by Chogan Swan
Fletch gave a short croak and hopped to a perch above the mantle, tucking his head beneath his wing.
The men talked into the night.
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When dawn came, Fletch took wing from the council room window and rode the updraft off the cliffs until he was high above the keep.
He circled higher until he saw dots moving on the plains to the south. Fletch maneuvered a bit for position then stooped, changing it to a glide that catapulted him down the wind in an arrow-swift course just above the trees and out of sight of any lookouts. As he drew near the plains, he ducked below the thinning branches and winged into a wind-twisted oak on the edge of the grasslands.
An army was camped there, rag-tag castoffs from: bandits, mercenaries, and barbarians from the Western Hills. Several of the horse tribes had stopped stealing from each other long enough to camp among the rest—though they still watched their herds and tents with vigilance.
Tents with the symbols the crime guilds of Ibuchan stood near others gathered around hideous carven statues of creatures that had never walked the world in daylight, each of the idols guarded by men in robes of various colors, but all had the same stare of single-minded suspicion and hatred.
Here and there among the crowd walked baalim in man guise. Fletch's eyes were keen and detected what men could not. To him, each carried a second shadow, and fear followed them. He ruffled his feathers and shuddered. Why had he ever been such a fool as to take up with Jyrmak? Everyone knew wise men and prophets were nothing but trouble. He considered turning to vanish into the forest for good, but instead moved behind a leafier branch and gazed through the cover.
A great rawhide tent stood in the center of the encampment, a black standard with a dark insignia fluttering from its center pole. Even with his crystal-sharp vision, Fletch could hardly make out the insignia. But, though he couldn't see the symbol clearly, Fletch misliked it already. The dark banner stirred on its pole, an invocation of the dread that covered the whole plain.
The flap of the tent opened, and a form stepped out. To the immediate eye, even Fletch's, the figure was tall, fair and terrible, as though a god had stepped onto the shores of the world.
A shout went up from the gathered throng. They shouted a name though some in the robes of initiates of the idols pronounced it differently and glared at those who said it otherwise.
“Kalki!”
Fletch ruffled his feathers.
Another form, older, yet as noble seeming, stepped from the tent. His beard was white and glistened in the sun; his robes were simple and pale. He looked like he might be Jyrmak's brother, but the raven's eye saw a shadow about both of them. As he looked harder, it was as though each had several forms—one fair, a darker shadow that showed at times and only for a moment—great claws, misshapen limbs, yellow-glazed eyes and other things that defied naming. Other forms were faint almost lost. They reminded Fletch of the baalim, but the sense of power and danger around them was much stronger.
“Maru!” screamed the crowd in ecstasy.
So that was Balaak. With a shiver, Fletch turned and flew back towards the keep. The dark army made ready to march.
Chapter 2 (Siege)
Night was coming. Three figures stood on the western wall of the keep. They might have been there to watch the sunset. It was, after all, a rare one, stretching vivid red and violet streamers above the horizon. The view would have been worth the climb to the top of the battlements for its own sake, but it occupied less than a tithe of their attention.
In a closing line, the birds of the forest were taking wing. They circled over the keep a few times before they turning south with the coastal wind. A few, the ones with stronger wings, beat their way upwind to the northeast.
A band of men in green and brown, sheriffs of the realm, trotted from the forest and through the gate. It rattled shut behind them.
Many invaders would die because of their work, improvised though it was. Boulders would topple, trees would crush, arrows would fly from triggered traps, and saplings with sharpened stakes would spring up to impale. The onslaught would not stop, but it would slow if those in front feared to walk forward after the first traps had taken their toll.
In the distance, they could hear screams and curses as the front line of the dark horde moved into the trapped areas.
The sheriffs knew man traps well though most often they used the knowledge to avoid them. The last bit of sun vanished below the western hills. Soon, forms moved from the trees toward the keep. The moon rose, adding light to the night. The vague forms gathered into a massive shadow and moved toward the castle. A drumming of hooves grew louder as the shadow touched the roadway and drove toward the gates in a rush. As it grew nearer, it became apparent what it was.
The invaders had felled one of the great trees of the forest and lopped its branches. Now—slung between two columns of horses, with the rear supported by a chariot—the ram plunged toward the gate.
An aging chieftain of the horse tribes rode the rear of it, bent on glory and destruction. His wild, tangled hair streamed behind him. A single strap held him in place as he gripped the reins in both hands. Arrows from the wall flew about him. Some even caught at his hair as they passed. The horses were armored top and front with hardened leather, and arrows slid off or stuck in the top layers.
With a rolling like thunder, the ram entered the inclined gauntlet between two towering walls. Stones and flaming arrows rained down as it charged up the ramp. Large stones struck two horses. They staggered, but the others dragged them on.
As the log reached the gate, a hail of flaming arrows ignited a patch of oil-soaked ground and dry grass in front of them. The entire team slid on their haunches, trying to escape the wall of flame, but the log, mounted far ahead of them, struck the gate with a great “BOM!”
The branch that secured the driver's strap snapped. With a cry, he sailed off the log into the thrashing mass of horses. Only one horse broke free to stagger away. The rest struggled, for long minutes, before merciful arrows penetrated their armor and silenced their screams.
