Wrath of the Usurper (The Eoriel Saga Book 2)

by Kal Spriggs

  “They shouldn't have had time,” Christoffer said as his mind raced. Suddenly the few attempts to reach the ironclads, the small numbers of defenders along the waterfront, and the absence of the Armen noncombatants took on a sinister cast.

  They would have to know about our attack ahead of time, Christoffer thought, but how?

  “My lord,” Siara said, “Look!”

  He looked over to where she pointed and he felt his heart freeze. The water had begun to withdraw from the harbor, rushing out so quickly that the Armen sloops and his own boats settled into the harbor mud before his eyes. He looked up at the horizon then, just in time to spot the bump of a wave. He spun, “Colonel Gudel, warn your men, the Armen shamans must have generated a tidal wave.”

  “What?” Gudel's eyes went wide as he stared down at the harbor. “But...” He looked up quickly, “We have to get to the boats.”

  “No time,” Christoffer said grimly, even as he gestured at Gervais and pointed up the crooked street, “We have to get to high ground. Gudel, order your men to move to high ground, get on top of buildings, whatever they can do to get out of the reach of the wave. Move!”

  He put words to action as he broke into a jog. I hate running, he thought absently, even as he struggled to figure out how the shamans had devised the attack. It was possible, he supposed, that they had generated the wave far enough out that Lord Hector's witches might not have noticed it or been able to counter it. However, combined with the deserted waterfront and the ease of landing, the whole thing felt more and more like a trap... or a betrayal.

  “My Lord!” Gervais shouted a warning and stepped in front of him. A moment later, a flight of arrows lanced around them and Christoffer heard several clatter off of his armsmen. One of them, he saw, also shielded Siara and he gave the man a nod of thanks. Gervais gave a bellow and charged forward. Over his armsman's shoulder, Christoffer saw a cluster of Armen had formed up to block the way, arrows and swords readied. The knight bulled through them, his sword swinging in a red arc that sent Armen warriors tumbling away. After only a moment, the man had cut the last of them down, his armor splattered with blood. He pointed ahead and Christoffer saw a path that looked to lead up the side of the bluff towards higher ground.

  Christoffer looked back and saw Marines had followed, though many of them were weighted down with their equipment. He shouted at them, “Hurry, there isn't much time!”

  Gervais came back down, “My lord, we have to go.”

  Christoffer shook his head, “No, let's get as many as we can to safety. This is my fault, I'll not abandon them.”

  He could sense the tension from the younger man and part of Christoffer wondered if he would try to physically drag him away, but the knight just moved a bit further away, “This way!” he bellowed, “Quickly!”

  The first dozen Marines stumbled past and started up the trail. Christoffer stood on his toes to look over the stream of men and he cursed as he saw the horizon begin to rise. Ancestors, he thought, we're too late.

  The wave came in fast, yet with the same slow, stately grace of an avalanche. He saw the naval ships rise up and then fall, and thought he saw at least one troopship cant at an angle, as if it's bottom had struck rock, but then the wave rose higher and blocked the ships out of sight. It rose up, ten, fifteen, twenty feet and then, with awful majesty it rolled over the outer breaker of the harbor. The palisade disappeared under that wall of water and Christoffer tried not to think about the running figures of men that vanished with it.

  The boats in the harbor vanished under the muddy, frothing wave. Christoffer saw that the three captured ironclads were sheltered from the wave itself by the curve of the bluff, but the surge of water under their keels still ripped one of them free and then rolled it over and slammed it into the waterfront hard enough that the masts simply snapped and toppled.

  The buildings in the waterfront vanished, most of the wooden structures collapsed as if stomped upon by a giant. The frothing wall of death continued and boiled up the streets and Christoffer saw Colonel Gudel and his command party vanish, only a hundred feet away. Christoffer knew he should run, but the sheer devastation and calamity kept his feet rooted in place.

  The wall rose higher, ten or fifteen feet of muddy, debris-filled water that bore down on him and the handful of Marines and sailors with him.

