Twixt Heaven And Hell (24 page)

"Your grandmother found me with those," Darius said, pointing to Robert who was searching the bag for the biggest apple. "After Robert's finished, they're yours to hand out or hoard."

'Manny' grinned. "I'll be handing them out. My family has worked the orchards since before I was born – I eat plenty of them myself."

With a nod, Darius stepped a bit closer so he wouldn't be sharing the conversation with the entire Fist. "You have a young sister? There was a little girl with your grandmother."

The man's smile had a proud twinkle in it this time. "Not my sister, sir. My daughter. She's six now."

Darius was taken aback. "How old are you?"

"Twenty two, sir."

With a tiny shake of his head, Darius chuckled. "You started early."

"More fun than waiting!" broke in another soldier, eliciting raunchy laughs from the rest of the men within earshot.

Amidst the laughter, Darius saw a shadow of doubt flash across Emanuelle's face. Leaning in close with a reassuring hand on the soldier's shoulder, the wizard lowered his voice. "We'll get you back to her, man."

Despite his attempts to keep the comment between the two of them, another soldier leaned in and laid his hand on 'Manny's' other shoulder. "Aye! We'll get you back to her. Or I'll come back and comfort your wife!"

Darius was about to rebuke the man for the crass comment when he noticed Manny's smile. The interrupter was Pollis, the hardiest veteran in the Gryphons. His smile, too, was as much friendly as it was taunting.

"In your dreams, Pollis. Samantha's told me she thinks you look like a bull's arse."

Manny's comment proved that the two men were familiar, and Darius held his tongue. The wizard stepped back as Manny's fist flashed up and playfully slugged Pollis in the armored gut. The older soldier barely noticed, and did not retaliate in kind. Instead he just gave the onlooking men an impish wink.

"Aye, not the only thing bulls and I got in common!"

Emanuelle shoved him, finally prodding Pollis to respond. A scuffle nearly broke out – soldiers were already beginning to cheer for their choice of competitor when Robert's voice cut through the noise of crowd and conflict alike.

"Drop that right now, you two! You look like fools in front of the Captain!"

Darius tried to keep his face passive, but couldn't hide his amusement. The two soldiers bobbed their heads in apology. Emmanuelle looked truly mortified at the chastisement, but Pollis – who knew his captain much better – was still grinning.

The wizard merely turned his back on them without acknowledging either reaction. He enjoyed seeings his soldiers in high spirits, but as always he let Robert deal out the discipline when his lieutenant thought it necessary.

A few moments later he tracked down Pollis again. "You know that man then?" he asked.

Pollis looked surprised at the question. "Oh, aye. Aye sir. He's my cousin. Fergot you didn't know."

"You recommended him?"

A nod with a hint of apprehension. "Aye sir," he confirmed. He was quick to add, "Don't let that baby face fool you. He's a good soldier. We'll be glad to have him, I vouch for that. He's just like me."

"With more sword arm and less mouth, I hope," came Robert's dry commentary from over Darius's shoulder. Pollis grinned yet wider and winked glibly at the officers, then turned back to the other soldiers.

"We're ready, sir," Robert said. "The others are waiting on us."

"It won't do to hold them up for long, then. Give the word."

As Robert raised his voice and shouted the assembly orders, Darius moved to the edge of the gates and craned his neck to meet the eyes of the Gate Captain, a hundred feet overhead. He nodded toward the gates. With an answering nod, orders rang out from above.

A trumpet blared. Men strained at the thick ropes, and in a few moments the main entrance to Bastion stood open, a gap in the high walls wide enough for twelve men abreast.

Darius spoke again to Robert, who shouted the orders. Signal banners waved, and the Gryphons started forward, booted feet falling naturally into the marching rhythm that was second nature to every man in Bastion by the time he saw his twelfth winter.

Darius was at their front, Robert beside him. Behind them was Kray, again disguised as a common soldier – but not drugged this time. He had been ecstatic at the chance to leave the city and the constant questioning for a time, almost pathetically so. There were enough new faces amongst the Gryphons that no one paid special attention to this one.

There was waving and cheering from the crowd. Wives, sons, and daughters, some with the tears of their goodbyes still glistening wetly upon their cheek, smiled bravely and waved with everyone else. There would be grief in some of their futures, but the War must be fought, and nobody would shy from their duty.

***

Not all eyes that watched the soldiers march from the gates were cheerful, or even friendly. One pair in particular looked on with cold calculation. These eyes counted ranks and noted the wizards who led each Fist. When finally every last departing soldier had issued forth and the gates crashed shut behind them, a man left the window from which he had watched, high in the tower of the Crown.

