Conflict (40 page)

Mirkos sighed deeply, trying to absorb all the information they had just bombarded him with. A feeling of sadness overwhelmed him, for the situation was critical and he did not doubt that there would be war. His old heart knew the signs of evil and greed which drove the destinies of kingdoms. There would be bloodshed, innocents would die before winter. A dark and painful period was beginning for his beloved Rogdon. With a deep pain in his chest, as if a sharp dagger had stabbed him, he looked at the Duke and said:

“I lay my power at the service of the defense of this city and of the Kingdom. We’ll stop the Noceans. They’ll pay with their lives if they dare to attack. For Rogdon!” the old Mage cried, with grief in his voice.

“For Rogdon!” all replied with fierce determination.

The unmistakable sound of a bugle, with its discordant melody, reached the Castle from the south of the city.

“The alarm on the southern wall!” said Galen, hurrying to the great balcony with the rest of the group close behind him.

When they went outside and looked towards the south, Mirkos saw the horizon darkening. A great shadow was advancing on the city from that direction, like a great ominous storm in the distance. Everything disappeared under its darkness, as if night itself in person was advancing, devouring everything in its way. The shadow swallowed up the landscape. It was as though a sea of darkness covered the plains, preparing to send its waves crashing against the strong walls of the city.

“There begins the Great Shadow,” Duke Galen said in a tone of resignation.

“But what on earth is this evil spell?” Mirkos asked, arching his bushy brows in surprise.

“We were hoping you might be able to tell us,” Count Galen replied. “For the last week, every day at noon, this ill-fated cloud has taken shape and engulfed the city in absolute darkness. Under its cover the enemy advances, yet it prevents us from going out to meet them with our cavalry. The darkness is so thick that not even the oil lamps can shed light more than a couple of feet. Torches are little use for walking around the city. Residents and refugees are absolutely terrified. This cursed shadow is devouring their spirits and sowing fear in their hearts. Even the spirits of the most veteran soldiers are beginning to weaken.”

“Does it happen every day?” Mirkos asked.

“That’s right, every day when the sun is at its highest. It doesn’t stop until dawn. The nights are so dark we can’t see a thing. If they attacked during the night it would be a real nightmare. The only thing we’ve managed to establish is that they use the cloud to cover the advance of their army and demoralize our troops.”

“But there’s more,” said Captain Kilbar. “During those hours when the darkness is at its height there are murders and disappearances. Several bodies have been found dead, soldiers on duty mostly. At first we suspected assassins seeking to kill the Duke. But something more horrible and sinister is going on. People disappear in the dark and are never seen again, mainly refugees. Several dozen have disappeared without trace.”

Mirkos remained silent and thoughtful. With his hands behind his back he finally explained in a whisper:

“Blood Magic… The Nocean Sorcerers have brought Blood Mages from the deep South, beyond the ocean of sand. They used the captives for human sacrifices, to increase their power.”

His eyes burning like embers, the Mage said:

“Take me to the South Wall immediately. It’s time to give this scum a lesson.”

An hour later Duke Galen, his brother Dolbar, Captain Kilbar, Mirkos and his personal guard were watching the advance of the great shadow over the fortified gate of the South Wall. The great shadow seemed to be imbued with a life of its own, engulfing everything in its way within an impenetrable darkness. Mirkos could no longer see the bright sun he knew was shining above their heads with the typical intensity of the region.

“It’s coming on to us,” the Duke said, as the shadow advanced towards the Wall like a giant wave of darkness.

“Prepare the torches and the lamps,” Captain Kilbar ordered his awaiting men.

Mirkos went to stand on top of the Wall, above the gate. The great door which gave access to the city was under his feet. All eyes were fixed on him. He raised his staff above his head, his long albino hair and beard flying in the wind.

One man against a sea of darkness.

But this was no ordinary man. He was a Chosen, he was Mirkos the Erudite, Battle Mage of the King of Rogdon.

He pronounced words of arcane power, and the great translucent pearl of his staff began to give out a white light of such brilliance that those present had to cover their eyes to protect them. The light increased in intensity as the dark tide devoured them. Like a star of immense power, the light produced by the pearl began to penetrate the great shadow, filling it with light, gradually destroying the dense darkness as it made its way on.

