"My mark?"
"Irreor Ark."
"When?"
"After Abennak's silly little party. Let my sister understand what she's about to lose."
"And my payment?"
She unleashed a throaty laugh. "I've kept men like you close for a reason. The thought of sliding your blade into his heart is all the payment you need."
Ah, how well she knew him.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Morning air, chill and promising, fluttered across Kipra's skin.
Abennak emerged from his pavilion as the sun's bottom edge cleared the horizon. He wore gouged platemail, its rusted joints screeching with his every motion. Hair hung across his forehead, and he flung his head back to clear it. He gripped the reins to a goat in one hand and a clump of oats in the other.
Kipra held her chin high and stared the king in the eyes, daring him to look at her.
"Where's my general or general?" he shouted.
Within seconds, Kleni strode to his side. As on the first day she'd come to the army, she wore a thin shift, and her skin was visible beneath the black fabric. Her hair was knotted tight at the back of her head, and a golden clip held it in place. Her minstrel played a military song, a sharp, crisp melody that lifted and fell like the stomp of a boot.
You won't win, you stark bitch.
Like her sister, Kleni straightened her back and lifted her chin. She, too, glared at the king. Did she know what to expect? Likely not. He hadn't spoken to her since the previous day, when he'd ordered her from his sight.
For several seconds they simply gazed into each other's faces.
Kipra held her breath, wishing and hoping. She glanced to the soldier at the king’s side, to the blade that hung from his belt. If she could only reach it, she could plunge it into her sister's side. Without a general, this army would flounder even more.
End it.
End it all and—
The king laughed.
He swept Kleni into a massive hug, lifted her from the ground, and buried his face in her hair. He breathed deep, spoke through the midnight, lavender scented strands. "Ah, my precious little general, are you ready and ready to wreck death and havoc and agony? You feel and feel it? I do, like a promise burrowing beneath me."
Kleni's sly smile returned. "I'm ready, my king."
Abennak's goat bleated.
The king dropped Kleni and pointed at the walls. In a voice that reached the furthest edges of the camp, he shouted, "Rain and rain arrows on their itty bitty heads. Bathe in their hot and sticky. Pick and pick your nose at their mothers!"
The army roared.
Kipra's sister flowed from his side, unleashing curses at the men, readying them for battle.
They leapt to obey, as quickly as Parched Ones could. They snatched their weapons, formed their ranks, and peered down at the city. They gripped spears and swords and cudgels, preparing to sprint down the hillside and smash Farren's walls. They wore heavy plate, supple leather, and shifted from one foot to the other in anticipation. A nervous hum arose from their ranks.
Now they'd attack. They awaited only Abennak.
A deep horn sounded from the city, and Ark's men skittered across the walls like beetles. They hefted barrels of arrows, lugged rocks and bricks to the battlements, and shook their fists at the enemy.
Would fist or arrow or rock halt Rippon's attack?
Kipra scanned the walls, hoping to see Ark. From this distance, she shouldn't have recognized his face. Not truly. However, one man stood directly above the gate, and sandy brown hair covered his head.
He lifted his arm and pointed to the city, and screamed something unrecognizable.
Defenders scurried beneath his direction, vanishing and appearing from ladders hidden behind the battlements. As expected, they operated with a cool efficiency.
Ark.
It was him, sure as snow melts in the warmth of spring.
"There's more," Abennak shouted to his army, and he giggled. "I have a thousand gold coins for the man who kills or kills their general. That, and a goat. He's a good goat. Never let or let me down."
Again, the army roared.
Chapter Eighty
The roar of Abennak's army faded.
The enemy's cry contained a subtle tension that tickled Irreor's flesh, like an arrow near release. In the courtyard behind him, Pernik shouted at the newer recruits, who obviously moved slower than the old officer would've liked. They hauled rocks to the battlements, hammered another plank to the gates.
