Dark Skies

by Danielle L. Jensen

  Back on their side of the Tarn, Sonia pulled a flint stone from her pocket, but Killian shook his head. “I’ve a better idea.”

  Retreating up the slope, he explained his plan to the young woman.

  “You’re worse than Kaira,” Sonia said when he was finished, but she took the reins of both horses and led them back down the road to meet the rest of the archers.

  Crouching behind a boulder, Killian extracted a tinderbox and started a small blaze that would attract no notice. Then he settled down to wait.

  The setting sun was barely visible behind the haze of cloud when Sonia arrived with the archers, all of them creeping up to hide behind cover. Their arrival wasn’t a moment too soon.

  Out of the trees came a line of riders moving at speed. Their mounts were scruffy ponies, the legs of the men atop them hanging almost to their knees. The soldiers themselves were dressed in furs, but Killian could make out the glint of metal. They were well armed, which was unsurprising. Rufina knew she needed this ford—she’d have sent her best.

  They picked their way down the slope, weapons out and eyes searching for any sign of danger. There were fifty of them, and Killian easily marked their commander, a small man with a sharp nose that protruded from his hood. From this distance, there was nothing about the man that set him apart, but Killian noted the way his men gave him wide berth. The nervous way his pony shifted from side to side, ears pinned, as though a mountain lion sat in the saddle rather than a man. Corrupted.

  “You and you,” the commander shouted, pointing at two of his men. “Scout ahead and see how much time we have until they arrive.”

  The two soldiers heeled their horses up the slope, and Killian let them pass unmolested. Sonia met his eyes. There were archers waiting down the road ready to take out the enemy scouts.

  The bulk of the men began crossing the bridge, two abreast, but ten remained on the far side. Killian grimaced. Those would be hard shots in this wind, but he had no intention of allowing any of the enemy to escape to warn the main force. “I’ll deal with those on the west bank,” he whispered to Sonia. “You handle those on this side.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod, her weapons already in hand.

  “We need to hold the high ground,” the commander ordered from below. “Start building fortifications at the top of that slope.” He dismounted and handed his reins to one of the men. Then he went still, head cocked as though smelling the air.

  “Ambush!” he shouted, and Killian laughed, his bowstring twanging. The burning tip of his arrow sank into the man’s left eye, and the corrupted toppled back onto the bridge, where the flames ignited the naphtha. Killian sent two more arrows through the air, and within seconds the bridge was an inferno. He turned his attention to the fleeing soldiers on the far side of the river, leaving Sonia and the Gamdeshians to handle the enemy charging up the embankment toward them.

  He hit three men in the back in quick succession, missed one, swore, then caught him on the next shot. All it would take was one of them making it back to Rufina to turn this into a failed gambit.

  Bows twanged to either side of him as Killian took down two more fleeing men. Only there were too many attackers on this side of the river to kill with arrows alone, and it would only be seconds until they were upon Killian and the archers. “Cover me,” he said to Sonia. “I’ve four left to kill.”

  “Hurry!”

  Killian aimed, judging the wind and the distance as he shot arrow after arrow. Two more men toppled from their horses—alive, though neither would make it far. But the front-runners were up the slope and galloping toward the trees.

  “The Seventh take you!” Killian leapt onto the rock for better vantage and let an arrow fly. It sank into the back of one man’s skull. The next missed. “Come on,” Killian snarled, aware that the enemy was upon him.

  His bowstring snapped forward, and the arrow caught the galloping horse, which went down hard. But the man was up and running. Killian nocked an arrow, aware of the enemy soldiers riding at him, hearing their battle cries. Knowing that this risk would have been for nothing if he missed.

  He tracked the fleeing man’s progress, then let the arrow fly.

  Killian didn’t have time to see whether he hit his mark. A blade swung at him, but he dived under it, slamming into the side of the man’s horse and knocking it from its feet. They fell in a tangle of limbs, the animal sliding down the slope as it struggled to right itself, the man screaming until his head cracked open against a rock.

  Dodging the flailing hooves, Killian leapt to his feet, sword in hand. He carved into the enemy even as Sonia’s archers dropped their bows and drew their blades, screaming their own cries as they leapt into the fray.

  It was over almost as soon as it had begun.

  Slitting the throat of a dying man, Killian straightened and wiped the blood from his face. “How many did we lose?”

  “Two.” Sonia wiped her sword on a dead man’s cloak. “Six wounded.”

  Nodding, Killian turned to the distant bank, hoping the loss of those two men had been worth it. His eyes landed on the dead horse in the distance, then skipped ahead to where its rider should be.

  There was only empty ground.

  Killian’s heart sank, and he let loose a blistering string of oaths before a flicker of motion caught his attention. Just before the tree line, the enemy soldier was crawling away, an arrow protruding from his back.

  “Won’t make it far enough to matter,” Sonia said. “Not worth crossing the river to kill him.”

  “I don’t need to cross the river.” Picking up the bow he’d dropped, Killian nocked an arrow.

  All the world fell away as he aimed, the voices a muffled blur of noise. The string slipped from his fingers, his eyes tracking the fletching as the arrow carved through wind and sleet. The soldier twitched once. Then went still.

