The Five Kingdoms: Book 04 - Crying Havoc

by Toby Neighbors

  “Crossbows,” Mansel said calmly.

  “That means we have a minute or so before they can reload.”

  “More than enough time,” Mansel said, smiling wickedly.

  Zollin sent a ball of fire shooting into the air, which lit the entire area in bright light. There were half a dozen horses, all tied to single tree. The ambushers had made a cold camp, and two men were busy trying to reload their crossbows. They were bent over, with one foot in the stirrup of their weapon as they pulled the thick cord up toward the nut. They had stopped and looked around when Zollin’s fireball lit up the sky, but quickly they realized that they needed to reload their weapons quickly, before the men they were ambushing turned on them.

  Mansel didn’t hesitate. He kicked his horse into action and charged at the two crossbowmen. One dropped his bow and ran for his own horse. The other got his weapon loaded and raised just in the nick of time, but his nerves got the best of him, and his shot went wide. The bolt flew harmlessly past Mansel, who brought his sword down on the crossbowman’s shoulder as he galloped past the man. The blade cut deep and sent blood arcing up into the air. As Mansel turned his horse, Zollin looked back at the knights who had been pulled off their horses. They were well armored, which protected them from the weapons of their attackers, but it also made it difficult for them to get back onto their feet. The assailants had closed in and were hacking at the knights with their pikes. Zollin levitated the ambushers into the air. The men were totally surprised and dropped their weapons as they shouted in fear. Zollin tossed them away from the knights the way a bored child might toss dolls.

  “Get up, Hausey!” Zollin shouted. “Let’s see how they like a fair fight. Mansel, let them be.”

  Mansel was anxious to renew his attack, but he angled away from the ambushers. He wanted to see how the knights would fight, and although he hated to move away from the action, he knew better than to cross Zollin. He reined in his horse and sat watching.

  Hausey was the first on his feet. He moved stiffly, drawing his broadsword and taking a defensive stance while his comrades struggled to get up. The ambushers were terrified. It was obvious that they were Oslian soldiers and should have been familiar with displays of magic, but they had not anticipated Zollin’s attack. Being lifted into the air had terrified them and they weren’t anxious to rejoin the fight. Two of the men broke and ran.

  “Mansel!” Zollin said, which was all it took to get the big warrior moving.

  He was like an attack dog let off his chain, kicking his horse into action and screaming a battle cry as he rode forward. His bloody sword was held high in the air as he raced toward the first deserter. He leaned forward and swung his menacing weapon in a level slash that chopped cleanly through the man’s neck. The head flew away from the body, which ran on for several more steps before crashing to the earth. The other man had angled away from his fleeing companion and when Mansel’s horse veered in his direction the man dropped to the ground. Mansel rose straight for him, trampling the man under his horse’s hooves so that blood splashed up on the animal’s belly.

  One of the knights was injured in the fall and couldn’t get to his feet. The other two were helping him when the last of the four assailants rushed toward Hausey. They had short swords and daggers, but the commander was a veteran fighter. He moved quickly to the right and thrust his broadsword at the nearest attacker. The man lurched back, and Hausey quickly spun around and slammed his sword into the other attacker’s shoulder. The blade stuck fast in bone, and when the man scrambled backward Hausey lost his grip on the sword. The first attacker moved forward again, bringing his sword around in a vicious slash that would have gutted Hausey, but the blade couldn’t penetrate the commander’s mail coat. Hausey punched the attacker with a straight, right-handed blow to the nose that crushed cartilage and bone. Blood poured from the man’s nostrils, and he dropped his sword as he staggered back, holding his face. Hausey drew his own dagger and swung it at the man’s face. The attacker raised his hand in a defensive reflex that cost him three fingers. The attacker fell to the ground in shock, and Hausey dropped to one knee as he slammed his dagger into the man’s heart.

