by Court Ellyn
On the hillsides beyond, the city folk had built makeshift shelters of sticks and blankets and a few leafy branches. A campfire guttered here and there. They saw Lord Ilswythe coming and left their warm huddles to cluster around him. Though some wore velvet, they all looked like beggars. Miles of muddy roads caked their shoes. Defeat weighed down their shoulders; desperation haunted their eyes. It was the old women, those who had learned that dignity was an unaffordable luxury, who started the begging. “Please, m’ lord, we must have food.”
The cries spread out in ripples. “We’re starving!”
“Give us bread!”
“Open the gates!”
Kelyn found a trampled hilltop to address them from. If he didn’t phrase his words carefully, this mob might tear him to pieces, and he wouldn’t blame them one bit. “Listen to me!” he called. Eventually the demands for food tapered off. “Ilswythe is not a safe haven. The ogres will return. Our enemies raided our larders and left us with nothing. Our rooms and barracks are full—”
“You must have something!” a woman cried. Jeers and hisses echoed her.
Kelyn waved his arms to silence them. “I urge you to take your women and children to Thyrvael.” He pointed north at the gray and white slopes of the Silver Mountains. “The mountain fastnesses will provide a safer refuge than our walls ever could. Ilswythe is where we mean to make a stand. If you stay, you will be given weapons and put on the wall. Do you understand? We need soldiers. If you stay, you will fight. The ogres will come, and you will face them in battle. Is that what you want?”
Unsettled whispers rustled through the mob.
A man raised his hand. “I will fight. I will stand with the War Commander.” Never mind that that man’s hair was silver with age, Kelyn’s heart sang with hope.
Of the thousands, a hundred or so started for the castle walls, kissing their wives and mothers and children farewell. Most were graybeards. Some were crippled. A few were women who had the shoulders of archers. One was a boy no older than eleven. Kelyn called to him. “Lad, you’re too young. Go to Thyrvael.”
Under a black layer of soot, the boy wore the livery of Bramoran’s city guard, the spread-winged falcon bearing a shield. Plump and sandy-haired, the boy balled his fists and pursed his mouth, determined to stand his ground. “I was squire to Captain Tullyk,” he declared, “and I’m his cousin’s cousin. I’m not big enough to fight, sir, but I know weapons and horses. I can squire for you.”
Kelyn squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Wait.” If Tullyk’s squire was among the refugees, then… “Tullyk wasn’t in on it?”
The boy’s face scrunched up in rude confusion. “In on what?”
“The massacre, boy!”
“No! I swear on the Mother’s golden tits.”
But Kelyn had seen them. Tullyk’s men, the men of Bramoran’s garrison, swinging their swords at women and children locked in Valryk’s feast hall. But only a few score. Valryk must’ve bought them, too, like the foreigners among the Falcon Guard, and peppered Tullyk’s ranks with mercenaries. “Is your cousin dead?”
The boy’s head drooped. “I don’t know. We … we were eating breakfast. The Falcon Guard came into the barracks. Them knights don’t ever visit the likes of us, so Tullyk said ‘What an honor’ and invited them to eat at his table. But they started attacking us. The Falcon Guard, m’ lord! Tullyk tried to organize his men, but … he told me to run. There wasn’t any place to go. All the doors were barred. I shimmied up the chimney.” His fist wiped his eyes before the tears fell. “I’m not leaving, m’ lord. I mean to help.”
Kelyn tried to seek Laral’s opinion but he was staring at the boy, haunted, enrapt, longing for his own sons.
“What’s your name?” Kelyn asked.
“Bryden, sir.”
“Well, Bryden, report to the barracks. Find Dagni and get acquainted with how things work here.”
The boy thumped his fist on his chest and trotted off.
“You should make him go to Thyrvael,” Laral said, watching the boy race across the meadow.
“We should all flee, Laral. But if a boy stands, maybe grown men will, too.”
They started back to the castle, keeping pace with the tail end of the volunteers.
A young man with a twisted leg hobbled along. “Thanks for giving me a chance, m’ lord. Those monsters thought I was helpless, I guess, so they let me go. But I served in the royal garrison once.”
