“If it were one ship… two, even, but twenty? At a time like this?”
“My thoughts exactly, Captain. And never mind that a Toyan led their embassy. If this is a ploy, they must think us stupid. They haven’t come to pay a friendly visit. How far?” he asked the runner.
“They’re against the wind, sir. Three hours, maybe more.” The little man looked confused. “Is it… not good news?”
Mikelmoor ignored the question. He wanted to shout at the fool. How could twenty foreign ships, turning up out of the blue at the beginning of a siege, be “good news”? He stared back down at the map—seemed it could change, after all. “Call three more runners, Captain, we have work to do.”
What was that about a battle on two fronts? Where was he going to find enough men to defend the harbour?
“Well played, Vila,” he whispered. “Well played.”
CHAPTER 11
A Tangle of Fear
Rarshman led a hundred of his own men up the slope towards the enemy position. In front, Farnok and the rest of the Darkin wolves had laid into what was left of the Black Hand’s right flank. Those Cren had certainly done their job; the bodies of dead mercenaries lay like winter leaves all along the west pass.
The Black Hand that were on horseback had escaped the onslaught. Only scattered bands of enemy infantry remained. Rarshman buried his head in his horse’s mane and heeled the grey roan to a gallop. He leaned to the side, sword held firm, and slashed at the mercenary’s leg. Then, with a quick flourish, he parried another’s blade before cutting the man across his back. Both mercenaries fell. Rarshman carried on, the wolves would take care of them… if they were still alive.
Eyeing the group of Black Hand in front, Rarshman shouted for a charge. The six men closest joined him. He knew the secret of a cavalry charge was speed. Speed, and never letting your enemy settle on a position. In front, his targets were running into one another as they attempted to flee. It took little effort to finish them off—they were on foot, after all—and soon there was no enemy left standing.
Turning, Rarshman did a quick scan of the field. Goliver, his tall, red-headed sergeant, was with a group of Gieth’eire guards, fighting man-to-man with a dozen Black Hand. Rarshman had no doubt Goliver would win the fight, but he did not want men on the ground; the Hand could break any moment, and he intended to run them all down.
“Lances up,” Rarshman told his men—they didn’t have their lances, but it was the order to stop fighting and follow.
He guided his mount towards Goliver’s position. As expected, the sergeant was holding his own. Not wanting to spook the other horses, Rarshman ordered “bows out” and “fire when ready.”
Goliver bowed as the last Black Hand fell. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “but I had the man beaten.” The cocky sergeant kicked the Black Hand mercenary now sprawled at his feet.
“Maybe so,” Rarshman told him. “Get to your horses. Leave the stragglers for the wolves.”
Goliver smiled like it was his birthday. Then saluted before running to his horse. The man liked to brawl a little too much for Rarshman’s like—fistfights were for the taverns, not for the cavalry.
The field was too large for a single charge. Small groups were fighting here and there, some on horseback, some hand to hand. After sending another group east to shore up the Cren’s flank, Rarshman led his men through the centre of the battle. There would be someone who needed help.
The wolves were doing a good job—the normal wolves, not those monstrosities that Farnok led. The sheer number of wildlings meant that they could swarm an enemy group with very few casualties of their own. In fact, Rarshman was beginning to think the wolves could manage without the cavalry. There certainly hadn’t been much for him to do—the Cren archers weakened the enemy ranks, and the wolves ran in to finish them off. Very efficient.
“We might as well build a fire, make some tea,” Goliver said.
“Keep your wit to yourself, Sergeant. It’s complacency like that that gets men killed.”
“Aye, sir, I know, but there’s really nothing for us here. They’re hardly putting up much of a fight. In fact, why aren’t they running? Throwing down weapons and surrendering? They are a shambles; I doubt there’s a decent soldier among them.”
