Chronicles Of Aronshae (3 Book Omnibus)

by J. K. Barber

  Ra’thet smiled, his voice colored with mirth. “Perhaps I was wrong then. Perhaps I overestimated you when I said you would be a worthy opponent.” The black-armored warrior stepped forward, swinging his greatsword in a downward slash. Branden barely got the haft of his maul up in time to block the blow as further agony blossomed from his injured side. The smith grunted with the force; a handful of small splinters exploded from the point of impact. The King’s Guard’s foot slipped and he fell to one knee, the cold water of fear flushing into his veins. Under other circumstances Branden would have been impressed by Ra’thet’s skill, wielding such a large blade with precision took years of training and prodigious strength. Now, however, Branden watched the warrior’s blade warily, trying to anticipate where the next blow would come from.

  Surprisingly, another blow did not come. Ra’thet stepped back, motioning for Branden to stand. The look of confidence and triumph on the man’s pale face pumped anger into the smith’s veins, obliterating the chill of fear he had felt moments ago. “Get up!” Ra’thet commanded. He bounced slightly from foot to foot as he gestured for Branden to stand.

  As Branden rose, his right side screamed and he felt a warm stream of blood pour down his ribs and across his hip. Ra’thet’s blade had struck deeper than he had thought. Branden fought against a weariness that had nothing to do with the long trip he had taken to Snowhaven. Branden put his hand to his side and it came back covered with bright red blood. This fight would be over soon, one way or another. He looked down, seeing what it was that had caused his foot to slip. A piece of stained cloth, its rich blue barely perceivable through the red blood and brown mud, trailed away behind him. His gaze followed it to the still form of Mashara. The poor girl lay where he had set her down. Her face, which he had seen bloom into an infectious smile many times, even in the hardest of times recently, stared unseeing into the sky. The left half of her face was a ruined mess, the flesh an angry bloody red, blackened in places by the lightning she had channeled through her body, lightning that she and the other sorcerers had used to destroy the hinges of the southern gate and give the King’s Army victory at the expense of their own lives. Branden knew enough about sorcery to know that no trained sorcerer would have done such a thing in error. Katya had told him as much in her earliest days of training.

  Fury washed over Branden, making him forget the pain that wracked his side and the weariness in his arms. The smith grasped the haft of his maul so tightly that he heard the leather on the palms of his mail gauntlets creak against the wood. Images flooded into his mind unbidden.

  The twinkle in Dara’s eye when they first met in the King’s hall while she delivered missives to the monarch from Tomas. The timorous excitement on her face right before they experienced their first kiss together. The joy on her visage as Sasha and Katya suckled at her breast for the first time. The twins, their black and red hair streaming behind them as they chased each other around Snowhaven during one of the rare summers when all of the snow had melted from the ground. The look of pride on Katya’s face when she learned that she had been accepted into the Sorcerer’s School. The composed look on Sasha’s face as she told him that she too had been accepted into the ranks of Mala’s students, fearing that he would tell her she could not continue her training, quickly followed by relief when he finally consented. Branden’s mind raced back to the day the twins had graduated, paired with each other, as everyone knew they would be. All these milestones of his life rushed past the smith’s mind’s eye until they finally stopped. The memory of Sasha and Katya waving to him from deck of The Peregrine as the ship sailed downriver towards Valshet and their own paths, far away from his own journey, came to the forefront of his mind.

  Branden’s eyes focused on Ra’thet and the wry smirk on the man’s face. Branden silently pledged an oath to himself and the memory of the twins’ mother. He would see his daughters again, and he would be damned if this poor grinning excuse for a human being was going to stop him.

  Branden stepped forward, swinging hard with his maul and instantly regretted it. His injured side blazed and he felt a fresh wash of blood pour down across his skin. In contrast to the fire of pain he felt a rush of cold air across his skin where his armor and the cloth beneath it had been torn open by Ra’thet’s blade. Branden grunted in pain and followed up his initial swing with a series of thrusts and short sweeps with the haft of his weapon, trying not to stretch his wounded side too much. Ra’thet defended himself well, dodging or deflecting most of Branden’s attacks, but a few slipped past, likely bruising the pale man beneath his black armor. Still, new pain blossomed with each attack and parry. Branden was ripping his wound open more with every swing.

