Premer Cardijja marched down the gangplank and watched as thousands upon thousands of Motangan soldiers marched through the newly built city of Meliban. The first troops to be offloaded were ordered to march completely through the city. Once outside the walls, they began setting up camp. The premer walked to the city center to observe the troop movements. As generals unloaded their armies, they made their way to the premer for instructions. General Luggar arrived in a huff.
“I caught some men preparing to burn buildings,” the general scowled. “Is that an order that you gave?”
“Absolutely not,” frowned the premer. “There is no reason to destroy this city. It will make an excellent port for receiving supplies. Have those soldiers executed in front of the men still disembarking. Make sure that the message is spread that I will not tolerate unnecessary destruction. We were fortunate to have landed unopposed. This city in now Motangan.”
“What about use of the buildings?” asked General Luggar. “May we take them over for our own use?”
“Yes,” nodded the premer. “I will assign sectors to the generals. The generals can utilize the buildings as they see fit. The administration building down the street will be reserved for me and my staff.”
“You sound as if we are going to be here for a while,” commented the general. “What is our plan of attack?”
“The first step is to get situated here,” answered Premer Cardijja. “We will send out scouts from the mounted corte to search for clues as to the whereabouts of the enemy. Then we will kill the Fakarans.”
“You make it sound so simple,” replied the general. “What about Vandegar and Angragar?”
“Those problems belong to Premer Tzargo,” shrugged Cardijja. “It is my understanding that Tzargo is in charge of securing Vandegar for the Emperor. Once Vand is installed in the temple, the search for Angragar will begin in earnest. Of course,” he added, “it would be quite an accomplishment if we can determine the location of Angragar before Tzargo. I might even be promoted to First Premer. Keep that in mind when we engage the Fakarans. Any captives must be interrogated painstakingly.”
“Tzargo only has fifty thousand men,” frowned General Luggar. “Can he hold Vandegar with that small an army?”
“He has more mages than he knows what to do with,” shrugged Cardijja. “What he lacks in manpower, he makes up for with magic.”
“When does he arrive?” asked the general.
“After we have secured Meliban and located the enemy,” answered the premer. “While he can defend Vandegar, he doesn’t want to be attacked on the way there.”
“So he is waiting on us,” frowned the general. “I don’t care to have that kind of attention on me. I prefer a slow and steady approach.”
“That is why I brought a corte of cavalry with me,” replied the premer. “Fakara is a large wasteland and I don’t want to waste time locating the Fakarans. I have also arranged to have more horses shipped if we need them, but I don’t think that will be necessary just yet. Our trackers are excellent. We will find the Fakarans in a short time.”
“Or they will find us,” warned the general.
“Let them come,” smiled the premer. “That would make this much easier. Our archers are the finest in Motanga. Why do you think I chose Fakara? The land is mostly flat. You can see forever on these plains. Let the savages charge us. They will fall to our archers before they ever reach us.”
* * *
General Chen watched as Premer Shamal shouted angrily at the junior officer. The general knew that the premer rarely lost his temper. Carefully placing his feet to avoid stumbling while the ship rocked in the heavy swells, General Chen made his way to the rail alongside the premer.
“Still no word from Clarvoy?” asked the general.
“No,” scowled the premer, “and I am getting tired of waiting. Soldiers are not meant to sit on unmoving ships waiting for the war to begin. If he was not sure about the defenses of Khadora, he should have accepted our waiting in Sudamar instead of the middle of the ocean. Half of the men are seasick with the foul waves rocking these ships. I am quite tempted to attack without his information.”
“That could be costly,” warned the general. “Khadora is the best defended of our enemies. It is important to know what we are up against.”
“Khadora will be no easy task,” agreed Premer Shamal, “which is why I wanted it. I am the only premer qualified to handle it, as I have studied the Khadorans at length. Their armies are experienced fighters unlike the Omungans and Fakarans, but that is why we have a hundred thousand more men than the others. As much as the information about defenses would help us, getting my men off these ships will also help us. We are in greater danger out here than we will be in Raven’s Point.”