The sergeant was right; why hadn’t they surrendered? Most of the enemy were not armed properly, never mind skilled in combat. He was beginning to think they had been left behind to keep him from following the main Black Hand forces. A thought occurred to him—maybe none of the mercenaries were fighters, maybe the only reason they were here was to keep his troops from assisting the King during the siege. It would be a good way to use a few thousand badly trained men; have them tie up enemy forces while the regulars concentrated on the primary task. Still, inadequate or not, Rarshman couldn’t leave these mercenaries to loot the merchant trains and terrorise the locals.
An hour later, the last of the Black Hand had finally decided to surrender. Rarshman ordered them tied in lines for the march back to camp.
After giving orders to clear the field, Rarshman led the column back north.
“Strangest battle I’ve been in,” Grady said, pulling his mount up at Rarshman’s right.
Si’eth rode behind him. “If this is what the rest of the Black Hand are like, we can probably leave them to the local farmers,” the Salrian said, chuckling.
Rarshman nodded his agreement, but something was wrong, out of place. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but nor could he shake the feeling that he was being played—duped into running after foxes while the wolves ran free. Well… not wolves; they were on his side. Those men really were amateurs, woefully unprepared for a battle. So bad were they, that he had contemplated ordering his men to stand down. It had been a pitiful show; no honour could be taken from such a victory.
“Is that your boy, Si’eth?” Grady asked the Salrian while nodding north at where a grass verge rose out of the valley.
Si’eth leant forward on his horse. “Yes. What’s got him in such a hurry?”
“I knew it!” Rarshman bellowed. He heeled his horse to a gallop.
“What are you doing?” Grady shouted after him.
“The camp! They have run us away from the camp.”
Gods, he hoped he was wrong. But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The Black Hand has left their weaker forces to pull him away while the rest of them attacked the camp.
He heard the others galloping behind. No one said a word. From the looks on their faces, the truth had dawned on them, too
* * *
The Runner bowed.
“I wish you people would stop doing that,” Daric said.
“Uh, sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”
The old man didn’t look like he could walk very far, never mind run, and he was clearly out of breath after climbing up the stone steps to the western parapet. Panting hard, the runner held out a note.
“You can read it to me,” Daric said. “My hands are full.”
Daric was helping one of the Cren to fill the kindling box with dry wood. The fires were burning nicely, but they would not last long if more wood weren’t brought up from the stores.
The runner began to read, “Our defences are in position. Commence at will – Mikelmoor.”
Daric nodded. “Confirm the message as received, and request more dry kindling,” he told the runner. The old man’s shoulders sunk. “No rush,” Daric told him. “When you’ve done that, get yourself some food.”
The old man smiled, then started back down the steps—walking, this time.
Daric looked down from the parapet. Below, the roofs of red and blue-slated buildings stretched out of sight to the southern horizon. Mist still obscured the south of the city, but he could see men running between buildings. They didn’t look like soldiers.
“There are more and more of them with every hour,” Silas, the Cren, said, when he saw Daric looking.
Silas was the shortest Cren Woods
man Daric had seen—barely seven feet tall. He was dressed in the same thick leather garb as all the others and carried his longbow—unstrung—tied across his back. Apparently, because Silas was the youngest, it would be his duty to maintain the fires and see that none of the others ran out of arrows.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Daric said, in a dry voice. Thoughts of the Black Hand and the attempted torching of Highgate came to mind. “I should tell the captain of the reserves to keep an eye out, see if he can find out who they are.”
“It might be nothing, shopkeepers protecting their wares.”
Another group of men ran across the front of an alley. Daric chuckled. “Maybe, but thus far, our luck hasn’t been that good, friend.”
Silas stood straight as another Cren came up beside him. “They are in range, Daric Re’adh.”
Daric stood tall and faced Mosban, the leader of this group of Cren. Not for the first time, he looked up into those fierce, questioning eyes that every Cren appeared to possess and felt small. What was he doing leading such people? He felt like a child at a palace tourney, watching with awe as the nobles fought for the honour of their house.
