Twixt Heaven And Hell (4 page)

Chapter Four

Before he had turned the corner, Kray felt it. He was too far away to detect the true beginning of the spell – a whisper of magic that spoke of rocks and trees and a distant place in the world – but this, anyone for miles would notice. At least, any sorcerer for miles would have noticed, and who else mattered?

No. Incorrect. A fallacy. That was old thinking. Traigan would have laughed fit to kill had he heard Kray’s thoughts. The new Warlord was not as quick to execute a subordinate as others before him, but he did enjoy making sure the sorcerers were aware of his disdain. Several of Kray’s peers were still muttering about an incident half a week earlier, when Traigan had referred to magic as a ‘crutch.’ If not for the Demons’ protection, the man would have been killed months ago by an irritated sorcerer.

Kray climbed the stairs to the entrance of the stronghold. From there he could see the wide plains beyond the city, covered in a second city of tents. Somewhere in the world the spell announced its presence like an errant finger of the sun, but here at the origin it was merely a blazing portal wide enough for two men at once to step through.

There were other bonfires on that field already, and Kray could not tell them from the spell at this distance. Even if he had been close enough to watch, he would not likely have been able to decipher what he was seeing – this new magic was far beyond his abilities as a sorcerer.

Kray wondered if this was another raid. Thus far, only two had been sent to test the spell, to regions in the enemy lands that were often empty of soldiers. Both forays had successfully gone and returned again, but Traigan had ordered that no more raids be sent.

He never bothered to give an explanation. There were no sorcerers left with the gall to challenge Traigan’s orders. He may have been lenient with disagreement, but disobedience was expunged without mercy.

This did not deter Kray from his planning, however. He would have his revenge.

He left the gateway, heading deeper into the fortress on his way to the Great Hall itself. Guards flanked the door, but his status as a sorcerer afforded him immediate entrance. With Traigan in charge, Kray wondered how much longer that would last.

The generals, sorcerers all, clustered around the map table at the center of the room. They wore golden circlets atop their heads, as opposed to the normal silver like that which Kray had sitting atop his own brow.

With them was the Warlord, Mertoris Traigan.

Rumor had it that there would soon be other non-sorcerers joining the highest ranks of command, but thus far it had not happened. As it was, Traigan was the only man to ever wear the crimson Warlord’s Circlet that had not worn the silver and gold before it.

It was still jarring to Kray’s eyes to see it atop a mere soldier’s head. But it had been set there by an Archdemon, and if that very important fact was not enough to keep it there then the Thralls were always nearby.

With such imperious company, many other sorcerers would have waited meekly to be noticed before they spoke their mind.  Kray had not risen above his minor abilities with magic through such behavior. He stalked straight up to the assembly of commanders and spoke to the Warlord in the tones of an equal.

“Warlord! Why do we waste our time with this nonsense -” Kray indicated the maps where troops movements were marked in black ink. “- When we should be striking at the enemy with our new power? We must move quickly and seize the advantage!”

The anger in his voice was as false as the idiotic speech. He had merely needed an excuse to get close to the map. A stolen glance told him all he needed to know. A large number of troops were marked at a point distant from the city, and by the symbols present more would be arriving soon. No doubt that was the intention of the spell he had witnessed. But why use such magic for mundane movements?

At Kray’s approach, four figures on the outskirts of the room had risen slightly. At first glance they appeared to be warriors. They were clad in the leather armor of fighting men, but bore no weapons. Their movements were too fluid to be natural, though – And their eyes…

Only one of them was in Kray’s line of sight, over the shoulder of the Warlord. It was in the shadows, but was easily recognized by the shine of its eyes – as red as the circlet upon Traigan’s head. These were the Thralls, the first of the gifts from the Archdemon to its prodigy. Four warriors chosen from the men Traigan used to command; they still obeyed him and now bore powers ripped from a demon. They were the reason Traigan survived in a society dominated by sorcerers.

The Warlord looked up at Kray. “We shall move and strike when I say so, Kray. It shall be very soon.”

Kray switched tactics, hoping the Warlord would reveal more. “Than why have I not received orders? I have been moldering in the city for months now. Warlord, give me blood! I demand it. Give me soldiers and send me to cut a bloody swathe through the enemy lands!”

A corner of Traigan’s mouth twitched up in amusement, and inwardly Kray flinched. The Warlord knew he was playing games – it was dangerous that the man could read him so well.

“There will be blood aplenty for all soon enough, Kray. Now leave this room. You have no business here.”

The scowl on Kray’s face deepened, but he said nothing. The Warlord had already looked away from him, though Kray could see one of the Thralls was scrutinizing him.

Kray did not believe the rumors that the Warlord could see through the eyes of the Thralls, but decided to act properly subordinate and follow the man’s orders. His anger smoldering, he departed the chamber.

