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

by J. Wesley Bush

  Selwyn fought toe to toe with a knight in emerald green armor. The larger man drove him into the narrow confines of the prow. The falchion, good mainly for slashing, was useless. Selwyn dropped it and pulled his dagger. As the knight’s rounded mace fell, Selwyn darted inside, taking the blow on his shoulder and grasping the other man’s wrist. With desperate strength, he pushed the knight’s arm upward and thrust the dagger into his exposed armpit. It sunk deep. Another downward blow from the mace rang his helmet, the metal buckling inward and cutting his scalp. He let the strike carry him down. Dropping to one knee, he grabbed the knight’s sword belt with his left hand and came around with the blade, driving it into the man’s poorly-protected hamstrings. The knight fell to the deck and it was quick, bloody work after that.

  A thumping sound announced the arrival of another boat. Exhausted and foggy from the blow to the head, Selwyn tried to rise from the dead knight. His hand slipped on the blood-slicked armor and he fell back to the deck. God give me strength. He pushed up once more and turned to face whomever was scaling the boat. A red-bearded soldier peered over the gunnel and Selwyn clumsily stabbed him in the face. He fell back, but two others immediately replaced him. They grabbed Selwyn by the shoulders and tried to yank him over the side, while a third man in the keelboat tossed a wide noose that landed around his neck.

  Selwyn managed to shove his two captors into the water, but others in the keelboat grabbed hold of the rope and pulled the noose tight. Selwyn gripped the wooden rib of the gunnel, but the rope pulled him inexorably forward. He stared down into the pitiless depths of the river.

  Something large and green flashed beneath its surface, probably a river drake attracted to the slaughter. That would be a bitter way to die. Selwyn cursed the thick gauntlets that made it impossible to keep a grip. His feet left the deck. Any second he would tumble over the side.

  Splashes and shouting came from below. The rope yanked sharply, then went slack, but the momentum was enough to send him over the edge.

  At the last instant, hands grabbed him by the sword belt and the back of his gorget and hauled him to safety. “And this is why you keep your hearthguard close,” Reyhan said, settling him on the deck. He looked back over the side. “Some beast cleaned off that little keelboat. Probably a drake, but I swear it looked like a big bastard of an eel. Bloody lucky it didn’t leap up and snatch you.”

  Still dazed from the blow to the head, Selwyn collapsed back against the gunnel. If anyone wanted to kill him, they were welcome to it. It seemed only a few moments later, though it could have been ages for all Selwyn knew, that Reyhan was dragging him to his feet. “That’s the last of them. We need to get underway before their archers start up again.”

  CHAPTER 55

  M irko and the rest of his century trudged back from the infirmary on yet another search for privileged survivors. None of them hurried, enjoying a few minutes of peace and safety before returning to the misery awaiting them at the walls. Even Rotamir seemed content to dawdle. It makes sense, Mirko thought. There’s no glory to be won as a litter-bearer. A murmur ran through the century, beginning at the front. “What’s got them excited?” Stepan asked irritably.

  “A red cloud in the sky.” Dusek the Butcher Boy pointed southward. “What do you think it is? Some kind of savanna storm?”

  “Wish it was just a storm,” Vasik answered. “It’s horses — a lot of them.”

  Just then, a set of Belgorshan knights cut across their path, nearly running down the front ranks. Mirko recognized the amber-lacquered plate of the Chosen. Leax was close behind in his chariot. They thundered past, heading southward. A few moments later, trumpets sounded, the calls unfamiliar to Mirko. From among the reserves, Mirko saw pennants rise high and then dip to the south. They were going to challenge the arriving Jandari, he realized. The peasant serjeant confirmed this as he shouted over the noise of battle, “Follow Lord Rotamir at a run! The priest-king needs us!”

  The men grumbled, but fear of punishment and a lifetime of obedience set them running around the siege perimeter, toward the red cloud. Soon tens of thousands were doing the same, nearly everyone not assaulting the walls or occupied at the dam.

