“How many?”
“Five–six hundred, maybe more,” Renik said.
“Is that all?” Rarshman asked. “Two thousand Black Hand escaped the valley… there are six hundred here. With the others, that still leaves three thousand unaccounted for.”
“They will be with the Kel’madden, likely as not,” Renik said. “They can plan raids from there, while hiding behind the troopers’ shields. Cowards.”
“If we can confirm that,” Rarshman said, “we can send most of our forces back to Bailryn; a few scouts will do well enough to tell us when they move.”
Turning, Renik regarded him over his shoulder. “Are you suggesting something, Captain?”
“I am. A few men, or wolves, to track them back to the Kel’madden. It would be worth the risk if we can free up resources for Mikelmoor.”
“So we let them get away with the animals?” Farnok asked. It sounded more like another insult than a question.
“No. We attack, but let a few stragglers escape. Then follow them.”
“Changing plans half way through,” Renik said, “someone will have to— They’ve seen us. Quickly, call your men.”
“Oh, for…” Rarshman growled, “Oh well, it was only an idea.”
Farnok let out a long howl and Rarshman heard a thunder of hooves coming from the low rise behind them. He swung into his saddle and rode out from the trees to the front of the line, where Grady and Si’eth were galloping ahead of the Cren archers. Farnok took up his place with the wolves and Renik rode between the two lines.
“Split up?” The Cren asked.
Rarshman nodded. “Take the archers along the west flank. We’ll run them on to you.”
Rarshman drew his sword and galloped along the Great Western Road. The Black Hand were charging down a shallow incline towards him. The trees were on the left, and an open field on the right. Most of the animals had crossed the road already, but he had to dodge a few panicky cows as he turned his column to the north.
Renik led half of the Cren archers along the western flank. With the trees as a backdrop, they dismounted and waited for the captain to force the Black Hand towards them. Renik ordered his men to cover. The horses—well trained Kalidhain Tall Horses—were already retreating into the woods. The afternoon sun was behind them. The field fell away at a shallow decline. Renik could see clear across to their camp. It would be an easy victory… if Rarshman did his job properly.
Rarshman ordered the wolves to cover the road. For once, they did so without argument. He led the rest of the cavalry along the eastern flank. With any luck, the Black Hand would ride right into his trap.
The larger part of the Black Hand’s force turned towards him. Rarshman called a charge. Head down, he heeled his horse to a gallop. On either side, Cren fired arrows while they rode, guiding their horses with their knees. Behind, the rest of his cavalry drew swords and lances.
They hit the Black Hand hard. Rarshman swung his sword wildly at the nearest enemy, cutting off his hand and leaving him wailing. He stabbed another through the shoulder and butted a third off his saddle with the hilt of his sword. His horse reared when a Black Hand coward swiped his blade across its withers. Rarshman managed to steady the animal, and then flicked his sword at the coward’s neck, opening it to the air. The coward grabbed at his wound, but the blood oozed through his fingers. He would be dead soon.
The Cren shot arrows while riding back and forth along the eastern flank. Gradually, they began to push the four hundred remaining Black Hand towards the trees. Rarshman pulled up his sword and signalled the retreat. Once clear, he had his sergeant blow the horn, and the Cren waiting in the trees began to open fire.
Less than a minute later, the few remaining Black Hand had dismounted and were kneeling on the ground with their hands in the air. Maybe thirty had escaped to the north. Rarshman saw them disappear over the brow of the low hill.
“Report, Sergeant,” Rarshman ordered.
Sergeant Arlon was a squat man. Sitting on his horse, he looked more like a child than a twenty-year veteran. “Too soon, Captain, but I think our casualties are light—fifteen, maybe twenty, and as many again injured.”
Rarshman returned the sergeant’s salute. It was a good victory… if the initial report was anything like accurate. Of course, the sergeant would not include the wolves in his tally, he would have to ask Farnok about that.
Renik reigned his mount in beside Rarshman. “Well done, Captain, it was a good plan. Farnok and a few of my men are gathering the prisoners. The Darkin Alpha seems to enjoy that part of it.”
