Tales of Pannithor: The Broken Alliance

By Soctt Washburn

The Halfling Shires had been members of the League of Rhordia for over a hundred years. The alliance had been mutually beneficial from the start; the humans of the League received the surplus of the Shires’ bountiful farms and pastures, and the Shires received the additional security of the League’s powerful military in a very dangerous world. But recently the relationship has begun to sour. For reasons no one understands, a darkness is poisoning the once-strong friendship between the peoples. Suspicion, anger, and even violence has begun to tear the alliance apart. The threat of war, something once unthinkable, has become very real. Halfling Aeron Cadwallader, a cadet at the League’s prestigious College of Warcraft, finds himself caught between the two sides. Cast out by the League, mistrusted by his fellow halflings, he struggles to survive amidst the war that soon erupts, and find a way to help his people defend themselves against the powerful League. Broken Alliance is a story set in Mantic Games’ Kings of War universe. It is a tale of battles and magic, cruel betrayals and unexpected friendships, courage and honor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Winged Hussar Publishing
• Release date: Dec 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781950423873

Soctt Washburn

Scott Washburn is an architectural designer by profession, an avid reader of military history as well as long time re-enactor and wargamer. He has written the first three books in the “Great Martian War” series, the author of The Terran Consensus and Across the Great Rift as well as contributing short stories to the “Beyond the Gates of Antares” books.

Book preview

1.png

TALES OF PANNITHOR

BROKEN ALLIANCE

Written by

Scott Washburn

Tales of Pannithor: Broken Alliance

Cover by Alan Lathwell

This edition published in 2022

Zmok Books is an imprint of

Winged Hussar Publishing, LLC

1525 Hulse Rd, Unit 1

Point Pleasant, NJ 08742

Copyright © Winged Hussar Publishing

ISBN 978-1-950423-72-9 PB

ISBN 978-1-950423-87-3 EB

Bibliographical References and Index

1. Fantasy. 2. Mantic Games. 3. Heroic

Winged Hussar Publishing, LLC All rights reserved

For more information

visit us at www.wingedhussarpublishing.com

Twitter: WingHusPubLLC

Facebook: Winged Hussar Publishing LLC

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s and publisher’s rights is appreciated. Karma, its everywhere.

Chapter 1

"Ow! cried Aeron Cadwallader. Careful there!"

Hold still! snapped Aeron’s human friend, Palle Gudmund, dabbing at the cut on his cheek with a bit of cloth. What in the Abyss did you do to get ‘em riled up enough to pound you like this?

"I didn’t do a bloody thing. Except be a halfling. That’s what set them off, it seemed."

Palle frowned. Really? They attacked you just because you’re a halfling?

Aeron nodded and instantly regretted it. His head felt like it was going to burst. "I was just minding my business down at the Green Gryphon tavern, having a mug of ale and bothering no one. And then someone asked the barkeep why the price on the ale had gone up. The churl just nodded toward me and said: ‘Ask the halfman’."

Palle sighed. A lot of folks are complainin’ about the higher price of food coming from the Shires. Halflings ain’t too popular in Eowolf these days. I told you that you shouldn’t have been going out by yourself.

Yes, you did, and you were right. The brute who’d asked came over to me - with two of his chums—and demanded to know why he had to pay more for his ale - as if I set the price on Shires-brewed ale!

What did you say?

I tried to ignore him. So he kicked the stool out from under me, I fell to the floor, and that’s when the stomping and kicking began.

Palle whistled. I thought you were pretty banged up when I first saw you, but now I’m thinking you got off lightly. How’d you manage to get out of there?

Got lucky. One of them made the mistake of calling me a ‘sawed-off dwarf’. Guess he hadn’t seen the group of real dwarfs in one of the booths along the wall. They took exception to the remark, and in the ensuing melee, I managed to crawl out the door and get away.

"That was a bit of luck for sure. There, the bleeding has stopped. Anything else hurting?"

Pretty much everything, but nothing that won’t heal. Thanks, Palle for… for everything. Aeron reached out and gave Palle’s hand a squeeze. The young human nodded, his pale skin blushing a bit in the wan light of the candle sitting on the table at one end of the barracks. About half the bunks in the long room were filled with snoring cadets, the owners of the empty ones either had duty or were still out enjoying a night in the city—as Aeron had been trying to do. He looked at the place which had been his home for so long and suddenly hated it.

