Army of the Dead (59 page)

Two runners burst through the tent flap. Everyone looked up with anticipation of the report.

“Both ends of the valley are covered with huge spider webs,” reported one of the soldiers. “The men are panicking.”

“Go calm them down, Luggar,” ordered Cardijja. “Restore order to this camp.”

Luggar started to object, but the premer’s face was set with determination. The general left the tent with the two soldiers.

“You have risked your life to come here and warn me,” Cardijja said softly to Bakhai. “You must have known that you would die for your efforts. Why did you come?”

“You are a good man, Cardijja,” replied Bakhai. “You care for your men, and I believe that you must be wary of how Vand is using you. I believe that you will do the right thing for your people. This killing can stop tonight. All it will take is your word. I know what my brother has planned for you. There is no escape for your army. Think about it, but do not take a long time to reach your decision. The attacks can begin at any moment.”

“They will at least wait for the Astor’s brother to return,” mused Cardijja. “That will buy me some time to think about your proposition.”

“No, it won’t,” replied Bakhai. “No one knows that I have come here tonight. As I said before, I was forbidden to come. I came anyway.”

“You can’t expect me to go against everything I have ever believed in,” balked Cardijja. “I am a military man. I have an obligation to fight.”

“You are also a husband and father,” retorted Bakhai. “Or at least you were. Must you leave your wife a widow to satisfy Vand’s ego? Think of your men and their loved ones on the Island of Darkness. Your stubborn decision will destroy all of those lives, and it still will not affect the outcome of this war. Your men are in no condition to fight and the battle begins any moment. Stop it! End the madness now and surrender.”

Premer Cardijja stared at Bakhai as if he were a specter. His brow knitted and his mouth opened in wonder.

“What do you know about my being a father?” he asked.

“I know about Armen,” Bakhai said softly as he suddenly understood why he was so drawn to Cardijja. He shared the pain of a lost father-son relationship. “You talk in your sleep to him every night. I am sorry for you. I understand your pain. My parents died when I was quite young. I miss them both.”

Tears flowed down Bakhai’s cheeks, and he turned aside to avoid being seen by Cardijja. General Luggar entered the tent and halted just inside the flap. He looked at Bakhai crying and then saw the tears running down Cardijja’s cheeks as well. The premer noticed him and quickly wiped his eyes and straightened as he stood up.

“Wake the camp, General Luggar,” ordered the premer. “I want a huge campfire built at the extreme northern edge of the valley. Make it as large as is possible. I want it seen for leagues around.”

“For what purpose?” asked the general.

“When it is complete,” the premer continued, “I want every one of our men to march by it. They are to drop their weapons in a pile on the ground near the fire.”

“We will be defenseless,” protested the general. “If the Fakarans attack how are we to defend the camp?”

“We are surrendering, General,” declared Premer Cardijja. “It is to our advantage to make that fact obvious to the Fakarans before they attack us. Make that fire big, and get those soldiers up there to leave their weapons.”

“But…” frowned the general.

“Move, Luggar,” shouted Cardijja. “I do not want to waste another life if we can avoid it. I want my men reunited with their families.”

Princess Alahara and the Astor stood on the rim of the Valley of Bones. They stared down at the huge bonfire at the northern edge of the valley and the long line of Motangan soldiers marching by it.

“What are they doing?” asked Princess Alahara.

“They are piling their weapons next to the fire,” answered Rejji.

“It is as if they are doing it for show,” remarked Wyant. “They want us to see it.”

“So that we know that they are unarmed?” asked Princess Alahara. “Do they think that we will not attack just because they have no weapons?”

“That is exactly what they think,” nodded Rejji. “If I was not suspicious of the Motangans, I would suspect that they were surrendering.”

“That is exactly what they are doing,” announced Yltar as he approached the group. “Premer Cardijja has had enough of this war.”

“That is incredible,” replied Wyant. “I could not imagine so many men surrendering. I think it is a trap.”

“Then you do not have enough faith in Kaltara,” smiled the Qubari shaman. “One does not set a trap by disarming himself. Our forces could easily slaughter the Motangans without their weapons.”

“Why?” asked the Astor. “What would cause them to surrender when they have finally found a place to rest for the night? Do you think they know about the spider webs?”

