CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
It was the absence of the Riders and Sh’Bane that gave the Doms a breathing space as they settled in Baron/Kelt. There they continued to work with the Companions and also intensely with Cadran. They knew Cadran had to go to the Island one day but they were also instinctively aware that now it wasn’t possible and they had to train the young man to a level not usually achieved off the Island. They knew it was what Salaphon expected. All five Elementals worked with him. He learned just as Jepaul did before him. He was eager and very quick to absorb information and concepts. Saracen spoke one day.
“Quon,” he began tentatively.
“Aye,” came the lazy answer, Quon yawning and stretching.
“Dom, we Companions were taken to the Island, through our own trials as part of Jepaul’s, for a purpose. Weren’t we?”
Quon eyed Saracen long and thoughtfully before he replied.
“You all showed, with Jepaul, that you had unknown, untrained abilities, Saracen, yes.”
“And there, Quon, we trained and developed with you all and also with Salaphon?” Quon nodded. “So, are we too Elementals?”
Saracen held his breath then he gave a slight gasp, his breathing hard and fast. Quon smiled at him.
“You’ve become so, little man, yes. Each of you shows an affinity for one of us.”
“And mine is with you, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Saracen, it is. You’re what is called a Llom Earth Elemental, a junior Master if you will.”
“Are we just randomly or fortuitously chosen?”
Quon shrugged.
“Who knows? The ways of Salaphon are simply something we accept. Maybe he saw qualities in you all that encouraged you, as individuals, to respond to Jepaul’s empathy and through him to us.”
“The Vene chose me.”
“True, but he also responded abnormally strongly to Jepaul. Perhaps he sensed you would too.”
“You’ve been training us for syns, Quon. Why has this suddenly intensified?”
Quon considered, then pursed his lips and licked them.
“Saracen, we Maquats are very old, ancient in Shalah terms even. Though we’re revitalised with such a youthful Elemental as Jepaul, still we are old. I have to wonder -.”
“Dom?” prompted Saracen intrigued.
“Little man, it’s vital the Companions come to full understanding of self even if it’s only the glimmerings of same because only then can you all -.”
Again Quon broke off, his brows knit.
“Are we getting closer, Quon?”
“Very close,” affirmed Quon, his brow clearing and a tired smile coming to his eyes. “Indeed, yes you are.”
“And Cadran?”
“He’s so very young it’s hard for him and we must not hasten with him. To do so will be destructive.”
“His bond’s with Jepaul, isn’t it?”
Quon’s smile broadened but the conversation was at an end.
Only weeks later the Doms encouraged the Companions, who now included Cadran at all times, to form an initial union. It came, but erratically. Their colours wildly fluctuated and were unstable, but for the first time it was there. The Doms drew a collective breath of relief because this unusual ability was long, long syns in achieving for any Elemental and for it to include one as young as Cadran was extraordinary. The Doms now worked feverishly with their individual Companion. Jepaul was always with Cadran. The Companions had to comprehend the complexities of union and acknowledge its achievement would only come through self-knowledge and the relinquishing of self. The processes of such recognition were difficult. It was only with this acceptance, at all levels of their beings, that cohesion would occur and enhance as well as prolong the confidence of any union.
This understanding suddenly gained pace. No one was quite sure why. The Doms wondered about Salaphon. The increased maturity of the Companions startled the Doms as they guided and admonished, praised and exhorted. Assurance grew, Gabrel always there encouraging and awed. One afternoon, the five Lloms took the final steps together, the union holding and with surprising strength. It was completely stable and prolonged. The tenacity let them soar for the first time, colours uniform and steady as they merged evenly, none dominating another. The parapet they stood on was bathed in changing colours. No one saw it other than the Doms.
The colours slowly faded, not in abrupt collapses but in an ordered way, as the Companions stood together with their arms about an overcome young man who had tears of sheer delight washing his eyes. The Doms, overcome themselves, welcomed them with warm words of praise and respect. The Companions, with a very young Cadran, had remarkably achieved training to Llom Master Level Three. In his heart Quon knew it would be enough and he later shed tears of utter relief.
One day other mastery levels to become Doms would be achieved. A huge weight that had hung about the Doms was lifted because they knew with unshakeable certainty that with what was to come, these young Elementals could now hold their own. They’d be battered but they could survive whereas, until recently, even after being on the Island and with Salaphon, they couldn’t. There was strength and power in unity. It was now continual practice and experience that would enhance what they were.
