The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  Nacole looked indignant. “And yet you’re willing to risk it.”

  Mott wanted to shout at her, to order her back, but she wasn’t his mate. And even if she was, he doubted the “wildling way” would allow a wolf to deny his mate the right to fight. He was struggling for what to say, when…

  “I’ll go if you have a task for me, but not to save myself.”

  Mott scrambled through his mind for something she could do back at the river. “Yes,” he said, in a much more excited tone than he had planned. “You can stay with Rarshman, relay messages, tell him when it’s safe to move forward.”

  Nacole smiled but said nothing. She turned west, and was gone before Mott could say another word.

  Caylib led the Cren towards the hill. Mott followed Farnok along their left flank. He could hear Toban’s group to his left, and Aleban was behind—he hoped. Together, they ran the gauntlet of falling rocks. Mott darted from side to side, always with one eye on the sky and another on the ground—it wasn’t just the rocks landing on them; those rolling down the hill could be just as dangerous.

  Near the top, Mott crouched on his haunches behind a low ridge of black rock and waited for the others to catch up. The Cren were already in position; half were aiming their arrows up the hill, the others were firing on the Kel’madden, who were just now approaching from the east. Caylib would have to hurry, or they risked being caught between the hilltop and the advancing troopers.

  “We’ll have to slow them down,” Toban said when he moved up beside Mott.

  The Rukin alpha had run up from the rear. He was supposed to stay back, but Mott wasn’t the least bit surprised to find him there. The other wolves were pooling themselves into groups of around fifty. Well, the Rukin were. The Darkin were standing in a line, howling up at the Kel’madden battlements that had been spread across the top of the hill.

  Farnok had apparently heard what Toban said. “You Rukin can deal with them, we’re going up,” he said, nodding towards the hill.

  Mott half-expected Toban to argue, but…

  “Fine with me,” Toban said. “I’ve done enough running for one day.”

  The Cren began to advance up the hill, followed by the Darkin. Mott gathered his group and moved beneath them, forming a barrier between the hilltop and the advancing troopers. Toban and Aleban each led groups from the south and positioned them in a line behind the low rise. With any luck, the Kel’madden wouldn’t see them until they were right on top of the wolves.

  Mott was surprised the troopers had managed to regroup so quickly. Caylib was right; dragging them along had been the enemy’s plan from the beginning. It was way past time to stop their games.

  Mott made no secret of his position. The Kel’madden would see his two hundred wolves and attack. And while they were busy looking forward, Aleban and Toban would attack from the rear. Not a brilliant plan, but good enough. He hunkered down, fixed his eyes on the east, and waited.

  It didn’t take long. First came the arrows. And when the wolves managed to evade them, by hiding alongside the ridge, the troopers began to charge.

  Mott watched as the black-armoured men ran out of the darkness towards him. Weapons held above their heads, the Kel’madden yelled out their battle cry. Mott ordered a retreat and played the troopers own trick back on them. When the unsuspecting attackers had rounded the base of the hill, Toban and Aleban led their groups to attack the troopers from behind.

  However, instead of panicking, the troopers rounded themselves into a tight circle, pikemen on the edges, archers in the centre.

  The Rukin broke against their defences. Again and again, the trooper fought back their attacks. And all the while, the Kel’madden archers were taking pot shots at any wolf who let themselves get caught in the open.

  Thunder rolled, lightning struck, and the rain beat down. On the edge of the ridge, Mott could hear other Kel’madden approaching from the east. They outnumbered the circle of troopers by at least four to one, but if they didn’t find a way to break them soon, they would have to retreat.

  Wolves lay dead and injured all around the base of the small hill. Mott heard Toban shout for more speed, urging the wolves to run at the circle. It was as good an idea as any, but Mott didn’t think it would work. The sound of the approaching enemy was getting louder and louder. A few more minutes, and they could be the ones who were surrounded.

  Absently, Mott wondered how the fight was going on top of the hill, and whether he could expect any help from the Cren and Darkin. He looked up the slope. Apart from a faint outline of the Trebuchets, he could see nothing to say anyone was up there, never mind who was winning.

