Richard Tuttle - Army of the Dead

“I will get you into the premer’s tent,” grinned Princess Alahara.

“How?” asked Bakhai. “They would not hesitate to kill an elf if they saw you, Mistake.”

“They will see me,” smiled Princess Alahara. “I want them to. Come on. We need to hurry. I want to get you in before the daylight is gone. I will tell you about my plan on the way down.”

* * *

Princess Alahara peered past the tree at the nearby Motangan sentries. She turned back to Bakhai and smiled.

“More ragged than that,” she shook her head as she reached and ripped Bakhai’s tunic. “Rub some dirt on your face.”

Bakhai dug his fingers into the dirt near the base of the tree. He drove his fingers deeper until he felt moist soil. He pulled out his fingers and slashed them across his face. Mistake was busy ripping small tears in his clothes.

“Are you sure this will work?” asked Bakhai. “I am not afraid to take a chance, but this seems so outlandish.”

“It may be just that,” Mistake said truthfully. “We cannot know for sure how the Motangans will react, but even how they react will tell us much.”

“What do you mean?” asked Bakhai.

“If Cardijja is intent on finding Angragar,” she explained, “he will question you about it. If he has no desire to question you then he probably already knows the location. That is what you have come to find out.”

“So if they kill me on the spot,” frowned Bakhai, “you can go back and tell Rejji that they are heading for Angragar.”

“You are not going to die, Bakhai,” promised the elven princess. “I will not allow that to happen. If I have to charge into that encampment to save you, I will. Are you ready?”

Bakhai sighed deeply and stared into Mistake’s eyes. He nodded slowly.

“I am ready,” he said, “but you are not to rescue me. I do not want that on my conscience. If they kill me, I will just go to Kaltara earlier than I had hoped.”

Princess Alahara opened her mouth to object, but Bakhai was already on his feet. He screamed loudly and dashed around, letting the sentries get a good look at him. Eventually he ran towards the sentries, seemingly falling to the ground as if he had tripped over something. A fireball soared through the air and smashed into the ground a few paces from Bakhai. The sentries shouted in alarm as they sought cover to protect themselves from the magical attack. Bakhai called out to the Motangans for help, but they ignored him. Princess Alahara stepped into the open and sneered at Bakhai. The sentries shouted for mages and archers.

“Die traitor!” spat the elven princess as she tossed another fireball at Bakhai.

Bakhai quickly rolled to one side as the fireball struck the ground where he had fallen. Mistake turned and fled into the forest as the archers arrived. Motangan arrows chased the elven princess into the woods, but she was too quick for them to hit. A squad of soldiers raced past Bakhai and gave chase to the elf. Bakhai looked towards the camp and saw an officer approaching him. A dozen soldiers accompanied the officer, and Bakhai shivered with genuine fear.

“Help me,” implored Bakhai. “Don’t let her kill me.”

The Motangan soldiers surrounded Bakhai, their swords drawn and pointed towards him. They appeared to be awaiting the officer’s command to shove their swords into his flesh.

“Who are you?” demanded the officer.

“Help me,” pleaded Bakhai. “Don’t let her kill me. She is an evil spirit.”

“Evil spirit?” smirked the officer. “She is nothing but an elf. Who are you?”

“I am just a village boy,” Bakhai replied timidly. “I am called Bakhai. She is an evil spirit. There are no more elves. She has been following me ever since I entered the jungle.”

“Jungle?” questioned the officer. “What jungle?”

Bakhai started crying. He buried his head in his hands and let tears stains his cheeks. The officer shook his head with disgust. He raised his hand to give the soldiers the signal to kill the captive, but he paused for some reason. His hesitation gave enough pause for another officer to arrive.

“What is going on here?” asked the newly arrived general.

“I am not sure,” admitted the officer. “An elf magician tried to kill this boy, although he claims that she is an evil spirit. He said something about a jungle. I think he is crazy. I will have my men dispose of him.”

“No,” countermanded the general. “Is he armed?”

“Not that I can see,” replied the officer. “He is barely dressed.”

“What of the elf?” asked the general.

“She escaped into the forest,” answered the officer. “I have men tracking her down.”

“Good,” the general nodded satisfactorily. “Have some of your men bind the captive and bring him to my tent. I want to interrogate him. Perhaps he can tell us something about this land. There is no mention of a jungle on my maps.”

“As you wish,” saluted the officer.

* * *

The sky was clear, and the waxing moon was only days away from being full. The star-studded sky reflected in the smooth flowing water of the Khadora River. It was an idyllic scene, for the moment. A short distance beyond the sevemore trees that lined the northern bank of the river, three thousand Khadoran archers stood silently, waiting for the order to approach the riverbank and open fire. Across the river the distant telltale sounds of hatchets striking wood drifted in the still night air.

Marshal GeHert of the Nordon clan turned to the air mage next to him and whispered softly, “Inform the Lords’ Council that we have found another spot on the river where the Motangans plan to cross. Notify them that I have three thousand archers ready to counterattack.”

The air mage nodded silently and wove an air tunnel to Sintula. At the other end of the air tunnel, a mage called for Lord Patel. The Nordon lord took the report from Marshal GeHert and hurried into the meeting room where the Lords’ Council was meeting with the emperor.

“Another one,” sighed Lord Patel as he entered the room. “This one from GeHert. He is about six leagues to our east.”

“Have the Motangans started crossing yet?” asked Lord Jamarat.

“Not yet,” answered the Nordon lord, “but they will soon enough. Our men are too spread out.”

“Shamal is no fool,” sighed Emperor Marak. “Even after he knows that we have detected his plan, he is wise enough to know that we cannot foil it completely. With the amount of men that he has, he is capable of extending the front for hundreds of leagues. That is exactly what we have been trying to avoid. We cannot afford to spread ourselves that thin.”

“The only alternative,” countered Lord Quilo, “is to let the Motangans cross the river. I do not see how that aids us.”

“It does not aid us to let them cross,” replied Lord Kiamesh, “but we cannot stop it from happening either. If Shamal succeeds in getting men across the river, our defenses of Sintula are worthless.”

“Worse,” interjected Lord Chenowith, “if his men cross anywhere other than the farthest eastern spot we have detected, he will have some of our archers cut off from Sintula. Those men would die quickly as they tried to get back here.”

“There is no pattern to the spots he has chosen to cross,” added Lord Faliman. “At first they kept going further eastward, but that has changed. This latest attack shows that any spot along the river is a likely crossing place.”

“And the weather has favored us so far,” remarked the Torak. “If this night was overcast, we would be hard pressed to find targets when his men tried to cross the river. We need to start thinking about an orderly retreat.”

“So soon?” asked Lord Jamarat. “The Motangans have not even reached this shore yet.”