13 Day War (13 page)

The wintry winds tore through the streets of Tagaret with a frigidness that caused almost everyone to huddle inside their homes and shops. Those few who braved the foul weather pulled their coats tightly around them, but it hardly mattered. Whether they were soldiers on patrol, or a merchant’s delivery person, each and every one of them was chilled to the bone, and the cause was not just the cold wind. Whipped along the streets of Tagaret, the winds carried a malevolent, ethereal entity, and its essence touched the mind of each being as it passed. The demon was searching.

Eventually, D’Artim found the information that he was looking for. He detached himself from the winds and soared to the cobbler located less than a block from the gates to the Royal Palace. The shop was closed, as were the others on the block, but such things could not deter a demon. D’Artim circled the shop and then flew through the wall. The cobbler was immediately alerted to the intruder, and the old man shoved his work aside. He cocked his head as he gazed around the small shop, trying to see the unseen.

“You have sensed my arrival,” D’Artim said approvingly as he materialized into his corporeal form. “What is this?” he asked as he waved a claw around the room. “Have you forgotten your mission? Have you decided to spend your remaining days making shoes for the humans?”

The Claw of Alutar narrowed his gaze as he stared at the demon. “I am not to be interfered with,” replied Artimor. “Why have you come?”

“Such love for your father,” chided D’Artim.

“You are not my father,” retorted Artimor. “Alutar is my Master. I recognize no other. You are only the carrier of his seed.”

D’Artim appeared shocked and disappointed by the rebuke, but he recovered quickly. “I am your father,” he declared, “but the point is hardly worth arguing over.”

“Why have you come?”

“To make sure that you do not fail in your assignment, as did your brothers and sister. You are the last of the Claws. You must succeed.”

“And so I shall,” Artimor stated emphatically. “I am the Claw of my Master. I was created to succeed.”

D’Artim sighed. He was used to demonkin being invested with arrogance, but this one was going too far. “The war is beginning, and we have had no report of your success. We need more assurances of your ability to strike down the Mage’s heroes. They are all in Tagaret at this very moment, and here I find you mending shoes. Is that supposed to fill me with confidence of your great abilities?”

“I have no need to give you assurances,” retorted the old man. “Do the other demons even know you are here?” D’Artim did not answer and the Claw of Alutar snickered. “I didn’t think so. You have always been one to seek an unfair advantage, even against friends.”

D’Artim growled threateningly, and his clawed feet scratched furrows in the wooden floor as he approached the cobbler. “You will not belittle me, demonkin! You will treat me with respect, or I will end you miserable existence right here, right now. I will have to deal with Alutar’s rage for doing so, but that will matter little to you. You will no longer exist.”

Artimor backed up and nodded submissively. While his status as a Claw of Alutar made him subservient to none other than the Great Demon, he had no doubt that the demon could kill him, and he had just pushed too far. He ran his fingers through his think white hair and sighed.

“I apologize, but you of all demons should appreciate the need to do something properly. The other Claws of Alutar failed because they were overconfident, and because of their haste. I will not fall into such traps.”

“I can appreciate such thoughts,” frowned D’Artim, “but making shoes is hardly a proper use of your time. The war is upon us. You should be attacking them now. Are you even aware that all four of them sit less than a block away right now?”

“I am aware of their presence,” retorted the cobbler, regaining a bit of his lost arrogance. “I have more than a few eyes and ears within the Royal Palace. Nothing they do escapes my notice. I am also aware that there are three-thousand Red Swords protecting them.”

“There will always be soldiers protecting them,” countered the demon.

“Not exactly,” grinned the Claw of Alutar. “Once the war begins, those soldiers will have other tasks to attend to, sixty-thousand other tasks if I am correct.”

“You plan to let the war start before striking?”

“I have already started to strike,” smiled Artimor. “They just don’t know it yet. When it is time for me to finish this task, the deaths of the Mage’s heroes will be anticlimactic.”

