Then she and everyone around her was plunged into a terrifyingly directionless space that made her sick to her stomach. There was no ground under her feet, no light from the morning sun, no air against her face, no sound, and no sense of time. Only Frightful’s frightened mind screamed into hers during those awful moments.
Then they were out, and she felt the cold, wet ground against her face as she slipped off her saddle. The grass near her eye spun around crazily as her mind tried to get her senses to make sense of things again. It took her a good ten breaths to get her bearings well enough to do more than open her eyes and drool into the mud.
But why was it wet?
Oh, she realized, as a big fat drop of rain fell against her cheek and dripped down her face. It’s raining.
That seemed like an excellent time to vomit.
Dara was one of the few who had fallen as soon as the group emerged from the Ways into a grassy meadow in Gilmora... in the middle of a downpour. Moving from dry and cool to wet and chilly was disconcerting enough, but Dara was also confused by where the sun was. It had been late morning in Sevendor. Here, the differences emphasized the strangeness of the country. The sun was barely over the treetops in the east. There were no real mountains in the distance. The air smelled wrong, tasted wrong on her tongue, and the birds she heard were singing strange songs. A sense of disorientation swept over her as she struggled to marshal her resources.
Frightful helped. She was frightened and confused, but took comfort in Dara’s presence. That in turn encouraged Dara to calm herself, lest they have to contend with an angry falcon in their midst. Thankfully Doughty recovered more quickly than the falcon. In the first few moments of chaos, after everyone tumbled out of... wherever it was they’d been, she could hear the Ancients and officers calling out orders, as soldiers helped the fallen back to their feet. She felt bad about getting sick, especially in front of her kin. She must have looked a sight.
Then she realized no one was paying much attention to either her or her bird. They were too busy surveying the strange territory and getting organized into a formation. The Westwoodmen were forming up around her father, who was barking orders to them until they were in a kind of line. She climbed into Doughty’s saddle, where her bird was lashed. From Doughty’s back she tried to steady herself and get used to this strange new country.
“Sir Roncil!” Master Minalan yelled over the noise, as everyone settled down and took their places. “Cavalry on our flanks, deploy scouts to the north, everyone else form into ranks, keep your eyes open, and be ready to kill anything hairier than you are!”
Around her the rest of her family and the other warmagi sorted themselves out as they chuckled at the Spellmonger’s joke. Her brothers drew their bows, but did not nock arrows. She sat there, keeping her beasts calm, and waited for someone to tell her what to do.
A moment later a Riverlord – Sire Fetalan, she recalled, Sir Festaran’s father – strode by with a spear over one shoulder, and directed them to form up behind a band of mercenaries in heavy armor. He grabbed Dara by the arm before she could follow, and bidding her to bring Frightful, the knight directed her to the very center of the group where the rest of the Magical Corps was gathering. Those who were not directed into battle, that was. Her fellow magi were gathering, separating from a small but heavily-armed band of warmagi on the other side of the formation.
To her surprise, her father, uncles, and brothers all followed. Sire Fetalan looked confused, until her father spoke.
“We’re the Magelord’s personal guard,” he growled.
“Does he know that?” the knight asked in surprise.
“He will in a moment,” shrugged Kamen. “But where he goes, the Westwood follows.”
That seemed to settle the matter for the knight, and all of them made their way to the center.
Pentandra, looking tiny even in her armor, was busy ordering magi about on various tasks while other soldiers took sentry positions around the perimeter of the small army. The Remeran wizard looked up and was grateful to see Dara and her family trudge across the meadow.
“What’s that smell?” Dara asked, when she got close enough to speak.
“Goblin,” Pentandra answered, wrinkling her nose. “A lot of them. We need your bird to scout ahead, Dara,” Pentandra directed. “There are too many goblin shamans about to scry without interference. They’re blocking our efforts. But Frightful can scout ahead and see what foes we face... and where we might find shelter from them. Do you think you can do that?”
