Chapter Nineteen: A King Betrayed
Tranith Argan: Book 2
It is the day for battle. As with all battles, things do not go as expected.
The sky was a deep, deep blue with streaks of black where clouds hovered. There was no sign of dawn. The armies advanced up the snowy slope until they reached the summit and could look down upon the valley below. There, far in the distance through the long black valley, lay the city of Shaabak. Watch fires were visible as flickering candles deep within the gloom. More smoke filled the air as they realized the enemy’s engines of production were being run night and day. Dark, grimy smoke lofted itself into the night air as the muffled sounds of workshops echoed all the way to their position. The mountain itself seemed to rumble with activity, as if it were preparing to defend itself against this advance.
They descended along a gravely path that wound to the west-southwest toward the city. With every step they took, their objective loomed closer. Hints of dawn were seen in the sky behind them now, and the gloom began slowly to lift, even as the smoke poured unceasingly into the sky. They could see the fires of the city clearer and closer. The city loomed as a mass of dark shapes against the grey mountain. Walls and buildings were visible, though most of the outlying houses lay further to the west. On this eastern side, very little sat outside the outer walls of Shaabak.
Felanar spoke a word to Dérevel and the command was given for the elves to break off from the group. Half went north-west and half south-west, circling around the main troops to their left and right. Soon the elves slipped into near invisibility, shrouded by their cloaks against the dingy mountainside. No snow remained on this southern slope, which provided excellent cover for the Findáran army.
Gram, Felanar and Narón led the rest forward as the ever-brightening sky illuminated their broadening path. A road now appeared to take the place of the path, carved out of the rock of the hillside, and it made their travel easier. The dwarves formed their fifteens as units, and the Argan troops lined up in legion form as they marched. Felanar strained to see the elves he knew were ever present above them and below them, but he failed. Still, just knowing they were there, bows at the ready, gave him confidence as the city loomed ever closer.
The walls of the city were very close now, and the sky illuminated enough that the advancing army was clearly visible to watchmen all along the wall. Narón pointed out their movements as they walked, and Felanar signaled a halt.
“They know our presence. Let us see how they respond,” he said. “We will wait here, out of reach of their arrows for now.”
The pounding of the engines of production were clearly felt now, as well as heard. The boom, boom, boom echoed through the dark, lichen-covered valley, giving an even more somber air to the surroundings. Smoke billowed out from deep underground holes as fires of war were stoked. The wind whipped the torches lining the wall and caused the smoke to swirl around the air, at times blocking the view of the city that loomed high above them now. Way up in the distance, high above their location, lay the enormous castle, home of Vélakk.
Most inhabitants of Shaabak dwelt within the first city wall, but those without lay on the western side, toward the trade port of Issk. To the west was trade, travel and matters of interest to the people of Shanaar. To the east was nothing but enemies, and thus nothing was on the eastern side of the city but the massive walls.
More movement was seen on the top of the walls. It was clear that the guards were excited by this development, and were scurrying about trying to understand this threat. If they were expected, it was clear the guards had not been told. The forces of Argan waited silently, motionless. Felanar was nervous but determined. He was about to face the troops of the man who tried to kill him, the invader of Argan, the enemy of his family. He vowed to settle this matter this day.
The Argan troops were beginning to get a bit restless from the waiting when an answer finally came down. A horn was blown from the walls and the great iron gates were slowly opened. Ever so slowly at first, the massive gates turned. Felanar watched with anticipation, wondering nervously who would appear. It was clear that a messenger was being sent, but who was it? The gates now were open enough to allow exit to someone. The armies strained to see who it would be.
It was light enough to see more clearly now, and in the distance they saw a man on horseback, riding slowly and deliberately toward the invaders. He wore garments of silk and finery, red and purple, as if he were royalty himself, and he held a staff upon which flew the flag of Shanaar. The horse had armor on his head and forelegs. It was a huge beast, so dark brown as to be black. It did not seem to be worried by the sight of thousands of army troops. It trotted determinedly and with a sense of majesty. The rider did not change his position as he drew closer. He looked proudly ahead and held his banner high. Felanar looked at his face to see if he looked the same as the other men of Shanaar he had seen in battle over Tranith Argan. It was a shrewd face, he thought, with intelligent, dark eyes, framed with black hair, full and long to his shoulders. He seemed young for someone with such authority.
The horse stopped before Felanar and the other captains. The rider stared straight ahead and said nothing for a long moment. Then a deep resonance filled the air as the rider spoke imperiously.
“What means this intrusion?” he asked, his eyes scanning the assembled troops though at no one in particular It was as if no one there merited his attention. He spoke to the crowd. “Who dares dishonor the soil of Shanaar?”
