by Helen Lowe
It was not, Kalan reflected, an activity that would pass unnoticed for long. The Oath would have been taking firm hold by that time, so he guessed it was mainly Stars and the priestly Houses that had borne the brunt of the stealing, which might explain Sea’s subsequent political realignment closer to the warrior Houses. He could also see Nimor and Murn’s point: for the term “stealers” and the fear that went with it to persist four hundred-odd years after the practice had ended was strange. “I agree Faro’s use of the term is unusual,” he said. “But under the circumstances, any mystery will have to wait.”
“Our current circumstances,” Nimor replied quietly, “are exactly why anomalies must be questioned.”
They fear facestealers, Kalan realized, or some other Swarm infiltrator—if a small one, in Faro’s case. “The Che’Ryl-g-Raham allowed Faro to stow away,” he pointed out. “That suggests any anomaly is unlikely to be a danger.”
“It would not be the first time a ship, or the fleet collectively, has taken a greater risk for themselves, our House, and the Derai Alliance, than the rest of Sea feels comfortable with. Not least,” Nimor observed, his dryness increasing, “because they love contests of wit and skill almost as much as they love mysteries.”
“I like puzzles . . .” The memory of Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s whisper almost made Kalan smile, except that might have insulted the envoy’s gravity. “The Sea House was prepared to let me take responsibility for Faro before. Has that changed?”
“No.” Nimor’s look was level. “For now, we consider it sufficient to have drawn the matter to your attention.”
For now, Kalan thought, and rose to his feet. “I thank you for the warning,” he said formally, as Nimor and Murn stood, too, bowing in farewell. He passed Kion on the way out, and was aware of the physician’s gaze, following him. I must look like I feel, Kalan supposed, as he crossed to the garnet-and-gold tent. One of the wyr hounds whined, pressing close, and he touched its head with one hand while opening the tent with the other. Night vision or not, he almost stepped on Faro, sleeping across the entrance. Guarding it, no doubt, since cots had been set up. The boy did not stir when Kalan stepped around him, although the wyr hound at his back opened a silver eye.
Whatever this business about stealers meant, it clearly didn’t trouble the wyrs any more than it had the Che’Ryl-g-Raham. Although your character judgment, Kalan told Faro’s hound silently, may be as flawed as your ability—or willingness—to identify Sea House power users. The beast gazed back at him, enigmatic, while Faro shifted, muttering something unintelligible. Derai flotsam, Kalan thought, cast adrift on Haarth’s currents and now washed home again. Much the same, he realized, lying down, could be said of himself.
He dismissed the thought, but the day’s events and details of the camp’s defense crowded into its place. When he did sleep, Kelyr’s voice pursued him: “. . . the Rose never marries outside its own.” Opening his eyes, Kalan found himself standing on a dream plain, where the wind blew grit into his face and dispelled Kelyr’s voice. When the grit dispersed, he was facing the cairn from his shared vision with Malian, during their brief sojourn at Tenneward Lodge. Malian had thought the cairn was Rowan Birchmoon’s grave, but now the opening was darkness and the Huntmaster’s crow gazed at Kalan from the lintel.
“There is always a price.” The bird’s soft rasp was half a caw. “Who will pay it this time?” The eye that met his was dark and searching. “Who will pay?” the crow asked again, taking flight and circling his head. “Will you?”
Aiv woke Kalan out of a dream in which the wind fretted along the edge of his shield-wall, scrying for entry. Behind it, he detected surreptitious movement in the darkness—and was on his feet before his eyes fully opened, feeling as though he had just crawled out from beneath a rockfall. The wyr hound with Faro was already standing, and the boy jerked upright as Kalan moved. “Are we attacked?” he demanded, staggering to pick up Kalan’s helmet and shield.
“No,” Kalan and Aiv answered together, the groom still outside the tent but holding the flap open. “Every horn in the camp would be blowing,” Kalan added, and saw Aiv nod. She was Palla’s watch second, which told him it must be shortly before dawn.
“We can’t pinpoint anything,” she said, as he armed himself. “But the wyrs won’t settle, and those Sword warriors insist there’s ’spawn about.”
