Warlord (6 page)
This mist had been certain when the woman had climaxed that she had succumbed and was the walking dead. But when the setting continued, the mist was forced to concede that the initial release with the man must not have been her greatest desire. It could feel the mutual surprise emanating from the other mists as well. It had never watched someone climax before actual penetration. What a scenario this had been.
Ah well, it didn’t matter now. They had one. A living, breathing mortal who had passed through both pools. And if she could just make it out of the chamber, she would be theirs. Of course, it was another matter entirely to escape the chamber. That required a bit more . . . physical talent. It was forbidden to interfere. They would watch and be patient, even if it meant waiting two hundred years for another.
“They have arrived, my lord. They set up camp in the valley, next to the river.” The man’s hands were on his knees, breath misting from his panting form in the chill, autumn air.
Arystan eyed the soldier from the low bench where he sat. He set his cup slowly down on the wooden table, steam rising from it. “How many strong?”
“Eighteen thousand, my lord. Six thousand on horseback.”
Arystan’s brought his hand to his chin, rubbing it absently, resting his hide-clad arm on the table, his black eyes contemplative. A white wolf skin rested on his shoulders, its bared teeth thrown back over his neck.
The messenger straightened a bit, his breath returning. He adjusted his worn cloak over his shoulders. “My lord, it is a great number. Perhaps we should retreat. Face the General another day.”
Arystan’s eyes flashed as his fist came down hard on the table, slamming it with such force that the heavy wood jerked from the ground. The man cowered, trying to sink back from his leader whose lips were now curled in a terrible snarl.
“My lord, I meant no disrespect –” the man whimpered.
“You are not my advisor, Kanar. You would do well to get out of my sight.” A look of intense relief crossed Kanar’s face as he bowed repeatedly, backing up until he could safely run back into the camp.
“Tebur! Sabalak! Attend me! Now!” Arystan’s voice rang out strongly.
Within minutes, a man very similar to Arystan, except of slighter build and having a thick goatee took a seat on the bench across from Arystan at the same table. He wore a leopard skin cloak which was drawn forward over his head, the teeth of the animal grazing his black hair. A second larger, stout man joined him on the bench. He had a thick, wiry beard, a full black mustache and wore a heavy bearskin cloak which was draped back over his shoulders.
Arystan leaned back, looking over both of his chieftains, saying nothing as a thin man in tattered robes brought over two additional cups, filled them with tea and re-filled Arystan’s cup.
Arystan reached down and took a sip of the steaming beverage. The thinner man, Tebur, wrapped his hands around his cup. Sabalak waited for Arystan to speak.
“General Bayuan brings eighteen thousand men to greet us. They make camp across the river,” Arystan said simply.
The chieftains considered this information.
“We have only six thousand. They outnumber us three to one,” said Sabalak gruffly, shifting his bulk on the bench.
“Yes, it is more than we had thought,” said Arystan thoughtfully. “But we will proceed with the original plan.”
“Do you think it wise, my lord?” asked Tebur. “Perhaps we could engage them some other time when the odds are more in our favor.”
“Bayuan has the aid of the evil ones. His successes are unnatural, his victories immoral.
We have not meaningfully touched his army since the ambush of his cavalry in the mountain pass. He annihilates entire villages unscathed, sparing no one. He must be stopped and he shall be stopped now,” replied Arystan.
“We are all willing to fight him to the death,” said Sabalak. “But it is a great display of force his army makes. It impresses the minds of our men, causing them not to question their loyalty, but their chances.”
“It is more than their chances our men will question if we do not kill him. It is their freedom and the lives of their families. This is the last battle – his last battle. I sense it,”
said Arystan.
Tebur looked across at Sabalak and then back at Arystan. “We are with you, Arystan.
Now and always.” Sabalak nodded.
Arystan considered for a moment and then said, “See that there are no fires lit tonight.