Ogdhen, Kinslek's Keeper, worked alongside them. He hefted a heavy wooden mallet and smashed it against a long, poorly crafted nail. Another board to halt Abennak's army, and every one of them helped. The Keeper had dedicated himself to the city these past few days, and few could doubt his sincerity.
When asked why he'd come, Ogdhen had simply said, 'It's the right thing to do. Kinslek understood that, he just couldn't bring himself to do the same. He's strong, yet weak. He's my king, but sometimes a man needs to follow his heart...."
And that was that.
Defenses were adequate, though no one truly believed they'd stand against Abennak for long. Renek had boasted similar defenses, but Rippon's forces had smashed them in little more than a day. Its walls had been crushed to rubble, its children to smears of blood. The same could happen here.
Pernik climbed the ladder and expelled a breath. "There's more blades than I can count on the other side of these walls. Probably more than Gar Tsi could count, too. He's secured the last grain wagon? Moved the—"
"An hour ago," Irreor said. "He's moved most of the city folk to Farren's center, near the Spire. They're not truly safe, but it's the best we can do. Rippon will attack before the sun creeps another inch."
Silence—brooding, anticipating.
"How can you be sure?" Pernik asked. "They may wait—"
Again, Abennak's men roared.
"Because of that. Abennak gives them courage," Irreor said. "When he's done, they'll surge against the walls. Sometimes it's easier to follow a madman on a madman's venture. It won't matter to his men if they die. They'll just come faster. Harder."
Everyone knew it. Irreor's army glanced at one another, nervousness mirrored in their eyes, in the way they adjusted the grip on their weapons. Their uncertainty didn't frighten him.
The roar did.
His men would do their best, and that was all he could ask for. But the roar of Abennak's army contained something within it, something he felt within himself—a type of lightness, higher pitched than the Prophet, with only a boy's understanding. The Prophet had claimed Irreor would release the third piece of himself if Fier taught him gentahl.
Why hadn't he listened?
Why had he assumed he would know best?
Why—
-Part their flesh, lash their bones, gnaw their ears. Aiieee!-
Irreor turned away from Pernik to hide his expression, but his chest tightened, pulling breath from his lungs. His knees felt like grass in a hurricane, but the pressure clamped down, harder and harder, until it seemed his ribs would crack.
Then it vanished.
-It's so bright here. Shield the eyes. Mother? Are you there, mother?-
Void take me. Bathe me in your darkness, hold me in your—
-Are you my mother?-
—bloody embrace....
-Why didn't she love me? Why did she cut me and hurt me? I wanted her to love me, but she whipped and sliced me all the same. Never told him no. I... I begged her. Through the floorboards, with the sound of her breath in the kitchen, I begged her.-
Time froze.
The boy had escaped, shattered the steel of his prison, torn the butterfly to shreds, all because of Irreor's foolishness. He'd thought he'd known best. He'd thought he was strong enough, brave enough. The Prophet hadn't spoken to him since Fier's lesson, not a word or a whisper or a promise.
The child... the child had....
"Irreor!"
Irreor pivoted to
Gar Tsi, who stood halfway up a wooden ladder. Three days of beard sprouted from the man's chin, but his slapdash armor, bulging over his gut and stretched tight at the shoulders, gleamed in the sun, and the faint scent of oil wafted from it. A bone horn hung from his belt.
In this day of uncertainty, of dust and curses and stark, looming doom, every able-bodied man clutched weapons. Together with the Sverden, Gar Tsi had organized a group of men to serve as stretcher-bearers. Two Kilnsmen would guard each stretcher, and two of Farren's men—picked for their strength and stamina—would haul the wounded back to the city's center.
The merchant wheezed as he climbed the final steps, then muttered a curse as he leaned over the battlements. "Void's tit, there's being a lot of them. Teel's readying something we can be using for a hospital. Seems like yesterday's fight weren't doing a thing."
Irreor grunted, not caring to answer.