Rarshman couldn’t help but give a quick grin; somehow, hearing a compliment from the Cren was more rewarding than from his own men. “Everyone played their part, Renik. It’s easy to command when surrounded by good men—and wolves.”
“We can still follow those that escaped,” Grady said, as he pulled his horse level. “Me, Si’eth, and maybe one of the Cren. They won’t have gotten far.”
Rarshman shook his head. Turning to Renik, he said, “I mean no offense, sir, but a Cren would stick out like an angry boil.”—the Cren bowed, not looking the least bit offended—“If you’re going, then you two and one of the wolves—a regular sized wolf, maybe Toban,” he said to Grady.
“Fair enough,” Grady said. “I’ll go and find Toban.”
Grady saluted and rode off to find the wolf.
“What now for us?” Renik asked. “I think we can afford to split the forces, send some on to Bailryn.”
“I agree,” Rarshman said. “Come. We’ll talk it over with Kirin’thar.”
Renik smiled. “A wise choice, for a Surabhan.”
Rarshman gave him a knowing grin. “We’re not all stupid, my friend.”
* * *
Daric parried the Kel’madden trooper, then drove his dagger into the man’s neck. And quickly had to parry again, as yet another trooper ran at him.
The wide circle in front of the Highgate was full of Kel’madden, with more lining up outside. Their lines ran back a hundred paces beyond the wall—probably two thousand troopers, all told. Daric had lost one of the archery platforms to the Gaw dragons. Two of the beasts had been fighting a game of tit-for-tat with the Cren archers. Fortunately, the woodsmen had managed to keep them at bay. Not for the first time, Daric wondered where Tor had gotten to—for that matter, any of their dragons would do to even up the odds.
Luckily, Cal had arrived with two hundred extra archers. They had helped stem the flow of troopers. Yet, even with the extra help, it seemed more and more likely that Cal’s arrival had only postponed the inevitable. Some of the Kel’madden had climbed the steps leading up to the parapet, and now forty of them held the high ground. Those forty were the reason why Daric had lost a third of his archers. He had to do something about them, but there was no way to get close to the gate, never mind climb the steps.
The palace guards had stood their ground, but many were injured, and there were no runners to send word. He had sent one of the corporals to the Hungry Fisherman, but so far, nothing.
It was chaos. A retreat back to the palace was looking like their only option. And that would probably lose him half their number.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. When he looked, Silas was looking down at him. “What is it?” Daric asked the young Cren.
Silas pointed along the Blue Mile, towards the city centre. Daric’s heart sank at the sight of hundreds—maybe thousands—of men standing in the road. They wore makeshift armour and carried old swords. Some only had pitchforks or carving knifes.
“That’s all we need,” Daric sighed. “We’ll have to go west, try and cut around behind. The city is lost; we must rally at the palace.”
Silas shook his head. “Listen!”
Daric listened. He felt a smile crease his lips. The crowd were shouting, “For Eldred” and “Long live the King.”
Relief swelled in Daric’s chest. He could have laughed; all this time, he had thought those men were mercenaries. “Well don’t just s
tand there,” he shouted, waving the townsfolk forward.
The crowd charged, shouting “For the King” and waving weapons in the air. They were all wearing red and blue kerchiefs tied loosely around their necks, Daric noticed. He ordered his men to stand aside, and the crowd ploughed into the Kel’madden.
One of the dragons turned his attention on to the civilians. Daric had to shout above the din to get the Cren’s attention. He pointed them towards the dragon but needn’t have bothered. Two more dragons flew into view. By their white bracelets, Daric knew them for Gan.
“About bloody time,” he mumbled.
“Dragons tend to make their own time,” Silas said.
Daric laughed. “They didn’t have to leave it so late to make an entrance, though. Bloody dragons.”
Silas stared at him. “You are a strange man, Daric Re’adh.”
“I’ll take strange,” Daric said. “I’ve been called worse.”
