A fierce cry filled the courtyard before them, punctuated by the expected peal of metal striking metal.
“What do you think, Magic Man?” Maldorin turned, smiling.
‘Magic Man’ inclined his head, face devoid of any particular humor. “I don’t think skill matters too much at this point. We need as many men as we can get.”
Maldorin laid his hands on the railing and leaned over the balcony. “Well, that is expected and part of the plan.”
“Then why don’t you offer your forces to take part in the upcoming battle?”
The conversation lapsed significantly as Maldorin fumbled around. “I don’t think I’m quite ready for that.”
“‘Ready for that’?” R’gorath repeated. He inclined his head, and said in a matter of utter bluntness, “You don’t trust us.”
“Well…” Maldorin chuckled, amused by the Leader’s straightforward attitude. “No, I don’t.”
“Would you allow me a short demonstration?” R’gorath asked.
The King studied his subject with some fierce scrutiny. “Are you denouncing the skill of my men?”
“Not at all. I’m sure they are just as good as any in the land. I’m certain you know exactly why I want to show you,” R’gorath added.
A moment passed. “All right. I don’t want my knights injured in your magic play, though.”
“Certainly not,” R’gorath agreed, much to Maldorin’s puzzlement. Maldorin studied R’gorath’s face for any sign of sarcasm, but the Leader appeared as earnest as ever. Maldorin grunted.
They walked casually out into the yard, where the sounds of galloping horses, clanging metal, and hoarse shouts mingled to form a cacophonous background.
“You there!” Maldorin barked.
Five heads turned in response. The one in question swerved his steed toward Maldorin. “Yes, my lord?”
“Would you mind horribly to participate in a short spar with this man?”
The knight removed his conical helm, looking at the older, finely dressed ambassador with an expression of hardly concealed skepticism. “My lord?”
“No worries, I don’t kill with my bare hands,” R’gorath joked dryly. “Not quite.” He stepped forward, amidst a circular clearing made by other knights and infantry easing out of the way and coming forward to have a look at the commotion.
R’gorath spread his arms out at his sides. “Well! Have a go. Or would you prefer on foot? Might be easier to have your horse out of the way, hm?”
“Out of fairness, I suppose,” the knight replied, a note of reluctance in his voice.
He dismounted, drawing his sword. As the blade came free, it sung with a sharp, ringing whistle. The knight stalled again. “Am I to fight you unarmed? It does not seem fair for—”
R’gorath drew his own blade, a small and hardly one to do well against the one the knight wielded. “I’m fine. Don’t hesitate with me.”
Still a bit flustered by the sudden request, the knight stepped forward, holding his sword aloft and shield poised. R’gorath drew an eyebrow up in amusement, then charged forward to meet his opponent. Driven by his trained instinct to fighting, the knight ignored the strange circumstances of the battle and gained speed, brandishing the blade in preparation for the spar. The clearing had grown quiet, save for the distant training taking place on other side of the courtyard.
A faint smile touched R’gorath’s lips. Seconds before the two met at point blank, he threw his small sword on the ground at the feet of the knight. His adversary hesitated for only a second, and that was all the time the Leader needed. With his arm drawn back, he cocked his wrist and an indistinct white glow encompassed his fingers. Seeing as he had no shield or armor speak of, the knight hesitated once again to bring down the blade.
R’gorath’s hand came around, in his palm an orb of bright energy. Low gasps emitted from the circle of men around them. The knight danced back; the blinding light gilded his shield as he brought it up to ward off the blow that never came.
“Look out!” cried a stocky infantryman.
The knight peered in the direction of the soldier, puzzled. R’gorath stood a mere five feet away, hands glowing, having let off his initial attack—or so the knight thought.
The ground came up so fast and with such a painful slam, the knight had not at first registered the large something that barreled him over. He lay there, dazed, for a few moments more, before staggering to his feet.
“Any more volunteers?” R’gorath turned back to Maldorin and met his gaze levelly. “I’m sure you realize by now that if I wanted to kill you or your men, I would have done so, probably without even having to use this alliance as an excuse to get through the gates.”
“Cheater!” the knight growled, gathering his feet and staring at his attacker as the beast licked a paw sedately. “This—this—”
“Mountain lion,” R’gorath answered for him. “Kotarnith is mine.”
Loud, angry shouts of disagreement erupted around them. As R’gorath began to speak, they quieted enough for his voice to be heard, “You criticize me for my humble means of magic to gain an advantage. I’m sure the Ilkorians will feel the same sense of dishonor you impose upon them when they come at you with tenfold demons with a less docile attitude than my faithful companion here. Even if you don’t join the battle, they’ll find a way here.” R’gorath glared at Maldorin, hoping to drive his point home.
