by Ulff Lehmann
“But…” Ben sputtered.
How he did not want to get involved in his sibling’s marital dispute. Sooner or later they would surely reconcile, with Bennath giving in to his wife’s demands, though he doubted it would be before the enemy was near. By then it would be too late. “No buts,” he interrupted. “You can’t keep her out of harm’s way, because, even if you send her to the Palace, the Chanastardhians might get there as well and then she’d be fighting for her life just the same, brother. At least this way she can choose where to make her stand.”
“What do you know of such things?” Ben roared, and Jesgar saw how distressed he really was. His older brother had tried and failed to control every issue in their lives, and now, when reason was against him, he used force of will.
To him it was becoming a tired game. He had endured more than enough warfare to last several lifetimes already, had seen things Ben would hopefully never see, and for the first time realized just how small his brother’s world was. The memory of his flight back to Dunthiochagh during the attack of the walking dead brought a shudder he could barely suppress. Instead of reacting the way he had always done, by telling his older sibling just how much he knew better, Jesgar merely said, “Enough to know she has a right to defend herself.”
Maire nodded in gratitude and Ben just stared at him. Into the ensuing silence he said, “I’d like to share what might well be the last time, with people I love. I am going to the wall and the next time we see each other may well be on the Bailey Majestic, or in the Halls, so are we going to spend this time arguing about nonsense you already know is decided, or are we going to sit together like a family?” He focused his attention on Ben, saw how the realization that this might well be the last time the brothers saw each other sank in, and for a brief moment caught a glimpse of the affection Ben had so rarely shown him.
The promise to look after Maire had come lightly, but now, as the first real missiles thundered overhead in both directions, Jesgar wasn’t so sure he could keep it. They stood on the strip of wall east, near South Gate, and watched the approaching columns of the enemy’s wooden shelters close in.
“Bastards’ll try an escalade,” a gruff Warden to their left muttered and spat. “Watch your faces, ladies!”
Maire cast a questioning glance his way. He shrugged. “No idea what he means,” he whispered.
The Warden must have heard him for he turned their way, spitting once more. “They’ll bring ’em up close, put up a bunch broadside facing us, and then shoot up at any bugger silly enough to take decent aim. We’ll send oil down, and then it’s gonna be sheer luck if our torches ignite the bastards, cuz we can’t aim the fires either. So, watch your faces, ladies.” The veteran was loud enough to be overheard by everyone around, and those who had been as much in the dark about this tactic as Jesgar and Maire acknowledged his advice. “Bows!” the Warden added. “Aim for the feets; that don’t kill ’em, but it’ll slow ’em!” Thankfully the Bow-Warden nearby took no offense at having another warband’s member give her troops such an order.
The wagon-like constructions advanced steadily, at intervals the Chanastardhian slingthrowers sent rocks crashing into the city beyond, and the weapons—he saw two smaller ’throwers mounted on towers left and right—responded in kind. The lookouts, people with keen eyes, shouted directions and distance of the enemy, and again stones flew across the plain, arching toward the advancing foe. Several of the steadily approaching roofs shattered when boulders plunged into them, scattering wood and bones. Jesgar tried not to think of the mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters who would never again see their children or siblings. It all felt so stupid. Why were those people dying out there here? Did they even know the reason? If not, what had they been told by their lords when the muster came?
Those wagon-shelters unhurt by the slingthrowers moved on steadily, leaving behind the smudges of blood from the fallen. Behind him he heard a woman—or was it a man? He couldn’t tell—lament the loss of somebody or something. Briefly he wondered why he didn’t hear more shouts of grief; the enemy’s stones had hit more than merely one house, he was certain of it. Then he realized that this one voice was the only one to be heard amidst the din of whirring boulders, creaking wood and leather, and the jingling of chain as the warriors atop the wall stepped uneasily from one foot to the other, waiting for the storm that was to come.
“One fifty!” a lookout shouted. Gods, they were fast! “Artillery, keep your distance!” the woman added.
All along the battlement Bow-Wardens shouted their commands. “String bows! Nock arrows!”
“Aim for the feet!” the gruff Sword-Warden added.
