He chuckled, but there was no humour in the sound. He swallowed down the fury and struggled to keep the emotion from his face.
“Our single greatest loss of life in recent times I’m afraid, sire.”
Jad lifted his quill from the page and dipped it in the inkpot nearby.
“Seventy-two members of King George’s most royal King’s Own died fighting defending the city last night.”
“Dear Gulgon above.” The king’s advisor held the quill inches from the paper. He sat there for some time, frozen in place, before he placed the quill upon the table without haste, leaned back in his chair, and linked his fingers together, staring at the ceiling. “Gods, I’m sorry to hear that, Tork.”
At least he sounds genuine.
Tork deliberately abstained from looking in Blake’s direction. If he found the man smirking like he’d been earlier, he knew he’d kill him. He’d leap across the table and throttle the life from the stick-thin little weasel and watch the life flee from the snake’s eyes.
Not the first time I’ve strangled a man.
* * *
He was high on a mountaintop, surrounded by Huronian soldiers, his small patrol fighting for their lives. Prince Henry, training to become a King’s Own captain had joined the patrol deep into enemy territory. A meagre group of Huronian warriors burst through the ranks and charged towards Roland and he. All but one of them cut was down by Tork’s blunderbuss. The last collided with him, and they’d gone to ground, grappling and yelling in the mud. He’d felt the knife slam into his thigh, but he ignored the pain, smashed a palm into the nose of his adversary, and then rolled on top of his enemy, clamping his hands around the man’s neck and squeezed hard.
“Protect the prince,” he roared over one shoulder at his men still committed to the fight behind him. “Protect the prince!”
The mud made it difficult to maintain a grip, and despite the burning from the muscles in his forearms, Tork squeezed, watching the man beneath him fight, saw his eyes bulge in terror and, in that moment, Tork knew the Huronian soldier realised he would die. Still Tork squeezed, as hard as his fatigued muscles allowed. Even after the dead eyes looked up at the sky over Tork’s shoulder, he squeezed until he sensed movement around him and felt hands shaking him.
“Sir, he’s dead. SIR!”
He leaned back and stood.
“Sir?”
Tork wiped sweat from his brow before turning to the soldier. “Speak.”
“The prince was taken. He charged into the enemy midst like some madman. We tried fighting to him, but there were too many Huronian soldiers. Only we few survived.” The soldier gestured at the few remaining warriors stood behind him.
Tork swore. “Did they kill him?” he closed his eyes, afraid of the answer.
“No sir, not that I saw. They clubbed him and dragged him onto a spare horse before withdrawing at speed.”
* * *
“Commander Tork!”
Tork jumped in his seat, took a deep breath, let it out slow, and unclenched his jaw.
“Are you well, man?”
Tork nodded and cleared his throat. “My apologies, sire. Yes, I’m alright.”
“Very well then.” Although he didn’t sound convinced. “I shall speak to the king and–”
“Sire, tonight, I lead the King’s Own into battle. Tonight, we all march.” Tork stood. “You let King George know, I’m sure he’ll agree, and if he doesn’t, you let him know the dire nature of what we face.”
Jad’s mouth dropped open. “But –”
“One more night like last night and we are lost, the wall will fall, the city will be ruin, and you won’t have a king to advise.”
Tork turned to face Blake and offered him a parting shot, as well, but the diplomat was gone. He’d departed without anyone noticing. The skin over Tork’s hands began to tingle.
VIII
Orange light filtered through the thin canopy, glinted from dew-soaked leaves and drifted through the forest to caress the leaf litter below.
I love this time of morning.
Vyder finished pissing against a tree trunk and returned to the campfire in the near distance. Aside from a thin plume of smoke drifting skyward and mingling with the morning sun, the fire had long died. Endessa was chewing idly upon some kind of root.
The assassin kicked dirt upon the ashes. “Time to move.”
“In a minute, boy.”
“No, now! More people will likely have been killed in Lisfort. The sooner we move on, the more likely I can drag Gorgoroth away from his cowardly business.”
Endessa chuckled but remained silent, chewing on the root and looking through the canopy at the rising sun beyond.
“What’s funny?”
“Gorgoroth is no coward, child, despite what he’s doing.” She turned to look at him. “He honestly believes his purpose is pure, and in his mind, he is protecting the earth itself.”
“By attacking Lisfort?”
“Oh, Lisfort is only the beginning, Vyder.” She took one last bite, placed what was left of the root in a satchel, and put it in a pouch at her belt. “He means to extinguish all human life from the earth.” She sighed. “I wish I’d let you die, Vyder. But I couldn’t. Unlike Gorgoroth, I hold all life sacred. I could not stand by when there was a chance to revive you. Unfortunately, only Gorgoroth was close enough at the time to respond to my request.”
“So, by bringing me back from the Frost River, you may have doomed the human race?”
She grunted as she stood and stretched. “That’s a dramatic way to put it. I doubt it, but that is certainly Gorgoroth’s intention, yes.”
“Can we stop him?”
“We are trying, child.”
“We?”
“Agoth and I. We can, I think, yes. But it will be a difficult journey. For now, let us drag him away from Lisfort. That is our first course of action.”
