The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2)

by R. G. Triplett

  Chapter Four

  THE CITY OF HAVEN WAS firmly in the grip of panic and fear. Whispers of war were on the lips of both the feeble and the fearless alike, for the rumors could no longer be contained. It had been nearly three weeks since one of the riders of the Capital guard had come barreling through the borough of Westriver in the light of the pale silver. The message he had delivered with panicked face and foaming horse drove the citizens of Haven into a deeper sense of dread. The impending darkness was no longer the greatest fear of the people, for every ear, whether it wished to or not, had heard the reports from the North.

  An enemy was advancing upon the city.

  The marshal of the West Gate, Lieutenant Marcum, had assembled the greater part of his company and marched his men northward. The tall, long-haired officer of the green and black was rumored to have reassigned his guardsmen and cavalry without having ever received orders from the Citadel; the people of Westriver couldn't decide whether to label Marcum a hero or to denounce him as a traitor. The strength of the Citadel buckled at the reduction of men here in the heart of the once-bright city. Riots and recklessness had become the normal order of the day, and they feared that without sufficient might, the soul of the city might be lost to utter chaos before the enemy even stormed the gates.

  No one could predict how long the last remaining branch of the tree would endure, and it had been weeks since Hollis' woodcutters had sent rations of timber to the panicked people of Haven. The citizens had turned to seizing and consuming whatever they could get their hands on for the chance to fuel their own hearths and fend off the shadows for another day. Now, as never before in the city of Haven, the cold winds of the northern territory invaded the walled city with the foreboding bite of utter and imminent change.

  The Priest King had grown paranoid in these darker days, afraid that the lawlessness and irreverence of his citizens would evoke the wrath of the THREE who is SEVEN, quickening the ever-present darkening of the world. He and his chancellor assumed direct command of the few remaining guardsmen of Westriver, compelled to maintain order by employing whatever measures were still available to him. The dungeon holds began to fill with any citizens who dared to question the will or wisdom of the Citadel.

  In the cleft of an alleyway nearest to the square of Westriver, a small contingent of guardsmen and hooded Priests escorted a grey-haired man and his son towards the prison keep in the heart of the borough. As the shackled men marched past the alley, a young man with dark hair and kind eyes hid himself from their view. Michael winced as he watched the citizens forced to pay the price of questioning the Citadel, knowing that his own sentencing could very likely be much worse if he were ever to be caught. Since the departure of Lieutenant Marcum and the ensuing chaos, he and Engelmann did not risk a public display of their message as openly as they once had. Still, their faces were known and their beliefs were condemned, and so they were forced to spread the truths of green-eyed evils and enduring hope while they lived in hiding. The remnant of those who still clung to the hope that Engelmann spoke so adamantly of had resorted to gathering in secret, choosing stone cellars and abandoned stables to hold their conferences and plot their preparations so as to not risk the paranoid wrath of the Priest King.

  Michael had been busy on an errand of Engelmann's for the better part of the day, spreading encouragement to the remnant and delivering word of their next rendezvous. He had nearly finished his rounds to the small band of outcasts, and in truth he did enjoy the bit of excitement all this sneaking around brought him. His final stop, however, was indeed his favorite part of this errand. Once the arresting party had dragged their hopeless charges down the stone road, Michael quickly made his way towards the home of Margarid.

  Margarid was the very first citizen of Haven to entertain the words of Engelmann with any form of sincerity at all, but it was not for that reason alone that her residence was saved for last. Since their very first encounter those weeks ago in the borough's square, the beautiful lady had not for one moment escaped the thoughts of the young groomsman.

  Michael rapped his fist three times on the humble door, glancing inconspicuously to either side so as to not invite unwanted attention onto this particular abode. When the door cracked open, the hazel eyes and simple smile of the young woman greeted Michael with an eager welcome.

  "Michael!" she excitedly whispered. "I was hoping it would be you."

