by John Marco
“Two hours,” Van pointed out. That they were surrounded by ten thousand foes seemed not to stir them at all as they looked at each other. Mirage was very beautiful; Van had noticed that the moment he’d seen her. If somehow they survived this siege, he determined to get to know her better.
“That’s time enough for a little rest, at least,” said Mirage. She put out a hand. “Come, there are beds in the hall.”
Van shook his head. Those were beds for the wounded, of which there would be many. “No. I need to stay.” He looked around, uncomfortable suddenly. As much as he appreciated Mirage, he wished she had left with the others. Now he had her to worry about, as well as Breck’s family and the other civilians. “I want to tell you something,” he said. “You’ve been a great help.”
Mirage’s lips twisted. “That sounds too much like a good-bye, Lieutenant.”
“Perhaps it is. We have to face the truth, after all. Whatever happens, I want you to know what I think of you. I think you’re very brave, Mirage. I wish I had gotten to know you better.”
“There’s time for that,” said the girl.
She was being ridiculously optimistic, Van knew, but he nodded. “I hope you’re right.”
Mirage stared at him. She was forward; he had learned that about her quickly. It did not surprise him when her next question came.
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“Leave the library, you mean?” Van took a sip of his soup. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you were a mercenary. You didn’t have to stay, but you did.”
“You didn’t have to stay either.”
Mirage looked away. Somehow, Van could tell she was thinking of Lukien. He waited before answering her question. The sounds of the distant drums filled the awkward void.
“When I came here Breck showed me a tapestry,” said Van. “You may have seen it.”
Mirage nodded. “I’ve seen it. The one with the old men.”
“It’s called The Scholars,” said Van. “Breck kept it because it represents what this place used to be, and what it might be again. Something bigger than ourselves, Mirage.”
She looked at him hopefully. “Do you believe that?”
Van sighed. “I do now. I didn’t always.” He let his gaze linger on the dark hills filled with Norvans. “I don’t think we’re given life just to eat and gamble and make love. Sometimes our lives are a struggle. Sometimes we have to fight for things we care about.” He looked back at Mirage. “That’s why I stayed.”
Mirage said nothing. She barely stirred. Van was glad she didn’t leave. With so little time left, he was glad to spend it with a pretty lady.
50
THUNDER AT SUNRISE
At dawn precisely, the Rolgan drumbeats ceased. Baron Glass sat atop his black stallion with the wind in his hair and listened to the silence. He watched the sun rise in the sky, noting the irony of its beauty and ignoring the anxious stares of the soldiers with him on the hillside. With the sunrise he no longer needed his helmet to see clearly. The meagerness of the Kothan defenses were plain to him. Near the entrance to the city, Demortris had arranged his cavalry in long ranks, ten abreast, flanked by chariots from Poolv. Inside each chariot were two spearmen and a driver to steer the muscular team of horses. Backing up the ranks of cavalry stood brigade after brigade of infantry, mostly from Vicvar and Carlion, swelling the fields surrounding the city. It was, Thorin determined, a frightening vision, and he did not envy Breck for seeing it.
Down near the pillared gates, Lord Demortris sat atop his own horse, barely in view of Thorin, beneath his Rolgan banner. The Rolgan waited quietly for the order to attack. Beside Thorin, a signalman waited with a trumpet in his hand. He watched the baron curiously, wondering about the delay. Far away to the north Thorin saw Library Hill, defiantly appearing in the growing light. Like the city, the library was surrounded. In fact, Thorin realized, the library belonged to him already. He merely needed to pay for it with blood.
His aide, a colonel from Carlion named Thayus, waited patiently nearby, keeping his horse a pace away. After a moment more, Thorin turned to look at him.
“Give the order,” he said quietly.
Colonel Thayus nodded to the soldier with the trumpet. “Sound the attack.”
The soldier put the instrument to his lips and very deliberately shattered the morning’s peace. As he heard the piping notes, Baron Glass slipped his horned helmet over his head and watched as Demortris waved his men onward.
