Thrain - Part 2, Thrain Weeps

Chapter 1

Thrain

Thrain’s eyes turned to the horizon for the first time in hours, the rocky and unstable ground of the Outlands giving way to Haelstran plains. The official border of northern Haelstra and Jarda only existed on a map. Crossing it now, nothing at all changed, though he felt like it should. A declaration of war was shockingly peaceful.

In that way though it was right to Thrain. Raiding a defenseless village for half their food was not, but forcing Halestra’s hand meant reaching Yerickton in three days. If they did not, it could mean the end of Jarda. So they set up no supply lines, took no siege weapons, and carried only a few days of rations.

His horse snorted and he felt a slight tug in the reins. Serbus pawed the ground, and his flank vibrated as his long head looked excitedly around at the flat grass. Thrain grinned.

“Ready boy?” He cinched the stirrups tighter and stood up in the saddle for a moment, stretching his stiff muscles and letting the thrill of a coming battle begin to fill him.

But then clattering out of the mesa behind him came a young soldier.

“Lord Thrain!”

Serbus snorted and stamped his hooves as Thrain turned him, but obeyed, trusting his master to let him run before the day was out.

“Lord Thrain, I was--or…” The soldier’s face went bright red. “The rain falls.” He dipped his head down.

Thrain remembered him now, one of the scouts he had selected specifically for this campaign. The lad couldn’t have been much heavier than the saddle, but on a horse he was likely better than everyone but himself.

“May it wash away our enemies. Do not worry over the pleasantries sir Leon, this is war we make.”

Leon’s mouth hung open at being called sir, and the recollection of his name.

“I will still need you to relay what it was you so urgently stopped me for, however.”

“Oh, yes, sir--Lord! Thrain, ah… Haverth,” he said finally as he gained his composure. “Haverth asked for you, he said it could change your plans.”

He frowned. “Some change indeed then. Well, we must wait a while longer Serbus. To the hills.”

Thrain trotted back into the hills, and he did not speak the farewell. He did not need to. The Lord of the Eastern Steppes, Will of the King and heir appointed of Maximus Thrain deferred to very few.

Pushing Serbus to take him quickly through the hilly mesa, he came to Haverth and the bulk of the single Druacht of men; seventy soldiers and thirty men on horses. Most of them labored to lift the single carriage and cart up and over the last canyon line that ran in the mesa.

“Well General. I hope I have not delayed my attack over carriage logistics.”

“And may the rain wash away our enemies," Haverth said dryly. “No, I would not ask the Lord Thrain about his cart. Ichvatis scried the town. Wrenfeld has twice the soldiers Higdir said."

Then a rope attached to the left axle of the cart slipped, and curses filled the air as men holding the other ropes strained under the added burden. The right axle made a sound like iron grinding on stone as the ropes forcibly bent it.

“I trust your discernment in these matters, Haverth. Getting a wagon up a gully is surely beneath even challenging your capabilities.”

Haverth gritted his teeth. “A woman in white was there too. Candle on her hood. She perceived him during the scry.”

“I see. We will not be much of a surprise to them, then. At least it may make for a more dramatic display of force, perhaps they will surrender at once.”

He huffed in annoyance. “Forgive me Lord Thrain but do you care for these villagers? Raze their forces to the ground and be done with it.”

“You get us to Tradavar, General.” He reached down and from a bag on his horse produced a golden-brown walnut, which he gave to Serbus. “I will see to the food.”

Touching his horse’s flanks with his boot he wheeled around and Serbus knickered in renewed excitement.

Facing one of the Enlightened would be poetic. Perhaps there was at least one person who deserved death, after all. For all of their preaching, being a light in the dark aligned with military operations at a convenient frequency. Especially back then. Her defeat would be an excellent example, since it seemed she was skilled enough to perceive Ichvatis. Higdir had served his purpose.

The mesa did not allow for galloping but Serbus’s hooves scattered rock and kicked dirt as if he ran flat-out, such was his eagerness to be free. Then at last the hills were defeated and out from them shot a beautiful black horse, and he became the wind. His hooves flew over the plains and the grass blurred to a green river of swift current. Aennuin was his bloodline, and these plains were a small thing compared to his homeland.