  Michael had begun growing a beard for his trip across the Dark Sea, and when the disappointment of his rejection came, he had become too fond of his dark scruff to shave it off. But here in the light of the smile of the auburn-haired Margarid, his newly-bearded cheeks could not hide the flush that spread across his face.

  "You were now, were you?" he replied playfully, feigning surprise.

  "Why yes, I was ... is that so hard to believe?" Margarid asked as she coyly rose to the tips of her toes to kiss the young groomsman softly on his cheek.

  "I just like to hear you say it to me. It is arguably the best part of my day," Michael said with a foolish looking grin.

  "Arguably?!" Margarid blurted out in mock outrage.

  "Well, I was supposed to tell that Nasrin woman where we are gathering this silver evening," he teased.

  She scowled as she took him by the ear and pulled his face down to her level of sight. "You just go ahead and invite that ... that wild rose, and we will see what kind of hope you are going to have to try and muster up then!"

  Michael laughed at her anger, enamored by her forthrightness. There was something enchanting in the eyes and the heart of the young redhead who gazed at him. He may have chased the baker's daughter, and tumbled in the hayloft with a tavern maiden a time or two, but this Margarid was different. He had never before felt for a woman what he felt standing here outside of her humble home.

  "Alright ... alright! You can let me free now, I'll wait to invite her 'til tomorrow!" he said with pleasure, pulling lightly against her hold on his ear.

  "Well, we will have to see about tomorrow, then," Margarid said with a wink. She let him go and slid her hand down his face and onto his chest, letting it linger there with the gentle weight of her own attraction. She turned and surveyed the street outside of her home, her face growing more solemn as she brought their quiet conversation to the purpose for which he had come. She paused to listen for any voices of those who might overhear this next and most private part of their exchange. "Is it time?" she whispered conspiratorially.

  "Yes, my lady ... it is time."

  "Where then? Where does Engelmann," she mouthed his name to be sure no one would hear her say it, "call us to gather?"

  Michael leaned in close to her ear. "The old mill, there just on the edge of the borough. He says he has something urgent to share ... something of grave importance."

  "Alright then," she said as her hazel eyes betrayed the apprehension that she felt over the danger of these assemblies. "Let us be quick and careful about it."

  "Agreed, my lady," he told her. The gaze that was mere moments ago filled with boyish infatuation now held her stare with a nervous tension.

  Margarid drew up the hood of her faded, crimson cloak, so as to conceal her hidden intentions from the frightened eyes of this frightened kingdom. "There is a tavern on the edge of the borough, just before the old herdsman's pens. Do you know it?" she asked.

  "I do. The Broken Shield, I believe it is called?" he confirmed.

  "Yes. I will meet you there, and perhaps then we can walk the rest of the way together." She looked at him and softly whispered her farewell. "Be wary, my groomsman. Keep safe."

  With those words, the young woman in the faded, crimson cloak took her leave and began to walk the stone streets of Westriver towards the old tavern on the other side of the borough. Michael watched her walk away, and then, as if nothing had transpired between the two of them, he took off in a slightly different direction.

  ~ ~ ~

  Their remnant was small, barely a dozen strong. But their hope, or at
least their desire for hope, knit them together in ways that they still did not fully understand. The rumors of a gathering enemy in the northern territory had weighed heavy on the heart of their leader, Engelmann the Arborist. His position and power here in Haven had diminished all the more in the twilight of the great tree, for soon his very existence would have no purpose. What need would a people plunged into darkness have for a tree-less Arborist? Still, there were those of the Capital guard who clung to the fading traditions of old, and they dared not so much as meet the gaze of the green-haired old man, let alone question or halt his comings and goings. Their respect for his position and their superstitious fear of his unknown magics kept them at a reverent enough distance.

  Engelmann stood near the old mill on the outskirts of Westriver. As he waited for the small remnant to gather, he could not help but stare in wonder at the dying, silver flame. "I wonder what kind of darkness will come on the heels of your departure?" he said aloud to the tree before taking a long, concentrated draw on his green pipe. "Yes ... I wonder, indeed."

