I get the sense Ashen like to fight during the daylight hours.
Maybe. When Draken had fought at sea for the Monoeans, they’d been mostly about defense, which meant battles came whenever enemies brought them. The skulking Black Guard had worked at night, but most of their operations had been covert, the squads small.
The rain had stopped fully. The forest had been cleared a good distance from the fortress walls, baring a shock of night sky overhead. The clouds were bright grey, with white halos where the moonlight tried to penetrate it. The scout strode on, heedless of his followers, but Draken crouched in the shadows, feeling Galbrait take a knee by him. There was less need to be quiet here; the soldiers were busy amongst themselves.
The walls of the fortress were uneven and craggy, as if it had been erected quickly on the backs of slaves who cared only to avoid their next whipping. Convenient for climbing, though defensive crenellations and great pots on hinged levers spoke to some level of defense. He’d been briefed, but it was last season when everything about being a Prince was new and overwhelming. The only impression he recalled was a lack of funding. It wasn’t the most important fortress in the realm. Not until now.
Tents filled the open space at the foot of the walls, what appeared to be hundreds of them, curving in a wide swath and disappearing around the far side of the fortress. Fires burned amid them all. Draken’s stomach churned. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d had a full meal.
Focus.
Draken scowled at Bruche’s admonition but did as he was bid.
They certainly had settled into their siege. Soldiers grouped around some fires, cleaning armor and weapons or cooking and eating. They spoke and laughed. Others burned low, unattended. Many of the flaps on the tents were closed. Their nonchalance surprised him. But there seemed some other lacking quality. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
He stared out at one fire a few tents over. The soldiers sat very still, hunched over. His eyes narrowed.
That’s a grim lot.
But why? The closer group was chuckling over some joke or another, and others chatted while they supped. Draken had never sat siege before, but he’d heard tales. An awful lot of waiting. All in all it was a more peaceful type of battle, and it didn’t match what he knew of Monoean military tactics at all, which tended to be more about rushing in and banging on the enemy until someone died.
There were decent, only slightly inaccurate maps of Akrasia in the maproom at the royal palace at Ashwyc. Even Draken had known upon landing here in exile that while Khein was a large post, it certainly was not the largest. The biggest concentration of soldiers were in and around the cities: Aawaer, Reschan, Brîn, Septonshir in the lake region, and the chilly Hoarfrost Sea trading cities of Algir and Rhineguard. Khein amounted to Draken’s personal force, the soldiers that answered to the Night Lord directly. It was not a disregardable force at five thousand, but hardly the largest. The twenty thousand or so soldiers near Auwaer could wipe out the Monoean force, which he’d given the generous count of seven thousand, given the information culled from his rescued Ashen. That didn’t count the unknown number of forces who had arrived before the attack at Seakeep, nor any forces since. He had a bad feeling, since the fleet of twenty ships had sailed from Sister Bay so efficiently, that they were on the heels of more.
They stared and watched for a long time. Draken studied the walls of his fortress, watching the dark shadows of servii appear in the crenels. Occasionally moonlight glinted off the shining points of spears or arrowheads. He still felt something was quite wrong with the scene, something he’d missed. At last he signaled a retreat to Galbrait and they melted back into the soft woods.
“If they’d kept quiet when they landed, made a quick march through these Moonling Woods, and headed straight for Auwaer, they might be there by now with Khein likely not the wiser,” Draken said.
Galbrait twitched a glance back the way they’d come. “How many soldiers are in that fortress?”
He stared at the Prince for a moment, trying to gauge what to tell him. He reminded himself Galbrait had sworn to him. Grim as the lad had gotten, he seemed solid. “Five thousand. They do run regular patrols but with careful planning …”
“So … if they could pass by unnoticed, it’s a waste of troops really.”
“Right. And even if Khein did learn about it, they were shackled with me out of the country.”
Galbrait furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“They answer to me. They only move on my command. They are sworn to me, their Night Lord first, before all else. They could send a message, but they can’t help fight without my orders.”
