by Hal Emerson
“Particularly around the far side of the city,” Davydd finished, nodding. He was looking out at the far side of the city where the towers were the farthest apart. “It’s swamp territory over there isn’t it? No one will be watching for a smaller force sneaking in from that way.”
“Exactly,” said Autmaran
“When do we strike?” The Prince asked.
“No time like the present,” Davydd said, looking at the setting sun.
“Can our troops be ready so soon?” The Prince asked.
“We’ve been going at a crawl through this mist for days now,” the red-eyed man replied. “I don’t know about the Scouts, but if they’re anything like the Rangers I’ve brought they’re ready for some action now. They’re even fed – they ate in their saddles today because we weren’t sure when we’d be able to make camp this close to Formaux.”
“The Scouts are ready as well,” Autmaran said, eyeing the setting sun, looking at the distant guardhouses that framed the large gate at the end of the long road. “And time certainly is of the essence.”
“Moving so hastily makes me nervous,” the Prince said, feeling as though the safer course of action was to take more time to consider this. But then again, this way they had surprise on their side, and there was no chance they would be found before it was too late.
“What do you think Lorna?” Davydd asked, turning to the big woman, who’d been watching silently as the three men discussed the battle.
She didn’t say anything for almost a full minute, but finally she nodded.
“It is time,” she said. “The night favors us, we are best rested, and we have the element of surprise. We passed the perfect ambush position not far from here – a large grove of trees on high ground bordered by marshes.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Autmaran said. “That is where the main force will wait, hidden. So we are all agreed that we begin?”
He looked around at each of them, and one by one they nodded.
“Excellent,” Autmaran said, calling a man forward. “Send word to the Scout captains that they are to come to me for instructions. Eshendai Davydd and Ashandel Lorna will be in command of a smaller group Rangers and will lead them separately while the rest stay with the main force.”
The man ran off to gather the under-officers, and the plan was set in motion. But as the Prince turned to go, following Davydd and Lorna, Autmaran held him back.
“When you are in the city,” Autmaran said quickly, “be sure to keep a close eye on Davydd. Tiffenal killed his father, and he hasn’t forgotten.”
The Prince flashed back to Davydd’s manic grin and bleak laughter when talking about the invasion.
“I’ll watch him,” the Prince said. Autmaran nodded and left.
Within the next hour, all the pieces were in place, and the “invasion” force was on its way toward the gates, just as the setting sun was fading away, leaving them in a dark twilight.
The Prince felt his heart in his throat the whole time. They were receiving reports from their various forces and all was going to plan, but still the whole affair was nerve-wracking. In the cover of the setting sun the preliminary force approached the walls … and were seen.
Immediately a cry went up along the city walls, and alarm bells began to ring as the Scout riders were spotted, charging forward surrounding a large troop of men that carried a hastily constructed battering ram, which was, in truth, nothing more than a piece of log covered in stretched hides. It looked very impressive from above, but would cause no damage whatsoever if its true intent had been to attack the gate.
As soon as the alarm bells sounded, arrows began to fly from the city walls, striking the battering ram as well as the men around it, but doing little, if any, real damage, due to the shields and armor with which the men had been equipped. After the first few volleys, the initial Scout “invasion” force retreated, scattering back into woods; Autmaran waved to Davydd, Lorna and the Prince, who were waiting further along the edge of the treeline at the beginning of the marshes that would eventually turn to swamp.
“That’s our sign,” Davydd whispered. “Let’s go.”
They started to run then – they had left their horses behind, as they would be no help in such an expedition. The Rangers moved through the forest in their dark greens and blacks with highlights of gold flashing now and then, clinging to the shadows, flitting from cover to cover, barely breathing, avoiding thick brush, ducking under branches that might shake, passing around deep mud that might leave too obvious a track.
The clash of arms came from the city’s gate – a sallying force of guards had come from inside the city to meet the attack. A Kindred trumpet sounded the retreat, and Imperial drums beat as the victorious cries of the Formaux soldiers spurred more of the city’s force to move out and attack the fleeing Exiles.
“It seems to be working,” Lorna said to the Prince, surprising him as she showed up right beside him with barely a sound.
“That makes me nervous,” the Prince said.
If they were lucky – ironic, he thought – the ambush would take the Kindred force outside the sphere of influence of the Fox. No one knew how wide that sphere really was … but the Prince didn’t think it would extend beyond the city.
If it does, then we’re all doomed anyway.
“Here comes the fun part,” he heard Davydd whisper.
“Our definitions of fun are not simpatico,” the Prince replied.
