by Lakshman, V.
Looking up at the defenders of Bara’cor with contempt, he crushed the arrow in one meaty fist, hurling its broken pieces to the desert floor. “We shall speak again, when you have had time to consider your words.” With that he spun, stalking back to the nomad line and through the parting, which closed behind him.
* * * * *
The king’s aide-de-camp, Sergeant Alyx Stemmer, had pulled Durbin off the wall before a second arrow followed the first, holding him pinned against the rear lip. Under the dark gray clouds, she watched the king still standing on the battlement, looking at the impaled figures below. The sergeant quickly motioned to some men to escort Durbin back to his post, and then moved to stand next to the armsmark.
The wind had picked up again, angry rumblings echoed across a leaden sky. Ash and Alyx waited for their king to climb down off the outer lip. When he did so, Ash saw tears in his eyes and politely dropped his gaze.
The king looked at the stones of the battlements for a moment, composing himself, then addressed Ash. “Armsmark, I will need to inform Princess Tir of the death of her father and the fate of EvenSea,” he said in a voice tight with grief, “but that will wait till this attack is over. Prepare the catapults. I will await your signal with the other archers.”
Ash saluted once, then sprinted for the center wall. The trumpeter sounded the battle ready signal. Ash waited a few moments for his men to get to their positions, then gave the signal for the catapults to be loaded.
The chanting had increased, driving the front nomad line into a frenzy. Like penned animals awaiting release, Ash thought. The clanks and groans of the large winches as they bent the arms of the three catapults back, caught his attention. Engineers scrambled forward to secure them, as others filled the great iron cups with large stones, the size of a man’s head.
Raising his right arm, the armsmark looked out over the horde, smiling to himself. It was then that the horde surged forward like a wave during a desert storm, sweeping across the windswept sand with hoots and yells. Some paused to kneel and shoot arrows at those ranged along the wall.
Ash paid no attention to the buzzing shafts, keeping a careful eye on distance, his arm still raised. As the nomads crossed a mental line, Ash dropped his arm, taking cover.
With a crack, the great arms released, swishing upward in an arc and hurling their contents at the attackers. Between twenty and thirty good sized rocks fit into each cup, big enough to crush skulls and break bones. The result was a barrage of missile fire that to the nomads, must have felt like the very heavens opened and rained rocks upon their heads. Ash heard the cries of the dying men below, and stood waving a short red flag.
The captains in the command tower responded. With another quick signal, two hundred archers, bows bent to their limits, loosed arrows. Steel-tipped shafts hummed through the air, cutting into the front ranks of nomads still alive after the first wave of missile stones. While the bowmen nocked and released with deadly accuracy, the engineers started cranking the great arms back again.
Ash watched their practiced efficiency with satisfaction, but knew this was only the first phase. The wind had already doubled in force. Soon the archers would be useless.
Regrouped, the nomads raised large flat shields over their heads and rushed toward Bara’cor’s forward gates. Groups of them carried siege hammers and picks. Under the cover of the wind and blinding sand, the nomads started smashing at the gate, hoping to break through. If they could see the size of the interlocking granite stones that made up Bara’cor’s gate, thought Ash wryly, they would not be so foolhardy. And it was only the first of three barriers leading to the fortress interior.
Ash raised two fingers of one hand, then made a quick slashing motion across his other wrist. The signal passed down to the wall crews, who in turn made their way to the large cauldrons based near the edge of the wall. These cauldrons, filled with a mixture of boiling pitch and oil, stood ready for use.
Once in position, they looked to Ash, who squinted down at the nomads through wind-blown sand and grit. With a downward slash of his hand, the contents of the cauldrons poured down the wall, splashing the nomads below. The screams of burned and dying men were almost drowned out by the now howling wind.
The archers of First and Third Company renewed their assault, sending feathered death among the barbarians. Many found, however, their arrows were caught by the wind, flying wide of their mark. The storm had hit in full force.
