Impressed, Draken gave a crisp nod and returned the bow to its owner.
Geffen and he had worked out a basic plan of attack, the most important being find whatever superiors were there and make sure they were taken alive. He gave them free reign with the rest. He didn’t like the thought of the bloodbath—a thousand verses two hundred would make for a complete rout, but he couldn’t deny his soldiers their due after two sevennight of siege. “You are Akrasian, and you answer to me. Give every Monoean a clean, honorable death. No raping. No torture. All supplies and foodstuffs belong to the fortress. Personal weapons and effects are free for the taking.”
A few faces creased into scowls but none spoke out so he could hear. Draken ignored them. Of course they wanted revenge after their siege, but Draken didn’t think it had been all that bad. Two sevennight of lean rations and water didn’t compare to what his shipmates had gone through at sea. “And another thing. I’ve friends out there; a Mance and his companion, a Monoean Prince, Akrasian Envoy First Captain Tyrolean, and my own sister, Aarinnaie Szirin. They provided the distraction for me to climb the wall. See they are found and made comfortable within.”
“I’ll assign an officer and a few servii to see to their protection and needs,” Geffen said. “Shall we go up to watch from the wall, Your Highness?”
He’d rather be in the thick of it, actually. Watching his new soldiers massacre his old countrymen from a distance was a sickening enough thought. Sending men into a battle in which he took no active part was far worse. But he nodded, not wanting to shock his own troops. He had a bad feeling he’d need their trust later. He glanced up at the sky. They’d best move quickly before rain made it all more difficult.
“Move out.” He waved an arm as he’d seen Tyrolean do to troops on the field once and followed Geffen to the battlements. Draken couldn’t help but lean out and look for the bane. No threatening shadow that he could see. Geffen murmured a warning and he backed up. No one shot at him from the camp, though. Maybe they were used to people on the walls, and with his cloak hood up and shadowing his face against the grim morning light, his race wasn’t obvious.
Below the siege camp seemed in chaos. A few fires burned at the periphery between the woods and the tents, but most of the cooking fires had guttered out. From up here, the thick sea of tents and early morning movements did make them look like far more than their numbers. The ground around the fortress was churned mud from the night’s rain. Some few Ashen slipped as they strode between tents.
Nearby on the battlements, archers arrayed themselves over the gates. Each longbow nocked two arrows for the initial volley. Clever, that. Though likely few would kill the enemy, it was a quick and relatively inexpensive way to create confusion from overhead.
Geffen was still studying the Monoeans. “This is what they look like every morning.”
Draken sighed. “Aye, Comhanar. But they are far fewer than they appear.”
She glanced at him and he repeated himself in Akrasian.
The first battle would be at the gates. And the trickiest. Always difficult to fight in a bottleneck, no matter the odds. Draken nodded at Bruche’s assessment. It was heavily guarded by easily a third of the Ashen.
The first thick volley of arrows rained down from the battlements. Upon the field commander’s word—too quiet to reach the Monoeans outside as they ducked for cover—the gates swung open. It took the Monoeans a breath to react, and by that time a second hailstorm of arrows fell. The first servii rushed out, swords at the ready. Draken found himself falling into distanced analysis. How would the Ashen and their seaxes hold up against the longswords of well-trained servii? He doubted the Ashen would have time to assemble a proper phalanx, though it was their best chance against footsoldiers.
Unfortunately, it seemed the Ashen were on top alert. Still jittery from Osias’s diversion, apparently. The phalanx came together in a matter of breaths, shields raised over the dead, injured, and able in a rapid motion absurdly impressive from above. Draken’s fingers curled against the rough stone of the crenel he peered through and his shoulders tightened.
The gates slammed outward, some mechanism or magic moving them quickly enough to knock a few close, foolhardy Ashen off their feet. A narrow stream of servii followed. One last storm of arrows peppered the shielded phalanx, then on command, the bowmen held their fire. Here is where we will see their skill, Bruche said. Draken endured a short battle with the spirit over which direction they’d look; he exerted enough will to shift his gaze to the edge of the woods where he expected his friends to be.
