Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2)

by Ben Cassidy

  They rode quickly to the top of the hill, shocked into silence by the sight before them.

  It was a small settlement. Or had been, at one time. The stockade wall that had surrounded it was thrown down in several places, scorched with fire and hacked into pieces. The few buildings that had stood inside were nothing more than a pile of ashes, tossed about by the steady wind that cut over the rocky ground. Here and there a broken weapon lay on the ground, but there were no signs of life.

  “Looks like the army stopped here last night,” said Joseph. “They buried most of the dead in graves on the eastern side, over there.” He pointed towards the base of a small hill.

  Maklavir looked slightly ill. “Who would do something like this?”

  “The Jogarthi,” said Kendril in a low voice. “I doubt they left any survivors.”

  They rode silently down into the midst of the ruined buildings, staring at the wreckage all around. Several carrion birds croaked loudly at their approach, scattering into the air as they came near.

  Towards the far edge of the town several pointed stakes about six feet high had been jammed into the ground. They were covered with dried blood, flies swarming over their surface. In front of them was a smaller stake. A bird’s skull was stuck on its top.

  Maklavir shuddered in horror. His face was almost green. “What in Eru’s name is this?”

  Kendril pulled Simon to a stop. His eyes darted over the stakes in front of him. “Human sacrifices,” he said calmly. “The survivors of the Jogarthi raid were most likely tortured, then impaled here and left to die.”

  Maklavir looked as if he was going to be sick. Kara and Joseph both looked over in surprise at the Ghostwalker.

  “I thought you said you’d never been to the Dagger Hills,” Joseph said.

  Simon snorted and backed up a step or two at the smell of the blood. Kendril gave him a reassuring pat. “I haven’t.” He pointed towards the small bird skull. “You see that? It’s a raven skull. These people were sacrificed to Trelnaru, the pagan god of storms and thunder. The raven is his sign.”

  Joseph looked at him curiously. “You know a lot about pagan religions?”

  “I’ve seen this before.” Kendril rode up to the bird skull. He looked down at it impassively. “The Jogarthi aren’t the only barbarians who worship Trelnaru.”

  Joseph and Kara said nothing. Maklavir looked away, still trying to keep his stomach from turning.

  Kendril gave the stake a couple of hard kicks, and it toppled over.

  Without another word, the four travelers rode soberly off, the wind howling forlornly behind them.

  They didn’t stop, even as the sun began to set in the far west and the shadows grew longer around them.

  Joseph led the way, riding ahead of the others to scout the ground. Kendril kept his long rifle out and in his hands, his eyes constantly watching the dark hills and vales around them. Maklavir was uncharacteristically silent after seeing the ruin of the settlement, his purple cape wrapped around him for warmth. Kara came last of all, her fiery red hair tucked back into the raised hood of her cloak.

  The sunlight soon vanished completely and night fell over the shrouded hills. Without ever speaking, they continued to travel despite the darkness, the urgency of the situation weighing heavily on each of them. Even Maklavir offered no protest, riding quietly on the back of his great white charger. The skies above were covered with dark, brooding clouds, but Joseph continued to lead them on, his keen eyes picking out the trail ahead despite the lack of light.

  The night closed in on them from all sides, like the maws of some monstrous creature. An unspoken dread filled them all, and even Kendril gripped his rifle a little more than normal. As they blundered on through the inky blackness they could hear the wailing cry of wolves far in the distance, calling to each other like lost souls in the night. Aside from that the only sound was the clop of hooves and the unearthly screech of the wind over the rocks. Around midnight a light drizzle began, and the wind became a little colder than before.

  It was still a few hours before dawn when the dark shape of Joseph came wearily out of the darkness. They were all exhausted, and gratefully stopped as the scout came riding up. Their hearts lifted, however, when they heard him speak.

  “I’ve found them,” came his voice through the darkness. “The whole army’s encamped in a valley not half a mile from here.”

  Kendril rubbed his burning eyes. “You sure it’s not the Jogarthi?”