The marsh they’d been making their way through became a swamp, and suddenly they were wading through pools of water, some of which, unavoidably, began to seep through the Prince’s boots. Insects buzzed in the air, out in force in the dying heat of the day that still clung to the land after the sun’s departure. None of the Kindred grumbled – in fact they made no noise at all, but simply tied cloth over their exposed faces, pulled up hoods, and narrowed their eyes to slits. Complaining wouldn’t make the bugs go away – but it would raise an alarm.
As they crossed the swamps, they heard the last distant sounds of fighting fade away, and knew it was their time to act. They veered toward the walls, pulling themselves free of the muddy banks with rough squelching sounds.
Davydd and Lorna both motioned forward four sets of Ranger pairs, all of whom hailed from the forested areas of Vale and bore longbows as their weapons of choice. Without a sound, they approached the walls and peered up through the mists.
Davydd turned to the Prince and raised an eyebrow. He wanted to make sure there was no one on the walls.
The Prince reached through the Talisman and felt his mind expand out of his body, taking in the area. He felt lives around him – the Kindred – and lives on the other side of the wall, though they were made mute and indistinct by distance. If any of them were guards, he could not tell.
But one thing was for certain – there was no one manning this guard tower. It would appear their ruse was working, and all the guards had been drawn to the front gate.
He opened his eyes and nodded to Davydd, who immediately raised a hand, only to slash it back down. Arrows flew on his command, lancing up to hit the wooden roof of the guard tower with a series of dull thuds, the arrowheads twisting and imbedding themselves in the soft wood. The four lightest Eshendai stepped up – three women and one man, all of who looked like they barely reached five feet – and tested their weight on the ropes. All appeared solid.
Davydd motioned for their attention, then raised a single finger, pointing it at each one of them separately.
One by one, the motion said. The Prince approved – there was no need to risk multiple lives at once.
The Eshendai nodded, and turned among each other, gesturing quickly. A decision was made, and the smallest among them, a tiny black-haired woman who was thin as a whip, grabbed onto her rope and began to walk up the side of the wall, using the slotted stones as footholds. She reached the top and scrambled over the ledge of the tower – leaving behind her only silence.
For a long time, th
ey waited with bated breath. The Prince, wondering what was taking so long, reached through the Talisman to track her –
The blood drained from his face and panic flared in his gut – he couldn’t sense her, not even the tiniest hint. He jerked toward Davydd and pulled him close, so close that his lips were almost against the other man’s ear.
“As soon as she crossed the wall, I lost track of her – I can’t sense her at all – there may be guards up there I couldn’t sense!”
Davydd stiffened and pulled back, spinning around in the same motion and signaling to the three other Eshendai to get up their ropes, his frantic motion translating to frantic climbing as the slight figures almost sprinted up the wall.
One by one they disappeared over the edge, and time stretched out inordinately long as the rest of the group waited below, hands on swords, arrows notched to bows and drawn back to cheeks in case a guard should happen to peer over the side.
The Prince reached once more through the Talisman, but it was useless. He could sense the Kindred around him and the lives of the Commons in the city beyond – but for some reason the lives of the Eshendai on the wall were hidden from him. What did that mean? Was it a Bloodmage trap? Were intruders killed as soon as they crossed the threshold?
The sound of metal on metal rang above them, and the Prince felt his heart leap into his throat. Without sparing another second for thought, he grabbed the nearest rope and hoisted himself onto the wall; hands grabbed at him from behind, and he heard Davydd hiss in anger and warning, but he was gone before the man could do anything to stop him.
By the time he reached the top of the wall he was panting and his arms were seizing and cramping terribly. His lungs felt like they were on bloody fire! He threw one leg over the parapet, and then rolled the rest of himself over.
He looked around and saw nothing and no one.
His flesh began to crawl, and he looked around the interior of the guard tower he was in – it was a blank stone space, maybe twenty paces by twenty, with a ten foot roof that allowed for good visibility both over the city of Formaux itself, hazy and cloaked in fog like the rest of the land, and the swamps outside.
But the four Eshendai were nowhere.
He took a step forward, reaching through the Talisman, but there was nothing. He felt lives in the city, felt lives of the Kindred outside the walls … but the Eshendai were gone.
Motion caught his eye and he spun, yanking his dagger from his belt – only to pull up short as he realized the person coming toward him was Davydd Goldwyn, accompanied by two other slight, lean Eshendai with hungry lights in their eyes, like that of stalking wolves.
“They’re gone,” the Prince whispered in Davydd’s face. “I can’t sense them anywhere. The wall must be enchanted – I don’t know how.”
“Then how are you still here?” He asked, eyeing the Prince. “For that matter, how am I still here?”
“The Talisman – dark Bloodmagic, Imperial Bloodmagic, doesn’t work right around me,” the Prince said, thinking quickly. “It must extend to you as well because you’re nearby.”
