In the Shadow of the Storm -Chapter 1-15

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 - Althalos

A few hours earlier...

As the group of scouts surveyed the construction of the camp from a nearby ridge, Althalos signalled with his hand to the remaining mounted man who sat his horse just below the line of the ridge.  The man nodded in recognition and turned his horse, riding back in the direction of the main body of the Horse Troop.
“You are not in charge of this scout, elf, you do not give the orders.” The speaker was a short, squat man, a stereotypical squad lieutenant; overly officious, and in love with the petty duties he was given, which he took very seriously. His mouth twisted as he named Althalos, bestowing only the same amount of courtesy on him as he was used to.
“Yes sir, my apologies, sir.” The words came out tight with anger, in a soft, quiet voice, which somehow made the words menacing.
The lieutenant almost recoiled, before recovering himself. “Alright, move out, we are to rejoin the column within the hour, and we attack at nightfall.” With a vicious look in Althalos’ direction, he turned his back and started down the hill towards where the horses were tethered.

As darkness fell, the men of the Troop quietly formed up a few hundred yards clear of the herd enclosures. With a signal from the Troop commander, an arrow leapt for each of the herders with a soft hiss. As the last gurgled noises receded, the horsemen spread around the perimeter of the camp, hooves muffled with rags and then, as one, heeled their mounts into a charge into the centre of the camp, swords and lances glinting in the firelight. The slaughter began as the cavalry swords and lances began to rise and fall, claiming lives indiscriminately. Althalos crashed into the camp at speed, before heading towards the central fire in search of foes. Before he got there however, he came across a wild-looking clansman just emerging from his tent, weapon in hand, but nonetheless seeming disorientated. In an attempt to take advantage of this, Althalos spurred his mount towards the man, intending to claim his first victim.

As he approached, he swept his sword down in a blow meant for the figure’s throat, the blade singing through the air. His opponent dodged to the side with a speed which belied his size which, Althalos now realised, was enormous. His initial pass having parted nothing but air, he yanked his horse to a halt before wheeling and charging once again. This time, his opponent dived in between two tents, the sheer unexpectedness of which caught him off guard. Althalos scarcely had time to wonder at this withdrawal before his opponent suddenly reappeared, crashing out of the darkness and bearing both of them to the ground. After some serious struggle, during which Althalos received a brutal kick to the stomach, his massive opponent rolled clear and to his feet.

Rising slowly, and favouring his side with the undamaged ribs, Althalos began to grasp just how large this clansman was; he was having to crane his neck back just to look his ‘victim’ in the face. He did not have long to ponder however, as the giant launched a savage attack, again displaying unexpected agility for someone of his bulk. Stepping to the side to avoid a brutal downward swing, Althalos moved forwards, closer to his opponent, so as to get inside the reach of the axe. It was then he realised his error. This man did not need an axe to best him, he would break him with his bare hands. As if reading his thoughts, the clansman dropped his axe, grabbed Althalos and punched him in the face. The world went briefly dark as the man’s steel-solid fist crunched, bone to bone, into Althalos’ nose and cheek. Regaining his wits as quickly as possible, he shook free, sliding away, and causing his chain coif to slide down around his neck, revealing his distinctive ears.

Even as he attempted to recover from his savage beating, Althalos noticed the shock of his heritage wash over the man opposite him. An educated savage? His kind were not well known, and so it was rare for anyone to recognise him. From what he saw however, this man knew exactly what he was, which meant that he was incredibly well-travelled (unlikely – the people of the Ethernath Waste rarely travelled too far West), or he was incredibly well-educated, which was seemingly as unlikely – although Althalos did not possess much knowledge of the education of these tribesmen.

