The Grand Design (Tyrants & Kings 2)

by John Marco

  Duke Enli rode like a madman through the gathering storm, loudly exhorting his men to follow. Three hundred strong, they galloped along the slick road, through the howling wind and driving snow, to the north fork of Dragon’s Beak and the waiting forces of Nar. Faren rode beside him, and Cackle the raven wheeled above, leading them deeper into the unknown. Enli’s beard was stiff with snow and frozen spittle. At his side his long sword slapped, eager for blood. The hot flesh of his horse steamed in the cold, run to a lather in the duke’s zeal. They had long ago crossed the border and had already galloped through the first village. As Faren had predicted, it was shut up tight, and they hadn’t bothered to stop for rest or information. Enli had known from the newly disturbed snow that Vorto had already passed through the village. He could see the wide tracks the war wagons had cut through the ice and the obvious prints of galloping horses. Vorto’s men had moved quickly.

  He has discovered me, thought Enli nervously. He knows we have trapped him.

  Now he would go to Gray Tower to make his stand. Enli cursed himself, hating his arrogance. If Nina was still alive, she would certainly be there waiting for him. Vorto would discover her and . . .

  Unable to bear the thought, he banished it from his mind. With ferocious single-mindedness he grit his teeth, refusing to accept defeat. If Nina still lived, he would rescue her. He would, and no one – not even Vorto – would stop him.

  They were in a meadow now, wide and white with snow. The trail they were following was almost invisible, blanketed in ice, and the winds howling off the hills tore through their garments and dug at their skin, eating it alive. Enli’s face burned with pain. If he could have seen his nose, he knew it would be black with frostbite. Great gushing tears poured from his eyes to stave off the wind, and his fingers bled beneath his gloves. Worse, his Dorians and dragon troops were faring no better. They rode with him because they knew they must, and because Vorto would turn on them all if their trap failed. But they were weary now from riding, hungry and unbearably cold. And Enli didn’t know what they would be facing. He knew only that his daughter, whom he still called a daughter despite all evidence, was in desperate trouble, and that the love he had for her could make him endure any cold.

  What seemed like an eternity passed in the storm. And then through the gales Enli saw the moving horde of Vorto’s troops. He raised his hand, bringing his column to a halt. The Light of God flew above the legion. A dozen war wagons pulled by giant greegans trudged along, and the horses drove on, undaunted, toward Gray Tower. They were very close to the tower now. Enli could see the first inklings of it from his place atop a hill. But the ocean beyond was hidden, and he could not tell if Nicabar and his dreadnoughts were positioned there as promised. The duke rubbed his hands together, desperate for a plan. They were woefully outnumbered. And if Vorto saw them first, they would be slaughtered. To Enli’s mind, there was only one hope.

  ‘Call the ravens,’ said Faren desperately, as if reading the duke’s mind. ‘Do it now, before they see us.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Enli. It would only take a moment for Vorto’s legion to discover them, and time was their enemy now. He stretched out his arm toward the sky, shouting, ‘Cackle! To me!’

  The bird, who had been circling overhead, now swooped down to rest on Enli’s arm. Enli looked at the raven desperately.

  ‘I need you now, my friend,’ he said. ‘Call your brothers. Bring them here and attack our enemies. Kill, Cackle! Kill!’

  He snapped his arm and sent Cackle winging skyward. The bird hurried into the storm, sailing toward the western horizon and Gray Tower. Enli watched him go, licking his lips with worry. A thousand yards away, he saw Vorto’s legion coming to an unexpected stop.

  ‘They they are!’ seethed Vorto, pointing eastward. ‘There they are!’

  Through the gauzy snowfall he had sighted them, waiting on an eastern hillside. There were three hundred, he supposed. Maybe more. And Dorians, just as the farmer had claimed. Vorto could tell by their haphazard colors that they were indeed mercenaries. Among them was a sprinkling of Enli’s dragon troops, dressing in spiky armor and bearing the reptilian helmets of their ilk. One by one, the heads of Vorto’s legion turned eastward to see their enemy. The column came to an abrupt halt.

  ‘We have them now,’ Vorto laughed delightedly. He shook his fist in the air, hoping Enli could see him. ‘I have you, you traitorous dog! You’re no match for us!’

