Heir to the Raven (The Pierced Veil, #1)

by J. Wesley Bush

  As he watched and waited, a large white-necked raven alighted on a nearby branch and croaked at him irritably.

  “Are you here to say this is a good idea, or a bad one?” Selwyn asked, only half in jest.

  The raven made no reply, only preening its wing feathers and then flying off. If it was an omen, Selwyn thought, it wasn’t a very clear one.

  Judging by the progress of Aysul through the night sky, it was perhaps two hours later that pinpricks of light appeared to the west. Lord Switt and the army were sparking up torches to get Leax’s attention. It didn’t take long. Shouts reached his ears, and he watched the Belgorshans extinguish their campfires and shift westward to face the new threat. From Selwyn’s perch, the enemy army resembled a mythical beast of flame, dying and then reforming in columns of torchlight. Leax was taking the bait.

  Selwyn heard riders approaching. Reyhan must have as well, for he nocked an arrow and took cover behind the tree. A quartet of horsemen entered the clearing, the light of Aysul shining from white-painted faces and the death glyphs on their leather coats. Bone Riders.

  “Are the men in place?”

  The lead rider took a moment to find him in the tree and saluted with his blade. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Good. Wait for my signal.”

  It took about half an hour for the bulk of Leax’s army to assemble out on the savanna. Selwyn was grateful to see a company of dweorgs among them. Looking to Wicke’s castle, he could see only a thin ring of soldiers maintaining the siege, no more than four thousand, with the bulk of them watching the main gates. A few mercenary pennants flew among them, but most looked to be peasants.

  It was time. If things were going according to plan, the Bone Riders were removing Leax’s sentries, blinding the Belgorshans to the south of the castle. He descended the tree and found his heavy cavalry already in the saddle, Reyhan at their head. “Still going through with this?” the hearthguard asked skeptically, handing Selwyn the reins to Penance.

  “Leax is a mile and a half from the castle and only a thin screening force remains. This is exactly what I hoped for.” He mounted and spurred Penance forward. “Follow me!”

  He led the heavy cavalry onward toward the castle, its towers rising and falling as they crossed intervening hills. The Bone Riders joined them in twos and threes, the white-lead paint on their faces spattered with blood. Here and there he passed the gory remains of Belgorshan sentries.

  They crested a final hill and then Selwyn could see the castle. A trench line surrounded it, with a single, wide passage through the ditch on the southern end. God was merciful, for it was held mainly by peasants, with the real soldiers clustered by the castle gate to prevent Wicke’s garrison from sallying.

  The Belgorshans seemed to notice him at the same time, scrambling to their feet and grasping for weapons; a predatory thrill ran through him at the sight of their fear and confusion. Only a couple of hundred yards separated him from the quarry, and his destrier’s galloping hooves devoured them quickly.

  He raised a kudu horn to his lips and gave a long blast that was sure to terrify the peasants, then let it hang loose from its cord. He spared a backward glance and watched three hundred men-at-arms lower their lances and prepare to meet the enemy. Reyhan shouted a profanity and Selwyn echoed it joyfully. An army, his army, followed at a gallop. The men shouted Uukhoi! His heart leapt like a young gazelle. This is what it means to be a knight. Turning back to the enemy, he couched his lance and fixed upon a stout peasant wielding a scythe.

  The poor devil seemed to realize his fate and turned to flee, but Selwyn spurred his mount into a last burst of speed and with a rush of exultation and queasy anticipation, skewered the Belgorshan through the back. The falling man’s bulk drew the lance tip into the mud, nearly flinging Selwyn from the saddle before he released the weapon. I’ve killed a man, he realized, head buzzing numbly.

  A few stood their ground, raising forks and spears defiantly, but most ran in terror. Whatever their choice, it made little difference as the rest of the Jandari slammed into the peasant throng: lances ran them through; warhorses trod them into the mud; and swords cleaved arms and heads.

  For a long moment, Selwyn gawped at the spectacle around him, mind reeling from the noise, blood, and bedlam of his first real battle, until a hay fork struck him in the chest and skirred across his armor. Blinking away his confusion, he drew the Crystal Falchion and began hacking downward at the mob surrounding Penance.