The Doms and Masters had increasingly easier unions. Sometimes they were all together, or with the Elemental of their own kind such as Javen with Sapphire. Or they were simply with one another. It was a new transition and flexibility the Doms insisted on, so there was always a constant and comfortable merging from one state to another. With time it would be effortless and done without thought. And the light that held longest and strongest was Jepaul. It was as if he was a beacon. The others were always drawn to him, then, being with him, even a young Cadran was uplifted by the magnetism in a remarkable way.
It was now that the Red Councils of Clariane and Strame/Helt became restive. Their Cynases had not returned and quite some time had elapsed since they should have returned home. There was no news of any conflict with those of Baron/Kelt that may have transpired with the attempt to retrieve hostages. In fact the Red Councils had no news of any sort. Baron/Kelt appeared to be as it was when Councillors were there. Other Cynases obeyed their Red Councils implicitly, screws ruthlessly and remorselessly tightened on each to ensure they did. It was Clariane and Strame/Helt that baffled and increasingly concerned the Red Councils.
It was only very gradually that news trickled back to Clariane and Strame/Helt that Varen from those cities had been seen in Baron/Kelt itself. Each Cynas’ personal military was thought to be there as well. Then came information that Varen were newly identifiable in ways unknown before but there was no news about the Cynases, nor of a son or a wife. They seemed to have disappeared. That made the Red Councils consider hard. They began to suspect that traps had been set for the Cynases and they were taken with their troops; their Varen may also have been absorbed as bonds of ransom. If that was so, then action would be necessary to rescue them. It required thought.
Then there was the book. Enquiries had failed to produce any evidence of it being other than at the cave. No one surviving from the Order but now of lowest emtori caste, even under interrogation that was tantamount to torture, could shed light on the mystery. Nor could they say if it still even existed. Silklip had admitted to throwing the book away. He was gone. If it was discarded in the cave it should still be there. The Cynases concerned were closely questioned again. But they had no recollection other than Silklip’s delight at seeing the book forced open through agonised cries from the Dom Keeper and the key removed. And, reflected the Red Councils, Harnath wasn’t useful these days because often his mind was scrambled with muddled thoughts. He was frequently incoherent and flew into dreadful rages and sulks without warning. He was also impotent.
The Red Councils pondered the question of the key over long days, well aware what Sh’Bane’s reaction would be when he returned to Shalah. His chastisements were always unwelcome and singularly unpleasant,
so the riddle of the book was troublesome. They even sent people to where they were told the Dom had been taken. The report that came back spoke of chains, no corpse and no book. However, since Sh’Bane hadn’t called or shown his shadowy self for a period, the Red Councils made the decision that the return of the Cynases was imperative at this moment and the book might simply reveal itself.
They first decided to send an envoy to find out if the Cynases were hostages to Baron/Kelt and to discover how and why Cynas Varen and their troops were also in the city. The envoy arrived at the gates of the city a week later. He arrived in an air machine that landed a few yards from the gates, so he alighted sedately and demanded admittance under envoy truce. He stated who he was and asked that he be admitted to one who answered to the Master. Baffled, the Baron/Kelt Varen at the gates eyed him.
“Do you mean Knellen?”
“The odd eyed one?”
“Yes.”
“No. The one I seek may also answer to Jepaul.”
The Varen looked at each other then shrugged before one of them curtly beckoned the envoy to follow. The envoy, following his instructions from the Red Council, took mental note of all he saw which included large numbers of citizens of all classes and ranks, including emtori who appeared not to be simply menials. They all mingled freely as they bustled to and fro. He saw what were clearly troops but they didn’t appear to be wearing city-state colours but instead were all attired in serviceable uniforms with only epaulettes and insignia that suggested rank to distinguish them. Otherwise one trooper was identical to another.
He couldn’t identify whether these military men were from Baron/Kelt whose colours were blue, or from Clariane whose colours were scarlet. Those from Strame/Helt should have been wearing dark blue uniforms. The troops merely looked as intended, anonymous. The only exception from other people moving about them was that they were all clearly military and looked disciplined. They moved freely and comfortably among Varen who always, reflected the envoy, looked outright menacing. What shook him though was the colours distinguishing different Varen. That was new and quite unexpected.
No one, he decided, looked threatened or downtrodden, just preoccupied. He looked for obvious signs of coercion or prisoners. He saw none. Instead he was ushered into a room that was comfortably furnished but was neither a throne room nor an audience chamber such as he anticipated. In it were five occupants. There were four old men, three tall, two of whom were wiry and one shorter than the others. With them was the one the envoy sought and to whom he was directed. The envoy bowed.
