“Fire…” it whispered.
He let go, felt the string slide off his fingers, and heard the muffled twang. He knew his arrow hit its mark before the man arched his back and fell silently to the ground. The man was dead when he reached him and blood was slowly spreading across his back. Rule gripped the arrow on the shaft where it entered the body, pulled his arrow free, and returned it to his quiver. His plan was simple; don the man’s clothes and get a closer look at the invaders.
Rule rolled the man to his back and removed his shirt and pants. He quickly put them on. They were loose, but he hoped none would notice the ill fit. Rule rustled through the soldiers pack and found a light over-jacket. He put that on. It would fit about as well as everything else, but at least it would cover the blood stain.
He opened his water skin and rinsed the stain as best he could. To make it appear more as perspiration, he added a little around the collar and under the arms.
He grabbed the man by his feet and dragged him into the bushes and covered him with some loose branches. He placed his own clothes under the brush and made note of the location. The thought occurred to him that he couldn’t take his bow, a spirited elf-bow given to him by his mentor, and he hesitantly placed it high in a tree where it would be hidden from both sight and greedy hands. After grabbing the scout’s bow, checking its weigh and tension, he swung the quiver over his shoulder and jogged down the trail.
Within minutes he was mere yards behind the rest of the party. He slowed to a walk and fought to slow his breathing. He mimicked their style as best he could and worked his way around their flank, heading toward the main marching force. He saw a man barking out orders and made his way in his direction, hoping to overhear conversation, plans, and if he was lucky, a time table. He pulled his hat down low and walked watching the ground.
The captain turned to his lieutenants. “The ranks are getting too scattered. Pull them in.”
The sandy-blond one nodded. “The terrain is rough and the men struggle to stay off the trails and unexposed.”
“I don’t need excuses. Just move them along. I don’t want to have to explain to the Lord…or his mistress.”
“She scares me…” the lieutenant replied, watching the battering ram rumble past. The men grunted as they pushed on the arm-sized wooden pegs that had been carefully fashioned and set into the log. The tip of the log was covered in metal and was shaped to resemble a dragon’s head. The large wooden wheels creaked as they pitched over the rough road. Men ran from side to side pouring lamp oil on the axles, trying to both quiet the sounds and make it easier to push.
The muscular and well-chiseled slaves flexed arms and broke sweat as they pushed, grinding their teeth and glancing up at the sun that was brutally beating down on their backs—making their difficult task all the more unpleasant. Swarms of sweat flies and mosquitoes hovered around their heads, biting them and sucking their blood, yet none let loose of their poles to swat. To do so would have brought certain punishment, if not a swift end of said existence! Their chains rattled and dug into their already raw and bleeding wrists. The taskmaster cracked his whip above their heads and cursed their efforts. They pushed harder. None wanted to taste his whip on their backs.
The captain nodded as he watched. “Just make sure we are ready for our assault tomorrow night.”
“What? Not at night! It’s too soon…”
“Masters orders.”
“I don’t think the ram will be there in time. The road is rutted and narrow. We have to cut trees down to maneuver and lever the wheels over boulders.”
The general felt his anger rise, but he knew the lieutenant told the truth. There was just so much one could do.
“Just keep it moving,” the general growled.
After a quick salute, the lieutenant ran off down the trail barking orders. “I want more branches and canvas over that ram. We don’t want it easy to see,” he yelled. “I’ll have your hides if we are found out!”
Rule watched as the lieutenant approached another group of scouts. He drew on his hand with his finger, pointed into the distance and talked to them in a quiet voice. They nodded and watched him as he gave instructions. Within a few heartbeats, they dispersed and headed into the deep wood.
The ram slowed and groaned to a halt as men ran back and forth to the woods, gathering branches. They returned with arms full and wove them into what was already in place. The slaves leaned heavily on the poles, resting their sore muscles and trying to catch their breath. Slave girls barely of age, dressed in simple doe-skin pants and wearing little to cover their budding breasts, rushed around with pails of water and ladles. The men drank eagerly, the water sloshing over the edges of their mouths as they hurried so that everyone got a chance to drink.
Rule held back, pretending to adjust his bow and let the main group pass him. Once they were clear, he turned around and made his way back. He didn’t bother to change clothes, grabbing his woodsman clothes and stuffing them into the archers pack. He quickly scaled the tree, retrieved his bow and quiver, and ran the trail in the direction of his mare.
He leapt over boulders and rocks and wove his way up the narrow trail—more often used by goat and deer than by man. His breathing was steady. He was used to this higher altitude; the thinness of the air didn’t bother him, and his legs were strong.
Convinced he had put enough space between himself and the main column, he stopped and changed into his own clothes. It would be easier to run in his own boots. He threw the archer’s clothes behind a bush and prepared to leave. At the last minute, he retrieved the clothes and took them with him.