Noticing his opponent’s prolonged distraction, Althalos lunged forwards, whipping his sword out in an attempt to cripple. The blow was greeted only by air as the man yet again moved with speed defying his size, stepping back. Althalos pursued, eager to bring the confrontation to a close. It was only after he began his next attack that he again realised his mistake. Despite his Gods-given strength, the man in front of him was easily strong enough to best him physically. As he stepped in for a potential killing strike, his opponent simply caught his wrist, halting the downward progress of the sword in its tracks. Althalos was forced to suppress a shriek of pain as the bones of his wrist were crushed. The pain built up in his wrist, and seemed to shoot down his arm before the force of it crashed into his mind in vast, blinding waves. He scarcely had time to recover his wits, before a knee powered into his groin, forcing an almost exaggerated exhalation.

Broken and struggling for breath, Althalos’ slight form was lifted and bodily hurled into the side of a nearby tent, which caused the whole structure to collapse on top of the near-unconscious elf.  As Althalos weakly struggled against the oppressive canvas, he was shocked when the expected blow did not land. Mercy? From an Ethernath? After a few moments he found an opening in the tent, and crawled through, before rolling drunkenly to his feet. Stumbling away in the opposite direction of the giant barbarian, Althalos began looking for a horse, all the while cradling his crippled wrist. A sudden flash lit up the sky in the west, so he began wobbling in that general direction, assuming that would be where the comparatively friendly troops were. As he emerged from the sprawl of tents into a relative clearing, he spotted a riderless gray horse picking its way carefully through the corpses sprawled around on the floor.

Approaching slowly so as not to startle the already nervy beast, he got his undamaged hand to the bridle and halted its progress.
“You there! Get away from my horse, elf.”
Hearing the sneer in the exclamation, Althalos did not need to turn to know who the speaker was. He did so anyway, and saw a surprisingly bloodied squad lieutenant striding towards him. “What happened to you?” came the cool reply, the pained expression washing off Althalos’ face as he turned.
“One of those giant savages dragged me off my horse, tried to beat me to death with his hands.” The words were spoken almost as a complaint; a petulant and naive child wondering why the world wasn’t fair.
“People do tend to do that if you are riding around killing them.” Still Althalos had yet to show his commander a shred of respect or deference.
“Pah! What does it matter if I kill them? They’re just a bunch of savages, barely human, barely more than beasts, and certainly not worth worrying about.”
As these words drifted across the space between them, the lieutenant noticed something change about Althalos’ bearing; an almost imperceptible change, a lowering of his centre of mass, a sudden warning flashing across his face. If he had not been so arrogant, he may have realised how close he was to harm. 

Althalos was incensed by this fool’s callous disregard for the importance of life, and how he could liken killing his own kind to the slaughter of animals. As the words flowed over him, it felt as though he was doused in cold water, all emotion seemed to wash out of him, and he lowered into a fighting stance, despite his damaged wrist. His face twisted for an instant, as he felt overwhelming hatred for the ideals this man stood for, but he forced himself to remain calm: as in pain as he was, the human might well be able to defeat him, even without anger clouding his decisions.  It seemed however, that he needn’t have worried; the fool hadn’t noticed that he was about to die. Leaping forwards to close the gap, he drew his sword left-handed in the air. Before the lieutenant had even processed that Althalos was moving, he had already been impaled on the end of the wickedly sharp blade. As the adrenaline rush left his body, Althalos gasped in pain and dropped his sword, the already dead man sliding off the end of it. As his vision began to darken, Althalos began to stumble once again in the direction of the gathered horsemen. He made it perhaps a dozen steps, before the sheer weight of the waves of pain cascading over him became too much, and he collapsed into blackness amongst the still forms of the numerous corpses.
***
Modred

Modred led his weary patrol into the encampment. He still marvelled, after ten years in the Corps, at the supreme efficiency of the Laternae army. It was standard procedure this close to the border to construct temporary fortifications to protect the Troop as they slept.
Each Troop consisted of roughly five thousand men, commanded by a colonel, which was divided into Lances of a hundred, commanded by their own captains, and then patrols or squads of twenty which would be led by lieutenants. Upon finding a suitable position to camp, every other Lance would set to digging out a trench around the perimeter, piling the dirt on the inside to form a rough earthen rampart. From the baggage train would then come wooden stakes to form a palisade at the top of this.
Meanwhile, the other Lances would set to organising the inside of the camp, erecting tents in straight lines, organising horse picket lines, and digging latrines.