Kelyn glanced at his crippled leg. “Did you?”
“This were my fault. Got drunk one night and fell off the wall. Ended my career as a soldier right quick. Or so I thought.”
Even Captain Tullyk leaned on a cane, unashamed of his war wound. “I can’t have you marching, but we’ll find something suitable for you.”
A barrel-chested man glowered at the exchange. “Better you than them,” he grumbled.
“And you are?”
“Just another glassblower bent on revenge.”
“I haven’t facilities for a glazier. Plenty of broken windows, though.”
“Doesn’t matter. I can turn a hand at most anything.”
Kelyn decided the man wasn’t as old as his wiry gray beard suggested. Leave it to ogres to misjudge a human’s age and strength. “What do you mean ‘better us than them’?”
“You make a deal. They make a deal. I’d rather fight for my food than buy it with slavery.”
“Who offered you food?” Laral asked.
“Them monsters.”
The crippled soldier nodded, confirming the story.
The glassblower elaborated, “When that bastard elf kicked us from Bramoran, we went to Farncaer, the village just west along the Lanwyk Road. You know it?”
Kelyn nodded. Miles of sheep pasture surrounded the unassuming town.
“A few days later, them monsters raided the place, swiped it clean and burned the granaries. Another elf was leading them. He had his monsters round us up. I was sure they meant to slaughter the lot of us. Instead, he said all food grown in the future was to come to Bramor. That’s what he called it, ‘Bramor.’ And if we wanted to eat, we’d bend the knee and call their captain our master.”
“Damn that snake,” Laral exclaimed. “You think Lothiar could convince our people to fight for him in exchange for a bowl of mush?”
“Depends how hungry they are,” Kelyn said. Lothiar was no fool. He who holds the food holds the power over the masses.
“What do we do about it?”
“I don’t know yet,” Kelyn admitted. He was tired of having no answers.
The new recruits reported to the barracks, the glassblower to the smithy, and Kelyn found Rorin in the kitchens arguing with a couple of dwarves. They disagreed on how many loaves of bread to bake for tomorrow. “Recalculate,” Kelyn told them. “We have new mouths to feed.”
Lord Westport slammed his ledger shut. “This simply won’t do. Kelyn, I’m telling you, our rations are as slim as they can get. The dwarves give me grief about it, now you. We cannot afford more mouths.”
Kelyn leaned close. “And how effective are you with a sword? We need soldiers, Rorin. And we will feed them however we can.” He rapped the man’s belly with the back of his hand. It wasn’t as trim as it had been in his youth. “We can all afford to take in our belts, don’t you agree? Recalculate.”
~~~~
Laral woke the new recruits before dawn the next day. They were on the training fields by sunup. A shabby but determined bunch, some even knew how to hold a bow. Because the archery range lay outside the walls, dwarves kept them company and watched for zaidakai, which Laral had learned was the dwarven word for lifelights.
The day’s task was determining who among these old men, boys, and women had the strength to stand on the wall and who needed to hike north to Thyrvael. “You’re brave to stay, and that’s admirable,” Laral told them, “but we’d like to minimize the fodder. If you can’t pull your bow, you’ll run errands, you’ll work in the armory, you’ll patch wound
s. If you can’t do those things, we can’t use you. Understood?”
In reply, he received a few spoken affirmations, a host of nods.
“Yes, sir!” he shouted at them.
“Yes, sir!” they shouted back.
“Right, show me what you got.”
A few of the old men fumbled with their arrows. Some of those arrows made it halfway to the target; others seemed hell-bent on tagging the sun. The soldier who had fallen from the wall and crippled himself struck the target a hand-span from the center. “Can you stand for long on that leg?” Laral asked him.
“I’m all right. I figure it won’t matter when the fear comes on.”
“The fear?”
“Aye, the one that makes you fight and feel no pain.”
“Have you ever fought in battle?” Laral guessed he might be twenty-five. If so, that meant…
“No, sir. But my father did. When the Warlord took Bramoran, he was put in the same cell with Captain Tullyk.”
“It was your father who told you about this ‘fear’?”