“Master, known also as Jepaul, I greet you from the Red Councils of Clariane and Strame/Helt.”
“Likewise,” responded Jepaul, courteously and rising. “I am Jepaul.”
The envoy involuntarily flinched. He looked up and across at a very tall, mature and well-muscled man, with considerable breadth of shoulder, long auburn/copper curls worn loose, a coppery titian beard and large well-opened eyes of deepest, beautiful amber with unusual irises. They were like molten depths. When the envoy looked into them for long moments he felt himself lost.
“I have a written message for you.”
Jepaul strode forward, his hand held out.
“Thank you.” He took the folded letter, broke the seal then raised his head. “Please be seated. How do we address you?”
“Rhen, Acolyte from Clariane.”
“Then, Rhen, be seated and take refreshment.”
The envoy sat. He watched as one of the old men rose in a leisurely way to cross the room to uplift a glass and carafe he returned with and placed on a table he drew close to Rhen. He nodded at it. Carefully, Rhen poured out a glass of wine and sipped as he watched Jepaul from under his lashes, his eyes every so often flickering to the other men. He assumed, studying them closely, that they must be advisers though he thought they looked very, very old and quite frail. Having studied them his eyes went back to Jepaul who was re-reading the letter.
“Your Council, and that of Strame/Helt, have heard rumours that troops from those city-states are here in Baron/Kelt?”
“So I believe, Master.”
“Have you seen any?”
“No, not personally.”
“You may look for them if you wish.”
“No,” hastily replied Rhen, taking another mouthful.
“And the Cynases? What do they wish to know of them?”
“The Councils merely wish to ensure their safety and comfort if they are in the city.”
“I see.”
“That is why I am here,” explained the envoy, this time taking a gulp from the glass.
“So I assume,” agreed Jepaul, sitting again. He looked the envoy over. “They are here, Rhen.”
“They are?” gasped Rhen at this blunt statement and choking on his mouthful he was so startled.
“Rumour had basis in fact,” answered Jepaul calmly.
“Are they safe?”
“They are, now, yes.”
“Were they in danger?”
“Yes, indeed they were, Rhen.”
“May I see them for myself to reassure the Councils all is well with them?”
“Certainly,” acceded Jepaul suavely.
Rhen looked discomfited as well as surprised.
“Are they prisoners?”
Jepaul considered, his head tilted.
“Hostages of fortune perhaps,” he admitted, a smile touching his unusual eyes. “But you must speak to them yourself.”
Jepaul rose for a second time and in his unhurried, graceful way went to the door to summon a Varen. Then he returned to his chair and sat placidly, a refilled glass from a Dom in his hand. Adon and Barok entered. The envoy stared at them. They looked well and unstressed. He rose and bowed very low, especially to Adon because the envoy was from Clariane.
“Honoured Cynas,” he addressed Adon. “Your Red Council grows worried at your long absence and is concerned for those with you.”
Adon’s smile was dangerously affable and his eyes had a most disconcerting glitter to them.
“Tell my Red Council I’m in excellent health and am treated very well here in Baron/Kelt.”
“Are you able to freely return to Clariane, Cynas?”
“Not entirely,” came the response.
“Cynas?”
“My son is here. I came to take him home. I won’t leave without my son.”
“Is he not free to leave?”
“No, he is not.”
“So if he stays, you’re saying you must also stay?”
“That’s so.”
“In effect you are a prisoner!” exclaimed the envoy, roused to a spurt of anger.
“No,” contradicted Adon gently. “I could go with you now and no one would hinder me, but since I won’t return without my son, that I’m unable to do.”
“Why won’t you release his son?” demanded Rhen indignantly of Jepaul.
“We have a use for him,” came the indifferent answer.
“The Red Council will be more than seriously displeased.”
“Probably.”
“They speak of coming to get the Cynas.”
“They’re welcome to try.”
“And you, Cynas Barok? Is it the same with you?”
“They have my wife.”
“So you won’t leave either unless she is free to be with you?”
“No.”
“Is she free?”
“No,” said Jepaul for Barok.
“Of what possible use can she be to you?”
“She keeps her husband happy, Rhen. What would you expect?”
“She can do that well enough at Strame/Helt,” retorted the envoy, now really incensed.
“Maybe. It suits us for her to do so here.”
“In other words,” accused Rhen, a throb of deepening anger in his voice, “you have no intention of releasing anyone.”
“You may interpret our actions any way you choose.”
“It is an intolerable affront and you
will answer to a challenge for treating Cynases in such a manner,” threatened Rhen, his choler mounting.
