The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2)

by R. G. Triplett

  "Let's hope that they don't have any friends nearby," the scout whispered back.

  The Raven sentries were nearly upon the fallen scout now. Nerves were frayed, and even in the bite of the cold, north wind the men and women of the fleeing host perspired with fear as the clanking of the invaders moved closer and closer.

  One of the Nocturnals bent down to examine the bleeding body of the fallen scout. As he stood back to his feet, he jabbed the point of his blade through the exposed throat of the dying man in a swift, violent motion. Blood spurted out in a spray of shadowed red, and as the life streamed upon the cold, dirty ground, one of the young children gasped her innocent horror. To Keily's dismay, the sickly, glowing, green eyes of the two Raven sentries turned their attention in the direction of the huddled remnant.

  An older woman reached her hand up over the mouth of the frightened child so as to stifle any further sound, but the green-eyed invaders needed neither sound nor fire to navigate their way through the darkness, for the nocturnal army of the Raven Queen both saw and obeyed her malevolent un-light.

  The head of the sentry snapped back towards the main, cobblestoned square in an unnaturally sharp fashion. His iron-armored hand drew up the twisted, black horn of some ill-found beast to his own ashen lips, ready to signal the prize of his hunt from the very heart of this fallen borough. Just before the sickly sound of the horn pierced the silence, the sharpened point of the barmaid's arrow tore through the ashen gullet of the Raven soldier.

  The sentry fell to his knees, then collapsed in a lifeless heap. A gurgling, sickly growl emanated from the lone-standing sentry as he barred his rotted teeth in rage. The sounds of drawn bows loosing their bolts broke the tense silence as the archers of the rear guard defended their remaining countrymen against the band of nocturnal scouts. The sentry charged the host, but in not much more than a moment's time the guardsmen had dispatched him from this world. They waited in frightened anticipation and heightened awareness, knowing it was only a matter of time before more of the invading army would break in upon their small, huddled ranks.

  One, two and then three sparks of the scout's flint caught the eye of the lieutenant. He listened and watched carefully, waiting to see if the signal garnered any attention from the enemy.

  "A few at a time!" came the whispered plea of Keily from just fifty paces out in front of them. Marcum waited another moment, then signaled back with his own flint, determining that the risk was greater to wait than to run. He commanded his men to make the treacherous dash across the road towards the broken wall. The guardsmen went first, blades drawn and ready for whatever might assault them, but they did not meet any resistance save for their own uncertainties.

  The residents of Piney Creek, women and children alike, were the next to cross the street. Lieutenant Marcum himself chose to lead them out from behind the relative safety of the alleyway, covered by the watchful eyes of Johnrey and a dozen of his bowmen. The rush of heat and the sound of flames exploded overhead as the hungry fire caught the dried wood of the building at their backs. Johnrey knew that he and the remaining archers had not a moment to spare if they hoped to make it beyond the broken wall without being spotted.

  "Come now, lads," Johnrey ordered in a whisper. "We have done our duty for our city, and now it is time we fight for our future." With that, the twelve of them ran out from behind the burning building and across the open cobblestone clearing to where the rest of their new family knelt and crept before the breach in the once invincible wall of their once invincible city.

  "What now, Lieutenant?" Johnrey asked. "Where would you have us go?"

  Marcum did not hesitate in his response. "There is—or at least there was once, long ago—a hospitable land to the east of the hallowed mount." He spoke in a hushed voice as he scanned the faces of all those who gathered and listened. "But that was long before we laid waste to our world with the axe of the woodcutters. I would not risk such a long journey without the cover of the forest."

  "So if not east, where then?" Keily asked. "All I have ever heard about these outlands were tales of witches, outliers, and shadow cats—that is, until the groomsman returned not two months ago. He said he went north, tracing the western fens of the Abonris with his road-weary feet. For months he was missing from the company of the woodcutters, and far after we all had thought him dead, he showed up in my ..." Her voice trailed off as she pictured her tavern being consumed by the hungry flames. "He showed up in my tavern, and he looked far too healthy to have been foraging and wandering on his own for that whole time."

