by Erik A Otto
“I think you’d better work on it right away.” Timothur gestured vaguely at an arrow slit next to him.
The Purveyor wore a confused frown as he walked over and looked into the slit Timothur had referenced. Then his frown disappeared. “Oh, I see. Yes, right away, then.”
Aisha hobbled over and took a look for herself.
In the distance, a huge dust cloud rose like smoke from a brushfire on a windy day. In front of it was a great swarm of men, horses, and carriages. It must have been twenty thousand strong. In the foreground were a number of cavalry units, with the blue and gold sigils close enough that she could see them.
The Great Defender’s army was taking position on the northern plain.
Chapter 19
The General
Timothur watched from the front battlements as the last of the Great Defender’s cavalry filtered away through the infantry that retreated in the same direction.
He had used every attempt to delay the Great Defender’s offensive. The envoy from the Great Defender had to wait almost an hour for their official response, and in that response, Timothur had said he wished to engage in negotiations on the following day. But no, they wouldn’t go for it. They were told they were to surrender immediately, or the army would attack.
The first wave came soon after.
The envoy made it clear that all those who had taken the keep—Timothur included—were considered infidels. And if they lost the keep, they would be considered so for eternity. This was why, as strange as it seemed, Timothur’s greatest hope was that the Cenarans would arrive soon. Perhaps then the Great Defender’s army would recognize the folly of attacking the keep and turn to fight the greater foe.
Provided the Great Defender wasn’t a traitor.
The worst outcome, in Timothur’s estimation, would be for the Great Defender to launch a massive offensive against the keep. This would deplete the keep’s defenses and reduce the Great Defender’s army. Then the Cenarans would come and mop up both sides of the war-weary Belidorans with ease.
Thankfully, the first wave of the Great Defender’s army didn’t appear to be a full-blown offensive. It was made up of no more than two hundred cavalry and five hundred men. The cavalry had led the advance and circled around the keep behind the moat, firing arrows at the battlements. Meanwhile, the infantry assailed the gates with a battering ram, and some tried to fix ladders up against the walls. The archers were too far away and the battlements too well defended for there to be any real damage. Likewise, the keep garrison, strengthened by Timothur and Aisha’s men, easily pushed away the ladders. The infantry managed only two rams to the outer gate before they fled. In all of this, only two men in the keep were injured.
It was a weak attack for such a great army, but Timothur wasn’t fooled into a false sense of security. Timothur suspected that it was an opportunity to test the defenses of the keep while the rest of the Great Defender’s force prepared for something bigger. And it was for this reason that Timothur withheld the burning fats and long halberds that could be controlled from behind the walls, as well as the gargoyle.
Timothur wasn’t confident their defenses would last if the Great Defender sent everything. They could launch burning fats of their own to light the walls on fire, or to torment and confuse the archers on the front battlements, limiting their ability to impede the infantry. Also, the gates weren’t invincible; he’d seen the Matar bone bend with the force of the ram with his own eyes. It might last ten hits, it might even last twenty, but it wouldn’t last a hundred.
Timothur made to leave the battlements, but first Palantos was there, awaiting orders.
At first Timothur hadn’t quite trusted Palantos, especially after the incident in northern Thelonia when he’d tried to take command of the army. But after spending more time with him, Timothur chalked it up more to military ambition than treachery, and he’d come to terms that Vanaden was the likely culprit of any treasonous activity.
Timothur put his hand on Palantos’s shoulder. “Well executed, Palantos. See to the men, and then let’s meet in the courtyard in an hour for further instructions.”
Darian lurked behind Palantos, whispering softly. He nodded his head to Timothur as he passed.
No one was to be trusted completely, of course, except for a precious few. He’d given Darian the title of captain and asked him to shadow Palantos—to see if he did anything suspicious. Darian would also watch the other men for signs of treason. He seemed to have a good sense for mutinous behavior.
