Plight of an Empire

Chapter Thirty Five- part 2: Arkayus

It took two days to reach Weywynd.  That night he had been expecting to stretch out in a nice featherbed, but when he tried to rent a room, he discovered that none was available for him.  That was the price of invoking the wrath of the high queen, he figured.  He did not regret his decision, even though he figured he would in the future.  What she had asked of him was impossible.  Even though she said he was a powerful magic-born, he knew that he wasn’t.  Even if it was possible, I couldn’t do it.  She has to see that.

Four more days passed before they saw the line of fires that marked the northern front.  Had the men been less exhausted and warmer, they would have rejoiced at the sight.

The frozen march had claimed near a half hundred of Audriel’s ten thousand footmen and riders.  Fear and cold had driven another seven hundred to desert.  Of those seven hundred who fled, Arkayus was certain that at least half of them had been killed by the cold.  The other half may have survived, but would be rejected from every town and village in the vicinity, those few that still had people living among them.  Most had gone to Mynoa or some other walled city.

Every man wore a soldier’s uniform, marking them for deserters.  The penalty for desertion was death.  The penalty for harboring a deserter was equal to the crime of desertion.  They would soon die of the cold or starvation.  Though the cold would be a more peaceful way to go, from what Arkayus had heard.  It was like going to sleep.

Even Sir Brennar Fair-Maiden hadn’t survived the trek north.  The night before, the fair knight had been complaining of a chest pain to Arkayus after he had set up their tents.  The next morning, when Arkayus awoke, he was dead.  He didn’t think it was the cold that took him, but such trivial things didn’t matter.  Dead was dead.  Still, he had missed the fair knight during the long rides and cold nights.  A new knight attended to him now.  But he wasn’t as lively as Sir Brennar.

When Arkayus walked among the front with his five golems, he was met with cheers.  A magic-born had come to save them.  According to the men, very few magic-born had answered the high queen’s summons to go to the front.  And those who did come where the savages of the desert.

Hailing from the White Wastes of the easternmost part of Rundil, the desert tribals were often seen as little more than barbarians to the people of the empire.  Though all clans were subject to the imperial law, the high kings and queens of past had done little to bolster the ties that bind them together.  So long as the tribals remained loyal to the empire, and came to its aid if ever called upon, they were generally forgotten about.  Wars and conflicts were a way of the tribals life, but the empire took no part in the barbarians’ problems.  But because of their fierce lifestyle, they were the ideal soldiers for this war.  That and that they revere magic and all those born with it or practice it.

There were few desert people among the line where Arkayus stood.  They were clearly visible, even behind the furs and pelts that adorned them.  Most had darker skin, ranging from tan to almost black.  Sarmunian Islanders, without their blue eyes, could pass for a tribal.  Until they spoke, that is.  The people of the desert were the last to migrate to Alterros from Balverrdis and many came from the southern regions of the continent—a land of arid deserts and vast plains.  From their home, they carried over their old languages.  Now, the desert people spoke many dialects of a language that combined the languages of southern Balverrdis.  A handful spoke the tongue of the empire, but most spoke some dialect of the old languages.  That made communication with them difficult on the front.

More than a few altercations between the imperials and the tribals had already broken out, before Arkayus even arrived.  But the arrival of the ten thousand seemed to only worsen the already fragile and tense state of peace between the two peoples.  Only when High Queen Audriel spoke to the masses did things calm down, but the air between the camps still simmered with tension.

Arkayus was greeted by a few who spoke the imperial tongue.  “This is Zaphnath du rem Odur,” said a black skinned man as he thumped on his chest.  The man was so tall Arkayus had to crane his neck all the way back to meet his dark eyes.  “Son of Ouaphris du rem Odur, chieftain of the Black Skins clan.  Who does he speak to?”

“King Arkayus of House Strom,” he replied.  “Rightful King of Didaan and son of a murdered father.”

The black man looked down at him.  “Has the son slain the murderer of his father?”

“Soon.”

That answer seemed to please the tribal.  He left, giving the crownless king a silent nod.  It left him wondering whether he actually knew what a king was.

Night fell early on that day.  The winds tore through the camps, whittling the fires down to nothing but cold ash.  A heavy snow descended upon them.  When they awoke the next day, they awoke to snows that reached their waists, dozens of collapsed tents, and even more men and mounts claimed by the cold.

Those who had been on the front for weeks said that a camp losing five men a night was a blessing.  And those who had not been claimed wholly have had parts of them claimed.  Arkayus could count on one hand how many men had not lost either a finger or a toe or an ear to the frost.  The worst among them had lost a nose or a foot or a hand to the black frost.

“It will be over soon,” Audriel had promised them on the day of her arrival.  She made no mention of how she planned to rid them of the Behemoths, but the men were desperate enough to believe her.  She’s going to get herself killed, you fools.  Drag her back to Mynoa, put her on a ship, and take her to the Isles.  Follow her.  That’s the only way you all will be saved.

Another night of heavy snows and frozen winds fell upon the camps.  The next morning, even more men were dead—frozen in their fires, curled in balls and huddled together for warmth.  Little good it did them.

Arkayus walked the north line, checking on his golems scattered throughout the line.  Four he kept resting at the front.  One he kept with him at all times, awake and ready.  The snows often buried them beneath feet of the ice and powder.  He walked to them every few hours, rousing them from their slumber to shake the ice off so they will be ready when the time came.

“It’s been seven days since any of us have seen a Behemoth,” said one of Lord Mortyn Noyce’s knights, Sir Conner Krey.  Beneath his gloved hand, Arkayus knew that he had lost a pinky on his right hand and two fingers on his left.  “I can still swing a sword,” he had said.

“Might be we scared ‘em all off,” said a footman, Darek Gatlin.  “They all knew they were ‘bout to die so they ran back to the Black Rocks with their tails between their legs.”  He spat into the snow.

Arkayus shook his head.  “This blizzard is getting worse,” he said.  “That means they’re getting closer.”

The next morning, they were awoken by the sounds of a thousand screams.