by Court Ellyn
“Da, get out of there,” Carah muttered. Whoever fled last would likely be slaughtered. The dwarves fell back to the dike and ranged out to each side of the War Commander. The Regs filled the outer bridge, their dual swords shaping a barbed wall against the onslaught. Ogres waded across the moat and charged the dike. How many could these few defenders hold off until they were overrun?
In a fit of madness or bravado, Rhian darted from the gate. Nearing the bridge, he shouted something in Elaran. The Regs formed an aisle for him. Like a one-man cavalry, Rhian charged the ogre advance, tossed his arms wide, and a burst of energy roared out from him like a tidal wave, flinging ogres backward, crushing bone. Another sweep of his arms raised the outer moat into a stinking muddy wall, and another froze the waters solid. Dozens of ogres were trapped inside the ice, even a few humans. Alive or drowned, Carah couldn’t guess.
Now that the ogres had only a narrow avenue across the outer bridge, Da and the dwarves took the opportunity to bail off the dike and flee toward the castle. The Regs ran in ahead of them, and Rhian covered their flight with bolts of lightning.
“Raise the bridge!” Da shouted. Chains clanked. The drawbridge began to rise. Rhian gave ground slowly, too slowly to suit Carah. He’d be trapped out there all alone. Too slow to suit Da as well. Kelyn appeared again on the bridge, grabbed Rhian around the chest, and dragged him back toward the gate. But Rhian didn’t stop. Lightning thundered from his palms, skewering the ogres who dared venture through the gap in the ice wall. Only when the drawbridge rose high enough to block the ogres from view did the thunder grow quiet. Under her feet, Carah felt the portcullises rumble shut.
~~~~
38
Kelyn glared, irate, as the ogres reclaimed the plain of Tírandon. They trampled the dead, pissed like dogs on everything in reach, and piled the corpses of their enemies and their denmates into oversized wains. They tore down the tidy rows of tents abandoned by human, dwarf, and Elari. A handful of the brutes toured the battleground to finish off the wounded. How many lay out there, pleading for help, trying to drag themselves to safety, all the while knowing they’d been abandoned? Bodies of humans and ogres floated in the moats. Rhian’s ice wall melted slowly. Ogres hammered at it with fists and weapons. But it was too late to save their denmates trapped inside.
Upon the battlements, the catapult continued hurling shot. The stones felled a few unwary ogres; archers’ arrows claimed a few more; the avedrin released sporadic bolts of lightning. Most of the ogres stayed well out of range, however. The spyglass revealed the Elari commander barking orders. A knot of ogres obeyed and began juggling long, thick timbers, each heavy enough that they took two ogres to carry them. Others pulled wains filled with earth and rock. They meant to resume building immediately.
Kelyn snapped the spyglass closed, each click as sharp as a curse. Brilliant tactics, really. He had to grant Lothiar that. The large host from Bramoran, paired with the avedra and his spinning blades of fire, had provided the perfect distraction. Kelyn hadn’t expected the Broke Blade ogres to lick their wounds so soon and come roaring back from the Gloamheath. And he had placed too much trust in the veil-piercing eyes of the Elarion. They hadn’t been watching because he hadn’t told them to watch. Damn and blast, but his oversights would be the end of his people yet. No room for error. He kicked the crenels hard and concentrated on the throbbing in his toes.
He felt a presence hovering at his elbow and turned to find Lord Gyfan staring emptily. Amid his fire-scarred face, his eyes were dull, haunted. “Ulna is dead,” he said. “Feels surreal saying it aloud like that.” They had always come as a pair, Ulna and her consort. To see Gyfan alone sharpened the claws of Kelyn’s shame.
He clasped his old friend’s shoulder. “I know. I saw.” That red hair flying like a banner, like a scream, as her horse somersaulted, as the ogres swarmed. “I tried to get to her.”
“Even the Swiftblade can’t be everywhere at once.” Gyfan glanced beyond the crenels. “What will they do with our dead?”
“Best not to think about it. We’ll reclaim them if we can.”
