For their part, none cared about the defenders. They went about the grim task of gathering the wounded and dead. Surgeons acted desperately to save what lives they could. Others pointed out corpses to cloth-faced litter bearers. The dead were stack unceremoniously in the wagon beds. Once one was full, the driver headed back to camp.
“General, over here.”
Moncrieff saw where the ranker was pointing and gradually slid from his horse. He removed his helmet, allowing nearby soldiers to witness the grief etched in his face. He knew who the ranker was point at. Drawing heavy breath, the general of Aradain’s army knelt beside Jesterin’s broken corpse.
A lifetime of warfare, and he still hadn’t gotten used to how pale and waxen the dead looked. Especially when it was a friend. He laid a tender hand on Jesterin’s chest beside a gaping wound. Whoever had killed him had done so instantly, a small mercy.
“Put him on the back of my horse,” Moncrieff ordered. “He’s to receive full military honors. He died a hero of the kingdom.”
“Yes, sir.”
Moncrieff stayed with the body until two more soldiers retrieved it and then walked behind them, eyes lowered to the ground. He’d made an unforgivable mistake, and it had cost Aradain many loyal sons. It would be many years before he managed to forgive his error. Moncrieff vowed to erect a monument to Jesterin and all of the others upon his return to Rantis. He didn’t speak again until rejoining the lines.
“Captain, where do we stand?”
“All of the siege equipment is ready. We’ve pieced together another functional catapult. The line units all know who will be in the main assault tomorrow.”
Moncrieff nodded. “Very good. See that Jesterin’s body is prepared for travel back to the capital.”
“Yes, sir.”
Moncrieff drained his mug of water. “I want every man not involved in the assault to attend the funerals. Order those two catapults to resume firing. Let’s give the Fist scum a long night, shall we?”
“I’ll send a runner immediately, sir.”
Moncrieff watched him go, suddenly feeling tired. His senior commander was dead, his troops demoralized. He needed a victory, any victory, but was at a loss for ideas. Perhaps observing the funeral rites would ease his troubled mind.
“Sir, we’re under attack!” shouted his captain from just outside the tent flap.
Moncrieff exploded from his cot. The initial daze and confusion bled away with the touch of familiar leather straps on his sword hilt.
“Where?”
Flames rose above the rear of the camp, dangerously close to his supply lines. Cold dread crept upon him. The catapults. Moncrieff scanned the semi-dark skies for signs of those damnable flying beasts. Squads of soldiers ran in various directions, taking positions on the perimeter.
Moncrieff grabbed the captain by the collar. “How did this happen? I ordered triple guard.”
“The guards were all killed,” the captain struggled.
“Impossible. That would mean the enemy has found a path into our camp.”
“Yes, sir, that is what we believe.”
Moncrieff shoved the man away, cursing them both for being fools. His mind raced through scenarios in an effort to discover the truth. Then it dawned on him. The dead. He had never bothered checking to ensure all of the bodies had been his men. Now, the worst of all scenarios was playing out. Enemy assassins roamed his camp freely.
“Gather my personal guard,” he barked.
The captain protested, “Sir, it’s much too dangerous. If you fall….”
“I’m aware of the risks, Captain,” he snapped. “Now, do your job. I want their heads before dawn.”
“We could spend hours trying to find them. They may have already gone,” he protested.
Moncrieff’s face darkened. “No. They are still here. Get ready, Captain. I think they have come to kill me.”
“Based on what?”
“That’s the only move that makes sense. Pharanx Gorg knows we can pummel him down until they’re no longer mission capable. He must attack now, try and break us when we least expect it.” Smoke caressed his nostrils. “Send the attack.”
His adjutant stared back in disbelief. “At night, sir?”
Moncrieff’s eyes were ablaze. “Yes, damn it! Now! Form ranks and attack.”
He threw a crisp if undecided salute and marched off barking orders. Moncrieff fought down a smile. Assaulting Kalad Tol wasn’t his main objective, though he hoped it would flush out the mercenaries in his ranks. Moncrieff wanted the fight. Wanted to be done with this bloody affair.