  Joseph gave a half-smile. “Please. Give an old pathfinder a little more credit than that. I saw some of the pickets myself. Trust me, they’re Whitmore’s men.”

  “Thank Eru,” breathed Maklavir from behind them. “They’re still alive, at least.”

  “For now,” said Kendril sharply. “Let’s get going. And no one make any sudden moves. We don’t want them shooting us by mistake in the dark.”

  They trotted down the long winding ravine, seeing the light of several bonfires pop into view below.

  Kendril snorted angrily. “What in Zanthora are they thinking? Camping in a valley? They might as well invite the Jogarthi to attack.”

  Joseph looked up to the right, and scanned the hilltop above. “They must not be too worried.”

  “A fool is never worried until it’s too late,” Kendril said under his breath.

  They passed forward between the rows of tents, under the watchful guard of half a dozen soldiers. The rain continued to fall in a steadily increasing pattern, dripping off the sides of the tents and hissing as it struck the stones of the campfires. In the valley the campsite was more protected from the howling wind, but the sentries they passed were still wrapped in their cloaks, holding their halberds with gloved hands.

  Kara glanced nervously around them as they passed through the encampment, her hand flinching uneasily towards the bow attached to her saddle.

  Joseph looked over at her with a smile. “Wishing you hadn’t come?” he whispered.

  She frowned. “When you’re a wanted bandit walking into a camp full of soldiers is just tempting fate. I should have stayed out of the camp.”

  “The Dagger Hills are no place to spend the night alone,” Joseph returned in a knowing tone. “I won’t let anything happen to you. If anyone asks I’ll just tell them you’re…my sister.”

  Kara gave the scout a sardonic smile, but said nothing.

  They stopped in front of a large tent. The peacock banners of Llewyllan flapped in the breeze.

  The guards outside the tent stepped forward, eying the newcomers suspiciously.

  “These travelers have news for Lord Whitmore,” said the soldier who accompanied them. “They request an audience.”

  One of the guards looked Kendril up and down, and scowled. “General Whitmore is asleep. What is the nature of your news?”

  “A matter of utmost importance for the future of Llewyllan,” said Kendril without moving, “and one I must speak to Lord Whitmore about alone.”

  The guard bristled at the Ghostwalker’s words. His voice turned cold. “I will talk to the general in the morning, and see if he will grant an audience. You can wait until then.”

  “I cannot,” said Kendril severely, “and neither can you. The life of every man in this camp is in danger, and will be until I speak to your commander. Now for Eru’s sake, let me pass.”

  The guard hesitated a moment, his eyes sparking angrily, but he finally turned to the second guard and nodded. The man disappeared into the tent.

  “One of you may enter,” the guard said. “The others must wait out here.”

  “I’ll go,” said Kendril. He hoisted himself off Simon’s back.

  The guard nodded, and waved him into the tent.

  The other three remained outside the tent, the guards watching them carefully.

  Maklavir shook his head, the feather in his cap ruffling in the breeze. “A fine mess indeed,” he muttered to himself.

  Lord Whitmore brushed the sleep from his eyes, and quickly tied his r
obe about him. He gaped as the dark figure of the Ghostwalker entered the command tent.

  “Kendril?” he said, his voice filled with confusion. “What in the Halls of Pelos are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

  Kendril lowered his hood, his eyes red from lack of sleep. “King Nathan is dead,” he said bluntly.

  The color drained from Lord Whitmore’s face. “What?” he whispered.

  “He was assassinated,” Kendril continued, his face a stone mask. “Bathsby is in control of Balneth. He has Serentha trapped in the palace.”

  Whitmore stared wide-eyed at the Ghostwalker, then sank into a nearby chair, shaking his head. “What? That can’t--”

  Kendril stepped forward. His shadow stretched forth in the flickering candlelight. “It gets worse. I think Lord Bathsby is in communication with the Jogarthi. He’s set a trap for you and all your men. He wants the throne of Llewyllan for himself.”

  Lord Whitmore had been rubbing his forehead, struggling to come to grips with what Kendril was saying, but now he sprang up out of the chair, his face turning red.