  Unfortunately, Ra’thet realized it too. The dark-haired captain began to concentrate more on dodging Branden’s blows, sometimes dancing backwards, sometimes to the side, but each motion calculated to cause the smith to extend his reach and aggravate the wound further. Ra’thet grinned wider as he watched Branden’s strength begin to ebb. The smith’s considerable muscles were beginning to tire and not just from use. The Ice Queen’s captain started playing with the smith, darting in to cut Branden across the hand or forearm, not enough to be a deadly wound, but enough to cause him pain. Branden grimaced with each cut but never cried out, his pride and anger would not allow it.

  Ra’thet stepped to the side and Branden saw his chance. The smith swung his maul in a wide arc to strike his opponent’s exposed leg, to crush his knee beneath the weight of the head of his maul. Branden heard his hammer hit metal and his spirits rose, only to be destroyed as he realized the contact was not near as solid as it should have been. Ra’thet had lured Branden in by leaving his leg exposed on purpose. As the smith swung, Ra’thet turned to the side, shifting his weight and turning his leg so that Branden’s attack was only a glancing blow. The deflected head of Branden’s maul thudded into the mud at Ra’thet’s feet and the black-armored man spun, swinging his greatsword in a wide arc. As Ra’thet pirouetted, he raised his blade high and then brought the sword down at an angle, driving it with all the strength he could muster across the haft of Branden’s weapon.

  The smith pulled back on his maul and almost stumbled from the sudden shift in its weight. Branden held the severed length of wood up before his eyes, a clean angular cut shortening the haft by at least a foot, and then looked down to where the hammer’s head lay in the mud at Ra’thet’s feet. Branden’s gut sank, a hollow feeling suddenly in the pit of his stomach.

  Ra’thet laughed. “You did well, old man,” he said, putting a caustic inflection into the epithet. “Perhaps one of your companions will fare better.” The dark-haired warrior gestured with his sword towards Captain Veldrun and King Morgan.

  Branden turned his head to look at his commander and his liege, prepared to voice his apologies for failing them. Both men looked at the smith, a mixture of sorrow and pride on their faces. Veldrun made to step forward, but once again King Morgan placed a hand on his Captain’s shoulder. The Captain of the King’s Guard looked for a moment as though he might actually disobey his king, but then relented, shaking his head sadly.

  Turning to face Ra’thet once again, Branden held the severed haft of his maul in both hands. His opponent sighed, but went on guard once again, losing none of his bravado.

  “Truly, you wish to prolong your death further with this charade?” Ra’thet asked, the contempt evident in his voice. When Branden began to close the distance between them, Ra’thet laughed again. “Very well,” he said, “but I promise to go easier on you this time, given your obvious disadvantage,” Ra’thet gestured at the length of wood in the smith’s hands.

  Branden lunged forward with the severed haft at Ra’thet’s exposed face, fighting through the pain of his wound. Ra’thet dodged the obvious feint and then blocked Branden’s follow up swing with the broken weapon, smiling.

  However, Branden had disguised one ploy within another. As Ra’thet blocked the smith’s attack, Branden spun the length of w
ood around his left hand and slipped the shaft up between Ra’thet’s arms. As the enemy captain tried to bring his greatsword into line for another blow, his arms became entangled with the broken haft. Branden stepped even closer, dropping his weapon, so that he was now nose-to-nose with Ra’thet and encircled his massive arms around the dark-haired captain.

  Ra’thet’s face quickly went from a look of confusion, to one of shock, and then finally to a look of fear as he realized his position. The smith’s arms, thick with corded muscle, won by years of labor at his forge, were like bands of steel around Ra’thet’s torso. Branden’s hands were firmly locked around his wrists behind Ra'thet’s back and the dark-haired warrior’s arms were pinned at his side. Struggling to bring his sword up only caused Branden to squeeze harder, bringing a stifled grunt of pain from the pale man’s mouth. As Ra’thet began struggling to breathe in Branden’s vice-like grip, the man’s greatsword fell from his grip and his eyes began to roll back in his head. Ra’thet was fighting to remain conscious.

  Surprisingly, Branden released his grip and Ra’thet stumbled backwards, taking huge gasps as he desperately pulled air into his beleaguered lungs. Ra’thet wore a puzzled look for just a moment before Branden smashed his mailed fist into the pale warrior’s face.

