War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy

by D. S. Halyard

  On the shoreline more and more of the ghouls of Damrek Island had gathered, their horrible rat-like eyes fixed on Levin with a hunger that went beyond that for mere food. They had gathered to witness the kill, and the triumph of their king.

  Levin braced himself and prepared for the attack, his weary arms like lead. He was exhausted from a sleepless night spent bathed in cold spray, and a long and bitter morning spent defending the bridge. As of yet he was unscathed, aside from a sore ankle, but he knew that his luck could not last.

  The King of the Damned raised a rusted and decayed short sword, undoubtedly a relic from some other victim marooned here, then pointed it at Levin, signaling the attack. The pole-wielding ghouls moved forward in a ragged line, with poles held vertically. Their naked and filthy feet fell in unison, booming weirdly as they marched down the long pier where Levin awaited them.

  When they came to within ten feet of the gap in the pier, the ghouls lowered their poles across it, and began swinging them back and forth, the wood rattling as they struck the ground near Levin’s feet. He was forced backward, lest the long poles entangle his feet and trip him up. If he fell, he knew that he would never get a chance to rise again.

  Still, the narrow passage over the gap, with the sea to his right and a pit full of barnacle encrusted pilings on his left, was the only defensible position the pier offered, and Levin was determined not to yield it over. When one particularly long pole smacked into the side of his ankle, he slammed both feet down on it, tearing it from the hands of one ghoul and sending it tumbling into the pit.

  Nevertheless, he was forced back, until he could only defend the narrow way with the tip of his spear, and the ghouls crowded the other side of it, ripping and tearing at each other in their eagerness to be the first to cross. A huge and stinking ghoul, his black beard filth-encrusted and teeming with lice and maggots, prevailed over the others and was the first to attempt the passage, throwing down his pole and coming fast along the narrow way, his claw-like hands extended for the kill. Levin feinted with the spear point toward the thing’s awful eyes, and then swept downward with the weapon, knocking a foot sideways and off of the beam. For a moment, it seemed as if the ghoul would right himself, but his leg twisted sideways and he fell across the beam, vainly trying to catch himself on it with his hands as he fell into the sea screaming.

  “ONE!” Jarlben yelled from the longboat. Levin did not have time to look, for the next contender was attempting the gap, holding his spear sideways like a high-rope walker. Levin cracked him in the side of the head, sending him tumbling into the sea. His pole almost took Levin with him, striking him in the hips and nearly causing him to lose his footing.

  “Two!” Several of the Thimenians shouted, joining Jarlben in keeping count.

  Three and Four attempted to cross the beam both at once, and it was simple enough to knock the legs from under number three. Number four promptly tripped over him, so that they both fell into the pit. The sea was thick with the writhing fins of frenzied sharks.

  “Four!” Shouted Jarlben, but some of the other Thimenians shouted “Three,” and an argument ensued among the reavers. Apparently, there was some dispute over whether one ghoul tripping over another counted as a kill.

  Their losses and the taunts of the Thimenians seemed to madden the ghouls, and their king was dancing from foot to foot on the beach in his anger. Shouts and screams of rage came from the shore, and the ghouls on the pier redoubled their efforts to dislodge Levin. Three times his left knee was struck by the long poles, but he absorbed the pain and kept his feet, sending ghouls five and six into the pit and the sea respectively, twirling his spear like a madman.

  Ghoul number seven, wearing the rusty remains of a helmet on his head and nothing else, charged with his pole held like a lance before him, jabbing at Levin and forcing him to take small backward steps. Levin’s spear was too short to reach helmet-head, so he dropped it and stepped forward, grabbing the ghoul’s own pole. Then he braced it against his body and twisted so that the ghoul’s feet slipped off the beam and he fell among the sharks, taking his helmet with him.

  “Seven!” The Thimenians roared, some of them slapping thighs and shouting encouragement.

  The next three ghouls after number seven tried the same trick, but Levin had the way of it now, and he took their poles from them and sent them tumbling into the sea, one after another. One of them managed to jab him in the hip, and he felt blood trickling from the wound. By the time the Thimenians roared “TEN!” They were laughing with rowdy humor, slapping one another on the back and passing coin back and forth. Wagers had been taken.