  Within minutes the last of the peasants had either run for safety behind the mercenaries or dove into the ditch where no horseman could follow, but the massacre had bought the mercenaries enough time to form a shield wall. Thousands of men now barred the path to Wicke’s gate, perhaps a third of them professional soldiers bristling with pikes.

  It wouldn’t do to charge pikes.

  Selwyn reined up just past a pair of mine shafts. He gave three short blasts on the horn, sounding the halt.

  He would have to rely on Wicke’s good judgment. If the castle garrison sallied out, it could strike the enemy formation in its soft backside. But is there time? He looked west to the main armies. Lord Switt’s orders were to deny Leax battle, retreating steadily and drawing the priest-king further away from the castle. So far, it seemed to be working, with Leax a good two miles distant.

  “Your orders?” Reyhan yelled. “Do we charge?”

  “No! Have the men take out their bows. We’ll wait for Wicke to move!”

  “Best hope he does…” Reyhan scabbarded his sword and pulled the bow free from its saddle sheath. Holding it overhead, he shouted, “Let’s feather the bastards!” Horsebows began thrumming and arrows hissed through the air, dropping among the Belgorshans. Peasants fell screaming to the earth. The mercenaries only drew closer together, their shields and armor bristling with wasted arrow shafts.

  “Buggery, Selwyn. Look!”

  Following Reyhan’s direction, he saw Leax’s reserve turn away from the main battle and head for the castle. It was too far away to see detail, but it looked like an even mix of cavalry and footmen. At their center was Leax’s chariot of amber and gold. “They’ll be here soon. We have to break through!”

  “It’s no good, Selwyn. No good! We should pull back.”

  “No! A few more volleys and then we charge the mercenaries.”

  “This is a mistake,” Reyhan shouted.

  “Wicke won’t let us down. He’ll come.”

  Intent on firing his bow, Selwyn didn’t notice that the portcullis was rising until it was halfway up. Then the drawbridge fell and Wicke’s men poured out of the castle and charged the wall of pikemen from behind.

  Even the elephants of Great Keferi would hesitate to charge a pikeman, but his strength was also his weakness: a fourteen-foot weapon made it impossible to turn quickly. As the mercenaries saw Wicke’s men approach, panic set in. Some in the rear dropped their polearms and drew short swords, while others tried to advance on Selwyn and his knights, and most milled uncertainly. As gaps appeared in the line, Selwyn stowed away his bow and shouted, “Forward by lances!”

  In groups of four, the cavalry approached the enemy at a careful trot. This was not a charge, but something like cracking a nut and scooping out the flesh. They wedged themselves among the infantry, hacking downward with swords, herding the foot soldiers into ever-smaller groups. When Wicke’s men crashed into the rear of the formation, the enemy lost any semblance of order and the fight devolved into a thousand individual melees.

  “Cut a hole for them!” Selwyn called out, driving forward into the press, uncertain if anyone could hear over the din. A spear point glanced from his chest and lodged itself in the shoulder joint. He sliced downward with the falchion, shattering the polearm in two blows. The next slash parted the man’s head from his neck. Reyhan’s charger reared up and plunged steel-shod hooves into the mass of Belgorshans. The enemy center began to melt away under the onslaught. Selwyn spotted a familiar suit of armor tantalizingly close, one he had
polished a hundred times before. Wicke and his men-at-arms were driving a wedge through the enemy, with his archers and footmen close behind.

  Selwyn rose in the saddle and took stock of things. Bone Riders were bringing up fresh mounts; Leax and his reserves were still several minutes distant; and Wicke should win his way free before they could arrive. The plan was working!

  The arrival of the Bone Riders leeched any remaining courage from the Belgorshans and they fled in all directions. “Let them go!” Selwyn yelled, though he doubted anyone could hear him over the ruckus.

  In a moment, Wicke was at his side, opening his visor and shouting up at Selwyn. “You should not have done this, Squire, but I’m bloody thankful you did!”

  “Scold me later! Let’s get your men on horseback.”

  Wicke and his men scrambled onto the Jandari ponies. Selwyn gave a blast from the signal horn and led the way toward the hill. The Jandari followed at a gallop, Wicke and his knights taking up the rearguard.

