The stables ran along the side of a large yard at the back of a blacksmith’s. Daric didn’t bother looking in any of the other buildings; the yard was silent. Here and there, a half-eaten apple core or a crust of bread littered the courtyard near the gate. If they were eating food in in the ranks, they probably had not been attacked. That, at least, was good news.
Daric started to make his way back to the Hungry Fisherman. There was only one reason the reserves were not where they were supposed to be, and that was if they had new orders. But what could have happened for Mikelmoor to call on the reserves? And why hadn’t the general sent him a message?
The streets were quiet as he made his way towards the Blue Mile, but Daric could see faces peering out of the first-floor windows. A few of the faces belonged to old men and women, although most were young men. Some were wearing what looked like makeshift half-armour, others wore leather aprons over their tunics. Daric tried not to look too hard into the windows. Without the reserves, those self-proclaimed guardians were free to do as they pleased, attack whoever they pleased—even a solitary major, minding his own business, walking through their neighbourhood. Worse, the last thing the Cren needed was a vigilante army at their backs.
Somehow, he would have to find enough men to watch the streets around the Highgate. But from where? They had bled the palace dry of every able-bodied man and woman. Even those too old to fight had been “asked” to volunteer: fetching water, running messages, helping the fletchers or blacksmiths. There was no one left to call on—the palace was deserted, apart from the King’s guards. Still, maybe the vigilantes would stick to their own part of town. Maybe.
By contrast, the Hungry Fisherman was busy. Runners were streaming in and out, some clutching plain parchment, others carrying sealed envelopes. Some handed the notes to men on horseback with instruction where to deliver them—it all seemed very efficient.
Guards had been stationed outside, too. In fact, there were armed men milling about all over. The Hungry Fisherman was probably the safest place in the city.
Mikelmoor was inside, standing over the map table, a flustered look on his face. He raised his head when Daric entered.
“I know what you’re going to say.” The general raised his hands in a calming gesture. “There was no choice; I had to send them to the harbour.”
“The harbour? Why?”
“Toyan ships—twenty of them—about two hours away.”
Daric sank down into the chair in front of the window. He had been ready for an argument, but Mikelmoor’s news knocked the wind right out of him.
“How did we miss that?” Daric said, shaking his head slowly. “Bloody Toyans? Vila must have promised them the lower provinces to get that lot on board.”
“That, or the Whitecliff mines,” Mikelmoor said. “The Toyan Merchant Council must have been in on it for months. And to think we had a treaty. Fat lot of good that has done.”
Daric scoffed. “That treaty more or less guaranteed they would turn on us as soon as the opportunity arose. It’s worse than the Brion Accord—and that so-called “treaty” has been strangling the Salrians for thirty years.”
Mikelmoor blinked. “Have you turned into a Republican since last night?”
“No, of course not, but you can’t keep kicking people down and expect them not to bite.”
“They did attack us, Daric.”
“Em… that’s debatable, from what Kirin’thar tells me.”
Mikelmoor’s eyes widened. He slowly shook his head and stared down at the small flag with a ship drawn on in black ink—representing the Toyans. “That is beside the point. They’re here, and we have to deal with them.”
Daric sat up. “Send the dragons out, set fire to their sails, that’ll slow them down.”
“I thought about that, but those Gaw Dragons are harassing our positions all over the city. Our dragons are needed here.”
“We can spare two. Send Tor and that big one, uh, Ribbon.”
“Ribion. No, they have us outnumbered as it is. If you ask me, those dragons of ours are the only thing stopping the Gaw from demolishing the gate. We can’t afford to weaken that defence.”
“Don’t underestimate the Cren, General,” Daric insisted. “We can protect the gate. You have to slow those ships.”
Mikelmoor sighed. “I’ll consider it. You should get back to your post; warn the Cren they might be on their own for a while.”
“But—”
“Those are my orders, Major. I told you I would consider your idea.”
Daric stood and saluted—there was nothing else he could do.
He left the Hungry Fisherman with a mind full of questions, most of which boiled down to one fact: the Cren were on their own. Mosban would not be happy to hear that.
The Cren were resting when Daric climbed the steps of the west wall. They were sitting with their backs against the battlements, eating or drinking.
“Have they surrendered?” Daric asked.
Mosban shook his head. “They have halted their advance, though. I would guess they are waiting for something. Support, probably.”
Daric looked between the crenellations. The huge siege engine was indeed stationary. The Kel’madden had halted their advance at the fork where the Great Western Road split off towards the Highgate. Now that it was closer, Daric could clearly see the slate roof. Flaming arrows wouldn’t work this time; they would just bounce off. If the Cren did manage to shoot between the uprights, any fire would be small and quickly extinguished. A well-made machine; Daric had to wonder why the Kel’madden had even bothered with the other three. Apart from spreading out the Surabhan defences, those smaller siege engines had been next to useless. But maybe that was the point; sacrifice the weak to allow their main offensive weapon to move closer. If that were the case, it had certainly worked; Daric’s men were spread thinly across the entire three miles of the north wall.
“You’re right,” Daric told Mosban. “There’s no reason for them to stop unless they are waiting on orders. They’re just giving us more time to prepare, sitting there like that.”
