(USFB): Twenty-Four: The State of War

Returning without Ceren and Rin would have bristled Razien to the end of his wit, knowing full well what Jaium might say, but with Shah Tirasha’s allotment of warriors, he felt a touch more comfortable. If they returned to Roya when it was all over or were pushed as far east as the coastal town of Monith, either man could explain their decision to buck the chain of command. Undoubtedly, even with the reinforcing cavalry, Jaium would take issue with the absent men. He might forgive Ceren his reasons; Monith was far from the central sweep of the attack but would need time to prepare. All the way to the coast, there would be villages, mainly of his own people, that Ceren needed to bring word to. To allow those nearkin to fall prey to the invaders, should the Cubs and their combined allies fail, would be unforgivable. However, the Baylen may say the same of Rin and his choice.

The fox was no fighter, but that had never stopped a curious and philosophical-minded man in the past. After reaching the stronghold, seeing the gardens, the ancient tombs, and so many other marvels that were little more than rumor to those in the region, it was small wonder why the fox pleaded to stay behind. On Derius’s insistence, Rin was permitted his stay, and with Tirasha granting more spears to take the Legion head-on, it became impossible for Razien to argue. He only hoped that whatever drew the fox’s attention so far away from the troubles facing them now was worthwhile. 

Certainly, in the south, there was plenty worth the time of anyone able to use a spear or bow. On their return course, Razien and the warriors of Roya had met the wagons of the northern nomads. They were camped in a copse, not licking their wounds but looking as though they had nearly been bitten by the Goredrinker himself. LaRoux was among them, though his niece was nowhere to be found, and though there were a smattering of other refugees, deer, foxes, and elk, it seemed the warrior cast was not pushed back so far. There was little time to collect the whole story from the lynx. Simply seeing the wagons so far from where he expected spurred Razien to push Sha-Sha all the harder, but he gave way to a fear for knowledge. 

According to the gray old lynx, the invasion had begun, but the forces among the Cubs had held out from what he could see from afar. If they had maintained and held the camp, it wasn’t certain, but the need for their departure was. They would go north, past Roya, deep into the wilderness they had called home for so long. If the situation worsened, they would know it only when the Legion came crashing through the dense woodlands of the north. LaRoux had hopes that this delaying tactic might nullify the resolve of the Westerners or buy time for a rebellion from within. In either case, he knew they still had the Cutheran chain of islands to fall back on. The harbor cities of Kylderun and Onyx Port would have enough ships to carry most of the tribes out, even with half their population at the docks. As they parted ways, Razien was left with a simple notion: the wolves had their fort that would break any force, but the north had the breaking waves that would turn back even the blood. And whatever the north held as a defense, regardless of the mounted fort that was Roya, would need to hold back all it could.

As they crested the hill leading into the valley the Cubs had called home for a couple of cycles, Razien and the reinforcing cavalry saw all they needed to be seen. Their allies had not begun to be pushed back, but the progress of the opposition on the far bank of the Camora would make one think retreat not the worst option. Though the bridge was gone and nothing had been erected to make passage possible, the Legion had found a way to keep their enemies occupied. Razien might have expected arrows, of which there were plenty of indications volleys had been launched, but what threatened the resistance more were the menacing siege engines. 

There were two on the front lines, but from his vantage, the young wolf could see the outline of more pushing through the foliage and rising over distant hills with a solid stream of soldiers in tow. They were machines unlike any in the east had ever seen. A third the size of a northern cargo boat, with more refined mechanism than the pulleys of Roya’s gates and reinforced with the iron that few weapons were so sturdy by virtue of, was almost too well engineered to be believed. But believe them, Razien had to. As one of the trebuchets pitched back, a boulder the size of Sha-Sha and himself lifted and fell onto their side of the river. There were no casualties, but it was evident by the moist remains around similar stones that it was the exception. 

What had been destroyed by the newest rock launched was the tent Jaium often convened with his captains and other officers. It was not a simple affair, but almost as well put together as the wagons Greshalin’s people drove to the south. It was utterly vanquished before the boulder rolled a touch further, but even if it hadn’t, that motion would have finished it. As though by the very notion of the terror such an attack on flesh would have caused, Razien sighted a familiar form beside and beneath one of the great rocks. 

With reinforcements in tow, Razien descended the hill and quickly surrounded his mentor beside the spent stone. Razien let Sha-Sha gallop a bit past the site before tumbling out of the saddle and coming astride the wolf. Jaium looked him up and down a moment before he returned his grief-stricken gaze back to the downed man. 

Even simply glancing over the man’s shoulder, he saw the wreckage and remains of that most sincere of their Western allies. Litheiuss was motionless and would have been assumed dead if not for the subtle rise and fall of his chest. He rolled tired eyes to meet the wolves and forced a grim grin, “I was hoping Orathone would be able to see me off into the fire. He must be far off if he couldn’t make it.”

“I couldn’t locate him in this mess if my eyes were in a hawk waiting to pick clean one of our bodies. Isn’t there anything else that we might do, friend?” Jaium answered.