  As Leax’s army gathered south of Harlow Castle, the dust cloud grew ever larger, like silt kicked up in a creek. The wind carried it toward them and soon Mirko was choking on red dust. Even without the cloud, things were disordered. Units moved through each other, jostling and arguing. No one seemed to be in charge. Or maybe too many people were. A lord rode up, some sort of high noble judging from the pennant bearer at his side, and tried to make sense of things. He ordered Rotamir’s century to the right flank.

  Once they arrived on the right, Rotamir immediately fell to squabbling with another lord, the two of them ending up on the ground, cursing and grappling. A third noble rushed in and pulled them apart. None of it made sense to Mirko, until he saw the third noble order Rotamir to the front.

  Mirko looked back over the rest of the army and saw that mobs of peasants formed the entire vanguard. Ranks of pikemen came next, while archers and swordsmen sheltered behind them. At the rear of it all were Leax and his Chosen. The bearded giant stood tall in his chariot. Even at such a distance, Mirko could see the bastard’s grin.

  Before long, the Jandari drew close enough that he could see individual riders. Sweet Abyss, but they were swift. He realized just how terrible their charge would be. “Vasik, how can we stop them with short spears?”

  “With weight of numbers,” the old free sword answered.

  Mirko realized it was true. Their short spears would do little against a galloping horse, but even the most powerful charge would eventually falter in a sea of bodies. “We’ll hobble the Jandari, and then Leax will send in the pikes.”

  “That’s why Rotamir’s not so keen to be first,” Vasik grumbled.

  Cousin Stepan pushed between them. “We’ll be ground between pikes and cavalry like flour in a mill.”

  “Belgorsk will never run short on trees, nor peasants, and Leax knows it.” Vasik spit in the dust. “So long as we slow the Jandari charge, he won’t mind losing every one of us.”

  Out on the savanna, the Jandari halted their approach, splitting into five cohorts — one on each flank and a center divided into three. Rather than charging, they simply held in place, well out of bow shot. But why did they wait? And what should he do when they finally came? Mirko gripped his spear and thought furiously. The High King hadn’t brought him this far for nothing. He would watch for his moment and then take revenge.

  CHAPTER 56

  T imble watched from a safe distance as the castle’s breach company engaged the dweorgs emerging from the hole. He felt a mixture of admiration for their courage and relief that he wasn’t one of them – he’d killed plenty of men in his time, but almost never in a fair fight.

  The Jandari first rank carried buckets in place of weapons, and they tossed the last of the castle’s burning hot pitch into the monstrous faces. Dweorgs might have skin of stone, but the eyes were vulnerable. The foremost stumbled back into the others, breaking their momentum. Then the Harlowe troll pounced on them, one of the few creatures powerful enough to challenge a dweorg.

  Targe led the rest of the company in a charge, wielding a massive, flanged mace and trading blows with a dweorg in red piecemeal armor. The fragile humans tangled their opponents in nets or tried to fix them with toothed mancatchers, while others slipped inside the enemy’s reach and attacked with mallets and rondel daggers. His friend Joska was one of them. Timble felt a daft, honorable impulse to go help him, but it wasn’t the right time to die. Tancred still needed killing.

  He expected a full company of dweorgs to come through the breach, but from his vantage on the wall, it looked like not much more than a score of them. Perhaps the Jandari could hold. That thought was dashed moments later as a ruckus on the north wall drew his attention. The Belgorshans had taken a section and seemed to be keeping it. Looking to the other walls, he could see de
fenders wavering. It was time to find the scullion boy and be off. He spotted him next to Sir Drakan, right where he was supposed to be. Poor thing probably still believed they were winning.

  Timble sidled past struggling defenders until he reached the boy. “Lad, we need to go.”

  He was preoccupied, watching Sir Drakan fight. “Go where?”

  A lie came easily, as it always did. “Lady Alethea wants us in the undercroft. I’ll need an assistant.”

  “Sir Drakan said not to leave his side.”

  “Well, Lady Alethea rules the castle and I need help with my mission.”

  The boy’s eyes lit up at the word mission, and he followed Timble down the stairs and across the courtyard like an eager pup. “What’s she asked us to do?”

  “We have to hide and then escape and warn Duke Harlowe.”

