The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2)

by R. G. Triplett

  "Aye, shouldn't we be here to make sure they find their way through these sword-wielders?" Alon agreed with his brother.

  "I doubt that Hollis was given the luxury of sending any more northmen to aid in our cause," Yasen argued back. "Not when it was Tahd who brought the report to the Chancellor and the Priest King."

  "Besides," Goran interjected. "We had better make friendly with this new lot of them if we hope to keep this whole mess from boiling over. And by make friendly, I mean avoid any sorta conversation whatsoever!"

  "Aye!" Gvidus spat. "Their sorry excuse for a celebration doesn't interest us anyhow, I doubt there will be enough ale to make it worth our time, North Wolf! To the trees and the timber!" The woodcutter raised his axe with a wild-eyed grin.

  Yasen shook his head, grateful for those brothers who had not only made this journey with him, but who had remained true to their first assignment here upon this foreign Wreath. "Alright then, gather your axes, your wineskins, and your water barrels. Make sure the horses are fed and the timber carts well oiled, for we will not return 'til we have harvested a bounty of timber the likes of which the governor will not so easily forget!"

  "Oh, but mind you now, lads!" Goran said, only half-seriously. "We won't have our friend the fire knight to keep watch over us, so maybe you should think about bringing a little something extra to keep you safe out there!"

  The men erupted in laughter as the woodcutters agreed and went about the task of gathering all the supplies needed for a long day out on the tree line. Not quite an hour had passed, and the company of northmen gathered at the massive timber gates, their carts sloshing fresh water while their prides still healed of their offended indignation.

  "Move aside, woodcutters!" Pyrrhus gloated. "The governor and his men are coming, and we have an errand that will wait for no man."

  Yasen raised his brows in mock deference, bowing slightly to the fire knight and gesturing down the path towards the shore. "Say hello to the captain for me, brave guardsmen of Haven."

  Pyrrhus narrowed his eyes with annoyance at Yasen's sarcasm and the nonchalance of the woodcutters, who went about their preparations without so much as a jealous look at the procession that passed them by. Yasen shrugged and turned his back on the knight, clenching his fists while willing his rage to dissipate in the action. Though he would never let Pyrrhus see his anger over such an insult, he could not help but feel the sting as he and his men once again suffered the forced humiliation.

  Seig and his men rode forth, their green banners lit and their newly polished armor glinting by the burning torches they carried with them. The parade was brief, but their arrogance was great, and it was all the woodcutters could do to refrain from hurling jeers at the rival kinsmen who tried to demean them.

  Finally the procession passed the outer walls of the stronghold and made its way down the sandy road towards the shore.

  "Watchman," Yasen shouted up to the guard above them. "Close the gate after we make our leave. We shall leave the stronghold protected and in good hands while we are away at the tree line!" And with that last order, Yasen and his woodcutter brothers made their way past the gates and off down the well-worn cart paths, through the torch-lit blanket of darkness towards their timbered fate.

  Two massive braziers had been constructed on the beach of the Wreath, specially purposed for the arrival of the Determination back to the shores of the colony. Pyrrhus had ordered one of his knights to ride on ahead of the governor's parade, and as the procession reached the halfway point on the trek to the black waters of the stormy beach, the two enormous watch fires were lit, one after the other. The light and the heat that issued forth from the twin braziers woke the shoreline in a false daylight that seemed to beckon the storm-drawn vessel ever faster. Seig took up his spyglass but could barely make out the shadowed outline of the mighty ship. He peered into the tempest, and slowly the lamps of the vessel came into view, rocking and swaying violently from the highest masts of the Determination.

  "Here she comes!" he called out with glee.

  Lightning cracked and splintered overhead, sending a wave of startled shock through the twenty armored guardsmen that followed behind Seig. Gusts of wind began to buffet their faces as they approached the shore, each stronger than the last. With every brilliant green blast of lightning, the hairs on the arms of the men stood erect in frightened anticipation for what would happen next. The ship seemed to gather speed; faster and faster it cut through the punishing waves of the Dark Sea, driven by the ever-quickening winds. Lightning cracked again, and this time the silhouette of the seven-masted vessel could be made out clearly and ominously upon the water, hurling towards them at an unfathomably fast pace.

