Rivers Run Red (The Morhudrim Cycle Book 1)

by A. D. Green

  The two men set the equipment down near the flag pole at the back of the tower and Amos joined them. Picking up his bow he pulled a string from his belt pouch and quickly strung it. As he did, he caught the lanky bow master watching with interest.

  “Nice bit a wood,” he commented.

  Amos gripped his bow possessively resolving not to leave it unattended.

  He moved back to the tower wall and peered again between the crenels. The amassed urak were walking slowly towards them, so tightly packed it was hard to count numbers but there must have been many thousands. He thought back to Mueller’s report the previous night of ten hands of arrows for each bow being plenty. Looking now at the urak horde, Amos wasn’t so sure, even if every one of them found their mark. The hard knot in his belly grew. They’d be in bow range shortly, they would know soon enough.

  “I haven’t time for you girl,” Amos heard Samuels shout from behind. “Unless you’re a physiker I’ve no use for you.”

  Amos looked. A young woman in a simple grey robe stood in front of the Captain. She was plump her face plain but despite standing only as tall as the Captain’s shoulder she had a stubborn set to her. She looked familiar, Amos had seen her before.

  “My master ordered me here,” she insisted as if that were the end of the matter.

  “Your master’s a drunk. I haven’t time to babysit his babysitter. If you can heal great, get your ass below. You’ll be busy soon enough. If not get off my tower,” Samuels told her bluntly.

  Her cheeks coloured red and Amos saw indignation on her face. She obviously wasn’t used to being spoken to like that he mused.

  “I’ll inform Lord Richard you turned me away. Good day to you Captain,” she declared. Walking off, head held high, she almost made it to the stairs.

  “Hold girl,” Samuels growled. “You say Lord Richard sent you?” he queried. She made no answer, just glared back at him. Samuels caught Amos watching the exchange and looked agitated. Amos saw the idea light across the Captain's face almost before it was there and knew what was coming, damn him.

  “That’s Lord Amos there,” Samuels pointed. “Stay with him, he’ll see to you.”

  The young woman turned to look at Amos. The grin that had been on his face slipped to something else.

  “Thank you Captain,” she said. But Samuels had already moved away, his attention elsewhere. She ambled over to Amos and inclined her head. “Lord Amos, though we were not formerly introduced, we meet again.”

  Realisation hit Amos as she addressed him. The Broken Axe; she was Lutico’s frumpy apprentice. What had the old man called her?

  “I’m Amos Duncan, though Amos will do,” he said smoothly, holding his hand out in greeting.

  She took it inclining her head. “Junip Jorgstein, Master Lutico’s apprentice. Junip will do,” she mimicked, smiling as she said it. It transformed her plain features, giving her a homely and friendly appeal. Amos decided he liked her.

  “This here is Jobe and Jerkze,” he said. Amos glanced back out past the battlements. The urak had stopped just outside of bow range.

  He turned back to Junip. “That was well played with the Captain. Now why are you here? A mage's apprentice might be useful if you’re any good.”

  Her lip curled at that. “Would you mind?” She indicated the crenels.

  Amos stood aside and she moved to the wall peering out at the urak. “Why are they waiting?” she asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Amos replied watching as she raised her hands out in front of her. He felt the hairs on his arms raise, “You casting?”

  “It’s a trick Master Lutico taught me recently, take a look.” She held her hands up for him to see through.

  Amos peered between the arch of her fingers. The air was distorted but he could make out a mass of urak standing as if they were twenty paces away. He whistled, impressed, and Junip smiled. Nudging her hands he moved them about.

  “That’s a neat trick,” Amos said eventually. The urak stood silent, glaring as if they could see him right back. All had white face paint on in the form of a hand, fingers splayed. Behind were banners bearing a wolf’s head superimposed over a white hand.

  “What else can you do?” he asked. Mercy was a fire mage but had never manipulated the air like this.