Ash pursed his lips, hardly able to make out Bernal in the windstorm. Leaning close to Captain Durbin he yelled, “I fear sappers on the far right, where our vision is least.” At this, the captain nodded and then sped off to investigate.
The nomads had pulled their wounded back, taking cover behind large, flat shields. Then they rushed forward again, converging at a point on the main wall: the castle gates. Ash could see they had hammers and picks and smiled to himself at the futility of such a gesture. No one carried a satchel, or anything else that looked like an explosive. Bara’cor’s granite walls stood impervious to breach by hand tools, but explosives were another matter entirely.
Ash raised two fingers and the cauldrons refilled, but this time with rocks and stones. It took time to bring oil or water to a boil, time they no longer had. With another signal, these heavy rocks were dumped onto the nomads clustered around the main gate. The lucky ones died never knowing what hit them.
Realizing they could not stand at the base of Bara’cor’s walls unprotected much longer, the assault leaders ordered their men to pull back. They had accomplished what their clanfists had ordered, taking the fortress’s eyes off the main horde.
Ash watched the retreat in confusion. Though the defenders had inflicted casualties, the barbarians had more than enough to continue their assault. He had expected them to erect a shielded battering ram, then have at the gate in earnest. Then the wind died for a bit and through a gap in the sandstorm, Ash caught a glimpse of something that made his stomach clench with fear.
Six large shapes stood well within arrow range as if they had been magically conjured. Trebuchets! He suddenly realized with dread that the force at the gate had only been a diversion.
“Take cover!” he screamed, just as the first of the attackers’ weapons fired, flinging a large boulder easily the weight of a man. Arching high, it came screaming down with a sound like the crack of thunder.
Men stumbled and fell as the wall shook under the impact. Five more boulders came crashing in as the nomads’ remaining trebuchets released and the air filled with a mixture of sand, pulverized stone, and dust. Ash took cover from stone shrapnel whizzing by, his mind already formulating a defense. Sprinting to the second tower, the armsmark met Captain Durbin.
“Fire at will! I want those crews dead!” Ash screamed into the rising wind.
“We cannot, Armsmark. The storm!” Durbin gestured around him and Ash realized their predicament. Unlike stones, arrows did not have the weight to combat the heavy wind. The nomads had known this would happen, giving them relative safety to fire their engines at Bara’cor’s walls.
Ash nodded to the captain, his mind already looking for alternatives. He noticed two of his catapults were already drawn and secured, filled with missile stones. Ash watched as the engineers took time to aim them at the nomad line. Running over to the crews, he directed them to fire instead on the enemy’s trebuchets.
The engineers changed their targets. With a crack, the engines fired. The missiles arced high, carrying much of Bara’cor’s hopes. Their shots, however, went wide, burying stones in the soft desert sand.
Five more boulders smashed into Bara’cor’s already weakened wall. Ash coughed and spat sand and stone dust, praying for the engineers to find their targets. He watched as the great arm of their lead catapult pulled back with agonizing slowness. Secured, the crew filled the cup once again.
Ash closed his eyes and sent a fervent prayer to the Lady of Flame for this shot to be true. With another crack, the arm released and its contents ar
ced across the desert sky. Ash followed the path of the loose jumble of stones, his lips still moving in prayer.
He almost cheered when one of the barbarian’s trebuchets splintered and broke apart, crushed beyond repair. The other catapult crews along the wall followed suit and soon the air filled with the sounds of winching and releasing. All missed, but then one trebuchet’s crew fell, decimated by Bara’cor’s deadly missile fire, as stones smashed through their ranks.
The nomads, seeing the fortress had found its range, pulled their trebuchets back, wisely not wanting to risk them this early in the siege. The remaining barbarians retreated, pulling their wounded after them, back to the main horde.
Though they had held, Ash knew it had been at great cost. The crack in the wall was now wide enough in some places for a man to stand in. Parts lay pulverized, creating huge rents in the stone. Large pieces now littered the area in front of the fortress, giving the nomads partial protection from the archers in the towers.
We cannot take much more and repairs are too slow, Ash thought.
