his friend had returned, but he still noticed the unpleasant glances that shot between him and Jorge. Tobrecan had not taken kindly to travelling with teh man who had tortured first him and then his younger brother.

Althalos forced a smile in his direction and shook his head with exaggerated lethargy, rolling his eyes as he set off up the narrow path. As he did, he looked around, scanning the defences with a tactical eye. The pass was built for defence: the narrow path allowed only a few men abreast, though many more would likely be able to scale the low rocks immediately on either side. Beyond the width of the wall tohugh – about a hundred metres – the mountains rose up steep and impassable. As he reached the first cut back in the path, he realised that these people must have no interest in trade whatsoever; the trail was far too uneven and rutted for carts to traverse it. Indeed, his horse was struggling, so fickle was the surface.
The nearer he drew to the wall, the more he realised just how large it was. The wall around Laternas was a good twenty-five feet tall, and he had considered that huge, yet this one was nearer thirty-five. He could only imagine having to assault such walls, and hoped never to experience it. Such an experience would likely be his last. The gates as well, were proportionate to the wall and therefore enormous. Two towers rose ten feet higher than the wall on either side of it, and they were a good 25 metres apart. He felt very small with his three companions, and wondered who had constructed such an enormous barrier.

The gate began to open, seemingly of its own accord, allowing the riders to enter. As the gate swung shut behind them, Althalos let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and was surprised to see that the arch continued straight into a tunnel which seemed to go the whole way through the mountain. There were doorways on either side and even as he noticed them, soldiers began pouring out of them.
At first, he thought they were men, as they stood upright, and carried spears and shields, and were dressed in plate armour. It was only when he noticed the bare, clawed feet that he realised they were not. He looked closer and saw also that the hands gripping the spears were bare also: black-scaled and clawed similarly to the feet. What he had taken to be ornamentation on the helmets also seemed to be just the top of their heads. A bony plate formed the top of their heads, with ridges protruding out over the eyes on either side.
One barked an order, and the warriors formed a ring around the riders, although they kept their spears held upright. The spears themselves were curious. They were shorter than those used in Laternas, even shorter than lances. It looked almost as though they had been designed specifically for close-quarter combat, the shorter haft making them less unwieldly.

Althalos had no more time to assess their appearance however, as the officer made his way through the ring to stand before them. As far as Althalos could, he looked exactly the same as his troops but for a splash of red scales down one side of his head. Althalos bowed in the saddle to him, unsure exactly what was protocol, but the officer sketched a bow in return, so he thought he was probably alright.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Althalos almost fell out of his saddle, so shocked was he that this beast could speak his language recognisably. It had a distinct edge to it, and came out slowly, but he was able to understand. The pace at which it came out also gave him plenty of opportunity to see the row of jagged teeth lining his mouth.
“I am Althalos, and this is Jorge of Saphrax, and Tobrecan and Sceotend of Laternas. We are simple travellers, hoping for an audience with your ruler.”

The creature opposite appeared to understand the gist of it, and said something in his own tongue to the gathered soldiers, whereupon they started making a noise akin to coughing. It took Althalos a few moments to realise that they were laughing.
“No one gets an audience with The Great One. You will talk to the Pravitka, but only if  you are willing to travel to the capital.”
“I see, and where is this capital?” Althalos grimaced. He was sure his message would be better appreciated by this ‘Great One,’ but he also remembered the last time he had been overtly arrogant when attempting to be diplomatic and so shut his mouth.
“A long way to the south-west. You are lucky, as it happens, I have a detachment going there to get supplies for the coming winter. You can travel with them.”
Althalos looked at the officer, trying to work out if there was any ulterior motive, but unable to do so. The golden eyes stared steadily back at him, slitted pupils unwavering.
“Of course, we would be honoured to travel with such warriors as these.” He gestured around at the enclosing ring of soldiers. It was clear many of them did not understand him, for they shifted uneasily, until the officer repeated the words in their own language.
***
Kendryek

