The Dark Citadel

by Michael Wallace

  It started with a fireball against the cart. The cart burst into flames, filling the air with smoke and the stench of burning bodies. The heat drove them back from the barricade, and shouts sounded from beyond the destroyed gates. Arrows flew through the air from walls and through the gates and an instant later three giants tore apart the remains of the makeshift barricade. Footmen and cavalry burst through the wreckage and grappled with the defenders. Veyrian cavalry impaled themselves on the defensive perimeter of pikes, but sheer numbers drove the pikemen back into the bailey.

  “The towers!” Whelan shouted.

  Darik and the others fought their way to the towers. The archers on the walls stopped trying to keep the enemy from reaching the castle, concentrating instead on protecting the men fleeing to the towers. Upon reaching the towers, the defenders pulled the doors shut and barred them. Darik made his way to the top of the Eagle Tower and joined his companions.

  The enemy didn’t immediately assault the towers, but took the lower buildings against the walls, and positioned themselves behind a wall of shields.

  The green was unrecognizable from yesterday. The ground was torn and muddy, while dead men and horses lay everywhere. Broken bits of the cart still burned inside the gates. Wounded men from Cragyn’s army hurried to the protection of the buildings before the archers could finish them.

  The dark wizard strode through this wreckage. Darik recognized him immediately from his commanding presence and by the swirl of light about his body. No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t so much light as something that sucked the light from the sky. Unlike his men, he stood in the open. Arrows flew at him from all around, but they dropped harmlessly at his feet.

  “Watch the wizard,” Whelan warned.

  “He’s spent,” Markal said. “He used it to break down the gates. No, he has no more magic than I do right now.”

  “But the arrows can’t hit him,” Darik protested.

  “An illusion of power. He’s wearing a magical cloak, as a shield. Perhaps the wizard made the cloak, perhaps it is a relic like Whelan’s sword, but it is the cloak itself turning our arrows.”

  Hoffan ordered his men to stop shooting. Emboldened by Markal’s words, he leaned over the edge of the rampart. “You might take us,” he shouted to the dark wizard. “But it will cost you dearly. Why not continue on your way? We’ll agree not to hinder your men.”

  “So you will swear your allegiance to me?”

  Hoffan balked. “I didn’t say that. I bow to no man.”

  Cragyn laughed. “Then we have no deal.”

  Hoffan let out his own laugh, which sounded more confident than Darik felt. “Very well. I promise you will leave Montcrag a shadow of your former strength.”

  If Hoffan meant to cast doubt, he succeeded. Some of the attackers murmured amongst each other. They did, however, keep entering the green.

  Hoffan turned to one of his men and said quietly, “Tell the men not to shoot until I give the word. Let the enemy pack the green and every one of our arrows will draw blood. If they storm the towers, we pour burning oil down the stairs. We’ll cut off entry or exit from the green and slaughter them to the last man. Thrice beaten, they won’t attack a fourth time. Go.”

  Hoffan’s man climbed down the stairs, emerging on the castle walls a minute later, where he spread the news. Hoffan looked back to Cragyn. “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll continue our slaughter of your men. We have powers we’ve only begun to tap.”

  Cragyn looked unconcerned by Hoffan’s speech. “I suppose you’re talking about that old fool Markal. Yes, that’s right, I see you up there, wizard. I also know about your meddling in Balsalom. The stench of your weak magic was all over the place like a dog who pisses on every street corner.”

  Markal smiled. “Still bitter that we cast you from the Order?”

  “The Order? A bunch of old men fretting over power they don’t dare to wield. Following a dead philosopher who was only half a man when he was still alive. And you, wizard, shouldn’t you be hiding behind Chantmer the Tall?”

  Markal’s voice grew cold. “You overextend yourself. And you peril your life by maligning the Order.”

  “Overextend myself? Peril my life? Look east, you old fool.”

  Darik followed the gaze of the others and was dismayed by what he saw. Dark shapes flew in the east, soaring up from the plains toward the castle. Dragon wasps! A dozen of them, ridden by their masters, the dragon kin, who were themselves armed with spears. As they approached, wasp and kin screamed in unison. Wails of despair sounded in the towers and on the walls, while the enemy below shouted.

