Arfael nodded, and the blacksmith swapped two Krasis ingots for six of the Ealdihain.
“You’ll do better with that, young sir. Mix it one to four and you might just be able to pick your armour up when you’ve finished.”
The other blacksmiths laughed. Arfael picked up the basket and nodded to the older man.
A few minutes later, Arfael was crouching in a secluded alley, not far from the harbour. Piling the ingots up in a pyramid, he laid his hands on them and waited for the familiar tingling that always preceded the Change. The transformations had become faster since his memories had returned, and before long, he was spitting out teeth and peeling off his fingernails. The Kun has Olef armour stretched as he grew to his full eight feet. He watched as the liquefied steel rolled up his arms and formed mirror-like scales over his skin. His black talons dripped with acid-like oil, and his teeth—his fangs—pushed through his bloody gums. He felt glorious—a silver beast worthy of the old legends.
Arfael welcomed the Voice into his mind. Standing tall, he howled to the north. A primal cry that he knew the witch would hear. Vila was there, less than a league away, so close he could almost feel her. Nothing short of a Nirad stamping him down was going to come between them.
* * *
The cry was deafening; Vila’slae had to grab the back of the chair to steady herself. But this was not a cry anybody else in the tent would have heard, except maybe Breani—another witch.
For a moment, the Voice shook, like a huge bell had been rung. Then silence, as if every creature, every soul in the land, had stopped to listen. Vila had no idea what it was, but she didn’t like it; a Voice that strong could ruin everything.
Breani hadn’t moved a muscle. The old witch remained seated in the corner with that docile look on her face, sipping a cup of tea. Vila glanced at the woman. She must have heard that! She must be pretending. Yes, that was it; Breani was pretending. At least Vila hoped that was the case, if not, then why? Why had she heard the cry and not Breani?
Maybe there was nothing sinister about the sound; just something to do with the Shard. The new Barrow Shard did feel different to the one Elspeth had destroyed. The new one seemed more powerful, somehow. Or at least she felt stronger while using. As if less of her own influence was needed to control the dragons. And why is that happening? Why can I u—
“The six assassins, Madam Slae.”
“What? What did you say?” Vila asked Turasan.
“I was saying, Captain Reidi has confirmed that the six assassins are in place.”
“Good, good. With any luck, one of them will get to the King. Has Lord Breen heard any more from his spies in the palace?”
“Only to confirm what we already know. The Cren are here, so too are the Darkin wolves.”
“But no Salrians.”
“No, ma’am. Our western flank is safe.”
Vila nodded. That, at least, was good news. “How far are the siege engines from the gate?”
“A matter of minutes, ma’am. We should be through within the hour.”
“Excellent. Make sure Sek knows. His attack will be vital; we need to give the engineers time to demolish that gate tower.”
“It is done, ma’am. We have runners in place, and runners to back up the runners. Sek and the other dragons are ready and waiting.”
More good news. Whatever that… disturbance was, once they destroyed the gate, nothing would stop their advance into Bailryn.
“Good work, General. I see you have made up for your earlier failure. I am pleased. Take over while I change. I want to be dressed for the occasion when we march into the city.”
Turasan bowed as Vila left. She didn’t think he believed all that talk about “dressing,” but she wasn’t about to admit how tired she was. A short rest was what she needed, an hour to lie down and close her eyes.
She looked to the southern horizon. The storm clouds were beginning to clear. Their fires would burn that gate down and her troopers would march into the city. The battle was going well. Nevertheless, even as she looked at the clearing sky, she couldn’t help feeling that something was coming. She had no idea what, but she was sure it was nothing good.
* * *
Elspeth felt a tickle in the back of her mind. At the same instant, Olivia gasped, and Elucia jumped to her feet.
“What was that?” Elspeth asked.
“Did you feel it too?” Elucia asked her.
Elspeth nodded.
The witch blinked, she looked surprised. “You may be more powerful than I thought.”
