The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2)

by R. G. Triplett

  "Three days' time?" Goran whispered to his chieftain. "I would wager that the hold of that ship is barely half full."

  "Glory. Glory is ours for the taking, men," Seig continued, sensing the uncertainty that often accompanies exhaustion. "And glory we shall have, both for ourselves and for our city."

  "Here! Here!" shouted the guardsmen.

  The woodcutters did their best to muster excitement enough to appease their governor and rally their exhausted spirits, for they felt all the more the weight of their responsibility here on the Wreath. They had dedicated their whole way of living to the will of the Priests and the way of the flint, and they knew, like all the others knew, that Haven needed both their time and their timber.

  "Glory is not what I seek, North Wolf," Rolf leaned to Yasen and whispered. "It ... this ... this has never been about glory. It has been about doing something worth doing."

  "Aye," whispered Goran in agreement. "What will glory get you? Naught but a bright boat at the bottom of the Dark Sea."

  Yasen listened silently as he sipped his steaming flagon, not giving much acknowledgement to the quiet commentary that continued amongst the ranks of the woodcutting brothers. Though he may agree with his comrades, he would not openly say so just yet. The risk of mutiny in this necessary albeit fragile partnership of guardsmen and woodcutters grew greater each day, and this swelling tension brought him an added sense of caution. When his thoughts were collected enough for the moment, he gave his men a silencing stare that put an end to their worried speculations and criticisms.

  Sitting silently at the edge of the gathered men, Cal finally caught Yasen's eye. The chieftain read something deeper, something heavier than mere worry or reproach, there on the face of the groomsman. Cal sighed a defeated, sorrowful sigh and then looked out towards the palisade gate to the west as if he were reading his destiny written upon the cold, dark sky.

  "Eat up, men of the first colony, and may your rest this night come quickly and deeply!" Seig bellowed on. "For tomorrow we wage war against the darkness with a greater ferocity than ever before, and by the THREE who is SEVEN … we will fight relentlessly!"

  The men ate and drank under the weight of the morrow, and not many words were spoken among them. Finally, they made their way to their beds to find an uneasy rest. The night patrol took their position atop the watchtower, and three riders, led by the knight Pyrrhus, mounted their horses and waited for the gate warden to open the defenses.

  "Sleep well, lads" Pyrrhus said with an arrogant snarl. "And don't you worry your sleeping heads ... this dark wilderness fears the fire knight, so I am told! Ha!" The heavy timber gate opened up before them, and Pyrrhus kicked his horse with a dramatic flair. He and his riders disappeared with torches in hand out beyond the safety of the stronghold, gone to patrol the nearby area and to protect the timber they had claimed. As the gate shut behind them and the men of the first colony prepared to make their rest, Cal lay awake, staring at the thatched roof of his bedchambers.

  "We didn't find it. We failed … we failed to find the light in time," Cal whispered his frustrations to the small, winged guardian perched in the rough-hewn rafters above him. "I didn't find it." His voice carried an uncharacteristic darkness to its tone.

  "Well," the wise Sprite said thoughtfully as he read the meaning of his friend's words, "then I suppose it is a good thing we are still here to seek it."

  "Is it?" said Cal. "Or is this just the end?" He wiped a weary, disappointed tear from his stubbled face. "I failed Deryn, I ... how was a groomsman from Westriver foolish enough to believe he could find what kings never could?"

  Deryn did not respond, and the pregnant silence grew between them.

  "Well?" Cal said impatiently. "Haven't you anything to say? Some wise words of inspiration to compel me onward?" his voice cracked with frustration.

  The Sprite waited for a long moment before he answered. "And what do you think those wise words would be?"

  "Isn't that what you are here for? Is that not why Iolanthe sent you?" Cal's wounds bled out amongst his words.

  "I chose to come with you, but not to be your clairvoyant, or your diviner of fortunes. No, I am your guardian, and your companion. So perhaps I might protect that mind of yours by simply reminding you of what you already know, Bright Fame." Deryn's words held both gentle rebuke and genuine kindness, with no hint of offense at the belligerence of the young groomsman.