  She replied as if he’d asked a different question. “Lord Richard thought they would attack from the north and west. My master was charged with working on the defences. I watched and learned until he was satisfied. He assigned me the south wall. Part of my training he said, although I suspect it was to keep me out from under his feet.”

  She looked through her hands at the urak as she spoke, clearly fascinated with what she saw. “In truth, they didn’t expect the urak to come in such numbers or that they would attack from the south, not at first anyway.”

  She jumped suddenly as if pinched. Dropping her hands Junip spun back against the merlon, shock on her face.

  “What is it?” Amos asked.

  “They felt me watching,” she said. “I felt a pulse of something in the aether. They have magic users with them.”

  Chapter 60

  : Hellfire

  The urak seemed beyond count to Lutico. They covered Northfield like a carpet. Lord Richard stood to his left issuing orders. Lord Jacob was away commanding the west tower.

  A drum beat sounded, low and sullen, echoing as it washed against the walls. Then another beat, more drums joining it, sounding in time adding depth and tone. The sound was ominous. Lutico felt the tension from the men at arms; and felt much the same.

  The urak had amassed just outside of bow range but in reach of the ballistae. They had two of the massive weapons, cranked loaded and ready to fire but Lord Richard held back the order to unleash them. We wait is all he said.

  Another beat reverberated across the field and along the walls, then silence. The soldiers lining the walls and barbican watched and waited nerves on edge. The massed horde stared unmoving at the walls, their ranks thickening as more joined from behind.

  The drums beat again; followed by another, higher louder crash. At some unseen signal the urak had raised their shields and beat them. The contrast in sound was sudden and startling and set Lutico’s heart racing. It would be soon he knew as he watched over Lord Richard's shoulder.

  But still the urak stood unmoved. It was unnerving.

  “Come-on ya bastards,” a lone voice cried from the battlements.

  As if in reply the beat of drum and crash of shields sounded again. The urak stepped forward as one, shields raised, big round blocks of wood all painted a smorgasbord of colours but each with a white hand etched on the front. With every beat and crash the horde stepped closer, the rolling noise coming ever faster.

  Lutico observed in consternation. It seemed so at odds with what he expected. The urak were just savages weren’t they? Ferocious beyond compare his histories said, but this… this was organised; disciplined.

  The sound grew as the beats folded into a steady rhythm. Lutico judged the distance and holding his hands palm upwards focused on the weavings he had prepared. He could feel each strand. He swore soundly as he was jostled from behind losing his focus. Turning, he glared at the offending man growling his annoyance.

  Lord Richard missed nothing. Turning he looked at his grizzled counsellor’s scrunched up face and the men at arms pushing from behind.

  “Captain,” Richard called to Mathew Lofthaus. “Clear some room around Lutico,” he ordered. His voice sharp, his tone said now. The soldiers needed no further encouragement and backed away from the mage.

  “Thank you my Lord.” Lutico rasped still disgruntled. He focused again on his weaves.

  To those that watched the mage he looked to be staring at his hands, no sparks or fire emanated from them. They soon tired of the old fool and turned back to watch the approaching urak. They were within bow range and Captain Lofthaus yelled out ordering the archers to draw and release.

  Lutico peeked again over
Richard's shoulder as a ragged line of arrows sprang into the air with an audible thrum. On the fields below, the urak raised shields above their heads and broke into a jog. The arrows descended thumping into wood and flesh alike just as another flight lifted from the walls. Most arrows struck wood but some found the gap between shields and urak crashed to the ground. But it was few among the masses and they were swallowed up as the living swept over the fallen.

  The ballistae released sending huge bolts, each twice as long as a man, to plough into the front ranks. The bolts scoured a line through the onrushing urak, leaving death and destruction in their wake. But they were only two and only in front of the gatehouse and the bolts took time to reload. A cry rose up, joining with the thumping beats as the urak roared. They had already covered half the distance to the walls.

  Concentrating on his weaves Lutico called forth little sparks of energy. Crackling and pulsing he sent them hurtling out to follow the invisible threads they were bound to and they raced up arching up over the battlefield. The casting was small the magic slight but even so something had been watching and waiting.