“I don’t know about that,” Elspeth said. “What was it? What has happened?”
Elucia shrugged. “An interruption in the Voice, maybe. It was something old. Old and very angry.”
“He’s trying to say something,” the doctor said. The white-haired man had finished treating Gialyn and was now cleaning blood from around the wound. “It’s faint, but I’m sure he’s trying to speak. You should quieten him down. He needs sleep.”
Elucia moved to the side of the bed. “Can you hear what he’s saying, Olivia?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” the doctor insisted.
“Quiet, doctor, please. This might be important.”
Oliver put her ear close to Gialyn’s mouth. “I can hear it, but I don’t understand it—fad a natu facien radas?”
Elucia looked taken aback. “Do not fail the kin of the isle? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve heard that before,” Elspeth said.
“Where!”
“I – I can’t remember, but I have definitely heard it before.”
“Well that’s no use,” Elucia chided.
Elspeth glared at her. She was about to tell the old woman—and she was old, no matter what she looked like—what she thought of her complaining when the doctor began to sing…
Hear now ye son of the mountain high,
do not fail the kin of the isle.
Throw down your sword at the feet of your foe,
and fail the Son of Fael.”
The doctor recited. “It’s from an old folk song, I think.”
“Of course, I remember now,” Elspeth said. “It’s… about… Where did Arfael go?” she asked, scanning around the room.
“He left hours ago,” Elucia said.
“We have to find him. That song… it’s all about him.”
“Maybe so,” Elucia said, “but we should see to Gialyn—”
“He speaking again,” Olivia interrupted. “Lais dar fay, Olam… Coyn doras mith nois dru, amri.”
“Olam is at the gate, the old man must rest. He’s home.” Elucia said. She looked puzzled. “Well that doesn’t make any sense. Not unless…? No, no sense at all.”
“Is it another song?” Olivia asked Elspeth.
“I don’t know,” Elspeth answered. “I’ll ask Olam, he’s good at that sort of thing.”
“Olam… O’lamb?” the doctor asked.
“Yes.”
The doctor bit at his lip. He took a step back from the bed and put his hand on his heart. “I met him a few days ago. A good man”—he looked down at the bed—“I’m sorry miss, but he was killed by an assassin, the night before last.”
Elspeth fell back onto her chair. Olam dead? A wave of nausea came over her, her sight blurred with sudden tears. She could taste the bitter essence of bile in her throat as she held back vomit. “No, not Olam, he was so peaceful. No, no, NO!” She began to convulse uncontrollably as she fought the urge to lay down on the floor.
Elucia knelt in front of her and put a hand on her shoulder. “He’s not dead, child. Didn’t you hear? It all makes sense now. He’s at the gate.”
“What gate?” Elspeth asked through sobs and hiccups.
“The only gate that matters, the Road in Arenthenia. Your friend has become a Guardian.”
It took a moment for Elspeth to realise what the woman had said. She ran the thought through her mind: Olam a Guardian, Olam a Guardian… Then, out loud,
she whispered, “Of course he’s a Guardian, how could he not be?” A well of relief washed over her at the thought of Olam guarding the Spirit Realm; such a duty suited her friend well. She couldn’t help but embrace Elucia. “Thank you, thank you for telling me.”
“Think nothing of it, child. Now, dry your tears and go find your friend before he gets himself into trouble.”
“Yes,” Elspeth said, nodding. “I’ll go find Arfael. It should be easy enough.
CHAPTER 10
Backs to the Wall
Cal stood quietly with his thoughts while all around was chaos. He was standing at the eastern limit of Bailryn’s wall. The rocks were still blackened with last night’s rain. The parapet smelled of damp dust. At his back were the jagged cliffs of Halem Bay. Below, he could hear the reserves as they scurried about making ready for the assault—three hundred Surabhan, and not a one of them had been in a battle before. They were scared, that much was obvious—scared and edgy, not wanting to fight, but eager to have it done with.
