Desperate Times (Fate of Periand Book 1) Read online

  Desperate Times

  The Fate Of Periand

  Book One

  Ben Marshall

  Dedicated to the special few, whose unwavering support has meant so much to me.

  Part 1 – Many Agendas

  War never ends with conquest. Conquest is but the first major battle leading to victory, yet the end is far from being in sight for my foes. Though conquest can bring about the end of war within the land, nothing can prevent war within the minds of the oppressed. This war is the kind that is unbeatable, because no general can lead his troops against an unseen enemy. When it emerges it shall fill them with dread, for its heated fury will be both great and terrible to look upon. The first Dark Lord discovered as much when the Noble Berien led forth the people of Valinia in revolt, and so too shall the Camentari learn it in the coming years. Though the bearing of arms against the oppressor is inevitable, as has been shown by the numerous rebellions since Olgerd crowned himself King of Valinia, they have previously been unsuccessful. The war within the Valinian soul is also inevitable, for we shall never bow to the tyranny shown by the Camentari to my people. When the Dark Lord eventually brought about the defeat of Berien’s army, it was due to the Lord having no opponent across the Lumnashae, nothing to divide his forces. The Camentari have no such luxury, and even now they face the force of Berinan. As the Barbarians did with my people, so have the two armies been found guilty of raiding the territory across the Camentar and Berinan border. Olgerd attacks in retaliation, with little idea of the irony in his battle. My father bore arms against him in 1150, when he spilled the blood of many Camentari foes upon the fields in the Fens. Had the Barbarians he heralded as allies not have been so easily lured by the coffers of Olgerd, the outcome may not have been so dire. My father was slain that fateful year, along with his commander, Anirien the Wild. I swore I would have the oppressor’s head for that, and hold still to my goal.

  As the war with Berinan and her army was brought about by the raiding of Camentari lands, so shall the war with my foresters begin with raids. It has already begun, and supplies to the nearby towns have been…diverted to my own needs. More men have joined my band with each new day, and already we are 100 strong. Soon I must turn my eyes to the towns further yonder than the current province, but first I must bring about the liberation of this one. Simple to say I am well aware, and it pains me that my designs cannot be started upon their great path. I need more men, yet my people are truly oppressed. Though I believe that the fire that once burned is not extinguished, it is little more than embers. Too many of my people have faced the persecution of the tyrant, and suffered for their spirit. The fires shall burn again, and the Camentari shall feel the searing heat, but it shall not be this day, and in all likelihood it shall not be for a while yet.

  The greatest chance is for Olgerd to fail once more in Periand as he did in 1158. Then, as now, Olgerd was opposed by his son Aithan Curith. Though he is the son of my people’s oppressor, I believe I could tolerate Aithan’s rule. The only man in power who could be of greater benefit to the welfare of my people would be Elethiel of the Charad Empire. News reached me from a cousin in that former Valinian realm that my people are now treated with equal respect by the Diarchy, and my heart sings that at least part of my people are free from the horrors of an unjust rule. I may reconsider my pledge to reclaim these lands if we were to receive respect equal to the Camentari within the lands of my forefathers. Yet we are beaten and tortured, landowners have been cast into slavery, and the people who resist have their ears hacked off or are blinded by the hot irons. Life shouldn’t be so unbearable even for the vermin that infest the sewers. It won’t be so for all time, for while I still have breath within me I shall strive to depose Olgerd and any who would seek to continue his tyranny.

  My people weathered the rule by the brutal Baridians, when our lands were lost by Erithil the Trusting, before the charismatic Ethilien returned us to our glory. I can only guess at what would have transpired at the Hulunan Pass had the Baridians been content with the lands Ethilien granted them. Had our men not been forced to march twice the height of our land, could we have known victory over the Camentari? Had we been there in time to fortify our position, in time to prepare for the foe, would Olgerd still have slain Geriand? My head is filled with such questions, and none can provide an answer that isn’t darkened by doubt. So much is doubtful in the past, as it is in the future. Faith is all that holds my men to me, for I know they feel the same pressure that keeps others from me. What if we fail?