  The other attacker was screaming in pain as he writhed on the ground, desperate to get the sword out of his shoulder. He had dropped both of his weapons, and Hausey put his booted foot on the man’s head before wrenching his broadsword free. The man passed out from the pain, and Hausey sliced open his throat in one efficient move with his dagger.

  “Neatly done,” Zollin said.

  “Thanks for the assistance,” the commander replied.

  Mansel came riding up, wiping a cloth across his blade. It was the same sword Zollin had crafted using the steel links of chain the soldiers in the Great Valley had used to detain them. It was the one possession Mansel treasured. Everything else could be replaced, but not the sword. He made sure that it was well maintained and razor sharp.

  Zollin helped the injured knight onto his horse. The knight refused Zollin’s offer to heal him, insisting that his leg was sore but not broken. Zollin levitated the knight into the saddle, and everyone else got ready to finish their journey.

  “Is there any need to search them?” one of the knights asked Hausey.

  “No, they’re obviously a scouting unit. Let’s get moving. Our orders were clear: we need to get Zollin to King Felix.”

  They rode for another hour before finally reaching the main gate. It was closed, of course, and the soldiers guarding it were wary, but one recognized Commander Hausey and they were allowed inside.

  “Where is King Felix?” Hausey asked one of the guards.

  “He’s in the field,” the man explained. “He took the whole army and marched south.”

  “We need fresh mounts, then, and supplies,” he ordered. “We’ll ride to join him at dawn.”

  * * *

  For three days there was a stalemate. Offendorl held his forces in check, and King Felix was content to hold his position. Then one of the many scouts sent out to find people who had seen the dragon returned with an old man.

  “You’ve seen the dragon?” Offendorl asked him.

  “No, but I’ve seen the Priestess,” said the man.

  “Who is the Priestess?”

  “She’s the one who warned our village that the dragon was coming. Most folks didn’t believe her, but I did. She had wild hair and her clothes were all singed. She weren’t acting, that I could see right away. Most folks in my village thought the rumors weren’t true, but the Priestess made a believer out of me. I left Tucker Hill that same day and from what I heard the dragon burned it to the ground that very night.”

  “What did the Priestess tell you?” Offendorl asked.

  “She said that the dragon, Bartoom she called it, wanted our gold and that if we would leave all our gold it would spare our village. I didn’t have any gold so I just left. Better safe than sorry I always say.”

  “Bartoom,” Offendorl said, trying out the sound of the word. “Bartoom? Are you sure that’s what she called it?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” the old man said. “I’ve lost a lot of things but my memory is just fine. To be honest, she gave me a fright with her spooky-looking eyes. She had no emotion, just dreadful words, and she spoke in a strange voice. I’ll remember it to my dying day.”

  “Get him food, drink, whatever he wants,” Offendorl told the soldiers who had found the man.

  He had hurried back to his wagon after that. The golden helmet was almost complete. He drank more wine and felt the warmth of the wine spread through his body and give him strength. Then he focused on the lead that his servants had brought to him. He could move his mind quickly down into the metal and feel the spinning essence of it. Soon the lead seemed to blur, then melt, and finally it transformed. The dark, dull lead was now bright, gleaming gold.

  Once Offendorl had transmuted the lead into gold, he had to stop and rest. He wasn’t as strong as he once had been. His knowledge was greater than ever before
, and that is what always separated him from the other wizards of the Torr. In small bursts he could summon great power that no one could fathom, but his physical body simply couldn’t hold up to the stress of wielding such power for long. But he’d learned to deal with his limitations and how to position himself so that only his strength was visible.