Mirkos recited a new spell and the intensity of the light increased even more, filling the landscape with a light of blinding purity and intensity. The great shadow was completely destroyed in a matter of moments. The Mage stopped the beam of celestial light.

Duke Galen, who was protecting his eyes with his forearm, opened them and looked around. The sea of darkness had vanished completely. The sun shone brightly in the sky, and under its warmth half a dozen Noceans were revealed beside the wall.

Mirkos stared at them. He recognized a Sorcerer at once by his dark robes and staff. When he identified the barbaric amulets which decorated his waist he realized this was a Sorcerer of Curse Magic. The other five were not soldiers, although they carried weapons and wore tanned leather armor in black. They were presumably his servants, the ones who carried out his commands.

The six looked up and fixed their gaze on the Rogdonian Mage.

“I want you to take a message to your lord, sacrilegious Noceans!” Mirkos shouted in a deep and powerful voice.

“Nothing you might say would interest our lord,” the Sorcerer replied threateningly, his fist raised. “Your days are numbered. Soon you’ll feel our curved swords slicing those proud, stiff necks of yours. Take your leave of life, you’ll be gutted and your beating hearts will be torn out of your bodies.”

“We’ll see about that!” was Mirkos’ answer.

With a swift movement he pointed his staff towards the enemy group. He cast a spell of great power as rapidly as he could. An amber light shone above the staff for a moment, then gathered intensity as if it were concentrating its power. The red radiance grew more intense, permeating the whole body of the Mage, who went on with his chant. The enemy Sorcerer raised his staff in turn and began to invoke a dark spell, but he was an instant too slow. A ball of fire shot out of Mirkos’ staff at great speed in the direction of the enemy group. When the Noceans saw it they tried to move away from its trajectory, but the ball burst out into an enormous flame as it hit the enemy Sorcerer, who had not yet finished his spell. The flame expanded into a circle and engulfed the whole group in fierce flames. They all perished in the explosion, screaming as the flames devoured their flesh.

Duke Galen, still in awe, turned to Mirkos and asked:

“And the message?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll understand it…” Mirkos replied, turning his back on the charred remains of the bodies.

Gerart and Lomar were looking out at the Norghanian war camp, as they had been doing every morning for over a week now. The wind was warm on the battlements above the Queen’s Gate, but its pleasant touch left no mark on the worried Rogdonian faces. Expectations darkened with each passing day. There was no news from Albust and the diplomatic mission to the Norghanian camp. In fact it was taken for granted that the Ambassador would never be seen again.

Four mornings before, an enormous cloud of dust beyond the opening of the pass had marked the arrival of thousands of head of cattle and as many carts filled with supplies of all kinds. The Norghanian soldiers had received them with cries of joy and applause. Such a quantity of supplies could only mean one thing: they were preparing for the siege.

Two mornings before, another cloud of dust had blotted the horizon: not as big as the first one, but something which turned out to be utterly devastating for the defenders’ morale. The Invincibles of the Ice, the elite troops of King Thoran, had been sent to the war camp. No less than ten thousand men, the most dreaded heavy infantry in the entire continent. Seeing them arrive, among the cries of their compatriots, Gerart had consulted with Urien:

“Here are the ten thousand more men we were expecting, just as you foretold, Counselor.”

“It saddens me to be right in this case, my young Prince, but it’s as I feared. In fact it’s even worse than I’d anticipated. They’ve sent the Invincibles of the Ice. These are their elite force, and each one equals three of our soldiers, if not more.”

“They’re as good as that?”

“That’s right, my Prince, they’re as good as that.”

“My father has sent five thousand men more, the reserve. That’s all we have: fifteen thousand in all.”

“There are forty thousand of them, but in practical terms that means sixty thousand. We don’t have much chance of holding out.”

“What do you suggest we do, Counselor?”

“Send officers to recruit in the cities and villages of the neighboring counties. It will help if we can manage to bring in a few thousand men more to form a militia.”

“Good idea!”

They had managed to recruit five thousand peasants and farmers, who were now exercising with the rest of the men in the daily training routine. Gerart was happy with his officers, who had responded well; the soldiers trained daily and worked without rest. The moat behind the gate was now finished and the large earthen jars of oil had been set all along the wall, which had itself been reinforced and strengthened at several strategic points. The wells had been secured and were being watched constantly. The troops’ discipline was good, they were ready for the siege. All that was needed was to know when it would begin.