The veteran general stalked through his camp, ringed in personal guards. He bellowed encouragement to the forces marshalling for the assault. “For the glory of Aradain,” he roared, sword raised high. Weary men found their pride renewed and cheered both their leader and their kingdom. His blood up, Moncrieff authorized the advance. The siege of Kalad Tol had entered the final stage. By dawn, the battle would be done.
Moncrieff and his ring of steel marched past dozens of shadows. His focus was on exposing enemy infiltrators, to lure them out. What better temptation than the general of the army? His first two guards went down with arrows in their chests. The rest halted, constricting around Moncrieff. None had seen where the shots came from. Moncrieff snarled. Three more guards fell dead, all from different angles in the circle.
“Cowards!” Moncrieff shouted. “Face me, and die like men!”
“Not much incentive to fight.”
The last three guards fell. Blood ran in small streams under Moncrieff’s heels. He gripped his sword tighter, fully expecting to be riddled with arrows. A slender figure emerged from the night, and he instantly knew it was Pharanx Gorg.
The mercenary commander bowed elegantly. “I’ve come for your head and to end this.”
Moncrieff snorted a laugh. “You’ll find that tougher than you think, unless you plan on using your cowards to finish me off.”
“No. I’ve already sent them off. This is just you and me.”
“Your mistake,” Moncrieff said.
He charged. Steel clashed with sparks. He was the older of the pair, more experienced. Moncrieff carved downward slashes from left and right before dropping back. Sword poised in high guard, he awaited the inevitable counter.
Pharanx barely raised his sword in time to block Moncrieff’s assault. Vibrations echoed down his arms. He smiled grimly, momentarily letting arrogance show. He knew he was faster, stronger, and better than the old man. Pharanx wanted to get inside his head. It began by stealing confidence. The mercenary recognized that killing Moncrieff was the only way to give his meager force half a chance.
Soldiers began to ring in around them.
“Do not interfere!” Moncrieff ordered. “This is my fight. Let us be.”
Pharanx accepted that he wasn’t going to leave alive. All he could hope for was victory in this duel. Funny, I never figured I’d die by suicide. He lunged. Golden sparks showered his gloved hands. Slack. Parry. Hack. They spun and whirled. Bodies twisted in the dance of death. Breathing became heavy. Muscles ached from the sheer strain. Soldiers cheered their general with each move.
Moncrieff landed the first telling blow. Pharanx stumbled after blocking a brutal riposte. Moncrieff saw the opening and twisted out. His blade ripped across the top of a thigh. The Fist groaned, hot blood washing down his leg. He lashed out in reply, tapping the cutting blade away. Men roared approval. Pharanx Gorg felt the balance shift. Empty defeat became a very real possibility.
Moncrieff sensed victory. The blood running down his sword was bright in the light of a hundred torches. The very sight pushed him harder. He fought with reckless abandon, knowing the moment he slowed, Pharanx would rip him apart. Moncrieff hefted his sword and charged back into the fight for kingdom and glory.
Pain lanced through Pharanx’s thigh. His window of opportunity was closing. In a daring move, he feigned letting the pain take control. Through the sweat dripping down his bro
w, he saw the bloodlust dominating Moncrieff’s mind. Pharanx flexed, dropping to a knee. The deception worked. Moncrieff bore down on him.
The Fist used every ounce of will not to move in the face of the almost blinding attack. His opponent made a crucial mistake, however. The fury of his attack left him exposed. Pharanx stabbed up, taking Moncrieff at the base of the throat. Dark blood sprayed over both men. Moncrieff let out a gurgled cry and the blade punched through the spine and then out the back of his neck. His sword dropped. A stunned silence fell over the makeshift arena. Pharanx twisted his blade before ripping it out the side. Aradain’s greatest general fell, dead before he hit the ground.
Struggling to his feet, Pharanx looked around. More than a hundred soldiers surrounded him. He offered a wry smile, fingers flexing on his sword.
“Come on, then, you bastards,” he snarled.