“Release and shoot the bastards!” a thunderous voice added. “Send the bastards into Jainagath’s care!” It sounded familiar, and Jesgar turned west to make out who had given the order. Beside him, Maire had strung a longbow he hadn’t known she possessed. She, and a few others he saw, heeded the Warden’s suggestion, taking careful aim. For an instant he wondered how such a lithe person as Maire could pull the string to her ear without breaking a sweat. She didn’t even notice his stare. He knew next to nothing about archery, only that one had to be raised on shooting a longbow to actually manage to fire off arrow after arrow, and now, for the first time, he saw how strong his sister-in-law’s shoulders were. Under a shawl, which she always wore inside the house, she seemed so small. If truth were told, he had never really seen her work with iron, and now that he knew, he wondered why Ben had been so angry with her. Another arrow sped toward the advancing Chanastardhians. Maire followed its path, smiled in satisfaction, and drew the next missile from her quiver.
Jesgar shook his head and looked once again to the west, to South Gate, and saw that the Baron’s standard was raised atop the barbican. Now he knew. It was clear that the Baron was cheering his troops on.
“Gotcha,” Maire breathed as she retrieved another arrow.
A huge armored figure rose behind her, she didn’t even notice the newcomer. Her right hand released the feathered shaft and without bothering to search for the next shot, her hand drifted to the quiver. Jesgar now realized who stood at her back, halting her searching hand with his own: Ben. “Cheeky bastard, stop that funny business,” Maire grumbled at the intercepting hand. Viciously she tried to shake off her husband’s grip.
“I’m sorry, dove,” grumbled Bennath Garinad. That stopped her, and she whirled around. “You’re right.”
Both Maire and Jesgar raised their eyes, astonished. As long as he had known his brother, he had never witnessed him apologizing for anything in public. They both got a better look at Ben, which Maire broke off immediately, saying “Busy shooting, will admire you later.” She turned back to the advancing enemy and resumed firing. Runners along the wall replaced depleted quivers with filled ones while the Swords and Pikes waited for the inevitable assault.
“Fifty!” the lookout shouted.
Jesgar glanced back at the field, saw more smudges of blood and scattered wood, but also a whole lot more of the wagon-roofs. He looked back at his brother who, much like the smith he was, wielded a heavy maul. “Let’s fight together, little brother,” Ben said, slapping his shoulder. “Let the Chanastardhians know what the Garinad brothers can do!” In a whisper, he added, “Forgive me for doubting you; I never should have said the things I said.”
He was about to reply, when the Sword-Warden near them shouted, “Get ready!” The call echoed from both sides, and a pair of nearby warriors hoisted several skins, presumably filled with oil. Briog had spoken about them on their way to Dragoncrest. One oilskin was thrust into his still empty hands.
“Aim low,” Maire hissed, “in the direction I’m shooting.”
“Throw!” As the flammable material left his hand, Jesgar realized he was not the only one who had heard her. Those nearby who were armed with skins had lobbed theirs in the same direction. Multiple splashes and frightened Chanastardhian voices showed they had hit their target. “Torches!” the wardens sh
outed.
“I’ll get that, lad!” he heard Ben’s voice rumbling from behind. There was a muttered assent, and then his older brother stepped forward.
“Get back, Ben!” Maire and Jesgar hissed in unison.
He turned to them, smiling. “Trust me; I know what I’m doing.”
“Ben!” Maire’s voice was part plea, part command, and fully concerned. “Step back!”
“Gods, woman, this is simple.”
Jesgar leaped forward, hoping to catch his brother before he poked his head above the battlement, the gruff Sword-Warden hollered at Ben to stay back, but his brother did not listen. He threw a contemptuous glance at the warrior, and then looked down at the attackers, arm and torch poised to throw.