They’re useful for something, then, Kalan thought, buckling on Asantir’s swords. “I’ll meet you at the inner barrier,” he told Aiv, then knelt so his eyes met Faro’s. “I want you to guard Lady Myrathis for me. Listen,” he said, when the boy started to demur. “Now that I’m Honor Captain, I can’t defend the camp and guard her at the same time. Not the way a champion should, so I need you to watch over her instead.”
“Because I’m your page?” Faro’s expression suggested he was reevaluating that honor.
“Yes,” Kalan said, “and because you’ve saved her, and yourself, once already. If events go badly, I’m trusting you to do all you can to get her clear.”
“But—” Faro objected, as Kalan relieved him of the helmet and shield.
“Everyone has their orders, Faro. I expect you to follow yours.” Ignoring the boy’s face of protest, he donned the helmet and slung the shield across his back before striding from the tent.
The two wyr hounds guarding Lady Myr’s tent lifted their heads as he passed, and one of Nimor’s sentries alerted someone inside the Sea pavilion. Otherwise the rest of the camp was asleep as Kalan and Aiv headed for the earthworks. Except Orth and Kelyr, Kalan amended, seeing them by Palla’s command post. Both Sword warriors looked around, but for once Orth failed to glower before returning his attention to the plain. The two hounds with Kalan joined the six along the perimeter, their growling a low, constant reverberation. The night insects had fallen silent, and the wind had died away. Behind Kalan, Madder stamped and tossed his head, rousing the other mounts. Several whinnied, but no horse replied out of the Gray Lands.
It’s too quiet, Kalan thought. “Rouse Jad and Tyun,” he told Aiv. “Tell them to stand the camp to arms, but quietly: no alarm sounded and no lights. Let’s keep whoever’s out there guessing.” He looked toward Kelyr and Orth, who had been put under Jad’s command. “Time to join your company. I want everyone in their appointed place.” Kalan turned back to the plain, but although he saw Kelyr’s shrug from the corner of his eye, both Sword warriors obeyed the order.
“They could still be trouble,” Palla muttered.
“Only if there’s not enough fighting to keep them occupied,” Kalan replied. Palla grinned, although without much mirth, and remained silent as the camp stirred to life and defenders mustered along the perimeter. The caravan did not contain enough bows for everyone in it, but each company could muster a double row of archers, with pikes and spears drawn up behind. The remainder of each unit carried a mix of swords, axes, and staffs. Those in support—who would resupply the fighters and drag clear the wounded, run messages, and fight fires—had at least a dagger for their defense. The latter teams comprised those too old or physically compromised to fight effectively, together with the camp’s youngest: the scullions and horsegirls and errand runners, most of whom were little older than Faro.
Young or old, veteran or inexperienced, the tension in the camp stretched tight as Kalan dispatched runners to each of the newly formed companies, reiterating his orders to maintain silence, hold position, and only fire on his command. He still heard the stir of bodies and occasional mutter, but the unnatural silence continued as the night crept toward dawn—until a long line of were-hunters loped out of the Gray Lands’ dark.
One moment the night was still, the next the plain was filled with advancing shadows and flaming eyes. The extent of the line told Kalan the attack must comprise multiple were-hunts: as many, if not more than had besieged the hill fort in northern Emer. He could also perceive the magical shimmer that would shatter spears and deflect arrows, exactly as those who experienced yesterday’s attack h
ad described. At the battle of The Leas, he and the other Oakwarders present had used a dispersal spell to counter the effect. Now, Kalan intended relying on his shield-wall to counteract the were-hunters protective magic once they reached it, enabling the defenders to fire into their ranks at point-blank range.
“Hold your fire!” he roared as an arrow flew, followed by a ragged volley that either fell short or disintegrated. “Wait for my order!” He could hear Nhal cursing the panicked archers, because the camp could not afford to waste arrows, and because Kalan was relying on the exiled honor guards to hold their companies in check. And on my shield-wall working, he reflected grimly, acknowledging the risk in allowing the attackers to get so close. The camp had not contained sufficient stakes for a closed palisade, so Sarr had spaced what they had for a cavalry attack—which meant the were-hunters could slip between them and onto the dike. Yet given the attackers’ numbers, every arrow should hit home at such close range. And if Kalan’s shield-wall worked, both rows of archers should be able to loose volleys before the were-hunters abandoned their magic for a purely physical assault. After that, it would all depend on the damage done by the volleys . . .
