Soldiers of Tyranny

  SOLDIERS OF TYRANNY

  _____________________________________

  AIELUND SAGA : Book 5

  STEPHEN L. NOWLAND

  Smashwords edition

  Copyright 2014-2019 Stephen Louis Nowland

  2019 Final Edition

  Map Illustration by Cornelia Yoder

  http://www.corneliayoder.com

  The Author asserts the moral right to be

  identified as the author of this work.

  Prelude

  Though the air was heavy with the stench of the nearby swamps, now and then, when the wind changed direction, Rory Ballard could smell the sweet, grassy fields of home. It was little comfort for the young soldier, for his booted feet were mired in constant muck, and his belly never quite full. The towering trees of the forest to the north met with the swampy waters of the Fens to the south, with Rory and nearly a hundred other men camped right in between, awaiting the order to march.

  They had come from all walks of life, save for those at the top, of course. War was fought by those who couldn't afford to buy their way out of it. Sons of bakers, smiths, carpenters and farmers made up the ranks the veterans here, those who had been fighting this war for over two years now. With their numbers diminishing every week, fresh reinforcements were essential to keep the war going, and Rory's company had arrived with more common folk to bolster the ranks, including three sons of an innkeeper from a village called Bracksford.

  “Stop daydreaming,” came a sudden remark, accompanied by a smack on the side of his head. Rory looked around with a start, catching the grinning face of his twin brother Tyler. Though not identical twins, they were very similar in appearance. Both were seventeen years of age, wiry and short, with dark brown eyes and short, brown hair.

  “I'm telling you, I can smell Bracksford on the wind,” Rory protested as Tyler kept moving through the ranks of soldiers, each of them clad in a mixture of chain and leather armor.

  “Sure you can, just like how I can smell all the gold we're getting paid to be here,” Tyler called back, drawing a derisive laugh from the closest men. “Come on, the captain wants to see us.” Rory immediately stood and hurried to catch up, while spotting the towering figure of his other brother heading their way.

  Unlike the twins, Faolan Ballard was head and shoulders above the rest of the men. At almost twenty years of age, he stood six and a half feet tall, with a barrel chest and round features. He closely resembled their father, Tom Ballard, both in appearance and temperament. He was always serious and spoke infrequently, preferring to let others carry the conversation. As such, he was a prime target for Rory and Tyler's more carefree attitude to life.

  “Did it just get dark, or did a tree grow right next to me just now?” Rory quipped as Faolan fell into step beside them.

  “Look out, a bear! Oh wait, it's just Lan,” Tyler responded, adding to the mockery.

  “You know, you'd look just like dad if you put on a few dozen pounds,” Rory added, unable to keep the smile off his face. Faolan, however, was not impressed.

  “Would you two shut your traps?” he rumbled. “Dad would have you two scrubbing the floors of the inn if he heard you saying that. Besides, this ain't the time or place for it.” Rory's smile faded when he looked around and noticed a few weary veterans glaring back at him. Most of the soldiers were unshaven and unwashed, going through the motions of cleaning their weapons and armor with no enthusiasm. But more than that, their eyes lacked the spark of life one would normally see, as if these men had witnessed things too horrible to face, and their souls had retreated deep within to hide from the memories.

  “The poor bastards have been on the front lines for years,” Faolan confided in a low voice. “They've probably seen new blood like us join their ranks over and over, only to fall in their first or second fight. Be a bit more mindful before you speak, or you'll look like a damned fool.”

  “I still don't know why the captain had us join up with this lot,” Tyler responded in equally hushed tones. “Guarding the border down in the desert has its downsides, but it's better than being stuck in this mud all the time.”

  “We're here because Lord Aiden told us to come here,” Faolan replied firmly, referring to the commander who managed the defense of this part of the country.

  “You know he's only a year older than you, right?” Rory pointed out.

  “Doesn't matter. If the king gave a title to a local lad like Aiden, he must have done something right. So, if he sent the company here, we must be needed. If you ask me, we're going to make a big push on Westgate Keep.”

  “Wait, isn't that an Aielish fort?” Tyler asked curiously.

  “It was until about a month ago,” Rory explained. “One of these blokes told me all about it. They've been trying to take it back ever since, but now they lack the manpower to get it done.”

  “And that's why we're here,” Tyler grumbled with a shake of his head. “I really miss home right now.”

  “Me too,” Rory added wistfully. “The smell of the kitchens when the fresh bread is coming out, the sound of bubbling stew, and the patter of rain on the roof as I'm going to sleep.”

  “Bracksford is only three days east of here, mate,” Faolan pointed out as they spotted the captain and other officers, speaking together under a pavilion just ahead. “If we don't take back the keep, we might not have a home to go back to.” It was a sobering thought that silenced conversation, and allowed them to listen in on the officers.

  Their commander was Captain Reece, a grizzled old campaigner from the south, with dark, weathered skin and a long scar running down his face. He was one of the sharpest people Rory had met, at least when it came to staying alive in the middle of a war. Reece was a survivor.

