Twixt Heaven And Hell (23 page)

"Darius, it is not as certain as you make it."

"Yes, I've heard the arguments. Few of them hold merit."

"You deal too much in absolutes, Darius. You consider Firewalking to be a threat well and truly countered, but until we work a version of the spell that is both acceptable and accessible to us, the Enemy has greater flexibility. We know the sorcerers have to be familiar with the land in order to go there – but the Enemy has held the Shambles many times. I daresay they could speed reinforcements to the battle."

Lazarus had already voiced this opinion to the Council. In a moment of evil mood, Darius felt betrayed by the older man, in so many ways his confidant on the Council.

"We can stop the spell!"

"Only when it is close. Do you think Traigan would be so foolish as to give us that chance? You have said yourself the Warlord is a master of warfare."

"All the more reason to keep him off balance."

"Or perhaps have us stick our heads out too far and afford him the chance to lop them off. As I said, Darius, I do not disagree with you. There was a good chance we could have taken the Shambles back. The risk was very high, though, even had we been victorious. Losses are always severe there."

The arguments had already been aired, too many times. Darius did not want to hear them any more. It was late in the day and he was tired – he now had to try much harder to exhaust his trainees on their morning runs. Even Jotan was keeping up splendidly, more proof that wizards aged more gracefully than other men.

Thinking of them lightened Darius's mood. Soon they would go to the field, and he with them.

"Lazarus, you were the Council Leader once."

The older man nodded slowly. "Yes, a long time ago. Why?"

"You stepped down. After so long and so much success, you left. Why?"

Lazarus paused a moment before answering.

"I could no longer bear the burden, Darius. Nearly twenty years I led the Council, through countless battles. Some won, some lost. Lives lost in numbers beyond reckoning.

“As Council Leader, you bear the weight of each one. The Council as a whole gives the orders, but the blame for failure falls upon the man in the center seat. I could stand it no longer,” Lazarus repeated. “Because I also thought I could win the war. I did not. Every gain we made was retaken, every victory we secured came to naught in the end."

“Just as always,” Darius said.

Lazarus nodded. “Just as always. Keep that in mind the next time you have harsh words for Arric. Somewhere in his heart, he may agree with what you say. That does not always mean he can heed it.”

Darius nodded. “I will remember.”

"Apologize to him, Darius. You two have come far. Arric is not difficult to handle, really. You need not always agree with him, but he should know that he has your support even so." Lazarus cocked his head. "He does, yes?"

After a moment, Darius nodded reluctantly. “Of course.”

Lazarus parted without any more words, leaving Darius to brood. He knew perfectly well the burden of command. He knew the guilt of having to sacrifice good men's lives even for a cause he knew was worth the price. It troubled him from time to time, but he had long since reconciled himself to the task.

To be Council Leader must be a very different sort of leadership than Darius knew. No Gryphon would ever question his orders. He could not quite imagine feeling responsible for the Council's every decision whilst faced with the unrelenting noise of their bickering. He resolved to apologize to Arric on the morrow.

***

Shadow had long since fallen on the city of Bastion, as the sun set behind the mountains which formed its cradle. Watches upon the walls were changed with the first of the three patrols who would keep guard in the darkness. In the taverns, the raucous drinking and games of the daytime gave way to the more relaxed drinking and games of the evening.

Soon those too would cease as the soldiers succumbed to their discipline and made for the barracks. In the morning they would have their daily training and drills, and if a sudden emergency cropped up some may even be called upon to head for the border. None feared the eventuality – most were veterans long since. In any case, by all opinions the war was slowing from the frenetic pace it had kept the previous couple of months. The Beast had dined, men dying by the thousands to feed its terrible – but inevitable – appetite, and now it would sleep, sated for a spell.

There were some few in Bastion who barely noted the War's moods. As both the city and the War prepared for sleep, Balkan's attention was wholly focused on the silver tube he held. Despite having risen early to teach the acolytes of Bastion, he felt no fatigue. As long as his mind had something to fasten on, lethargy could never get a hold of the man.

At home, his wife was tucking their daughter into bed, assuring Kaylie that they would both scold Balkan for staying too late in his work. No doubt he would be suitably chastised and regretful, and for a time would carefully remember to curtail his work in time to be home for supper. For now...

Balkan stared at the tube. Torch light flickered across the burnished silver surface. As with his earlier attempts, this tube was covered in Angelic runes. This time the patterns were more focused – and, Balkan hoped, more meaningful.

Finally he moved, taking the tube in his left hand. He began to rub his right thumb over one of the most recently added symbols, applying magic to the metal. Slowly, so as not to damage the rest of his pain-staking work, he smoothed away the symbol until the silver was once again polished and unmarked in the spot. He then picked up the steel stylus and began to etch a new symbol to replace the old.