He passed through the entrance to the camp; one of two such points where the perimeter ditch was interrupted, and headed towards the part of the camp where his patrol were billeted. The system was such that the same units were placed in the same place every time the camp was established. The thinking was that this would promote discipline to a certain extent, as well as continuity, as it meant that the Captains would not be constantly pestered by their subordinates returning from patrols and asking where they were to sleep.
“You and you, come with me. The rest of you, see to your mounts and then get some food.” The two men he indicated first groaned, and shot venomous looks at the still unconscious elf slumped on the remount between them. Remaining mounted, they followed their lieutenant through the ordered rows of tents towards the slightly larger, and separate tent of their Troop Colonel. Upon reaching the entrance, Modred found his way blocked by two guards, until they saw the copper pips marking the front of his breastplate.

“Lieutenant you may enter, but these other two, and that must remain here.” This, indicating the immobile form of Althalos with disdain.
Ducking into the tent, Modred was greeted by the sight of his Lance Captain, a weathered and tough-looking man by the name of Kendryek. An anointed Lord, Kendryek was set for lands and a castle when he retired. All the Colonels of the eight Troops were Lords, and to receive pensions in the form of lands and small castles. Similarly, all of the Lance Captains were members of the minor nobility; second and third sons, the junior siblings who stood no chance at gaining lands through their family. Many of the lieuntenants were knights who were so as a result of service as a squire beginning in their teens, or even younger, or as a result of personal acts of valour.

The Royal Crossbowmen apparently used a similar system although Modred doubted any of them had been knighted for acts of valour; they had not been involved in a field battle in centuries. Not even during the Schism thirty years ago in which the Cantari had broken away from the Republic.
As well as these nobles, there was obviously a number of landed nobles scattered across the countryside, and each major city had its own governor. Each noble had their own castle or tower as well as the surrounding land; the source of their wealth through taxes and rents imposed on their bondsmen. These bondsmen also served as men-at-arms when required, armed with whatever weapons they could find, and ranged massively, from swords and shields in more affluent areas, to simple hand axes and bows. Although these troops were only semi-trained, it added a slight tactical flexibility to the Lancer Corps. As useful auxiliary troops as they were, they had not really been required much except for the bloody Cantari Schism, in which they had played a fairly irrelevant role at best.

“Sir, my report: upon entering the woodland east of the savages’ camp, we encountered no survivors and...” pausing as the images of the clearing entered his mind, Modred had to steel himself before he carried on: “...we found another patrol. They had been...slaughtered, but not just that...they had been mutilated beyond recognition. We were forced to collect all the...pieces... and bury them in one mass grave. On our return journey, we did one more sweep of the camp and found that elf, Althalos?”
As he concluded, Kendryek grunted, seemingly uninterested in the demise of the first patrol. “It was only natural there would be some sort of retribution for our actions here, be thankful it was only one patrol. As for the elf, I’m surprised you brought him back at all,” here he snorted, “I’m surprised you didn’t leave him or kill him.” Modred remained silent, neglecting to mention how close it had come to that. “Still,” he continued, “now he’s back, what sort of state is he in? How soon will he be able to fight?”
Unsure how to present the news, Modred thought back to the discovery of Althalos’ mangled wrist and hand. “He has sustained a somewhat crippling injury, it looks like he was kicked by a horse: the bones in his wrist are ruined. It’s his sword arm as well, I don’t know if he will ever be able to wield a sword like he used to.”

