The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2)

by R. G. Triplett

  "What was that?" Marcum called as he ran back up the stairs.

  "I am afraid to guess," Armas replied.

  The moment that the green light extinguished, the sky above them was instantly assaulted with a billowing force of air as a rush of wind crashed against the resolve of Haven's defenders, knocking many to their knees or on their backs. Keily gasped, then screamed in terror. Marcum and Armas fell to the deck of the stone battlement, covering the woman with their own bodies so as to protect her from whatever storm had just erupted upon them.

  The gale ceased as suddenly as it had come, and a shockwave shot through the northern borough as residents and guardsmen alike tried to assess what had just happened. It felt as though the ground had been slammed with some sort of violent display of rage. As the tremors subsided in the wake of the blast, not a single guardsman even dared to breathe. Whatever monster this was that prowled on the wind and shook the world, it might hear their frightened breaths and bring its fearsome tempest once again.

  Then, unlooked for and without warning, the night erupted in a torrent of sickly green fire, accompanied by a bowel-churning sound, more terrifying than any of them could have imagined. The roar was both heard and felt; trained soldiers began to whimper and pray, kissing their flints in the aftermath of the display of such fury.

  WHOOSH! Came the faint sound of moving air. WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH! It came again and again, in volley after volley. Something was being launched, hurled towards the wall, and they could hear them coming ever closer.

  "Take cover!" Armas shouted to his men both atop the wall and down in the square.

  The entire defense of Haven watched as a terrifying spectacle occurred in the skies before them. A stream of green fire lit up the darkness, blinding them for a moment with the intensity of its light. As they recovered their senses, they watched as the airborne missiles that had been hurled from the enemy camp flew through the green blaze and momentarily eclipsed the fire like a hundred little moons, until they themselves were set alight with its fury.

  "Take cover, all of you! Do it now!" Armas shouted again to his men.

  As they waited for the arrival of the strange and fearsome assault, the stream of green fire suddenly ceased. All that could be heard were humming noises as the projectiles, whatever they were, made their way through the cold air. The moment—though it truly was barely a fraction of a second—stretched out before them all, ripe with pain and pregnant with terror. Both the guardsmen and citizens alike awaited the impact of hell upon their once bright and shining city.

  When the collision finally occurred, it did not bring with it catastrophic explosions of green fire, nor piercing raven-fletched arrows as some might have expected. It did not cause merciless destruction of the battlements nor did it kill or wound the men.

  What came flying through the darkened air was far more horrific, and produced the most soul-chilling effect imaginable.

  The wall awoke with the strange sounds of wet thuds and of sickly cracking, not at all the noises Armas had braced himself to hear. Though still, within moments of the impact, the screams and cries he had anticipated filled the silence of the faint silver night just as he had expected them to. Armas stood to his tired and shaky feet; his hands were wet with the nervous sweat of dread. "What in the damnable … "

  "Armas?" Keily whispered nauseously. "Armas? Oh no ... oh no … Armas!" she breathed, her voice growing more broken and sorrowful with each word.

  "What is it, Keily? Are you hurt?" Armas asked her with deep concern. But when he looked down at the blue-bodiced woman, he knew where her pain and panic had come from.

  Littered from one end of the battlement to the other, Armas saw the broken and burning bodies of more than a hundred northmen. Their horses had been hurled atop the wall, scattered alongside the lifeless woodcutters, bloodied and aflame. The carcasses of the loyal animals lay defiled next to the corpses of their riders. The horrified captain of the guard nearly retched in disgust as he moved to examine the bodies. His mouth went dry, and his stomach turned at the very thought of what had just happened to these kinsmen of his.

  "No! No, uncle ... not you too!" The strong, fiery-eyed barmaid began to weep. There, not a dozen paces from where she had taken cover, Armas caught sight of the reddish head of her beloved uncle, Hollis, chieftain of the woodcutters.

  Her sobs were deep and violent, for not only had this shadowed army taken her foolhardy father, but it had also robbed the life of the bravest man she had ever known. "NO! This cannot be … this cannot be," she cried, unable to pull her eyes away from the bloody mess of his once strong body that stared lifelessly back at her.

