Story #235 - Ajal

Ajal

Renne Ajal stared blankly at the map displayed in front of her on the wall. For the better part of half an hour, she’d been trying figure out a viable strategy to save the city, and her patience was wearing thin.

Behind her, the generals and Armsmen continued to bicker and argue, some in favor of trying to reason with the leader of the horde that had come looking for their blood, and some resolutely committed to saving the city, no matter the cost. Renne had lived through enough “peaceful resolutions” and wholesale slaughters to know that neither solution resulted in significant numbers of survivors, and while the moral costs of letting a foreign army kill civilians was staggering, fighting a battle with no chance of winning was in some ways worse – false hope quickly turned to hate and resentment when it became clear there was no possible way for a victory, no matter the miracle.

“Enough.” Renee spoke the word softly, but it rippled out from her to quiet everyone in the room. All of those present had seen her prowess first-hand, and none doubted her ability to lead, and to survive.

“Croma,” she said, pointing at a dark-haired young man near the front of the room’s single long table, “what is your assessment?”

The sandy-haired Armsman swallowed hard, then met her eyes and raised his voice. She’d only worked with Croma on one campaign, and been impressed with his level head and drive to protect his men. She’d seen him promoted to Armsman as soon as the battle had ended, and he knew full well who he owed his ascendance to. He also knew well enough not to lie or sugarcoat what he thought, however – that was one of his best qualities.

“Rellion will fall,” he said simply, and several of the others at the table groaned.

“Why?” She pointed a long finger at him. “Why can we not hold?”

He gestured toward the map. “Simple numbers, Lady Ajal, nothing more. Our army is less than half theirs, and even with the support of citizens, we’ll never be able to repel an all-out attack. Last year’s issues with the Gerellians left our walls in poor shape, and the Council hasn’t yet found the money to repair them.

She could see Lord Bathin stiffen at a mention of the Council and their lack of funding for civic projects. Bathin was a good man, but many on the Council were there just to line their own pockets, and that often left the city of Rellion with less coin than it needed to ensure its own safety.

“Does anyone disagree with Croma?” She raised her voice to address the rest of them. Silence met her question. “Anyone at all? Does anyone have a brilliant plan they’ve been holding back? One that might save the day?”

“I could ask you the same question, Lady Ajal,” a deep voice rumbled from the far side of the table. That was Lord Anthon, a massive man in a silver chain suit. Even on friendly ground, Tyrus Anthon was never without his armor, likely because he was one of the most hated nobles in the Three Kingdoms. Even on his own land, men were looking for his head, and he lived in a state of constant guard. So far as she could tell, he enjoyed it.

“Do you have plan that will save us, Renne? You’re the vaunted, Light-blessed strategist, not I – not any of us. Share your wisdom, then, Lady Ajal. Tell us how to save our city.”

“I can’t,” she said flatly, meeting the hard gaze of Anthon and then the eyes of each of the men in the room in turn. “Croma is right, as is your silence. The city cannot be saved.”

Anthon snorted, the darkly curled mustache above his lip moving with the force of it.

“But,” she continued, “the people may be able to escape.”

Stepping forward, she swung her arm in a wide arc around the edge of the hanging map. “From all sides, we’re being pressed, and these men won’t negotiate – I’ve met their commander on more than one occasion.”

Dark thoughts clouded her mind for a moment – the next time she had an occasion to met Pulvan Rathiss, one of them would die in the dirt, and with even a shred of luck it would be the filthy mercenary. There was no way he was the mastermind of the current operation against Rellion, but she had no time to find out just who he was working for. No matter his employer, however, there was no question of his ferocity, of his willingness to negotiate in seeming good faith while breaking every other rule of civilized warfare. Surrender would not stay the axe of Pulvan Rathiss.

“Here,” Renne said, stabbing a finger at the crude blue brushstroke that represented the Mistralon River running through the center of the city, “is the only hope for those that live within Rellion’s walls. The enemy has sent scouts to see our defenses, but has no consistent information about our position.” She turned back to face the others in the room, eyes hard. “We will gather every boat, every raft, every scrap of wood that floats and set citizens to leaving by way of the river. When the horde arrives, they will find no civilians to slaughter.”

There was a murmur of assent – to lose the city was a terrible blow - but with enough strong backs and strong wills to direct them, a new one could be raised.

“However,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her, “some of us must stay behind. The enemy must find a city not easily taken, to buy those on the river time to escape. If Rellion falls too quickly, the horde will send their men along the water’s course, and slaughter will be the result. We must hold, here, for at least a week.”

The shifting of armor and creaking of weapons filled the room.

“I will stay, and defend Rellion.” She spoke softly. “Who will stand beside me?”

Croma began to rise, but it was Anthon who leapt to his feet first. “By the gods, you’re a mad one, Ajal – something I can respect. I’ll stay, as will all the others, or they’ll meet my blade before they leave this room.” The large man glared around the table at each man until they stood to meet him.

“Good,” she said, favoring Anthon with a smile, the last she knew she’d have for many months to come, “we must begin.”


- D