The deer chuckled, but the dry rasp sounded as though it hurt more than it could have dissuaded pity, “Don’t worry it, old man, I just wanted to wish him luck, see him in another time, and that when it’s all over, he does what he can to find someone to prove me right.”

“About what?”

“About the same thing he has always stupidly asserted,” Imfay answered, parting the crowd to stand opposite Jaium. The wolf tensed but allowed the elk to continue, “Between old allies, Litheiuss, I would say your approximation has been right all along, if only a single soul might prove it.”

“If you thought he might be the heir, why not say so earlier, Fay?”

“Simple,” the elk ignored anything but the buck now, “If he had been or not, it wouldn’t matter. He could have stood beside his own kin and insisted that he was anything but the prince when the masses turned on him, believing him an agent of the Goredrinker. Oh, without a question, some would have flocked and come to our aid before it was too late, but that doubt would have turned dedicated swords on each other, on themselves, into the sea, into the arms of our enemies. It was much better he served as a figurehead to rally, his power enough to do already. Worry it not, old boy, and rest.”

Imfay knelt by the buck and took his paw between his own, the one slick with salted crimson, while the two were unmarred. All around him, there was a fluctuation in the hearts of the wolves, though there was no name or reason they might put behind it. Jaium thought his heart only sank because of the buck’s passing, but it was not so direct of an effect. Without purpose but comfort for such a dutiful one, his long-lived ally in the camp of nearkin, Imfay forced away the fear, the misery, and the chaotic and tantric spasming thoughts of the end. It took a slight drain from everyone around them; it even took its toll on Imfay, dragging away so much of his peace of mind, but he put over Litheiuss a calm that would carry him through into that last breath that came not with a rasp or wheeze but a peaceful exhale.

Battling through a heady feeling of emptiness, Razien patted Jaium’s shoulder, “How do things stand now?”

“That depends. Who are we counting on back home?”

“Byshael. There’s not been a proper decision reached for the long term, but in tandem with Tirasha, he’s been made active commander of military forces while Derius will handle the proper affairs within the tower and among the civilians.”

Jaium shook his head, but little else could have been done, “I need you to take those men they’ve given and head south. Seras is where their army is splitting to. We’ve routed them here, and I don’t think any of their leaders are bold enough to head north. Likely a spy caught wind of Roya,” he paused with a slow realization before adding, “Where are the other two that went with you?”

“Ceren has gone for reinforcements and to have the Eastern clans fortified their towns. Rin remained behind in Roya, though I doubt you had use for him.”

“You would have,” Jaium held back apparent rage, “His brethren won’t move an inch from that hole they live in under the Soweyn’s orders. I thought to send Greshalin, but I don’t think one show of power over the other will matter to them.”

“Where is she?” Razien hastened out the words, “I could use her aid. The Soweyn should know the importance of a Northern priestess better than anyone.”

The final arrow soared and screeched across the plain until finding purchase in exposed flesh. Though the message served as little threat before, the deer allowed his earthen missile to sprout and flourish. Before the last life had drained from the jackal, a sapling stood erect from the broken vertebrae. Yet, where the sample of Orathone’s gift should have impressed friend and foe alike, there was little time to gawk.

There were still so many who had hidden themselves in the nooks and crannies of the countryside that to expect less than half of the innocent Eastern folks, mainly foxes, to survive was generous at best. Still, Orathone was intent on giving them every chance as he plugged away at the Legion from afar while Greshalin led a charge to hew in the rogue numbers heading southward. If they could help it, the Cubs and their allies wanted to distract from the village to the south. Orathone knew that even with defenders posted and prepared, even if those numbers were tripled, the foxes would be extinguished like so much fire amid a hail storm.

Another slew of sinewy projectiles launched from the almost naturally formed bow, striking home each time with a different soldier. The lucky few who did not feel a taproot tear through muscles and veins to plant them in the earth became constricted in their armor where they were not made stationary as though walking in a tremendous spiderweb. Unbeknownst to Orathone, some of those from their far-flung jungle homes had encountered such traps by so magnificent a predator as those great arachnids. Yet, shedding their forged skins only opened them up fully for attack. It was not done for such brutality, however, and the buck got what he expected.

Among the myriad of troops were those with cudgels and other bludgeoning instruments. A proper swing that lacked crucial momentum could disable or render their foes unconscious. It was a long shot, but it was Orathone’s judgment to decide whether a prisoner should be taken. Perhaps the Iron Mane had not valued a single spy, lowly and inept, but a platoon, a charge of well-kitted soldiers, might fetch a greater deal of his attention, namely if they were of his nearkin and not the turncoats of the west. Orathone saw little purpose in not engaging with deadly accuracy those countrymen who had turned their tails on the rebellion and sought life as sellswords to cut the flesh of former friends.

