“I’m guessing you want me to keep an eye on Reeve?” Olinia asked.
“Yes, I’ll tell the other guards you’ve a special assignment.”
“That would help, I have to sleep sometime,” Olinia smiled.
“You enjoy this cloak-and-dagger business far too much, sister.”
“It’s what I do.” she smiled wider, white teeth flashing in the lamplight. Her face slid effortlessly back into the guard’s. “Don’t worry, baby brother, I’ll make a spymaster out of you yet.”
Reeve proved as good as he claimed. They entered the Jandas, and for three weeks the hunter led them on a winding course. They climbed and dropped only to climb again. They wove between peaks like a meandering river. The trail was narrow in most places and the army strung out, first into ranks of four, then two, and finally single file, a line of troops many miles long. The wagons proved too wide. Their loads were split between the expedition’s pack animals, horses and oxen. In places the big Yoghens had to crawl or find alternate routes.
The weather proved even worse than Cagle had feared.
Each soldier huddled against the man ahead of him, fighting for some scrap of warmth or at least a reprieve from the vicious wind. They camped in little valleys and wide places where they could be found, and at times they slept on the trail itself, tired heads resting against the cold granite.
A hundred men died the first week. A thousand the second. Most froze to death in their sleep. A few drowned after losing their footing and plunging into the icy river below.
The Yoghens forged the way. The giants seemed not to mind the cold so much. They pushed hard against the bitter wind, busting through thick drifts and tromping down the snow. In their wake, the humans and dwarves had an easier time. They followed in the Yogs’ tracks, and downwind of their bulk, the sweeping wind was lessened.
Twice in those weeks Reeve stopped them when there was risk of avalanche. Both times, the hunter directed Meagera and her mages to use their spells to bring down the deadly trap of snow and ice.
Cagle thought nothing could top the roar of battle, but swords and shields clanging, men screaming and cursing and dying—these sounds were nothing next to the raw force of an avalanche. Ten thousand tons of snow, ice, and rock flying down the mountain, destroying everything in their path.
At the start of the fourth week, five days after they crossed the summit, Reeve approached him.
“We’ll see the end day after tomorrow,” the hunter said.
“Thank the Creator, I haven’t felt my fingers for three days. I can’t imagine bringing a trading party through all of this.”
Reeve laughed, a dry rumble. “My grandfather was one of the pioneers through here. He was eighty-three when he died, and even to his dying day he chopped firewood and carried his own water up from the creek. Those traders were a tough breed. This is only fall, though we’re at the tail end of it. Imagine true winter up here. Cold enough to freeze the blood in your veins.”
“There’s no way we can bring enough grain for Kartha this way. Even the Yoghens are worn down. Meagera and the mages are seeing to them now.” Cagle studied the path behind. After crossing a narrow bend in the trail, he and Reeve were near the expedition’s head in a flat area. “It’ll take two days just to gather all the Fists once we reach the end. Maybe another one for the stragglers.”
“Won’t be many stragglers. Anyone who couldn’t keep up is likely dead. Without someone to share warmth with they’ll be frozen for sure. Creator only knows how many men we’ve lost.”
Three-thousand four-hundred and sixty-three men, four-hundred and eleven horses, Cagle’s mind responded. So far, the oxen had held up better, but there weren’t enough of them and every remaining mount, including his own, now carried supplies. Creighten briefed them daily with the tally. The man was a wonder of morbid efficiency.
“We should send—” Cagle started, but a cry of alarm cut him off. He saw a small figure all in gray rise up from a nearby ledge and take aim with a bow. The arrow flew, and he threw Reeve and himself to the ground.
“What the—!” Reeve grunted. The shaft clattered to the rocks, missing Reeve’s head by only a handspan.
“Ambush!” one of Cagle’s guards yelled. He moved between Cagle and the attacker, bringing his thick shield down, another arrow clanging off the metal plate.
Men started to fall all around. More soldiers arrived. Each lapped their shields in a wall, then a second row threw their shields up into a steel roof. Attackers were everywhere, all armed with bows. Their arrows peppered the shields, pinging off into the snow on impact.
Cagle spotted a pair of men, wrapped all in grey, climbing the steep cliff above. “What are they doing?”
Once at the clifftop, the pair ran along the ridge behind Cagle’s group. They started using a set of heavy spike-tipped axes to hack at a huge block of ice directly over the trail. Cagle’s stomach dropped.
“If they bring that down, we’ll be cut off from the others,” Cagle said. The soldiers around them positioned themselves into a loose circle. More arrows clanged off their shields. The attackers were now on every side. A few arrows punched through, felling men. The circle grew tighter. Cagle climbed to his feet. He drew his sword, grabbing one of the soldiers nearby and pointing his sword at the two above the trail. “We have to stop them.”
A group of soldiers nodded frantically. They unlimbered their bows, took aim, and loosed. Their arrows clattered to the snow, well short. The two men in gray continued chopping with their axes.
“We need to get closer!” Cagle shouted. But how? The entire shield formation would have to move or the enemy would simply cut down the archers.
