A Kingdom Under Siege

by Jeffrey L. Kohanek

“And I, you,” he said softly. “When I stood on the gallows, I feared I would never see you again. More than death, that thought brought me to despair.”

  “We have had close calls before,” she said.

  “Yet, somehow, we persevere.”

  “I pray Issal will see us through this trial as well.”

  “As long as we are together, the outcome is irrelevant.”

  She smiled. “You are smooth, Parker Thanes, but I know you better than that.” Her finger ran down his chest. “You have too much good in you to stand aside when oppression bares its fangs to feast on the innocent.”

  He stared into her eyes, his hand running through her hair. “Nobody knows me as you do.”

  As their lips met, Tenzi felt his warmth, his strength as passion took hold. She responded, her hands running up the back of his tunic while her body pressed against his. An explosion rang in her ears, sparks she continued experiencing after two decades together.

  Another boom sounded, and her eyes opened in surprise. Parker pulled back and looked over her shoulder.

  “Oh no,” he said as a distant blast came from across the bay.

  She turned as a crashing noise came from the direction of the blockade. Flashes of green came from further out and a staccato of thumping booms followed. The lights from the blockade began to fade, some sinking into the sea, others disappearing in an instant.

  “They are attacking,” Parker said.

  “At night,” Tenzi added. “They actually attacked at night.”

  “Who does that?”

  “Ri Starian sailors.” She cupped her hands to her mouth as she strode toward the quarterdeck. “Sound the alarm! All hands on deck! Wayport is under attack!”

  The throne room was quiet, dark save for a single lantern on one of the tables, its pale blue light shining on the maps lying there. Brock stood alone, staring out the window toward the lights of the blockade. Dalwin had retired for the evening, off to rest while they waited for the enemy to tip the first tile – tiles Brock and his general had prepared months earlier.

  “I miss you, Gunther,” Brock muttered to himself. “I could use your mind right now. I fear I have overlooked something – something that could lead to disaster.”

  The words echoed faintly in the chamber, large enough to hold hundreds.

  His thoughts turned to Broland, manning the north wall with a skeleton crew of archers and arcanists. Once the enemy advanced within range, Broland would initiate the shockwaves. If things went as planned, those waves of earth would reduce their numbers and would buy more time as Brock prepared for the next phase. If things go as planned, Brock thought. That didn’t happen with the bridge.

  It disgusted him that the enemy would attack a seemingly innocent fishing boat. Only one soldier survived the ordeal, the man reporting they were ambushed by an archer. Based on the distance to shore, the unknown archer must have been quite skilled. They couldn’t have known it was a trap, could they? Brock wondered. Only a few had known about it, just three people other than those in the boat. A list including only himself, Broland, and Dalwin, none of whom were capable of treachery.

  Brock? Are you awake?

  He smiled. Yes, my love.

  Are you well? Is Broland safe? Ashland asked.

  I am well, but nobody here is safe. The enemy is on our doorstep, threatening to break in.

  He felt her concern through their connection. I will pray for your safety.

  Shifting subjects, he asked. How fare things in Kantar?

  All is as it should be now that I have replaced the guards with people I can trust.

  And Curan?

  I sent him back to Fallbrandt a few days ago. His presence here was a gift, but one I dare not keep. He has much of his father in him, and I suspect he will be needed elsewhere, soon.

  I wish he were here. His father as well.

  As do I, she agreed.

  A flash of green appeared in the dark of the harbor. A thump followed. Brock put his hands on the window, staring out with alarm. Other blasts followed, shaking the blockade.

  We are under attack. I must focus. I will speak with you later, Issal willing.

  Be well, Brock. I love you.

  And I, you.

  The door to the throne room burst open and two guards ran in.

  “King Brock! We are under attack. An enemy fleet is in the harbor!”

  Brock walked toward the door, contemplating the next move. The arcanists among the blockade knew what to do in this event. He had to trust them to succeed. The thought of what might happen if the enemy came up the river made him shudder.