***

Once Kray had gone beyond hearing, a General turned his gold-browed visage upon the Warlord.

“He acts above his place, as always. We will warn him against further intrusions, Warlord.”

Another one spoke up, but kept his eyes to the maps before him. “We
should
simply have him executed. I’m sick of his insubordination. How a man of such trivial power ever won the silver is beyond me.”

“Intelligence, you fools.”

At the Warlord's mocking tone, the Generals forsook their study of the charts and raised their eyes to meet his. Their leader wore his usual contemptuous expression.

“Without your precious powers to depend on, none of you would be worth the gold that went into your fancy crowns. Kray has achieved more through intelligence and audacity than you would ever have dreamed, were you in his place.”

One General – a dark and imposing sorcerer known as Vorse, who had held his station since long before the Warlord had been born – dared to speak again. “If you think so much of him, why does he not wear the gold?”

Another amused smile grew on Traigan’s face, much like the one Kray had noted. “If I decide he is able, he will replace you before I’ve taken another breath.”

A dark cloud passed over the old sorcerer’s face, and Traigan’s smile vanished as he read the man’s countenance. He leaned over the table to put his face closer to Vorse's, and spoke a harsh warning. “And if he is found dead somewhere in the city, or in a camp, I’ll hold you responsible. Do you understand? Seek to have him killed, and your heart will end up on my dinner plate.”

“But, but sir!” one of the others spluttered. “Kray is insubordinate, rash, and insults with his every third word! That he has survived so long amongst his betters is amazing as it is! He is bound to end up stabbed in a feud someday –“

“Not. My. Concern,” the Warlord declared, cutting the man off. “I will assume it was your doing. You had best see that he lives – if
you
hope to.”

Vorse gritted his teeth as he bowed his head. “With your leave, Warlord, we should return to the plan. Time does not halt while we bicker.”

Traigan smiled and nodded in turn. “You are sure Salmir,” he began, pointing to the map where another sizable camp was marked, “has the experience we require?”

The sorcerer to the Warlord’s left spoke up, another man nearly as old as Vorse though not nearly so vigorous. “Salmir was the last to retreat from beyond the Fortress, five years ago. If he cannot target the requisite spell, no one can.”

“I hate hinging so much on one man,” said the Warlord. “What is your opinion of his abilities?”

“Salmir is dependable, my Lord, and capable. The spell will be no challenge for him.”

“Good.” Traigan contemplated routes again, idly brushing dust from the thin leather on which the map was tattooed. It was an old thing, and he made a mental note to have it copied over again to a fresh piece of hide.

The Warlord looked up, and another smile lit his face. It was not one of amusement, but of anticipation.

“Globe the generals,” he said. “Tell them, ‘two days.’”

He used both hands to flatten and smooth the map, as if by that action his plans would proceed smoothly as well. “In two days, Fortress Nebeth falls.”

Chapter Five

Robert struck high, and was swiftly parried. A riposte made for his ribs; he knocked it away without trouble. Pressing forward he attempted to overwhelm his opponent with a charge, using his mass to intimidate his foe into giving ground.

It didn’t work. Instead of moving back the man circled around, his sword glancing off Robert’s again and again. Then Robert intentionally swept his sword through a too-wide strike. The other combatant took the bait, and as his sword angled for Robert’s heart Robert nimbly sidestepped and clamped a hand on his enemy’s wrist. With a sharp tug the opponent was off-balance, Robert’s sword at his throat.

Releasing his grip, Robert lowered his sword and grinned. The man, a younger soldier named Erickson, grinned back a little sheepishly. “Guess I haven’t seen that one before.”

“You don’t see it much in battle. Don’t worry, you impressed me plenty. You’re an excellent swordsman.”

“Thank you sir.”

Beckoning the man to follow, Robert began walking over to the walls of the training compound. A large number of potential recruits stood there under the watchful eyes of the Gryphon’s sergeants. “Where did you say you’d seen battle?”

“I was with Eighth Army for the last two years. Uldoss pass, the foothills around there and all the battles throughout Quickstone River Valley, I was there for all of it. Never wounded once.”

“Very good.”

“I, uh, I saw you there, sir. At Uldoss, I mean. You and Wizard Darius.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes sir. Wizard Darius and yourself – and I suppose all the Gryphons – were over to the east of Eighth Army, hiding in the rocks behind the enemy. Just before you attacked, Darius stood up on those rocks and made an avalanche. Brought the rocks down right on the Enemy's head.”

“Yes, I remember that,” Robert said, scratching a week’s worth of beard – he would have to find time to shave soon. “Well, Erickson,” Robert continued, “You’re likely to see Darius a great deal more. You’re a Gryphon now.”

A smile split the soldier’s face. “Sir, thank you very much sir! This is wonderful. I’ve always wanted to be one of you.”

