Chương 23: Book II - The War Needs You More

Cinnabinathi hated the Moonsinger. There was no sense to it; Swyllev was only a mouthpiece. It was the moons, so cold and far away, who arranged the lay of fate. The Silver Moon ordained Cinnabinathi a shepherd of men. The Red Moon decreed she must lead her lambs through the valley of death and into the slaughterhouse halls of Blagg Bore. Then, at the very end, the Blue Moon intended she should abandon them. Hidden in the space between the stars, the Bad Moon worked to pull everything apart.

All mortals were pawns, drawn in all directions. It was the great curse of the Elves, to see those strands and still believe they might slip between them. Their goal was impossibly far and the wind blew against them. Still, Cinnabinathi had to take the chance. She passed through the camp like typhoid and doomed all she touched. As she selected the soldiers, her heart ached to warn them. Not one recruit had the sense to refuse. It was an honor to march with a Dragonslayer. First, she went to the Dwarves.

Save herself, Hilg and his son Bhloki were the first named in Swyllev's prophecy. The pair bickered constantly, supposedly as different as two Dwarves could be. Cinnabinathi could not see it. To an Elf, father and son seemed exactly the same. They were both as stubborn as they were brave. They knew the danger ahead better than anyone, yet neither hesitated to sign on. Cinnabinathi could never understand how Saranine could loathe these people. They were solid as bedrock and reliable as the sunrise.

Silently, she cursed the queens of old who'd made their races enemies. So much time was lost and potential wasted. After the dwarves, she went to Captain Wembley to see about his Halberdiers. She told herself it was nothing to doom a few humans. Their spans were so brief and meaningless. Another lie. In the Battle of Aravitrimore, a diamond shard tore through Captain Wembley's breastplate and nearly pierced his heart.

The Imperial surgeon took one look at the wound, shook his head, and warned Bobbert not to waste bandages. Bobbert did it anyway. To the surgeon's surprise, Captain Wembley survived. Upon regaining consciousness, his first order was to have the surgeon flogged. All the men who'd lost a limb gathered to watch and applaud. Still, Captain Wembley was pale as milk. He could scarcely walk. When Cinnabinathi told him of the mission, he tried to volunteer. The weakness galled him worse than the wound.

But he was not in the prophecy. Instead, Cinnabinathi selected Wembley's second-in-command. Lieutenant Sindermann was one of the reinforcements from the West. He'd fought on the frontier for four long years. All hope had fled his tired eyes and every hair on his head had gone stark white. Cinnabinathi gasped when she saw him. The humans did not know what it meant to be moon-marked. She stood before a dead man. Sindermann heard her offer and accepted without pause. It worried her.

Perhaps, he sought death in battle in lieu of suicide. Cinnabinathi questioned him and learned the Lieutenant truly had nothing left. Out of ten Imperial soldiers sent to the western frontier, just one was likely to survive a year. His wife, child, and all of his friends were dead: burned alive as the Bla'Claw Horde advanced. With implacable fury, Sindermann swore he would take any risk to spare the Imperial heartland the horrors he'd seen in the west. The chance to kill Goblins was a welcome bonus.

Cinnabinathi agreed. She hoped it would bring him peace. She sought Sergeant Solidan next. Wembley warned her the huge Sergeant was a bit daft, but it was far more than that. Solidan was simple as a child. Cinnabinathi had to explain the mission twice, in single syllables. When the words got through, Solidan clapped his hands with delight as if she'd invited him to the carnival. Blast Swyllev and his prophecy! Sending the feebleminded to war was an act of unthinkable cruelty.

The Elves painted the eyelids of their malformed with the sap of the Eversleep tree to keep their suffering brief. Worried, Cinnabinthi spoke with a few of his Halberdiers. The consensus was clear: Solidan's men adored him. His spirits were always high, for he was too simple to conceive of death or defeat. He was a hero, actually. Every man knew his tale and was eager to tell it. Solidan came from Wenje, a confederation of four unruly duchies at the northwestern edge of the Empire.

They were mountain people, violent and proud. As the Grand Empire of Man frayed at the fringe, they were the first to rise. One by one, the strongholds fell until only the walled city of Kakama remained. Desperate to save the region, the Imperials poured forces into the bastion. The unrest grew perpetual; each season brought a new siege. Solidan was a war orphan, one among thousands. A press-gang found him starving in a gutter and brought him to the barracks to serve as a scullery slave.

