Brea glanced back at the women in the corner. Olivia held her dagger out and was standing in front of the King. The other two were cowering in the corner, hands over their ears. One was moaning; the other swayed back and forth, whispering something. Brea thought she might be praying.
BANG! BANG! BANG! The door split like a cheap bucket.
Alacin jumped to the side and ordered everyone back. He began to wail and then started throwing everything he could lay his hands on at their attackers. Candlesticks, plates, plant pots, even a chair.
The assassins deflected most of the missiles. One or two landed, but not hard enough to do any real damage. They kicked away what was left of the door and slowly moved into the room. There were five of them, each dressed in black and carrying short swords with cruel spikes on the hilts.
Alacin stepped back. “Get out if you can,” he whispered when he reached Brea. “They’re not here for you.”
“They’re not here for you, either,” she replied.
Brea wasn’t so sure they were not after her. One had just chased her through the Rabbit Run.
The assassins moved slowly forward. They spread themselves out in a line, barring the door. One by one, they eyed each person in the room. Brea thought they might be assessing the danger—either that, or deciding who to kill first.
Brea could see their eyes through the slit in their hoods. She knew they were smiling, happy with themselves. Especially when they looked at the King laying there on the lounger.
Brea heard a moan, and when she glanced to her side, she saw the King sitting up.
“It’s me you want,” the King said. “Let the women go.”
Hoyt gave him a look that said “Why not us, too.” Then Olivia marched to the King’s side.
“No,” she said. “You want the King, you will have to go through me.”
The other women started bawling. Likely upset that Olivia had ruined their best chance at escape.
“Mois doth niec alos moyek carof,” one of the assassins said.
Brea wasn’t sure, but she thought he said, “We came for the witches, too,” or something like that.
“Machi acel dian ro—
One of the huge windows caved in. Coloured glass showered the room. Brea ducked, covering her face.
She heard a familiar thump and raised her head. “Rek!” She couldn’t help but shout his name. Her dragon was half inside the room, half perched on the window ledge.
Rek fixed his orange eyes on the assassins—who were now backing away. One moved to the door, but Rek hit him with a ball of blue flame, sending the intruder into one of the walls. Another lunged forward. Rek swiped him across the chest, cutting through his armour. Rek moved forward. Tiles cracked as his heavy taloned feet landed on the floor. Another assassin made a run for the door. Rek snapped his jaw tight around the assassin’s leg, then flung him out of the ruined window. The other two dropped their weapons and knelt down with their hands held high.
Brea gathered her wits and ran to her dragon. Flinging her arms around her neck, she said, “My beautiful boy. Where did you come from?”
“Hheerd yyou.”
Rek’s breathy words were the first Brea had heard from him. She gasped in disbelief. A warm wave of pure joy filled her chest as she hugged him again. Tears in her eyes, she said, “My little man, you spoke, you actually spoke.”
Rek mumbled something that sounded like “Yes.”
Brea knew she was gaping at him, but what else could she do. Rek should have been a good few years away from talking, and yet here he was… Well, it was more like drunken mumblings, but it sounded like birdsong to her.
“Get the ropes from the curtains and tie them up,” Alacin told Hoyt. “You help him, please, Master Roan.”
Neither man argued.
Alacin stepped towards the assassins. “Drais Duith noc rea une”
If Brea was right, Alacin was asking how many were with them.
The assassins said nothing.
“Rea une!” Alacin shouted. He pointed his dagger at the neck of the first assassin. “Leet ne roi li tess e nagros ni voi.”
Brea wasn’t sure, but she thought he said, “Tell me, or I’ll let the dragon eat you.” She nearly laughed.
“Oit, oit,” the first assassin said.
“There were ten of them,” Alacin told the King.
The King sat up on his elbow. “Two were killed at the Hungry Fisherman. With this lot, that makes nine. One is still out there.”
“That will be the one I trapped in the tunnels,” Brea said.
“So that’s all of them,” one of the women said. She got up. Pushing Brea to the side, she made for the door.
“Where do you think you’re going, Battina?” the King asked. His voice was tired. Annoyed.
“To my quarters. I need a bath,” she said over her shoulder.
The king looked at Alacin. “Would you kindly sit that woman back down before she gets herself killed.”
Alacin grabbed Battina by the arm and pulled her back to the chairs. She complained, but Alacin ignored her. The King was smiling.
“So, this is your dragon,” the King asked Brea.
“Yes, my lord. His name is Rek.”
“Seems we owe you a debt, good dragon,” the King told Rek.
Rek looked down at Brea. He poked his tongue out.
“I think he’s just glad we are all safe,” Brea said.
The King laughed. “Well, like it or not, the beast, uh, my pardon… Rek shall have a feast in his honour. He has saved a kingdom today. Or at least its king.”
* * *
Mott walked behind Caylib and Rarshman. The few remaining cavalry followed behind. The Cren kept to the flanks. The wildlings, Darkin, and Rukin filled the ground between.
They aimed in a straight line towards the Kel’madden’s position. Remnants of trebuchets, wagons, and upturned tents littered the field. Campfires, cold and smelling of old ash, potted the landscape; reminders of a long-forgotten order that once ruled this field of death.