  By then, Leax’s chariot was close enough for Selwyn to recognize the bearded giant at the reins, hurtling along behind four straining destriers. A company of cavalry kept pace, with a mob of infantry trailing behind. It would be close, but the enemy horses were winded and would give out before they could catch the fleeing Jandari. Selwyn grinned madly. It was precisely as he had imagined it.

  A pony to Selwyn’s left stumbled and went down. Then two others followed suit. Through the red dust, he saw a pickax swing in an arc, bringing down another pony. Voices shouted Stone men! Dweorgs!

  He saw a dweorg raise a pickaxe again and bring it crashing down on a fallen Jandari, punching easily through the man’s breastplate. Looking back, Selwyn saw more dweorgs charging from a tunnel near the middle of the Jandari. The sketches he had seen did them no justice. Near as wide as they were tall, the dweorgs had craggy stone in place of skin, nearly every inch painted with runes. Black piecemeal armor protected their joints and luminous eyes glared through the slits of their sallet helms. The oncoming ponies reared up in panic and chaos spread through the rear of the formation.

  “Wicke!” Selwyn cried out, nudging Penance to turn. He had to go back. It was all for nothing if Wicke fell to the enemy.

  A stiff blow struck the back of his helmet and he clutched the horse’s neck just to keep in the saddle. Reacting blindly, he swung back with the falchion. The force of Reyhan’s parry sent pain up his arm, though his pactforged blade scored a divot in the hearthguard’s sword. Whatever Reyhan was shouting was lost to the noise of battle, but his intent was clear. Selwyn ignored him and tugged his mount to the left. “Haw!”

  Reyhan lunged his horse forward and grabbed at the bridle. The weight of two warhorses ground the links of Selwyn’s mail into his leg as it was trapped between them. He pulled at the hearthguard’s wrist, but the older man clutched firmly to the bridle. The two horses whinnied in confusion, and Reyhan’s horse craned its neck to snap at Penance, ears flattened and teeth bared.

  This is foolish. We could lose everything here. Dying inside, Selwyn raised his hands to signal surrender and Reyhan released his grip. He raised the kudu horn, but his breath came only in broken sobs. He clenched his eyes in shame as Reyhan sounded the retreat on his own horn.

  Once they reached the standing stone, century commanders gave a report on their casualties. Selwyn thanked each of them with careful courtesy, keeping his expression level, though what he wanted to do was apologize. Eighty men were dead or captured, thanks to his folly, and Wicke’s men had suffered even worse. As for Wicke, no one could be sure, but those who had ridden closest thought he was taken alive.

  It took only an hour for Batuhan Switt to escape his pursuers and lead the main body south to the standing stone, but it seemed like a lifetime. Selwyn felt like charging the Belgorshans alone as atonement, or maybe drowning himself in the river, but that would leave his duchy under hapless Uncle Rupert.

  I can’t even commit suicide properly.

  Dejectedly, he turned and led the defeated army southward. Not only had he failed Wicke, but now nothing stood between Leax and Nineacre Castle.

  CHAPTER 37

  L arissa stood in the blightyard, dagger in hand, while Magus teetered over a fresh, open grave. His throat was sliced crudely open and the wound spoke to her like a bloody mouth, burbling that he was innocent, innocent, innocent. Then it screamed wetly as Magus fell backward into the grave.

  Laughter chimed as Kirilith appeared beside Larissa and took her hand. “It’s good that you ended this one,” the beautiful boy faie said. “His soul was clouded.”

  The knife fell to the ground. Larissa wiped the syrupy blood from her hands, fouling the dress Magus had given her. “You’re lying!” Dropping to her knees, she peered into the grave and Magus’s sightless eyes stared back. “His specter can’t lie. I’ll show you he’s innocent!”

  Larissa squinted through tears, finding the tiny glow of the residuum. Lying flat, she reached down into the grave, grasping the light and coaxing it from her master’s skull. It came in jerky starts, each time giving an echoing thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. THUMP.

  Someone was pounding on a door. Sitting up in bed, Larissa wiped tears from her cheeks and blinked confusedly in the darkened room. She heard Kaan leave the servants’ room across the hall and walk heavily down the stairs, then the sound of the front door peephole sliding open. “I’ll set the bloody guards on you! Who is it?”

