Finally, I was able to regain my old form and shed the shell of my host. The Morg had no magic before me but I created an order of Shamans and trained them well in dark magic. Eventually they were ready to take to war but I knew the time was not right. I had to wait until the Ennadil and Orinians were truly divided; only then would Isador be ripe for invasion. Therefore, I counseled patience and finally the moment arrived. The Morg had no desire to leave their desert home for Isador—that was all my doing. They live and die for me but now, as you see, the drop in temperature is slowly killing them.”
“You could stop that,” Will replied.
“As powerful as my shamans are, there is a lot of knowledge I have deliberately kept from them.” Evictar crossed to a large cupboard on the far side of the room. He pulled open the door and lazily caressed the spines of a row of leather-bound books on a shelf. “I took these from Serranguard’s library as soon as we arrived. The weather spell dear Chak wants so desperately is here but sadly he will not get it. I have told him no such spell exists but that I am searching for a solution; and he has no choice but to believe me. The Morg have now outlived their usefulness. Once the Tarzark take Falcon’s Mount, I will no longer need them. Two thousand years amongst the Morg is more than long enough.”
Will listened to Morgarth Evictar’s confession and momentarily forgot his own torment. For the first time he thought of the Morg with pity. More than any of them, the Morg had suffered at the warlock’s hand. Now, he too was Morgarth Evictar’s creature; held here as bait so that the warlock could catch a bigger fish.
Seeing he no longer had a captive audience, Evictar closed the cupboard doors and ceased talking. He pulled out a chair and sat across from where Will lay. Will closed his eyes but could still feel the Warlock’s malevolent stare burning into him.
“They will come for you Captain Stellan.” Evictar’s voice slid across the room like oil. “They will come.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FINDING COURAGE
Lord Aran Fire stood at the window. His gaze was fixed upon the mayhem below. From this window, high up in the palace’s Great Hall, he had an unobstructed view of the city’s lower tiers and of the Tarzark horde swarming around the outer wall. Through the open window, the morning breeze brought with it the screams of the dying, the twang of bowstrings, the metallic stench of blood, and the rank odor of fear.
Aran Fire watched the Tarzark hammer the outer wall and felt as if he had aged a decade since the battle had begun. He was so intent on studying the scene below him that he was not aware of anyone approaching from behind. When Lord Theo Brin stepped up beside him at the window ledge, Lord Fire came out of his reverie.
Fire turned his attention to Serranguard’s City-Lord and was shocked by what he saw. He had not seen Lord Brin in over three days, not since Gywna Brin had run off. It was also rumored that Lord Brin’s wife had abandoned him. Aran Fier’s wife, Imeldia, had told her husband of the rumor that morning over breakfast—and she had added that Lord Brin’s chamberlain was nowhere to be seen. Only Theo Brin’s loyal counsellor, Vermel Ham, seemed to have stayed at his side.
Dark circles ringed Lord Brin’s deep-set eyes, his slack mouth sagged downwards and his head seemed sunken into his shoulders like an arthritic tortoise. Theo Brin’s appearance was unkempt; his robes were dirty and disheveled. Yet his eyes were still as sharp as ever.
“So it has begun.” Theo Brin mused, looking down at the battle. “It will not be long before they breach the wall and take the city.”
Aran Fire gave Serranguard’s City-Lord a long, measured look. “The Tarzark are finding it more of a challenge than they thought to break through our defenses,” he corrected Theo. “We will hold them back for a while longer.”
“It makes no difference if your men manage to hold them back for another day or more.” Theo’s mouth twisted as he spoke. “The city will soon be knee deep in Orinian blood.”
Aran Fire was by nature a calm and sanguine man not easily moved to anger. However, Theo Brin’s presence here at Falcon’s Mount had grated at him and worn down his patience; it was impossible to like the man. Fier’s blue eyes hardened; he had held himself in check for too long where Serranguard’s City-Lord was concerned. He no longer had any patience with him.