Silence descended as the echoes of his voice died down. He continued to stare, unblinking, at the hosts. The staff continued to be held rigidly in his left arm. Finally Felanar broke the silence, and when he did, he tried to give his voice the same sound of authority.
“We are the people of the free world, come in answer to the unjustifiable invasion of Argan by your master. We seek to talk to your master, and find out the cause of his impudence. Tell him we await his presence.”
The rider focused his attention on Felanar with bemusement.
“Did I address one so young as yourself?” he sneered. “Await his presence, do we, young rabble-rouser? Since when does a boy speak for men or a child lead an army? Are there not dwarves present, and men of battle? Are these not more fit to speak for such an assemblage? It seems odd that stout dwarves would hide behind a young pup.”
Neither dwarf nor man stirred at these insults. All stared impassively at the spokesman and remained mute in speech and emotion. Silence again filled the air. Felanar now continued.
“I am Felanar, son of Renular, son of Lanarth, son of Poranan. I am king of the throne of Argan, heir of the line from Kal-Alorim. King of Tranith Argan, Tranith Toar, Tranith Heron, Delendor, Talenar, Irular Istan and parts of Khrea. And Tranith Relon, which has been wrongly renamed Shaabak. Tell your master that a king has been restored to the throne and his duties are no longer required.”
He paused as he looked at the representative of Vélakk. Whereas before he showed arrogance, now a hint of doubt appeared, and it seemed even that the banner lowered slightly. Clearly this was new knowledge to the spokesman of Shanaar. Whatever plans Vélakk was making, he was keeping them to himself. Seizing this moment, Felanar continued in a loud voice.
“Inform your master that I am here to claim what is rightfully mine. He may surrender peacefully, or he will be taken by force. Go, carry my orders if you wish to save your life!”
The rider regained his composure and looked down upon Felanar with renewed distaste.
“With high-sounding titles you approach, young master, and with an army of thugs behind you to carry out your rabble ways. However, no throne of Argan do I recognize, nor do I know of this name, Tranith Relon. A crude name it sounds, uncouth for the mouth of the elegant. I do not care for it, nor do I care for you. Nevertheless, I will carry your irreverent message to my master. Some amusement it may provide him this morning as he takes his meal. However, I do not think you will care for his response.”
“Your opinion is of no consequence to me,” replied Felanar, in as royal a voice as he could manage. “All I require of you is to perform your duty forthwith.”
The rider pulled back on the reigns and his mount neighed proudly.
“What I do, I do at the beck of my master. I do not recognize your authority.”
With that, his horse turned and galloped back into the city and the massive gates slowly swung shut. Silence again settled over the land, for even the booms of the engines had now stopped. Having filled the air with their sound for so long, their absence left a sad vacuum.
“What do you think will be next?” Felanar asked Ravis.
Ravis looked thoughtfully at the walls of the city and did not answer immediately. He noticed more black birds circling high overhead. Gram broke the silence.
“War be next,” he said gruffly, fingering his axe.
“I would agree,” said Ravis. “His attitude was not encouraging. I doubt your message will reach the enemy unscathed.”
“It matters not,” said Felanar. “The Evil One knows who I am without my announcing it. I didn’t think much good would come of appealing to peace, but I had to try. Now we wait for the inevitable, for what we came here to do.”
The troops waited, the silence weighing down on them. Even the birds had now disappeared, Felanar noticed, and he wondered what that might portend. Was there nothing left to spy upon? Had every plan been settled by the enemy? He glanced to his right and to his left and tried to make out the elves hidden among the rocks, but couldn’t. Had the sharper eyes of the crows made them out? Had he made sufficient battle plans, he worried, or had he overlooked something? Looking behind, he saw nothing on the mountain path save his own army. On the flat plain upon which they now stood, only the walls of the city lay ahead, along with the path that stretched to the west. Dwellings could be seen in the far distance, along the western road, but no people. For a long time everything felt frozen.
Then the storm broke. With a flourish of trumpets and battle cries, the gates of the wall swung open wide and the armies of Shanaar flooded out.
“Aye!” cried Gram. “Now our mettle be tested.” He grabbed his axe from his belt and balanced it in his hands, looking expectantly at the necks of the rapidly approaching army.
In the front line of the enemy troops stood a wall of men bearing shields and spears. The shields were virtually interlocked, forming a wall behind which the other troops marched. Spears protruded from the chinks of the shield wall. Behind this front group was a larger rank, less heavily armed but more mobile. They wielded swords and wore light chain mail around their chest, and leather straps on their shins. Behind them was a third rank, of archers, already aiming arrows with their bows. Hundreds of troops poured out of the city and soon the front lines clashed.