“They know everything,” nodded Yltar. “They know about the poisoned meat, the webs, the elven archers, and the horsemen waiting to invade this tranquil valley. Why else would they consider surrendering such a large force of men?”

“How could they know?” scowled Princess Alahara. “Are you saying that we have a traitor in our midst?”

“Perhaps,” shrugged Yltar. “It depends upon your definition of traitor. Surely someone told them about our plans, but does that make him a traitor if the telling brought the Motangan surrender?”

Rejji whirled around, his eyes scanning the rim of the valley. “Where is Bakhai?” he demanded.

“He is in Premer Cardijja’s tent,” Yltar answered. “He told you of his desire to seek peace with the Motangans, but you refused him. It would appear that he valued peace over his own life.”

“And it would appear that he was correct in his beliefs,” nodded Rejji. “How long have you known he was in the camp?”

“I knew that he would go before he left,” replied the shaman.

“And you said nothing?” frowned Rejji.

“I said nothing to you,” replied Yltar, “but I prayed to Kaltara for Bakhai’s safety and success. You would have stopped him from going out of fear for his safety, but Bakhai has become a shaman in his own right. His closeness with Kaltara must be respected. You see him only through a brother’s eyes.”

“He is my brother,” snapped Rejji. “How am I supposed to see him? I cannot believe that he defied me, and that you let him endanger his life.”

“His life in not in danger,” assured Yltar. “While Bakhai may believe that he is alone, he is not. Kaltara drove your brother to the Motangan camp many days ago. You did not ask him to go, yet he acted as if you had. Did you not wonder why he volunteered?”

“Kaltara told him to volunteer,” Princess Alahara smiled, “but why?”

“To build a bond with Premer Cardijja,” smiled Yltar. “At least that is what actually happened. Without that bond, the Motangans would have never surrendered.”

Rejji stared at the shaman for a few moments and then smiled and nodded. “We need to arrange for food for the Motangans. See to it, Wyant. Yltar, accompany me down into the valley. It is time to accept Cardijja’s surrender. Vandegar awaits our armies.”

* * *

A heavy fog rolled across the sea smothering the city of Meliban. One moment the stars hung brightly in the black sky, and the next moment one could not see two paces in front of oneself. Simple sounds distorted and echoed through the city without direction. The ships in the harbor became enshrouded and impossible to see. The fog was so thick that the sentries could not even see each other. The Motangan sentries on the wharf could only hear the lapping of the waves and the distant jostling of the rigging of the invisible ships.

Fog was fairly frequent near the mouth of the Meliban River, and the Motangan guards had grown used to it. This particular fog raised no sense of alarm, nor did it seem unusual, but unusual it was. This particular fog was magical.

The main pier in Meliban was a long wooden finger that stretched far into the harbor. Water constantly lapped at the pilings as the waves rolled into shore. On this particular night, those gentle swells carried a dark shape under the dock. Where the water ended and the sand began, the dark shape exited the water, crawling under the wooden slats until there was no room to crawl further. The shape lingered for several long moments, ears perked to listen for nearby sounds. After a time, the shape slid out from under the dock and, hunched over, crept onto the wharf. Silent footsteps slowly moved in the fog until one of the sentries was in sight. With eye-blinking swiftness and a surety of purpose, the shape moved up behind the sentry and struck out. A black blade sliced the throat of the sentry while the other hand covered the sentry’s mouth. Lowering the body to the ground, HawkShadow moved off to hunt the other sentry.

Within minutes the other sentry was slain, and HawkShadow moved stealthily out onto the long finger of wooden slats. He emitted a sound that resembled the screech of a hawk. A like sound echoed back to him from the harbor. Three successive birdcalls brought a large shape into view, gliding slowly across the water. HawkShadow grabbed a coil of rope attached to the dock and threw it towards the bow of the ship. Someone caught it. The Sakovan assassin moved quickly to grab another coil of rope and toss it to someone on the stern of the ship. Within seconds the ship was tied to the dock and people began disembarking. There was no need for speech or hand signals. Everyone knew his task. HawkShadow stood to one side as the other Sakovans moved silently along the dock and into the city. When StarWind got off the ship, HawkShadow moved alongside her and joined the column of Sakovans. The last to exit the ship were the Sakovan mages led by the Star of Sakova and her uncle, Temiker.