“Are you just hoping that the Federation soldiers will kill them?” quipped the demon. “That is not why you were created.”

“I was created to see to their deaths,” countered Artimor. “Who actually draws the last breath out of their bodies is of little concern to Alutar. If the heroes should happen to fall to the blades of the Federation, so be it, but they will die one way or another. My spies within the palace walls have revealed the troop dispositions for the upcoming war. I will bring forth havoc to alter those plans and then I will strike. Nothing can stop me.”

* * * *

Colonel Dorfan of the 1
^st
Corps nodded approvingly as he watched the black-cloaks cast their spells upon the snow. He knew little about magic, but he valued its use at times like this. Camp Destiny had been hit with an unusually late snowstorm, and the snow had accumulated to a great depth. Fortunately, each Federation army had a stable of black-cloaks for times when non-magical means just would not accomplish the task. He had set the mages to work removing the snow so that the valley was clear before the first armies arrived. Satisfied with the mages’ progress, Colonel Dorfan turned his horse and rode towards the general’s office. When he arrived, he dismounted and entered General Tauman’s office.

“What is the state of the valley, Dorfan?” General Tauman asked upon seeing the colonel.

“The snow should be gone by dusk today,” the colonel reported. “It will take another two days to remove the moisture from the ground so that the troops do not get mired in mud, but we will be done before the first armies arrive.”

“Excellent.” The general nodded. “I am going to keep your men busy the next two weeks. I want a continual sweep of Blood Highway everyday from now on until all the armies are in Alcea. I want to know the position of each army and whether they are where they are supposed to be, and I don’t want to have to wait for such information. The first day one of the armies is behind schedule, I want to send a runner to the commanding officer to rectify the problem.”

“I will see to it,” replied Colonel Dorfan.

“I also need forty-eight of your men to go to Alcea,” continued the general. “I want two men to travel each of the proposed routes and check to make sure that our supplies have not been tampered with. We are moving a lot of men through these portals in a very short timeframe. If we need to replenish supplies, I want to know about it now before the armies start arriving.”

“Why two men, Sir?”

“We can afford to lose a few men to get this information,” answered the general, “but it is information that we must have. I want two men sent on each route so that we are sure of getting the information. Instruct each team to use the proper procedures for verifying a hidden cache. That way if some of the men do come to harm, we will still get what we need.”

“You are expecting trouble?” frowned the colonel. “We have never felt the need to double up before.”

“We are on the verge of war, Colonel. Of course I expect trouble. Even if the enemy is totally unaware of our coming, things always seem to get hairy when time is short. I plan to take no chances with this invasion. The 1
^st
Corps will ensure that nothing goes wrong on this end until the very last army returns home. Is that clear?”

The colonel nodded, but his brow creased with concern. Tauman and Dorfan had worked together for years, and the general immediately noticed the concern.

“Speak your mind, Dorfan.”

“I know you were planning on us being part of the invasion of Alcea, General. Why have we ended up being caretakers of this valley while a war is being waged?”

The general looked towards the door and the windows before speaking. “Because Grand General Kyrga is a poor excuse for an officer,” the general said softly and with evident disgust in his voice. “The 1
^st
Corps is the finest fighting unit in the world, and that fool has us acting as quartermasters. He says that he is afraid to entrust the secrecy of the portals to any other unit, but the portals are no longer secret. I should have been in charge of Force Targa.”

“But Kyrga chose Fortella instead?”

“Of course,” spat the general. “Fortella has charmed Kyrga, and the Grand General has made him his most favored general. The truth is, Dorfan, we could have sacked Tagaret in a most impressive manner and brought the boy king to kneel in disgrace before the emperor, and that is the real problem. I suspect that Kyrga fears that the emperor would make me Grand General when we returned victorious.”

“You think Fortella will fail?”

The general thought for a moment and shook his head. “Fortella is a decent general, but he is not a quick thinker. He is like a bulldog that has his teeth dug into your leg. He won’t let go until you are dead. His army will sack Tagaret without a problem. That is probably why they teamed that coward Whitman up with him. Fortella is probably one of the few generals who can keep Whitman in line.”

