Finally, the Army of Anuire stood on the high ground at the entrance to the Valley of Shadows.
Battlewaite, with its obsidian walls and towers, loomed ominously in the distance above the Gorgon’s city of KalSaitharak. As Aedan glanced at Michael, at whose side he had ridden all the way, bearing his standard, he saw that same grim, stonefaced expression Michael had maintained ever since their march began. And he was worried.
The punitive campaign against Thurazor, which had been the reason for the army’s arrival in Boeruine, no longer mattered. All Michael wanted was revenge against the Gorgon. The Michael of old had returned, driven and obsessed, but to an extent Aedan had never seen before. The air around him seemed to vibrate. Michael was once more in his element, but this time, it was different. He barely spoke at all, except to issue orders. Lord Korven had asked to be included on this march, but the old man had served in his last campaign. He had gone lame, and his strength was failing him. He could still sit a horse, but no one believed anymore that he could fight. Michael had thanked him, but ordered him to
remain at home with his grateful wife and children.
Michael was the general on this campaign, delegating nothing. He personally saw to every last detailing When they had marched halfway across Kiergard, he had stopped the troops on the outskirts of the forest and ordered siege towers built. Squads of men with axes had gone into the forest and felled trees for the purpose, fitting and lashing and pegging the logs together to form three wooden siege towers for the assault on Battlewaite. Large logs were sawed for planks with which to construct the wheels to move them. He also ordered the construction of two trebuchets to hurl boulders at the fortress walls, and large logs were stripped and fitted with handholds to make half a dozen battering rams.
A score of scaling ladders were constructed, and archers took the time to make more arrows.
They did not rush unduly in any of these tasks, for there was no point to it. They would have no advantage of surprise. Raesene knew they were coming.
They would meet on his home ground in the Valley of Shadows, on the plain outside KalSaitharak.
Michael knew the Gorgon would be just as busy assembling his army and making preparations to meet the attack.
Now, they stood upon the high ground above that plain, looking down at the opposing army drawn up to meet them. Aedan knew Raesene would not order his forces forward to attack. That would give Michael the high ground. The Black Prince would wait until they came down to him.
There was a distance of several miles separating them, so neither Aedan nor Michael could make out individuals among the opposing troops. They could
not tell at this distance if Raesene himself was leading them, but Aedan could not imagine the Gorgon remaining in his castle when the opportunity he had awaited for so long had come marching to his door.
For centuries, he had nursed a deep hatred of the Roeles, his halfbrother’s descendants, and now it would be settled, one way or the other, once and for all.
As the two opposing armies faced each other, Aedan’s thoughts turned back over the years to a time when two much smaller “armies” had faced each other on the plains of Seaharrow. At this distance, the bodies looked small, and he could easily picture them as children. For a surreal moment, that was how he saw them, in their little suits of armor with their wooden swords and shields, grim-faced and very determined as they prepared to reenact the Battle of Mount Deismaar.
Now they would reenact it once again, in deadly earnest. In years to come, the bards would sing the ballad of this battle, the Battle of Battlewaite. Or perhaps they would call it the Battle of the Gorgon’s Crown. They would sing of all the brave men who were about to fall here, and they would extol the glory of the victor-whoever he may be.
Aedan wondered if Vaesil would compose one of those ballads and if he would survive to hear it.
Strangely, for the first time in his life, he felt no fear before going into battle. Just a sense of nervous expectation. Perhaps that wasn’t a good sign. Vaesil would enjoy the irony of this, he thought. If he knew the entire story, he would doubtless include it in his composition, the story of two boys who fought a play battle in their childhood and grew up to relive it
for real. Only this time, there would be no arguments about who would play Raesene. Raesene was here himself to act out his own role, much more powerful and dangerous than he had ever been.
There would be real goblins shouting their ululating war cries instead of children snarling as they played pretend. There would be real gnolls, with their wolfish teeth and snouts instead of little boys howling in imitation of beasts they had thankfully never before encountered. The only thing missing was the elf contingent, who would not be here to turn the tide of battle at the crucial moment.
The past had come full circle, with the dark forces of the traitor prince faced off against the lineal descendant of the original Roele.
Only this time, there were no gods to intervene and shake the earth.
This