  He drank more wine and ate again. He was in no hurry; the Yelsian army posed no threat at the moment. The reports of casualties from the bombardment were grievous but not alarming. They had lost over two hundred men, although many of those were reported as missing, and Offendorl guessed they were deserters. Once he felt strong again, he used his magic to fashion the gold he had transmuted into a crown-like helmet. It was large enough to cover only his skull, but it was still very heavy, and he knew he would be able to wear the helmet for only short periods of time. It only took moments to inscribe the dragon’s name into the gold. Then, even though he was tired and hungry, he put on a leather coif to give his head some protection from the heavy gold helmet. He had to boost his strength with magic, levitating the hemet rather than just lifting it up. When the helmet came down on Offendorl’s head, he felt a jolt as his magic rose up and joined the golden crown. Offendorl had collected many magical objects, but he’d never discovered how to create one. Now he could feel his magic join with the helmet crown, and his mind seemed sharper somehow.

  Offendorl sent out his summons to the dragon. He had felt it approaching for days, but it had not come within sight. It moved mainly at night now, hunting and flying high overhead where Offendorl guessed it could see the army camp. Now he called the beast by name, pushing out the mental commands with his magic to give them power.

  He felt the dragon moving, it was flying now, hungry and angry, but submitting to Offendorl’s will just the same. It would be here soon, he thought. It was close, and now he could understand the dragon’s thoughts. They were like mental images, streaming from the helmet into his brain. He saw the countryside passing beneath him, felt the ecstasy of flight and the anguish of the beast’s loss of will.

  Offendorl tried to stand up, but the weight of the crown was just too much. The muscles in the ancient wizard’s neck stood out like taunt ropes under the weight of the helmet. He wanted to take it off, but he didn’t want to lose his connection with the dragon. He called to his servants, who hurried into the wagon wordlessly.

  “Send for the generals,” Offendorl said through gritted teeth. “Tell them to prepare their troops.”

  How the mute servants would communicate that message was not Offendorl’s concern. He was sending the dragon along the Tillamook River to spy on the enemy encampment. Things were finally turning in his favor, he thought. Then he sent the mental command to the dragon to attack the Yelsian army.

  Chapter 27

  The dragon had been cautiously moving closer to the source of the voice in his head. Since leaving the mountains and the girl who was more than just a girl—the dragon thought of her as dragonkind—he had flown south. He could feel the wizard who called to him; he was different from the one who had hunted him far into the northern highlands. This wizard spoke with authority, and there was a sense of arrogance that reminded the dragon of its masters from ancient times.

  When the beast guessed it was near enough to the wizard, it landed, waiting for nightfall and hiding during the day. The wizard was with a large army that, fortunately enough for the dragon, had scared the local inhabitants away. When night fell, the dragon flew over the army’s camp, searching for the wizard whose voice the beast couldn’t get out of its head. The dragon was torn between two intense desires: on one hand the dragon wanted to destroy the wizard and return to freedom. Not that freedom had been all that great—it had been hounded and almost killed—but it hated the wizard who wanted to control it just as much it hated as the wizard who was trying to kill it. But the dragon also wanted to give in; the voice was so alluring and it never seemed to stop. The idea of giving up the fight and giving in to the voice was intoxicating.

  For two days the beast had swung back and forth like a pendulum between the desire to kill and the desire to give in. Then, something changed. The voice, which had always been enticing, suddenly became undeniable. The dragon knew immediately that the wizard had discovered its name. He could no longer help but obey the voice of the wizard. It had been preparing to fly over the army camp again, but now the voice was ordering it to turn toward the river. There was another army ensconced there, and the voice compelled the dragon to approach it. The sky was bright with stars but the beast couldn’t change that. It circled the second army’s camp, which was divided into three parts. Nearest the river were large wooden devices with mounds of stone beside them. Up a slight hill were the tents and cooking fires of the army, and then further out from this was a line of soldiers standing stiffly, facing into the darkness.