“We will,” was the tranquil reply, as Jepaul casually nodded dismissal at the Cynases who were immediately escorted from the room.
Rhen came to his feet, his face flushed and eyes darting fire.
“You insult the Red Councils!” he shouted.
“Not at all,” soothed Jepaul, refilling the envoy’s glass and handing it to him.
Rhen took it. He glowered balefully at Jepaul then drank steadily as he recollected himself and sat down again, brooding.
“Why do you want them?”
“Company,” came the almost flippant reply.
That made Rhen give a reluctant laugh and shake of the head.
“I think not, Master.”
“Rhen, tell your Red Councils not to fear for the Cynases. It merely amuses me to keep them here for the meantime. When I grow bored they’ll be sent home but not before, nor can either you or the Councils question my actions. You don’t have the power to do so. Drink your wine, then you should return whence you came.”
Reluctantly and rather crestfallen the envoy complied then allowed himself to be ushered from the room and guided out of the city. His subsequent report filled the Red Councils with impotent fury as it was meant to do but drew the following comment on the envoy’s departure from Baron/Kelt from Sapphire.
“Masterly, Jepaul. May we now be ourselves again?”
The Red Councils had to accept that for the foreseeable future two Cynases were out of their reach but their anger, cold, was deadly. As the Doms hoped, they were left to wonder what game Jepaul played and if it was all a somewhat puerile attempt to manipulate them and again assert himself as one in authority over them. The desire to teach him a lesson grew but they were left uneasy and uncertain. What, however, Jepaul had managed to do was avert an advance on Baron/Kelt, for now.
Life continued in the city, one day following another in relative quiet for those whose lives had been constant movement for long days. Everyone had a sense though that conflict wasn’t far away and it was inevitable there’d be some sort of showdown between those now aligned to, or allied with, Baron/Kelt and those who remained committed to the Red Councils and their Cynases. It was also well-known what atrocities were carried out in those city-states, the cruelty Jepaul and Quon had seen so many syns before magnified and even more entrenched. Citizens and emtori died in ever-increasing numbers both in the cities, and in towns and villages under city hegemony. Nowhere was safe. If people tried to escape they were hunted down or murdered in the attempt. Many died in the effort to reach sanctuary elsewhere.
Fortification at Baron/Kelt had been hugely extended and strengthened as were new walls round the city simply so those arriving could be accommodated. They were often weak and physically abused, some sporting the results of torture and starvation. Few Varen now arrived. Those in the city were well aware why and shivered at what would have been their fates had they remained elsewhere. Every Varen, from the least ranked to the highest, recognised that for the first time in living memory they’d ultimately be pitted against their own kind. They’d confront Varen no longer with any will but ones who owed death allegiance to the Red Councils and their Cynases by virtue of writhling control. The writhlings would ensure their hosts finally succumbed to them.
And the Doms waited patiently. Time had given them strength. It had also enabled them to plan for scenarios one of which they knew to be inevitable. It was merely a question of which scene would play out. The Doms were privately resigned, all but Jepaul, because they acknowledged they were indeed very, very old. They were almost fatalistic about a possible ending to things on Shalah and quite accepting of whatever it was, provided it saw the end of Sh’Bane and his like. They were eyed thoughtfully by the Companions but as usual they all kept their own counsels. Their unions continued. They were smooth and flawless and a deep source of joy to them all. The Doms were satisfied. They were at peace after syns innumerable and it was as if they could see, very clearly, into a new future unseen by others.
The Red Councils were now increasingly angered by Barok and Adon’s intransigence. They decided, even though Jepaul had shown them no overt aggression and appeared to be non-threatening, that the two aberrant Cynases needed to be brought sharply to heel by being captured and put under immediate Red Council control. If necessary they’d be placed under restraint. Following this train of thought the remaining Cynases were encouraged to form a composite army with troops and Varen from every city-state that would march on Baron/Kelt. The Councils, themselves, would remain distant but controlling, so Jepaul couldn’t accuse them of disobeying or angering him.
It was Dral who observed dispassionately one morning as an early meal was consumed that,
“There’s an army on the way.”
“Grohols?” questioned Ebon interested.
“Aye,” was the laconic response.
“Can you actually sense it at this moment?”
“Any Grohol, other then the very young, can,” came the nonchalant reply. “The tremors that go through the ground from many feet is unmistakable.”
“Quon?” Ebon turned his head to observe the Dom fastidiously wiping his beard.
“Yes,” he corroborated. “The Venes have made their decision. I’ve felt this for some time.”