  “That is for all the good people you killed here!” he cried, slamming his fist into Ra’thet’s face again. “That is for my daughters!” Ra’thet’s nose began to trickle blood and one of his teeth hung precariously from his mouth as his eyes began to roll back once more. As he started to topple over Branden grabbed Ra’thet’s breastplate, hooking his fingers inside the collar of his opponent’s armor, and pulled Ra’thet’s face close to his. “AND THIS,” Branden screamed, “IS FOR MY WIFE!” The former smith extended his left arm, holding a limp Ra’thet upright as he drove his gauntleted fist into his enemy’s face one last time. Ra’thet fell to the ground, the force of Branden’s blow causing him to land on his back. The black-armored warrior was unconscious before he hit the muddy ground. Blood poured from Ra’thet’s face and his nose was bent at a grotesque angle, obviously broken.

  Branden turned to King Morgan and Captain Veldrun. “Your Majesty” he intoned to Morgan, his right fist held firmly over his chest. “Captain,” he said wearily to his commander, his rigid salute beginning to tremble. Both men returned Branden’s salute as the King’s Guard’s legs buckled and he fell to his knees. The monarch and the captain rushed forward, catching the smith below his arms before he fell fully.

  Captain Veldrun yelled for a healer as King Morgan leaned closer to Branden to whisper in his ear. “Rest now, old friend, he said,” his voice kind. “Snowhaven is ours once more.”

  Chapter 16

  Night had fallen over the glacial valley. Even the therianthropes shook with cold so close to the ice at their feet. Katya, standing amongst her friends, family and Aeirsgan soldiers, was more than willing to climb just to get off the glacier; their stealthy venture around to the north and down an ice flow to reach the base of the Ice Palace had been long and chilly. The therianthropes were spread along five sections of the outer wall, poised to climb and overwhelm the outer guards all at once. Those therianthropes that could take to the air soared on high currents above the castle, awaiting the signal to fly down and retrieve the grappling hooks to anchor them in place along the wall. Once secured, they would then keep an eye on the hooks in case a guard passing by saw one. The therianthrope flyers could take out a few guards this way, but it would not be long before someone would sound the alarm. Hopefully, the climbers would be able to get up in time; their entire plan rested on the success of the climb up the outer walls. Once the climbers had reached the top, the flyers would harry the archers in the towers who might begin to fire upon the therianthropes and soldiers on the wall should the alarm be sounded. All the action was meant to occupy the defender’s attention while the Illyanders infiltrated the inner towers. It was a sound plan if they could get up the ice-covered walls. If that were to fail, all else would be for naught.

  Katya absently stroked Chyla’s sleek feathers and looked into the sky, straining her eyes to catch some glimpse of Iluak’s white form. Her sister’s gauntleted hand on her arm brought the sorceress’ eyes back down. Niko and Chyla, in their customary raven forms on Katya’s shoulders, cocked their heads inquisitively at Sasha. Katya silently motioned for Sasha to wait a moment with a palm out, so the swordswoman dropped her hand from her sister’s shoulder and waited. The sorceress waved the raven pair upwards.

  “Go find Iluak, please guys. You’ll do more good as eyes in the sky for now, and he will keep you out of trouble,” the sorceress spoke. With a nod, the Nhyme spread their black wings and flew away into the night. Finally, Katya turned her attention to her sister. “Yes, what do you need?”

  “I will help you as best I can up the wall,” Sasha said, her teeth chattering a bit in the cold. “Chieftain Hridayesh, in his wisdom, thought we might be climbing the walls. He handed out these in case the grappling hook lines were cut.” The swordswoman had two crude looking tools tucked into her belt. They had a timber shaft and a sharp hook made from the bone of some large animal protruding from the top where an axe head may have gone. At the base was a loop of leather fixed sturdily into the wood that seemed to go around one’s wrist. “We stab them into the ice for purchase should the ropes be cut. Loud, I’m sure, but they’ll keep us attached to the wall and not falling to our deaths. Hopefully, we won’t have to use them, and we can use the rope we brought for the whole climb.” Sasha pointed to a large crate being unpacked by two of the soldiers. In it were climbing supplies, including grappling hooks. Katya’s eyes widened.