“If I have but a short time left to draw breath, I will not waste it being polite to you,” he ground out finally. “For days now I have been forced to listen while you have spewed your bitterness and scorn.” Lord Fire stepped away from the window. “I go now to join my men in battle. If you have but a shred of honor left you will do the same.”
He turned his back on Theo Brin and walked out of the Great Hall. Mocking laughter followed him but he did not react to it—he had finished with Lord Brin.
***
Lassendil perched on the bottom step of the stairwell and watched the three wizards. They were deep in discussion beside the trap door. Light from Arridel’s staff cast a pale violet glow, giving their faces an ethereal quality. Jennadil, Arridel and Adelyis bent their heads together as they talked in low voices, oblivious to their other companions.
Lassendil stifled a yawn. He had no idea what time it was, having lost all sense of time since they had entered the tunnel, but he guessed it was the early hours of the morning. They had rested for a while here while the wizards conferred but Lassendil longed to stretch out and sleep properly.
Gywna sat next to Lassendil, huddled in her cloak to keep warm, while Taz leaned against the wall to his left, casually picking at his teeth with the point of his dagger.
“Will you have enough time to memorize the spell?” Lassendil finally asked the wizards.
Arridel’s forbidding face twisted into a scowl. “It would be time better spent if not for the constant interruptions,” he growled.
Not intimidated by the wizard, Lassendil nodded. However, Arridel ignored the Ennadil and turned his attention back to Jennadil and Adelyis.
“How much longer are we to wait here in this festering darkness?” Taz grumbled.
“For a short while longer,” Lassendil replied. He glanced across at Taz and then back at Gywna. He was not worried about the Gremul’s ability to hold his own in the trial ahead; it was Gywna who concerned him. She had hardly spoken a word during the past two hours. Her face was pale and there were dark smudges under her eyes; the fatigue of the journey here was showing.
There had been times when Lassendil had forgotten Gywna’s age. Her self-assurance and willfulness had made her seem older. Now though, wrapped up in her cloak, her eyes unfocused as her thoughts turned inwards, she looked young and vulnerable. Lassendil felt a stab of self-reproach. He should have tied her up and sent her back as soon as she tried to go after them. He was not sure she would be able to withstand the horror that awaited them.
Lassendil decided he could no longer be gentle with her.
“Gywna, Taz, it is time we discussed our role in this.” He spoke in a low voice so as not to distract the wizards. “For although we have given the wizards swords, none of them are trained in combat as we are. Without us they will not be able to get anywhere near the Lord’s Tower.”
Gywna looked up from her thoughts and blinked, attempting to focus on Lassendil as he continued.
“They will not be able to use their magic until they reach Morgarth Evictar. If they are to have any chance, they must face him without any of their power drained. We must be their shield.” Lassendil paused here, letting his words take effect before continuing. “Hundreds of Morg stand between us and the Lord’s Tower, and we must cleave a path through them.”
Taz nodded, his eyes glowing. The Gremul’s horny fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword and he growled low in the back of his throat.
Lassendil turned to Gywna and took her firmly by the shoulders. “Gywna—are you listening?” he stared into her startled hazel eyes. “That sword you carry will not work its magic if you let fear take over.” He tightened his grip on h
er shoulders and Gywna winced in pain but did not break eye contact with Lassendil. He saw anger spark in her eyes and her mouth compress. He smiled. “That’s my girl. I want you to channel your anger. Push out fear and stay with us, no matter how bad it gets. You must kill, and enjoy seeing your enemy fall, if you wish to survive this.”
Lassendil let go of Gywna’s shoulders but did not look away from her face. He could see her inner struggle and knew he was asking a lot of her. In cold-blood, Lassendil did not enjoy killing. However, in the heat of battle, when blood lust caught him in its grip—he took grim pleasure in dealing out death. Gywna had impulsively run after them, wanting to take part in dangerous games without giving thought to the reality of it. Despite that Gywna was a trained Guardian, she had led a sheltered life—and unlike Lassendil and Taz, she had never seen a Morg. She had no idea how terrifying they were in battle.
On the other side of the cramped space, the three wizards got to their feet.
