by N M Zoltack
Ulric had been sneaking into and out of the castle ground through a massive cavity that animals had burrowed beneath the stone wall. He glanced that way and then toward the back walls fortifying the castle.
A spear with a rope attached had nestled its tip into the stone.
Another force from the Vincanans was attempting to scale the back wall and attach the castle from two sides.
Ulric grabbed his bow and then shook his head at his own folly. The spear was too small of a target for him to possible strike it, and in all likelihood, the amount of force required to knock the spear loose would be too much for a single arrow. No. He could not stop their scaling the wall.
But he might be able to hold them back if he could only gather more to his side.
Calling the guards, the knights… They were just as likely to kill him as they were to listen to a single word he said. The villagers he had armed, though, perhaps they would be willing to join him in fighting for their land.
The ones he had just armed had lived just outside the castle, and Ulric dove toward the cavity, crawled his way through, and within ten minutes had gathered those armed villagers to him.
“The knights and guards are already fighting the Vincanans,” he said, out of breath slightly, anxious, eager, worried. “Another force is coming. I plan on fighting them. Will you—”
“You talk too much,” a gruff man with a missing tooth said.
“Show us the way already,” another added.
Ulric grinned. Without another word, he led them to the cavity. By the time the last of the armed villagers climbed through, the first wave of the Vincanans had just reached the ground from one of three ropes dangling from the top of the curtain wall, a second wall within the castle wall specifically meant to help protect the bailey, the open courtyard.
A wild cry came from the man missing the tooth, and that was all it took for the battle to start.
The close quarters rendered Ulric’s bows and arrows useless for the time being. He gripped his sword, wishing he had a shield like one of the knights, and waited for one of the Vincanans to come toward him. Beneath the helm, the features of the warrior were distinctly feminine.
A female.
Ulric hesitated, unwilling to even contemplate fighting a lady, but when her blade streaked through the air toward him, Ulric brought up his sword to block the weapon, his body reacting on instinct. She immediately launched a flurry of attacks, strikes, and blows. Ulric barely had time to block one of them, backing up with each assault.
One of the villagers fell, and Ulric grimaced. The man had died because of Ulric. If he hadn’t gone to fetch them, if he hadn’t armed the man…
But the Vincanan he had been fighting slumped down, falling to one knee. The man had managed to wound his foe before succumbing to death.
The Vincanan female glanced at her comrade, and Ulric sprang into action, and his first blow almost jarred the woman’s blade from her hand.
That had been his chance because she tightened her grip, honed in her concentration, and attacked him so viciously that Ulric feared this was the end.
Just then, one of the other villagers reached around and sliced her throat with his dagger.
“Get down,” Ulric shouted, not having time to voice his appreciation.
The villager listened immediately, and Ulric, having only recently taken to throwing daggers, threw his sword. He launched it more like a spear than he would have flipped a dagger, and the blade buried itself deep into the stomach of the Vincanan sneaking behind the villager.
All around him was chaos and mayhem, destruction and devastation, and yet, Ulric just set his lips into a grim line, eased the dead Vincanan onto his back, stepped on his shoulder, yanked out his sword, and sought out his next opponent.
Even if I’m not a guard, I feel like one right now.
52
Sir Edmund Hill
The nature of the wounded prevented them from reaching the castle before the Vincanans. Edmund had to detour. As much as he would have loved to take them to Tatum to see if she had any potions that might help them, an apothecary’s house was much closer to their present location, and even more luckily, the apothecary was there.
The man, with a mop of brown hair, a scraggly but close-cropped beard, and a large nose, took one look at the lot of guards, adjusted the white belt around his orange tunic, and nodded for them to come inside.
He glanced about after the last of them entered and then shut the door and barred it.
“None of the bastards are near here, are they?” the apothecary asked.
“They’re heading for the castle,” Edmund said.
“Not sure if I prefer that.” The apothecary shook his head sadly. “I’m Alfwin Grieves. Let me look over you all and see…”
He took inventory of their injuries and then helped the ones most severely wounded before tending to the less serious ones.
When he returned to Edmund, he held up his hand. “I’m fine. We need to move as quickly as possible.”
“Not immediately,” Alfwin said in a tone that demanded acquiescence. “My wife will be back soon. She will make you all a meal. There’s not enough room for you all to sleep here, but the rest can sleep out front. Not ideal but—”
“And then we’ll leave in the morning.”
Alfwin sighed and rubbed his belly. He opened the door, peeked out his head, and looked around before stepping outside and shutting the door behind Edmund. “You are meant to fight. I understand that, but you must realize that some of those men in there will not be good for anything but wasting my time by dying.”
“Those of us who can fight must march in the morning,” Edmund said. “I would rather us leave now, but…”
Several had limps. One had a terrible gash that the apothecary had actually sewed shut as if the skin was nothing more than a shirt needing to be stitched. Another had broken his arm. The sound of the grinding of the bones as Alfwin manipulated the bones back into their proper places churned Edmund’s stomach. Using flour and egg whites, the apothecary had made a plaster mold to keep the arm stable so the bones could reforge.