  "Marshal!" Armas shouted shakily. The winter-wearied man came as fast as his unsteady legs could carry him. When he came within sight of the chieftain's corpse, he froze where he stood. "Not Hollis." He swore under his breath.

  "Who are all these men, Captain?" Marcum asked.

  "The last of the woodcutters. This looks to be about every man they had left," Armas said with a stoic gaze.

  "Who ... who ordered them to engage … how did they … why?" Marcum asked, not able to form a complete thought, for the shock and horror of the moment was almost too much for words.

  Armas just stared at the bloody face of his friend. The questions of his lieutenant passed unobstructed though his mind, raising no will with which to respond to them, nor answers to give. He rubbed the dark stubble that clung to his tired face and wiped away the wet tears that had stubbornly formed in his tired eyes. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he broke the silence of the gathered guardsmen. "Marshal, see to it that they are given a proper woodcutter's burial." Armas ripped his eyes away from the mangled face of his dead friend. "We owe them that much."

  "But sir?" the marshal began to protest. "What if they mean to continue their attack?"

  "This was nothing more than an act to breed fear amongst our ranks," Armas said to the marshal. "Until the tree finally falls, my guess is that fear is their only objective."

  "This is a waste," Marcum grunted as he swallowed back his anger over the dead men and horses that littered the cold, stone floor around him.

  "No," Armas replied. "Hollis is not a wasteful man. Though this loss is indeed grievous, we will not shame his sacrifice." They just stared, all of them, at the still-burning bodies of their fallen kinsman; their minds were whirling with a frenzy of both outrage and fear. "Marshal," Armas ordered again with a nod of his head, breaking the quiet of the somber moment.

  "Aye, sir," the marshal sadly replied. "Sir, if I may ask, what was that? What kind of devil lights the sky with …" he nervously searched his thoughts for the right words, "with a fire like that?"

  Marcum looked to Armas as he answered the marshal, already knowing full well the cursed answer to that question.

  "Dragons," Armas replied. "Hollis tried to warn all of us months ago, and none of us—not even me—listened to him. I promise, old friend ... I will heed your warning this time around."

  Chapter Nine

  CAL AND WIELUND CLIMBED DOWN the rocky outcropping, clinging to the moist, moss-covered stone, steadying themselves so as to not slip and fall into the waters of the pool below. They made their way closer to the shadowed structure that loomed there before them, straining their eyes against the darkness to see what it was that they were approaching.

  "Wait here," Cal whispered to his nervous friend. "I want to have a better look."

  Wielund nodded his agreement, grateful to remain there upon the boulders until the moment was safe enough for him to pass. "Alright then ... but Cal?"

  Cal looked back, a wry grin on his bearded face. "I'll be careful enough. I've got Gwarwyn with me," he said with a wink. The groomsman hopped down from the knee-high outcropping and began to make his way through the tall willow grass towards the overgrown clearing on the edge of the tree line. "What in the name of the THREE who is SEVEN is this doing here, Deryn?" he whispered to his hidden Sprite friend.

  "I am
just as curious to know as you are," Deryn said as he peeked out from behind the lapels of Cal's cloak.

  Standing on the opposite side of the forest pond, Cal stared in absolute wonder at the ancient, stone structure that stood before him.

  "What is it, Cal?" Wielund shouted his whisper from the relative safety of the water's edge.

  "Why don't you come see for yourself," Cal urged.

  Wielund stole a nervous glance back to the horses standing quietly on the other side of the water. He took a deep breath and then chose to trust the groomsman, though every bone in his body would rather have been back in the safety of his forge. He reluctantly turned towards Cal and held his torch high over his head so as to take in as much of these foreign surroundings as he could. When he reached his friend, he stopped and stared in equal amazement.

  "A tower?" Wielund asked him. "Here in the middle of this ... this wilderness? I don't like it, Cal. Do you see anything else?"