Having placed the dwarves in the front lines, Felanar was reasonably certain they could handle the shield wall and spears. It was the archers that concerned the young king. Arrows began to rain down in their midst, striking several men and dwarves in the first volley. As soon as his attention was drawn to this, however, a return volley of arrows came from either side of the army. The hidden elves had seen the order of the enemy troops, and quickly assessed their greatest need as being the elimination of the enemy archers. With silent signals being passed along their lines, and with efficiency and precision, a coordinated wave of arrows flew high through the air and landed amidst the enemy archers. Having seen no archers among the Argan troops, this caused great consternation among the Shanaarians. It was as if arrows were descending from the sky. Their ranks quickly broke as pandemonium ensued. More arrows followed the first wave, and more Shanaarians archers died. They made a half-hearted attempt to return the volley, but uncertainty as to their targets made their aim erratic.
The dwarves, in the meantime, had charged lustily against the shield wall and began hacking away with their axes. Their swings were mighty and swift, and they began using their great strength to press hard against the front ranks. Their shields were only a partial protection, for the dwarves being set closer to the ground would simply swing their axes low to undercut the enemy’s legs. Caught between blows both high and low, their advance soon became a desperate defense. Sensing this, the dwarves charged with shouted battle cries.
The Shanaarian archers were devastated, and the archers on the city walls were still too distant to reach the battle. The elves now focused their attention on the second rank of enemy troops, leaving the first rank for the ground troops to battle.
Felanar, Dolen, Narón and the Erenár fought side by side along with the troops from Argan. They had circled around the dwarves to attack the enemy from the sides, hemming them in except for retreat. As Felanar expected, the Erenár were more than a match for Shanaarian forces. With swift swings of their swords, they slashed at the enemy, or defended with a quick parry. Seeing their ferocity, Dolen spoke a quick word to Felanar who was standing at his left-hand side.
“Almost as dwarves they fight, these elves,” he said with admiration.
“It opened my eyes the first time I saw it,” responded Felanar with a grunt as he absorbed a blow from a swordsman. He thrust aside the blow and returned with one of his own, catching his opponent on the shoulder, sending him falling backwards. Dolen finished his man and then leaped forward to help Felanar. As he did so, Felanar raised his sword to prevent a sudden blow from another soldier who had just appeared behind the dwarf. Each finished off the other’s attacker and then they faced each other with a smile.
“Owe you, I do,” said Dolen.
“You just paid me back,” laughed Felanar. He was feeling much more confident now, seeing the battle going so easily in their favor. He didn’t even have to call in the Findára. Their arrows were sufficient. This was going to be a victory for the ages, he thought.
In this, however, he was both naïve and premature. For one thing, the Findára were nearly spent of arrows, and they were conserving them closely, only shooting at particularly critical targets now. They had shot such a thick hail of arrows, they had succeeded in breaking the enemy ranks apart, and killing their archers. This provided a tremendous advantage for the forces of Argan. It came at a cost, though, for by firing such a number of arrows at once, they were now dangerously short of ammunition.
A cause for concern also appeared on the horizon. Fresh troops poured into the valley from the north and the south, flanking the Findáran forces. It was as if the enemy had determined the cause of the rout and was acting against it. The enemy, however, could not have reacted this quickly, Felanar realized, and so must have had in mind this maneuver all along. The initial thrust was but a feint, a partial show of strength that gave false hope to the young king. Now came the full strength of the enemy.
“Ay, Dolen!” cried Felanar as he pointed toward the elves. “Our enemy has tricked us!”
The dwarf turned swiftly to see the cause of this new commotion and he quickly sized up the threat. Just as quickly he turned back to the fighting as he was attacked by another enemy soldier.
Felanar glanced around to see where the other captains were fighting. Narón and the Erenár, as well as the dwarves, were still dealing with the first rank of enemy troops, now greatly diminished in number. Ravis was further away, directing the Argan troops. As Felanar rushed over to him, Ravis himself noticed the new troops entering the valley.
“We must deal with these reinforcements, Ravis,” yelled Felanar urgently. “Leave the dwarves to finish these. Order your men to the north to aid the Findára. I will pull Narón and head to the south.”
Ravis swiftly barked the new orders and the Argan troops pulled back. Felanar rushed back to Narón and called for him to bring his crew and follow him. Dolen joined them.
The Findára, in the meanwhile, had used the last of their arrows to shoot the first wave of new attackers. The numbers were overwhelming, however, and they soon had to draw their swords and fight hand to hand. On both sides of the main battle this new offensive took shape. The Shanaarian troops from the north had the advantage, not only in number, but in position. By coming down the mountainside behind the elves, they were fighting downhill and they soon pressed the elves back. The sound of swords clanging and smashing together rang out in the valley. Battle cries were bellowed, and agonized cries of the wounded added to the din.