When he’d first arrived at the College of Warcraft in the city of Eowolf two and a half years earlier, he had been thrilled. For as long as he could remember he’d been fascinated with warfare and warriors. As a child, he’d dragged his mother and siblings out to watch the Shires musters, and the one time that a major force of the League of Rhordia had marched along the road that led by his farm he’d been so excited he’d nearly swooned.

This made him a bit… odd for one of the Shirefolk. His people were not nearly as peaceful and un-warlike as the other races believed, but most of his people thought of war as an unpleasant reality which needed to be dealt with—like fires or floods or hailstorms—and not something to exult over. Aeron exulted. When he was nine, he’d tried to join the Picksbury trained band—the local militia unit—even though he was much too young. The older members had laughed watching him try to hold on to a spear that was far too long and heavy for him. But they’d treated him kindly and put him to work fetching things and cleaning things and any other task that he was willing to do. As he got older, he was allowed to attend weapons training and eventually was like any other member of the band. Except the band only trained a handful of days a year. He’d started mumbling about trying to join one of the mercenary companies that the League employed.

His father, who was a well-off farmer/merchant, despairing of ever teaching him the trade - or any of the other trades common in the Shires - had eventually given in to the inevitable. He called in some favors the Shires’ leaders owed him, and they twisted a few arms in the League Council; and to his amazement and delight, Aeron found himself traveling to Eowolf and the College of Warcraft. He wasn’t the first of the Shirefolk to come there, but nearly all of the others had been artificers and engineers, there to study the arts of making war machines. Aeron knew a bit about machines, but his true interests lay with the art of war itself.

It had been intimidating and a bit frightening to come to this great human city and the nearly legendary College of Warcraft, but the headmaster, a white-haired human named Nedes, had taken him under his wing and made him feel welcome. And he had felt welcome… until recently.

Come on, said Palle. You can still get a few hours’ sleep before roll-call.

The students, or cadets as they were called, were paired up in teams, and Aeron had been very fortunate to be paired with Palle Gudmund. He was the youngest son of a baron who lived in Duke Berlonviche’s city-state off in the northern part of Rhordia. The human lad was quite short for his race and thus only a bit taller than Aeron, who was tall for a Shirefolk. They’d hit it off immediately and become fast friends. They helped each other and looked out for each other.

Aeron slipped off the too-large chair, groaning as a dozen throbbing aches blazed into sharper pains. Palle took his arm and half-carried him down to where their bunks waited invitingly. The human helped him into the lower bunk, said good night, and then hoisted himself into the upper one. Aeron lay back, resting his head on the pillow and pulled the blankets over himself.

He was exhausted, but sleep didn’t come easily. While this was the first time he’d been seriously hurt, this wasn’t the first incident of anti-Shirefolk feelings he’d encountered lately. When he’d first arrived at the College, he’d met some taunting, pranks, and nasty tricks from the older cadets, but he’d been expecting that. He was new, he was different, and he was smaller. It was normal. He’d put up with it, and with Palle’s help, he’d made it through the first year. After that, he’d mostly been treated as one of the group.

But these new incidents were different. It wasn’t just that he was a newcomer, it was because he was a halfling.

The League of Rhordia was a group of city-states almost smack in the middle of the Ardovikian Plain in the northwestern regions of Upper Mantica. The population of the League was overwhelmingly human, but they coexisted peacefully with families of Free Dwarfs who had found work in the cities, and even the occasional companies of mercenary ogres. The Halfling Shires had joined the League during a time of mutual crisis well over a century ago and had generally gotten along very well since then. But in the last few years, things had changed.

Even before he came to Eowolf, Aeron had heard grumblings around his village, in the taverns, or at the dinner table: the humans didn’t really respect the People. They were just using them. They were cheating them of fair prices for the food the Shirefolk grew and humans needed so badly. They were taxing them too heavily. The troops the Shires sent to the League musters and to fight in the League’s wars were just arrow fodder; sacrificed to save human lives. Aeron had heard it all but never gave it much credence. There were always grumblers, and grumblers had to grumble.