“It isn’t sunshine and sweet girls all the time, man. Get over there and talk to your new comrades.”

Most of the Gryphons were in the compound, watching the goings-on with a jaded eye. The men who Robert and his sergeants accepted today would be replacing their fallen friends, and that was a hard morsel to swallow.

As the man walked away, Robert shook his head. Erickson had been wide-eyed at the prospect of joining the Gryphons, and eager as a pup. Robert hoped the man had looked beyond the prestige and seen the grueling pace they set on the march, and the long, long months they spent away from the comforts of Bastion.

Robert pointed to another man, somewhat older than the others – obviously a veteran in his own right.

“Name?” Robert asked.

“Lawrence,” the man replied, stepping forward and hefting his wooden training blade. The thick ash swords were actually heavier than a real blade, having been soaked in oils during their creation to keep them from growing brittle.

Robert did not waste time saluting, but immediately launched his first attack with a stab to the midsection – though some of the surprise was lost to the fact that Lawrence had no doubt seen Robert do the same with some of the men before him.

Lawrence was ready. He did not bother blocking, but rather sidestepped and raised his own blade in an upward arc that would have deprived Robert of both his sword and his hand, had it connected.

Blow was followed by counter, parry by riposte. Robert tested Lawrence’s abilities as he had the others'. The man was not as fast as Robert, nor as large, but was obviously well experienced in swordplay. Robert switched his stance and instead of dancing about the man – which, Robert was loath to admit, was tiring him as well – he went at him with powerful strokes meant to overpower the old soldier.

Perhaps Robert overcompensated for his fatigue, or perhaps he had overestimated the man – or neither, or both. Lawrence was not able to duck beneath Robert’s 'beheading' stroke in time.

Wood met skull with a sickening
crack
, and Lawrence fell bonelessly to the ground at Robert’s feet.

In battle Robert would have felt a moment of exultation, and then gone on to the next foe in sight. Instead he felt a wave of nausea, and immediately dropped to his knees besides the fallen man. Lawrence’s neck was bent at an odd angle from the fall, and his eyes were open and staring emptily at the sky as blood leaked from the rent skin on his forehead. Even as Robert knelt, a glassiness was coming over those eyes that he knew too well.

His hands hovering over the man’s neck but not daring to touch, Robert instead looked up into the sky and shouted at the top of his lungs.

“Aid! Aid!”

The other soldiers took up the shout as if it were a battle cry, and before long the entire enclosure was filled with men shouting that one word and looking to the sky.

Close by, powerful wings beat and a light shot into the air, arcing towards the soldiers gathered around their fallen comrade. It landed without raising so much as a speck of dust, and a gray-robed Angel strode towards Robert and Lawrence, wings still fluttering from the short flight. It knelt at Lawrence’s side and, cradling his head in one gloved hand, it gently brushed the other hand down the soldier’s forehead where the blow had landed, and then again down his neck.

Blood ceased to flow, and color returned to the skin. The emptiness that had grown so quickly in the man’s eyes likewise faded and Lawrence looked about himself as he drew breath again.

The Angel stood, still holding Lawrence, and gently set him on his feet. It pressed one gloved hand against the other in front of its chest and bowed its shrouded head to the healed soldier. No face showed beneath the hood, only the soft light. Lawrence bowed back, as did Robert. Not a word was spoken.

The nameless savior leaped back into the air, returning to the infirmary to await the need that would again call it to its healing work. The gathered soldiers shook off their awe, and one by one left off staring at their restored comrade, returning to their own business.

Lawrence looked quizzically at Robert. “Did I miss something, sir?” he asked. He had no doubt pieced together the events even if he didn’t remember the moments leading up to his near-fatal injury. You rarely did, Robert knew.

“Nothing important, Lawrence. Get over there,” Robert pointed to where he had directed Erickson. “You’re a Gryphon now.”

As Lawrence walked off, Robert noticed blood on his practice sword. He wiped it off on his boot, and the splash of crimson was lost in the cacophony of dirt and stains on the well-worn leather.

Robert raised his head at the sound of his own name, shouted by an imperious voice. The crowd of recruits near the entrance to the training yard parted to release General Mackette, chief overseer of the barracks, upon the lieutenant.

Mackette had a youthful appearance for his age, and only the thoroughly grayed hair atop his head betrayed his five-and-sixty years. His clothing was immaculate as always. It was often said that in his younger days, Mackette had been a soldier’s soldier, a man of action and an excellent comrade. If this was true, that side of him had never shown itself in Robert’s presence. The Lieutenant of the Gryphons knew Mackette as the Council Leader Arric’s loyal lackey, who shared his master’s opinions of Darius and the Gryphons.

By Robert’s reckoning, that just about made the two of them enemies – or as near as they could get, being on the same side.