  The mouths of the watching guardsmen went dry.

  "See!" Seig shouted in between the rolls of thunder, oblivious to the fear that had awakened in his men. "The THREE who is SEVEN cannot help but to deliver our great glory and grand aid with determined haste!" The ship careened through the waters, and the white, cold foam of its spray parted oddly in the wake of its furiously driven keel. "Have you ever seen such a magnificent ship sail with such speed?" Seig said, beaming with pride.

  "Never," Pyrrhus offered hesitantly. "It is rather ... unnatural."

  The sounds of the storm were fierce and thunderous, yet not a drop of rain could be felt or seen. The mood of the men, which mere moments ago was jovial and triumphant, turned dark and suspicious. The green banners of the Citadel whipped and pulled atop their long-handled spears, and a few tore free in the wake of such a violent wind.

  "Welcome to the Wreath, my brothers!" Seig shouted against the furious gusts like a maddened victor. "Welcome!"

  Just then, an enormous bolt of green lightening cracked above them, and as it lit up the darkened sky, it illuminated the body of the mighty ship, which was now only half a league from the shoreline.

  "What in the damnable dark is that?" Pyrrhus said in horror, forgetting his decorum and snatching the governor's spyglass.

  "It would seem that our Determination is chasing the storm, my friend!" Seig reasoned.

  "Or rather, it is driven by it?" Pyrrhus offered. "There, look!" He pointed. "A massive black cloud is at the bow!"

  "It will anchor soon, Pyrrhus, and then all shall be without worry," Seig tried to reassure him.

  "Anchor?" Pyrrhus blurted out. "It is not slowing in the slightest! At this rate it will run aground!"

  "Nonsense!" Seig bit back. "Tahd would never allow it!"

  The sandy ground around them began to quake with each rolling boom of thunder, and the massive watch fires were caught in the fury of the wind. Their amber flames stretched and grew at an alarming rate, fueled by the bellows of this unnatural storm.

  "The trees!" came a panicked shout from one of the guardsmen. "The trees are on fire!"

  Pyrrhus turned in horror as the forest line, which was thought to be a safe distance from the massive braziers, erupted in a devastatingly wasteful blaze.

  "The trees, my lord!" Pyrrhus said to the governor.

  "It is but fanfare to our glory!" Seig cackled, his flame-lit eyes bereft of all reason.

  "It is not stopping!" came the shouts of another guardsmen. "The ship! It is not stopping!"

  The lightning came even quicker now, charging the air with a current of terror. The illumination of the brazier and the now burning trees cast an amber glow, but somehow this once hopeful color seemed poisoned by the punctuations of the sickly green streaks of lightning.

  "What is that?" Pyrrhus heard his men gasp.

  When he turned his head, he beheld the bowsprit of the mighty ship bearing directly towards them, less than a hundred paces away. "Move!" Pyrrhus shouted desperately to his men. "She is headed straight for us!"

  "What kind of devilry is this?" Seig puzzled with a sobering sort of terror in his voice.

  There, standing madly upon the bowsprit, was a massive figure, arms outstretched in front of him, looking as if by some dark magic he held the cloud before
him at bay. The ground shook again and the soul-chilling sound of birds, cawing ravens, was heard between the cracks of lightning and the roiling booms of thunder.

  "Draw your swords!" Seig ordered. "Bowmen at the ready!"

  "We haven't any bowmen!" came a shouted reply.

  Pyrrhus reached for his flint and kissed it, and as he did the keel of the mighty ship crested the sandy shore, plummeting through the dunes and the sea grasses, sending sprays of splintered Greywood and sand raining through the air.

  "Draw your blades!" the governor shouted against the rage of the storm.

  The horses reeled in terror, sending their riders crashing to the ground. The guardsmen along the shore lost their footing in a quake that heaved the very ground beneath their feet. Not a single man stood before the display of power that had beached itself upon the shores of their new homeland.

