IV
“I always wanted to do a landscape of the Mayne Lighthouse,” Ebrill said, relief in her voice as they clattered down the steps of the lighthouse’s base into the refreshingly cool, salty air.
Evander enjoyed the taste and smell of the air by the coast and on the peninsula. Despite current affairs, he was glad to have been stationed at Blair Tower, and not somewhere like the swamplands were everyone and everything was perpetually moist, or the arid lands were it was too hot for anyone to function.
Shrieks from belligerent gulls rose and fell with the far-off rush of the tides assaulting the rocks far below them. Glimmers of bright ivory arced high in the winds, just off the shoreline, with the occasional dark diver plunging into the rowdy waves.
Evander liked gulls because of their cheek, and their feathers made great flights too. Many of the gargantuan, sternly faced birds took to claiming the wall emplacements closest to the cliff for nests. The murky grey of the walls was streaked with greasy white excrement where they terminated at the cliff edge. The towers at either end had long ago been abandoned, now occupied by ferociously territorial gulls. Amongst the buildings within the fort, the gulls waddled around looking for any morsels to pick up or steal out of a hand with their large beaks – and centuries of pilgrims and visitors throwing scraps to them had hardly put them off.
“Never the time, and of course I’m never usually up here.” She sighed, turning to gaze up at the monument of Maytoni history. Even in the morning, against a cloudless sky, Ebrill did not need to shield her eyes it was so dull.
“Hardly the colourful scenes you normally produce; the Glass Mountains, Shattered Basin, and that piece you did on the wildlife in the Swamplands,” Evander added.
Ebrill was at her core, an artist. Her outlook on the world was not as clinical as some. She saw the creation of Anordaithe by the Gods through the perspective of artistic expression. The world, nature, these were functional, undoubtedly, however not without beauty, contrast, or emphasis on aesthetics.
“Beauty is not defined solely by what’s colourful or bright, Evey.” Her tone turned sombre. “Anyway, look, these morning briefings are going to be gruelling enough as it is. Can you perhaps lessen the hostilities towards the royalists. Dedrick is a proud man, and you’ve a habit of jabbing people like that. I can’t sit through arguments and blustering – not after doing a sermon. My head’s wrecked and it’s hardly after breakfast.”
“I don’t think there’s going to be many meetings. And Dedrick’s kidding himself if he thinks we’re going to waste any time keeping him updated on things he should already be aware of,” Evander added, taking in the sight of the fortress – if one could call it that.
A couple of dozen brick, slate, and wooden structures were littered throughout the interior, with the tallest three stories high. Most were taverns filled with rooms for travellers and took in many numbers of soldiers who filled every inch of floor space. Gulls owned the roofs for the moment as line archers were in constant conflict with the birds in trying to hold this high ground. Between the buildings were ruts worn down by centuries of foot passage, so much so, that the hard dark grey rock was showing through thin veils of soil. At the base of the lighthouse, the buildings belonged to engineers, with a few museums detailing the history of the site. Beyond these came the taverns. All of these buildings fell into the lower, southern part of the fort, with a barracks building for a militia group sitting alone in the eastern side. Most of the northern side of the fort was open ground, for those looking to camp, or for children to have a play area.
“Once the fighting starts, we’ll be too busy to waste time discussing everything that’s happening,” Evander continued. “Why couldn’t they just see the lunacy of this a leave?” He sighed, trying to dislodge the hard ball of disappointment in his chest.
“I fear you underestimated their zealotry,” Ebrill said. It wasn’t a criticism, but a kindly delivered fact. “I did too. I thought your plan would work.”
“It bought us a day it seems – for all that’ll be worth. But at least we won’t have boulders, or spears thrown at us.”
“Nothing is going to repulse the Xellcarrians. You could have assassinated their whole leadership and those next in line would have stepped up to lead the army. It’s a fervour. As if we’ve been any different when a pastoral was assassinated.”
