Olam looked surprised. “I cannot say. Some believe we will not alter that which must be; others maintain that we make our own future. I prefer the second option. We are as prepared as we can be. If the men stay true, we should prevail. I cannot believe the Balance will allow anything other than victory.”
Daric raised an eyebrow. The man really did believe all this fate and destiny rubbish. The Powers, those Voices, the White Dragon Olam had spoken of earlier; maybe the man was right, and Daric just could not see it. No, that wasn’t true; he had seen the Power used more than once. It was more likely he just didn’t want to believe it.
“The men will fight honourably,” Daric said. “A soldier protecting his home is worth two invaders. And they have to attack the wall while we stand protected by it. I’m not saying it will be easy, but if the witch thinks we are going to turn tail and run, she is in for a surprise.” I hope, he added for his own benefit.
Olam smiled at him. “That’s a very optimistic view, Major. I will hold to it in the coming days.”
Daric scoffed at the man’s wry grin.
Olam was no fool. He would know their chances of winning were thin at best. Especially as there was still no sign of the Cren Woodsmen. A few hundred of their longbows on the wall could make all the difference. Where were they?
Daric had spent much of last night pondering that very question. At one point, he had considered getting his horse and riding west—and seeing for himself what was holding them up. Of course, he couldn’t just leave. And part of him had been glad of that; what if he had discovered they were not coming? No, he had put that idea to bed as soon as it raised its head. He was sure he could trust Kirin’thar. The Cren would turn up sooner or later. He gave a silent prayer that it would be sooner.
“So you’re staying,” Daric said—and Olam nodded—“I thought you might go. Maybe get a boat and go find Arfael. You don’t owe us anything, Olam. You’re free to do as you—”
A look of shock came over Olam’s face. Wide-eyed, he opened his mouth to speak but fell forward instead. A dagger was sticking out of his back.
Daric moved quickly to catch him, but spun when he heard a scraping on the floor. A black-cladothed man rushed at him from behind the curtain.
The assassin—he must be an assassin, Daric hadn’t heard him climb in the window—lunged at him, thrusting his sword forward. It was all Daric could do to get out of the way.
The assassin was a short man, wearing a black matted breastplate and dark cloak. His face was covered with a full mask of what looked like black velvet. He stared coolly as he moved forward.
The look in the assassin’s eyes spoke volumes; this killer was well trained, confident. Daric would need more than a little luck to get through this alive.
He rallied. Senses returning, Daric picked up one of the chairs and threw it at the assassin, then ran to his fetch his sword from where it hung behind the door. He pulled his shortsword from its scabbard and turned back to the man in black.
The assassin hesitated. Daric took the opportunity to shout for the guards. His cry seemed to anger the other man, and Daric found himself deflecting one lunge after another. The assassin’s blade whirled wildly; the man was not trying to defend himself, just kill. Daric knew, if he could stay calm, maybe the man would make a mistake and leave an opening.
The assassin beat Daric back until the back of his legs hit the small table in the middle of the room. He threw the wine pitcher, then the goblets, then the platter. The assassin beat off every missile and still stayed on the front foot. Daric rolled over the table and put it between them. The killer kicked at it, causing Daric to fall backwards into a chair. The assassin flipped the table over and lunged. Daric rolled under the blade, then quickly stood. He was close to the still-open window.
Aware of his footing—there wasn’t much room left to retreat—Daric crouched and lunged at the attacker’s legs. He managed to pick the man up, and with all speed, he ran towards the still-roaring fire. Heedless of his own safety, he rammed the assassin into the fireplace.
The assassin let out an unearthly howl as he gaped wide-eyed at his now-burning clothes. He rolled out of the fireplace and onto the carpet. Still wailing, the assassin began to pat himself down. His efforts made little difference; if anything, the flames were spreading.
Daric moved back as the man got to his feet, and then watched as he ran to the window and jumped out. It was ten spans down to the hard courtyard. Daric didn’t bother looking; the assassin was dead.