The ensuing twang of released strings and the immediate thud of missiles striking home rang like thunder in Jesgar’s ears. For a brief moment he hoped it had been arrows shot from the Bows atop the wall—he prayed it was Danastaerian missiles—but when Ben reeled back and sank to the ground, one arrow lodged in his forehead underneath the helmet, and another sticking out of his chest, it felt as if time and life itself had halted. He saw his brother’s descent to the stonework like he would have seen a feather tossed out a window slowly gliding to the ground below. Ben! He wanted to scream. His voice refused to obey. He wanted to rush to his brother’s side. His legs denied him service. He wanted to jump back in time to prevent his brother from going to the merlons. The gods did not grant his wish.
For a moment it seemed as if Ben waved for him, but it was only his left hand flopping onto the floor and coming back up. All sound ceased to exist. His knees buckled. He dropped to the ground, clawed air to reach his brother. His brother, who had been more like a father to him. His brother, who had taught him how to measure horseshoes and how to nail them to hooves. His brother, who had always yelled at him for missing out on his chores. His brother, the only link to a mother and father he had never known.
Dead.
He heard the sharp intake of breath, a gasp, a stifled wail, and then a determined grunt. Maire stepped into his field of vision, bent down, and retrieved the torch. Through the blur of tears in his eyes Jesgar saw how she tossed the burning wood, sending it in a high, spinning arc across the battlement.
Ben was dead.
Too stunned to comprehend what had happened, he stared at the lifeless shell that had been his brother. Despite the cold, Ben hadn’t put on gloves, just like he did… had done when working anywhere. Hands as big as plates, callused from all the hard labor with hammer and kiln, were just as limp as those of the walking dead.
No! He forced his thoughts away from that image. How could he compare his brother to one of those? Ben was… was…
Dead.
“Get on your feet!” someone snarled at him. Jesgar looked about. Smoke stung his already weeping eyes.
Big Bennath Garinad was dead. How was that possible? Just a moment ago he had been the same thickheaded brother he had loved to hate as a child. Ben had cuffed him more times than he could count, usually for the mischief he had been responsible for. Now Ben was dead.
“On your feet!” the voice repeated. Through the blur of smoke and tears Jesgar saw an armored figure looking his way. “Gods, you’re as daft as your brother at times!” Maire—was this really his sister-in-law?—snapped.
“They’re coming!” someone yelled.
He didn’t see the swing, but he felt the sting of the slap. Combined with the chilly air, that was enough to make him realize where he was. It wasn’t the rumbling reminder of Ben’s death that echoed through his brain anymore. Now the only thing he heard was “they killed him” reverberating again and again through his mind.
The backs of his gloves were covered in chain, so he wiped his eyes clear with the inside of his left hand while his right grasped his brother’s maul. Wordlessly he stood just as a Chanastardhian ladder smacked against the merlons. They would pay, he told himself, and at the same time some part of his mind reminded him of the danger of stepping too close to the battlement. He would not suffer the same fate as his brother.
More arrows whistled over his head into the city. Their Bows couldn’t even return fire. Off to his right someone shouted for the archers to retreat. He felt a weight settle on his shoulder, glanced aside, and saw Maire, her face betraying her grief despite the fierceness in her eyes. He didn’t hear her, blood and shouts roaring through his ears. Finally, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. Another barely felt squeeze on his shoulder; and then she hurried down, carrying her bow and two quivers.
Jesgar knew there was something he was supposed to be doing; he just couldn’t remember what it was. Blood, rage, shouts, grief, everything he heard within and without joined into a cacophony he finally released in a scream as the first enemy hand showed itself on the battlement. A swing that bore the same pent up emotions accompanied the maul’s head as it came down, smashing the attackers’ fingers to bloody pulp.
Moments later a head poked up. He drove the weapon into the woman’s skull, still keeping his distance. The handle was, thankfully, long enough. “Get the ladder, boy!” someone next to him hollered into his ear, but he waited. Ladders could be replaced; every shattered corpse flopping down into the waiting enemy would tell the Chanastardhians what awaited them when they faced Jesgar Garinad, brother to Bennath Garinad.
The force of his next strike was so hard that the glove casing the hand split at the seams, splattering gore and bone across the stonework. His ears registered the pained howl for the first time. He didn’t care. Ben was dead and he would make them pay. All he saw was the twin pieces of wood poking over his section of the wall. An arrow whistled past and he jumped back. Almost too close to the killing zone the enemy archers had set up! Jesgar waited.