“Aye. He was right, wasn’t he?”
Laral preferred the truth. He considered his response too long and saw a different kind of fear surface in the young man’s eyes. At last Laral replied, “Maybe that’s the way it is for some. Rest when you need to.”
One of the women put two arrows inside the red dot before Laral could blink. He beckoned her from the line. “Were you in the city guard?” She looked a trifle young.
She raised her chin. “No, m’ lord. My brother was. I hoped to join him, but …” She glanced at her toes, and Laral guessed the rest. “I was always a better aim than he.”
He clapped her on the back like he would any of the men and said, “Now’s your chance. I need you to help train these men.” He turned toward the melee grounds, a flat field north of the archery range. Large dummies set atop mounds of earth simulated the ogres. Dwarves and Fieran militia thwacked at them with training weapons, sticks mostly. Among them, Haldred battled Lord Ulmarr with staves. Daxon was merciless; Hal’s knuckles bled. Laral called to his squire.
He sulked as he approached. “I don’t want to hear any tips, sir. The staff isn’t my style.”
Laral grinned. “But I trust you with a bow. Meet this young archer. What’s your name, girl?”
“Milla, m’ lord.”
The squire, already red from his exertions, damn near turned purple with a blush. He rushed through the motions of drying the sweat from his face and raking back the hair clinging to his forehead. Laral knocked him in the gut with his knuckles. “Pay attention. Work with Milla, here, and show these people how it’s done. I want them shooting straight by tonight.”
“Yessir.” Haldred and the girl moved off side by side, a wide gulf between them.
Laral barely had time to recall if he’d been as shy in his youth before Tullyk’s young cousin came bounding down the hill, his arms full of bundles of arrows. To fill quivers dangling from belts, the boy ducked under arms and weaved through the archers. “Bryden!” Laral bellowed. The boy stopped and turned. “Stay behind them. You want an arrow in your ear?”
“No, sir?”
“I should hope not. Come here.” The boy approached, slow and scared. Laral had used his height to intimidate people before, so he dropped to a knee. “How long were you Tullyk’s squire?”
“Half a year?”
“Were you on the archery range much?”
The boy shook his head. “Mostly in the stables. But I took care of Tullyk’s armor and swords.”
An ache pulled deep and sharp inside Laral’s chest. Goddess’ mercy, he missed Andy. And Jaedren. Protect my sons… He tapped the boy’s forehead. “Think about what you’re doing. Those arrows are aimed to kill. Never cross in front of a bow. When you fill quivers, stay away from arms and elbows. What happens if you bump them? The archers need never know you were there, except when they look down and see that they still have a full supply. Good?”
The boy tried on a shaky smile. “Good. I mean, yessir!” He saluted and darted off.
Laral watched him go, missing his family so badly that his ribs throbbed. Last night he had dreamed of Wren. She was playing her lute. Then the lute lay broken on the ground, and she stood at a night-dark window, weeping, and though Laral spoke words of comfort, she was unable to hear and kept crying.
He felt inside his jerkin, to make sure the kerchief was tucked against his heart. The linen was embroidered with wrens. Lesha had given it to him the morning he rode from Brengarra. His good luck charm.
“How goes it?”
Laral turned and found the White Falcon descending from the gate. Three mastiffs padded along beside him. Daisy, Rose, and Woodbine never left Arryk’s side. Neither did his guard. Rance brought up the rear, bedazzling and daunting in full armor. The ankle-length white cloak dragged along the grass behind him.
Laral scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “I feel like we’re picking at a mountain with spoons, thinking we can bring her down. I guess we’ll see when the ogres show up.”
“You’re sure they will?” Arryk asked.
“Of course they will. We’re the resistance. Such as it is. They’ll come.”
“In that case.” Arryk gestured at the spare bows leaning against the rack. “Mind if I try? Or do you think it unseemly for a king to embarrass himself?”
“Should you pull a bow yet, sire?”
Rance cleared his throat. “Pardons, sire, but Lady Carah won’t appreciate it if you tear what she mended.”
“I’ll be careful.” Arryk selected his weapon in time for Milla to make her way back down the line.