On the plain below, the dwarves had their hands full with the original remaining forces, greatly reduced in number. The sight of their allies fighting up and down the mountain gave them renewed zeal and the fighting grew intense.
Felanar, Dolen and the Erenár raced across the valley and down the southern slope. The Findára on this side were hard pressed with hundreds of troops bearing swords, knives and spears. Picking a spot to join in, the Erenár brought their swords to bear in defense of their brothers, Felanar and Dolen, by their side. The sound of striking metal created a cacophony in the valley, filling the ears of the fighters. Felanar found himself hard-pressed against these new Shanaarian troops who seemed better prepared than the first wave. It took all of his skill to beat back the attacks and he soon felt tired.
The elves fought fiercely and efficiently, however, and despite losing some of their brothers in battle, they began to regain the offensive. Felanar felt as if a wave had passed over him as the Shanaarian army began to step backward. He felt momentum back on his side now. He gained strength from the indefatigable elves and fought on.
For the better part of an hour the fighting continued. As each wave of Shanaarians were defeated by the elves, another wave seemed to appear to take their place. The dwarves were still battling stoutly on the plain, swinging their axes with tireless zeal against any who dared to stand in their path. They took losses too, however, and it was clear that they would need the reinforcements of others soon. The battle on the northern slope had reached the same equilibrium that the southern slope had found, with the elves and men beating back each successive wave, but with ever more waves following.
Surveying the battle scene during a momentary respite, Felanar saw that the day might yet be theirs, but it would require much more effort than he had realized, and only if the enemy was not numberless. Scanning the horizon for a moment, something caught his eye. He squinted to the west and then called for Narón. The elf looked to where Felanar was pointing and his face dropped.
“What do you see?” asked Felanar. “Is it more Shanaarians? I see another army coming.”
“Aye,” responded Narón in alarm, “another army it is, yet Shanaarian it is not. These are troops of the autarch!”
“An army from Shakaart?” cried Felanar, shocked. “The autarch is not an ally to Vélakk is he?”
“He is now,” was all the Narón said.
“I must find Dérevel and Ravis,” yelled Felanar, as he raced back toward the north. Seeing his partner in battle run away, Dolen followed as quickly as his shorter legs would go.
This is black news, Felanar thought as he ran along the plain of battle. We are barely managing against Vélakk’s troops, and now we have another army to contend with? What have I done?
Climbing the northern slope, he found Dérevel and explained this new development. Dérevel reacted with the same dismay, but quickly developed a plan. He looked at the young king steadily.
“We find ourselves pinned in from three sides. May I suggest we retreat before it becomes four?”
Felanar sighed as he looked at the rapidly approaching autarch’s army, and then turned back to Dérevel.
“It may be our only way,” he said sadly. “I did not anticipate this. Tell the elves. I will find Ravis and pull the men back. Send someone to Gram to tell him as well.”
Felanar ran off as Dérevel began to spread the word. Felanar found Ravis further up the slope and to the west. He explained to the captain the situation and Ravis took immediate action. The troops began to pull back as they looked for the best avenue of retreat. The elves saw what needed to be done and they edged further to the east to beat back their attackers and to clear the way for the troops to move back up the way they had arrived.
As Felanar stepped back, with Dolen still faithfully by his side, he looked again to the west to see how close this new army was to their position. At the same time, a cry went up, from both friend and foe alike. There, high in the western sky, flew half a dozen dragons! Felanar felt sick to his stomach. Was all this a trap? Did Vélakk have the entire western world arrayed against him, including the devastating dragons?
As the elves and men pulled back, more quickly now that the dragons had appeared, the Shanaarian troops pressed forward. Their confidence gained in proportion to the turn of events that favored them. They showed no fear of the dragons, something that Felanar noted later when he thought about the events that day.
The army from the west had reached the front lines of the dwarves and the battle turned completely. What had been a draw now turned into a rout. The dwarves fought bravely, but were now so outnumbered it seemed to be turning into Dolen’s boast in real life – it was twenty to one against them. They heard the call for retreat and, though it went against their nature, they heeded. Pulling back with the rest, they held off their attackers as best they could, but suffered grievous losses. The autarch’s army was fleeter of foot than the dwarves, however, and pressed in all around them. Gram himself came under attack from a host of men, and dwarves rallied around him in a desperate maneuver. This caused confusion in the ranks of the dwarves as they saw their king in distress, and the retreat came to a halt.