But now there were grumbles in Eowolf, too. He heard the talk in the taverns and at the market and around the mess tables at the College: the halflings were ungrateful, they were stingy and scheming. Everyone knew the halflings were getting more from the League than they were giving back in return. Why, the little moochers would never survive without the League’s protection - although they had for centuries. At first Aeron had thought it was just talk, but now things were happening.

There were shouted insults and cat-calls in the streets, fellow cadets, even ones whom he thought were friends, were turning cold. The hateful term halfmen was being bandied about more and more openly. Acquaintances among the small Shirefolk community in Eowolf were talking of leaving, going home to the Shires. And then the incident tonight. Why was this going on? What was he going to do if it got worse? With those thoughts spinning in his head, Aeron finally drifted off to sleep.

Roll-call came much too soon.

Just as it had nine hundred-odd times before, Aeron’s day began with Sergeant Osvald Rolf shouting at them to get up and get dressed while he flung open the shutters and banged on their bunks. Aeron tried to jump out of his bunk as usual and nearly fell flat on his face when his muscles proved so stiff from the previous night’s ordeal that he could barely move. Moaning, he stood up, realized he had never undressed, and shuffled to stand at the end of the bunk. Palle thumped down from above, fastened his trousers, and said: You all right?

He nearly responded that he’d been worse, but he realized that probably wasn’t true. Ehhh, he moaned, then added: How do I look?

Like you’ve been run over by a war horse. Bruises all over your face.

Rolf called them to attention and then strode down the aisle between the bunks, looking each of them over with an eye that missed nothing. As Aeron feared, when the sergeant came abreast of him, he stopped and looked closer. His huge, bushy eyebrows drew together in a frown. What the demons happened to you? he snapped.

Got run over by a war horse last night, Sergeant, Aeron answered. He tried to say it quietly, but enough people heard that many eyes turned in his direction. Great, everyone will want to know the story.

From the looks of you, it must have been a herd of them.

Might have been, Sergeant, it was too dark to count.

The man’s grizzled face smoothed out into an expression that might almost have been one of concern. Do you need to see the chirurgeon, lad?

Don’t think so, Sergeant. I’m a quick heal.

Rolf snorted and shook his head, but before he could ask any more embarrassing questions, his corporal, who held the roll book, said: Looks like we have an empty bunk, Sergeant. Rolf’s head snapped around and indeed, two bunks down a man was missing—Cadet Soren. Probably had too good of a time last night—unlike Aeron. The sergeant immediately forgot about him and stalked over to grill the man who was standing by the empty file about his missing bunkmate. Aeron sighed in relief. A short while later, Rolf determined that there weren’t any more men missing and stood before them. Breakfast at the first bell, weapons drill at the second. Dismissed.

The cadets relaxed and trooped down the aisle to the garderobe where they could wash and see to other necessities. Aeron winced, as did several of the people close by, when he stripped off his tunic and got the first look at the bruises that he was quite certain would be there. Black and purple blotches covered much of his torso.

By the Children! hissed Palle. "Maybe you should go to the chirurgeon, Aeron."

Don’t think anything’s broken, he said, probing his ribs gently.

But he might give you something for the pain.

Having sampled Master Morten’s potions before, frankly, I think I’d rather have the pain.

Suit yourself.

After washing, Aeron went back to his bunk and unlocked the chest with his belongings and got out fresh clothes. He tossed the dirty ones into a basket which would be taken to the laundresses for cleaning. He was grateful about being in the Second Company now. Servants took care of routine chores. When he’d first arrived, he’d been in the Fourth Company with all the other newcomers and had to do all those chores himself. Now there were a dozen hirelings to keep the barracks clean and the hundred men in Second Company looking spruce.

A ray of sunshine stabbed through one of the windows and illuminated the opposite wall. A few moments later, a distant bell sounded and the cadets got up and moved toward the door that led to the stairs, automatically forming into ranks. In spite of his hurts, Aeron’s stomach growled and he was eager for breakfast. The main building at the College of Warcraft was a huge structure, five stories tall with two long wings which met at right angles at a large central tower. The first floor had the refectory and other public spaces. The East Wing had the living quarters on the second through fifth floors. The North Wing had classrooms, laboratories, and the library. Humans seemed to love building this sort of thing. If you took a dozen of the largest structures in all the Shires, combined, they wouldn’t be as big as this artificial stone mountain.

