by Peter Fane
But then, as she watched the entire army across Tarntown begin to move, like a giant beast waking from slumber, she realized that the attack wasn’t really about Garen. In fact, it might never have been about him at all.
“It’s an all-out assault,” Kyla heard her own voice say, distant in her own ears, her eye pressed to her telescope. “They mean to end us now. They mean to take the Tarn.”
And quite suddenly—seeing Garen trapped beneath Colj’s shield, watching Colj and his ogres huddle protectively around him in the face of the enemy’s thirty thousand men, the little star tree withering under increasing fire—something hot began to uncoil in Kyla’s mind, a kind of worm, a kind of seething, furious worm.
Below, on the Great Seal, Ruge still shouted. “No! No!” Hands up, turning to his honor guard, shouting back at the barbican, holding the silver High Cup. “Cease fire!” The green-clad honor guard from Gelánen looked uncertain. They glanced at each other, then glanced to their commander, Lord Julane.
Kyla stared, blinked, forced her eye from her telescope, looked around the tower top, to her little brother and sister, to Ponj and Bruno, to their own little star tree, to Filip and his scouts.
Tarlen and Ponj still watched the action, Tarlen with his telescope, Ponj squinting, trying to make things out. Bruno had shoved himself even further up on the battlement, thick hind legs between Tarlen and Ponj, mouth clamped shut, staring down at the bridge, sniffing, eyes scanning, ears swinging, his growl more frightening than ever, grey fur alive with tendrils of smoky mist. From her place in Ponj’s arms, Susan calmly watched the swelling chaos. Another volley of shots cracked from across the water, from the southwestern embankment and the new wall of logs there. The field of Colj’s little tree seemed to cave in on itself, the coppery field shrinking to almost nothing, the high silver armor of the ogres’ phalanx lighting up like suns, before the tree’s field expanded again to cover them—but still smaller, so much smaller. Kyla looked at Filip. He and his scouts were staring down at the bridge, strange looks on their faces as they realized the full extent of what was happening, grasping that Garen and Colj and their tiny squad now stood virtually unprotected against the onslaught of the Pretender King’s entire army.
“Lord Michael will come,” Filip said to nobody in particular. “Anna and Moondagger will come.”
Tarlen and Ponj looked at each other, then they turned and moved for the tower’s trapdoor, Ponj gently lowering Susan from his chest as he moved, Filip and his lads seeming to wake from a dream, diving for their guns, pulling carbines from beneath banners.
The furious worm opened in Kyla’s mind, a lashing white flame.
“Stand fast!” Kyla cried.
And her voice carried with it the force of her training, her lineage, and her power. It was the voice of a highborn Dallanar lady, the voice of the Silver Kingdom’s greatest nobility, the voice of a future Queen of Remain.
Ponj and Tarlen stopped in their tracks, staring at her, waiting her orders, Ponj actually frozen in place at her command, Susan dangling from his huge ogre hand, little feet brushing over the tower’s pavers. The scouts looked as if they’d been locked in ice, hands frozen at their guns.
“Put me down, Ponj,” Susan said.
Ponj lowered her to the floor.
“Quine,” Kyla ordered. “You will take Susan below to her quarters.” He moved to obey; Susan did not protest. “Tarlen, take your scope and step to the battlements, you’ll spot for me. Ponj, tend our star tree. I want to ignore fire from their snipers.”
“My Lady.” Ponj bowed.
Kyla turned, stepped, and held her telescope out to Filip. “Filip, you’ll spot for Sledder and Tellerman. Give me your weapon.”
He bowed and handed it over without pause.
“Fire only on my mark. You’ll target their sharpshooters, every sniper on the barbican. You’ll then work your way across the headlands, starting with those riflemen by that new log fortification at the southwest. I want a hundred notches on the stocks of each those weapons when we’re done today, gentlemen.”
The scouts saluted, heels snapping together. “My Lady!”
“What’s our plan?” Tarlen asked, turning back with her to the battlements.
“We’re going to cover Garen and Colj.” Kyla glanced down at the bridge. “Kill anyone who comes close.”
Tarlen nodded.
