Damon mutely stuffed the rations inside his own pack. He looked pale and tired and sad for some reason—he had looked that way for almost a month now. Though the top of his head was still hairless, his beard had become long and scraggly, and his nice shiny clothes were now mudstained and tattered. Hool considered asking him if he wanted to go home, but every time she asked that question, he only got grumpier. He also only answered it one way: I made an oath and I will see it kept.
Hool upended another sack. More pointless garbage—bladecrystals, knives, socks, a bag of teeth, a few copper coins. She could not figure out why humans marched around with so much junk.
Damon was still looking at the bodies. “I’m worried about you, Hool.”
Hool snorted. “Why? I’m not hurt.”
Damon’s warm brown eyes fixed on her face. “Yes, you are.”
Hool found herself unable to meet his gaze. She put her ears back and dumped out another sack. She heard a weird twang and looked down—a musical instrument of some kind. It had a long neck and a bulbous body and was strung with some kind of animal tendons or something. She kicked it. “What a stupid, big thing to—”
Damon was on his feet. “Don’t break it. Please.”
Hool had her foot raised, ready to crush it. She paused. “Why?”
“I want it. I used to play.”
“So?”
“Hool, I’m not very useful to you. I could at least try to be entertaining.”
Hool set her foot down. “I am seeking revenge. It isn’t supposed to be entertaining.”
Damon came over, gingerly stepping over a headless body, and picked up the lute or guitar or whatever it was. He cradled it in his hands gently, as though it were a baby. “This is actually a very nice piece.”
“They probably stole it from some farmers they killed,” Hool pointed out.
But Damon ignored her. He plucked a few strings, making the instrument squeak. “Needs tuning.”
“You can do that later. We have to get going. These ones will be noticed missing soon.” Hool gestured vaguely to the carnage around her. “Are you ready?”
Damon slung the instrument over one shoulder and took a steadying breath. “Lead on, milady.”
So they headed off.
By Hool’s standards, they had to travel slowly thanks to Damon being a human. They travelled light, though, and still faster than any other humans on foot. Hool was constantly alert for the sound of hoofbeats, but they were far enough off the main roads and trails that people on horseback were uncommon. Other than a string of dead patrols and slaughtered couriers, they left no signs behind them. Damon had proven adept at hiding his tracks and, despite his age, was strong and healthy. The journey was going well so far—Hool had no reason to think it could go better.
Still, she often thought about leaving Damon behind. He was right—he wasn’t very helpful. He could fight, but not as well as Hool. He could travel, but not as fast. He could keep watch, but not as ably. By all measurable accounts, Damon was a liability.
Besides, this was not his fight. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand that killing those patrols was not only right but also important. It was not just Sahand she hunted, not just his blood she wished to see spilled. She wanted all of Dellor to tremble at the sound of her howl. She wanted to stain the ground red with the blood of every black-hearted murderer in Sahand’s service. Every fiber of her being demanded this of her.
With every bearded sell-sword she strangled, every scarred soldier’s throat she tore out, the sound of her Brana whimpering before his death grew just a little duller. She felt that his spirit, watching her from the stars at night, rested all the easier in knowing that his killers were receiving justice. This was something Damon did not understand. He could not. He had no children, no family. He was just a stupid man who said he loved her. If she left him behind, both she and he would be better off.
But she didn’t.
Their long day of travel brought them north out of the foothills of the Tarralles. According to Damon’s map, that put them somewhere in the County of Ayventry, on the border with Galaspin. It was a wide, flat place, full of farmland and small country cottages. In the distance was the occasional village, the lights of their houses glowing warmly in the night. Hool could tell that Damon wanted to go toward those lights, to be out of the wilderness and among his own kind. But he never said so, following Hool on her cross-country journey until well past sundown.
At night, Hool permitted no fire. Damon hugged his tattered cape around his shoulders, rubbing his hands together. The moon was bright—almost full—and the lands around them glowed silver beneath its gaze. Far away, a farmhouse poured thin smoke into the air. At this distance, Hool could smell the manure of the horses and the scent of fresh hay. Crickets chirped in the tall grass. She took a deep breath, trying to savor the peace. But the anger would not let her.
She thought of that last night with Brana, sleeping under a starry sky like this. Her heart fell and she balled herself up. She didn’t want to see it anymore. She didn’t want to remember. She just wanted the hole inside her filled.
Damon began to tinker with his lute, his ear bent over the strings as he softly plucked one after the other and turned the pegs at one end. The sound drowned out the crickets. It made Hool’s hair stand up on end. “Stop that,” she growled, her face still hidden.
“Just a moment, just a moment,” Damon said. He gave a peg a final twist. “There.”
Hool opened one eye and peered from beneath one paw. “There what?”
Damon cleared his throat and placing four fingers on the neck of the instrument, strummed a chord. It was deep and resonant and seemed to hang in the air. Then, Damon began to sing.
The pride of Man is broken now,
His kingdoms burned to ash.
And there can be no greater grief
Than that of Tal Torash.
Torash was brave, Torash was strong.