“I believe so,” Dara said, glancing at Frightful, and then at the surrounding countryside. “It’s strange territory, but she’ll do as I command her, once I’m riding with her.”
“Good,” the older wizard nodded. “Scout the castle, first. We need a hawk’s-eye view of what’s happening, before we charge into battle.”
Dara nodded and took her helmet off, figuring it would be easier to fly Frightful without it. She took a deep breath and pulled the hood off her. Frightful’s big dark eyes blinked in the bright sunshine, and she stared at Dara in confusion. It took a moment for her to calm the bird, but soon she ruffled her feathers and let Dara know she was ready to fly.
Dara took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She established a connection to the falcon, her natural affinity linking their two minds. Without looking she hauled back her right arm and flung the bird into the sky.
It was odd to be both the falcon and the falconer, she decided, as Frightful’s powerful wings beat the wind. Dara felt the thrill of speed as the sun glistened off her feathers as the ground fell away behind her. She climbed until the entire army below was a dark blotch of turmoil among a brilliant landscape of green and brown fields. In moments, the falcon was hundreds of feet above the ground, soaring above the tree line and towards the spires of the besieged castle.
There were other birds in the air over the scene – carrion birds, ravens and crows who were attracted to the feast of recently-slain flesh from the battle below. From a distance the castle didn’t look unusual to the falcon’s eye. But Dara could tell something was amiss, even though Frightful did not. Men lined the battlements, raining down arrows, stones, and the occasional spell into the crowd below.
At first Dara didn’t realize what they were shooting at... then she recognized the long, dark shadow around the pretty castle for what it was with a mental shudder: legions of goblins swarming around the exterior of the castle wall like ants attacking a picnic. A large company of them was gathered in what was left of the village, which was long-since destroyed and burnt out. Another was gathered in the market square in front of the castle, firing hundreds of darts and arrows into the fortress.
Some of the goblins were employing captured crossbows in throwing rocks the size of apples to clear defenders from the battlements, which they did with brutal accuracy. In some places, they were constructing crude redoubts with trees and scavenged materials – cluster of felled trees and logs that would provide at least some protection from attack. As yet they had not breached the wall, but Dara could not imagine them failing to do so. There were just too many, and every one that fell with a long arrow in its chest was replaced by another dark, furry warrior, just as eager to storm the castle.
She withdrew her consciousness from her bird enough to report to Pentandra what she’d found, and the Remeran dutifully reported to Minalan.
“We’re two miles west from Group Two,” Pentandra told her, when she’d returned. “They’re getting in line to attack. We’re ordered to fall back and find a defensible position.”
“Where?” Dara asked.
“That’s what you need to discover,” Pentandra directed. “Use Frightful and survey the lands to the south, now; we want something a mile or so behind the lines. A village, a manor, anything that looks remotely defensible. And how many gurvani lie between it... and us.”
The road Pentandra mentioned was off to her right, but Frightful barely noted it. She was far more interested in the figures infesting the fie
lds and patches of forests ahead of her. Ordinarily Frightful’s attention was limited to the movements of rabbits or small birds... but the things moving around the edges of the fields or the hedges surrounding cottages were not mere game. They had arms and legs, and something about them unnerved the falcon.
Dara did her best to count them, and note their positions, but it was difficult. Frightful’s small mind had no facility for numbers, beyond a few basics, even if she had a keen memory for locations. When she flew across the first burned-out farmstead she knew precisely where it was, in relation to Dara. But she had no idea of how many goblins were in the process of attacking it. Dara had to concentrate on separating her consciousness from the bird’s to even estimate.
But it was clear to both bird and wizard that there were no humans left alive to rescue, below. But the big cottage might be defensible, whatever that meant. Once she was certain the falcon was on course back to her, Dara allowed most of her link to fall.
“I think I found a place,” she reported, once she regained her own eyes. “I think it’s a manor or abbey or big farmer’s hold, about three quarters of a mile southwest of here. Across the road,” she added.