“Maybe they’re waiting for them,” Silas said, pointing to the northeast where the cliffs levelled off behind Barais’coi.
Four dragons rose up from beyond the Crescent. They were struggling with something heavy. Daric thought it might be another siege engine, but then the outline of a huge cauldron—the size of an eight-horse wagon—slowly appeared over the hill.
A stab of panic—dismay—hit Daric in the chest. “Oh no,” he whispered. Then louder, “That has to be full of boiling oil. Quickly, Mosban, get your men off the wall. Silas, go down and tell the Surabhan to evacuate the inner chambers and the towers. Tell everyone to rally at the second line. We have to assume the Highgate is lost.” He turned towards the city. “And someone tell me where Tor’gan is.”
It wouldn’t make any difference to the gate if he knew where Tor was; the black dragon would arrive too late to help them. But Daric knew now that those ships had to be dealt with. They wouldn’t be able to hold two armies within the city walls.
Daric followed Mosban down the stone steps. Lines of Surabhan were already emerging from the gate towers, and more were filling out from doors set into the north wall. A steady stream of Cren followed Daric down the steps. In all, around four-hundred men. There would have been enough to hold the gate. But now, with the dragons coming, and the gate seemingly lost, it would have to be sufficient to stop a stampede of charging Kel’madden.
Their second line of defence had been prepared yesterday—although Daric hadn’t expected to need it, not yet. Trenches had been dug, then covered with wooden pallets, to prevent a cavalry charge; barricades of stacked blocks or spiked logs filled the spaces between buildings; windows had been boarded up, and high platforms built for archers. It wasn’t as good as the wall, but it would have to do.
Daric peered over his shoulder as he ran to their inner defences. “Some of your men are still up there! Why?” he asked M
osban.
“To give the dragons a target. If they see the gate empty, they might fly over and drop their cargo on our second line.”
Daric nodded his agreement, but he didn’t like it.
“Don’t worry,” Mosban said, “when the time comes they will jump out of the way.”
Daric grimaced; it was a long way down from the top of the wall, at least ten paces. Yes, the Cren were tall, strong men, but not indestructible.
The Cren on the wall began to shout and fire arrows at the as-yet-unseen dragons. There were twenty Woodsmen still on the parapet, more than enough to threaten any dragon. Those on the ground stayed silent, and Daric gave the order to hide behind the barricades while he and Mosban stood under cover by the wall of a nearby leather merchant’s. From there, he could see the dragons gradually rising above the wall. They were still struggling with their load. And flying high, too high for Surabhan arrows, but now and then, one of the Cren managed to hit their target. Not that it did much damage; at that range, even the Cren’s spear-like arrows glanced off the dragons’ thick scales. The attack was working, though; the dragons lined themselves up on the Highgate.
The two dragons in front release their grip on the massive caldron. That made the two at the back drop down a good ten paces. The steaming, yellow oil fell like an avalanche over the Highgate, splashing off the battlements and scorching the wooden gates. Steam rose, along with the sickly smell of animal fat. Daric couldn’t imagine how they had managed to gather so much. They must have brought it with them.
Fortunately, the Cren had jumped. Unfortunately, three were nursing what were obviously broken bones, and another two were tearing off their clothes to remove the remnant of boiling oil that had been spilt on them. Mosban sent a dozen men out to help.
One of the Cren, who had jumped, ran over to Mosban. “Their machine is almost at the gate,” he said. “Another minute, maybe less.”
Daric stared at the steps leading up to the parapet. There was no going back up there, not yet; boiling oil was still pooling and splashing. “Prepare yourselves,” he shouted along the line. “We make our stand here.”
Before he could issue more orders, the two dragons that had released the cauldron swooped down and filled the cobbled circled in front of the Highgate with a cloud of dragon fire. The green dragon—the bigger of the two—landed on the Highgate, billowing blue flame as he kicked his feet and bashed his tail against the stone lintel. Dragon fire lit up the barricade behind which many of the Surabhan were sheltering. Daric could only look on as men ran around frantically trying to remove clothing. Some were rolling in the dirt, others were desperately trying to help their compatriots, many others were obviously dead.
“Get your men up to those archery platforms,” he told Mosban.
The Cren issued orders and thirty woodsmen began making their way to the platforms that had been built on top of a few of the higher buildings. Another thirty or so were told to climb on any roof that would hold their weight. That would do for the dragons, or at least keep them away—for now. As hard as their scales were, they wouldn’t stop a direct hit from a Cren’s arrow at less than thirty paces.
Daric told half a dozen men to take care of the injured and ordered another to run a report over to General Mikelmoor.
Orders relayed, Daric joined Silas on the rear line and waited. It would not take the Kel’madden long to knock down the gate. It had already been damaged by the Black Hand, and parts of it were smouldering from the boiling oil still dripping down the charred wood.
“Check your targets and hold your ground,” Daric shouted.
This could be it, he thought. The siege could end right here, right now. “You’re not getting in without a fight,” he whispered.