Traitors could be anywhere. They could remain within the ranks of nobles and clerics who’d elected to stay at the keep, within the garrison, or within Aisha and Timothur’s forces. Perhaps even the Purveyor’s men might harbor traitors. To address this, Timothur had given the command that no one was to travel through the keep in less than assigned groups of three. This way everyone could be watched, and if one or two in a group turned out to be traitors, the others could sound the alarm.
Timothur had to follow his own orders sometimes, but luckily he could pick his companions. “Hella, Milliken, come with me, please.” He walked to the same staircase they had used to charge the gatehouse and gestured for them to follow.
Milliken was a slim man with a drooping eyelid that sometimes made him look a bit slow. Timothur had known him for several years, and although not particularly effective at command, he was an excellent soldier. More importantly, he was someone Timothur was glad to have at his back.
Hella was…Hella. Since he’d committed to taking the keep, she seemed almost happy, if her sarcasm-laced commentary could be any indication. Perhaps she felt vindicated, or maybe she felt some release from no longer being cast as a traitor. He could have had another of the higher-ranking subordinates with him, or someone with better fighting prowess, but this could be the end of them all, so he allowed himself the solace of her company. Besides, Hella was sharp and wasn’t afraid of expressing her opinions.
“So, General, what’s next?” she asked as she fell in step behind him. Milliken trailed her.
“I need to know how much time we have. I need to know when the Cenarans will come.”
“So how will you find that out?” she asked.
“Sebastian may know.”
“You seek the truth from the Truthseeker? I wish you luck. The Purveyor has said he’s been less forthcoming of late.”
Timothur could only nod in agreement.
They crossed the courtyard toward the entryway that led down to the Holy Sanctum.
He had assigned Nala and Sebastian to be together with the Purveyor. Timothur figured Sebastian and the Purveyor could do well working together on the drawbridge or the defenses. As for Nala, he knew he couldn’t separate her and Sebastian. Otherwise Sebastian might literally fly away. Their relationship was one that Timothur didn’t understand, but whatever they shared, their bond was strong.
Nala and Sebastian were far from productive, however. They would sit about playing games unearthed from the library while the Purveyor worked on repairing the drawbridge with his Fringe engineers. Yes, Hella was right about Sebastian. He seemed uncommunicative lately, and he often shot snarky looks at them whenever his time with Nala was interrupted.
They descended the spiral stairs and entered the utility room to see the Purveyor loading up his Fringe torch with burning fats. A couple of other Fringe men were digging out the upper corner of the room, trying to recover the chain that had snapped back into the earth when the Purveyor had first cut it.
Nala and Sebastian were in the opposite corner of the room, nibbling on bread and looking at a few colorful books.
The Fringe men took a pause when Timothur entered.
The Purveyor reported, “We should have the drawbridge back up in a few hours. We’ve located the chain end that escaped into the earth, but we still need to extract it and mend it. Once the metal has cooled, we can raise it again, although the tension may not be as strong as before.”
Timothur nodded. “Good
. Well done. The first wave from the Great Defender’s army has been repulsed, but they’ll be back.”
The Purveyor nodded, a tired look in his eyes. He and the other Fringe men went back to work.
Sebastian and Nala didn’t seem to notice the exchange. It irked Timothur that they didn’t care about the defenses, or even about the outcome of a hard-fought battle in their defense. “Sebastian, you’re the most in the know here,” Timothur said. “From what you’ve heard and seen, tell me, what’s your best guess on when the Cenarans arrive?”
Sebastian looked up from his whispers with Nala, a smile fading from his face. “I’ve already told you, General, I don’t know.”
“You must have an estimate. What did this man tell you, the one named Ysodore up in Sambai?”
“He said they would come over the Great Ocean to commence their attack on the first day of the Internecion,” Sebastian answered.
“There was no other time frame given on their arrival? Do they arrive on the first day, or do they leave from Cenara on the first day? There’s a big difference.”
“I’ve told you all that I know.” Sebastian turned away from Timothur.
