by JW Webb
“Keep your sword low and shield high,” Galed hissed in his ear, though Cale knew what to do, and in his opinion was a much more accomplished warrior than his friend.
He grinned at Galed. “Here we go again!” Then Perani’s force fell upon them in a clash of steel, screams, and kicking horses.
***
“Order those horsemen about!” Perani growled. It was useless wasting cavalry where his foot soldiers would serve better. “They’re trapped,” he snarled at Gonfalez. “If they break and run, the horse boys can have another go, run them down the other side of the river. If they prefer to stay on the bridge, we’ll fill them with arrows.”
Gonfalez nodded and shouted an officer to order the archers to get ready. “They cannot hold long, General! See, even now our boys are forcing them back.” As Perani watched, his cavalry wended back up toward where he and his staff waited on the hill.
Down at the bridge, he could make out the dark figures of his spearmen making ground onto the bridge. It was tough fighting down there, but it would soon be over.
Perani smiled for the first time that week. At last the situation was playing into his hands. The smile ran away from his face when a huge explosion rocked the left wall of Greystone Bridge, sending stone crashing down into the hurrying Glebe below.
“What the fuck just happened?” Gonfalez yelled in his ear. Perani didn’t respond because down at the bridge all manner of craziness was going on.
***
Cale shrank back as the weight of the press pushed him and his companions further back along the bridge. The queen’s men had done well. Cale couldn’t see from where he was, but there were over two hundred ex-Tiger veterans gored and bleeding at the north end of the bridge.
The alliance had taken casualties, too. Although the Raleenians’ lance work and their stoic defence taking advantage of the bridge’s limited width had served them well, three score had fallen, and double that amount bore wounds, including Tarello, whose face was torn by a large gash that impaired his vision and forced him to clamber back through the ranks to seek aid.
Jaan stood with the last of his Raleenians. Just over a dozen lived yet. As at Calprissa, they’d taken the brunt of the fighting. Cale could hear Jaan yelling and urging his men stand their ground despite the overwhelming odds crushing down against them.
Someone took a hit to Cale’s right. A big Kelwynian, he crashed down on Cale with an axe buried in his head. Cale rolled, somehow got back to his feet. He saw a warrior leap through, dressed in black and wielding a short handled battle-axe in one hand and a mace in the other.
Galed leapt across the big warrior’s path. The man swatted down with his mace, sending Cale’s friend and mentor sprawling. Cale screamed in rage. The ex-Tiger turned toward him, his mace already swinging. Cale trapped the weapon with his shield, yelling as a sharp pain lanced through his arm from the jolt. He clenched his teeth and thrust hard at the enemy’s face.
“Bastard!” Cale spat at his foe and the warrior rounded on him again, this time with the axe. Guttersnipe instinct and speed saved Cale that day. He dived low, somehow kept the sword in his hand, and as he fell, Cale twisted and shoved the blade hard up, stabbing the big man in the balls.
The ex-Tiger yammered and pitched to the ground, soon to be crushed and trampled by his companions, who were on the verge of breaking through the Kelwynian defence.
Cale gulped and closed his eyes. Somewhere near he heard a woman shout, and he smiled, knowing that his queen still lived. But not for long, thought Cale—not for long. That thought hardened him.
“No!” Cale wrenched his eyes open. “It’s not going to end like this!” He tried to tug the sword free from the corpse’s body but got buffeted sideways. He stood, tripped, and rolled again. For the briefest second Cale saw Galed’s pale face beneath a tide of rushing feet.
Cale yelled again, then a blast like thunder shook the bridge, jolting Cale forward until he crashed into the side of the stone wall. Another blast ripped through the bridge, but Cale didn’t hear that one because he’d already lost consciousness.
***
Prince Tarin jumped and clung on to his ears as another one of Zallerak’s blasts sent stone and men flying everywhere. Beside him the wizard was grinning like a madman. “I love pyrotechnics!” Zallerak yelled at him as he tossed a third one at the mangled panicking mess that was Perani’s prized veterans fleeing the bridge.