“Not like that,” she complained and took the bow from him.
Arryk glanced back at Laral and Rance and winked. The White Falcon was about to have some fun with this pretty Aralorri who had not the vaguest idea who she was talking to. Innocent as doves, Arryk asked, “Will you show me? I’m afraid I’m better with knives.”
Milla huffed. “Knives won’t serve you on the wall. Now pay attention…”
Rance turned away, stifling a chuckle.
Arryk let the girl place his hands in the proper position on the haft and string, and he even managed to drop his arrow the first time he drew. The girl chased the arrow for him, stooping beautifully in snug trousers. She reprimanded with the skill of a sergeant and made him try again. In one fluid motion Arryk nocked the arrow, drew, aimed, and loosed.
“No, wait!” Milla cried, then stared at the arrow quivering inside the bull’s eye.
“Beginner’s luck?” Arryk said, then called up the hill, “What do you think, Laral? Will it taste as fine as grouse?”
Several times a year they hunted in the Shadow Mounds or Istra’s Garden. “I wouldn’t recommend it, sire.”
Milla glanced between them, growing more panicked by the instant. It was finally Rance’s white garb that convinced her. “You … you … you’re … don’t cut off my head.”
Arryk laughed. “Why ever should I? You’re delightful. But go easy on me, I’ve had an injury.”
Milla backed away, sputtering apologies, but Arryk drew her close and spoke gently, setting her at ease.
“That’s not fair,” Rance said, observing how the White Falcon won her.
“He has all the advantages,” Laral admitted. “And we have wives. Remember?”
“Oh, right. I’ll try that on Moiya sometime. Problem is, I don’t think she’d believe it.”
“Not after she fell for it a hundred times. How many children do you have?”
“Five. And you’re not far behind.”
As soon as the girl was smiling and blushing, Arryk raised a hand and called the length of the range, “Haldred! We need you.”
“Oh, Goddess,” Rance groaned. “He’s gonna play matchmaker now. See if he don’t.”
One of the dwarves patrolling the riverside interrupted the entertainment with a frantic wave of her hand. “Lord Brengarra! Incoming. Banners.”
; On a narrow lane south of the river, riders and wagons approached Ilswythe Village. Two banners flapped over the hedgerows. One was a blue mountain rearing tall on the silver field. Beside it, the three gold stars of Zeldanor on purple.
Laral broke into a chuckle. He hadn’t seen his friends since he visited Ilswythe last autumn. Given Thorn’s reports of attacks in the east, he had feared he never would again. He fetched a horse from the stables and rode bareback across the river to meet the newcomers amid the ruins of the town. His friends saw him coming; two riders separated from the column and cantered ahead.
“Need a rescue?” Drys asked, reining in. Though he used an adult’s saddle, his stirrups had to be raised to the highest notch. The effect was made more ridiculous because he chose the tallest horses he could find. It was the only way, Laral often joked, that Drys was able to see over the crowd.
Laral gripped his friend’s hand. “Indeed. Though we had hoped for someone taller.”
“Are you calling me short?”
“Hell, yes.” Only Laral could say so and not earn a broken jaw.
Drys’s companion chuckled. Her flame-red hair blew wild in the wind. Laral kissed Kalla’s freckled cheek.
“We thought you were still at Drenéleth,” she said. “We rode all the way there, only to learn everybody left.”
“You sons of bitches coulda waited for us to retake the castle,” Drys pouted.
“I didn’t have a hand in it either,” Laral admitted. “I’m afraid we wouldn’t have been much help.”
The column caught up, halted alongside the blackened ruin of the mill. Laral estimated four hundred, some in uniform, most not. A woman with a scarred face led them. Twenty years ago, atop Slaenhyll, a Zhiani blade had cleaved Lady Blue Mountain’s cheekbone. Now nearing fifty, her red hair had faded to a stained orange, but she still wore her armor with strength and agility. “Ulna,” Laral said and bowed his head. Her consort rode at her side. Scars caused by Dragonfire pulled at Gyfan’s eyelid and left a patch of bald scalp over his ear. “We heard Blue Mountain burned.”