  “Gather everyone and meet in the square. We may have to jump to phase three.”

  The men thumped their fists to their chests. “Yes, Sire!”

  As the men ran off, Brock reached behind one of the doors and grabbed his metal-reinforced staff, gripping it as he gathered himself. People will die tonight. It is us or them. We will not bend to tyranny. The words gave him strength.

  The window behind him shattered in a spray of glass. A bomb hit the floor, exploding in a flash of green flames and blasting Brock through the open doorway before all went black.

  From his position on top of the city wall, Broland watched the Imperial Army. They had arranged themselves along the woods a half-mile north of the city walls, just as his father had anticipated. Although night had fallen, the pale blue glow from the Chaos-Infused tree stumps provided ample light to monitor the field between the city walls and the Imperial army, even at this distance.

  The army’s arrival had come earlier than planned. Somehow, the enemy had known to target the arcanists waiting in the fishing boat, killing them both along with two guards. With the arcanists dead before they could use their magic, Gramble Bridge remained intact and allowed the enemy a direct route rather than forcing them through the tiny village of Elmbridge, eighteen miles to the north. That blunder had eliminated two days of preparation time in addition to sparing the enemy warriors who would have died in the bridge explosion.

  The Imperial Army stretched along the battlefield perimeter from the bridge to the northeast to the new palisades to the west. Broland wondered if the enemy would wait until morning or if they would attack at night. At least we can see them, he thought.

  He strolled along the parapet, running his hand along the waist-high outer wall. Inside the wall, the city waited. The area along the wall where the army had camped was now deserted, the buildings dark and dormant. Newly-constructed catwalks connected the city wall to the nearest rooftops with more catwalks crossing the streets beyond, creating an escape route. He wondered how much time remained before their escape was required.

  An archer patrolling the wall approached, nodding to Broland as he passed by. Although night had fallen only an hour earlier, the city was unnaturally quiet – as if everyone inside were holding their breath in anticipation of an attack. It would come. Of that, Broland now had no doubt. The only question was when.

  Broland stopped when he noticed movement in the distance and heard the faint crunching of gravel. A catapult emerged as a crew of Imperial soldiers pushed it down the road and toward the city. Another followed, both siege engines advancing slowly as the city defenders looked on in concern.

  “Do you think there is any chance they will come within bow range?” the archer asked.

  The man stood a few strides to Broland’s side with his hands on the wall as he stared into the night.

  “I highly doubt it,” Broland replied. “Catapults can launch as far as a thousand feet. How far can you shoot?”

  “With a longbow? Five hundred feet, perhaps six with a tailwind, but not accurately in either case.”

  Broland nodded to himself, filing the information away.

  When the enemy catapults were about a thousand feet away, they stopped with each positioned to opposite sides of the road. Some of the men then jogged back to the main force while others waited beside the war machines.

  “What are th
ey planning?” Broland mumbled. “And, why advance only two catapults? The scouts reported twenty or more.”

  “I can’t guess at what they are doing, but I fear it will happen soon,” the archer added.

  “Just remember the plan,” Broland said. “We need to keep the arcanists alive.”

  He leaned forward and eyed the runes drawn in the ground outside the walls. The symbols were still intact. Turning, he spied clusters of arcanists on nearby rooftops, sitting in wait.

  A series of thumps came from the south. Brandt turned with a grimace. “Those explosions are from the harbor.”

  Another soldier jogged toward Broland. “There is an attack. What do we do, Your Highness?”

  “We remain at our post and pray that others will respond. Our job is protect the city from the enemy camped outside it.”

  More explosions sounded as distant flashes of green and orange came from the harbor. As time went on, Broland grew nervous.

  The Imperial soldiers lined up across the field and began advancing at an easy pace. The army stopped a few hundred feet beyond the two catapults. A man on horseback rode down the middle, pausing when positioned between the enemy force and the two catapults. There, he waited.