“You’re killing our friends too!” Tarin shouted back at Zallerak who was rolling another “grenade,” as he called it between his palms and getting ready to hurl it.
“Shit happens.” Zallerak grinned at Tarin as he threw the grenade. Another loud blast, and a large part of the nearside wall of Greystone Bridge crumpled away and pitched like fiery meteors into the tossing Glebe far below.
“They would all be slaughtered by now if it weren’t for me. Sometimes you just have to make sacrifices for the greater cause.”
“But don’t you even care?” Tarin had never seen Zallerak like this before; it was like some random, reckless joy was eating him. Meanwhile, on the bridge and banks surrounding, darkness had fallen, delivering total chaos.
“Stop!” A woman’s voice yelled from close by. Tarin glanced up at the bridge and saw his cousin Queen Ariane staring daggers down at them. “Zallerak, you’ve done enough! Let the archers pick them off from the south bank!”
Tarin was not sure what had happened, but it seemed evident that Ariane had some how linked up with the Raleenian reinforcements and already detailed their archers to get some arrows moving.
“Oh, very well.” Zallerak rubbed his hands free of the acrid dust clinging to them. “Greeting, Queen Ariane, lucky I happened along—heh?”
“You could have warned us.” Ariane was striding toward where Zallerak stood on the south bank, now surrounded by archers from Atarios, all busy launching shafts into the fleeing dark mass spilling out onto the north bank. They didn’t really have to aim, as there were thousands of men trapped over there.
Perani answered with his own archers, but these couldn’t see anything, and most of their shafts hit their own men too. At last, the general had to order them stop. As night dwindled, so did the fighting, and it wasn’t until dawn that anyone either side of the river could make sense of what had happened.
***
At first light, Perani was rewarded by a sight that made his stomach growl: the corpses of his soldiers strewn in piles surrounding the north bank. Most had fallen victim to arrows, many fired by his own men. The bridge beyond was a mess of bodies and broken stone. It still stood, but a large chunk of its west wall had disappeared into the river.
None of this concerned Perani. What did concern him most passionately was the lack of any enemies on the far bank. Not a soul stood there. It were though his men had been torn apart by an army of ghosts. Ariane and her renegade army had disappeared. His returning scouts had already informed him the road south was empty.
“What do we do now?” Was it Perani’s imagination, or was his second smirking? Perani stared hard and long at Gonfalez until the other dropped his gaze.
“We cross that bridge before it topples into the river,” Perani said. “Then we find that little queen and we kill her.”
An hour later, Perani’s force crossed Greystone Bridge and filed into Raleen. The die had been cast. There was no going back now. Perani knew Caswallon would have his hide for abandoning Kelwyn, but what choice was there? He had lost nearly five hundred men at Greystone Bridge, barely a dent in his huge army, but still a deep dent in his pride.
This was personal now. There was no other place for Ariane to cross the river, and if she hadn’t fled for Atarios (and his scouts insisted she hadn’t), then that left two choices: the sea or the mountains. The ocean was too far, so that meant the mountains.
During the next week, Perani lost another three hundred men to archers hiding above in rocks. He did get close enough to see they were Raleenians. So the bastards had allied agains
t him. So be it. The hunt was closing. Perani led his force deeper into the folds of The High Wall and winter’s worst.
Chapter 11
The Walls of Car Carranis
They waited beneath the shroud of pines and stared morosely at the huge grey walls ahead. Nothing stirred save the odd crow arcing and barking through leaden morning skies. Silence. No sign of movement on the walls above, and the gates remained locked. It was colder than yesterday, and all of them were stiff and battered after the business with the troll.
At last Barin could take no more. His patience shredded by cold and grumpiness, he stormed out of the cover of trees where they’d spent that chilly unexpected night.
“Car Carranis, this is Barin of Valkador! Let us in before we freeze out here, quickly else I’ll tear your gates apart and break some heads! Bastards,” he added under his breath, then turned and grumbled his way back to where Shallan watched shivering with the others.
