“Oh, my pardon, Daric, I didn’t recognize him. Yes, you should have your son here. How is he?” Mikelmoor stopped what he was doing for a moment. He looked genuinely concerned.
“Quite well,” Daric said, “better than I expected.” He stared down at the map and folded his arms. “You haven’t answered my question. What’s going on? Why is everyone running about as if it is Misselfeast?
“It worked, Daric. The wolves are in contact with us. We can speak to Lieutenant Daleman on the far side of the Kel’madden’s camp.” Mikelmoor smiled. His eyes lit up, and for a moment, he looked ten years younger. “And that’s not all. It seems we have a new ally… Grady says that as many as three thousand Toyans are ready to fight on our side. It appears the witch tried to hang some of the Toyan officers. The main Toyan forces have separated from the Kel’madden camp; they’re currently here, west of the bog.” Mikelmoor put a small sculpture of an owl on the map, northeast of Vila’s position.”
“If that’s true…” Daric couldn’t help smiling, too. “Can we trust them? Who is Grady talking to?”
“One of their captains, a woman called Nama, or Narna. We are losing a bit in the translation, but the facts are beyond dispute. It would appear this captain is one of those Vila had ordered to the gallows. Her men rescued her.”
“Nana?” Daric mused. “Isn’t that the woman who came with their embassy?”
Mikelmoor’s eyebrow rose. “You know, I think you’re right. Small world.”
Space appeared around the general, as a wolf crossed the room towards him. Daric thought it might be Ker, the wildlings’ alpha. The wolf did not look at all thrilled to be there. But then again, if what he had heard of Ker were true, the wolf never looked happy.
“General,” Ker said. “The Toyans are continuing to make camp for the benefit of any Kel’madden who might be spying on them. But Grady reports that they are settling into positions where they can easily muster their forces. They can be ready with an hour’s notice.”
“Thank you, Ker. Please send back a message to have him stand by for orders. And if he can, report anything useful about the position of Vila’s camp; where the Toi’ildrieg troopers are stationed, how many cavalry they have, what are the dragons doing; things like that.”
“I could have the wolves move in closer. You will get a view from several vantage points.”
Mikelmoor scratched his chin. “Yes, good idea, but tell them not to take any unnecessary risks; maintaining the link should be their priority.”
“Very well,” Ker replied. “Oh, and someone called Elspeth is with them. No news about the Cinnè’arth yet.”
Daric remembered what Gialyn had said – I think she has met some new friends, but I don’t know who they are. “Yes, Gialyn said Elspeth was out there.”
“Your son? Why would he… no, how would he know what is happening four miles north of the wall?”
Daric sucked in a long breath; this was going to be hard to explain. “Somehow, he has been given a… talent. He can hear the Voice! Dragons, wolves, other people like him. No, don’t ask, I don’t understand it all myself. He insists he can help, that’s why he’s here. He can pass messages to the dragons for us, and speak to Brea and Alacin directly. He’s still learning, but I think he will be useful.”
“You didn’t ask him to…”
“No, I did not! This is all his idea. Oh yes, that reminds me. This is Elucia.” Daric gestured towards the stairs where the woman was standing gazing around the room. “She’s a witch, too, but fighting against Vila. She’s another one who can use the Voice. Apparently, she’s very good with bats.”
Mikelmoor’s eyes widened. “‘Bats?’ What use is that?”
“You’d be surprised what a hundred thousand bats can do, General,” Elucia said as she walked towards the centre table. “And not just bats: foxes, badgers, birds. Obviously, I can’t talk to them all at once, but I think we can count on a little extra help.”
Mikelmoor shot her an incredulous glance, then jerked his head back. “So,” he said, with a half-amused, half-puzzled look. “We have wolves, Cren Woodsmen, the guards, Rarshman’s cavalry, the Toyans, and… bats.” The general pointed at one of the runners. “You. Go to the gate and tell them to stop demolishing it. In fact, tell them to clear the road.”
It was Daric’s turn to stare. “What are you thinking, Mikelmoor? We need that gate sealed.”