Evander paused for a moment and stopped walking, as the feelings of a bitter lashing of choppy waters struck his senses once more, and the splinters of wood pricked at his fingers again. “That was different. Much different. The Rags are terrorists. They kill people based on how much of a reaction they’re going to get. What we did to them, was done to evil people.” His tone was emphatic, harsh and Ebrill noted this with a subtle arching of her brow. Evander immediately broke off eye contact. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. Nor did he ever want Ebrill to see the darker side to his life. “How is the mood in amongst the soldiers?”
“Good, or as good as can be. Most are as concerned as we are and hoping for a peaceful outcome. They don’t want this becoming total war.”
“That’s… Well, at least we seemed to be ideologically aligned.”
They continued walking.
Ebrill raised her brow, knowingly. “But there is still a strong royalist presence, who see this as an opportunity.”
“So long as there is fighting unity when the time comes… It’d be easier had the so-called prince not ridden off with our sister army… We’re going to catapult the twat over the boarder when he decides it’s safe to come home.”
“His transgressions are hard to prove, that’s the issue the Church is having.” Frankly Ebrill was sounding far too glum and far too serious for Evander’s liking. It was like watching a shade wearing her skin if such was possible.
“Physical evidence is null, I guess.” Evander was always glad for the thoroughness of the Church’s investigative arm, the Inquisition, but in this instance, its fair nature for supporting evidence has hamstrung them all. “It’s the prince’s word against the Xellcarrian’s.”
“If the so-called prince was found guilty, we’d extradite him, of course. But… we can’t convict on what we think we know about people…”
That’s never stopped us before… Evander avoiding saying out loud. “Despite the reality of his transgression being as rock solid as a gargoyle’s testicles.”
“You’re not beyond a good humour at least,” Ebrill cut in, looking hard at him. “Don’t let this take the toll it could. Rebel against the mire invading your spirit and be the Evey Penrose your lot know. You’ve got great support, and they’ll hold you firm when you feel weak, the same way you’ll hold every one of them up too.”
Evander was struck dumb for a moment. As far as self-analysis was concerned Ebrill had once told him he was as discerning as brain damaged primate. Here, she was right, and it took Evander a moment to realise how hardened he had become over the past few days. The bitterness of the whole affair had been leaving calloses upon his spirt, unnoticed.
“Thank you, Ebrill. And for putting in kind words this time.” He paused. “Oh, and how familiar are you with the word, hypocrite?” He added in jest.
“If I was more awake, I’d have a comprehensive retort explaining why you’re wrong. But family can say these things to each other. You’re stuck with me, like it or not so get used to it.” Ebrill cuffed his shoulder, playfully. “And remember, Evey: all things come back to the Gods. I’m here, and so are They. They’ve seen the injustice leading to his madness. Give your bitterness and fears to Them, free yourself up.”
Evander never found it that easy. He wasn’t about to go around in circles with ‘why are the Gods letting this all happen?’, he was too pragmatic, not to mention an obsessive problem solver. But Ebrill was correct in noting how often he tried to do things under his own strength.
“Your Gods-given talent is the bow, Evey. They placed it in your hands, not just to save you from the darkness that comes over your mind, but to make you a defender of Maytoni, a holy warrior, to take on the burdens of pain, and the madness of war – why? Because They know you are strong enough to take it.”
Within the Maytoni religion it was believed that everyone had three ‘talents’, which in essence defined them. There was the talent which they had to work hard for, which few achieved. Then there was natural talent, the one thing taken to without effort. And finally, there was Gods-given talent, something the Gods had instilled in a person, a divine purpose. The final of these was often misconstrued with natural talent, in that most people assumed it was something they did not need to work hard for. In Evander’s case, his Gods-given-talent was archery, and it had been something which required a demanding level of hard graft.
“Gods be with you, Evey. Love you. And come see me when you need to.” Ebrill smiled, warmth and radiance amongst the dull hues of the fort, and a glimmer of her familiar self.
“Of course. Love you to.” They hugged, tightly, and Evander took in the scents of her fancy soaps he couldn’t identify, but which made him more self-conscious about his own bodily musk.