He turned from the scene of carnage and moved to help those wounded nearby. His attempt was interrupted by Lieutenant Galin. The lieutenant held the body of Captain Durbin in his arms. Ash stopped, speechless. Hadn’t the man been standing next to him only a moment ago?
“It must’ve been a piece of stone,” Galin mumbled numbly. Ash could see the ragged wound in the captain’s neck and his armor soaked in more blood than it seemed one body could hold. Moving forward, he relieved the lieutenant of his burden before turning back to the outer edge of the wall, his eyes hard. The nomads were now out of arrow range, stretched into a ragged line. The faint sound of their cheers carried on the desert wind, stabbing into the armsmark’s heart like a cold iron spike.
Suddenly the weight of Captain Durbin’s body seemed inconsequential to the crushing weight of his responsibility to the soldiers of Bara’cor. Their chances were futile, of that he was certain. It would only be a matter of time before the nomads broke through their defenses. Then he felt a warm hand on his shoulder and turned to see the king standing beside him.
“His fate does not rest on your shoulders, Commander.”
You think not, my king? Ash thought. I should have foreseen the nomads and their trebuchets.
But Ash said nothing aloud. His gaze wandered across the peaceful features of his friend, now dead from a piece of shrapnel sent by the Lady’s hand.
A shudder passed through him and he turned away from his king, not able to face the trust in those eyes. In a hollow voice, he said, “Lieutenant Galin, select one of your men to take your place. You are now Captain of Third Company.”
AFTERMATH
When facing the winds of a storm,
The whiplash tree bends to its force,
And sees tomorrow come with its roots intact.
—Kensei Shun, The Lens of Shields
I think he’s coming around...”
Arek heard a voice through the blackness. Slowly he felt it give way to gray, then a blurry white. He started to reach for his face.
“Don’t move yet.” A gentle hand redirected his. “Here, sip this.”
A bitter brew tipped into Arek’s mouth. The acrid taste disappeared quickly, and in its wake he felt his head clearing. He squeezed his eyes shut until purple spots appeared, then opened them again, looking around.
He lay in the infirmary, with Silbane seated next to him. Behind his master stood the lore father, a disapproving look on his face. Arek could sense others in the room, but did not turn his head to look. “What happened?”
Silbane looked carefully at his apprentice, then at the lore father. It seemed like something unspoken flitted between the two. Then Silbane turned back to Arek and asked, “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Arek thought about it and recalled going to his master’s chambers to discuss the test he was not to take. He said that, adding, “Did I fall somewhere on the way back?”
Silbane paused, then answered, “No, Arek. Do you remember going to dinner?”
Arek thought about it, but his last clear memory was leaving his master’s quarters. “No, sir, I don’t.” The concerned look on everyone’s faces plus the fact that he was in the infirmary prompted another: “What happened?”
The lore father stepped forward and said, “It seems you had an altercation with Piter. Do you remember that?”
Arek swallowed, the intense look on his master’s and the lore father’s face causing him to pause. Still, no memory of a fight emerged. “Considering where I am, I hope I gave as well as I got.” The jest seemed to fall flat, as neither master smiled.
Giridian stepped forward into Arek’s view, looked squarely at the young apprentice, and said, “Arek, Piter is dead.”
Arek felt time slow, each heartbeat in his chest pounding out a physical blow. Dead? How could that be?
Silbane motioned for Giridian to step back then said to Arek, “We don’t know yet what happened. Tomas is injured, but will survive. Jesyn doesn’t have a clear memory either. We were hoping you’d know.”
Arek stammered, “I... I’ll try to remember.”
Silbane looked at his apprentice once more, then at the lore father. “We should let him rest. The mhi’kra he drank will bring sleep.”
Themun nodded and turned, only to be confronted by Kisan, who had just arrived. The master was clearly distraught and furious. “We will convene to discuss the punishment of Silbane’s apprentice, now.”
Silbane shook his head. “The boy does not remember what happened. For all we know, Tomas could have done something. They were the only two with serious injuries.”