For another hour he worked. Much of the time he simply sat and stared. Occasionally he replaced a symbol, or added a new one. The runes steadily filled the metal surface until there was no longer any room to add them. Balkan stood the rod on the table in front of him, and a smile spread slowly across his face. In a way that relied half on intuition, half on experience, the patterns
felt
right.

With a deep breath, he extending the fingers of one hand towards the tube and bathed it in the pure, raw power – magic without form or purpose. Eventually he let go of his Talent and ceased the flow of power.

Balkan's breath came out in an exultant shout. Some of the magic dissipated like a man's breath misting in the winter air – but more of it remained, and was pulled slowly and inexorably into the rod. In a few moments, the silver was positively
glowing
with magic
.

Springing to his feet, Balkan stretched stiff muscles as he paced the short distance from wall to wall, a ridiculous grin splitting his face. All the while his attention was on the tube, studying it with all his senses. There was indeed power within it now, and it was held more or less securely. There did seem to be a very slight ebb, an escape of the stored energy from its trap.

That was unfortunate, but it did not dim Balkan's excitement. Of course the energy was escaping – as with so many of magic's tricks, nature sought to undo the effect immediately. Again Balkan reached out with his own spells and attempted to form a seal of sorts around the tube. After a handful of attempts, he managed to stop the slow drain of energy. It was a flaw to work on.

Suffuse with his success, Balkan wondered who to tell first. Darius, no doubt. Several of his colleagues in research. Even Maggie, who was always happy to hear of her husband’s achievements.

With the thought of his wife, Balkan became instantly and acutely aware of the time.

He winced. He had done it once again. No doubt there was an admonishment in the works for him. Shaking his head at himself, he decided to hurry home in case Maggie was waiting up for him. He left the silver tube atop the desk, where it could await him until the next day.

As Balkan was just about to extinguish the lamps, a thought struck him. For a moment he stood in the doorway, turning now to the outside, now in. Finally he succumbed, and sat back down at the desk. He took up his stylus and in a matter of minutes he had etched new symbols into the very top of the tube, along the rim surrounding the inner hollow. He then stood it upright upon the table, and waited.

He could feel the changes at work. The newly set symbols were specific in their effect, one of the most reliable of the Angelic runes he’d investigated. It would take a moment, but eventually –

A flame burst into life atop the rod, consuming the energy that escaped. Balkan had created a very elaborate magical candlestick. Again remembering his wife, he rose once more to leave for home. As a last thought, he snuffed the flame that rose from the silver tube. Using magic to keep it from relighting, he placed the thing in one of his pockets. The creation was beautiful – perhaps it would help distract Maggie’s from her annoyance at him.

As he swept out the front entrance of the tower, Balkan bumped into another wizard coming the other way.

“Balkan!” Geralt greeted him. “Lost track of the time again?” Balkan’s tendencies were legendary amongst the Crown – as were their repercussions at home.

“I’m afraid so,” Balkan replied with a sigh. “There is much to work on these days.”

“You’ll have to show me what your recent progress. What with all the activity, I’ve lost track of my own investigations. I must be off now, though. I seem to have drawn the night watch on the globe room for the next few days.”

“You always were a lucky man, Geralt. Fare thee well.”

“And you.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

It was a novelty, thought Darius, to be addressing the council as an adviser, and not as an agitator. When it came to the tactics of a small group of wizard-led soldiers though, there were none more qualified to speak than he. In fact, there were no others qualified to speak at all.

“We are at heart a raiding force,” he said to the assembly. “With a wizard to support them, the soldiers can route force many times their number. So long as we remain away from strongholds of the enemy, we can avoid any conflict with their sorcerers, and thus operate with near impunity.”

One of the councilmen spoke. “We cannot expect them all to be as successful as you.”

Darius merely shrugged. “Perhaps. Only time will tell. At the very least, so long as they remain aware of what’s around them, there are few threats a unit like mine cannot either destroy, or escape.”

“They can go further into the enemy’s territory than others would dare,” said one of the generals. “Strike supply caches, waylay reinforcements, and the like.”

“Not too deep,” said another. “We mustn’t start risking the wizards willy-nilly.”

Darius cut that protest off short. “The wizard, as with his soldiers, is an asset that must be at risk to be of any use, gentlemen. We cannot shy from placing them in danger.”

For the first time in the discussion, Arric spoke up. “Darius is correct.”

The others hesitated to continue, perhaps – like Darius – still struck by the oddity of agreement between the two old opponents.

“But,” Arric continued, and Darius smiled a bit at the turn in tone, “Nor can we allow that risk to grow too great.
Reasoned
risk is the key. There is another danger to consider as well.” All ears perked up at that. “So long as Darius was a rogue amongst us, the Enemy were content to largely ignore his successes. Should Jotan and the others prove as effective, they will be forced to react.”