“How close?”
Dral looked across at Quon. His voice was a drawl.
“We could make an educated guess,” he drawled good-humouredly.
“Then what is it?” asked Gabrel amused.
“Thirteen days.”
“Quon?” Ebon was laughing.
“Fourteen,” responded Quon. “They have to stop to integrate each Grohol troop they meet, Dral.”
“True.” Dral chuckled, then added with a lurking twinkle, “Make it fifteen days, Dom.”
“Agreed,” murmured Quon, aware of Jepaul’s broad grin. “We’ll be ready.”
“Heavy weaponry comes, Dom,” advised Bearn, a phlegmatic and imperturbable warrior Grohol with Dral.
“Inevitable,” added Sapphire.
“I can feel that too.” Quon stroked his beard again. “Knellen, are we ready to follow the procedure for just such an expected eventuality?”
Knellen nodded.
“And why,” demanded Javen, “have the Red Councils defied you by also sending an army, Jepaul?”
“They haven’t,” laughed Jepaul.
“They’re not silly enough to,” muttered Dancer with a whimsical smile.
“So they send a Cynas,” stated Belika in a disgusted tone, “and pretend not to be involved.”
“More than one Cynas,” contradicted Saracen. He looked quizzically at the Doms. “Right?”
“We’ll know more when they’re closer.” Quon again tugged at his beard as he always did when he was thinking.
“Jamir’s with them.”
Jepaul’s comment brought heads round to stare at him.
“Jepaul?”
Jepaul looked across at his mentor.
“I know you invoked an Island oath, Quon, but Jamir had me purged and set for death. I don’t forget and I can sense him.”
“No, young one, you don’t. I understand.”
Quon extended a hand across the table that was immediately briefly clasped.
“If he’s still alive, Jepaul, Mesmauve may be with him.”
Sapphire’s remark had all eyes turn to him then, involuntarily, to Jepaul who nodded.
“I hope so.”
That was all he said It was enough. The others glanced at each other then discreetly away.
“Maybe, hopefully, Harnath comes with Jamir,” suggested Belika showing her teeth.
“Not if he knows you’re here,” chortled Javen.
“And,” argued Belika, watching the others laugh, “just think of the joys that might have awaited him with so many of us
and not just me? And all he can do is desire!”
Gales of mirth met that before those assembled began to drift away.
The Grohol army was barely settled into Baron/Kelt only a few weeks before the Red Council army arrived, a large host of armed men, ranks of silent Varen as escorts and/or guards and with heavy weaponry brought up in the rear. Those within the city saw three air cars descend and disgorge their single occupant before being grounded and dragged away. The Doms and Companions knew Rule, Harnath and Jamir were with the army, but not Grone or Robat. Their colours on banners waved in the stiff breeze. Outside the city the cool wind swept across the plains that led to two deep rivers winding through gorges created by volcanic activity.
At this season the air was cold. Frost still formed overnight and the wind could be bitter with heavy clouds coming up during the day that dissipated by nightfall. It wasn’t a pleasant time to be in a camp especially for all levels of emtori, hundreds of them, who made up much of the bulk of the train and were immediately set to work to set up camps. Those from the city could see them scuttle and scurry hither and yon to obey barked out commands as the army began to settle in.
Those of Baron/Kelt awaited the heralds. When they came they were ushered into where only the Companions sat, the Doms including Jepaul conspicuously absent. Knellen deliberately kept Cadran with them. The heralds were Varen. They entered, grim-faced and formidable. They stood, silent. They looked narrowly at the Companions. They immediately dismissed Belika, raised faintly contemptuous eyebrows at Javen and Saracen, before their eyes alighted, with only vague interest, on Cadran. At that they stiffened incredulously.
Cadran was a mature young man. He had the Varen height, his build powerful but less bulky and he had the broad shoulders as well as the athleticism. Where Varen were invariably rigidly erect Cadran was more graceful and his stance, though alert, was relaxed. The shape of his head and his slightly pointed teeth when his lips parted in a half-smile proclaimed his heritage. The heralds stared at one who was partly of them, before they could drag their gaze away to concentrate on Knellen who spoke.
“His name, brothers, is Cadran. In a sense you owe him a degree of homage.”
“What?” spat one of the heralds.
“Let me introduce you to the son of the late Mythlin. As such he warrants your respect.” The heralds were struck dumb with disbelief and shock. They stood, their expressions momentarily blank. “He is also my sygnet, brothers. My nomen is Knellen. You will all, by now, know of me.”