  He stood before a small table that had been set up beneath a pavilion to provide shelter from the unpredictable weather they'd experienced of late. Lord Carbrey Richardson, a tall man with refined features and neatly combed brown hair, sat opposite Reece, sipping broth and eating jam-covered scones in the middle of a war zone.

  Rory figured he would be more at home with other members of the gentry, but for Carbrey's heavy mace leaning against the table as a reminder that he knew how to fight. Regardless of appearances, he was in command of five other companies gathered next to the swamps, and was responsible for holding the western flank of the country while the war raged on to their north and south.

  The fact that Westgate Keep had fallen under his watch wasn't said aloud, but it was certainly his primary motivation to retake the old fort, a point which Reece had made abundantly clear to his soldiers. The old captain leaned over the table with both fists planted upon it, an intimidating posture that gave Rory the impression things weren't going so well.

  “I'm telling you, the keep is too well protected from the eastern flank,” the captain patiently explained to Lord Carbrey in his gravelly voice. “They've repaired the walls after your last attempt, and you've only one working catapult. We should wait for reinforcements and resupply before hitting them again.”

  “That could take weeks,” Carbrey replied in his urbane manner as he set down his cup of broth. “The longer we wait, the harder they will be to dislodge. Better to kick them out now before they settle in.”

  “Westgate is the only way through this region,” Reece reminded him, “they don't have anywhere to go except through us, and they don't have the stomach for it yet. We have time, my lord. Give me eight catapults and a solid battering ram, and we can take it back in three days, regardless of how rested they are.”

  “Only eight catapults?” Carbrey retorted with a raised brow. “While we're wishing for things that don't exist, how about I conjure two thousand men to aid our fight, or a table of assorted cakes?
No, we must make do with the supplies we have. We still have plenty of arrows, a dozen siege ladders, and five hundred healthy men to climb them, so we shall do this the old-fashioned way and rush the walls.”

  “That would be a slaughter,” Reece growled, barely keeping his contempt in check, as Rory exchanged a worried glance with Tyler. “A better option would be to starve them out by circling the keep and shutting down their supply lines, while we wait for reinforcements.”

  “We're too close to the border,” Carbrey said, dismissing the idea with hardly a thought. “They could easily break out lines by sending in reinforcements from Lanfall. If we strike fast, right away, we can take back the fort before that happens. Lord Aiden was kind enough to loan me two companies, including yours, Captain, and I don't intend to have good men sitting idle while there is a war to be won. Prepare your troops, we attack within the hour.”

  Reece stared in silence for a long moment, before slowly standing upright and saluting Lord Carbrey. He then turned about and briskly marched off, in the direction of Rory and his brothers. Reece noticed the three men watching from nearby and gestured for them to follow.

  “I trust you overheard that?” he prompted as he stormed through the camp.

  “Rushing the walls doesn't sound like the best option,” Rory suggested nervously as they followed in the captain's wake.

  “It isn't,” Reece replied. “I told him the best option, but the stuck-up bastard can't stand the thought of the enemy commander sleeping in his cushy chambers for one more night.” From behind them, the sound of a horn pierced the air, a signal for the army to prepare for battle. Around them, the combination of fresh youngsters and weary veterans grabbed their weapons and formed into lines, under the direction of their respective commanders.

  “Alright you mean, ugly bastards,” Reece bellowed to his company as they arrived back at their camp. “Fall in, and prepare for a nasty fight. Sergeant, you and some hefty lads take up the siege ladder and make ready to charge. Archers, you'll be providing cover for them as they approach the castle. Yes, we're rushing the walls, so grab your shields and have your daggers ready for close-quarters combat.”

  Reece went on shouting orders to prepare the men for what was to come, with Rory and Tyler falling into line with their shields held ready, while Faolan was ordered to take part of the heavy ladder they'd be using the crest the walls – provided they even made it that far.

  Once they were set, the entire contingent of five companies marched west until Westgate Keep was clearly in sight, looming over the muddy battlefield where so many had fallen.

  “You know,” Tyler confided, “I'm starting to have second thoughts about this soldiering thing.”

  “I always wanted to be a baker,” Rory responded lightly, despite the growing sense of unease within his chest. His heart was pounding and his palms were sweating within his leather gloves, normal enough at the start of any battle, but this time felt different.

  “This might be it, you know,” Tyler said plainly as a distant roar came from the defenders of the castle, lined along the walls with their weapons at the ready.

  “Trust each other, watch each other's backs, and we'll get through this,” Reece said, speaking loudly enough to be heard by his entire company. “Do it for Aielund, and the king.”

  “Bugger that,” Faolan rumbled from nearby as he, along with nine other men tightly held the scaling ladder. “Do it for Bracksford. Do it for dad and Aislin. Do it for home.”

  “Home,” Rory murmured to himself, thinking of the inn, his father and his little sister, all waiting for them to return one day when this useless bloody war was finally over. The order came down the ranks to stand ready, but before the command to charge was issued, the wind changed and again, Rory could smell the sweet fields of Bracksford

  “I can smell home,” Tyler remarked wistfully, catching Rory by surprise.

  “So can I,” Faolan added, a rare smile on his florid features. The three brothers exchanged a reassuring glance, knowing that whatever happened, they were together. The horn sounded, echoing across the battlefield and a roar went up from the assembled men, with Rory, Tyler and Faolan adding their voices to the noise as they charged for the wall under the banner of the gold dragon.

