Ialin caught up. “If all you’re going to do is stop, then why make me run at all?” the fat man said, crouching, his hands on his knees.
Si’eth could have laughed. “Were it not for the two Black Hand around the corner, I would still be running.”
Ialin’s eyebrows rose and he too took a quick look. Moving back to Si’eth’s side, he said, “We could just walk past, you know, all natural as if we are just passing through. They don’t know what we’re doing.”
Si’eth had to admit the boy was right. He gave him what he hoped was an approving look. “After you,” he said, waving the boy forward.
“I didn’t mean—”
“No, no. It’s your plan, Ialin. You first.”
Of course, he only wanted Ialin to lead so he could be ready with his knives if something should happen. But he wasn’t about to tell the boy as much.
The guard on the left looked up as they passed. A grim-faced man with a puckered scar down one cheek, he looked just the type to join a gang of mercenaries, but he said nothing. It wasn’t until Si’eth was a few paces away that the other said…
“Salrian!”
Si’eth closed his eyes and sighed. He had hoped to avoid trouble, especially with the boy along. He didn’t think the young guardsmen could fight his way out of doing the dishes, never mind acquit himself well against the Black Hand.
Ialin stopped in front of him. The young man turned and stared daggers at the two mercenaries. The fool even put a hand on the hilt of his sword. If there was a way to talk them out of this, it was gone now.
When Si’eth turned, the man on the right had already caught up. The mercenary was taller than he was – that wasn’t surprising, most Surabhan women were taller than Salrian men – and broad with it. The mercenary began to pull his sword. Si’eth thumped it back into its scabbard and kneed the taller man between the legs, forcing him to bend double. Before he could right himself, Si’eth brought his elbow down hard on the back of his neck and then ducked to avoid the other mercenary’s blade. Ialin grabbed the other man’s wrist and punched him between the eyes. Staggering, the mercenary took a step back. Ialin punched him again, this time in the neck. The man dropped his sword to grab at his throat. Ialin whacked him across the temple with the hilt of his sword. The mercenary fell to his knees.
“Nice work, Ialin.” Seems he was wrong about the boy.
The boy’s cheeks coloured. “I have four big brothers. You learn to fight or spend all day doing their chores.”
Si’eth couldn’t help but grin; he had two older brothers. “Come on, let’s get out of here before they wake up, or someone comes along and sees us.”
Before they had gone ten paces, Si’eth heard a load bang. Looking north, he could see plumes of smoke rising to the left and right. He and the boy looked at each other. Without a word, they both began to run.
Folk were running up the alley in the opposite direction. It seemed everyone in the road was shouting. A few had their hands on their heads, looking around in disbelief. Others gathered what they could and took off south along one of the alleyways. A man to Si’eth’s left was shouting for a ladder.
“Left or right, boy; how far do you think they could have gone?” Si’eth gazed up and down the road. He could not see anyone who looked like Daric or Evin. “Left. They must have come further than this by now.”
Ialin pulled at his arm and pointed. “Up there,” he said, waving his finger at a burning warehouse.
Si’eth looked and then gawped at the sight of Daric standing on a roof. He watched as Evin jumped from the warehouse. Before he could shout, though, he heard a rumble, and the roof they were standing on collapsed in a plume of dust and debris.
Ialin was already half way across the road. The fat young man sped up and ploughed into the door. By the time the dust cleared, the young man was pulling tiles and rafters off the pile where Daric and Evin had landed. Si’eth helped.
Slowly, so as not to cause more damage, the two of them dragged off half the ceiling before they caught sight of the white shirt Daric was wearing. They carefully removed the rest of the debris. Ialin rolled the man over. Underneath him, Evin lay with her eyes closed. She was pale and laying still as a corpse. For one awful moment, Si’eth thought she was dead. Then she coughed. He brushed the dust and rubble from her face and she opened her eyes.
By now, Daric was coughing, too. Ialin tried to help him to his feet, but the major waved the boy away. “Never mind me, is she all right?” he asked.