In truth, R’gorath had not used any magic at all, having only drawn upon Kotarnith’s essence to help in the sparring. The mountain lion was clever enough not to appear until he was out of the peripherals of the knight and able to spring upon him; unfortunately, the others had been able to spot him first, but the knight’s reflexes were not quite as sharp as some.
“How many demons do you have?” Maldorin asked, appearing not as mystified as the others, for R’gorath had already briefed him on most means of mages’ advantages. Still, R’gorath sensed that he had taken him by surprise.
“Twelve or so; six on me at the moment,” replied R’gorath. He nodded once, hands on his hips. “I could take perhaps a few more. Nine more volunteers?”
The closest line of men stepped back, small, hesitant steps as they glanced around for ones brave enough to come forth. After a few moments’ pause, a few stepped forward, eager to avenge the knight’s lost battle. Even a small victory against a mage might be a tale worth telling in the future. R’gorath flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders in preparation.
“That’s it?” He made a quick count: Seven total faced him in a circle. Each watched him with the eyes of a scared rabbit looking at a fox; R’gorath felt a tingle of excitement in the depth of his gut. He hadn’t a good spar in many years, but mostly, he had not faced many non-magical men. His magic would turn to his advantage in some ways, but their numbers were quite against him, as were his years. What if he couldn’t defeat them?
Well then.
R’gorath frowned. He couldn’t let that happen. Perhaps it would have been wiser to brush up on skill with his short sword; he saw now that some of them carried sabers and long swords and even magic might not work against five skilled blades. Most of the men were younger than him, some not by much, others more significantly. The brave group R’gorath turned around to face was of the older type, hardened and becoming more confident as they realized their advantage. Still, they couldn’t become entirely comfortable in his presence. He would make sure of that.
“When you’re ready,” he said, feigning his usual calm stature. The Leader had need for it and practiced this composure for so many years that he almost felt that he could be calm in anything. At the moment, he could feel his muscles tensing involuntarily. Six demons. He calculated how long it would take to summon each of them from their respective pouches.
“It would only be fair to allow you, Magic Man,” one said.
Six seconds. At most.
R’gorath bent down and retrieved his sword with a deliberate slowness. Using one hand he lifted only the hilt, flicking it deftly into the air and catching it in one fluid motion. With his other hand beneath his cloak, each of the pouches had been loosed. He felt the essence of each, allowing them to explore a little and find enough malahr to take shape. Each demon was loyal and virtually mindless through years of enslavement; he took pride in having kept those particular six for about three decades now, even if seven others of the thirteen original had managed to escape or he killed out of carelessness.
“To me, Kotarnith,” R’gorath said, jerking his chin into the air. The knights parted and allowed the demon through; it walked between them with a slightly conceited air. This amused R’gorath, and he smiled slightly. Enough dawdling, he decided, and shouted.
The knights needed only that warning before the six demons flushed out from beneath his cloak in six different directions. R’gorath had already planned his first move, and stuck to it. He sidestepped toward the nearest knight and clashed with the longsword as it came down smartly. His wrist flicked imperceptibly, just enough to deflect the knight’s initial power behind the blow, and he slid the cross guard of his short sword down the blunt edge of the steel, producing a rising note. The exchange had taken place in less than two seconds; the tip of R’gorath’s blade ended at the knight’s neck, and as the warrior stepped back and freed his sword from the lock, R’gorath dealt his breastplate a hefty kick and spun around to meet his next opponent.
He was not a second too late. A rapier snaked forward, and he only managed to evade its tip by a narrow sweep of his hand. Bright blue sparks danced upon the rapier’s edge, driving it from its owner’s grip.
But before R’gorath could claim a victory over his adversary, a dagger appeared in his hands from wherever he hid the weapon. R’gorath cursed under his breath, nervously checking the progress of his demons. Two of them were waiting patiently, and the clearing had become deathly silent as his other four declared themselves champions. R’gorath dropped his blade and shoved forward. A swirling mass of light constructed itself seemingly out of air and grew swiftly, and by the time it had sent the knight flying about ten feet, he had realized there was more force behind it than he had intended.
“So sorry,” he murmured, running to help the knight up. The warrior struggled, and R’gorath felt sure he would have too with that much armor.
As he surveyed the work of his demons, R’gorath felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. This had almost been too easy. He was just one man, and these were seven. This wouldn’t do, he thought, frustration distorting his usual imperturbable features.
Maldorin glared at him, and R’gorath returned the glare. The knights melted back to the crowd without further exchange, and the King said, “Well, what do you propose us to do?”