As the weeks and months passed, Kendryek struggled to put the incident from his mind. He had killed before, and many times in his youth, but it was the first time he had ever personally killed a Lancer. Despite its justification, Kendryek could not get passed the fact that he had killed one of his own, for all he told himself to think of it as simply aiding a man’s passing. In the time that had passed, muscles had developed, and the men had grown into Lancers, with according physiques. At the same time, they had been educated about horse-, weapon- and armour-care, as well as a military history of Laternas stretching as far back as the old tribes which were the origin of all the human states in the west. From there, it moved through the Time of Oppression, the Wars of Liberation and then the Golden Age which had begun with the end of the Wars of Liberation and the signing of a non-aggression pact with the Toscene Expanse to the west. In more recent history, they learnt about the Cantari Schism, and the Migrations which had begun when most of them were small children.

One day, months into the training, a messenger arrived from the city, ordering Kendryek to attend the Lord Princips with his Strike Commanders immediately. It took a while to gather them, spread as they were. Each had taken units to conduct drills individually in the surrounding countryside, so it was almost an hour before they arrived. By the time they did, the messenger had grown noticeably fidgety, evidently uncomfortable at the delay.
“My Lord, we should hurry. The Lord Princips will not take kindly to this delay.”
He looked worried at pressing someone of Kendryek’s authority, but was clearly more scared of the Lord Princips.
“Very well, now we’re all here, let’s go.” He turned his horse and gently nudged it forwards, back towards the city. The others followed, and they cantered to the road, then along it to the main gate. Here they had to slow for the crowds. It was another ten minutes before they arrived at the barracks, and at least another five after that before they were being ushered into the meeting room.

The Lord Princips was already present, and turned as they entered the room. Although it was autumn, and the sun was still bright and warm in the sky, none of it reached this far into the barracks. So deep among the dark store corridors, they had to rely on candles and oil lamps, which created a somewhat gloomy atmosphere.
“Ah, finally. Was there something unclear about ‘immediately’?” The man seemed agitated, and Kendryek did his best to sound contrite.
“My apologies, my lord, we were running exercises. It took time to-“
“Never mind, never mind. I called you here to give your troop their orders.” Kendryek was amazed. He had never seen the man so flustered. Kendryek did not dare raise the fact that, training finished, he should return to his own Troop, and another Colonel set in his place.
“My Lord? What news?” Something truly terrible must have happened to get him like this.
“Lord Fraomar returned yesterday.” Kendryek struggled to remember his assignment.
“From...Saphrax?” He asked tentatively, and the Lord Princips nodded impatiently.
“You don’t understand. Only Lord Fraomar returned. His Troop was slaughtered to a man.”
“Wha...how?” Kendryek stumbled back as the words hit him like a physical blow. The air had been driven from his lungs, and he struggled to breath. 5,000 men, gone just like that. Even with the 5,000 he had trained, and the other 10,000 being trained by a few of the other Colonels, such a loss represented the largest defeat for centuries if not millennia.

“When he returned, he was barely coherent. He said they were ambushed by daemons and wraiths.” The Lord Princips snorted.
“It seems someone is organising resistance. Well, I have a job for your Troop. Yours is the Troop that will patrol down the edge of the Waste. I have heard rumours of some sort of revolution taking place among the barbarians, and I want you and yours to make sure no Migrations come through for the next month or so.” He looked at Kendryek, who nodded that he understood, before continuing.
“The other two green Troops will be dispatched north to Cantar. The ‘beloved’ Lord Kang is no longer in control. Seems he was murdered. I intend to reclaim some of our lost territory. Three Troops will cross the border, with one more staying in Aesernia. Lord ______ is moving his Troop from the eastern border to Thurii to meet up with Lord _____ and join their forces. Once you have conducted your sweep, join them and I will bring your former Troop. 20,000 men should be enough to set Saphrax ablaze. We will burn Aram to the ground, and kill one in five of the population. That should teach them their place.” By the end of the speech, Kendryek’s eyes had widened at the sheer numbers involved. Never before had more than one Troop been deployed to engage at once. It had never been needed, and Kendryek worried about the implication.

