Samual (2 page)

And so the battle raged through the night, with the elves slowly losing both ground and people, but saving as many as they could.

As the sky finally began to lighten the sky, those elves still fighting felt a sense of hope. They had survived through a night of blood and death and with the rising sun they thought the worst might be over. Because the rats' ability to hide and skulk in the shadows, would be gone. Without it and with their numbers already dwindling, the elves hoped that the tide of battle would turn back to them, and they would drive the rats from the city.

For a while it seemed that the elves' hopes were coming true. Especially when the battles were dying down. When the sun's rays showed the remains of many thousands of fallen steel rats all over the main concourses. Many more could be seen on the forest floor. They had already paid a terrible price with thousands of elven bodies scattered like leaves from the trees throughout the city, and countless more lying dead in their homes, their bodies still waiting to be discovered. But at least they had been able to dream they had been winning. For a while a few brave souls had even found the courage to smile and give cries of victory.

But then came the calls from the elves on the higher walkways, and they knew the city's doom was upon them. For far out to the east they could see a line of silver and steel heading towards the city. A line many leagues long. Reinforcements were coming.

One by one the surviving elders and war masters climbed to the lookouts and tried to guess just how many of the steel rats were coming before eventually giving up. It had to be in the thousands they knew, but how many beyond that was impossible to know. Ten thousand, twenty – it was all just a guess. But it didn't matter. What did was that it was too many to fight. Hopes fell and hearts plummeted as the defenders realised that there was no chance of winning back their city in the face of such overwhelming numbers. Not when they had already lost so many people, soldiers, wizards and civilians, and all to a force far less than half the size of the army approaching.

They had to run.

But at least they had time. Perhaps half a day in which they could either prepare to die or flee. And some did want to stand and fight. Leaving meant abandoning their cherished homes, their city, and their hopes and dreams to a steel evil, but they would at least survive as would their kin.

It was not an easy decision to make by any means, and some refused to leave even when the guards and surviving elders had made it for them. It might seem crazed to many, but to an elf to abandon their homes and their lives and everything they loved was almost worse than dying. Nor did leaving promise them safety. The elves had no guarantee that the golems, as the wizards named them, would stop attacking once they had taken the city. After all, they had no idea why they'd attacked in the first place. What would giant steel rats want with a city anyway? And yet clearly all they wanted was an empty dead city. Unless – though few dared to give voice to the thought – all they had really wanted was dead elves? Nor did they know if they would even be fast enough to escape the rats if they did give chase.

Fleeing was simply the only chance they had.

Before the sun had risen even a quarter of the way into the sky, more than fifteen thousand surviving elves had packed up as many of their belongings as they could and were preparing to depart their home, by horse, wagon or foot. The survivors quickly grew into a mass of horses, elves and wagons, which in turn and with a lot of shouting became a caravan. 

Then, before the sun had risen much higher, the order was given and the city's residents began their long journey to safety. A very long journey since even then they knew or feared that their nearest or only refuge would be in Golden River Flats, at least four months travel across hostile terrain.

It was a caravan of suffering as over a thousand of those fleeing were badly wounded. Many of them would not survive the journey. Adding to the distress there were only a few dozen healers with the caravan, as many of them had been killed. So many went without healing as they travelled. Too many would not survive the day let alone the journey. 

It was a caravan of despair as elf after elf looked back at the glorious city of Shavarra slowly disappearing into the forest behind, and knew that they might never see it again. For most the city had been the only home they had ever known, or ever wanted.

It was a caravan of fear as the survivors, burdened down with the sick and the dying, wondered if the rats would leave them alone, or if they would give chase. Few if any were still up to the contest of battle, and the horses were overloaded. They couldn't run and they couldn't fight.

It was a caravan of mourning as there were few elves who had not lost someone in the attack.

But most of all it was a caravan of questions. Who had attacked them? Why? And what would they do once they got to Golden River Flats? Sadly there were few if any answers. But as that first terrible day grew into a longer and more painful night many promised themselves that they would eventually get those answers. And then, though it was unelven, they would exact a terrible revenge on the master of the rats.

It was the sound of horses that woke him. The steady clip clop of their well-shod hooves on the hard packed clay road. They were still a distance away but were coming steadily closer. The sound wouldn't normally have bothered him, except for the number and the hour. There had to be dozens of them, and it was at least four hours past sun down. Lots of horses travelling late at night, and coming from the East. Possibly from the city. That had to mean trouble. But of what sort?

As always Sam woke easily, and quickly had the dagger he always kept under the pillow in his hand. He had reason. Over the years Sam had discovered that the sound of horses late at night usually meant trouble, and more often than he would like, assassins. More than a few had been sent in search of his prized scalp over the years and some of them had found him. Thus far they'd all failed badly at killing him, mostly at the cost of their own freedom, limbs and sometimes lives as they attacked with all the fury of a rabid dog. Fortunately he was a knight of Hanor as well as a wizard and the king's son, and he could fight. They kept forgetting that. And at least some good had come from their losses, as their defeat had provided him with some more weapons,  armour, horses and anything else of value they had on them, which he could then sell for good coin.