“No, we don’t, Daric. Not if we’re the ones doing the attacking. Which we will do, two hours after sunset.”
There wasn’t much more to say after that. The common room erupted with cheers. Mikelmoor hushed them down, “You never know where enemy ears may be lurking.”
The general began waving sergeants over, issuing orders and writing notes. “I’ll have orders for you in an hour,” he told Daric.
Daric nodded. Once again, the man looked ten years younger. Daric wasn’t surprised; it was always better to act, rather than react—especially for a soldier. He left the general to it.
* * *
Gialyn was in Daric’s room, lying on the cot. He was reaching for a pitcher of water.
“Where’s the maid I sent up?” Daric asked, dashing to grab the pitcher before it toppled off the table. “You stretch like that and you could rip your stitches, boy.” He eased Gialyn back onto the cot. “I meant what I said, if you’re going to be a bother, you can go back to the palace where the Princess can keep an eye on you.”
He gave Gialyn a grin that he hoped said what he thought of that. “Looked after by a princess,” Daric mumbled. “Wait until your mother hears about that.”
Gialyn laughed, and then grimaced, holding his stomach.
“Is it hurting? I can send for some herbs to kill the pain.”
Gialyn shook his head. “No thank you, they make me want to sleep.”
“Sleep might be just what you need. We have nothing planned for the next few hours, and when we do make our move, you can expect it to last all night.”
Gialyn nodded. “In that case, yes, that would be good, thanks.”
“Sensible boy,” Daric muttered.
He sat on the chair by the bed… Sensible boy? Could he really call his son a boy? After all Gialyn had been through, after all that he had become. Gialyn closed his eyes. Daric looked carefully at his son’s face. He didn’t only sound older, he looked older, too. Not by much, and not easy to see, but it was definitely there: a crease around his eyes, the shade of his skin. His child had turned into a man. When did that happen?
Gialyn began to breathe deeply, the heavy breath of sleep. He must be exhausted; the last few weeks would have taken its toll on the most hardened of soldiers. And if half of what he had heard were true, most of those soldiers would not have made it this far. Daric shook his head slowly. Dragons, Spirit Realms, witches; he wasn’t sure he could have made it this far.
A tap rattled the door and the maid entered.
Daric shushed her before she could disturb Gialyn. “Ask Elum, the stable boy, if he can find you some herbs for pain. I don’t know what they might have,” he whispered. The maid nodded. Daric continued, “Bring it up in an hour, I’m going to rest.”
There was no point waking Gialyn to give him something to make him sleep. But he would more than likely need the herbs later.
The maid curtsied and pulled the door shut.
Daric turned the chair so it faced Gialyn’s cot and put his feet up on the bed. It was time to take some of his own advice. Closing his eyes, he tried to empty his mind of worry. An hour’s sleep would do him good. More good than pacing. The fire warmed him against the fresh sea breeze that wafted in from the open window. He drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER 19
Plan and Prepare
Tor gasped for air. Lying on his back, he stared up at the dark clouds rolling over Bailryn. He had never wished so hard for rain; his chest was on fire; his wings were limp with fatigue, spread like a black carpet around where he lay. Nauseating dizziness threatened to em
pty his stomach. The flight back from the small island had been the hardest thing he had ever done.
He was lying in the centre of the Circle in front of Highgate. Ban and Lyduk were by his side. Humans, seemingly oblivious to his presence, were milling about busying themselves with their duties.
“Did I miss something?” he asked Daric. He had seen the major just before landing. Now the man was walking over to him. Cal, the Cren Woodsman, was by his side.
Daric looked determined. Tor had seen that look before, usually in the eyes of men just before they were going to kill someone. Something must have happened; a decision made… a turning point.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle.” The major eyed him up and down. “What happened to you?”
Tor told him about the chase, and the battle he had had with Sek and the other dragons. Of course, Ban and Lyduk made a point of mentioning their timely rescue.
“So they are two dragons short,”—the man rubbed at his chin, apparently thinking—“and we have two more. That could prove useful.”