  "Where did he go, lass?" Johnrey asked, both curiosity and necessity compelling him now.

  "I don't know. He would not say," she told them. "Wherever it is, or whatever it is, let us pray that this Raven Army has not found it first."

  "North and west, then," Marcum decided.

  "North and west," whispered the frightened mass of people in agreement.

  And it was with those few and simple last words that the fleeing host rose to their feet and climbed up and over the broken fragments of the once mighty wall of Haven. With tear-streaked faces and quiet courage, they moved out into the black wilderness of the untamed outlands in search of a place they might make home.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  TWO NIGHTS HAD PASSED SINCE Cal had been locked away in the crude, timber prison of the colony's stronghold. Two long and restless nights of internal battles, whereby the quiet condemnation of hindsight wrestled arm in arm with the stubborn hubris of his rash confidence.

  The small, square chamber held not many distractions for his wandering mind, and so it was that Cal waited anxiously, nervously hopeful that the decree of the governor would not become his doom, and that Yasen would find the means to set him free. The noises and sounds of the colony filled his ears, and he strained against the timber walls for even the faintest sound of Astyræ's voice, or for word of her capture. To his great relief, none was heard.

  On this third morning of his imprisonment, the whole of the colony had been roused from their heavy slumber with the unnecessarily bright brass of the governor's trumpets. "What do you think it means?" Cal said groggily to his Sprite companion.

  "It means your days here on the Wreath are over, groomsman!" an old guardsman growled. "The governor has filled the hold of the ship with fresh timber for our great city, and he has saved just enough room to squeeze your scrawny backside aboard." His tone was rude and mocking, and as he spoke he tossed a torn loaf of bread and an overripe orange into the timber cell.

  "That may be ... but why all the fanfare?" Cal said as he gnawed at the half-stale loaf of black bread.

  "Glory begets glory," the old guardsman replied, "and the governor has his heart set on a right smart portion of it!"

  "Glory ill-gained is not glory worth relishing, my friend," Cal said to the old jailer.

  "Your friend? Ha! I should say not. And just who do you think you are, groomsman, to judge the gains of any man, ill or otherwise? Eh?" said the old guardsman.

  Cal chewed on the hardened bread, wondering with each bite what weight his words would ever have again on the minds of the men who saw him take the arm of Pyrrhus with his sword. He wanted to explain, but the shame of his deeds brought doubt to his mind and he thought better of it, resigning to keep his words to himself, at least for now.

  "Men of the first colony!" Cal heard the booming voice of Governor Seig through his timber prison walls. "Today is a glorious day, indeed! Today we set sail once again. When first we took to the water, the holds of our ships held nothing more than the mere inklings of possibilities and the desperate dreams of our desperate people. But now!" the tall, dark-haired governor said proudly as he stood atop the platform in the square of the stronghold. "Now we set sail with evidence, proof that the vision our great Priest King was given has indeed come true. This very day we shall return to our city with timber, with the new light we were sent here to find!"

  The men of the first colony, guardsmen and woodcutters a
like, roared in triumphal agreement. Although great tension had grown between the two factions of Haven's servants, their course was still one and the same … and, likewise, their victory.

  The flames of the watch fires flickered and danced in the cool, sea breeze, casting an orange glow over the men of the first colony. Tahd scanned the dirty, tired faces of the guardsmen. The last few days had taken a great toll on the morale of his men, and the strain that rose between him and Yasen caused all the more worry about his loss of control. Worse, he had begun to feel a gnawing fear that an overthrow of power may very well occur in the event of another disheartening incident. This made the short, silver-haired captain of the colony guard quite eager for the Determination to return from her timber run with a fresh company of guardsmen to replenish his dwindling ranks.

  Wielund had a hard time celebrating the words of Seig, for his thoughts were occupied with sadness over his imprisoned friend. "I told him to just leave her be," he grumbled under his breath. "You're too curious, groomsman! What good has curiosity ever done for those who have gone poking their unwelcome noses in its business?"