The head of the company reached the stairs but then had to pause as the First Company trooped past them down toward the refectory, four men abreast, marching in cadence. The First Company had seniority in all things. They would graduate this year and never missed a chance to remind everyone of it. Next year that will be me, thought Aeron, looking admiringly at the decorative silver braid on the seniors’ tunics.

When it was their turn, Second Company went down the broad marble stairs, Now Third and Fourth Companies, on the lower floors, had to wait their turn. Aeron sometimes wondered why the prestigious First Company had to walk up four flights of stairs to get to their quarters. If he’d been in charge, he would have put them on the second floor and let the lower ranking classes do all that climbing. I suppose they feel that being on top of everyone else is worth it.

They reached the bottom of the stairs in the great entry hall and turned left into the refectory, ranks aligned perfectly. Their column of fours split into two columns of twos and then four columns of one as they took their places along either side of two long polished wood tables. First Company was already seated but sat motionless despite the large bowls of steaming food in front of them. Aeron found his spot and swallowed saliva at the sight of the oatmeal, bread, crocks of butter, eggs, sausages, and mugs of hot tea sitting before him.

But he and the others had to wait until all the cadets were seated and then wait some more as other people straggled into the room. These were the officers, the professors, the mages, and the students in specialist branches of the college. The College of Warcraft had four main sections. The most prestigious were the Military Magicians, or Warmages as they were commonly known. These were the rare individuals who could channel magic and were attuned to the sorts that had military applications. They were extremely valuable and were treated accordingly. No narrow bunks or harsh discipline for them! There were only a few dozen of them, and they had their own dining area on a raised platform aside from the rest.

Next in the pecking order were the Artificers. These were the folks who could make things. Not just ordinary things, but marvelous devices, often with magical qualities - war machines, mostly. They also worked with the dangerous gunpowder, which was becoming more and more common in the armies of civilized peoples. The only other Shirefolk at the College were among the Artificers, two students and one instructor. All Shirefolk - well, the males anyway - were innate tinkerers. They were always cobbling together strange machines to ‘make their lives easier’. Most of their inventions were pretty mundane, but they had machines to plant, machines to weed, and machines to harvest. Thanks to these things, Shirefolk, despite their smaller size, could farm twice the land that a human could. But even among the Shirefolk, there were a rare few who took their tinkering to such limits that they were considered geniuses. Their creations were famous the world over, and the College of Warcraft was eager to have them.

Then there were the Engineers, they also built things, but mostly of a more ordinary type: bridges and siege works and fortifications. Lastly, there were the four companies of cadets. These were being trained as officers to command the armies of Rhordia - and with the addition of Aeron, the Shires.

Finally, everyone was there. The College Chaplain, a devotee of the Church of the Children, blessed the meal and everyone dug in. Despite the pains in his arms and shoulders, Aeron quickly leaned forward and filled his plate. While the discipline here was strict and the living conditions stark, they fed them well, for which Aeron was very grateful. Halflings might have been half the size of the humans, but they ate nearly as much. The bowls and platters were quickly emptied and refills called for.

As Aeron munched away, more of his fellow cadets got a good look at the bruises on his face and made comments.

Aeron, did the husband come home early, or what?

Nah, he just was so drunk he fell all the way down the main staircase!

Hey, Cadwallader! Was that a male horse or a female horse that did that to you?

Dunno, he replied. All I saw was a horse’s ass. That got a laugh, but he couldn’t join in. Aeron had to admit that the taunts and jokes were no worse than what would have been directed at any other cadet under similar circumstances. He’d joined in on a few occasions, himself. But somehow, this time every comment seemed to have an unspoken halfling attached. You’re being ridiculous. Stop it.

Fortunately, at that moment, some of the stewards appeared carrying the second round of food, and one of them was the missing Cadet Soren. Kitchen duty was a common punishment for delinquent cadets, and it seemed that justice had caught up with Soren very quickly that morning. His classmates’ jibes were instantly redirected to Soren, and Aeron was allowed to finish his breakfast in peace.

