Samual (53 page)

Just as they'd hoped for the fog began thickening, starting at the cavern mouth and then spreading out back towards the elves, covering the liquid trench the mages had built so that it was completely hidden. And when the fog finally reached them Sam knew that everything was in play. So did the war masters, and as promised the horn sounded.

With a final blast of fire and a volley of arrows aimed in the general direction of the cavern mouth and the rats, the elves fell back the required twenty paces like a well drilled unit. And waited.

It wasn't easy waiting. Staying calm and not attacking the enemy, even though they couldn't see him anyway, but it was necessary. The rats' master had to believe they'd retreated under the cover of fog, fled against his insurmountable numbers. They hoped it would be the bait he needed to make a mistake. To order his soldiers to charge ahead blindly, heedless of the risk. And that he was just stupid enough to take it. To send his army running heedlessly and blindly into a trap. The real question was how long would he keep doing it once his rats began sinking? How many would he have left after he'd realised his rats were all being destroyed?

Naturally there was no answer, and Sam like everyone else there simply had to wait it out. But at least while he waited he had the chance to once more draw the fire he so desperately needed. It had been tight for a while as the age spent battling the rats had used up so much of his fire, leaving him without enough magic burning within him, and using nearly everything he had with each blast. Now that he had the chance to draw more fire he used it for all he was worth, fanning the barely glowing embers into a raging bonfire.

By the time the first of the plopping sounds could be heard, exactly as though the rats were diving into a river, the bonfire was singing sweetly in his flesh. Meanwhile thunder in the skies was beginning to grow and Sam guessed the weather mages were also preparing themselves for something spectacular.

Suddenly the plopping sounds became a symphony of falling water. It was almost as though the skies had opened up and unleashed a deluge on to a pond. But it wasn't rain drops that were making the noise. The rats, finding the ground ahead of them free of elves and arrows, were charging toward where they thought the elves were, and sinking in their hundreds. The noise brought a smile and a small cheer to Sam's lips and he wasn't alone. All around he could hear the sudden, quickly suppressed roar that were the thousands of elves standing with him cheering. He could see their white teeth and the whites of their eyes glowing orange in the fire lit sky.

In time the noise of the rats ceased, as they'd always known it had to once their master finally realised his foolishness. But by that time having listened to the rats hitting the water almost continuously, surely thousands if not tens of thousands had to have been destroyed. Meanwhile Sam and the other mages had rediscovered their magic, the archers had rested and reloaded their quivers, and tired arms had been stretched. No matter how many rats remained, this had been a victory for them.

“Count off a hundred then cheer!”

The rider thundered by, giving the next command, and Sam could see the logic. In theory the rats had stopped running blindly into a trap in pursuit of an enemy they couldn't find. It was time to give them a target to chase, though of course they would remain blinded by the fog. Meanwhile they could rest for a little while longer and recover their strength. Immediately the count began.

Soon – though whether the full hundred had been counted Sam wasn't sure – a cheer rang out from dozens and then hundreds and thousands of throats. A cheer which quickly became a roar of triumph that filled the entire valley itself. A roar that the Dragon surely heard even in his homeland, wherever that was. And sure enough, in time more plopping sounds could soon be heard through it, as more rats ran for their prey and sank into the earth. This time those plopping sounds didn't became a deluge, but that was expected. Even the most stupid commander would have realised his mistake eventually.

But as time passed and the silence continued, Sam like all the rest, finally began to hope. Could it be that the enemy was finally out of soldiers? Or was he simply becoming smarter? Sam had no answer, and neither, he suspected did anyone else. They simply kept cheering and hoping.

A sudden touch of earth magic raised the hairs on the back of Sam's neck, and he realised that the earth mages had sealed their trap, entombing the rats in their rocky grave. A few moments later a gust of wind blew away the fog as if it had never been and the light from the fire mages suddenly revealed a rocky landscape, bereft of steel vermin. In truth it was bereft of anything as even the grass that had once covered it had sunk into its strange liquid embrace, never to grow again. A ring of bare dirt surrounding the cavern entrance and the arena surrounding it filled with piles of burning steel bodies. But more important than the death of the land was the complete lack of steel vermin even behind the trap. No new ones were emerging from the cavern. None were running for them, trying desperately to cross the ring of bare dirt in which their brothers were entombed.

Where the cavern entrance popped up out of the ground no more glowing red eyes could be seen. No more steel glowed in the silvery light – it was all blackened. No more fires burnt either. No more threat remained above ground as far as they could see.

