Eighth of Harvest
As Echtalon looked across the border into Svaleta, he felt nothing but contempt for his Empire's ancient foes. The 'Deadlands', they called the scorched earth that stretched before him. To Aliri like Echtalon, it was simply the first few worthless hectares of Svaletan soil. It deserved no special name, as they deserved no special mercy. Truth be told, like most Aliri, Echtalon had no memory of the roots of the two nations' rivalry. Certainly they had no general hatred towards humans, though they considered elvenkind to be vastly superior. Perhaps there was an irrationality to it, but that was no surprise. All war is fundamentally irrational.
The reasons for war were far from Echtalon's mind as he studied the Svaletan border. The recent bandit raids had shown him his enemy's positions and tactics. He wasn't impressed. Whatever the skill of the individual soldier, their strategy was essentially suicidal in the face of a determined attack. He would prove that soon. He shook his head as he turned to his deputy.
"Summon the witches," he ordered. "We attack at dawn. They will cover our approach."
He would smash their defences as if they had never existed. The rest of their Kingdom would soon follow.
* * *
Davos arrived at the burned ranch an hour before dusk. He and his deputy had ridden as fast as they dared after receiving news of the dead raiders. The initial reports had been muddled, uncertain. A family had been slaughtered, their barn and stable burned down. A second messenger had reported raider bodies. The family had fought back, it seemed. But Davos knew the peasants who had been killed. They were simple folk, not at all equipped to kill anything more dangerous than a wolf. So he hadn't hesitated to set off to see for himself.
He dismounted well outside the ranch, quickly finding the tracks left behind by the raiders. At least eight, he quickly judged. Their steel boots had ruined the wheat fields that they'd charged through. Strange that they hadn't burned the fields, Davos thought, but perhaps they had wanted to deal with the family first.
"Davos!" Ukari yelled. "You'll want to see this."
He made his way over to his deputy, standing over the first bodies. The dirt was dark with blood that had been pooling for hours.
"Dead this morning at least," Ukari reported. He waved at the blackened buildings. "Don't know how the fire didn't spread, but it helps us."
There were six bodies. Davos knelt in front of one, reaching out and pushing where the throat had been sliced.
"He didn't expect it," Davos said quietly.
"Another bandit?"
Davos shook his head. "They're not so precise. A bandit will just hack at you until you drop."
Ukari grunted and bent over another body. "You're not wrong. This one's hand was cut almost off. Then he was stabbed through the chin. How many attackers were there?"
"Just one," Davos murmured as he turned to another corpse. His dead eyes were open wide, his chest a bulging red mass. "Just one savage creature."
"There's more inside!" a militia man yelled from the house. "The family and two scum."
Davos and Ukari exchanged glances, then slowly walked to the house. It took only a glance for Davos to confirm what he'd already suspected.
"It's the same as Milton," Ukari said. Davos simply nodded. The two bandits' chests had exploded from the inside out. Without any interference from birds, Davos could clearly see the shattered mess made by whatever had attacked them.
"What could do this?" Ukari breathed. An old memory tugged at Davos' mind but he forced it aside. He sniffed the air and grunted.
"Whoever did this killed Milton," he announced. "It's the same scent."
"Can you track it?"
Davos nodded. "But whoever this is, we don't want to be seen as a threat. That would not end well."
"So what's the plan?"
Davos thought for a moment before replying. "I'll track them down. Choose four militia and follow a day behind. I'll leave marks for you to follow."
"And if they kill you?"
Davos laughed bitterly. "Then don't be kind when you avenge me." He shrugged when he saw the frustration on Ukari's face. "Think about who he's killed so far. One smuggler and a bunch of bandits. I don't seem to be on the menu."
"And when you find him?"
"I'll work out his plan," Davos said. "And find a way to bring him in without getting my chest blown open."
Ukari stepped outside and leaned against the wall. "We've never faced someone like this before."
"Look on the bright side," Davos said, following him out. "You're not the one doing the tracking."
For once, Ukari didn't feel a trace of envy.
* * *
That night passed quietly at the Deadlands. It had been two days since the bandit raid, and it was as if nothing had ever happened. The corpses were reduced to ash, and their initial state of alert had soon faded. Nothing dulled the senses like staring at the empty wasteland that marked the border. It was still a few hours before dawn when the captain shook Roulson awake.
"Rotation in ten minutes," the officer whispered, and Roulson grunted his reply. He forced himself to his feet and gathered his equipment, noting a haziness in the air. He passed it off as fatigue and stumbled over to where the company was starting to assemble. The captain strode down their line, checking their equipment as he quietly called out,
"There's heavy fog in the Deadlands, so stay alert. Visibility is limited. So watch your sectors, and watch your step."
That explained the haziness, but Roulson was confused. He'd never seen fog up this way, and no one had ever reported seeing it.
"How heavy is it, sir?" he found himself asking. The captain continued his inspection as he answered.
"Thick enough that we need to be diligent. Is that enough for you?"
"Yes, sir." Roulson felt someone kick him, and forced himself not to react.
"Alright, we're moving up. Standard procedure."
Stifling a yawn, Roulson followed the others as they made their way through the wire. Along the tree line were regularly spaced stakes topped with flaming torches to give some semblance of light. The fog was thick enough that it made little difference. Roulson felt an uneasiness as he began his route. There was something unnatural about the fog, something that he couldn't explain. He shrugged off the feeling as he marched, alternating between watching the path and trying to spot anything through the haze. It was useless; there was nothing to see. A company of bandits could be right there and they'd never know.
