by Tim Marquitz
“Warden? That boy—”
“I know,” said Turic, putting a hand on Jorgen’s shoulder. “You keep an eye on those border lords, Jorgen. I just need them to hold with us another day or two until Von Rudric gets here. We hold here, use Dacillion to resupply, and we’ve got military supremacy over the Visich for fifty miles in all directions before winter sets in. Next summer, we reap the benefits: riches and glory for every man that makes it. But only if we hold.”
“They’ll hold with us,” said Jorgen firmly.
Turic reached for the haft of his mace as the sound of boots crunching over shattered stone approached.
“We won’t hold for long,” said Solarion, with Lord Hunt in tow. He dusted off his bright yellow cloak like he’d not a care in the world. “Why, by dusk we’ll all most likely be dead, and the allegiances forced upon our families will matter not.” He tisked. “A real shame.”
Turic forced a smile. “A warrior’s death ain’t nothing to be ashamed of, boy.”
“An idiot’s leadership condemning us all to death, on the other hand…”
Jorgen bellowed, pulling his axe out from over his back. Turic was right beside him, blood afire. Hunt shoved himself between the three—quick and brave, for an old man.
“Calm, my lords!” barked Hunt.
Turic locked eyes with Solarion. “Move against me, boy, and I’ll kill you.”
“You can try,” snarled the young lord. “Our men outnumber yours three-to-two. I’d relish watching you barbarians butchered by real soldiers.”
“I’ll drag you into the Reaper’s Game and spill your guts right now, and no man-at-arms can stop me,” said Turic icily, struggling for calm. Picturing spraying the little bastard’s teeth all over the battlement with his mace helped some.
Hunt moved in close, cold eyes and rotten breath filling Turic’s senses. “We need to retreat. We can meet up with Von Rudric back at Dacillion and return in numbers.”
“No, we hold,’ said Turic. ‘He’ll be here today or tomorrow. If we lose this place we won’t get it back before winter.”
“Your fire witch is dead,” pressed Hunt. “Every day we lose more and more men. We won’t last another assault. And now they have a dragon. A damned dragon! Lead us back west to Dacillion. Save the eastern front from turning into a slaughter.”
Turic scratched his beard and stared at nothing as he rolled it over in his head. Eventually he said, “Von Rudric’ll have our guts on a platter if we don’t hold here.”
“You mean if we don’t die here, Warden.”
Turic shrugged. “Aye. I imagine that’ll be a part of it.”
“It’s a dog’s choice, there is no doubting it,’ said Hunt, stubby fingers shaping his pointed beard. ‘Die wastefully today, and our names live on—”
“Only if Von Rudric wins the war. Else, we’ll be forgot, like a thousand other last stands on the wrong side of victory.”
Hunt rubbed his face, almost hid his temper. “You’re going to get every man here killed, today, for nothing. They have a hundred-to-one advantage in numbers. Without the witch, they will flow over our walls like water and wash us away.”
Jorgen beamed, like it was the best thing he’d heard all month. “The path to the feasting halls of the gods will be lined with ten times our number slain. Our fathers’ll welcome us with pride.”
Solarion spat near Turic’s boots and left.
Hunt stared at the ground a moment, shook his head and turned and walked away. “A mad dog’s choice,”he said, mostly to himself. “A damned barbarian’s choice.”
Fitting his mace back into its loop, Turic stared out into the fields before them. A little life seemed to have found its way back into his spine at the confrontation. Solarion had done some good after all.
The Long Walk stretched out from the collapsed gatehouse towards the immense mass of the enemy.
“Largest army I ever seen. Where the hell they find so many men?” wondered Turic aloud.
“The hell they find a dragon?” said Jorgen as a puff of blue flame burst into the sky. “Just think of the glory if you brought that fucker down.”
One of Turic’s men waved to him from the next battlement. “Warden! A messenger from the Visich. He’s bearing the olive branch.”
A knight in gleaming plate armour similar to that of the border lords sat tall upon an immense destrier down on the Long Road. He held a striped lance, pennants snapping in the wind. The rider came slowly closer and stopped just out of bow-reach.
