Light in the Gloaming (The Gloaming Book One)

by J. B. Simmons

  The blast shattered the precious moment of quiet. The Summit had never seen such an explosion. Stone and shards shot out and showered down. He could hear nothing but a ringing, and found himself flat on his back, nearly blown off the wall. Where the keg had blown, the wall was gone. It left a hole thick enough for five horses to stride through abreast. Most importantly, the bridge was gone too. Staggering to his feet, the Summit peered down the ravine and saw its remnants far below.

  Another roaring sound rose around him. Combined with the ringing, it was an exhilarating rush of noise. His men rallied into small groups behind his captains, his best rangers. They were down a hundred men and had one keg of powder left, but the lowlanders were down two thousand. The crashing bridge must have taken two hundred more, he guessed.

  The optimism died fast, as two more towering bridges began to rise from the army below. The Summit had guessed that there would be more, but he did not have enough powder left to destroy them. He issued orders to his leaders to form lines where the two next bridges would fall. One was aimed at the hole in the wall. It would be a straight road into the city. They would hold the line as long as they could, but then would have to fall back.

  After his men split and charged to their positions, he felt alone. They had no more surprises. As the ringing continued to pound in his ears, he accepted that he might die without another pure sound. It was time to lead this battle from within the city.

  As he turned towards Icaria’s grand hall, he saw the black blur of the prince and his retinue racing across the bridge. If this was his people’s final stand, he would do all in his power to make the price of Icaria be the life of this prince.

  Chapter 18

  GLORY CANNOT HIDE

  “It is not enough to conquer;

  one must learn to seduce.”

  Wren had slept soundly until he awoke with a face one inch from his. Just as his eyes jerked open, a hand covered his mouth and he felt lips against his ear. Ravien’s voice commanded him to wake and gave him to the count of fifty to follow her, ready for war.

  From that moment the day raced out of his control. He hurried after Ravien while she skirted from camp to camp, gathering men who also seemed to have no clue what the prince’s sister was doing. She left a sealed note where each man had slept, presumably authorizing whatever excuse she had for taking them. Ravien stonewalled every one of his questions with commands of silence. Because she knew about Andor, and remembering her words on the rooftop in Valemidas, he resigned himself to do as she said.

  The fourth man Ravien recruited was Granville. That gave Wren some concern that she was picking off Andor’s supporters, but other reasons could explain it. Ravien was gathering a battle-proven and tough group, with diverse skills. Granville was the only blacksmith. The second man, like Wren, was a merchant-turned-soldier, except that his trade had been limited to fine spices. Ravien had demanded that he bring two of his finest spice boxes, into which she placed ten odd spheres as if they were as delicate as black dragon eggs. Since the spheres were metallic, Wren figured that having a blacksmith around could prove useful. The third man was renowned as a healer, with a specialty in ointments to soothe severe burns. Wren did not know the next two men, but they had stern faces and scars suggesting they were no foreigners to war.

  Nothing about any of those men lessened Wren’s shock at the last recruit—Andor.

  Out of an army of thousands, Ravien had pulled out a group of seven that included Wren, Granville, and Andor. Wren had long suspected that she would act on her knowledge, but not this boldly.

  When Andor stepped out of his tent, he nodded calmly at the other men. He did not spare attention for Wren. He did not question Ravien. It was closer to the opposite—he clasped her shoulder, then bowed low in respect. That gave Wren some comfort, as he pieced together Andor’s hints of allies close to power with Ravien’s veiled messages. But he still did not like it.

  After Ravien gathered up her little band, they fled the awakening camp. A few scouts eyed them but none tried to stop them. They made their way, by her direction, to the northeastern edge of the ravine encircling Icaria, so that the city stood between them and the army. They arrived at a spot where the ravine was narrower than on the other side of the city. Where the other side opened into a valley, this side had a steep mountain face rising high behind it.