* * *
Nana climbed down the last few steps into the hollow where Turasan had pitched his tent. Four dragons had not long flown over, their rear claws clutching at thick ropes, carrying what looked like a huge cookpot. She had seen the thing in one of the wagons and wondered why the Kel’madden had dragged it all the way from Toi’ildrieg. Her question had been answered when troopers began scurrying away from the hot oil that slopped over the side.
Nana watched the dragons for a long moment, wondering if they were taking the cauldron to the palace or to the gate. She was pulled from her thoughts by a man’s shout.
“Why are you here, Duran,” Turasan bellowed. “You should be attacking their eastern wall.”
“The engine is destroyed, sir. We have no way of deploying our ladders.”
Eyes wide, Turasan stared at her. “Then run with them.”
Run with them? “We can’t run with them, sir. I’ve already lost a quarter of my men. Ladders are useless without the ram tower to back them up.”
Turasan shrugged. “You have your orders,” he said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. He turned, then ducked to go back inside his tent.
“I won’t do it! It’s a waste of men. We can’t do anything to that wall except die in front of it.”
The general turned slowly. His face reddened. “You must think of a way, Captain. You must attack that wall, or the Surabhan will move their forces to the Highgate. Now get back there and do your duty.”
Nana stood up straight and pulled her shoulders back. “No!”
She knew her answer would likely lead to the noose, but she also knew, if she died trying to save her fellow Toyans, they would rebel. Some would die, but most would escape. Better that than throwing themselves in front of the Surabhan arrows.
A thought occurred to her. Maybe she should kill the general. That would seal it; even if Vila ordered an attack on her men, at least they would have a chance of surviving.
She moved her hand to her dagger. But before she could pull it from its scabbard, she felt a sharp blow of cold steel thud against her temple. She fell to her knees. Two Kel’madden dragged her back up.
“Hang her,” the general said. “And make sure the rest of her so-called troops can see her swing. I want them to know what happens to officers who defy me.”
Nana let them drag her away. She felt a smile crease her lips. “Thank you, General,” she whispered.
* * *
A chill wind blew from the ocean across the black cliffs that made part of the northeastern wall. Cal was sitting on a stool—a very small stool—by one of the braziers. The small iron pot, with slatted air vents around the side, didn’t radiate much heat, but it was better than nothing. Most of the Surabhan archers were sitting about, too. Some were eating, some drinking their tea and chatting quietly. The enemy had stopped advancing ten minutes ago. In fact, they had backed off a good half a mile and were now closer to the Crescent than to the north wall. Cal had only lost six men, with less than double that injured. It had been a cheap morning, as these things went.
One of the Surabhan had told him something interesting—in between mouthfuls of what must have been cold soup. The man had said that those Kel’madden attacking this section of the wall were not Kel’madden at all, but Toyan. It was hard to tell who they were from this distance, but they certainly seemed darker-skinned and somewhat shorter than Cal remembered. That Captain Duran had been Toyan, but Cal had thought she was a mercenary. No, half the Toyan guard were down there, or so it seemed. Cal wondered what the King would make of all this.
Whoever they were—Toyan, Kel’madden or Toi—they appeared to have all but given up attacking the eastern portion of the wall. A strange state of affairs that had led him to more questions. Most importantly, why were they attacking this section of wall in the first place? Even if they had managed to get their siege engine in place, the little ram would have made little or no impression on the eight-foot-thick wall. And if they’d managed to breach the wall with ladders, they would still be miles from an area of strategic value. Cal was beginning to think the enemy’s aim was to force the Surabhan—and the Cren—into spreading their forces too thin. It was the only tactic—from the Kel’madden’s point of view—that made any sens
e.
The sky rumbled, or at least Cal thought it was a rumble, except there weren’t any clouds to the northeast. The rumble sounded again, and Cal recognised the noise for what it was: dragons.
“Where are they going with that?” he whispered.
“What is it?” the Surabhan asked.
Cal scratched his chin. “They appear to be carrying a huge pot. If I were to guess, I’d say it were full of a boiling liquid of some kind.”
“Are they coming this way?” another Surabhan asked. “Is that why they broke off their attack, so they can burn us out?”
“I doubt it,” Cal told them.
Indeed, the dragons didn’t look as if they were flying in his direction.
“You know,” he continued, “if we’re going to be having these conversations, I should really know your names.”
“Oh, yes, sorry. I’m Fletch,”—the taller one, with dark hair and a scar on his chin said—“and we call him Smithy, on account of him being a blacksmith when he’s not, you know, here.”
Smithy was a short, thickly built man. Cal was not surprised to hear he was a blacksmith. The younger of the two, Smithy had blond hair and grey eyes. Despite their differences, they were both talkative, too talkative for Cal’s liking.
“So where do you think they’re taking it?” Fletch asked.
“There’s only one place worth attacking,” Cal replied.
Smithy was going to ask something, but Cal put his hand up to silence him. He needed to think…
Could he afford to leave his post? He was sure they were wasting time sitting on that section of wall. Just as he was certain those dragons were heading for the Highgate. But if he was wrong… No, he wasn’t wrong.
“I want every second man with me,” Cal shouted, as he stood and gathered his things, “including the reserves—if they haven’t all gone to the harbour. We’re going to follow those dragons.”
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 125