Record of Ashes War

Chapter 6 - Eagle's Descent

Blinding sunlight reflected off the lens of a Tarmian monocular. Sar'tara did not break her sight from it, back straight and gloved hands curled tight around her horse's reins, not a hint of discomfort showing in her prideful position. She made sure the full breadth of her valor was evident to the one staring back at her. The wooden crossing Tarmia constructed was near complete. They worked on it in broad daylight now.

The man with the monocular shouted something, causing every sapper to flee into the dense treeline that stretched no further than a hundred paces. A more heavily armed squad retreated with more poise. This squad wore dull iron pauldrons and breastplates and thick octagonal shields. They numbered less than a thousand and retreated without showing their backs.

Sar'tara found their actions odd. The waters were running lower than normal this time of year, and the narrow crossing at this part of the Cinder River was far closer to a Xenarian outpost than it was to any significant Tarmian landmarks. The bridge was more likely to serve Xenaria than anyone else. Under normal circumstances, a narrow wooden crossing was of no concern. But the Cinder River acted as a border. Anyone constructing a bridge needed approval from both nations. And this particular bridge was being constructed under the supervision of an infantry squad. Everything was too curious to not investigate.

"No matter how I look at it, it's a trap," Faren said. "This bridge has little benefits to them, and they have a treeline at their rear with a number of sappers. They're almost daring us to come showing themselves in daylight."

"Strange…" Sar'tara agreed. Hers was a legion that'd swelled to five thousand riders over the years —more than a fourth of Kalin's total cavalry. Despite outnumbering the enemy, engaging a heavily armed squad with her lightly equipped horses could not be done hastily. "Faren, how far is the Empire's nearest outpost from here?"

"I cannot say, Captain. Fort Cayra, their nearest fort, is about thirty leagues from the Cinder's banks."

"Thirty…" Sar'tara squinted at the river, making a better examination of the bridge. It had a more complex structure than a simple bridge might. "What if our bridge is not a bridge?" she said aloud.

"A dam, then? That would starve the Thousand Sun City of their freshwater source. How does that affect us?"

"This land is on a slight decline compared to the opposite end of the Cinder River. It would flood our farms and maybe even our training grounds. Or, perhaps Tarmia has built a tunnel to move water toward their fortress." The enemy's armor, however, was a troubling sign. Tarmia had only ever sent poorly equipped militia. It was a sign that their eastern efforts were shifting focus towards the west now. "Trap or not, we're attacking," Sar'tara determined.

"Do we take the right side of the bridge? If their dam is working even slightly, the horses will run through the water faster."

"No," Sar'tara said. "That is… expected I think. We take the left side." Sar'tara turned to address her soldiers. "We descend to stain these black rocks of the Cinder River with the blood of our enemies. Show them no quarter as they surely would show you none. Rain down your fury upon these fools that dare provoke us, but stay wary of the treeline. We will toast tonight in celebration of our enemy's defeat. Vengeance for our fallen brothers!"

The soldiers howled, their high pitched voices piercing the surrounding air. The Vashiri war cry resounded along the riverbank. Sar'tara had taught it to them. They were hesitant to learn it at first. Embarrassed even, thinking it bizarre. But they'd picked it up eventually. The voices of males differed vastly from those of her sisters. Something about it felt more feral, made her blood boil, and her heart drum.

She dug her heels into her horse and spurred it onward, the descent down the hill adding to the already frightening speed of her cavalry. "Ignore the bridge!" she shouted. She pointed with her arm to her left and the bannerman riding behind her waved his flag in the same direction to relay the orders.

Sar'tara let go of the reigns of her horse and nocked an arrow on her bow. Her eyes sought out the enemy leader, his armor distinguished from the rest with a cloth hanging over his breastplate, a red hand sewn into it. She drew back to her chin, breathing in the wind clashing with her skin and feeling the motions of her galloping horse, correcting her aim ever so slightly before releasing the bowstring as gracefully as she'd drawn it. The arrow found its mark through the cluster of bodies and shields, striking the leader of the battalion just beneath his throat where naught but a thin shirt of mail protected. It wasn't enough to stop the arrow. Without their commander, the organized retreat began to crumble. Openings showed in their formation. An inexperienced battalion. Taking advantage of their rising panic, Sar'tara loosed one arrow after another to bring the rearguard of her enemies down, creating holes in their ranks through which her lances could easily puncture.

She eyed the river to the bridge's right, seeing that it was indeed shallower as expected. It is a dam. Wooden stakes were hidden in the water, something a cavalry charge would have fallen into if she'd went to the right of the dam. Construction wasn't yet finished, though it appeared that way. Another ploy to make the dam seem feasible for crossing when it would never have supported the weight of a dozen horses and their riders. Such traps only caught mindless fools no brighter than animals. They would never work on The Huntress.