Adelyis adjusted her robes and buckled the sword Lassendil had given her around her waist. The weapon felt cumbersome but she was happy to have it nonetheless. Since she could not use her staff until they faced Evictar, she had no desire to fight the Morg with her bare hands.
Taz and Jennadil led the way in single file up the narrow stairs. The others followed cautiously, taking care not to slip on the mossy steps, before they emerged into the bowels of Serranguard’s dungeons.
Shadows and silence blanketed them, and only the small, guttering torch held aloft by Taz prevented them from being smothered by it. After a moment’s hesitation, while he got his bearings, Taz took them left down a narrow passageway that led to a wider corridor.
Although they moved as stealthily as possible, it soon became evident there were no Morg lurking in the dungeons. The air down here was too chill and damp for them to bear.
Walking behind Jennadil, Gywna fought against a growing sensation of detachment. Ever since they had entered the tunnel in Delm Forest, her fear had caused her to disconnect from her companions and surroundings; it felt as if all of this was happening to someone else. Deep within, a small voice told her it was merely her mind’s reaction to fear. Her mind was trying to protect her, but she knew this trance-like state was dangerous. If she remained like this she would be skewered on a Morg blade before they got quarter of the way to the Lord’s Tower.
Gywna steadied her breathing and took slow deep breaths; desperate to regain her equilibrium before it came to her turn to lead her companions through the labyrinth of Serranguard’s vast keep.
***
Chaos reigned. Noise splintered the air and arrows rained from the sky. Stones pelted the lowest level of the city and snaking tongues of smoke from burning oil drifted amongst the ramparts. The dead lay where they had fallen while the living scrambled over them.
Myra crouched in the watchtower, paralyzed by terror. Her bow and quiver had slipped from her fingers. She heard the snapping of arrows slamming against the watchtower and whistling overhead, yet she did nothing. She had no thoughts. The yells and screams were terrible on both sides. Myra covered her ears with her hands and scrunched herself up into a ball—and she might have stayed like that for hours if a dying soldier had not staggered into the narrow space and collapsed, convulsing, on top of her.
Blood—there was so much of it—soaked into Myra’s clothes. The soldier’s unseeing eyes rolled up under his lids and she heard the wheeze of his last breath before he died pressed down upon her. Horrified, she struggled to push his body off her, and scrambled away, bile rising in her throat. Panting and shaking, she looked down at her bloodstained clothes. She put her hand to her breast and felt her heart slamming against her ribcage.
She did not want to die.
With trembling hands, Myra slotted an arrow into her longbow and slid along to the edge of the watchtower. She peered around the corner and cringed against the cold stone when her gaze fell upon the mayhem below. The Tarzark roared and gnashed their teeth; oblivious to the arrows raining down on their heads. Some of the arrows found their mark but many only bounced off the Tarzarks’ tough hide. They carried massive crossbows that, although slower, fired arrows twice the size of those used by the Orinians.
Catapults of rock, brought all the way from Hull Mutt, crashed against the city’s outer wall; tearing out large chunks and knocking Orinian soldiers from the battlements.
The Tarzark warriors were fearsome but the Tarzark Sorcerers were even more terrifying. They stood back from the front line, their red cloaks rippling out behind them as they unleashed bolts of fire from their fingertips. The fire lashed out in giant whips of flame and scored the outer wall. It curled around the soldiers and pulled them off the wall to their deaths.
Although witness to the mayhem, Myra now felt her strength returning and calm settled over her. She edged a little further forward and drew the arrow back until her bowstring was stretched taut. She aimed for the chest of one of the Tarzark who had just brought down an Orinian soldier and was bellowing in victory. She released the arrow and her bow sang. The arrow hit the Tarzark square in the chest. He staggered backwards and was hit again by another arrow from Myra’s bow. She watched him fall, only to be trampled by his comrades. The madness of battle that until now had only surged around her caught alight in her veins.
Myra’s spot against the watchtower gave her a perfect vantage point of the Tarzark front line. Unfortunately, it also gave the enemy a good shot of her. Numerous times, she felt an arrow whiz past her ear or brush against her shoulder—and many times, she ducked just as a volley of arrows hit the watch tower and splintered above her head. Despite the fear that at any moment an arrow would find its mark, she remained where she was and managed to take down a few more Tarzark.