“Perhaps we will hear from Clarvoy today,” General Chen said hopefully.
“We had better,” scowled the premer. “If we do not hear from him today, I am giving the order to attack regardless. We can take Raven’s Point and hold there until Clarvoy gathers the information that we need.”
“Emperor Vand will not be happy with such a decision,” frowned General Chen.
“The Emperor has given me control over this force,” retorted Premer Shamal. “The decision is mine to make. What you generals are unaware of,” he continued softly, “is that Doralin’s fleet was attacked at sea. His losses were not insignificant. While I am not afraid of such a tactic coming from the Khadorans, we are still at risk upon the sea. Look around you, Chen. There are four hundred ships out here. Even a storm could cause great damage to our armies. We cannot afford to stay here much longer. One more day and I will give the order to proceed.”
“I had not heard about Doralin’s misfortune,” frowned General Chen. “How did it happen, and why do you think the Khadorans would not try the same thing?”
“The Sakovans attacked his fleet with hundreds of small ships,” answered the premer. “The small boats had some type of deadly harpoons that pierced the hulls of Doralin’s ships. Each ship that went down cost a thousand men. As for that happening to us, Khadora really has only one port on this coast, and that is Raven’s Point. Not only are there not a hundred ships in Raven’s Point, there are none with weapons attached to them. Besides, I have instructed the ship captains to sink any vessel approaching the fleet. Doralin’s people thought they were fishing boats and let them get too close.”
“You were wise to hide this from the men,” replied General Chen. “While our armies have the courage to face death in battle, sitting here exposed would have terrified them if they had known what had happened to Doralin. Your decision to go ahead with the attack makes perfect sense now.”
“Do not spread word of this until we make landfall, Chen,” warned the premer. “I have only shared this with you because I value your advice. You are the finest general in the Motangan army.”
* * *
The Khadoran bursar was finely attired in silk garments of the white and black colors of the Devon clan. He perused the merchandise only at the most expensive stalls in the marketplace of Khadoratung, and he did so at a leisurely pace. So it was of no surprise that the bursar would end up at the stall of an exclusive merchant situated in the middle of the last row. The merchant, Wendal, immediately sized up the bursar and watched with interest as the man approached.
“Good day to you,” greeted Wendal. “Looking for something in particular?”
“As a matter of fact I am,” nodded the bursar as he placed a large pouch on the table.
The jingle of gold was unmistakable to the merchant as the pouch hit the table. Wendal smiled broadly.
“What do you require?” Wendal asked.
“I am interest in BaGrec,” smiled he bursar.
“The finest artisan to have ever lived,” nodded Wendal. “His pieces are in great demand since he died. What piece are you looking for?”
“The three-legged horse sculpture,” smiled the bursar.
The merchant’s eyes immediately shifted left and right as he scanned the walkways around his stall. He deftly reached out and snared the pouch of gold. He hefted it as if to measure its worth before tucking it under his tunic.
“What would you like to know?” Wendal asked softly.
“Anything and everything about the coming invasion,” declared the bursar. “I am particularly curious about the recent buildings going up around the city.”
“It seems that Sakovan citizens are being relocated here,” replied Wendal. “Many have already arrived, but I understand that thousands are coming in the near future. Whole Sakovan cities are being emptied of the women and children.”
“What of the men?” asked the bursar.
“Only old men are arriving,” answered Wendal. “The fit have remained behind to fight the invaders.”
“And why are Khadoran soldiers working on the buildings?” prompted the bursar. “Where are the laborers?”
“They are far to the east,” replied Wendal. “They are building great trenches.”
“Trenches?” frowned the bursar. “Where and what for?”
“BaGrec’s works have become very expensive these days,” smiled Wendal. “They are in great demand.”
The bursar frowned heavily, but he placed another pouch on the table, which was immediately swept away by Wendal.