Evin answered. “Calm down, Daric. I’m fine, I think. I can see two of everything.” She waved the dust away from her eyes and tried to stand.
“You should lay there for a minute or two, miss, until we can make sure nothing is broken,” Ialin told her.
“No!” Daric said, forcing himself to his feet. “We need to get out of here. I heard fighting before the roof collapsed. I’m not staying here to be a prisoner, and I’m in no state to fight.”
Si’eth nodded, and with Ialin’s help, he carefully pulled Evin to her feet.
“I can walk,” she said. “Just a bit sore. I don’t think anything is broken. Although I am sure I’ll have a few cuts and bruises to remember the day.” She took a step forward and stumbled. “Well, maybe an arm too hold on to, just until my eyes return to normal.”
Ialin took her arm while Si’eth kicked the rubble out of their way and opened what was left of the door. The road was almost empty. What people there were, were heading west, away from Highgate.
Daric followed Si’eth out and watched the folk running by. “As much as I hate to say it, we should go west, too. Whatever they are doing to Highgate there is nothing we can do. I just hope Mikelmoor is watching.”
“Watching what?” Ialin asked. He, too, was gazing back and forth along the road.”
Daric turned and patted the younger man on the back. “The beginning of the battle, Ialin. The beginning of the battle.”
CHAPTER 13
Not Here for the Show
The quickest way out of the palace was the Pauper’s Gate in the western wall. Ironically, it opened onto the richest part of the city. Grady led the others through; Cal, on his mighty Kalidhain Tall Horse; Toban, walking by his side; two guards from Gieth’eire – he only really trusted those few men – and a pompous court emissary who went by the name of Tolas Odaman.
Odaman was a weaselly character whom Grady took an immediate disliking to. Skinny and short, the man wore more lace than Princess Olivia did. His bent nose seemed permanently stuck in the air and he continually mumbled to himself; complaining, from what Grady could make out. When first seated on his horse, he would not move until his green cape arrayed perfectly across the animal’s rump, and he insisted that the two guardsmen flank him. Grady was surprised he did not want to lead them off. As for his attitude towards Toban, the man barely acknowledged the Rukin Alpha. For that matter, he did not pay any more attention to Cal – and he was an emissary from Crenach’coi. No, Grady definitely didn’t like the man.
Saluting the guards standing at the gate – Grady was in his new lieutenant’s uniform; saluting seemed the right thing to do – he walked his horse along the cobbled stones of the Lampton, the wealthy area of Bailryn. It was no surprise the rich lived close to the palace, nor was it a surprise that a good deal of the palace guards were patrolling this area. Nobles owned most of the mansions, and only the richest of merchants owned those which were not occupied by the lords and ladies. Still, it was the quickest way out of Bailryn, so Grady ignored the calls of housemen as they ordered lowly servants to load gilded coaches with useless items like clocks, paintings and elaborately patterned carpets. One group of men were struggling with a two-span-high bronze statue. As if the Kel’madden were going to loot that! Madness!
He was glad when they rode through the Lampton Gate – a small gate, just big enough for a single coach, built into Bailryn’s outer wall so the well-to-do would not have to rub shoulders with the common folk – and immerged on the path running
down the eastern bank of the Colaroy River. To the north, the sprawling Wickham filled the ground between the river and the city’s western wall. To the south, the path wound around the wall until it crossed the river and joined the Townhill Road. Grady ignored the main path; he was interested in the small wooden bridge thirty paces ahead. He showed the bridge guard his pass, and the group crossed the river and turned north towards the Great Western Road.
Fifty paces outside the wall, Grady could already hear Odaman complaining. He decided to ignore him.
It wasn’t long before they turned onto the Great Western Road. To the north, Grady could see the Crescent, a horseshoe-shaped mound of earth which wrapped itself around the northern perimeter of Bailryn – steep-sided and twenty paces high, the Crescent was constructed centuries ago to prevent siege-engines from attacking the city’s northern wall. Despite being man-made, it looked like a big hill; trees were even growing on it. It had been built within range of the city’s trebuchets, and had proven itself a valuable deterrent. No enemy would drag a siege engine up its steep sides, and no army could run down its southern slope without receiving a pummelling from the trebuchets – a very useful defence.