When he reached where he had left his horse, he whistled softly, letting her know it was him. She stepped out of the bushes and shook her head at him. He smiled, removed the clothes from the pack and placed them under his bedroll. It might serve him if he were further questioned about an invasion if he had the clothes to show the Lord and his advisors. He grabbed the pommel and cantle, stepped up and flung his leg over his mount, slipped his boots into the stirrup leathers and urged her on. He had to hurry if he wished to reach Jonovan castle before the enemy. He still needed time to make his story known, and get out. Once the gates were closed and the drawbridge locked in place, he would be forced to stay and fight…
He growled, questioning his wisdom, and pushed his horse hard down steep walled ravines and narrow back trails.
Dusk was quickly approaching and he knew he had to begin searching for a suitable site to spend the night.
Rule crossed a small brook, and stopped to let his horse drink deeply. His water-skin was full, so there was no need for him to dismount. The dapple light filtering through the broadleaf trees had turned golden; the sun would be down soon. He had no wish to travel this treacherous uneven ground at night.
He urged his mount down the streambed, taking care to avoid large rocks. Glancing over his shoulder he studied the creek, he was satisfied that his trail could not be followed. Ahead was a small sheltered clearing. It would make a good place to spend the night.
There were cliffs to his back, thick dense reeds to his left and boulders and trees to his right. Any threat would need to approach from the creek, which ran a little deeper here and would prove more difficult to cross than it appeared. He used his dirk to cut some reeds from the surroundings and after digging with the tip of his sword, he shoved them deep into the hole he had just made. They would diffuse his shape as he slept next to the rocks. With luck—he would be invisible to all but the keenest eye.
He untied the mare; she wouldn’t wander far. After untying the straps, he took his bedroll down, setting it out for the night. Bow in hand, he ducked under the branches near the camp and headed deeper into the woods—hunting. He made no sound as he stealthily moved; his feet placed carefully, each step purposeful. The bush ahead to his left shivered almost imperceptibly. He froze. Lifting his bow, he pulled it and took aim. Wait for it. Wait. Exhale. “Fire,” Release.
In a matter of minutes he r
eturned with two fattened grouse in hand and an armful of dry wood. He used his flint to start a small fire in a pit he dug with his knife. It wasn’t much bigger than both of his hands together and it was smokeless; he only needed it big enough to cook the game. He didn’t want it to be noticed in case some lost fighters were wandering the wood. The smell alone might draw some, but the wind was riding up the mountain so this should not be a problem. If it shifted, he would be forced to eat hardtack and jerky…or go hungry.
He surrounded the fire with a couple large flat rocks and covered it with some bark from a nearby birch tree. Even though it was nearly dark, the light from the flames could barely be seen from the opposite side of the clearing. He rolled the birds over again on a spit he had fabricated from a finger-sized forked branch. The smell made his mouth water. He walked across the field to his horse and pulled a small pouch free from his saddle. He carried it to the fire, opened it and removed two small biscuits, hardtack they called them, although maslin was more common in these parts.
He set his knife next to the rock he sat on and pulled the first bird free. Juggling it from hand to hand, allowing it to cool, he slit the bread, and wrapped it around the meat. He took a bite and enjoyed the meat as the juices slid down his short beard. He held the bread-wrapped bird in his hand and squeezed, letting the juice run down into the biscuit, which readily sopped up the juice.
“Tomorrow morning we will go to the castle,” he spoke to the horse.
The horse turned and watched him, pawed at the ground and shook his head.
“I don’t think it is a very good idea either, but they should know they are being attacked.”
The horse stared him down.
“I know what you’re thinking, but I have friends at the castle,” he said, to the ground.
The horse shook its head and nodded before returning its attention to the lush grass at its feet.
A sharp knock interrupted Quinn as she prepared spells for her fellow dark mage. She ignored the rapping and continued her work. Her hands waved in the air and the spell circled. Her hair was caught in the web of magic and swirled in the air. Her eyes were red and glowed as she chanted and danced. She held a scroll that had been covered with runes and symbols. They glowed one by one as she repeated the spell casting and fed the magic into the paper.
Minutes later the rapping came again, this time more urgent.
Her eyes blazed as her concentration was broken. She threw her arms up and was filled with power.
“Come…” she barked. “This better be good…”
Solgar threw open the door and stepped quickly inside. He checked down the hall to make sure he wasn’t being followed before he shut the door.
“We need to talk.”
“I asked not to be disturbed. I’m casting powerful magic and mistakes are costly,” she hissed raising a hand to cast a bitter spell at him.
Solgar knew better than to raise his defenses. He bowed low. “I understand, but you need to know that we have a problem. Hastings has the Lord’s ear. He suspects that the battle cannot be won and has counseled the Lord to give up the battle for now until he can study the plans more thoroughly. The Hand of this king is more competent than we had thought.”
“Than you thought!” Quinn tossed her hair back out of her eyes and paced the room. “He is strong willed and still fights my magic.”
Solgar took in the biting comment. “Will your spells hold?”
“They should. Each day his will grows weaker, but we cannot wait any longer.”
Solgar’s expression soured.
Quinn asked, “Do you have any suggestions?”
