However, as the army headed north through Kiergard, news of their march spread, and the taciturn common people of the Vos came out from every small village and farm, bearing provisions for the troops. For generations, these simple, hard-working people had lived under the Gorgon’s depredations, and as they came out to feed the troops with whatever they could spare, they wished them luck and the blessings of their god.
Finally, the Army of Anuire stood on the high ground at the entrance to the Valley of Shadows. Battlewaite, with its obsidian walls and towers, loomed ominously in the distance above the Gorgon’s city of Kal-Saitharak. As Aedan glanced at Michael, at whose side he had ridden all the way, bearing his standard, he saw that same grim, stonefaced expression Michael had maintained ever since their march began. And he was worried.
The punitive campaign against Thurazor, which had been the reason for the army’s arrival in Boeruine, no longer mattered. All Michael wanted was revenge against the Gorgon. The Michael of old had returned, driven and obsessed, but to an extent Aedan had never seen before. The air around him seemed to vibrate. Michael was once more in his element, but this time, it was different. He barely spoke at all, except to issue orders. Lord Korven had asked to be included on this march, but the old man had served in his last campaign. He had gone lame, and his strength was failing him. He could still sit a horse, but no one believed anymore that he could fight. Michael had thanked him, but ordered him to remain at home with his grateful wife and children. Michael was the general on this campaign, delegating nothing. He personally saw to every last detail.
When they had marched halfway across Kiergard, he had stopped the troops on the outskirts of the forest and ordered siege towers built. Squads of men with axes had gone into the forest and felled trees for the purpose, fitting and lashing and pegging the logs together to form three wooden siege towers for the assault on Battlewaite. Large logs were sawed for planks with which to construct the wheels to move them. He also ordered the construction of two trebuchets to hurl boulders at the fortress walls, and large logs were stripped and fitted with handholds to make half a dozen battering rams. A score of scaling ladders were constructed, and archers took the time to make more arrows.
They did not rush unduly in any of these tasks, for there was no point to it. They would have no advantage of surprise. Raesene knew they were coming. They would meet on his home ground in the Valley of Shadows, on the plain outside Kal-Saitharak. Michael knew the Gorgon would be just as busy assembling his army and making preparations to meet the attack.
Now, they stood upon the high ground above that plain, looking down at the opposing army drawn up to meet them. Aedan knew Raesene would not order his forces forward to attack. That would give Michael the high ground. The Black Prince would wait until they came down to him.
There was a distance of several miles separating them, so neither Aedan nor Michael could make out individuals among the opposing troops. They could not tell at this distance if Raesene himself was leading them, but Aedan could not imagine the Gorgon remaining in his castle when the opportunity he had awaited for so long had come marching to his door. For centuries, he had nursed a deep hatred of the Roeles, his half-brother’s descendants, and now it would be settled, one way or the other, once and for all.
As the two opposing armies faced each other, Aedan’s thoughts turned back over the years to a time when two much smaller “armies” had faced each other on the plains of Seaharrow. At this distance, the bodies looked small, and he could easily picture them as children. For a surreal moment, that was how he saw them, in their little suits of armor with their wooden swords and shields, grim-faced and very determined as they prepared to reenact the Battle of Mount Deismaar.
Now they would reenact it once again, in deadly earnest. In years to come, the bards would sing the ballad of this battle, the Battle of Battlewaite. Or perhaps they would call it the Battle of the Gorgon’s Crown. They would sing of all the brave men who were about to fall here, and they would extol the glory of the victor—whoever he may be.
Aedan wondered if Vaesil would compose one of those ballads and if he would survive to hear it. Strangely, for the first time in his life, he felt no fear before going into battle. Just a sense of nervous expectation. Perhaps that wasn’t a good sign. Vaesil would enjoy the irony of this, he thought. If he knew the entire story, he would doubtless include it in his composition, the story of two boys who fought a play battle in their childhood and grew up to relive it for real. Only this time, there would be no arguments about who would play Raesene. Raesene was here himself to act out his own role, much more powerful and dangerous than he had ever been. There would be real goblins shouting their ululating war cries instead of children snarling as they played pretend. There would be real gnolls, with their wolfish teeth and snouts instead of little boys howling in imitation of beasts they had thankfully never before encountered. The only thing missing was the elf contingent, who would not be here to turn the tide of battle at the crucial moment.
The past had come full circle, with the dark forces of the traitor prince faced off against the lineal descendant of the original Roele. Only this time, there were no gods to intervene and shake the earth. This battle would be fought to the bitter end by all-too-mortal men.
The troops waited in expectation for Michael’s traditional address before each battle, but Michael simply sat astride his horse, staring out at the opposing army. He had a faraway look in his eyes, almost as if he weren’t seeing them but something else. Perhaps a row of armored children arrayed across the plain.
“Sire,” said Aedan. “Sire?”
Michael turned toward him. There was a strange look upon his face—distant, dreamy. His eyes, so often angry and full of fire in the past, were calm.
“Sire, the troops are awaiting your address.”
“Ah,” said Michael softly. He rode his horse out in front of them, and a hush fell over the army.
For a moment, he simply sat there, his gaze scanning the ranks. Every eye was on him. He gave the shortest speech he had ever given in his life.
“It ends here!” he said, his voice ringing out clearly. He drew his sword and held it high over his head as he turned his mount. “Advance!”
Aedan trotted up beside him with the standard as the army moved off at a marching pace down the slope into the plain. Across from them, standing perfectly still, was the Army of the Gorgon. They were as motionless as statues, all dressed in black armor, pennants fluttering in the breeze. There was no sound upon the field except the steady tramping of feet and the clinking of armor and gear. Inexorably, they closed the distance.
Michael rode silently, staring intently straight ahead, his gaze scanning the opposing ranks for some sign of Raesene. When they had almost reached the bottom of the slope, Aedan noticed Michael stiffen, and his gaze locked on. He looked in the same direction. For several moments, he could not pick out what Michael saw, and then he spotted it and wondered that it did not stand out more clearly.
It was the first time he had ever laid eyes on Prince Raesene, and he saw that the stories they told about his size were true. He sat astride the largest war-horse Aedan had ever seen, a black Percheron with tufted hooves and a long, dark, flowing mane. But as large as the horse was, its rider dwarfed it. He was easily three times the size of a normal man, incredibly massive and wide, dressed in black armor like his troops except for the red dragon emblazoned on his breastplate. Next to him stood his standard-bearer, holding aloft the black and red colors of Raesene—a red dragon rampant on a field of black, surmounted by jagged lightning.