A sharp hiss came from their right and they turned to see one of the Eshendai hold up a longbow – one of the bows the four Eshendai had been carrying. The grip was coated in a thin red layer of blood.
“No!” The Prince hissed. Even though the single word was barely audible, his intention was so loud that Davydd had to step forward and grab him.
“We are committed,” Davydd reminded him. “We have only so much time before Autmaran needs us to be done and out of here – his force can only hold them so long. Eventually word will return, and the guard will man this tower. We have a job – we need to get that dagger.”
The Prince took a deep breath and nodded, pulling himself together.
“Roll out the ladders,” he said to Davydd, speaking quickly. “I will stay here – the enchantment won’t work as long as I’m in range. Go to that edge of the tower and check that side.”
They nodded to each other, and the Prince went to the center of the guard tower and watched as Davydd and the other Eshendai tied off the rope ladders and shot arrows back to the ground to further anchor them. In no time, the rest of the group had ascended. There were fifty of them in this raiding party – Forty-six now, the Prince thought grimly – the rest of them with Autmaran in order to sell the ruse.
He noticed the four Ashandel who now had no Eshendai as they passed. Their faces were tight, and pain was evident in all of them, but they made no sound, following the rest of the group. He thought of how it would hurt Tomaz to know he’d lost Leah, how much it would hurt him to lose either of them.
My brother has much to pay for.
They crossed the tower and descended a long stairway carved into the wall. The Prince, with every step, waited for a trap to spring, but none did. All was silence and shadows as they crossed into the city.
The night was dark, mist and clouds covering the sky. Dusky oil lamps stood at odd intervals, giving only murky glimmers of light. Some were out, and many only glowed dimly, flickering and guttering as if in a strong wind. Buildings loomed up at them out of the darkness – huge, undefined shapes, all reaching up into the sky. None of them seemed to be less than five or six stories tall, and some of them were even taller, reaching up impossibly high to tower over even the walls that surrounded them.
“What holds them up?” Asked Davydd in awe.
“Clockwork steel,” the Prince said, setting his teeth as he realized it. This whole city was made of clockwork magic pieces – the fruits of the industry of Lucien, capital city of the Empire. “The pieces are engraved with basic Bloodmage enchantments, making them stronger than they should be, able to hold more of a load.”
“How?” He whispered back, barely breathing.
“Sacrifices,” the Prince whispered, his mind going back to dark rituals in caves far underground. “Common children, killed and buried beneath the buildings.”
Lorna came up behind them and placed a hand on both of their necks and they immediately fell silent. She pointed up ahead, and there, rising out of the mist, was Tiffenal’s palace. Though still far away, they could make it out in the dim light, a huge, sprawling thing, taking up the entire center of the city like some enormous, glittering spider.
The Prince saw Davydd take a deep, steadying breath, as if even he, with his reckless desire for impossible challenges, was daunted by the sight. He motioned for two Ranger pairs to come forward – both of these Eshendai also bore bows, though they were shorter and smaller than the long bows they’d used to get over the walls.
The group split into formation, approaching the distant palace, passing amongst the dark buildings and crooked streets.
There was something about Formaux that just … wasn’t right. Something off. The Prince looked about them as they made their way down the broad street, stalking through the shadows the buildings cast.
People. There are no people in the streets – not a sight, not a sound of a single person.
As he realized this, an eerie feeling of dread fell over him. He knew what happened to those who entered this city and displeased his brother. He knew that none of the citizens who lived here ever left the city grounds unless it was on the business of Tiffenal himself. Even the High Blood and the Elevated, those ranked just below the Most High, regarded Formaux as a punishment, as a kind of Exile in its own right.
Perhaps they are simply inside after dark.
And then they turned a corner onto a small square and he saw the reason.
Hanging from five separate gibbets were five bodies. Three of them looked to have been burnt alive – their skin was black and peeling and their faces pulled and distorted with inaudible screams – while the other two were missing all their limbs.
Davydd took two steps forward before the Prince caught him and pulled him back. The other man turned to him and almost burst out screaming to let him go, but gained control of himself at the last minute when the Prince pointed to the fa
r corner of the square, then down to the ground beneath the gibbet. Guards stood in the distance, stationed there to prevent people from doing exactly what Davydd had been about to do, and a number of small hammer-and-sickle blood drops had been carved into the stone beneath the hanging bodies, evidence of Bloodmage enchantments that would no doubt activate if anyone came closer.
A high, quavering moan rose from one of the limbless bodies; it fell over against the bars of the gibbet, causing it to swing as it hung suspended from the nearby buildings some thirty feet in the air. The man was still alive. Looking closer, the Prince saw the amputated stumps had been cauterized so that he would not bleed to death. He was instead dying slowly of starvation.