As things began to break up and the cadets headed back to their barracks to get ready for the day’s activities, Aeron found himself walking up the steps next to Vadik Gulbrand, one of the pair of dwarfs in the company. Vad, he said.

Aeron, nodded Vadik, who then let out a loud belch. Have a bit of trouble last night, did you?

You might say so. He hesitated and then went on in a low voice: "Have you had any trouble lately?"

What do you mean? replied the dwarf, a note of caution in his voice.

I… I got beaten up last night just because I was a halfling. Has anyone given you any problem for being a dwarf?

Ha! I’d like to see ‘em try!

Aeron nodded. The dwarfs were shorter than men but broader and often stronger. They didn’t take insults lightly - as he’d witnessed last night. Vad continued to stare at him as they continued up. But I suppose I shouldn’t laugh. Someone like you’d be a much easier target for cowards to pick on. And there have been some…

Some what?

Some incidents. Mostly with our women and children. Nothing serious, but still a bit… disturbing.

Aeron shook his head. Why now? The Shires have been in the League for over a hundred years, and you dwarfs have been living here among the humans for a lot longer than that. Why’s this trouble starting now?

Can’t say, replied Vad, shaking his head in turn. I’ve heard some say it’s this ‘humans first’ poison coming from down south. That Lord Darvled character. But all I can tell you is to watch your back - and stay away from spots where you can get into trouble.

Thanks, Vad, I’ll try.

They reached the barracks and each went about getting ready for the day. First on the schedule, as usual, was weapons drill. Aeron took out his training gambeson, a close-fitting padded jacket meant to soften the blows that would inevitably land during training. He winced pulling it on over his bruises and then winced again as he thought about how those bruises were going to hurt when they got hit, despite the gambeson. Over that went a longer cloth tunic which was gray and emblazoned with the crest of the College and the sigil of the Second Company. Tall leather boots replaced his normal light shoes, and he tucked a leather helmet under his arm and waited for the call to fall in.

It wasn’t long in coming, and soon the company was trooping back down the stairs, out through the main doors, and into the large practice yard. It was enclosed on two sides by the wings of the main building and by walls, stables, and workshops on the other two. The College wasn’t meant to be a fortress, but it could become one if necessary. Out beyond the walls he could see the towers and spires of the city of Eowolf. In the distance, the palace of the Duke perched on the only bit of high ground around, the city being mostly flat.

The field was about a dozen hectares in size, divided into sections by carefully trimmed hedges. Each section was for training with certain types of weapons. But before they went to a specific section, Sergeant Rolf took them on a brisk trot around the perimeter of the fields, just to get them warmed up. Aeron and the rest of the company had gone through this hundreds of times, and it caused him no trouble, despite his aches and pains and the fact that he had to nearly run to match the trot of the long-legged humans. Then it was off to the hand weapon training section, where they were issued wooden weapons and told to pair off. Most of the humans favored wooden replicas of longswords, although a few liked the lighter rapiers. The dwarfs liked axes or large hammers. Aeron was obliged to use a short sword as the other weapons were much too long for him.

He would have preferred to spar against Palle, but Sergeant Rolf knew full well that buddies often didn’t go all-out against each other, so he made sure they faced different opponents and rotated them frequently. Aeron’s first match was against Cadet Casper Nimik, a tall young man from the north of the League. Casper had a ridiculous advantage in reach with his long arm and long sword, but Aeron was quicker and had learned to take advantage of that to get inside the guard of his opponent and score with his short sword. He still generally lost more often than he won. This time, slowed by his sore muscles, he lost all but two touches. Even so, Casper was gracious in victory and didn’t crow over his small opponent.

Rolf rotated them around, and Aeron faced four other cadets before they were given a break. He lost to all of them but gave the last one a run until they were both sweating profusely. It was the tail-end of summer and still very warm. He and his last opponent, Vestor Kennet, sat down in the shade of one of the hedges to cool off. Not bad, Aeron, said Vestor.

Thanks. You were pretty good yourself.

You’re so fast; hitting you is like trying to swat a… uh, stab a fox.

