The mercenary captains felt their spirits lift as their chances of survival rose just a bit. Alex turned and headed for the Targa delegation, which was actually a combination of the Cordonia and Targa teams as the Cordonian army would be joining the fighting to save Tagaret. Baron Timor of Southland was speaking.
“The timing is the critical part of this. General Fortella’s Federation armies only have an eight-day march to Tagaret from Mya. If the Cordonian army and the Army of the West are to come up behind him in time to be of any use, we cannot assemble in Southland. It is too far away. We need to be much closer, and if we are closer, we risk alerting the enemy that we are onto their plan. I do not see an easy solution to this problem.”
“Fortella’s army just has to be slowed down,” offered Lieutenant Montbalm from Tor. “Fell trees across the path of his army.”
“Merely felling trees across his path will not be sufficient,” interjected Clint who was mingling with the group. “Fortella is a respectable opponent. In fact, the Federation has put some of their best generals in Force Targa. Capturing Tagaret is a high priority for them. Both Fortella and Bledsoe are known for driving their men beyond reason. General Pryblick is not so highly regarded, but his force is merely for support. It will take cleverness to slow down either Fortella or Bledsoe.”
“Abatis,” commented Alex. “Do not merely fell trees for the enemy, but fell them properly.”
Lieutenant Montbalm stared at Alex in confusion. “Explain.”
“If you can find appropriate spots along Fortella’s path,” explained Alex, “fell giant trees, not across his path, but rather with the tops facing the enemy. The maze of branches will act as further impediments to clearing the road. It will also give your archers an excellent chance to pick off those men sent ahead to clear the road. If properly done, it can waste a tremendous amount of the enemy’s time.”
“And what is a proper place?” asked Baron Timor.
“You must not block just the road,” answered Alex, “but the forest as well. You must choose a spot where a river or cliff limits the enemy’s options. In that narrowed area, create a wall of abatis and hide your archers behind it.”
“Harassing General Fortella’s men will fall to my people,” frowned Prince Garong, a prince of the elves and a Knight of Alcea. “The elves will be hesitant to cause such a massive destruction of trees.”
“I understand.” Alex nodded sympathetically. “King Arik will supply lumbermen who are skilled in that area, but you will need to protect those men, and do not let your people’s objections halt the lumbermen from their duties. If Tagaret falls, all of Alcea falls with it.“
“There is truth in Alex’s words,” added Clint. “These thirteen days will be the most trying in all our lives. If the Federation loses all of the other battles, they will still win the war by capturing Tagaret and King Arik. We must not let that happen.”
Alex nodded in agreement and turned to seek out Jenneva. He had only taken a few steps when he felt a hand upon his shoulder. He turned to find Governor Fernandez, and his old friend held a grim expression on his face.
“I have sad news from Cordonia,” the governor said softly. “Lyda has died. Can you get word to Karl?”
Sadness filled Alex’s heart, but he did not nod in agreement. “How did it happen?”
“We have had the most severe winter ever recorded,” answered Governor Fernandez. “The weight of the snow collapsed the roof where she was staying. There was nothing that could be done for her.”
Alex nodded in understanding. “I do not think the time is right to tell Karl that his wife has died. The news will devastate him, and he is about to enter an extremely trying time. The next four weeks will determine if Karl survives the coming ordeal himself. I think the news can wait until that is over.”
Chapter 8
Preparations for War
The wintry winds tore through the streets of Tagaret with a frigidness that caused almost everyone to huddle inside their homes and shops. Those few who braved the foul weather pulled their coats tightly around them, but it hardly mattered. Whether they were soldiers on patrol, or a merchant’s delivery person, each and every one of them was chilled to the bone, and the cause was not just the cold wind. Whipped along the streets of Tagaret, the winds carried a malevolent, ethereal entity, and its essence touched the mind of each being as it passed. The demon was searching.
Eventually, D’Artim found the information that he was looking for. He detached himself from the winds and soared to the cobbler located less than a block from the gates to the Royal Palace. The shop was closed, as were the others on the block, but such things could not deter a demon. D’Artim circled the shop and then flew through the wall. The cobbler was immediately alerted to the intruder, and the old man shoved his work aside. He cocked his head as he gazed around the small shop, trying to see the unseen.
“You have sensed my arrival,” D’Artim said approvingly as he materialized into his corporeal form. “What is this?” he asked as he waved a claw around the room. “Have you forgotten your mission? Have you decided to spend your remaining days making shoes for the humans?”
The Claw of Alutar narrowed his gaze as he stared at the demon. “I am not to be interfered with,” replied Artimor. “Why have you come?”
“Such love for your father,” chided D’Artim.
“You are not my father,” retorted Artimor. “Alutar is my Master. I recognize no other. You are only the carrier of his seed.”
D’Artim appeared shocked and disappointed by the rebuke, but he recovered quickly. “I am your father,” he declared, “but the point is hardly worth arguing over.”
“Why have you come?”
“To make sure that you do not fail in your assignment, as did your brothers and sister. You are the last of the Claws. You must succeed.”
“And so I shall,” Artimor stated emphatically. “I am the Claw of my Master. I was created to succeed.”
D’Artim sighed. He was used to demonkin being invested with arrogance, but this one was going too far. “The war is beginning, and we have had no report of your success. We need more assurances of your ability to strike down the Mage’s heroes. They are all in Tagaret at this very moment, and here I find you mending shoes. Is that supposed to fill me with confidence of your great abilities?”
“I have no need to give you assurances,” retorted the old man. “Do the other demons even know you are here?” D’Artim did not answer and the Claw of Alutar snickered. “I didn’t think so. You have always been one to seek an unfair advantage, even against friends.”
D’Artim growled threateningly, and his clawed feet scratched furrows in the wooden floor as he approached the cobbler. “You will not belittle me, demonkin! You will treat me with respect, or I will end you miserable existence right here, right now. I will have to deal with Alutar’s rage for doing so, but that will matter little to you. You will no longer exist.”
Artimor backed up and nodded submissively. While his status as a Claw of Alutar made him subservient to none other than the Great Demon, he had no doubt that the demon could kill him, and he had just pushed too far. He ran his fingers through his think white hair and sighed.
“I apologize, but you of all demons should appreciate the need to do something properly. The other Claws of Alutar failed because they were overconfident, and because of their haste. I will not fall into such traps.”
“I can appreciate such thoughts,” frowned D’Artim, “but making shoes is hardly a proper use of your time. The war is upon us. You should be attacking them now. Are you even aware that all four of them sit less than a block away right now?”