The pace of the charge was cut greatly when the horses entered the channel, water splashing all around. Tarmia's sappers returned from the treeline with crossbows in hand. Sar'tara smirked. Her men weren't that easy to take down. The sappers were slow to form up and the treeline close. Sar'tara didn't need to shout any order. Her unit was split between mounted archers and lancers. A volley of arrows soared overhead, falling into enemy lines and breaking their morale. Tarmia's infantry were unharmed, but their crossbowmen dropped like flies, few surviving.

That was all it took to break enemy morale. They began fleeing in complete disarray. Sar'tara picked off many until her horse was out of the water. Once across, she strapped her bow to her back and drew her curved sword. The cavalry caught up. Sar'tara howled louder than any other as her weapon hewed enemy soldiers from behind as if she were reaping wheat with a sickle. Links of chainmail shattered with every swing, sending iron rings and blood flying through air. Screams took flight not soon after.

Xenarian cavalry crashed into enemy ranks. Bones were crushed beneath merciless hooves. Lance arms skewered through gaps in armor. Death was dealt by a trampling tide. A one sided massacre, and thus the battle was ended. Crippled and crawling survivors were executed without remorse. Hostage taking was not worth it. Not for border skirmishes. Mere peasants were sent to fight here, and unlike High House Galadin, High House Serene was not in the business of selling slaves.

Sar'tara wiped away blood from her blade and placed it in its sheath. Her disciplined unit broke off into groups to survey the region while the remainder stripped enemy bodies of their thick ironware. Sar'tara chewed on one corner of her lips. Her eyes fell back on the dam. There was something unsettling about such an easy victory. Was it really just a simple trap meant for a Xenarian officer of note? Even then, Tarmia hadn't tried any small schemes like this for years. The worse they'd done was try sneaking battalions across river, leading to endless skirmishes.

"They must feel confident to throw this much free iron our way," Faren said. He turned over a blocky iron shield with the tip of his lance. Its surface was smooth and without engraving. Newly crafted and unmarred by any blade. "Seems their true armies are really about to shift their attention away from the east and to us now."

"A storm awaits us," Sar'tara agreed. Much Xenarian blood had been spent in skirmishes over the years. Unless Dahlia managed to sign some form of a non-aggression pact in the upcoming meeting, a war would soon be knocking on the nation's eastern borders. The soldiers of Arcaeus were eager to deliver a crushing defeat to the Empire so that they never again tried invading. But such a victory was never a guarantee. And Sar'tara still worried of the Union and their spreading influence over the people through religion. They wouldn't sit idle while their two largest neighbors were at each other's throats.

"Something still doesn't add up," Faren said. "There's no trench to funnel water. Flooding our lands cannot have been their only purpose. They'd have sent more men to defend this ploy if it had."

"Maybe we're over imagining. Perhaps it was just a trap to catch a notable commander. A prelude of sorts to weaken us for the campaign to come? Survey the area till dusk, Faren. The treeline especially. Be thorough." Sar'tara crossed her arms, moving her head from one side to the next, continuing the search for something unseen. "Have the dam dismantled. Then return to camp and celebrate our little victory with the rest of your fellow soldiers. If there was nothing to it, then so be it. We return to the garrison at dawn."

"Must we celebrate after even minor victories, Your Grace? It's not good to spoil the men like this and it is a burden on our funds to spend so much on drinks. You're always touting the Lord General for the way he manages provisions..."

Sar'tara glared at her second. She grabbed him by the ear, pulling hard enough to make him cry out and grip his mount's reins to stop from falling off. "Now you listen here. I've said this before. It is a custom of the Vashiri peoples to celebrate at the end of a fight, no matter how trivial you may think them to be. We feast even at the end of a quarrel between our neighbours if the end result includes death. And we drink to honour not only our own but the enemy dead as well, no matter how vile the enemy. Funds are of trivial concern. I have an issue with how Kalin manages perishable provisions or how he spends excessively on exotic foods while there are people still starving in Metsiphon. Besides, the money I spend on drinks are purely from his purse… Don't tell him that," she quickly added.

Sar'tara let go of Faren's ear. "And it hardly spoils the men. For as long as I lead them, they will fight as if they were the last bastions of man against the Tortured Throne's hordes. You asked me once, why I don't wear more armour. Or more in general. Because it inspires the men to fight thrice as hard," she finished with a wink. In truth, her current outfit was what she felt most comfortable in.

