by John Marco
A rocket slammed into the courtyard below, rattling the tower. In the hills around the city, the duke could see the distant flares of launchers as they sent their missiles screaming skyward. His daughters were crying. The bombardment had hardly dented his wall, but it had already turned the brains of his people to mush. Even Lokken was starting to fracture.
The room was dark. Lokken felt a shiver of cold and the unmistakable shoulder-tapping of remorse. Overhead, the Black Flag of Nar still flew above his castle, along with Lion’s Blood, Goth’s own standard. In a fit of outrage, Lokken had ordered that detestable banner of Herrith’s shredded. He had sent the flag’s remains to the bishop in Nar City. But now, looking down at the legions, he wondered if his valor had merely been bravado, and he regretted the ugly death he had invited for his family.
Arkus had not been a perfect emperor. He had been a tyrant, and Biagio was probably no better. But he had been Lokken’s tyrant, and he had understood the importance of a nation’s pride. Never once had Arkus asked any country of the Empire to lower their own flag, nor did he ever insist that they fly the Black Flag. Lokken had complied with Arkus for years, and for years the old man had left Goth alone, content with the yearly taxes Lokken sent to Nar City. But this Herrith was a demon.
Lokken missed Arkus. He missed the old ideals of the Black Renaissance, of peace through strength and world domination. And when the old man had finally died, Lokken knew with whom to side.
‘Kill me if you can,’ whispered the duke. ‘I will never fly your flag.’
‘Uncle?’
At the sound of the voice Lokken turned from the window. There in the darkness was little Lorla, her face full of dread. She had dressed for travel, as ordered. In her tiny hands she clutched a leather bag full of food, hopefully enough to get her to safety. Her brilliant green eyes looked up at Lokken with profound sadness.
‘I’m ready, Uncle,’ she said. Her eight-year-old’s face tried to smile, but there was no joy in the expression. Lokken dropped down to a knee and took her hand. It was small and soft, belying the truth of her nature. Not surprisingly, Lorla hadn’t shed a single tear throughout the entire bombardment. Lokken was proud of her.
‘I wish I could take you to Duke Enli myself,’ he said. ‘But you’ll be safe with Daevn. He knows the way better than any of my men. He’ll get you past the legions.’
Lorla looked dubious. ‘I’ve seen them through my window. There may be too many to pass. And they won’t hesitate to kill me.’
Lokken smiled. ‘Then you mustn’t get caught, right?’ He ran his hand through her splendid hair. She had been his ward for almost a year now, ever since Nar fell to Herrith. Biagio had asked Lokken to keep the child safe, and though Lokken had thought it a hardship at the time, he had adored every moment he’d spent with Lorla. Blood might have separated them, but she felt every bit his daughter.
‘Lorla,’ began the duke solemnly. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to you, even if you do reach Dragon’s Beak. Biagio hasn’t told me anything more about you, and I’ve never met Duke Enli. But it’s important that you get there. It’s important to Nar. You know that, don’t you?’
‘I know what I am, Uncle. Whatever the Master has planned for me, I’m ready.’
The Master. Lokken still hated that term. Since coming to Goth, Lorla never referred to Biagio as anything but the Master. He supposed it was Roshann programming. Very thorough. Lorla knew what she was, but that was all. In a sense she was a freak, a growing woman frozen in the body of an eight-year-old. She didn’t know what Biagio had planned for her, and her incubation in the labs had made her trust the count implicitly. Lokken pitied the girl.
‘You’ve meant a lot to me,’ he said. ‘I’m proud to have been part of this. I wish I could have known you better.’
Lorla’s gaze dropped. ‘I wish you could have told me more. Maybe someday.’
Lokken’s grin was crooked. They both knew there wouldn’t be a someday. Not for Lokken, and not for the family that had cared for Lorla this past year. Like Biagio’s Roshann. Vorto’s legions were thorough. Given time, there would be very little left of Goth. But Goth wouldn’t perish entirely. If Lorla made it to Dragon’s Beak, Herrith and Vorto would hear from the Walled City again. Perhaps Biagio was a madman, but he was brilliant. Whatever the Count of Crote had planned, Lokken had confidence. Just like Goth, the Black Renaissance would not go quietly.