Turic looked down at his rusting chainmail and shredded tunic. His tattered cloak was so coated in mud and dried blood that the original blue colour was all but gone. He looked like a peasant in stolen gear. He glanced over at Hunt, still pristine in his armour, staring back at him like some damned child waiting for his da’s attention.
“Lord Hunt! Get up here,” Turic clenched his fists and swallowed hard. “Fuck it,” he hissed to himself. “Lord Solarion, you as well.”
Solarion and Hunt marched up to him. Lord Solarion began to dust himself off with a piece of daintily stitched cloth, rubbing at the mirror-sheen of his pauldron. Turic’s growing good mood began to blow away like smoke.
Turic cleared his throat loudly. “They’ll be wanting terms. I want you two at my shoulder, show them a united—”
Holding up a hand to silence him, Solarion said, “Best I go and meet this foe. They’ll want someone of a well-known House to discuss their offers.”
Turic’s mouth was half open to shout Solarion down before Hunt jumped in. “No, Warden, let me go to them. I can broker a deal, get us out of this with honour and no bloodshed.”
“No bloodshed?” snapped Solarion. “We stand here under the command of a western barbarian and you expect no bloodshed? Have you taken leave of your senses? The man lives for this!”
Turic sighed and turned his attention to the rider.
Hunt barrelled on. “Warden, I’m begging you, let me speak with them.”
“Warden!”
“Warden?”
“For fuck’s sake,” hissed Turic. “Only need one man to give him Von Rudric’s message.”
Solarion shoved Hunt out of the way and grabbed Turic’s arm. “Send me out to treat with them.”
Turic glared at the young lordling. Solarion withdrew his hand like he’d just accidentally patted a mountain wolf. Uniting this army against the Visich was starting to feel like a lost cause.
They had nothing in common. They fought different, drank different, saw the world nowhere near the same. How would he ever make the little bastard stand with him in the shield wall as a brother? How could they ever hold this keep?
Most like I’ll be feasting with my ancestors tonight. Turic shook his head. “No. You both stay here.”
Both border lords looked set to draw blades. Jorgen beat them to it, patting the haft of his axe into a massive paw.
“Warden—”
“I said, no. Get back to your posts.”
Solarion got right up close, snarled in his face. “You, you fucking animal! You’re going to get every man here killed. I’ll—”
Jorgen put a hand on Solarion’s chest and pushed him back. Solarion slapped his hand away and stormed off towards his men. If there ever was a chance that they would unite as leaders under Von Rudric’s rule, they were, at this moment, about as far away from that chance as they could get.
#
Turic stepped through the crumbling gate of his keep and set foot on the Easterner’s side of The Long Walk for the first time since the siege started. He sucked in his first clean lungful of air in two months, stepped over the charred skeletons of a few Visich, and strode down the cobblestones towards the knight.
As he got closer the knight lifted his visor. A blunt face with a squat nose looked out from the steel.
“Where are the lords of House Solarion, or Hunt? Whom do I address?” demanded the knight.
“Turic Stonejaw, Warden of the Eastern Border.”
“A barbarian name,” sneered the knight. “I am Prince Arcaledon, second in line for the Visich throne, commander of the Third, Ninth, and Eleventh Legions, Bearer of the Sacred Chalice, Champion of—”
Turic sucked his teeth nice and loud, cut Arcaledon off mid speech. “Someone more important `n me.”
Arcaledon’s face went dark with rage. “I shall be frank then, heathen.”
With a mock bow, Turic bid that he get on with it.
“If you do not surrender, I shall attack immediately. I shall not stop until the black and white banners of my father fly from the top of that- that—”
The prince frowned as he searched for the right words. Turic turned to regard his castle. What was left of it, anyway. “Pile of stones?” he ventured. “Tower of rubble?”
“Tower, damn you,” snarled Arcaledon. “You do not have the men to hold it against my army.”
Turic shrugged. “We’ve held it well enough so far. Killed a lot of your men doing so.”
“Our outriders are around your flank. We’ve captured Dacillion. You’re cut off. Within days I’ll attack you from the rear.”
