Isaac II Part III

  In the forested hills above the camp, the men of the Granite and Brimstone Companies were raining arrows down on the camp, watching them blossom into terrific pillars of fire as they struck. The magicians of the 27th Legion had worked during the entire wagon ride to enchant the bolts, amazingly without mishap. The camp had been identified as the Haborym advance position, and its destruction would be a kick in the teeth for the House.

  Sorrel watched the black-robed Isaac run out of the woods and climb the hill, operating on adrenaline and excitement: It had been Isaac’s idea to lure the commander out with the disguise, and Lodossi’s idea to bring the whole force to one place. The entire operation had taken about twenty minutes to plan; just long enough to tell everyone about it.

“Oh, that’s a run…” Isaac panted, taking his place at Sorrel’s side. “How’d it go?”

“Around a dozen got out, but Granite Company’ll find them. We’re going to need you to help put out the fire in a couple of minutes.”

“Who got the officer?”

“Lodossi. He can’t seem to hit the head; got Tommas in the back.”

Isaac took off the salet and wiped his forehead. “There’ve been some delays in orders. People are getting impatient.”

“We’ll keep a look out for runners carrying orders.”

  Sorrel chuckled.

“We’ll be killing messengers.”

                                              ****

  Isaac took a deep breath, tightened the strap on his helmet, and stepped out. The sun between the trees was bright and warm. His sword’s point almost touched the ground as he walked, and his red and black robes swished. Eighteen others stepped out from behind their trees and fell into stride with him in one, silent line. Ahead, a string of soldiers were trudging beside wagons, facing the other way. They wore the brown and green of foresters, but quivers and short swords showed them to be hired men.

  Two days later, a messenger from Arc came across the road. There were marks from hooves and boots, and some splintered cart wheels. He walked to the center of the road, where a finger was half buried in the dirt. As he reached down to pick it up, a tree branch cracked. He sidestepped and looked up: someone was in the tree.

“Identify yourself!”

The man in the tree made no reply. The messenger realized that the man had no head, and no clothes. Another body was splayed in the branches, also headless and naked. He discovered that every tree along the path had at least one body caught in the branches.

  Lodossi killed him with two swings, while the man was looking up.

                                                  ****

  Four days before the beginning of the campaign, Father Haborym sat on the balcony of his temporary quarters and looked over the darkened Arc. The town was built into the side of a tall hill, with walls of stone, wood, and earth ringing it. Stairways and paths were cut into the earth, and A-frame houses were set above one another on the slopes; each one extended into the hill itself in long tunnels. The better ones were closer to the top, where the archer-banks were.

  The father sipped cold wine and enjoyed the night breeze playing across his white beard. It was pleasant here, far from his fortresses in the mountains. Behind him, four bodyguards stood with their swords permanently drawn. One of them looked back into the room and nodded. A man in a cloak of leaves slipped past them and sat down next to the Father, who had closed his eyes.

“Bad news?” the Father asked.

“Twelve couriers have not returned. There is a full battalion of troops unaccounted, six hundred of them Haborym. Twenty-one scouts have reported seeing at least two hundred Illusian troops in full plate, but there could be as many as one thousand. Three camps have been twice-confirmed as destroyed, and four more unconfirmed. Approximately six hundred are dead.”

“How were the camps destroyed?”

“A combination of assassinations and arson. Explosive powders and Illusian magicians are involved.”

“The 25th…27th Legion? Burning is their usual tactic. They have magicians.”

“Most likely. Two reports of red and black-clad men have come in.”

  Father Haborym took another sip of wine. Overhead, a cloud drifted away, uncovering the moon.

“Is this the main Body?”

The man paused before he answered. “We don’t know. There’re still messages coming from the sea, saying the Body is sailing west.”

“Who’s saying that?”

“At least six men. The last message came a month ago, saying they’re docked in Dermos.”

“Are these six above suspicion?”

“One is. Malo.”

“What is his vice? Something he could have been persuaded with?”

“He likes…he’s a sailor, marr .”

“Women.” Father Haborym grimaced. “We could be in deep here. Increase the guards around the horses and the pipes. Where were these bastards last sighted?”

  The spy inhaled, unrolled a small map, and pointed to small black ‘x’s.

“These are burned camps. This is Arc.”

  The ‘x’s made a loose line, heading southeast. The spy drew a slow line with his finger.

“We checked the old maps. Turns out there was a road here at one time, the Ronelig Line. All the attacks are on its periphery.”

“Could we send a detachment?”

“This is where they were last sighted.”

Father Haborym looked at the little ‘x’, then at the black dot a finger-width away.

“What’s this dot, here?”

“That’s Arc.”

  The older man’s eyes widened.

“What’s the scale of the map?”

“They’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Find them. Find them now.”

“I would ask for few-“

“Take as many of the skinny baggers as you need.”

                                                    *****

  At that moment, Isaac had his hands on his head and a sword on his neck. Behind him were three other Illusian soldiers, hands firmly planted on the tops of their heads.

“I wish I had clothes like you.” He said to the owner of the sword, standing in front of him. The swordsman wore a shin-length, open green robe, and a black, oval mask with eye-slits. Under the flowing fabric, there was more of the black material. The robe was decorated with gold filigree and embroidered patterns of leaves, as were the man’s black trousers.

  Behind the swordsman stood a dozen of others, all dressed similarly and all half hidden in the dark of the forest. They stood or crouched in complete silence, holding cocked bows. Isaac raised his hands slowly and removed his helmet. The swordsman motioned to Isaac’s waist. Isaac unbelted his sword and flashjack and let them fall to the ground. The sword was retracted from his neck, but not sheathed.

“You may be buried in any clothing you wish.” The swordsman said. Curving, pointed ears, the length of Isaac’s hand, stuck out from behind the mask.

“I doubt the Haborym will be as courteous to your folk. Or us. Or anyone.” Replied Isaac, running a finger across his neck.

“They are not coming for our cities. They are coming for yours.”

“Father Haborym is here. And can you guess who he’s bringing with him?”

  The masked man raised his sword to Isaac’s neck again. “Tell me where they are.”

“Promise me that you will not kill any of my soldiers.”

He seemed to consider it, rubbing two snow-white fingers together.

“Tell me your name.”

“Isaac of Ravolo.”

  The man, easily six feet tall, inhaled behind the black mask. After a few seconds, he spoke. “We agree.”

“We need to do this together.” Isaac’s excitement was growing.

“How many soldiers will you send?”

“Twenty.”

“Good ones?”

“The best we have.”

“We will work with your soldiers.”

“Father Haborym is in Arc. Jakob will be back there by tomorrow night.”

  The green-clad men sheathed their swords and eased their bowstrings forward. The sword was lifted away from Isaac’s neck, and the rest of the Illusian soldiers relaxed. The swordsman took Isaac’s hand and clenched it.

“How many do you need?”

“Fifteen, maybe.”

“I will get them.” He let go of Isaac’s hand and shrugged off his robes. “My name is Sinnar.”