The note that came off the hillside sounded like a bird-song to Breck. He waited on his horse, sword in hand, five hundred feet from the entrance to the city, and listened for its aftermath. It came like thunder to his ears.
The column of men and chariots that had stayed so unmoving now came to life, snaking towards them. The march of a countless infantry boots, all in unison, backed up the hooves of horses prancing forward and the mechanical squeal of chariot wheels crushing stone. The mass moved slowly at first, like a boulder rolling downhill, little by little picking up speed, aiming for the entrance to the city. The noise of it made Breck’s breastplate rattle. Beside him, Aric Glass had turned the color of curdled milk. Breck doubted very much that he would live past the first assault. Once the Norvan broke the bottleneck near the pillars . . .
Breck steeled himself, gripping his sword in a shaking fist. He was an old man now but today he felt young again, invigorated to have a battle on his hands. Next to him, Lukien sat like a metal god in his armor, his face hidden beneath his gleaming, golden helmet. His broadsword hung in his hand with almost casual grace. He did not look at Breck or utter a sound. His rigid body, like a coiled spring, trembled with energy. Behind them stood the Royal Chargers, taking strength from the Bronze Knight, ready to ride into the teeth of the Norvans.
Breck raised his sword slowly, a signal to Captain Aliston in the towers. Aliston’s archers, two hundred of them, aimed their longbows toward the coming enemy, waiting for the signal. Their brothers in the lower buildings crouched behind their crossbows, guarded by stone windows and overturned barrels. As the Norvans sped forward, Breck quickly lowered his sword.
“Now, Aliston!”
Up in his tower, Captain Aliston shouted to his men. “Fire!”
A cloud of arrows darkened the sky as the longbows loosed their shafts. Projectiles arced upward, sailing toward the Norvans who raised their shields to deflect the storm. As the first volley landed among them, the air filled with the popping of wood and armor and the cries of those pierced by the arrows. Aliston’s archers drew back again, again firing at the coming army. An angry shout rang up from the Norvans as, undeterred, they galloped for the gates. The chariots thundered ahead, driven quickly by their four-horse teams. Breck could see them clearly now, churning up the earth as they hurried toward him. The crossbowmen readied their weapons, their fingers ready on the triggers. Breck and his men crouched in their saddles, ready to charge. Lukien, at their vanguard, raised his sword and wrapped the reins of his war-horse tightly around his golden gauntlet.
“Aliston, the chariots!” Breck shouted.
Aliston and his bowmen needed no reminding. As the first of the chariots neared the gates, Aliston called down to the crossbows, ordering them to fire. The powerful bolts shot forward, skimming across the avenue toward the horses and their drivers. The huge chariots made excellent targets. One by one the bolts found targets, smashing into the breasts of the beasts or the determined faces of the drivers, sending the war machines careening out of control. A horrible noise shook the street as the crossbowmen cocked back and fired again. Overhead the longbow shafts continued to fly, but down below the cross-bow bolts did the damage, wreaking chaos on the chariots and the Rolgan cavalry. But the mass of men and wagons was endless, and for every one that fell another instantly took its place. Soon, Breck knew, they would breach the pillars and enter Koth. He turned back to look at his determined Royal Chargers.
“Make ready,” he told them. His men, their face
s white with dread, prepared for his order. At the other end of the city, Captain Andri and his men had already engaged. Breck could hear the faint din of their battle over the roar of his own. He turned back toward the gates and watched the Norvans struggle into the avenue, falling over themselves in the storm of arrows and quickly piling bodies. A chariot had overturned near the gates, giving the bowmen time to reload. Aliston took quick advantage, directing his longbows toward the halted horde. The rain of arrows drove the Norvans backward, sending them tumbling from their rearing horses. The Rolgan commander under his flag slashed his sword in the air, screaming obscenely at his army to advance.
Breck knew the time had come. His whole body shook in angry terror. He glanced at Aric, whose frozen face stayed locked on the Norvan, then at Lukien, who turned to nod at him.
“Now, Breck,” said the Bronze Knight. “For Liiria.”