  Cal peered at the Sprite with an expression that transformed itself from frustration into determination. "I know that I was called here to seek the light. The Poets, the Oweles, the Sprites … you all believed that I was meant to find it."

  "And with all that you have seen, and felt, and experienced … do you still believe that you are meant to find it?"

  "I do. With all my heart, I do," Cal affirmed.

  "Then nothing has truly changed, has it?" Deryn replied.

  "How can you say that? Everything has changed, Deryn. You saw the tree die, just as all of Haven did!"

  The azure-winged guardian flitted down from the rafters and hovered not more than a handbreadth from the reddened eyes of his charge. "Not failure, not darkness, not even death can change the heart of this calling, for it is of magic that is from a place beyond the shadowed shores of Aiénor."

  "But-" Cal tried to reason.

  "We did not come to save a tree or a city. We did not come to keep a dying light aflame, we came to seek and to find something much brighter indeed. For deep magic calls us towards deeper magic still, my friend," the Sprite said.

  Cal was silent there in the faint azure glow. He dried his tears and then sat up to the edge of his bed. "This is not how I expected things to happen, Deryn. I wanted to be a hero for Michael, for Engelmann ... for Tolk and Klieo and all of them. Now it feels like I failed everyone."

  "The tree has failed, as we knew that it would. But this calling, this story … is not finished." Deryn said as he sat upon the groomsman's shoulder. "Do not forget the markings, and do not yet forget the woman."

  The two sat in silence again as Cal pondered the words of his guardian.

  "Deryn?" Cal asked, "the marking on the wall said to go north, but what do you think Shaimira means?"

  Deryn flitted up and hovered in front of Cal's face. "The word is old, the tongue is from long before the heart of my people was hidden in the depths of the mountain. It means guardian, but though I know what the word means ... I do not know what or where Shaimira is."

  "Guardian?" Cal said through a heavy yawn. "I wonder …" He tried to continue the conversation, but the weight of the day and the exhaustion of emotion robbed his curiosity of its vigor as sleep overtook him.

  "I wonder as well, my friend," Deryn whispered as he flitted up into the rafters. "Though perhaps rest might birth fresh illuminations in the morning. Sleep well, groomsman."

  Only a few hours had passed before their sleep was interrupted with the sounding horns of the night patrol. The blasts of Pyrrhus' signal woke the whole of the colony, and Cal let his dreams of Shaimira fall into a pile of unfinished rubble. He wiped away the fog of sleep and clumsily rose to dress himself so he might see what the signal was calling for. "Wait here," he said to Deryn as he buckled his belt and sheathed his ancient sword. "I'm going to see what all the commotion is about."

  The center square of the colony's stronghold was awake with the curiosity of woodcutters and guardsmen alike. Cal caught the eye of Yasen and could plainly see the worry etched across his features.

  "What is it? What is going on out here?" Wielund said groggily as he walked towards Cal and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  "I am not sure, but something in me is very unsettled," Cal replied as he stared intently at the gate.

  "Perhaps you drank too much wine. My stomach has been all out of sorts since supper," Wielund said, oblivious to the tension of the moment.

  Just then, the heavy gates opened up and in rode Pyrrhus and his two riders. At the center of their mounted triangle, arms bound in
a length of rope, was a golden-haired woman in a dark blue dress.

  Chapter Eighteen

  BAROOM! THE WAR HORNS OF the enemy sounded, over and over, as the army continued to mobilize. Their deep, sickly tones mocked the waning resolve of the few thousand guardsmen who stood in the green tunics and silver mail of the Citadel they served. The battlements atop the Northern Wall were filled with wave after wave of hurried archers, and the cobblestone streets in the borough below were alive and pulsing in rhythm to the clomping hooves of the mounted cavalry. Torches were lit and passed among soldiers and citizens alike; the substantial expense of the timber could not be considered when the alternative was existence in complete darkness. Armas rushed down the stairs of the battlements, taking account of the defenses he had to command. Whatever reinforcements the Citadel may decide to send to the wall, they would clearly not get here in time.

  He pushed his way through the chaos of the moment, his men parting before him like black waters against the keel of a stubborn ship. Keily reached out and grabbed ahold of his arm. "It was the tree, wasn't it?" she asked him. "It was the tree that did not allow them past the wall … the tree held their strength at bay?"