He made his way slowly and thoughtfully to a chamber much further down on the structure, where many wizards had their quarters. He entered one, robes swirling around his feet as he pushed the heavy wooden door shut. He moved to the wardrobe, and, reaching deep into the back, underneath the clothing and belts and sundry other items piled within, he pushed aside a hidden panel and removed a pure, transparent globe of the finest crystal.

A quick burst of magic quested about the vicinity, telling the wizard that there were no men nearby to interrupt him. If the spell had been detected, it would be ignored amidst the rest of the magic involved in the daily operations of the Crown.

A scintilla of power flowed into the crystal. Shapes coalesced and floated within. Far away, it's twin did the same. A man's face coalesced within the globe. By the cut of the man's beard it was immediately apparent that this was no wizard of Bastion.

"I have very important information," the wizard said.

The face did not react for a moment, instead turning sideways to look at something hundreds of miles distant. When it turned back, a voice sounded within the wizard's head.

"The Warlord is here. Say on."

***

"Darius has left Bastion again," said the sorcerer before him, relating the words of the spy
precisely
as they were spoken. It had long since been impressed upon him that, should he be found to incorrectly deliver information, his life would end in an unpleasant way.

Despite that fact, he spoke with confidence. He was one of those few sorcerers, young and unaddled by the arrogance of their position, that showed promise to the Warlord. That was why he was entrusted with this very privileged position, and the knowledge that went with it.

There were, of course, also dire consequences in store should that knowledge ever manage to slip out.

"The Fists number six in all," the man at the Globe was saying. He did not look at the Warlord as he spoke, all his attention on the connection and the man he shared it with. Arms crossed, the Warlord listened impassively, his mind storing the report for dissection.

"They were supposed to have three hundred soldiers in each, but they must be short some. The difference was not more than two-hundred men by my count. The wizards who lead them are Darius..."

The other names meant nothing to the Warlord. Though he wanted to know more of each one – everything down to the size of the boots they wore, if he could – each moment he kept this report going increased the possibility that his spy would become known to the foe. He must always balance the value of the information with the value of keeping this man secret and safe, nestled in the very heart of the Enemy.

After his spy had quickly and concisely outlined the details of the soldiers leaving Bastion, Traigan asked the question that he must have answered.

"Do you know where Darius is going?"

The answer came back immediately. The sorcerer who spoke was even beginning to imitate the spy's tones of voice – this Traigan noticed, though it had been many years since he had actually heard the man speak.

"Only by rumor. Darius is said to be making for Threeforts Valley, to inspect the marks of your incursion there."

A rare smile lit the Warlord's face. "Good. Is there anything more?"

***

Though the Warlord valued this man's contribution to the War over any ten others', and though the spy himself knew that the task he was undertaking was unheard of in its ambition, neither could have predicted the impact his next words would have on the War – and on the world.

"Yes, Warlord," the spy said, in a voice that dripped satisfaction. "There is more."

Chapter Twenty-Six

Before the sun was down, Darius called a halt to the day's march. Three days earlier the Fists had broken from the Patchwork Forest and parted paths, spreading out to all points on the border. Three went south, the others, north. Darius, knowing his own men could outpace the others, had decided to take a more winding path that brought them in sight of Fortress Nebeth. It could be seen off in the distance, barely cresting the horizon. Silhouetted by the sun it seemed properly foreboding, now the Enemy had hold of it again.

Darius knew sentries upon the highest walls of the fortress may be able to see him as well. He counted on it. Though the Enemy held the Fortress, they did not control the lands around it. To all directions Bastion still held sway. Darius wanted the Enemy to feel cut off and under watch.

The Gryphons camped there that night. Robert had misgivings about it, but Darius could not resist taunting the foe. The Gryphons were not easily taken unawares, and if the Enemy stretched out its hand to strike at them, it would come back missing fingers, if it came back at all.

The fears were unwarranted; the night passed without incident. From Nebeth the Gryphons turned north, towards Threeforts valley.

It had been nearly three years since the Gryphons had come so near to the northern edge of Bastion's territory. Even beyond its remote location, Threeforts was the most defensible region on the border, more secure even than the Shambles or Fortress Nebeth itself. The terrain was uneven, rising and falling dramatically. Numerous watchtowers perched upon prominent hills, and the main routes through the valley were guarded by the three mighty forts themselves. The only open approach was to the south, firmly in Bastion's grip. Though there were passes through the mountains to the east they were too tight to launch a determined assault though – even before Bastion had fortified them. Now entire armies could shatter themselves without ever gaining entrance to the valley itself.

It was that seeming impregnability that made Threeforts so rare a visit for the Gryphons, who frequented the more active stretches of the border. But though there were many more
entertaining
regions, there were none quite so beautiful.