Cal, on the other hand, felt distant. Tranquil. But only because he knew the time had not yet come to believe otherwise. And yet, despite his calm, a cloud of frustration hung over him. He had tried ordering the Surabhan to settle down, take a breath and focus. No luck there. At this rate, they would be exhausted before the battle had begun. They would learn, though. If the siege lasted, they would learn when to run and when to sit quietly with their thoughts.
A hush descended on the eastern parapet as, one after another, the Surabhan archers peered through the uneven crenellations. To the north, a siege engine of the Kel’madden—one of four—was slowly rolling into range of their arrows. If they had been Cren, Cal would have already given the order to fire, but those so-called “longbows” the Surabhan used were no better than a child’s toy to a Cren Woodsmen. They would have to do, though. Thanks to the Black Hand, there were not enough Woodsmen to cover the entire wall.
He raised his bow and pulled the arrow to his cheek. “Hold!” he shouted, as the Surabhan followed his example. “Lower your bows. I just want to give them something to think about.” He took aim at the single Kel’madden standing on top of the siege engine. The fool probably thought he was safe.
Cal released, the bowstring snapped back and the arrow whistled towards its target. He knew it would hit what he had aimed at, it always did. After ninety years, he had developed a feeling for such things. He understood the wind, the flight, the tension in the string; regardless of the weather, if a target were in range, he would always hit home.
“You missed!” one of the Surabhan said.
The Kel’madden on the siege engine started, and jumped back when the spear-sized arrow thudded into the post next to him.
“No I didn’t,” Cal said.
The Kel’madden about-faced and shimmied down the ladder at the back of the siege engine. The machine stopped in its tracks for a moment, before slowly moving forward.
“Why did you do that?” the Surabhan asked. “Why not just kill him?”
“That officer has been shouting orders and encouraging his troopers since they moved away from the Crescent. I wanted his men to see him run. And I wanted them to be in no doubt how many of their number were going to die today.”
The Surabhan soldier smiled. “You’ve done this before.”
Cal nodded. “A long time ago, yes. But some things never change.”
Cal looked to the sky; the clouds were clearing. “Ready yourselves,” he shouted down the line to the two hundred men under his command. “Stoke the fires, nock your arrows, and wait for my order. Remember, check targets, only fire when you have a clean shot. I don’t want anyone throwing arrows away.”
Some of the men nodded, some were so intent on aiming at the enemy, that Cal wondered if they had heard a word he had said. Thankfully, most went about their business without any fuss.
He turned to the runner—a short boy, no older than fifteen. “Go along the line, make sure the volunteers know where to pile the kindling, then go down and tell the reserves to stand by.”
The runner saluted before carrying out his orders. The young man looked eager, Cal thought. He wondered if he would still have that look in his eye come this evening.
Cal peered over the wall; the siege engine was almost in range. Turning back, he gazed down at the four groups of reserves. A silent hush had come over them, and every man was looking up at the parapet, probably hoping that they wouldn’t be called to climb the stone steps and take their place among the battlements. Further west, Cal could see the main force of Cren moving into position closer to Highgate. His countrymen would have two siege engines to deal with. But despite their lesser number, Cal was not worried about them. The Cren would do their duty. Absently, Cal hoped that, this time tomorrow, he would be thinking the same thing about the Surabhan
Still, the time for talk was over; the time for battle had begun. He could only hope his men and women prove themselves and not run at the first breach—not much to ask, not really.
* * *
Iyan Mikelmoor looked up from the map. Staring at it wasn’t going to change anything. They were outnumbered; he had too many young, inexperienced men, and the enemy had almost twice his number of dragons. He could plan for the troopers, but if those dragons decided to attack the Highgate, there would be little he could do to stop them. He could only hope the two hundred Cren he had stationed around the gatehouse would be enough of a deterrent. If not…
“Move the reserves forward. I want them stationed within earshot of the wall, but keep them behind cover. And send someone to the smiths, I want a report on that arrow requisition,” he told Captain Yasin.