“General, welcome,” Robert greeted him. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

The irony in Robert's statement could not have been lost on the man, but he gave no sign of noticing it. “Lieutenant. I’m here with good news.”

Robert was immediately wary. “We can always use good news, sir.”

“Yes. The Council has decided that the Gryphons will remain in Bastion for the time being, for rest and recuperation,” the General said. His tone was laden with cheerfulness for the onlookers that were not-so-subtly eavesdropping.

Some of the Gryphons began to cheer, thinking that Darius had changed his mind. Robert was sure that was far from the true story. “And what does our commander, Wizard Darius, have to say about this – General?” Robert inquired.

“He has not yet been notified, as he was not in the Crown at the time of the decision. He will be told as soon as he can be found.”

There was the play. If Darius attempted to reverse the decision, it would vilify him in the eyes of his own soldiers. Someone had thought this out.

Nodding his head and saluting with hand to heart, Robert merely thanked the general for the news.

Mackette returned the salute. “I see you’re up to stealing the best men away from the army, lieutenant. Again.”

“We had losses to replace, General.” Robert indicated the men he had been testing, “Every man you see here volunteered.”

It was true. As a unit that had quickly garnered an elite reputation, being a member – being a Gryphon – had become increasingly prestigious in the four years that they had been around. Having a wizard for a captain was always a draw for soldiers curious about magic, as well.

“Besides, General,” Robert continued, “The Gryphons are part of the army too.”

“Not that you would know it by visiting the Crown, Lieutenant.” Mackette turned to the soldiers who had been listening and raised his voice. “Rest well men! The Council has decided you deserve a time away from the weapons of the Enemy. No doubt you’ll have to return to the battlefields all too soon, eh?”

Turning to leave, the General added a final comment, low enough that only Robert would hear it; “Though perhaps not with the same leader.”

The charismatic General got what he had intended – another round of cheers from the soldiers who had been alienated by the cool way in which their lieutenant and the General had been conversing.

Robert suppressed the urge to throw his training blade at the General’s back. Darius was right – they should not have to fight battles in the field only to come home to more. Turning back to his soldiers and his work, Robert wondered where his commander was, and what his reaction would be when he heard the ‘good news.'

***

Darius seethed inside, though not at the man before him. Lazarus was the only man on the High Council who could be described as supportive of Darius, and even then not always. However, it was not at the feet of Lazarus that the blame for these newest idiocies should be laid.

“It is kind of the Council to take such time to consider the welfare of my soldiers,” Darius began in an effort at diplomacy. “But they are hardy, and dedicated. They will no doubt be ready to leave on the morrow next, as I ordered.”

Lazarus heaved a sigh.

“Your men,” he began, “have already been informed of the change in plans. General Mackette delivered them the news even as I left the Crown to find you, Darius.”

They were standing in the center of a craftsman’s district; a place of tanneries, smithies, cobblers, and weavers. Here leather was stiffened and shaped into armor, swords and spears made, and uniforms stitched together. Darius had been wandering about the streets when Lazarus had intercepted him, enjoying the bustle of industry there.

Now it seemed he should have hurried back to the barracks. Arric no doubt knew of his habits, knew that he would spend time calming his mind before seeing to his men. Darius had been neatly outmaneuvered.

“Arric plays his games well,” Darius said. “In the field, bad things happen to those who play games with me.”

“Enough of that, Darius!” Lazarus rasped.

Several people walking by them glanced at the wizards, but soon decided they had better places to be than hanging about two wizards in a snit.

Lazarus continued in a lower voice. “Even if you meant such a thing – and for your own sake, I shall assume you did not – do you have any idea what violence amongst the wizards would do to us? I am loath to even mention such a thing in public.”

Darius was ashamed of his words, but pride would not let him show it. He waited for Lazarus to continue with his jaw set obstinately.

“It is that rashness, that anger which works against you most, Darius. With these frequent outbursts – and talk of violence against your fellows! – you liken yourself to the Enemy.

“We know all you have done, make no mistake. But great deeds do not make up for all the fears of the council. Ask yourself,” Lazarus said in a more conciliatory tone, “If all you knew of a man was the behavior that you have shown to us, would you want him placed in charge of the best men we have and thrown to the field where he is likely to do anything but what you need of him?”

Darius heard the words and knew he should listen. Lazarus was respected by all, and – wonder of wonders! – respected Darius in return. But too many years and too much meddling by the High Council had deafened Darius to their ways. They offered words. Darius demanded action.

“I hear you,” Darius said, not quite lying. “But it is not I who am the problem, Lazarus. I seem rash to a High Council that has been standing still for three hundred years, and I will take that as a compliment. I mean no offense – you know I have nothing but admiration for you, Lazarus. But if the Council’s ways become mine, I am lost in more ways than one.”