Life is a risk, Kalan thought, and so—watching the were-hunters pick up speed—is death. “Hold until they reach the stakes!” His voice would carry to the attackers as well, but he doubted they could hear anything beyond the rush of their own momentum. “Then fire at will.”
He could smell the fear rolling off the defenders, and someone nearby was praying to Mhaelanar, the Defender—although once the god’s name had been uttered, the invocation seemed to be mainly “please, please, please.” Which could mean anything, Kalan knew, from please don’t let me fail, to please let me live. He noted, too, that it was Mhaelanar the prayer called on, rather than Kharalth with her fistful of skulls. A sideways glance showed him Darrar, one of Sarr’s assistants. From what Kalan could see, the young farrier’s face was as white as his grip on his bow. Beside him, Baris was equally pale, and while Aiv appeared composed, a muscle beside her mouth was spasming.
“Hold,” Kalan commanded again. And all along the perimeter the defenders did, although the were-hunters were terrifying at close range. It was not just their numbers, but their size and speed, together with the bestial heads and savage maws. Their eyes flamed vermilion, carnelian, and orange, answering the wyr hounds’ silver glow. Their expressions, to the extent Kalan could read them, suggested they expected to leap both stakes and dike, rolling over the defense like an incoming tide. Now their wavefront was just three strides away from Sarr’s stakes, then two, then—
“Loose!” Kalan yelled. Several hundred bowstrings twanged, releasing a deadly thicket of arrows, and the defenders shouted, as much from the release of tension as triumph when the volley found targets. Everywhere, were-hunters went down, some crumpling in midleap and falling back onto the stakes below, while others collapsed at the foot of the palisade. Some of the wounded pulled themselves clear, or else regained their feet and came on—with many going down again as the second rank of archers loosed their volley.
Despite the holes in their line, the were-hunter vanguard continued to press forward, while a second wave of attackers rolled in behind them. The camp’s archers fell back as the pikemen advanced to defend the thornbrush rampart and the dike became a welter of leaping, snarling were-hunters, thrusting pikes, and screamed war cries. Kalan, who had withdrawn with the other archers, now drew the black blades and led the hand-to-hand fighters forward to cover the pikemen—although if the black blades sang, the sound was lost beneath the furor.
A were-hunter crashed through the thorns in front of him, and a wyr hound sprang to meet it as a second attacker sailed over the top. Kalan thrust the longsword into his assailant’s chest, driving the short blade through the open maw of the beast that followed. Then Palla was there, her shield covering them both as the combat swayed back and forward, across and through the thornbrush barricade. The camp’s line was holding, Kalan thought, as Palla cut down another were-hunter—and then as swiftly as battle had been joined the assault was over. The attackers broke off and retreated into the thinning dark, stopping only to pick up their wounded. The dead were left where they had fallen.
Dawn was imminent. Kalan could sense it as soon as his vision cleared and he recovered his breath. Despite having dead and wounded of their own to deal with, he forbade torches, which would aid archers outside the camp. A swift survey showed their losses were far less than he had feared and that none of the exiles had fallen, although scything claws had torn mail to rake Nhal’s arm. The wounded were already being ferried to the Bride’s pavilion, now the camp’s infirmary, and Jad had squads checking underneath and within the wagonbeds for stragglers. One of the wyr hounds had a gash in its shoulder, while another’s ear had been torn off, but otherwise they, too, had survived the encounter.
“Do we stand down?” Aiv asked.
“No.” The attack might have failed, but Kalan doubted the assault was over. “We’ll take what’s left of the darkness to recover arrows and use the dead, theirs and ours, to reinforce the barricade.” In the Emerian hill fort, wary of decomposition and disease, the Normarchers had dug a pit for the dead—but that fort had walls and a gate they could blockade. Later, on the way to Caer Argent, Ser Raven had discussed other assaults he had experienced, including one in Lathayra where a corral, with dead bodies used as sandbags, was the only perimeter.