Unfortunately it was not long before that question was answered.

Above the battlements, Lomar stretched his neck, strained his vision and cried:

“There they are, your Highness, they’re coming…”

Gerart began to notice that the cloud of dust on the horizon was gradually coming closer. At first he could not make out what was making that enormous disturbance, but after a while he saw what it was and his heart froze, as if an ice giant had clutched it.

The siege machines were finally arriving.

As the cloud drew nearer the Norghanian camp, Gerart could see that there were hundreds of carts and freight horses pulling catapults, ballistae, battering rams and the dreaded siege towers.

“By the Light, they’re huge!” Lomar cried in dismay.

“They certainly are,” Gerart said, very worried.

He watched the gigantic siege towers as they were dragged on, built of wood, reinforced with steel. The structures were more than six stories high and must have measured more than sixty feet tall and thirty feet wide. They were absolutely colossal, and crushed the spirits of the men on the battlements who now, in masse, watched the unstoppable advance of the death machines. Until that moment the danger had seemed unreal, present but distant. Now they were all aware that death was coming, inexorably.

Urien stood beside Gerart and said:

“They’ll attack at dawn. We must get ready.”

“Can we stand up to these siege machines?”

“Tomorrow we’ll know, my Prince.”

Nobody in the fortress slept that night. All rested in a state of tension, and nervousness filled the air like an electric storm in summer. Hearts beat faster, men waited for the arrival of dawn and with it the attack of the men of the snow. Gerart went down to the dungeons where the two conceited noblemen were still held, and offered them a simple deal: they would serve under his command for Rogdon or he would have them executed right there and then. The two Generals, seeing the young Prince so determined and ready to cut their throats, accepted immediately.

Gerart reinstated them in their positions and functions, and gave Count Helmar the command of the defense of the wall’s eastern sector and Count Longor the western sector. Lomar would command the defense of the gate, while Gerart would go to those points where reinforcement was needed, which unfortunately they expected to be many.

With the first light of dawn a Norghanian herald rode to the gate of the great wall.

“I have a message from my lord his Majesty King Thoran of Norghana for the commander of this fortress!”

Gerart made his way through the men and stood on top of the Gate. He looked down at the Norghanian herald.

“I am the commander! Prince Gerart, son of King Solin of Rogdon. What is this message?”

“My lord wishes you to know that if you surrender the fortress and turn yourself in of your own free will, he will pardon your life. Otherwise, he’ll take the fortress and leave no survivors.”

“Tell your King that Rogdon will never surrender this fortress, and that if he tries to take it he’ll be declaring war between our nations. Also assure your King that we’ll kill each and every one of his men in this pass if he dares to attack us.”

The herald tugged at his horse’s reins and galloped away to his camp.

Everyone awaited the Norghanian reply with suppressed nervousness.

It did not take long.

The siege machines began to move, advancing slowly towards the walls, pulled by hundreds of men and horses.

Gerart turned to the right and shouted:

“Eastern section! Ready?”

“Ready, Sire!” was Count Helmar’s reply as he moved among his men giving orders.

“Western section! Ready?”

“Ready, Sire!” was Count Longor’s reply as he encouraged his men.

“Lomar?” he asked his friend.

“Always, your Highness!”

“Urien, go back to the Great Tower and direct maneuvers from there. Nothing must happen to you. I need you.”

“Be very careful, your Highness. Remember that if you fall, so do all of us.”

“I won’t fall, but my place is here, leading. The men must see me lead the defense, or else morale will crumble.”

At scarcely four hundred paces from the walls the catapults took their positions. Gerart counted nearly a hundred, of different sizes, and about twenty auxiliary ballistae. Behind them four immense siege towers waited their turn. Operating the siege weapons were hundreds of Norghanians, with thousands of soldiers behind them forming a choppy sea of red and white. The forty thousand men waited, ready to go into action.

The picture the defenders witnessed was terrifying. Fear hovered over the walls of the fortress like a bird of ill omen.

The sound of a horn filled the valley, and at its signal the catapults fired huge blocks of rock which rained down on the defenders of the battlements. ¡The impact of rock on rock was devastating and the sound deafening. Soldiers and parts of the battlements were thrown aside in the lethal shower of granite. Great blocks of rock burst against the merlons and the wall. Death in the shape of explosions of rock reached the brave soldiers, who could do nothing to prevent the murderous bombardment. The nightmare of rock and stones extended along the entire wall. Suddenly the attack stopped, and the terrified defenders helped to carry away the wounded while a tense silence fell over the valley.

