“Men of the dead tree, thank you for the safe passage,” she said as she stroked the silver hull of the beached Determination. “There is glory still to be won, only… you will not need to bother yourselves with the toil and tedium of timber. Follow me, take my gift… and you will need no fickle light to find your glory by. Not with me.”
Seig looked up and met her lustful gaze. “If you have no more need of timber, then you would have no more need of woodcutters to harvest it for you. If not a colony, if not timber to harvest,” Seig asked, “What then?”
“I need an army,” she said as she strode towards him, nearly gliding across the sandy shore. “And I will need someone to lead this army for me. A captain, perhaps?”
His eyes shook off the haze of wounded pride, and focused now on the pale, poisonously persuasive face before him as she spoke.
“No, not a captain, a general!” Her voice nearly hissed as she let the idea linger. “Why be a governor, when you could be a general?”
The tall, dark-haired governor thought on it, looking at the lifeless, bloody heap of his woodcutter, remembering the image of the winged serpents. He turned, looking back to the stronghold that he and his men had carved out of the wilderness here. He had been so proud of it, and believed in his heart that this would just be the beginning of his glory. Now, in the sickly light of these unforeseen circumstances, it looked shabby and crude to him.
“A general, one who knows how to lead an army…” he said without emotion.
“Would be rewarded, high above all my servants,” she said, finishing his thoughts. “Yes, and when the full might of my strength has arrived … you will command a power the likes of which the mighty kingdom of Haven has neither the imagination nor the wit to comprehend!”
“I see,” Seig replied.
“I was told that there was a great leader, a mighty warrior across the black waters of the Dark Sea. I only assumed that this great man was you. Though I could, if you prefer, wait to see what these woodcutter underlings of yours might propose; that is, if you are not agreeable to my offer.”
“No!” he growled. “Do not waste your time with those fur-clad timber men; their wit is not half as sharp as their dullest blades. It is easy enough to fell a host of trees when soldier pines haven’t the will to fight back, but if you are going to lead an army … a real army … you are going to need a man with a keen edge on both blade and battle.”
***
Pyrrhus rode hard towards the flickering, amber braziers of the woodcutters. His mind was troubled at all that he had just witnessed. “I knew that girl was trouble, the moment I laid my eyes on her,” he told the dark air about him. “Though this new woman … I like her even less.”
His thoughts raced in rhythm with the pounding of his horse’s hooves upon the timber trail. He was so occupied with worry that it wasn’t until he was but a hundred paces from the timberline that the unsettling realization crashed into the forefront of his mind.
“Do you hear that?” he asked his horse as he pulled back on the reins, commanding a hasty halt. “Shut up now, quiet yourself!” he growled to his snorting steed. “I don’t hear a thing; not a damned crack of bark! What in the damnable dark is going on here?”
He frantically scanned the forest before him, looking for movement or shadows dancing in the flickering amber of the woodcutter braziers. He saw nothing but the dark, empty canopy of the Greywood. “Yasen, you bastard, you’d better be where I can find you!” he said, now more nervously than before.
With that, he angrily spurred his mount, racing off towards what he already knew in his heart he would find.
Chapter Seven
The onslaught of the Raven sentries crashed into the dwindling and diminished ranks of Marcum’s remaining guardsmen. Bows were loosed, and for every white-plumed arrow of Haven that found its mark, the ugly black bolts of the Nocturnal marauders downed yet another of these last, brave guardsmen who fought valiantly at the foothills of the Hilgari.
“Fire at will, men!” Johnrey shouted from across the road. “There is no surrender left. We either fell them, or they fell us!”
“Keily!” Marcum shouted down at her from his position on the hilltop just above. “Get them out of here! Get them to safety while you still—”
His words were cut short as a spray of blood washed over his face. The guardsman next to him had taken a raven-fletched arrow right through his throat. Marcum wiped his face, then quickly caught the bleeding young man as three more bolts pierced the guardsman’s body.
