Avatar of Calderia (eBook)

Chapter 1
Drums of War

It came like thunder, a deafening percussion that rolled down from the hills and out over the harbor, reverberating off the walls of buildings, rattling windows, and sending waves of alarm through the startled populace of the port city. The sound might have been the harbinger of a terrible storm advancing toward them, but the skies above were blue and cloudless, with no sign of dark turbulence or bright flashes of lightning arcing down from the heavens. And thunder did not peal in such perfect cadence like this relentless, rhythmic booming that was shaking the ground relentlessly and growing louder with each passing moment.

No, it was not a coming storm. It was not thunder nor was not lightning. It was the explosive pounding of Brukkeshan war drums, heralding the arrival of the Emperor Rak`koth’s Imperial armies.

They came to Mertania’s chief port as commanded, the warriors of the emperor’s vassal nations, marching in unison in a long, serpentine column that was visible for miles as it stretched back over the hills and disappeared beyond the horizon. A cohort of Brukkeshan drummers led the way, beating their heavy knobbed sticks on finely cured calf skins stretched tautly over large metal cylinders strapped to their shoulders and waists. Behind them came another row of drums, these so large that they were mounted on wagons and drawn by beasts of burden, while muscular men stood beside them, wielding massive drumsticks the size of tree limbs. It was a mighty and ominous sound, intended to strike terror into the hearts of any enemy, sapping their confidence and evoking the desire to flee for their lives.

In the vanguard rode thousands of the emperor’s Black Legion, arrogant, hulking men mounted on great black destriers, their horned ebony helms and heavy armor polished to a sheen that glinted in the sunlight. These were Rak`koth’s most elite warriors, hated by many and feared by all for the cruelty and lust for killing for which they had been so carefully chosen—though no one dared to voice that hatred aloud. These brutes favored maces, morningstars and swords, though they were trained to be lethal with all manner of weapons, and to relish killing for its own sake.

Next came the Kal`Dathian cavalry regiments, formidable fighters in their own right, wearing silver armor and helms emblazoned with the Imperial crest, white lightning bolt crossing each other on a black field. These mounted units were armed with lances and sabers that had been baptized many times over in the blood of the emperor’s foes. An army of Kal`Dathian foot soldiers marched behind them, announcing their passage with the crash of fists striking silver breastplates and thousands of hobnailed boots stomping in time to the pounding of the drums.

They were followed by the vassal armies of warriors levied from all across Surrikand: tall Brukkeshan spearmen; swarthy Paressian swordsmen and archers, shorter in stature but no less deadly; huge, blond, bare-chested Jarlonders men and women, clad only in kilts and known to go into battle naked, wielding great axes and broadswords in their berserker rages; detachments of brawny, black-haired Mertanian Imperial Guards; and a host of fierce fighters from other nations in the south of the continent, including Sudenor and Thracyll.

Behind them walked a horde of Dul`Charian plainsmen, less disciplined in their march, talking and laughing among themselves, their wild hair falling down around their shoulders. Garbed in animal furs and hides, and smelling of grease and unwashed flesh, these unruly barbarians were accompanied by their “holy” shamans—small, brown-skinned men wearing little more than filthy loincloths and garish face paint. Their braided hair and scrawny bodies reeked of the sickening odor of their grisly rituals of human sacrifice performed to make their blood magic.

Missing from the long parade were the thousands of Imperial Dread Riders who would be making the sea voyage as well. These gaunt, eerily silent gray-cloaked horsemen with lifeless eyes were impervious to pain, no matter how badly wounded; and were said to be nearly invincible in battle when sustained by daily draughts of the shamans’ fell blood potions. Dek`ker, their commander, had brought them to the harbor by a different route, keeping them apart because most of the other soldiers—except, perhaps, for the members of the Black Legion—were viscerally uncomfortable around these creatures, who seemed more like ghosts or the undead risen from the grave than men of flesh and blood.