Gerart looked out at the enemy lines.

“They’re re-loading, Sire,” Lomar told him, “They’re bringing huge rocks in carts, and they’re going to load them on the catapults.”

“It makes no sense to expose ourselves. Tell the men to abandon the walls, all except those on guard.”

“Yes, Sire.”

At his order the Rogdonian soldiers retreated in orderly fashion inside the fortress, out of reach of the crushing catapults and ballistae.

The devastating attack was renewed. Granite and rock fell from the sky, hitting walls and battlements mercilessly. The attack went on all through the morning, punishing the regal walls. Great parts of the battlements were completely razed, and two towers had collapsed towards the pass, carrying with them the soldiers in them. Despite everything, the wall stood without a crack, stoically bearing the granite impacts. At last, with the sun at its highest, the rain of rocks stopped.

Gerart climbed up to the gate with Lomar, followed closely by his six Royal Swords.

“What do you think, Lomar?”

“I think they’ve run out of rocks for today.”

“Certainly it can’t be easy breaking and moving those enormous missiles.”

“Now is the moment when the red and white tide will beat the blue cliff with all its strength.”

“You are a poet, Lomar,” Gerart said with a smile.

“Thank you, your Highness,” Lomar said and smiled back.

“Soldier!” Gerart said to a young man beside him. “Have a message sent urgently to King Solin. Norghana has attacked. War has been declared.”

“At your command, your Highness!” the young man said, and ran down from the battlements.

“Archers, to the walls!” Gerart ordered.

The whole length of the wall filled up with men in blue and silver, bows at the ready. The infantry waited below to be called to the walls in their turn.

The northerners howled like wild wolves, thousands of throats roaring in anticipation of victory filled the valley, reaching the ears of the tense defenders. An immense red and white tide began to advance towards the wall. A tide of death and destruction.

The archers waited tensely for the first line to come within shooting range, ruthlessly suppressing the terror this spectacle on the plains inspired in them. But no-one took a step back.

The two Rogdonian Generals, one at either end, raised their hands. Lomar, in the center, did the same.

The Norghanians kept coming with deafening cries. The tramping of thousands of boots was like an earthquake tearing the ground at the foot of the walls. They came within two hundred paces, but the order to fire was not given. Under the winged helmets Gerart could now see the blond hair, golden beards and broad shoulders of tall, tough-looking men in full scaled armor, carrying round shields of wood reinforced with steel together with swords and axes.

Behind them the four gigantic siege towers were being pushed by nearly a thousand men. In the middle of the red tide came two huge covered battering rams. The whole valley looked like an endless sea of soldiers.

It was a terrifying scene.

The first enemy line reached a point a hundred and fifty paces from the wall.

Both Generals and Lomar lowered their arms as a signal to attack.

Thousands of arrows rained on the first lines. Hundreds of them fell, pierced by those arrows. Volley followed volley in a steady rhythm against the men attacking the walls. Men fell, but their brothers in arms stepped over them and kept coming undaunted. Lomar and Gerart shot arrow after arrow, as fast as it was humanly possible.

The Norghanians, following an order, lifted their round shields all at once. Each man was carrying one, and in a moment the whole valley became a sea of eyes. Thousands of wood and iron eyes were raised to protect the invading army from the Rogdonian arrows. These fell on the sea of shields which had now been formed over the heads of the enemy. The northerners still fell, pierced by the arrows, but far fewer now that the arrows bounced off the shields.

Finally, they reached the foot of the wall, amid a din of booming and crashing.

The defenders went on sending thousands of arrows against the red tide, causing many losses, but not enough to stop the advance. Now they had to defend the walls.

General Longor raised his hand and made a sign. The archers in his section moved back to let the infantry through. In the blink of an eye the ends of the dreaded assault ladders, as well as countless grappling hooks with ropes, threatened the entire length of the wall. Gerart ran to General Longor’s side, followed by the six Royal Swords. The General’s men were in position, ready and waiting to see the first winged helmets appear over the battlements.

“Wait until they’re on top,” shouted Longor to his men. “The more there are on the ladders and ropes when we cut them, the more will die when they fall.”

Gerart looked at him and understood.