The heralds looked from Knellen, fascinated by his strange eyes, then to Cadran who simply eyed them, his smile a little wider. One of the Varen, almost choking on the words uttered,
“His son?”
“Yes.”
“Did the Mythlin actually acknowledge him?”
“Yes.”
“This was witnessed?”
“Yes, and all present pledged to honour the dying Mythlin’s wish.”
“Which was?”
“To honour and say the oath of Varen allegiance to his son.”
“But it is the Red Councils who choose the Mythlin!”
“True.”
“It is unknown for a Mythlin to make such an unprecedented request.”
“I know.”
“You are saying he not only fathered a child that survived but also passed Varen allegiance to that child?”
“He did, yes.”
There was a shocked silence while the visiting Varen grappled with something almost incomprehensible to them. That a Mythlin had unintentionally fathered a child was acceptable. But that a girl or woman, presumably candemaran and therefore inferior, had been allowed to live to give birth was an alien and utterly repugnant concept. That such a child had grown to manhood and was actually accepted by one so honoured and revered as the Mythlin, the upholder of all the Varen stood for, was unspeakable. And worst of all, the Mythlin had completed the sacrilege to all things Varen by his recognition of this abomination and an expectation that other Varen would honour and owe allegiance to him. Knellen and Cadran stayed silent, watching the Varen heralds struggle to even speak. It was Javen who came forward, his tone courteous.
“We’ve arranged seating and refreshments for you. Please, be seated.”
With slightly dazed expressions the Varen did while they tried to marshal their thoughts. Knellen could tell that as much as they struggled to understand about Cadran, they also fought the writhlings that commanded their obedience. He could smell it. He waited while Saracen and Javen poured wine into glasses and handed then round, while Belika passed a plate offering food that was absently but appreciatively taken. Finally, a herald spoke.
“We can’t argue with what is clearly a truth, brother, though we are understandably dismayed and shocked by your disclosures. Our objective is not to dishonour the memory of the Mythlin whom we were taught to revere above all others, but to tell you that our function is to remove, forcibly if necessary, the Cynases kept captive here with their families.”
Knellen nodded amiably but it was Cadran who spoke, his voice not as deep as the herald’s.
“No one is prisoner here, brother. In fact, Ardon is my friend and companion.” He saw the Varen wince at the word ‘brother’. “The Red Councils know there are no captives.”
“It is the Cynases, whom we’re sworn to obey, who command us to make the demand.”
“But it’s surely the Red Councils who command the Cynases, isn’t it?”
The heralds looked uncomfortably at each other, then one hastened to speak.
“That may be so. That is not our business. We are here on behalf of Cynases who believe other Cynases are prisoners.”
“We don’t hold them,” Cadran explained with calm patience. “They remain to be with their families. One son remains here, certainly, and a wife, but the Cynases have full freedom to do as they will.”
“Our orders, young brother,” and this particular Varen stressed the word ‘young’ quite deliberately, “are to take the Cynases and their families. It is our Cynases’ wishes that you immediately surrender them to us or we shall have no alternative but to fight to retrieve them.”
“That is a sad and unfortunate decision,” stated Cadran, taking a step back.
Knellen nodded dismissal at him. The Companions sat and eyed the heralds, something about their combined scrutiny that made the Varen feel vague discomfiture in an unfamiliar way. It was disquieting. They began to reassess those who studied them so intently.
“We accept you have your function, brothers,” said Knellen, after a long pause. “We also know you will fight to ensure it, even if it becomes Varen in conflict with Varen.”
“We will,” answered one sternly.
“Your writhlings will ensure your compliance,” agreed Knellen imperturbably.
The Varen heralds stared at him.
“They ensure we follow our instructions and adhere to our function, brother,” came an answer, “unlike yourself.”
“That is so.”
“We know our duty. We shall do it. We do not need writhlings for obedience and allegiance.”
“No,” agreed Knellen, a faint trace of sadness to his voice new to the Companions. They looked sharply at him.
“Then, Knellen brother, we require your answer. Do you give us the Cynases?”
“We are unable to comply, brother. We have neither power nor jurisdiction over either them or their actions. For Varen to step beyond it would be an abuse of our function and an unacceptable insult to the Cynases themselves.”
“We have your answer then?”
“We can offer no other. It is not for us to answer.”
The heralds eyed their glasses, downed the contents and rose. They ignored the Companions, their attention solely on Knellen.
“We will take your answer to our Cynases,” said one heavily. “We suspect we know what the response will be, which means, we regret, we will meet again in less pleasant circumstances.”