“Dammit all!” the lieutenant shouted, as he laid the dying man on the ground in front of him. “Get them out of here, now!” he shouted down to her.
“Come on! Come on now, hurry, they can’t hold the line much longer,” Keily ordered the women and children as they grabbed whatever they could to carry with them. She slung her own bow over her shoulder and cinched tight the scabbard to her belt, for she needed her hands to help shepherd those who were stumbling in the darkened hurry of it all.
The horrible sounds and screams of battle clamored overhead, and though her heart longed to aid the guardsmen and to loose a quiver of arrows in the hearts of these raven invaders, she knew that she was the last defense this fleeing remnant could hope to have. The clank of metal and the thud of dirt cleared her thoughts at the sound of another of her kinsmen tumbling end-over-end down the hillside to their hiding place.
Keily was brave, and she herself had felled scores of these raven enemies, but in that moment, she thought of Yasen, wishing that he were here to help protect these people alongside her. She brushed the thought of him aside and motioned for the group to follow her. Without any other need of persuasion or prodding, Keily led them off towards the northwest, the same direction that the young boy Roshan had fled.
Marcum looked back over his shoulder to see the barmaid leading the women and children as far away from here as she could. He steeled his resolve and shouted his orders as his last arrow loosed and buried itself in the helm of a raven soldier.
“To arms! Draw your blades, men … we’ve got to fight them back by hand!” the lieutenant shouted.
The sound of sliding metal rang its deadly tone upon the symphony of battle as the remaining guardsmen of Haven drew their blades and prepared to put up one last fight, futile as it seemed, for the hope that someone, anyone might survive this hellish night.
“Corporal!” one of Johnrey’s men shouted to him as he fired an arrow into the fray. “I think there are more coming! Do you hear that?”
Johnrey turned quickly, squinting off into the darkness beyond towards the sound of heavy hooves and rusted wheels. “More?!” he growled. “Come to finish us off, are they?”
Just then, a wash of amber firelight lit up the field of battle. “What in the damnable dark?!” he wondered aloud.
Six torches seemed to blaze to life on the back of an ox-driven timber cart that was barreling down the North Road into the heart of the battle.
“Is that…?” the guardsman began to ask.
“The woodcutters!” Johnrey yelled. “Thank the THREE who is SEVEN! All is not lost lads, we are not alone!”
At the reins of the twin oxen sat Brádách, the wounded woodcutter. A large, wooden shield was lashed to his arm and he laughed a maniacal laugh as nearly a dozen woodcutters fired their bows upon the hoard of Ravens.
The team of oxen was enraged, and though the barbs of the enemy pierced their hides, their madness carried them through the enemy’s lines. Horns gored and heavy hooves trampled the raven soldiers. At the sight of the welcome chaos, Marcum signaled for his men to charge.
A shout came out from behind the cleft of the hilltop and a dozen guardsmen came issuing forth, blades brandished, bloodlust in their eyes. Not a moment later, Johnrey and his handful of guardsmen did the same, all converging on the Nocturnals.
“Attack!” came the shout of Črotmir, the Raven commander. “Bend them to her will!”
Arrows flew, and swords were bur
ied deep into flesh. What was mere moments before a hopeless endeavor, became now a small chance for victory for this final army of Haven.
“Back from whence you came, foul servants of darkness!” shouted a young Priest as he loosed arrow after arrow into the fray. His bloodstained tunic and bandaged head made him quite the irreverent sight to behold, far from the piety and decorum expected of his order. Nonetheless, he joined the few wounded woodcutters, cooks, and the northmen's smithy, to do what they could in the face of so much wrong.
“Am I glad to see you, woodcutters!” Marcum shouted amidst his thrusts. “I thought we were all but dead and gone from this world.”
“Aye!” Brádách bellowed as he buried his axe in the helm of another Nocturnal. “We thought we were all that was left!”
The guardsmen and woodcutters began to carve their way into the confusion, and one by one, the Raven soldiers began to fall.
