A Sea of Skulls (Arts of Dark and Light Book 2)

by Vox Day

  She frowned. That seemed strangely specific. “Why that particular quantity?”

  The prince-general glanced at one of the other elves towards the back who was rather less splendidly adorned than the rest of them. “Ah, Lady Bereth, the art of war has been transformed to a science of sorts, if you take my meaning. According to my calculations, which you must understand are very precise, we can quite reasonably estimate how long our garrison can be expected to hold out against various numbers of besieging forces.”

  “Really?” Bereth asked, too surprised to correct the elf’s misunderstanding of her rank.

  “Oh, most certainly! The details are considerable and complicated, but the basic concept is very simple. We might expect to hold out indefinitely against a single orc, for example, whereas an infinite number would be expected to overwhelm even these eminently well-fortified walls in a single day. Once the principle is accepted, it is but a matter of time to work through the relevant variables involved. And in fact-”

  “In fact, Valrond has worked through those variables in significantly more detail than we have time to discuss,” the prince-general interrupted. “To summarize, if we cannot reduce their forces to the extent suggested, then Tir Diffaith can be expected to fall in seventy-two days.”

  “Give or take two days on either side,” Valrond added.

  The prince looked towards the ceiling and sighed. He clearly found the other elf a trial. “We have a few ideas. But we are hoping you might be able to produce some better options for us.”

  Bereth stared at the royal elf in shock. Was he serious? How was she supposed to succeed where elves five times her age, with fifty times her knowledge, had not? For a moment, she didn’t know what to say; she felt so self-conscious that she thought she might faint, and she swayed upon her feet. But then her courage returned to her, and she nodded quickly.

  “I will do what I can. Will you have support from the Collegium?”

  “I’ll have the High Guard flying every magister and mage here, in their beaks and talons, if necessary. How many of them will we need?”

  She thought about it for a moment. “All of them,” she said.

  Bereth

  The sky was grey and full of clouds, but it was worrisomely barren of birds. Not of all birds, exactly, as a large flock of starlings were whirling about to the west in one of their strange cabalistic sky-rituals, but of the sort of birds she was expecting. She had seen crows, buzzards, kites, and even an egret today, but since noon, not a single warhawk had arrived.

  She heard someone emerge from the tower steps out onto the roof and call out to her. She turned and saw it was Lord Oakenheart.

  “There won’t be any more coming,” the elf lord told her as she stared at him, ashen-faced. She looked up at the sky in disbelief; it was empty of anything but clouds. Where were the hawks that were supposed to be bringing twenty more of the Collegium’s magisters she and the prince’s command staff had ultimately decided were necessary to their plan of attack?

  “He said he’d bring them all! He said he’d bring them in his bird’s beak if he had to!”

  The commander of the High Guard laughed mirthlessly.

  “Prince Hoelion is not the king, Bereth. The Magistrae have decided we cannot afford to risk everything on a single throw. And the High King supports their decision, I regret to say.”

  “They’re cowards!” she cried.

  “Essentially. They may be powerful sorcerers, but they’re also old and set in their ways. I expect half of them are more frightened of being flown out here than they are of the Great Orc or his shamans. One hundred thousand orcs is a difficult concept to fathom if you haven’t seen it from on high. But falling off the back of a flying bird? That’s all too easy to imagine.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  He laughed, genuinely amused this time. “What choice do you think we have, Bereth? What we will do is follow the king’s orders to the full extent of our abilities. We will kill as many of them as we can, then we will hold these walls and hope that Valrond got his cursed calculations wrong. They’re all based on theory, after all. Personally, I don’t believe a word he says. What is the last siege he saw with his own eyes, Glaislael? That was centuries ago!”

  “Do you really think he is wrong, my lord?”

  “How would I know? I don’t know a cursed thing about sieges. But as long as orcs don’t sprout wings, I don’t see why we can’t keep them out. Our magecraft is considerably stronger than theirs. And the High Guard rules the skies.”

  “We are too few,” she muttered, looking at her feet.