  Lutico felt the tell-tale surge of magic released in the aether. It was unexpected, but the realisation as he felt it was instant, the consequences immediate. Panic set in.

  “My Lord!” Lutico cried. Richard had been watching the approaching horde but turned at his name. He heard the urgency in Lutico’s voice… the fear.

  “Yes,” he snapped concerned and annoyed in equal measure at the interruption. He stepped towards the mage.

  “Incoming,” Lutico gasped, grasping Richard’s arm he pulled his Lord in. “Stay close,” he shouted. It was all he could manage. His mind cloudy with fear it took all his effort to hold his focus. Thumping his staff down at his feet, the runes up its length sprang into vivid relief of blues and reds as he triggered his defensive wards. Energy spouted from its top boiling up and out creating a shimmering transparent shield that bent around and down.

  The magical ward was not nearly big enough to cover the tower they stood upon. The edges of the barrier carved through two men straddling its leading edge. Blood burst from their bodies as they ruptured. The barrier cauterising as it cut through metal and chain link, skin and bone as if they were nothing. The immediate smell of blood and burst organs mixed with that of burnt fabric and hot metal too assail them, along with the bloody sight of two men sliced clean in half.

  “What the hells are you doing you mad fool?” the muffled voice of Captain Lofthaus cried out, angry and worried for his Lord. Three soldiers stood within the dome of the shield, all ashen faced and frozen in shock at the suddenness of it.

  “Run! Get off the tower!” Lutico screamed, deafening Richard.

  “What are you…” Richard never got to finish his sentence. A ball of fire appeared in the sky and with a whump and flash struck the tower like hellfire, the noise concussive even through the ward.

  The barbican’s top was consumed in a single huge gout of flame, burning bright as a flare before dissipating as suddenly as it had struck. In its aftermath the tower stood as before, solid and unmoved apart from its charred and blackened stone.

  Clumps of ash in twisted shapes littered the tower where men once stood. Alone in the black was a circular oasis of stone, untouched by the flame. Inside the oasis huddled Lutico, Richard and three stunned guards.

  Lutico had some inkling of the magic’s released and was prepared, barely, for the magical assault. The first to recover, he found himself on his knees but couldn’t recall how he got there. They ached on the hard stone.

  “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he grumbled. Firmly grasping his staff, Lutico pulled himself up.

  Lord Richard rose slowly from where he crouched. He was alive by luck as much as happenstance Lutico knew. If Richard hadn’t heeded his warning he would be one of those blackened husks of ash.

  Richard touched his head, heart and stomach with his fingers, in acknowledgment of the three as he stared at the desolation around him. They both jumped as a sudden staccato roar of explosions sounded.

  Still dazed it took Lutico a moment to realise it came from the field, his weavings he realised belatedly. Making his way to the battlements he stepped over the burnt remains of men feeling sick, gasping for air. He had known most of them; they were the Black crow’s personal guard. Now, like that, they were gone to ash and smoke.

  His body started to shake uncontrollably as relief at surviving the attack and terror at what had just happened warred with the adrenaline swamping his body. Richard pushed to his side and together they peered out over Northfields.

  Lutico wasn’t prepared for what he saw, even though it had been wrought by his hand. The battlefield was littered with urak many shredded and torn to pieces, some half buried. It looked like the very ground had erupted in anger and vented its rage at them. Bodies lay everywhere and among them slowly stumbling to their feet survivors. There were many of them, most wounded and dazed.

  Lutico’s ears were ringing but the urak must have been making an awful lot of noise because a low moan filtered through to him despite the fact they stood a hundred paces out still.

  “Why aren’t we firing?” Richard shouted.

  Lutico shook his head, he didn’t know, before realising that Richard spoke to himself. He watched as the Black Crow rushed to the side of the barbican past the remains of one of the ballista, burnt and smoking still. Leaning over the embrasure he screamed at the men on the wall.

  “Fire, shoot them where they stand!” Spit flew from his mouth.