  He was glad he had brought so many men with him, glad he had war wagons and acid launchers for the fight. Enli had miscalculated the force he would bring, and it would be the duke’s undoing.

  ‘Stupid, stupid man,’ said Vorto. ‘Today you die.’

  Vorto looked around quickly, studying the terrain. They were in a snow-covered valley between the hills, wide out in the open with plenty of room to maneuver. That, along with their sheer numbers, gave them the advantage.

  ‘This will be our battlefield, Kye,’ he said. ‘We will fight here!’

  ‘Sir, they won’t attack us,’ said the colonel. ‘When the meres realize how many we are, they will retreat.’

  ‘Then we will run them down, Colonel Kye! For God and country, we shall destroy them! Make your men ready. This is why we’ve come so far!’

  Without wasting another word, General Vorto thundered eastward, toward the hill where his enemies waited, and shook his giant fist again and cursed all manner of creatures in the name of God. He was possessed now, frozen to the bone and full of violence. And when he had separated himself from his legion, standing apart so he was easily seen, he spun his horse around and addressed them.

  ‘We have been deceived, my men!’ he cried. ‘But our true enemy shows himself! There, on yonder hill! Duke Enli!’

  The legion of Nar let out a battle cry, pushing back the storm with their fury. General Vorto unstrapped the gleaming battle axe from his belt and brandished it.

  ‘We have come to fight!’ he shouted. ‘Are you ready?’

  Another cheer, bold and bloody, rose up from the ranks. Swords leapt from scabbards and banged against shields in an anxious drumbeat. Greegans honked, filling the air with a prehistoric noise, and battle-ready horses pranced, eager to take their riders to the fight. Colonel Kye rode through the soldiers, shouting orders and positioning his battalions. War wagons circled around to flank the men, readying their acid launchers. Formula B, that noxious stuff that could kill them all, was in the center of the crowd, still heavily guarded by a troop of brawny soldiers. Vorto smiled, proud of his men. They wouldn’t need the formula today. Today it would be old-fashioned steel.

  He turned back to the hillside. Enli and his men were still there. Surprised they hadn’t run yet, Vorto waved at them.

  ‘Can you see me, Enli?’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to kill you!’

  There was a speck on the hill that looked vaguely like the duke. Vorto could just make out the hint of a red beard. As he shouted, the speck stared back at him, resolute, unmoving. Vorto took it as an insult.

  ‘Brave bastard, aren’t you?’ he muttered. ‘We shall see about that.’

  ‘Good God!’ someone cried.

  Vorto whirled. He looked out over his men, confused, then noticed they were all staring westward. The general’s eyes narrowed on the horizon. Something gigantic was moving toward them, a storm cloud maybe, big and black. Over the wind he heard a high-pitched tremor, like a thousand squeaky hinges opening. The thing that approached was moving quickly, too animated to be a storm, and far too loud to be a thunderhead. All at once Vorto’s soldiers pointed skyward, gibbering and terrified. The general himself sat upon his horse, dumbfounded by what he was seeing. If the ocean were black and could fly, the thing would be a tidal wave.

  ‘Mother of God,’ he whispered. ‘What in hell is that?’

  But he knew what it was, and the revelation made him wither. The army of the air was winging toward him, filling the world with its horrible noise, bearing down on them with sharpened talons. Vorto crossed himse
lf, begging God for strength. Never in all his imaginings had he considered anything like this. He rode back to his men, flailing his arms to get their attention.

  ‘Be easy!’ he ordered, hoping to steady them. ‘They are only birds! We will fight them! And we will win!’

  Yet even as he made his claim, Vorto doubted its like-liness. The rapidly approaching beasts were like something from Hell, huge in the extreme and winged like demons. The air throbbed with their cries.

  Determined not to die like a coward, General Vorto wrapped his fists around his axe handle and waited for his enemies to descend.

  From his place atop the hill, Duke Enli watched the ravens fill the sky and fall upon the unprotected Narens. It was a horror to behold, and of such great pleasure to Enli that he could not help but grin. The ravens, he knew, would decimate the brigade, no matter how many or how well armed. They were in the open, easy prey for the flying monsters despite their metal armor, and would be driven one by one to their knees until the beasts pulled their helmets off and ate their eyeballs out. Duke Enli put his hands to his frostbitten nose. It had gone numb.