“Do not let them retreat, lads!” Johnrey shouted as his blade blocked and then bit into the green-eyed enemy. “No quarter would they give you, and no chance for report shall we give them!”
Marcum dodged one of the crude blades, and in return he swept the legs of his foe with a powerful kick of his own, sending the Nocturnal flat on his back with a clank and a thud of metal upon dirt. He wasted no time and used two hands to drive his sword into the exposed underarm of the fallen enemy. His notched blade caught on a bit of bone or armor, and though he pulled at it, it refused to come free. Distracted by the inconvenience of it all, Marcum did not see the mighty Črotmir approaching from behind. The Raven commander stepped over the bloodied bodies of guardsmen and ravens alike, his black spear turned crimson with the blood of his kills. His sights were trained on the unaware lieutenant.
Marcum twisted and turned the arrested blade until finally it gave way. He pulled hard and spun round to see the field of battle, when an explosion of pain erupted in his shoulder. The lieutenant looked and saw a vile black spear piercing his mail and buried violently in his own flesh.
“You will bend to her will, one way or the other, men of the dead tree,” Črotmir taunted as he retrieved a fallen sword and leapt towards the kneeling lieutenant in one swift motion. “Either by dragon,” he raised his blade high above his own head as he spoke, “by fire, or by my very own hand—"
His bullying words were stopped short as a bright arrow of Haven stuck halfway out of his rotten-toothed mouth. Črotmir’s eyes went wide in disbelief as he stumbled and fell, first to his knees and then flat upon his pierced face.
Behind him stood the young Priest, holding his bow in one hand, and kissing his flint in the other.
It was not much longer then, that Johnrey, Brádách, and the rest dispatched the remaining company of Nocturnals from this unfortunate field of battle.
“Marcum!” Johnrey shouted as he wiped the black blood off of his tired blade and motioned for help to come. “Hurry, he is wounded.”
“I am alright,” Marcum said through gritted teeth and with great labor. “See to the others; perhaps we might use our brother woodcutters’ timber cart to help them.”
“You are not alright, Marcum,” Johnrey argued. “A damned spear has nearly run you clean through.”
“I’ll be alright soon enough,” the Lieutenant persisted as he tried to stand to his feet, then wobbled and knelt back down again.
“Easy there, guardsman,” Brádách bellowed. “We’ll get you back to our camp soon enough, but first let us be rid of this barb, huh?”
Johnrey held his lieutenant steady as Brádách grabbed the shaft of the Raven spear. “Alright, be done with it already,” Marcum said as he braced for the reprise of pain that was sure to come. The woodcutter yanked with one bloodletting pull, freeing Marcum from his deadly burden. “AHH!” he grunted against the pain, his fists clenched in a fury.
“Alright then. Priest!” Brádách shouted. “If you’ve got any bandages, the lieutenant here is going to be needing some mending before he bleeds out like a stuck boar.”
The young Priest came over to him, and with no bandage to be had, tore the cleanest portion of his tunic that he could find, and bound the large shoulder wound as best as he could. “We will see about a proper dressing for it when we get you all to our camp,” the Priest assured him.
“I am indebted to you, woodcutter,” he said with a grimace as he took the large hand of the limping man. “But how are you alive? And how did you find us?”
“We are here because we couldn’t fight when my brothers needed us to,” Brádách told him as he helped him up into the seat of the cart. A cloud of shame and sadness fell over his battle-stained face. “All of them are gone, you know. We are all that are left, a sad bunch of cripples and cooks, and, well … one slightly less-useless Priest.”
“Lieutenant!” came the shout of a guardsman off in the distance. “They are gone! All of them, all the women and children! They are gone,” he said breathlessly as he ran over to the ox cart.
“Did you see them, Brádách?” Marcum asked. “Our women and children, did you see them?”
“No,” he said, shaking his bearded head. “We saw no one. They must have run off to hide, but there is not going to be much out there to sustain them, and certainly no safe shelter.”