Faren blushed. "My lady, as the Duchess of Xenaria, I'd recommend you have a little more modesty."

Sar'tara burst out laughing. "Ever the upright gentleman, Faren." She flicked his forehead again. "Help with dragging ironware over the river." He left, shaking his head. Sar'tara crossed the waters and returned to camp. She entered her tent and sat down on a chair, sighing as she did so. Her own mug of ale sat at the edge of the table before her. She took a swig while maintaining care so as to not spill any of it like men so often seemed to enjoy doing when drinking. Soft is the drink of these plains dwellers. Sweet and pleasant, but soft.

Setting down her bow and quiver, Sar'tara agonized over maps of the surrounding areas set before her. The white cloth of her tent turned a light shade of orange as dusk approached. Time had passed faster than anticipated. Thundering hooves shook the ground as her survey squads returned to camp. She leaned back in her chair and held her mug out above her head, tongue sticking out. A final drop of sweetness touched the edge of her lips and rolled down her chin. She rolled her eyes at herself and wiped it away with a thumb, suckling on it.

The laughter outside was slowly drowned out by her intense focus on regional maps. No matter how hard she thought or theorized, there was nothing that she could glean from them. She knew these lands as well as she'd once known the Papillion Forest. There was no specific answer as to why Tarmia had tried this ploy. Sure they crossed over now and then, threatening villages and farmlands. But someone had to have known that such a haphazard scheme would do little harm. "If the target is not the location, then what is it?" she murmured. Am I really overthinking? Maybe the enemy ordering this scheme is just really stupid. No. Kalin abided by a strict code of assuming the worst. Only by expecting the worst case scenario could you fail to be surprised by a clever ruse.

"Perhaps they seek something of value," she mumbled. "Or have a different means by which to slay an officer…"

Chills ran down her spine as her senses picked up a hidden threat. Her eyes searched for weapons within her tent.

The bait was obvious. Too obvious. And the timing…

There were no Tarmian forces of significant size for an assault. That left one unconsidered option. Assassins. Goosebumps formed on Sar'tara's arms. Her wild instincts confirmed her suspicion. Shadows danced beyond her tent. The sun had set. She was already surrounded.

She picked up her bow. She should have joined her soldiers. Should have laughed and drank with them. Instead, she found comfort in isolation, reminiscing about a distant past while staring at maps, imagining what it would have been like to explore the world with her sisters, what it would have been like to teach them everything she now knew, to see their reactions to everything once unknown to her.

Isolating herself after a skirmish had become a habit. And habits, as all trained hunters knew, were exploitable. Celebrating is also a habit… Flames. I made this mistake.

Kalin frequently sent her out to remove trifling parties of Empire soldiers causing mischief near the border. He had full faith in her. And she never disappointed. For the better part of a decade, she consistently showed positive results, moving with precision and care, never exposing herself or her allies to foolish maneuvers. And all this time, there had been a predator hiding in the shadows, waiting, biding his time and studying her habits to ensure his success.

Sar'tara's realization came far too late. Fifteen years of victories earned with ease had addled her mind. Had allowed her to relax even though she was still on the field. Fifteen years without schemes or assassination attempts had slowly erased that extra layer of caution that Kalin always warned her to carry. She didn't even place guards before her own tent. This plot had a Scorpion's prints lain all over it.

Sar'tara considered running outside to shout for help. That option was quickly removed. Her horse whinnied at the appearance of strangers outside. Its voice was suddenly cut off, the heavy thud of a collapsing object following after. Her beloved horse had been slain to prevent alerting her soldiers. Enraged, Sar'tara dropped her bow and drew both dagger and sword. She opened her mouth to scream the Vashiri war cry. An arrow flew threw her tent flaps and struck her thigh. A gasp escaped her parted lips instead. She dropped to one knee.

Cloth tore behind her as hooked swords ripped into her tent. She tried screaming again but was kicked in the back. She fell forward, dropping her weapons. The arrow in her thigh went through her flesh and came out the other side. Agony embraced her as did the warmth of her own blood.

"Look at you," said a man, his voice heavy and thick with the Tarmian accent. A voice she hadn't heard in over fifteen years. "The Huntress. Now, nothing more than prey. Your wings are gone, oh Queen of Eagles. And the Silver Eagle, Xenaria's Shining General, isn't here to save you today."

Sar'tara forced herself up with her arms, gritting her teeth. Black boots stood a foot away from her. The man wearing them had his hair wrapped around his neck like a scarf. A scar ran through his lifeless white eyes. And a scorpion tattoo marked his carved bare torso. He held a shortbow in hand. Behind him were two others armed with hooked swords and scimitars. The same tattoo was painted on their bodies. "Kazir," Sar'tara hissed through her teeth.