  And then Gervais stepped into the way of it. He raised his shield and shouted something out. A moment later, the wall of water hit like a ram and Christoffer flinched, expecting to see Elias's son swept away and himself a moment later.

  Instead, the water struck an invisible barrier and it rose higher and higher against it under the weight of the water that came behind. Yet that barrier held and Christoffer could see the shimmer of energy that came from Gervais shield and the way that it smoked under the release of that energy. It could not, he knew hold out forever.

  It didn't have to. As quickly as it had come, the wave drained away. Gervais stumbled back, a moment later, his arms trembling and his armor steaming. Christoffer stepped forward, “Gervais, that was...” He trailed off as he couldn't find the words.

  “Sir!” Atop one of the buildings, Christoffer saw a cluster of Marines waving. One of them pointed further up the road, “Sir, there's Armen coming, a whole mess of them!”

  The full import of the disaster hit him then. His men, those that remained, were scattered, probably with many missing weapons and others wounded. The Armen would attack them now, while they were weakest and most disorganized. His lips went in a flat line, this is my fault, Christoffer thought, their blood is on my hands. But recriminations could wait, he had to save who he could.

  “Get down here!” Christoffer called. “We'll fall back to the waterfront!” He turned and faced the cluster of Marines and sailors behind him. Many of them still stared at Gervais with wide eyes. “Enough gawking,” Christoffer snapped. “We've got to get back to the waterfront, establish a perimeter...” he trailed off, before he said 'until the boats come back' for Colonel Gubel had ordered the boats to remain and so there wouldn't be enough of them aboard the ships to pick them up. “...and we'll hold the Armen there. Move!”

  He saw them scramble into motion, even as he drew his sword. He glanced at Gervais, “Can you fight?”

  The armsman nodded, though Christoffer could tell he was tired. “We'll have a fight on our hands soon. Worry about stopping them, let me protect myself,” Christoffer said.

  Gervais nodded, but Christoffer didn't miss how he formed the others up, so that Christoffer and Siara were at the center of their line. No sooner had they done so, then a mass of Armen boiled down the street, another tidal wave, but this one of flesh and steel.

  “For Boir!” Christoffer shouted, “For the Grand Duchy!”

  ***

  Christoffer wiped blood out of his eyes and gasped for breath as the latest Armen rush withdrew. He stepped back to lean against an overturned and shattered boat and looked around the perimeter. He would guess that as many as five hundred men had managed to survive both the wave and the counterattack, but certainly not many more than that.

  On the other hand, it seemed as if five or six thousand Armen had come to push them back into the water. Only the thick mud, knee or waist deep in many places, and the tangles of debris prevented the Armen from overwhelming them. That won't stop them for long, Christoffer thought. There was no way to evacuate, all the boats, both Armen and his own, were smashed or buried in mud. They were trapped, with the harbor at their backs and steadily growing numbers of Armen at their front.

  He glanced around at the men, many of them bedraggled and covered with mud and blood. I've failed them, he thought, just like I failed the men of the Northern Fleet.

  At that thought, though, his gaze went to where the two ironclads still sat, moored to the piers in the deepest part of the harbor. The third was overturned, one side jutting out of the mud, debris, and water only a dozen feet from the dock.

  The harbor was choked with deb
ris and mud. He wouldn't bet even money that one or both of the ships would be able to get clear, even if they had enough coal to awaken the ship's golems and get them under weigh. Still, he thought, it's our only chance. “Captain Steffan!” he barked.

  “Sir!” the Marine officer jogged forward, as best as he could, through the mud. He was, as far as Christoffer knew, the senior man present, besides himself.

  Christoffer pointed at the two ironclads. “Pull our sailors off the perimeter, get them onto those ships. Pull everyone else back, we'll back along the harbor until we're aboard those ships, and we'll hold the approaches.”

  Captain Steffan's face lit up, “Yes, sir!” He spun and began to bark out commands.

  Christoffer turned to where Siara worked on several of the wounded. “We'll need to move them.”

  She nodded, even as she stepped away. “There are some, my Lord, who won't survive being moved.” Her voice was subdued, as if seeing destruction on this scale had shocked her.