I’ll bet the Ashen don’t know that.
If Galbrait’s expression was any way to judge, the old spirithand was right.
“It’s a way to balance power,” Draken said. “Should rebels take command of the army, for instance, there are still five thousand servii outside their command. Not a huge force, but enough to shelter and protect the Queen, if need.”
“Is that what happened before? We heard rumors of civil war here. Even as far as the Wildes.”
Draken looked away. Not times he liked to revisit. “Khein helped put the pieces back together and stem further fighting, aye. That’s all.”
He ignored Galbrait’s curious look. The lad could ask Queen Elena about it for all Draken cared; he just didn’t want to go there again. He went too often in his dreams as it was. “None of which answers our questions. Why are they here? Much less with so many … troops …”
He stared into the moon-dappled shadows of the woods, voice fading as he thought hard. That one fire with the hunched soldiers kept nagging at him. He couldn’t see it well enough, too far a distance. But what was wrong with them? Had they been dressed down for insubordination? In his experience disobedience was punished severely and immediately. Monoean soldiers were definitely not left to sulk.
Bruche agreed. They were fair still. It was difficult to see so far, but none of them moved, did they?
No. Which would be odd, but I think … His mind whirred with the implication and locked on one fact. The whole camp had been far too quiet for so many tents and soldiers. They aren’t real. “Did you count the enemy, Galbrait?”
“What I could see, Your Highness, but—”
“And how many do you estimate we saw?”
Galbrait blinked rapidly. “Three hundred by my count. But with the tents and the fires—”
“Aye. All those buttoned up tents and unattended fires.” That unmoving group. Not grim or under reprimand. But false.
Galbrait’s eyes widened. His hand went to the torq at his throat as if it were a noose. “You think it’s a ruse.”
“Three hundred soldiers, which I think is a high estimate, but they were made to look like many more. I’d guess they’re holding that siege with a hundred or less.”
“To keep them from attacking the main army.”
“Aye, and to handicap me.”
“But how would they know? I didn’t know Khein was your fortress, and I’m Prince.”
Draken didn’t snap back that he was a damned Prince too, nor that there was much Galbrait didn’t know. It took a great deal of willpower.
Don’t bother trying to impress me. I’ve been wanting to hit him for a sevennight now.
Draken grunted and cast a wary glare around at the trees and shadows. “Our friends the Moonlings must have told them.”
Galbrait shook his head. “What? Why? I thought Moonlings hated people.”
“Moonlings are people.”
“Other people, I mean.”
“I’ve a bad feeling they were already friendly with the Ashen. I didn’t think of it before, but when I refused to go to Queen Elena on behalf of their enslaved, they threatened me with this very thing. Slaughter. Civil war.”
Galbrait’s face tightened. “What now?”
“There is nothing standing between them and my servii inside Khein but us. Soon it may
be that we’re the only thing standing between them and the Queen. If that happens, Akrasia falls.”
“Isn’t that what … the Monoean rebels want? To take Akrasia.”
“They have no idea what Akrasia is, what dangers lurk here. They may try to take Akrasia, but they will never hold her.” It was becoming increasingly clearer. “We save my people, we save yours. Come.”
“Back to the ship?”
He wanted to find a way into the fortress, his fortress. He wanted to warn his servii that they could march out, wipe their feet on the Ashen at their gate, and rally them to the real fight. The last thing he wanted to do was walk all the way back to the ship.
“It’ll be tough getting inside there.” Bruche tugged his lips into a feral grin. “For that, we’ll need a ghost. Let’s go catch us one, shall we?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Instead, the Ghost found them. Aarinnaie and Tyrolean caught them up before they could reach the skiff.
“Ashen on shore,” Tyrolean reported. “Fair curious about your ship.” Draken was glad he’d ordered the banners drawn and the name covered with a tarp. “Won’t take long for them to work out it’s mine.”
“If they bring a ship round into the Bay, we’re trapped,” Aarinnaie said.