  “Yes, we are. But it’s hardly your fault–”

  “It’s not going to work.” She looked up at the too-empty skies in despair. “We won’t have enough mages to do half what we were intending. And if we don’t have those traps or the illusions to conceal them, we may not be able to extricate the horse, let alone the foot, my lord!”

  The tall elf smiled, a little indulgently. “I think we need not fear overmuch for them. Even if we cannot lay all the magical traps you envisioned, both the Horse Lord and the Foot Lord are well-versed in safely extricating their elves from the battlefield. Nor is the High Guard entirely helpless. A few timely fireballs thrown in the right place would permit forces much less disciplined than ours to retreat without meeting much in the way of resistance.”

  “Lord Commander!” They both looked up to see a skyrider circling over their heads. “The Horse Lord sends his compliments and asks if you would send out as many squadrons as you can spare to cover his retreat!”

  “Retreat?” the elf lord frowned. He glanced at Bereth. “They must be under more pressure than we expected.”

  He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Retreat?” he queried loudly.

  “The Great Orc has sent a large cavalry force around them to the west! He’s trying to cut them off before they reach the walls.”

  Lord Oakenheart held up his hand for a moment and looked down at the stones of the tower, thinking furiously. Then he held up his hands, palms together, to indicate a positive response, and waved both hands at the elf on the hawk. The skyrider raised a fist in acknowledgment, the giant bird beat its wings, and rapidly grew smaller as it flew north.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Stop that cavalry from cutting off Lord Malchderas, and presumably, the infantry as well. There must be a considerable quantity of them if the Horse Lord fears being unable to reach these walls.”

  “Warboars?”

  “I should think so. I doubt wolfriders would concern him overmuch.”

  Remembering how easily the Horse Lord had slaughtered thousands of them the last time she’d been in battle, Bereth couldn’t argue with his conclusion. “I’ll go find Lassarian. Is he here?”

  “No, he was on patrol this morning.” He smiled at her. “Will you not ride with me? I could use your bow, and Ilriathas tells me there is no use in attempting to persuade you to stay here.”

  “I don’t have enough arrows.” She only had the one quiver.

  “Go to the armory. Take those with the biggest heads you can find. I’m going to tell the Prince-General the news; if he’s amenable, I’ll send two squadrons to reinforce the patrols and everyone else will fly northwest to delay their flanking action.”

  “Thank you, Lord Commander!” She’d never flown with him before, much less in battle. “I am honored.”

  “Just don’t fall off,” he said wryly. “Lord Kelethan will murder me if I let anything happen to you. Now go. Get your bow and meet me at the aerie.”

  He turned away and preceded her down the stone stairs of the tower, taking them two at a time. But while he turned off to enter the central building, she continued to make her way down to the armory underground. It was a long way down the circular staircase by the time she reached the bottom, and her legs were already aching with the awareness that she would have to mount all of them again soon. But the torches flared to light as she walked thro
ugh the open door that connected the staircase to the tower warehouse, and the two young elves set to guarding it had obviously heard her coming, as they were standing as straight-backed and motionless as if they were on public review. They’d probably thought she was an officer come to inspect them, she thought, and she nodded at them as she passed.

  The elf in charge of the armory was considerably older, with the almost imperceptible stillness and distant air that tended to come with great age. He did not smile, but his eyes seemed to focus as she approached and bowed respectfully to him.

  “I am Bereth mer Eulenarias, a rider with the High Guard. I am in need of three quivers of arrows, preferably with heads that can pierce boarskin.”

  The ancient elf nodded indifferently and waved her through. He gestured vaguely towards the back of the large, low-ceilinged chamber, and she saw a pair of flames erupt off to her right. “Over there.”

  “Thank you,” she said. The master of the armory only grunted and closed his eyes, returning to his reverie.