  “The bows!” Whelan cried. “You can bring them down.”

  They drew their bows too late. The dragon wasps drew upon them. One of the creatures landed on the walls, knocking an archer from his feet. Its snakelike neck darted back and forth, jaws clamping down on the man’s face and neck. The dragon kin riding this beast jumped from his mount to finish the archer with his spear. Other dragon wasps darted at the men on the walls, knocking some over the edge, and overwhelming others. The archers got off a few shots, but the defense was wild. Back and forth wasps swooped in a series of crazy, high-speed assaults.

  The dragon kin might have been human, but their face paint and ragged, dyed hair made them look like demons. One leered at Darik as it swooped past. Sofiana shot at it with her crossbow, but the shot went wide.

  As the archers stood to shoot at the wasps, Cragyn’s bowmen launched waves of arrows. Below, Cragyn’s men broke from their defensive positions to rush the towers. Hoffan’s men fought them back for a few minutes, but with the archers on the walls beset from two directions, Veyrians gained the lower levels and fought their way up. Hoffan and Whelan ran down the stairs to join the battle. Markal overlooked the battle with a grim look on his face, while Sofiana shot her crossbow with little success.

  Darik froze, torn between staying to help the girl and wizard with his short sword, and going after Whelan and Hoffan. From the ever-closer shouting and clanking of swords below, the battle would reach him either way. Dragon wasps swooped again and again at the walls. Two archers atop the Eagle Tower itself fell to assault, leaving only Darik, his two companions and a single bowman.

  From the mountains at their back, a scream, high and inhuman. A moment later, an entire chorus of screams. And then he saw them, coming over the mountains, shimmering white and oh, so gloriously beautiful against the sun. An entire flock of griffins. Head and front legs of an eagle, and back haunches of a lion, they were as big as horses, but graceful as Whelan’s falcon as they wheeled in the air. Each griffin held at least one man on its back, sometimes two, and these men shouted as the griffins swept into battle. Their mounts joined them in another ear-splitting shriek. This time the dragon wasps and their riders lifted up from the walls to meet them.

  Markal broke from his stupor. New hope brushed across his face. “Flockheart! He’s come!”

  There were only a dozen dragon wasps, compared to twice as many griffins; the wasps and their riders, so fearsome a moment earlier, looked weak and pitiful in comparison. Some of the griffins wheeled immediately at the dragon wasps, while others dove for the green, attacking Cragyn’s men with claw and beak.

  Two griffins seized a dragon wasp in the air overhead. One tore at its eyes with its beak, while the other raked its belly with claws. The griffin riders dragged the dragon’s kin from his mount and hurled him to the rocks below. The wasp followed its rider, broken and dead. One of the griffins dropped to the Eagle Tower and Darik and Sofiana instinctively shrank back.

  Two men rode the griffin and one slid free, sword in hand. The man remaining on the griffin looked bird-like himself. He’d slicked back his hair like the curved feathers around an eagle’s ears and he cocked his head and eyed Darik before turning to the wizard.

  “Flockheart,” Markal said. “You’re just in time.”

  The second man, to Darik’s surprise, was Whelan’s brother Ethan. He looked different than
when Darik had seen him in the tavern a few days earlier. He wore Eriscoban leather armor, covered with sheets of metal scale. Ethan slid his sword back into his scabbard, hung over his shoulder in the same way that Whelan wore his blade. From its battered, overly polished scabbard, Darik guessed it had seen plenty of battles.

  “Well met, Ethan,” Markal said. “How did Flockheart know we needed him? He’d have no news of this battle in his aerie.”

  “I met Saldibar’s agents soon after you left. They were looking for you, thinking you Veyrian spies who’d set fire to the Slaves Quarter. We exchanged a few, uh, pleasantries until we properly established identities. I’m afraid I left them somewhat worse for the wear.”

  “But alive, I hope,” Markal said.