Timothur glanced at the Purveyor, who shrugged helplessly.
Timothur raised his voice. “Is it that you think you can just fly away with Nala at the first sign of danger? I will not allow it. I will shoot you down if you flee. You will suffer the same fate as the rest of us, Truthseeker.”
Sebastian glanced up at him, then turned away, unabashed. He said quietly, “That much is true.”
Timothur grabbed his arm. “There’s something more that you know. Tell us! Our lives are at stake here, Sebastian!”
“I’ve told you all I know about when the Cenarans will arrive,” Sebastian said slowly. His eyes were evasive, stubbornly focused on his book.
Timothur’s rage was rising, but he could feel Hella’s hand on his arm, tempering him. Why was Sebastian acting so defeated?
Maybe it wasn’t worth pursuing. Pushing him further could backfire. He controlled the gargoyle, and Timothur planned to use it, at the very least to frighten the next wave from the Great Defender.
Timothur turned in a huff, with his hands in fists. “Come,” he said to Hella and Milliken, and they followed him back up the stairs.
“It’s not just you. He acts like this with everyone,” Hella said to his back.
“That gives me no comfort.”
Hella continued, “There are some that are afraid, General. There are some that see the vast army of the Great Defender and tremble. Others wonder if we should flee. Maybe this is what goes on in Sebastian’s mind. Perhaps we need to quell his fears, not instill more fear in him. Or is that the Granth way?”
He turned to her. “What would you have me do? Placate him with nauseous platitudes? He needs to know the peril that we face so that he and Nala will fight for their lives. There’s no room for compassion or complacency here. And remember whom it is you speak of. He has evaded the Matagon Monks for months. He has climbed out of a mine during the Day of Ascendancy. He has spent weeks on the Snail Mountains facing unspeakable cold and arrived at a place hundreds, perhaps thousands, have failed to reach. No, this man doesn’t know fear. This isn’t why he is quiet and despondent. He’s hiding something.”
She looked down for a moment, then up into his eyes again. “You know, General, there’s one thing that I’ve never told you.”
“What’s that?” he asked, expecting some sarcastic barb.
“It’s a rare occurrence, and I prefer to ignore it when it happens, but sometimes you’re right.” Her lips curled up into a precocious smile when she finished speaking.
Her eyes were vivid and focused. The force of them made him look down. She still reminded him of her, yet he noticed subtle differences, her own unique and alluring differences.
He knew with her contrition she was trying to quell his rage, and he had to admit, it worked. He nodded. “Yes, but perhaps I’m too harsh, Hella. Perhaps this distracts us. Let’s focus on something else, where progress can be made.”
They ventured into the courtyard where his leftenants waited for him.
Soon he was lost in the logistics of dealing with the aftermath of the first wave from the Great Defender and the more numerous preparations that were necessary for the next one.
Timothur awoke to a knocking at his door. He jumped out of bed, grabbed his sword, and went to open it. In front of him stood Darian, Palantos and his chamber guard.
Timothur hastily began donning his leather armor. He croaked, “Did they send another wave? I didn’t hear any alarm bells.”
Palantos replied, “No, sir. I’m sorry. There has been…treachery, sir.”
Once roughly attired, Timothur raced down the stairs to the courtyard to be met by ten more of his men.
“It’s the drawbridge, sir. Someone has destroyed the gear system,” Palantos explained.
They continued into the Holy Sanctum, running down the stairs as fast as their feet would carry them.
Palantos briefed him as they neared the utility room. “A librarian and his apprentice noticed it as they adjourned for the night. They told us of…this.”
The utility room was in disarray, with the great chains like loose serpents on the ground. The spinning gear wheels were fractured and splintered, and black soot covered much of the room, in places mixing with two fresh pools of blood.
Three of his men were already there. They were inspecting the room and lifting two of their fallen comrades from the mess. A man, looking to be some kind of noble—if it could be judged by his colorful clothing replete with buttons and ruffled sleeves—lay on the floor. He had a deep gash in his head. His eyes were glazed in death.