  She made her way past wooden crates and boxes, past stacks of round painted shields made of oak and larger, more rectangular shields leafed in steel. There was row after row of metal breastpieces and vambraces for the infantry, piles of boiled leather armor for archers and militia, and a huge array of bows that caught her attention, and for a moment, made her forget what she’d come for. She ran her hand over one massive walnut bow, exquisitely carved, that must have belonged to a great elf lord now vanished into the depths of time. It would have too much pull for her, indeed, it might well be more than Lassarian or Ilriathas could manage, but it was a beautiful weapon and she marveled at the skill of its maker. It was a weapon for a hero, and as she knew all too well, there were no heroes to be found in Elebrion these days.

  Unfortunately, the bows were followed by large bundles of rods, which upon further investigation turned out to be pikes and spears. There must have been more than twenty thousand of them, she quickly calculated, ruefully reflecting upon the much smaller number of militia she’d seen marching towards the fortress while en route herself. How easy it would be to turn back the orcs, as his fathers had done so many times before, if only King Mael could send out even half as many elves as the Great Orc was hurling against them! Then she shrugged and patted the comforting rough surface of a nearby pillar. The magically-reinforced walls of Tir Diffaith were strong enough to break the Great Orc’s army like waves crashing harmlessly on stone.

  Finally, she came to the arrows. There were thousands, and they came in five different varieties. There were green-fletched needle-nosed arrows for target shooting, red-fletched arrows with small two-barbed arrowheads for hunting, red-and-green fletched arrows with heavier, three-barbed heads that would serve well for goblins, orange-fletched shafts that were the conventional elven war arrows, and yellow-fletched arrows with wicked heads made up of four sharpened edges specially designed to punch through leather armor or thick boarskin. There were also purple-fletched arrows, but after drawing one out, she saw a white, crumbled substance coating the arrowhead and swiftly slipped it back into the bundle. Poison could be effective, but in the heat of battle, when one rapidly drew and nocked one arrow after another without looking, it was much too easy to scratch oneself without even realizing it.

  She gathered six bundles of the yellow-feathered shafts and stacked them neatly on the stone floor, then went in search of quivers in which to carry them aloft.

  She found them nearby; there was a surprisingly wide variety of embroidered and painted quivers adorned with the signs and sigils of various lords and families. A few of them she recognized, but most were unfamiliar to her. She made a face as she examined one age-yellowed quiver on which had been painted, in cracked and fading colors, a spread-eagled goblin with its hands and feet pierced by spikes. There was little doubt about what leather had been used in its construction; there were some traditions that were better lost to time. She selected three plain leather quivers on the basis of size and the fact that they had long straps that would make them easier to secure to Lord Oakenheart’s saddle, when a gaudy quiver half-full of black-and-red fletched arrows caught her eye.

  Unlike the other decorated quivers, it was neither painted nor embroidered, but was encrusted with garnets and opals. They were arranged in a design that suggested flames, and when she drew out one of the long shafts, she gasped aloud at the unmistakable sense of an ancient magic radiating from the heavy, black-iron arrowhead on the end. She examined it more closely and saw that it was inscribed with a spell carved into the wood all along the length of the shaft, from the head to the fletching, while the iron head was stamped with sigils she did not recognize. The carven script was hard to read, but she was able to make out two words: laddais and nraigh.

  She whistled softly in astonishment and withdrew another arrow. It, too, was carved with the same spell, although the sigils on the head appeared to be different. She quickly confirmed that the rest of the arrows were also imbued with spells; they were weapons from an age long past, dragon killers from a time when the great beasts filled the skies with lightning and fire. She began to slip the quiver back on the hook from which it had been suspended when it occurred to her that she might do very well to bring with her an arrow or two that was capable of defeating even dragon armor. After all, trolls had been spotted in the orc camp, and who knew what further surprises the Great Orc might have in store for them. She selected two of the arcane arrows, hesitated, then withdrew a third.

  She carried the quivers and the three arrows over to where she’d stacked the yellow-fletched shafts and took the time to carefully fill all three of them. She thought momentarily about putting one dragon-killer in each quiver, but thought better of it and put all three in the same one before slipping the quivers over her shoulder. She was just feeling her way back towards the lights at the entrance when she placed her free hand on a rough canvas sack and felt something sharp nearly pierce her hand. She stifled a cry and felt at the sack, wondering what was inside. It felt like a small orb, but with four spikes protruding from it. Caltrops!