Turic shrugged again. “Walls are in better shape on that side.”
Arcaledon pointed to the dragon. “I have a dragon. I can come up today, right now, and take this castle from you.”
“If you reckon you can take this castle today, come take it. Every day you sit here like cowards, waiting for that army, or that dragon, is another day Von Rudric has to march here with our army.”
The prince stared at Turic for a while, his gaze unwavering. “Is there no parley with you that will not end in bloodshed, barbarian?”
It was probably a fair question, but Turic ignored it and pointed back up at the battlements. Age had stolen a fair bit of his sight, but he was pretty sure he could see the two border lords on the wall.
“You see them two lords up there? Hunt and Solarion are more than happy to break the oaths of their families and hand you my head on a spike. But without them, I can’t hold the keep.”
“Your lords are abandoning you, barbarian. Put up your blades. Let this end peacefully.”
Turic continued, ignoring the prince. “On the other edge of the sword, however, is me. Von Rudric is my sword-brother, my chieftain, and my king. My life is his, no questions asked.”
Turic frowned, real deep, real thoughtful. Truth was he was beginning to enjoy himself again. Here, in the face of the fire, was where he belonged. “But, my huscarls—even them local men-at-arms, too—well, I don’t court death for my boys cheaply.”
The prince jumped in. “I swear, on the honour of my royal house, every man who surrenders will be given free passage to neutral territories to live out the war. When we have put Von Rudric down, you can all go home to your families.”
Turic rubbed his beard, hard. There was no other way to hide the grin. He’d just worked it out. He knew how to get the border lords to stand by him. Glory waited for him at the top of that battlement. Today would be a good day.
The prince all but pleaded, “Just take your men and leave. Let their stories continue. Don’t cause this unnecessary slaughter.”
Turic hooked his thumbs into his sword belt. “You know what I’m going to do? I’ll go back up there, and I’ll tell them boys that you are behind us at Dacillion.”
Taking a deep breath and blowing out his cheeks, Turic continued. “I’ll tell them that with the dragon in front and another army out back, we have no chance.”
Arcaledon’s haughtiness returned quickly at his victory. Turic gave the man a moment to really let that smug grin settle.
“And then I’ll tell them you’ve sworn that every head in that ruin will end up on a pike, whether we surrender, or die fighting.”
The prince’s jaw fell open. “I said no such—”
“I’ll turn every man up there—border lords’ man or huscarl—into a frothing berserker. Won’t be a ghost of honour or give in any of them. I promise you, to take this fortress will cost you a thousand men and more.”
The prince glared at him a moment, snarled, and swung his destrier away. Turic watched Arcaledon gallop back towards his army for a moment, brimming with satisfaction, enjoying a good chuckle. Even if the border lords were keen to turn cloak, the threat of death would get the men-at-arms to side with him. Their swords would matter more than the fops’ allegiance.
Turic looked to the sky—still cloudless and brilliant blue. The gods watch us. A good day for glory.
A thousand orders jostled for attention in Turic’s mind as he made for the gate. Jorgen beside me on the gate. Orlaf’s huscarls with us. Ragnar’s lot in reserve. Crossbows and spears to put out the dragon’s eyes. Hunt and Solarion where I can see the sly fuckers. Two companies of men-at-arms on the walls. Archers in the—
Angry shouts floated past him on the wind. He glanced over his shoulder as he started to run back to the castle.
Arcaledon hadn’t yet reached his lines. His army wasn’t moving. Turic slowed, confused. The shouts grew louder, too loud to be anything but—
“Fuck.”
Turic sprinted towards the open gate as the first clash of steel rang out. Lord Solarion’s armoured body tumbled into the opening from inside, limbs tangled in his cloak. Jorgen followed him out.
No, no, no, no, no—
Solarion tried to scramble away, tripped and rolled a few more feet before Jorgen’s boot on his back stopped him. Solarion wrenched his hand free of his cloak and reached out to Turic as Jorgen raised his axe high.
He might have mouthed help a heartbeat before Jorgen caved his head in.