  "It would seem so," Armas replied distractedly. His mind was racing down a dozen different paths as he looked for something, anything that he might employ to thwart the inevitable advance of this Raven Army.

  "And now that it is gone, Armas? Now what? Our light is gone, how can we keep back this army of darkness?" she said in frustrated anger. "There is nothing that will stop them."

  WHOOSH, came the sound of rushing wind.

  WHOOSH, WHOOSH, WHOOSH. It came again, now in a succinct rhythm. The men in the courtyard froze instantly in silent fear, eyes searching the blackened sky as the sound of wings upon the cold air stole the moment.

  "They are coming ... the dragons are coming!" Keily whispered.

  "What did you say? A moment before?" Armas asked.

  "The dragons are coming?" she replied

  "No ... no, about the light being gone!" he said excitedly. "That might just be our salvation, my lady." Armas took her by the shoulders, a weary smile now coloring his tired face. "Thank you ... thank you."

  "Lieutenant!" Armas shouted over her shoulder up to his second in command. "Man the wall, the archers are yours to command. I will ride with the cavalry, and we will run down whatever you cannot manage to shoot."

  "Aye, yes sir," Lieutenant Marcum said with a salute.

  "Keily." He fixed his gaze back on her again, his words coming fast and with great urgency. "I want you to burn the borough down."

  "What?" she said in confusion. "I thought that we were trying to defend the borough, not aid in its destruction!"

  "Anything that will catch fire, I need you to gather it. We are going to throw it over the walls in massive heaps. I know that it is not the same as the tree, but fire makes light, and perhaps ... perhaps we can make one big enough and bright enough to stay the dragons so we can cut down their numbers," he told her.

  She nodded in understanding, knowing now what she must do.

  "Go now and be quick about it. Anything that will burn, pile it outside the wall, here and over there," he said pointing to either side of the North Gate. "Whatever light we can make, we'd best make it now. Gather whomever you can to help you, Keily. There is not a moment to lose!"

  Keily took off as fast as her legs would carry her, dashing straight towards the Gnarly Knob in hopes of rallying some help. She barreled through the large, iron-braced door of the tavern and gasped her plea to the gathered citizens who were taking refuge against the coming attack. "Help me, please! Grab the tables, the chairs ... anything that will burn! The captain needs our help! The enemy is coming!"

  The frightened women and older men stared blankly at the barmaid, not moving to help her, frozen in their own fear. She leaned over, her hands on her knees, her breath coming in heaves; all the weariness of the last few weeks and the heart-breaking death of the great tree finally caught up to her. Her face crumpled with the heavy truth. "The enemy is coming."

  "What good are we going to do against such an army, huh?" An old man growled beneath a trembling voice. "We are nothing more than tired skin and weary bones!"

  "Aye! He's right you know!" The whispered words of a nursing mother agreed. "What does the captain expect us to do? Fight?"

  The worried grumbles of suffocated courage threatened to steal what breath she had just managed to catch. Keily rose to her full height, defiantly straightening both her face and her resolve before she spoke. "It's not strength that's going to win this war," she said as an angry tear streaked her face. "It's not younger backs or sharper blades!"

  "What do you want then, girl?" said the old man. "You can't tell me that the captain hopes to fend off the dragons with tables and chairs!"

  "I want you to move! I want you to pick yourself up off this floor and choose to live, choose to do something other than cower here waiting to die!" She felt her strength return in force as she addressed the lot of them. "These tables, like this ... these makeshift shelters won't save you from what is coming. But carry them to the wall with me and set them on fire, and these table just might save you after all."

  She grabbed two wooden stools, slung them over her shoulders and kicked the tavern door wide open, stepping out once again into the cold, ominous dark, determined to start a fire even if she had to do it herself.