He smote his foes, knew right from wrong.
But when death came for his fair queen,
There was no comfort left for him.
“Stop it,” Hool snapped, sitting up. “Stop that right now.”
Damon set the lute down. “Was it that bad? I’m a bit rusty, I’m afraid.”
“No,” Hool said, more suddenly than she intended. “It was not bad. I don’t like that song.”
Damon picked the lute back up. “A different one?”
“How many songs do you know?”
“As a young man, it was my habit to impress ladies with my musical talents in hopes to win myself an advantageous marriage.” Damon shrugged.
Hool frowned. “That didn’t work, did it?”
Damon laughed. “No. But I did learn a great, great many songs.”
Hool considered this. “Play another one. But not a sad one. Play one about victory.”
Damon strummed the strings idly, traversing through a series of chords. “Is that where you think we’re headed toward? A victory?”
Hool laid her ears back against her skull. “You’re changing the subject.”
“I was just asking a question.”
“Play something happier. Do it.”
Damon bowed his head. “I never deny the request of a lady.” He began to strum again, this time faster, in a steady rhythm.
They call me Captain Piper, lads, the bravest man you’ve ever seen
Who’s got a thousand ships at call
To fly my banner green.
And when my foes consider, lads, the strength o’ my battling arm,
They throw their weapons to the ground,
Rather than come to harm.
Captain Piper, master mage,
Captain Piper, holy sage,
Captain Piper, lover true,
Captain Piper, here for you!
Hool snorted. “That’s a stupid song.”
Damon stopped playing and chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is. Never failed to get the ladies’ eyes rolling.”<
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Silence fell. In a few moments, the crickets were back and chirping. Damon was looking at Hool, his steady brown eyes glittering in the moonlight. Hool turned away from him. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Hool, you are the only person in this entire world I worry about.”
“Well stop it!” she said.
“You are taking too many risks, Hool. You need to slow down. One of these days, your insane little raids are going to get you killed.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Hool growled. “I’m in charge, remember?”
“You can’t honestly think you can kill every Delloran between here and the Citadel, can you? And even if you do, what will that accomplish?”
Hool looked back at him, her teeth bared. “Revenge! Revenge is what it will accomplish, you stupid man! This is a mission of revenge! Why can’t you understand that?”
Damon put up his hands. “Nobody is arguing that Sahand doesn’t deserve it, Hool! But there is no reason you need to destroy yourself—”
Hool pounced on him, knocking him onto his back. She growled in his face. “You do not understand! You don’t have to understand! I am in charge and you obey! Got it?”
Damon, his eyes wide, nodded slowly. “As you wish.”
Hool climbed off him, suddenly ashamed. She said nothing else—she only backed away and curled up for the night. In time, Damon picked up the lute again and strummed it softly. It was to this music, not the crickets, that she finally fell asleep.
She dreamed of her pups. And fire.
Chapter 11
Tor Erdun
Altogether, it took the White Army nearly two weeks to march up the Freegate Road from the Great South Plains to the northernmost spur of the Tarralle Mountains. There, the road wound its way around and over gradually steeper hills until, at last, it camped on the slopes beneath Mount Erdun and the Citadel that bore its name.
Tor Erdun commanded a wide and low pass through the mountains and had been a trading post for many years. Even with the advent of the spirit engine, Tor Erdun and the Freegate Road remained popular, not just with the poor compelled to use it, but also with the wealthy guilders and nobles in this region of Eretheria who could avoid a side trip to Hadburg in Lake Country and just cut through the mountains. Accordingly, the Earldom of Tor Erdun was a very valuable fief, and the Citadel there was no stranger to siege.
The castle itself was large and well provisioned, guarded by sheer cliffs on three sides and on the fourth by a fortified gatehouse and a tall curtain wall. The wall itself was enchanted—this Myreon could easily tell with a few simple auguries—making it impervious to conventional siege weapons. The Citadel consisted of three towers: one was very tall, where the castellan could survey all approaches to the castle for many miles. The other two were comparatively squat and flat and broad, their crenelated tops acting as platforms for war machines designed to shoot down enemy flyers like griffons and to rain death on any army marching up the winding road to the pass.
At the base of the cliffs, sheltering within the protective range of the Citadel’s weapons, the town of Erdun rested, peaceful and unwalled. From where the White Army was encamped, the town was perhaps two miles distant. On the fields surrounding it was camped another army—the Army of Ayventry, its tower-and-rose pennants snapping in the cool mountain breeze. Myreon lowered the viewing glass. “That is a lot of cavalry.”
Artus took the glass and looked. He could make out a number of banners, but most of them blended together. “There’s got to be about three hundred of them.”
Valen, in full plate and on horseback, shifted nervously in the saddle. “Most of the peerage of Ayventry, I’d guess. And us with only fifty horse. I hope you have a plan, Magus.”
They were standing at the edge of their own camp, a cordon of White Guard surrounding them. All of the senior staff were here. She looked at Barth, who was dressed in his dented breastplate and leaning on his massive war-hammer. “Where are the Dellorans?”
