The Eclipse of the Zon - First Tremors (The New Eartha Chronicles Book 2)

by R. M. Burgess

  Binne stood up and addressed Yandharan.

  “We came here to bring you warning of the Chekaliga rampage, not to be insulted. We have no wish to discuss your proposal to Cat.”

  Zaibene raised her eyebrows, but it was Yandharan who responded, his expression awkward, but kindly.

  “I am sorry if we have misconstrued your intentions. Please forgive me; obviously my hopes overcame my judgment. However, you are always welcome in our house—my wife takes all my friends to her bosom, as I take hers.”

  Zaibene forced a smile and did not contradict him. Binne’s expression did not soften.

  Even as Yandharan spoke, there was a thunder of boots and his two deputies rushed into the dining room.

  “A thousand pardons, Collector,” said his deputy Nambian. “But you must come immediately. We are under heavy attack by Chekaliga tribesmen. We have never seen anything like it—there are thousands of them! They sent in scouts mingled with the refugees and killed the guards at the Desert Gate. They are streaming in through the open gate and will soon be running wild in the west end of town.”

  “Why wasn’t the Desert Gate on alert?”

  “It was, sir,” said Nambian. “But the watch was looking outward. They did not expect to be assaulted from within the town.”

  Yandharan did not waste time with further unnecessary talk.

  “Digaran,” he said to his other deputy. “Form an escort from my personal guards and get my wife and children out of town by the Tirut Gate.” He turned to Zaibene. “My dear, you must leave this instant. Choose some of our staff to wait on you on the road. Take men, for most of them can wield a sword in a pinch. Go to Tirut; you can take refuge in our house there. Tell the baron that Serat is under heavy attack and may fall. Perhaps this will rouse him to send us some troops—after all, Serat is his son’s fief.”

  Zaibene turned and left the room without a word followed by Digaran.

  No hug or kiss, not even a wish of good luck, thought Binne. Does she care so little for him? However, Yandharan did not seem to notice. He turned to Caitlin, Binne and Dhanraj.

  “I am grateful for your attempt to warn us of the danger. I regret that I am unable to show you the full measure of my regard. I can offer you passage to Tirut in my wife’s caravan. I recommend that you leave Serat with her. It is not safe here.”

  “What will you do?” asked Binne.

  “Serat is the fief of Cheval Jagus va Alsor, the baron’s younger son. I serve Cheval Jagus, but he is rarely here, so I am responsible for the people of Serat. I must stay and fight.”

  “The Chekaligas have taken my trueborn daughter and my husband from me,” said Binne. “I would rather stay and exact some measure of redress, however slight.”

  “I urge you to accept my offer, madam,” said Yandharan to Binne, attempting to control his impatience. “I cannot spare men to watch over you.”

  She opened her mouth to respond but then closed it. She came over to Caitlin and gave her a quick kiss.

  “Will you come with me, my dear?” she asked. When Caitlin shook her head, she did not argue, but looked over at Dhanraj enquiringly.

  “If Cat remains here, I will stay and fight,” said Dhanraj.

  Binne took her cloak and scarf and left by the door through which Zaibene had departed.

  “It seems we are destined to be together for now,” said Caitlin to Yandharan. “In battle, if nowhere else.”

  Yandharan turned to Nambian.

  “Nambian, send out heralds to call all able-bodied men to the Collectorate to get weapons. Take this Hareskot lad with you—he will help you distribute the arms. Form as many armed units as you can. Put one of our men-at-arms in charge of each one. Send these units to stem the Chekaliga advance.” He paused. “And ask the heralds to call on women, children, and the infirm to escape by the Tirut Gate.”

  He turned to Caitlin.

  “Come with me, since you have chosen to stay,” he said, clearly impatient to take charge of the battle. Caitlin patted Dhanraj on the back and followed Yandharan out of the dining room.

  THERE WAS A troop of men-at-arms waiting for Yandharan in the outer courtyard of his residence. They formed a cordon around him and Caitlin as they emerged into the street and began making their way to the west of town. There was screaming everywhere and people rushed about wildly, many carrying their prized possessions. Caitlin recognized a beggar that she had seen on crutches on the way in, now miraculously running at full speed. They passed several fires, and more fire arrows arced over their heads. Yandharan’s men-at-arms cleared the way through the alleys, and they made their way rapidly into the area of town where the confused battle raged.