"We're ready as we'll ever be, I'm supposing. I'm not knowing how well the lads will do. The last attack wore on them something fierce, but they're humming to themselves. There's being lightness to their step."
"What about the Kilnsmen?"
"Spreading themselves across the walls, just like yesterday. We'll make sure Abennak isn't planning something tricky, then I'll be signaling them to converge on his main attack. Wherever he sends the most troops, I'll be sending the Kilnsmen there. Worked once, so should be working again."
"And Yaron Kenn?"
"The man has been donning himself in armor, just like most of the council. Seems like they're thinking they're fighters, now. Damned foolish, if you'd be asking me, but they're being free to die however they want."
Die however they want....
If only it were that simple.
"Signal the final step," Irreor commanded.
Gar Tsi lifted his horn and blew a strong note.
Men streamed up the ladders, many with bows in their hands, all with swords and daggers at their belts. Others poured into the courtyard to take positions near the gate, including Haral Steel. He wore a suit of the finest mail, with a Synien blade strapped to his waist. One younger soldier eyed the gate, plainly nervous, and Haral reached out to steady the man.
This was what the city had become. They'd banded together. They'd pushed themselves to the edge, and then leapt from it.
At the city's other four gates, the others would've done the same.
"I don't suppose Abennak will be changing his mind?" Gar Tsi asked.
"No," Irreor said.
"But the promise of a party tonight? Why would he be inviting us to that if he's also planning on killing—"
"The man isn't completely sane." Irreor's muscles ached. Sleepless nights provided little assistance for a battle, nor did the whispers of himself. "He made it clear this war would happen, so we'll do what we can to prevent it. We don't have a choice."
"But why? I can't be understanding any of this."
-Is he my father? No, it can't be! I'll hack and slash and dig and— Aiieee!-
Irreor again spun away, unwilling to let anyone see his face as the child clawed his chest. They mustn't see what lived within him. If they did, they'd lose trust, and Farren would tumble apart like a deck of carefully stacked cards.
No.
He would remain strong. He didn't have a choice.
Abennak's army roared a final time. The force of it shook the ground, pebble and dust trembling as their voices echoed from hill to wall to sky. They shook their spears and bashed swords against shields. And then....
"Go below, Gar Tsi. It's up to you and Pernik if I fall."
...then they charged.
Like a rolling wave, they surged down the hill. Feet hammered the ground. Shouts pierced the air. They brandished their weapons as they ran, pointing them at the defenders and howling.
On the hilltop, tiny specks against the sun, surrounded by a ring of soldiers, Abennak and Kipra waited. They watched, but Irreor couldn't know their thoughts. Maybe the Mad King giggled. Maybe Kipra wept.
The wave crested. It broke.
Thick ladders slapped against the walls, shuddering as men mounted their bases. Irreor flicked a finger to his archers, and they peppered the attackers with a volley. Three shafts let loose, followed by a thousand simultaneous twangs.
Men fell, screamed, died.
Others took their place.
Archers drew back their strings and loosed another volley. Attackers plummeted from the ladders to land amongst their companions like drops of water into a bucket. The host rippled, yet still they came, leaping over their comrades, mounting the ladders.
Again, Irreor flicked his finger to the archers, but the third volley missed over half the men who scaled the walls.
"Again!" he shouted.
They did, but the men below lifted their shields to deflect most of the arrows, and cracked, useless shafts rained to the ground like weakened sticks from a tree. Abennak's army roared and surged higher.
An attacker's fingers reached the top of a ladder and groped at the stone.
Irreor stood still.
He should've ripped his blades free, hacked the fingers from the attacker's hand. But he couldn't. The child clawed at him, invisible nails sharp against his lungs and chest. Heat to sear, to singe, to—
-Hack and slash and kill!-
No, damn you! Where's the other piece of us? The Prophet. What have you done to him?