“The trenches are a feat that will be spoken about for years to come,” smiled Wendal. “They stretch for many leagues and are designed to impede the advance of the invaders. It is said that a man cannot jump them for they are too wide, but a horse can leap them easily.”
“Where exactly are they located?” asked the bursar.
“There are three that I know of,” replied the merchant. “They are concentric rings between the coast and the Khadora and Lituk Rivers. It is said that they run from the Kalatung Mountains clear to the Fortung Mountains.”
“What about roads across them?” asked the bursar. “Surely they have made places where wagons can pass over the trenches? Many estates would be isolated without some type of bridge.”
“There are three,” nodded the merchant, “but they will be destroyed if the enemy gets close. There is one near each end of the arc and one in the middle. An enemy that seized one of those bridges could entirely defeat the purpose of the trenches. It would be a shame to see such work go to waste.”
“What of the defenses at Raven’s Point?” asked the bursar.
“Those defense plans have been kept well guarded,” frowned Wendal, “but there have been observations that offer clues to what might happen. Of course, if there is an invasion, the value of BaGrec’s works will soar in value.”
“Enough,” the bursar said in a threatening tone as he placed another pouch of gold on the table.
Wendal smiled broadly as he swept the pouch away. “Thousands of mages are reported to be along the coast,” declared the merchant. “Practically every mage in Khadora is out there. The armies of the Imperial Valley are also on the move. Reports speak about traveling far to the east, but not all the way to the coast.”
“Held in reserve to defend a retreat?” frowned the bursar.
“I am not a military man,” shrugged Wendal, “but that would be my guess. It is curious that these troops are traveling so far, and yet the frontier troops have not been ordered to move at all. Especially since many of them are much closer to Raven’s Point.”
“That is curious,” admitted the bursar. “How solid is that information?”
“Very solid,” assured Wendal. “We get many visitors here in Khadoratung. Every frontier clan has been told to remain at home.”
“So the first line of defense is merely the coastal clans?” mused the bursar. “That sounds negligent.”
“Unless the mages plan some type of devastation of their own,” shrugged Wendal. “You do know that the mages have been schooled in battle magic?”
“I have heard,” nodded the bursar. “One last question. Where is the Emperor in all of this planning?”
“Of that I know little,” admitted Wendal. “I will venture a guess, but it is only a guess. Emperor Marak is known as the ultimate warrior by the Khadoran clans. I would expect him to be where the fighting is. He is not the type of Emperor to sit here in Khadoratung while the battle is raging elsewhere.”
The bursar nodded his head and left the stall. Only the most thorough observer would notice the man’s slight deformity. His left palm faced slightly forward when his arm was at his side.
The bursar of the Devon clan left the marketplace and entered the Wine Press Inn. He stood inside the door and scanned the common room before moving to take the seat in the far corner of the room. The bursar had not been sitting long before a black-cloaked man entered the common room. The new comer marched across the room and slid along the bench to sit right next to the bursar.
“Would you mind sitting elsewhere?” asked the bursar. “There are plenty of open seats available. I wish to be alone for my meal. I have much on my mind.”
“Actually,” said the black-cloaked man, “I was hoping to talk to you during the meal. I have something that might be of interest to the Devon clan.”
The innkeeper appeared to take the meal orders, and the black-cloaked man ordered two special wasooki steak meals and a bottle of expensive wine. The innkeeper smiled broadly, and the bursar frowned in confusion, but he nodded his acceptance.
“What is of so much interest to the Devon clan that you must disturb my meal?” asked the bursar after the innkeeper had left.
“The Devon clan no longer exists,” smiled the hooded man. “They were wiped out by the Vessi during the Jiadin invasion. I would not have expected the great Clarvoy to be so ignorant of such a thing, but then your mind is more on future events these days.”
The facial expressions of the bursar changed rapidly. First came concern, and then fear. The fear changed to determination, but quickly succumbed to disbelief, and finally to pain and shock. His hand rose threateningly as he turned to stare at the man next to him, but it dropped limp by his side a second later.