  Christoffer stepped forward and took one end of a stretcher, even as a nearby sailor took the other. “We won't survive if we don't.”

  She nodded at that. She picked up her satchel and followed, even as Gervais and the other armsmen formed a perimeter around them. “This isn't your fault, my Lord,” she said, her voice soft enough that only Christoffer heard.

  “It is,” Christoffer said. “I should have seen the signs earlier.” Still, there wasn't the time for recriminations, he knew. Outside the harbor, he saw that the other ships had set out, in case of another wave. Some part of him felt tempted to signal one or more to come in and pick up the survivors, but that held too much risk between the debris in the water and the chances that the Armen might overwhelm their perimeter and swarm aboard. I can't risk those ships, he thought darkly, men, both sailors and Marines, can be replaced, but those ships need to survive.

  Christoffer's arms ached as they worked their way through the debris along the docks towards the two ironclads. Both had mud and debris around them, but the harbor here looked somewhat clearer. Hopefully they could get at least one of them out to sea.

  He stumbled up to the gangplank and then shuffled aboard the nearest of the two ships, cautious with the weight of the stretcher. Once aboard, he saw that the sailors had already gone to work. Most of them had begun to clear the decks of debris and to try to unravel the tangle that the surge had made of the rigging. Christoffer doubted they'd get enough wind down over the bluffs for that to help, but he wasn't about to stop them. He heard cursing and movement below-decks too, so he assumed they were at work there as well.

  There was a crescendo of shouts and screams and Christoffer looked up to see that the Armen had assaulted his perimeter again. He saw the figure of Captain Steffan as he directed caster fire and ordered men into the fight. Damned good officer, Christoffer thought.

  The weakened perimeter began to collapse in on itself, though, even with his direction. It was an orderly collapse, Christoffer could tell, but it was still a withdrawal, and the Armen could see that, too. They pressed all the harder and Christoffer saw more and more Marines fall, even as their attackers fell around them.

  Below him, Christoffer heard a low groan and then another. The groan turned into a rumble and Christoffer felt some of his tension ease as he recognized the sound of the ship's golem. Steffan's perimeter had withdrawn all the way to the narrow docks that led towards the ships. Marines began to funnel back, then, many of them wounded. Christoffer bit back a curse as he saw Armen take to the water, swimming to try to cut them off. Thankfully the debris was too much and many of them struggled back to shore. Arrows arched down at the Marines as they withdrew and too many of them fell to the dock, still and lifeless, but the others continued their orderly withdrawal.

  “Cut the ropes,” Christoffer bellowed, even as he heard the ship's golem on the other ship roar into life. The groan of both vessels brought a cheer from the Marines and they began to pick up their pace.

  Axes came down on the ropes that held both ships alongside, just as the last Marines began to stumble aboard. With a groan, the ship lurched forward under his feet, fighting the suction of the mud. Christoffer stumbled as it lurched again and then settled into a steady movement, just as a boil of Armen tried to fight their way up the gangplank and sides.

  Christoffer stepped forward, his face drawn in anger as he thrust at one man's face and the Armen dropped away with a scream. Along the other ship, he saw Marines beat back the assault and then it, too, came away from the dock and slowly made for the harbor mouth.

  Arrows arched high as Armen at the waterfront and along the docks fired. Christoffer grabbed Siara and pulled her close under shelter of the bulwark as the arrows hissed down and thudded into the deck. Here and there, a man screamed, but their sounds of pain were drowned out by the cheers of the others as the ships inched out of the harbor.

  Christoffer looked up and he felt tears fill his eyes as the clean scent of the ocean rolled over him and washed away the stench of harbor mud and death.

  ***

  Lord Hector the Usurper Duke

  Hector wrinkled his nose in disgust as the stench of mud and death filled his nostrils. He looked over at Zabilla Nasrat, who had a disapproving frown on his face. “What, Commander Nasrat, why the disappointment, we won, did we not?”

  Zabilla nodded, “But we burned a bridge, my Lord.”

