The Weapon Takers Saga Box Set

by Jamie Edmundson

  Gustav handed Farred the ropes, undressed himself, and proceeded to climb onto the table.

  I take it back, Farred thought to himself. I’m tying up a grown man—naked, by the way—onto a table.

  Farred looped the rope around the wizard and the table, pulling hard on each before tying them off.

  Gustav didn’t waste any time. He began muttering to himself, and then his whole body began to shake, seemingly uncontrollably. Farred turned Gustav’s head to one side, and with one hand held it down onto the table so that he didn’t bang himself. He used his other hand to put weight onto the wizard’s back.

  Gustav then let out a loud, throaty cry of pain, and Farred could see the change happen right before his eyes.

  The wizard’s legs sprouted talons where his toes had been. Feathers sprouted all over his body, countless shades of brown, grey and cream, including a tail that reached out beyond his legs. A sharp beak extended out of his face where his nose had been, pushing his eyes out to the sides. All the while this was happening, his body shrunk in size, so that the ropes, which had been tight moments before, loosened until they weren’t holding him at all.

  Farred released his hold and backed away a couple of paces, alarmed at what he had witnessed. Gustav the Hawk, for now his nickname made perfect, dreadful sense, stood up and looked at Farred. The bird’s eyes that stared at him were the same colour as the man’s had been before the transformation. For some reason, that was one of the things that disturbed him most, and it would be those hawk eyes that haunted his dreams over the next few nights.

  Farred remembered that Gustav had wanted him to help him to the window. He looked cautiously at the wicked, curved talons of the hawk, sharp enough to slash through clothes and skin, strong enough to mangle his arm. Gustav had said his mind would be intact. But still...

  Tentatively, Farred held out his arm. Slowly, Gustav walked towards it and climbed on, holding onto Farred with only the gentlest pressure. Carefully, Farred turned around and took him to the window. Gustav stared at him again with those large, brown eyes. Farred leaned his arm out of the window and the hawk was gone in an instant, it’s powerful wings beating fast as it developed the speed required to fly. Farred followed its flight until he lost sight of it.

  He turned and looked around at the empty room. What was he supposed to do now? He decided quickly. Gustav had said nothing about waiting for him, and Farred made straight for the door.

  ‘How many days have we been here now?’ asked Shira, her bored tone an attempt to hide her increasing frustration and anger.

  Every day seemed to be identical to the last. She watched as the Kellish defended their wall on the large crag. The flags of Gotbeck and Rotelegen, the Mace and the Rooster, flew on the opposite crag. Hadn’t the Gotbeckers manned the path yesterday? Maybe it had been the Luderians—she couldn’t remember, and didn’t care.

  ‘It’s been a week,’ replied her uncle, Koren, to what Shira had largely meant as a rhetorical question.

  A week. Arioc had conquered the Grand Caladri in a day, and she couldn’t take one fortress in a week. Like every other day, Shira, Koren, and the Isharite wizard, Mehrab, had travelled from their camp to the castle, to observe the siege. Not that they had intervened once. Roshanak and his wizards were in control, sending the Drobax against the Brasingian defences in one mindless attack after another.

  ‘What about Baldwin?’ she demanded of Mehrab. She had ordered him to use his Isharite wizards to kill the Emperor, and thereby crush the morale of the enemy.

  She heard Koren sign, letting her know his displeasure at the idea, but chose to ignore him.

  ‘We have sent soldiers into the Emperor’s Keep two nights running,’ replied the Isharite.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I can’t confirm any success, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Huh,’ sneered Shira. ‘I think we would know if it had been a success.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ the Isharite replied.

  ‘What we know,’ interjected Koren, ‘is that brave soldiers have been sent up there to their death in a pointless exercise.’

  ‘Pointless?’ Shira retorted, turning to face her uncle. She’d had enough of his patronising attitude. ‘This is pointless!’ she shouted, waving her arms at the gory spectacle of Burkhard Castle.

