“Ye’ll have enough time for all that diggin’?” Rukk asked.
“Aye. Time’s a’wastin’, though, so I’d like to get some boyos on it right away.” Jarkond raised a mining whistle to his lips.
“Aye, fetch who ye need and have ’em get to work then,” Rukk said.
When the words were barely out of the king’s mouth, Jarkond gave the whistle a series of piercing shrieks loud enough to make Kulnor want to cover his ears. If our plan goes down the privy hole, mayhap we can use some of those annoying whistles to drive off the invaders.
Rukk ignored the sapper after that and turned to Sioned. “Ye seen enough?”
“Aye. But we’ll need Reiktir’s blessing to come out o’ this in good shape,” she replied.
“By Reiktir’s beard, we’ll make those bastards pay.” Rukk had an eager gleam in his eye. He launched a gob of spittle an impressive distance to punctuate his statement then bellowed for his cupbearer, a young dwarf on a pony with a tapped ale keg strapped behind the saddle. The cupbearer hastily refilled his liege’s drinking horn.
Kulnor could have used more ale himself, but the king’s private stock was off-limits to lowborn such as him. Nobody else had been enterprising enough to bring another cask along, so he was destined to suffer with a dry throat a while longer.
Harbek was engaged in conversation with one of Rukk’s commanders, so Kulnor was content to ride alone at the rear of their party as they headed back toward their encampment outside the walls of Carran. His mind was on something besides battle, however. With their tongues loosened by drink at the last banquet, his human friends had been discussing their quest, on which they planned to depart following the battle. He hadn’t gleaned all the details but knew enough that they would find themselves traveling to other planes and be in tremendous danger.
“Ye want to go on that quest, don’t ye?” Sioned had fallen back, allowing the others to move out of hearing range.
“Me queen?”
Kulnor was surprised at her perception, for he hadn’t made any mention of Creel and the others’ quest. How Sioned knew, he hadn’t the faintest clue. But she always had an uncanny knack for deciphering Kulnor’s thoughts.
She smiled at his obvious surprise. “Queen Sianna mentioned it during a closed-door session with meself and Nardual last night. She doesn’t trust that witch Shalaera, nor old Rukk, to keep that a secret, ’twould seem.”
“With good reason. Word is Rukk can never keep his trap shut, especially with a bellyful o’ ale. And that witch… Well, I wouldn’t trust her to piss on me if I was afire. If ye’ll pardon me crude speech.”
Sioned laughed, a rich, hearty laugh that instantly brought a smile to Kulnor’s face. “I suspect much was left unsaid, yet Sianna laid out the gist of it. Thwart that fiend Nesnys’s plans by journeyin’ to another plane to acquire some control rod, then find a way to destroy it. The whole multiverse could lie in peril if that fiendish bitch gets her mitts on that rod.”
“I gathered as much,” Kulnor admitted. “They’re gonna try and cure the lass, too.”
“Cure who?”
“Ferret. The lass who got magicked into a mechanical construct.”
“Ah. I’ve not had the pleasure to meet her yet.”
“I’ll introduce ye sometime after the battle. She has an interesting tale to share, one I think ye might be interested in hearin’.”
Sioned nodded, although he wasn’t sure she heard him. Her eyes seemed fixed on something only she could see. “I’ve seen this in a vision from Reiktir, me friend. Should their quest fail, none of this amounts to aught.” She waved a hand around herself vaguely.
Kulnor grunted, unsure as to what to say. His queen, being pure of heart and ironclad in her faith, was blessed with visions he himself wasn’t, but he never doubted what she was given to see, and she’d never led her people astray thus far.
Sioned caught his eye then and smiled gently. “Ye want a chance to have yer name recorded by the scrivener in the Book of Deeds, don’t ye?” Once again, she saw to the heart of the matter.
“Aye,” he admitted after a moment. “Me brother went out and proved himself on a quest, and the Strongaxe name will be spoken with pride for generations.”
“Yet Kalder died in the doing.” Her statement was said gently, a simple statement of fact. “I’d hate to see ye take the same tragic path. I don’t want to lose ye, Kulnor.”