The Colaroy River barred the western wall; the ocean the east. The south was not so protected, but any would-be attacker would have had to fight their way through Halem and Townhill before reaching the capital. That only left the northern wall exposed. Hence the Crescent.
As Evin had said, the wolf camp was three miles east. Well, it started three miles east; the camp itself likely carried on for another mile or two. It was quite a sight. Grady could not help but stop and stare.
“Quite a sight,” Danil, one of the soldiers, said, as he pulled his horse up on Grady’s side.
“It certainly is that,” Grady replied. “Stone me, I never thought I’d see the like.”
Wolves, in groups of around fifty, were sprawled all along the right-hand side of the road. In between them, wagons and tents formed what Grady thought might be barriers. The groups were all at least twenty paces apart. Either some wolves did not get on with each other, or they were expecting an attack and had spread themselves out a bit. Further south, Grady could see lines of horses and livestock. A long row of cook fires snaked into the centre of the camp. West of that, a large circle of wagons had been positioned at the edge of a broad copse of trees. The wagons were likely where Toban’s Rukin were camped. The wolf agreed.
“Time to find out what has been going on,” Toban said. He looked as stunned as Grady felt. Evidently, the sight of ten thousand wolves was not just a shock for humans.
Turning off the road, they hadn’t gone ten paces before Odaman kneed his wide-shouldered roan towards the front. The little man ignored Grady’s stare. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the circle of wagons. Cal shook his head, and Grady thought he heard one of the guards stifling a laugh. He wanted to tell the emissary to go back to the rear, but, apparently, this was a… “Diplomatic mission,” and Tolas Odaman was in charge. The arrogant twolloc had made that much plain before they left Bailryn.
Wolves, probably Wildlings, watched as Grady and the others weaved their way through the camp. They all looked fit and well, not to mention fierce, but where had they all come from? Most surprising, there were humans in amongst the packs. Not Rukin; these humans looked every bit as wild as the wolves, in their animal-skin clothing. The wolves seemed to accept them as equals. Now and then, a small group, humans or wolf, would huddle together as though talking. Grady could not hear as much as a whisper, nor could he see their mouths move, but he was sure, by the looks on their faces and their suspicious sideways glances, that they were communicating. The groups numbered anywhere from ten to fifty wolves, and every one appeared to have a leader. There were a large number of young amongst them, which was surprising. Some looked no more than a few months old. Evidently, wherever they had come from, they had not set out as a fighting force. So why are they here? Why come to Bailryn? It wasn’t something Grady would have expected from any wolf, never mind Wildlings.
Those were all important question, but the answers could wait. Grady turned his gaze back towards the wagons. Toban had seen someone and was trotting over. The other wolf looked familiar, though if Grady was being honest, all wolves looked the same, to a point. Pulling his mare to the right, he followed Toban. Of course, Odaman was already a horse-length in front.
“I am glad to see you, Toban,” the other wolf said.
“And I am surprised to see you, Mott.”
Oh yes, Mott. Grady remembered Toban’s third in command from Illeas’den, home of the Rukin wolves. Illeas’den? Was that only two weeks ago?
“Not as surprised as I am, my friend,” Mott said, giving a nod to Grady and Cal. “Things have been happening very quickly, of late. It will take time to explain,”
Mott shifted his head to look behind Grady and the others. “Where is Daric? I need to talk to him.”
“Back in the ci—”
Odaman interrupted. “Who is in charge, Mr. Wolf? I would speak to your leader.” The skinny man scanned the campsite, nose in the air, tapping his reins on the tall roan’s neck. With humans about, it clearly did not occur to him that “Mr. Wolf” might be in charge.
Mott looked up at Odaman, and then gave Toban a questioning glance.
Grady answered, “This is Tolas Odaman, Mott. He… uh… ‘speaks for the king,’ apparently.”