  Koren reached over and grabbed the front of her coat. Her uncle had never manhandled her before, and Shira was shocked that he would do so now. She tried to twist away to the side, but Koren pulled at her with all his weight and they both stumbled over to the ground. As they did, Shira felt a searing pain along the side of her head.

  Koren released her and pointed up at the sky. ‘Get it!’ he shouted.

  Shira looked up and saw a hawk wheeling away from them. An orange coloured blast of magic flew into the sky after it, as Mehrab tried to down the bird. But the hawk soared away from the path of the bolt, and was gone.

  Shira staggered to her feet.

  ‘Their wizard, Gustav,’ said Mehrab bitterly, looking up at the sky.

  Shira followed his gaze but the hawk was out of sight, and was unlikely to return now that the element of surprise had gone.

  ‘Let that be an end to it,’ demanded Koren harshly, looking from Shira to Mehrab and back again. ‘No more magic tricks and quick fixes. We have brought the Drobax all the way here to take the fortress. Let them do it.’

  Shira put a hand to her head. It came back wet and sticky with blood where the talons of the bird had raked along her scalp. If her uncle hadn’t yanked her out of the way, it could have been much worse.

  Mehrab was looking at her for confirmation.

  ‘Very well,’ Shira said, giving in. ‘No more attacks on the Emperor.’

  She gazed over at the Drobax slithering up Baldwin’s crag like a swarm of insects.

  ‘He can live, and watch us destroy his Empire.’

  The waiting tied her stomach in knots. Each moment that passed, Arioc or his servant, Babak, were more likely to notice that Moneva had been gone longer than usual, raising their suspicions. At the best, her movements would be restricted. She needed the freedom of movement Arioc had granted her, or her hopes of escape would be over.

  Moneva crouched behind some bushes. She hoped the evening darkness would conceal her position. She had spied on the prison camp at Samir Durg at this time last night. She had seen Gyrmund and the others with her own eyes. When the guards released them into the open area they had made straight for the stretch of fence she was now hiding near. It seemed like this might be a routine they had developed, looking out towards the fortress and talking amongst themselves, before they were herded, along with the other prisoners, into the underground pits where they were kept overnight.

  It was risky, but she had to try to talk to them if she could. She was sure they had been out of the mines by this time last night. Perhaps they had been brought in early, and were already in those miserable looking pits.

  A noise on the other side of the site interrupted her thoughts. Gates were being opened. Orders shouted. Then, she could make out the tired looking figures of the prisoners entering the fenced area. Gyrmund, Herin and Clarin made their way over to the same part of the fence they had occupied last night. Gyrmund put his hands onto it, as if he needed to hold himself up. He looked awful. Moneva hadn’t been close enough to make out their faces last night. Gyrmund looked tired and lined, big bags under his eyes. He was a lot thinner. Herin and Clarin didn’t look quite so bad, though they too had lost weight.

  She couldn’t waste time.

  ‘Hey!’ she whispered. ‘It’s Moneva!’

  Herin’s eyes narrowed, and he looked over in her direction.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ he asked the other two.

  ‘What?’ asked Clarin.

  ‘Shush.’

  ‘It’s Moneva,’ she repeated.

  ‘I see you,’ replied Herin, looking around to make sure that no-one else was in earshot.

  Clarin and Gyrmund also seemed to pic
k her out from behind the bush. Gyrmund’s eyes filled with tears but he said nothing.

  ‘I’ve got to be quick,’ began Moneva. ‘I’m going to free you one night soon. Not tonight and not tomorrow. But from then on you need to be ready each night. I’ll let you out of the pits. You need to be as ready as possible. We’ve got to go back to the fortress to free Soren.’

  ‘Is he alright?’ whispered Clarin.

  ‘I haven’t seen him. But I think he’s still alive. How are you?’

  ‘Well, we’ve just come back from a double hanging, but otherwise we’re doing fine,’ said Herin drily.

  Gyrmund looked like he was about to say something, but he couldn’t get any words out. Now wasn’t the time anyway.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ said Moneva. She didn’t wait for a reply and didn’t give them a final look. She turned around and headed back to Arioc’s chambers.