  Cal looked through the thicket of trees and could not see much else besides the falling leaves and swaying branches. Though the forest faded into a clearing that must have been a hundred paces in either direction of the tower, this old relic of aged stone and heavy vines seemed so out of place here in this part of the Wreath. There was a gravity about this place that drew Cal, something beyond his ability to explain. Though there was no Owele or Poet to send him onward, there was a distinct sense that this tower was not merely an accidental discovery on this great quest of his.

  Cal shook his head at Wielund and was about to answer his question when a sound stopped them cold.

  Cal looked at his friend and once again raised his fingers to his lips so as to keep his nervous curiosity at bay. The two of them listened, but all they could hear was the jagged, heavy sound of their own breathing. They scanned the banks of the forest pool, and squinted in the shadows surrounding this out-of-place tower, but they could find no sign of man or beast.

  "What do you think it is?" Wielund whispered.

  "I can't say for certain ... it sounded like-" Cal tried to answer, but the sound came again, light and muffled on the thick, forest air.

  "It sounds as if it is coming from the tower," Cal whispered. "Someone is up there, I'd wager."

  "Then I say that whatever or whoever it is, we let it be," Wielund urged.

  Cal reached down and unsheathed Gwarwyn, his ears still trained in the direction of the tower, hoping to catch the sound once again. "Come on, we will be safe enough."

  The young men gathered what courage they could muster and slowly made their way towards the stone tower, stepping quietly and cautiously on the carpet of tiny twigs and fallen leaves. They approached the forgotten bastion, and as the two of them reached its ivy-covered entryway they heard a different and more distinctive sound: the hushed weeping of a woman.

  Cal's eyes went wide in sudden panic, remembering all too well the last time he came upon the unexpected cries of a woman in distress. He swallowed hard as he tilted his head all the way back to take in the looming tower that stood before him. His usually bright face and confident demeanor went an ashen grey as his mind revisited his encounter with the bridge witch, there in the outlands of Haven.

  "Are you alright, Cal?" Wielund asked him nervously. "We don't have to go in if you don't feel it is safe?"

  What I wouldn't do to have Moa here with me right now, Cal thought to himself, wishing for her protective discernment. He wondered if she would have allowed him to approach this strange tower in this strange land with the all-too-familiar sound of a strange woman weeping inside. The sobs continued to escape the thick walls of the keep. Though Cal felt anxious dread at the possibilities of unknown evils that could be the cause of such sad and sorrowful cries, he knew in his heart that he could not turn and leave her, whoever she was, alone.

  "Are you with me, Deryn?" Cal half-whispered.

  "Huh?" Wielund said, a puzzled expression on his face.

  Cal took a deep breath and steeled himself for whatever he might find here in these forgotten walls. He looked to his friend and placed his hands on the entryway. "Keep your wits about you, smithy. There are things in this world worth being afraid of. Let us pray that whoever cries in this tower," he looked up through the dark doorway in front of him, "is … well … not one of those things."

  Wielund nodded in anxious agreement, and then plunged his flickering torch into the darkness of the tower, following the lead of the brave groomsman. The walls inside of the grey, stone structure had been covered by green mold, and where once there might have hung large, iron candelabras, now only rust-eaten lengths of chain dangled in purposeless abandonment. The stone floor was littered with cracked chests of rotten wood and the smashed, splintered remains of mead barrels. The air inside was nearly suffocating with the rancid moisture that both clung to and corrupted this once strong place.

  The sound of the woman echoed from high above their heads, and Cal quickly found the dilapidated form of a wooden staircase that wrapped around the mold-covered walls.

  "Do you think it is safe?" Wielund asked him.

  "There is nothing safe about any of this, my friend," Cal said. His usually curious and playful mood had been darkened at the realization that this sound upon the wind was indeed a woman. Cal placed his right boot on the first step, carefully gaging its strength before he trusted the old rotting stairs to carry his full weight. When he deemed them worthy enough, he nodded to Wielund. "Wait here. When I reach the top, then quickly follow behind me. I barely trust these old steps to hold my own weight, let alone the weight of the both of us."

  "Alright then," Wielund said, nodding in agreement.