Daylight, thin and watery with rain, had yet to infiltrate the shadows under thethick canopy. He realized up here he could see quite well the top of the forest, But all was quiet in the woods. No shadows of his friends emerging, no silvery Osias or quick-moving Setia or ghostly Aarinnaie.
They’ll come when it’s safe, Khel Szi.
But Draken could feel the old warrior’s worry. He supposed Tyrolean might manage to hold Aarinnaie back for a little bit, but she would struggle to get to the battle. She would suffer the same anxiety he did, standing on the sidelines. It must run in the damned family, but it had been longer since she’d drawn blood and the passion to kill ran far deeper in her.
The battle was over by the time morning turned to full day, though his archers on the battlements kept nocked arrows pointed through the crenels and slits in the wall. Draken and Geffen climbed down the fog-slicked stairs from the battlements to the ground, moving slow to mind their steps, and walked through the gates. Inside the fortress, dampness trapped within the grim stone walls beaded on every surface and made the bay horses, grazing unconcerned in the inner bailey, appear shiny and black. Only a few low voices broke the oppressive quiet of the camp, mostly servii organizing the few living Ashen.
It was still eerie, walking among so many tents. He could just see over the tops, catch sight of the helms of his servii as they went about the business of making certain the siege had died to a man. A few grunts and a few wet thuds filtered through the peaked layers of waxed canvas. Other than that it was very quiet.
“Khel Szi.” Halmar strode between the tents toward him. Draken was actually relieved to see the big szi nêre. He would have exchanged grips, but Halmar wouldn’t touch him except in dire need. “Where are the others?”
“Gathered at the fortress gate, Khel Szi. Except for the Szirin.”
Draken suppressed a sigh. Why couldn’t Aarinnaie follow orders just once?
“She went into the battle, in the camp. She went after an archer aiming for you.”
Sounded like her. “She’ll turn up when she’s fair ready, Halmar. You know how she is. Meantime, I’ve got officers to question.”
Halmar bowed his head and followed Draken through the mud-churned camp to two Ashen on their knees, hands tied behind their back with ropes looped through to their ankles.
He studied them closely: two men. Despite their hard faces, they were quite young and he didn’t know them. He wondered if they knew him. From the chains haning from their shoulders, they ranked high enough to have some idea of the overall strategy.
It doesn’t matter.
Bruche was right. “Too often of late Monoeans come to my shores with weapons bared and I must rout and interrogate you. I tire of it and my time is short. So, to business. This is your part in some Ashen plan, to hold my fortress siege until …” he arched a brow. “When, exactly?”
“We did it for two sevennight,” one of them said. He wore a red scarf around his throat, a wife’s or mother’s momento, or perhaps it was some casual mark of status among Monoean landed forces that Draken didn’t know. He walked to the man, let the crimson fabric slide through his fingers, then gathered it in his fist and pulled upward, making the Ashen stretch to keep from choking.
“I know how bloody long you’ve been here,” Draken growled. “I want to know how long you’re meant to stay. And where the rest of the army was headed.”
The man in his grip g
agged and choked.
The other officer stared, his odd green eyes fixed on the Monoean’s reddening face. “Let him go. There is no rest of the army—”
Tyrolean’s boot thumped into his back and he sprawled on his face in the mud since he couldn’t catch himself. He started to turn over; Tyrolean pressed down on his back with his boot, pinning him down. He turned his head, sputtering mud and curses.
Draken didn’t release the scarf. “I followed twenty warships here from Sister Bay, and you’ve been here longer than they have. Of course there is an army. And you’re going to tell me where it’s headed.” He jerked on the scarf and then dropped it. The man fell forward gulping air. “Take them into the fortress. Separate them. We’ll find out who gets to live.”