  “Warn him of what?”

  “That he doesn’t have a home anymore.”

  Only a single guard stood watch at the exterior entrance to the Great Hall. “Where are you lot going?” he challenged suspiciously. That was to be expected, Timble thought. Some soldiers had hostile opinions about deserters.

  “Lady Alethea gave us a mission!” the boy chirruped, with all the guileless enthusiasm Timble had counted on.

  Timble sent the boy off a moment and confided to the guard, “Alethea wants me to hide the boy in the undercroft. Can’t bear to see him murdered.”

  “I can understand that. Breaks my heart to think of it,” the guard said, his voice thick with emotion. “Go on, then.”

  Timble sheathed his blade and led the boy into the Great Hall, now an infirmary. They picked their way through haphazard rows of dead and dying and reached the entrance hall.

  “Now be quiet – we don’t want anyone to know where we’re going to hide, in case they get captured and interrogated.”

  They tiptoed down the long stairs into the undercroft, and Timble paused at the bottom for his eyes to adjust. A single torch burned at each end of the rock-hewn corridor, and doors lined the sides. Thankfully, no one was in sight. On his right was the bath chamber where he first met Selwyn and the botlery stood to his left.

  The botlery! Timble grabbed the wall torch and pushed open the door. An empty cask or barrel was a perfect bloody place to hide.

  Good. It was dead quiet. He stepped inside and panned the torch slowly from left to right, trying to spot where they stored the empties. Light caught a shining, dark pool toward the center of the room. Timble scowled – his luck wasn’t good enough for it to be spilled wine. “Stay here.”

  He drew his short sword and wended through the barrels. Rounding a large cask, he reached the pool and located its source. A guardsman with a bandaged arm sprawled next to a bowl of water, one of those men watching for a dweorg breach, but his eyes no longer saw anything. Someone had tapped his skull like a hogshead of ale.

  Timble had a sudden, nauseous realization about what Hornbill’s letter to Leax had said. “Run, boy! Tell Chegatay we have a traitor in the undercroft and dweorgs are coming here.”

  A wet punching sound echoed in the chamber, accompanied by a choked squeal of pain. Timble whirled about, drawing his short sword.

  Eight inches of steel projected from the boy’s chest. A shocked expression was all he could manage, blood bubbling out of his mouth as he tried to speak. Hornbill stood behind him, a broad smile plastered under his beak of a nose. He gave the boy a shove and slid the blade free. Taking a knee, he began wiping his blade clean on the lad’s tunic.

  “I take it all the other watchers are dead as well?” Timble asked, stalling as he tried to formulate a plan. Hornbill was bigger, stronger, better armored, and stood blocking the only way out.

  “Aye. Just like the rest of you, once Belgorshans take the castle.”

  “Leax hates turncoats. You’re as dead as the rest of us if he wins.”

  Hornbill laughed. “Leax doesn’t give a shaved orrick about honor. He only cares about results.” Plate and mail clanked as he stood up again. That gave Timble an idea. He dropped his torch into the pool of blood and began stamping out the flame. He yelped as fire licked at his trouser leg.

  The knight chose that moment to charge. Timble glanced over to see him dashing forward with sword in hand and murder in his eyes. For such a dull man, he moved sharply.

  Just as Hornbill reached him, Timble frantically batted out the last of the flames and then rolled into the falling darkness. Hornbill added some momentum with a brutal kick from his steel-shod foot. Pain surged through Timble’s already wounded leg.

  He scuttled through the darkness, the knight’s clanking footfalls just behind him. Finding a break in the line of barrels, he rolled to the left, only to have Hornbill dive and seize his foot. He kicked frantically at the man, breaking his hold, and then escaped into the black.

  “You little shite!” Hornbill said, his voice traveling as he spoke. “Don’t have to kill you. Just have to keep you penned until the dweorgs come.”

  Timble looked to the door and saw the knight limned in the faint backlighting of the hallway. He’s right, damn it.

  After sheathing his sword, Timble pulled a dirk and began creeping along the side of the room. It was painfully slow, for he needed to be silent, which meant feeling his way through the maze of barrels, firkins, and casks. The quietude made it especially challenging, since the noise of battle hardly penetrated the thick walls of the keep. Then thunking sounds broke the silence.