  I was once asked why I truly undertake such a dangerous design, to which I answered that I believe. I believe I have the strength within me to lead my men to victory, and believe my God shall grant me my ambition fulfilled. The fear that keeps the others from joining, the fear that makes my men waver still, is the fear of death. I hold no such fear. I know you would mock had you the presence to do so, but I speak the truth. I have no fear of death by the sword, because there is nothing to bind me to this earth other than my love for it. That love shall not go with my passing, yet I shall see once again the son that was dashed to the ground when I first turned outlaw. When I first set myself against the evil that has gripped my people in its fist. I shall see once again my beautiful wife holding him close to her breast, both of them smiling as I move to embrace them once more. Death cannot take anything from me except my flesh, yet will restore to me the happiness I have all but forgotten as the years lengthen since last I felt it. If I am to know death, and if the war is to claim my life, I pray only that it doesn’t claim the strength of my people and prevent them from knowing the happiness I shall feel once more.

  While I await the numbers required for the commencement of my design, I must now turn my thoughts to alliance, yet I know not who can be trusted with my nation’s life. My father and noble Anirien trusted the Baridians, and met with failure due to their treachery. The Berinain, a faction I hold less love for than the Camentari, are hard pressed now that Olgerd’s men turn all attention to ending their reign within Periand, and have not the resources to aid me as well as defend what is theirs. The Charad Empire faces threats on all sides, and any aid they send me could weaken the one place where we Valinians are tolerated as equals. Friends are woefully few and far between I fear. Perhaps I can be blessed with enough monetary gain to keep the Barbarians of Barid in uneasy allegiance until my aims are fulfilled to satisfaction. Until then, I must simply keep my raids as profitable and regular as the Powers would have them, lest we fall short of the mark when the time comes for more than just words. When my designs are demanded lest we are defeated before we can begin. One victory would see our numbers increase dramatically, as the Camentari fist is thrown from our region, to nevermore choke our Valinian spirit. Olgerd has not been heard from since May, and rumours abound that even as I write this the oppressor faces death.

  The Camentari have become divided over the recent conflicts between my enemy and his own family, with Olgerd’s own son openly against him. It is surely only a matter of time before that conflict reaches the shores of Valinia, and when that time comes so shall my own. When Valinia becomes the scene of conflict in the hearts of Camentari, my war shall show itself. Whichever Camentari ruler triumphs, his fatigued forces will have another force to assail. When war brings the military to the South, the realms to the North shall fall back into Valinian hands with Halicy, my beloved Halicy, the first province to feel the warmth and brilliance of freedom once more. I swear it, on all that I hold sacred. I can wait. I just hope my men can too. Hope is all I have outside of the raids, and without it all is lost. Strange that my fate should be tied so tightly, bound so unshakeably to something as fragile as
hope. May Fate and Providence be smiling upon me this day, and all the days until my time finally comes.

  From the mind of Rothil Morambeth, transferred to written word September 5th, 1187.

  ***

  September 6th, 1187

  A rosy-fingered dawn was in the sky, mixing red and gold with the sapphire hue that was unbroken by cloud. Slowly the fingers pushed away the veil of night, letting warmth come upon the forest of Rinahuil, letting light fall through the greenery and cast green shadows upon the forest trails. Slowly the paths wound through the expanse, reaching the clear and sedate waters of Asceron. The expanse was wide in all but a few places, and crude stone bridges had been erected where the paths joined these natural crossings. Oaks lined both banks, their roots bursting from the sod and entering the refreshing coolness. These oaks held dominion over the land still, and it was only with the most reluctant compliance that the Men were tolerated. Hidden among the many tiers within the canopy that shaded the river a score of the foresters could be seen upon each bank, clad in garments indistinguishable from the trees they reclined upon. It wouldn’t be long now. Morambeth had assured them of this. Already his keen eyes seemed to have located the merchant, for he silently signalled them to be ready. Slowly he raised his hand in a gesture of the numbers within the caravan; 5 carts were approaching. Positioned as high among the centre oaks’ mighty branches as he could be, without disappearing from the view of his lesser-sighted men, he steadily watched the carts roll over the gentle slopes between the farms, watched the bridled horses trot along the cobbled path in quiet procession. The merchant and his men were unarmed, but the riders that were escorting the company seemed much more potent a foe.

