by Dragonlance
What the piece of Maladar in Azar’s head might be thinking.
“At least this is the last one of these,” Shedara said. “No more kings to come, now that Calex is here.”
Essana nodded. “Yes. Now all that’s left are the actual war councils—with nine kings who all consider themselves the strategic heirs of Porfaran the Cunning, and who all have different ideas for how the battle should be led. I can hardly wait.”
Shedara laughed, but as she made her way out of the palace and into Suluk’s fog-shrouded streets and courtyards, she realized it wasn’t all that funny. She stood in the last nation left with the strength and will to oppose the Faceless Emperor, and it was divided among too many squabbling rulers. She’d seen enough signs of division already, and the war council hadn’t really begun yet. If there was a hope of stopping Maladar, she didn’t think it was coming from the Rainwards after all.
Where would it come from, then? She didn’t know.
She found Hult in the Square of the Mariners, a courtyard above the waterfront that was so broad, the buildings at its edges were only dim shadows in the fog. Massive statues of Rainward sea captains—none of whose names she recognized—loomed in the mist, bronze but stained green with age and white with gull droppings, their heads hidden from sight. Beneath them, armies clad in Suluki blue and green and the colors of two other kingdoms (one wore the white and black of Ios, the other Mazanti scarlet) marched in formation, sparred with wooden swords, shot arrows at barrel butts, and other things armies did to keep busy before a fight.
The warriors of the isles were quite good, well trained with both blade and bow, but Hult was better. A mob of soldiers had knotted around him, cursing and drinking and wagering. Shedara had to elbow her way through the crowd to get to the front. When she did, she saw why so many men had gathered: Hult was fighting three men at once, his curved wooden sword weaving back and forth as he parried.
No, wait—four men. One had gone down already, his left eye swollen shut and turning an alarming shade of purple; he was getting up again, struggling back to his feet while his comrades cheered him on. The others encircled Hult, feinting and drawing back, searching for weaknesses. He drove them back again and again, and sent another one sprawling with a crack of his sword across the man’s shoulders. The weapon was more familiar in his hand than the blade he’d borne since Kristophan; the first thing he’d done after their reception with the king was to trade that straight-bladed sword for a Rainward-style scimitar, which was closer to the shuk he’d wielded for most of his life. It improved his fighting; as she watched, he disarmed the man with the black eye and put him down for good with a thrust to the stomach that left him on his knees.
Shedara smiled and folded her arms across her chest, enjoying herself for the first time that day. Hult was a simple man, and she liked him for that. Perhaps not enough to kiss him again—she honestly wasn’t sure.
The crowd roared again; a fifth soldier, wielding a long-hafted flail, had just waded into the fray. His weapon whipped through the air, and Hult ducked just as it was about to crack his skull. As Hult went down, his foot swept sideways and took out one of his opponents’ legs; the man landed flat on his back with a yell and stayed down, groaning and clutching his side. Hult sprang back up again, his sword whistling in an arc that connected with the flail-wielder’s wrist. There was the unmistakable, sickening crack of bone, and the man screamed, dropped his weapon, and staggered away, his hand pointing at too sharp an angle with his arm. Someone shouted for a Mislaxan; a healer in a sky-blue vest was already hurrying across the courtyard, looking annoyed.
There was only one left: a big, beefy man with mustaches that hung down well past his jaw, weighted with amber beads. He had short blades in either hand and whirled them in hypnotic patterns, in and out, back and forth. Hult turned to face his last foe, his face and bare chest—he’d stripped to the waist for the fight—glistening in the mist. The beefy man stood very still, swords held low, knees bent, and waited.
“You first,” Hult said.
Shedara smiled. This was going to be good.
Then it was over, without a blow struck, for all eyes turned toward the harbor, where the hulks of burned ships were mere blurs in the fog. Hands clapped onto weapons. Voices whispered. Soldiers started running as their officers shouted. Shedara stood still and caught Hult’s eye. He looked grim. Together, they gazed out at the harbor.