“Then we must hurry.” He explained what they’d worked out about the siege. “We need inside the fortress straightaway.”
“Surely your servii will realize the truth of it,” Tyrolean said.
“We don’t have time to wait them out.” He looked at Aarinnaie. “Can you get inside?”
She scowled. “Without getting an arrow through the eye? I don’t see how. They’ll think I’m a spy or some nonsense.”
It’s a point. Tempers are bound to be tight inside. And despite your best efforts, there’s still little love lost between Brînians and Akrasians.
“They’ve seen you before, Aarin.”
“Yeah, when I was done up like a sundry Akrasian. Who in there would recognize me now?” She tossed her thick braid over her shoulder and pursed her lips in a frown. Truth, days at sea had darkened her skin to a deep, rich brown.
Draken met Aarinnaie’s gaze. “I’ll have to go then.”
#
I don’t like it.
Draken shook his head. Is that how you encouraged Grandfather once his plans were already in play?
Bruche’s deep chuckle filled Draken’s chest. He had to clamp down on his jaw to keep it from escaping his lips because he hid too close to the Ashen siege to make noise. The uneven walls loomed up just beyond the miniature mountain range of tents, a shadow against the black night of the godless time before dawn. The fires burned like bright little grounded moons though. The fortress had standing orders to defend itself, but Draken was certain they were ignorant of the truth of the Ashen numbers or they would have crushed them by now and be standing in neat rows awaiting his inspection and orders.
He drew a breath and flexed his fingers, trying to keep his body loose. He had a bow slung over his back in case he needed it, and his sword. It wasn’t time yet. At least, he didn’t think so.
It just seems like waiting is the hardest bit. Climbing that wall will be much tougher.
The craggy walls would be easy to climb … for Aarinnaie. For him and his constantly aching shoulder and bad knee, it would be no small trick. You’re full of helpful wisdom tonight, Bruche. Keep it up and I might arrange to die again.
A groan. We’ve had quite enough of that.
He kept his eyes on the wall. They narrowed. Was it happening? A light grey … mist was the only word he could think of … slithered over the blackness. He wrinkled his nose against a stench even before he caught a whiff. Mance magic often smelled of dead things and freshly inhabited graves. But maybe this was simple glamour … no, the silvery mist took the vague shape of a person and blackened. For a few breaths he had to fight down terror. What if it didn’t work? What if that bane bound to Osias’s will got free?
His body drew in a long, deep breath. Bruche did it again, for him. No words, just calming air filling his lungs. He nodded and let his shoulders ease and his fists uncurl.
Be ready.
Obviously. But the inane chatter showed how nervous Bruche was. It did little to soothe Draken’s nerves. He did his best not to tighten back up. But his hand strayed to the knife in one of his wrist guards, a blade that might soon part flesh.
A flash near the edge of the woods, and a shout.
Answering shouts from within the camp, and boots against the ground.
Something else to his swordhand flared. More shouts. Damp, heavy smoke coated his airways, concealing the scent of death. Thanks to the rain, they didn’t have to worry about the entire Moonling Woods going up. But the Moonlings residing here wouldn’t be best pleased, nonetheless. Draken’s throat screamed to cough as he breathed in smoke; he swallowed and steeled himself against it, still holding. Not time to move yet. Even with so few Monoeans and the cover of godless darkness, his movement could be detected. He knew he had to wait, but the wall beckoned … almost a voice. He rose but didn’t step forward, bouncing on the balls of his feet, head swiveling between the Ashen nearest him and his friends’ distraction on his swordhand.
Floating torches appeared between the trees, bobbing as if carried by something alive. As if real.
Nice touch. Bruche snorted. Banes don’t need light to see.
But the Ashen do.
Several Ashen—he heard them, didn’t see them—swept toward the distraction. He wondered if they would catch up any of his friends. There’d been fair little time to plan. But if anyone could pull off enough glamour to fool a paranoid company of Monoeans it was Osias. He just hoped Setia could do her part or this would never work.