She looked down at the carbine she’d taken from Filip. The gun wasn’t his, she realized. It was an ancient weapon of high silver, its design fluid, timeless, lethal—and entirely beyond his station. He must’ve taken it as a prize somehow, from his last trip out.
She checked and primed it.
Where it came from didn’t matter.
It was a perfect weapon.
And she knew how to use it.
36
ANOTHER HIGH SILVER round punched through the little tree’s field, struck Colj’s shield, and flashed bright. Colj was still huddled down with Lord Garen, shield up, using his body to protect him.
“We need that Cup,” Lord Garen said calmly, pushing his spectacles onto his nose, as if oblivious to the danger.
“Stay down, my Lord,” Colj grunted, bracing against the enemy’s fire, the war song swelling his veins, leaning into it.
“The Cup, Colj,” Lord Garen repeated.
“That it is not possible, my Lord,” Colj said.
“No!” Vymon Ruge shouted, turned and shouted. “No! No!” Colj glanced out from the phalanx and saw that the Lord Commander was looking from side to side now, his face furious, all decorum lost. At Jon Ruge’s side, Jared Ruge turned to look up at the barbican. He put both his hands up, as if trying to settle a raging horse, as if he could stop the coming fire with open palms.
And more fire was coming in, vanishing against the little tree’s field. Mostly small arms and carbines, mostly sporadic, mostly coming from soldiers behind Vymon Ruge’s retinue, up on the barbican, and from the southwestern embankment, as if it was unplanned. The men of Gelánen were still unsure what to do, still looking to their commander, Lord Julane.
Colj was not worried about infantry fire. His ogres were there, they had their star tree, and they had their shields. And Lord Michael and Captain Dyer would be coming soon. Colj was worried about the Pretender’s great cannon at the barbican, its maw a dark hole of burning death.
“Back,” Colj ordered.
With perfect coordination, the ogres kept their formation intact and withdrew, backing away from the Great Seal toward the Great Door and the Tarn at a slow and steady pace. The little star tree’s field wavered, shrunk with the incoming fire, then rebounded—but still shrinking, big Doj rolling it back, Rudj pumping cold water into its roots, the little star tree trembling with effort. The Pretender’s great cannon was almost entirely out of the barbican now, its adepts in position, the mighty cannon glowing deadly with silver light. Only Ruge and his entourage stood between them and it.
“Stay tight,” Colj said. “Stay together. Back.”
The enemy’s infantry would not charge. Colj knew that. Nor could their great cannon fire down the axis of the bridge. Not without destroying their own commander and his entourage.
Unless the Pretender King wanted to kill Vymon Ruge and his sons.
“The Cup,” Lord Garen said again. Colj ignored him, kept the formation moving backwards, shields scraping granite, other shields held high. The little tree’s field took more fire from the southwestern embankment; for a moment, its field shrunk to almost nothing.
“The Cup,” Lord Garen said. He grabbed Colj’s arm. “Colj. We must have it.”
Colj looked over the edge of his shield.
Vymon Ruge, High Cup in hand, waved and shouted, “Stop! Cease fire!” Jared Ruge looked at his father, said something Colj couldn’t hear. The green-clad men from Gelánen were finally drawing their weapons, moving past Vymon Ruge, toward the ogre phalanx, but not with much enthusiasm. Their commander, Lord Julane, looked from Jon Ruge to Vymon Ruge, a
s if trying to make up his mind.
And then the great cannon moved fully out of the barbican’s gate, a silvery sea beast, surrounded by the golden-robed adepts of the Pretender King.
“No!” Vymon Ruge cried, running straight at it. “Stop!”
Colj did not pity him.
Only fools screamed against a storm.
And the storm was almost upon them.
37
“STAND READY.” LORD Michael’s eyes were pure black. Little Dan blinked and nodded.
Then Lord Michael raised his groaning sword and crossed his chest with his black armored fist. Master Falmon raised his spear, and everybody else raised their weapons and guns and shields, returning the salute. Dan crossed his chest with his fist and felt his heart pounding there. His head spun with the humming songs of the big guns; they wanted to get out the door so badly, to get out there and do the work that weapons do.
Lord Michael’s giant bear growled, and Lord Michael turned the beast to the door, looking out the peephole again. Outside, Dan could hear more noise, like a whole bunch of firecrackers—then even louder firecrackers. Everyone jostled and moved. More snow was falling now.