He stamped out the flames that had caught the edge of the carpet then ran to his friend’s side. Kneeling, he lifted Olam’s head onto his lap.
Gritting his teeth, Olam tried to sit up.
“Rest easy, friend. The guards will be here soon. We’ll get you some help.”
“Arfael?” Olam mumbled, and then seemed to realise his friend wasn’t there. “Gods, I am dying. I should have had two more days!”
Two days? What was he talking about? He must be delirious.
“Daric,” Olam coughed. “Listen to what I say. You must stay by Arfael. He will want revenge, even if it kills him—and it most likely will. Promise me you will stay by him.”
“Of course, I promise. But don’t worry; you’re not going to die.”
Olam managed a smile. “I fear I will win this final argument, my friend. My death… my life, it is all part of the bargain. I only wish I could have seen Arfael one last time. I thought I would have time to explain.”
“Bargain? What bargain?”
Blood gurgled in Olam’s throat as he tried to laugh. “There you go again, finding the one important word in a mass of mumblings. You always were a clever man, Daric. You are wise, whether you believe it or not. Do not worry about Gialyn. He will be well, I can… promise… you…” Olam coughed and Daric felt the man slip away.
Daric’s heart sank at the sight of Olam’s glassy eyes. After removing the dagger, Daric laid his friend out on the carpet. Finally, the guards arrived, but Daric could not speak. All he could do was gape at his friend. He heard a guard issuing orders. Then another said, “That makes four of them.” A moment later, two guards were guiding Daric to the opposite side of the room, where they carefully sat him down in the chair next to the small table—which had been put back the right way up. He took a goblet of water that appeared in front of his nose, but didn’t drink any. He couldn’t stop wondering what Olam had meant by “He will be well, I can promise you.” A terrible thought occurred to him. Had Olam somehow bargained his own life to save Gialyn? If that turned out to be true, he owed the man a debt that he could never repay. And he would find out the truth if it was the last thing he ever did.
CHAPTER 2
Dragon Flight
Vila was sitting, wrapped in a blanket, with her back against a wooden upright. She couldn’t move. Haselan had strapped her to the floor of the dragon chariot. She must have looked a sight; covered up against the wind, all but her eyes showing through the tightly wrapped shawl—not that that bothered her; she would have stomped around naked if she thought it would make Tulak fly faster.
Vila’s one remaining maid, Tilly, had curled herself into a ball and was quivering against the guard rail. Slim, and not very tall, the woman was hanging on to the bar as if her life depended on it—in this wind, it probably did. Tilly’s face was pale; the woman had been sick more times than Vila could remember… and yet, it wasn’t the woman’s illness that was a problem; more her endless moaning, a near constant wail that reminded Vila of an injured animal. Cursing the woman, Vila wondered how she had ended up with the weakest of three servants. Worst still, with only one maid, and no time, she had had to leave all her best clothes behind—never mind stomping around naked: she would do a dance—hurry up Tulak.
She did not know what had happened to her other maids. Although she suspected Elka had double-crossed her and stayed with the Tanner girl. She should have known; those two were getting far too chatty towards the end.
Brean
i was huddled up to Vila’s left, looking better than Tilly, but only slightly. Vila had been in two minds about bringing her—another witch might confuse things—but the woman had insisted on coming. Of course, generally “insisting” would have made little difference to Vila, but there hadn’t been time for arguments. Besides, maybe having an extra Voice would prove useful in the coming days. Still, given a choice, she would have rather have had her cook with her. Well, if Breani became a nuisance, Turasan would be paying her a night time visit.
They were fewer than ten leagues from their destination—according to Sergeant Haselan. The storm that had been gathering all morning was just beginning to deliver on its threat. Black clouds, like cliffs in the sky, filled the horizon to the south. Now and then one would light up, and a few seconds later they would hear the roll of thunder. Rain that had been little more than a soft drizzle began to pelt the sides of the cart. Vila looked up at the sky, wishing that they still had a roof, a piece of tarp, anything to cover their heads.