  Seig's voice bellowed out again, disrupting Wielund's musings. "Captain Tahd will return to our bright and shining city with the hold of great riches from the Wreath! He will bring word of our advancement upon this ... this wilderness, and he will return to the colony with fresh supplies, strong backs, and sharpened blades so that we might continue our quest and gain even greater glory!"

  The men cheered and applauded his words, thumping the handles of their axes on the rough-cut tables that littered the square. Tahd walked to the center of the platform. Taking his cue from the governor, he addressed the gathered crowd in his own way. "Men of the first colony, I have been given the great honor this day to deliver this wealth of timber that we have harvested here! We shall not keep the impoverished people of Haven waiting any longer, so I will see to it that we set sail before midday has come upon us. In light of what our great governor has charged us with, let us be busy about our preparations and ask for Godspeed upon our voyage."

  The captain nodded to the Priest, who stood pious and self-important in his green, dirt-stained cloak. He raised his flint to his lips before he spoke, and the whole of the gathered men followed in suit.

  "Oh great and mighty giver of light

  Who rewards each sharpened axe and fell swing made.

  Give us now your blessed ear and bring your blessed favor here,

  For we have fought and labored hard against the wild,

  Biting back the dark with our blessed spark.

  Grant us winds of speed and strength of might as we strive and toil against the night."

  "May it be so," came the collective response as the men of the first colony as they once again kissed their flints in agreement with the words of the Priest. The gathered men then went about their business, some atop the watchtowers, others making final preparations for the Determination. The woodcutters marched with their axes in hand towards the tree line, invigorated in their mission to subdue the wilderness of the Wreath for the glory of the Priest King and the light of the THREE who is SEVEN.

  "Do not make a scene ... walk as if you are on your way to the forge." Wielund startled violently as a familiar voice whispered in his ear. A steadying hand settled on his shoulder. "I said, do not make a scene," Yasen said with a tinge of amusement. "I do not want to draw any unwanted attention to our conversation."

  Wielund nodded his understanding and turned his head to meet the eyes of the mighty woodcutter. They fell into step with each other as Wielund did his best to calm his frightened nerves, and Yasen held his great axe up in front of him while they walked. The black leather that wrapped its handle was braided in intricate patterns, and the two well-experienced blades still shone as if they had been forged the day before, reflecting the yellows and oranges of the watch fires.

  "I need you to make me a key," Yasen said softly while he pointed out a phantom flaw in his axe.

  "A key?" Wielund asked, confused as to how a key had anything to do with this exquisite work of craftsmanship that he was being shown. Furthermore, Wielund was a bit nervous around the one-eyed chieftain of the woodcutters, for his orders were to come from Captain Tahd, and he did not wish to find himself in the middle of a battle of wills between the two unfriendly leaders.

  Yasen caught the young man's eye with his own. "Yes, smithy ... a key."

  "But ... but I don't understand-" he tried to explain, but Yasen cut him off.

  "A key that will open the lock of the prison hold," Yasen whispered forcefully, glancing around the yard to make sure that he and the smithy were out of any prying earshot. "Cal will not be going on that ship back to Haven, and I would prefer to help him out of his imprisonment without having to shed any more blood or waste any more lives."

  "But where will he go? I mean, if I manage to craft a key that works, it's not as if he will be able to stay here in the colony any longer, is it?" Wielund asked, trying to wrap his worried mind around the plan of the woodcutter. "And what if I am caught? What if Tahd or Seig or some other nosy guardsman sees me forging a key out of iron—what then?"

  "Aye, you are right about Cal," Yasen admitted. "He will not remain here with us; his story will continue to unfold from beyond this assignment of ours and these walls that we have built. Although ..." a tender, knowing smile crept across the woodcutter's scared face, "I suspect this will not be the last that we see of our friend."

  Wielund looked nervously to his right and to his left, clearly uncomfortable with the risk that such a task would require.