On receipt of this, Kendryek slammed his hand into his camp table, causing everything on it to leap half an inch into the air. “Damn it, although he is the most arrogant being I have ever had the misfortune to meet, he is also the one with the most cause to be. I’ve never seen anyone with his ability, and don’t think I am ever likely to again.” Looking back at Modred, “We are being rotated out, back to Laternas. We’ll take him to a physician; see what he can do for him. Who knows, maybe for once they will be able to sort it out?”
Rising from his chair, and turning to another table where a sheaf of papers waited, Modred took this as a sign for his dismissal. He turned and ducked out of the tent. Remounting, he motioned for the two troopers to follow him, and they returned to their section of the camp.

The following morning, and all too early for the exhausted members of Modred’s patrol, the Troop broke camp in a frenzy of activity, packing tents and stakes back on to the baggage train, before mounting up and forming up in the centre of the now desolate square of the earthworks. It would take the best part of two weeks to return to the outskirts of the sprawling metropolis that was Laternas.
At least, reflected Modred, it would be in the opposite direction to those who had destroyed the patrol. There had to have been more than just the two he had seen, surely? Shivering despite the rising sun, he led his patrol away from the fort, following the winding column as it snaked along the road which cut across the plains which made up so much of eastern Laternae territory.

Glancing back to where he knew the baggage train would be, he absently wondered how Althalos was doing. The elf had only regained consciousness as camp had been broken and he had then been unceremoniously dumped on one of the carts with the other wounded, all the while cradling his ruined right hand.

As soon as he realised what he was doing, Modred shook himself, cursing his pity. Althalos was an elf, and if the stories of old were to be believed they were, as a people oppressive in the extreme, and uncaring for humans, who were seen as inferior and little better than animals. Gazing off into the distance, he settled into his saddle for a long ride back to the city.
***
Ingvarr

Ingvarr and Fyodor reached the makeshift encampment as dawn broke through, already impressed by the speed at which the traumatised refugees had travelled through the night. As they reached the clump of sparse trees where the camp was nestled, they saw that the temporary inhabitants were already making preparations to leave. Moving carefully towards the camp so as not to startle them, Ingvarr called out to the nervous refugees as he entered hailing distance. They instantly all looked round, the men already reaching for weapons, before seeing who it was and relaxing slightly.

“You are all ready? Good, let’s get going.” Scarcely pausing, the two Forerunners strode through the camp, with the refugees scrambling to catch up.
“Forerunner, I owe you my life, as do half the people here, and yet we do not even know your name...” It was the man who had taken charge in the camp, clearly around twenty-five years old, despite the ragged scars covering one side of his face.
“Ingvarr,” was the grunted response, before his mind began working, and he saw a potential opportunity to begin his new style of warfare.
“What about you? And how did you get those scars?”
The young man looked taken aback by the talkative change that had come over the Forerunner, so Ingvarr smiled to put him at ease, “I am considering ways to stop repeats of last night, and I think you can help me,” motioning at the group of refugees behind them.
“I’m Valdemar,” came the cautious reply, “and the scars are from my childhood; I was involved in one of the very first migrations as a child. I was twelve when we entered hostile territory; they hit us exactly like they did last night, and got sliced across the cheek when I was fighting my way clear.”

At the last, Ingvarr’s eyebrows rose, “But you said you were twelve?”
Valdemar smiled, and there was sadness mixed the grim reality behind his eyes, “You are never too young to die, as I discovered that night, which means you are never too young to fight. My entire family was killed on that night: my parents and my two younger sisters, and since then, I have been looking for an opportunity to strike back; it sounds like you may be able to help with that.” With a vicious grin, Valdemar, tried to look into Ingvarr’s face in an attempt to discern what he was thinking.
“I certainly can, but I want no recklessness from you. It will take discipline to defeat these Laternae as they call themselves. If you can promise me that you will never lose control, I will take you into the West along a road paved with Laternae dead. I need to think, but consider yourself my Hetman for now. Return to the others and see if they wish to join with me.”
His words had the desired effect, as Valdemar first nodded vigorously and then as Ingvarr concluded, his chest swelled slightly with pride. “Yes Forerunner, I will follow you until my dying breath.” The newly-appointed Hetman Valdemar retreated back to his group of refugees, where he began talking excitedly to the group, ever y now and then gesturing towards the front of the group and Ingvarr.