  They came across several bodies, some with arrows sticking out of them, but most bearing the marks of swords or daggers. They all drew their weapons. The distinctive war cries of the Chekaligas grew louder. One by one, the men-at-arms slowed and allowed Yandharan to pass them until he had taken the lead. Caitlin held her position on Yandharan’s right shoulder. Their tension mounted with every step.

  They turned a corner and blundered straight into a troop of Chekaligas. The alley was so narrow that two could not walk abreast. The lead warrior slashed at Yandharan, but the Collector parried and lunged, his blade easily penetrating his opponent’s leather and thin chainmail. As Yandharan was extricating his sword, the second warrior stepped around his comrade, hacking down with his scimitar. A mere centimeter from Yandharan’s neck, the Chekaliga’s blade clanged on Zon steel. Yandharan felt Caitlin’s shoulder pad against his own as she stepped up, deflected the Chekaliga’s sword, and ran him through.

  Even as she freed Nasht’s blade from the dying Chekaliga warrior, Yandharan dragged her down with him to the muddy ground of the alley. His men-at-arms had lined up their loaded crossbows and fired as soon as they had clear shots. Yandharan and Caitlin felt rather than saw the bolts whistle over their heads, and the remaining Chekaligas went down.

  Yandharan helped Caitlin regain her feet, giving her forearm a squeeze of appreciation as he did so. He continued forward, stepping over the Chekaligas’ bodies. They did not seek further fighting but ducked into houses every time they heard Chekaliga shouts or war cries. The third time they did so, Yandharan led the way up a rickety ladder to the upper story and then on to the flat roof. Lying on their stomachs, they surveyed the west end of Serat.

  The Desert Gate was wide open, and everywhere there were screams of terror. There were hundreds of Chekaliga tribesmen on the walls and in the streets and alleys. There was little evidence of any organized resistance. Yandharan shook his head.

  “I cannot understand it,” he said. “As far back as anyone can remember, the Chekaliga tribes fought each other ferociously. Disunited, they have never had the numbers to threaten a city the size of Serat. What can have united the tribes against us like this?”

  He scanned the western district, looking for some line along which he could set up a defensive perimeter. But the Chekaliga tribesmen were moving too quickly.

  “This is hopeless. We only had a hundred or so men-at-arms to begin with and we are heavily outnumbered. We must delay them as long as we can to give our people time to escape. And we must get a warning to Tirut and to the king in Dreslin Center.”

  They descended back down into the dark house again.

  “There is no time to waste,” he said to his men-at-arms. “We will split up and head back toward the east end of town. Gather any of our people you see on the way. We will meet at the Tirut Gate. Set more fires; it will delay these scum.”

  When they emerged from the house, Caitlin stayed close to Yandharan, for she could not have found her way to the Tirut Gate through the maze of narrow alleys. He picked up a smoldering stake and led the way unerringly. He touched the stake to every thatched roof that they passed, starting a line of fires.

  As the fires began to spread rapidly, the sounds of the war cries grew fainter behind them. Finally, they emerged from an alley into a small square that op
ened onto the main oasis. It was fairly large body of water, perhaps a hundred meters across, surrounded by a belt of sand and a few sickly date palms. It appeared to be quite deep, but it also smelled bad and had gray scum floating on the surface. Caitlin could not imagine how it did not sicken everyone who drank from it.

  With a glance at Caitlin to make sure she was following him, he continued on through more twisting back alleys. Finally, they emerged into the small, dusty plaza that opened on to the Tirut Gate. Deputy Nambian was already there with thirty men-at-arms and about a hundred civilians. They had created a barricade out of debris and were crouched behind it, pointing crossbows toward the town.

  A steady trickle of Serat inhabitants filtered through the barricade, heeding Yandharan’s heralds and making their escape out of town. All carried bundles; some drove heavily laden horses and donkeys.

  “Digaran has already led Mistress Zaibene’s party away,” said Nambian as Yandharan and Caitlin joined them. “As you can see, the people are heeding our heralds and fleeing. What are your orders now?”