“Love you too, girl!” Bunny shouted from behind them.
“No hug for me!” Juliet called out. “Why not give me a chance to challenge those vows of yours!”
Ebrill turned, blowing a kiss to them.
Evey sighed and then turned to the hallions behind him. “You know her brother is in a Sheild Line, right?”
The Summiteers broke off to take on whatever duties they had, muttering and jibbing with one and other. Waiting for the Pastoral to take her leave were two leadership figures Evander was more than glad to see after a morning spent in the presence of fecklessness. Both men moved in, looking the worse for wear too.
“I was up all friggin’ night, praying these cat cuddlers would leave,” Commander Gaylord Nyilas said through a yawn. The man was tall, six feet and a few inches more, with brown skin and a bald pate. Bright wide eyes took everything in, and seemed as if they could spy out a target miles away. Gaylord was in command of the archers within the army, and second to Dedrick in command.
With him as always was his longbow – crafted from rockbark. Evander knew if he had the skills to work with rockbark, he wouldn’t let a bow that beautiful or powerful out of his reach. Carried over a shoulder, the bow was known as Dread Burden, and the awe of it seeped from the beautiful ebony coloured bark patterns and radiated through the ghostly blue-white grain. In all of The Sigel those capable of taming rockbark could be counted on a single hand.
General Gaylord was wearing his ceremonial kilt with the maroon and white colours of the Maytoni flag, lined in brown – the colour of the harp present on the flag. Boots sturdy enough to kick a tunnel through a mountain were fixed to his feet, wrapped in old tree roots – an old archers’ superstition, that their bows would be graced with great accuracy If they wore the roots of the same types of trees their bows were crafted from. His jambon was bark brown, with the draw shoulder and arm uncovered, revealing a leafy green silk undergarment, decorated in autumn-coloured reliefs. Like many of his archers, Gaylord’s bow and arrow quivers were decorated with all manner of personal items, religious iconography, or even trophies. In particular Gaylord had the thumb bones of Jermishian archer who very nearly managed to slay the Maytoni commander, and a bundle of feathers woven into the image of Senphire, the God who tamed the natural world for sentient kind.
“What’s the damage, sergeant?” Commander Xiphos Hastings asked holding a tankard from which steam whirled. A taciturn man most of the time, he got to where he was by listening to the needs of those around him and acting on them – more so than attempting wild military actions to build a legend. He used Evander’s rank not through any sense of bitterness that the Summiteer was essentially on an equal level here, but because Evander was just as fastidious. Every shield bearer was on the border line of taking themselves too seriously, as a way to shore themselves up against the lauded archers they defended. The bow was divine, the chosen tool of their Gods after all. Everything else was second best or sneered at.
The commander of the shield forces and siege infantry was lean, built for sharp movements and speed. Xiphos was an elf, his pointed ears prominent against his shaved pate. He wore the charcoal black armour of a Maytoni shield bearer. Its angles gave off a fierce a demeanour, like a jagged cliff, with outer layers of diamond coloured scaled armour over the extremities. Lining the pauldrons, gorget, and vambraces were warm, heated colours of a dark red. Between the angles of the armour, and their massive hexagonal shields, each shield bearer resembled an insurmountable boulder.
“Thirty thousand Xellcarrians are still squatting just beyond the ridge,” Evander explained, taking note of what was in Xiphos’ tankard and deciding to get some for himself.
“Does his highness expect us to just make up a defence as the Xellcarrians continue to surprise us?” Xiphos snarled. Neither commander, in Dedricks own words, were needed during the morning briefings it was felt. Likely he was intimidated by their earned reputations even if they couldn’t directly undermine him the way Evander could.
“Aye, we’re being led by a scarecrow. Seems to think the Xellcarrians will have the fear put into them by his own presence here,” Gaylord added. “Do they have scarecrows to keep griffins away?”
“Our defence plan remains the same,” Evander assured him. “Gay, keep your archers bolstered in the northern fields. Xiphos, your best siege archers along the north wall too.”