  Aleban joined him.

  “Toban is injured. I’ve sent him back to the river.”

  “And he went?” Mott said, surprised.

  “Not without an escort. He was still fighting with an arrow in his hip.”

  The two crouched down behind a pile of soaked wood—probably from the trebuchets—and watched for movement in the east.

  “We can’t leave,” Aleban said.

  Mott nodded. “I know. Caylib is as good as dead if we let this lot hit him from behind. We’ll have to keep going, and hope they break.”

  Mott was about to signal for another attack when he heard a trumpeter sounding a charge. Rarshman rode out of the darkness with a hundred of his cavalry behind him. They formed up into ranks of six abreast and slammed into the circle of troopers.

  Mott looked at Aleban. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  Aleban laughed. “We’ll worry about that later. Call for another charge.”

  The wolves gathered and followed Rarshman as the cavalry came around for another pass. The troopers broke ranks and began to run eastwards along the base of the hill.

  Mott allowed himself a brief rest. They wouldn’t be gone for long; as soon as they met up with their advancing friends, they would be back.

  But just as he was about to mention that to Aleban, he heard Caylib yelling from high up on the hill.

  “Up here!” he shouted. “We have the hill. Come up here.”

  All around, wolves let out a howl. Mott and Aleban followed Rarshman; they all tramped to the top of the hill—horses, too.

  At the top, the trebuchets were being dismantled and their springs and gears destroyed by the Cren. Mott looked to the east. The hilltop continued for half a mile before sweeping north. They would be able to follow it without encountering much resistance.

  For a moment, Mott was at a loss as for what to do. Did they continue towards the Kel’madden camp, or hold the hill? There did not seem to be much point staying put.

  Caylib appeared to have had the same thought. “We should consolidate our ground, and then push on,” the Cren said. “We could stay here, keep their forces busy, but they’ll box us in, eventually.”

  Mott had no strong thoughts on the matter, he was just glad someone had made a decision. Now that short battle was over, and they were safe—relatively—he realised just how tired he was.

  Nacole came over and stood by him.

  “I thought you were at the river.”

  “I was. I went to do a job, remember. I heard that you were having trouble, and Rarshman decided to come back.”

  Having trouble! Mott couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I’m glad I came up with the idea,” he said.

  “Yes, very clever of you to send me back to Rarshman. You must have had a premonition.”

  Again, he laughed. To think, they would be dead, if he wasn’t so bent on protecting her.

  “Come on,” Nacole said. “Let’s go see if anyone has any food. I don’t think we are anywhere near finished for tonight. We should rest and eat while we can.”

  Mott couldn’t argue with that. He followed her to where the troopers had set up camp. There should be some food around there—somewhere.

  * * *

  Sek cursed his brother as he landed on the spur north of the Colaroy Valley. It was the third time in the past two hours that he
had come back to this spot. The third time he had made for the Kel’madden camp, only to turn around and fly back north.

  From where he was standing, Sek could see the ocean, the trees of the Barais’coi, and the road running south to Bailryn. None of it mattered anymore. No, that wasn’t true, it had never mattered, not to him. This conquest of Aleras’moya, the so-called Republic Revolution, was all the witch’s doing. And what a mess she had made of it.

  Even after hours of aimless flight, his anger still boiled. How could he have failed? Tor should be dead, three dragons against one, it should have been a simple victory. And yet his brother lived. What did it mean? There can be only one Black Dragon; the prophecy was clear on that. So why had he failed?

  The possibility that Tor might be the one to face Diobael crossed his mind. “No, he is too weak, it can’t be him,” Sek whispered. However, the thought would not go away. He roared and spat fire into the air. No, Tor would not steal his glory!

  The storm was beginning to clear; the others would be arriving soon. He didn’t have long to decide what to do.

  Why had things become so complicated? For centuries now, he had been sure of what lay ahead, but now… The one thing he was sure of, things could not remain the same. And if this experience had taught him anything, it was that humans could not be trusted—none of them.