  “Our duty is to protect our people,” said Yandharan. “We must defend Tirut Gate and maintain the safety of this escape route. We will hold this position for as long as possible.”

  Nambian, his men-at-arms, and the civilian volunteers looked dubious, but they did not contradict him. They settled into a depressing wait. The stream of refugees continued unabated. Some had just arrived in Serat from farther west. Many were injured and some were burned. Sometimes the fleeing crowds grew so thick that the men-at-arms had to step in to minimize the pushing and shoving. In between, there were periods of calm. At each lull, Nambian approached Yandharan and suggested retreat. Each time he was told to be patient.

  When the attack came it was sudden, with no precursor war cries or drums. The only thing that saved them from being immediately overwhelmed was that the narrow alleys limited the number of warriors that could enter the plaza at one time. Nonetheless, the civilians pressed into service were no match for the hardened Chekaliga warriors and quickly began to be slaughtered. Yandharan fired and reloaded his crossbow with unthinking regularity. With the mass of Chekaliga warriors, he had no difficulty in finding targets. He exhorted his men as he fought. Nambian fought with grim determination, hacking with his sword.

  Caitlin stayed low behind the makeshift barricade and out of sight of the onrushing tide, slashing or thrusting at each body that came over. She was soon covered with the blood of her victims. She found that the dead and dying bodies themselves began to form a protective barrier around her. Leaning against them, she looked as though she was mortally wounded herself, so fresh attackers ignored her till it was too late. The smells of close combat filled her nostrils—blood, sweat, and the more noxious bodily fluids. She had to numb herself against the sheer horror of what she was doing and lost track of time. She fell into an almost mechanical rhythm, wielding Nasht like she was in the training ring, feeling neither fear nor pain. She felt a hand touch her shoulder and whirled, drawing her long dagger with her left hand, before she saw the bronze badge and recognized Nambian.

  “You must tell Yandharan to withdraw!” he cried. “He will listen to you! This is a hopeless and useless fight. There are no more—”

  He stopped and coughed, his eyes bugging out. Out of the corner of her eye, Caitlin saw the Chekaliga warrior whose sword now ran with Nambian’s blood. With pure reactive instinct, she sank her long dagger into the warrior’s side. As she brought her sword to bear, the warrior gasped, “Don’t kill me—please…”

  She saw that he was barely more than a boy and hesitated. But the sight of Nambian’s blood on his blade hardened her and she ran him through. As she did so, she noticed that he had a finely wrought gold chain braided into his hair. He had another warrior by his side, but he was unmoving, staring at what Caitlin had done with a horror-filled expression. As she pulled Nasht out and turned to face him, he disappeared.

  Now there was a break in the action and she was able to survey the carnage around her. She could not believe how many bodies there were. Pitifully few of the Serat men were left alive. She was exhausted and could barely lift her sword arm. The next charge must finish us, she thought. But I am the daughter of Deirdre d’Orr, named for my ancestor Caitlin the Unforgiving, the descendant of Simran the Merciless. I will fight till the end.

  She girded herself to face death, but she did not want to die alone. So she crawled through the bodies, hoping to find Yandharan or Dhanraj, even though the prospect of finding either of them gave her little comfort. For the only person in her thoughts was Greghar—and the realization that she would never see him again filled her with a deep sadness.

  Yandharan was at the apex of the barricade, with half a dozen men-at-arms and a dozen dazed civilians. He looked gaunt and tired. He saw her, and a mixture of dismay and worry flooded into his eyes.

  “Thermad’s breath!” he cried. “How badly are you wounded? I did not want you to risk yourself—”

  She looked down at herself and realized what a gory sight she was. She also knew that apart from a few nicks and scrapes, the blood was not hers.

  “I am tired,” she said. “But not injured. I have been luckier than most.”

  His relief was profound and he smiled, displaying his even teeth.