If this was the intent of the western soldiers, it worked perfectly. Now surrounded, the dwarves drew into an ever tighter circle around their king. Axes flew furiously through the air and bodies were hacked on all sides. For each dwarf that fell, a dozen of their enemy seemed to fall with him. There were ever more dozens attacking, however, and ever dwindling numbers of dwarves. The scimitars of the westerners came thrusting down upon the stout dwarves time after time.
Meanwhile, the elves had moved back from their flanking positions, too preoccupied with their own foes to notice the plight of the dwarves. The men of Argan, too, were preoccupied with something: the dragons. Seized with fear at the sight of the massive beasts, and seeing the battle turn against them so swiftly, they broke ranks and fled back up the mountain to the east. It was all Ravis could do to keep order among his retreating troops, who were even now being threatened with the flames of the swooping dragons.
Looking back, Dolen caught a glimpse of the struggle his brothers were having. Yelling out his anguish, he ignored the danger and began running back toward the battle. Seeing this, Felanar looked behind him, realized what was happening, and called out desperately to Ravis:
“Ravis, we must aid the dwarves!”
The captain of Argan wheeled around at the sound of his king’s voice, with agony on his face. Caught between the emotions of seeing his men break ranks, and the tide of battle turn against them, and seeing in front of him the man who had led this attack, he spoke harshly to the young king.
“What, and die like them too?”
Felanar, stunned at the harshness of these words from Ravis, said, “We can’t just leave them to die!”
The dragons were behind them now, attacking the men of Argan up the side of the mountain. Cries of agony came from those burned in the fire, and some were caught up in the jaws of the beasts in a sight that further terrorized the others. In front of Felanar and Ravis were the Shanaarian troops, rushing in towards them. The elves were trying to aid the Argan troops, and prevent the dragon attacks. In the storm of the battle, it was as if Felanar and Ravis were caught in the calm of the eye. Around them lay fury and destruction, but it was all shut out of their senses for a moment as they glared at each other.
“They will die in any case,” cried Ravis. “Save yourself. That is all we can do now.”
“No, we must help our allies. They need our help and with the armies of Argan they can be saved!”
“The regent was right about you!” cried Ravis. “You are an impostor who knows nothing of kingship. You have led us to ruin this day!”
Felanar’s eyes grew large and he took a step backwards. Ravis’s emotions were getting the better of him at this moment, he knew, but the words still stung. There was no time to deny the charges. They needed to act, not talk.
“Will you aid me, or not?” Felanar asked.
“Die for all I care,” yelled Ravis, and then he ran up the road to join his men, leaving Felanar alone.
Felanar wheeled around and ran to catch up with Dolen. His mind was full of thoughts, but the primary one was to aid his allies. It was a futile gesture, he knew on some deep level, and he knew he was going to his death. The sensible approach would be to escape with his life, taking his chance with the dragons. Nevertheless, the sensible course wasn’t on his mind. Betrayal was, for that is how Ravis’s words felt. So the regent thinks I am a fraud, he thought, and he has influenced the army against me. Even the elves have abandoned me. I may as well die today, he decided as he caught up with Dolen.
Together they attacked the autarch’s men, but they were already too late to save Gram, Dolen’s father, and king of the dwarves. Dolen groaned as he saw his brother and father lying in a pile of dead dwarves and men all twisted in a heap. Evidently, the circle had tightened around old Gram until they were hemmed in on all sides. The enemy body count was tremendous, as the dwarves acquitted themselves nobly in battle that day, but in the end the enemy had proved too numerous.
Felanar joined Dolen in fighting for friendship, and promises, and noble causes, and for revenge. Axe and sword swung furiously against the surviving westerners, who were shocked at the ferocity of these two lone fighters. With a rage they had not seen that day, they found themselves under attack. But to the surprise of Felanar and Dolen, the enemy did not fight back, and merely pulled away from their swift blows. A horn sounded, and the westerners parted to allow the passing of Shanaarian men on horseback. Felanar and Dolen paused in confusion, waiting to see what this new challenge might mean. Man and dwarf breathed heavily, both from exertion as well as grief over the fallen dwarves. As they paused, they saw the futility of their position. Shanaarian armies were now on all sides, and they were outnumbered hundreds to one.
The riders pulled up, dismounted, and gave orders to a group of the autarch’s men. Quickly Felanar and Dolen found themselves surrounded by the enemy, but by this time they were too full of sorrow to care. The fury that had sustained them before now gave way to the exhaustion of futility and failure. At scimitar-point, their hands were tied behind their backs. The defeat of the day was total. The betrayal was now complete. The young king and the faithful dwarf were now prisoners.