Her words touched him, her earnestness, and her beauty, and as usual, his hopeless love for her warmed him. “I don’t mean to follow him into the Halls of Stone. Only the Book of Deeds, if ye get me meanin’.”
“I do.” She nudged her mountain goat nearer Kulnor’s pony, the two animals of a size with each other, then reached out and squeezed his hand with her strong grip. “I saw ye in that last vision, Kulnor. They’ll fail without ye, so ye have me blessing to accompany yer friends. May Reiktir guide yer axe.”
“And ye as well, me queen.” He grinned and squeezed her hand back.
“Sioned,” she corrected automatically with a smile.
His excitement swelled as they returned to Carran. Reiktir had shown his queen a vision of him, Kulnor Strongaxe, going on such a vital quest. And not only that, but the others wouldn’t succeed without him. Finally, he would have the opportunity to perform a feat to make his clan proud and be listed in the Book alongside his brother.
His hand drifted down to the old throwing axe on his belt as he imagined himself striking down Nesnys and her ilk beside his new friends.
Chapter 24
“Your Majesty,” Rafe ventured again, “I agree with the others and think it best—”
“I shall not be left behind, hiding within these walls,” Sianna interrupted crisply.
Rafe looked pleadingly to Taren.
Don’t look at me, he thought. She’s already shot down the recommendations of Lord Lanthas and Creel, and they know much more of warfare than I.
Sianna followed Rafe’s gaze, and her glare challenged Taren to agree with the newly dubbed knight.
Taren cleared his throat. “While the others all make valid points, Your Majesty, I believe your presence and the boost in morale to our troops may be a risk worth taking, even despite the potential danger to your person.” He wasn’t sure if he quite believed that, but her triumphant smile was its own reward.
“Thank you, Master Taren,” Sianna said, tossing her hair like a spirited mare. “I refuse to let more good men risk their lives for my sake without myself facing the same dangers.”
Rafe gave Taren a disappointed look but gave up his protests.
“The queen has spoken.” Iris did an admirable job keeping her face clear of emotion, enough to make Taren wonder whose side of the argument she favored.
Thusly was the matter settled, and four hours later in the middle of the night, Taren found himself riding with the queen’s retinue as they sought to steal a march on their foes, camped less than a day south of Carran. Outriders bore torches alongside the army column, its long path wending through the darkness like a river of fire. Men, elves, and dwarves all marched together, united in purpose following the successful conclave.
The allies were making a gamble to try to provoke Nesnys into attacking on ground chosen by them, in an attempt to try to gain every slight advantage they could find, for they were in dire need. In the back of everyone’s minds was the disconcerting knowledge that two or three days south, a second host was marching to reinforce the first.
We need to make short work of this initial force and then somehow regroup to fight and destroy the second within a few days. Even with the combined forces of the allies, they still had an estimated two thousand fewer soldiers than Nesnys’s primary host.
Mira rode quietly to one side of him, and Ferret walked on his other side, each apparently lost within her own thoughts. They kept to the rear of the command group, composed of the monarchs and their advisors and senior military officers, and out of the limelight, for which Taren was thankfu
l. He had avoided the disconcerting attention of Queen Shalaera and her daughter thus far and hoped that trend would continue.
Taren dozed in the saddle, his horse’s steady pace lulling him to sleep, for he hadn’t found rest at all, with the midnight muster.
He roused abruptly when his horse stopped, thinking he’d dozed off for only a moment, but he was surprised to find the sky lightening in the east. The army had halted, and officers were barking orders, moving units of infantry and archers to their designated positions.
Taren looked around, wondering if Creel and Aninyel had successfully provoked Nesnys into attacking, but his friends still hadn’t returned.
***
Creel studied the Nebaran encampment in the distance, feeling a sense of deja vu. The last time he had sought to enter their camp had ended in heartbreaking failure. This time, they only hoped to cause enough chaos to provoke the warlord into a reckless attack.