Darrar, still white faced, looked shocked, while Baris swore beneath his breath before Palla ordered them both into a detail. The marines, whose reserve force had not been needed, provided cover for the defenders sent to retrieve arrows, while Jad’s company ensured the fallen were-hunters were dead. Kalan was unsurprised to see Orth in the forefront, slicing ears from every corpse before Jad stopped him. “There’s no time for that,” the Blood guard said. Orth scowled, but accepted Jad’s authority, and Kalan returned his attention to subtly shielding those outside his shield-wall. The camp’s desperate activity, together with the defenders’ relief at surviving the attack, helped mask the power use, and by the time everyone was back within the dike the world had grown gray.
The cooks began preparing a cold breakfast, which their assistants brought to each company in turn as the dawn wind riffled in off the Gray Lands. Someone among the enemy was using it to scry: Kalan could feel the seeker probing for weakness along his barrier. When the light brightened, he saw that yesterday’s haze had thickened overnight, and he resisted the temptation to extend his psychic shield further out, just to see what brushed against its edge. The scrying, together with the wyr hounds’ behavior, had already told him enough. The hounds were intent on the plain, as though they could detect whatever the haze concealed, which perhaps they could. Yet even Kalan’s keen sight showed him nothing, except on the stream side of the camp. There, the air wavered like heat haze in an Emerian summer, reminding him that a great deal of Swarm magic could not cross running water . . .
“Haze’s clearing,” Palla said, as the first pale sunlight broke through. Kalan nodded, concentrating on a shadowy outline that looked like banners stirring beyond the murk. A few seconds later the haze thinned further. “Nine preserve us!” Palla whispered, as a deep mutter of fear and dismay ran among the defenders.
They may have to, Kalan thought bleakly, remembering his dream of surreptitious movement in the night. The enemy must have used concealing magic, because what encircled the camp now was not a raiding party, or even a war band, but a legion, and there was no other way they could have gotten this close without being detected. Kalan scanned their ranks, registering massed pikes and archers, cavalry with the jagged helms he remembered from Jaransor, and a whole wing of were-hunters. But no major demons, as far as he could detect, and no sign of siege engines. He would take what comfort he could from that.
The camp had fallen silent, stunned perhaps, or despairing. Both were reasonable reactions, Kalan thought, given the size of the opposing force. He and Malian ha
d known the Wall of Night was failing: the attack on the Keep of Winds six years before, the subsequent pursuit into Jaransor, and the Swarm’s fomenting of unrest from Ij to Ishnapur had told them that. Yet incursion at this level made those events pale by comparison.
Because this, Kalan told himself grimly—a Darksworn legion in the Gray Lands, apparently undetected until now—means that somewhere the Wall has failed completely. This is breakout.
46
Line of Fire
Kalan’s initial reaction was that Malian must be told, but he clamped down on his instinct to hurl a mindcall as far across distance as he could reach. Regardless of either the sensibilities of the camp, or the psychic divide between the Wall and Haarth, keeping the enemy guessing meant being circumspect with his use of power for as long as possible. “What’s this?” Palla muttered, as the opposing ranks parted and a troop of mixed horse and foot, around one hundred strong, advanced into the place of honor and danger at the center of the enemy line. A collective hiss rose from the camp as the defenders recognized the armor of the caravan’s Honor Guard—and deepened from groan to curse as the wind opened out the newcomers’ pennant, revealing Kolthis’s personal device.
“Treachery,” Palla whispered, and Kalan heard the word repeated, the sound a wind through fallen leaves, as the exile turned her head aside and spat. “Kolthis,” she said, as though the name itself were bile. “I always thought he was no plagues-rotted good.”
“Is it the Honor Guard?” Darrar asked. “I mean, their visors are down so it could be anyone . . .” His voice trailed off, but Kalan knew he and many others would be remembering the patrols that had never returned, even before the final disappearance of the remaining guards. We’re looking at around half the original guard, he thought, and guessed those who could not be suborned would have paid the same price as Rhisart. Darrar was right, though. They could not be sure who was really behind those Blood visors, whether facestealers, turncoats, or—remembering his thoughts about possession—something altogether other.