Lorla walked past Duke Lokken toward the window. Standing on her tiptoes, she regarded the battle raging outside. Her eyes scanned the hills and circling war wagons, the legionnaires armed with flame cannons and maces. This was the gauntlet she had to cross, with only her diminutive size and the cloak of darkness to hide her.
‘I should go now,’ she declared. ‘The snow will slow them.’
Lokken nodded grimly. ‘There’s a pony waiting for you. Daevn is in the courtyard. He’ll take you to the hidden gate. Remember, wait ’til the rockets die down, then head for the first hill with the apple trees. It’s rugged there, and . . .’
‘I know the way,’ Lorla interrupted. She was getting agitated. Too much talk. So Lokken said no more.
For an hour, Vorto watched his siege machines circle the city. Then the ram was ready. Vorto rode down to inspect it, surrounded by an armored entourage of legionnaires. The ram was enormous, the largest the war labs had ever constructed. Twenty greegans had dragged the war machine to Goth. Its wheels were as tall as a man, and a hundred wooden handles poked from its side like the legs of a centipede. Its head was of granite, fastened to the stout oak shaft with bands of riveted iron, and along its top length were loops of rope to keep the men from being dragged beneath its crushing wheels. As he brought his mount up alongside the weapon, Vorto wondered if it was up to the task. Goth’s walls were legendary, and the city gate was reinforced with spikes and lengths of petrified timber. The Walled City had stood for generations, shrugging off countless wars. Some said it was impregnable.
But then, nothing was impregnable to God or Nar. Vorto reined in his bucking horse and turned to Kye. The colonel’s helmet was covered with a sheen of snow.
‘Bring up two platoons of cannoneers. Have them concentrate fire on the walls around the gate. We have to keep the archers back. And stop the rocket barrage. I don’t want those damn things landing near the ram. When the gate comes down, we’ll swarm. Is your infantry ready, Kye?’
‘They’ve been ready, sir.’
‘Then keep the cavalry back until I give the order. We need a clear passage for the charge. I don’t want them bunching up near the gate; Lokken will be expecting that. And he’ll probably have some surprises for us.’
Kye grimaced. ‘Sir, if we’re going to use the gas anyway . . .’
‘I want Lokken, Kye. I have a surprise for him. Off with you now. Do as I say.’
Kye dismissed himself with a shrug, then rode off to gather the flame cannoneers his lord had requested. Vorto watched him go. Once again, impatience was gnawing at him. The snow was deepening, and the cessation of rocket fire would bring back the darkness. Beneath his metal gauntlets his fingertips were blue. Goth could hold out for weeks, and winter was coming fast. Hunger and cold would soon eat away at his legion’s morale, and he couldn’t risk that.
It took only moments before Kye had the cannoneers arranged. As ordered, he had them flank the ram’s path to the gate. A steady stream of fire belched from the nozzles of the cannons, pushing back the archers defending the city’s entrance. The wooden catwalks along the wall burst into flames under the barrage. Gothan archers drew back to safer positions. Vorto heard their desperate cries for reinforcements. They had seen the ram.
Vorto pulled his double-sided axe from his back and thundered down the hillside. Behind him followed his standard-bearers, holding high the Light of God. The sight of the golden flag attracted the attention of some of the archers on the wall. Vorto laughed and shook his fist at them.
‘I’m here!’ he taunted. ‘Put one throug
h my heart!’
But he was still too distant and the archers knew it, so instead they pumped their arrows at the ram and the legionnaires taking up position alongside it. Vorto shouted orders at the hundred-man team. Above the ram’s pulling stations was a hood of metal, a deflector against the rain of missiles. Each soldier in turn tethered himself to the ram, dropping loops of rope around his waist. Vorto moved in a little closer, until he was with Colonel Kye again. The platoons of cannons fired at the wall, pressing back the wave of Gothans. Fingers of flame splashed against the monolithic wall. Overhead the rockets had ceased. A dull darkness pressed down on the world.
The walls of Goth loomed fifty feet tall. The gates themselves stood a proud twenty. General Vorto quickly calculated the required force. Five passes; maybe more. But that would take time, and the cannons wouldn’t hold forever. Already longbowmen had scored some lucky hits against his men. From the torches in a nearby tower, Vorto could see the shadows of more Gothans taking up position. His men would have to hurry.