Quick as Thrain and Serbus went, a rider in the open could not hope to hide no matter their speed. Figures scurried in haste, and a bell from the small church in the middle rang out. Nearing the village, he saw stalwart defenses well-established, war spikes and iron fences hammered hard into the ground. The townsfolk who could not fight filed silently into the temple, a practiced, prepared calm.

He rode up to the initial line of men and boys with spears, and dismounted. Patting Serbus, he sent the beautiful horse back to Haverth. What had to follow would be best done without any chance to wound his horse.

A shrewd farmer with notably fine and fresh armor tightened his grip on a black iron spear. A small wind pushed strands of his peppered hair in his face. Stepping forward, the spear dragged the ground and made a sound like dozens of tiny smiths hammering tiny swords, before he hefted it further. Thrain grimaced, wondering how far they would go before surrender, and how many men held their first weapon.

“What is an armed Jarden force doing here in a time of peace?” the farmer asked.

“Nothing you have not done before, in such times.” Thrain answered flatly. “But it need not go poorly for you, if you will let my men enter, and take a portion of your grain.”

The man laughed. “A portion? No doubt the king’s share to go with you, and leave us starving to death in winter. Why should I not resist, meeting the same fate either way?”

“Not so great a portion as that,” he answered, “and an uncertain winter is surely better than a certain sword. This is a declaration of war; any who resist will die.”

At this, the man’s eyes took on a strange light. “So it is you. The bastard animal of Jard.”

The air itself split asunder as searing light struck the headman, bowing him backwards to the ground. He gasped as all the air was knocked from him, and the spear fell to the ground with an earthy thud. A great noise of shuffling and drawn weapons followed, and anxious whispers scurried through the townsfolk.

“You would cast on a defenseless man?” said a new voice, bright and feminine. Cloaked in a Haeltran Priest hood, the white garment shone in the sun and shadowed her face. Golden-sewed outlines shimmered as she moved to help him up . Thrain saw those around her sigh in relief, a few even sheathing their steel.

He regarded her curiously. “Not if you are more reasonable. Give me grain for my troops, and your lands and people will not be harmed.”

She shook her head slowly. “You have a spy,” she said, and as she did the sound of heavily armed men marching grew loud. “You face the Third Aertal and High Caster.”

Then raising both of her hands, she began to Trace both Wgoa and Psaeshnr, with astounding speed. The hidden soldiers ran out quickly to encircle Thrain, and he lost sight of his mounted party far back on the plains.

“Only the Third?” Thrain asked. “I wonder if Higdir was mistaken in which plans he relayed to you,” he said.

Her form stiffened, then Runic weave streamed in violet storms from her hands, focused and deadly. The sound of the wind itself frying came with it, and a smell like ruined eggs. It collided like the crack of a rage-driven whip against a red wall of weave, rebuffed a mere inch from Thrain’s face. Then the bastard of Jard answered.

Five runes of his own flashed into the air, each Traced before she added even one more. He raised his hand, one Rune vanished, and all the men were blown backwards. The priestess blasted another crackling of weave at him, and he waved it aside, a second Rune fading to nothing. Letting his third Rune fill him, it flashed away and then scarlet beams of Runic destruction battered into the defenses of the golden Runecaster.

Pausing, he withdrew from his cloak a strange piece of twisted black metal. Jewels shone in the sun, and inlaid gold and silver glittered. Thrain cast his eyes about, and saw many who knew now what he did. That was good. They would need news of it to spread.

Bright then glowed the metal, and all his Runes vanished. A boom like thunder from a thousand lightnings rattled the field, wind blasted across the clearing and threw fences to the side and men on their backs. Only she was not moved, but her hood was blown off and her Runes faltered. The air tingled from the blast, and a scent most bitter suffocated the space. She stared at him without moving, the whites of her eyes wide.

Then Thrain’s face went pale. His hand stayed outstretched the Trigrynt piece held aloft, but no power went from it. His mouth opened as if to speak, but uttered only strangled, confused whispers he alone could hear.

Memory stole him, and he was lying on soft grass, looking through trees at gentle sunlight while a wind carried laughs like a pearl bell. The laugh taunted him, asking him to explain the black bark and scorched earth.

Pain brought him back, a crossbow bolt taking him in the shoulder. Thrain snarled and Traced two Runes at blinding speed, before Imbuing his body with weave. Some heartier men had found their bearing even after his attack, and began to slash and shoot at him.