“One more,” Tor said. “I’ll not be doing much flying for a while. At least a day, if I’m lucky.”
Tor turned on his side and slowly sat up. “By the look of your face, Major, I’d say you have a plan. Those aren’t the eyes of a man defending a wall.”
Daric smiled. “I keep forgetting you are a thousand years old, Tor.”
“Does this have something to do with Gialyn?”
Daric’s eyes widened. “How did you—”
“I heard him,” Tor said. “While I was chasing Sek, and again, on the way back. It took me a while to realise who it was; the Voice was faint, like shouts from a distance.”
Daric nodded. “That sounds about right. Gialyn tells me he’s still learning how to do it. Yes, it does have something to do with him. But not just him. We have a plan, and I need a favour.”
“That sounds ominous,” Tor told him. “I’d like to help, but as I say, I’m useless for at least a day.”
“You won’t need to do any flying; I want you to work with the militia, help them secure the harbour.”
“Militia? What militia? I take it they are on our side?”
“Yes, they are, and very useful, too.”
* * *
Cal left Daric talking with Tor. He had spotted Mateaf walking across the Circle towards where some of the Cren were readying themselves for battle. Kirin’thar was with him.
“Mateaf, I thought you were out with the Darkin?”
As with most Cren, Mateaf had his blond hair pulled back off his face and tied up. He was shorter that Cal, but not by much: shorter and wider. Mateaf carried his unstrung bow in his left hand and had a fat quiver full of arrows strung over his right shoulder. Like all Cren, Mateaf was an expert bowman; but as well as archery, Mateaf was a formidable swordsman. Which is why he had a long, barbed scimitar hanging from his belt. His curved scimitar wasn’t a Cren weapon—the blade was favoured by the Ulroch giants—Mateaf’s father had given him his.
Mateaf smiled when he saw him and stretched out an arm in welcome. “No, we have been split up; the general wants at least two hundred archers with each assaulting group. Looks like I’ll be with you.”
“Good,” Cal said. “I’m glad we are working together again.”
Cal knew he could trust any Crenach’dair with his life. But Mateaf and he had grown up together; they knew the way each other thought. Fighting alongside someone with such a shared intuition—when a second’s hesitation could mean the difference between life and death—would be a comfort.
Turning to Kirin’thar, Cal asked, “Are we ready?”
The Council Leader nodded. “I think so,” he said as he looked down the lines of Cren. Most were standing at their ease, checking their quivers or tightening their hard-leather tunics. Some were quietly talking, sharing a waterskin. They seemed calm. “Just waiting for the signal; as soon as the trebuchets have cleared the Crescent, we’ll be off. At least that’s the plan. We are with Major Re’adh’s group.”
Cal opened his mouth to commend their state of readiness, but Kirin’thar’s last comment echoed in his mind. “‘We?’” He felt his jaw tighten. How many times would they have this argument? “There won’t be any we, sir. You are not leaving Bailryn.”
“Oh, I’m not, am I? You forget your place, Master. I go where I choose.”
Cal bit his lip to stop himself shouting. “We have been through this, sir, more than once. There is no need for you to endanger yourself. You are needed here. Besides, one more bow will make little difference.”
“And then again, it might make all the difference, Cal.” Kirin’thar waved off his comment. “Don’t worry; I’ll be at the back with twenty of the wildings… giving orders.” Kirin moved in closer. “I want to hear what that Mikelmoor is saying to the wolves, and see for myself what is happening. Not saying I don’t trust them, but the general isn’t Cren’dair, and these Surabhan have a habit of treating others as no more than a means to an end.”
Cal couldn’t argue about that; they had all heard the stories about King Eidred and the battles of Blai’nuin and Barrais’coi. “Very well, but don’t make me drag you back. The front line is no place for the Leader of the Cren Council.” He blinked at Kirin’thar’s scornful look. Folding his arms, he stared back. “I suspect, if the other councillors knew, they would have me lock you up in the Hungry Fisherman.”