  ‘My God,’ whispered Faren. The soldier’s face was drawn with shock. ‘God help those poor wretches.’

  ‘What?’ joked Enli. ‘God is on their side, remember? Surely He will help them.’

  ‘Should we attack?’ asked one of the mercenaries. ‘Drive them to the tower?’

  ‘No need,’ said Enli. ‘We’ll let the ravens pick them clean first. Then we will go to the tower – alone.’

  And find Nina, he hoped. Vorto was the only thing blocking him from his daughter. Duke Enli grit his teeth, worried about the girl. He loved her truly, and to think of her gone was untenable. So instead he focused on the melee at his feet, pushing the ghastly image of a dead daughter from his mind, and hoped against hope that she still lived, and that these ravenous birds hadn’t gotten her.

  ‘Please God,’ he whispered. ‘Let her be all right.’

  Or maybe it was as Vorto claimed, that God only heard the prayers of the faithful. If God was truly Vorto’s God, Enli knew his daughter was doomed.

  Colonel Kye was in a panic. The sky had turned black and the earth was shaking, and all he could feel was the scrape of talons against his body and the insistent hammering of knifelike beaks. He was still on his horse, though only barely, and the thickness of feathers had blinded him so that he couldn’t tell where Vorto was or even if the general still lived. All around him, men were shouting and swinging swords uselessly, and the ground was littered with fallen horses, their bellies picked apart by beaks. Kye had dropped his own sword and was using his hands to shield his helmeted head. As he rode through the insanity he felt the nutcracker jaws of the ravens chewing at his fingers, trying to pry them loose. He wanted to scream but could not, for there was precious little breath in him to waste.

  Kye’s horse stumbled through the snow, unsure where to go. The colonel tried to steer it westward, toward the distant tower and, maybe, to safety. But the ground was choked and slick with ice. His horse faltered. Ravens screamed everywhere, and as he moved amidst the battle, Kye heard the cries of tortured men as the birds somehow managed to pull of helmets and feast on the flesh beneath.

  Fighting was useless; Kye knew that now. He had to call retreat, try and make it to Gray Tower. And then another thought occurred to him, a dark thought that made his insides curdle. The formula. If its canisters were damaged . . .

  ‘General!’ Kye screamed. ‘Where are you?’

  He swatted his way through the ravens, searching for Vorto. At last he found the general, near the wagons with the canisters, desperately trying to retrieve a discarded helmet from the ground. Kye caught a glimpse of Vorto’s bare head, now scarred horribly and bleeding. The colonel steered his frenzied horse up to the general.

  ‘General!’ he cried, offering his hand. ‘It’s Kye! Take my hand. We have to retreat!’

  Vorty was in a daze. His bloodshot eyes blinked at Kye through the slits in the helmet. On wobbly legs he moved forward, grabbing the colonel’s hand and letting him pull him up onto the horse. Kye’s charger whinnied under the weight but didn’t stumble or throw them.

  ‘To the tower,’ Vorto seethed. ‘We have to get to the tower.’

  ‘Sir, the formula. We can’t—’

  ‘I’ve already told the others to guard it,’ wheezed Vorto. ‘Once we reach the tower, we can launch the poison against the beasts. God, Kye, call retreat. Hurry!’

  Seeing Vorto’s weakened state, Colonel Kye took up command, waving his hands and crying out to his men. ‘Retreat!’ he bellowed. ‘To the tower!’

  *

  Admiral Danar Nicabar was weary.

  For five days now, he and his small fleet of dreadnoughts had been anchored off the coast of Nar, taking up positions within range of Gray Tower. It was tedious, boring work, and Nicabar felt useless, as if the entire world was somewhere else, living its life while he was stuck in this frozen wasteland. An arctic wind blew across the deck of the Fearless, biting through the admiral’s long coat. Snow had been falling for over an hour, cutting down his visibility, but he kept an eye glued to his spyglass, hoping vainly to see something interesting. On the deck beneath him, the big cannons of his flagship were trained on the tower, primed and ready to fire. Black City and Intruder were also in position, to the flagship’s bow and stern. They had the ancient tower in their sights, in an inescapable crossfire that would bring it rumbling down, and Nicabar was anxious to give the order. But so far, Vorto hadn’t shown.

  ‘Don’t cheat me, General,’ said Nicabar to himself. ‘I’ve come a long way for this, you big bastard.’