There was another man sitting in the corner, his head arched back. Timothur could tell by his infantry uniform that he was one of his men. Palantos walked toward him, and Timothur followed.
Palantos said, “Ryhain, please, tell us again what happened.”
Ryhain looked pale. Timothur saw a patch of blood on his abdomen. A wound there could be bad, sometimes mortal.
Ryhain said, “We were guarding the room, and I went to the privy, sir. Someone must have been hiding and watching us, waiting until one of us left. I tried to get into the library, but it was closed, so I returned up the stairs to find the room aflame and Ulma and Janus dead. There were three of them in here, destroying everything. I surprised them and managed to kill one. That one.” He pointed to the dead noble. “There was another man and his daughter…or maybe apprentice? He cut me, and then they ran. Sir, I’m sorry, I—”
Timothur interrupted, “Apologies aren’t necessary, Ryhain. You did what you could and fought valiantly. Would you be able to identify these people?”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Ryhain said.
“I can have him render some drawings as the medic tends his wound,” Palantos suggested. “Then we can ask around to find out who these people are.”
Timothur started pacing the room. Given the clutter, he walked only a few steps before he had to turn. Instead of continuing to pace, he pivoted, planted his feet and faced the wall. While standing there he shifted his weight side to side as he mulled over the situation.
The drawbridge might be permanently disabled. Beyond that, there were at least two traitors on the loose. His order to keep in groups of three hadn’t worked. These traitors must have secretly planned to meet up in the middle of the night to pull off this plot.
But if they didn’t kill Ryhain, surely they knew they could be identified, which meant…
“Palantos, have the medics tend to Ryhain, and come with me immediately.”
They ran back up the stairs to the courtyard. Throwing the door open, Timothur addressed a number of men who’d congregated there. “Have any of you checked the gatehouse?”
They stared blankly at one another, then back at Timothur.
“Come with me, all of you!”
They climbed the stairs two steps at a
time. As soon as Timothur exited onto the battlements, he knew he’d been right. The doors to the gatehouse were closed, and two guards were slumped over along the walkway, leaking red.
Timothur turned to his men and placed his finger to his lips. He crept up to the door. Inside the gatehouse he could hear clanging sounds, as if a Fringe smith was at work in a forge, bending some heathen implement.
Timothur stepped cautiously around the arc to the other side of the gatehouse, with five of his men in tow. The door was closed on the other side as well, and two more guards were down nearby. Of these, one was dead, a deep gash in the center of his chest. The other held on to his neck as blood trickled from his hand. He made raspy noises with his breathing.
The downed man tried to speak, but it came out in a whisper. “There were only two, but some—” He coughed and gurgled, blood spewing from his mouth and onto his chest. He put his other hand out to hold their attention while he managed to stabilize his breathing. “The man surprised us, and he…we got him, in the gut, but the girl, she tricked us. The Conductor’s apprentice, the black-haired one. We thought she was a captive…”
Timothur nodded and propped the man up to a more erect position. “Hold on, private. I don’t like giving medals to dead men,” he said. Timothur gestured to two of the men to attend to him.
Could it really be Perenna? She had no children at the Cena school. In fact, she was one of the most devout apprentices he knew, having one of the highest exam scores in recent memory.
Timothur moved over to one of the gatehouse arrow slits and cautiously put his eye to it.
Sure enough, there she was. She was levering a pry bar against the complex interlocking Matar-bone system that kept the front gate up and in place. Bone, wood, and silverstone rivets had been plied and pulled away from the structure. Her long dark hair had fallen from its usual immaculate preparation, possibly as a result of her exertions, and for once her face wasn’t framed by it. The absent hair made clear the arrows of scars that struck out from her eye across her temple, many of which looked to be newly minted. Her motive was clear then, for these were the indelible scars of Cenaran worship. She must have kept them hidden from the whole keep, even from the Conductor.
