by C. J. Aaron
Most who passed him gave him a wide berth, though their stares were poorly veiled. Breila moved steadily in his direction as soon as she saw the pair standing in the square.
“Remember what I told you,” he whispered, patting the youngster on the back, pushing him gently toward the approaching woman. “Get some rest. I’ll see you again soon.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and stalked back toward the gates. He moved with purpose. Those who noted his coming scurried from his path as he stormed by. His mood had soured with the thoughts of what had become. With what was to come.
He’d followed Elias, trailing the fleeting glimpses, more notably the feeling toward the south. Had he been too blinded by sheer emotions that he’d failed to recognize the logic. The appearance of the Horde was something he’d never have envisioned. He’d been led blindly into their trap.
He could feel the noose tightening with every passing moment.
The throbbing pain in his left arm intensified with every step closer to the wall. The wicked voice that whispered in his ear seemed to relish his discomfort. Its call for bloodshed, for carnage, grew to a scream as it rattled inside his skull. He tapped into a drop of the speed that flowed through his veins, quickening his pace and thankfully dulling the foreign roar.
Ryl reached the ladder built along the edge of the large storeroom, ascending without interruption. He scrambled up the slanted roof. The footing was slick. Thin boards had been nailed down in parallel strips, allowing for some measure of footholds. The second ladder extended from just below the opposite side of the peak to the palisade above. The angle wasn’t as steep, yet the climb was precarious. He found himself in a rough crawling position, propelling himself upward using his hands and feet. Workers labored below, hammering supports into the rickety structure.
Finding his footing atop the southern palisade, Ryl took an instant to view the surroundings. Only days before, the southern palisade had teemed with spectators, revelers eager to witness this cycle’s Harvest pulled from within. The wall now bristled with anxious energy. Soldiers, invading soldiers, marred the walls, eyes trained on the city without.
He looked to the east. The pulsing glow of the fires that tore through the East Ward still raged seemingly unchecked. Thick clouds of smoke billowed into the sky. The occasional flame was visible even from where he stood.
The air this high up was thick with the acrid smell of smoke. The swirling breeze from the sea brought with it a complex variation in aromas. His eyes burned one moment, only to be washed clean with a crisp tang of salt. An instant later, the foul hints of death and rot, the odor of the Outland Horde, churned his stomach.
Ryl stopped the first soldier walking past.
“Where can I find Captain Cipri?” Ryl asked the startled warrior.
The man was young, perhaps no older than his early twenties. Ryl had no concept of what his life had been like leading up to this moment. What had led him to this juncture atop the palisade? Was it for the love of his lord? Love of his family? The hatred of the Ascertaining Decree or the kingdom as a whole? Was he merely seeking a life of adventure?
The soldier stared at him for a moment, his head cocked slightly to the side as he attempted to peer into the darkness beneath Ryl’s hood. His face showed only a hint of fear, though he’d seen the demons who lurked beyond the wall.
“Cipri is this way,” he said, pointing further to the west, above the center of the Pining Gates’ mouth. “Follow me. He’ll be interested to meet you.”
Ryl followed the soldier along the palisade. He spied broken views of the city below between the marksmen who lined the peak. Sparkles of moonlight glinted off the waters of the sea in the distance.
His escort stopped abruptly, saluting the soldier who stood against the wall. The captain leaned heavily on his arms, looking out over the city with calculating eyes. He raised himself to his full height. His lean figure was taller than Ryl expected, standing well over a head higher than himself.
“Thank you, soldier,” he grumbled. “Carry on.”
With a final look at Ryl, his escort retreated, hastening on to whatever task he’d been pursuing before the interruption.
Unlike the previous younger soldier, the appearance of the captain spoke of one well versed in the art of battle. It was less about the scars that marked the exposed skin of his arms and face. The man carried himself with a confidence and poise that was unrelenting. He seemed entirely at home atop the wall, surrounded by the human implements of war.
“Lord Eligar failed to disclose that fighting abominations from myths would be part of our duty,” he grumbled. “The name’s Cipri. It’s a pleasure to meet you finally, Ryl. Yours is a name well respected, spoken of with a hushed reverence by those in the know. It now spreads through the kingdom. I see the wild selflessness that Andr referred to. Thank you for saving them.”
Ryl nodded. He was eternally uncomfortable with the position that had been forced upon him. The weight levied on his shoulders was crushing, yet, as with his station in life to this point, he would take it as it came.
“I will not be able to save them all, Captain,” he admitted, hopeful to level the impossible expectations before they were heaped upon his shoulders. The captain closed his eyes for a moment, nodding his head subtly in reply.
“Have they made attempts at the wall?” Ryl asked, thankful to change the subject.
He’d seen nothing but scattered hints of the shadowed signatures of the Horde with his mindsight to this point. Though a few strayed close, they generally avoided the palisade. He moved to the stone railing, taking position beside the captain, casting his vision out over the city.
“No,” he responded. “They gather along the Kingsway and avenues, yet few have moved closer to the gate.”
Ryl’s stomach churned as he announced the likely answer.
“We are prey to them,” Ryl offered. “For the moment, they have us cornered. There is no retreat from this position. Once they’ve finished with the city, they’ll turn their attention to these walls.”