  It took a moment to realize they were coming from beneath his feet.

  There was no time to waste. He catfooted quickly until Hornbill was only a few paces ahead. The knight peered into the darkness, his sword moving continuously in a guard motion.

  Acting on a whim, Timble tried throwing his voice to the other side of the room. Heard from Edine lately, Hornbill?”

  It only fooled him a moment, but he turned the wrong way long enough for Timble to pounce. He sprang forward, grabbing Hornbill’s sword arm while slashing at his face. The blade struck the lip of the knight’s open visor and then skittered across his forehead.

  Hornbill stumbled backward and Timble could see a curtain of blood pouring down into his eyes. Chivalry was for dupes. Timble took the opportunity, flipping the dirk into an overhead grip, evading the knight’s desperate sword strokes, and then ducking inside his reach. Once up close, he rammed the thin blade into Hornbill’s eye socket.

  The intensifying hammering from the botlery floor left no time for gloating.

  He sprinted up the stairs to the ground floor, continued out into the courtyard until he found Chegatay and Lady Alethea, and breathlessly gave them his news. Chegatay took it with his normal aplomb. “I feared a second tunnel, when we saw so few stone men in the initial one. I have only a score of men left in reserve, and some walking wounded, and none have proper weapons to fight dweorgs. Go tell Sir Guthrum to send every possible man, along with Targe.”

  The fight at the first breach was still going strong. God, but stone men were hard to kill. The house troll lay off to the side, its chest barely rising and falling. A dozen men sprawled around the melee in various states of mutilation. Sir Guthrum was on his feet and swinging a war pick. Someone had knocked off his helmet and his thick mane of black hair was free.

  Timble approached as close as he thought wise. “Erm, Sir Guthrum?”

  “What?” the knight asked curtly, hard-pressed by a dweorg.

  “A breach in the botlery. Likely worse than this. Chegatay says to bring all you can, including Targe.”

  “I can spare a few.” Guthrum pulled back, letting others fill the gap. He shouted names over the din. Timble bounced impatiently as they broke free and joined the knight. If the second breach came before they were arrived, things were over. He noticed Targe wasn’t moving. Perhaps dweorgs had bad hearing, which made sense, what with the stone ears.

  There was no safe way to approach a battling dweorg. With a sigh, he crept up to him. “Targe!”

  A shield swung b
ack, its spiked boss at head level. Only a lifetime of acrobatics saved Timble. He dropped bonelessly, the shield passing just overhead. Targe hunkered behind the shield and glared down at him. The face was even stonier than usual.

  Timble crawled back a safe distance. “We need you!”

  “Why?”

  “Another breach. We need help!”

  Targe bashed his opponent with the shield and followed it with a wicked mace strike. It bought enough time for him to back away. “Show me.”

  They followed on the heels of Guthrum and the others. Into the entry hall they went, and then to the stairs.

  “Wait!” Timble shouted. “You’ll need torches. The bastards can see in the dark!”

  They lost precious minutes gathering torches and lighting them. As they descended into the deep, musty undercroft, the crash of falling rock reverberated through the stairwell. The dweorgs were inside.

  “Hurry, men!” Sir Guthrum vaulted the last few stairs and charged into the botlery, others on his heels.

  Timble and Targe made the best speed they could, but by the time they arrived, the enemy was already forcing its way out of the hole, pushing the defenders back with vicious awl-pikes. All the barrels in the way made for an awkward, stumbling fight.

  “Sweet Neptha’s dugs!” someone cursed, fear rippling through his voice. The dweorgs were terrible to behold, torchlight playing over the idolatrous runes covering their bodies, their luminous yellow eyes glowing in the dimness.

  Targe halted. Timble watched incredulously as he stood motionless for several moments near the doorway. Was his loyalty wavering? Or maybe he truly was mad.

  “Sing, fool.”

  Buggery. Targe was insane. “Sing?”

  “Sing!” The stone man grabbed Timble up by the shoulders. “Sing loud. Sing good.”