Gyfan closed his eyes, nodded, started to drift away, but Kelyn caught him by the arm. “Do something for me? Gather the commanders and bring them here.” Better give the man something constructive to do.
Who else was being thrown into the meatwagons? Not Alyster at least. When Kelyn lost his horse, he had no choice but to let the cavalry charge ahead without him. He’d fallen back with the Regs, and once the Elarion were enmeshed in the melee, the highlanders dived into the fray, and there was Alyster leaping onto one ogre and the next. If an ogre’s back was turned, Alyster was on him in a blink, his hatchets going to work. Fearless he was. Unable to understand fear in others or tolerate the idea of defeat. Kelyn had felt the same at that age. When the rout began, Alyster lingered. He would’ve tried taking the ogres singlehandedly, but Kelyn hauled him away. They had gotten separated in the panic, but Kelyn glimpsed him again at the gate. He supported a man on his shoulder and herded his kindred before him.
If only Kethlyn…
A thousand curses!—where were his commanders anyway? Hadn’t Gyfan found them yet?
As if Kelyn had shouted his name, Thorn turned, met his eye, and started through the crowd. Archers, squires, soldiers, onlookers from town took note of him and eased out of his path. Funny, when Kelyn considered it, people being awestruck, even afraid of his once-timid, perpetually-late scholar of a brother. If they only knew who he really was, deep inside.
All his brother had ever wanted was to study, write, explore the unknown reaches of the world. To remain Kieryn. Unobtrusive, solitary. Yet for most of his life it was Thorn who had been called upon. King’s shield, lethal weapon. More than anything, Kelyn longed for these monsters, these violators of peace to dissipate on the wind, so that he and his brother could spend the rest of their lives sitting before a blazing hearth, talking. Just talking. Maybe share a bottle of wine and play a little chess. Kelyn regretted not playing chess with him that night at Ilswythe before everything changed. Maybe later. In long days of peace when Kieryn could be Kieryn and let Thorn rest.
“Bruised are you?” he said, joining Kelyn at the wall.
“If I am, I can’t feel it yet.”
“And the pride?”
“My pride doesn’t matter, only what we mean to do next.”
“And that is?”
“Keep them from getting in, invent a brilliant plan to convince them to leave.”
“Hnh, miracles then.”
“Right.”
Thorn sent a jet of lightning bouncing toward the ice wall. A couple of ogres convulsed and fell out of sight. “If only my substance was ready. What a perfect time to test it.”
“What substance? I wish you’d tell me what you’re working on.”
“If I did and it fails, my pride couldn’t stand it. So I’ll keep it to myself. I must speak to Ruthan though.”
“You’ll tell her but not me?”
“No, but she can help. You have more important things to worry about.”
“Like an avedra whose skill with fire matches yours.”
Thorn grunted, offended. “Fireballs are one thing. Firebirds are creative. But neither were sustained for long. Not like my cyclones.”
Kelyn grinned in spite of himself. His brother liked being the biggest wolf in the woods, though he’d never admit it.
“No doubt Lothiar’s avedra is gifted,” Thorn granted with a shrug, “even well-trained. But nothing I saw today indicated discipline or practice. Can he cause havoc? Yes. Can he bring down a castle wall? I doubt it.”
“So he’s not a major threat?”
“I won’t lose any sleep over him.”
Kelyn took that with a grain of salt. Thorn’s wounded vanity likely insisted he downplay the Valroi’s skill.
“Speaking of sleep,” Thorn added, “I need some. You know where to find me, War Commander.” He wove a veil and vanished from the prying eyes of men.
One by one, Kelyn’s commanders mustered atop the Bastion. By then the ogres had wheeled their loads of earth to the outer bridge. “They will continue what they started,” Kelyn told them, “make a way for multiple rams, maybe erect ladders.”
Eliad shrugged. “Even if they bust through the drawbridge, the portcullises are another matter.” True, Leshan’s portcullises were crafted not of iron or bronze but of tempered steel.
“Aye, so if I were their commander, I would order them to strike at the wall of the Bastion itself. The walls are thick, but the tower is hollow. If they can’t break through, they may try sapping to bring her down. Falconeye, keep up the barrage while they build. Don’t make it easy for them.”