She could see land to her right. Even in this weather, she could make out the Karan Ridges creasing the distant horizon. The sight lifted her spirits; it would be good to be back on solid ground. Barring the occasional rest, they had flown four of the last five days.
Earlier, Haselan had warned her about working Tulak too hard. The man had been quite insistent, saying that they should rest for a day. Vila listened to him—in a manner of speaking; she wasn’t actually paying attention—before giving him an emphatic no! That girl, that upstart Oracle, was barely a day behind, and he wanted to rest! Absolutely not! Tired or not, the dragon would have to fly.
As if thinking about a problem made it happen, Tulak suddenly plummeted towards the water, his wings gathered at his sides.
“What is going on?” Vila shouted above the noise of the storm.
“Bad air, ma’am, pushing us down, we have to get out of it. Tulak is trying to dive through.”
Vila pushed her feet against the rail that separated the cart from where Haselan was sitting. Crates, backpacks, and the tied bundles of blankets were all straining at their tethers, wanting to slide forward. Tilly was screaming, and the guard sitting behind was shouting at the girl to shut up. Breani seemed calm, though, and Vila tried not to show how worried she felt. Maybe she should have let the dragon rest; crashing into a cliff wouldn’t help anybody, except the Surabhan.
“Is it working?” she shouted.
Haselan didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure if he had heard or if he was ignoring her. The man had been quite the petulant nuisance since freeing her from that cells in Bhail. She would have to put him back in his place, assuming they survived the trip.
She was about to tell him as much, when…
“Girl, if you don’t shut up, I swear, I’m going to throw you over myself,” the guard told Tilly.
Vila wasn’t sure she didn’t agree. The girl was making an unearthly din. It was quite off-putting, what with everything else.
“Maybe you should shimmy down and hold her, Sergeant, calm her down,” Breani told him. “Honestly, men, you’re all the same, thinking with the hair on your chest.”
Vila had to admit that that was a better idea. She nodded the guard in Tilly’s direction.
The guard unhitched himself from the rail and began to move forward, just as Tulak decided to lurch to the right. The guard lost his footing and, with a yelp, toppled over the rail.
Tilly leaned forward and grabbed the sergeant’s arm and, unhitching her own belt, reached over and helped the man back into the cart.
The two of them huddled together while they both refastened themselves to the rail. Vila didn’t think the guard would be complaining about her maid anymore. Best of all, Tilly had stopped moaning.
Tulak began to level off. And not a minute too soon; they were level with the cliffs, probably fewer than fifty paces from the water. The dragon struggled to gain height. Vila heard him growling and grunting with every downbeat of his massive wings. The beast’s head was flailing around. He was obviously in agony.
“Come on, just a little longer,” she whispered.
But the dragon turned east, and before she could argue, Tulak was landing on a flat plateau a few miles north of the Karan Ridges.
“What the… You take off right now, Sergeant Haselan. Do you hear me? Right now!”
“It’s not me doing it, ma’am,” Haselan said, waving his hands in the air. “I think his wing might be broken. I told you he should rest.”
Wing, broken…! Of all the…
“The other two are following us down, ma’am,” Haselan said. “You can take one of them the rest of the way in.”
Vila looked over her shoulder. A Cuis and a Drin were coming in to land a hundred paces behind. The Cuis would do, she supposed. She would be left without a guard, and on a dragon she didn’t know. Still, needs must…
“Very well,” she told Haselan. “Bring us up to those trees, and signal the others to come in.”
CHAPTER 3
Dead Man’s Hand
Daric stood on the parapet. It didn’t feel like morning. The dense, black clouds allowed only a dull view of the fields to the north. He felt strangely thankful—his men were nervous enough; a clear view of the enemy would have done nothing to ease their tension. In the same way, he was grateful for the Crescent. Of course, his men would have to face the Kel’madden sooner or later. But for now, the less fuel added to their fears, the better.
