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Varqelle set his mug on a table next to his chair and rose to his feet. He stood a head taller than the
major. Understand me. General Stonehammer is a good man. He doesn t deserve whatever your king
plans for him. But the general would no more expect me to compromise this campaign for him than your
Cube-General Fieldson would expect such of King Jarid.
Ravensford s gaze never wavered. You won t take Aronsdale. Oh, I think I will. He gestured in the
direction of the castle, his long fingers lazy in the air. My agents tell me how many soldiers hide within
Suncroft. And I ve seen what remains of your other units. You have no chance. You will lose. When
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Ravensford started to answer, his face flushed, Varqelle turned his hand palm out toward the man. You
are alone, here, Hexahedron-Major. You came without weapons. I respect that. I will let you leave in
the same manner. His voice deepened. But do not try my good will. It may not hold. Ravensford took
a deep breath. Then he bowed, his movements stiff. At your leave, Your Majesty.
You may go.
So Ravensford went back out into the chill night. Varqelle picked up his wine and sipped it slowly,
considering the tent flap that swung from the major s departure. Varqelle felt tired, though he had hidden
it from his visitor. He had no liking for the battle they would fight with Jarid Dawnfield and his army
tomorrow. But fight he would, for his desire to expand his territories was greater than his reluctance to
kill. One day his name would be remembered in all the history scrolls, the visionary who made Harsdown
an empire. Varqelle the Mighty. Yes, they would remember his name.
On a blustery morning in autumn, when brittle leaves blew across the land and a chill turned the wind
sharp, the armies of Aronsdale and Harsdown met in the trampled meadows below Suncroft. They
turned the formerly idyllic countryside into a battlefield.
The polygon units within the castle swept out into the combat, a human wave pouring down the hill. The
armies surged back and forth, attacking, retreating, surging forward again. Harsdown always pressed
toward the castle, climbing its hill and being beaten back, only to force its way forward again. So it was
that under the watery light of a sun veiled by thin clouds, war came to Aronsdale.
36
Vale of
the Sun
For Chime, the day blurred. The Mage Guard of the King s Army hid her and Iris in the woods on a hill
well above the fighting, a walk often minutes from the battle. Chime could see the combat, but with
several thousand men fighting, she could locate no one in particular. Beyond the battlefields and their
roiling armies, Castle Suncroft raised its spires into the sky. Chime focused through the large faceted ball
she had brought with her, imagining golden hues, the color of confidence, until a shimmering haze
surrounded her. She sent the spell to the Aronsdale warriors, flowing it across the land.
Success, she willed. You shall triumph. You are strong and alive. She couldn t see Jarid, but she sensed
him in her magescape. He flared like lightning. Surely a king should stay back, protected, but he refused,
driven to battle with single-minded intensity. Never did she feel him use spells to injure, but that changed
nothing. With his sword, he killed again and again, and it exacted a price on his conscience he would
never forgive. She couldn t find Muller in her magescape, but she felt his presence. Several times, when
her spells broke on the jagged edges of polygon units, he reached out, trying to help and her spells
surged in power. Then his presence would vanish again, his concentration turned to battle and survival. It
had agonized Chime to see him ride to war this morning. She prayed for his return tonight. When soldiers
began carrying wounded men to her, she submerged her fears in work. She bandaged and soothed,
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easing pain while Iris staunched gashes, set broken bones, and wove her spells. Then she would turn
back to the battle, pouring her spells into the polygons as best she could manage. The combat raged until
Chime lost all sense of time. Always when the injured came in, she looked for Muller. Always she asked
after him. Her heart sang when someone reported seeing him alive; her mood plunged when no one could
say if he lived. Day faded into evening and still the injured came. The battle raged and the polygons
fragmented. She and Iris alternated between helping the injured and using their spells in the battle. She
worked in a daze, calling on her deepest resources.
Finally, in exhaustion, she fell asleep sitting up, her head falling forward, blood-soaked bandages in her
hands.
A trill awoke Chime. She stirred, reassured by the melodies of her songbird. Then she remembered; her
bird had died. She heard only the familiar warble of redwing night-canaries so common throughout
Aronsdale. She opened her eyes to see a drowsing camp, warriors sleeping fitfully around her like a
bulwark, lit by the ghostly light of an Azure Moon. Iris slept nearby, leaning against a tree, her arms limp
at her sides, a blanket across her lap. Warriors paced through the trees, sentries on patrol. Some of the
injured moaned in their dreams. In instinct, Chime formed a spell to counter their pain. Silence had
otherwise fallen over the countryside. The armies had apparently withdrawn to recover and recoup. She
hadn t realized they would do such; subconsciously she had expected them to keep fighting. The
exhaustion of the hundreds of men spread across the hills pressed down on her; both armies were
drained. Death had parched their ranks. Many of the soldiers wanted to return home. She felt the same.
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