“They’ll go for the north gate?” Xiphos mussed.
“Or throw a sizable force at it to distract us from a flanking attack. Either way, keep the pitch on the heat, and your siege soldiers up on the walls alert – and I mean watch out for crossbows too. The Xellcarrians have some lethal models. I’ve seen them.”
“I’ll split them across the north and east walls, with a minimal force on the south wall,” Xiphos concurred. “No chance they’ll be able to encircle us?”
It still felt peculiar to Evander that these men, each with ten years on him, and many ranks more, would defer to him.
“Only as corpses,” Gay answered. “The only traversable ground around this fort is well within range of our archers. They’ll have to come at us straight, otherwise risk taking too many casualties.”
“Not so bad. At least my lads won’t get bored. Come what may, I don’t want any tales of this mess leaving their efforts out.” Xiphos grinned, a smile as sharp as his ears. Gay patted him on the back.
“I prefer a straight confrontation, like this,” Gay continued. “It’s a better test of a warrior’s mettle. Well trained archers against well trained archers,” he motioned to Xiphos, “Well trained soldiery against well trained soldiery.”
“I prefer a confrontation of wits,” Evander added. “Besides that’s how the Maytoni survived during the time of our ancestor’s exodus. A few archers could defeat greater odds. We clung to the bow for more than reasons of divine reverence. It was practical after all. All those stories of our ancestors beating back superior odds, and here we are in their shadows hoping to do the same.” A strange lumpen weight began to press down Evander as spoke, thinking of how difficult it must have been for their ancestors, how intimidating an opposing army looked without the solidity or safety of a place to call their home yet.
“Then you’re lot came about because we realised assassinating a few key figures was neater than massacring whole armies.”
Of course, Gay was correct. The Summiteers were first established to as a means to prevent the excessive bloodshed. Known originally as the Oasis Guard, small groups would infiltrate enemy camps, forts, or cities, and assassinate key figures or capture them for leverage, sabotage food stocks and weapons, search for battleplans, or leave the sort of message that made it clear the Maytoni could reach anyone.
“Right, well, I’m off to shout at my lot. Gives me something to do,” Xiphos said before knocking back the contents of his tankard. “See you boys out there. May the Gods be good to ye.”
“And you, Xi,” Gay said. “I hope to come out of this,” he looked beyond Evander, “I still need to face Bunny in a shoot off after all.”
Evander turned to see Bunny giving a thumbs up in Gay’s direction. Gay only nodded and then looked to Evander. “Gods be with you. They’ll drag us through it, I’m sure. Bloody, covered it mud, and caked in excrement, but they’ll get us through it.”
V
In the cellar of a smaller tavern, claimed by Evander and his team, the group stood around a battered table, among disappointingly empty wine-racks. Ignatius had just returned from sending an update by pigeon south to Blair Tower, and the group gathered their specialist arrows to take stock of how cornered they should be.
Summiteers were trained in the building of all known types of bows and arrows and in infusing them with various types of magic. As a result, Summiteers were experts in all known bow types and shooting styles, and each member had no fewer than a dozen bows at any time, constantly refining their bowyer, fletching, arrow smithing, and magical capabilities.
Linen and leather arrow bags were placed – some with tenderness – on the shoddy table, and the cords untied to revel blooms of colourful feathers.
“Dedrick had some nerve, suggesting we were impotent – he never saw what we did to the Rags,” Kellen grumbled. “We’re killers. It’s ugly, it’s dire, but necessary sometimes. Just not here, just not now.” It was rare for the ork to grumble about anything, as he often retained the quieter demeanour seen to be typical of a Summiteer.
Though he was correct. The grimness was not lost on any of them. They were killers; clever, dirty, underhanded, and some of the best at it. A sad, but very precisely applied necessity in the world they lived in. Just because each of them recognised that the Xallcarrians should not be an enemy of Maytoni, and were regretful in knowing what harm they must deliver did not mean they were a lax fighting force. The Summiteers were as discerning as they were ruthless.