-Bathe in blood, spit it to the floorboards. Roar and crack and mangle.-
The attacker clenched the edge of the wall, yanked and pulled until a rough face peeked over. All along the wall, others did the same. Defenders cast uneasy glances at Irreor, unable to make the decision themselves. He'd trained them too well, taught them to obey his command alone.
Still, he hesitated.
-I want to see her face again. Mother. I want her to hold us again, like we'd always imagined she would. But we'll not find that at the top of this wall. We'll have to find her.-
Bring back the Prophet.
-We know she's worth it.-
Damn you!
"Cut them back!" Irreor screamed, and he tore his blades free and swept them across the attackers face. The child beat against his chest, a relentless, inescapable hammering. "Don't let them gain the wall!"
Blood spurted—crimson, thick.
All along the battlements, steel bit flesh. Farren's army shrieked as they fought off the invaders, their voices high and furious and desperate. The sun rose ever higher. Heat pounded down on them, and the stench of death grew stronger. Neither Irreor nor his men stopped. Like lumberjacks against a tree, they chopped the attackers down.
The child calmed.
-Mother?-
An invader gained the wall. Muscles rippled beneath the man's leather armor. A wicked smile stretched his cheeks. He tore through two Alkarians before they could scream, then he laughed.
The child grinned and met him.
Chapter Eighty-One
Marrek was different.
His arms were stronger than his comrades', his chest thicker. The men around him moved like slugs through grass. They oozed incompetence, but he moved like a flash of lightning against a starless night. The differences stretched beyond the physical. He was smarter than other men.
He knew things, suspected things.
Things like the fact that he was different. He couldn't explain how he knew it. Perhaps it was in the way he succeeded where others failed, in the way he stood straight where others slouched, or how his field thrived while his neighbor's withered to dust.
Yet emptiness also dwelled in success, in intelligence. Happiness didn't fill him at the sight of a healthy stalk of corn. Love didn't warm him at his wife's touch. His daughter's upcoming marriage didn't stoke a flame of anticipation.
It should have.
In the depths of his heart, he knew these things should've meant something, but they were simply words. They offered promises, but a promise often meant a lie.
He couldn't explain it, but
he knew it all the same.
Today would be different. Abennak had promised a thousand gold to the man who cut the head from Farren's general. Marrek had grinned when he heard it. A thousand gold could change his life. He could buy a house beside the palace, order other men—lesser men—to plant and harvest his fields. He'd find happiness at the sight of a furrow, find love in his wife's touch, anticipate his daughter's wedding.
He craved it.
And around him, battle raged.
Men screamed as blood poured. Fingers and arms rained to the ground as the defenders cut down the men above. For the past two hours, the sun had risen above their heads, and they'd pressed themselves against the city's walls, climbing and hoping to find the top. Shields hung heavy on their arms, blades jutted from their fists. For two hours, they'd died.
But Marrek wouldn't die.
No. Today will be different!
A man above shrieked as a blade sliced his neck. He plummeted from the ladder and smashed to the stones below. No men remained above Marrek. Now he would prove himself different.
Now he'd feel.
He surged up the ladder, blocked a slow slash with his shield, and leapt to the battlements. The defender, a man with stringy arms and a gaping, incredulous mouth, stumbled backward. Marrek grinned and, with one swift strike, lopped off the man's head. Two of Farren's soldiers moved to halt him, but his blade found the first's gut, the second's groin. They toppled.
Marrek laughed.
Something should've emerged from his laugh, elation or joy or happiness. Nothing did. It was the same emptiness he'd felt his entire life. No fields. No wife or daughter. He cackled louder, harder.
Emptiness.
He cut down two more defenders as he laughed, and then he scanned the walls, searching for Farren's general. With a thousand gold, his laugh would mean something.
Success.
Farren's general stood ten paces away, separated from Marrek by three weak Alkarians. Hair streamed around the man's face, wild and brown and unkempt. Scabs and blood covered his arms, but he moved with the same quickness as Marrek.
Eulogy Page 48