  Prologue

  Ice crunched under his feet as Aiden Wainwright, Baron of Highmarch, headed through the courtyard of the fort, inspecting the recently completed repairs before the weather took a turn for the worse. The cold mountain air swirled around him, stirring up a small cloud of powder snow in his wake. He walked through the crowded yard like a ghost, unseen by the workmen as they finished up their final tasks.

  Aiden had impressed upon them the urgency of the work, and pushed a relentless schedule to bring the ancient fort back from the brink of obsolescence. Despite doubling the thickness of the stone walls from the original design, Aiden still felt it wasn’t enough. Heavy buttresses and immense catapults lined the walls, but he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that it was all for nothing. Once before, he had witnessed the fort almost completely reduced to rubble by a small army of golems, magical constructs of immense power that smashed through the fort like it was made of parchment.

  The people scurrying about their duties in the fort were as nothing to the young lord. As he approached the towering southern gate, the noise of their existence dissipated into the background, fading away until Aiden could hear only the wind and his solitary footfalls upon the frozen earth. From beyond the gate, however, came a new sound — a dull thumping noise that sent a shiver down Aiden’s spine, which had nothing to do with the chilly conditions.

  The noise grew louder with each repetition and Aiden’s legs felt leaden as the strength vanished from his body. He slowly backed away from the gate, trying to run but unable to move any faster. He tried to call out a warning, but his throat closed up in terror. Looking around frantically, he saw with growing despair that the courtyard, teeming with activity moments before, was now completely devoid of life, as if it had never been inhabited.

  A thunderous boom echoed across the empty fort as the gate shuddered from a tremendous impact. The gate shuddered and split down the middle, revealing a hulking shape which smashed the remains of the gate open. The entire fort was on fire as an immense silhouette stomped through the debris, a huge sword in one hand and eyes glowing with eerie red light.

  Aiden reached for his sword, but when he drew it from its scabbard, he found he was holding the bones of a small, dead dragon. The ominous silhouette stopped its advance and raised its empty hand towards him, and from its palm a brilliant light grew with intensity, accompanied by the sound of a boiling kettle and Aiden’s scream.

  * * *

  He awoke with a start, throwing the covers away as he sat up in bed, struggling for breath. Sunlight streamed in through the small window, forcing him to shield his eyes as he tried to remember where he was. The whistle of a boiling kettle could be heard from nearby in an adjoining room, rattling his frayed nerves until the sound faded.

  Glancing around, Aiden recognised the familiar sights of his chambers at Highmarch, and gradually relaxed. The cold grey stone of the room’s walls were contrasted by a number of bright, colourful paintings depicting Aielund in springtime, a legacy of the former lord’s wife, who never liked the long winters the fort endured. Now, Aiden used them as an anchor against the nightmares that visited him on a nightly basis.

  He mopped his brow with a sheet and leaned against the pillows. Ever since their narrow victory against the Ironlord and its metal army, Aiden had refought the battle, or simply been rendered helpless in his dreams and left at the mercy of his towering metal foe.

  At the culmination of the battle, the true nature of the creature had been revealed as an ancestor of the king, a withered old man who had simply been wearing an armoured suit of otherworldly origin. But this fact did nothing to alleviate Aiden’s fears, for he never saw the armour destroyed.

  It had simply disappeared one night, and a
ny attempt to discover the fate of the cursed armour met with silence, or bureaucratic obfuscation. The simple knowledge of its continued existence, still intact, instilled within Aiden a deep sense of foreboding he could not shake.

  Presently, the door opened and a small, balding man of middle years stepped through, carrying a pewter tray covered with an assortment of hot breakfast foods.

  “Good morning m’lord,” he said in greeting as he carefully deposited the tray on a small table beside the bed. The comforting aromas helped Aiden relax, reminding him of oddly enough, of home.

  “Morning, Jeffery,” Aiden replied, sitting up in bed and pretending he’d had a good night’s sleep. Jeffery was a fine castellan, but he also had a tendency to dote on his lord when it was obvious Aiden had endured a rough night. “What time is it?”

  “Several hours after dawn, I’m afraid,” Jeffery responded with a slight hint of disapproval in his voice. “I would have woken you sooner, but I overheard you talking in your sleep a few hours earlier, and surmised you might need a little extra rest before your meeting this morning.”

  “For what little good it did me,” Aiden muttered, wishing he could keep his mouth shut while he slept. “Has there been any word from Fairloch?”

  “No m’lord, there has been no answer to your repeated requests at this time,” came the usual reply. Months of communications sent to the University of the Arcane in Fairloch had amounted to nothing, leaving Aiden with the distinct feeling he had been shut out. “I suggest you eat your breakfast before it gets cold. I’ll tell your guests to be patient a while longer.”

  “They’re here already?” Aiden asked in surprise.

  “They arrived an hour ago. Sir Leonard has been hearing their grievances in your stead, although I suspect he would rather be using his time more productively, such as standing watch out on the wall, or combing his hair for a few hours.”