“I spent half a year up in Gorlin, the capital training their regulars in this fine art,” Ignatius added. He breathed into a hand wrapped around the lower part of his face. “Gods, I hope none of them are here.”
“If you trained ‘em, we needn’t worry,” Kellen quipped, a vain attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
Evander was proud of his team. Proud of have served with them for so long, to know them not only as comrades, but as friends. Kellen’s greater experience pushed Evander harder, and having Fiadh present only made him want to prove his worth as a Summiteer and leader more. She deserved good leadership, to serve with the best.
“We’ll deal with him later, Kellen. For now, we’re stock taking. Right, Fiadh, you start,” Evander said, eager to keep everyone – as much as himself – focused on a defence plan.
The youngest Summiteer picked up a linen quiver. “Cobra pheasant feathers,” she began, pulling one type of arrow further out of the bag. “Hits a target, then the flights explode into venomous barbs, piercing skin and causing instant death. Anti-personal but won’t go through armour.”
“Nice,” Juliet said to a chorus of adulations. “There’ll be plenty of exposed points on their Men-at-Arms – those barbs always find a way in.”
“I’ve got three dozen of them made up. And then I’ve got two dozen Wrath Vapour arrows,” she concluded. The wood in Wrath Vapour arrows was taken from a type of tree found high in the Chanjion mountains, resistant to blizzards. In tandem with slate-piles, taken from the same mountains, they produced an arrow which created a thick mist, impossible to see through.
“Ignatius?” Evander asked next.
“Two dozen Drunkards,” he began, pointing to the arrows with beige-brown and forest green, pine buzzard feathers. The bird of prey was famous for soaring in circles to hypnotise prey, paralysing them essentially. Areas around the impact of these arrows would be inflicted with an invisible dizzying force, making it feel as if the world was spinning. “Four dozen Knight Slayers,” he continued. The piles, amour piercing, were made from the armour of fallen knights, treated in a peasant’s forge with indigo rook feathers. These impacted with obscene heat, boring a hole through the thickest armour, before delivering a wrathfully hard blow to shatter bones. “And two dozen Shooting Stars,” he concluded. Shooting Stars, shortly after being loosed emitted a blinding flash. The flights were taken from a minor fishing-gull griffin, white, with bright grey arcs. The nock horn was taken from the shell of a moon fiend, a lobster species which used the bioluminescence in its claws to create flares, as a means to confuse predators and escape.
“Kellen?”
“Knight Slayers, four dozen as well,” he gestured to the table. “Five dozen Titan’s Fingers,” he added. Titan’s Fingers were favoured by big game hunters for huge dragon, hydra, or minor typhon species. Only pheasant feathers found under the light of a full moon, with blood from a giant’s-steed elk staining the shaft would deliver the frictionless impact, which sent a crippling shudder through out the beast, pulverising organs, and bone. In battle they served as a means to shake the hardest of ground like a quake and force ranks of soldiers to tumble.
A chorus of awes and whistles sounded from the group.
“Five dozen? How long have you been at them?” Evander inquired, shocked. Finding the feathers, such specific feathers, was an arduous affair, taxing even the most committed fletchers.
“A few years – I just set about hunting pheasants at night and kept the feathers from anything harvested on a full moon,” Kellen replied, shrugging off the adulation as if it was as easy as he said.
“Bunny? What humbling bushel have you got for us?”
The more mordant of the group gestured towards a pair of linen quivers. “The usual blend of toxins, to make the more dignified lose control of their bowels or toss up their breakfast… With real vigour too. But these are for duelling, nicking the skin as a show of skill rather than trying to outright kill anyone.” He finished in a more matter-of-fact tone, as Bunny was never known to boast about his remarkable archery skills.
“Now there’s a strategy we never thought of,” Ignatius put in. “Embarrass the Xellcarrians into retreat… And I’m not wholly being a twat here. Their knights are just as proud as any. None of them are going to want to be seen soiling themselves or vomiting especially in front of the plebs – it’d be seen as cowardice.”
“Bunny? What do you think?” Evander added, intrigued.