  “How dare you! Lord Bathsby has always been a faithful servant of the crown and my friend. I cannot possibly believe what you say to be true.”

  Kendril clenched his fists angrily, but kept his voice under control. “Whether you believe me or not is irrelevant,” he said. “Bathsby has betrayed you. If you don’t act fast then you and every man in this camp are doomed.”

  The nobleman’s face tightened in rage. “You lie!” he spat. “Guards!” he shouted.

  Two men appeared immediately at the tent entrance, their hands on their weapons.

  “Who put you in command of these men?” Kendril said quickly, ignoring the guards behind him. “Bathsby? What about the regiments? Did he pick those, too?”

  The slightest flicker of doubt crossed Whitmore’s face, but only for a moment. “I will not hear this! What you are proposing is ludicrous. Bathsby is no traitor.”

  “This valley is a death trap,” continued Kendril relentlessly. “I’ll bet your forward scouts have already reported sighting Jogarthi nearby, haven’t they? Just scattered groups here and there, nothing that they or you are concerned about yet. There are more of them out there than you know, Whitmore, and they’re planning to attack this camp and kill everyone in it.”

  “Enough!” thundered Whitmore. His hands balled into fists. He stepped closer, his face just a foot from Kendril’s. “You think I don’t know your type, Ghostwalker? You cultists spread fear, paranoia, and death wherever you go. I don’t know what your purpose is in this deception, but I will not listen to your lies.”

  Kendril’s eyes simmered. “Who planned your route?”

  Lord Whitmore stopped cold, turning back around. “What did you say?”

  “Your route,” Kendril repeated, “Who planned it for you?” He didn’t wait for the reply. “Bathsby did, didn’t he? He suggested the path you should take through these hills, and where you should encamp each night? Tell me I’m wrong.”

  The nobleman was silent a moment.

  “Sir?” said one of the guards hesitantly, his hand still on his weapon.

  “Sergeant,” said Lord Whitmore after a long pause, “I want the regiments formed up, on the double.”

  The guard stood at attention. “Should I blow reveille, sir?”

  “If you do before dawn,” said Kendril, “the Jogarthi will know you’re on to them. Every barbarian within a mile will be on this camp quicker than you can blink.”

  Lord Whitmore glared at Kendril, but nodded to the guard. “No trumpet, Sergeant. Send men around tent to tent.”

  “Yes, sir.” The guard saluted, then left the tent quickly.

  “Dawn is just an hour or so away,” said Kendril quickly. “There’s a good chance the Jogarthi might attack then.”

  Lord Whitmore lifted a finger. “Don’t mistake me, Ghostwalker. I don’t know if I believe your story or not.” He turned, and gestured to a nearby servant to bring him his clothes. “So I intend to see for myself.”

  The sky in the east began to turn the softest of grays as the camp bustled into action.

  Men grabbed their pikes, strapping on breastplates in the cold morning air. Regimental flags were hoisted as the troops quickly assembled into lines. There was little cavalry, but the troopers that there were quickly loaded and checked their pistols, slapped their rapiers to their sides and formed up into squadrons.

  Lord Whitmore himself came out of his tent in full battle dress, long buffed greaves on his legs and an armored breastplate on his chest. On the surface of the fine Balneth steel breastplate was etched the image of a peacock surrounded on all sides by a long rose-covered vine. An open-faced helmet covered his head, though his long golden hair wisped out from underneath the back. He mounted his horse, and rode across the camp towards the small company of Royal Guards that awaited him.

  Kendril watched the nobleman go, frowning as he sat on top of Simon.

  “Things seem to be going splendidly,” remarked Maklavir brightly. “The whole camp is forming up.”

  The Ghostwalker shook his head. “Forming up won’t be enough.” He glanced over at the eastern sky, which was paling with the rising sun. “We have to get out of this valley.”

  Kara rode up beside them, keeping her hood pulled low over her face. “Why?”

  In the distance there was a brief flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder echoed over the low hills. A few drops scattered to the ground as the steady patter of rain started up again.