But what remained under ground? That was the question. How many more of the rats remained? How many more would they have to fight their way through in the morning? And in the longer term, how many more armies could this new Dragon raise?

It was a sobering thought, as Sam tried to estimate the numbers of his steel vermin they'd already destroyed that day, and failed to even find an estimate. Certainly it was something in the many tens of thousands, but no closer than that could he begin to guess. And if the Dragon could raise armies like that, even afford to lose them and then raise more, what hope was there in truth? What hope at all?

But even as he was thinking such morbid thoughts a new cheer erupted from all around him, and he wondered why. But he understood when he caught sight of arms pointing and followed to what they were pointing at. To the new figures that had emerged on top of the mountain of destroyed steel vermin surrounding the cavern entrance. Short stocky dwarven figures.

There could only be one explanation. The rats were gone. They had used all their numbers up in this final attack and the dwarves had destroyed whatever remained below before chasing them all the way back up the tunnels.

The battle was over and they had finally won. A province had been cleared of the enemy. The Dragon had been defeated if only on a single battlefield.

But it was a start.

There were simply no words to express how powerful the emotion was that overcome him. But the tears of joy that began streaming down his cheeks were a start.

Riding home after a war was an unusual experience for Sam. He guessed it was the same for everyone. It was actually more difficult than he would have expected. On the one hand he still felt like celebrating over a week later. He felt like throwing his head back and shouting the joyful news to the skies. They had won a major victory and it was time that the entire world knew it. It was time that the people knew that the Dragon could be beaten. And though the celebrations and drinking had largely ended he kept thinking that they should still be doing that.

On the other hand it was also a time when the price they had paid for that victory sat heavy in his heart.  More than eight hundred men and women had perished. Nearly a thousand more had been badly injured, and would only return home once the healers had finished tending to them. If they survived. Another thousand carried the scars and minor injuries of battle.

A tenth of their army was dead. Another quarter would not soon return to the fight if at all. And at that he knew, they had been lucky. They had been stupid too, and in battle making stupid mistakes got you killed.

So what were they to do? Celebrate or mourn? And what would they say to the families whose loved ones had perished?  How did one tell a wife or husband that their partner had died? How did you tell the children that their father or mother was now with the Goddess? And most terrible of all, how did you tell parents that their most beloved children were gone? Especially when so many had already lost loved ones already?

And yet if the price the elves had paid for their victory was too high, it was so much worse for the dwarves of the Bronze Mountains. Their losses were in fact so great that they could never place a true figure on them. All they could truly guess was that nearly a quarter of their clan or around thirty to fifty thousand – had died. There would be no family he guessed that had not suffered some losses. Some families might have been wiped out completely.

And all because of one man. One part troll. A man who wasn't yet finished either. He might have had his nose bloodied, but he was far from down. Even now Sam knew, he would be building his armies once again. Preparing for the next attack. And no doubt next time he would be stronger.

The people had a song they sang constantly as they marched – Rowell ni mar – the gold is going, and while on the face of it it was simply a ballad about the end of fall, it was about much more than that. It was about the falling of the golden leaves and the coming of winter to the land. Only in this case the falling golden leaves were the people and they were falling in numbers, covering the forest floor.

“So, tell me about my parents, brother.”

Sam started as he heard Mayvelle's voice come from just beside him. He hadn't heard her approach. But then he hadn't been paying attention to much as he'd been riding. Mostly he'd just been wallowing in his own dark thoughts. In fact he hadn't even known she or her troop were with the army. It took a few moments to redirect his thoughts to the question asked. And then to realise he had no idea what she was talking about.

“I don't know anything about your parents.”

Why he wondered would she even think he did? And then the last word hit him and sent his thoughts spinning in a whole new direction.

“Brother?” Ry and her family had said she might be his sister, and maybe they were right. He didn't know. But he hadn't broached the subject with Mayvelle back in their new home. Not even after Ry had told him about her visit. He'd barely even seen her around the new Shavarra. And when he had the topic hadn't come up, for which he had been grateful.  Because it wouldn't have been good for anyone. So why was she?

“I discussed the matter with my parents before we left. They told me the truth.” Her face though said it had been a bitter truth.

“What exactly did they tell you?” Sam stalled, trying to work out what she thought she knew and more importantly what she felt about it.

“That they took me from my mother's dying arms. That she'd been poisoned. That your father and his mistress killed her.”

“What?!” Sam was instantly outraged. The very idea was appalling. In fact it was worse than that. So much worse that he didn't know what it was. But he knew he couldn't allow his father's name to be so badly tainted by lies. “My father would never do any such thing! He was a good man. An honourable man. And he loved my mother with all his heart.”