He stared at the walls. The bane grew, limbs ribboning against the stone until it looked like a shadowy spider.
And then the world held its breath.
When he had been so anxious to get on with it before, now he paused. “What if it’s not only Setia able to manage this? What if the Moonlings are involved?”
His voice sounded hollow and flat against the Abeyance.
Then your friends are dead and all is lost. But that’s hardly stopped you before, has it?
Before he had been confined within his own world. Even Monoea felt relatively safe compared to this echoless, lifeless place. The Abeyance was as still as an underground temple crypt. Draken had a disconcerting apathy in this grey otherworld, no air brushing his skin, no quiet rustling or voices, no scent of fires, while also feeling distinctly vulnerable.
He stepped out and ran toward the fortress wall, fleet enough in the filmy nothingness that shrouded the ground to his knees. But he had to consciously force his legs to keep a quick pace. His heart thudded, the only sound piercing the roaring silence. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff; the more he tried not to think about falling the more his mind couldn’t resist contemplating the risk.
He reached the wall and put his hands up, pausing the briefest of moments before he started climbing, stone rough under his fingers as he expected, but the same temperature as his skin, neither cold nor warm. Bruche hovered within his mind and body, a quiet chill prepared to aid him if need.
Draken hesitated again when he reached the bane. It clung to the stone two body lengths up, caught like the rest of living world between moments or between worlds, whichever the Abeyance was. He hadn’t been sure the Abeyance would have an effect on the dead, and he doubted it would last long enough. But he couldn’t wait out his fear because Setia wasn’t experienced and didn’t have enough of the right magical blood to hold the Abeyance for long. She only had her limited sundry Moonling instinct to go on. Maybe Osias’s magic bolstered hers; Draken had no idea. At any rate, he had to hurry. He started to climb.
The temperature changed as he entered the filmy bane clinging to the stone wall, and the residue of grave-stench and faint damp slicked his skin. That the Abeyance could not shield him from. He threw
one hand and then the other up the wall, muscles straining with each reach, eager to escape the dead thing. His shoulder spiked with pain and his chest started heaving at the effort. He had been too long on meager ship provisions, too long at rest—
His boot missed a narrow ledge of stone and slipped back over it. His fingers clutched at their handholds and his toes curled in their boots. His bad knee banged against the stone and he gasped. He was just about to grumble to Bruche about the gods’ magic failing to heal his old injuries—unhelpful but somewhat satisfying—when the death stench strengthened in his lungs.
His arms strained and he pulled up where he could catch the foothold again. An aching chill, not entirely unlike Bruche, snagged on the bone in his leg. He grimaced as the idea of just letting go slammed through his mind. It seemed so easy … it made sense. Why was he even trying anyway? His own servii would more likely shoot him down off the wall than let him climb over.
Bruche locked his fingers on the stone, stilled his body. At ease, my friend. It’s just the bane. You know how to resist them.
A low rumble, the shifting of bodies and low voices, rose from the ground. The bane corded tight around his leg. He tried to pull up, kick it free, but he couldn’t do that without risking tumbling back down the wall … Damn! A sinking feeling crept through him, more insidious this time. It wrapped a noose around his heart. Draken gasped, but ice filled his lungs. Just let go. The voice sounded like Bruche. Curious. Why would he say that just as he forced Draken’s fingers to cling to the stone?
A cry went up from below and an arrow sparked against the stone next to his arm, then another, overhead. A bit of mortar crumbled down onto his head.
“CLIMB.” Much more forceful this time, and not Bruche. Osias … damn, he’d done it again. Draken’s body started climbing. The Voice rumbled through him again, wordlessly urging him on. He moved faster, cursing inwardly at his taxed muscles and injuries. More loose stone and mortar rained down on his straining arms. The bane strained to keep hold of him, pulling on Draken’s leg. Bruche kicked hard and tightened Draken’s grip on the wall. Draken grimaced; it hurt. The bane released him, slithering from his heart and lungs and limbs. Draken could breathe again.
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