  “Arcanists!” Broland bellowed. “Prepare yourselves!”

  A thump came from behind and Broland spun about to find a burst of green flame coming from the castle. Shouts came from across the battlefield and the officer on horseback waved his sword over his head. The catapults fired.

  “Run!” Broland screamed as he bolted across the catwalk, toward the nearest rooftops.

  Explosions came from behind, the concussion causing Broland to stumble and nearly fall from the catwalk. The archer trailing him wasn’t so lucky, the man landing hard on the cobblestones three stories below.

  Broland turned to find a portion of the wall beside the city gate destroyed and the remaining bricks on fire.

  Rising to his feet, Broland shouted, “Arcanists! To the wall, now!”

  The four arcanists on the nearest rooftop followed as he returned to the wall. A glance to each side revealed others crossing catwalks. Looking out when he stepped onto the wall, Broland found the enemy army waiting as soldiers hurried to reload the two catapults. The man on the horse issued orders and the army charged forward.

  “Hurry!” Broland shouted. “Charge the runes!”

  Moments passed as the enemy rushed forward. Between the army and wall, the soldiers wound back the arms of two catapults. Below the wall, the runes began to glow red, pulse, and fade.

  In rapid bursts, shockwaves launched from the runes, fanning out as the tidal waves of earth raced toward the invaders. The leader turned his horse, waved his arms, and raced away from the city. The surrounding army turned with him and ran the other direction as shockwaves chased them. One of the catapults fired, the launch arm flinging a bomb into the air just before a shockwave pounded through it and the other machine. Blasts of green flame and sprays of dirt came from the area as the catapults popped up, flipped, and fell.

  Broland grabbed the arcanist to his left, tugged on her tunic, and shouted, “Run, Libby!”

  He sprinted east, away from the gate, trailing the woman and two other arcanists who ran ahead of him. The flashbomb struck, the explosion launching him forward. Broland crashed into the woman, who stumbled into the man in front of her. She fell to the side and slid over the interior edge of the wall. Broland gripped her forearm, but her weight pulled him over the edge until he clung to the top by one hand while she dangled from the other. He tried to pull himself up, but she was too heavy.

  “Let me fall,” the woman said.

  He looked down at her and the cobblestones below. “We are too high up. You’ll break your leg or worse.”

  “You are too important.” Libby’s large, brown eyes locked with his. “I’m sorry, my Prince. I must do this. This is my time. Tipper is waiting for me.”

  The woman kicked and jerked her arm from his grip, her eyes remaining locked with his as she fell. She landed on her back, her head striking the stones with a sickening crack. There, she remained, unmoving.

  With an effort, Broland swung his other hand up, gripped the wall, and the man above helped him up. Rising to his feet, he found the army now far across the battlefield, beyond the reach of the shockwaves. Other than the two catapults and the people manning them, he saw no casualties among the enemy.

  “They knew what we had planned,” he said to himself aloud. “How did they know?”

  An explosion to his right forced him to raise his hand and shield the heat. When he lowered it, he found a hole in the ground where one of the shockwave runes had been. The result left an unprotected gap in their defenses.

  “What? Where did that come…”

  Broland then spotted men in black sneaking along the outer base of the wall. The infiltrators began tossing flashbombs, striking the Shockwave runes, each blast sending a burst of green flame and splattered earth into the air.

  Realizing their intent, he shouted, “Below the wall! Shoot them!”

  It was too late. The enemy had been able to sneak men inside the shockwaves and were taking them out, one by one. Without the shockwaves to guard the north wall, the invaders would attack. Catapults armed with flashbombs would destroy the wall, and the enemy would enter the city far more easily than anticipated.

  Broland was now certain the Empire had known their defense plan the entire time. Kony, he thought. You had something to do with this. I know it.