And no sounds. Have campfires set high on the hill behind us. Bunch the fires together to present the impression of a small encampment. Let General Bayuan think our position farther from the river and our numbers smaller. Tebur, is everything in position at the river?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. Take two hundred men and fifty archers upriver at dusk and complete the work.
Stay the night. Release the archers on my signal in the morning. Sabalak, how many horse have we?”
“Most of our numbers are horse, my lord. We have five thousand.”
Arystan’s black eyes were distant, but focused. “We need three thousand on this side to press our advantage and present a show of strength. We will keep the remaining foot soldiers in the main encampment. I will lead the attack on their forces. Sabalak, take two thousand horse and cross downriver before dawn, after the water is lowered. Flank them.
Do not ride into their camp until my signal.”
Arystan straightened and took another sip of his tea, his black eyes intense, moving from Tebur to Sabalak. “The fate of our people rests in our hands. We must defeat Bayuan’s army, but it is even more important to kill Bayuan. He is protected by strong forces, dark forces. But if I can isolate him, I can kill him. He will not escape.”
“If you can confront him, I do not think he will try to escape, my lord. He has too much pride, too much arrogance. In any event, you are the better fighter,” said Tebur.
Arystan nodded soberly. The three men clasped their wrists together powerfully and then rose simultaneously.
“Make the final preparations, my brothers,” said Arystan. “Tomorrow, we shall know victory.”
* * * * *
“It is difficult to tell, General. They are camped high in the hills. I do not think a great number. Two thousand. No more than three.”
A man of huge bulk with cold, black eyes sat cross-legged on a pile of furs across from three other men. Itkul sat on his heels to the left of Bayuan, his eyes shifting uneasily at the sounds of industry outside the tent – hooves stamping, stakes being driven into the hard ground, men yelling. The sides of the canvas tent rippled gently in the cold afternoon breeze.
Bayuan scoffed. “So few will be easy to overcome. The river is deep here. After we complete the camp, we will find a ford and send half of our forces across, including most of the horses. We will run them down and kill them all.”
“My lord,” said the man on the far right, bowing his head as he spoke. His scalp could clearly be seen through his thinning black hair. “We outnumber them greatly. Perhaps we should consider wearing them down, weakening their numbers. It would not take many assaults across the river. Within a month, possibly even a week, our victory would be assured. We have the forces to spare. Small losses would mean nothing to our army.”
The general sat very still, appraising the man, his back ramrod straight despite his size. A slight tinge of gray touched Bayuan’s temples, but his skin was smooth and taut, his bearing rigid and powerful. His black eyes had a ruthless cast.
“You surprise me, old man,” he said unkindly. “There is no honor in warfare by attrition.
There is no glory in it. It is not the way of General Bayuan.” The man cringed visibly, his head bowed, his eyes facing the floor.
“And more, Ulzhan,” Bayuan said, his voice softly deceptive, “there is no need for it.
We have enough forces to overwhelm Arystan’s poor excuse for an army. We will simply crush them.” He brought his hand up into a fist, his knuckles whitening.
“Forgive me, General,” said the man sitting in the middle, directly across from Bayuan.
He was the youngest of the three advisors, his hair a lighter shade of black, almost dark brown, the hint of a mustache forming over his youthful mouth. “But is it wise to split our forces across the river? Perhaps we should send our entire army across or wait for Arystan to come to us.”
Bayuan stared at him. “The river is no danger to us, Jalus. Even halved, our forces outnumber theirs. Besides,” he spat, and a small pool of yellowed spittle gathered on the hideskin floor, “Arystan is young and inexperienced. He is no match for me in strategy or in combat.”
A dangerous mien suddenly crossed the general’s face and the tent seemed to noticeably chill. The three men glanced about anxiously, drawing their robes to them. Bayuan’s eyes became distant, unfocused, vicious . . . almost evil. “I have spoken to the divine forces and they have assured me success is mine. I shall not fail.”
There was a long silence and then Jalus said confidently, “You shall certainly be victorious, my lord. Your bravery and skill are much renowned throughout the kingdom.
You are a far greater fighter than Arystan.”