“Very good, Mosban. You know what to do.”
The taller Cren turned on his heel. “Ousta, mostaf valon,” he shouted.
All along the line, Cren archers dipped their cloth-bound arrows into the small fires. The air crackled as two hundred longbows loosed. Daric raised his head to see over the battlements. The hail of fiery arrows sent Kel’madden running in all directions. The first of the two siege engines lit up like a burning porcupine.
“Another volley,” Daric shouted. They needed to deal with the smaller siege engine so they could concentrate fire on the bigger machine.
The Kel’madden had begun firing back. Most of their arrows flew overhead, but a few hit their target. Cren cried out as arrows bloomed in shoulders and arms. A few took a fatal hit. Daric winced as each man fell.
“Guard your lines,” he shouted. “You’re no use dead.”
“Cren attack, Daric Re’adh,” Mosban said, like that was answer enough. “We do not fear the long sleep.”
“Maybe so, but I’d just as soon you stayed awake.”
He turned back to the lines; the Cren were readying for a third volley. “Hold! Defensive posture. Let the Surabhan tidy up.”
The Surabhan archers, taken mostly from the palace guards, were in the wall, firing through arrow slits. They would be aiming at Kel’madden troopers, keeping them busy so the Cren could concentrate on the machines.
Daric risked a look over the wall. The first siege engine was well ablaze. The Kel’madden had abandoned it, and were concentrating their fire on the walls. Some were hiding behind the burning machine; others were running back towards the Crescent. The big siege engine, the one with the tiled roof, was still coming, though.
“Move your men west, Mosban,” Daric told him. “I want arrows on that thing as soon as it is within range. It won’t be as easily destroyed as that last one was.”
Mosban nodded. “Sodec teon,” he shouted.
As one, the Cren gathered their things and moved along the parapet. The large siege engine would be in range soon.
Daric called Mosban over. “I’m going to talk to the reserves’ captain. You know what to do.”
“Yes, Daric Re’adh.” The Cren bowed.
Daric saluted before making his way down the steps.
The reserves weren’t far away. Most were holed up in the stables behind one of the larger blacksmith shops—three hundred of them sharing stalls and waiting for the order to move forward. It would be cramped in there, but at least it had a good roof, safe from wayward arrows.
Daric reached the road and began to run towards the smiths. He didn’t want to be gone long. Yes, the Cren could probably manage without him, but the way those Woodsmen fought was too wasteful for his liking. They needed to duck their heads once in a while.
He pulled up short when he saw a familiar face running towards him.
“Elspeth? What are you doing here? Where’s Gialyn?”
Elspeth didn’t stop running. She flung her arms around him and began to cry.
“It’s so good to see you, Mr. Re’adh. Gialyn is in the palace. He’s injured, but the doctor is with him, he’ll be fine.”
“Injured? What happened?” A dozen pictures flashed through Daric’s mind, each worse than the last. “And how did you get here? Did you go to Eiras?”
“It’s a long story—too long. I have to find Arfael.”
“Arfael,” Daric whispered. “Does he know?”
Elspeth sighed. Taking a step back, she said, “Yes, he does. That’s why I’m looking for him. Elucia thinks he might get himself into trouble.”
“Elucia? Who is Elucia?”
“The head of the Witches’ Circle, she came with us from… Oh, never mind that! Do you know where Arfael is?”
“Come with me. I have to talk to one of the captains about all these city folk roaming around. You can tell me what has been happening while we walk.”
Elspeth looked reluctant, but she followed.
“I’ll tell you what I know. I was captured; Gialyn and the others came to rescue me. Gialyn was injured saving my life. Then something… happened. I still don’t understand it. Gialyn has Power now; he’s the one who brought us home.”
Daric stopped. “What do you mean? What Power?”
Elspeth shrugged. “Something to do with Brea and those dragons. He went somewhere—the Spirit Realm, Brea said—and when he came back, he could do things. Travelling, controlling animals with his mind; he talks in the old tongue, sometimes. In fact, he reminds me of Alacin.”