“Archers to the front,” Caylib shouted.
A rumble of hooves past him on the right, but Mott didn’t bother looking. He couldn’t remember how many times that order had been given, and still the troopers held their line.
“Loose!”
Even Caylib’s shout lacked conviction. They all knew this was quickly becoming a futile endeavour—if it wasn’t already.
Mott raised his head. Squinting past Rarshman’s horse, he hoped to see the Cren’s arrows hitting their targets. They disappeared into the darkness, just like all the others. A few cries followed, but not enough.
Caylib turned to him with expectation in his eyes.
“No!” Mott said. “I’m not sending any more wolves into that. Enough is enough. We’ll hold our ground here.”
Mott glanced over his shoulder. The look on the faces of those wolves behind him said they agreed. Even the Darkin nodded in approval.
Kel’madden arrows flew overhead. Mott watched, uncaring. Like everything else in this battle, the counter attack was predictable. He turned and walked back through the ranks of wolves. He didn’t need to look behind; in three hours, and gods knew how many attacks, the Kel’madden had never broken from their lines. Instead, the troopers waited, tying up the King’s men in an endless round of attack and retreat. Mott thought there might be less than half a regiment of troopers embedded beyond the field—less than five hundred men had held them all this time—but they had the higher ground, and nothing he or Caylib tried had budged them one inch from their position.
“Maybe we can draw them out if we move back to the river,” Caylib said when he pulled his huge horse in beside Mott.
Mott slowly shook his head. “If hitting them over and over hasn’t brought them out, I doubt retreating will make much difference. No, they’re staying put for a reason. They must have orders to hold that ridge. Have the scouts come back with any news? Is there a way around?”
“Unfortunate
ly not,” Caylib said. “We are stuck between the rising waters of the Broan River and the Kel’madden. If I didn’t know better, I’d say their general had planned it that way.”
Mott scoffed. “He wouldn’t know the river would rise so high.” He looked towards the lights of Bailryn. “Can we go south, back to the city? We may be of more use there.”
“Yes,” Caylib said. “But we’d likely be leading the troopers to the Highgate… if we leave this field.”
Mott heard Aleban approach.
“Are we holding here?” the Second asked.
“Unless you have a better idea,” Mott replied. His words were abrupt. Rude, even. “My pardon, Aleban. I’m just tired.”
“Ha! With all that’s happened, do you think a few short words bother me? If we’re staying, we’ll need a watch. I’ll ask the Darkin.”
“Better to ask the Cren,” Mott said. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the Darkin, but the big wolves were more likely to attack than send word of approaching troopers.
“I’ll arrange it,” Caylib said.
Mott could do nothing but nod. He had never felt so tired.
“It will be light in a few hours,” Aleban said. “We might find a way through.”
“I wouldn’t go if Vila herself pointed the way,” Mott told him. “This is a waste. They are playing with us; drawing us in so they can kill at will. I wouldn’t be surprised if an entire regiment were waiting in the field beyond that ridge, drinking tea and eating cake. We’d do the cause the most good by holding them here.”
“You still haven’t eaten anything, have you, Mott?” a voice said. It was Nacole. She moved up to his side and nuzzled his cheek with her nose. “You can’t fight if you can’t stand. Didn’t your father teach you that?”
“It takes too long to eat,” Mott said. “I haven’t had time.”
“Well, you can just make time. Come with me; you’re doing nothing else until I’ve fed you.”
Aleban made a noise that could have been a laugh, then headed off, back the way he came.
“As you wish,” Mott said, very formally.
“I’m not your maid,” Nacole snapped. “You can starve and die if that’s your aim. But you’ll do it alone.”
Mott stopped himself snapping back at her. She was right, he knew that for true–although admitting it was another matter. “I can find food,” he told her. “I thought you were back at the river?”
“I was. I saw you coming.”
That was a lie. She couldn’t have seen him retreat and run from the river in such a short time. He let it go, though; arguing was the last thing his tired mind needed.
Nacole watched him close his mouth. She probably knew what he was thinking. “I can defend myself,” she said. “I believe I have proven that more than once.”
“You’ve been lucky more than once, Nacole. No, don’t argue. You know you should be at the river, I gave you a job to do. If you’re going to be a soldier, you can follow orders, same as everyone else.”
“I suppose you’d have me move further south,” she sneered. “Give me some pointless task that would take me all the way back to Bailryn. Stop protecting me, Mott. If you don't let me be a wolf, then I must make my own way. Do you understand that?” She lavished the last with scorn.
Mott had never known a She to be so annoying. He could not understand her at all. Why was she so bent on risking her life? Didn’t her pups matter to her? He knew her attitude was a wildling matter—and the Broan Sect were more wild than most—but when had they decided a pup should grow up without its mother?
Mott heard horses trotting past on his right. Most of their forces were on their way back to the river, except the scouts. They would be safe for a while. At the very least, the Kel’madden wouldn’t attack until their own scouts reported in.
“We’ll both get food,” Mott said, “and I’ll even lie down for a while.”