In the gloom, out of sight, a massive iron bell was ringing, one single note, over and over. A boat had reached the breakwater: just a lone vessel, not Maladar’s horde—not yet—but not another Rainward king either. There weren’t any left to come.
“A scout,” Hult said. “Has to be.”
Shedara nodded. “That can only mean one thing.”
They shared the same thoughts. The hobgoblins had been sighted crossing the Grayveil. The enemy was on its way. And still Shedara wondered what Maladar was up to.
Chapter
15
SQUARE OF THE MARINERS, SULUK
The sword felt right in his hand. The balance was, if not quite what he’d grown used to, close enough. The blade had the right amount of curve to it. It had only one edge, but that edge was keen enough to cut through steel plate. The Rainwarders called their blades talga, but to Hult it was the closest thing to a proper shuk as he might ever wield again.
He held the blade low, eyes closed, picturing the enemy in his head. They’d been waiting for hours, the soldiers massed along the waterfront, the wizards standing ready in the square beneath Sevenspires, which were lost in the mist high above. Two more scouts had reported back, telling of the hobgoblins’ progress; many of their crude boats had fallen apart or foundered when waves swept over them, but they were still coming … and steadily. By the guesses Hult had heard, they would arrive shortly before nightfall, streaming right into Suluk’s harbor and the teeth of the Rainwards’ armies. Even though all the kings had sent troops, though, the word was that the enemy outnumbered the city’s defenders three to one, and there was still Maladar to consider as well. But there wasn’t much they could do about that—certainly nothing Hult himself could do. If the Faceless Emperor entered the fray, it would be the sorcerers’ problem, not his. They would have to fight magic with magic.
So they waited. The soldiers, clad in the colors of each of the kingdoms—violet and gray and sea-green and the others—peered into the fog as if they might make the hobgoblins’ rafts appear through sheer will. The hours wore on as they waited for the iron harbor bell to sound again.
Hult shook his head, chuckling.
“What are you laughing at?” Shedara asked, sitting on a stone bollard nearby. She had one of her throwing daggers out and was flipping it from hand to hand, the knife spinning in the air with each toss.
“I was just thinking,” he said. “I’ve never been on this side of a raid before. The Uigan were always the ones doing the attacking.”
“Ah,” she said, flipping and catching again. “What do you think of it, then? Being on the defensive, I mean.”
Hult ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t say I like it.”
“You’ve learned something, then.”
They glanced down the wharf at the soldiers arrayed along the length of the shore. They stretched from one end of the harbor to the other, anywhere from three to five ranks deep, thicker in places where the seawall was lower and the hobgoblins more likely to come ashore. Here and there, the head and shoulders of a centaur towered above his fellows, or an apparent gap in the ranks marked where a dwarf stood. Many held bows ready, quivers of arrows on their backs, the fletching a rainbow of kingdoms’ colors. Others had poleaxes, and those in the rear held long pikes that could reach over and between the forward ranks. Almost all had large shields too, bound with iron and emblazoned with the sigils of their realms.
“You ought to have a shield,” Shedara said. “It might save your life.”
Hult shook his head. “I’ve never really used one. This se
ems a bad time to be trying a new style of fighting. What about you? Where’s yours?”
She tossed the dagger into the air, snatched it out again, and snapped it neatly back into its sheath on her belt. When it was tucked away, she held up her hand, her fingers wiggling.
“Mage,” she said. “Remember? I can’t cast anything with a shield strapped to my arm.”
Hult grunted. “What are you doing down here, then? I’d think you would prefer to be up above, with the other wizards.”
“I don’t have that kind of power,” she replied. “My spells are for close-up work, not raining death from afar. And you’ll want my blades around when I can’t cast anything more.”
“You have an answer for everything,” Hult said.
Shedara grinned. He wanted to kiss her again, but it wasn’t the time. Later, maybe, if they both lived through the day. He peered out into the fog again, seeing only the distant glow of torches on the breakwater, and the slanting shadows of the ships the soldiers had burned and sunk that morning. He dropped into a squat, his talga laid across his knees.