Swat a bug? Aeron forced himself to accept the compliment for what it probably was and ignore the almost-insult. As he began to relax, he admitted that he really did enjoy this. Not just the swordplay, but the camaraderie. Sure there were nitwits among the cadets with the usual insults and bad jokes, but for the most part, they were good fellows. Fellows you could trust. For one of the first things Sergeant Rolf drilled into everyone was you looked out for your comrades, guarded their backs, and helped them when they needed it. Not because you liked them, but because they were your comrades. You did that - or you were no good.

Soon they were called back into ranks and started again, this time with an assortment of other mock weapons: axes, flails, and maces, just so everyone had at least some experience with weapons that were not their favorites. Again, Aeron had to use shorter, lighter versions of what the other cadets were using, but he still did all right. After another break, they went to another section and worked with spears and polearms. Aeron was quite good with spears. These were a traditional weapon of the Shirefolk; the perfect weapon to keep a wolf - or a goblin - at a distance while you dealt with them. Naturally, the humans were using longer spears than he had, but he still held his own.

Then just before the noon break, they worked with Aeron’s favorite weapons: bows. Even more than spears, the bow was a favorite of the Shirefolk. While they couldn’t match an elf with a bow, they could match - or better - just about anyone else. Aeron had to use a short bow instead of the longer bows of the humans, but within his range, say three hundred paces, he could put an arrow within a hands’ breadth of where he wanted it, almost every time. Some of the others were also using crossbows, and the dwarfs were using the gunpowder weapons they had pioneered. After he had emptied his quiver, Aeron strode over to watch those dwarfs. Their muskets were scary things, giving off a flash and a bang and a cloud of acrid smoke. They didn’t appear to be terribly accurate, but they could blow a hole the size of his fist through a target. The dwarf weapons were so large and packed such a load that the recoil would have knocked him, or even most humans, on their ass if they tried to use one. Humans did have such weapons though and used artillery. He knew that some of the tinkerers in the Shires had started experimenting with smaller gunpowder weapons, more suited to their size, but he’d never used one himself.

The noon bell rang out from the College tower signaling the midday meal. This featured bread, cheese, sliced ham and beef, and an assortment of vegetables, washed down with a not terribly good beer - definitely not Shires-brewed. Afterward, they went out beyond the College’s walls to where most of the stables were located. The afternoon was spent with various riding exercises. The humans were on full-grown horses, while Aeron had a pony more suited to his size.

The dwarfs just looked on. They and their kin nearly all fought on foot. The rare few who did fight mounted did not use horses, but instead rode nasty creatures called brocks. They were like giant badgers with fangs and claws. They couldn’t be mixed with horses, and the College had none in its stables. Aeron was comfortable on his pony but had no illusions that he could fight very well from atop it. Still, on a battlefield, the added height would improve his view of things and allow him to get from place to place quickly.

The humans rode around yelling and whooping and trying to hit targets with lance and sword. Aeron went through the motions, but even Sergeant Rolf, normally a bit of a perfectionist when it came to training, seemed to realize that Aeron was not suited for this sort of combat and didn’t push things. The afternoon had turned quite hot, and by the time they were done, they and their mounts were dripping.

As the shadows lengthened, the cadets took their mounts back to the stables and spent nearly an hour tending to them. While most of the cadets would have servants or squires to handle this chore after they graduated, Rolf insisted they all know how to do it and inspected their work minutely.

The day was not quite over. The cadets marched back to their barracks, washed the day’s sweat and dirt off themselves, and then dressed in their best clothing, including swords hung from their belts. Then it was back down the steps and out into the large courtyard just beyond the entrance doors. There, the four companies of cadets, along with a fair number of the artificers and engineers and even a few of the warmages, lined up for the evening parade. Aeron caught a glimpse of Dilwyn Brynmor, one of only three other Shirefolk at the college. Dilwyn wasn’t exactly a friend—the artificers didn’t mingle much with the others—but he talked with him from time to time.