  “Twenty would be something to boast of!” Shouted Jarlben, but Levin scarcely had time to look. Poles were rattling about his feet in earnest, and the ghouls had become frantic and determined. His left knee and thigh was a mass of bruises, and he could feel blood seeping into his pants’ leg from his hip. He held his ground, but it had become much harder, for the ghouls seemed to be learning from their mistakes as the battle progressed.

  After he sent number eleven into the pit they began throwing their poles and spears, and his situation became truly desperate. Only one or two of the poles actually struck him, and these glancing blows that did no more than raise yet more bruises, but the poles landed in a tumbled pile around his feet, making it impossible for him to move without stepping on them, and they rolled under his feet and tripped him repeatedly. Had some of the ghouls held onto their spears, the strategy would have finished him, for several times he found himself tripping and falling to his knees.

  The tangled mass of spears and poles cost him ground, though, and despite his kicking them aside or tumbling them into the water, there were too many for him to stand and defend the narrow beam, and he was forced to abandon the position. He backed up until he found a place that was clear of the obstructions, dropping his spear and drawing his longsword.

  Again, the feral nature of the ghouls proved their undoing. Once they saw that he no longer controlled the beam-bridge, they came streaming across it one at a time, tripping over each other and the same confusion of poles and spears in their haste. So it was that he killed numbers twelve and thirteen as they were trying to disentangle themselves from the poles, and he killed number fourteen before it had a chance to get to its feet.

  Number fifteen learned the folly of fencing against a blade with hands and fingers, a lesson that cost it a slit throat and made of it a shark’s dinner. But by now a solid mass of ghouls had crossed to his side of the pier, and they no longer came at him one at a time. Ghouls sixteen and seventeen came at him together, but with their heads up and much too slowly. A sweeping two-handed blow that took all of his strength removed both of their heads, to a roar of approval from the Thimenians.

  “Seventeen, by damn!” Roared Jarlben, and all of the Thimenians were howling and beating swords on shields.

  Ghoul number eighteen came at Levin from the side, and he was forced to stab it with one hand, the blade going in among its ribs. That cost Levin his sword, however, for when the ghoul fell it twisted the blood-slicked hilt from his grasp. Any hope Levin had of surviving was finished with the loss of his blade, but he was determined to fight to the bitter end. The Thimenians watched in grim silence as he gave ground, dodging the ghouls and running this way and that to stay out of their grasp.

  A ghoul grabbed his ankle and he kicked madly at it, but the thing was damnably strong and held on. Another ghoul launched itself at him with teeth and claws extended. Levin did a simple country wrestling trick, falling backward and using its momentum to send it flying over his back and over the side of the pier.

  “Nineteen, Levin.” Jarlben called from the longship, but Levin did not hear. The ghoul that had grabbed his ankle was pulling him down, and claws were tearing at his thighs and waist. Levin hunched his shoulders and put his hands around the thing’s neck, ignoring the claws of the others that now swarmed him and pulled at him, determined to throttle this last one before they ripped hi
m to pieces.

  “Aye well, that’s twenty. Or close enough.” Jarlben said admiringly. Then he gave a command in Thimenian, and fifteen arrows left fifteen bows, and fifteen of the damned were pierced. And some of them screamed and some of them died, but all of them forgot about Levin and screamed their rage and hate at the Thimenians in the boat, scarcely twenty paces away.

  Levin felt the life, if such it was, leaving the ghoul he was throttling, and he felt its hands go slack on his arms. Still he continued to grip the thing’s throat, his rope-hardened hands crushing the windpipe until they were too tired to grip any more. Three more flights of arrows put the rest of the ghouls down, and Levin looked up in wonder to see their still bodies lying on the deck, bristling with white-fletched arrows.

  “Twenty!” Laughed Jarlben, clapping his hands. “That makes a good tale.” But Levin collapsed, lying on his back and gasping like a fish on dry land.