“Well, twat is a relative term, so one can partially be a twat,” Bunny replied, a hand leaning out towards his teammate, Ignatius. “But, more seriously, Ignatius is correct here. I’ve removed and disbanded whole bandit clans, or rogue armies because I made their leadership look so weak.”
“Well, that’s something positive. Can you exploit this further?”
“It’s my purpose in life to embarrass the proud,” Bunny replied with a small bow. “The Gods are good; they’ve provided a whole army to entertain me.”
“And Juliet?” Evander looked to the Summiteer in the room he had known the longest.
“Well, I’ve got Chimera Paws,” she began, pulling a leather quiver from the table. Made from wood breathed upon by chimera, they were no easy build. However, the effect was worth the searching. Aside from superheating the target into slag, a wide acrid, toxic cloud was left in the arrow’s impact site for a couple of days, turning the lungs of anyone unfortunate enough to breath the gas into flakes of ash. “A dozen. But I’ve been working on this…” Juliet hesitatingly pinched at the deep blue nock of an arrow, as if it might bite back. With a few squeaks of pain, she took hold of the arrow and gingerly drew it from her quiver. Golden eagle feathers, scarred with a jagged black pattern made up the flights. The nock horn was elk antler, though it pulsed subtly between navy and royal blue. More dark, jagged scars ran down the wooden shaft towards the pile, bruised with brownish-red blotches.
“You’re kidding?” Ignatius gasped, leaning in to get a closer look.
“Are you sure it works; I mean nobody’s hair is standing on end?” Bunny added. “Not that Kellen ever had anything to work with.”
“Enough for your sister to hold on to,” Kellen retorted.
“Well, I think it works. I mean, I’ve done everything correctly. And all the materials are correct; feathers from a golden eagle, struck by lightning during winter; antler from a glassy-mountain elk struck by lightning during spring; wood from a spruce tree struck by lightning during summer; and steel from a knight’s sword struck by lightning during autumn. I’ll confess to orchestrating the last one.”
“Orchestrating?” Evander inquired, curious.
“I stole a sword from some fella in a mercenary company, a knight obviously,” she answered. “Then set it outside on stormy nights.”
“I wouldn’t have been bothered with orchestrating the tying up an elk, or an eagle, as well,” Kellen added.
“I’m surprised the sword didn’t explode when struck,” Bunny said.
“It’s a metal rod, not a tree. How did you ever become a Summiteer, and not a court’s fool?” Juliet replied.
“He is. He’s, our fool,” Ignatius added throwing a loose bit of wood from a shelf towards Bunny.
“Whilst that’s all true, let’s not get distracted,” Evander said, stepping up to the table and pulling in everyone’s attention. “I’m holding three dozen Knight Slayers, two dozen Shooting Stars, and two dozen Banshees.”
“Are you grave robbing again?” Bunny said in jest, though through a nonchalant tone.
“You can’t get the materials from bodies, you have to get the hair from the source,” Evander replied. “And Aeker knows plenty of people in the Death Guild.”
“He’s probably their go-to guy for bows and arrows too,” Kellen added, referencing the fact that Aeker Murdock was The Sigel’s best bowyer, fletcher, and arrow smith – greater in his craft than any Summiteer.
“That’s another reason I like to keep an eye on him,” Evander said. “Anyway, these Banshee’s will work to deter godheads, so hopefully we won’t have to kill any – but that said, you do what you have to.”
Evander pulled a single Banshee arrow from his leather quiver. A dark brown, almost black bar ran long the top the flights, with stone grey bars against pale, off white barbs. These were crypt eagle feathers, essential for the magical effects, but less so than the vivid orange banshee hair tying them to the shaft. Corruption in the form of seething black tendrils ran the length of the shaft. Even the wood was a sickly pale white. The effect was an arrow which caused the air surrounding its path to vibrate so violently it would sheer apart the hardest of materials, tearing flesh and muscle and bone, reducing everything to fine powder or pulp. However, from the arrow came a supersonic pitch, so shrill it would shred the eardrums of those it was loosed at.