Aeron wasn’t quite sure why it was called a parade since they didn’t go anywhere, they just stood there. As they lined up, Second Company was joined by its official commander, Sir Einar. The sergeants may have run the companies day to day and overseen their training, but the officers were the actual commanders. They were all knights, with a baron named Klemens commanding the entire group. They were all humans, too. About the only time the cadets saw them was at the evening parade or other ceremonial formations. Some of the officers would turn up on the training fields from time to time, but that was rare. The officers were all on horseback, except for Baron Klemens, who was riding an aralez, a rare beast which looked rather like a gigantic dog. They were difficult to train, but those that were became fiercely loyal. They were said to have magical qualities and a very few were even born with wings. The few men to be bonded with an aralez were greatly admired and considered to be an elite. Horses didn’t much like the aralez, so it was difficult to intersperse the two. In recent years, some of the herdsmen in the Shires had begun breeding a smaller version of the aralez which was much more easily trained. Many humans considered this to be almost a sacrilege.

The College of Warcraft had a small group of drummers, pipers, and hornsmen who were playing a martial air as everyone assembled. Finally, all was set and silence fell. After a short wait, Headmaster Nedes appeared. He walked slowly, leaning on a cane, to a spot opposite the center of the assembled people. The Chaplain accompanied him and once or twice it looked as though the man was actually supporting the elderly Nedes.

The Headmaster stood before them and nodded in their direction. This was a signal, and the cadets drew their swords and held them out, pointing toward Nedes. The musicians then gave a roll of the drums and then all the assembly roared out: ‘Long Live Rhordia!’ three times at the top of their lungs.

And that was it. The ceremony was over and everyone sheathed their swords and filed back inside for dinner.

In spite of the seeming pointlessness of the parade, Aeron actually enjoyed it quite a lot. The music and the massed ‘soldiers’ sent a chill down his spine, and he shouted just as loudly as anyone. By the time his evening activities were finished, talking with Palle and some of the other cadets, writing a letter home, polishing his boots, and a few other things, he was feeling content. As he drifted off to sleep, the memory of the previous night’s violence had nearly faded from his mind.

Chapter 2

The next day’s activities were entirely different from those of the day before. Instead of physical training, the morning was filled with instruction. Instruction in classrooms. This was what made the Rhordian College of Warcraft so different from other training schools. The League of Rhordia was not particularly large, a mere fifty leagues east to west and north to south, compared to the two thousand five hundred leagues that the great northern continent of the world covered. Nor was it densely populated compared to the great cities of Basilea or Primovantor on the shores of the Infant Sea in the southeast, or the Successor Kingdoms far to the southwest beyond the Dragon Teeth Mountains. Rhordia’s city-states were surrounded by many potential foes; the Young Kingdoms, a hodgepodge of greater and lesser realms pressed Rhordia’s borders on all sides. Farther to the north were the rough tribes of the Mammoth Steppes, and the ever-present threat of raids by goblins or orcs from the mountains that ringed the Ardovikian Plain. The League couldn’t hope to match its potential foes by sheer strength, so they had to do it by being smarter.

Many of the older civilizations had become hidebound, unimaginative, and stagnant in the aftermath of the God War which had torn apart much of the world in ages long past. They thought and acted the same way as their distant ancestors, and they fought their wars that way, too. Dogmatic religions stifled free thought, and innovation was discouraged or outright forbidden. The younger kingdoms were more dynamic but lacked the patience and discipline to conduct themselves in a rational or scientific manner.

Rhordia was different.

The League was not ruled by a king or emperor, but by a council of nobles from the five human city-states: Eowulf, Targun Spire, Hetronburg, Torffs Valem, and Berlonviche. Dukes, they called themselves, and while each ruled his own realm separately, in joint matters they all bowed to the majority wishes of the council. In addition to the five dukes, the head of the local Church of the Children had a seat on the council, and after the Halfling Shires joined the League, they, too had a representative there.

The League embraced science and encouraged innovation. Even the Church of the Children, the majority religion, was very open-minded and tolerant of other beliefs. This had led to a dynamic society with a strong economy and a military that was very powerful for its size. There were other schools in the world to train young nobles in warfare, but the emphasis was almost entirely on weapons skills and riding skills. The men were trained as warriors, not as soldiers. In most of those armies, tactics consisted of shouting: ‘Follow me, boys! Charge!’ Strategy was: ‘Let’s march out there and find someone to kill.’ And logistics? Most had no clue what the word even meant.