“A pity that you must leave us so quickly,” the hooded man said softly. “I would have loved to interrogate you, but I dare not take the chance against your magic.”
The hooded man calmly slid along the bench and stood. He left the poisoned knife sticking in the bursar’s side and moved nonchalantly out of the inn as Clarvoy’s head fell to the table before him, his eyes wide open in the stare of death.
Outside the inn, the hooded man slipped into the alley alongside the building. After checking the alley to make sure that no one was around, he stripped off the black cloak and stuffed it in his pack. Before the first shout of murder emanated from the Wine Press Inn, Fisher was dressed in an Imperial Guard uniform. He moved out of the alley and quickly responded to the call for help.
* * *
The fleet of skimmers rose and fell on the heavy swells, salt spray covering the two sailors in each craft. Kruffel, a crusty old fisherman from the Fakaran city of Ghala, led the fleet of a hundred small, fast, attack vessels. The heavy seas had been unexpected and had resulted in the force missing an opportunity to attack the Motangans before they unloaded in Meliban. Kruffel was determined to strike a blow against the Motangans, but not by sinking empty ships anchored outside Meliban. He led his group further westward in a relentless dash to reach the Motangan fleet heading for Khadora.
“This is mad, Kruffel,” complained his partner. “We have no idea where the Khadora-bound fleet is. You cannot drive these men like this. You will exhaust them.”
“They are between here and Raven’s Point somewhere, Dasra,” retorted Kruffel. “We will find them.”
“If any of our men survive,” scowled Dasra. “These boats were not built for heavy seas. We have almost lost one already, and the seas are getting worse. Give it up.”
“Give it up?” balked Kruffel. “How can you say such a thing? And your being from Raven’s Point yourself. It is your home that these Motangans will be invading. How can those words come out of your mouth?”
“If I thought we had any chance of success,” replied Dasra, “the words would not have been spoken. This is a hopeless gamble that will only result in the deaths of our men.”
“Our men are already dead,” snarled Kruffel. “We failed to attack the Fakaran-bound fleet. Three hundred thousand foreigners are already on Fakaran soil. I will not let this opportunity escape us completely.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Dasra sighed with compassion. “We left port as soon as the word was given. No one expected these heavy seas. Do not blame yourself, and do not kill our men just because the weather conspired against us. It just was not meant to be.”
“I should have pressed the men harder,” replied Kruffel. “We might have been able to catch the tail end of the Motangan fleet.”
“No, Kruffel,” Dasra shook his head. “We were far too late for that. There was nothing that you or anyone else could have done. Turn the fleet around and take us home.”
“Home is where I am taking you,” Kruffel replied defiantly. “We are much closer to Raven’s Point than we are to Angragar. You are from Raven’s Point, aren’t you?”
“I am,” Dasra sighed with frustration, “but my home will not exist by the time we get there. No one expects anything to be left standing in Raven’s Point after the Motangans pass through. It will not even be safe for us to land there. Our men will be killed for sure.”
“We all understood that we would probably die in this endeavor,” shrugged Kruffel. “Death will not be what defeats us. Do not fear it. Failure is what must be feared, for our failure to strike a blow against the Motangans will doom thousands upon thousands of our countrymen. I will not turn back as long as there is any possibility of catching the other Motangan fleet.”
“Nor would I,” conceded Dasra, “but this is ridiculous. The Motangans would have to have stopped the fleet in the middle of the ocean for us to catch up to them. Why can’t you understand that?”
An excited shout from one of the other boats interrupted the discussion. Kruffel waited impatiently for his boat to top the next swell. When his boat finally rose high on the sea, Kruffel swore with excitement.
“Drop your sails,” Kruffel shouted loudly to the skimmers around him. “Do not let the Motangans see us. Pass the word on.”
“I don’t believe it,” Dasra said in amazement. “Why would they do such a thing? They are sitting limp in the water. It makes no sense, no sense at all.”