Solgar cleared his throat. “I have formulated a plan, but it will require your assistance, teacher.”
“Although the timing is inconvenient…,” Quinn looked at her pile of half-completed scrolls, “I guess my work will need to wait. It is good that you brought this to my attention.”
He bowed deeply, glad to have the praise and cautiously raised his gaze from the floor.
She threw the scroll she had been working on to the table and watched as the incomplete spell leaked out. “Shall we sit?”
Solgar nodded and took a set at her small table. She motioned and heated the water in the pot before pouring two cups of tea. “Now, tell me your plan.”
“My understanding of the situation is thus; Hastings sees the plans and has enough battle experience for it to just not feel right. I’ll give him credit; the old-man knows enough about battle strategy that he sees the holes. Although he doesn’t know our end game, he suspects that the war will be drawn out and be costly. So, what I think we need is for him to be more distracted, perhaps involved, with this battle.”
“This much I already know,” she hissed, growing impatient.
“I think we need to get him away from the lord and out into the battle field.”
“And how do you propose we do that. I do not think Hastings will leave Killoroy’s side.”
“I was hoping you could give him a group of mudlings to march to the castle. Having that kind of power at your disposal is alluring.”
Quinn stared off into the fire that was burning down in the hearth. “I hadn’t considered using mudlings. It may be unwise for us to show our hand. Once they know we have strong magic, word will get out and spread like wildfire.”
Solgar shifted his weight. “At this juncture do we care? There really isn’t anyone for them to turn to for help.”
Quinn’s expression didn’t change. “I suppose not…”
“I’ve considered the cost, but I don’t think he will need to actually use them in the battle, I have reservations about his ability to get them to Jonovan’s prior to our attack. By the time he gets there, we will be committed and he will have no choice in the matter.”
“True.”
“Perhaps their presence alone will give him confidence that we can win the day.”
“Perhaps…”
“As we both know, mudlings have their…limitations. They would not guarantee a victory.”
Quinn’s lip quivered. “We are going to win the day…just not until the losses have piled up—on both sides.”
Solgar nodded.
“Now, leave me to do my work. You will need these spells for the battle. You should not worry. I will prepare a scroll for you that will allow you to bring the mudlings to life.”
“When will I be taught these spells?”
“Soon…”
Solgar watched her expression, but could not discern whether she was telling the truth or not.
Rule was up before dawn and broke camp without breaking his fast. He chewed on a dried biscuit and jerky as he rode the trail. Hoarfrost covered the trees and Rule pulled his cloak tight and rubbed his hands. The night had been cold and the heatless sun shining through the ice covered forest appeared like a glass menagerie. A fine mist crawled across the forest floor, swirling in the eddies of the morning air.
It was still an hour before the sun would crest when he arrived at the castle. The towers climbed high into the sky, far above the layer of fog that sat at its base. Their tile and metal-clad roofs shined in the early morning sun that had yet to make purchase into the valley. He dismounted and walked his horse through the soup toward the portcullis.
“Halt!” shouted a threatening voice. “Who goes there?”
Rule heard a blade being pulled clear of its sheath.
“I am warder Rule, came the reply. “I am alone.”
The guard could not clearly see the person speaking because of the thick mist that had formed above the glade and moat. It cast an eerie pallor on everything.
“Step closer that I may see you,” came the guard’s second request. “Best that you keep your hands free and clear of weapons.”
Rule raised his hands to the sides and walked slowly toward the gate.
“That’s close enough,” the guard cautioned, his sword drawn and at the ready. “What is it you seek at this hour of the morn?”
Rule bowed shallowly. “I wish to see the king.”
The guard laughed. “I do not think that is likely. You should turn around and come back on commoner’s day.”
Rule stood proud. “I do not think you understood me. I am a warder. I demand to see the king!”
The guard squinted, trying to get a better look at this plain man who made demands. “The king is not yet up…”
“Then get him up! This is of importance to the realm.”
The guard was hesitant. “How do I know you are what you say?”
“I can show you the marks and the sword…if need be.”
“Show them then…” The guard knew the legend of the marks, although he had not fully believed that they existed. “Step slowly…”
Rule took a deep breath and urged himself patience. He stepped forward and rolled his sleeves up. There on his forearms were the twin dragon marks of the warders.
The guard’s eyes went wide when he saw the marks and stared at the curved sword that hung at Rule’s side with its encrusted gems and fine filigree work. “How do I know they are real?”
Rule focused and caused the dragon’s eyes to glow, one red…one blue. “You know the legend?”
The guard’s jaw dropped. “S..stay there. I will fetch the H..hand.”
Rule let his sleeves drop, crossed his arms and waited as the guard closed the entry gate. He heard the lock fall into place and watched as the guard hurried off into the castle.
Minutes later a wizened man of fifty plus years with crow’s feet around his eyes and skin like aged leather came following the young guard. His hair was thin, and pulled back into a tail and he had a small pot-belly that draped over the top of his belt to which a long broadsword was attached.
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 03 - Darkhalla Page 25