  Yasen took Wielund by the shoulder, hoping to convey the urgency of the moment. "We owe him this kindness, Wielund," Yasen pressed. "Do not so quickly forget the man who pulled you from the cold, black grasp of the Dark Sea."

  "Aye, he did do that, didn't he?" the smithy conceded.

  "You must work swiftly. Do not let anyone see what it is that you are up to; the wilderness of the Wreath has corrupted the sense right out of these brothers of ours. I would hate to lose you as well to the rash stupidity of our great governor."

  Wielund nodded in nervous agreement. "Alright then. I will forge one, if only to repay the debt of rescue."

  "Now be quick about it, smithy," Yasen said, loudly and with great authority. "I will find you within the hour, and I expect my axe to be sharp enough to fell the whole Wreath itself." He shoved his axe into Wielund's unsuspecting hand, then turned and walked towards the stable yard.

  With that, Wielund stood stunned and motionless just outside the walls of his forge, holding the mighty axe of the North Wolf. He exhaled a long, shaky breath, steeling himself for the dangerous deeds he knew that he must do. "Alright, Cal, alright," he said to the dark morning mist, and then turned to walk inside and stoke the forge fires to life. He blew fresh wind into the coals from his massive leather bellows, and the amber and gold colored sparks flew up from the hearth in a whirlwind of productivity. He walked over to his workbench and looked about for some scrap, some piece of iron that could be melted down to forge his friend's freedom.

  He reached for a broken horseshoe and laughed an ironic laugh as he held it in his hand. "Ha! How fitting."

  "No, I don't think that it is fitting at all," said the thin voice of the captain of the colony guard.

  Wielund froze where he stood. His eyes went wide in shocked surprise and his mouth went as dry as the desert lands east of Haven as the taloned fingers of fear crept their stranglehold over his resolve.

  "I beg your pardon, my lord?" Wielund gulped in a cracking voice.

  "The shoe, smithy," Tahd chuckled. "It isn't fitting at all, otherwise it might still be firmly in place on the hoof of whatever unlucky beast threw this mangled piece of iron in the first place."

  Wielund just stared nervously, his right eyebrow beginning to twitch under the strain of stunned shock. "My lord?" he said again, his voice laden with confusion.

  "The shoe," Tahd said, annoyed over the misunder
standing of his jest. "The one in your hand!"

  Wielund reached to wipe the frightened sweat from his brow, and smeared a line of blackened char across his freckled forehead.

  "Never you mind," Tahd growled in frustration. "I didn't come to your forge to exchange laughter, I came to ask you a few questions about your friend, the groomsman."

  "The groomsman, my lord?" Wielund squeaked.

  "Yes, the groomsman. The very groomsman who took you on a scouting assignment not three days ago; the very groomsman who also happened to sever the arm of my best knight from his body," Tahd said with obvious exasperation in his voice. "The only groomsman here in service to the colony."

  "Oh ... yes, yes I know him," Wielund answered. "Though I have not seen him since the ... um, the incident. Is he alright?"

  Tahd eyed the young smithy suspiciously, trying to calculate the meaning of his nervousness. "Is he alright?" Tahd asked incredulously. "If by alright you mean locked in the prison hold and about to be exiled from our colony, then I suppose you could say he is rather splendid at the moment."

  Wielund looked sheepishly to the straw and dirt that covered the floor of his humble forge; his dirty thumb fingered the rough edge of the broken horseshoe. "I ... I am sorry, my lord-"

  "When you and the groomsman scouted the Wreath, where exactly did you find the golden-haired woman that he so foolishly defended?" the captain interrupted.

  Wielund raised his head, but his gaze never really seemed to meet Tahd's own. "In a tower, my lord."

  "A tower?" Tahd asked, stepping closer.

  "Yes, a tower. It was old and made of crumbling stone ... nearly a half a day's ride from the timber gates," Wielund volunteered.

  Tahd reached out and plucked the broken, iron shoe from Wielund's hand. "Which direction might that be, smithy? Then I will let you be about your work."

  "West? West, I believe, my lord," Wielund said hastily.