He'd also sold those assassins that survived into slavery, figuring it was a more than suitable punishment for those who chose to kill others for coin; especially his half-brother's coin. A life for a life was his thought. There were still a few slavers who plied the trade path that ran along the Shavarran border down to the seaport of Schist Harbour. It was probably a dangerous thing for him to do, but despite the risk that his would be killers might talk, leading to yet more bounty hunters and assassins on his tail, he thought it also the right thing to do. He wasn't a murderer which was the only alternative he had. He also enjoyed the irony of making a profit at his half-brother's expense. It was somehow fitting, and it kept him fed and sheltered.

Assassins though usually only came in ones and twos, and mostly they had the good sense to at least muffle their horses' hooves with sacking, if they were foolish enough to bring them into ear shot at all. These he realised, as he heard more and more of them, were not assassins.

Nor were they visitors from the nearby town of Torin Vale or Torin Endess mi Idril – the Vale of Torin's Tears – as it was more properly called in High Elvish. They would call out to him as they arrived. He had lived among them for five years. Long enough to know many of them.

Puzzled rather than alarmed, Sam threw off his covers, pulled himself out of bed and walked over to the window in the main room, a genuine glass window he'd bought especially for his little cottage. All it had cost him was a brace of poisoned stilettos – another of his half-brother's generous gifts to one of the many assassins he'd hired. Heri had no doubt expected the man to stick the dagger in his chest. Sam had had other ideas. It pleased Sam to know that even his half-brother's hatred and evil could be used to build him a home and keep him warm and comfortable.

His might not be a particularly proud cottage, barely large enough for him to have a separate bedroom upstairs from the living area and kitchen, but it was home and whenever he had a few coins to rub together, he liked to spend some of them on it.

In the five years since he'd found the abandoned building and made it his home, he'd increased the size of the main room and put in a sleeping loft. Then he'd re-roofed the entire cottage, replacing the old rotting thatch with new oiled planks. He'd also bricked out a new internal fire place so that he could cook inside, an absolute must when it rained so often, and replaced the rotting rope stairway leading up to it with a sturdier, permanent staircase spiralling around the oak tree's massive trunk. Finally he'd purchased glass for his windows; all four of them.

Then there were the extensive gardens and orchards which he'd planted, both for food and income, and the stables around the tree's base. It was still a modest cottage, certainly not large enough for his wife and the hoped for children he would by now have had, had it not been for Heri. But it was comfortable, it kept him fed, warm and dry, and above all else it was home.

So who was outside it?

Sam stared out the window and from the light of the nearly full moon, not to mention the torches the group were carrying, he could just make out the horses and their riders. And the moment he set eyes on them he knew there was trouble. Riding at night by torch light usually meant trouble in itself. There was too great a chance of a horse putting a foot down a pot hole to risk it unless the need was very great. But it was the number of torches he could see that truly worried him.

“Alder's hairy tits!” He swore quietly as he took in the sight. He didn't know what he was seeing but he was sure it had to be the doing of the god of mischief. It certainly wouldn't be the doing of the elves' precious Goddess. She might not be the All Father who he followed, but she was still a good goddess. And nothing of this looked good.

In the darkness he could see a trail of torches almost a league long, winding back like a glowing serpent into the blackness. A league of torches! Sam tried to estimate the number of horses and elves that had to equate to and failed. At the very least it had to be in the thousands, maybe in the tens of thousands.

That sent a shiver running down his spine. Thousands of elves, wandering along a darkened trail at night, a mere twenty leagues or so from the capital of the province. That had to be bad. Worse, the direction they were travelling suggested they were coming from the city itself. Then again, where else would you find thousands or even tens of thousands of elves in one place to form a caravan to begin with? Shavarra was a realm of small towns and villages and there was only one city.

Grabbing his cloak from the wall and dropping the knife back on the bed, he hurried down the stairs and out onto the balcony to greet the first of the riders and find out what was going on. The “balcony” was actually a widened platform at the top of the stairs which he'd extended around all sides of the cottage. He'd added it to his home a couple of years before, mainly so that he could drink a hot mug of tea in the evenings while listening to the bird song all around. This elven land was truly a marvel to a boy raised in the human cities of Fair Fields, and he loved to simply spend time enjoying it.

He might no longer have wealth and titles, the comfort and warmth of a soft bed at night, the luxury of plush woven floor coverings underfoot, servants to do his bidding, or even the company of his good wife and the promise of family to come, but the beauty of the land could give him back a lot. It was exactly as Ryshal had promised him so long ago when they had first planned on coming here. He only wished that she were here with him instead of in a dungeon. He prayed each night, even as he despaired, that one day he might somehow rescue her, and bring her out here to her enjoy this beautiful land with him. Having her here would be his definition of paradise.

On the nights when he mourned the most for all that he'd lost, the beauty of the land still brought him a measure of peace. A peace that it seemed was now under threat.