  When Killian turned, Sonia was staring at him, jaw slightly parted. Then she shrugged. “I never said your aim was poor. Just your form.”

  “I believe the word was satisfactory,” he replied, then turned to the archers standing behind him. “Leave the dead,” he ordered in Gamdeshian. “Start felling trees. We have a wall to build, and we’ve only got a few hours before Rufina’s army is upon us.”

  61

  KILLIAN

  Killian peered through a narrow opening in the hastily constructed fortifications, trying to count the campfires spreading back from the western bank before swearing and giving up. His time would be as well used trying to count stars in the sky.

  They had at least ten times his numbers, and when they decided to come no amount of strategic advantage would stop them.

  “I’ve got a rotating shift of archers watching our rear,” Sonia said, coming up next to him. She took a long swallow from a waterskin before continuing. “We’ve got the tree line pushed back a hundred yards, but it’s dark. Anyone with stealth could get close with no one the wiser. Setting some torches burning in the open space would rectify that problem.”

  “No,” Killian replied, watching the flickers of light and motion on the riverbanks below, his archers taking shots at them when the mark was good. “The deimos are overhead, and while they might be able to see in the dark, their riders can’t. As it stands, they don’t know just how undermanned we are, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Not that he could keep it from them forever, but that wasn’t the point. He was buying time for Malahi and his mother to evacuate Mudaire as best they could. Time—that was what he was fighting for. Nothing else.

  Yet reminding himself of that fact didn’t stop Lydia’s face from swimming into his thoughts. She should be on a ship headed south by now, and then it was only a matter of time until she’d track down a Maarin vessel and make her way back to Celendor to help Teriana. He had no doubt that she’d succeed. And that her success would come at great personal cost.

  Sonia grunted, pulling Killian back into the moment. “It’s only another hour until da
wn, anyway. They’ll attack at that point, and it won’t take them long to figure out where we stand.”

  “They aren’t going to wait until dawn.”

  “They have to—it would be suicide to try and cross that river in the dark. They’ll lose countless men in the effort.”

  “I don’t think Rufina cares.” Killian held a finger to his lips. “Listen.”

  They’d been treated to the sound of deimos wings overhead through the night, but the pair above them had a labored and unsteady beat. There was a whistle of something falling through the air, then a massive crack as it hit the ground on one of the banks.

  “What in the name of all the gods was that!” Sonia exclaimed, peering through the opening.

  Another set of labored wingbeats filled the night; then another enormous crack split the air. “That’s wood,” Killian muttered. “They’re dropping building supplies for a bridge.”

  “Do you want us to set it aflame, sir?” one of the archers standing near them asked.

  “No.”

  Even in the darkness, Killian could tell everyone within earshot was staring at him.

  “But sir,” the man said, “they’ll get across the river.”

  “That they will.” Killian turned to Sonia. “Move your soldiers to the rear. The deimos have been ferrying men across all night, and they’ll attack us shortly to provide a distraction for their comrades trying to cross the Tarn.”

  The Gamdeshian woman moved down the line, barking orders, men and women moving into position. Killian stood listening to the sounds of the enemy working down by the river below. Then he moved down his line, explaining the plan to his soldiers, clapping his hand on shoulders and offering words of encouragement where needed.

  Until he heard a familiar high-pitched voice.

  “How many of them do you think there are?”

  Striding toward the figure, Killian jerked the helmet off the boy’s head. “Gods-damn it, Finn! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on a ship to Serlania with the rest of the children.”

  Finn stared at him, then squared his shoulders. “I’m not a child. No chance of me fleeing or hiding behind walls like some sort of coward.”

  “You are a child. You’re supposed to hide behind walls. That’s what they’re for.” Killian wasn’t sure if he was furious, terrified, or both. He’d been making decisions based on the need to buy time, not with the mind to get his soldiers through this alive. But now …

  He didn’t get a chance to finish the thought before battle cries split the air behind them. Turning, he peered into the rising dawn, watching as the enemy ran toward the line of archers standing at the ready. “Loose!” Sonia shouted, sending volley after volley into the ranks, and when those who remained standing were almost upon them she pulled her blade and charged into their midst with the rest of the swordsmen.

  “Lord Calorian, they’re across!”

  Killian jerked his attention back to the river, pulling Finn with him as he moved to a position where he could see. “You stay with me, Finn—do you understand? Do not leave my side unless I say otherwise.”

  If the boy answered, Killian didn’t hear, his attention all for the enemy’s activities by the river. In the faint dawn light, he could make out men wading across the river with ropes, which they secured on the eastern bank. Then they hauled the thick tree trunks across the water, which they lashed together to form a rough bridge. They kept casting backward glances at the fortification, and Killian knew they were wondering why there’d been no attack. Knew that rather than filling them with confidence, it made them more afraid of what was to come.

  “Hold,” Killian said, sensing a tremor of unease run through his force as the enemy poured down the western bank. To those manning the small catapults, he said, “Mark your distances. There’s no room for error on this.” Then he picked up his bow.