Laniel showed Kelyn the contents of his quiver. It was nearly empty. “Too bad the naenion aren’t sending the arrows back. Armory doesn’t look too good, Sheannach.”
“Working on it. Where is Lord Westport? Gyfan, find Rorin for me, will you? And Captain Reynal.”
The msan drifted away like a specter.
In the meantime, Kelyn turned back to Eliad. “We’re stuffed inside these walls like lambs on slaughtering day. Help get everyone organized.”
“I should assist,” said Lord Haezeldale, “unless you have other plans for me.” He had a dazed, feral gleam in his eye, like an animal on the verge of going into shock. Johf and his cavalry, along with the Regs, had taken the brunt of the beating during the retreat.
“Find a quiet place and get some rest.”
“But I need to see to my people.”
“Others can do that.”
“I will,” said Lady Drona. “Leave your people to me, Haezeldale.”
Johf scrubbed his face with his glove, hesitated, then descended from the battlements.
“Move aside!” shouted a gruff voice. Squires and engineers scattered. Captain Reynal advanced on Kelyn, finger jabbing. “Much good you did! We’re right back where we started. Only worse. With all the mouths you brought, we’ll be starving in no time. Who’s going to rescue you, War Commander?”
Kelyn clenched his jaw in an effort to hold back a nasty retort. The castellan’s anger was born of fear, that was clear enough, fear for his own hide. “Get your builders to finishing these engines,” Kelyn ordered. “They do not rest until each one is complete.” For a moment, Reynal blinked in befuddlement; he had come to box but discovered he was the only man in the ring. “And organize the town militia on the inner wall. They are to continue their archery drills atop the battlements. They are not to be idle. Understood? As for you, Captain, keep your head or I’ll have you replaced.”
Reynal stood grinding his teeth, knotting his fists. One solid punch, that’s all he wanted. Kelyn held his ground, daring the man to try it.
Falconeye eased in between them. “You have much to do, Captain. Best get started.”
Jowls quivering, Reynal raised his glare. “I don’t take orders from the likes of you, elf.”
“No, but you’ll take them from your commander, and he gave you one. Move out.” Laniel’s stare was so intense, so cold that Reynal couldn’t hold it for long. He backed away, bristling, and hammered a salute across his chest, more in mockery than respect, and left the tower.
Lord Westport stood off to the side, watching the exchange with eyebrows raised. Kelyn beckoned him close. “I’m glad you’re here, Rorin. I have important tasks for you.”
“How may I help the cause?” he asked, wagging his head. All he needed was a feather in a fancy hat and he’d be his old self.
“Put together a taskforce. Brawny squires, a couple dwarves, and head into town. Confiscate all the iron pots and pans you can find and take them to the smithy. North Town first, they can afford to part with a few things. Be a pompous ass, throw around your title, and they’ll give you whatever you want.”
“Then spit as I pass. I never have understood why the commons do that.”
Kelyn chuckled.
“And what, pray tell, are the smiths to make?”
“Arrows. Lots of them. Commission a couple of carpenters, too. We need ferries if we’re to make use of the water gates.” Maybe the ogres and their Elaran commander won’t expect sorties from the south.
He dismissed the lot of them, but Eliad stayed behind. “Kelyn?”
“We’ll find a way out of this, don’t you worry.” He raised the spyglass, watched the ogres organize into clans.
“Yes, I’m sure. Kelyn?”
“I’ll get some rest, don’t worry.”
“Yes, but … Kelyn?”
He lowered the spyglass and turned to regard his former squire. Though he couldn’t see it, he’d swear Eliad’s palms were sweating. He rubbed them on his thighs.
“Something happened out there today,” he said. “All I could think about was the baby.”
“Baby?” Kelyn asked.
“Lyana’s baby. It’ll be born in the fall. What if—?”
Didn’t Eliad have other bastards? What was different about this one? Something had happened, indeed. Suddenly he had something worth living for, and it obliterated his fearlessness. Kelyn clapped him on the shoulder. “They won’t break in.”