Reeve’s bow lay on the ground and the hunter gathered it up, checked the string, and took an arrow from his back. He strained, drew the great bow to its fullest, and loosed. The first arrow took the nearest of the two figures in the center of his back. Seeing his partner down, the remaining man worked all the faster, pounding away at a furious pace. Chunks of ice and powdery snow flew from the axe with every swing.
The ice gave a heart-stopping crack just as Reeve’s next arrow found its mark in the second man’s chest.
For a moment it seemed the danger had passed. Then a piece of ice larger than a house broke away from the ledge and started tumbling down the mountain. Cagle watched it come, a prayer on his lips. If it blocked the pass it would take the rest of the army hours to dig through. Hours he and his men didn’t have.
One of the guards fell near him, an arrow driven through the eyehole in his helm. The circle of shields was tight now. Half the defenders were down. Reeve and the other archers’ bows sang again and again, but they barely had enough room to thread arrows now. Cagle scooped up a shield and took up a spot on the shieldwall.
He heard the ice crashing down behind them and stole a look. Just before it struck the path a stream of fire collided with it. Steam boiled and flashed and hissed. Another stream of fire lanced up and the ice exploded, throwing hot water and sharp, frozen fragments in all directions.
More soldiers started to pour in around Cagle. Their defenses thus strengthened, the men pressed forward against the ambushers. The new arrivals carried with them more bows, and for every arrow sent at them they fired three in return.
Instead of retreating, the grey-clad men held their ground until all were down.
Surrounded by guards, Cagle approached one of the survivors bleeding out on the white snow.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“We are of ten thousand,” the man spit in a bloody froth. “We are your end. We are the Voice of Iridia.”
“You hail from Iridia, then?” Cagle held the tip of his sword to the man’s chest.
“We are from the soil and the skies and the water of Iridia. We will resist you. We will sting you. You think you
are strong. You are nothing. We will bleed you from ten thousand cuts. None of you will leave here alive.” The man’s head fell back as the last words died on his lips.
Cagle examined him. There was a red inverted V inside a black circle stitched on his shirt over his heart. His clothing bore no other markings or insignias. Cagle put away his sword and used his belt knife to trim out the mark.
Zethul and Vlan arrived as he stood.
“No prisoners?” Cagle asked.
“No,” Zethul said between puffing breaths. None of them were used to fighting at altitude.
“Does this mark mean anything to either of you?” Cagle held it where they could see it.
“No. But it was on the others, as well,” Vlan said while Zethul shook his head. “Perhaps Meagera will know.”
They found her examining one of the injured guards. She and the other mages were healing those they could. She held an arrow in her hand, the tip bloody. The guard had an ugly wound in his side and was panting as she started to cast.
Cagle and the others watched in silence.
Meagera’s hands started to glow a green hue. She placed them, one over the other, directly on the open wound. Blood oozed beneath her fingers and the soldier grunted as the shock of the healing hit him.
“I’m sorry,” the mage apologized. “It does hurt a bit. That’s just the body knitting itself back together. It’s a good pain.”
The glow died. Meagera withdrew her hands, and the flesh beneath was pale and white and healed without blemish. “It will be tender for a while yet, but by week’s end it will feel good as new.”
“Thank you for your efforts,” Cagle said, nodding his appreciation to the mage.
“It is little enough.” Meagera’s eyes roamed out over the other fallen guards, her brows knit.
“We were fortunate you and the casters were close when the ice came down.”
“Yes, the mages had just finished up feeding us and we were headed up to relieve you,” Vlan said.
Soldiers worked to gather up bodies and pile them together. Nothing could be buried in the frozen ground, nor could they burn the corpses without fuel, so instead they simply piled up rocks to cover them as best they could.
“Do you know this symbol?” Cagle held out the patch of cloth to Meagera. “It was on each of the ambushers.”
The mage shook her head. “What about Reeve? He’s been through the Jandas before. Does he know?”
The hunter walked along the path, pausing to look at the ambushers’ bodies. He bent down near one and searched through the man’s pockets.
“Reeve!” Cagle called. He waved the hunter over.
“We didn’t capture any?” Reeve asked.
Cagle shook his head. “Do you know this symbol?”
“I’ve seen it before,” Reeve said with a nod. “There are banners with this symbol along the wall at the bottom of the path.”
“What were you looking for in their pockets?” Meagera asked.
Reeve shrugged. “Never know till you look.” Meagera pursed her lips in disapproval, and Reeve barked a short, sharp laugh.
“Before we go further, I want you to meet with the scouts. Tell them the route and we’ll send them ahead to look for ambushes and check the wall,” Cagle said. “I won’t be surprised again.”
CHAPTER 4
Grand Entrances
The crude wall stretched from one end of the narrow pass to the other. It rose fifteen feet above the frozen ground, a collection of uneven stones loosely mortared together. The top was almost flat and lined with soldiers, bows ready and swords belted around their waists.
A pair of banners hung from near the center of the wall, both bearing the same symbol they’d seen on the attackers on the mountain. In all, Cagle estimated less than two hundred soldiers waited for them.
Nowhere near enough to stop us, Cagle thought, unless I’m missing something. What could they be planning?
