Deadly Intentions (Blood Feud - Volume 2) Read online

  Deadly Intentions

  David Temrick

  Smashwords Edition

  First Edition – February 2013

  Copyright © 2013 by David Temrick

  Disclaimer: This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between the characters, places or events and any other work of fiction or fact are purely coincidental and in no way reflect real people, places or events.

  Note from the Author

  As is often the case with fantasy novels, this sequel continues to adventures of Tristan Vallious. I felt as though the first novel was setting the stage for the second, though I have yet to start working on any others in this world. I guess that’s the rebel in me, I’ll stick to certain preconceived notions and then stick my nose up at others. To anyone who knows me in my personal life, or has befriended me on various social media, this will come as little surprise.

  Be sure to check out my personal website at www.davidtemrick.com

  Thanks again to you all.

  Cheers,

  David Temrick

  Chapter 1

  Tristan Vallious swore under his breath. In the distance he could make out the silhouettes of five abnormally large humanoids. Even with the sun setting behind the mountainous monsters, Tristan could easily tell they were giants. They towered above the war machines at their feet, and they cut a wide birth around them as they lumbered toward his forces.

  “Hold damn you!” He shouted.

  Many of his most battle hardened men and women exchanged startled glances and whispered hoarsely to one another. Tristan could hardly blame them; one giant was a force to be reckoned with. After three days and nights of endless fighting, five of them would break the back of his army. If his reserves weren’t here in the next hour he was going to have to call for an orderly withdrawal along the entire centerline.

  “Archers!” He shouted. “Pick your targets!”

  All along the earthen breastworks the Bandit King’s forces began to push their way through. The first enemy cleared the wood and mortar wall and ducked down, waiting for his comrades to catch up. Tristan watched in detached fascination as the enemy waited, gathering more soldiers together in preparation for an organized attack. Until three days ago he would have called the occupation of Terum a rabble of unorganized mercenary companies, many of who didn’t get along with one another. Three days ago that changed completely. Large organized groups of foot soldiers preceded their more valuable archers while cavalry kept their flanks in place.

  The enemy outnumbered his forces three to one and until their re-organization, the fight to regain his new kingdom was proceeding quickly. With the Bandit King’s forces now organized and attacking in concert rather than blindly engaging him, all of his effort was bent towards holding the ground he’d already won rather than any attempt to push forward. It was clear that someone somewhere had finally gained control over the invading army and was bending it to their will. Tristan doubted very much it was this so-called Bandit King; it was far more likely that someone had ingratiated himself or herself in his inner circle and was counseling him well in the art of war.

  As the enemy gathered on the other side of the first breastwork, he smiled.

  “Loose!” Tristan shouted.

  As one, over a hundred archers fired their arrows at the attackers. Their missiles took a score of enemy soldiers down. His momentary joy was quickly extinguished as he watched more bandits pour over the breastwork. He would have found the flood of soldiers mildly amusing if they hadn’t been beaten into an organized mob. Whoever was in command of the invaders knew how best to use the rabble of mercenaries, conscripts and murderers to good effect. Everywhere along his forward positions they punished his army, punching holes in their defenses and rolling up his lines at a whim.

  “Hold!” Tristan shouted.

  He waited for the opportune time to take as many of the enemy as possible. More soldiers poured over the battlements, running headlong across the killing gap. Tristan had erected two sets of breastworks, creating a large, reasonably level field between the two armies. Many of the Bandit King’s soldiers fell into spike pits dug by Tristan’s engineers, while others spotted the traps and avoided them. In avoiding the killing holes, they were forced to take their time and became perfect targets for the Prince’s archers.

  “Fire!” He shouted as the first of the enemy soldiers come within twenty yards of his forward position.

  Bowstrings snapped all around the Prince as he continued to monitor the assault. Another wave of enemy soldiers was almost on top of them and getting closer by the moment. Tristan forced himself to wait until the last moment before shouting his orders at the cadre of archers surrounding him.

  “Fire at will!” He shouted.

  Another volley of arrows took another score of enemy soldiers. Still more of the enemy forces crossed the twenty yards between the makeshift breastwork-killing field and the Vallius army. An increasing number of enemy soldiers cleared the breastwork by the moment, though his archers did an admirable job of keeping them from reaching his lines. Foot soldiers waited, their swords drawn and shields held up in case any of the Terum soldiers got close enough. The archers were mostly lined up behind two columns of infantry to keep them as safe as possible. Even so, enemy soldiers beat holes in Tristan’s defensive line, getting in behind the protective columns and hacking his archers to bits.

  Flying companies of veteran soldiers waited, under the command of their captains, to plug the holes as they appeared. Those companies were being sorely tested as more and more Terum soldiers closed in on their forward positions. Tristan had been fighting this delaying action for far too long. He was anxious for his reinforcements. He’d received word were on their way, though they might as well be years away if he couldn’t find a way to keep his lines intact.