Pulling his horse around so he was in front of the twolloc, Grady gestured at Toban. “You already know who is in charge, Odaman. Toban is the Rukin Alpha, their leader. I think I have mentioned as much before, quite a few times, if memory serves.”
Odaman snorted. “Then who are these Surabhan?” he asked, waving his hand to take in the rest of the wagons, “and where did the rest of these wolves and humans come from? They can’t all be Rukin!”
“No they are not,” another voice said.
A large wolf, black, with a grey streak behind one ear, approached the group. Three more wolves followed. The large wolf stood by Toban. He was a rough-looking beast, scarred and gnarly, compared to the Rukin. “I am Ker, Alpha of the Broan Clan, leader of the Wildlings, and Mott’s general. Who are you?”
“I…uh…sir, am Tolas Odaman, Emissary to His Royal Highness King Vierdan, Sovereign of the Most Exalted Order of the Empire, Leader of the House of Eidred, High Seat of Bailryn and Aleras’moya. Gods save the king.” The little man bowed and put his hand over his heart.
Ker’s brow rose. He looked like he was about to laugh. “Very interesting,” the black wolf said. “Are you going to get off your horse? You are already talking to our leader.” Ker nodded in Mott’s direction.
Grady decided he might like this wolf. He was the four-legged version of a good drill sergeant.
Mott’s general?
Grady climbed down from his horse. “You’re right, General Ker. My apologies.” Wolves or not, they had a chain of command. If they were going to work together, best everyone started to respect it.
Once on his feet, Grady bowed, first to Mott, and then to General Ker. Odaman snorted again, but he dismounted and followed Grady’s example. Although he did not look pleased about it.
Mott coughed. Probably sensing the formality of the situation, he introduced the others. Dras, another big wolf, could have been Ker’s older brother – by the respectful way he bowed, he was a friend to Mott. The two smaller ones were both female. Grady buried a stab of shame for not realising. He really must spend more time with the wolves. After the introductions, Mott, once again, asked where Daric was.
“He is in the city; probably back at the palace by now.” Grady told him.
A brief silence ensued; Mott looked… troubled.
Cal asked the obvious question. “Has something happened to Elspeth and Gialyn?”
Mott nodded, but it was a moment before he spoke. “I’m sorry to say they are prisoners of General Alaf’kan.”
Grady found himself gawping down at the wolf. He could not t
hink of anything to say. His mind flooded with thoughts of what Daric might do. He was certain the man would leave an hour after hearing his son and Elspeth were prisoners; five minutes was more likely. “You need to come back with me, Mott. Daric will want to know everything.” Fighting the urge to ask a hundred questions, he turned to mount his horse.
“We cannot leave yet!” Odaman demanded. “I have questions. The king needs assurances.”
“You can ask your question on the way back, Odaman.” Grady gritted his teeth. He felt the urge to punch the whining twolloc in the nose. If nothing else, it would make him feel better.
He grabbed the reins from around the saddle pommel and was about to remount, but before he could put his foot in the stirrup, he heard another voice calling his name.
Turing, he saw Captain Rarshman approaching. Grady was surprised to see him there. The last he had heard, Rarshman was leading the Gieth’eire regiment to Bailryn. What was he doing with the wolves?
“Lieutenant Daleman,” Rarshman said, though Grady supposed he should call him “Captain.”
Straightening up, Grady gave the man his best salute.
Rarshman waved him down. “Put your hand down, Grady. Let us keep things simple.”
Grady blinked, was this really Rarshman? If anything, he would expect the man to be worse than Odaman. “Keep things simple”? The man looked different, somehow. He had known Rarshman for years; they came from the same village, after all. Rarshman was somewhat older, maybe five years, and Grady remembered the man was always arrogant. Now he appeared smaller; his shoulders did not look like he had a pole stuck down his tunic and his chin wasn’t raised in the way it usually would be. Something had happened since they had left Gieth’eire, but what could lower Rarshman’s nose?
Rarshman gave Cal a nod before continuing. “Have they told you about the attack? We lost quite a few men.” He stared as if expecting Grady to know what he was talking about. “What of Bailryn? Have they attacked there, too?”
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 100