by CS Sealey
“You’ll be wanting your sword back, I expect,” Sheon said, offering Maxis the hilt of his sword, but the captain shook his head.
“No, I’d be honored if you used it. I have another.” He drew out a similar blade from a scabbard on his back. “Always come prepared. Quickly, sir, the army will be storming the camp in a little while. We need to evacuate before they burn it to the ground.”
As the two of them ushered the freed prisoners along the corridor, Maxis told Sheon what he knew about Carter’s assassination. The commander swore loudly and cursed the perpetrator in a variety of colorful ways.
“A prostitute? How could he be so foolish?”
“Varren dealt with her and the man who forced her to do it,” Maxis continued as the two of them emerged into the guard room. “He also tracked down the man responsible for the contract and saw to his punishment as well.”
“Aye, a good man is Varren, though not my first choice to step into Carter’s shoes.”
“I believe he shares your opinion, sir.”
“Told you himself, did he?”
“Well – ”
Vrór appeared with another group of freed prisoners. He saw Commander Sheon and bowed his head in respect, an action Sheon seemed to appreciate.
“Sir, sss come with me. We have little time.” The mage turned to Maxis. “How many?”
“I freed these nineteen, but only half of them are fit to fight.”
The leika growled. “And I about the same. You will be hard sss stretched to reach the gates and open them for the army. I will take the commander now and return to cover your retreat. My sss summonings will assist you until then.”
“Right,” Maxis replied, nodding.
“Expect Lhunannon,” Vrór added. “He will storm the walls with the red flare. Then the army will advance.”
CHAPTER 52
Rasmus looked about with dread. The encampment was in chaos but only a few truly understood what was happening. Rasmus was sufficiently familiar with Angora’s gift to understand that the beasts running wild were not natural. But even though Angora had told him that the excessive use of magic in a short period of time weakened and eventually killed the beasts, there seemed to be no evidence of that happening. He heard the horn blast once more from the gates, a throbbing note suddenly cut short, and turned to see the player’s body fall from the battlements, no less than four arrows protruding from his chest. That could only mean one thing.
By now, some of Rasmus’s cavalry battalion had formed behind him and he led them to the east gate. But when they reached it, they found a dozen darkly dressed men already fighting with the guards and heaving on the iron stays that kept the gate securely shut. Grappling hooks were wedged in the wall where the invaders had scaled the battlements and dead sentries lay around the gate.
“Bring those men down!” Rasmus shouted, giving his horse a sharp jab in the side with his heel. “Don’t let them open that gate!”
The Ronnesian gate wardens battling with the Ayon scouts leaped aside as Captain Auran and his cavalry thundered forward. Though it was hard to see in the pale moonlight, he was certain that half the Ayons had been cut down or trampled into the dirt in that first sweep. His men spread out, hunting for the others, giving cover to the injured wardens as they limped to safety.
Cries of battle filled the air. Spirals of smoke rose from the still burning tents, set alight by the pots that had first been flung over the wall. As Rasmus lifted his sword, encouraging his men to take heart and face whatever was out there, more flaming projectiles, much larger than the first wave, hurtled over the wall. The huge explosions, accompanied by hot bursts of flame, caused the horses to panic. Rasmus clung on tightly with his knees and spoke calming words to his mount, but a pot landing barely ten yards away made the beast rear and bolt. Rasmus was thrown from the saddle and hit his head on a wooden support beside the east gate. His vision blurred, becoming a confused image of dark grays and browns, dotted with bright flashes of red, and all he heard was a loud, muffled rumbling in his ears. For an agonizingly long while, he found himself unable to move. He barely had the energy to keep his eyes open. His vision was hazy but, as it cleared, he considered the fact that he was lucky.
One of Vrór’s hounds came bounding toward the east gate and Rasmus’s battalion was overwhelmed. The creature was shimmering as though its coat was covered in dew, shaking off the Ronnesian blades. It darted about, becoming transparent one moment and solid the next, and leaped through the figure of a man turning to run, ripping the life out of him, leaving the body to slump lifeless to the ground. It then ran toward another and tore the man’s throat apart with its claws.