On the parapet, a thousand Surabhan, mostly city guards, were preparing for the attack on Bailryn. The attack which felt like it had been coming for months. Daric could hardly believe only a few weeks had passed since leaving Albergeddy. A thousand was all they could fit on the northern parapet. He would have preferred double that number, but they would only get in one another’s way, especially archers. Besides, they were lucky to have found a thousand who could shoot a straight arrow—or at least said they could; whether they were any good remained to be seen. There were another five hundred stationed at the bottom of the steps. They had been organised in groups of fifty, two units for each of the five stone stairways. Looking down, Daric was pleased to see that they appeared well organised, not that they would see action today. Or at least, he hoped they wouldn’t; things would be going very badly if he had to call the reserves at this early stage.
A great swell of Kel’madden emerged on top of the Crescent. The carpet of black began to form up in lines. This would be the first, and last, time the Kel’madden did this. It was a show; Daric knew that for a fact. The next time they appeared would be with ladders, and they would be charging, not standing and staring. That charge would fail—it always did—but they had to try. The first run on a wall was always expensive. But the attacking force had to see what they were up against and, of course, there was always the hope that a weak point might be exploited. Daric almost felt sorry for them; there would be no weakness in his wall.
Weakness… like that which had allowed four assassins into the palace. Twenty-seven died in payment for that lapse in security; nineteen servants, four guards, two sergeants, and General Pridman. Olam made the twenty-seven.
Olam, what were you trying to say? Later that night, after he had recovered his senses, Daric had realised, that if not for Olam, he would be dead, too. In all likelihood, he would have been asleep when the assassin attacked. He spent the rest of the night wondering if Olam knew. Had the man somehow saved his life. Olam’s last words were a puzzle, a mystery that led to more questions. What was this bargain he had mentioned? How did he know Gialyn would be well?
A shout from the left brought him out of his thoughts.
“Tighten the ranks and get your bloody heads down,” Mikelmoor shouted.
The men hunkered down behind the crenellations. Some were sipping tea, some playing cards, some were praying. Most were young, too young, Daric mused. On the other hand, was it he who was too old?
The rear edge of the parapet had no wall. One wrong step would see a man plung
e to the hard-cobbled street below. Daric, ignoring the drop, turned towards Mikelmoor. Sipping his own tea, he walked along the line of men, returning nods and salutes as he went.
Three runners tailed Daric—young men, none too skilled, but fast on their feet—ready to take written orders along the line. Their job would be vital. Daric had chosen them himself. He didn’t know them; they just seemed the right sort. Absently, he hoped he could still tell who “the right sort” were.
“I wish they’d get this done with, before it starts raining again,” Mikelmoor told Daric when he saluted the general.
Mikelmoor returned his salute with a casual wave. A strange gesture: Daric had always thought of Mikelmoor as a by-the-book man, especially when it came to etiquette. Maybe the general was nervous, too.
Mikelmoor was a good man, honest to a fault, and hard working. He was probably too old to fight, though. Daric didn’t much like the sight of him standing on the line with the regulars—they had already lost one general today—but Mikelmoor would not “veil himself” behind his new title. Whatever that meant.
“Maybe you should go back to the command post, General,” Daric said. “I have runners,”—he gestured to the three men lined up behind him—“there’s really no need for you to be here, sir.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Mikelmoor waved him off. “I’ll… uh… hide, when they start the attack. They’re still a mile away.” The general shook a finger to the north like that was enough explanation.
Daric suppressed a sigh. He could respect the general for not “hiding,” but putting himself in harm’s way would only create more work for someone. Probably Daric.
“Shouldn’t we hit them with the Trebuchets?” one of the runners asked.
Mikelmoor appeared scandalized. “No,” he growled, “we do not attack first. There will be terms, maybe parley. They might even give us the day. If we attack first…”
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