Too distracted to notice, Ingvarr’s mind spiralled away until he became lost in his own thoughts. He tried to put together all he knew from his dealings with the Laternae over the past decades. He had been on many missions into enemy territory, the most useful of which had been those initial forays which had been with the sole intention of information gathering. The main strengths of the Laternae were their vaunted Lancer Corps, and their crossbow infantry, although he knew they were unlikely to face the latter unless the Ethernath attacked a city. The main problem then was dealing with the Lancers. He had seen the formations of ‘The Enemy’ using what were effectively long spears, by forming big, deep blocks of men with the result that their opponents were faced with a hedge of razor-sharp points. Ingvarr briefly considered this idea, before then discarding it. The lack of suitable materials to make such weapons meant that he had to devise a tactic which engaged only the types of weapons already in general use. Besides, he thought, it would require far more discipline than could be taught in a short period of time.

He began thinking about the strengths of the Ethernath style of life, and more specifically their style of fighting: they were excellent horsemen, and were proficient with large axes like his own, as well as knifes and swords – although these were far rarer – and finally bows. The bows that were used by the Ethernath were short, squat and yet very powerful bows; such power came from the double-recurve worked into the frame of every bow made by their bowyers.

And then he had the answer.  Thinking back to the woodland the night before, he realised that the difference between the Laternae and himself was the weight of armour. This cumbersome aspect could also easily be applied to their tactics. Of course, the Lancers were very good at employing ambushes and the like, yet their tactics remained very simplistic and restricted; it involved a straight charge at the enemy in the hope of breaking them which -Ingvarr was forced to admit- it normally did. But what if there was nothing to charge at? Combining the strengths of the Ethernath people in his mind formed the foundations for horse archers. Ingvarr thought about it more, realising that it would be a bold move: away from the martial traditions which promoted strength and physical size, to the more technical and skilful attributes required by horse archers. It would also require a lot of organisation, so that any battle would not simply collapse into chaos. This organisation would mean the creation of atamans and hetmans, to oversee the smaller units, and to provide the coordination between them. The idea of officers, and a chain of command would be a very hard concept for the Ethernath to accept; they were strongly resistant to any ideas of servitude, or even deference of any kind. The only people to whom they were even slightly deferent to were the Council; where the words hetman and ataman came from.

With this realisation, he began devising an idea of training in his head. After days of silent thought, Ingvarr realised that they had been travelling without pause. The landscape had gradually changed as they got nearer to the waste: from the hills and ridges thick with woodland, the area they were now moving through was becoming more barren. Black rocks protruded from the dry, cracked earth, and there were no trees in sight.
Glancing behind, the members of the group had kept up, with Fyodor bringing up the rear, keeping a watch on their back trail. Raising a hand, Ingvarr stopped walking, “Stop, we can afford to rest a few hours, and then it will be easier to travel faster overnight. We all need rest,” the last as he saw the expression of Fyodor’s face.

The group moved down into one of the numerous folds in the earth, so that there would be some shelter from the unforgiving winds which would howl throughout the night. Gathering all the men together, Fyodor quickly organised a watch rotation, so that everyone could rest. As he did so, a few of the women sidled up and offered to take a watch, so as to spread the burden.

Looking down at them, Fyodor was on the verge of sneering at them as he said: “What could you possibly do if we were attacked? No, leave warfare to the men.” At this, the three women who had presented themselves sullenly moved back down to the bottom of the ravine, muttering among themselves.

Needing less sleep than the others, Fyodor and Ingvarr would stay awake for half the time each. Ingvarr gratefully took the first stint of sleep, lying down on the bare earth, and falling asleep as his head touched the ground. After exactly three hours, Fyodor shook him awake, silently gesturing to the others who were being roused. Nodding to show that he had understood, Ingvarr rolled to his feet and strode to the edge of the camp where he took a seated position for his vigil.
***