  Would they work on boar hooves, she wondered? Then it occurred to her that a warhawk could carry a considerable quantity of them, and, more importantly, being struck by one falling from the sky might well slow down a boar, or its rider. And any that didn’t strike home might very well end up embedded in a warboar’s hoof. She shifted the quivers to free her other hand, and worked one of the insidious little devices out of the bag. The spikes weren’t long, not much longer than her index finger, but the orb gave it just enough weight that it might do to crack even a boar’s thick skull. It probably wouldn’t pierce a metal helmet; she thought the spike would probably break first, but it might well stun the rider badly enough to knock him off his mount to be trampled by his fellows.

  She grunted as she withdrew a sack; there seemed to be about one hundred caltrops inside. With some difficulty, she managed to get her arms around it and carry it out to where the old elf was sitting, still lost in his thoughts. Or, more likely, his memories.

  “I see you found what you needed?” he commented idly as she dropped the heavy sack of caltrops to the floor with a loud crash.

  “Yes, and thank you,” she said. “Guards!”

  The taller of the two guards entered the chamber and eyed her warily. “Is there a problem?”

  “No, I just need you to talk to the master here and bring as many of these sacks of caltrops to the aerie as you can.” She pushed at the bag with her foot. “I’ll send more help down, but in the meantime, you and your companion out there must bring up as many as you can. Right away!”

  The guard’s expression didn’t change, but she could all but feel the affronted disapproval radiating from his body. “On whose authority, merchogion?”

  “On the Prince-General’s,” she snapped. “Is that sufficient?”

  The guard stiffened. “It is. But we are under orders not to leave our post.”

  “Very well,” she said, re
alizing that he wasn’t trying to be difficult. “Those orders are superseded, by me, Bereth of the High Guard, on the authority of the Prince-General and Lord Oakenheart. Once you’ve delivered two loads each, you will return here and resume your previous duties. Will that do?”

  “Admirably, Bereth of the High Guard.” He gave her a very slight bow as she kneeled down to remove a caltrop from the sack, then rose and shouldered her quivers again. “Good luck today, rider.”

  She smiled at him and held up the caltrop. “Pray that this is it.”

  Lord Oakenheart’s warhawk was a large brown bird that was nearly as large as Ilriathas’s Ebon, and after she explained her idea about the caltrops to him, the Lord Commander of the High Guard immediately ordered them distributed to all twenty-one of the birds that would be flying to delay the enemy’s flanking movement. After the first two guards staggered up to the top of the aerie tower, each bearing three bags, he ordered seven more elves to go to their assistance. Soon each hawk bore, in addition to its riders, a heavy bag of caltrops tied to its saddle. Each bird was carrying two elves; half of the passengers were mages, and the other half archers like herself. One mage, an older elf who looked tremendously unhappy to find himself being strapped into the saddle, suggested that the mages might heat the caltrops with fireball spells as they were dropped, which would further discomfit any orcs that were struck. Some signals were quickly arranged, and then Oakenheart gave the command to leap skyward.

  Bereth held tightly onto her bow even though it was lashed to the saddle along with the three quivers she’d taken from the armory. Her own quiver was slung around her shoulder, though she’d left her sword back in the quarters she’d been given. If they were somehow brought down by the orcs, all she’d need was the knife at her belt to cut her own throat. Not that the knife would spare her any indignities, orcs being orcs, but at least she need not participate in the festivities alive.

  Rising from the highest tower of Tir Diffaith, the warhawks were soon at a safe altitude and beating their wings as they headed due east. It would be an all-too-short flight, she feared, as the enemy was desperate to seize the opportunity to take out once and for all the elven forces that had been harassing them for weeks. This wasn’t the Great Orc’s first attempt to encircle the infantry, but it was the first time the orcs had tried it since they’d known that both elven foot and horse would have to fall back to the great fortress.