The Sakovan mages walked off the dock and waited patiently on the fog-enshrouded wharf while the Sakovan warriors moved along the streets and into the city. Although fog typically dulled and distorted sounds, an eerie silence pervaded the city. Temiker listened intently as he counted numbers in his head. After an interminable delay, Temiker spoke softly.

“It is time,” the old mage announced. “Remember the Star’s instructions, and do not unnecessarily endanger yourselves. We can afford the time to stay in Meliban until the task is complete. There is no rush.”

A hundred Sakovan mages followed Lyra and Temiker into the fog. As they moved along the main street of the city red-clad bodies appeared on the ground, dead eyes staring into the mist. The mages walked around the corpses or stepped over them. When they approached the center of the city, mages began to peel off to each side of the street. Some moved silently into narrow alleyways, while others sought the safety of dark corners formed by adjacent buildings.

Lyra and Temiker halted in the park that occupied the very center of Meliban. The remaining mages split off in three different directions to hide themselves and await the proper moment. Temiker began counting anew, giving time for all of the mages to find hiding spots.

“If you are ready?” Temiker asked softly as the numbers ran down inside his head.

“I am ready,” nodded Lyra. “Where will you be?”

“At the edge of the park against the building,” answered Temiker. “You will not be able to see me, but neither will the Motangans. Be careful, Lyra, and do not let the power drain from you. If you get into trouble, shout, and I will come to your aid. I will lift the fog as soon as I see your blue cylinder.”

Temiker did not wait for a reply. He walked away from the Star of Sakova and placed his back against one of the buildings bordering the park. He quickly wove an illusion that made it appear as if there was a pile of crates in the spot where he stood. He hoped that no one would desire to climb up on the crates. Moments later a blue cylinder shot skyward from the center of the park. He knew that Lyra had invoked her spell of protection. Without delay, the old mage cast his arms upward. The fog that smothered the city instantly dissipated from the park and the nearest buildings, although the rest of Meliban remained enshrouded. Lyra’s blue column shone brightly and cast an eerie swath of blue light over the surrounding buildings. Shouts immediately came from windows surrounding the park.

The first to arrive were Motangan soldiers from the administration building. Officers shouted commands and horns blew. Soldiers began gathering from all quarters of the city, but not as many responded as should have. All around the perimeter of the city, red-clad bodies littered the ground, and the Sakovan warriors moved inward towards the park, silently killing soldiers as they exited the buildings. Within minutes of the first alarm, black-cloaked mages swarmed towards the park. A group of a hundred black-cloaks gathered around Veritago as the mage leader stared at the young woman inside the blue tube. The mages were but a black dot upon a sea of red as the park filled with Motangans.

“What do you make of it?” one of the mages asked of the leader.

“Undoubtedly magic,” reasoned Veritago, “but I have never seen anything like it. It bothers me that she calls attention to herself. Is she friend or foe?”

It was at that time the Star of Sakova chose to speak. “Motangans,” Lyra said calmly, her voice magically amplified throughout the city, “I am Lyra, the Star of Sakova. I have come to Meliban to demand that you lay down your weapons and disavow this invasion of Fakara. The armies of the Island of Darkness are defeated. Lay down your weapons, and you will be allowed to live. Defy me, and you will die.”

For a long moment the park remained silent. Suddenly one of the mages threw a fireball at Lyra. The fiery projectile sailed into the blue cylinder and disappeared.

“Kill her!” shouted Veritago. “Charge!”

The Motangan soldiers did not hesitate. With swords drawn, a ring of soldiers raced forth to be the first to pierce the body of the Star of Sakova. Lyra closed her eyes as the murderous mob surrounded her. Screams filled the air as hundreds of soldiers struck the blue shield. Arms disintegrated and legs disappeared, but the mob continued inward, pushed onward by those behind. Whole bodies disappeared into the blue cylinder, and tears welled up in Lyra’s eyes.

It took several minutes for Veritago to realize that something was wrong. Screams ripped through the air and died much too suddenly to be natural. He shouted for the soldiers to stop, but it was hard to be heard over the screaming. Another several minutes passed before the soldiers managed to back away from Lyra. The wounded surrounded the Star, rolling on the ground and screaming in agony. Veritago marched forward, the soldiers parting to let the black-cloak through. The other mages followed cautiously. Veritago surveyed the carnage and then his eyes landed on the Star of Sakova. He stared at her in disgust as he saw her crying.