/> “It seems so, brother. It is, indeed, a matter of regret.”
The heralds, ushered to the door, gave a backward glance at Knellen then left.
Baron/Kelt braced for war. It wasn’t long delayed. A day after the heralds were in the city those resident sensed an imminent assault as they saw heavy weaponry brought from the rear and placed in position for a full frontal assault. Ebon strode about giving orders because he knew, more than most, what the effect of such weapons would be. He positioned himself, with some Grohols, waiting.
Blue light began to flicker across the sky as the first missiles hit Baron/Kelt in a hail of thunder, a bombardment that shook the city to its foundations. They crashed, ripped, fizzled and crackled and shot about between legs and feet, hissing and spitting flicks of fire before they finally exploded and wiped out anyone near them. As they were incendiary, they made surrounding areas catch fire. The noise of the missiles was deafening.
Ebon strode from one smaller missile to another stamping on them wherever he found them. If one exploded round or under him he simply emerged through the smoke and fragments unscathed and quite untroubled. The Grohols followed his orders calmly and methodically. If he disabled a missile they quickly learned he’d done so for long enough for them to hurl it back over the wall which they did with alacrity and precision, right into advancing men. They could see the missiles hiss and writhe among those in the army vanguard: they wreaked havoc when they did and carnage when they finally exploded.
Other missiles came, one after the other, without respite. Some were large metallic objects that came with a force that smashed anything and anyone. If they hit the wall they gouged chunks out of it. Shattered fragments inside the walls were missiles in themselves as they bounced and men had to hurriedly duck as they ricocheted and whistled past, those carrying the injured cowering low to the ground. These assaults were succeeded by battering rams and ladders cast up with grappling irons so attackers could climb with considerable speed and agility. All the time there was a continual bombardment from the heavy weaponry, return fire from the city leaving a dense pall of smoke over the Council army. This attack went on, unabated, from dawn until after midday when it ceased. The Red Council army was ready to battle. It advanced.
As it did, the gates of Baron/Kelt opened and Knellen, flanked by Barok and Adon on one side and the Companions on the other, rode slowly forward. Behind them came Lisle with rank after rank of Varen. Next, forming up with practised precision, were fighters of every persuasion stiffened by ranks of Grohol warriors and Maenades in the rear astride foaming aroused mimoses with lashing tails. Directly behind the Varen and fanning out into wings were the personal very large militaries of the Cynases, their standards fluttering. Behind the cavalry were formidable arrays of infantry.
As the armies drew up, they confronted one another. Jamir rode out, Harnath to his left and Rule to his right. The faces of Jamir and Harnath were rigid with wrath at the sight of Adon and Barok with Knellen who was considered to be a traitor Varen. Rule knew none of those who faced them other than the Cynases, but he’d heard of Knellen. Harnath was livid. He shook with deepened fury when he also sighted Belika astride a horse and eying him consideringly. Jamir, white with rage, glared at Knellen.
“You betray us all, Adon and Barok,” he taunted, his thin lips in a sneer.
“You betray what you were taught as well as Shalah,” came Adon’s retort. “How much of you is there left, Jamir? How much has been given or taken by your Red Council?”
“What the demons do you mean by that?”
“Only,” came Barok’s voice, “that I sent my young wife to you, only to hear what you’d become, Jamir. You’re not the man I knew.”
“Nor you,” scoffed Jamir, contempt in his voice. “You were always weak and ineffectual, Barok, even syns ago. You haven’t changed.”
“But not a Red Council puppet, Jamir. What did you give for unbridled power and worship from all?”
Before Jamir could answer, Harnath addressed Knellen, his eyes dwelling malevolently on Belika.
“We have matters to settle, Varen. That she-devil with you will answer to me.”
“Maybe,” responded Knellen indifferently.
“Why have you only returned little heavy weaponry fire? Can it be that you have very little and are saving it for later? What a quaint thought, Varen. I’d have thought more of your proverbial prowess.”
“Maybe,” repeated Knellen. Then he raised a hand. “Return to your armies, Cynases,” he advised.
His hand fell and the Cynases had to make a very hurried retreat.
The first battle for Shalah began. The Doms watched the ebb and flow, first one army surging forward then the other pushing them back. The fighting was bloody. For the first time in Shalah history, Varen fought Varen. The opposing army had many who were pressed to fight and had no spirit to do so. They only did to survive. Often they faltered, only kept together by Varen who marshalled them and drove them forward. Many of them fell dead or wounded in charges that overwhelmed them. Others were chivvied forward to replace them. Some fled to the rear and tried to hide. Others tried to make a run for it to the other side.