  The dragon was angry, but the voice in its mind now had total control. The beast dove toward the river. Once it was close enough, it breathed fire onto the wooden structures. It was easy work: the wood was like kindling and caught fire immediately. There were five of the structures and in moments they were all ablaze, casting a dancing, yellow light out over the river and toward the camp. Soldiers were rushing toward the fires, but they had no way to get water up to the top of the structures. Then the dragon revealed himself fully. He dove toward the army and carved a blazing trail of death through the men crowded below. It took only one pass to scatter the army. Humans fear what they cannot see, and Bartoom the dragon was hiding in the thick, black smoke from the burning trebuchets. Like a viper the dragon would strike, diving down and snatching up a soldier in each talon and one in its gaping mouth. Then it would climb back up into the sky and drop the soldiers like bombs onto any massed group of soldiers.

  The delicious thrill of battle was hampered by the voice in the dragon’s head. It was constantly directing the beast, which had no choice but to obey. The army below was scattering, and the beast was called south to the wizard’s army, but as it flew it saw that the wizard’s soldiers were hurrying from their camp to attack the other army.

  The voice told the dragon to land, and it set down lightly near a large wagon. The door of the wagon opened and the wizard appeared. He was old, his skin wrinkled and his head bowed by the weight of the golden crown that it was using to control the dragon. The wizard made his way slowly down the steps before looking up at the beast. The dragon wanted to destroy the wizard. Its fury was so intense its vision was turning red.

  “You want to kill me, eh?” the wizard said, his voice echoing in the dragon’s mind so loud it was like the tolling of a giant brass bell.

  “Well, that won’t do, not at all,” the wizard said. “I am your master now. We have much work to do, but you will find that I am not a harsh task master. Make your lair here, with me. It is time to restore order to these lands.”

  The dragon stalked around the wizard and then blew a fiery gout of flame along the ground, burning away the vegetation. It would have to sleep in the dirt like an animal, the dragon thought, shame making the human flesh in its stomach rise up and almost gag the beast.

  “Good,” said the wizard. “Now rest. Do not move until I summon you.”

  The dragon curled up on the ground, its black scales gleaming, its golden eyes shining as brightly as the stars overhead. It couldn’t move. It would lie there until it died of dehydration unless the wizard with the crown freed it. But it watched the old wizard’s every move, waiting, biding its time to break free and escape, perhaps exacting revenge along the way.

  * * *

  The battle began, not against the enemy or the dragon that was burning his precious trebuchets, but just to control his own men. King Felix had known that war was coming. He had known that his harboring Zollin would incite the Torr to stir up the other kingdoms against him. But the opportunity was just too great; no one had resisted the Torr in centuries. The treaty had been necessary just to keep the Five Kingdoms from tearing each other apart. When
the Kingdoms were fighting, raiders pillaged unchecked, and no one prospered; yet consolidating all magical power in the Torr had given the wizards too much control. Felix remembered his father’s caution, wrestling over every decision, not to determine what was best for his kingdom, but what would keep him out of the Torr’s bad graces.

  Now he had a chance to restore the balance of power. King Felix recognized that his son Simmeron had been greedy for the throne, but he couldn’t fault the boy for trying to harness Zollin’s power. Unfortunately, Simmeron had also been trying to kill Felix, but that had been dealt with. Simmeron was under control and now Zollin, too, was almost completely in Felix’s control. No, he thought, control isn’t the right word, he didn’t want to control Zollin, but he did want the boy on his side. He wanted to get full use of Zollin’s ability, to have someone on his side who didn’t cower in fear at the sight of the other Torr wizards.

  Regardless, all his plans were for nothing if he didn’t survive this battle. Felix knew Offendorl was behind the dragon’s attacks. In all likelihood, the Master of the Torr had sent the dragon to raze the Yelsian villages in the first place. The summons to the Council of Kings, which Felix had ignored, hinted at the dragon’s presence as the cause for the council. It wasn’t surprising to see the beast doing Offendorl’s dirty work now.

  “My lord,” said General Yinnis, head of the Boar Legion, which built and maintained the in the King’s Army’s engineering projects, such as the trebuchets and temporary bridges used to move troops across the Tillamook River. He came rushing to King Felix to give his report. “It is too late to save the trebuchets.”