Darius had been born in the plains and raised in the city, but the area around Bastion had been too long inhabited. The treeline had long since receded beyond sight of the city's walls and much of the land was cultivated in fields and orchards – beautiful in their own way, but no challenge to the timeless majesty of nature's own work.

Here the land was still virgin and undisturbed. Amidst the mighty trees and jagged terrain, the Gryphons made their way still further north, to the plateau at the extreme end of the valley.

The Gryphons reached the verdant height at midday, and Darius called a halt when they came to a small brook trickling from out of the heights. Each man filled his skins with the cool, fresh water and took his rations while he had the chance. It was not often that their wizard captain allowed them a true stop before the day's end, and food always tasted better when eaten sitting down.

The Enemy had sent the bulk of their incursion here, though Darius did not know why so many sorcerers had been familiar with the place. All of those men were now dead, that much was certain. Some very few of the invading warriors may have escaped the search parties of Bastion, but a sorcerer could not hide so well – especially when it was Angels that did the searching.

Darius led Kray away from the men.

"You have never been to this place?"

A quick shake of the head. "No. I have never been this far north."

"Do you know why so many sorcerer's knew this place?" Darius asked.

"No," Kray shook his head, then paused and peered into the distance. “Uldoss pass is to the southeast. A fort here may have had some use.”

Darius nodded.

Kray asked a question of his own. "The arrival sites, they are near?"

"From the reports, about two miles east of here, near the edge of the plateau," Darius answered. "Eight of them."

It must have been a nightmare for the defenders, trying to climb their way through rough terrain and swarming enemies to strike at the center of the assault. Darius wanted to meet the man who had made that decision – Bastion needed more leaders like that.

For the sake of caution, Darius took the Gryphons in a wide circle before he went to investigate his true objective. It was nearly impossible for there to be enough of the Enemy left in the area to give the Gryphons any trouble, but Darius did not want his work interrupted. They completed their patrol with plenty of time left until sundown. While the Gryphons set up camp – quickly out of habit, despite the lack of urgency – Darius took Kray to examine the circles of ash.

In was heartening to finally detect something different from them. The spells that had created these circles had not ended properly, but were destroyed by the counterspell – and it showed. The ground was rent in several of the locations, and there were the echoes of death where the warriors had died in the sudden, catastrophic destruction of their demonic passage. Sadly, that same violence – so deadly to the enemy – also destroyed any useful information about Firewalking.

Save for one spot.

Darius approached the ash slowly, studying it. The counterspell had not destroyed this one – but nor had the spell finished. There was something... odd. At the exact center Darius could feel something. He stepped into the soot, ignoring it as it plumed up to sully his clothing. He knelt at the site of the oddity – but he did not know what to make of it.

He called Kray over. He hoped the man's abilities would not be too weak to see it.

“Do you feel anything there?”

Kray's face was pinched in concentration.

“Barely,” he said. “It feels like Firewalking – like the very beginning, the first wrinkle that becomes the tear, and then the portal.”

The two knelt there, scrutinizing the strange phenomenon, until their knees began to ache.

“Curious,” Darius said as he stood. He stretched his legs and kneaded the back of his neck. “But I do not think I could find out anything useful alone. This needs real researchers. It might even get Balkan out into the field again.”

Glancing about, Darius again wondered why so many sorcerers had known the spot so well. Perhaps they really had been planning to build another fort. Or locate an army camp – there was water nearby.

Or perhaps they had already been developing the Firewalking ability then, so many years before, and had simply been planning ahead. It seemed a bit far fetched to Darius. Before Traigan had come, the Enemy had not been known for their planning abilities, often seizing short term gains which eventually led to greater loss. Another reason why Traigan was dangerous.

Darius and Kray returned to the men. Fires had been started, pots placed above them with water set to boil. Robert would have tasked some of the men to hunting – fresh stew was an immeasurable improvement over salted meat and dried fruit.

"Anything useful this time?" Robert asked his captain when the two wizards returned.

"Perhaps. At least they were
different
this time – but we need more wizards to study them.
We'll spend a quiet night here and head back south."

Robert swiveled his head, considering the beauty around them, and the men going about their duties with a leisurely cheer. "I'll take as many quiet nights as you care to give me, sir," he replied with a smile.

Darius returned it wordlessly, continuing to a tent that had been set up for the wizards. Wood lay before it as well, shored with stone but unlit. Men looked on expectantly as Darius neared it. He seemed to pay no attention to the neatly built fire pit, but as he lifted the flap to his tent it exploded in flame, an impressive column of it like a miniature version of the Enemy spell. The Gryphons laughed and slapped their legs.