The city, on the other hand, had people keen, willing and motivated to fight. If they saw people obviously desperately fleeing from the opposing side they obligingly opened ranks, engulfed them, then closed ranks again. Those with the opposing army were forced to fight, other than the Varen and city-state troops who were mostly still loyal to their Cynases. As the day wore on, the difference showed.
Troops loyal to Cynases on both sides of the conflict fought stoically and in well disciplined units. They were highly skilled and very well trained. They knew when to withdraw and regroup. Those who were pushed to scale the walls of Baron/Kelt were constantly repulsed and suffered dreadful casualties, any who made it promptly meeting an end on the wall or just inside it where the defenders awaited them. Battering rams were, eventually, made inoperative but at a cost to the defenders. When the heavy bombardment started again the fires in Baron/Kelt became dangerous and had to be quickly doused and contained. There was a dense fog over the city like a shroud that was only lightened by white and green flashes and shoots of flame.
By nightfall the awful bombardment was over. The cost was heavy for the city but Baron/Kelt, mostly thanks to the indefatigable engineering skills of the Grohols, held. Their tireless efforts over months at reinforcing the city saved it, but the plain outside was mute testament to the fierceness of fighting. Horses and men lay dead or dying, heavy weapons were stilled and a pall of choking dust and smoke hung over a scene of horrid carnage not seen on Shalah in aeons. Cynas Rule was seriously injured and taken by shaken troops to the rear to receive treatment. Jamir was hurt but essentially unharmed, but Harnath couldn’t be found by either his Arrain-Toh troops or his Varen even though they scoured the field.
The battle wasn’t won by either side. Baron/Kelt remained unbroken and defiant. The two resident Cynases were unharmed. But the city was weakened. Many lives were lost in the bombardments where random missiles still fizzed and chased unsuspecting people before blowing up. From them and other nasty missiles the death toll was grim. Without Ebon, the Grohols and others, it would have been very much worse.
The army on the plain was in a sad state. Their Varen went about putting horses and men out of their misery, their faces sternly ashen as they sought their own for burial. Cynas troops did likewise. The attrition rate among other groups forced to fight was horrendously high. Pitifully few of those pressed into fighting were in any condition to participate further. Many were dead. A check of heavy weaponry showed most was now inoperative. The decision to withdraw was made by Jamir, the Cynas beyond anger. He was thinking of the Red Councils. His eyes glittering with near madness the Cynas, bereft of Harnath and aware Rule was hurt, ordered a total withdrawal to reconsider options.
Those of the defenders still outside Baron/Kelt watched the army begin, ve
ry slowly and painfully, to retreat. They went step by step, until they were a reasonable distance away where they paused to regroup and marshal a formal orderly withdrawal. Their dead and dying they left behind. The defenders watched impassively, waiting. Then horrified that so many had been callously left, they called for assistance from the city to give aid to those left behind to die.
However, it was only when the attacking army was a safe distance away that the order was given to retrieve the injured from both sides, many too dazed to do anything. There were stunned horses and hurt mimoses. It was only then that bodies were sought. It was grim work done in gathering dark with lanterns and flickering weak lights with feeble glows. Any fighter from either side was collected and given succour.
So were any hurt Varen who still fought their writhlings, the effort of doing so too much for some. Knellen, with unaccustomed compassion for a Varen and his face white, asked the Doms to let these injured Varen die. They suffered appalling agony from infuriated, out of control and feeding writhlings. With blank expressions the Doms did, down on their knees to each Varen they touched. They saw odd mixtures of pathetic gratitude and relief in Varen eyes before they closed and their torture ended.
It had been a harrowing day. The Doms and Companions sat among a gathering of leaders from all other groups within the city as, one by one, they gave their accounts and assessments of the battle. It left everyone sombre-faced and disinclined to converse further, each individual leaving the conference in a preoccupied state of mind.
The first battle for Shalah was over. The Doms knew, with certainty, that the fight for this world had only begun. After others were gone their conversation was long and intense. They knew the next battle would inevitably see the reappearance of other creatures once brought to this world; after so may aeons most were mercifully forgotten. Quon’s involuntary shudder was shared by the other Doms. It made a grey-faced Jepaul put an arm about his mentor. Jepaul had spoken little all day but his eyes spoke for him, a look to them that Quon, in particular, understood. In the early hours those still awake or suffering heard the pipe Jepaul played for spiritual solace and they were inexplicably comforted by it. Loriel had known, long ago, that the pipe would be Jepaul’s salvation.