  Lutico heard a ragged cheer go up. They must have thought the Black Crow perished and yet there he stood screaming at them like an avenging wraith. If we survive this a legend is born, he thought. His feet were sore; the heat from the stone starting to seep through the soles of his boots. He heard muffled shouts as sergeants took up their Lord’s cry and arrows started to fill the air.

  Then hands were grabbing at him, dragging him away. He saw Bartsven along with several other guards rush to Richard’s side and forcibly pull him away from the walls.

  “Come my Lord, it’s not safe,” Bartsven said as he was hustled down the steps to the relative safety below.

  Lutico’s feet felt much better on the cool stone of the stairway. He spared a final glance at the destruction upon the tower and the neat circle of clean stone at its centre. Improbable it might be but it looked for all the worlds like the pale moon, Nihmrodel. The thought bizarrely conjured to mind the girl of the same name. Wounded unto death at the Broken Axe she had somehow survived. He wondered if they would be as fortunate.

  Chapter 61

  : The Woodsmith Carves

  Junip flinched as she felt the weaving of magic in the aether. She was shocked; the urak had magic wielders with them! She’d thought them savage and uncivilised, but to wield magic took ability and skill. It required training and knowledge of the art and that meant teaching and learning.

  That she felt them searching for her when she’d used so little of her own art meant they were strong, capable. But nothing happened, or at least not what she expected.

  The ethereal assault when it came was not aimed at her, it was to the north. She was so on edge she almost triggered her own defensive wards but stayed her impulse at the last instant and was grateful for it.

  That the casting was not directed at her was a relief. To feel it’s shaping from this distance meant it was powerful. She felt it building in the aether, sensed its path as it travelled in a flash to connect with sudden and harsh intent somewhere to the north. She felt the tremor of its impact but looking about was startled that no one else seemed to notice it.

  Junip dropped down placing her back against the wall. Closing her eyes she expanded her senses out, her thoughts drifting. Master Lutico was to the north. It must have been directed at him. They were the only overt users she knew of apart from physikers, but their magic was more internal than external and much harder to detect. It stood to reason her master was
the target.

  Concern creased her face. He was unpleasant most of the time but he’d taken her in when he had no need. Had trained and nurtured her talent, believed in her. In his own way, he was the father she should have had. Despite his dour moods and drunkenness and as much as he annoyed her she was still rather fond of the old bugger for some reason.

  “Ere lass, you alright? Just stick close to us, we’ll see ya right.” Junip looked up to see a pair of flint brown eyes regarding her. They were set in a rugged face framed by dirty looking blonde hair. Jerkze, she recalled his name.

  Incongruously he handed her an oily looking cloth and she took it without thinking and held it in front of her wondering what it meant. The man dabbed his hands at his face as if to illustrate then stood turning back to his vigil on the wall. Realising her eyes were wet she belatedly raised the cloth to dry them. A distant roar and ripple of explosions sounded, again to the north.

  “What the fuck was that?” Jobe said looking northward.

  “I’ve no idea,” Amos replied his head pivoted in the same direction.

  “Sounded like the devil’s own arse letting rip,” Jobe offered.

  “Well we got problems of our own.” Amos said indicating the assembled urak. “They look about ready to charge.”

  Junip's eyes widened. Charge? The urak were about to charge. Fear struck her. Master Lutico had shown her the weavings to employ. Simple things really, something she had mastered years ago. In and of themselves they were not that much use in a battle she had thought, but it was what they were tied to that made them powerful. Lutico and the Black Crow, two of the shrewdest people she’d ever known had devised a simple and effective strategy and all it needed was a magical trigger.

  It was ingenious really and at the same time so simple. Yet here she was scared to move, too afraid to bring her weavings into being. They had sensed her magic before. If she drew on her magic again would they pinpoint her? It would draw destruction down on them, she was sure of it; convinced that that was the cause of the magical assault to the north. She shivered involuntarily at the thought of it. I’m not ready for this, I’m not a battlemage.