Hope Sundered

General Zordecai emerged from his tent wearing his frustration for all to see. The wall was just as impenetrable on the eastern side of the Dragonspine River as it was on the west. Staring up at his enemies, he crossed his arms over his massive chest and wallowed in his anger. He'd surrounded Wyndham, but was no closer to taking the city than the day he first arrived.

“Sooner or later Laeroset will grow curious and send another man,” Varzeth pointed out, referring to the admiral’s messenger. He’d arrived the day before, bringing news of Dioria’s easy capture. He was to return with an update on Zordecai’s progress.

“Then he too will take a swim,” Zordecai countered without looking at Varzeth. “I’ll dam up the river with every fool that annoying cur sends.”

“We could just ask him to send reinforcements.”

“I don’t need more men! I need fewer walls!”

Varzeth looked up at the city for several moments. “Fire.”

“It’s made of stone, you idiot!”

Varzeth closed his eyes and took a long, slow breath. “Over the wall, mighty General. Flaming arrows.” He pointed to the many buildings reaching skyward. “Have your archers empty their quivers until the city burns and we flush them out. When they try to flee, we cut them down.”

Zordecai huffed and put his hands on his hips. “You finally say something that makes sense! Why must everything be a mystery with you?”

He turned back to face the wall and smiled, pleased for the first time since arriving in Chastin. His eyes glazed over as he imagined scores of burning bodies flailing helplessly in the streets. “These Avelirians believe their wall provides protection, but they’ve sealed themselves inside their own tomb!”

⸞ ⸎ ⸟

Lord Bel’ami stood along the wall with his entourage and looked out across the eastern field with dismay. The flags of the enemy snapped in the brisk evening wind, and the dreary gray sky provided an accurate reflection of his people’s dour mood.

General Zordecai stood like a giant among his men, his head and shoulders cresting the throng of soldiers swarming around him. His soldiers parted with reverence before him as he walked with unshakable confidence, similar to the prow of a boat slicing through water.

“He acts as if he’s already beaten us,” Bel’ami said.

“He’s just posturing to save face,” Endari assured him. “We foiled their big plan and now they’re stuck.”

“Zordecai’s death is the key to our success,” Losigalender said from the patriarch’s left. His voice held no emotion as he stared down at his foe, unblinking.

“What do you mean?” Bel’ami asked.

“Killing him is all that matters. Cut off the monster’s head and the body dies.”

“With all due respect,” Bel’ami began, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, “I know the Azrahterans took everything from you, but do you honestly believe one man’s death will cause an entire army to lose heart and scatter, or are your words driven by a grief demanding vengeance?”

Losigalender turned to face the patriarch. “At first that was true, but my mind is clear now. As I observe him, I see how his men idolize him, as if he’s more than human. He’s their source of courage and confidence. It was the same in Chastin.

“It’s also become apparent he doesn’t delegate command very well. Every officer checks with him directly. Whether it’s because his ego demands it or they don’t know what to do without him is still unclear, but I believe if we kill him, we’ll succeed in disrupting both their organization and morale.”

“Your reasoning is sound,” Endari agreed, nodding as he pondered Losigalender’s words. “It’s worth a shot, at least.” He looked past his patriarch to Lark Prentice, standing to Losigalender’s left. “Do you think you can hit him from here?”

Lark judged the distance, angle, wind speed and direction. “Yes, Captain.”

“Then let one fly.”

“With pleasure!” Lark crouched down behind the parapet to draw an arrow and nock it. He pulled the bowstring most of the way back and came up slowly. It took him a mere second to find his target and set his aim. He finished his pull, took another heartbeat to adjust for the wind, and with a silent prayer let his missile of retribution soar.

⸞ ⸎ ⸟

Shouts of warning erupted all around Zordecai, but he didn’t recoil. The arrow whistled in, hungry for its mark, until a soldier leapt in front of the general and intercepted the arrow with his face. The man shrieked once and dropped like a stone at the general’s feet.

Like a host of fanatic zealots, the surrounding soldiers took up a litany of taunts against the enemy, boasting of how their champion couldn’t be picked off so easily, while Zordecai’s closest underlings urged him to fall back out of range, in case another shot was attempted.

He ignored them. His face, now spattered with the martyr’s blood, twisted into a gruesome smile as he looked up at the wall where his would-be assassin stood. “Did you give the order for that shot Losigalender? Don’t hide behind your archers! Come down here and face me like a man! Let’s finish what we began in Chastin!”

Varzeth watched with open disgust as two nearby soldiers picked up the body of their fallen comrade and carried him to the river to be discarded like Laeroset’s messenger. Such a waste. Zordecai had been alerted to the danger. He had time to move.

“He’s in there, Varzeth,” Zordecai said, though his eyes were locked upon Wyndham’s wall. “I know he is, and I will have him. I’ll watch the life drain from his eyes and I’ll feel his blood run cold in my hands.”

Varzeth looked at Zordecai, then up to the wall where he could see Chastin’s governor clearly, and then back at the general. Surely Zordecai could see the man, unless … he couldn’t. Unless he hadn’t seen the arrow coming straight for him.

Was the unbeatable Butcher of Azrahtera far-blind?

Like so many other observations, Varzeth tucked this one away for later contemplation. A glance at Zordecai’s bandages revealed a hint of crimson. A sheen of sweat clung to the general’s brow.

“Your injury worsens,” Varzeth commented, suspecting the wound was now infected.

Zordecai whirled on his subordinate. “That’s not your concern! Focus on your plan to torch this place!” He watched Varzeth go, wondering when the lieutenant would make his move, and how many others were conspiring with him. Varzeth was a poison, slowly working his way throughout the veins of his glorious army, inching ever closer to its heart.

It was time to keep a closer eye on the crafty lieutenant. Zordecai’s personal guard, known as the Kuronah, were the only subordinates he could trust. Once Varzeth was caught in his treachery and exposed, Zordecai could torture him to death with no disagreement from his other officers. No one’s demise would give him greater pleasure.

Except perhaps Losigalender’s.