Lifting his sword, R’gorath examined his reflection in its dull surface. “I’m not… sure.”
“You’re not sure?”
The sword glinted sharply in the noon sun as its point arced over and slid into the sheath. R’gorath’s voice hardened as he explained, “I’ve never had to deal with men who don’t use magic. In my experience, I know only the weaknesses of them, and that I could help your men work on them, but it will still be an uphill battle. Your pikemen will be struck by short demons, your cavalry will fall to flying creatures, and although we have the advantage of numbers, my mages cannot completely dispel small attacks by cloaked mages.”
“Cloaked?”
R’gorath sighed, and the invisible load on his back seemed to weigh a little more. “We can’t see them with our sixth sense.”
“So what are your magic folk going to do?” Maldorin asked, although R’gorath caught the hint of anger rising in his voice again.
“Help, of course,” R’gorath walked out of the ring, and the others began to disperse. “One mage to a score or so of your men to protect and coordinate with. Granted, we’re sorely outnumbered when it comes to demons and such, but if you consider the confusion of battle, we might not have to worry about six per mage: More likely one or two. It takes a lot of energy and concentration to exert control over demons and keep them loyal for any amount of time.”
Maldorin, leading the way through the grounds, looked at him sidelong. “What is this about flying creatures?”
“You know of dragons?” Maldorin nodded, and R’gorath continued, “Those are demons. There are actual breeds that have descended from demons that bred, but they will die off eventually because demon breeds aren’t ideal for surviving in the wild. Dragons are the riding-type of creature. You’ll probably see more flying serpents and large birds.”
There was a significant lapse in the conversation as Maldorin considered all that R’gorath said. Then he nodded, eyes glassy and thoughtful, and R’gorath felt a sigh of relief deep within him: Yes, the King was starting to take him more seriously. “How do you slay a demon, pray tell?”
R’gorath laughed grimly. “Almost as you would a man. I might ask my demon hunters to use some of the enemies’ against them, but they are difficult to defeat. A good stab in the chest will invariably kill them for good. Anything else will only slow it.”
“And how large are these birds you speak of?”
“Two men could fit into their wingspan. My men will take care of them, don’t worry.”
“I don’t need your patronizing remarks in my castle,” Maldorin said, lifting his chin slightly. “I understand that we need to coordinate our efforts, but we Kironians are still capable.”
R’gorath apologized and agreed quickly, although he secretly did not. He inclined his head and carried on his conversation, watching the men around them with some interest. Maldorin was still trying to impress him, no doubt. Even though they had agreed that each side could be free to inspect the other’s men, it did not mean that Maldorin was forced to make his men participate in the battle. Maldorin every now and then shouted at a man to do something, and the man instructed obeyed instantaneously and without question. Impressive, R’gorath had thought, but it was still not enough, and he’d known it even before he came out into the yard. He racked his brains, supplying answers and replies to the King absently. What could the Kironians be useful for?
R’gorath studied the parapets of the distant castle walls, only half listening to what the King was saying. His eyes drifted down and he caught sight of a row of colorful circles set up on the other side of the grounds. Though try as he might to keep his attention on Maldorin, his gaze began to shift toward that area. Archers, he knew, even without seeing the line of men raise their bows and fire simultaneously.
Archers. He hadn’t given much thought to them.
“…has been quite good at supplying me with enough men, but they are not the most competent. R’gorath?” Maldorin stopped in his tracks, and R’gorath snapped to attention, realizing that he had completely lost the thread of conversation. He stared blankly at the King, trying to remember what had been addressed. Growing old, he groaned inwardly.
Maldorin turned, following the man’s previous point of attention. “I can show you the skill of my archers, if you think they will be useful.”
“Yes… please.” R’gorath nodded jerkily.
He hadn’t had much trouble with archers. Bohr had told him he recalled seeing very few. R’gorath knew that in the Valeighans’ time, although the Lethians had once carried a set of bow and quiver each, they relied more decidedly on demons for their hunting, so the bows had been rendered useless and were almost a pointless addition to their supply of weapons and were considered to be useful only in the case of emergency. From what R’gorath could see, these archers were much more skilled than any of his men in their practice. Reconsidering the tide of battle with archers like them, it might just have hope. R’gorath watched as they neared the men and the repeated thrump of arrows piercing canvas became audible. It would be possible to easily deflect an arrow with a dhular shield, but a dhular shield would be too energy consuming; aside, it would be difficult even for a mage to notice either a bolt or arrow coming in their direction, and harder still to react accordingly in such a short time.
Maldorin shifted, anxious for a response. R’gorath wondered if he had missed something again, and said, “Not terrible.”