  Ravien spoke quietly to one of the men who Wren did not know. The man did not respond in words, but loaded the large crossbow that he had been wearing on his back. The bolt had a strange point, like an inverted claw, and a thick rope tied to it.

  The man steadied himself and shot the bolt across the ravine. It fired through a small metal grate on the other side, and it seemed to catch. The man then wedged the crossbow behind a huge boulder and drove a stake through a loop in the rope that was tied to the crossbow. He tugged the rope firmly and nodded at Ravien.

  She waved the group to follow as she grabbed the rope with both hands, swung one hand past the other, and slid off the edge of the cliff.

  Wren watched as Ravien and the other men made their way across the gap, hanging onto the rope as their feet dangled above the chasm. No one had asked him whether he was willing to do this, and he did not like the idea. They had left him with little choice. He noted wryly that he was finally receiving the action he had sought.

  He took a deep breath and clenched the rope. It held strong as he swung his hand forward and proceeded over the ravine. He tried to keep his eyes on the rope, and he dared not look down.

  Upon reaching the other side, he saw Andor offering his hand with a smile. Wren took it and gave thanks when he felt the solid ground beneath his feet. He caught his breath as he studied the surroundings. The peak of Icaria loomed high over them. What had looked like man-made wall was actually a rocky cliff for nearly a hundred feet up. From there, the cliff turned into a stone wall for another fifty feet. It seemed to reach to the highest point in Icaria. Only the surrounding mountains stood higher.

  “Up,” Ravien whispered and pointed above. Without another word, she began climbing up the cliff face. Andor was the first man to tackle the wall after her. His hands seemed to have glue on them, as every grip locked onto tiny ledges and crevices in the stone. He quickly came to an even spot with Ravien. The other men followed more slowly.

  Ravien and Andor were already fifty feet up, and the other men were well on their way, when Wren began his climb. He grabbed a small hold of stone jutting out from the wall and pulled himself up. He tried to wedge his shoes into any crevice that he could find. Where Andor was a spider, Wren felt like he was a goat bouncing upwards without any flow. When he was about half way up, he risked a look down. His head dizzied at the distance between him and the ground. He would die if he fell. He resolved not to be last for whatever they did next.

  Wren looked up and resumed his climb, sweat dripping down his brow and falling to the ground far below. Just as he pulled up to another small ledge, nearing the top of the cliff, his focus was shattered by an explosion above him. Stones crashed down to his side, and a cloud of dust enveloped him.

  Wren shuddered at the temporary blindness, clenching even harder with his exhausted hands. He was having a hard enough time climbing when he could see, and he could hold on to this thin ledge for only so long before his grip would give. He wondered if Jon was faring any better than he was, fighting at Tryst’s side.

  He thought he heard shouting somewhere above when a hand reached down through the dust and clasped his forearm like a vice. It pulled him up and then grabbed him around the waist.

  “Hold tight to me. They will pull us up.” Andor then added in a whisper, “And you can trust her, for the most part.”

  “Trust her with what? Where is she leading us?”

  “What makes you think she is leading?” Andor winked and yanked the rope tied around him. “We are going to win the battle for Valemidas while saving the Icarian people. I will also ensure that Tryst returns home in defeat. Nothing complicated.�
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  Wren wanted to ask more, but suddenly they were hoisted up. The rough wall ended in a ledge after they had been lifted a few more feet, and Andor nudged him into the emptiness. Torch light flooded the small space. Ravien and the other men were in the tiny room. There was a bed of straw tucked into one corner. The wall to his back was gone, open to the chasm below.

  “You sure were taking your time, Wren.” Ravien’s voice taunted him, as usual.

  Granville’s voice followed. “She is right about that. You let a hefty blacksmith like me beat you up here.” Some of the other men chuckled.

  Wren was out of breath and out of patience. “Someone had to be ready to catch all of you if you fell,” he said. “Let’s not waste any more time. That explosion is sure to bring their attention to this place.” Wren hated not knowing more of the plan.