"Surprised? Wickar adapt, even to crippling wounds. I told you then, all those years ago. Even without my eyes, I can still see. Sound and smell are enough for me to imagine what lays before my feet. And you drew your blades so loudly in your anger, painting a most clear picture for me." Kazir turned his back to her, sighing. "Odd isn’t it, how we fail to use all the power we have at our fingertips when we aren't met with a challenge worthy enough to warrant it? When I had eyes, I didn't give as much value to my hearing or my sense of smell. I now know of their true value. It's the same for you isn't it?" He squatted down, lowering himself to her level. "I'll bet you haven't used half of what you know in years. So much talent, and it's all been wasting away. Peace is a drug that addles the mind."

Sar'tara could only glare. Kazir cupped his chin in his hands and tilted his head, smiling as if imagining what it was she were doing. She clutched a fist full of grass and grit her teeth in an attempt to push herself up to one knee. The assassins behind Kazir shifted their feet. She would never be given a chance to retaliate. But still… Sar'tara couldn't allow herself to fall here. There was still so much to teach Elizia, so much more time to spend with Kalin. She pled silently for a saviour. Thousands of soft voices responded. Voices of… the very blades of grass on the ground in her tent she thought. In a desperate attempt, she tried reaching out to them. It drained her of her already waning strength. Have I lost so much blood already?

Kazir reached out and rested his callused hand on her head, gently stroking her braid before slamming her face into the ground. Sar'tara grunted, her connection with whatever voices she'd heard now severed. She smelled iron in her nose. "If you are to blame someone," Kazir said, "then blame Kalin for taking my eyes. How I would've enjoyed seeing his face writhed in agony. I will have to settle for a description from our spies. Enslaving you would have been ideal but by the sound of your weakening heart, it seems that won't be possible. Know this before you wither, flower of the forest. Thus is the debt repaid with interest attached. Kalin took my eyes. So I will claim his heart. I didn't know I still had a shred of honor left in me back then. I am certain, however, that none now remains."

Sar'tara closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the ground. Her tears would not stop flowing. Tears of regret. Regret of a failed vengeance, of a neglectful soldier, of an abandoning mother and wife. Elizia. Kalin. I'm sorry…

Iron bit into Sar'tara's back. She grit her teeth as a cruelty was carved into her. Some manner of a message was cut into her body. The Scorpions then left as silently as they'd arrived. Divine blood flowed over the ground. It sank into the soil beneath. Blades of grass wilted in despair. The last of the forest kin had been felled. The last daughter of the forest deity, Ny'Danis, dying.

Marvelous flowers grew above the stained ground. Flowers that once only existed in the now burnt fields known as Alcor's Ashes. Their glowing petals shone bright, marking the spot where Sar'tara breathed her last breaths. None now lived to remember the deity, Ny'Danis. But her blood lived on in another. One last person carried the blood and will of the Forest's Mother.

Elizia.

Sar'tara's consciousness faded to oblivion.

***

"Master, are you certain we shouldn't be killing her?" asked Iskra, one of the Wickar within Kazir's inner circle.

Kazir grunted as he pulled a hood over his head. The edges of his face itched. He no longer shaved often, now that his eyes were gone. "The serpents of the Red Desert aren't only known for their ferocity," Kazir said. "Giant though they may be, their most feared trait is their poison."

"You mean the Decade's Curse?" asked Samlan, the second assassin with the group. "A banned toxin costing fortunes for a single vial found in black markets."

Kazir kept silent as his men jumped from shadow to shadow, with him following the sounds of their barely audible footsteps. They finally broke into a full sprint. He assumed them to now be outside the vicinity of the Xenarian camp. "To this day, since its discovery centuries ago, the ten year poison has no known antidote. It paralyzes a person and slows their heart, quickly shutting down their body and making them seem dead. Of course, without food and water, they die quickly, but kept sustained, they will live for ten years in a vegetative, unconscious state until the poison at last claims them. This is as much as Kalin deserves."

Fifteen years Kazir had lived without eyes. Fifteen years surrounded —tortured by eternal darkness, with many more years awaiting. His will had come close to breaking so many a time. But the resilience of a Wickar triumphed. He'd slowly forced himself to adapt to his new situation, heightening the use of his remaining senses to the max, all while plotting what would cause Kalin the most pain.

This was the answer Kazir had come to. To put Sar'tara into a ten year long slumber while Kalin could do nothing but watch, slowly crushing his spirit. Slowly breaking him until Xenaria was left without a bastion.

Well, it was either that or he would assume her dead and bury her alive.