  There, before the unbelieving eyes of the colony of Haven, the green-eyed driver let out a scream that reminded Pyrrhus of a great bird of prey. His ashen-colored muscles rippled with exertion, for he held to hundreds of tiny leather thongs that saddled thousands of green-eyed ravens, and the strain of their pull tore at his skin.

  "What in the-" Pyrrhus began to say, as he pulled himself up and to his feet, but his words were eclipsed by the soul-chilling voice that interrupted him.

  "Men of the dead tree," it said with bellowed malice. "Behold, your salvation has come, and it rides on the wings of the Raven Queen."

  Epilogue

  THE MOOD OF THE POET colony had gone grim these last weeks, for rumbles and rumors of war had reverberated their bloodthirsty threats all throughout the bowels of the ancient mountain palace. The Sprites and aging Poets all felt the weight of the coming battle, yet none save the Queen seemed to know how to prepare for it.

  Queen Iolanthe had remained enthroned upon the white seat that stood in her great hall, deep within the ever-flowering Jacarandas. Islwyn was buzzing with activity ever since she had ordered Faolan, her captain of the host, to arm all of her children for whatever war befell them.

  "Before the rape of the trees of beauty, our kind paid little attention to the instruments of battle, though we were ever-skilled in their making," she told the Poet woman, Klieo. "We crafted them more for their shape and their magic than did we for their letting of blood."

  "What happened, my Queen?" the old historian asked.

  The Sprite Queen stared off into the violet shadows of the hidden grove, as if she were reliving the atrocities of her people all over again. "Some were valiant and defended our people bravely, but our strength was cut short with every tree that was consumed by her sorcery. For the flowering fruit of the trees of beauty are nothing but a sad song apart from the branch and the bough of their birth."

  "And those of you here?" Klieo asked. "Is it because these trees were hidden? Is that why you still remain?"

  "Our Great Father whispered His secret wisdom to my mother, Éimhear, and before I had even blossomed into this world, she had planted these hidden seeds in preparation for the fall of beauty." Iolanthe smiled at the very idea of her noble mother, the High Queen, stealing off into the night, pregnant with a hidden hope as she flitted her way to the falls of Sarangrael.

  "I, for one, am thankful for her conspiracy," Klieo said with childlike honesty.

  "If beauty still lives—if it still dares to exist in this darkened world of ours—then we will have a second kind of strength to defend and care for each other by," Iolanthe said as her tiny hands held the wrinkled face of the Poet.

  "Oh?" said Klieo.

  "Yes, my child," she said wisely. "For duty, and fear, and even vengeance will compel the heart for only so long, for only so far. It is inspiration that sets it on fire anew each darkened day, with a dream of life restored."

  "Your majesty?" interrupted the voice of Ardghal, the herald of Islwyn. "Your presence is requested in the great halls of Terriah. Our Poet friends are in urgent need of you," he said as he bowed in reverence.

  She read the concern on his face and stood to her feet, smoothing out the violet seams of her silken gown. Just then a shower of violet leaves began to fall ever so purposefully down from the high boughs of the Jacarandas above. They did not fall to the floor of the dais, but rather swirled about the Queen in a tingling wind of holy magic. The eyes of the Queen went luminous in violet power as the wordless wind of her Great Father spoke in a silent storm of discernment. Klieo bowed her head, an overwhelming feeling of unworthiness causing her to avert her gaze, while Ardghal knelt in practiced reverence for these hallowed moments.

  Finally in a whisper of a last breath, the wind words spoke for all to hear. "Tá sé tar éis tús curtha."

  "It has begun," the Queen said, her voice laden with a deep sense of coming doom.

  "My Queen?" the herald asked. "What would you have of me?"

  The violet eyes of the Queen shone all the brighter here in the presence of the spirit of the Great Father, and it was with both holy power and great conviction that she made her request known. "Summon Faolan, and assemble the host, for the time has come for our kind to bid farewell to the safety of this cleft of stone."

  "May it be so," the herald said in a wing-splayed bow of obedience. Then, in an explosion of silver magic, the herald of the Queen shot high into the air of the grove, pursing his lips to his silver trumpet and giving forth sound with such a breath that the Poets high above the ground were said to have heard his call to war.