To Shallan, it seemed to be getting colder by the minute, then when she felt the soft wet kiss of the first snow flake dampen her cheek, she decided she too had had enough.
“I’ll deal with this.” Shallan gave Barin a flat look and then clambered up on a rock awarding a better view of the bleak line of wall ahead.
“What’s she doing?” Taic’s expression was mournful.
“What she should have done an hour ago,” Zukei replied. “I could be by a warm fire eating sausages instead of freezing next to you tosspots.”
Shallan untied the horn from her belt and hoisted it to her lips. She blew once, long and clear, sending a score of rooks chattering into the grey above.
No one came, so Shallan blew again. After six more blasts and a resulting hoarse throat, she was relieved to see the tiny figure of a guard or someone running along the walls.
“Hey you—Buttitch!” yelled Barin. “Hurry up!” But it was still another two hours before they opened the gates.
***
From the walls of the Car Carranis, Lord Starkhold surveyed the enemy camp as he always did during the morning hours. No great change. The only real difference was that now the entire Gap of Leeth was filled with tents instead of only half.
A month had passed since the barbarians had arrived, and bar the odd shouting match, nothing of any great import had happened.
King Haal appeared content with his earlier plan to wait this game out, starve the city, and break through when the defenders were too weak to put up a fight. Since that first attack he’d realised the archers could make a mess of his warriors.
Leethmen didn’t like getting skewered by arrows. A sword in the gut or a knife through the throat, that was a warrior’s death. Archers were cowards, and to perish by an arrow was considered ignoble. Hence he’d received few ready volunteers. Not that King Haal and his sons were in any great rush to sack Car Carranis; they’d already enjoyed a month of wenching, drinking, and torturing any poor strays still roaming the countryside. They knew they had only to wait and the city’s resolve would crack like an eggshell under the strain.
Starkhold knew it too. Time was an iron chain dragging his people down. His expression dour, he lifted the flask of brandy to his mouth and sipped small sips. It was all about control. Discipline. Their stocks were fine for now, but he’d rationed his men and so needed to set a good example. Besides, Starkhold rarely partook. But this morning was damp and chilly with fresh wet snow whitening the skies. A soul-sapping brandy morning, thought Starkhold, as he took a second sip then stopped when shouting announced another coming his way.
Captain Ralian, his second in command, was sprinting toward him.
“What is it?” Starkhold’s eyes narrowed. Ralian looked excited.
“There are people at the back gate, and apparently a lady blowing a horn.” Ralian smiled thanks when his leader offered him a shot of brandy.
“So? A few refugees survived the hazards of the passes. What of it?”
“They are not refugees, Lord. A guard heard the horn blasting from the woods. Some racket he said. The fellow took a look and reported back that a huge barbarian was yelling to be let in.”
Starkhold looked alarmed. So the enemy had found the secret door, despite his scouts’ attempts to keep it hidden. This was grave news indeed. “One of Haal’s sons.”
“That’s what I feared,” Ralian smiled fiercely. “But it’s not so.”
“Go on.”
“The guard reported to his team leader - Porlos, I think it was. Anyway, Porlos or someone sent a squad to the back gate to investigate. They challenged the strangers outside, and after hearing their story reported back to me. There are only half a dozen or so, two of whom are women.”
“Well?” Starkhold was getting impatient. It wasn’t like Ralian to vex him with small news. “I fail to see the significance of —”
“I gave out word to let them inside,” Ralian blurted.
Starkhold’s expression darkened. “That was rash, captain.”
“I don’t believe so, Lord. One of the men is Barin of Valkador, and the woman blowing the horn, the Lady Shallan of Morwella.”
“I see.” Starkhold took a longer sip at his brandy. “Well, you’ve certainly piqued my curiosity, Ralian. I shall have to call in on these new arrivals. Where are they now?”
“In the barbican at the far side. The other woman—a wild thing apparently—insisted on being fed at once.”