  “He is right.” Andor said, taking on an air of command. “We are in the Icarian prison, which is small for a city this size. Their grand hall is not far from here.”

  “Antony,” Ravien cut in, “stand guard in this room. The rest of you follow me.” Wren caught a rigid glance between Ravien and Andor. He could not be sure, but it looked as if Andor had interjected leadership before either of them expected it.

  Ravien ran out of the room. This time Wren made sure he was close after her. She led them upwards through a winding series of tunnels and tight stone stairwells. In three places, when Wren heard Icarians near, Ravien halted the group and commanded silence. She lit a fuse and set off a small explosion nearby. The first time, it seemed the blast was nothing but a distraction. The next two times, Ravien blew off locked metal-grate doors and led the group through. They did not pause for an instant to catch their breath, and they saw not a soul as they left the prison.

  It was not long before they escaped the cave-like inner passages of the city and entered an alley that opened to the clear, midday sky above. Ravien led them to the end and peered around the corner. She waved Andor and Wren forward.

  Wren peeked his head out and saw that they had made it to the plaza before Icaria’s main hall. The hall was a huge, smooth stone building, rising from the peak of the city. The plaza had been carved into the stone itself. It had two ancient, twisted pines framing the entrance to the hall. Wren counted six guards surrounding the square, with two of them by the sides of the door. He heard the battle raging somewhere within the city, but it had not reached this far.

  Ravien pulled Wren back from the corner. She issued orders to the six men. “Two of the guards are rangers, which means the Summit has left the walls and is inside. It sounds like most of the Icarian soldiers are still near the wall, plugging the holes of the dam that will soon break forth with our army. We must make this quick and quiet.” She beckoned the man who had fired the bolt across the ravine. He pulled out six small crossbows from his bag.

  “We each get one shot,” Ravien continued, “on my count of three, step out and fire. Wren, take the far left guard. Granville, the one to his right. Hal, the next to the right, and Andor, the one after that. Aim for the neck, and immediately charge your target. Put on his helmet and take his spear.” Without more, she said “one.” Each of them went into a focused, tense crouch. “Two.” Wren swallowed and tried to steady himself. “Three.”

  Wren followed the order exactly. He shifted to a stable firing position and released the bolt at the guard to his left. He hit the target. He dashed forward to seize the fallen man’s helm and spear. The Icarian’s face was framed by a long beard peppered with gray. The helm was a bit too large but comfortable. It had thick wool puffing out of the base, an open face and a soft leather shell. Wren guessed that it protected more from the cold than from battle. The spear was sturdy wood with a small blade at the end.

  Wren rejoined the others by the door, as he tried to push down the sense of wrongness that accompanied his new arms. The other guards had all been downed as well, it seemed. Icarian helmets put them all in crude disguise, but they could not so quickly replicate those beards.

  Ravien again commanded silence and gestured to Granville, who pulled out another of the explosive spheres from his pack. Wren noticed that it was a heavier sphere with a longer fuse. Ravien hurried away with the sphere, around the corner of the main hall and out of sight. She returned a moment later and motioned for them all to stay quiet and keep watch.

  As Wren knelt in silence alongside the others, he fought the urge to both laugh and cry. Ravien filled him with emotions he still could not comprehend. He wanted to escape with her to somewhere safe, but she seemed drawn to danger. And that made him all the more drawn to her. This morning he had expected nothing of the day but the worst kind of cleanup, mired in the grotesque decay of an exhausted battlefield. Instead, Ravien had come, and now he had killed a man under her command. So, here he was, maintaining a façade of composure, because showing fear was no way to tempt a temptress.

  Love led to funny things in the middle of battle, Wren admitted. Ravien was staring out over the Icarian plaza. Aside from the few drops of sweat that beaded at her temple, she looked composed enough for the royal court. And yet, while her brother’s full army tried to ram its way to this exact spot, Ravien had beaten them to it. It seemed her force of will could have taken down the city on its own.