Clearly Mayvelle didn't believe him. Her face said it all. Maybe she thought that he was lying to her for some reason? Still, he continued. He could not allow such a falsehood to go unchallenged.

“When she died it broke my father. He hadn't expected it. He never wanted it. And he wept at her funeral. He was a strong man, a brave knight and a king. But he wept for her.”

It was one of the few memories Sam had of those days. He'd only been small at the time, confused at why his mother hadn't come home. But he remembered that. He remembered his father standing there at the graveside while the priests intoned their prayers, and the tears running down his face. He'd been too young to truly understand what was happening. He only knew that his mother had gone away. But that image still stayed with him. Sometimes it even haunted him in the quiet times.

“He wed the poisoner not six months later.” Mayvelle said it without emotion, but it was an accusation as deadly as any he'd ever heard.

“He had no choice. He was the king and a king in Fair Fields can only rule with the support of the Court. He had no wife and no heir. The nobles were unhappy about that. And they were already unhappy with his rule. He had brought about sweeping changes to the kingdom. Ones that would leave the nobles without much of their power and would cut their income. They were very unhappy. There was talk of a coup. If he wanted to keep his throne, not to mention his head and mine, he had to have at least something he could show them. An acceptable wife from a good family. There were few choices that would not leave the kingdom in disarray.”

Of course Lady Dreasda had been a poor choice of Queen. She had been a lying bitch, and if what Heri had claimed was true, the murderer of both his parents. It was less than noble, but Sam was glad she was dead. And he found it ironic that it had been by her own son's hand, but also fitting. Heri after all had been her route to the throne – or so she had thought. It was just a pity for her that Heri had not wanted to be someone else's route to power. Not even his own mother's. And especially not the route to what he considered his own power. He did not share.

“So you say.” Mayvelle clearly didn't believe a word of it.

Sam's face whitened with anger and he had to suppress the urge to draw his sword. He couldn't though stop his fists from clenching tight. Now his father was a monster and he was a liar? How in all the hells could she suggest such a thing?!

“Well believe this. In my father's private bedchamber there were half a dozen portraits of my mother hanging in pride of place on the walls. He visited her grave regularly to speak with her and placed flowers on it on each anniversary of her birth and her death. And when he died, his only request was that he be buried beside her. My step mother despite years of trying, never managed to change a single one of those things. Theirs was not a happy marriage.” Of course it had been even more unhappy than he had known until recently, and it had ended in disaster. The price of love had been high. The price of wedding the wrong woman, death.

Mayvelle's response was a distinctly unelven grunt, something that surprised Sam. And the expression on her face was one of true disbelief, bitterness and barely suppressed anger. She might have learned the truth, but she wasn't happy about it. And Sam realised there was nothing he could do about any of that. But his anger in turn also did not help. Sam took a few deep breathes to still his anger before speaking again.

“Mayvelle, you may be my sister or not. I don't know. And you may share my parents. I don't know that either. The one thing I do know however is my parents. And you can choose to believe me or not when I tell you what I know of them. And I have nothing but love for them and sorrow that they are gone. I would thank you not to cast falsehoods on their graves.”

“Have a care before you ever dare speak to me again!”

“How dare –!” It was Mayvelle's turn to grow angry and to raise her voice.

“– You should return to your patrol now soldier.” Sam didn't care if she was angry. He didn't care about much at all just then. He wanted her gone. Out of his sight. And damned be whatever the priests might say about such a thing. No doubt they would say something. They always did.

“As you wish Fire Angel.” It was some time before Mayvelle managed to squeeze the words out. And when she did her face was filled with thunderclouds as she realised she'd been dismissed. But she said nothing as she flicked the reins of her horse, wheeled around and rode off.

Sam's face he expected, was not much different to hers. To have such baseless and horrid aspersions cast on his family! It was unacceptable. So what had she expected to get back from him? Agreement? Love and respect? She was lucky he hadn't thrashed her for such rudeness as she deserved! And it wasn't as if he didn't already have enough troubles on his mind.

Still, now he knew that when he returned to Ry he would have to tell her how badly he'd failed with Mayvelle. And she'd be unhappy with him. Then she'd tell him all the ways he should have handled it. The polite ways. The elven ways. After that she would no doubt ask him to speak with the priests.

Damn! He cursed the gods. He cursed Alder above all. Because this was surely his doing. It was beginning to look as though he was going to have to endure a bad peace following a bad war.