Kirin seemed to relent but didn’t look happy about it. “As I say, I’ll be at the back.”
Cal just nodded. He knew very well that this wasn’t the end of the argument.
* * *
Daric mounted his horse. Reining the large roan around, he looked down the length of the Blue Mile. As far as he could see—which wasn’t far, not with the storm clouds hiding the moon—soldiers were lined up in ranks of four. There should be six thousand… if Odaman’s numbers were correct. Another few thousand were outside with the wildlings, and five hundred were staying on the wall. However, even with the wolves and Cren, they were outnumbered two to one, and that was if the Toyans didn’t decide to run back to the witch’s side.
With all their forces engaged it would be a quick battle; Daric would be surprised if they were still fighting come morning. The thought of how many of those six thousand wouldn’t be alive tomorrow tied a knot in his gut. Not just for the loss, but for the absolute pointlessness of it all. All this because of one woman’s greed. It was enough to make anyone sick.
He ordered the runner to give the signal. Moments later, the clatter of trebuchets filled the air. Listening to the huge boulders land in the distance, the one consolation Daric felt was that, one way or another, this would all be over by this time tomorrow.
* * *
Gialyn took a step forward. The Road formed before him. He knew he was in a dream—this time. On his last visit, he had wondered if it were all real. He turned from the Road; he didn’t need to be in Arenthenia for this. He wouldn’t be dealing with spirits, not today. Unfortunately, that was the only thing he was sure of.
Slowly, trees grew around him, and he became aware of Voices calling from a distance. Somehow, he knew to whom those voices belonged. Or rather, he had a fair idea. Telling the difference between wolf, human, and dragon was easy enough, which narrowed the choices down considerably. After that, it seemed to be a question of listening—really listening—to what was said. He found he could pick out individual conversations. And once he had done that, it was easy to track the speaker’s location.
Moving in a blur, he came up beside Qiel, the Darkin Second. Concentrating, he could make out what the wolf was seeing, although not clearly. Occasionally, though, an image would come into focus. Not the whole picture, but a portion of it: the sky would come into view, a tree would jump out in front of him, a face would appear.
Elspeth was there—he could sense her from back in Bailryn, albeit faintly. Now, he was standing by her side—in a manner of speaking. He thought he could probably talk to her, even
though she wasn’t using the Voice. He decided against it, though; how would she react, knowing he could listen to her from a league away? Besides, seeing her safe, and with Grady, was enough for now.
There were others there, too. Thousands. Those closest were all talking at once, arguing about something. It seemed important, but Qiel was showing no interest in the Toyans’ discussion, and so was not Sending any details. Gialyn could feel the wolf’s eagerness to move on. Staying put and listening to the others argue was annoying him. Unlike the others, Qiel’s mind was fixed, his thoughts simple—the enemy are over there, we are over here; therefore, we need to go over there. Gialyn wondered if the wolves ever thought about tactics.
Where are you, Qiel? Gialyn sent.
Qiel didn’t even turn to look at him. Gialyn had expected to wolf to at least be a little surprised by his presence.
We are still north of the Valley. The Bog is right, the woods left. When will the men attack?
Soon, Gialyn sent. They are clearing the Crescent. A few more minutes.
Good. I will tell them; maybe it will shut them up and force them to move.
Gialyn sensed that Qiel was no longer connected to him. Maybe they couldn’t use the Voice and talk at the same time? Or maybe wolves could choose whether or not to stay connected.
Gialyn moved to the west and found Qiel’s father, Farnok. He asked the old Darkin the same question.
West of the river, waiting for the signal, Farnok sent.
Gialyn told him the same as he had told his son. The old wolf seemed happy to finally be doing something.
Behind Farnok, Gialyn found Mott and Toban. Aleban was close, but not with the others, and there were a lot of Cren. From what he could hear of the wildlings’ conversations, they were all waiting for the battle to begin. Surprisingly, he could hear Mott using the Voice.
I didn’t know you could do that, Gialyn sent.
Who is that? Mott asked.
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