He moved inhumanely now, no weapon in hand yet each strike crushed armored plate and tossed men many paces from him. Defenseless was what the Priestess had called the farmer armed with sword and armor, and rightly so was any man without magic against a Runecaster.

Five men drew sword against him. Three at once swung their blades, iron beaten and sharpened for this purpose. He watched them move as if through mud, and before the middle of any swing he dropped one man, his fist cracking the breastplate. Stepping back the other swings went wide, and then moved back in, his hands finding their necks and forcing weave into their bodies. They fell into a sleep from which it would take far longer than it should to awaken. The final two lunged and stabbed, but he broke their swords and then their faces. No more approached him, and he noted regrettably one man who did not breathe. The rest, if hurt, would live.

He Traced again, and looked for the familiar Priestess. She was gone. Dimly, he heard galloping hooves, and knew she rode to tell of the breaking of the Azure Accords.

He considered pursuit, but Serbus was far from him, and here it was that men would fight, if he did not watch. Grabbing the tip of the bolt, he broke the shaft, then pulled it from his body. Blood seeped from the wound, and then all his Runes shimmered away and red weave swirled across his frame. Though slowly, the blood began to stop running.

Thrain walked again to the farmer. Blood trickled out of his nose and ears, and he leaned upon the spear as a cane. Many of the boys around him had yet to find their feet again, and cowered as he approached.

“A portion of your grain, headman,” he said, “and no harm will come to anyone else.”

Wordlessly, the headman nodded, and stepped aside. Thrain turned, and cast weave high into the air; Haverth could bring the troops now.

It was no small force that had waited at Wrenfeld, and behind the town and in the barns were siege weapons and other means of war. These were taken, as without a Runecaster there was little hope of besting Thrain. He waited at the stores of grain as Haverth and men who would take it trotted up on horses, his own horse with them. Serbus knickered, happy to see his master.

Haverth’s eyes had wild light in them, and he leered about at the townsfolk, revelling.

“Ah, Thrain!” He said, punching a fist into his palm. “What we could do to Haelstra with this power. The years we could repay.”

Thrain considered him for a moment. “Years we aim to prevent, General.”

He grunted and dismounted. “Yes, well…war is not so clean. The Trigrynt?” He avoided Thrain’s look and barked orders for the men to begin loading the grain into carts.

“It was seen,” he replied. “If we can reach and take Tradavar quickly, it should force their hand.”

“Good, good.” He still did not turn to Thrain, and looked all the more greedily at some of the Haelstran troops that nursed injuries from battle with a Runecaster.

“Send word if there are any problems you deal with, General. I have a matter to attend to.”

He nodded, and Thrain resigned himself to hear of some soldier who thought to be a hero, seeing the Haverth’s face. War was made unclean by men like that. He would make it otherwise. For now, however, he had need to recheck facts he once thought immutable and see if he had missed something.

Stepping into his carriage, he shut the door and rolled away the map on the table. It was a spartan affair, built for riding in comfort, discreet discussions, and plans of war. And, ornate and of a different wood and make entirely was a small bookshelf, carefully bolted into the corner of the coach. Reaching to that small, locked bookshelf, he passed his hand over the front and weave streamed into some of the grooves upon it. A weighty schink and the shelf popped open, revealing stacks of parchment and a few worn leather-bound books.

Withdrawing the parchment, he turned these sheaves with practiced hand, until arriving at one he was well familiar with. A birth recordance marked at age twelve, when an orphan was adopted into the care of a local family who kept the tavern; common enough in smaller towns that needed extra hands.

Signed at the bottom was both the family name, and the selling party, the Redhma. Taking a book from the shelf this time, he flipped quickly to a page well-scoured, noting the towns and cities through which that merchant outfit traveled. Rolling back out some portion of the map, he beheld it as if hoping some new town or city would jump out to him.

He looked carefully and longer at those near the border, yet nothing new could he see, except the great distances between any place the Redhma traveled and Haelstra. Sighing, he shut the book and leaned back, and from under his shirt took out a peculiar and beautiful necklace. It was a pair of crossed twigs, held together by blue yarn.

Then at last, he wept.

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Thrain - Part 3

Next Thrain

Thrain - Part 5