Roulson froze when he heard the whistle. It was subtle, almost a bird call but not quite the right tone. It was certainly out of place in the Deadlands. Instinctively, his free hand grasped his sword hilt as he turned towards the fog. A similar whistle responded from further down the valley. Someone was trying to sneak through the valley. More bandits?
He turned as someone ran up behind him. It was a junior recruit, gasping for breath as he said,
"Captain says there's torches in the Deadlands. He wants us behind the wire."
Roulson nodded and the recruit kept running to find the next sentry. He retraced his steps and joined the company reforming behind the barrier. A group of archers ran past to take up their positions. Roulson didn't know how they'd hit what they couldn't see, but no one asked him for his opinion on strategies. For the first time he noticed that the fog was thinning. Just as we notice people in the valley? What is going on?
The captain came marching down the line again, quietly giving his orders. "Archers are out of the boundary. No one leaves this line until I give the word."
"More torches!" came another yell. "There's a whole army out there!"
"They took advantage of the fog to get close. But they've lost the element of surprise," the captain was announcing. Roulson couldn't shake the feeling that whoever 'they' were had caused the fog in the first place. "They want you to be scared. They want you to tremble. But you are soldiers of Svaleta! You will stand and you will fight."
A loud thwok sounded, and Roulson's head snapped over to see an arrow lodged into a nearby tree.
"Shields up!"
More arrows came raining down, and Roulson braced as one hit the edge of his shield. The impact knocked him off balance, and he forced himself to take a step forward as the deadly rain continued. Screams sounded as steel tore through flesh, the captain screaming at someone to hold their ground.
"Archers fire!"
Somewhere in the distance they heard an inhuman roar.
"What was that?" someone asked in a panicked voice.
"That is the sound of a forest troll," the captain called out. "Nasty brutes, but weak at the knees. Do you hear me? Cut them off at the knees."
Only one group travelled with forest trolls, Roulson knew, and that was the Aliri. A real fight was coming. More roars echoed through the forest, and some of the men started shifting, judging potential escape routes.
"Archers empty!" came a haunting yell. "We're pulling back!"
Roulson heard the roar of a thousand voices chanting a war cry. Here they come.
"Signallers, light the beacons!" This yell came from in the rear. Roulson knew that specially appointed troops were now lighting the immense signal fires that would alert the countryside that they were under attack. Soon riders would be beginning the days-long trek to the capital to alert the King. If they made it. He began to shake. This wasn't the simple bandit raid. With a chill, he realised that that had simply been a probe. Now the Aliri knew where they were, knew their tactics. What hope did their wire stand at stopping trolls? What chance do I have? An image flashed through his mind of the kid he'd killed. Would he suffer the same fate, his life ended by a stranger far from his home? It wasn't meant to be like this.
Roulson could hear the pounding of steel-clad feet drawing closer. Heavier thuds signalled the approaching trolls. The captain went down with a gurgle, an arrow lodged through his throat. Someone broke ranks and ran into the darkness.
"Hold the line!" someone yelled. "Stand your ground!"
"For King and Glory!"
A shape erupted from the fog, towering above Roulson and the others. Its grey skin bulged with muscle, its massive hands carrying a stone club. The troll smashed the wire into the earth, then roared as it ran at the skirmish line. Behind it came a hundred Aliri soldiers brandishing longswords and axes and yelling a cry of bloodlust.
"Brace!"
Roulson took a step back, watching in horror as the troll swung its club and decapitated three men in one blow. It wasn't meant to be like this. The first Aliri reached the line, hacking their way through the Svaletan soldiers before them.
Roulson dropped his sword and ran. He wept as the sound of clanging steel, the roars of bloodthirsty monsters, and the horrified screams of wounded men chased him through the countryside.
* * *
Echtalon sighed as he walked through the remains of the Svaletan border guards. It was a shame, really. They had fought well but were used poorly. His trolls had shattered their lines, and his infantry had quickly dealt with those who survived the initial strike. The first battle in a hundred years was a decisive victory for Echtalon's forces.
"General?" He turned to his deputy, who waved towards the east. "A number of the Svaletans fled. Do we pursue?"
Echtalon looked back towards the border and watched as his follow on forces began to march through the 'Deadlands'. Leading them were carriages loaded with food and supplies, the true key to any military campaign.
"Let them run," Echtalon finally answered. He pointed at the pillars of smoke rising in the east. "They have already lit signal fires. They know that we are coming. It's too late for secrecy."
"Sir." His deputy walked away, and Echtalon smiled. He would not need secrecy to win. The only prepared defences in the Kingdom had been shattered. His lead cavalry would reach Larton in a matter of days, and then they would capture the first city. Rignar's Hold would be Aliri territory for the first time in centuries. The rest of the war would be harder, Echtalon knew, but the Hold already belonged to him. It just didn't know it yet.
* * *
When the border guard had lit their signal fires, it set in motion a series of events that defied the vast distances involved. While the border defences had crumbled under the weight of the Aliri assault, a second series of signals were lit a dozen miles away. Spotting these, riders stationed deeper into the Hold set out, some to alert Larton, others to report directly to the king in Svaleta. There were stables set along the latter route, where the riders would pass on the message to the next group who would continue the journey. What would have been a two-day ride was almost halved by the relay. By dawn the king would know that once again the Kingdom was at war. What fragile peace had existed would be shattered, gone like the morning mist.