  “The One God be praised,” he said, spontaneously putting a hand on her shoulder pad. Then recalling his promise not to touch her without her permission, he withdrew it awkwardly. Just as he did so, a gravely wounded Chekaliga warrior raised himself from the ground behind her back and staggered to his feet. He raised his sword and aimed a thrust between her shoulder blades. Yandharan cursed and began to reload his crossbow, and Caitlin began to turn, trying to bring Nasht to bear as she did so. But they were both far too late and the Chekaliga drove his sword forward, striving to end one more life before his own was ended. She braced herself for the bite of the sword, but instead she heard a heavy thud as it struck a shield. One of Yandharan’s men-at-arms had interposed himself between the Chekaliga and Caitlin. Once he had deflected the warrior’s thrust with his shield, he ran him through and twisted his sword to make sure he was dead.

  Caitlin breathed a sigh of relief, but Yandharan was much more demonstrative in his response. He came around her and clapped the man on the shoulder.

  “Well done, man!” he cried. “Well done indeed! What is your name?”

  “Rator,” said the man-at-arms, bowing. “Rator of Karsk.”

  “Ah, I remember you now, Rator,” said Yandharan. “You served with the Hilsons in the Zon Wars. I see that they trained you well. I will see that you are well rewarded when we get to Tirut.”

  “I ask no special reward for doing my duty, Collector,” said Rator. He turned to Caitlin. “However, I hope that this small service will allow me the privilege of asking Your Highness a question. Your face is very familiar. Perhaps you have been a visitor to my hometown of Karsk?”

  “I owe you my life, sir, and I hope I am able to repay the debt some day,” said Caitlin, trying to evade the question. “But please do not address me with titles, for I am your comrade in arms, nothing more.”

  “The only repayment I ask is a response to my question,” persisted Rator.

  Caitlin had been to Karsk once, as a fresh graduate just out of the Academy. It had been a short but memorable mission led by Diana to collect the annual tribute. The visit was filled with formal ceremonies and balls as well as the politicking and subterfuge that the Hilsons always used as they tried to avoid paying the tribute in full. Caitlin recalled vividly that one of the cousins of the Duke of Hilson was sent to bargain over the payment and that instead of parlaying, Diana drew her sword Light and cut him down with one swift stroke. The tribute was paid in full within the hour.

  She peered into the grimy face of this man-at-arms from Karsk, his features shadowed by the peak of his helmet. His accent was not that of a simple soldier—could he be a Karsk courtier? She had been introduced to dozens of noble
s in that short visit, whereas there were only two squads of Zon huntresses on the mission. Though she concentrated hard, his shadowy features did not trigger a memory.

  “I have had a nomadic life,” she said vaguely. The fact that he had just saved her made her uncomfortable about lying to him. She was sure he would see right through her. “I think I may have been in Karsk a long time ago. But it was only for a few days.”

  “I had the pleasure of beholding Your Highness during that visit,” said Rator, his steady gaze searching her face. “Forgive my boldness, but no man who saw your beauty could easily forget it.”

  The color drained from Caitlin’s face.

  “I am sure you are mistaking me for someone else,” she said. “Where I come from, my looks are quite common.”

  “And where might that be, Your Highness?”

  Yandharan listened to the exchange with pursed lips, but now he cut Rator off, turning to the surviving defenders.

  “Every minute we hold them allows our people to get farther away,” he said. “But there is nothing more we can do now. The next rush will be the end of us.”

  He raised his sword.

  “We leave now, before the next attack!” he called. “We march for Tirut.”

  They did not need encouragement. Within fifteen minutes they were through the gate, putting distance between Serat and themselves as quickly as possible. Yandharan led them off the main Tirut road, over open country. They cut across the dunes and marched double-time. Within a few hours, their shortcut enabled them to catch up with the long, straggling caravan of refugees on the Tirut road. They rapidly reached the head of the column, where they found Zaibene mounted sidesaddle and guarded by Digaran and Yandharan’s men. Binne rode beside her, mounted on Tagan. She cried out when she saw all the dried blood on Caitlin and would not be reassured till she held her in her arms. To Caitlin’s intense relief, she had Rufus and Dhanraj’s young bay trailing behind Tagan.

  “I tried to be brave in the battle,” said Dhanraj to Caitlin, once they were all mounted and moving at a brisk pace. “I was frightened, but I hid my fear.”