He was the cooks' favorite, for he always smiled and never complained. They called him Potboy and lowered him into the great cauldrons so he could scrub from within. The work was hard but he was never hungry again. Little Potboy grew into a giant. At age thirteen he could climb up from the cellars with a ten-stone sack of flour slung over each shoulder. His dream was to become a soldier but undeniably, he was thick as paint. In spite of his great strength, no company would sign him.

At the Westgate Betrayal, Potboy got his chance. Three rebel duchies massed their forces along the northern wall and drew the entire garrison. Meanwhile, a sneak attack came from the west. A traitor paid by the Duke of Yomone had infiltrated the western gatehouse. He slew his fellows and threw open the gates to a thousand howling renegades. Block by block, they looted and burned. A leering crew of forty marauders set eyes on the Imperial Barracks and murdered their way into the infirmary.

They put the screws to the wounded, demanding to know where the women were hidden. Some coward squawked: they'd taken shelter in the cellars. Full of evil intent, the invaders stormed into the kitchens. All had fled, save Potboy. He stood with an insipid grin and a cleaver in either hand. Forty men set upon young Potboy, but the quarters were close and they could only come at him three at a time. When the northern assault broke against the wall, a rear-guard raced to save the barracks. The women were safe.

Potboy stood guard, ankle-deep in the dead. He smiled still, though a cudgel had knocked out all of his teeth. Young Solidan became an emblem. As a reward for his bravery, the Imperial Emissary enlisted him as a sergeant and had him fitted for a mouthful of golden teeth. His men loved him. He ate like a horse, slept like a bear, and fought like a juggernaut. They called him Potboy still, for he could never quite remember to answer to Solidan. The Dwarves and the Imperials were settled.

Next, Cinnabinathi chose among her own Hawkmoon. Maro was the first. Cinnabinathi found him sitting on a lonely ridge that hung over the road to Sparfydl. He faced their goal, but stared up at the stars instead. His face told the tale. When the Moonsinger dismissed him, he dared to dream he had escaped. Cinnabinathi had to watch his hope fade away. They'd served together for a long time. There was a moment where, if he'd asked his fate, she'd have told. His eyes burned with desire but wisdom held his lips closed.

It was better not to know. Maro reached into his vest and produced a tiny book bound in deerhide. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"I felt it. The night before the Battle of Aravitrimore, I heard the Black Moon whisper. I felt the Void's breath on my neck. I could not sleep until I'd written down all my techniques and secrets. Perhaps someone could carry them for me." Cinnabinathi was stunned at the admission. Maro named the Void! They were perilous words, if the wrong ear heard, they would both be hauled before a demon-hunter. Maro did not care. Before the war, Maro was a crystallus of far-reaching fame.

It was an art only the Elves could master. In specially prepared molds, Maro cultivated crystals that grew in glacial waves. As they sublimated, impossibly fine layers of precious metals remained. A single blade might take centuries to complete. In his secret workshop his soul opus was still underway. Maro had begun the work a thousand years ago. If the moons were willing to expend such a talent, things must be dire indeed.

"I'll ask Saranine," Cinnabinathi promised.

"We leave at dawn."

"Perhaps she can find a disciple," Maro hoped. They bowed in silent prayer, though both knew it was a fantasy. The workshops were all empty. The apprentices had all gone off to war. No one had time for art any more. She left Maro on his ledge, staring off at the stars. Cinnabinathi recruited the rest of the Hawkmoon who would go. b The moons always required those they could least afford to lose. She found Saranine, still angry over the Moonsinger's dismissal.

The sorceress agreed to take Maro's journal, then Cinnabinathi had to watch her weep. It seemed she and Maro must have been lovers. In Saranine's tears, Cinnabinathi could see the Moonsinger's wisdom. Saranine wept, not for Maro, but herself. She was not the type to make a sacrifice. The party was nearly complete. She sought out Bobbert, the bitterest cup of all. Damn the Moonsinger! The boy was so young and full of hope. He apologized that he could not go, for the wounded needed him.

There were never enough healers.

"The war needs you more," Cinnabinathi ordered. She did not say more, the burden of prophecy was hers to bear. Bobbert acquiesced, for he believed the Elves were wise. Damn the singer, Damn the Moons! Too soon, they were on their way, marching into the jaws of the enemy. * Vlad set down the stack of character cards with a cocky grin. Robin was astonished. How did he do that? On the fly, Vlad had managed to take all his little bits of story on the backs of the index cards and weave them together into the campaign.