He laughed again as the two Gan drove the enemy dragons away. The Kel’madden were already retreating. He wouldn’t go so far as declaring victory, but at least they had forced a draw. For the first time in what felt like hours, Daric sat down and took a long drink from his waterskin.
* * *
King Otto Vierdan fought the urge to throw up everything he had ever eaten. It seemed all he had done since waking. Poisoned! How did that old man get a blade past the guards? He would have to have words with their captain.
“What did you put in this, Master Roan?” he asked the old herbalist while holding up the small brown “cake.”
Master Roan was a thin, greying old man, who had been in the palace since the days of Otto’s grandfather. Despite the man’s age, he did not lack in wit or temper. Not even a king could escape many a righteous lecture on the virtues of plants and herbs.
“Nothing too exciting, Your Majesty,” Master Roan said. “Yeast, kharoe, jova moss, and a sprinkling of kalli. You must eat it all, no spitting it out when I’m not looking, or hiding it under your pillow. Yes, I remember, Your Majesty.”
Otto nibbled at the corners. “It tastes like something the maid found behind the cupboards.”
“I’ve already bled your wounds,” Master Roan said. “This will keep any residual poison from attacking your innards. You must eat one cube every hour for the next eight hours—just to be sure.”
The smile on the wiry man’s face said he was perhaps a little too sure, but Otto didn’t have the energy to argue.
A knock rattled the door. The guards jumped. Three of them had swords out, pointed at the still-unopened door.
“Now you decide to do your job,” Otto whispered.
“Who is it?” Master Roan snapped. “I told you His Majesty was not to be disturbed.”
The door opened, and Odaman walked in, followed by General Mikelmoor.
“It’s all right, Master Roan; I need to speak with the general.”
Mikelmoor looked tired, his face was dirty and he had blood on his hands.
“Are you injured?” Otto asked him, pointing at the blood.
“No, it’s not mine, Majesty.” Mikelmoor rubbed the bloody hand on his cloak. “A small group attacked my headquarters. They were dealt with swiftly.”
Otto wanted to ask how a small group had gotten into the city, but he knew they were probably more of those Black Hand inside the wall. Indeed, he wouldn’t be surprised if a third of the noble houses had backed Lord Breen. He had a mind to ship the whole lot of them south, but doing that would likely rob him of allies, too. No, he couldn’t exile them all—but he would see the captain about increasing security.
“Your report, General.”
Mikelmoor opened his mouth to speak, but Odaman beat him to it.
“A glorious victory, Majesty.” The little man made an elaborate bow. “Your guards have beaten back the Kel’madden scum.”
Mikelmoor rolled his eyes.
Otto might have done the same… if he thought he wouldn’t immediately throw up from the effort. “And now the truth, General.”
Odaman stood abashed, glaring at the Mikelmoor, almost daring the general to contradict his story.
“We’ve lost a fifth of the men stationed in the northwest quarter, we have no reserves, and the Highgate is destroyed. Next time, they’ll walk right in. We’re building a barricade, but it won’t be much use. Major Re’adh wants to demolish the gate.”
“Demolish the—why?”
“He thinks a ten-foot wall of rubble will be more effective than anything we can build in the time we have. Honestly, I agree with him, but as we need royal consent…”
“You can’t, its madness,” Odaman shrieked.
“Be quiet, Tolas,” Otto said. The little man bit his lip and gave a much less convoluted bow. “You have my permission, General—if you think it appropriate.”
“I do, Majesty. Destroying the gate is our best option.”
Otto waved Mikelmoor closer. Straining to look up was doing nothing for his delicate stomach. “And what of the rest, General? Do you have news from elsewhere?”
“Kirin’thar and the wolves have made a better show of it, Majesty. They have secured two victories for the crown. Their messenger reports half of the Black Hand neutralized, and the rest have backed themselves into a corner. There are still three-thousand—maybe four—but they can be watched. Rarshman is sending half his force back to Bailryn to help secure the wall.”