  The sound of flapping wings pulled him from his thoughts. To the south, he could see his dragons approaching. Eight of them. The eight that the witch had failed to bond with her Shard. There were more, of course, dozens more, but they were back on Toi’ildreig. How he wished they were all here; he could have ended this by now.

  Gunna was the first to land. The largest of the three Cuis, Gunna always led when Sek wasn’t with them. Goth, one of the three Heeras, was close behind. Goth was a dragon killer. Of all Sek’s Toi’gaw, Goth was the most feared. The other two Heeras landed further along the ridge. Feogan and Teo, the two Drin, hovered for a moment, before landing on the thin escarpment to Sek’s left. Bright red and orange, Feogan and Teo were the fastest dragons in the Illdrieg Islands—now that Geb was dead and Cusag was missing. They could clip a Cuis’s wings before they knew what had happened.

  “Is it done?” Gunna asked.

  Sek shook his head. “No, he lives, for now.”

  Gunna didn’t ask why—the Cuis knew better than to question him—but the look he gave Sek spoke of disappointment. Gunna had wanted to be among those chosen to kill Tor, and was not happy when Sek chose to take the two Drin. The truth was, he might have succeeded if Gunna and Goth had been with him, but those two would have wanted in on the kill, and Sek had craved that honour for himself.

  “What now?” Gunna asked.

  “Firstly,” Sek said, “we fly to Braylair. There’s something I need. Then we go back. I have a message for Vila.”

  Gunna’s shoulders shook as he laughed quietly to himself. Sek couldn’t help but laugh, too.

  CHAPTER 25

  Out in the Field

  Cal raised his blade to the remaining troopers. But the few who were left had little to no fight left in them. Lowering their weapons, the Kel’madden cautiously backed away, eyeing the Cren as they tracked north along the stream. They would not turn their backs on Cal and his companions. Cal scoffed; did they think the Cren’dair Woodsmen would shoot them in the back?

  Letting the insult roll off his shoulders, Cal sheathed the sword he had taken from one of the casualties and turned to his men. They had lost a dozen, maybe more; and another thirty were injured too severely to continue. It had been a hard-fought victory; the troopers battled as if they were defending their home. For a while, it seemed their determination might overpower the Woodsmen. As strong as the Cren were, Cal doubted their lines would have held without the beleaguered band of Surabhan fighting by their side. The guards fought well, with passion and determination. Cal owed them a debt of thanks.

  The dead were becoming an increasingly common sight, Cal thought, as he gazed north and west towards Barrais’coi and the fires of the Kel’madden camp. Even in the dark, he could see corpses scattered like flotsam on the now waterlogged fields. More bodies lay beyond the stream, where several hundred troopers had tried to outflank what had remained of the Surabhan unit. Their attack hadn’t worked; Mateaf had seen them coming, and the Surabhan archers—what few there were—had gathered enough arrows to kill the troopers before they could cross the water. That was when the battle had turned in the King’s favour, when the troopers seemed to lose interest and begin to falter. After that small victory, it hadn’t taken the Surabhan long to force the remaining Kel’madden into a defensive posture, and once that happened, it was only a matter of time before the troopers retreated.

  Even so, as successful as this skirmish had been, it had taken a heavy toll. A third of Cal’s men were dead or injured. Some of the wounded would never again pull a bowstring, or hunt in the Crenach’coi. That thought brought a bitter taste to Cal’s throat. He clenched his jaw and swallowed back the anger. If anything, this battle had hardened his resolve; Cren had spilt blood on this ground. Part of it was theirs now—as far as he was concerned—and no Cren would leave while their home was under threat.

  The troopers had gone, disappeared into the darkness north of the stream. Cal caught up with Mateaf. They made their way to the huddle of Surabhan. Of a unit of two hundred, he doubted there were more than forty of the King’s men still standing.

  “A fair result, wouldn’t you say, sir?” Mateaf asked.

  Cal regarded him with tired eyes. “I suppose it could have been worse. How are the wounded? Do any need help getting back to Bailryn?”