  As the enemy swarmed across the makeshift bridge, the catapults began to loose small, carefully weighted stones. Small or not, they killed those they struck, and bodies floated down the rapids or tangled up the limbs of their comrades. Still, they were crossing by the dozens, barely pausing to get their bearings before clambering up the steep slope toward Killian and his soldiers. The fortifications they’d built began to feel flimsy and insubstantial.

  “Hold,” he shouted, counting those crossing by the tens, then the hundreds, knowing he was dancing the fine line of making this gambit count and losing the battle. “Hold!”

  The men charging up the slope were close enough that he could see the sweat on their bearded faces, their eyes wild as they screamed.

  “Now!”

  The catapults snapped forward, launching the thin bladders of liquid toward the bridge. On his next breath, he shouted, “Rocks,” and soldiers sliced the ropes holding the traps, sending an avalanche of boulders cascading down the slope. One of the soldiers standing next to him handed him an arrow, flames flickering around its tip.

  Killian’s ears filled with screams as stone smashed bone and tore into flesh, but his attention was for the bridge and the panicked expressions of the men who’d realized the nature of the liquid they’d been drenched with. The catapults snapped forward again, splattering the horde on the opposite bank, and Killian fired. The arrow sank into the bridge, and within seconds it was engulfed.

  Men were on fire, diving into the waters and fleeing toward both banks. They crashed into the masses of their comrades who’d been waiting to cross, igniting them and sending flames chasing up the western slope.

  “Archers, loose,” Killian shouted, firing shot after shot of his own, keeping to targets on this side of the Tarn in the hope the arrows could be retrieved later.

  He sensed the Gamdeshians he’d deployed to the rear returning to bolster his ranks, the archers picking off those who remained alive below until there were no more screams.

  Only the stink of scorched meat.

  It was done.

  Gesturing to the women who’d released the rocks, he said, “Ten of you go retrieve weapons—you have until the count of five hundred; then I want you back on this side of the wall. Prioritize arrows that can be reused.”

  One of the soldiers shouted the count while the women dropped over the walls, knives clamped between their teeth. Anyone they found alive would not stay so for long.

  Killian tracked down Sonia, who was watching the men pilfer the dead for weapons. The stink of burning meat followed him, and he voiced a silent prayer to Gespurn to turn the wind in the other direction.

  “We lost twenty to their archers, and another ten aren’t likely to last until nightfall,” she said. “You?”

  “None,” Killian said, casting his gaze over the Derin dead, noting that there were many different races among them. Faces that looked as though they hailed from Mudamora and Gendorn and Anukastre and even Gamdesh, though he wasn’t certain how that could be. Bending down to look more closely at one of them, Killian frowned. The dead man was filthy and scrawny, with lice crawling in his hair and beard. “They all like this?”

  Sonia nodded. “The Derin army is as hungry as those we left behind in Mudaire.”

  And both of them knew that only made the enemy more dangerous.

  “Guesses as to the number of casualties they took?” Sonia asked.

  “Five hundred.” He tried breathing through his mouth, but that only made it worse. “Probably be six hundred by nightfall unless they have healers in their midst. Which I doubt.”

  Sonia whistled approvingly, but Killian only frowned, something about how the battle had gone troubling him. “I don’t think Rufina is with them. They gave up too easily.”

  “I’m not sure easily is the correct word. You burned them alive.”

  His stomach flipped and he swallowed hard. “Maybe. But you didn’t see the way they fought at the wall—like what stood behind them was more terrifying than anything we could throw at them. This was different.”

  Not waiting for Sonia to answer, Killian started walking.
His guts felt sour, and he needed to get away from the smell. He pushed through the lines of horses, inhaling their familiar scent, but it was no good. Dropping to his knees, he retched until his stomach had forgotten that it had ever known food.

  Something bumped against his arm and, turning his head, he saw Finn standing behind him holding out a waterskin. His dirty face was streaked with the tracks made by tears, and he was shivering. “You told me to stay close.”

  “I know.” Accepting the water, he rinsed his mouth, then spit into the dirt before taking a long swallow.

  Finn crouched next to him, hugging his arms around his skinny knees, eyes haunted in a way they hadn’t been before. A dull ache filled Killian’s chest—a useless wish that there was a way to wipe the memory from the boy’s mind.

  “They won’t stop, will they?”

  Killian shook his head. The enemy would attack again, and swiftly. And the same ruse wouldn’t work again. Maybe they could hold them a second time, and third, but each time they’d lose more soldiers, and the outcome would be inevitable.

  You are buying time.

  “I’m afraid,” Finn whispered.

  Killian eyed the smoke still rising in the air, grey and stinking. “So am I.”

  62

  LYDIA

  Lydia peered through falling sleet at the sprawling mass of men and horses trudging across the countryside and tried to muster the courage she needed to approach the Royal Army and complete the task she’d came for.

  That she’d made it this far at all was nothing short of a miracle. At first, she’d tracked Killian’s army, wishing to the depths of her soul that she could ride up and find him. But she knew he’d stop her from completing the task Malahi had set her, and Lydia couldn’t allow that to happen. So instead, she’d bypassed them in the night, leading her horse so as to not accidentally fall afoul of a stream of blight.