“‘For the crown’ you say, are you sure about that, General?” Otto asked. He had been worrying about the Cren’dair’s intentions since hearing of their advance into Aleras’moya. Allowing a foreign force to settle their army close to Bailryn was risky. Would they go home when the fighting was over, or petition the crown for lands and titles? There were more than enough noble houses as it was, the last thing he needed would be to finish this battle and start a civil war.
“That’s how it was reported, Highness. I don’t think Kirin’thar has any ambitions beyond defeating the Kel’madden. Thus far, he has differed to Captain Rarshman’s judgement. As for the Darkin… well, the big wolves don’t seem to like anybody. They just want to go home.”
“And what of the others? The Rukin and those so-called wildlings, are they just going to… go home?”
“If I may say, Your Highness,” Odaman said, raising a bony finger. “We can’t be seen to negotiate with wolves. Giving those animals status would set a precedent that w—”
“Yes, thank you, Tolas,” Otto grunted. The little man’s voice was making him ill, and he didn’t think it had anything to do with Master Roan’s cake. “The wolves’ contribution will be noted.”
Otto rubbed his stomach. The room was beginning to spin.
“I think that will do for now,” Master Roan said.
“In a minute.” Otto raised a hand to the herbalist, and then asked the general, “What news of these ships I’m hearing about?”
“They’ll be here in an hour. I have had the tower guard flag a message for them to signal their intent, but as yet they have not responded.”
“Try one more message, General. If they do not answer, turn the palace trebuchets on them. A few shots across the bow will get their attention.”
“I was thinking the same thing, Majesty.”
Clearing his throat, Otto waved them away. “That’s all. I want another report in an hour. A runner will do, General; you don’t have to keep riding up here. And good work.”
The general and Odaman left.
Otto rested his head back on the cushions. Now, if only the room would stop spinning, he might be able to eat the rest of his cake.
CHAPTER 15
There Be Dragons
Brea sat with her back against the damp stone of the eastern tower, waiting. Sitting, she could still see over the low wall that ran around the edge of the upper balcony. The sky was almost clear again, and the afternoon sun was beginning to warm the air. The rain had been a welcome change from the unrelenting heat of late spring and early summer; so much so,
she almost missed the clouds. But then, looking east, she thought she could see more clouds on the horizon. Maybe they would bring rain—she hoped so.
Shielding her eyes from the sun, she turned to Alacin. He had been quiet since learning Sek the Black was on his way. Brea could hardly blame him, she hadn’t felt much like talking, either.
“Why do you think they call him that? It’s not as if he’s the only one,” she said.
“What do you mean? Call who what?” Alacin was flicking pebbles against the wall, aiming at a hole in the stonework, by the looks of it. Yes, he was definitely trying to take his mind off Sek.
“Why do they call him ‘Sek the Black,’ like he’s the only one? Tor is black, too.”
Alacin shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s to make him sound fiercer. I doubt Sek came up with it. In my day, there were dozens of Blacks.”
“What happened to them all?”
“I’m not sure. Before I died, there was talk of an Exodus; some dragons were bent on the idea of going back east. They might have just left, or Sek might have killed them—he did try and kill Tor.”
“Yes, but that was the Witch’s doing; she forced Sek to attack the Gan.”
Alacin laughed. “You’ve been mollycoddled, Brea. Dragons have been killing each other for a millennium. Especially the Blacks; it’s rare that any dragon other than a Black rises to Alpha.”
“That’s as maybe, but Tor wouldn’t kill another dragon without good reason.”
Alacin chuckled. Shaking his head, he said, “You really are innocent, aren’t you? Tor hasn’t killed another dragon from your little group because none of the other Gan are a threat to him. Dragons are dragons, for all their supposed wisdom. When it comes down to it, they’re not much different from wildlings or mountain cats.”
“I know I’m not a thousand years old, Alacin’tien, but I’m telling you, Tor wouldn’t kill another dragon without a good reason.”
“If you say so.”
“Oh, but I do.”
“Fine.”
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