Daric growled. Hands on his head, scrubbing at his hair, he said, “That… fool!”
“Who? Denisan or the King?” Mikelmoor asked.
By his tone, Daric thought the general might blame them both. But from what he had seen, he didn’t think the King would have given those orders. “I’ll have to go up there, to the palace,” he told Mikelmoor.
Daric started back down the stairs, shouting for the sergeant to open the doors and get out of the way. The Circle was empty when he emerged from the base of the gate tower. And only two guards were standing in the alley leading to the Hungry Fisherman’s stables.
“Any horse that’s saddled, Alim,” he told the innkeeper—who was stood talking to the stable boy. “I don’t care who it belongs to, bring it out here.”
Alim looked ready to complain, but must of thought better of it. The innkeeper waved the boy into the stables, and a few moments later, the lad emerged, leading a tall gelding by its reins. Without waiting for the mounting stool, Daric swung himself into the saddle and was on his way out of the courtyard to cries of “That’s my horse” coming from one of the captains.
The Palace Square was filling up when Daric rode in through the Silver Gate. Guards were gazing at one another, likely wondering what they were supposed to be doing. Even if they could see the dragon, they would not be able to attack it from the courtyard.
Daric pulled up at the base of the long steps and handed the reins to a young corporal.
“You stand here,” he told him, “and you guard that horse until I come back. I don’t care if the King himself comes out and tells you to move, you stay put. Do you understand me?”
“Uh, ye – yes, sir.” The corporal fumble a salute.
The corridors were full of people running the other way when Daric tried making his way to the stairs. He had to push through crying children and frantic kitchen staff before he could run up the steps to the third floor. The corridor outside the King’s audience room was full with his personal guard. Daric tried to push by, but they were having none of it.
“I must see His Majesty immediately. The dragons are attacking the northern wall.”
“I don’t know where you’ve been all morning, Major,” the tall guard in front of him said, “but the bloody dragons are attacking the palace, too. Now, I don’t know about you, but I think the palace is more important than your wall.”
“Really,” Daric chided. “Well, you’ve got one dragon, I’ve got eight.”
The guard shrugged and stared impassively over Daric’s shoulder.
“Are you listening?” Daric shouted. “We’ll lose the bloody wall if you don’t let me past.”
Again, he tried to push past the guard, and four more put hands on their hilts and took a step forward. Oh, they were good guards, but every one of them as thick as two planks.
“Let him through,” a voice called from inside the audience chamber.
The guards parted and Daric ran through and into the crowded room.
The chamber was full of nobles. Lords and ladies standing around, looking concerned, while drinking goblets of wine and chatting about what a nuisance the attack had been for business. As Daric edged his way towards the King, he heard a woman talking about how her maid had only just filled her bath with hot water when the “horrid beast” attached itself to the wall. The man she was talking to was shaking his head in sympathy. Madness.
The King was sitting in his audience chair. He waved Daric forward. “What’s this about the northern wall?”
“Eight dragons are pulling siege engines towards the north wall, Majesty. I need my men back. Tor and his friends will protect the palace, but I need my men on that wall before the Kel’madden breaches it.”
“Eight dragons,” the King said while slowly turning towards General Denisan. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
Denisan stood to attention. “I didn’t know about those dragons, Your Majesty. We have to protect the palace; they can’t be allowed to get away with this attack on your seat of power.”
The King sighed. “It’s a diversion, you idiot.” The King stood and moved over to the table on the far wall. He began to write something out on a piece of parchment. Whatever it was, it was a short note. The King placed his seal on the paper, then handed it to Daric. “Take this, Major. It has my seal, and instructions that your orders are to be obeyed, regardless of rank.”
“Thank you, Majesty. Now, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, go, as fast as you can.”
That was the second time the King had surprised Daric with his common sense. He was beginning to respect the young royal.
The ride back to the Hungry Fisherman was considerably slower, now that the road was full of soldiers making their way back to the wall. Daric rode into the stable yard and handed the reins over to the groom.
The boy bowed deeply. “If there’s ever anything I can do, sir. My father says you’re a good man.”
“Your father?” Daric asked. “Would that be Alim?”
“Yes, sir. My name is Elum.”
Something about the boy reminded Daric of Olam; his hair was a similar shade of dusty blond, his eyes were wide and searching. He had the same square chin, and the lolloping grace Daric had come to expect from Eurmacians. In fact, he was so like Olam, Daric wondered if they might be related. He didn’t ask, though; he didn’t want to tell the boy his kinsman was dead, and that he was partly to blame.
Blinking, Daric shook himself out of his thoughts. “Has your father told you what to do if the walls is breached, Elum?”
“Oh yes, sir. Run south like my arse is on fire, sir.”
Daric laughed. “That is excellent advice. You just make sure you follow it, no playing the hero. You promise me now, you hear?”
“Uh, all right, I promise, but—”
“But nothing,” Daric interrupted. “If the Kel’madden look like they’re coming over the wall, you run like your… arse is on fire.” Daric chuckled. “I’ll have to remember that order.”