Turic locked eyes with Jorgen as the dragon’s bellow shook his ribs like a mountain collapsing.
The champion grinned.
TO REACH FOR DISTANT SHORES
A Tale from the World of the Silver Moon
Danielle Ackley-McPhail
First publishing in Mermaids 13 edited by John L. French, published by Padwolf Publishing. Second printing in Consigned to the Sea by Danielle Ackley-McPhail, published by Dark Quest Books, 2014.
Sales link: http://www.amazon.com/Consigned-Sea-Danielle-Ackley-McPhail-ebook/dp/B00UTPQLIQ
Award-winning author Danielle Ackley-McPhail has worked both sides of the publishing industry for longer than she cares to admit. Currently, she is a project editor and promotions manager for Dark Quest Books and has recently started her own press, eSpec Books.
Her published works include five urban fantasy novels, Yesterday's Dreams, Tomorrow's Memories, Today’s Promise, The Halfling’s Court: and The Redcaps’ Queen: A Bad-Ass Faerie Tale, and a young adult Steampunk novel, Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn, written with Day Al-Mohamed. She is also the author of the solo science fiction collection, A Legacy of Stars, the non-fiction writers’ guide, The Literary Handyman, and is the senior editor of the Bad-Ass Faeries anthology series, Dragon’s Lure, and In an Iron Cage. Her work is included in numerous other anthologies and collections.
Amazon author page http://www.amazon.com/Danielle-Ackley-McPhail/e/B002GZVZPQ/
Websites: www.sidhenadaire.com , www.badassfaeries.com , www.especbooks.com
Twitter https://twitter.com/#!/DMcPhail , https://twitter.com/#!/BadAssFaeries and https://twitter.com/#!/eSpecBooks
Facebook http://www.facebook.com/#!/danielle.ackleymcphail
Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/989939.Danielle_Ackley_McPhail
The answers to my dreams were brought to me by a flash storm come up from the south off the sea – violent, sudden, unexpected. The winds rarely drove from that direction, but when they did it was gloriously primal. I could feel them in the fine bones of my body, like the warning my whisker hairs sent when something dangerous loomed close by.
While my sisters and brothers dove down deep at the threat of the storm, I wended my way upward, to peer from the lee of the rocks jutting from the slapping waters, my eyes trained on the water’s surface and the skies, avidly watching for the signs that would come swi
ft and sudden and much too late for any about on the surface to heed. In the distance, barely heard, the air rumbled warning of the tempest’s approach. With vague interest I noticed narrow, oblong bladders high up in the sky, floating like the jellies beneath the waves, right down to the tendrils dangling from their core. Tiny trailers of electric static crackled like an eel’s warning across the bladder’s skin before the energy was gone, dispersed on the quickening wind.
Again my bones shivered as the storm drew ever closer. This was the moment when down close to the water the air fell too still. My eyes scanned the sea, drawn by vibrations on the surface. To my left a large mass drifted by like a rare leviathan risen from the depths in the dark hour to let the light of the unseen moon brush its skin. It was a made thing, a ship, filled with man-things scurrying about at this first hint of the coming storm. As the vessel passed, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, popping closer and closer. The rapidly darkening clouds lit up and sudden trails of lightning danced down from the sky, colliding with each other and the mass on the water, high up where thin, straight branches rose like webbed fingers to touch the air.
I watched with eager eyes, my breath barely rippling the froth on the waves. My hands gripped tight to the moss-coated rocks as my fins were nibbled clean by the tiny fish living in the shoals, poised to escape beneath the depths when the heavens finally crashed down to whip the waves into a frenzy. I left my leaving long, clinging in place as the air charged and crackled and thunderclouds of a sudden boiled up on the horizon. With a gleeful laugh I dove deep and fast before the storm front blanketed the world above.
None on water or in air saw mercy from that tempest. I came up to the shallows when the worst passed, eager to see the evidence of the storm’s might. With care I darted from mass to mass, just beneath the water. All I found was broken by the punch of the waves and wind, bitten by the power of the lightning. Fragments of those odd conveyances rained down, caught and cradled a moment before being swallowed by the sea.