  Cal began his climb up the worrisome stairs. The jagged sobs of the woman above him came to a sudden silence as Cal's boot crashed through a rotten plank. Cal grabbed and clung to the step in front of him, catching himself just before he fell all the way through to the stone floor.

  "Are you alright?" Wielund whispered.

  "Yeah, that was almost disastrous. I guess we both better mind our steps, huh?" Cal pulled his boot loose before finding safer purchase on the step below. "Do you hear that? The crying, it stopped."

  Wielund looked up, his eyes following the stairs while his ears strained in concentration. "Be careful."

  With each step, the weakened wood creaked and groaned, bowing under his weight and threatening to give way. Cal clung to the rusted, iron rail that held resolutely to the moldy, stone walls of the tower, trusting the aging planks even less now after their near-collapse. The stairs rounded and rose for four stories, and the darkness grew heavier and deeper with each step that Cal took. Though he had no torch, he was somehow able to see enough to make out his footing for the treacherous climb to the top of the tower.

  When Cal reached the last of the steps, the purpose of this most peculiar tower came to his understanding. Rust-eaten iron bars littered the upper room. He could make out what looked to be a handful of prison cells, and the walls were lined with iron fastenings, some still holding their forgotten chains in place.

  Cal nervously scanned the abandoned tower prison, looking for signs of the weeping woman. His hand gripped firmly around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, Gwarwyn, ready as he could be in case things went foul. "Hello? My lady ... are you alright?" He spoke as calmly and cautiously as his frightened, racing heart would allow. "My friend and I ... we heard your tears."

  "Who are you, that you can see in the dark without a torch?" Her tone was wary, with a bite to its edge. "What kind of devilry and dark magic brings you to me?"

  Cal shook his head in confusion. "What brought us to you was the sound of your cries. No magic, no devilry."

  A moment passed in silence as the woman considered his claim. "I do not suspect that my tears are the sole force that ordered your steps," she finally said from her huddled position in the corner of the iron cell.

  The hair on Cal's neck stood up on end. This moment was eerily similar to moments past. Weeping women, unexplainable forekno
wledge, and what was sure to be a painful escape. "My lady, if you are imprisoned unjustly, or trapped, or-"

  "I deserve my imprisonment," she interrupted him. "My tears are not for my sentence, for I have already resigned my fate to it. I cry … I cry because of the darkness."

  "The darkness?" Cal asked her.

  "Aye, my torch has flickered its last flame ... and I am terribly afraid of the dark," she lamented, her head still buried in her hands. "But you ... you have no torch, and yet you see? Are you in league with the sorceress?"

  "Sorceress?" Cal said, now quite unsure of the situation. "No, my lady. I am but a groomsman from Haven."

  "Then how is it that you see?" she shot back, mistrusting his words. "I may have lived in this darkness for far too long, but even I can sense the pricklings of power that accompany you, groomsman." She rose to her feet and came out from the corner of her rotting, iron cell. He watched her with a wary fascination as she brushed her hair from her face and wrapped her slender hands around the rusted bars that held her prisoner. For the first time, there in the darkness of the tower, she met his gaze with her own. The outsets of her violet eyes were alive in a wash of color, yet at their centers, yellow pupils punctuated her hypnotic gaze. Without even trying, Cal was caught up in a storm of both beauty and fear, lost in the tempest of her stare.

  A moment passed as she carefully considered him. He could not form a response to her, so entranced was he with the violet eyes that would not release him. Finally she spoke again, startling him with both her words and the conclusion she had come to. "The one who travels with you, then ... it must be him. Is he the one who gives you sight here in this darkness?" Her words were timid, trembling. "If not the sorceress ... then it must be him."

  Cal thought deeply for a moment, and though he did not fully trust this violet-eyed prisoner, something in him did not wholly fear her either. He held his blade in one hand and with the other he pulled back his cloak and revealed his secret to her. The lining of his cloak glowed in subtle, azure radiance as a fierce, tiny face appeared from inside his inner pocket. Deryn cautiously emerged from his hiding place; his blue wings beat against the stale air and lit the whole chamber in a faint wash of light.