After returning Elum’s mock salute, Daric made his way back to the wall.
The Cren archers were standing ready on the parapet when Daric ducked through the small door leading from the gate tower.
“They arrived just after you left,” Mikelmoor said.
Daric rolled his eyes. “They should have been here at dawn. No matter, we needed the men back from the palace.”
Daric looked over the battlements at the approaching Kel’madden army. The four siege engines were in line, rolling down the southern slope of the Crescent. Ranks of Kel’madden troops followed in long lines. Some were carrying ladders; other had what looked like punt poles to help fix the ladders in place. Most had shields raised above their heads, making a carpet of grey-black steel that stretched back up to the top of the Crescent.
“We’ll need to concentrate our fire on that one,” Daric said. He pointed to the siege engine on the far left. It was different to the others; twice the size, and covered with a pitched roof of black slate. “They must have brought a lot of carts with them to build that thing. We should set up fires before they get too close. What about the trebuchets? Why aren’t they manned yet?”
Mikelmoor laughed. “For a runner, you certainly like giving orders, Major. Are you certain you won’t change your mind? Any old captain can run messages.”
Daric hadn’t realised what he was doing. He’d taken charge almost since the moment he had woken up. What was he thinking, riding to the palace and forcing his way in to see the King? Mikelmoor was right; he would go mad running messages while others were fighting.
“I’ll take the archers,” he told Mikelmoor.
“Very well,” the general said. “I’ll be at the Hungry Fisherman if you need me—looking for a new runner.” Mikelmoor smiled as he about-faced and made his way towards the gate tower.
Daric looked over the wall again. The Cren would have to stretch their bows if they were going to hit the siege engine on the left.
He stood and faced the long line of archers. “Light the fires and make ready. Every fourth man with me, we’re going to the western gate, see if we can catch that monstrosity before it gets too close.”
That large siege engine was apparently heading for the Highgate. It was the wall’s weakest point, after all.
Along the line, the fires began to burn, and two hundred Cren broke ranks. They followed him down through the gate tower and on up to the narrow parapet on the Western Wall. It wasn’t as well-defended, but it would give a clear shot once the Kel’madden turned their machine towards the gate. At least, that’s what Daric hoped would happen. He had the men light more fires. Then they waited for the engine to come into range.
* * *
Rarshman raised his sword and galloped along the line of wolves. They were on their way south; the Black Hand had been spotted in a valley not three miles from camp.
He pulled rein at the front of the line. Farnok—the insufferable Alpha—was leading.
“Where are the Cren?” the wolf asked. “We’re not attacking until we have archers in place.”
Again, Rarshman suppressed his frustration. Didn’t the wolf know Mikelmoor had put him in charge?
“They are following,” he told the wolf. “Three units. That should be more than enough for this lot.” He nodded south towards the valley.
The scouts, three of whom had been killed by the Black Hand, had told him barely a third of the mercenaries were in the valley. And most of them were wearing civilian clothes and had simple weapons.
Grady reined his horse in on Rarshman’s left. The Salrians, Si’eth and Bre’ach, pulled up behind. All he needed was Daric, and he’d have a full set. At least Grady appeared to know who was in command. If only he could say the same for the wolves—all of them.
On his right, were the remnants of the ill-fated scouting party—two men with bloodied faces and eyes like thunder. The two all but stank of revenge. Rarshman would have to tell one of the others to keep an eye on them before they took matters into their own hands. “Rogue soldiers are dead soldiers,” as his father used to say. Followed by, “And they don’t just get themselves killed.”
A row of burning arrows arched through the sky in front of Rarshman’s group. The arrows seemed to move slowly at first but then sped up as they began to fall. Most flew over their heads, landing thirty paces behind. Rarshman heard yelps, accompanied by the whinnying of horses, as some hit their target. He didn’t turn to look. Instead, he called for more speed. The only way to stop the hail of fire was to attack the enemy archers with a barrage of their own.
The attack seemed to spur the wolves on. From behind, Rarshman could hear the barking and howling coming closer. He hoped the females weren’t among them—in the guards, females stayed at the back with the archers, he didn’t think the same applied to wolves. How could it? They had to get close enough to use their teeth, he assumed. Still, he knew one wolf that would not be happy if his mate was amongst those charging.
Toban and the other lead wolves had caught up—so much for staying back and waiting. The Darkin were now forging their way forward.
“They’re going to get themselves killed,” Bre’ach shouted over the howling.
“Have you ever seen an angry wolf, Bre’ach?” Rarshman yelled back.
“Not something I look out for.”
“Well, in this case, I suggest you keep your eyes open and stay out of their way.”
The bulk of the Cren reached the edge of the valley. They dismounted while the horses were still trotting. The huge Kalidhain Tall Horses turned and ran back towards camp—as if they had been trained to hide. The Cren had arrows nocked and aimed before Rarshman had dismounted. It was uncanny how fast the big men could move.
Rarshman nodded at Mateaf. The young Cren had been given command of two units. He seemed to be a good soldier. At least he waited for the order before firing.