#
A short while later he emerged from the second cell, cursing and bloody. Neither would reveal the Ashen’s plan, and neither died cleanly.
You saw enough torture in Grym’s cells to know it rarely gets results.
You didn’t think to point it out before I got into all that?
You wouldn’t have listened. And it was your only option. But one thing is clear. They aren’t Ashen—not real believers. I think they would have been more … compliant to your wishes. You being practically a demi-god and all.
Draken snorted at that, then frowned. Do you think they are mercenaries?
No. I think they were simply not privy to Ashen grand plans and were taught well to resist torture.
Draken sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He was sore, exhausted, and stank of blood. Again.
Tyrolean shifted from one foot to the other, his fingers gripping the knife hilts laced onto his belt. Draken realized he must have been oddly silent longer than convention or habit during his internal conversation with Bruche. “Aye, Tyrolean?”
“They must have marched to Auwaer, Your Highness.”
“Aye, the must have done, but—”
Galbrait strode up, oddly alone. Draken frowned at him. “Where are Osias and Setia?”
“Tracking.” His tone was short; he was out of breath. “I just came back to fetch you. Aarinnaie is gone. Captured.”
Draken’s heart slowed to a glacial pace. “The Moonlings?”
“No. Monoeans. A few broke away from camp during the attack. Setia saw them and ran after them. It’s the strangest thing. I think she and Osias can talk … somehow …” he tapped his head. “Osias let Setia go but went after her when she didn’t come back straightaway.”
“Do you know where they are?” Tyrolean asked.
“On the move. Likely trying to find a good place to hole up.”
“Damn her and Seven damn them.” He rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, trying to think of what to do next. It might need to be handled carefully; he just didn’t know enough.
“They won’t hurt her. She is a useful hostage.” Geffen studied Draken closely. “You aren’t like your father, willing to throw away a wife or daughter or sister for political gain.”
That last remark sparked his curiosity but he set it aside for now. “Aarin makes an even better hostage for the Moonlings than for the Ashen, and now Monoeans are traipsing about through Moonling woods with her.”
Galbrait shook his head. “My people aren’t defenseless, Your Highness.”
Geffen gave Galbrait a look but added evenly, “The Ashen won’t give her up easily to even Moonlings, not men who would use her to buy their lives.”
“They very well could be defenseless against the Moonlings. There is much you don’t know, Comhanar.” Draken sighed and gave her a brief description of the Abeyance and its recent uses.
Geffen stared past them all, thinking. “Why haven’t they used it yet, then?”
“Perhaps they were waiting to see how the siege played out,” Halmar said.
Or for another reason. Draken had the disconcerting feeling of Bruche sifting through his memories. It felt like scrolls rustling in his mind. That border guard who mentioned the attack. Was the attack on the Brînian side or Akrasian side?
I don’t know. I’d have to have him pinpoint it on a map. Why?
We need to map these attacks to be certain. But so far, it seems none have been in the Moonling Woods.
To be fair, there weren’t all that many other races living in the Woods outside Khein. A few small freeholds, the village, the fortress. The Moonlings kept no holding but instead preferred to rove. “I’m not even sure why they call it Moonling Woods.”
Geffen gave him a look, which told him he should know. “It was the last sizeable holding when the Gadye took power. None have ever really managed to take the Woods, not entirely.”
Except for this bloody great fortress. Bruche turned Draken’s head and gazed up at the imposing stone walls.
“Aye, that,” Geffen said. “Even so, the village has never thrived. Most of the shops have closed and most freeholders only manage to last a generation or so. The wood takes back its own, it’s said.”
Draken shook his head. There might be some tidbit of useful information flitting just out of his reach, but he didn’t have time to chase it down. “At any rate, we need to find her, and soon.”
A panting servii, his boots and legs splattered with blood, came jogging up. “Just this way, Captain.” Tyrolean and Galbrait strode behind him. Galbrait wore a length of fabric around his neck, concealing the torq.