  “From our camp?” Katya asked, truly surprised. “I didn’t know these were ours.”

  “Yes, Jared took some soldiers and therianthropes back to search our old camp for anything salvageable the day before we departed. They found that these crates, among other things, were untouched by the orcs. Jared even found his sword.” Katya glanced to Jared’s back, as he and Mala were discussing the wall’s foot and handholds, and sure enough there was the familiar curve of his sheathed sword. “I am surprised the orcs took your staff with us to the hunter’s camp because they left the majority of the things in our camp. I guess they really were just after meat.” Sasha’s voice was suddenly rough, hanging on her last word and filled with a mix between anger and disgust. The swordswoman sighed and shrugged. “I shouldn’t try and guess at an ice orc’s thoughts or intentions. They left your backpack on you, after all. Maybe they thought to take your staff and belongings as trophies since you killed so many of them.” Katya nodded her assent coldly; it was a valid assumption but the sorceress was still mad at her sister. “Are you alright, sis? I don’t think I’ve heard you say more than a sentence or two for days.”

  “I’m fine, Sasha. I’m just a bit worried about our mission,” Katya said, managing a small smile on her furrowed facial features. The sorceress looked up the length of the vertical wall. She couldn’t even see the top of the fortification, estimated by the flyers to be two hundred feet high, through the thick mist that wrapped around the palace like a blanket. It was roughly hewn stone, so it would have been a much simpler climb if not for the ice. Clustered icicles the size of Hridayesh’s barreled chest covered its surface. A soldier handed Sasha an extra grappling hook and length of rope to loop over her shoulder, which she took with thanks. The red-head tucked the grappling hook securely into her belt until its prongs alone rose over the top of the leather. The rope got hung up on her pauldron as she tried to fix it over her chest. Katya instinctively lent her a hand. After the sorceress was done tidying the rope, Sasha grasped her sister’s hand gently before she could pull it away. The raven-haired twin studied her sister’s face. The swordswoman looked composed, relaxed, and even happy.

  “Katya, I…,” Sasha began softly, but Mala approached the sisters, and she let Katya’s hand go.

  “Alright girls, Chieftain Hridayesh has given the signa
l. The flyers descend to fetch the grappling hooks. It is time to climb,” Mala informed them. “Katya, are you sure you are up to this?”

  In response, Katya borrowed her sister’s dagger from its belted sheath and slit her robes in the front and on the sides. She wore tight leather breeches underneath. Sasha gasped at Katya, who simply shrugged and returned the blade.

  “My robes were a bit travel-worn as it was. We’ll be in Snowhaven soon, and I can have a new one made,” the sorceress said with a true smile. For a brief moment, the three women were warmed by the thought of their home. Then Jared interrupted them. He eyed Katya’s cut robes with a slight inclination of his brow but did not speak of it.

  “Ladies, shall we?” the woodsman said, putting a hand around Sasha’s waist. Katya forced herself to dismiss the simple but telling gesture. The three women nodded, and they all approached the wall. Mala handed Katya a pair of ice axes and leaned in close to her niece.

  “Tell me if you need help,” Mala whispered to the sorceress. “There is no shame in asking for aid. This is no easy feat. It will be a challenge for us all.” Katya nodded.

  Sasha was already testing the rope that had just dropped down from above, pulling on it a couple of times to make sure the hook was properly fastened. The swordswoman then wrapped her gloved hands around the rope and began to climb, finding footholds to push up on the wall with her feet. Katya followed her sister’s lead after she was about ten feet up. Mala was behind her and Jared brought up the rear. Each rope was only strong enough to hold four people at a time, so a second group of soldiers waited at the bottom for their turn. The wall being so high, the infiltrating force had only found enough rope for nine lines total despite the ample number of grappling hooks. Each therianthrope group had two lines on their section of the octagonal wall with Jared and the Snowhaven locals on the final sixth rear wall closest to the tower that had been seen lit the night before. Sasha, being both youthful and strong, was the only one with an extra portion of rope as back up, even though it was only twenty feet or so in length. The red-headed swordswoman was considered the most likely to successfully scale the wall, which is also why she went first to help the others up should they need assistance. Soon the whole first group was scaling the fortress wall. The process was slow but they made good progress.