“You’re going to shift the blame Tomas?” replied Kisan, incredulous. “Maybe dying doesn’t warrant the notice of ‘serious injury’ you so blithely offer to the survivors.” She accused Silbane with her stare and didn’t seem to care what came out of her mouth. Someone in this room had cost her young apprentice his life.
“You’d be wise to hold your tongue,” said Silbane with deadly intensity.
Themun laid a soft hand on Kisan and Silbane’s shoulders, pushing them apart. “Masters, please. For now, let the boy rest. We have one tragedy on our hands. I’d rather not rush to judgment on a second.”
Arek’s vision blurred, and a soft, warm feeling stole over his body. He had never felt so tired before. He was unable to fight the feeling of sleep that stole over him, but even as his eyes closed, he heard Master Kisan exclaim, “You’re not going to do anything! Lilyth, the Gate, the nomads, all deserve more than Piter!”
Arek thought it funny she would mention the demonlord... did his master tell them about Bara’cor? Another part of his mind, though, knew this was important to remember, something was not right.
But the effects of the mhi’kra dulled his senses and pushed him into a deep, healing sleep. Before he could commit anything to memory or answer his feeling of danger, he fell into darkness for the second time that day.
* * * * *
Themun looked at Silbane and Kisan and said, “You two, come to my chambers.” He then looked to Giridian and added, “Please continue with your search of the Vaults. Take Dragor if you need help.” Finally, to Thera: “You will administer to the boy and summon us whenever he reawakens.”
She nodded in agreement, but both she and Themun knew their argument from the previous day was not yet finished.
“If you hurry, you might be able to send Arek with Silbane before he wakes,” Thera could not help but add mockingly.
The sarcasm wasn’t lost on the lore father, who turned to confront the adept, but it was Silbane who now gently pushed him away. It took a moment, but Themun brought himself under control.
His eyes remained locked on Thera as he repeated, “Silbane, Kisan, my chambers, now.”
All bowed in acquiescence, with the two masters following Themun out the door. They made it out of the infirmary without further words to each other, though the clench of Kisan’s jaw and unfl
inching stare showed she was still seething inside.
Once there, Themun took a seat behind his oaken desk, ornately carved with scenes and depictions of the land they sought to protect. He put a hand to his head and said, “She is infuriating, always has been,” he said, referring to Thera, “but you two are worse! You dare threaten each other at a time like this?”
Silbane pulled up a chair and sat down, ignoring the lore father’s comment. The day had clearly taken its toll, as his weary stance and increasingly lined face could attest. None of them could imagine this, one apprentice killing another. It did not bode well, eroding the sense of security the Isle represented, accentuated by recent events and decisions.
Kisan remained standing, her frustration easy for all to see. As soon as the lore father looked up she blurted, “I see how this will end. Arek is sped off the Isle, the mission taking precedence. My apprentice lies dead, and for necessity’s sake we will look the other way.” She challenged the lore father to contradict her.
Themun sighed then leaned back in his chair. He looked at Silbane, who ran his fingers through his short hair. “What do you think we should do?” Though Themun looked at Silbane, the question hung in the air for either to answer.
Kisan grabbed a chair and pulled it over, sitting down with an expletive and a sigh. “Piter was a hard case, and at times a bully, but he did not deserve this.” Her gaze met Silbane’s own and in a whisper she said, “He was no different than the rest of us, just looking for a family, a place to be safe. Did he know what would await him at the end of his glittering path?”
Silbane leaned forward and laid a hand on Kisan’s shoulder. “You know how sorry I am.” He then looked at the lore father and asked, “Is it true neither Tomas nor Jesyn remember anything?”
“When asked what happened by a scullery maid, Jesyn uttered a single word before collapsing. That word was ‘Arek’,” said the lore father.
Kisan’s fist tightened, but she said nothing. She had spent years with Piter, training him, teaching him. Because these children came to the Isle orphaned or abandoned, the adepts adopted them. The servants and the other apprentices became their families. Today, they had lost a brother... and Kisan had lost what had become a son.