“Very well, you are dismissed.” By the time Kendryek processed the abrupt dismissal, the Lord Princips had turned and was studying a pile of maps once again. Kendryek sketched a bow, before turning and leading his men from the room.
As soon as they were back out in the sunlight, his men began to discuss what they had heard. Kendryek ignored it all, staring ahead and contemplating what the troop movements might mean.
Packing up the encampment and ordering the column went surprisingly smoothly. With his men sliding into their allocated duties with ease. The camp was dismantled, and the supply train formed; a line of half a dozen wagons which carried stakes for the temporary encampments, extra food supplies, and spare weapons and armour. Five Lances formed the Vanguard, then came another ten behind, before the supply train, flanked along its length by a further ten on each side, then came another ten. The final five Lances were the rearguard.

Over the course of the training, season had changed. In the months he had been getting the Lancers into shape, midsummer had moved into autumn. While it was still warm on occasion, rain was more common, and Kendryek cursed the timing of the campaign. The roads would already by reduced to mud, and the passage of 5,000 men would only make it worse.
Kendryek was slightly disgruntled at not being returned to his men, and the unusual time of year to be campaigning. The poor weather he knew would also impact on his general mood, as the constant camp caused his joints to ache. It was yet another sign of his impending retirement, and he could scarcely wait to spend his remaining years on some sleepy estate far to the west.
***
Ingvarr

It was the better part of a year later that Ingvarr was sparring with Valdemar, the two of them moving back and forward across the baked, dusty ground. Their numbers had swelled to three thousand since the start of training, and they had been organised into a full quiver.
Arriving on the opposite side of the shimmering expanse of water, Ingvarr surveyed the patch of wasteland critically. As he did so, an idea came to him. To completely separate himself, and his new troops from the traditional ways, he needed a physical separation between the main settlement and a new training compound.

Construction of the usual mud-brick buildings was simple, something which every Ethernath was able to do. The only problem was that it was back-breaking work. The first few days of training would be conditioning of a sort; something which would get his troops into the required shape.
There was more than a little confused muttering when Ingvarr gave his new orders. Even Valdemar and Katja looked more than a little shocked. After the teams had dispersed to begin constructing their new quarters, Ingvarr dismounted to explain himself.
“We need to separate ourselves completely from outside influence, and to do that, we need somewhere else to live. That is what this construction project is about.” As he finished, they were perhaps more understanding, but he still got the feeling that they were sceptical.
A few months later, the scepticism had disappeared. The hard work outside, under the glaring sun was already starting to have an effect on the muscles of all of the recruits. With the basic structures built; those to house the troops, Ingvarr relegated the time devoted to erection of new buildings.

In the time since their return to Sarpsborg, Valdemar had proved extremely efficient in fulfilling both his administrative and training duties. Along with this, he had also emerged as a very capable swordsman, to such an extent that he was pressing Ingvarr hard, first darting left and unleashing a flurry of blows at his weaker side and then stepping back for a brief respite.
He then stepped forward, feinting high and left again, before launching a serpent-quick lunge towards his right shoulder. Ingvarr, seeing the feint, stepped to his right, so that Valdemar’s lunge passed his shoulder harmlessly. Bringing his own blade up, he connected with Valdemar’s sword just below the crossguard, jarring it from his hand. As he lurched sideways, Ingvarr’s arm curled around his neck, immobilising him.
“Well played, Forerunner,” chuckled Valdemar as he was released.
“Not so bad yourself,” replied Ingvarr, giving him a playful punch on the shoulder. As he bent to retrieve his sword, a rider galloped up, kicking up a cloud of dirt as he skidded to a stop. The young boy riding vaulted from his mount before it had fully come to a stop.
“Forerunner, Fyodor has just arrived with councilman Faddei; the meeting is about to start!” Looking uncertainly at Ingvarr’s bulk, he cautiously offered him his horse.