  “Ten outriders upon either flank, each appears armed with a blade, and they wear breastplates over their tunics,” he whispered to his adjutant in hurried Valinian, several branches below him. His keen ears heard the information passed from man to man. His intense eyes then regarded a lone figure riding behind the column, attired in the unmistakable garb of a head tradesman. The lavish robes showed no indication of protective clothing, but he knew better than to trust to anything. That had been Anirien’s fatal error. Trust had been removed from his mind on that day and Morambeth could no longer bring himself to find it again, even to trust himself.

  As the caravan rode over the final rise before the plunge into the body of Rinahuil, the rest of the foresters took in the sight of the well-laden carts. Morambeth had been wise indeed to allow the caravan safe passage on the journey to the town of Gontirin in the North, for the carts had been unburdened of the silks and tools, and returned now with the profit and a fair number of meat and fruit packages. Silently each man drew their bows, notched a black-feathered arrow to the string, their eyes fixed upon the approaching carts. Morambeth drew no arrow, though his keen abilities outshone even his deadliest companion, for his task was not to attack but to retrieve. Disappearing from the view of all, he soon appeared several trees to the East. His mother’s heritage was apparent when he undertook such tasks, for none save the Elves could even hope to possess such nimbleness. Reaching a tiny clearing, no more than a few metres across, Morambeth called quietly into the opening in the forest.

  Heeding his master’s summons, a roan stallion trotted towards the tree Morambeth balanced upon, and halted below the bough. Lowering himself onto the steed’s strong back Morambeth moved silently across the forest floor, moving to the edge near where the caravan was approaching; its pace unaltered and its company unaware of the group within the shade of the trees before them. Once within the boundaries of the old forest it was a ride of two kilometres to reach the near bank of Asceron, and the awaiting Valinian raiding group. Morambeth guided the stallion softly along a route that steadily brought him closer to the rear of the company. His dark attire blending into the long-drawn shadows, he was unnoticed by the traders as they continued on their ill-fated journey. Keeping his bow concealed beneath the folds of his dark cloak he notched a shaft to the string, ready to begin the attack when all was ready. Still the victims rode on, the steady rhythm of the hooves upon the bracken counting the seconds they drew closer to the foresters.

  As the distance from the ambush shortened to five hundred metres, Morambeth brought his stallion out to stand directly behind the merchants. Bringing his bow before him, he silently drew the string back. Unseen, his followers copied his movements from their positions within the boughs of the forest. The trees suddenly seemed to close in on the merchants, and their steeds began to panic. As he struggled with the bridle of his grey mount, the Head Merchant saw into the startling blue eyes of Morambeth before his throat erupted with blood as the shaft whirred across the short distance between the two figures. Collapsing into the blood-stained sod, the darkness enveloped the merchant as Morambeth calmly reached out his hand and gripped the bridle of the panicked horse. Speaking quietly in a strangely musical tongue the forester brought order upon the beast. At the same moment the air was filled with shafts from the other members of the ambush, and not a man among the merchants’ train could begin to comprehend the event before it was concluded, and no further event would befall them for all eternity. Riding amongst the carnage, Morambeth repeated the words of soothing as he reached for the bridles of the mounts that had now lost their riders. A strange air was upon the path as the horses seemed to breathe free once more. It never ceased to amaze the foresters when they looked upon Morambeth as he carried out his solitary task, for nowhere else could they see a sight so mystical.