  The green-haired, old Arborist thought long in the smoky silence of his questions, speculating as to how he might lead this remnant to hold onto the hope they had been given. It was not a desire for illumination that weighed upon his thoughts, for he knew its end was coming. Rather, the heavier burden came from a need to know how best to endure the darkness. In the faint light of the silver flames, Engelmann welcomed the handful of men and women who cautiously made their way along the winding pathway to the gathering place. Greetings were given, arms were embraced, and he could see that in a few of their eyes lived the actual belief that hope would indeed change the outcome of this darkening world.

  As Engelmann ushered a young seamstress, Kahri, into the gathering hall, he spotted something peculiar on the road ahead. A figure appeared to be running with great haste towards the mossy-bearded Arborist, cloak whipping in the wake of the reckless pace.

  "The damned fool is going to get us all thrown in the prison holds if he keeps on like this!" Engelmann muttered under his breath. "Portus?" Engelmann called softly into the doorway. "Come here a moment." The urgency in the old man's voice was impossible to miss, and the strong tanner crossed the room in a few strides to meet the Arborist by the door.

  "Look ahead," Engelmann said, throwing a meaningful look towards the road. "Do you have your blade nearby?"

  "Aye, I don't sleep a silver night without it," the tall man replied. He reached to his belt to draw the weapon. "What sort of fool-"

  Engelmann steadied Portus' hand. "Easy now, let us not show hostility until absolutely necessary." He turned to eye the tanner. "We do not yet know who it is."

  Portus nodded his understanding, but stood with hand on hilt, at the ready if need be.

  "Engelmann!" A woman's voice half-shouted through her heavy breathing. "Engelmann, help! You have to help him!"

  The Arborist took a long, concentrated pull on his pipe; his amber-colored eyes focused intently on the shrouded face of the one who shouted his name.

  Not two-dozen paces from the mill, the hood of the faded crimson cloak fell away and revealed an auburn-haired young woman who ran with as much desperate determination as any racehorse of Abondale could muster.

  "Margarid?" Engelmann spoke disapprovingly into the silver night. "Margarid, what troubles you that you would risk our remnant in such a way?"

  "It's ... it's Michael! The guardsmen ... they have him!" She gasped, choking out her words. Her voice was a swirl of labored breath and barely restrained tears. "I saw them take him ... they took him in irons!"

  "Slow down, my girl, easy now," Engelmann said with a sagely grace. He took her by the arm and ushered her into the meeting hall, motioning for Portus to close the door before they made themselves any more of a spectacle. "Michael, you say? They took Michael?"

  Her eyes went wild in unrestrained fear before clouding over in a foggy sorrow. Tears began to trace her soft cheekbones as she caught what breath she could.

  "Michael?" Engelmann asked again, prodding her to continue.

  She nodded her saddened confirmation.

  "But how? Did he get himself into trouble? What happened, girl? Out with it now!" The concern for his young pupil became evident on the leathery face of the old Arborist. He felt the tension of his own intensity, and softened his next word. "Please?"

  Portus and the rest of the remnant gathered around the crimson-cloaked Margarid to hear her account of Michael's arrest. She scanned the faces of her gathering friends before focusing her tear-filled eyes on the worried gaze of Engelmann. "We ... we were taking every precaution necessary," she insisted. "I took the main roadway, and he—Michael—he followed me through the back alleyways. Every hundred paces or so I would turn back and make sure he was still behind me." Tears began to fall freely as she recounted what happened.

  "Go on, girl," Engelmann encouraged.

  "There, just before we reached the tannery, I saw them."

  "Saw who?" Portus blurted out.