“At your will, Captain,” Rarshman said. He didn’t know if Mateaf was a captain, but the title suited him well enough.
Mateaf gave him a nod nd shouted the order down the line. Rarshman watched as three hundred spear-sized arrows whistled across the stream in the direction of the mercenary archers. From where he stood, he could hear the thud-thud-thud as the arrows hit home. More often than not, the sound was followed by a cry or scream. The Cren were very good with their bows.
Another barrage of burning arrows came at them from beyond the stream. The wolves were moving up now, and most of the arrows flew harmlessly overhead. Mateaf managed to get off one more round before the wolves charged over the stream and into the trees opposite.
Rarshman rolled his eyes and got back on his horse. Grady and the Salrians hadn’t dismounted, and they were already halfway down the slope towards the narrow stream. And there’s another group who can’t follow orders.
Rarshman followed.
Most of the enemy archers had come out of hiding and were running south towards the larger group of Black Hand and mercenaries. The bulk of that large group had taken up positions on the high ground at the far end of the valley. They would be hard to dislodge; the ridge was an ideal defensive position, peppered with thick oak and silver birch.
Once over the stream, Rarshman reined his horse in and called a halt. He had to shout three times before the wolves stopped, and still some of them continued chasing stragglers around the flat field that covered the bottom of the valley.
“Why have you stopped?” Farnok growled.
“They have the high ground. We can’t just run up the middle, we need a plan.”
Grady and Si’eth pulled up beside him. “There’s a path to the west,” Grady said. “If we bring up the last groups of Cren, they can circle around and catch them in the middle. If nothing else, it will thin out their ranks.”
Rarshman eyed the western edge of the valley. The trees there were sparse, and the path—a dirt track—ran a good two miles south before turning east. Still, the Cren, on their huge horses, could make the run before the mercenaries had time to plug the gap. He nodded his agreement at Grady.
“Send Bre’ach back with the message,” Si’eth said.
Bre’ach, who had just pulled his own horse alongside, gaped at his father. “I want to fight; I haven’t come here to run errands.”
“And you think running a message is easy, do you? I’m sending you because I trust you,” his father told him.
The look on Bre’ach’s face said he wasn’t sure he believed his father’s reasoning, but he said no more.
“Go on then, Bre’ach,” Rarshman said, “as quickly as you can. We need the other three units galloping west before the Black Hand realise what we’re up to. And when you’ve done that, go back to camp and tell Kirin’thar what we are doing.”
Bre’ach waved a weak salute and kicked his mount to a gallop.
“Did you mean what you said?” Grady asked Si’eth.
“I meant what I said about trusting him, yes. And yes, I want him off the front lines.”
Farnok pushed past Si’eth. He was almost as big as the Salrian’s horse. “Can we leave the family chat for later? What are we supposed to do while we’re waiting for the Cren to save the day?”
“You and the others can brace yourselves for the attack. Once the Cren force their rear guard, those mercenaries will have nowhere to go but run right at us.”
“Good,” Farnok said. “We’ll be ready.”
CHAPTER 9
To Hear My Voice
Brea stood on the tips of her toes and peered over the fence. The guard had told her which direction to go, but these alleyways were like rabbit warrens; she had taken a northerly route, just to have the path pull her around to the west.
“That’s it, over there,” she said.
“Are you sure?” Alacin asked. “You said that last time, and we ended up back where we started.”
“It’s the tower, right there. You can see for yourself.”
When Alacin had taken over Ealian’s body, h
e had suggested that they go to one of the eastern towers overlooking parts of the Kel’madden camp. He seemed to think looking at the dragons would help her focus on the Shard. She wasn’t so sure. Yes, she wanted to do her duty, but why couldn’t they have done it from the safety of the palace?
The fishy smell told her they were near the docks. At least they were on the right side of the city. “We should head east, and then up by the harbour. One of those roads must run past the towers.”
Alacin agreed.
“After you, then,” Brea said.
Alacin grinned at her before turning east along yet another alley.
Brea followed him with her eyes for a moment. Somehow, Ealian looked different when Alacin was in control of his body: taller, surer of himself. Not that Ealian appeared weak, but Alacin seemed to carry himself better. He was still the lanky dark-haired boy she knew, still pale skinned and donning those ridiculous clothes, but Alacin—
What am I doing? I have to face enemy dragons, and here I am, staring at Ealian’s shoulders! Angry with herself, Brea shook the thought from her mind.
Alacin strode ahead. Eyeing every corner and covered gate before proceeding. He certainly was vigilant. Was he expecting a trooper to jump out at them? Brea quickened her pace and caught up with him. She didn’t think there were any troopers about, but…
“Dragons, Brea,” Alacin said, his voice calm.
“What about them,” she asked.
“No, DRAGONS! Quickly, get under that tree.”
Half running - half dragged by Alacin - Brea headed down what she thought was a blind alley. Fortunately, the alley opened onto a broad road. Ducking, as one of the dragons flew directly overhead, she stumbled before crouching beside the trunk of a very old, very dead oak tree. It would go up like a torch if a dragon breathed fire on it.
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