The smoke of burning horsemeat and leather rose into the sky. Arrows arced over the battlements from below and ladders hit the walls, but someone had miscalculated. The tallest ladder still lacked seven feet to the top of the wall. The arrows and boulders from the wall rained down like judgement. Horns blew from the invaders command post in a recall, but many strewn about the bottom of the walls didn't retreat, nor would they ever.
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Marshall turned to the king. “Your majesty, I will send message if they mount another attack. Perhaps you should rest. You haven't slept...”
Arod nodded. He couldn't remember the last time he’d slept. He turned to the stair. The defense was in Marshall's good hands. He needed to talk to Jyrmak in private. Sleep could come later.
In the retiring chamber of the throne room, Arod pulled his robes closer around him and sat in the padded chair by the fire.
“Did you send word to Perth?” asked Jyrmak.
“They would not have been inside the wall in time. They would have valiantly died on my behalf, to no purpose.”
Jyrmak shut the door and stood lost in thought. The sounds of battle came to them even through the walls.
At length Arod spoke. “They are many. I don't see them taking us by storm soon, but a siege could go on a very long time.” He paused. “Also, they are provisioned from the north, and we have just come out of a long winter, though our stores are nearly full. Even if we win this at last, there will be a shortage of food, till next harvest. Many will starve. And we both know our enemies will eat their own dead and wounded as well as the grain that comes behind them. Even if we win this battle, the kingdom will be in tatters.”
“Yet once... long ago, someone told me that for this keep there was another victory,” Jyrmak said, rubbing his forehead.
Arod's head snapped up to gaze at the wizard.
Jyrmak continued,
“A memory I've been trying to bring up has nagged at the back of my mind. I've sifted back many years. I had almost forgotten I’ve lived so long.”
He chuckled. “I was young when this keep was built. Olorist Aelfson—the builder—spoke to me. I didn't know why. He was a great man in Evelon, brilliant, but strange. I was nobody—only an apprentice scholar come from the Isle to the dedication and blessing with my teacher. Olorist came to me in the crowd and drew me aside. He stared at me, much as you are now, Arod.”
A ghost of a smile flitted to the King's face.
Jyrmaks forehead furrowed in concentration. “'There will come a day,' he said 'when the kingdom will be saved by the fall of this keep'. Then he tapped my forehead and said, 'Eth Klabek'. My head tingled for hours.”
Arod sat straighter. “A word of power planted in your memory.” Hope kindled in his voice. “I would be glad to see the keep fall if it would save the land, but if we should fall, they will have no interference.”
“Of course,” cried Jyrmak.
“What? You know how to do it?”
“I think I've started to.” Jyrmak looked into the fire. “When I last saw Seth he was by the sea. He had come there on horseback through great peril and eluded even my search for him by taking a way below the keep and under the mountain. I was so glad to see him alive I forgot to ask where the entrance was, but I was confident that I could find it myself when I returned. But after I did, it seemed a small thing when so much needed my attention.”
Arod rose and went to the hearth with him. “But how will this path under the mountain defend the land? We could bring in supplies by it, I suppose. I would detest merely flying down the hole to escape and leave the keep for them to use. But I don't wish to draw the founding sword for a last defense of the throne room, either.”
He smiled. “I always thought I would use a better blade, less ornate and better balanced no matter what tradition says.”
Jyrmak looked up from where he had been gazing into the fire. “The founding blade? I have not seen it since the dedication.”
“Ha,” Arod snorted. “Truly it is something to see, but certainly not to use. It was made by an artist with knowledge of beauty, I will admit, but he had none of weapons.”
“Let me see it,” Jyrmak said. “Perhaps it is significant.”
Arod shrugged and pulled a key from his belt. He stepped into the throne room and pulled an ironbound chest from beneath the throne. He opened the chest and produced a long metal box, which he brought back and handed to Jyrmak.
Jyrmak placed the box on the map table and examined it. Its maker had adorned it with etched lettering that gleamed in the firelight with a low, silver luster. As Arod moved closer, Jyrmak opened the box.
The founding sword lay wrapped in dark velvet. It glistened. Half its length was jewel-encrusted hilt, which ended in a broad, leaf-shaped blade. It seemed more a scepter than a sword. Perhaps Marshall could have figured out how to use it to some deadly advantage, but it was clear the designer never expected it to be used in combat. He lifted the sword from the box and weighed it in his hands. There was no inscription on it, but he examined the hilt. With a quick twist, it came apart and revealed a hollow space.
Dust sifted out onto the table.
Arod moaned and sat down. “Whatever the secret in the hilt, it is lost to us now,” he sighed.
Jyrmak continued to examine the sword. “If the secret was from one fool enough to write it on paper that perishes in a few centuries, it isn't worth knowing. But, if the paper was only there to satisfy the simple, there may be something else—” With a click, the blade came free of the hilt. “... worth seeing.”
A wafer thin disc of gleaming metal tinkled onto the table.