Nacole said nothing, just looked forward and kept a steady pace.
At least it had stopped raining, Mott thought. Being struck by lightning would have finished his day off nicely.
The riverbank was crowded. The injured had been laid down in the field that ran along its edge. A narrow clearing had been left for horse and wolf to reach the water without trampling on a wounded comrade.
“There’s so many,” Mott said, gazing along the bank. “How many have we lost?”
“Don’t think about that,” Nacole told him. “It won’t help.”
“I know it won’t. I just want to know.”
Nacole sighed. “Far more are injured than have died. We’ve lost one in ten, but four times that number are wounded.”
“That’s half!”
“Very clever. Now stop worrying. It is what it is.”
“But—”
“I said stop it,” Nacole growled. “Honestly, didn’t your father teach you anything? ‘Fight today, mourn tomorrow?’ Does that sound at all familiar?”
“No. Though it sounds exactly like something you lot would say.”
Nacole opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of shouting coming from the east.
“They’re retreating! They’re retreating!”
One of the Rukin scouts—Mott thought it was Ayrden—was running through their camp, shouting.
“Slow down,” Mott barked. “Tell us what you saw.”
“They’re retreating, sir.”
“Who? How many?”
“All of them. I heard a horn blow, a strange sounding thing, and then moments later the Kel’madden about-faced and started to march east. They’re retreating!”
“Have we won?” Nacole asked.
Mott could barely comprehend the question. Why were they retreating? If the reports were correct, the Kel’madden were winning on every front. There was no reason to retreat. It must be a trap.
“I don’t know,” Mott said. “But let us all calm down until we find out what is going on.”
The sound of galloping hooves approached from the north. A Cren, one of the lookouts, jumped off his horse. “Pardon, but where’s Caylib? I have news.”
“Don’t tell me,” Mott said. “The troopers are retreating.”
The Cren stared at him. “How did… I’ve only just seen it for myself not five minutes ago.”
Mott nodded towards Ayrden. “There’s nothing like a wolf for spreading news.” He smiled, but the Cren did not understand the joke.
Mott turned to Nacole. She was staring again, with those glazed eyes and a vacant expression. Why did talking through the Voice make her that way?
A moment passed. Then…
“He’s right, they’re retreating all over.”
“What could it be?” Mott whispered. “It must be a trap. Or maybe they have called a truce. Humans sometimes stop fighting to gather their dead.”
Nacole shook her head. “Maybe, I don’t know. Whatever has happened, we should take advantage of it.”
“Yes, of course,” Mott said. “We’ll start by getting some help for the injured.”
He followed Nacole to the river, all the while hoping that the fighting really was over. Still, if it were only a break, at least he could rest a while, eat, and maybe persuade Nacole to return to her pups. The latter seemed a harder task than defeating the witch.
CHAPTER 27
Fa’rann
Arfael, squatting on the ground next to one of the tents, looked over his shoulder at the three guards patrolling the outer fields. They would see him soon, and there was nowhere for him to go but forward, further into the camp. Should he risk attacking them, in the hope of putting all three down before they could raise the alarm…? No, even with the black, razor-sharp talons on his fingers he didn’t think he could kill all three quietly—at least not quietly enough. He just had to hope they wouldn’t see him. He hitched back into shadow and settled against the thick, black canvas.
The clearing made by the wide circle of tents was filling up. The Kel’madden were having a parade of
some sort. As well as the guards and officers, there were a hundred troopers standing in ranks, ten-deep. The witch was there, too. Not Vila, the other one: Breani. They were waiting for someone. If Arfael was right, that “someone” would be Vila’slae.
Lightning struck to the west. The flash lit up the camp. Arfael ducked under the water tower to his right. Then grimaced, as his head hit the barrel set on top of it. He froze, wondering if anyone had heard. A second later, the air rumbled with thunder. Arfael let out the breath he was holding, then quickly glanced around. In the field, the three patrolling guards had about-faced and were walking back the way they had come. Arfael crawled out from under the water tower, back to the shadows.
He wondered if he should let the guards get twenty paces away and then kill them. But what if Vila chose that moment to make her entrance? He couldn’t let her get amongst the hundred troopers; they were more than enough to protect her. He settled back down and fixed his gaze on the clearing. It would be a few minutes before those three came back. Hopefully, Vila would show herself before then.
Glancing nervously at the hundred troopers, Arfael wished Vila had gone back to her tent. A change of clothes, eat some food, rest on her bed; any excuse would have done. But nothing, she was out for the night, so it seemed. He had wasted an hour, waiting, willing her to appear. And now it was too late for caution; hundred troopers or not, he had to act.
A tall man entered the clearing and made his way over to Breani. He nodded at the witch, then stood next to her. Arfael hitched forward when he realised the tall man was General Turasan. The troopers stood to attention. Surely Vila would come out now.
Arfael leaned forward and readied himself. He knew he could leap to the centre of the clearing. If he were lucky, he would be on the witch before anyone realised what had happened. He took a deep breath as he stared at the big tent the general had emerged from. She was in there; he could all but smell her.
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 140