All told, some fifty thousand warriors had answered Rak`koth’s call. It was the greatest assemblage of military forces ever undertaken in Surrikand—and perhaps on all of Tiaran. Their numbers were so great that it took several candlemarks just to file past the Mertanian Palace under the emperor’s review.

Those residents of the harbor who did not run and hide turned out to line the streets, waving and gawking in fear and wonder at the astounding spectacle unfolding before their eyes. Some women threw flowers and ribbons to welcome them, while others tried a more brazen approach with loosened bodices or flashes of leg to gain their attention. Some foolish citizens who stood too close to the mounted riders were not so fortunate. Those who failed to move out of their path quickly enough were callously trampled under the hooves of the Legionnaires’ huge warhorses without a flicker of concern, leaving crushed and broken bodies in their wake.

As the port itself could not begin to accommodate such a massive influx of people, the armies from each vassal state were directed to bivouac in designated staging areas on the slopes of the foothills surrounding the harbor—save for the Dread Riders, who encamped some distance away. There, the combined armies would await orders to begin the long process of embarking on the scores of warships anchored offshore. Indeed, the number of men was so great that it would take an eight-day or so just to load them all on to barges and ferry them out to the vessels that would transport them across the Luminous Sea to Balleterria.

The unfortunate units who were chosen to board the ships first would have to spend days confined in close quarters, floating in the harbor while waiting until the rest of the fleet was ready to launch. Thus, they would also be the first to endure seasickness, unappealing shipboard rations, and the inevitable stench of hundreds of bodies crowded into a cramped space with little water for bathing and only buckets to serve as communal chamber pots. Before long, such conditions would give rise to many of the vessels being cursed as “stinkin’ shit boats,” at least when out of earshot of the captains.

High above them, Emperor Rak`koth stood on the balcony of Mertania Palace, inspecting his mighty invasion force. Even he had been stirred by the relentless pounding of the war drums as they approached, leading his armies of destiny. The sight of fifty thousand warriors filled his thoughts with intriguingly vivid images of brutal conquest and glorious victory, visions that made his blood rise and his crimson orbs burn brighter.

All was in place for his great undertaking. The men would begin boarding the ships on the morrow. The Harbormaster was already in the process of loading food, supplies, weapons, equipment and other necessary materials onto the cargo ships that would sail with the fleet. The “special” human cargo required by the Dul`Charian shamans would be stored in the holds of the vessels reserved for the Dread Riders alone. As for the beasts of war, the deadly three-hundred pound Sudenorian war hounds, and the furry, eight-foot tall mountain-bred Gruks, they would all be given strong sedatives that would keep the otherwise vicious animals calm enough to make the long sea voyage without ravaging each other or the ships’ crews.

Rak`koth watched for a little while longer to ensure that his commanders were properly overseeing the disposition of their men, and getting them settled in their assigned areas without incident. These different armies held little love for each other, and there had already been more than one armed skirmish between them while on the road to the port city.

The Dark sorcerer would not tolerate insubordination from any quarter. He had already ordered the troublemakers to be impaled on tall, sharpened stakes mounted by the side of the road, where they were left to die a slow and agonizing death, their terrible screams serving as an object lesson to the others about the fatal consequences of disobedience. He trusted that the rotting corpses of the ship builder crews still hanging on their crosses in the harbor would also serve as a further reminder that their lives were in his hands.

But perhaps his men needed one more lesson about the folly of violating his strict prohibitions against attacking each other before they boarded the ships and were forced to endure close quarters for several eight-days. There would be no rioting on his vessels during the long voyage. He raised his arm and signaled down to one of his Black Legion captains who was standing below the balcony, awaiting his command.

The captain bowed his ebony helm in obeisance, slapped his fist to his chest and made a beckoning motion. In a moment, a motley group of some one hundred men from the various vassal states—Paressians, Brukkeshans, Dul`Charians, Jarlonders, and even several Kal`Dathian foot soldiers—were herded forward by Legionnaires using spears and pikes to prod them into an area directly below Rak`koth’s vantage point. More than one of the men felt a sharp spear tip puncture his...