The captain relayed his orders to one of the runners waiting in the hallway of the Hungry Fisherman.
There was an endless cycle of runners; once one left the inn, another took their place. Most were young men, but more than a few were the wives of low-ranking officers. Seemed everyone in the barracks wanted to play their part.
“Shall I order the cavalry to stand by, too?” Yasin asked.
“What, and have the horses frightened, running around in circles? There’s nowhere for them to go.”
The captain looked down at his feet. “Uh, sorry, sir. I just thought… Well, they’ll take a long time to saddle and deploy.”
“If we call the cavalry, it will be because the Kel’madden are retreating, Captain. We’re a long way from that.”
“Of course, sir. Sorry.”
“Stop apologising, man. You can make as many suggestions as you like. In fact, consider it an order. You never know, you might come up with something that will save the day.”
Yasin grinned. “I doubt that, sir, but thank you.”
Yasin was another of those too-young officers. Medium height and short-cropped hair, the man took pride in his captain’s uniform. The fact he was given it because of his wealthy father’s influence at the palace was beside the point. Mikelmoor knew a good heart when he saw one, and there were too few of them to worry about how Yasin had gained his commission.
“Have you had breakfast, Captain?” Mikelmoor asked. “It’s going to be a long day. I don’t want you fainting on me before the fun starts.”
“I’ll be fine, sir. I’m not really a breakfast person.”
Mikelmoor gave him his old-soldier look. “Go to the kitchen and ask the cook for some porridge, and bring me a plate of bread and cheese.”
“Yes, sir.” Yasin saluted.
“It wasn’t an order,” Mikelmoor said to Yasin’s back. “Oh, and bring some tea.”
Yasin nodded over his shoulder and disappeared down the hall.
A decade or two and Yasin would make a good major, or maybe even a general. For now, though, Mikelmoor wished the man would grow a backbone, and stop trying to please him all the time. This “yes, sir,” “no, sir,” snapping to attention every five seconds, did nobody any good.
Mikelmoor had to smile. It did not seem all that long ago that he was young and e
ager to please. Gods, it feels like yesterday. Thirty years… where has the time gone? He had been contemplating retirement. Now, here he was, commanding the largest battle in a generation. Why hadn’t he done what Grady had suggested two years ago—moved south with his wife? What was it the then-sergeant had said? “You could breed dogs, Mikelmoor. Dogs are better company than soldiers.” He had to laugh. Grady had been joking at the time, but it was strange how appealing the thought of dog breeding had suddenly become.
He went back to the map. Placing the small brass wolf to the west of Bailryn, he couldn’t help but wonder how things might have been different if he had had the rest of the Cren and all the wolves to play with. They could have ridden out and met the Kel’madden head on. That would have put a stick in the witch’s wheel. But now, he had a battle on two fronts and was forced to play the defensive hand. He hated reacting to aggression, “Better to take the fight to them, pick your own field,” is what his father would say if he were here. Then again, he would also say, “You can only deal with what is in front of you.” The man had a saying for every occasion.
Yasin put the cup of tea on the table at the same time as someone knocked at the door.
“Come,” Mikelmoor shouted.
A short man, one of the runners, entered. Helmet under his arm, he bowed. The man must have been one of the volunteers from the palace; nobody bowed to a general, at least not during a battle.
“What is it?” Mikelmoor asked.
“Ships, sir, twenty of them. The spotter up in the east tower saw them. He says they’re Toyan.” The small man smiled. “They’ve come to help, sir.”
Mikelmoor felt his shoulders sag. This was either incredibly fortuitous or monumentally bad. He was edging towards the latter.
Yasin took a step forward. The young captain looked anxious, as if unwilling to speak his mind.
“What is it, Captain?” Mikelmoor asked.
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