  Sharp blasts of the guardsmen's horns began to signal the company positioned all along the North Gate. Marcum, with his spyglass to his eye, tried hurriedly to calculate the size and strength of the marching Raven Army. The legions of enemy forces seemed nearly innumerable. Each battalion was marked by a unique standard and a flaming, green torch that was accented by raven feathers and dragon teeth. The army was clad in unpolished steel, muted chainmail, black tunics, and capes. Their shields were each crafted in the shape of a deep black chevron, their only embellishment a messily painted white raven in the center. None of the Raven Army rode atop a mount, though they moved with the deliberate speed and deftness of hungry ants. The helms of their warlords were adorned in black-feathered plumes, and it was these generals that trumpeted the sickening tones of those godforsaken horns.

  Marcum surveyed the army with a growing sense of dread. They looked human enough, though their skin looked ashen and their eyes were aglow with that very same putrid green as the eyes of the dragons. "Armas!" Marcum called as he looked down from the battlements to relay the information to his captain. "It looks as if there are six battalions, roughly a thousand of whatever those damned men are per battalion." Marcum tried to keep his voice steady, but his tone betrayed the dread he felt.

  "Six thousand?" Armas shouted back up to his lieutenant. "That is nearly double our strength—if you count the farmers and shopkeepers." Armas looked back towards the borough and whispered, "Come on, Keily."

  The enemy forces were still not within bowshot. Marcum had calculated a point in his mind. When they came to it, he would unleash a rain of pointed vengeance upon this encroaching abomination.

  "Tell your bowmen to aim true, to fire sure. We are going to need their accuracy!" Armas shouted.

  WHOOSH. WHOOSH. WHOOSH. The sound of pounding dragons' wings suddenly filled the air and captivated the attention of the forces of Haven. The pair of ink-colored winged serpents climbed and clawed their way high into the black sky, disappearing into the darkness and then reappearing in the green-lit dim as they hovered back and forth over their advancing army. Armas and his riders fastened and secured their armor, taking up shields and swords, tightening saddles and steeling themselves for carnage.

  The men and women of Piney Creek had found their last measures of courage, and were aiding Keily's efforts to start a fire. They worked feverishly to gather anything that might possibly burn, and one after the other they passed tables and frames, sideboards and footstools from person to person until all was tossed into two massive piles just outside the Northern Wall. One
of the archers let loose a torch into the pile of kindling and soon a blaze was burning and growing, the flames climbing nearly halfway up the walls of the city.

  "Keep the timber coming!" Keily shouted. "We have to keep this fire burning!"

  Two short, bright bursts of Marcum's trumpet signaled to all the archers that the enemy was now within bowshot of the North Wall. The guardsmen pulled tight their bows, charged and ready with the steel-tipped points of ruinous offering. The sound of the drawn bows sang in a desperate, tension-filled chorus along the defense line as they waited for their lieutenant's third and commanding blast.

  Armas nodded to the gate warden from atop his armored mount. His men moved into formation behind him as the clank and strain of the heavy iron portcullis began to lift in front of them.

  Marcum's trumpet rang its third and final tone; its bright, brass note was long and deliberate, and with its sounding came the volleyed twangs of five hundred longbows. "Again! Make ready!" Marcum shouted his orders. Two blasts and then a third quickly followed, and again the rain of arrows flew out from the wall towards the encroaching army.

  The fires on the outside of the wall burned hot and high. The light that shone from their blaze lit up the blackness that surrounded the outer edge of the once bright walls of Haven. The Raven Army continued to advance, despite the barrage of arrows that fell upon them, but even now the enemy was still too far for Armas and his cavalry to risk a charge. They held their formation a safe distance behind the wall, holding their wild-eyed horses back as they waited for their captain to signal the order to strike and prayed that the dragons would not target them.

  Two blasts and then a third, and more arrows were loosed. This time, before they could reach their mark, they were consumed in a blaze of green as a duet of fiery roars came from out of the mouths of the twin dragons. "Again!" Marcum shouted. And again, two blasts and then a third and a wash of green fury consumed the arrows mid-flight, all while the army marched closer and closer to the North Gate of Haven. Marcum's heart beat quickly in his chest as he faced the doom of the moment; the dragons had crippled his ability to inflict much damage, if any, before Armas and his cavalry could charge the approaching hoard. He looked down the line at his archers' frustration and gave them a new order. "Fire at will and not together; those damned monsters can't burn them all up if we stagger. But mind you watch for the captain and his riders ... your arrows are meant for the Raven invaders!"