  For close to a year Tristan had been leading his army into Terum. His force had traveled into Terum largely unmolested, until they met with the first signs of resistance in the shape of a large fort. The crude structure had been hastily constructed right on the road from Kenting to the capital of Terum, Kumia.

  The Prince had decided to proceed politically, as his commanders suggested. He ordered camp to be set up just outside of bowshot. Tristan sent an emissary to the fort announcing himself as ruler of Terum. He wasn’t quite sure what he expected at the time, though when his emissary returned with two irritating messages, he had to fight to keep his temper in check.

  The messages themselves were more or less benign, or at least that’s how Tristan viewed them with a large army under his command. Of course, in retrospect he should have known better. The first message was quite simple: ‘Turn around and go home.’ Tristan would have laughed if it hadn’t been delivered to his emissary at sword point. However, it had and that fact alone grated his nerves.

  The second message was not quite as laughable and it created whole other series of problems. It quite simply outlined the new regime of King Boris.

  It appeared as though a mercenary captain had reassembled what had been left of the force that attacked Sutten almost a year ago. Mercenary companies, tribes of trolls, goblin engineers, and orc warriors, bolstered those forces. Now, it seemed, they added giants to their numbers. Trolls and goblins were blood enemies, so how Boris had forged them into a united fighting force was beyond his understanding and even his spies couldn’t discover those details. Tristan theorized that it had something to do with magic, the air stank with it. One of the boons that came from his destruction of the Draconis’ Bane cult had been the experience to put name to the strange feelings he often felt when in the presence of a magic user.

  At times it was simply a tingle b
ehind his eye, or the hair rising on the back of his neck. Typically these warnings sprang when he was around unrefined blunt magic users. The more gifted or experienced the magician, the harder it was for him to pinpoint the threat. Whatever spells were being employed to keep this invading army in check wasn’t remotely subtle. The air felt like a weight beating down on him like a hammer. It was certainly powerful, but made no attempt to hide its power, nor its purpose. Even so, his spies still seemed unable to explain the presence of the magic.

  Along with the charge of ruling Terum, his father had given him a small band of spies to use. King Dion had explained that most of the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms employed spies in some form, otherwise one just couldn’t keep track of the changes in others countries. Tristan’s spies had ferreted out several other compelling facts.

  Boris had the aid of a lover whom no one seemed to have ever seen or heard the name of. He’d enlisted hundreds of bandits and mercenaries, and then seized control of Terum. Tristan’s spies had also learned that every Terum citizen who was not serving in the army was crucified, or impaled and left for dead. Their families were forced to watch as the twitching remains of their loved ones died before their eyes and then were pressed into service.

  The women were taught how to tan and smith while the children became cook’s monkeys, servants and messengers. The men were mostly used as wall fodder, though some of them took to their new duties with some pride. Shortly thereafter the newly crowned King Boris had arranged for orcs, trolls and goblins to join his army, though none of the spies could discover how he’d accomplished this. The entire force Boris now commanded was putting pressure on Tristan’s lines everywhere. Experienced soldiers were scattered among the rag tag band of conscripts and bloodthirsty mercenaries, and then the lot of them would be released on already exhausted Vallius soldiers.

  Until three weeks ago, regular messengers in the form of half-starved children began appearing all along his lines. They delivered messages to his commanders, offering each of them lands, bribes and titles if they would take their forces and leave, or turn them on their Prince. Some of them might have been tempted if they hadn’t realized that the prizes and boons Boris offered were Vallius lands.

  The congress of Lords in Metao had been loath to send Tristan more men, even though he sent regular weekly requests. So the Prince had one of his own messengers ride back to the capital with the last girl Boris had sent from Kumia Fortress. She bore King Boris’ offer to one of Tristan’s generals to the council. The offer was for the entire eastern half of Vallius and title if he would turn his army on Tristan and then march on Kenting Keep. The council had sent word that an additional fifty thousand men were on the way. If they arrived in the next fifteen minutes he could use replace his exhausted soldiers with them and hold the front line.

  “Hold the line!” Tristan shouted over the grunts and screams of both armies.

  The first of the enemy approached his position. He and his commanders pulled their swords and prepared for the battle to begin in earnest. Tristan blocked the overhead strike from an enemy and kicked him backwards. His comrades trampled him as they continued to pour through the breach they’d punched in his forward line. A mercenary woman stepped in front of him and lunged forward, attempting to impale Tristan on the tip of her bastard sword. The Prince backed up as he swept her blade aside. In an impressive show of strength and dexterity, she allowed her blade to be carried to the side and altered its momentum into an overhead strike. Tristan blocked the blow, though he felt it all the way down to his heels.

  He stepped forward and punched the woman square on the chin, hoping to at least knock her off balance. She merely smiled, her teeth bloodied by his punch and spat out a glob of blood before stepping forward and driving her knee into his stomach. The wind was knocked out of Tristan and he dully realized she’s punched an inch wide hole in his stomach with the spike on the top of her shin guards.