He didn’t like being on the other side at all.
Hult had actually dropped off to sleep when the iron bell began to ring again—not fully unconscious, but drowsing where he crouched, lulled by the sound of lapping waves. He could have been flat on his back snoring, though, and the sudden clamor from across the water, coupled with the burst of nervous chatter among the soldiers, would have had him on his feet in a heartbeat. His legs ached as he rose and gave his talga a few short, quick snaps back and forth. It whistled through the air.
“Enough of that,” Shedara said. “You know how to swing that thing. Get your bow out.”
She stood ready, alert, her hands empty at her sides, her lips moving—going over her spells. The bell’s ringing was constant, not one or two notes over and over; this was no scouting boat returning with more word about the hobgoblins.
No. This was it.
He slid his sword back into its sheath and picked up his bow from where it lay. It was a Rainward bow, longer on its top limb than the bottom, so an archer could kneel as he shot. Its pull was far stronger than anything the Uigan used. Still, he’d gotten the hang of it easily over the past few days. He reached to his quiver and pulled out a crimson-fletched arrow, fitting it on the string. All along the harbor, soldiers were doing the same, standing ready, waiting for the command to aim and loose.
The murmuring died away. Without warning, the bell stopped, and someone let out a choking cry. A terrible silence fell … then, through the fog, came a new, horrible noise: a tumult of shrieks and howls and snarls that made Hult’s mouth run dry. There were thousands of voices, made flat and hollow by the mist. Out across the water, weapons clashed against shields or against each other. They had come—the first dim shapes of their rafts fading into view, just beyond the breakwater—and the clumsy slap of oars in unskillful hands rose amid the battle cries.
“Lift the fog,” Shedara muttered. “Come on, Roshambur … get rid of this stuff already.”
Hult frowned, wondering what she was talking about; then, all at once, voices high above began to shout spidery words. Moon power rippled in the air, warming it, making it even muggier and heavier than before. And, all at once, it began to rain.
It was not just rain, it was a downpour, the rain hammering down on Suluk in thick, heavy sheets. It was like one of the summer storms that battered the Tamire, only there was no thunder, no lightning, no wind; it was simply as if the sky itself had turned to water and come crashing down. It cascaded down streets in frothing rivers, poured out into the harbor in foaming cataracts. And as it rained and rained, things began to change.
The fog began to disappear.
Hult realized it was happening only when the sunken ships at the harbor mouth faded into view. Glances to either side revealed more of the city’s defenders, arrayed between the sheer, rocky cliffs to the east and west of the city. He glanced back, just for an instant, and saw a jumble of stone buildings, and green and blue spires scattered up a steep slope behind him: all Suluk was visible for the first time since he’d come there. Above, in the courtyard before the palace and atop each of its towers, stood hundreds of robed figures: the war mages of the Rainwards, arrayed for battle. Most were chanting, drawing in energy to dissipate the fog. Their hands danced, weaving in the shimmering air.
“Blood of Lunis,” Shedara swore, her voice so soft he barely heard it at all. “Look at that.”
He turned to stare across the harbor. Dozens of wrecked boats listed heavy in the water, some still smoldering even then. Beyond them, the sea was black with crude, leaky craft: a thousand boats at least.
The horde had come.
“Bows ready!” shouted the Rainward officers, up and down the lines. “Front ranks low!”
At that command, the archers in the forefront knelt, raising their bows, aiming them high. The men behind them stayed on their feet and aimed even higher. The first shots would fly long, to the utmost extent of their range. Perhaps Eldako might have been able to hit a mark at such a distance; most bowmen could not … not intentionally, anyway. Yet hundreds of shafts, all flying at once, was a different matter. Some were bound to hit targets, if just by chance. Hult had heard tales on the Tamire of entire raiding bands getting slaughtered when they charged a proper group of Alan-Atu archers. The Uigan had long since learned better than to try.