Vyder stooped and lifted the saddle. “Then let us get it done.”
He walked to Storm tethered nearby and laid the saddle upon the powerful horse. He tightened the girth strap and turned away to lift Endessa’s saddle onto her mount.
They mounted and meandered through the forest towards the main path to the south. Vyder always set camp well away from any major road to reduce the chances of discovery by nefarious newcomers.
“Still nothing from Gorgoroth?” Endessa called from behind him.
“Not a thing.”
Although it’s only a matter of time, I suppose.
He spotted the main road through the foliage, turned Storm onto it, and headed towards Huron lands. By his estimate, they were still two weeks from the outermost boundary of Huronian territory.
In the far distance, he heard the soft bubble of the mighty Therondale River, the powerful body of water that ran adjacent to the road all the way into Huron. Although the Huronians called it the Stream of Taraxon, it was one and the same.
Vyder turned in his saddle, placing his hand on Storm’s rump for balance. “Let’s water the horses.”
“A fine idea.”
He only needed to gently guide Storm from the road before the horse made a beeline towards the fresh water. Storm stepped into the shallows of the river, dropped her head, and took her fill. A moment later, Endessa’s horse stopped alongside and began drinking.
He watched the Wiccan, who was looking back at the forest behind them. He’d heard the rumbling of wagon wheels long before and knew it was probably a merchant on his or her long, endless journey upon the road between the two kingdoms.
“Would your presence in the Waning Wood have made any difference to Gorgoroth’s actions?”
She swung back to him and smiled. “No, child. I do have some power over Gorgoroth, but I’m only human. In spirit form, other entities like Agoth, for instance, can rein him in, but now that Gorgoroth is bound to a human in the physical realm, he’s a force unto himself.” She sighed and patted her horse�
��s neck. “And he’s making the most of it while he can.”
When the horses quenched their thirst, the pair moved back onto the road and plodded onward. The day dragged on. They passed merchants and one family who’d packed as many of their belongings as possible into leather bags bulging from either side of their horse. When Vyder asked where they were travelling, the oldest child explained, despite his parents attempting to silence him. They journeyed to their aunty, who lived on a farm in one of the outlying towns, far away from Lisfort.
“We don’t want any more trouble,” the husband added, his eyes wide with fear as he glanced at the weapons hanging from the assassin’s belt.
Vyder held out his open palms. “You’ll see no trouble from us, sir. I’m on your side.”
The man didn’t look convinced, but relief washed over his face as he and Endessa accelerated past them.
“That’s the start,” said Vyder.
“What do you mean?”
“People are like sheep. If the trouble continues at Lisfort, more families will leave. All it’ll take is a few dozen families to depart before words spreads throughout the city like wildfire. Then people will begin fleeing in their thousands.”
* * *
Dusk arrived fast, the sun sinking beneath the horizon silent as an assassin, and with its departure, the dark advanced, soaking into every crevice, settling upon the landscape like a rain-soaked blanket. Nothing escaped. Tork knew that the night brought with it terrors from the depths. That and death. Soon, it’d be time to fight.
Tork sat astride Might, looking at the top of the western wall high above. Massive torches placed at close intervals along the peak shone from the armour of the soldiers standing upon the parapet, looking out towards the Waning Wood. There must have been ten thousand soldiers, or more. And that was just on the western wall.
Now that’s more like it!
Torches had been staked into the ground some three hundred paces from the wall, on the exterior of the city, so as to better give the men looking out forewarning as to what was approaching.
“Quite a sight,” muttered Roland.
On the cobbled street running adjacent to the wall far below, stood the King’s Own in its entirety. Something for which Tork had been pushing for days. Well, almost in its entirety. Tork had ordered Captain Beel to take his soldiers to watch the northern gate, Captain Dask stood with his warriors before the eastern gate, and Captain Terax stood guard over the southern gate.
Finally, we can mount an adequate defence against this onslaught.
The elite force was ready to plug a gap should a section of the wall fall to the enemy.
“Incredible to think that soldiers stand upon the entire length of the wall surrounding the city this night. All four gates are protected. At last, the reports of Commander Mace and his departed Watchmen have been taken seriously.”
“In the gods’ keep may they rest,” Roland’s deep voice cut through the still night air.
Tork nodded his agreement, offering a silent prayer for all the soldiers who’d lost their lives in the last few days.
Too many. Far too many.
He nudged Might forward a couple of steps and peered right, his eyes running along the length of seven hundred odd King’s Own warriors mounted in silence, armour shining in the dull light thrown by the torches. Swivelling left, he was met by a similar sight.
“It’s a quiet start to the night, sir.”
Tork guided Might backward several steps to offer his bugler a glare. “Don’t bring ill luck upon us, Roland.”
The man held up his hands and smiled. “Just an observation. In comparison to yesterday evening, tonight is rather different. That’s all I’m saying, sir.”
A commotion further up the wall drew Tork’s attention, and he swept the top of the wall until he found the cause of the noise. A group of soldiers were crowded around a pair of men who were in a fistfight.
“And there’s our weakness,” Roland said. “There might be a lot of them up there, but they lack discipline.”