  33

  Infiltrators

  Captain Blaine Sculdin stood at the prow of the longship with the wind in his face and his cloak flapping in the breeze. A Ri Starian sailor stood beside him, a rough looking man who peered intently into the darkness. Sculdin wondered if the man could see or if he were just pretending. Other than the occasional whitecaps on waves, Sculdin saw nothing but blackness, heard nothing but the sea lapping against the hull and the oars cutting through the water. Still, Ri Starians were famous for their skills on the sea. Having no other choice, he put his faith in their reputation. In fact, the campaign he and Kardan had conceived hinged heavily on the skills of this ally from the north.

  After two decades, tonight Sculdin would strike back at Chaos – the magic that had destroyed his family. He still missed his sister, Tegan. With her red hair, fierce determination, and fiery spirit, she was difficult to forget. Her talents as a duelist had her destined for greatness, sure to become a senior officer in the Holy Army. More importantly, if she were still alive, she would surely be among the leaders within The Hand.

  However, her destiny was denied when Cameron DeSanus dragged her and the other paladin trainees from Fallbrandt to fight in a war they had no business fighting. Like so many others, Tegan never returned. She was so young, Sculdin thought. Her whole life waited for her, only to have it crushed by Chaos.

  After learning of Tegan’s death, his mother became withdrawn, barely able to get out of bed. Three months passed before Sculdin returned to find her dead – poisoned by her own hand. His father died two years later. The medicus couldn’t pin the cause for the man’s death. Sculdin remained convinced it was from grief.

  It took Sculdin years to discern the truth of what had happened to his sister. It took even longer to find a way to right the wrongs committed against her. The destruction of his family left him seeking answers at the bottom of a bottle – an indulgence he repeated often. Drinking ended up costing him dearly, and he lost his position working for Duke Gort of Sol Gier after a failed assignment. He then drifted for weeks before finding a new line of work. As a lifelong military man, accepting a position as a prison guard was beneath his skills, but the choice had changed everything.

  There, he had discovered the missing members of The Hand, imprisoned for their belief that Chaos was evil. Vandermark and many of the older leaders had already died during their years of incarceration. Yet, the brightest minds still lived. With them, Sculdin plotted in secret. During a leave
of absence, he located Karl Jarlish, and a plan fell into place.

  Jarlish as an ally made the prison break a success. The flash powder obtained from the mines, along with Karl Jarlish’s brilliant mind, became the foundation upon which a new empire would be built. Like so many others, Chaos has claimed Jarlish – now just another name on the list of those who deserve vengeance. The thought of Corvichi’s destruction still irritated Sculdin. Flash powder weapons had since become precious commodities.

  The man beside Sculdin raised a white flag, pointing starboard, and the ship began to turn. By the time the man lowered it, the lights of Wayport had become visible to the north. Methodically, the longship drew closer to the city, and Sculdin was able to make out the string of lights running from the pier to the eastern portion of the harbor.

  “Just as Budakis planned,” he noted.

  Knowing the plans of the Kantarian defense provided an immense advantage, and Sculdin was glad to use such knowledge.

  Nine Ri Starian longboats trailed behind, sailing in a V formation. All had their sails tucked away, moving with the use of oars alone.

  He climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck and nodded to the woman at the helm. Like many of the Ri Starian’s, Hiaga had blond hair and light eyes. Her hair was tied into a long braid, exposing ears with large hoops dangling from them. Despite the chill, the woman wore a leather vest, her muscular arms bare to the shoulders.

  “Remember the plan,” Sculdin said.

  Her face was masked in shadow, but even in the dark, he sensed the woman’s scowl. “Don’t tell me how to run my fleet.”

  He pressed his lips together and held back a retort. A moment passed and then Hiaga turned toward a man standing to her other side.

  “Now, Challo.”

  The man lifted a lantern from the deck and removed the cover. It glowed blue from one side as mirrors shrouded the other three sides. Holding it up high with the light directed toward the trailing fleet, the man waved a panel in front of the lantern in an altering rhythm. The other ships saw it as a series of blinking lights. Sculdin didn’t understand the odd language, but he knew the message they were sending.