  She turned to Wren and caught him watching her. A smile crossed her face. “You have done well today, Wren. We are together in this.”

  Something about her words set him reeling even more. He was trying to find the right response when the explosion ripped through the air.

  This one was the most intense yet. Ravien led the men the way she had gone before, around the corner of the hall. When he rounded the corner, Wren looked through a cloud of dust and debris at a small grate blown open in the side wall of the great hall.

  Ravien had ripped open the city’s heart, and now she nodded to Andor, with her hand held out as if she were merely an escort.

  Andor led the way in. Wren and the others followed him closely, still in their crude Icarian disguises. They stepped into the cavernous inner hall and were met with a flurry of activity. Maybe three dozen men stood with spears at the ready, and hundreds of women and children hunkered behind them.

  There was terror and tenacity in the air. It was the first time today Wren had felt within death’s grasp. Wren remembered enough of Icarian politics to know that taking out the Summit would leave the city paralyzed, and that they would do anything to defend him.

  “I demand the Summit!” Andor yelled as he stepped forward and kneeled. He rested his sword on his palms, parallel to the ground.

  The Icarians seemed shocked for an instant before they all lurched forward and surrounded Andor and his small band. So much for the disguises, Wren thought. They were at the Icarians’ mercy now.

  Andor lifted his head and shouted again. “I demand the Summit!”

  Wren followed Andor’s gaze to a small cliff ledge far above them. Ancient runes were carved into the surrounding stone. The hall was eerily quiet, as if weighing its answer to Andor’s demand.

  “You have the Summit,” Wren heard from one of the men surrounding Andor. A man lifted his spear and stepped forward. The other Icarians seemed to relax an inch. He was elegant and as tall as Andor, and he pulled off his helm to reveal gray-silver hair that fell to his shoulders. Unlike the Icarian soldiers around him, he had no beard and seemed to exude calm, rather than fury.

  “You call upon an old Icarian law.” He reached out a hand to Andor. “He who demands the Summit must know the Summit’s calling.”

  Andor clasped his hand and stood. His sword hung ready in his left hand. The two men met each other on an equal plane, and the room seemed to wait on every breath from them.

  “The Summit commands the mountains, for he leads the Icarians. But you, Summit, have led Icaria to destruction. Give up your life now to me, and I will save Icaria’s ways,” Andor declared. Wren did not quite know what the words meant, but it was obvious they carried great significance to the p
eople because they had paused this battle.

  “You have the Summit,” the Icarian said again. He turned to face the Icarians behind him. “You have heard the call and the answer, Icarians. Now I put the full vote to you. Do you give the summit to the man who demands it? Kneel to him now to answer aye.” No one moved.

  The Summit turned again to look at Andor. He stood still and silent, and Wren could see a mix of sadness and satisfaction in his face.

  Behind him, the women began to kneel. The Icarian soldiers looked back over the hall, all of them still standing. One of the older men—with a grizzled veteran look about him—approached the Summit, clasped his shoulder, and nodded before going to a knee. The other soldiers followed, dropping their weapons as they knelt. Each of them seemed to be saying goodbye to their leader.

  Once all around him were kneeling, the leader graciously handed his long blade to Andor. It seemed as if this was all part of a ceremony.

  “You have the Summit, and you are the Summit, my life to give,” the leader declared.

  With those words he fell prostrate, his head held out before Andor. It had been mere minutes since they walked into the hall. Somehow they had gone from surrounded in a death trap to standing over a huge number of kneeling men and women. Wren could not believe it. Andor had always been great, but now he seemed to have a touch of the divine about him.

  The leader pulled his long hair away to reveal the bare back of his neck. Wren heard a woman begin to cry within the hall.

  Andor lifted the leader’s sword high and brought it down swiftly, stopping just above the older man’s neck. He raised it again, the blade reflecting the candlelight that filled the hall. He looked poised to take the leader’s head off.