One of the soldiers was knocked down and the second pulled back by several others.
Tork nodded. “Let’s hope they can fight when it counts.”
Roland grunted.
A distant bugle echoed across the city, giving Tork pause. He listened to the individual blasts, which when strung together formed a rudimentary situation report.
Northern gate under heavy attack. Enemy gaining upper hand. Gate may fall. Request immediate reinforcements.
“Gods, the bastards are hitting us from a completely new area.”
Roland unclipped his bugle. “These things aren’t stupid, it seems.”
“No, they are not. No way on earth they’d be able to attack in such a formed mass if there wasn’t some kind of intelligence in control of them. Right, Roland, I want three hundred soldiers heading to the northern gate. Fast as you can, please.”
“Sire.”
Roland brought the bugle to his lips and issued the order. Within minutes, Tork’s force had dwindled, the clatter of galloping hooves fading into the night as the three hundred-strong force of King’s Own rode in support of their comrades to the north. It’d take the warriors some time to reinforce the smaller force standing guard at the northern gate, as there was more than fifteen miles, as the bird flies, to cover before they arrived.
The distant bugle echoed out over the city once more. Tork closed his eyes as the notes washed over him.
Extended line. Musket shot, fire at will.
Fleeting moments later, the faraway crackle of musket fire rolled over Lisfort from the north.
Tork cursed. “I hope the reinforcements arrive in–”
Another musket blast brought him to silence.
“Oh shit,” he whispered.
Eastern gate under heavy attack. Request reinforcement.
He glared at Roland. “Send three hundred east. Now!”
The bugler complied and, again, Tork’s force became smaller.
Tork looked at the parapet high above them. The soldiers standing watch were relaxed, albeit throwing curious glances towards the north and east. The fistfight had stopped, too, he noticed. There seemed no attack imminent at the western gate, which was the only gate of Lisfort to have been attacked in the past.
Ironic.
“This isn’t quite progressing the way I thought it might, sir,” said Roland.
Tork shifted in his saddle. “That makes two of us.” He looked past his bugler at the mounted King’s Own nearby. “In fact, that probably makes close to a thousand of us.”
Roland chuckled.
Soldiers on the wall above began shouting along the length of the western wall. Some of them waved their arms, and others even attempted to flee, but were ordered back to their posts under pain of death. One soldier, so desperate to run, misplaced his footing and fell from the parapet, smashing onto the cobbled street below, narrowly missing one of Tork’s soldiers. Blood exploded from his head, splattering upon nearby horses and soldiers.
Here we go. Our turn.
A distant, familiar sound cut through the incessant shouting. A bugle. A King’s Own bugle.
Southern gate under assault. Requesting immediate reinforcement.
Tork didn’t take his eyes from the upper area of the wall, watching as panic gradually began to sweep the soldiers standing guard there.
“Send three hundred south, Roland.”
“Sire!”
Once more, Tork’s force was whittled to a fraction of what it had been less than an hour before.
Soldiers standing on the parapet the length of the wall continued shouting, the noise growing in intensity until Tork could make out the subject of their wailing.
Wolves!
He acknowledged the fear sweeping through him but refused to allow it to control his thoughts. The day he’d taken on the pair of giant wolves chasing him out of the Waning Wood had been a close thing.
How many are there out there now? Two? Ten? A hundred? Thankfully, for the sake of everyone, they can’t climb walls.
Screaming erupted further down the wall, and Tork pushed Might forward so as to gain a better vantage point. Spiders cluttered the parapet, decimating the soldiers desperately trying to hold the line. Some soldiers ran towards the fray to assist their comrades, but just as many ran away in terror. The general infantry might be useful against a conventional, human force, but combating giant spiders was an entirely new experience for all involved.
Roland edged alongside his commander. “They’re not fighting up there as well as I’d hoped.”
That’s an understatement. They’ll be overrun soon.
“With me, Roland.”
Tork pushed Might into a canter and steered the destrier down the line of waiting warriors, his bugler beside him. As he passed each of his soldiers, he noticed all eyes were cast upon the peak of the wall, watching chaos ensue.
They know they’ll soon see battle, and once again, it’ll be up to us to stop the enemy advance.
When he neared the extremity of the right flank, he stopped beside the captain responsible for the one hundred men sat astride their warhorses nearby. The man dragged his eyes from the parapet and met Tork’s glare.
Shit what’s his name again? Captain Groth? No, that’s not right.
“Sir? Can I help you, sir?”
Groll! That’s it, Captain Groll.
“Captain Groll, should those spiders push past the infantry, you are to take control of your soldiers and those of Captain Meers and protect the right flank.”
“Aye, sir.” Groll’s eyes returned to the battle high above them. “Only a matter of time, sir. Those spiders are making short work of them.”
“I will maintain control of the remainder of the King’s Own. Understood?”
Groll locked eyes with his commander once more. “Yes, sir, understood.”
Tork looked at Captain Groll’s bugler to ensure the man had also heard. The bugler nodded at Tork, confirming he knew what was about to take place.
He turned away from the pair, and with Roland beside him, made his way towards Captain Meers’s position to pass on the order.
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