Rasmus opened his mouth to order his remaining men to scatter but the hound suddenly keeled over and gave a roar that sounded as though it was bearing all the pain of the world before it disintegrated in a burst of red particles. So Vrór’s power was finally weakening.
Rasmus had no time for relief, however, as the Ayon scouts reappeared from the shadows and continued to haul at the gates. This time, there was no one to stop them. A couple of the Ayons began clearing bodies away from the gate and Rasmus himself was dragged along by his legs and dumped unceremoniously to one side. Realizing he no longer had his sword, he remained limp – the Ayons would surely kill him if they knew he was alive.
“Hurry up,” one of the scouts urged, heaving on the great wooden beam. “Move those damned bodies! Any more delays and we might as well turn our swords on ourselves. Get back to work!”
A gate warden was flung across Rasmus’s legs and, noticing that the dead man still possessed a sword on his belt, the cavalry captain moved his hand slowly to grasp it. His eyes glanced between the men at the gate, the burning fortifications, tents and buildings, and the sword inches from his fingers. The Ayons were all seasoned fighters and physically larger than him, so it would not be a fight he could easily win. However, if he managed to surprise them, he just might be able to prevent them from opening the gate.
By now, the man who had shouted the orders to the others had left the gate to help move bodies and was heading his way. Still straining to reach the pommel of the sword from his lying position, Rasmus quickly sat up and snatched the weapon free. He pushed the body off his legs and leaped to his feet, then darted at the stunned Ayon and slashed through the dark layers of cloth to his skin. The scout was not wearing armor, so Rasmus’s sword met little resistance and the man fell quickly.
Another of his comrades felt the cold steel of Rasmus’s blade a moment later as he thrust it into the man’s gut and twisted; but now, Rasmus’s advantage of surprise was gone. The remaining three scouts were now aware of the attack and two came running at him with swords drawn, a look of murder in their eyes.
Rasmus adopted a defensive stance. As the two men charged, he darted to the side, spun, and slashed his blade across the first attacker’s back, causing him to stagger and drop to his knees. The second did not pause when his comrade fell but came at Rasmus again, his voice raised in a loud war cry. Rasmus knocked his first blow aside before leaping back to dodge the next. Hopelessness overcame him as he glanced at the gate and spotted three more Ayons lifting the great wooden beam free of its iron stays. Dropping the beam to one side, they heaved at the iron rings and the huge doors creaked.
Rasmus lunged, elbowing the man in the face, and sliced his blade across his neck. Noticing his first victim struggling to regain his stance, Rasmus kicked him over and angled his blade down through the man’s ribcage then hurried to the gate.
“Quick!” he heard an Ayon scout shout angrily. “Quick, the flare! Light the bloody flare!”
Rasmus’s heart pounded loudly in his ears. As he reached the remaining group of three men, one sprang away with a flare in his hand. Rasmus lunged at him but the other two barred his way. The gate was now ajar, nothing would stop the hordes of Ayons from penetrating the camp. Everything was lost.
Rasmus shook his head in disbelief. He had called this defensive outp
ost home on and off for the best part of five years – he could not allow it fall so easily. There had to be a chance of pushing the Ayons back.
Keeping the third man in his sights, he engaged the two attacking him and skilfully swooped and blocked their attacks while delivering quick and precise ones of his own. He dispatched both of them, leaving them moaning on the ground, grasping at their wounds.
The man with the flare had now reached the battlements. Rasmus pursued him but the Ayon kicked the ladder from the wall. Cursing, Rasmus snatched it and repositioned it against the ramparts, but just as he was starting up it, the Ayon struck at his piece of flint. There was a blinding flash of red light as the flare spurted up into the air. The man was engulfed in flames and Rasmus was thrown backward. He felt himself falling before something soft broke his fall. He rolled over and over until he came to a halt, his face in the churned-up soil in front of the east gate.