Either the hobgoblins told no such tales or they didn’t care. Anyway, their numbers were too great for bows alone to stop. Fortunately, though, bows weren’t all the Rainwarders had. From the watches above, the chanting grew louder. The air smelled clean and crisp, like just before a thunderstorm, but the rain was letting up, and the sun was shining through the scattering clouds. Its light was red and heavy, hanging just above the cliffs at Suluk’s western edge: a bloody sun for a bloody day.
Hult raised his bow.
“Good luck,” Shedara said.
He nodded. “Jijin’s sword at your back.”
The hobgoblins crawled closer, moving past the breakwater, roaring and shouting; those who weren’t rowing were bashing their swords against their shields. They made it to the burned-out hulks and immediately fell into trouble. Some struck sunken spars and masts, which tore their rafts apart and sent them plunging into the water; others swerved to miss the obstacles and slammed into other boats when they did. Bellicose shouts turned into panicked death howls as the hobgoblins’ armor dragged them down. The water churned and frothed, but the boats claimed only one boat in five: good, but not good enough. The hobgoblins were too close to turn back or even to slow: blood and plunder drove them, and nothing would make them give up trying to reach the shore.
“Hold!” the officers shouted. Down the lines, one or two archers let off hasty shots that fell short of the advancing rafts, but most kept still. They knew their ranges, knew the enemy wasn’t close enough yet. “Hold!”
The wizards landed the first blows. Thunder pealed from on high, and a volley of lightning bolts, sizzling blue and violet in the ruddy twilight, arced overhead. They struck the lead boats, blowing them apart with a boom that made Hult’s ears ring. Shards of flaming timber and torn shreds of flesh flew through the air, amid gouts of spray. Men all along the wharf cheered; cries of dismay echoed from the horde. Fire quickly followed the lightning, billowing golden tongues that fell upon the boats and engulfed them, turning them into floating cinders. Hult winced as the heat washed over him. The hobgoblins shrieked as they burned, flapping their arms as they madly tried to save themselves and leaping into the water—only to sink like the rest.
Another spell went off, a blossom of white light overhead, raining silver motes down. Massive black tentacles rose from the water and began to batter and crush the rafts. One of the wizards had conjured some beast; the creature reminded Hult of the Vaka-te-nok he and his friends had fought in Neron, but much larger and more fearsome. It tore apart fifty boats, he guessed, while the hobgoblins hacked at its
many arms, to no avail. Their swords bounced off its rubbery hide as it ripped them apart.
A brass horn blew from across the harbor—a signal to the soldiers. As one, they drew back their strings to their cheeks. Hult did the same, his arm burning from the weight of the pull. Beside him, Shedara’s hands and lips worked, drawing down magic and shaping it.
Guide my shots, Jijin, Hult thought. Help me.
“Loose!” shouted the officers, and the bowmen obeyed. With a low thrum, they let go all at once, and the sky grew dark with arrows. Hult lost track of his shot amid the storm and watched the arrows climb high—a thousand soaring shafts—then drop like a hail of death onto the enemy fleet.
From across the water came the clatter and chunk of arrows striking wood and flesh. Hobgoblins screamed. Rafts capsized. The archers drew their second shots and launched again, then their third, and on and on. The harbor waters darkened with black hobgoblin blood. The creatures began to shove at each other, paddling madly, backing water—anything to get out of the archers’ lethal sights. A few broke through the slaughter, pushing on toward the wharf as more lightning and fire and sparking white darts rained down from the wizards. The smells of burning, both wood and flesh, stung Hult’s nose and made his eyes water.
The Rainwarders were winning. They were keeping the hobgoblins at bay.
But there weren’t enough arrows to last forever, Hult thought as he drew and loosed his eighth shot, then his ninth. The Rainward fletchers could have toiled for a month, and they wouldn’t have made enough shafts to stop the countless enemy. Some of the archers were beginning to tire too, their shafts falling short. They would hold back the hobgoblins for a while longer, enough for five or six more volleys, before the scattered rafts broke through in a flood. Even with the support of the mages above, it was only a matter of time before the enemy reached the shore.