  17

  The Battle of Lindhafen

  EDGAR!’

  IT WAS WILCHARD, LOOKING excited as he hurried over.

  ‘Coen’s scouts have located Emeric’s army. Only a mile away.’

  A wave of emotions swept over the Prince. Excitement. Fear. Relief. Panic. He nodded and found himself heading towards the front of their camp, where Wilchard had come from.

  Coen was already there, talking hurriedly with Lord Emmett and a group of Thessian noblemen. A mood of anticipation hung in the air. Coen was one of the smaller men in the group, but his bald pate made him stand out, and he had an air of authority which Edgar found reassuring. The duke noticed him and welcomed him over. Edgar offered his hand and Coen grasped it wordlessly. They would need to work closely together today and, more importantly, so would their soldiers. It was important for them to be seen to be united.

  ‘The Barissians are more or less where I expected—and hoped—they would be. My scouts are sure that Emeric’s whole force is there. They’re on the road to Lindhafen but haven’t gone too far east; no doubt suspecting that I would double back on them. It means that we can approach them from the south.’

  ‘Why do you want to do that, Your Grace?’ asked Wilchard. ‘Is the terrain better this side of the road?’

  ‘Not particularly, Lord Wilchard. No, it’s nothing to do with that—this whole region is mostly flat and featureless. I’d prefer to approach from the south because I don’t want his soldiers to feel trapped when we engage them. A large proportion of his army is made up of mercenaries. When the going gets tough, I want them to feel free to retreat back north. Our numbers are going to be similar. I’m relying on the fact that our men will be stauncher today.’

  Edgar had never fought in a real battle. He had trained for it plenty enough, since he was a young boy. Hours of physical exercise and weapon training, every day. He had even read up on tactics. But Coen’s description of what was going to happen this morning suddenly sounded very real, and not very appealing. Two sides hacking at each other until one couldn’t stand it anymore, and vacated the field. The Thessians were fighting to defend their homeland. He had to make sure that the Magnians, with less to lose, also stood firm.

  ‘I say we march towards them now, and when we’re within sight get into formation. Are we still agreed on deployment?’ Coen asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Edgar.

  On tactics, at least, he was clear. The Magnians would form the left division and mostly fight on foot. Edgar would stand with his men on the left, the North Magnians to his right. A small detachment of cavalry, led by Wilchard, would protect the left flank.

  ‘And Frayne?’ asked the Duke.

  ‘He’s fine.’

  Frayne and the Middians would act as the main cavalry force and stay in reserve, to intervene where and when needed. The middle and right divisions would be commanded by Coen and Emmett, respectively. Everyone understood their roles.

  ‘Then let’s crush the bastards!’ declared Coen, with real malice.

  Leofwin and Brictwin finished tightening off Edgar’s straps. The chain mail was heavy, but it was a weight he was used to, his father stressing more than once the importance of accustoming oneself to movement in armour. Uncle and nephew then checked each other, while all about them men helped each other into armour.

  Ulf the smith, who until a week ago had worked under Rabigar the Krykker, was bright red in the face, as he ran from one emergency to the next, making small adjustments to armour and weaponry.

  Edgar had a sword strapped to his waist and a dagger in his belt. It had been agreed with his advisers that he would not stand in the very front row, with spear and shield. There he would be too much of a target for the enemy. But he had insisted that he wouldn’t position himself so far away as to be considered a coward. Supporting the front lines, he knew he would see his fair share of the battle once it started.

  He looked around. The men of Magnia were ready to fight. He would lead them, and he prayed to Toric that he wouldn’t let them down.

  The combined army of Magnia and Thesse was soon moving into position. Coen placed them in open grassland which ran gently down to the Lindhafen Road. Emeric’s full army wasn’t in sight, but it was clear that the Barissians knew they were there. Their scouts came and went on the north side of the road, reporting their numbers and deployment back to Emeric and his commanders.

  Once he was happy with the arrangement, Coen had his soldiers place caltrops to each side of the army. These metal spikes were particularly good at defending areas from cavalry advances. Coen was keen to constrict the space on the battlefield, and to protect the infantry from the Barissian cavalry.