  The woman slammed the butt of her sword into Tristan’s forehead and sent him reeling backwards. He brought his sword up defensively and deflected a blow meant to decapitate him. She grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head backwards, raising her blade for a killing stroke. Tristan jabbed the woman in the throat, forcing her to back away and allow him to regain his feet.

  He shook his head and stood up shakily, preparing for another onslaught. She snarled as she readjusted the grip on her large sword and rushed forward, bringing her sword down on him. Tristan had enough of trying to block her powerful strikes and dodged to the left, allowing her to stumble past him. She looked over her right shoulder just as Tristan brought his scimitar down, severing her head from her shoulders.

  The female mercenary fell forward as her head rolled down the incline his command pavilion had been built on. A horn sounded from behind enemy lines and the attacking army quit pouring over the short wall. Those few that remained on this side of the killing field continued to fight to the last man. After the final invader was killed Tristan nodded to a nearby soldier who ran across the killing field and quickly crept up the incline to look over the large breastwork wall.

  “The army halts my Lord. They mill about in front of their fort.” He shouted.

  Tristan signaled for a few of his men to follow behind him as he made his through the field and up the incline the breastwork was built on. He could see that the enemy was back a hundred yards or so, closer to their large crude fort blocking the road to Kumia. The five giants were stationed to the north of the fort, goblins and orcs kept them fed and calm. The assembled force of human mercenaries and the press gang of former citizens that Boris had assembled milled about at the base of the fort walls, taking their rest.

  “What do you make of that?” Tristan muttered to no one in particular.

  “Calm before the storm?” A familiar voice grumbled beside him.

  Tristan looked over at Sergeant Frose, who had just appeared at his side and chuckled.

  “Very likely.” He mused. “Are the reinforcements here yet?”

  “Aye sir. They arrived shortly after the enemy horn blew.” Frose reported.

  “Please send for my brother.” He ordered.

  “How did you know Kevin led them?” Frose blurted before smiling in annoyance. “Never mind, I don’t want to know. I’ll send word.”

  Tristan smiled to himself as the old war dog turned and walked off, shouting the order to the nearest messenger. In truth, Tristan didn’t know how he’d known Kevin was nearby. The Prince chuckled as he continued to watch as Boris’ army began to set up fires and relax. The giants sat and more than one bird to take off in alarm from the fort’s battlements. One of them absent-mindedly played with a large battering ram, spinning it playfully in its large hands as Tristan watched on. His amusement fled quickly.

  ~

  Within the hour Kevin leapt off his horse and entered into Tristan’s command tent to find his younger brother brooding over a map of the area. He chuckled to himself, musing that only two years ago the boy wouldn’t have known which side of map was up, let alone be planning an offensive to reclaim lands. He corrected his thoughts slightly; his brother was now a man.

  The last two years had turned the soft boy he had brought with him to Kenting for the first time into a clever leader and fierce warrior. Kevin spared a moment to brood over the effects of warfare on the young, making them old men long before their time. Shaking his head from his musings he walked forward and filled himself a metal cup of water from the bucket.

  “How go things?” He asked with a smirk.

  “Oh wonderful.” Tristan answered sarcastically. “Ever since that bastard started throwing orcs and trolls at me I’ve been spending more men than I had in the first eight months of this non-sense!” The Prince yelled.

  “Maybe you should return the favor?” Kevin suggested with a chuckle.

  Tristan could never stay angry with his big brother cracking jokes. Tristan’s anger visibly fled he smiled, looking up at Kevin.

  “
What do you mean?” He asked with a smirk.

  “Well.” Kevin began. “You seem to forget that you have creatures that answer to you as well.” He observed.

  “Father tells me that Draconis has been to visit you a few times, Lesariu has offered to take you to Guis and Socolis would be very upset if you didn’t invite him to the fun.”

  Tristan laughed; Kevin assumed he was reminded of the last time Socolis helped him in battle, setting ladders and towers on fire as he sped the young Prince away on his back to meet his grandfather. With dragon magic back in place, the elder Prince wasn’t sure what kind damage a force like Boris’ could inflect. Or even what kind of force dragons could be in battle. Besides, they had a race to repopulate. Even so, Tristan had done dragon kind a great deed and surely that earned some sort of help if the young Prince should need it.

  “I wouldn’t need them for long.” Tristan muttered out loud. “Just long enough to get rid of the giants and a maybe burn that fort down around the rest of those bastards.”

  Kevin remained for a month, helping Tristan with a plan of attack. They were only attacked another dozen times or so, and the forces were easily repelled. The older Prince had the sinking sensation that the enemy made plans as well. Tristan called out for Draconis a few days after Kevin had arrived and the three of them discussed what the dragons could offer.

  “With our magic restored, anything short of a dozen mages or more will do little damage.” Drake explained in his human form. “With the three of us we should create quite the uproar.”

  “I’d prefer to know what Boris plans are though.” Kevin commented.

  “I’ve sent a dozen of my more talented spies into their camp. Hopefully we’ll have a better appreciation of their tactics when they return.” Tristan explained.