Sam rushed back inside, grabbed a lantern from the shelf and lit its paraffin soaked wick with a spark from his fingers, so that he could both see and be seen by those approaching. He then hurried back onto the balcony, prepared to meet them. Years of looking over his shoulder made him grab his trusty greatsword as well – just in case. These were safe lands normally – the elves were a very law abiding people and they didn't tolerate any sort of crime – but this caravan from the city was anything but normal.

As the first of the riders approached – city guards by the look of their uniforms – he wondered if his worst fears hadn't been terrible enough. Because the grim determination, pain and sorrow that showed in the faces of the guards, together with the ripped and torn uniforms, and the bandages covering so many of their arms and legs told a terrible story. By the light of their torches he could see perhaps twenty guards clearly, and all of them wore at least one bandage. Too many wore more blood soaked bandages than clothes. Seeing them like that Sam put his greatsword down. These people needed his help, not his suspicion.

There was of course only one explanation for such a caravan to a soldier born and raised; they'd been in a fight. A major battle. And considering that they were city guards, it had to be Shavarra itself where the battle had been waged.

Shavarra; the only major city in the region, and the shining star in the elves' list of most beautiful places in the world. A battle there was unthinkable. But worse than that, these didn't look like people who had won a great battle. If they had won they wouldn't be here. They'd be at home, celebrating and tending to their wounded. These looked like refugees. Thousands of refugees. Which left Sam with the obvious questions. Had the city itself fallen? If so how? When? And above all to whom? Who would attack Shavarra?

“Hail.” Sam called out to the closest of the riders, and for his trouble received only a lack lustre wave as they carried on past down the curving trail. Apparently they were set on their course, which had to be the nearby settlement of Torin Vale. A lone peasant wasn't going to be allowed to distract them. Besides, a caravan a league long couldn't stop easily. But towards the rear of the leading bunch a single rider peeled off from the caravan and headed towards his cottage. Apparently he was at least going to receive one visitor, and hopefully some answers.

Quickly the rider reached the base of his staircase, and dismounted gingerly. Saddle sore, or carrying some injuries, he couldn't be sure of which and he didn't like to ask. Either way it wasn't enough to stop his visitor, and he quickly walked up the stairs winding around the tree until he was on the balcony facing Sam. Unlike the others holding the torches, this soldier was a member of the border patrols. The emblem on his chest – a pair of fighting griffins – told Sam that. Unfortunately the soldier's manner confirmed everything he'd feared; the battle had been lost. It was in his posture, his sloping, tired shoulders, his head bent with shame and the complete lack of a spring in his walk. He was both defeated and exhausted.

Moreover the soldier seemed no more friendly than his emblem. His helmet stayed firmly on, the side pieces covered his neck. He even kept the face guard down as if he could not stand to be seen. In the dark, even by the light of his lantern, Sam could see little more than two dark eyes glowing out of his visor.

“Hail.” Sam used the traditional greeting once more, this time with the raised sword hand to show he wasn't holding a weapon. Normally he wouldn't have bothered except on formal occasions, but the last thing he wanted this night was a tragic misunderstanding.

“Well met cousin.”

Sam started as a woman's voice came out from under the helmet. That was one thing he would never get used to in Shavarra; women serving among the soldiers. Such a thing would never be accepted anywhere else. Or at least not in Fair Fields. There the men fought and the women ran the house as was proper. But this was not his land, even though it was now his home, and it certainly wasn't his place to say anything about it. Besides, Ry would have told him off at great length had he ever dared say such a thing in public. Or at all. At least the woman used a relatively friendly greeting, addressing him as cousin, as all elves considered themselves. But then it was dark and she was obviously tired. She hadn't had a chance to notice his human sized bulk or listen to his thick accent.

“Good soldier –”, he knew it was always best to be polite, “– what is this? Has something happened to the city? And where are you all going in the middle of the night?”

“Elf friend –”, apparently she'd realised from his thick accent that he wasn't elven, or at least fully elven, “Shavarra has fallen to the enemy. Much of it is destroyed and many, many of our people are dead. Those that survive with us are now refugees, fleeing the city and the enemy, heading first for Torin Vale. But our scouts tell us the enemy is still pursuing us, his evil golems only a few leagues behind our stragglers. You must gather your family and join us lest you be butchered in the night like so many others.”

“Fallen? How?”

But he only whispered it. In a single word she had confirmed all he had feared, and yet even looking at her and the column of refugees passing his front door, he still didn't understand how it could be. Shavarra was a well defended city, having a standing defence force of over a thousand soldiers. It was known far and wide as a place of peace and beauty. Surely no one would ever want to attack it? Certainly not its neighbours.

Could it be some sort of jest? He found himself wondering that because the words were simply too impossible to accept. The elves were extraordinarily fond of their word games. Their sophistry as his father would have called it. Strange in a people so enamoured of the truth. But he couldn't find anything amusing in what the soldier had told him. And he could see for himself the proof of what she had said.