The ring closed. Swords rose, and Pharanx Gorg fell.
“They’re coming over the wall!”
Barum snapped his head around to the sound of the voice. Enemy soldiers were trickling over the ramparts, slowly swallowing the defenders. The night assault had taken the Fist by surprise. Aradainian soldiers swarmed up ladders. Arrows whizzed everywhere as the Fist struggled to rally.
Barum looked across the battleground with the aid of the pale moonlight and despaired. Hundreds of enemy soldiers were attacking. Moncrieff had sent his entire host. That could only mean Pharanx had failed. Barum watched the last flames from the catapults rage. It was a small condolence. The bombardments might be finished, but at the cost of the Fist leader. Barum knew once the others learned they were leaderless, the defense would crumble. He had to act before all was lost.
“Geblin!”
The Gnome jerked his blade from the ribcage of a fallen foe and hobbled over. “This is hopeless. We’ve lost too many men. The enemy is fighting hard for the gates. Barum, if they get the gates open….”
He let it drop; no point in stating the obvious.
“It’s worse,” Barum said. “The eclipse has begun.”
“Damnation. Do you think the others have succeeded?”
“I don’t know.
Geblin nodded in grim understanding. There was nothing for it. “Then we defend the gates for as long as possible and hope for the best.”
“I’ll rally from here. Help the others. I think Pharanx is dead. We must hold. Kill enough, and the rest will break,” Barum said.
Geblin nodded and slipped down the blood-slickened stairs as the first rays of sunlight crept into the night. Barum frowned, for the dawn was spoiled with an unclean taint. He cursed their foul fortunes. The oracle had never said what time of day the eclipse was supposed to be. They’d naturally assumed it would be late in the day; that it rode the dawn cast dread over his heart.
He prayed Kavan and the others were well about their task; otherwise…. Barum drew an arrow. There was little else he could do. The fate of Malweir was no longer in his hands. He’d done all he could to aid the quest, but now his part was drawing to a close. All he had left was the remnants of the Fist. He knew better than to think they’d survive.
The dawn grew dimmer. Bodies stacked around him. The ground grew soggy from blood and offal. The siege of Kalad Tol was almost at its resolve, and unless Kavan was successful, it would end badly.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Into the Ruins
Heartbeats sounded as thunder to Kavan as they crept into position near the cavern mouth. He felt as if this was his first campaign. Aphere and the others moved in single file behind him. Kavan seethed inside, building intensity in order to accomplish his task. Yet between Corso’s mischief and Pirneon’s abandonment, he felt insecure. Subterfuge wasn’t a trait amongst Gaimosians.
The day was dying, casting a pall over the slaughter fields. Very soon, the enemy would attempt to retake the field. Dag and the survivors would be hard pressed to survive the night. Added defenses and preparations greatly improved their chances of success along with giving Kavan much needed time.
“There,” he whispered, pointing to a shallow depression in the rock face.
Aphere slipped ahead, her lithe form nimbly climbing the handful of meters to where he pointed in a matter of seconds. The rest paused until she gave them the all clear. Mabane was helped up by Tym, the others following soon after.
The cavern mouth beckoned. Foul temptations leaked from the blackness, whispered promises of unbridled power, raw and wicked. He felt small. Doom, they whispered in a chorus of wails. Doom awaited the enemies of the dark gods. Doom to all the world. His mind clouded. The voices sought to gain control. His very soul felt threatened.
Kavan shook his head. A new voice, thin, entered his thoughts. You shall not fall. Kavan took heart.
“What was that?” Aphere asked, suspicion aroused by his queer actions.
“Later,” he replied.
Her eyes narrowed with mistrust. She’d felt those same temptations, though not as distinctly. A golden presence surrounded her, driving away the darkness. It was nothing explainable yet was utterly familiar. She was only discovering her newfound powers. Perhaps they kept her safe from the darkness. Whatever her protections, Kavan had none but his strength of character. She decided to watch him carefully. Pirneon’s betrayal stung enough to place a measure of mistrust deep in her core.
She pressed the issue, “I know what you felt just now.”