Kray followed the whole way, entering the tent behind him.

"Robert is very old for a warrior," Kray mentioned as the tent flap dropped shut behind them. "In Pyre, most men have become craftsmen or chieftains by his age."

Kray's comment surprised Darius. It was the first time the man had ever shown interest in any person beyond Darius or another wizard.

"I cannot imagine Robert as anything but a soldier," Darius replied – even as he was reminded of Robert's graying hair, and a face that gathered a few more wrinkles each year. "And I wouldn't trade him for any other soldier in Bastion."

Though Kray asked no more questions, Darius found himself troubled. He had forgotten Robert's exact age, but knew the man was well past forty. It was a testament to his skill and vigor that he was still counted amongst the best of the Gryphons in skill at arms, and never seemed fazed by the hard days of travel.

Darius realized he did not know what Robert had intended to do in the years to come when he had recruited the man to serve as lieutenant of the Gryphons. Robert was a very private man – it was not in his nature to share details of his life beyond what was needed, and it was not in Darius's nature to pry. Robert certainly had some plans – he had acquired the ownership of a house, after all. Darius made a mental note to speak with his second in command about it. No doubt the man didn't want to spend his whole life in the field.

***

For once, the hand moving over the maps tattooed upon the hide was not the Warlord's. It was not even human.

Traigan supposed the creature before him must be some sort of demon. It caused the same feeling of unease – of
wrongness –
as the others, though lessened. It did not exude the sort of overt menace as Traigan had always encountered before, either. All that aside, it certainly was not earthly.

The thing was short, over a foot below Traigan's own height. It was bundled in dirty, foul-smelling rags, and the bald, vaguely man-like head that poked above the folds of cloth seemed set directly upon the shoulders beneath. Only one bony arm rose from beneath the clothing – the other could be seen hanging limp and misshapen by its side. The skin was a mottled yellowish brown, the color of leaves rotting by the side of a swamp.

It had taken all of Traigan's courage to contact the Demons with his plan. The monster who had come to him was the same who put the Warlord's Crown upon his head, the most terrible by far of all the creatures Traigan had ever had to deal with. A vast beast whose body was all naked muscle and sinew and claws and horns, like a gigantic predator which had been skinned and yet lived; a nightmare of flesh.

Compared to that monster, this thing before him was easily tolerated. The Thralls, which seemed to despise the presence of other demons – especially the one which had created them – ignored it. It never spoke to the Warlord, merely ran its one bony hand over the map. It had done so for days now, ever since its first appearance in the grand hall. Traigan had left it to its work, and the usual comings and goings of Pyre had continued despite the unnatural presence. Sorcerers looked askance at it. Soldiers avoided acknowledging it entirely. It ignored all equally.

The only other man in the hall just then was a grizzled old chieftain, veteran of many battles and one of the highest ranking non-sorcerers besides the Warlord himself. He oversaw the arrival of new warriors to Pyre, and to their training – such as it was.

"Almost two thousand, my lord," he replied to Traigan's last question. "A strong tribe from the south. They sent every fighting man they had once they had been... visited."

"Very good," answered Traigan. "I want them sent to the third camp as soon as they are deemed ready," he commanded, and dismissed the man. The chieftain left the room quickly after a hurried salute.

Two thousand was good. Pyre's manpower had been heavily depleted over the last months – as had Bastion's, no doubt. Whichever side could recover the fastest would strike the next blow. He did not know how many of Bastion's soldiers came from outside the their settled lands, but for Pyre it was a sizable portion. Their terror bands had to stray further and further each year to find new people. Some came willingly, awed by these highly decorated men with weapons of steel. Others had to be... persuaded, but eventually all made the journey.

A change in the creature drew Traigan's attention, and he stepped closer to observe. Within the last few moments, the creature's movements had lessened, its hand beginning to caress a certain part of the map repeatedly. Its small, bald, wrinkled head was held drooping – Traigan had not yet seen the thing's face. As it touched the map once more, it raised its head and looked at the Warlord.

At least, it seemed to – though again vaguely human, the features were blurred, like a man's face rendered crudely in wax. Where the eyes should have been there were merely pits.

With its eyeless stare still fixed on Traigan, it stabbed a single long finger at a certain point of the map – the plateau north of Threeforts Valley, where so recently Pyre had failed to oust the enemy from the valley.

"Yes. That was the report," the Warlord nodded, avoiding meeting the gaze of the putrid creature before him. "That is he. That is the one we wish to destroy."

Brown flesh squeezed tight over the skull as it smiled a thin, mirthless smile. Then it shuddered, smile disappearing. It drew its hand away from the map, and the flesh all over its body seemed to convulse and writhe, making Traigan draw back in disgust.