Lord Michael said something that Dan couldn’t hear. Lord Michael’s black sword was all smoky.
We thirst, all of us.
A big hand touched Dan’s head. Dan glanced up.
Lord Doldon stood behind him, smiling down at him.
“It’s you and me today, Big Dan,” Lord Doldon said. He glanced over at Stormy. “Right?”
Dan nodded. But he couldn’t really say anything because his heart was hammering in his chest so loud, and the cannon’s songs were starting to ring through his head—not right, but loud—so he nodded again. The Chief looked over at him, his eyes mean and jealous.
Lord Michael whispered something again and looked out the peephole. The smoke from his sword was spreading over everyone, covering the fresh snow on their shoulders, everyone’s eyes going black like murder.
“Good lad.” Lord Doldon pounded Dan on the shoulder with his fist. Then he stepped up and whispered something to Stormy’s lead adept. She looked at Lord Doldon, nodded. And then Stormy and Oblivion rose up off their carriages, floating, that silvery glow coming from their skins, their songs coming louder than ever—still wrong in Dan’s ears—but way louder, winding together, joining and rising, the songs loud and strong, but still wrong. Lord Doldon turned around, looked at Dan, and saluted. Dan saluted back.
“You sing for ‘em, Stormy,” Dan said. His head was starting to hurt a little. “You sing like you never sung before.”
“Shut up, Eadle,” the Chief hissed.
But then, all at once, the big door crashed out and open and everything was moving forward, the great cannon moving out onto the bridge, their songs louder and louder, the war thumping coming like it’d never come before, the war adepts singing, guiding the big guns out the door, barely able to hold them back.
38
THE PRETENDER’S SOLDIERS were coming out of the barbican now, Colj saw. Moving past Vymon Ruge, who still stood in front of the Pretender’s great cannon and its golden adepts, pushing past him, moving toward Colj’s phalanx, firing sporadically as they came. Jared Ruge looked around in confusion. The poor, stuttering boy wasn’t in on the trap, of course. He never had been. Indeed, the whole advance, such as it was, was meant to look disorganized and uncoordinated. But Colj could tell that the opposite was true. It was all part of the deception. With Jared’s help, Jon Ruge had gotten to his feet and had drawn his high silver revolver; he stood well behind the advancing soldiers, his injured arm held to his chest. Then, as if sensing Colj’s gaze, Jon Ruge looked up at him, raised his weapon, and fired. The silver bullet hit Colj’s shield, a blinding star, high silver deflecting killing force.
“Charge!” Jon Ruge shouted, waved his pistol overhead, a bit of snow whirling around him. “Charge! Protect the Lord of the Siege! We need Garen alive!”
Lord Julane and the men from Gelánen began to move forward, a bit tentative at first, but now with more vigor. Vymon Ruge stared at his youngest son like he didn’t know him. Then Vymon Ruge shouted something at Jon, but Colj couldn’t hear it.
“The Cup,” Lord Garen said. “Colj, listen to me. We must have that High Cup. When Michael comes, we will push forward with him. We must retrieve it.”
Colj bowed in acknowledgment. But Lord Garen was no soldier. And Lord Michael had made clear that the High Cup was of secondary importance. Lord Garen’s life was what mattered.
A few more bullets hit Colj’s shield, priceless high silver rounds punching through the star tree’s field. A well-placed rifle shot hissed through a gap in the phalanx, burning past Colj’s shoulder. Then the big iron guns of the enemy opened up from the southwestern ridge, from placements in front of the new log fortifications, orange fire and black smoke bellowing. The enemy’s iron in town started, too, from everywhere at once. Sharpshooters fired from all four towers of the barbican, from everywhere. The coppery field of the little star tree shuddered and shrank, absorbing the incoming salvos, unable to recover, coppery leaves beginning to wilt, detonations all around them, big Doj pulling the cart, Rudj back there pumping water as fast as he could into the little tree’s roots. The field of the tree barely covered the phalanx now.
And then, from behind him, Doj called in his deep voice “Our great cannon come.”