The enemy camp was more tightly consolidated and under heavier guard than the previous one. The moonlight revealed countless pale rows of tents, clustered tightly along a stream to the west, the very same tributary that bordered the battlefield they hoped to engage their foes upon.
“Do you think taking out a few sentries and setting some pavilions aflame will be enough?” Aninyel asked in a whisper.
“Hopefully, but I’d like to cause as much of a ruckus as possible.” Creel wished he had the Goblin-Tosser and a few canisters of naphtha with him. A few volleys of that fiery payload would not only wake the dead with noise and fury but send a good number of Nesnys’s troops to the Abyss. Unfortunately, he didn’t have either with him. What he did have was a dozen elven archers under Aninyel’s command and a matching number of Ketanian fighters, men-at-arms who were also fair with a bow—and a special item loaned him by Taren, which he hoped to put to good use.
A pair of sentries greeted each other a hundred paces away as they paused in their rounds. Creel couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he saw the glow of a pipe flare brightly for a moment. The smoker exhaled a large plume of smoke and handed the pipe to his comrade.
Aninyel motioned to her archers. Bowstrings thrummed, then both men dropped silently with arrows through their throats. The ember in the pipe burst into sparks when it hit the ground then slowly guttered out.
“Let’s pick off some more sentries before we start setting fires,” Creel said.
He and Aninyel moved to flank the encampment, their steps nearly silent as they passed through the tall grass and around occasional clumps of bushes. Aninyel’s archers were silent shadows following them. Creel’s men weren’t nearly as noiseless, even unarmored, yet moved fairly quietly for fighters. As they advanced, they positioned their men at various intervals with their orders.
Over the next half hour, they picked off another half dozen sentries along the perimeter. Creel was about to suggest they torch the pavilions and fall back, when he spotted the paddock, where several hundred horses were penned for the night at the southern edge of the camp. Another pair of sentries came into sight while he watched, tasked with keeping guard over the horses.
“Now that’s just too tempting a target to pass up,” Creel said. He and Aninyel were hunkered down in a gully fifty paces from the paddock.
Aninyel smiled. “I like your thinking. Start a stampede, and they’ll be rounding up horses for hours.”
“That’ll leave plenty of time for our forces to get in position.”
“What’s the best way to get it started?” she asked.
“Taren was thoughtful enough to provide me this.” He held out a gaudy, cherry-red lacquered wand with sparkles spiraling along its length.
“What does it do?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.
“He said it was used for pyrotechnic shows back in his home village. Also worked well to scatter inquisitors and spook their horses during his escape from one of their traps while on the road.”
“Ah, I do recall hearing something of that—was right before he and his strapping cousin paid us a visit in Egrondel.” Aninyel smiled at the memory.
“Well, I just hope it does the trick,” Creel said. “Have them go on my lead.” The elves were prepared to set fire to the biggest pavilions while the Ketanian soldiers would move in and ambush any soldiers they came across, either in their bedrolls or not, in order to make it seem they were under attack. “We’ll see how they like their tactics turned against them. Just don’t get caught—strike and then withdraw and rally back at the horses.” He turned to the pair of remaining Ketanian soldiers with them. “I’ll need you men with me to take down the fence rails and keep an eye out for any other sentries.”
The men moved off in the direction he indicated and began loosening the fence rails.
“Good luck,” Aninyel said before she slipped away in the darkness.
Creel crept into the paddock, making his way toward the herd. A nearby sentry suddenly grunted and fell with a feathered shaft in his chest. Creel went to finish him off, but the man was already dead. The second sentry had moved among the horses and was difficult to spot, let alone put an arrow in, but Creel wasn’t too concerned. If the man didn’t approach near enough for him or his men to take out, then he’d likely be trampled in the stampede.
He skirted the bulk of the horses, positioning himself between the animals and the camp in order to drive them in the opposite direction. The air was ripe with the smell of manure and churned mud and horseflesh. A horse would occasionally snort or grumble, but the animals mostly ignored him.
Let’s hope this thing works.