  “Yes, of course. So they brought me to the grand vizier in the Tombs of the Kings and he sent me to catch you. I’ve been riding hard, and I met Flockheart and his flock chasing a pair of dragon wasps who’d stumbled into the mountains and stirred up trouble. So we already rode in force.”

  “Where is my brother?” Ethan asked.

  Sofiana said, “Down below.”

  “As should I be.” Ethan turned and ran down the stairs. Darik took up Hoffan’s short sword and made to follow, but Markal stopped him.

  Dragon wasps killed or driven away, the griffins swooped at the attackers, lifting many into the air to tear apart or dash on the rocks. Hoffan’s men fought free from the towers. Victory for Cragyn’s army turned into a rout. Yet again, the Veyrians fled down the hill.

  Darik, Markal, and Sofiana made their way to the green, where Darik returned his sword to Hoffan, embarrassed at its lack of use. But the big man hugged him and grinned. “Well done.” He eyed the griffins with a curious look that encompassed both awe and fear. “All those sheep paid off after all.” He turned and shouted instructions to organize his men against the next attack.

  “No,” Markal shouted after him. “It’s over. We can’t win, not even with the griffins.”

  “Are you asking me to abandon Montcrag?” Hoffan asked.

  “No, I’m telling you to abandon Montcrag. The griffins can carry us to the top of the mountain and we can hike to Eriscoba from there. We have no choice. This defeat is just a sting to the enemy, while we’ve lost half our men, dead or injured.”

  Hoffan hesitated, then turned and shouted new instructions.

  Darik and Sofiana found Whelan before Ethan, but when Whelan heard that his brother was searching for him, he started looking. They found Ethan shortly. The two embraced, then Ethan said, “I’m glad I found you. You’ve got to return.”

  “To Balsalom? How badly was the city damaged?”

  Ethan’s expression turned grim. “The dark wizard has murdered and carried away thousands of people.”

  “And the khalifa?” Whelan asked in a tired voice. Years lined his face and the glint dulled in his eyes. “Did she die easily or did he torture her?”

  “Kallia?” Ethan said, a smile coming to his lips. “I forgot to tell you. Kallia is alive. She sent me to find you.”

  Chapter Ten

  Hoffan sent men to guard Montcrag’s entrance, now unprotected by gates, while Flockheart’s griffins carried the others to safety on the ridge. The ridge topped the mountain like a lizard’s bony spine. Cragyn’s men could scale the mountain with effort—that was Montcrag’s escape route, after all—but the griffins could hold back the armies long enough to make pursuit impossible. Some of Hoffan’s men climbed onto the griffins with terror on their faces, clinging to the rider and clenching their eyes shut. Others rose into the air with looks of exhilaration.

  Darik gathered his belongings and returned to the green. Hoffan climbed onto the back of one of the griffins, and gave a sad look over his shoulder. Montcrag had never fallen to direct assault. Until now.

  Flockheart and his griffin Brasson returned to the bailey green, followed by a second beast and rider. Whelan approached Flockheart with Scree securely in his hands. He’d covered the falcon’s eyes with a leather hood, but the bird still struggled. She screamed, and Brasson eyed the bird with a curious gleam in its eyes. Recognition? Darik had no idea how intelligent the griffins were.

  “Boy,” a voice called from the second griffin. A girl sat on the back of this second animal, or rather a young woman, not a girl. About Darik’s age. A thin leather harness looped around the griffin’s neck, then tied to her belt to keep her from falling should she lose her grip; there was no saddle or bridle. She gestured for him to come.

  Darik swallowed hard, trying to steady his nerves, then slowly approached the griffin. He held out his hand like he might to a strange dog.

  “Not like that,” she said. “She’ll take your arm off.” She grinned. “Come on, just climb on back.”

  Sheepishly, Darik climbed onto the back of the animal and wrapped his arms around the girl. The griffin shifted its weight. It felt much like sitting bareback on a horse, but it moved like a recently broken stallion. The girl tied the leather strap around his waist, and wrapped it around his legs and pulled it tight at the crotch.

  “There,” she said. “You feel secure?”

  “No, not really.”

