Chapter
1
Captured
The battle raged around her, but from her
position on foot it was impossible to tell which side was gaining ground. Her
horse had been shot out from under her and she had been separated from most of
her bodyguard. Only her Champion, the drow elf paladin Naramon with his
soul-stealing sword stood by her side. They were surrounded by the enemy with
no apparent way of getting out of this alive. But Excalibur was singing its
war-song, filling her with joyous battle lust, driving her and her companion
onward. In her escasty she fought her way further from her troops, deeper into
enemy lines. She heard Naramon calling her name, but only responded with a
laugh. She cut down enemy after enemy; her weapon seeming to have a life of its
own. The sound of screams and the smell of blood and excrement surrounded her.
She had been trained to fight these creatures and she figured that if she was
killed, then it was at least doing what she knew how to do, kill orcs.
But OMG not like
this! Too quick, too roughly written, not enough reason for why everyone is
there, or why they left the battle! What the hell was I thinking? I take a bite
from my toaster pastry and a sip of jasmine tea. Get her to the battlefield
with a little background. This entire chapter needs to be rewritten.
Chapter 1
In Which the Battle Begins
Athren Pendragon sat quietly, eyes closed, listening to the discussions
around her, one finger gently massaging the point of pain that had formed
between her eyebrows. She had never been meant for a battle leader and wished,
not for the first time, that her mother had not kept the circumstances of her
birth such a secret. If she had known she was destined to become the heir to
the legendary Arthur Pendragon she would have done some things differently,
leaned more about strategy, troop movements, battlement defenses, so much more.
Rangers had different skills; woodcraft, hand-to-hand combat, ambushing, moving
silently, hunting, nothing that was of real help in a pitched battle situation.
She could pick a raven from the sky with one shot, track a deer, a goblin, or a
man across stony wastes in the dark, survive on less food and water than a
small child for days on end, but this, this was completely outside of her
experience. For Goddess’ sake, she wasn’t even very good at chess.
The black tower had appeared in the plain outside of the city at dawn
the day before and panic had filled the streets. Over a day’s ride away, it loomed
over the plain like a gangrenous finger, seeming to absorb any and all light
that came near. According to the scout reports it was completely featureless:
no windows, walkways, battlements or crenellations marred the smooth, matte
surface, only a single broad gate that faced the city gate square on.
Frightened refugees had been flooding into the city since yesterday afternoon,
fleeing the unknown threat.
I know what I had
been thinking; I had thought originally that I was going to write the entire
story of Athren, from her inception to this point in her story. But too many
years have passed, I’ve forgotten too much. I can’t even remember the names of
all of the original party members. But between what I can remember and what I
have saved as campaign notes, I can put in as her memories, flashbacks,
knowledge already gained.
The city state of Aradia had a small regular army for protection from
the occasional invasion by goblins and neighboring countries or brigands, quite
sufficient for the needs of the mostly agrarian society. The lords of outlying
lands had small bands of soldiers of their own to protect themselves from the
same sort of things, including each other from time to time, on a smaller scale.
The city itself was protected by a city guard that patrolled the walls and
streets, but they were usually men and women who had retired from active
military service or were pensioned off from one of the lord’s private forces.
There were perhaps 10,000 soldiers in the armed forces stationed around the realm,
1000 city guards on either active or reserve duty and each of the 12 Aradian
lords and ladies who had been in the city for the coronation had sworn half of
their private forces to any defense that might be required, adding
approximately 2400 more trained troops to the total.
I need better numbers for troop counts. I don’t know how big my area is and I don’t realistically know how many troops it takes to defend it. But let’s press on, shall we?
13,400 troops, Athren thought to herself. No, fewer than that, she
amended. Much of the regular army would have to come in from the outlying
garrisons, there were only approximately 5000 stationed within a few days
travel. We will be able to pull maybe 3 times that from the population as volunteers,
but untrained, under supplied, soft city folk and unorganized farmers. It was
now her duty to lead these people that she barely knew into the unknown. And
they didn’t even know who, or what the threat was. She could only suppose that
it was the enemy that had been pursuing them for so long, but she had no way to
be sure.
“My Queen,” said Duke Llewellyn, gaining her attention through her
musings. “How long should we keep the gates open for refugees?” Although his
red-orange hair was still bright as polished brass, the captain of the newly
christened Queen’s Guard was growing stout in his middle years, and wrinkles of
time etched his face and grey of age frosted his beard and bushy eyebrows. “As
much as we want and need to protect your subjects, there is only so much room
for them.”
“Can we send them to the valley?” she asked. The city sat on the edge
of a high cliff that overlooked a vast river valley to the West that extended
as far as the eye could see in any direction. It was a fertile, prosperous land
that fulfilled the role of breadbasket to the neighboring realms to the East of
the mountains that surrounding them atop the cliff. Aradia’s borders extended
to the river’s edge that glittered just at the edge of normal sight. “There is
safety there, correct?” The city was connected to the valley below by two long,
winding roads that had been cut into the cliff-side in ancient times. Perfectly
symmetrical, some said they had been crafted from elven magic long before
humans had come. The roads terminated at gates cut into the sheer city walls,
inaccessible from the plateau on either side. They were the only way, save
magic, to get to the valley below.
(“Surely these folks have withstood sieges in the past,” Athren said
irritably to Dorian later that night as they prepared for bed. “Why ask me
questions that they already know the answer to?”
“Because, my love, you are their queen now and all decisions must be
approved by you and in this case, appear to come from you. It reassures the
people that you are taking action and making decisions that will protect them.”