In the College of Warcraft, they applied scientific methods to warfare. They studied past battles and campaigns, tried to determine why things had gone the way they did, who had made good decisions, who had made bad ones, and what lessons could be learned. Aeron found it all fascinating and enjoyed his time in the classroom; probably more than most of the other cadets.

On that day, they were in the History of Warfare class taught by Professor Egilhard. He was talking about the most famous battle ever fought by the League, the one which brought the League of Rhordia into existence: The Battle of Halman’s Farm.

You all know the basic facts about the battle, said the professor. We raise our children telling them tales of it. The newly formed alliance, led by Alobart Rhor, met a vastly larger force of invading orcs and destroyed them utterly. How was he able to do that, gentlemen?

Aeron looked around. All of his company was there in the third floor classroom; a large space with rows of hard wooden benches, a high ceiling with exposed wooden beams, and a row of narrow windows along one wall letting in the morning light. The other three walls were covered with maps and chalkboards filled with diagrams of troops formations. No one answered.

Come, come, gentlemen! snapped the professor. You’re not newcomers, surely you’ve learned something while you’ve been here!

Finally, Vestor Kennet stood up. Uh, he lured the orcs onto a trap, sir. Surrounded ‘em and wiped ‘em out.

You make it all sound very easy, Mister Kennet, said Egilhard. Do you think it was easy?

Uh, no, sir.

So why was he able to do it? Anyone? How about you, Mister Yngve? he asked, focusing on one unlucky cadet. Ketil Yngve squirmed in his seat, looking like he’d just woken up—and perhaps he had.

Uhhh… orcs are idiots? This got a few chuckles from the students, but Egilhard just snorted.

They’re not the only ones, Ketil, said someone loudly from the back of the room. This got a lot more laughs. The professor did not look amused.

Anyone? prompted the professor. His gaze moved across the class. Aeron looked around, but it didn’t seem like anyone else was going to answer. He ran a finger nervously along a groove carved in the wooden bench; the initials of some bored cadet from long before. He didn’t like to call attention to himself, but… he got to his feet.

He knew his enemy, sir. He knew the orcs would be eager to attack and not stop to scout ahead. They would come straight on into the trap he’d set.

Exactly! cried Egilhard. "Alobart Rhor didn’t just know his own army, he knew his enemy’s. The orcs live for war and always favor the attack, even when outnumbered. Make no mistake, they can be cunning at times, shrewd even, but in most cases, their desire is always to close with the enemy as quickly as they can in a ferocious headlong charge.

"Knowing this, Rhor deployed his forces to take advantage of the orcs’ aggressiveness. He sent out a screen of light cavalry to harass the orcs and draw them in. Then he formed his most steady infantry into a line in the center with orders to give ground in the face of the orc assault. Finally, he put all his heavy cavalry out of sight on each flank.

His plan worked to perfection. The orcs charged after the light cavalry, and when they saw the line of infantry, kept right on going and smashed into them. The infantry slowly fell back, drawing the orcs in after them. But only in the center, the flanks remained anchored. Eventually nearly all the orcs were in a pocket, so tightly packed they could barely use their weapons. It was at this point—the Moment of Decision—that Rhor unleashed his cavalry. They swept around the ends of the infantry lines and hit the orcs from the rear, encircling them completely. The orcs were slaughtered almost to the last one of them. Sadly, Rhor, himself was mortally wounded, leading the cavalry charge. But his sacrifice led to the creation of the League. Egilhard paused and looked over the class. So! What lessons can we learn from Rhor’s actions at Halman’s Farm, Mister Cadwallader?

Uh… don’t just use your own strengths to your advantage, use your enemy’s weaknesses against them?

Yes, well done, Cadet!

Thank you, sir, said Aeron, quickly sitting down and staring straight ahead. He could feel a hundred pairs of eyes on him.

Professor? Aeron looked up and was surprised to see Palle on his feet. His friend rarely said anything in class unless called upon.

Yes, Cadet Gudmund?

How… how could Rhor be sure that the orcs would do as he expected? Suppose they did something else? What if this ‘Moment of Decision’ that you speak of never came?

"Then we probably would not be having this conversation, and the League probably wouldn’t exist. But no, I should not make light of this, for