“Oi, you there!” The sentry’s boots squelched in the muck as he moved toward Creel, trying to get a good look at him around the milling horses. “Out of the way, you,” he muttered, smacking the rump of a horse that snorted and flicked its ears.
Creel ignored the man. He held the wand, pointing it just above the nearest horses. “Firrsu,” he said, having memorized the command word.
The wand’s tip glowed brightly for an instant, then it erupted with a pyrotechnic discharge. Red, blue, and yellow sparks streamed from the wand and exploded into large bursts of scintillating colors, each making loud popping sounds. He waved it around, and it spat green, orange, and white sparks, then cycled back through the entire spectrum.
Startled horses near him squealed and bolted, the sudden thunder of hooves shaking the ground. Then as one, the entire herd panicked and fled. The sentry’s scream went unheard, and he disappeared beneath the avalanche of stampeding horseflesh.
Within seconds, the paddock was nearly empty, save for a few distant stragglers too well trained to bolt.
When the thunder of hundreds of hooves died down, he heard alarms sounding in the camp and shouts going up. Creel unleashed another stream of pyrotechnic bursts from the wand toward the center of camp, causing men to run and duck for cover. Then he turned and ran in the direction the horses had gone. The two Ketanian men were waving him on, and he followed them into the darkness, circling back around the camp’s perimeter toward the north and their waiting mounts. Flaming arrows were still cutting through the darkness, arcing over the camp and setting tents alight at random. Already, four or five of the most grandiose pavilions, along with a dozen or so smaller tents, were burning cheerily near the heart of the camp.
“We’re under attack! The camp is under attack!” More and more voices took up the cry, disoriented and half-dressed men spilling from their tents.
Creel grinned fiercely as he followed the others. Hope that really pisses off that bitch Nesnys.
More Ketanian fighters came running from the darkness, their swords stained dark with blood, and elves materialized as silently as shadows. Aninyel appeared with the last of her archers a few minutes later. The Blade looked every bit as pleased as Creel felt, and he nodded to the elf, receiving a grin in response.
More shouts rang out as the Nebarans tried to organize a defense against an enemy who was no longer there.
They were just nearin
g their hobbled group of horses a quarter mile away when a summons went out. With his sensitivity to magic, Creel felt it in the pit of his stomach on some deeper level he couldn’t quite explain, yet he imagined it was similar to a whistle tuned so that only hounds might hear it. He had sensed the same call once before—back in Ammon Nor when a fiend was summoned to aid the Nebaran troops.
Aninyel noticed the summons as well and stopped, her face troubled as she stared back at the burning camp.
“A summons for Nesnys or one of her lieutenants,” Creel said. “Perhaps the bitch wasn’t in camp at the time.”
“Ah,” Aninyel said. “Well, if not, she won’t be happy once she arrives.”
“Hopefully angry enough to order an immediate retaliation come morning.”
They reached their horses a moment later and rode away into the night just as the horizon was beginning to lighten. A quick count showed they hadn’t lost a single man or elf, and Creel hoped that was a sign the gods might continue to smile on them that day.
***
So, the mortals show some steel in their spines after all. Nesnys regarded the host arrayed below her in neat ranks as she circled overhead, only two or three miles from her own camp.
The lirruk horn’s summons in the early hours had roused her from the bed she shared with Elyas with her second army to the south. She teleported to her primary army’s encampment, only to find it aflame, with men running around in a frenzy, shouting about being under attack. She needed just a few minutes to determine that only a small raid had occurred, yet her officers took much longer to restore order. By the time the fires were out and men were organized, dawn was breaking. A few dozen men had been lost, but more aggravating was the fact that the herd of horses had been scattered over miles of plains. Men were sent to round them up, but the task would take hours.
Nesnys was surprised to discover the mortal army here, several hours south of Carran, arranged on the field to meet her own force in battle. She couldn’t help but feel a sliver of admiration, for she respected a foe who boldly seized the offensive rather than those who cowered behind walls, awaiting the inevitable. Always better to be the hunter than the hunted.
Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3) Page 21