  "Let us go and speak with your Poet brothers and sisters, shall we?" Iolanthe said with a gracious and genuine concern. "For Faolan still has much to make ready, and the urgency of their request is not lost to me, dear Klieo."

  "May it be so, my Queen," Klieo said with a clumsy curtsy.

  By the time Klieo and the Queen made their way into the great hall of Petros, a rare commotion had begun to swell amongst the Poets of Kalein. "Tolk? Clivesis?" Klieo asked, nervously now. "What is going on here? What is all the fuss about?"

  "Queen Iolanthe," Tolk said with great affection as he slowly and rather painfully knelt before this ancient, winged nobility.

  "My dear Tolk," she said as she gracefully flitted to the old Poet leader. She held his wrinkled, round face in her tiny hands, and saw the worry hidden behind the crown of white, bushy eyebrows. "What is the matter, my friend?"

  "Your majesty?" spoke the worried voice of Elder John. "I found something ... or rather, I found someone."

  "Oh?" she said, unsurprised. "Tell me, Elder John, who have you found that has caused you and your people such distress?"

  And at that very question, the sea of anxious Poets parted before the gaze of the Sprite Queen, and she beheld the blood-stained shirt of a young boy, who lay upon the large, stone table of Kalein. Meledae held a blood-soaked bandage to his chest, imploring the Sprite Queen with pleading eyes to do something to save the boy.

  The Queen's face shifted from distress, to worry, and then almost instantaneously back to steady resolve. "Klieo, send for Eógan; we will need his mending arts if we hope to save this child."

  Klieo did not wait to respond, but took off in the direction of the great library so as to do the bidding of the Queen as quickly as she might.

  All eyes were on Iolanthe as she watched the young boy before her. "Where did you come across him?" she asked.

  "Ransom and I were hauling in the day's catch, when I heard hooves upon the riverbank. I thought to myself that I must be going mad, but when I looked up over Eiluned's rocky cliffs, I saw him," Elder John recounted. "He was barely clinging to the face of a scarred, young mare." The Poet looked at the ground, not sure if the Queen approved of him bringing such an outsider into their sanctuary.

  The face of the Queen tightened, deep in concentration as she heard the Poet retell his story.

  "You said we would aid the remnant, and ... well, he is the first remnant we've come across. I think." Elder John offered.

  "Where is the horse that bore him to us?" Iolanthe asked him.

/>   "She is with Moa," Meledae answered for him. "She was wounded, too. I found a skin of liniment on her, and gave her a bit of tending to. But …"

  "Yes?" the Queen prompted, urging Meledae to continue.

  "There's something about the horses, your Majesty. Moa took to taking care of this young mare as if she knew her, somehow." Meledae's voice choked with emotion at the tenderness she had seen in the horses.

  Just then Eógan, shepherd of the weary, flew up in a great haste of purpose.

  "Ah, Eógan, see what you can do for the boy," Iolanthe instructed gently.

  Eógan nodded proudly, "Of course, my Queen. It is my honor."

  "The horses?" Iolanthe asked Meledae again.

  "They are bonded in a kindred way, I think. Perhaps they shall mend each other."

  Iolanthe pondered the thought as she searched Meledae's face, sensing the truth in her perception.

  "My Queen!" came the small, excited voice of Eógan, echoing through the great hall. "My Queen, the boy ... the boy is awake!"

  The boy rubbed at his eyes as if he were in a splendid dream, his wounded and weary face alight with wonder. "I found it! The palace! I found ... wait, who are you?" he managed to whisper at the hovering figure before him.

  "My name is Iolanthe, Queen of the Sprites, and you are safe now, dear one," she told him with great kindness to her words.

  He smiled for a moment, and then the reality of his memory came crashing into the joy of his discovery. "No! None of us are safe now! The Raven Army has taken them!" he said as boyish tears began to stream from his eyes. "You've got to help them! You've got to help my friends, please! Please!"

  INDEX

  Caution: This index contains spoilers for Book Two.

  CHARACTERS/ THINGS

  Abaddon: dragon of the Nocturnal Raven Army with byzantium colored scales, vile green eyes, and a serpent-like body; moves and talks in symmetric synchronicity with his sister dragon, Angrah