The shatter of glass preceded a gut-wrenching scream. A solitary female voice wailed with agony. It carried on, echoing over the city, ending in a feeble whimper. The yips and howls of the Horde thankfully drowned out the sounds of the slaughter that likely commenced.
Ryl closed his eyes, squeezing his fingers into the cold stone of the wall. The anger poured through him. He fought the urge to leap from the walls, to rush headlong into the streets. He felt the need to use his powers, to command his skills to cut down all in his path. The Kingsway churned with motion, though the forms were nondescript. Occasional shadowed figures sprinted from the pack, disappearing into the shadows of the alleys. The mass seemed to stop at the intersection of the road and avenue leading to the Pining Gates.
“It’s a feeling we all share, Ryl.” Cipri spoke quietly. “We could use more arms. More soldiers to man the wall. More archers to pick apart their ranks.”
Ryl shared the sentiment with the captain. They stood at a precarious disadvantage. The wall would hold, as would the gate, yet for how long?
He sighed as he looked outward, running his vision over the ill-fated city. To his right, fires ravaged the run-down East Ward. The gritty, hardworking underbelly of the city crumbled as its foundations were turned to ash. To the west, a writhing sea of death choked the streets, filling every inch with their hatred. The screams of those who chose to remain in their homes had grown disturbingly irregular. There were likely few left.
Further toward the Outlands, far beyond the garrison, the dry storm still raged. Bolts of lightning flashed, each illuminating, if only for a brief instant, the predicament they were in. More blades and bows would help, though they’d likely be for naught. They’d need an army of phrenics, which at the moment didn’t exist. The tributes, though they’d likely woken from the ravages of the poison-induced sickness, would be of little aid in the face of the coming darkness.
Better that they weather t
his storm in the safety of the Erlyn Woods. There they’d be safe.
Ryl looked at the captain, confessing what he’d spoken to Fay.
“Captain, there is an army, nearly ten thousand men strong, approaching from the rear,” Ryl offered. “The might of the Cadsae Proper guard is trapped inside The Stocks. If it’s men you want, they are there.”
“Will they fight for us or against us?” Cipri quizzed.
Ryl thought for a moment before responding.
“Given the options, their choice will be an easy one,” Ryl answered plainly. “Many who served here likely had family within the city. Many who will not be counted among the survivors here. You will not be an invading army to them, but a savior of what few people you could. They’ll fight, with the vengeance of a demon.”
“I’ll send riders now,” he added as he turned to issue the command.
Ryl placed a hand on his shoulder, halting his retreat.
“Save the horses, my friend,” Ryl said, pointing to the guard tower silhouetted against the orange glow of the burning city to their east.
“Light the signal fires.”
Chapter 45
Ryl watched from his position atop the palisade as the first of the signal fires burst to light. The dry tinder there had been soaked with a heavy dose of oil. He knew it would take but a single spark to ignite the blaze. The flames erupted skyward. The tower was soon glowing like a beacon in the fading night.
Ryl watched impatiently, scanning the darkness for signs of a response. What felt like an eternity was likely only a matter of minutes. A flame from the next tower in the row answered the call. Across The Stocks, fires burst to light one after the other. The army, wherever they were encamped, would see them. He hoped the fractured leadership of the group would respond with haste.
Time was running short.
He turned his attention back to the city outside the palisade. His brief respite from battle was likely to collapse at any moment. No mindsight was needed to note the sluggish approach of the Horde. They choked the streets, overflowed from the alleys, spreading ever closer to the Pining Gate. From above the sky rained paper-thin fragments of ash and glowing embers. It blanketed the city in an unneeded, ominous layer of foreboding.
The patience of their approach was alarming. Their numbers were already far greater than any army man could hope to deploy. Ryl looked down the line of archers spread to each side of his position. Arrows bristled from hundreds of bows, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Even with several quivers full of arrows at their disposal, they would be tragically short. Even if every arrow felled a single demon, they would need millions more.
Like the battle at the Prophet’s Tree, something felt amiss. The demons of legend were nothing more than mindless killing machines, built for the sole purpose of death. Their advance now was measured, affected by conscious thought. They had waited for commands at the great tree.
Who or what commanded them now?
Through the darkness it was difficult to determine the composition of the group. The stragglers and impatient runners who’d broken from the mass were long and lean. Their lanky bodies easily identified them as the harriers. Built for speed, they were light yet lethal. Ryl peered into the gloom. He noted none of the powerful banes among the group.
With their combined mass, harriers could eventually force their way through the gate. It was more likely that they’d utilize the bodies of their dead as a ladder, climbing ever higher until they spilled over the wall. The muscular bane could crush the sturdy gate if given free charge.
In truth, little was known about their social structure. The common assumption was that strength demanded obedience. The harriers obeyed the bane. Who then controlled them?
Ryl’s thoughts flashed back to the fleeting vision of the black-cloaked figure, the last to flee after the destruction of the tree. Its presence and identity was a mystery. He rubbed his left arm again, letting the alexen surge for a moment, dulling for a moment the consistent pain.