“Any goblins in our way?” Pentandra asked, as she summoned a magemap she’d prepared. Dara could only barely glimpse the arcane construct without magesight, but she’d seen them used before. It was a magical map that only wizards could see – which she could see would be very useful in a situation like this.
“Plenty,” Dara assured her. “But scattered in small bands of five or six, hiding in the shade of trees and thickets.”
“To them, it’s like it’s evening,” Pentandra nodded. “The gurvani are nocturnal, and have been up raiding all night.”
“They took a farm just to the south of us,” Dara agreed. “There’s still a band of a dozen or so there, looting the storehouse. No one survived,” she added, grimly. “But I didn’t see any groups larger than that between us and the abbey.”
“Thank you,” Pentandra nodded, making a note. “Any signs of shamans?”
Dara shrugged. “How would Frightful know if it was a shaman? She’s never even seen goblins before!”
“A fair point,” Pentandra agreed. “We’ll have to assume that there aren’t, but be prepared if there are. But that sounds like our best bet for a reserve depot. Ancient Gusan!” she called, walking away from Dara. A moment later Frightful landed in front of her, earning a treat from Dara’s pouch while Dara hooded her.
Hopefully, that will be the most they’ll need from me, she told herself as she petted her falcon, cooing praise for her flight. She didn’t see how she could help pry the pretty castle away from the goblins any more than she had, but she kept up with the rest of her troop as faithfully as anyone, her eyes peeled for goblins. I mean, what else could I possibly do?
Chapter Seven
Battle at the Cotyard
When Master Minalan the Spellmonger led his troops into the ruined farmstead, the few goblins left behind to root through the ashes tried in vain to take to their heels – but the powerful Wilderlands bows the Sevendori all carried, now, made short work of them.
The infantry spread out and took positions at the edge of the hedgework that surrounded the farmhouse, while others took control behind the knee-high stone wall that defined the wide yard of the cottage. It looked desolate and ruined, everything smashed and scorched . . . and bloody. Her cousin Kory, one of the best shots in the Westwood, took a post among the burnt thatch on the roof of the cottage, overlooking the cotyard, below. From there his keen eye could keep any goblins who got too close from doing any mischief.
Lady Pentandra quickly took control of the little military outpost. Relying on Sir Roncil and the other knights for assistance, she ordered cookfires lit, a small medical pavilion erected, and small cavalry patrols around the cottage. Kori proudly raised Sevendor’s new banner over the charred rafters, and five sturdy guards kept watch over the gate in the short stone wall near the front of the cottage. In a surprisingly short time the ruined cot was reorganized.
“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Minalan announced to the non-combat Magical Corps, after they’d spent an hour setting up a small field hospital and stacked their meager supplies in a corner. “There shouldn’t be any large bands nearby, and you have two score knights to screen you from any who wander by. Just be prepared to accept our wounded, if things go ill,” he reminded them, as he prepared to ride away. “Dara, you and a squadron of your kin are with me, for now,” he decided. “I’ll need Frightful’s eyes again, if we’re to assault the goblins from behind.”
Dara felt strangely anxious about riding away from the nominal safety of the cottage. While having the most powerful wizard in the world around gave her a sense of security that even a score of knights could not match, there was no denying that they were headed into danger.
The small column of knights and magi halted about a half-mile away from the nearest goblin camp. The warriors from Sevendor spread out, taking cover behind anything they could at the direction of their officers. Their great bows were drawn and nocked, now, and swords came loose in their sheaths.
Master Minalan nodded to her. It took her a moment to realize what he was asking of her, but then she prepared Frightful for another flight to overfly the gurvani, ahead. She soon reported that the majority of the troops were massed around Castle Cambrian’s south gate, and the least number were on the northeastern side. There were thousands, she told him. At least ten or twelve thousands. But, thankfully, no trolls were in evidence.
Finally, Minalan seemed to come to some decision after he’d recreated her observations on a magemap.