Draken pushed past Geffen to greet them. “How did Aarin get captured?”
Tyrolean’s quick gaze took in their little party. He gave Geffen a nod as if he knew her. Perhaps he did. His armor was grey with dirt and mud caked his boots. “She separated from us. Insisted on scouting, Your Highness.”
“She was anxious once you disappeared into the fortress,” Galbrait added. His face was pale and his knees and hands grimy, his tangle of hair bound back from his face. “Couldn’t sit still.”
Draken didn’t ask if Tyrolean had tried to argue with her or if she’d joined in the battle. For now he’d keep her prowess at killing secret. He finally looked at the servii, who dipped his chin.
“You take command, Tyrolean. I need to find my sister.”
Geffen drew a breath as if preparing to say something Draken wouldn’t like. “Your Highness.” Aye, definitely something he wouldn’t like. “Khein servii know these woods, they know all the places they might hide. They can’t have gotten far. Let me send out a few hundred to canvass the woods while you start for Auwaer.”
Draken stiffened, his expression hardening.
Still trying to rescue every female who strays from your sight, eh?
Shut it, Bruche.
Geffen’s attention dropped to his chest region, a gesture he first thought of as submissive but soon realized meant she was examining the pendant hanging against his armor.
“All respect, Your Highness, but your first responsibity is to the Queen.” Tyrolean, quiet, firm, had no compunction against speaking his mind. “We must make haste to Auwaer.”
Trust Tyrolean to see the tapestry for the threads. But at the moment all he could think of was Aarinnaie. “Even in a siege, Auwaer will keep. I’m going after my sister.”
#
Two mornings later, Draken kept his temper in check even when they started talking to him incessantly about stopping the search for Aarinnaie, but only just.
“Has it occurred she can take care of herself?” Tyrolean said. “Perhaps she’s acting as a spy.”
Draken had little doubt of that. He kept his horse moving.
“Or perhaps she’s at Auwaer, thinking that’s where you are.”
Or perhaps she’s dead from spite.
“We haven’t even found Osias yet.” He could fair feel their frustrated scowls at his back. “Besides, I can’t leave her here to her own devices. The woods might never recover.”
They all ignored his feeble joke. Galbrait urged his horse closer. “Your Highness, wouldn’t they have come forward yet if they were going to? Perhaps the Captain is right. Perh
aps it’s time to see to Auwaer and the Queen.”
For two men in love with the Szirin, odd they both want you to leave her.
Bruche and Draken had been having the same internal discussion for two days and nights. Next would come the argument that perhaps there was something to what they were saying. Draken declined to climb on the cart this time. “I need Aarin. Her wit. Her council.” Her silent knives.
Rustling ahead. He slowed his horse and held up his hand. The mail over his arm clinked softly. He thought he saw a low shape flit between trees. A bane …? No. It would be on you before you saw it.
Another flicker, closer, and then something tiny eased from the trees to stand before him. A fierce Moonling, eyes darting and wild, body still as a shadow.
Draken stared as his heart lurched, hard, in his chest. Sweat prickled his back and palms.
The Moonling bowed and straightened, lifting his chin. “Khel Szi.”
Tyrolean drew a blade, and one of the bows from his Kheinian company creaked. Draken lifted his hand. “Hold.” If they were surrounded—likely—a first strike would only be an excuse to massacre them.
No one moved for long breaths. The Moonling looked young enough, no silver in his dark curls, no lines around his dark, round eyes. The strips of his skirt were short in the male style, just below the knee. Better for making one’s way through the undergrowth of the wood, at any rate. His chest was bare. Every dapple on his skin was etched and scarred with sigils, the Seven in their various phases and temple runes. Someone had spent a deal of time slicing up his skin with a fair sharp blade. Draken frowned. He hadn’t seen that before.
Pale ribbons on his spear hung clean and limp against the wood. Not bloodied yet.
No. And it won’t be. The scar sigils mean he’s a priest. Sworn to peace.
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