  “A few,” Mateaf said. “Kirin’thar is seeing to it.”

  “Kirin’thar! What is he doing here?” Cal cursed. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

  The two nudged their way through the small group of Surabhan.

  The King’s men were standing in a circle with their heads bowed. Some were mumbling what might have been a prayer. Cal—who stood head and shoulders above even the tallest Surabhan—looked down into a small clearing at the centre of the group. A man—a dead man—was lying in the dirt.

  “Who is he?” he asked the man stood across from him.

  The man shrugged. “I don’t know. I think he worked in the library.”

  “So why are you—?”

  “His name was Brandon, Brandon Horrick,” a voice said. “He was our lieutenant. And yes, until this morning, he was a librarian. He was very brave.”

  “And now he’s dead,” another voice said.

  “Have some respect,” the other snarled, his voice full of scorn. “The man led us when others wanted to run. We would have lost this battle without him.”

  “Then he is honoured dead,” Cal told them. “He will be taken back to Bailryn and raised up high for all to see.” So this was the man who had kept the Surabhan together, Cal thought. He looked down at the body. Lieutenant Horrick looked small… old. Was he really a… librarian? Cal felt a numb pulse in the back of his mind. He owed this man a debt. A debt he could not now repay. Again, he bit back his anger. “His deeds shall be sung among the glorious dead. Let it be known Brandon Horrick is so honoured.” Cal bowed and knew Mateaf and the other Cren were doing the same.

  Nods of approval and agreeable mumblings circled around those gathered. Without another word, four men picked up the lieutenant and carried him off to the south. A line of men, some too tired to hold their pikes straight, followed the body. The procession disappeared into the night.

  “Are you letting them go?” Mateaf asked.

  Cal nodded. “This front is lost, my friend. We are only three hundred. With no high ground or cover, all we can do is die. The Kel’madden will be back with a full regiment. We should join with others on the far side of the valley, maybe come back with reinforcements. But for now, this field is theirs.”

  Mateaf did not speak as he gathered up his bow. He didn’t look disappointed; he knew holding this field
would be a waste of good men.

  Cal picked up his bow from the pile that had been left by the tree stump. Glancing around, he waited for everyone to gather their things and then led them south along the same path used by the Surabhan. It wasn’t far to the wall, and then only another mile or so to the Highgate. Not far for an enemy like the Kel’madden troopers. He took one last look over his shoulder at the field of dead. He would have to come back with reinforcements, and soon. At least enough to hold the stream. If not, all those men had died for nothing—and he would not let that happen.

  * * *

  Arfael sat between two narrow carts, watching men and women move between the tents of Vila’slae’s command post. He was surprised to have gotten this far without having to kill anyone else. Maybe the witch was too arrogant to consider a lone assassin. Whatever the reason, he was glad of it—it had made his job easier.

  He knew which tent was hers. The long, canvas backing wasn’t three paces from where he now sat, waiting. He had already cut a slit in the canvas. Just a small hole, but big enough for him to crawl through unseen. As soon as he saw Vila making her way there, he would use that entrance, and be waiting for her when she went inside.

  It wasn’t much of a plan. A lot could go wrong; the witch might sense his presence, the troopers might discover him, he could lose control and rampage through the tents—big as he was, a few dozen troopers would beat him down, eventually. True, he could slaughter most of them, but it was still a risk—Vila had to die. He would just have to control his urges.

  Arfael raised his arm. It felt light. He should really look for some more steel to replenish his armour. Chips and flakes had been falling off him for nearly an hour, probably leaving a trail. He cursed himself for not waiting before using up all of the Krasis steel.

  Leaning against the wheel of one of the wagons, Arfael noticed the iron band binding it. Iron would do well enough, better than nothing. Checking nobody was close by, he laid his hand on the round of the wheel and waited for his skin to absorb the iron. It wasn’t enough, and he turned to his right, repeating the procedure with the other wheel. The wood cracked as the iron rim disintegrated. Arfael held his breath, but none of the troopers looked in his direction.