“The Aertan general?” questioned the colonel. “I have never met him.”

“More to your credit,” scoffed General Tauman. “I am surprised that Whitman didn’t figure out a way to be exempted from going to Alcea. The man doesn’t deserve to wear a uniform. Fortella will have to spend some time watching Whitman just to make sure he doesn’t desert.”

“Maybe you could make a deal with General Whitman,” suggested Colonel Dorfan. “Switch the 1st Corps with the 24
^th
Corps.”

“And serve under Fortella?” balked General Tauman. “I think not. The 1
^st
Corps will get a chance to fight the horse countries. That will have to do. Enough of this talk, Colonel. You have a great deal to accomplish and little time to get it all done. Get those runners out onto Blood Highway and those scouts sent to Alcea. This war is starting in mere days.”

* * * *

The Blood Highway was a wide road, and little stone markers were set alongside it every league. The markers showed the number of leagues from the western gates of Valdo, and General Montero watched this particular marker pass with interest. He turned and glanced back at his 15
^th
Corps behind him and then looked forward at the tail end of the 13
^th
Corps barely visible in the distance.

“How are we doing, Colonel?” the general asked.

The colonel pulled a map from his pouch and consulted it. “Right on schedule. We have another four hours before camp.”

“Keep them moving, Colonel,” instructed General Montero. “As long as the 13
^th
Corps doesn’t falter, keep them in sight. If they do falter, bypass them, and don’t let General Ruppert give you any guff about it. I am taking a squad out for a ride in the Dark Forest. I will meet you at the camp before morning.”

The colonel saluted and then nodded knowingly as the general turned off the road and called for his personal squad to assemble. Whenever the 15
^th
Corps got near this area of the Federation, the general always left the column to visit his brother. Everyone knew about the sickly prince, but no one mentioned Prince Harold. His name was never spoken within range of the general’s hearing, not if you wanted to stay in the good graces of General Montero.

The squad formed around the general and headed into the forest. Several hours later, they approached a large castle upon the hill. Shouts rang out from the wall, and the Royal Family Pennant was raised to welcome the Crown Prince of Ertak. General Montero let his eyes gaze up at the ramparts. The soldiers of the castle stood proudly visible, knowing that the heir was arriving. He nodded with approval. Captain Ergard was waiting in the courtyard for the general, as he usually was, but General Montero sensed a certain nervousness in the officer that had never been present before. The general said nothing as he dismounted and let his horse be led away. The captain saluted and then led the general into the sitting room as was customary.

“I have ordered a meal to be prepared for you and your men,” stated Captain Ergard. “Will you be spending the night?”

“No,” answered the general. “How is my brother?”

“He has not gotten any worse than he was on your last visit,” answered the captain.

“Nor any better?”

“I have noticed no change.”

The general stared into the captain’s eyes, trying to determine what it was that the captain was afraid to say, but he could determine nothing.

“Bring him down,” ordered the general.

The captain started sweating profusely. Most of the visits by General Montero were just to speak with the captain and discuss the health of Prince Harold. It was rare for the general to actually see his brother, and he had never before ordered the sickly prince to descend out of the tower.

“I do not think it is wise to ask the prince to make such a journey,” the captain said nervously.

“Why not?” the general asked sternly. “What are you not telling me, Ergard?”

The captain swallowed hard as his eyes widened in fear. He thought he would be able to act calmly when the general visited, but it was obvious that General Montero knew something was amiss. Delaying the truth could only make things worse.

“Prince Harold is not here,” the captain answered meekly. “The king sent soldiers to take him to be healed.”

The general’s hand moved so swiftly that the blow took the captain by surprise. He stumbled backwards and collided with a chair. Both the chair and the captain tumbled to the floor. When the captain rolled over to get back to his feet, there was a sword extended towards him, and the tip moved towards his throat.