Two days ago, the scouts had found a second spot where the Iridin planned an ambush, and Cagle had sent a patrol of soldiers circling behind them and flipped the tables with minimal losses. As before, every Iridin fought to the death, and they learned nothing more about the enemy.
“We’ll marshal two Fists of men in the pass,” he told the Fist leaders gathered around him. “The Yoghens will wait in reserve. With so few defenders I can’t imagine their goal is anything more than to slow us, but we will do this by the book. Hold your men in formation. Advance at a steady rate with your shields overlapping. Do not underestimate these men. They’ve fought to the death each time we’ve encountered them. They will do so here.”
He looked each Fist leader in the eye, driving his words home with the weight of silence.
“Make your preparations,” he said to dismiss them. “The assault begins in two hours.”
Cagle waited on a small rise for the battle to begin, trying to determine what surprises the Iridin might have prepared for them. Zethul and Meagera along with Reeve and Felnasen stood with him. To his surprise, the older commander said nothing concerning his plan of attack.
A sign of agreement, or is he just waiting until I make a mistake?
A dozen guards surrounded the group, and Cagle saw Olinia in her masked form among them. She gestured subtly to Reeve and Cagle nodded. At least he wouldn’t have to watch his back during the battle. He didn’t doubt the hunter precisely, but he still had no real reason to trust him, either. He seemed to have no love for the Dalrones, though that could just be a ploy.
“We were wrong about them not manning the wall,” Felnasen said.
“No,” Cagle said with a shake of his head. “We weren’t. The fortifications have been neglected. There are loose stones scattered near the wall’s base where time and the expansion of frost and ice have popped them free. Only the banners are crisp and new. I doubt they’ve been here more than a few weeks.”
“If that’s true, then it can only mean that they knew we were coming,” Zethul said. The dwarf’s eyes darted to Reeve. The hunter appeared not to have noticed. He chewed on a piece of tough jerky and watched the army below.
“They may have had sentries in the pass, or perhaps some sort of spell for an alarm?” Cagle ventured.
“Not likely,” Meagera said. “We would have sensed it.”
One of the Fists below raised its pendant. The second followed.
“They are ready,” Felnasen said.
“Signal the march.” Cagle held his breath. His stomach churned in anticipation.
This was the part of battle he hated. Before the fighting, all the planning, all the thinking—that was what he enjoyed. He liked figuring out the terrain and how the enemy would respond and how to arrange his own troops to counter them. These things he could control. Once the fighting started, all control was gone. All you could do then was hope you had anticipated everything and that your men performed like they’d been trained to.
He’d commanded men before, fighting the Fleure, but never so many as this, and the stakes had never been so high as they were now. All of Kartha, hundreds of thousands of its citizens, was riding on this. On him.
One of his guards took up a green pendant and waved it overhead three times. The two thousand soldiers below started forward.
“Sensing anything now?” Cagle asked the mage. “From the wall or anywhere?”
“Nothing,” Meagera answered. “If there’s a trap that’s been laid here, it doesn’t involve magic…or they’ve figured out a way to mask it.”
No one spoke. Like a great machine of iron and muscle, the army ground forward in unison. Banners and pendants lifted and fell in the mountain breeze. A thin stream trickled from the ice and boulders, disappearing through a grated drain in the wall. A flock of black vultures soared overhead, waiting for the day’s reaping. Ca
gle watched them move in lazy, patient circles.
How do they always know? Can they somehow smell a looming battle?
He hated every moment of this. Fighting back the Fleure, he’d led from the front, diving into the thick of battle, wagering his own life on the outcome. His men, some of whom were with him now, loved him for it. But that wasn’t how he was expected to lead this expedition. The army could ill afford to lose its commander.
Arrows rained down on the first rank of soldiers. Most clanged harmlessly off shields or armor, but a few found their marks, and the front ranks started to thin. Despite the fallen, the Karthan soldiers held their discipline; they remained at a steady march, shields raised resolutely before them.
Cagle’s chest swelled with pride in how the men were performing.
The first rank was at the wall’s base now. They lobbed their hooks and ropes up and over. Some caught and held. Some did not. The defenders atop the wall dropped their bows and hacked at the ropes with their swords. The effort was wasted—the first four feet below every hook was forged chain. Sparks flew with each impact until the defenders’ blades shattered.
Cagle felt for the hilt of his sword. He wanted to draw it and charge down into the melee. This was the crucial moment. If the defenders had prepared any sort of trap they would spring it now. He held his breath, waiting for it. But the trap never came.
The next rank of Karthans threw their own ropes and then started to climb. The remaining bowmen seemed unsure now. Should they repel the climbers or keep shooting arrows at the next rank? They hesitated between their swords and bows and Cagle’s men soon gained the wall. There was no such hesitation from the Karthans; they rose up with their blades and cut the defenders down.
Minutes later it was all over. Smoke rose from the wall, a steady stream of swirling black. Cagle’s eyes followed it up into the blue. Despite all the snow and ice, it seemed there was always smoke after a battle.
Sons of Plague: Tales of Kartha Book One Page 7