Heads nodded. Tactics and spells were often copied by both sides – Even as they spoke, a select group of wizards were developing a Firewalking spell for Bastion.

“So even as we plan ways to make use of them, we must also have in mind ways to foil them.”

“You can only fight magic with magic,” a general said. “No man wants to face a sorcerer without a wizard behind him.”

“I do not think that Traigan is overly trustful of his sorcerers,” Darius said. “He may be slow to give them so much independence.”

This knowledge Darius had of Kray, though he could not say as much. There were still fewer than a dozen wizards who knew of the man’s existence. Until they had found the spy within their ranks, Darius hoped it could be kept that way.

Lately, Darius thought often on what to do with Kray. The man’s patience was wearing more thin each day. He had told them everything he knew, and now all they could do was ask the same questions over again. Darius found it amazing that a man raised amongst the brutal enemy would have the discipline to stand his current conditions with such grace.

“The Fists shall be taking to the field soon, gentlemen,” Darius told the council. “Fist” was the agreed upon name for the new units.

“What about the long term?” inquired a General. “You cannot all be afield at all times.”

“Certainly not,” agreed Darius. “For now, they need experience. In time we can work out a duty schedule of sorts, cycling the units back to Bastion for a time.”

Eventually the council was adjourned for the day. Darius hung to speak with Arric back as the others left.

“I want to take Kray with me when the Gryphons leave the city.”

To his surprise, Arric did not immediately object. He considered for a moment. “There may be something we can find for him here, Darius.”

“In time, yes. In time we can bring him to the general knowledge of our fellows. For now, his secrecy is a necessity – and it wears on him. I know you agree with me that he is well and truly one of us now. We owe him some reprieve.”

Arric's jaw was set obstinately. “It matters little what either of us feel. There is always the chance that we are wrong. He has learned much about us – if he returns to Pyre, he could do us great harm.” Arric sighed. “So watch him carefully when you are outside the city.”

“I will.” Darius was relieved. “The Fists are ready to leave at any time. They are still a mite under strength, but we have picked through the soldiers that are in Bastion. We must wait until we rotate some from the border. The difference is not too great, some thirty men in each.”

“I know you are eager to leave, Darius. Like Kray, you have borne your time in the city with greater patience than I expected.”

Arric finished with a wry grin, which Darius mirrored. “There is much to be said for having a worthy task.”

Still with his smile, Arric bowed his head a bit in agreement. “You have the council’s permission to leave when you are ready, then. As I promised I will not require you to be on too tight a leash. You still intend to make for Threeforts?”

“Yes. It is not often I miss a battle of that enormity. I want to see if the counterspell left useful traces from Firewalking.”

“And you'll question Wizard Harr?”

Darius nodded. Wizard Harr had been unconscious for days after the battle. Some malady had hold of him, rendering him feverish, babbling in his nightmares. Though he had since woken, he was still delirious, and the other wizards did not dare move him for fear of worsening his condition. The Angels would not go so near the border, meaning little could be done for the man.

Darius took his leave with a spring in his step. It was not nearly as wearying to be in the city now, but Darius was still a creature of the battle. He wanted back into the fight. The War had settled down, but that did not mean he had to rest, himself.

Still, he did not mean to leave immediately. In a brace of days he would be gone. He could go about leaving with a bit less urgency this time.

First, he went in search of Balkan. His friend had shown him the latest advancement, a silver candlestick that required no candle. It was nothing short of miraculous, and Darius’s first thought and words had been, “It could be made a weapon.”

Balkan had already thought of that, and much more. Arrows that always found their mark. Armor that could not be pierced. Walls that could not be breached. Balkan had talked excitedly of the possibilities. The vigor of Balkan’s conviction had been considerable enough to excite Darius in turn.

When he arrived at his friend's laboratory, there were voices conversing within. Darius found Balkan with Geralt. The crippled wizard was one of those who had never taken sides in the spat between Arric and Darius, and so Darius knew him little by either association or reputation.

“Ah, Darius! I was just telling Geralt some of what we were dreaming up when we spoke last. And showing him my latest work, of course. A bit more exciting than a candle this time.”

“Oh?”

“Most certainly. Geralt, would you care to have the honor of demonstrating?”

“I’d be delighted!” and with this the man took something from the table, another carved metal rod. This one looked to be made of iron rather than silver. Geralt pointed it at Darius as if it were a dagger, but with his thumb held carefully away from the surface. With a smile, he pressed his thumb to the metal.

A gout of flame leapt from the iron. With a yelp, Darius instinctively turned it aside.

Geralt and Balkan were laughing, and Darius joined them. “An attack!” he cried. “Traitors, both of you!”