Myra was beginning to run low on arrows when she spied the first Tarzark ladder being raised up against the outer wall. Orinian soldiers rushed to the top of the wall to meet them, unsheathing their swords as they ran.
Myra knew she had to get off the wall immediately. She would not last long up here, wielding a sword she could barely use. She strapped her quiver to her back and scrambled along the inner edge of the wall, picking up another quiver full of arrows as she went. She reached the stairs leading down into the city’s lowest level, just as the first Tarzark clawed his way to the top of the first ladder. Myra narrowly escaped being trampled by Orinian soldiers; she dived around them, tripped and tumbled down the steps.
Myra would have surely broken a bone had a passer-by not cushioned her fall. She barreled into the man and knocked him to the ground. The fall had winded Myra, and she could hardly breathe.
She rolled off the man, resenting him for impeding her flight, and winced at the scrapes and bruises the tumble had caused her.
The man groaned as he gingerly picked himself up off the ground. “By the Wraiths of our Ancestors you charge like a wild boar!”
Myra recognized his voice. Her body tensed and her breath stopped in her throat when her gaze met his. “You,” she croaked.
Dael stared back at her, his dark eyes widening in surprise. He had not recognized her in boy’s clothing.
Panic shot through her. Theo had sent him—and she would never go back to her husband. Myra scrambled to her feet and took off in the direction of the Market Square. She sprinted away from the bounty hunter, dodging the chaotic mob that seemed to have no direction and had been seized by panic. Dael caught up with her before she had run twenty yards. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up short. Myra struggled, kicked and scratched but he held her easily.
Gasping for breath and close to hysterical tears at the thought of being taken back to Theo Brin, Myra looked up at Dael—and saw from the expression on his face that he had read her thoughts.
“Well, well, so you found your courage milady,” he said with a mocking smile. “I am surprised.”
Myra drew herself up to her full height, which unfortunately was still only level with
the bounty hunter’s shoulder, and looked up at him, meeting his gaze squarely. He was baiting her, seeing if she would react like the spoilt child he thought she was. The memory of their meeting on the palace roof made her cringe inside. She hated him for making her look pathetic.
“It looks like you too have found your courage,” she snapped. “I thought you would be half way to the Isles of Tarantel by now. Let go of me!”
Myra wrenched free of his grip and stood her ground. To her surprise, he laughed.
“What?” she snapped, “what are you laughing at?”
Dael laughed again, revealing straight white teeth. “And miss out on all this excitement? There’s nothing like a good battle to get your blood going.”
“Or flowing,” Myra shot back. “The Tarzark are on the wall you idiot. We’re all done for!”
Shouts, screams and the clanging of steel echoed down from on top of the wall, momentarily deafening them. More Tarzark had reached the top of the ladder and it would not take them long to bring down the men defending the battlements.
The amusement went from Dael’s face. His gaze followed Myra’s to the wall behind them. Half a dozen Tarzark now battled with the Orinian soldiers, their struggling figures silhouetted against the grey sky.
“To the second level,” Dael shouted, getting the attention of the townsfolk around them, who were refilling their quivers with arrows and loading catapults. “Fall back to the next level! The Tarzark have scaled the wall!”
The townsfolk picked up what they could and fled. Dael and Myra were carried along by the human tide; through the Market Square they went, up the cobbled road and under the archway into the city’s second level. Behind them the heavy iron doors were pushed ajar, ready to slam shut once the surviving soldiers who could no longer defend the outer wall had fallen back.
***
King Grull looked on as more Tarzark warriors clambered to the top of the ladders against the outer wall. It would not be long before the first level of Falcon’s Mount would be his. The Orinian soldiers were putting up one last show of resistance on the top of the wall but they were quickly becoming outnumbered; hewn by Tarzark axes before they toppled from the wall. Any unlucky to still be alive when they hit the ground were trampled to death by the enemy.
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