“Right, Juliet, I want that Gods’ Spear to be our opening act. It’ll be Men-at-Arms.” Evander looked to Kellen, the most experienced, who nodded in agreement.
“Their size, ironically, is their problem. It’ll take time to reorganise and recover from our raid and muster an assault force. I’m not expecting them to show up until tomorrow. But it’ll be as soon as the sun peeks above the horizon.” Kellen explained. “And without engineers, environs, or any siege infantry, they can’t risk trying anything after dark.”
“Well, come dawn we loose that Gods’ Spear,” Evander explained to the group.
The Gods’ Spear arrow worked as a lightning rod of sorts, except it summoned arcs and bolts of lightning down towards the enemy. The power behind each strike would vaporise any poor sod who stepped beyond the threshold of the arrow impact.
“Assuming it works,” Ignatius mused. “We could wait, until they’re under the walls, and loose the arrow into the masses?”
Juliet made a hesitant noise, then spoke. “The arrow establishes a threshold through its impact, defining how and where the lightning strikes. That threshold must be crossed for the weaponised magic to strike. A crushed mob beneath our walls isn’t advancing. The power would be wasted.”
“And you’re confident it’ll work?”
“Well, if it doesn’t, then it we hit them with volleys from the infantry, as planned. And keep pitch, rocks, and torches for the ladders and ropes,” Evander answered, though he was confident the Gods’ Spear would work. “Until they throw their full force of knights and godheads against us, we hold back on the rest of our specialist arrows. Fiadh, you’re the best with distances, so I want you on the wall signalling down to the regulars, distances, and arrow types to use, got it?”
“Got it,” she affirmed.
“Kellen, make the north-east tower your own, because you’re going to be in it until I say otherwise, gulls be damned.”
“Plenty of eggs to keep me full and happy, looking forward to it, Evey,” Kellen replied.
“Juliet, take the farther right of the north wall. Bunny, take the west tower on the north wall. I’ll be somewhere in the middle with Fiadh. Stick to your standard arrows and prioritise anyone who looks important, leave the fodder to the volleys. Are we good?”
“For people who are sober, I suppose so,” Bunny quipped.
VI
As the day went on the world became eerily quiet. Evander couldn’t tell if it was always like this so far into the north of the peninsula or if it was the tension from the soldiers hanging in the atmosphere.
On the northern lawns, an impromptu archery range had been established for soldiers to sharpen their skills, keep ready, or try to take their minds off of things. Wagers were always being made, and cheers and verbal abuse rang high.
From the age of seven, all Maytoni were required to train in archery, and did so until eighteen. For Evander it had been a nightmare at the beginning. He was the least coordinated child in his school, and arguably the weakest; constantly struggling with the bite of the string on his fingers and failing to get the back tension correct, never mind hold it. His arrows went short and wide, whilst everyone else’s struck the targets.
In his early teens however, he began to get it. At that time in his life, he began to experience the murky dark which creeped over his mind and into his spirit, crippling his will, his joy, and motivation. It was a perverse whirlpool of doubt and emptiness, which could pollute even his soul with despair, and dejectedness. Until one evening, his bow, a length of Maytoni yew, with faded shadow-brown grain and a deer-hide grip, shone like a beacon. Never before had the device held any allure, and Evander had been looking forward to the days when he no longer had to drill with the dreaded thing. But he picked it up anyway, and felt compelled in his spirit to shoot, and shoot well. Whilst this did not cast off his sickness, it allowed him to fight back against it in a significant capacity.
At the time he had no idea what had come over him, however, in later years, after meeting Ebrill, she would give him the answer. The Gods wanted Evey to be an archer. Now, he was the archery elite, not just in Maytoni, but the world over. Very few known places could field archers as elite as the Summiteers.