Colj glanced back and saw their own great cannon coming out of the Tarn’s Great Door, floating out, blue adepts in their positions, the living guns aiming to either side of the bridge, ready to clear the flanks, Master Falmon and Lord Doldon there beside them, ready to cover Lord Michael’s sortie. Stormhammer and Oblivion, the oldest of the Tarn’s mighty cannon, ready to return fire. Lord Michael was astride the great Okros with his bear riders, behind the great guns, ready to go, waiting only for their cover, holding the charge back.
And then the silvery maws of the Tarn’s great guns came to life, like the living things they were, silver lips pulling back, silver fangs opening, lion and dragon, and together they thundered—SHOOM! SHOOM!—flaming silver meteors blazing over bridge and water, thunder, white light, the headlands erupting in a haze of tumbling lumber and bodies and dirt. Then came the screams of dying, the shrieks of burning men. Lord Doldon and Master Falmon spotted for the Tarn’s great cannon, pointing. The flanking war adepts in their fugue states, lead adepts behind each cannon singing to her weapon, heads back, elated, battle ecstasy, hands on the great guns as they sang their war songs, the guns singing in return—SHOOM! SHOOM!—more searing silver fire blasting into the enemy, and there was nothing the enemy could do about it save watch as the Tarn’s great cannon rained silver fire upon them from within the protective perimeter of the citadel’s star trees.
“Keep an eye on the Cup,” Lord Garen insisted.
Colj looked over his shield. There it was. Vymon Ruge still held the High Cup as he stood in front of the Pretender’s great gun, blocking its path and its fire. Vymon Ruge grabbed a soldier, a group of soldiers, pointed back to the barbican, pushing them back. His hand was on the maw of the great weapon now, still trying to stop what had already started. Others moved past him. Jared Ruge was trying to lift the Ruge family standard off the ground. Jon Ruge took two steps forward, aimed his pistol at Colj and the phalanx, looking for another shot. Jared Ruge picked up the dark blue banner of House Ruge and looked from side to side, as if he didn’t know what to do with it. Jared Ruge looked toward Colj and took a step forward. And then a carbine shot—CRACKED!—and a fleshy hole was blown in Jared Ruge’s throat, blood leaking between his teeth. He’d been shot in the back of the neck, a bullet from behind, from his own side, perfectly placed, right beneath the high silver of his helmet. Blood guttered from his mouth. His head wrenched at an odd angle. He took a step, then dropped bonelessly, blood spreading over the bridge’s stone. Jon Ruge stared wide-eyed, looked at his older brother, and lowered his revolver. Vymon Ruge ran to his dead son, Cup a
nd cannon forgotten, screaming: “Cease fire! Oh, Sisters! Cease fire!”
But his words were impossible to hear.
True battle had been joined.
The storm had commenced.
The men from Gelánen and the Pretender’s soldiers were pushing past Vymon Ruge, firing, drawing up formal ranks in the middle of the bridge. Behind the enemy infantry, at the barbican, Lord Corlen Lessip—a fat, red-haired general—gestured and pointed past Colj, at the little star tree and its wagon, giving orders, preparing the golden-robed adepts to fire along the bridge’s axis. Vymon Ruge turned and shouted at Lessip. The Pretender’s soldiers and the men from Gelánen were getting nearer the ogre phalanx now, almost on top of it, pushing forward, the green-clad men from Gelánen beginning to fire systematically, still blocking the line of fire of the great cannon, small arms not doing much. Lord Julane had not even drawn his weapon.
Then Lord Lessip pointed at Vymon Ruge and cried, “Protect High Lord Commander Ruge! The Silver Fox has killed Lord Jared! The Tarn has killed Lord Jared! Forward! For the Silver Throne! For the Silver Kingdom! Protect the Lord of the Siege! Forward! For the Remain!”
As if in answer, Stormhammer and Oblivion fired again—SHOOM! SHOOM!—a barrage of silver flame and the hills of Tarntown exploded, screamed, the great guns’ living fire voracious. Jon Ruge grabbed his father, pulled him off his dead brother. Vymon Ruge struggled against him, cursed him, cursed his own son. He still held the High Cup. More soldiers came, pulling Vymon and Jon Ruge back toward the barbican, their shields up and around the High Lord Commander, the old man’s face stricken with sorrow and rage.