‘Kye,’ he said very calmly. ‘Now.’
Colonel Kye raised his saber. ‘Ram!’ he directed.
A grunt of exertion filled the air. Very slowly, the massive wheels of the ram began grinding forward. Lieutenants near the ram cursed orders, urging on their men. The weapon picked up speed as it rolled toward Goth’s gate. Vorto licked his wind-chapped lips. The ram groaned as it accelerated. A panicked shout went up from the Gothans. Flame cannons detonated, spilling against the wall. Faster and faster went the ram. Larger and larger loomed the gates. Vorto grit his teeth . . .
Louder than a crack of thunder, the ram smashed against the wooden gate. All the world seemed to shudder. Archers along the wall tumbled backward with the impact, and for one moment the cannoneers stopped their endless fire, astonished by the sound. Vorto peered expectantly through the murkiness. As the light grew again, he saw the damaged gate. Impossibly, a hairline fissure was snaking its way through the petrified wood.
‘God in Heaven!’ Vorto laughed. A cheer went up from the legionnaires gathered around the ram. They were two hundred strong now, called from their circling of the city to storm falling Goth. Men on horseback shook their swords in victory. Even Colonel Kye broke into an unreserved smile.
‘Again!’ ordered Vorto. Already the ram was being pushed back into position. Again the night flashed with cannon fire. A new rain of arrows poured down upon the soldiers, catching some in their backs. Kye directed a squad of handhelds toward the new threat. The two-man teams hurried up to the wall and hosed it down with streams of fire. Though small and lacking the range of their bigger brothers, the handheld cannons threw their fire high into the night, scorching the tower of the Gothan archers and halting their barrage.
Once more the ram inched forward. Vorto heard the agonized shouts of the men as their muscles strained with effort. The ram accelerated slowly, then faster and faster still. Another concussion shook the ground as the ram battered the wooden portal. This time the fissure became a groaning rent. Vorto hurried his charger nearer the gate. Through the crack he could almost see the city. Several poles of timber still held the doorway fast, but these had bowed and would never withstand another blow. Kye shouted orders to his men. The ram started backward for one last assault. Vorto pranced triumphantly in the cannon-light, laughing and praising Heaven for his coming victory. The Light of God waved above his head.
‘Time’s up, Lokken,’ caroled Vorto gleefully. He spared one last look into the hills where the launchers were waiting, and a little pang of anticipation ran through him.
Lorla reached the hidden gate just as the snow began falling in earnest. Her pony was exhausted from the hard, fast ride through the city. Daevn, her guide and guardian, was slick with sleet and sweat. He was a tall man and a fast talker, and Lorla watched anxiously as he spoke to the Gothan soldiers at the gate, and shouted up to the men pacing the wall. Except for the soldiers, Goth was locked up tight. The rockets had stopped falling now, and darkness crept over the city. Lorla fidgeted as she listened to the far off pounding at the main gate. The sound reminded her of a drum.
Daevn returned, mounting his horse as he waited for the portal to slide open. It was far smaller than the main gate, more like a door really, and made up of the same dull gray as the rest of the wall. Lorla tried to peer through as it opened. Beyond it she could see only darkness and snow.
‘What’s that sound?’ she asked nervously.
‘Battering ram,’ Daevn explained. ‘They’ve started to break through. Lucky for us, too. The rest of the Naren soldiers are gathering near the main gate.’ He smiled at her wickedly. ‘We just might make it.’
Lorla hardly knew Daevn at all, and wasn’t sure he understood what she truly was. But she tried to smile, because she would need the brute’s goodwill, and when that hidden gate creaked open she ushered her pony closer to it.
‘It’s clear, I think,’ said one of the soldiers. He looked up to the catwalk where another Go than silently gave them the go-ahead. ‘Hurry now. Stay to the shadows, but don’t linger.’
Daevn nodded. ‘Ready, girl?’
‘I’m ready,’ Lorla lied.