  "The Chancellor's guards!" Margarid heaved, looking down at her hands. "A young woman approached Michael, and I do not think he fully understood what was happening. I watched her ask him a question, though I did not hear her words. The next thing I knew, the guardsmen were on him, had seized him, and were leading him towards the prison hold." She looked up from her hands, her eyes reddened by tears as her voice pleaded to her friends. "We have to help him! I know that there are great evils that hunt our city, and I know that darkness is nearly upon us, but what good is hope if we have to hope without him?"

  Just then, the bright brass horns of the Citadel rang loud and long upon the cool, evening air. Their blaring, metallic notes cut through the muddy haze of grief there in the old mill, drawing the attention of the gathered few.

  "What does that mean?" asked Kahri.

  "The sky is still silver-lit," Portus replied. "It cannot be the great tree."

  "No," Engelmann replied, his gaze still fixed on the light of the great tree. "I believe … it has begun."

  "Begun?" the seamstress questioned, a gleam of distress coming into her eyes.

  "What does that mean?" Harmier, the merchant, asked.

  "It means that whatever green-eyed evil that has been gathering in the North has most likely advanced, forcing our Priest King to finally acknowledge its presence," Engelmann explained.

  "Does that mean war?" Portus asked the mossy-bearded Arborist.

  "It means, for the moment, that we are being summoned to the Kings' Bridge. I do not doubt that the Citadel will wish to address the situation." Engelmann gave a meaningful look to the tanner, then glanced around the room at the brave company of men and women. "And I suggest that we all heed the call of the trumpets, so that we might find out just what it is that they plan to do about it."

  Whispers and rumblings passed back and forth between the gathered remnant as the group quietly weighed the dangers of imprisonment against the possibility of being uninformed and alone if their city fell under the assault of some enemy. The Arborist cleared his throat and addressed them, hushing their conversation with a kind but commanding tone. "To the Kings' Bridge then, but let us make sure to keep our minds about us. Huh? We will join the rest of the city to hear what safety measures and battle plans they have made. But let us remember that our security does not lie in the hands of kings or chancellors, but in the light of the THREE who is SEVEN."

  The small remnant nodded in quiet, collective agreement. The agenda of their own gathering would have to wait, for it appeared that the purposes of Engelmann the Hopeful had been usurped by the summons of the Citadel's horns. Baker and tanner, seamstress and shepherd all began to gather their belongings and make their way out the door towards the heart of the city.

  "But ... but wait!" Margarid shouted out to those departing. "What about Michael? We can't just leave him there in the irons of the prison hold! He is the one … remember? He is the one who risked his neck these last dark days for you ... for us!
"

  The small group stopped to listen to her words, looking to Engelmann for how they should respond to this unfortunate crisis in the midst of an even greater one. The Arborist placed a calming hand on the shoulder of the young woman. "My girl, do not fear. For whether it be by our might or cunning, or by the providential hand of the THREE who is SEVEN ... we will not abandon hope, nor will we abandon our friend."

  Chapter Five

  THE WHOLE OF WESTRIVER GATHERED on the stone highway that ran along the mighty Abonris, just outside of the Kings' Gate. The heralds continued to summon the citizens of Haven with the notes of their trumpets, while the small contingent of guardsmen formed a perimeter around the platform of the Priest King. The rumors of a waiting enemy and the bright, brass call of the trumpets drew the throngs of frightened people. They made their way to hear the report of the Citadel, desperate for news of a defeated adversary, or of the success of the first colony, or at the very least a word on the arrival of the timber carts from the North.

  Jhames stood high and pious atop the stone platform, his deep green and silver cloak draped regally off his willowy frame. His features were hardened and his pose was proud, but his posturing could not hide the sallow hue of his face and the gaunt condition of his body. The fiery determination that had once characterized the aged Priest had begun to lessen now in the face of such uncertainty. Though the adornments of his office shone luminous in the faint silver, the light in the Priest King's eyes had dimmed dramatically in these last days. Jhames raised his hand in the three-fingered shape of a J. When all fell silent, he addressed the restless crowd of his people. "People of Haven. Today is a dark day for our shining kingdom ... a dark day indeed."