  Larissa could barely hear the response. “Tancred’s closest enemy. And the only one who can save the bastard.”

  The door creaked open on ancient hinges. “Wait here,” Kaan said, his voice as grating as the hinges. “Move and I scream murder.”

  Still caught in the throes of her dream, none of it made sense to Larissa. She slid from the bed and pulled on a felt bed gown, then took up a twisted iron poker as she passed the fireplace. Once in the hallway, she glanced down into the foyer and saw a round-bellied little man shrugging out of his cloak. “You’re the fool!”

  “If ever a man was.” Timble dropped his cloak onto a waiting bench. “Particularly now. I’ve come to save that whoreson Tancred from a well-earned death.”

  “You know this man, milady?” Kaan asked in Jandari, squinting peevishly at the jester.

  “He was in the room when Duke Harlowe was poisoned, waiting off to the side for his turn to perform. I remember his smile. It frightened me.”

  “I’ll chase him off.”

  “No need.” She switched to Oberyn, giving the fool a direct look. “I’ll freeze his heart with magic if he tries anything. You can away to bed.” She descended the stairs and led Timble into the library, hoping he knew nothing of pactmaking. Her reservoir might give his heart a stutter, but could hardly freeze it. They sat down on padded benches by the hearth. Kaan lit two oil lamps and took his leave.

  The dream came back to Larissa. Pushing aside a guilty feeling of disloyalty, she asked, “You seem to know the mag— to know Tancred. Why do you hate him? Did he do something bad?”

  “Back in Dandrenor, we served together in a troupe of jongleurs. It’s where I learned my craft. The troupe master was like a father to us, gave us a place to belong. Tancred murdered him.” Hatred flickered over Timble’s face like clouds passing the moon. “Savaged him like a beast.”

  Images of a bloody young Tancred rose in her imagination. She pushed them away, feeling guilty at doubting her mentor. “Then why help him?”

  “I promised justice to Selwyn Harlowe. Tancred is a treacherous schemer, but he wasn’t the assassin. If I betray the young duke, I’m no better than Tancred.”

  Larissa leaned forward, staring into the fool’s eyes despite her fear, hoping perhaps her magic would read the truth of things. Nothing came. And he frightened her too much to demand a geas. “How do you know he’s innocent?”

  “Won’t tell. Lockridge has allies everywhere and I don’t know you. Maybe you want Tancred to die, so you can go on being the magus. But my hope is that you love your mas
ter as I did mine and want to do right by him.” He stood, giving her that chilling smile. “Tomorrow’s the trial. If you want to hear the truth, make sure they let me speak when I come forward.”

  Once he was gone, Larissa fanned the hearth back to life and curled up on the bench. Her mind was so full of thoughts it seemed she would never fall back to sleep, but at last she did, untroubled by dreams of a guilty Tancred.

  The next morning, she dressed, then went out to the stables and saddled Kiyandla. With the trial looming she felt very young, and very alone, and the warmth and smell of her pony was comforting as she rode to the Godhall of Augur Maedoc. Reaching Maedoc Square, she reined up in surprise; it seemed that half the city had gathered outside the godhall doors. If only they were so eager to enter on holy days. Larissa worried she would never make it through, until a boy recognized her as the magus and the crowd parted like an aksu-kal was stalking among them.

  As she reached the godhall, an elder in a gray darenga took the reins of her pony. “I will see to your mount. Eldest Hoshaber waits inside and Duke Lockridge is expected soon.”

  Larissa dismounted and began climbing the steps to the hall, wishing Gladwin were there. She would tell him of the dream and about the mad jester who came to her in the night. He would know what to think of it all.

  The crowd began murmuring loudly, and Larissa turned to see Duke Lockridge and his men round the corner. Two wagons traveled in the center of the party, one an ordinary hay cart, the other a black, windowless carriage. A man stood in the hay cart, tethered by his wrists to a pole. The crowds lining the street shouted as he passed, throwing filth and rotting vegetables at the poor man. Larissa felt a guilty stab of relief when she saw it wasn’t Tancred. It must be Sosmun the Cupbearer, she realized.