They would never have thought that war was some noble and wonderful adventure if, as children, they had seen a battlefield in the aftermath of conflict. The ground torn up and littered with the bodies of the dead and dying, men with wounds so terrible that it made the gorge rise in one’s throat to look upon the sight, the moans and groans and screams of agony, the horrid buzzing of the flies attracted by the blood and the smell … the smell! Nothing could possibly be worse, thought Derwyn, than the putrid smell of war. When a man died in combat, his bowels let loose, and after a battle had been fought, the smell of human excrement and bodies rotting in the sun was so overpowering it brought tears to the eyes.
All those times when they had “killed” each other in their play and clutched at imaginary mortal wounds, each trying to outdo the other in the dramatic manner of his “death” … Would we have found death so dramatic, Derwyn thought, if we had actually seen it? He had seen more of it than he could ever have imagined, and there was nothing even remotely dramatic about it. Except, perhaps, its ugliness and pathos. And the soldiers were not the only ones to suffer.
Derwyn had seen the tormented faces of the families as they waited on the streets along the route of the army’s return, watching anxiously, fearfully, for their husbands and fathers and sons. He had heard the wails and screams of wives and mothers when the men that they were waiting for did not return, or came back maimed and crippled. He had heard and seen the crying of the children when they saw the broken bodies of their fathers or learned that they were never coming back. And each time he went through such a terrible experience, he felt as if another part of him had died. How could any man in his right mind love such an awful thing as war?
Perhaps, in some way, despite the horror of the reality, his father had somehow retained that part of boyhood that thought war was something grand. Or perhaps he had simply seen so much of it that its awful cost did not affect him anymore. Was that what he had to look forward to?
The first time they came back from a campaign, his “baptism of fire,” as his father had proudly referred to it, Derwyn had been so shattered by the experience that he fled to his room at the earliest opportunity, bolted the door, and fell down and wept. It was not himself he wept for, but those who had been killed or crippled, and he wept for their mothers, wives, and children, whose torment had struck him to the quick. But over the years, each time it became a little easier, affected him a little less. And that scared him more than anything else. He saw himself gradually turning into his father, who saw only the prize at the end of the journey, and not the toll one paid along the way. Perhaps that was why his mother had died brokenhearted. When the capacity to feel the pain of others had been burned out of a man, the capacity to love was gone as well.
Why did it have to be this way? Why was it not enough to be Archduke of Boeruine, one of the most powerful and respected nobles in the empire? Why did his father have to have it all? The people were sick of war. Derwyn saw it in their faces when the army was on the march. He had seen it in Boeruine, in Taeghas, in Brosengae and Avanil, in western Alamie; everywhere they went, he saw the faces of the common people watching from along the roadway, or in the fields where they worked as the army passed, or in the towns and villages they went through. It was their toil that supported the conflict, their crops taken, their livestock butchered, their fields trampled. And they probably didn’t care who won. They just wanted it to end. As did he.
“I grow weary of this waiting,” said his father in a surly tone. He picked up his goblet and drained it, setting it back down on the table so hard that Derwyn thought it would break. “If Gorvanak had done his part, we could have ended this cursed stalemate by now. He promised he would take Dhoesone, then cross its borders and attack Tuarhievel, striking from the west while the goblins of Markazor attacked the elven kingdom from the east. Trapped between the goblin forces, the elves could never have prevailed. Once Tuarhievel and Dhoesone had fallen, we could take Cariele and the goblins could march through Markazor on Elinie. Then the Pretender’s holdings would be encircled by lands that we control.
“It seemed a foolproof plan, but now Gorvanak complains that Zornak of Markazor refuses to cooperate. He fears to march in force upon Tuarhievel for fear that troops from Mhoried will move against his holdings while his forces are away. He will do it when Mhoried has been secured by us, but not before. And how in bloody blazes can I march on Mhoried when I have no idea where the Army of Anuire is? If I take Mhoried and they attack the garrisons at Brosengae again, or strike into our lands, we will be cut off.”
“We should have seized western Alamie when we had the chance and held it instead of marching on into Avanil,” said Derwyn. Then we would not have needed Zornak, and Avanil would have been flanked by territories we controlled.”
“Oh, so you’re a general now, are you, you young pup?” Arwyn said derisively. “If we had held western Alamie, it is we who would have been flanked, you fool. If we were cut off from the forest trails back into our lands, our forces would have been trapped between Duke Alam’s troops and the Army of Anuire. We would have had to fight every inch of our way back home, with nothing to be gained. No, Avanil is the key to victory. Take Avanil, and we have Ghieste. Then press south and push the Army of Anuire right into the Straits.”
“Only we cannot attack Avanil without marching through western Alamie once again,” Derwyn replied. “And each time we try, Michael counters by striking at the garrisons in Brosengae, preventing our forces there from crossing into Avanil to support our attack from the south. And the distance we must cover through western Alamie leaves him plenty of time to break off his assault upon the garrisons and march north to counter our advance while Avan holds his southern borders. It is a no-win situation. The Seamist Mountains, which secure Taeghas from attack by Avanil, also work against us by forcing us to march around them every time. If we could only find a way to march across them—”
“And lose half our forces to the ogres before we even meet the Army of Anuire? You tell me how we can avoid the ogres and get our supply train across those bloody mountains and maybe I will try it. Until then, leave the strategy to me.”
“I did not mean—”
“Who cares what you meant?” Arwyn drained another goblet. “That bastard Gorvanak won’t move against Tuarhievel unless I support him with troops from Talinie, but I need those troops to keep the Army of Anuire at bay. Especially when I don’t know where in blazes they are!”
“Perhaps if we used the Shadow World for transit, the way Michael does—”
“And risk having him outflank us while we are in there? No, we cannot afford to take that chance, and he knows it, damn his eyes. He has the advantage of mobility while we have the advantage of position. And neither of us can give up those advantages. He has proven himself an able commander, though of course, he has Korven to help him. Besides, each time he travels through the Shadow World, he sustains losses that cost us nothing. He cannot keep that up indefinitely.”
He’s kept it up for eight years, Derwyn thought, but said nothing out loud. What kind of fanatical loyalty does a man inspire who can keep leading men into the Shadow World? At least one major campaign each year, with sporadic fighting here and there throughout the winters, when the weather was too severe to mount campaigns. During the rainy season in the spring, the roads all turned to mud, the plains were soft and damp, and the bogs became more treacherous than ever. It was impossible to march in force with supply trains and siege engines. The catapults and rams sank into the ground up their axles. Summer and autumn were the times for war. So during the past eight years, how many times had Michael led troops through the Shadow World? A dozen? More? And how many of his fighters had he lost in there?