“I know all that,” she took him in her arms and kissed him. “It doesn’t
mean it can’t make me cranky.”
“Well, let me make a decision for you so you don’t have to trouble your
pretty little brain,” he replied, grinning, and scooping her up he carried her
to the bed while she struggled playfully before submitting to his decisive
actions. Even in the midst of uncertainty and the unknown, she still found joy
in her love’s arms.)
“Yes,” he said hesitantly, thinking. “If we funnel the refugees down
one road and the supplies up the other, it will help avoid bottlenecks. The
only other ways are through paths that only the mountain folk know and are many
days from here. Lady Menonne will know more about that than I,” and he made a
little bow to the sturdy, plainly dressed woman across from him. “If that is
your order my queen, I shall carry it out immediately.”
“It is, my lord,” she said, trying to hide her exasperation. Being the
leader of a band of adventurers who had minds and ideas of their own didn’t
really give her much experience dealing with courtiers and the formal processes
of law and custom. The elven society she had grown up in hadn’t been at war
since long before she had been born and she had never been witness to her queen
mother as the leader of warriors. This was not something she had ever thought
she would be doing.
Llewellyn left immediately, only pausing at the door to bow as if he
just remembered that there was a queen in the room.
The rest of the meeting was short. Lady Menonne confirmed that there
were no other ways down to the valley that were not known and guarded at all
times. Those ways were too small for any sort of invasion force and took
winding ways through and under the mountains. If ground troops planned on
attacking the poorly guarded valley they would have to come through the city
first. The Lord General of the army, Gavin Lord Atwater, confirmed that messages
had already been sent to the garrisons, and provisions were starting to come
into the city as the populous prepared for the worst. No one knew how much
worse it would become. And the black tower in the plain was still dark and
quiet.
After a break for dinner, Athren gathered her companions together in
the large sitting room that opened onto a rooftop garden and provided an
impressive view of the mountain range to the east. The setting sun illuminated
the distant snowy peaks with orange flames as the forested bases dulled to a
hazy purple the color of a new bruise. The evening breeze brought the scent of
the last summer flowers into the quiet room.
“I don’t know who we can truly trust here,” Dorian said glumly,
strumming his lute so softly that she could barely hear it. “We all know what
that tower means, it means he found us.”
“Of a certainty,” Sheelba’s voice agreed. The shadowy figure of the
mage could just be seen hovering near the fireplace. “And if I follow your
thought, my lord bard, it means that he could already have agents here plotting
against us, but there is no way to tell who it may be.”
“Well, we weren’t exactly hiding. I wish I knew what he wanted,” Athren
said, putting down her untasted wine and pacing to the open doors to the
garden, looking beyond the city walls to the plain at the foot of the
mountains. The colorless void that was the tower absorbed the last of the day’s
light. “We don’t have the weapon; we don’t even know where we were when we
found it the first time. Our forces are apparently equally matched. Without
that power, we can’t defeat him and he can’t defeat us. What else could he
possibly be doing?”
“He may not know that we can’t retrieve the weapon again,” Chryssa
broke in helpfully. “We did come here initially to do some research at the
Academy.”
“Perhaps so, perhaps not. Until he makes a move all we can do is wait,
and continue to search.”
“Speaking of that, my queen,” broke in Amathon. “I have been
unsuccessful in my research so far. The scholars are very helpful, but the
archives are quite large. I will continue looking of course.”
“I’ll help,” added Chryssa. “I have nothing better to do.”
“Every bit helps, my lady,” the tall elf bowed and smiled. “Perhaps my
lord Dorian may be able to add some insights from his stores of histories and
stories he carries in his head.”
“Sure. Be glad to. War preparation is not my forte.”
Just then there came a frantic knock at the door. Naramon opened it a
crack then allowed the messenger inside. The boy started in surprise at the
nearness of the huge drow warrior, but sped to Athren’s side and knelt,
offering a leather scroll case.
“My queen, this was dropped on the parapet above the gate by a bird of
some sort. It is addressed to you. General Atwater sent me first, but he is on
his way.”
“Did he try to open it?”
“I don’t think he could, my lady.”
Athren took the scroll case with trembling hands and dismissed the boy.
The texture of the black leather was strange and knobby, like bird skin, but by
the size of the feather follicles, of a size of bird she had never before seen.
It made her skin crawl.
“It does not appear to be warded, my lady,” Amathon said quietly.
She hadn’t thought of that and thanked him for his foresight in
checking for magic. There was indeed a small tag on one end that read “Queen
Athren Pendragon” in elvish. The script was beautifully rendered, equal to some
of the most calligraphic texts in her mother’s library, but if a piece of
calligraphy could have an evil edge, then this one did. There was a certain
sharpness or firmness to the font that sent a shiver through her.
The silver end cap came off easily and she slid out a piece of fine
parchment, so thin and perfectly white that only a master papermaker would have
been able to accomplish it. The ink that the message was written with was a
lovely shade of purple-blue that reminded her of the deepest colored sapphires
she had ever seen. If she had thought about it, she would have noticed that it
was the same color as her own eyes. Instead she read the text of the short
note.
Most Gracious Majesty,
In three days time I will
present myself at your gate to offer you my hand in marriage.
Your rejection will bring
disaster.
I am your most humble servant.
There was no signature, only a seal pressed into a small blotch of red
wax, a capital P from the elvish alphabet.
“It is a declaration of war,” she said as the message slipped from her
nerveless hand.
So much better! My biggest problem right now is remembering names! I am very pleased with my day’s labors. I wish I didn’t have to stop, but life and family obligations call.
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