Barth spat in the grass. “My scouts haven’t spotted a blessed thing. If they’re nearby, they haven’t mustered in force as yet. My advice would be to strike quickly before they can.”
“A frontal assault uphill across open ground at that army and against that castle would be suicide,” Valen countered. He looked at Barth. “You said some miller’s girl knew of a secret way inside? Can she be trusted?”
Barth bristled. “I know a woman’s tears when I see them, boy. She’s honest.” Then, to Myreon, “General, if we can get a force of men—young Valen’s knights, perhaps—into the Citadel, we can probably take it. As the lordling says, most of their men are in the field.”
“That would be a very costly victory, Barth, and this isn’t the last battle we’ll have to fight,” Myreon said. “Let’s call for a parley first.”
“What? And after what they’ve done? They’re traitors! To the crown, to the land, to the people—we’re not here to make deals, general!”
“Come off it, Barth!” Artus said. “They outnumber us three to one, at least. How much blood do we want on our hands?”
“You talk about the blood on our hands, sire, but you forget about the blood on theirs.” Barth pointed up the slope to the enemy camp. “Children, hanging from trees. Villages slaughtered.”
“Those were Dellorans,” Artus countered.
“Just so, my prince. And with Ayventry backing them up with every step. Traitors all, I say!”
Valen maneuvered his horse a bit closer to Barth. “You’re out of line, Barth. Watch your tone.”
Artus held up a hand to Valen. “Calm down.” He looked at Barth. “I understand there are at least two companies of our own army made up of Ayventrymen. Perhaps I oughta have them turned over to you, then? So you can strip them naked and feed them to dogs?”
Barth’s face turned red, but he said nothing.
Myreon looked at the three men. “Are we done now? Anyone else have some piece of masculine anatomy they want to swing around?”
Nobody answered. Artus, at least, had the sense of shame to look at his feet. Myreon waved to the closest courier. “Arrange a parley. Flag of truce, no weapons.”
The man—the boy—nodded and took up a pole with a white flag. Then he was off like a jackrabbit, running across the fields on his errand.
Myreon tapped her fingers on the linking stone at her belt. “Now we see what they say.”
The courier did not return for several hours. Myreon hadn’t enough military experience to know if this was usual or not, but judging from the dark expressions of both Barth and Valen, she guessed it wasn’t a good sign. She left orders to begin mustering the companies by type of arms—archers, halberdiers, pikemen, and swordsmen. Thanks to the esoteric nature of many of their armaments, these were to be loose designations.
The White Guard were dispersed among the ranks as they usually were. If she closed her eyes and touched the Linking Stone, she could see through them, hear through them. She got a feel for the mood of her army this way—she could overhear heated conversations, could see the tension among the men as they sharpened axes and tended to frayed laces and makeshift shields. They were eager for battle, but were they ready? How could the White Guard best help? She’d been keeping the undead in reserve, using them as her eyes and ears and, if needed, her voice—she could speak through any or all of them at any time. But a good communication system wouldn’t solve everything.
In her tent, Myreon pored over maps of the Citadel that, Valen assured her, were up to date. The miller’s daughter had described a small door at the base of the cliff that eventually granted one access to the castle, but it was both too narrow to use as a point of serious entry and also on the far side of the village, meaning any who did attempt it could be easily exposed before they got there. Inserting a small team and hoping for the best seemed the only way, as there was no other option to get inside the castle without enchanted siege equipment, and her army had very little of that.
By the estimates of both Valen and Barth, the army camped outside the town was a full five thousand strong. Even with the extra volunteers the White Army had picked up along the march north, she had only about three thousand men to draw on, and a lot of those were poorly armed—and even worse-trained—irregulars. They were a mob more than an army. And the enemy had the high ground, to boot.
That left the White Guard.
Androlli’s warning against deploying them in “a battlefield role” still hung with her. The last thing they needed was another enemy, least of all coming from Saldor, with all its sorcerous might. But the White Guard were also the only tactical edge she could think of—the temptation to send them to breach the secret door in the dead of night and murder everyone inside the castle was perversely large. But word of such an act would spread and spread quickly. No doubt the augurs of the Defenders of the Balance were scrying this battle and had been for weeks. If she used them in so blatant a fashion, they would be lost—and so would the White Army.
But Tor Erdun was only the first obstacle. Beyond it lay the city of Ayventry itself and Sahand’s army—a smaller force, perhaps, but a more dangerous one. She couldn’t let her own army break here, at its first engagement, and leave Eretheria defenseless in the face of Sahand’s vicious mercenaries.
The voices of so many people seemed to crowd her thoughts as she considered the terrible options at her disposal. She thought of Tyvian’s warnings about civil war, about Lyrelle’s admonition against this kind of violence. She thought of poor little Bree, hugging her, believing she could save everyone. But she couldn’t. No matter what she did in the next few days, a great many people were going to die. Good people. People who didn’t deserve this.
The cause had to be worth it. If this was the price she had to pay, then the goal had to be a lofty one. Freedom for the people of Eretheria, an end to their needless suffering. Equality before the law. All that and more.
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