“Perhaps there is more to Kaltara than you are willing to admit,” grinned Kruffel. “They sure looked like Motangan ships to me. Nothing else is anywhere near that size.”
“They are definitely Motangan,” agreed Dasra, “but it still makes no sense. Do you really believe in Kaltara?”
“I haven’t until now,” admitted Kruffel. “Oh, I admit that I get to thinking about it, what with everyone speaking so much about it, but I have had trouble believing in miracles. Now though? It sure is strange that the Motangans stopped and waited for us. It certainly is not something that I would ever have done. It is as if God is intervening to make our lives worthwhile.”
“What will we do now?” asked Dasra. “We cannot just sit here with our sails down.”
“The Sakovan skimmers got in trouble because they were sighted early,” replied Kruffel. “I will not make the same mistake. We will wait until nightfall before attacking.”
“What if the Motangans leave before then?” frowned Dasra.
“I reckon that we are still a day out of Raven’s Point,” answered Kruffel. “Even if the Motangans left right now, we could catch them before they make landfall. We will wait for the darkness. Throw lines to the nearest skimmers. We need to raft together, or we will become too separated without sails to maneuver.”
The skimmer rose on another swell, and Kruffel gazed once again at the Motangan fleet. The four hundred leviathans were only a smear on the horizon without their sails on display, but it was a sight that sent shivers of excitement up his spine.
* * *
The Wound of Kaltara was an enormous gorge through which the Kaltara River flowed. Ancient Sakovan scrolls told the story of its creation over a thousand years ago. It was said to have been blasted out by the hand of God in a fit of rage following the murder of the Star of Sakova. A priest witnessed the event and was sent by God to inform the Sakovan people of Kaltara’s displeasure. The priest was given the Scroll of Kaltara to guide the Sakovan people in the rightful ways of the future.
The canyon was over a league wide and half a league deep, and it stretched for hundreds of leagues from west of Zaramilden to the Wytung Mountains. It was a desolate, uninhabited gorge of enormous proportions that travelers avoided. Usually.
On this particular day, there were over a thousand travelers on the floor of the canyon. Heading south towards the Wytung Mountains, a long column stretched along the banks of the Kaltara River. They were unconcerned about being observed by anyone, as the Wound of Kaltara was fairly inaccessible. Nor were they worried about anyone noticing evidence of their passing, as they left no human footprints. The loin-clothed men rode on the backs of large ferocious cats.
Kyata, tribal leader of the Zatong tribe of the Chula, raised his hand in an unspoken command to rest. The Chula warriors silently dismounted their beasts and gathered in small groups to refresh and eat a meal. Ukaro, head shaman of the Zatong tribe, sat next to his brother Kyata.
“Your words about the Wound of Kaltara are true,” smiled Kyata. “No one has appeared on the rims of the canyon since we entered it. It is easy traveling and yet unobserved. You have done well.”
“The peaks of the Wytung Mountains can likewise be traveled in secrecy,” smiled Ukaro, his long mane flowing fluidly as he stretched his neck. “It is along the coast of the sea that I am concerned about. I am not sure where the Motangans might position spotters.”
“Perhaps your son could be tempted to fly his winged warrior over the area?” posed Kyata.
“The Torak has much to worry about,” Ukaro shook his head. “I will not trouble him for a such a trivial matter. The Chula know how to move unobserved, even if it is in a foreign land unfamiliar to us. We will reach Alamar without giving notice to the invaders.”
“Do you have any knowledge of the strength of the enemy in Alamar?” asked Kyata.
“Nothing accurate,” replied the shaman. “We will send scouts before us, but I think that the Motangans would not leave the port city unsecured. They have sufficient men to leave five or ten thousand to guard the city without concern for the troops. Alamar is needed by the Motangans to unload supplies. Without it, they are cut off from their Island of Darkness.”
“Then we shall remove it from their hands,” grinned the chieftain.