He improvised a whole cast of names, places, and motivations. Robin really felt like he was part of a doomed troop about to venture into Goblin territory. He could barely wait to get underway.

"Now, the force is assembled and your journey begins. You must traverse leagues of enemy territory to reach the legendary lost mines of Blagg Bore."

"Wait, aren't you forgetting someone?" Sandy asked. Vlad had left Yureg the Whirlwind out of the story so far. Sandy was getting antsy, Robin was pretty sure Vlad was doing it just to torture him.

"The prophecy did say an old foe would throw himself at our feet," Duncan recalled.

"Yureg would never lower himself so," Sandy protested.

"We'll find out. Clear the table. Bring out the map," Vlad ordered.

"Finally!" Sandy leapt to his feet. Now, it was his turn to show off. He brought out a giant roll of butcher paper and unfurled the overland map. It took up half of the table.

"Wow. Look at this!" Chuck clapped. The map was a grid of neat, two-inch hexagons. The edges of each cell were shaded with colored pencil. The terrain was done with stamped ink icons of twisted trees, marshy reeds, foothills, and ruins. The roads were inked in black and red dashes and the lettering was all penned in gothic blackletter. Sandy had drawn in so many little details.

There was a little hut with spirals of smoke rising, a cavern mouth in the foothills, and a tiny string of war-canoes beached on the shore beside a river hex. Stories seemed to leap off the map.

"This is so cool. It could be at the front of a book. This must have taken forever!" Robin was seriously impressed.

"It only took us an evening. My mom makes us do family craft night every week. I cashed in and put the whole Amsler clan to work. See how sharp these hexagons are? I couldn't figure out how to make the grid. My dad showed me this draftsman's trick. You do vertical lines first, then a set of lines at sixty and one hundred and twenty degrees. That gives you a triangle grid and you can just outline the hexagons."

"Did he do the lettering too? The writing looks like a diploma."

"No, that's my sister Rachel. She's big into medieval history and calligraphy. Pretty good, huh?"

"She's amazing," Duncan agreed.

"How did you make all the little terrain icons?" Robin asked.

"Those were my mom's idea. She used to be an art teacher. The stamps are carved linoleum. I can use them again for the next map. My little sister, Yvonne, wanted to do all the stamping. So, if they're crooked, blame her."

"Tag-along Yvonne." Vlad tapped the empty box of girl-scout cookies. The Tagalongs were long gone and the Thin Mints were in grave danger. Robin's belief they had enough snacks to last a week had turned out to be a gross overestimation.

"Yvonne's the worst. She gets into everything and irritates everyone," Sandy griped.

"Huh–reminds me of someone, Saaaandy," Vlad teased." Moi?" Sandy nailed the Miss Piggy voice and held a hand against his chest in mock-shock. Robin, Duncan, and Chuck cracked up.

"So uh, all this buildup is great and all, but when do we get to fight somebody? Where's all the treasure?" Sandy griped.

"You have the attention span of a gnat, Amsler. I don't know how you're not in special ed."

"I'm just saying, chopping up Goblins is more fun than learning about our retainer's backstories. I'm not even in the party yet!" Robin winced. Those were his backstories.

"Personally, I'm loving this. I can't wait to get into it with my knucklehead son," Duncan disagreed.

"Don't kill him," he added, with a pointed stare at Vlad.

"No promises. Are we ready to get back to the mission?"

"Yes!" Everyone agreed.

"A low mist hangs over the haunted hills of Sparfydl. Far in the distance, you can hear wolves howl and inhuman voices shriek. You are in enemy territory, stealth is your only hope. For the next section, you must move the party marker one hex each turn. Because your party includes a Hawkmoon, you get a scouting radius of three hexes and you may see what direction the Gorelord patrols plan to move. Beware: the wolf riders are swift. They can move two hexes per turn.

If they move through a hex you've passed through, they have a chance to pick up your scent."

"So cool!" Chuck breathed.

"This is just like Merrill's Marauders. Can we double back and throw them off our trail?"

"You can try."

"What if we take the fight to the Goblin scum instead? Yureg yearns for combat!" Sandy held up his skinny arms and flexed like a bodybuilder. He looked so ridiculous that Robin almost spit out his Shasta.

"You're outnumbered about a thousand to one. Be my guest," Vlad offered.

"Don't tempt him!" Duncan warned.

"He's rooting for the Goblins!"

"I'm the Chronicler. I have to be fair," Vlad insisted. No one was fooled.