Unfortunately, in the middle of the night, out under the stars, one of the men who had a wound bandaged woke up screaming.
Edmund stirred and rushed over to his side. “What is it, man?” he demanded.
“I… It’s blood. I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”
The poor guard had been frightened away.
The others were beginning to stir. Edmund urged them all to sleep and returned to the man. The wound was still bleeding badly. Even though the man had managed to yank off his surcoat and wrapped it around his chest, the surcoat was drenched.
Edmund rushed to the house and knocked on the door. Alfwin, yawning, stood in the doorway, apparently having heard the commotion.
“What is going on?”
“The one wound is bleeding again.”
“Get a fire going,” Alfwin urged, heading back inside the house.
Despite the darkness looming around them like a black sickness threatening to devour them, Edmund could see enough to gather sticks and kindling enough to start a small fire. The apothecary exited the house and shoved the tip of a clean blade into the flames. When he finally removed it several minutes later, the tip glowed an eerie red.
“This will hurt,” Alfwin warned as he yanked the surcoat side.
Blood still wept from the wound, and Alfwin jerked his head toward Edmund.
“Hold him down and do not let him move,” Alfwin instructed.
Edmund sat behind the man, who seemed to grow weaker by the second. Edmund kept the man’s arms down, using his feet as hooked tucked around the man’s thighs so he could not flail his legs.
“Ready,” Edmund said.
Without another word, the apothecary placed the red-hot blade against the wound. The man’s shrill was even worse than a death cry, and he continued to yell a wordless shout even after the apothecary removed the blade.<
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“You.” Alfwin walked over and kicked awake a guard who had fallen back asleep. “I need some of that firelight over here so I can see. Need to make sure the bleeding’s stopped.”
The man groaned but stretched, stood, and complied with the apothecary’s request. As he held up a makeshift torch, Alfwin’s wife Romilda approached with some cloths and a bucket.
Wordlessly, she knelt before the wounded man and washed away the blood.
“Gentle,” Alfwin murmured.
“I’m far gentler than you can ever be,” she retorted.
Edmund almost smiled. The two had grumbled at each other throughout the meal, but it remained clear how much affection and love they had for each other. They worked together, as a team, and Edmund refused, completely refused to think of Tatum.
“Yes…” Alfwin murmured. “Yes, it’s stopped. In the morning, I’ll apply some honey, but for now, I’ll bandage it again so that no dirt can get into the opening, and you all best get some more sleep.”
Edmund started to shift back so he could stand, but the man leaned against him heavily.
“He passed out,” Romilda murmured. “Alfwin, he should sleep inside.”
Edmund groaned and grunted from the effort of lifting the sleeping man, and Alfwin helped to drag the wounded inside. When Edmund returned to his patch of grass to rest, he ended up sleeping until the sun was directly overhead.
Most of the others slumbered yet he quickly discovered as he glanced around and then entered the apothecary’s house. Romilda greeted him with a helping of fruit, cheeses, and bread.
“If you want the bulk of the men to be good and decent fighters, wait another day,” Alfwin warned. “I know it’s not what you want to hear, but otherwise, they’ll just be sacrifices for the Fate of Death.”
“Or Chaos,” Romilda muttered. “Fighting like this… It just seems so inhumane. And what started this? A murder. So much death and violence.”
“We are fighting so that Tenoch can remain safe and return to peace,” Edmund explained.
“What exactly is peace?” she asked. “True peace, that is, because even before the Vincanans appeared, we had to help others with wounds from tavern brawls and fights. We need…”
“They aren’t coming back,” Alfwin said sadly, “so we do what we can to try to be a light for Dragoona as they once had been.”
“The dragons,” Edmund said, a bitter taste filling his mouth. “If they were as powerful as the stories said, why could they not keep men in line? How could they have not prevented their deaths?”
“Because men and women are weak,” Romilda said.
“And that weakness requires another day.”
In the end, Edmund had no choice but to agree as the others slumbered for several more hours and then ate and slept some more, their bodies healing slowly. Dawn of the next morning, though, they eat a quick meal, and all those prepared to resume the fight marched with Edmund. The man with the plaster to help his bones, Catan Kavanaugh, stayed behind as did the one who nearly bled to death, Torkel Ove. Bruno Fuxg, the one with the wound sewn shut, did come along, though.
By the time they reached the castle and convinced the guards to lower the drawbridge so they could cross, they realized that not only had the battle for Atlan Castle already started, but it certainly seemed as if the battle had lasted a few days already.
“Are you ready, men?” Edmund called.
“Let’s go kill the southern scum,” Bruno shouted.
And they raced forward, weapons drawn, entering the fray once more.
53
Garsea
The Kiamur Jungle housed many creatures, most of which were too frightened by the presence of humans to risk being seen.