He lay there, stunned once more and blinded. He coughed and tried to rise but his limbs would not obey him. As he lay motionless, recovering slowly from shock, he heard the sound of hoofs and the grinding of the gate as it was opened wider.
“No prisoners!” he heard a man shout. “Cut them all down!”
There was a great thundering of footsteps and shouts of many men rushing past. Dread crept through him as hundreds of men filed through the gate. It was a long while before the ground became still and Rasmus could stagger back to his feet. He spotted a large column of smoke rising up from the center of the encampment and heard the distinctive rhythmic tolling of the bell. His heart sank. The signal to retreat.
*
Varren watched as the flare rose high into the air. The Ronnesian encampment was already smoking; his plan was going well. Standing at the helm of his ship, he gestured to the captain. Leaving his lieutenant to man the wheel, the man hurried over.
“The army will soon overrun Kilsney and begin its sweep south,” the sorcerer said. “Captain, it’s time for the rest of the fleet to depart.”
“Yes, sir.”
“But remember to anchor out of sight of the city’s main harbor,” Varren added as the eager captain turned to give his orders.
“Of course, sir. It will be done.” He turned to his crew, most of whom had been standing idle, watching the smoking encampment and the ranks of the army on the plain. “Raise anchor and lower the sails! You, Anston, raise the flags to signal the others. Morten, light the lamps. Kelst, the helm. We’re sailing south.”
*
Driven by a sense of urgency, Rasmus ran deeper into the camp to see what could be done to regain some degree of control. He had lost his horse but his years of training as an infantryman served him well as he picked off Ayons one by one in the confusion.
He reached the center of the camp and ground to a halt, finding it crawling with Ayons salvaging what they could from the burning buildings. Piles of weapons, mostly damaged by the intense heat of the fires, lay outside the destroyed barracks storeroom, and barrels of ale and boxes of foodstuffs were stacked in an open area between the cookery and mess. There were no Ronnesians in sight but for the bodies that littered the ground. Rasmus’s heart sank and he shrank into the shadows of a tent already picked clean of valuables.
Kilsney had well and truly fallen, and their northernmost defensive line was broken. The Ayon invasion had finally begun and, even with Tarek aid, the post had crumbled under the strain. The encampment never stood a chance against Vrór nor the great force of men who had arrived in the ships. The Ayon attack had been quick, cunning and lethal. Where were Emil and Tiderius this time? Didn’t they know what was happening?
Rasmus realized that he would be trapped if he did not join the retreat. There was nothing he could do, one man against so many. He saw his opportunity and took to his heels. The smoke from the burning buildings had been blown across the camp by a westerly wind. Rasmus used the reduced visibility to his advantage and ran as fast as his aching legs could carry him. He did not dare to risk heading for a gate, knowing the Ayons would be guarding them fiercely, so he darted around the tents, leaped through crumbling buildings and reached the wooden walls. He scrambled up a ladder and stood on the southern ramparts, still partially hidden in smoke. It was a drop of ten yards, more than he was comfortable with, but there was no other option. He straddled the railing, took a deep breath and then launched himself out from the wall, clearing the wooden spikes that protruded from the ground, and landed roughly on his feet. The soil beneath him cushioned his landing and he rolled the rest of the way down the slope. Coming to a crashing halt, he dragged air into his lungs and broke into a desperate sprint.
He did not stop until he had left behind the sound of roaring flames and the crashing of collapsing buildings. But even then, as he looked east and west, he could see the shadowy lines of Ayon cavalry pursuing the retreating survivors. Pushing back the throbbing pain in his head and legs, he called upon all his remaining energy and ran as hard and as fast as he could, thankful for his weeks of hard training.
He must have run south toward the mountains for another hour before he eventually hunched over, grabbing his middle, feeling sick and exhausted. Every inch of him was covered in sweat and his heart was beating loudly in his ears. He straightened, taking in deep breaths. The sun was still a couple of hours from rising but the impenetrable dark of night was beginning to lift. As Rasmus turned north, he spotted a lone rider galloping across the plains toward him. Instinctively, he reached for his sword and raised it protectively. But just as he was debating whether to leap to the left or the right of the oncoming beast, the horseman reined in, and a cry of surprise and delight burst from his lips.