Daevn took the lead, trotting his horse outside the wall. At once the darkness swallowed him. Lorla steeled herself before urging her pony outside. The beast seemed to sense her trepidation and moved with leaden legs. Lorla heard another concussion from the far side of the city, and fear sped her on. Daevn impatiently waved her forward. Outside the wall, everything was silent. The din of battle was oddly quieter here. Lorla spared a sad look backward as the hidden gate drew slowly closed. Remarkably, it seemed to disappear.
‘Come on,’ Daevn ordered. He began speeding for the hills. It would be thick there and dark. Dressed in black, Lorla and Daevn quickly became part of the shadows. Fast and silent, they rode toward the looming unknown of Dragon’s Beak.
Duke Lokken stepped out onto the balcony of his tower and brooded over his falling city. Reports were coming in faster than he could comprehend them, and his private chambers were flooded with aides. Vorto’s legions had broken through the gate and were swarming into the city. The glow of flame cannons told the duke how near they were. Larius, his Counselor-at-Arms, was tugging at his shirtsleeve like a little boy, begging for guidance or any semblance of life. But Duke Lokken was a million miles away. His eyes had glazed over with dreadful visions, and his thoughts had slowed to a crawl. His boy Jevin was on the main gate. Dead by now, surely. And in another hour or so his daughters would join him – but not before they lost their virtue to the marauders. Very quickly, Goth was becoming a Naren ruin.
‘Larius,’ the duke said quietly. ‘Take my wife and daughters to the throne room. Wait with them there. I will be down presently. Just a few moments alone . . .’
‘No,’ cried his wife. Kareena rushed up to him and took his hand. Throughout the siege she had been resolute, but now the dam of her emotions was crumbling. ‘I won’t be away from you.’
Lokken smiled forlornly. ‘Kareena, do this for me. I want to watch the city. Alone.’
‘We will stay with you,’ his wife offered. ‘Send the others away, but not us. Please, the girls—’
‘Will have their father with them in minutes,’ Lokken said. ‘Go to the throne room. Wait for me there. And have the guards wait outside.’ He turned to his counselor. ‘Larius, you hear? I want no soldiers in the chamber. You alone will stay with them, understood?’
‘I understand, my Duke.’
Lokken took his wife’s face in his hands and pulled it close, his voice a whisper. ‘I have to be strong, Kareena, and there’s not much time. Just let me have my moment of weakness, will you?’
Kareena’s lips shuddered. Without a word she slipped from the duke’s embrace, gathered her daughters, and led them out of the chamber. Larius was silent too. The old warrior gave his duke a sad smile before leaving the balcony and ordering the others out of the chamber.
Alone, Duke Lokken of Goth cast his
eyes out over his burning city. Goth the fair. Goth the strong. Built by slaves, mortared with blood, it had been the only home the duke had ever known. Tears trickled down his cheeks. Soon Vorto would come for him, and by then he wanted to be purged of tears. He would face the butcher of Nar with the same contempt that had made him shred Herrith’s hateful flag. This day, even as Goth collapsed, he would give his enemies no satisfaction.
On a thousand armored feet and breathing flame, Vorto’s imperial legions rolled through the city of Goth. Above them rose the granite towers thick with archers, and the streets were barricaded with human flesh – Lokken’s wild, sword-wielding defenders. Naren cavalry pushed through the narrow avenues, slicing down Gothan infantry with their sabers while flame cannons cut them a blazing path. Over-head the dawn was breaking red and harsh. Men were barking like dogs, ordering advances and retreats, and the screams of the burning echoed down the stone corridors.
Fighting street to street, Vorto’s legions had nearly made their way to Lokken’s castle. Now the fortress could be clearly seen, tall and impressive in the snowy dawn, its two flags wet with ice in the chilling wind. General Vorto rode his horse through the carnage, an expression of victory on his face. Not far away, Colonel Kye was leading the cavalry assault on the main thoroughfare, ignoring the flood of arrows from the granite towers. Vorto followed him, his massive axe cutting through Gothan infantry, buckling helmets and crushing heads. Gore splashed his armored legs and the flanks of his horse. Detonating flame cannons rocked the avenue. A horde of Gothan defenders rode toward them furiously, trying to trap them against the foot soldiers. Screaming, Vorto turned to charge them.