“Sir Roncil, prepare the cavalry for a skirmish. Infantry wait here. With our intelligence and analysis sections,” he said, looking meaningfully at Dara.
She nodded back. Being on a battlefield was exciting. Rushing in to get killed was not. She would be glad to return to Pentandra with her bird. The cot was nearly within sight of the battle, close enough so that the stench of gurvani was strong in the air. Right now it felt like a castle to her, the way it represented security.
She was escorted back by a strange warmage, a tall man in black armor who wore his witchstone on an elaborate silver earring, of all things. He also bore a shiny bow of silvery metal, beautifully but strangely styled – a gift from the Alka Alon, she learned.
“Sarakeem of Merwin,” he introduced himself. “I saw you win the Spellmonger’s Trial. Impressive work,” he nodded. “And becoming Minalan’s apprentice? You were born under a lucky star, child!”
“I don’t feel particularly lucky,” Dara said, setting Frightful back on to her shoulder.
“You don’t crave the passion of battle?” the warmage asked, surprised.
“I don’t crave its unfortunate conclusion,” she said, glumly.
The warmage was unconvinced. “The glory of victory? That is the purpose of battle. The specter of death? Its possibility lends an especial quality to life. One is simply not alive until one has struggled in a contest on the field with your life on the line,” he said, philosophically, in his strange accent.
The warmage lectured her on the nobility of his profession all the way back to the cottage. She was intrigued by how much the man seemed to embrace the danger and excitement of war. Her brothers, and even the knights of the castle, accepted the dangers of war as part of their duty. Sarakeem, on the other hand, approached the prospect of battle like a priest considered prayers and rituals.
“Don’t worry, little one,” Sarakeem chuckled indulgently as he brought her to Pentandra’s headquarters within the cottage. “You’ll soon find the allure of battle,” he assured her. “It is like that of love, only . . . more fulfilling.”
“Ignore Sarakeem,” Pentandra said, rolling her eyes as she looked up from a broad, hastily-penned map on four enormous sheets of parchment. “Whatever he told you, ignore it.”
“I thought he was a great warmage?” Dara asked, confused.
“Oh, he is,” Pentandra agreed. “One of the best bowmen in the business, from what Minalan tells me. But that doesn’t mean he knows what he’s talking about. He’s a horrible boor, he loves the sound of his own voice, and he delights in tales of his own greatness. This,” she said, changing the subject as she gestured to the map, “is our present situation, as reported.
“This is Castle Cambrian, the road, the village . . . and all of these little seeds are goblins. The nuts are our forces, inside the castle and out. We,” she emphasized, “that is, our unit, are way back here, at the cottage,” she said, tapping one edge of the map. “You were just up there, can you help me make this a little more accurate?”
Dara nodded and began comparing the map to her recollection from Frightful’s overflight. It took a few moments of pushing the seeds and nuts across the map, but soon it resembled what she remembered a lot more accurately.
But it didn’t stay that way for long. Pentandra kept closing her eyes meaningfully, then making adjustments to the map. Mostly pulling seeds off, and moving the nuts around.
“I can speak to Minalan, Tyndal, Rondal and Terleman through their witchstones,” she explained, when Dara asked where her intelligence was coming from. “It’s a bit of a secret, but we can communicate mind-to-mind. They’re sending me reports, as they are able.”
“How do they fare?” Dara asked, hesitantly. She knew that Master Minalan and his men were brave and powerful . . . but there were an awful lot of goblins around that castle.
“Well,” Pentandra conceded, when she had a moment. “The infantry has formed up to the east, archers ready, while the cavalry is being used to peel away as many gurvani units as possible to give chase to them. Minalan’s force is being used to lure as many away from the siege as possible, and lead them out there,” she said, gesturing to the trampled field that could be seen through the ruined cottage’s framework. “Once there, they’ll be caught between the infantry and cavalry. Now, if you can receive any dispatches that come in from the field and make changes to the map, I’ve got to contact the commanders and get an update.”
Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel Page 10