“Rasmus!”
“Cassios! I nearly cut you down!”
“Where have you been?” Cassios leaped from his mount and embraced him tightly. “Thank the Spirits you managed to get out of there.”
“The camp is lost,” Rasmus said dismally, looking over his friend’s shoulder at the smoldering buildings. “There are only a few other places now that we can use as a line of defense between here and Te’Roek itself!”
“What distresses me more is that only half their army came ashore.”
“Half?”
“From what I saw, only half the fleet disembarked, but the other ships were equally low in the water. I can guess where they’ll be heading, and that’s far from good.” Cassios glanced back over his shoulder. “We should get moving.”
“How many survived?” Rasmus asked as he waited for Cassios to remount and settle in the saddle.
“Unsure. We’re still scattered, but once everyone reaches their designated rendezvous points, we’ll know for certain. Commander Tiron is waiting for us with a few hundred cavalry in the trees. He’s been asking after you.”
Rasmus sheathed his sword and found the energy to clamber up behind Cassios on the large white steed. “Then we’re in full retreat?”
Cassios sighed and nodded. “Yes. It seems the first battle goes to them.”
CHAPTER 53
It was a sad and anxious group of approximately four thousand men who began the march southeast along the well-used road to Amon Gathren. A rider had been sent to Te’Roek to relay the news of the sudden strike, the loss of the camp and the retreat. They had lost over three hundred men when Vrór’s creatures attacked and a further four hundred when the gates had been breached. Fearing they would be massacred by the vast Ayon force and unearthly beasts, Commander Tiron had ordered the retreat. They took all the supplies they could carry, secured them and their injured comrades to horses, and left everything else to perish in the fires.
Two days of hard marching saw them safely into the pass of Amon Gathren, where they recruited the two dozen men stationed at a defensive outpost. Menthenae was hard to defend without the barrier of the Great River Divide; now they would have to fall back to the cover of the Black Mountains. The range was rugged, with very few paths traversing its peaks. From the Kirofirth plains, the mountains seemed to form an i
mpenetrable wall of dark gray rocks with very little vegetation on the upper peaks, which were covered in snow all year round. It was a hostile landscape, one very few people visited on their own accord. The only passages from Menthenae to Kirofirth for large numbers of men were in the west, where a narrow sloping plain separated the mountains from the sea; to the east where a branch of the Great River Divide flowed into an enclosed shallow basin, creating a wide, boggy wetland safely negotiable only by small boats; or, finally, Amon Gathren, the mysterious, deep canyon that split the mountain range almost perfectly in half.
On the Ronnesians’ first night of flight, sentries were posted across the canyon floor and rudimentary traps were constructed with trip wires attached to bells. When the morning light appeared, only a small number of men injured during the encampment battle had died. Deciding that haste was vital, the bodies were placed in shallow graves and their names recorded before the company continued on. The injured still clinging on to life did not voice their fears but Rasmus saw the distress in their eyes. Many were losing blood and needed immediate attention, others were in danger of developing infections. Consequently, on the second night, more died and more graves had to be dug at dawn.
“It’s a disaster,” Rasmus muttered as he walked at the rear of the group on the third day. “How the hell did this all happen?”
“They’d been planning for months,” Cassios replied with a sigh. “They executed their plans well. Superior numbers and the advantage of surprise spelled our defeat.”
“Not to mention the leika,” Rasmus said, rubbing his chin and finding it uncomfortably rough with stubble. “I just don’t understand it. We have spies in their ranks, don’t we? We should have heard something.”
“Perhaps our spies were discovered. It happens all the time. Or they turn. They start leaving their reports incomplete, next they start feeding false information, finally, the reports will stop altogether. Don’t you remember the case a couple of years back with Branton?”