Perhaps, though, those creatures knew and understood on some level that Garsea was not like other humans, that he served the dragons even if they did not fly about in the skies. He spied a chimera, the lion/goat/snake hybrid creature observing him critically as Garsea wandered by. A horse that may or may not have a horn ignored him entirely as he trotted on by. Another hybrid, that of lion and eagle and known as a griffin, was only a baby and snapped toward Garsea before darting away, disappearing into the thick underbrush.
Vines and moss clung to the tall trees, and Garsea hadn’t seen the sky in days. The canopies formed by the leafy branches up above his head allowed some light in at least. The heavy moisture in the air had Garsea sweating all day long, but the gentle, near-constant drizzle helped somewhat.
Just before he exited the jungle, Garsea could have sworn he spied two humans watching him, but through the bushes, he spied fur and horse legs. A faun and a centaur. Garsea nodded to the unlikely pair, but they acted as the other creatures of the jungle had and ignored him entirely kept staring at him as if they were curious but not quite inquisitive enough to approach. Although Garsea would have loved to observe and possibly even communicate with some of the creatures he had only seen before painted on scrolls, he did not have the luxury of time to do so.
Once he emerged from the jungle, it was nighttime, and Garsea spent his first night out under the stars. He could not sleep for a long while, trying to read the stars and learn anything they might share with him, but they were oddly silent. It was as if the stars themselves were holding their breath, waiting to see what might befall Dragoona.
The rising sun stirred Garsea, and he set a northeasterly course toward the Black Forest. Pinned between the far edge of the forest and the northern range of the Olacic Mountains was his destination—Cilla.
Between the jungle and the forest was mostly rolling plains. At the end of his second day of traveling, when the Black Forest was just within sight, Garsea opted to enter a small village. He located the inn and sat at one of the tables. He had precious few coins, and he would not spend any for a night, but he enjoyed the time away from the outdoors. The weather was growing colder, the air thicker, or perhaps he was merely getting that much older and could not handle well such a difference from the monastery and Olac.
Just the chance to sit on something other than the hard ground helped to ease some of his aching joints, and when the serving wench handed him some ale, he glanced up at her, surprised.
“I didn’t order—”
“The man over there did.” She nodded to a man who looked even older than Garsea who sat at the end of the bench. “He’s a good guy, that one, a bit of a talker. If you’re willing to give him an ear, he’ll talk that ear off, but you’ll get a free meal out of it.”
Garsea nodded to her and then the man, who stood with a groan, slid down, and plopped beside Garsea.
“You looked like you could use a drink,” the man said. “I’m Juanes Siodina. Been living here my whole life, but with my wife gone now these past five years, I like to come out, sit at the inn, see the travelers. I dream about where they might come from, where they’re going. Helps to pass the time.”
Garsea swallowed a gulp.
“Want some stew? It’s nice and hearty here, lots of meat, but I suppose now that the war is here—”
Garsea winced.
"Didn't you hear? The Vincanans reached the shore. There's been a lot of fighting by the castle, in the castle… I don't know which side is winning, but I'll find out soon enough. Someone will wander through and let me know. I learn everything first here—"
“How many Vincanans came?” Garsea asked.
"I don't know. They claim that their ships stretched across the horizon, that they're moving in different units, so no one has any idea how many there are or if some of those groups are staying back, ready to jump into the fight only if they're needed. Incredible warriors they're supposed to be. Female ones too! Can you imagine? But then, I suppose we're ruled by two queens for the time being at least. Maybe they'll get it into their heads that we should start giving our young girls weapons. I don't think that's right. Fighting's men's work, but—"
The serving girl was right. Juanes was a talker, but he did supply Garsea not only with stew
and more ale but even a room once he learned Garsea was staying out of doors.
“You keep rubbing your lower back. I know the pain you’re feeling. Let me do this. I would offer you to stay with me, but it’s not… My Ysabel would kill me if I did. I haven’t exactly kept the house in good order. It’s not the cleanest none either.”
Garsea profusely thanked the man and blissfully retired for the night. The comforts of a bed, however, were almost too pleasurable for him, and sleep eluded Garsea for so long that he opted to light one of the candles on the small table in the room. From his sack, he removed one of the scrolls he had brought along with him and began to read from the sacred Keepers’ texts.
Before all life, there was nothing at all, only darkness, a vast void until a sudden glimmer of hope sparked the first being—a dragon. That hope shattered into faith and love to become the other two dragons.
Their might, their passion, and their fire burned the world into existence. Their tears formed the seas and rivers. They shaped the mountains with their claws, breaking off bits of land to form the islands.
Animals or humans first? No one knew for certain, but all belonged to the dragons. So long as the dragons maintained their hope, faith, and love, there was peace.
But humans were creatures of many emotions, several foreign to the dragons, including greed, lust, envy, and pride. The humans were violent and destructive, cruel and self-serving.
The dragon of faith was the first to fall, but love was strong enough to bring him back.
Still, the humans did not change their wicked ways. No matter. So long as one dragon lived, the others were reborn.
Until one day, one hateful, disloyal, hopeless day when the dragon three fell at once. Then, all the dragons were dead and remained dead.
Faith was so destroyed that humans no longer believed in the previous existence of dragons.