Starkhold scratched his ear. Never a dull moment in Car Carranis lately. But this did change things. Barin of Valkador, of all people. Starkhold (who had spent a deal of time in Leeth during his younger years as a mercenary) knew the story of how Barin and Daan Redhand had become bitterest of blood foes, both vowing to carve a blood eagle on the other’s back. A half-smile cracked his lips apart. Played right, this might yet prove useful.
Barin of Valkador’s presence in the city could be just the spark to prompt the Leethmen into doing something rash. And Shallan of Morwella? He’d thought her dead alongside her father back in Vangaris, and yet here she was at Car Carranis, alive and well, and with Barin of Valkador of all people. Strange. Starkhold sighed as he remembered what had happened just a week earlier. It would not be easy telling the noblewoman about her brothers.
***
Shallan watched in wary silence as the three men entered the room. The first was a hawk-eyed officer, his apparel precise and his armour gleaming. This one looked like a coiled spring, his eyes hungry for news. The second man was clearly a guard, helmeted, clad in mail, and hefting a long halberd across his left shoulder.
The third man was different. Small in build, whip-lean, and erudite, his manner both confident and stiff. Dark eyes and weathered face marked him as a southerner, Raleenian most likely. He wore a blue cloak over battered mail, his lips were narrow, and his eyes held that world-weary, knowing look.
Here, thought Shallan, was a coil that had long lost its spring. His hair was dark with a dusting of grey like ashen dead fire. His beard was short and precise. It was this one who addressed them first.
“I am Starkhold.” The dark shrewd gaze swept over them with cool curiosity. “I am in charge of this stronghold.”
“I remember you.” Barin leaned against the wall, his massive arms folded. “I saw you in Grimhold long ago. Mercenary you were then, as I recall.”
“That was then, Lord Barin. And yes, I remember you too, as the fiery giant from Valkador who so upset the young princes of Leeth.” Starkhold smiled ever so slightly.
“Not without just cause,” Barin growled.
“That I do not doubt.” Starkhold’s cool eyes studied the companions: three Northmen lounged in chairs close to the fire; close by, a wild-looking young woman, with eyes like coal and skin deep nut brown, looked on in unfriendly fashion. A killer this one, Starkhold had no doubt. The other woman needed no introduction. Rumour of Shallan’s pale beauty had reached Car Carranis years ago.
“You have eaten, I trust, and are rested?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’m intrigu
ed, not only by how you got here, but perhaps even more by why you chose to come. Car Carranis is under siege.”
“Not the back door, apparently.” Barin was still sore about being left outside.
“We abandoned this side of the stronghold, needing all our men elsewhere. You will see what I mean when you enter the fortress main, some four miles south.”
“Four miles?” Shallan was astounded.
“Even so, Lady Shallan.” Starkhold’s cool gaze rested on her for a moment then flitted back to Barin. “So. Do tell me why you chose to come to Car Carranis to die.”
Shallan crossed her arms and awarded Starkhold a bleak look. “We do not intend to die, General. We have come through a lot, seen the ashes of Vangaris, and fought battles in the south. This fortress will hold, Starkhold!”
“Will it?” Starkhold raised a brow. “I admire your confidence, my lady. That might change when you gaze out from our southern walls.”
“How many of my people are here? Tell me, General. Did any survive the slaughter in Morwella? And,” she paused, “what of my brothers, live they yet?”
Starkhold shrugged. He settled into a chair next to the fire, facing the three Northmen who watched him in silence. Behind him, officer and soldier shuffled and waited.
“This is difficult for me.” Starkhold rubbed his hands close to the flames. “There are many Morwellans here. Too many, if truth be told, as they need feeding and most are either too young and too old to fight, or else women and therefore unable to do so.”
“Some women fight, old man,” Zukei spat like a lynx from the corner. Starkhold acknowledged her with another shrug.
“I daresay, but my point is we have too many mouths to feed in this city.”
“What of my brothers?” Shallan, like Zukei, had decided not to like this Starkhold over much.