  The spoils of the raid had been most boosting to morale, and the collection of chests was placed within the unlit cellar of the solitary building. Standing isolated within the confines of the glade was a peaceful camp, and it was the very image of Valinian life; life that had fallen under an iron fist of oppression. The place had a rustic charm about it that brought a sense of ease and contentment to the area, although the palisade that marked a border to the land was far from inviting. Within the enclosure was a band of men, each wearing cloaks and tunics of darkest green; A uniform that showed their status within the society that had been in place since they were mere infants. Outlaws all, yet not of the kind that was commonplace through the land. Each had within them a spirit that hadn’t been broken by the oppressing Camentari, and that spirit had led them to bear arms and become a group that even now was mentioned merely in hushed voices, for the Camentari feared them yet feared more the admission of such dread even more. The Valinians heralded them as heroes, and all were welcomed within the homes of the downtrodden peasants. Though their leader had yet to put his plans, whatever they were to be, into action, they had already slain several bands of Camentari troops who had been stationed within the province. Despite this action attempts to oust them had been few, and already the Valinians that dwelt within the province were whispering of the weakness shown by the sheriff and, more significantly, the weakness of Olgerd. Such weakness, if the whisperers were correct, was what had led to the swelling of the ranks, and more than 5-fold the original band now trained under the command of one Rothil Morambeth. Given just a few more months of such swelling and his force would have the desired strength for action against the Camentari to commence when the opening presented itself.

  An unearthly silence fell upon the camp, with all the swiftness of a sword thrust through the heart, as hooves upon the network of nearby forest trails reached the ears of all within the camp's boundary, bringing the Valinians into a state of readiness unexpected from men of low standing such as them. It was too soon for the next trade caravan to enter Rinahuil, yet no gathering of troops had been reported. Drawing their elm-wood bows and aiming a set of deadly arrows at the source of the sound, no more than a few metres from the secluded grove, they listened in growing fear. It couldn't have been more than a few steeds upon the dirt trail, so the Camentari had apparently decided against a full assault within the old forest. Few in Valinia could blame them, for every tree and bush seemed identical, and many acres were covered by the sea of gr
eenery. Hundreds of trails snaked their way through the forest, most merely dead ends or great rings adjoining one path to another, all of them hugged upon each flank by ancient trees that were gnarled with age. Behind any of these brown behemoths could be concealed a member of the infamous band, and none but they knew the multitude of routes with any degree of competency, though several still required comrades upon the night patrols lest they too succumbed to the bewilderment that had plagued the numerous soldiers sent by the local sheriff. Almost no light penetrated the thick canopy of green that spread across the acres, leaving each winding trail in near darkness even when the sun was at its zenith.

  The hooves still drew steadily closer, and partial identification of the riders was soon possible for the few sentries that were stationed about the perimeter of the clearing. The apparent leader of the approaching group, a heavy-set man wearing a cloak of startling orange, rode with the air of a man unaccustomed to fear, yet his demeanour showed him to be learning the unmistakable feeling fast. His companions, 4 men who appeared to be of athletic build and with the arrogant air customary of the conqueror, bore clothing of a leafy green. They were clearly the leader's bodyguard, though only two were mounted upon horses and indeed only 3 were in a position to fight should the group be attacked. The unmounted two were stationed around a wooden cart, upon the front of which several oddly shaped bundles could be discerned. The body of the cart was stocked with barrels and more than a few chests, though they appeared to be of very crude manufacture. One of the two bodyguards was busy controlling the reins of two powerfully-built black stallions, while the other kept a close eye upon the dense foliage that was no more than a metre from the sides of the cart. He appeared to be holding a bow of similar craftsmanship to those of the Valinian foresters, and he was doubtless just as dangerous with it.