Without touching the disc, Jyrmak bent over it and examined it where it lay. Then, with a gentle breath, he flipped it over and examined the other side. Then he sat back and drummed his fingers on the table; his face was thoughtful.
“That could work,” he admitted.
Chapter 3 (Wallside)
The inhabitants of Wallside, the part of Ibuchan under the shadow of the battlements, weren't sure what to make of the two figures moving through their territory.
Though Ibuchan was a seaport, Wallside was the farthest away from the sea. That was a sore point in a city that based prestige on how close one lived to the water. Everyone knew Wallside was the smelliest, most miserable, and most dangerous place to live in Ibuchan. It wasn't an easy reputation to keep in a city like Ibuchan-the-wicked, but it was well-deserved.
The breeze from the great bay that made Ibuchan the major port on the coast seldom reached through the tangle of buildings and walls that separated it from Wallside. So the smells of a thousand garbage dumps and a thousand sewers were left to hang in the air. On days when the wind was strong, it still couldn't eradicate the odors of centuries. So even without the rats, the lice and the fleas that infested the rats, Wallside would still be the most miserable. Even without the thieves, the killers, and the diseases borne by the rats, lice and fleas, it would still be the most dangerous, because of the chances of contracting an illness from the noxious vapors.
The two slipped through the heart of Wallside, heading straight for the Western Stair. Both of them went cloaked in dark robes of rich cloth that—depending on the light—seemed either grey or green. Their faces hid behind thick veils, revealing only eyes like glass shards, one’s green and clear, the other’s green and dark, restless eyes, never staring, but missing nothing.
Pickpockets and thieves watched as the two moved through the narrow streets, drifting through heaps of trash and muck. Something was strange about the way they walked. They seemed to glide rather than walk. Their tread was soft, but they moved as though it was so natural it took no extra effort. They might be burglars from the upper circles of a mysterious guild or night-slayers on some unusual daytime errand. In which case, it might be someone's uncomfortable responsibility to do something about them, but they were gone before any action came to mind.
No glitter of jewelry showed on them, but they could have hidden anything under the cloaks. In fact, there were narrow lumps on their backs that could be shoulder-slung swords. No street vendors approached them. Even the harlots, normally brazen at all hours, only watched them pass. The beggars pretending to be blind forgot their performance and followed their path with curious eyes as the two passed out of Wallside and up the Western Stair.
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Kane pulled the veil tighter around his nose. It held crushed charcoal and blocked some of the stench of the street, but he still felt ill from the fumes. Yet people lived here with no filter at all.
Amazing what people get used to.
The broad steps up the Western Stair came into view as they rounded a corner.
At the top of the hill, a tollbooth gate—through a barricade of bricks and spikes—blocked the stair. Three bored-looking guards let them pass without comment—other than stating the toll.
The Western Stair was one of the lesser stairs of the city; the major stairs were monstrous constructions like conical half-pyramids that could bear hundreds of people moving both up and down. In this section of the city, an old guard stair had been converted to allow public passage. So, for a fee, the people of Wallside could climb above the stink, and those who came on business, could leave by the switchbacks that snaked up the wall.
It was like walking through the ages, climbing the walls. At the base, the construction was of irregular, basalt stones puzzle-locked together without mortar. The next layer, two rods higher, was of the same material, but shaped into regular blocks and set with mortar. So it went, all the way to the top. The city's original walls were buried somewhere deep in the middle of the many additions.
A few minutes of steady climbing brought them to the top of the battlements where a narrow road for foot traffic circled the city. From the top of the wall, several leagues were visible. To the north, the plains stretched into the distance. It
was just possible to see the top of Re Hidalg, the lone mountain where they’d parted with Seth only a few days ago. To the west though, an army marched from Brandek pass like a long trail of insects.
The guards atop the wall were idly estimating the numbers of the approaching horde—sure they were in no danger. The army below them was expected and given free passage.
Kane did some rough calculations; there were about four thousand infantry.
Alaina stepped up beside him. “How many does Arod have at his command?”
Kane scratched his chin. “I gathered from Seth that around three thousand acted as a standing army, but he had doubts about the loyalty of some of them. There's also a militia which I hope is activated by now.”
“Let's not stand around all day,” said Alaina, turning to the path toward the harbor.
Kane nodded, still looking south and west. She was right. They’d have to get moving to reach the docks in time to make the evening tide. Half an hour's brisk walking brought them to a major stairway. They’d passed several guard stairways, that zigzagged along the wall with only old rope barriers for safety, but those were not for public use and were marked.
Guards Only
The wall continued right up to the port, but they would save almost a half-hour, by going down now and cutting through the town.
They pulled their cloaks tighter around them. Up high like this, the chill wind blew in from the ocean. They had a clear view all the way to Fondor Bay, where ships plied the wind blowing down the coast, taking them to ports farther south. The stairs served two purposes: they buttressed the great wall and allowed people to travel from the top toward any destination in the city they chose.
The stairs descended in flights of fifteen interspersed by landings. So if anyone fell, they might stop at a landing, instead of tumbling to the bottom. They looked south to the blue-green expanse of water rippling in the sun then hurried down the stairs at a gallop, bearing towards the distant gleaming water.