Eliad’s willingness to trust Kelyn’s word added another burden to his shoulders. No, that burden had always been there, in all the babies, wives, and lovers throughout Tírandon, whose lives depended on the strength of these walls.
~~~~
Thorn woke to a soft knock at his door, if it could be called a knock. More like a mouse’s scratch. He had fallen asleep almost as soon as he returned to his suite, his head throbbing, his hands stinging. It wouldn’t do to work with the substance when he was exhausted. He needed all his concentration. With the renewed siege, time was critical.
Shaking the haze of sleep from his head, he pushed himself from the armchair, then flung a white sheet over the breakfast table and its array of bottles. Some were empty, some were filled with oil, some with a liquid blacker than the blackest night.
He opened the door. Ruthan stood on the other side, timidly turning side to side like a child. “You sent for me?”
He offered his warmest smile. “Lady Tírandon, yes, please come in. Thank you for sending up the lamp oil and the bottles. They’ve been most handy.”
She eyed the white sheet draped over the irregular shapes.
“I have another favor to ask.” He offered her a chair and took another for himself. “Now that I’ve learned what to do with the oil, I need to figure out how to store it—”
“But the bottles…”
“Those were for experimentation only, so I could see the results. What we need is a way to weaponized the oil. Have you potters in town?”
“In South Town, yes.”
“Would you mind introducing me to them?”
A fine layer of white dust coated the floor of the potter’s shop. Thorn lifted the hem of his robe as he entered. The air was thick with the same dust drifting down to settle on everything from the work tables to the row of foot-powered wheels. The place smelled musty, of wet earth and sweat. A fire roared in the back room, in the kiln presumably, heating the shop unbearably. A bell on the door rang when Ruthan closed it behind her.
A wiry-muscled man hurried from the back room. With a clay-coated apron he smeared the sweat from his face. “Mother bless me!” he cried. “You’re Thorn Kingshield!”
How did this man know him on sight? Was he so great a spectacle? “And Lady Tírandon, of course,” said Thorn.
“M’ lady!” The potter dropped to a knee and kissed the hem of Ruthan’s sleeve. Discomfited by the gesture, she drew her hand back. As the potter gained his feet, his astonishment turned to fear. “Have I committed some offense?”
“Of course not,” Thorn said. “I have a commission for you. To help us fight the monstrosities banging at our gate.”
“Aye, m’ lord, anything. Only, I’m no good with a sword. My sons are out there, on the wall with their bows, but—”
“No, no, I need vess
els, globes, the size of grapefruits. You know grapefruits?”
“I seen one once. What’s to go in ‘em?”
“Oil, a special kind of oil.”
“So they need a hole for a wick, for lighting?”
The man was astute, good. “A hole, but not for a wick. I’ll cork them, seal them with wax. They need to be thin enough that they will shatter on impact, but stand up to rough handling.”
The potter nodded confidently. “How many?”
“My good man, as many as you can churn out. How long does it take?”
“Well, I’m shorthanded, sir. The levies took my sons and two of my apprentices yesterday. I’m down to my daughters, and there’s only two of them. All together, I could throw—maybe twenty a day—sixty between the three of us, starting tomorrow. Then the clay’s gotta dry, nice and slow or it cracks. A week, say, for the first batch.”
“A week?” Thorn had hoped to start testing in the next couple of days. Well, he’d have plenty of time to fuse more oil.
“Minimum. Fire ‘em wet and they explode. Firing only takes a day or so, unless you want ‘em glazed.”
“Is glaze necessary?”
“Glaze will seal ‘em better, and keep the ware from disintegrating. Oil could seep out. Eventually. If it were water, I’d insist on glazing, but oil? Meh.”
If everything went as Thorn planned, the vessels wouldn’t be sitting around long.
“Now, if His Lordship is willing, let’s talk what you’ll owe me.”
Thorn laughed. Astute, indeed.
While he rode back to the keep, Thorn added up the numbers. Sixty vessels a day … he needed more oil. And maybe he should’ve tested the substance he already had before commissioning the potter. He didn’t even know if it worked. “I need a test subject,” he muttered to himself. “Soon.” How to convince Laniel to round one up for him?