  On the beach, the King of the Damned howled in rage and wrath, but he could do nothing. His people were powerless against men with bows, and well he knew it. A few decrepit survivors came away from the pier, disappointed and wounded.

  “Come on, Mortentian.” Jarlben said at last. “You’ve earned your passage. If you can stand, we’ll take you off of that fornicating pier, yes?”

  Levin forced himself to his feet. He took a moment to retrieve his sword from the body of the ghoul he’d gotten it stuck in, wiped the blade clean on his shirt and returned it to its scabbard. His entire left side felt like a single bloody bruise, his ankle had twisted and he bore the marks of claws under his shirt and on his neck. His knee did not want to bend. His clothes were drenched and stiffening with dried blood, but most of it wasn’t his. He walked to the edge of the pier and strong hands on long arms reached for him, then lowered him gently into the Thimenian longship.

  Chapter 34: Tuchek, Walcox Camp

  It was hard to sit idle when others did for him. Tuchek sat on the elaborate fluffery the godsknights called a camp stool, a small barrel dressed in cushions of finely woven cotton and liberally decorated with Rockwall lace, and contemplated the plate of sliced beef, carrot and mushroom stew, and the small bowl of peaches at the low, cloth covered table in front of him. Peaches! Where in the abyss had they found peaches in Northcraven, and it barely past spring? A silver goblet of fine wine and another of good clean water stood by his right hand, opposite the peaches, and fine pewter cutlery on equally fine linen.

  Servants in plainly cut white tabards of fine soft wool stood by to serve the godsknights gathered at the board, and Tuchek had to stop himself from standing up to help when they brought out the roast from which they cut the meat. It had been like this every evening since he had joined the godsknights in Silver Run, despite the fact that he was merely a scout and had a face so like their enemies that most people gave him a second glance no matter whose company he was in.

  This was Sir Celdemer Ferris’ tent, however, and over the past three weeks Tuchek, under one of his former names Eskeriel, had been accepted by the men under Celdemer’s command and was, if not exactly required to, at least very strongly encouraged to dine with the godsknight captain. He did so more often than not, although each time he would have preferred to be in a roadside tavern drinking from a plain wooden cup.

  Each of the godsknights had at least one retainer, and most of them had two or more. These servants prepared the horses, polished the armor and saw to the feeding and housing of their masters, so much so that the knights barely had to lift a finger for themselves. Of course, this being Celdemer’s troop, they kept busy. Each afternoon while the army slowly came into camp the knights would already have set up a practice field nearby, and would be drilling horse and lance or practicing at swords. Tuchek was a fair hand with a lance, although he held it wrong and couched it against his body wrong and gave the wrong commands to the horse, according to Celdemer. Nevertheless, and more by instinct than anything, he had unseated more of the twenty knights gathered around the two tables in the spacious tent than had any other lancer.

  In the practice yard his wooden lathe became a much feared thing, for he could slip the guard of any one of them in three strokes, and not a man there but bore bruised and aching ribs where he’d hit them. Only Celdemer could match him when it came to the broadsword, and Tuchek admitted the man was better with the war sword than he was. Tuchek could track and use a longbow, however, skills which none of the other knights possessed to any degree.

  “Angon!” Celdemer hissed at the man to his right, sitting on the other side from Tuchek. “Angon!” He repeated. Angon D’Yast, a giant knight from Dunwater, looked up from his meal and met Tuchek’s eyes with a weary glance from bright blue eyes over a ridiculously large moustache.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Angon, eat your peaches!” Celdemer’s tone was scolding, and Tuchek could not tell if he was joking or completely serious. Neither could Angon, apparently, for rather than smiling, he dipped his spoon in the bowl and ate a guilty bite.

  “Angon, aren’t they just divine?” Celdemer smiled brightly. “I just love summer peaches! I cannot believe our good quartermaster was able to obtain them!” He turned to the table at large. “Everyone! Eat your peaches! I command it.”

  Those of the knights who still had peaches at their places immediately began to eat them.

  “You too, Eskeriel.” Celdemer turned and looked at Tuchek, who nodded and lifted a spoonful to his mouth. At this Celdemer leaned his body forward and put his chin in his hand, his elbow resting on the table. He stared at them all frankly.