The image of his wife bloomed in Breck’s mind. “For Liiria,” he echoed. Raising his sword high and his voice in a primal scream, he ordered his Chargers forward.
At the base of Library Hill, Rodrik Varl heard the clash coming from the city. From his place in the shadow of the great library he could barely see Thorin’s army as it entered Koth, but he could plainly discern Baron Glass on his hillside, imperiously watching the bloodshed unfold.
Rodrik’s army had so far done as Thorin ordered. His thousand or so mercenaries, many of whom had been with him for years, had surrounded Library Hill but had not yet moved against it. The catapults they had dragged with them from Andola were properly stationed, most within reach of the library, and shot had been loaded into their armatures. Still, the teams that operated the great machines had done nothing more than prepare their weapons. Like the horsemen and foot soldiers, they waited for word from Varl before attacking.
Baron Glass had made himself perfectly understandable—Varl was not to attack until the city itself was taken and secured, and the baron came to the library. But Varl had seen Thorin’s handiwork that day hunting with Onikil. He had known Thorin for many years and had always been jealous of Jazana’s affection for him, but Thorin had changed horribly since returning, and Varl had no doubt that his armor was the cause. Thorin had never been an evil man, but he was one now, and Jazana was simply too love-blind to see it.
Varl loved Jazana as a man loves a woman and thought of her often. She knew he loved her and didn’t seem to care. But Varl’s conscience still prevailed, and he knew whatever befell the people of the library would be ugly. There were not just soldiers defending the library; there were civilians as well. Women and children. Given the chance, Thorin might slaughter them all.
The way he slaughtered Onikil
Varl listened to the sounds of battle rumbling out of Koth. He shifted uneasily in his saddle, on the verge of a terrible decision. If he did what he was thinking, it was doubtful that even Jazana could save him from Thorin. Next to him, his old friend and fellow mercenary Rase waited with him, just as troubled by recent happenings. Rase had been in Jazana’s employ almost as long as Rodrik Varl himself, and because they hailed from the same part of Norvor they shared a rural accent. They had already discussed their plans.
“Now, Roddy?” Rase asked.
Varl sucked his bottom lip like a worried child. Nobody wanted this war, not even Jazana. All she had wanted was to lure Thorin back to her. Even Thorin wouldn’t want this, not if he was sane.
But he’s insane, Varl concluded. There was no way he could let the men and women in the library fall to him. He had to give them a chance, at least.
Rase looked at Varl anxiously. “Roddy? Now?”
The order felt impossibly heavy. Varl shuddered under its weight. They had all agreed to do this thing, but now, seeing the library so real and vital . . .
“I don’t want to do this,” he whispered. “Rase, I don’t want to destroy it.”
“Bricks and mortar,” Rase reminded him. “That’s all it is. We’re saving lives, Roddy.”
How many lives had been given to build the library? Varl wondered. All so wars like this could end, and ignorance and darkness, too.
“Yes,” said Varl finally. “Now’s good.”
Rase rode away from Rodrik, not too quickly, to notify the catapult teams.
Major Nevins was outside on the yards when he heard the first catapult fire. He had not expected the assault so soon, wrongly assuming Baron Glass would first want to conquer the city before attacking the library, which was surrounded anyway and of no real threat to him. The sound of the catapult launching its payload was like the pop of a distant explosion, but when he saw the rock tumbling skyward he knew how very close it was.
“Take cover!” he cried, knowing it was already too late. With the boulder sailing skyward his men on the wall had no real chance to escape. Murdon, the Liirian he’d chosen as his second, rode madly on horseback through the yard, flailing his arms and warning his troops. The shadow of the flying stone engulfed him as it passed overhead.
Library Hill shook to its core when the payload hit the wall. The mortar of the structure spiderwebbed with cracks, sending sharp-edged bits of rock exploding outward. Standing just below the wall, Nevins hurried his horse toward cover as the boulder hit the earth. The concussion sent his horse scurrying. Up on the wounded wall, the men who’d been stationed there were gone. Most had retreated inside. A great red smudge described the others.