  Hector spat in the mud as he stared out at where Grand Duke Tarken's ships rode upon the waves. Even as he watched, they began to get under way and even he could admit to the beauty as the wind caught the sails of those big, proud ships. He shrugged, “Lord Tarken burned that bridge when he failed to mention that his own son was allied with the Armen. How could I trust him after that?” For that matter, it was damning enough evidence that he had arranged for the disaster that destroyed Boir's Northern Fleet as Lady Lindsee had suggested.

  He would admit, their conversation after the battle by the Grand Duke's signifier had not been a pleasant one. Hector well knew the pain of a lost battle and he had not expected the Armen spirits to be quite so devastating when he told Veruna Nasrat and Lady Moratha to focus their attentions only upon defending his forces. He also had not expected the battle to be quite as one-sided as it became, when his own forces finally launched their assault and overwhelmed the approaches to the town. The Armen had been so focused on Grand Duke Tarken's people that they hadn't seen his forces coming until it was too late.

  “Besides,” Hector said, “We sent him the rescued captives we found, didn't we?” To date, the town had the largest set of slave-pens he'd captured. Many of the occupants had turned out to be from Boir, so he had sent them over as a parting gift.

  Even so, he felt a bit of regret at how it had turned out. He had not expected the Armen to savage the Grand Duke's forces quite so badly as they had. He could admit he regretted the losses of fighting men more than he did any pain it might cause Lord Tarken. Good men didn't deserve to die from a trap like the Armen shamans had arranged.

  Still, it wasn't all bad, he knew. He stared at the half-buried shape of the ironclad, still on its side, masts broken off, yet still with a predatory look to its bulk that suggested a sleeping dragon rather than a beached whale. “How long to dig her up and right her?” Hector asked as he gestured at the vessel.

  Zabilla shrugged, “A month, maybe more, depending on how hard you want me to work the prisoners.” His tone was calm, almost bored, but it didn't fool Hector. Zabilla would be angry over how he had betrayed Lord Tarken, but he would stay loyal to the man who had defended his homeland.

  Hector considered that as he looked over to where the captured Armen warriors squatted, guarded by a ring of locals. He shrugged, then, “Work them to death,” he said coldly, “the market with the Vendakar slavers is glutted anyway, might as well get some use of them.” Atrimar, of course, had already come and gone, taking the prettiest of the Armen women and boys.

  He turned away, his mind already going to a myriad
of other problems. If they could recover the ironclad or even just enough of it to get good drawings, then it would help his own naval plans immensely. That, though, would have to wait. The news that Kerrel was badly wounded and probably dying had been confirmed. Darkbit had gone out of communications again, one of his lackeys had said something about marching on a rebellious town. The entire south, it seemed, had gone mad... and Hector would have to go south and do something about it.

  ***

  Herald Aramer Jameson

  Near Tucola Lake, Duchy of Masov

  6th of Laurel, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering

  Aramer knelt next to the camp cot and watched Kerrel's chest move, ever so slightly as she breathed. It was the slightest of motions, easily missed. Along with her pale skin and hollow eyes, it would be easy to mistake her for a corpse.

  “Not long now,” the healer said. “I'm sorry, I've done what I can, but it's too much for her body to take.”

  “No,” Aramer said harshly, “she's not dead yet.” He had used up every ounce of energy he had to keep her alive and he'd seen the healer do everything he could as well, but he felt her slipping away as whatever it was ate away at her, body and soul.

  The healer looked up at Jonal, who shook his head. Without another word, the healer departed. Aramer did his best to ignore that as he stared at Kerrel. I can't fail her, he thought, not like Moira.

  “We sent the message, as you requested,” Jonal said. “Perhaps you should get some sleep.”

  Aramer looked up at him with dead eyes. “I'll sleep when she is healthy again.”

  It was Jonal who looked away. As well he should, Aramer thought, for if he had sent the messenger when Aramer first asked, this wouldn't be the issue it was now. She'll come, Aramer thought, she'll come and she'll heal Kerrel, if only to be free of my debt.

  Jonal scowled, “I thought mages were common here in Masov, why isn't there one around when we need one, anyway?” His irritation was clearly a distraction from his own pain, not that Aramer cared much.