  Edgar began organising the Magnian forces, nearly four thousand men, subdivided into smaller units who would fight together. They were formed into a rectangle, with the long end facing the road. He angled it away from the road slightly, making it harder for the Barissians to force their way around. Here, at the front, the most experienced and ablest soldiers were placed. Quite a few of them were older men who had fought in the Magnian Civil War—on both sides. All Magnians now fought together, and Edgar was proud of that.

  He walked down the line, exchanging words with the men under his command. Some were eager to talk, boasting to their Prince about what they would do in the upcoming battle. Others preferred to nod and greet their Prince but keep their thoughts private. Some drank, using it to stiffen their courage before the fight. Others prayed to Toric or other gods. Edgar showed equal respect to all.

  The front row was heavily armoured and all carried shields which they would hold together to form a defensive wall. The second row stood a few feet back, spears driven into the ground point first besides them. When the Barissians came, the spearmen would poke their spears over or under the shields of the first row, trying to find gaps in the enemy’s shield wall.

  The ranks at the back were taken by those who were less experienced and less well armed. If they had been placed at the front they were likely to break and allow the enemy through. Here they could play a support role, and fill in at the front when required. Some had bows. These archers would be able to move through the ranks to get the best shot at the enemy. Edgar’s job with the rear ranks was to reassure and encourage, reminding them of what was expected of them. It wasn’t complicated, and Edgar found himself repeating the same two words.

  Stand firm.

  Ealdnoth approached.

  ‘Do they look ready?’ asked the wizard.

  ‘Yes, they do. I feel like I want it to start now.’

  Ealdnoth harrumphed at that idea in displeasure.

  ‘Where will you be during the battle?’ Edgar asked him.

  ‘Everywhere,’ replied Ealdnoth. ‘In her letter, Belwynn made it clear that Emeric has an Isharite wizard as an adviser. He will be here. My job will be to nullify anything he tries.’

  ‘Well, be careful.’

  ‘Oh, it can be done quite safely. I won’t be in any danger. It’s you who are putting your life on the line.’ Ealdnoth was far from happy with Edgar’s decision to fight near the
front. ‘Listen to me. No heroics, Edgar. Just get through the day alive, that’s your job.’

  ‘Right,’ Edgar agreed. Getting through this alive sounded like very sensible advice.

  Finally, the Prince met up with Wilchard. The steward was already mounted, along with two hundred of the best Magnian cavalry to the left of Edgar’s infantry. Wilchard knew that his job was to protect the flank of Edgar’s infantry and, if possible, to outmanoeuvre the enemy.

  ‘Any news?’ Edgar asked.

  ‘No. Still can’t see the Barissians. Do you think they’ll come to us?’

  ‘Coen seems to think so. Be careful, Wilchard. There aren’t many of you. Don’t get caught up in a fight you can’t win.’

  Wilchard nodded. ‘I will do my best not to get anyone killed, Your Highness.’

  They clasped hands, and Wilchard then turned his horse around to join up with his cavalry. It was time. Edgar moved into his position in the third rank of his infantry. His bodyguards stood to either side of him. On Leofwin’s left stood Ragulf, a young nobleman who had been given the honour of holding the Prince’s standard. The flag of the Sun in Glory stood tall, symbol for all Magnians.

  The Magnians were ready. The Thessians were ready also. Their flag, a six-spoked wheel above two crossed ears of corn, could be seen in the central division, indicating Coen’s presence there. The army was ready, but the Barissians did not come.

  Soldiers sat down and rested. Those with the stomach for it had their lunch, making sure that they had enough energy to last as long as would be required.

  ‘Will we have to go and meet them?’ murmured Brictwin, as the initial excitement of the preparations began to turn to boredom.

  ‘Coen seems pretty convinced that Emeric wants to bring him to a fight,’ replied Edgar, who had been starting to think the same thing as the younger man. ‘He’s been trying to for days, apparently.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t like the odds any more,’ said Leofwin.