“No, I’ll run. Don’t worry, I’ll make it. You did well.” As the boy’s chest swelled with pride, Ingvarr turned to Valdemar. Round up Katja, as well as some of the atamans and meet me later.” Turning away, he began to jog in the direction of the central square.
Scarcely five minutes later, he arrived in the square to find a crowd had gathered. As he began to move towards the centre of the square, people began to move out of the way until he finally reached the ring of rugs upon which the council were collectively seated.
“We cannot allow this; it is a complete corruption of our beliefs and values; our honour,” Aleksi was saying just as Ingvarr arrived.
Shaking his head in anger, he spoke up. “When we have a choice between our old-fashioned traditions, and our lives, does it not make sense to choose our lives?” This sparked outrage, with a good dozen councillors jumping to their feet.
The debate raged on for hours. The sun began its lazy descent towards the flat horizon, and food was brought out, the councillors continuing their arguments with renewed vigour, gesturing at each other with crusts of bread. The councilmen from the southern coast had brought supplies of fish with them, meaning that the rarity in the wastes that was fish meat was also available.

Towards the end of the  day’s proceedings, Ingimirr sidled up to Ingvarr as he was listening to an indignant councilman from the far south-eastern reaches of the wastes, who was complaining that the standing of his settlement was entirely derived from their efforts against The Enemy.
“It would perhaps be best if you were not present tomorrow. Your idea has merit, and there is support for it here, but so long as you are present, you act as a catalyst and a focal point for those in opposition,” this with a gesture to the now red-faced councillor Faddei, who had retreated to allow them a degree of privacy.
“If you think so, I’ll go back to the Dust tomorrow.”
Ingimirr smiled at the old name for Sarpsborg’s training field, but shook his head. “It would not be suitable for you to seem to continue regardless of the council, they might misconstrue it.”
Feeling somewhat disappointed in his people, Ingvarr nodded curtly, suddenly weary, and turned away. Muttering a courtesy to Faddei, Ingvarr moved to the edge of the square, and then strode along the wide central street of the settlement to the building he had taken as a barracks of sorts for himself and his officers.

He pushed open the rough wooden door, hinges screeching, and confronted the scene within. Valdemar was seated at the table, sprawled across the sturdy wooden chair in full armour, with some of the atamans directly under him, including Helmar and Kjell, leaning on the table itself or the nearby wall. The female officers were almost exclusively on the other side of the room, garbed in rough-spun woollen shirts and trousers.
Katja, seemingly oblivious to the divide, was sat at the table, opposite Valdemar, uncaring of the somewhat hostile looks she was receiving from some of the men. As he entered, Katja and Valdemar rose to their feet with all the rest.
“So, what is to happen?” Valdemar’s face was drawn, as if he had not eaten anything since that morning. This served if anything to make his scars more prominent. Katja remained silent, but it was clear in her well-defind features that she wanted an answer to the same question.
“Nothing as yet. Training is to be suspended for tomorrow at least; go and inform your troops. You two, stay.”
The junior officers filed out, disgruntled, while Valdemar and Katja paused, glancing at each other, before returning to the table. Waiting for the stragglers to leave, Ingvarr busied himself pouring a cup of water from a jug on the low table at the back of the room. As the last woman exited the room, he turned and strode to the table, taking a swig of water before setting the cup down.

“How are the recruits? The officers?” Considering his words carefully, he continued. “How loyal are they?”
Silence initially greeted his question, with many weighted glances passing between Katja and Valdemar. While their more junior counterparts resented each other, they themelves both respected and liked each other; something which had begun to develop on the return to Sarpsborg, and only increased as both Katja’s intelligence, and her exceptional proficiency with a bow had become apparent.

Eventually, Katja spoke up: “The women would all die for you; you have elevated them, allowed them to defend themselves and their children.“
Satisfied with her answer, he looked to Valdemar. The scarred man paused, then: “All of the recruits are volunteers, so I believe that they would all remain loyal, the officers especially. It all depends on how they are tested.” With this he threw a significant look at Ingvarr, as if reading his mind.
“Understood. Now, Valdemar, get something to eat, and both of you get some rest, we will see what the council decides.”
***