  Kendril motioned to the bustling camp. “The terrain here is too uneven. The slopes are too steep, and there are too many rocks. There’s no way that three regiments could keep formation here, especially under attack.” He glanced up at the hills on either side, their dark forms stretching up towards the bluish-black sky. “If Lord Whitmore doesn’t take the high ground quickly, this camp will be the scene of a massacre.”

  Maklavir glanced over as several soldiers ran past, matchlock muskets slung over their shoulders. “Shouldn’t you tell Lord Whitmore, then?”

  “I already tried,” Kendril said blithely. “He’s not listening to me anymore.”

  The captain of the Royal Guards saluted Lord Whitmore as he rode up. Rain dripped down the side of his helmet. “The Royal Guard awaits your command, General.”

  Lord Whitmore adjusted one of the straps on his breastplate, and looked over the fifty men on horseback before him.

  A sudden creeping doubt entered his mind once again as he remembered Bathsby’s conversation with him the previous day. For a company of Royal Guard to accompany a small force on a mission of simple pacification was highly unusual, to say the least. Bathsby had said that he had sent the Guards along for their own good, but could there be another, more sinister motive…?

  He shook off the thought. First things first. He had to see if the Ghostwalker’s tale was accurate, or if there was some darker design at work.

  Whitmore glanced behind him. The camp was moving quickly into motion. The campfires were being dashed out right and left. Spurts of steam and smoke rose in the falling rain.

  In the growing morning light he could see the Dragon banner of Colonel Fielding’s regiment flapping in the wind, surrounded by the half-armored pikemen and musketeers and crossbowmen in their bright scarlet uniforms.

  Behind them and a bit to the right Mulcher’s regiment was forming up, though it had little room to deploy on the sloping valleyside. Between both these regiments on the far side of the camp was Whitmore’s own regiment, hastily being formed by his second-in-command, Lieutenant Colonel Lasinger. Just like Mulcher’s regiment, the men were struggling to maintain a coherent organization amongst the wet boulders and uneven ground.

  Whitmore looked back over the men in front of him, his stomach tightening. He suddenly wished that Lord Bathsby were here. It was one thing to take orders, but quite another thing to give them.

  There was another rumble of thunder as he looked down the v
alley before them. The crest of a tall hill loomed about half a mile to the right, just visible beyond the end of the ravine.

  Whitmore wiped the rain from the brim of his helmet, and turned towards the captain. “Let’s make for that hill, Captain. I want a look around.”

  Kendril watched in silence as Lord Whitmore and the Royal Guard company began to ride towards the large hill in the distance.

  Raindrops pelted the ground and tents around him in an ever-increasing tempo as the brooding clouds overhead moved closer. Wind rippled through the tall grass, whistling sharply as it tore around the edges of nearby boulders.

  “We have to do something,” said Joseph.

  Kendril said nothing. His dark eyes were on the distant figure of Lord Whitmore.

  Joseph turned his horse around. His greatcoat was soaked with rain. “Kendril?”

  There was another flash of lightning, followed seconds later by a roar of thunder that boomed across the breadth of the camp.

  Around them the Llewyllian soldiers continued to struggle into position. The shouting voices of sergeants rose above the rattle of weaponry and the sloshing of feet in the mud.

  Through the driving rain Lord Whitmore and the Royal Guard entered the narrow nape of the valley, moving into a column formation.

  Kendril sat on his mule as if paralyzed, his eyes following the group of men.

  And then, all at the same time, they heard it. A low, wailing noise rose above the sound of the wind and rain. It had an eerie tinge to it that sent chills up their backs, as if the spirits of the dead were crying out together all at once.

  Lord Whitmore and the Royal Guards halted, looking around them in confusion.

  “What in Eru’s name is that?” said Maklavir, looking around nervously at the hills to either side.

  The wailing noise increased, joined by a steady drumbeat that seemed to echo off every rock and ravine in the valley. A chanting in some horrible language filled the air, harsh and unfamiliar to their ears.