Daric felt like someone had shoved a hand down his throat and torn out his guts. “Who is responsible for all this?” His voice was harsh, demanding.
Elspeth stepped away. “He was,” she said. “He had a choice, this or die, and he chose the Power.”
Daric shook his head and stomped off in the direction of the stables. “That’s not much of a choice.”
“You should go see him, Mr. Re’adh. It was hard for me to understand, but you should talk to him. He is well enough. Quite… uh… I don’t know… mature? He talks like Olam used to.”
Daric stopped by the side of the road and looked up at the palace. He talks like Olam? What have they done to him? He looked towards the stables, then back at the palace. For two copper, he could have left the captain to it and gone to see Gialyn. But he had his duty; Gialyn would have to wait. Sucking in a deep breath, he continued towards the stables. “I will find who is responsible for this, Elspeth.” She had caught up with him and was now walking by his side. “If any harm has come to him…”
“Well, that would be me.” Elspeth stopped and folded her arms. Daric stopped, too, and turned to face her. She continued, “If he hadn’t saved my life, he would not have had to make a choice.”
She blinked. Daric thought he saw her lip tremble. Sighing, he took a step forward and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s just… what with everything else… I don’t know. I’m sorry, Elspeth.”
Again, Daric turned back towards the stables. “You said something about Arfael. Do you know where he was heading?” Daric remembered the promise he had made to Olam; the promise to stay by Arfael’s side. Olam had said his friend would hunt down the witch, no matter the risk. He should send men with Elspeth. But who? He couldn’t spare the men to watch the Westgate, never mind send any off chasing after Arfael.
“I don’t know,” Elspeth said. “One of the guards told me he had directed him to the blacksmith. I followed him there. The blacksmith said he brought some very expensive steel. He didn’t say where he was going, or why he wanted it. That was half an hour ago.”
“Why would he—” Daric stopped. A thought occurred to him… “Was it ingots…? Did he buy ingots?”
“Yes,” Elspeth said, looking surprised.
Daric dipped his head. “H
e’s gone after Vila by himself.”
“What? Ingots? Why? He’s not that stupid.”
“Revenge can make anyone stupid, Elspeth. Olam warned me about this, but I thought you were still days away. He wants the ingots to make armour.”
Elspeth nodded her head as though understanding. “Olam? What did he say?”
“Just to stay close to Arfael, stop him from getting himself killed.” Daric shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do; I can’t leave my post, and it’s too dangerous for you to follow him. You should go back to the palace.”
“But—”
“But nothing, Elspeth. If he’s Changed—or… Turned—he’s probably over the wall already. There’s no following him. All we can do is pray that he makes it out alive. Who knows, maybe he will kill her. If he has used steel for his armour, he’ll be hard to put down.”
“How can you say that? We have to do something. Send some men to fetch him back.”
“I can’t spare any men. Besides, if I sent a force looking for him, it would just alert the Kel’madden to his presence. Arfael is old; he’s been in battles before, maybe he knows what he’s doing.”
Daric didn’t believe that. Likely as not, Arfael was crazed with grief and thoughts of revenge. But there was nothing Daric could do to help. I’m sorry, Olam.
“You go back to the palace, Elspeth. Stay near Gialyn. Tell him I’ll come as soon as I can.”
He hugged Elspeth and watched her disappear around the corner. She probably wouldn’t go back to the palace—he knew her well enough by now—but he did not think she would be dense enough to follow Arfael out of the city. She wasn’t that stupid.
* * *
Brea wafted the floating ash away from her eyes. Black tendrils of smoke rose out of the ruins of an old warehouse. The stone chimney was all that was left of the building; it stood like a scorched finger in the far left corner of what was now a carpet of black cinders. She could feel the heat through her boots, but they had to cross the burnt-out remains—a unit of soldiers on route to the harbour were blocking the main road.
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