“Mighty Fate, save us,” muttered Nevins. He wheeled his horse about and shouted to his men, gathering them to charge. At the bottom of the hill he could see the Norvan mercenaries preparing to ride. The telltale crack of another catapult split the day, followed by another and another still, until the air was filled with rock and shrapnel, all careening toward the library. As the pay-loads landed they pummeled the great structure, buckling its thick walls and shaking its tall towers. The incredible noise sent Nevins reeling. His skull echoed with their blows.
“Murdon, secure the civilians,” he ordered. He knew Vanlandinghale and the others would do their best, but none of them had expected the attack so soon. “Make sure they get cover down below. Tell Van to be ready! We’ll hold them off as long as possible!”
Murdon signaled his understanding and galloped toward the rear of the library. The rest of Nevins’ men—many of them loyal from his days in Andola—circled around him and drew their weapons. Down the hill, the Norvans were already progressing up the road, not wasting any time as they charged into battle. There would be no stopping them, Nevins knew.
“Do your best, lads,” he shouted to his men. “Make your mothers proud!”
He did not wait for an underling to sound the charge. Instead Major Nevins let out a horrible shriek and rode like a madman toward the mercenaries.
The ceiling over Van’s head shook, sending debris onto his hair and uniform. He had been directing Breck’s wife Kalla into the cellars below the library when the first blast came. He knew instantly that it was a catapult shot, and that the battle had begun.
Standing near Mirage, the two looked at each other with shared dread. Mirage had been gathering the children of the library—very few of them, thankfully—to stay with Kalla, who was like a mother to them all and who had become an unofficial leader of the women of the library. To Van’s surprise, none of the children screamed when they heard the concussion, but successive ones brought them finally to tears. As they hurried down the cellar steps, Kalla directed them all to stay quiet. Mirage hurried to be with Van.
“They’re attacking already?” She shook her head angrily. “Bloody beasts. They don’t even care that we have children in here!”
Van knew there was no time to talk. “You need to get down below now, Mirage. I have to get outside. Lock that door behind you and don’t open it for anyone, understand?”
Mirage nodded quickly. “What about the walls? Do you think they’ll hold them?”
Van had always told her the truth. This time, though, he thought a lie would be better. “Maybe. Now hurry. I’ll see y
ou when I can.”
Up at his hillside command post, Thorin watched with curiosity as the chariots and horsemen broke though the gate. It had surprised him how many men had fallen to the Liirian arrows already, and more were falling by the minute. Still, Demortris had rallied his men and had taken back the offensive. Now that the wind was at their backs, Thorin knew, there would be no stopping them. With his lieutenants relaying messages up and down the hill, Thorin felt in complete control. Kaj and his Crusaders had started their assault on the east side of the city, and Varl’s men were properly in place at the library. Thorin took his eyes off the battle for only a moment to look at the library. At the same time, his aide Colonel Thayus did so too.
Thorin squinted through the slits of his helmet, surprised by what he was seeing. If he listened very carefully, he could hear the slightest noise coming from the library.
“Baron Glass,” said Thayus casually, “did you give orders for the catapults to fire?”
“I most certainly did not,” grumbled Thorin. For a moment he wondered what had happened. “They’ve begun their attack?” His blood began to boil. “Why?”
The colonel gave a pragmatic shrug. “No choice probably. The Liirians must have attacked first. We did leave them vulnerable.”
“Vulnerable? There are a thousand men surrounding the library!”
“A good strategy, though,” Thayus surmised. “They mean to distract us.”
Baron Glass clenched the reins of his black horse. “Then they will fail, Thayus. I will not be distracted, and they will be slaughtered. This morning or tomorrow; it makes no difference.”
Inside, though, Baron Glass began to seethe. Kahldris appeared instantly in his mind, whispering warnings about the library and the thinking machine within. Thorin violently shook his head, trying to rid himself of the demon, but Kahldris clawed his way deeper into his mind, insisting he be heard.