Flexing his might, Orathone began producing more of the organic arrows from the earth. A sapling was of little use to so many but served as conduit and quiver for the deer. As he forced free another vine-twined missile, he watched the far bank of the river. Ripples of chilling winds struck the backs of those who had only recently come to know the touch of Winter’s talons. Greshalin served as a support, a distraction, an indirect death adder as she whisked the winds to blow out of season and layer snow and ice on the tails of the feline crusaders. The Cubs and those Westerners daring enough to battle at close quarters settled up the rest of the invaders. It was a shame, Orathone thought that so little support could be given to those with such need. As he considered this, a tone struck from the northbound flank.

The buck’s mind skittered recalling far too many ‘last stands’ he and Litheiuss had stood shoulder to shoulder during. Somehow, no matter how he laid his roots or how Litheiuss aligned the troops, the Legion poured about a flank and forced a retreat before a hopeless battle could be waged. Flicking a worrisome glance in the direction of the horn, Orathone felt ready for the worst turn yet. 

Cascading down from the rise of another hill were myters mounted by warriors clad in the minimum of armor where any such safeguards had been placed. What adorned these riders was bone and plate from beasts and herds that had been harvested in the mountainous valley of Roya. They were marked with a brilliant seal, too bright for gold yet too dull for a sunburst. At their head road the familiar red-furred wolf atop Sha-Sha with a bundle of spears across his back and a duo clenched between fists. They had come expecting to fend off the overrunning horde but found this side of the Camora still free of the Legion’s embrace.

Orathone did not bother to call to his ally but took of the growing tree a bundled mass of twigs. They did not sit right in the sling of the bow, but he had too much in mind to let discomfort and the awkwardness of it slow him. Before the cavalry could make the valley, Orathone shot the load into the far bank and, willing what he could from afar, made a bridge more permanent than the ice Greshalin and her accompaniment had crossed. The rough bridge, sprouting in places with leaves and flowers, served better for the heavy weight of birds and riders and their excess of spears. Razien directed his men onward while carrying himself on to meet the buck responsible.

Still, at a gallop, Razien dismounted, carrying with him the spears and allowing Sha-Sha to trot off with the few other pieces of supplies attached to her saddle, the horn included. Orathone looked the wolf over with admiration and appreciation. The buck let a small sigh creep out of his chest, “You’re very much a sight of hope in these mirthless times. I don’t think we’ll staunch their flow over the river once the day is through. There are too many. I sent word to Jaium of a potential strategy.”

“And it was received. I want you to go across with Sha-Sha and join up with the Royan Cavalary. Gresh and I are going to negotiate a withdrawal for those left in Seras. South is a dangerous place to go for them, but it’s a chance against the blades of these marauders. Can you lead them as we go?”

“I… I’m not quite the leader of affairs. I fancy myself good enough for a time, but you should have brought Lith with if you wanted the right man for it,” Orathone’s reply dwindled as he spoke, seeing the uncontrolled response in the wolf’s muzzle.

With a pain he didn’t feel himself but harbored for the deer, Razien nodded, “That wasn’t quite an option for any of us. Right now, we’re going to save as many lives as we can if you can help me.”

“Lend me some of your spears, Razien. I will do all I can,” the finality in the buck’s voice was more answer than the words themselves.

Razien pulled free half the bundle, which was wrapped separately in case weight needed to be dropped with a felled mount. They were not the weighty and awkward spears of a guard for the Royan wall, but they were not to be mistaken as a simple missile. The serration along the length of the blade would leave wounds that could not be sutured, and the hooked end on the other side meant pulling free unharmed flesh to remove the tip. These were not weapons of clan and tribal rivalry. They were not dualist tools or for sparring. These were the edges that would deplete the last of a child from the Goredrinker so it may never pull itself back together. Orathone accepted the bundle, mounted his graceful though tired bird, and charged across the river, leaving Razien a moment to take in the sight of the battle lines.

They had plenty of might on their side; between Orathone and Greshalin alone, they might have held the river some time but not for long, not forever. Even with the cavalry, the Cubs would hardly be able to control the line, battling off multiple soldiers at a time, and the advantage of being in a defensive position wasn’t enough. In time, there would be a need to fall back further into the plains or north to Roya and the wandering lands of the various traveling folk. There were too many to count, and seeing the dead that had piled up, Razien couldn’t quite believe that any strategist, brilliant or otherwise, would throw so many of his men into a grinder only to take such little ground. Worse still was the thought that this was what the head of the Legion was willing to dispose of to ford the river. What he might give to take Seras or even Roya had to be far more than the East had outfitted and of fighting standard. Finally, a wave of chill air brushed his muzzle, and Razien was brought back to the matter at paw.

Greshalin extended a narrow bridge of ice towards him and waited for his swift reunion with their fighting force. Rejoining with the Cubs was only a moment as Razien led the lynx away reluctantly. Words trailed him, asking why they fled, but after a moment, she began to understand their purpose and his direction. Though she had known where the fox’s prime village stood, she had never followed so far south. On foot, it would take the better part of the day, and though a myter may have been expended for the journey, Razien knew it would have taken in the attention of at least a few of their foes, and that was far from ideal. They needed to be fast, but discretion was more important. Reaching Seras first would be meaningless if an avalanche of Legion soldiers fell on them the second they made the village.