  He had endured the cold and the long voyage, lived through the tedium without losing his mind, and all for the simple pleasure of blasting Vorto to Hell. As he stared through his spyglass, he wondered what might have happened to the Naren. Maybe Enli’s schemes had been discovered. But Nicabar had seen the ravens take flight an hour ago. Surely they were on their way. Gray Tower was the only cover for Vorto’s men. He would order them there. Nicabar was sure of it.

  ‘Call down to the gun deck,’ he said to a boatswain. ‘Have them check the azimuths on the cannons. I don’t want any mistakes.’

  ‘Sir, they’ve been checked,’ said the sailor. ‘Just a moment ago.’

  ‘Well, check them again!’ Nicabar growled, sending the young man off in a scurry. The admiral lowered the spyglass and collapsed it with a curse. No one knew the pressure he was under, the enormous strain of their mission. If it worked, Vorto would be dead, along with a goodly chunk of his army. What was the matter with all these fools, not to see the importance of it? Nicabar shook his head. He had already had so many disappointments in his career, had seen the loss of the Empire to Herrith and lost a ten-year battle against Liss. Now, on the eve of Vorto’s destruction, he couldn’t bear the thought of failing again. All he needed was a little luck, and for Vorto to have the common sense to come in out of the rain.

  A sudden shout from the rigging grabbed the admiral’s attention. He snapped his spyglass open again and peered through the whiteout engulfing Gray Tower. For a moment he saw nothing and swore at the lookout in the masts, but then his vision cleared and something came to his eyes, something big and moving ponderously. Something black and armored.

  ‘Vorto,’ Nicabar hissed triumphantly. ‘Welcome to Gray Tower.’

  He turned to his sailors, who were awaiting his commands. ‘Make ready,’ he said happily. ‘Tell the gunnery deck to prepare to fire. Signal Black City and Intruder. And no one fires till I give the order. This one is all mine.’

  Vorto and his men reached Gray Tower through a haze of shock and blood, kicking open the gates of the keep and barreling inside. They had lost many men, so many Vorto couldn’t count. All that he knew was that he’d left behind a trail of lacerated bodies stretching from the battlefield to the tower. They had abandoned the greegans in the frenzy, leaving the war wagons and acid launchers to Duke En
li, a tactical blunder which might well come back to haunt them. But they had managed to save the Formula B. The wagon containing the super-poison was intact, along with a single, modified launcher. Now, as his men piled into the keep, Vorto ordered his soldiers to unload the canisters of Formula B, even as the monstrous birds continued their endless assault. They were crashing against the windows now, breaking the glass and tearing at the shutters. The entry hall of Gray Tower echoed with their cries. Vorto and Colonel Kye hurried the men inside, urging those unloading the poison to hurry.

  ‘Quickly now!’ Vorto roared through the open door. He had picked up a sword and was swatting at the beasts buzzing around him like giant wasps. Kye was tending to the wounded, fretting over their dwindling numbers. The casualties had been unbelievably high. Even now, just outside the courtyard, Vorto could see some of his men being dragged off, pulled into the storm by the impossibly strong birds. Knowing they had to shut the doors quickly, he dashed outside to help unload the formula. The wagon was covered with squawking ravens, violently biting and scratching at his men, denting helmets with their iron beaks. Vorto threw himself onto the wagon, crushing a raven beneath his boots and grinding it to pulp. There were only two of the canisters left to unload, so the general wrapped his arms around one of them and lifted it with a grunt, ignoring the ravens covering him and clawing at his helmet. Blood from his previous wounds spilled into his eyes, blinding him. He could hear Kye’s voice, encouraging him forward. Next to him, two others were manhandling the last canister into the keep. A raven seized on his helmet just as he staggered into the keep. The door shut loudly behind him and Vorto dropped the canister, then reached up with his bare hands, pulling the bird from his shoulders and strangling it with a scream, snapping its neck.

  ‘Damn you!’ he roared, tossing the carcass against the wall. ‘Damn you to Hell!’

  Vorto collapsed to the floor, his whole body battered. He tore off the pitted helmet and tossed it aside, then ran his hands over his scalp to feel his hundred wounds. All around him men were groaning, wide-eyed with shock. Quickly Vorto counted up their numbers. There were at least a hundred of them in the hall.