Geralt squeezed again, and again Darius turned the flame aside. He was paying closer attention this time, and felt the hum of magic when Geralt activated the rod. He could also feel the energy stored within the metal.

“Balkan, as always you work quickly. I didn’t expect you to have a weapon ready in a week.”

“I don’t know that it is ready quite yet,” Balkan said. “But the elementary creation was mostly done before, with the silver one. All the steps were there, it is just a matter of varying the runes to produce something more... impressive.”

“Yes, that left a bit to be desired should we use it in combat.”

“Not against ordinary soldiers,” Geralt pointed out. “It might not immolate them immediately, but they have no defense even against weak magic. A wizard may find it useful.”

Balkan had a mischievous grin. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”

At first Geralt looked confused. Then realization slowly stole over his countenance. He glanced at Darius, but the other man was only matching Balkan’s expression. “You are serious?”

“Deadly,” answered Darius for his friend.

“Any man could use this?”

“Man, woman, or child,” said Balkan. “A wizard needs to provide the initial power in these, of course, but these runes do not care who holds the rod. They work if they are activated.”

Geralt’s expression had transformed into one of wonderment. “That is astounding, Balkan.”

“Another path to consider, indeed.”

“It would be quite an advantage,” Darius mused. “I wish you the best of luck. I’ll be heading back to the field in the next few days, Balkan.”

“And the rest of the Fists?”

“Them as well.”

“Splendid. Time to see how good of a teacher you are.”

Darius only smiled.

Geralt stood and placed the iron rod back upon the table.

“I must be off. There are acolytes that must learn the fine art of using the globes. I swear, they get slower at it every year. Farewell.” The man limped from the room.

“I should get to know him better,” Darius mused.

“He's a fine fellow. Horrible thing about his leg, though. I imagine he’d do well in the field. Has quite a temper, if you didn’t know. Reminds me a bit of you, actually. So, back to the War with you? Well, be careful you don’t shake it out of its slumber too soon.”

“I’ll try not to.”

“Would you care to share supper with us once before you go?”

Darius assumed an injured look.

“Just once?”

***

Nearly two thousand men were gathered at the gates of Bastion. The main street was crowded with soldiers re-checking their supplies and equipment. The average soldier of Bastion did not need to carry a great many supplies – the baggage trains took care of that.

There were specially trained men, however, who lived an altogether different life. These were the scouts, eyes and ears of the army. They carried everything they needed to survive for weeks in the field. It was on these men that Darius had first modeled the Gryphons, and he still did much of his recruiting from amongst them.

Many of the city folk had come out to see off the soldiers, giving the day the appearance of a celebration. The illusion was only strengthened by the scaled armor worn by the soldiers of the Fists, which had an oddly festive look to it when freshly cleaned and oiled. Children were running about, some for the pure joy of being underfoot, others sent on errands by fathers who would soon have to bid them farewell for a time.

Once in the Army, few men were let go before they saw their thirtieth year. By that time most had married and sired children, and so their childrens' first years were without that crucial figure in their lives. It was another of those strange necessities to curse the War for.

"Wizard, wizard!" called an elderly voice from behind him. Turning brought Darius face to face with an ancient matron. Beside her was a young girl holding a sack.

"Yes?" Darius asked.

"Wizard, my grandson is with your Gryphons. My Emanuelle was joyous to be taken into your service, Wizard. Please, take these." The old woman motioned to the girl, who lifted the sack to him. Taking it and peering inside, Darius found it contained a dozen ripe red apples, a product of the orchards to the city's west.

"The whole family, we work the orchards, Wizard. We saved these for you, the best of the pick."

The fruit was full and ripe – immensely superior to the dried shards of which the soldiers carried so many into the field.

"Thank you, madame!" Darius said with a bright smile. His mouth was already watering – impressive considering the dry, dusty air. "And thank you as well, little one," he said to the girl, who did nothing but hide her face in the folds of the old woman's skirts. Darius shrugged and gave the woman another smile before continuing on his way. It was almost time.

In the five minutes it took him to reach his men at the very foot of the gates, Darius had nearly finished devouring one of the gifts. Speaking around the last mouthful of the juicy, tart fruit, he called to Robert and tossed the bag. His lieutenant caught it by reflex, and was as delighted at the treat as Darius had been.

"Where is Emanuelle?" Darius asked. "He's to thank for it."

Another soldier, a newcomer, had overheard his commander. He turned and called to one of his fellows. "Manny!" The man turned, betraying a face that women no doubt found painfully handsome. Golden hair covered his head, though the fuzz that was beginning to grow on his face was almost reddish. His youthfulness made Darius cringe inwardly, as he recalled the fate of so many similar men when last the Gryphons had taken to the field.