“What do they wait for?” The voice behind Ryl broke him from his momentary introspection. Fay moved to join him at the wall. Cipri followed close at his heels.
Ryl nodded in greeting as the lord leaned forward, resting his elbows on the barrier. Fay let out an audible sigh.
“Not what you expected to find?” Ryl asked rhetorically.
“Not in my wildest dreams, or nightmares.” He sighed. “What is there to do in the face of such numbers? Even were we to run, the woods are some fifty miles to the north. Those on horseback might outrun the charge. The others …” His voice trailed off.
“You could have stayed in Cantros,” Ryl prodded the brooding lord.
“Aye, that I could have,” Fay added. “Gencep would never have allowed it. Seems our last voyage failed to satiate his appetite for adventure. I had to curse him to remain in my stead. Nonetheless, he is needed to run the day-to-day business of my house. Aye, we could have stayed, though that wouldn’t be the right thing to do, now would it?”
Fay looked questioningly at Ryl for a moment.
“Neither would running now, I suppose,” Fay added.
“There is always hope,” Ryl offered.
Fay snorted a laugh, a sarcastic whoop that he failed to contain.
“What hope do you see, my friend?” Fay quizzed. “Do we await the charge of the king’s army? It’s their lights I see to the east if I’m not mistaken.”
Ryl scowled at the advancing Horde, scanning with his mindsight. The view was like a storm cloud blotting out the sun. A steady sheet of darkness blocked his vision. The great mass moved toward the wall, though their eastern expansion seemed to halt at the avenue leading to the Pining Gates. In the distance, clearly visible, was the vanguard for the king’s army, yet they remained unmolested. He grimaced at the intensifying pain.
“Your scouts were likely not mistaken,” Ryl added. “If anything, I’d have counted on them to buy us a measure of time. They may still.”
“They’ll be washed away by the sea of darkness,” Fay growled, “if they are not already consumed by it. So, tell me again, what hope is there?”
Ryl pondered the thought for a moment. Perhaps in Fay’s words lay the truth to the patience of the Horde. The Blessing of the King, the precious elixir harvested from the lifeblood of the tributes, granted those in the king’s favor extended life. What was the true cost of their fealty? Had they sold themselves into a sort of self-imposed slavery? Was this the true purpose all along? Had Leiroth not been satisfied ruling over men alone?
Hope?
Hope was not here in Damaris.
Hope remained in the mountains far to the west.
In Vim.
“I returned to The Stocks to free the tributes,” Ryl whispered. “That focus still remains. They are my hope. My hope that with the attention focused here, they can flee. That they can reach the only safe haven left for them. I wanted to spell the doom of the Ascertaining Decree, though that likely matters not anymore. Once the Horde are released on the kingdom, none will survive for long.”
Ryl stood tall as the rush of alexen surged the heat through his veins. The brightening pink hues of the horizon to the east signaled the coming of the morning sun.
“I’ll not abandon them,” he growled. “Just as I’ll not abandon you.”
The approaching wave of the Horde halted at the edge of the courtyard. The sharp grating of teeth gnashing together rattled in the distance. The gentle breeze did little to waft away the horrific odor of death.
Ryl waited as the sea of approaching demons stalled. Behind the initial line that stood firm before the edge of the courtyard, the avenues and alleyways filled with the press of blackened bodies.
“What do we do now?” Fay inquired.
“We wait,” Ryl added. “Any delay will bring us closer to light. Will bring the hope of more archers for the walls. More bodies to shore the gate.”
Fay nodded his head in acceptance.
“They will s
ee the enemy more clearly. Will not our archers be able to pick off the demons with greater accuracy in the light? What do they wait for?” Fay continued, the questions rolling from his lips without allowing the time for an answer.
Ryl thought back to his time among the Outlands, before the sickness robbed the lucidity of conscious thought. The Horde had followed them for days. At first, they were but shadows in the darkness. Night after night they grew bolder, their harassment more intense. They waged a psychological war against him and Andr, forcing them into a destination of their choosing.
The assault only began in earnest once they had corralled their prey into the perfect position, under the precise circumstances.
“When they stalked us in the Outlands, they used surprise. They never showed themselves until it was too late,” Ryl thought aloud. “When they attacked us in the forest, they only sprang their trap when we’d extended beyond where we could escape. Even with numbers on their side, they toy with their prey, wearing it down. They feed off the fear, the hopelessness of their assault. They want us to see the overwhelming odds.”
Ryl looked down the line of soldiers standing ready atop the wall. His eyes travelled behind them, to the civilians who’d sought safety behind the mighty stone wall.
“Fay, they need to move,” Ryl cursed. “Any with the strength to walk needs to move now. Send them north. The main road leads to one destination, the last outpost in The Stocks.”
“That’s fifty miles from here,” Fay gasped.
“Aye, it will not be an easy task,” Ryl agreed. “There is an army between here and there to help. If these walls are breached, they will die. Any head start they can get may mean the difference between life and death.”
Fay contemplated the message for a moment. His pose was one of resilience, yet Ryl witnessed the cracks in his foundation. The steadfast determination faltered, giving way to acceptance and bitter defeat. He looked at the brightening skyline to the east.