  She laughed. “You look all right to me.”

  The girl climbed in front and secured herself, then told Darik to hold on. “Ska!” she shouted, digging her heels into the griffin’s ribs.

  Darik felt a terrific lurch and they were airborne. The ground receded rapidly and the wind buffeted his face. Darik looked down at the ground, fighting terror.

  The griffin wheeled south over the walls before banking sharply. As it did, Darik held on tight, stunned by the speed. The griffin flew as fast as a galloping horse, but smoother. Cragyn’s men looked skyward, shielding their eyes against the sun. Darik flew too high to see faces, but he imagined envy, fear, longing. Now turned completely around, they climbed swiftly toward the summit. His stomach lurched when they hit a pocket of wind and dropped suddenly, before climbing again. The griffin picked up speed.

  It took Darik a moment to recover from fear, from the shock of battle, from the change from ground to air. But then he felt it. He was flying!

  Darik let out an exulting shout. The girl looked over her shoulder and laughed, a high, joyous sound.

  Most of the griffins landed on the ridge to drop their loads before flying back to the castle for a final, brief defense. Darik and the girl, however, continued over the mountain. Whelan and Markal had decided that Sofiana and Markal would continue with Hoffan before breaking west for Eriscoba with Ethan. Whelan and Darik, however, would fly to Flockheart’s aerie, then return to Balsalom.

  Trees flew by underneath them. The terrain was rugged and barely passable, except through the air. They followed a small river pouring from a canyon, and flew over a waterfall cascading down the mountainside. He stared in amazement at it all. Occasionally, the girl would turn and point out some feature of the landscape, naming Bestor’s Hollow, and the Sacred Copse. Flying at such speeds made it hard to hear and several times he had to ask her to repeat herself.

  After the initial burst of energy, Darik noticed something else. The girl was quite beautiful. She had a smooth face and an attractive pucker to her lips when she leaned into the wind; her eyes sparkled with life. He still held her tightly around her waist, and her breasts pressed into his arms when they leaned into a turn. Her long hair swung free in the wind, brushing through his face like a horse’s mane, and he loved the feeling. She had dark hair like a woman of the khalifates, but her face was as white as cream, like a barbarian’s.

  He leaned forward. “What is your name?” She said something, but the wind carried it away. “What?”

  She turned around again and put her mouth next to his ear. “Daria. What is yours?”

  “My name is Darik.”

  She laughed. “Darik and Daria. We could be brother and sister.”

  Darik’s sister’s name was Darikia, although he called her Kaya for short, so she wasn’t far off. Brother and
sister, however, wasn’t on Darik’s mind at the moment.

  They rode for some time before spotting the aerie. It might have been an hour, but it felt like less. Darik didn’t want the flight to end.

  The aerie rose from a copse of trees, invisible until they were upon it. It sat in an old watch tower, half-crumbling with age. Ivy gripped the tower, working its way into the stone. The windows in the upper reaches were broken out to accommodate griffins.

  “Watch your head,” she said as they swooped toward one of these openings.

  Darik ducked and shut his eyes, sure the griffin would miss its entrance and slam into the wall at such speed. It didn’t, but came to an easy stop inside. He found himself in a wide room with a stone floor. A bed of evergreen branches lay in one corner. In another, two small griffins woke as they entered. They rose to their feet and waddled toward them, squawking.

  “Yes, I know you’re hungry,” Daria told them. “But you’ll have to be patient.”

  She climbed off the griffin, then untied Darik and helped him down. His backside was sore, as were his arms from gripping Daria too tightly. The griffin turned and eyed him.

  Daria laughed. “She’s wondering who’s been riding on his back.”

  “And no doubt thinking what a poor rider I am.”

  “Ah, you weren’t bad. And you didn’t panic when we took off like most people do the first time.”

  “Where are the other riders?” Darik asked.

  She looked out the window. “They have their own aeries. We’re only expecting my father and your friend, but Brasson took a nasty scratch on his haunches, so Father won’t ride him hard. Do you want to help me rub down Averial?”

  The question surprised him. “Yes, very much.”