“We have got to find them,” Marcum grunted as he pulled himself up to his feet, the fresh pain of the wound ever-present in his words. “How many of us remain, guardsman?”
“Thirteen, Lieutenant,” the man reported.
He raised his flint to his lips and kissed it in an effort to ward off the evil of that most foreboding of numbers. “That is not a good sign there,” he said warily.
“Well, it could have been a far worse number, and old omens be damned already!” Marcum dismissed. “We haven’t the time for superstitions, as you can plainly see. Where is the Corporal?” Marcum asked.
“He is over there, sir.” The young guardsman bowed his weary face and saluted with his response.
Marcum quickly turned to look for Johnrey in the direction his guardsman had pointed, praying to himself as he searched the field.
“Is he alright?” The lieutenant asked as he peered into the darkness before him.
“Yes, lieutenant,” the guardsman answered him. “Only he is …” His voice caught in his throat as he tried to convey the happenings.
The corporal was kneeling before one of his fatally wounded guardsman, his battle-worn hands holding tight to the failing grip of the bleeding soldier. “You fought brave there, lad.” He spoke in a fatherly whisper. “You did us all proud.”
The guardsman blinked against the darkness, tears filling his fading sight as he clung to the hand of his leader.
Johnrey looked up, met Marcum’s gaze, and shook his head as the final breath of the dying man escaped past his grey lips. He kissed his own two fingers and whispered the ancient words.
Amidst all the destruction and death, all the hunting and madness of these last dark days, it was Johnrey’s small kindness that toppled the dam of emotions that had been ever growing in the hearts of the guardsmen of Haven.
“Twelve,” Marcum said solemnly as he watched Johnrey close the eyes of his fallen compatriot.
“Twelve, sir,” the guardsman answered. They waited there in a moment of silence in the wake of the sobering loss around them.
“Aye, thirteen does seem like better luck now to me,” Brádách said, nodding his head in somber sympathy.
“Corporal,” Marcum finally called out to Johnrey. “Gather your men, and whatever aid you can find on the bodies of our fallen. Do it quickly, for the rest of our remnant needs us now.”
“Yes, Lieutenant,” the white-bearded corporal agreed. He and his men hurried themselves with finding blades and bows, and gathering as many spent arrows as they could manage.
“Brádách,” Marcum said. “We have got to find them, and they can’t have gone too far on foot. The barmaid is with them, so their peril may not be as great as we have feared.”
&nb
sp; “Barmaid?” Brádách asked. “You don’t mean Hollis’ niece, do you?”
“Yes … I do,” Marcum said as he used his good arm to lend a hand to the wounded still climbing up onto the ox cart.
“Ha!” Brádách laughed out loud, shaking his head in wonder as he did so. “This is a most lucky moment indeed. First we find you all, and save you from doom, I might add. And then … then we learn that Keily is still alive!”
“That woman can cook, you know!” Brádách said, elbowing Marcum as he cracked the reins on his team of oxen. They began rolling off in the direction of the fleeing remnant. “Though I wouldn’t cross her if I were you.”
“And she is mighty fine with the bow, at that,” Marcum praised. “As brave as any of my seasoned guardsmen.”
“Oh, is she now?” Brádách said, raising his bushy, red eyebrows in wonder. “All the more reason to pay her mind. I remember this one time, the chieftain had brought a few of us into Piney Creek for stores and supplies, and one of the old lads had got a little too liberal with his greetings.” Brádách laughed as he remembered the story.
“Oh?” Marcum said with a knowing smile as he wiped at his tired eyes.
“She nearly picked the lad up by his ear and threw him clear outside with the dogs. Then she turned and told the whole Knob, ‘If you want to act like an animal, you are welcome to eat with the animals too!’ Ha! That girl … I am glad she is one of us,” Brádách said with genuine gratitude replacing his jovial laughter.
“Me too, woodcutter, me too,” Marcum agreed.
The twelve guardsmen and the eleven from the cutter camp made their way northwest in search of Keily and the rest of the women and children.
The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3 Page 5