  “Oh, you great big beautiful boys.” He declared. “How can there be a war going on when there are fresh summer peaches to be had? It completely defies common sense.”

  “Aye Captain, so it does.” Said Boden D’Maitlin. He was a veteran knight, come fresh from a ten-year feud in Zoric between the D’Maitlin and Gavinate families. He had settled the feud himself, calling on both of the eldest Gavinate sons to settle it in what he called “double combat.” He’d fought them both at once, and had killed them both with some dispatch. He was at least thirty-five, but his unshaven face belonged on a younger man. Joining the Godsknights had put him beyond the reach of Gavinate retaliation, but he still made sure someone else tried the wine in his cup before he drank it. “But war usually defies most common sense. Summer here and the game all about and the rivers running fresh and choked with fish, seems the Auligs would have plenty to do just with gathering it all. What they want to go and start a war for, beats all.”

  “What do you think, Eskeriel? You are an Aulig.” Rioman D’Stellin asked. Then, at a sharp look from Angon, “Well, he is!” Pink-cheeked Rioman was from Fyrbig. His father was a wealthy Feoffman there, and he didn’t care whether his questions were offensive. When he wanted to know something he just asked, and that an Aulig would know how Auligs think seemed obvious.

  Tuchek leaned back on the camp stool and thought a moment. “I wouldn’t think common sense was much in it.” He finally observed. “Auligs don’t think like Mortentians, Rioman. No more than the Flanesi do, not really.”

  Munith Vanketer looked up sharply, and appeared about to rise. His family governed a number of small villages on the Flana side of that territory’s border with Orr Duchy. He was a wide shouldered man with a thick black beard who favored the spiked mace, and his helmet had a broad brim, reminiscent of the ridiculous hats the Flanesi farmers wore. He didn’t think much of being compared to an Aulig, not even by an Aulig.

  “Oh, not you, Munith.” Tuchek said, waving him down dismissively. “You’re a Mortentian. Your family came from Tolrissa, same as most of you all here. I’m talking about the regular Flanesi people. They don’t talk the same, they don’t dress the same and they sure don’t think the same as the rest of Mortentians.

  “Well, they’re the same stock as the Auligs, if you go back far enough. The Flanesi peasant sees a demon around every corner and the Lord of Shadows in a skirt that’s too short. He goes to temp
le twice a day and does everything the priest tells him to.

  “The Aulig is the same way, only his priest doesn’t build a temple. They have holy glades and holy places in the deep woods for shrines. But just like the Flana man, an Aulig lives half in the world of the living and half in the world of faith. He won’t take a shit without permission from his priest. You want to know why the Auligs want to go to war with Mortentia? Find the priest that started it.”

  “You think a priest started this war?” Angon asked, appearing genuinely curious. Peach juice dripped from his chin like watered down blood.

  “Well, started it or blessed it at the very least.” Tuchek replied. “They don’t kill the bull without permission from a priest.” He did not add that he had a fair notion of whom that priest had been.

  The discussion turned to Aulig tactics, but this was all ground Tuchek had covered with them before. “This is a different war from the last one.” He offered. “Last time the Auligs didn’t dare come so far south. It’s plain that the bands were in place to move south along the Redwater very soon after the first killings. I don’t know if there was a conclave going on or what, but they were ready to move very very fast. It’s plain they’ve lost their fear of us for some reason.”

  “We can cure them of that.” Brant O’Morin said confidently. Several of the knights nodded in agreement, but Tuchek’s face remained grim. It was like these knights to be supremely confident, but he wasn’t so sure. For some reason this war didn’t feel like the last one. The Auligs were too bold, too sure of themselves.

  There was a commotion at the open front of the large canvas tent. Tuchek overheard the sharp, clear voice of one of Angon’s retainers. “Sirrah, they are at meat. Your petition can be heard some other time.” The commotion had drawn the attention of the godsknights, several of whom looked up questioningly. Celdemer looked annoyed, which was a dangerous mood for everyone around him.