With so many soldiers crammed in amongst the buildings and inside them, there was nowhere to go for a peaceful walk. Rather, the walls were the sparsest place, relatively speaking, with soldiers stationed every ten paces. In pairs, the sentries consisted of an archer and a regular. The archer was equipped with a horn bow, a quiver of specialist arrows such as armour piercing, anti-infantry broadheads, shrieking, and hammer-heads. By each pair was a bushel, filled to the capacity with more arrows, like a jagged bush strapped up tightly. The regular soldier held a poleaxe, a dagger, and had to their disposal cauldrons of pitch, above a small fire, and neat piles of rocks too.
Most of them held bored expressions as they looked out over the vast emptiness. Even Evander had to admit he was getting bored, and that there was nothing to the far north of the peninsula, other than strategic value. Only dull, fading green grass, with a mess of nearly dead pine trees farther north and west, where he and his team has been just the day before. At least the enemy couldn’t sneak up on them, aside from not having the unconventional style of soldier required, the rocky bed only inches under the soil made tunnelling, and trench building impossible.
Juliet was with him, and they walked in silence, inspecting the wall and those guarding it. Most were nervous at the presence of Summiteers, though some were eager to impress, and others indifferent, or too professional to really care, keeping a sharp eye out on the horizon.
Evander had known Juliet for seventeen years since his university days. The two had met early on and stayed good friends throughout. Afterwards they had both joined the military, but served in different locations, only to be reunited after completing Summiteer selection.
“They were never going to come,” Juliet said softly, a wisp of mist coming from her mouth as the temperature dropped going into evening. With no cloud cover, it was going to be a bitter night. “In the back of my mind I was entertaining the idea they would hit us in the early evening.”
“For me it was just the irrational worry that comes with being in command,” Evander replied, looking out into the hazy light, blurred by the indigo and navy dusk.
“Second guessing they call it.”
“First light, they’ll be on us. They need this fort now.” Evander had said it so many times yet could hardly believe it himself. Why hadn’t they just withdrawn after their siege equipment had been destroyed? It was ludicrous.
“If they had killed a Pastoral, we’d be over that boarder, in those mountains looking to capture high values persons, or assassinate those responsible,” Juliet said, as if reading his mind.
“I get your point. Our holy interpreters, our representatives of the Gods. Still, we’d be precise, swift. It’d be us, not an army group invading their land. And frankly the Church would be open to dialogue and explanations from the Xellcarrian Regency first to get the whole story,” Evander replied, leaning forward on the cold wall.
They stood in the quiet for a while, the world gradually darkening around them.
“You know, in my late teens, when I’d come to terms with my, sexuality,” Evander began.
“Our common ground,” Juliet added squeezing his shoulder. It had been a relief to find in Juliet someone who was attracted to both the same and opposite sex. For a while Evander worried that he was the only one in the whole of the country, and sick.
“In my late teens, I had a fantasy, of falling in love with a Xellcarrian. I’d move to one of the Peek Cities, and we’d look after griffins and practise archery together. And I could reside someplace truly accepting of someone like me.” The once sweet, warm thoughts only stung at Evander now, especially knowing he had spilled Xellcarrian blood already.
It felt as if something had been torn from him unwillingly, something wholesome and pivotal to his wellbeing and nature. Evander felt a responsibility now, as if he had not fought hard enough to hold on to the purity and worthiness of these thoughts.
“It’s all on the so-called prince. We’ll get back to normalcy soon enough,” Juliet replied. “Gods, it’s all so surreal. I’ve been doing this as long as you, it’s nothing different from what we’ve done in the past, and yet it’s painfully strange and unfamiliar.”
Before he could reply, a runner came clattering along the wall, panting. “Sergeant Penrose, message for you.”
VII
The group gathered back in the dimness of the cellar they were calling home.
Evander did not want any royalist spies overhearing their plans or conversations, nor did he want them intercepting their messages, which was why he had Ignatius stationed inside the dovecote on a permanent basis.
Evander broke the wax-stop on the tiny tube and pulled the parchment out, unfurling it eagerly.
“What does it say?” Fiadh inquired. However, Evander had already placed the small scrap on the table with shaky hands for all to see.
“Rook’s Nest,” he stated flatly.