“I said later,” he shot back.
“No, Kavan. There is no later. Now is not the time for selfish pride. The allure of this place is strong. I’ve felt it since we first came here.” She laid a hand tenderly on his forearm. “You must remain wary. The dark gods seek to spoil our minds with empty promise. Stay strong.”
Golden light poured into his veins from her slightest touch. His faith and hope were restored. Kavan felt invigorated. The immense feeling of hope took him to the brink of tears. When at last she withdrew her hand, the warmth remained. He at last felt ready to take on the host of the enemy.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She smiled.
“What happens now?” Tym asked, having heard none of their conversation.
Kavan answered, “We wait.”
The sun continued to drop, letting the curtain of twilight advance over the horizon.
“They will come soon.”
Tym asked, “Will they pass us by?”
“Who can say? These beasts are cunning, almost as if they know the ways of men.” Kavan frowned at the last thought.
The enemy was savage, void of reason or emotion. Still, they betrayed an almost human intelligence. That made him uneasy. Kavan was already weary of fighting them. He longed for the open plain and massing armies.
Mabane watched the Gaimosians closely. His heart told him they were all going to die. No amount of well wishing or cheery thoughts of optimism would make a difference. He also knew when to keep his mouth shut. He’d foresworn any notion of survival the day he turned sober. The Gaimosians were self-destructive people. He now understood why their kingdom had been so easily destroyed.
Aphere said, “Relax. We stick to the plan, and all with be fine.”
She didn’t believe her own words. All of their efforts hung on their bet that Corso was their foe. Any moment, the sun would disappear and hordes of werebeasts would emerge. The odds that they would empty the caverns were slim at best. How many untold numbers would the small band be forced to fight through in order to achieve victory? She didn’t know.
Kavan sensed her doubts and leaned close. “Is your power going to help us like it did in the Uelg?”
“I don’t know, Kavan,” she hushed. “I have no idea how it works.”
“You may be our best shot at victory.”
She offered a weak smile. “Corso had best watch out.”
Kavan sighed. The board was set. All that remained was the opening move. His thoughts turned towards fighting Pirneon. All of his earlier doubts were gone. He felt Pirneon nearby, confirming his treachery.
Shadows grew deeper. A noticeable chill dropped. Night had rushed upon them, almost as if it wanted the coming battle to take place. As the world teetered on the edge of destruction, Kavan wasn’t sure if it wanted to be saved. He sensed the sudden tremor in the ground. The time had come. Tomorrow, the eclipse would taint the sky, and, unless he and his companions won the night, all Malweir would be enslaved for eternity. The dark gods laughed from their icy tombs.
“They’re coming,” Kavan said. “We move on my signal.”
Crouching, willing themselves to blend with the shadows, they waited as rock and dirt poured down around them. Dust choked the air. What started as a low growl deep in the bowels of the earth evolved into a terrible roar. Hundreds of werebeasts burst from the opening in a mass of gnashing teeth. The smell of rot spurred them on.
Kavan gave up trying to count after one hundred. More and more issued forth. Corso had sent his entire force against the last of the hunters. Kavan offered a fast prayer for Dag, hoping they’d both survive long enough to share a mug of ale. The thick smell of urine assaulted his nostrils. He didn’t need to look to know that the horror had already gotten to Mabane.
Sounds of battle filled the night sky, and still the enemy came on.
Screams followed cries of rage. Kavan held his team until well after the last of the werebeasts was gone. Now was not the time for carelessness. When he was finally satisfied, he slid down the rope and beckoned. Only the wind stirred in reply.
Hefting his sword, Kavan advanced into the gloom. The werebeast burst from the darkness with mouth open and arms extended. The attack was so sudden that Kavan couldn’t react. All he saw was long teeth glistening with saliva and blood. Aphere’s arrow took the beast in the mouth, punching through the back of the skull. Blood and brain matter sprayed against the rock face. Aphere dropped into position beside Kavan and reloaded. If this was any indication of what was to come, they were in for a long night.
Beyond the Edge of Dawn Page 36