Bayuan’s eyes snapped back as if he had just come out of a trance. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I am.”
* * * * *
One of the soldiers rushed into Bayuan’s tent, awakening him from a deep, restful sleep.
“General,” he said, falling to his knees, his head bowed, knowing the news he brought could mean his own death at the leader’s hands. “Arystan’s forces. They are upon us.
They attack. Now!”
Bayuan threw off the bearskin furs and stalked to the tent entrance, throwing back the flap. Half-dressed, his eyes clear, he took in the disorder, men running in every direction, horses milling about, stamping and neighing, his chieftains yelling orders, trying to marshal a defense as three thousand horsemen thundered across the river bearing down from the hills.
“Sound the alarm,” Bayuan snarled at the man still on his knees.
A staccato drumbeat filled the thick air and Bayuan’s soldiers hastily scrambled to don armor, hoist weapons, and those on horse, prepare their mounts.
The attacking horsemen from Arystan’s army raced easily across the shallow river, swinging all manner of swords, axes, halberds and pikes. As Bayuan’s soldiers armed themselves and fought back fiercely, the aggressors began to turn their mounts in almost-panicked circles, looking clearly overwhelmed and surprised by the extent of the resistance they found themselves facing.
General Bayuan watched the battle from his horse in the center of the field, unwilling to enter the fray just yet. He saw Arystan swing his sword in an arc, cleaving the head cleanly from one of his soldiers, and then complete the circle, plunging the weapon into the throat of another who toppled from his horse, dead. Arystan stood up in his stirrups, his black hair wild about his face, the white wolf skin drawn over his head stained red with blood, his eyes sweeping over his flustered troops. Arystan seemed to notice Bayuan sitting imperiously in full regalia on his caparisoned black horse and Bayuan could have sworn he saw the warrior’s eyes widen.
“Retreat,” Arystan yelled, still looking toward Bayuan, and then he whirled his sword over his head and pointed toward their camp across the river. “Back! Across the river!”
Answering shouts of “Retreat!” and “Across the river!” resounded throughout Bayuan’s camp from the horse-mounted warriors. Bayuan looked on smugly as the hardly battle-damaged horsemen hurtled back across the shallow river, apparently heading for the hills.
Bayuan’s scouts had informed him that, judging from the location of their fires, Arystan’s camp was located in a steep mountainous area. A good place to hide, Bayuan surmised.
Hiding was what Arystan did best. Well, this time he would not be allowed to run.
Bayuan would send enough of his forces to round up every last warrior. He would not be outmaneuvered.
Bayuan nodded at his chieftains who shouted the orders. The General’s army began a furious pursuit, those on foot wading across the surprisingly shallow river, the horsemen holding back so as not to overrun their own men. General Bayuan himself waited a few minutes until a good portion of his army had passed over and then spurred his horse on, quickly crossing the river and taking the lead at the head of his legions.
Arystan pulled up his horse, watching as the general reached the far bank, waiting until Bayuan gave the order for his multitude of cavalry to cross the river and join the foot soldiers.
A shrill whistle, like the call of a hunting falcon, pierced the air three times in quick succession and went unnoticed by the eager troops laying chase to Arystan’s fleeing men.
The calls were not overlooked upriver.
“Now!” shouted Tebur and the archers loosed repeated volleys of arrows at the waterlogged bags holding back the river until they began to shift and empty, their sand-like contents mixing with the turbulent water coursing over the barricade. And then, quickly, the entire dam burst and the pent-up river behind it poured violently back into its rightful trough, spilling, rushing, cascading at mind-numbing speed down the valley, toward the battle being waged below.
Roughly half of Bayuan’s army had crossed the river, with a huge contingent of footmen and horsemen still in the midst of the low river when the hard, heavy wall of gray water rushed around a corner, taking them all unaware, engulfing, crushing, sweeping them away, their cries and screams drowned by the water, muted by the thunderous sound of the returning river as it saturated the plain, flooding the camp, submerging bodies and supplies.