Next was a foe smart enough to hold his shield above his head before he ascended. Wood and steel shattered like cheap pottery under the force of his maul. That Chanastardhian too tumbled down, screaming.
Evening came, fast in his opinion. He was tired, of killing, of wielding this maul, of having screamed his voice raw. And still the enemy came.
Jesgar could barely lift the blood-smeared hammer above his head to deliver the next blow. Instead, he saw a spear dart past him, straight into the face of the bastard trying his luck here. Exhausted, he glanced to the right and saw a young woman, a Pike if he remembered his heraldry, giving him a grim nod. “You’ve done quite enough,” she said. “Get down and find a healer to look at your wounds.”
He stared at her. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, but she didn’t even notice. Instead she pushed past him, her spear flashing forward once more. “Get off this wall,” she repeated, pushing him away.
How he got down to the street, he couldn’t remember. When his feet hit cobblestone, he almost stumbled, the fall reminding him of something he had forgotten up there, on the battlement. “Ben,” Jesgar groaned, staggering back to his feet. “Can’t leave him there.” He wheeled about, determined to make his way back up the stairs. “Ben,” he muttered, putting one weak leg before the other.
He had to get his brother away from there; it was the least he could do for… Gods!
“Maire!” he tried to shout. His promise to Ben to look after her! He hadn’t kept it, had forgotten he’d given his word. “Maire!” Jesgar muttered again.
A hand halted his ascent. He turned to face the person stopping him, repeating his brother’s wife’s name through torn lips. Then he saw her; she was unhurt. “Let’s find you a healer,” Maire said, draping his limp arm over her shoulder.
CHAPTER 4
Drangar’s inarticulate howl echoed through Ondalan’s alleys as Úistan Cahill’s small warband hurried to catch up. Breathing came hard to Kildanor. Not only because the air around them felt suffused with forced magic, no, he still had trouble coming to terms with the fact that the demon within Drangar had obeyed him. This obedience baffled, shocked, and above all worried him. During the Demon War none of them had ever been
able to stop one of them with anything but steel.
Blood and magic, the relationship that now was obvious, should have been obvious from the beginning. Ealisaid had drawn on her own life force, same as Drangar breaking out of the cage, but one could also use other people to feed one’s spellwork. The demon drew power from his victims. Images of torn bodies and copious amounts of blood that had been spilled by the first casualties flashed before his eyes; he was certain this was how the monster within replenished its strength. A blood-soaked demon had been a dreadful sight a century ago, and the ghastly crimson shape they had glimpsed rushing out of the building roused the same horror.
Lord Cahill had slung his shield once more to his back and held up his hand, halting their advance. Cahill was in command, and Kildanor had no doubt he’d brook disobeying orders as much as Cumaill Duasonh. The two, Kildanor had noted over the past day, were too much alike. “I be damned,” Cahill whispered, prompting the Chosen to step up to the corner the nobleman was glancing around. He poked his head forward. The scene unfolding before him, he knew, would remain with him until it was his turn to die.
Some thirty yards down the alley an enraged demon wearing Drangar Ralgon’s body was trying in vain to break through a wall of shields set up by the Chanastardhians. From their elevated vantage he saw four lines of enemies, each one behind the other. The first line held their huge, locked shields, keeping the mercenary at bay. The warriors behind them held their comrades standing, their left hands steadying the shield-bearers, while their swords lashed out whenever Ralgon threw himself at the barrier. Those in the third rank, in turn, steadied their companions in front, jabbing spears at their foe whenever the opportunity arose.
The demon did not seem to care at all, his guttural challenges went unanswered, and by now the Chanastardhians had timed their stabs with his assaults. Whenever he bounded against the shield wall, at least one sword-spear combination struck. The enemy’s faces were ashen. Madness alone would have disheartened no veteran—by the way they stood firm he knew these were seasoned warriors—but the combined sight of a blood-covered berserker was enough to shake even the hardiest of men. Someone muttered a prayer to Eanaigh. The Hearthwarden was the right person to talk to, but Kildanor doubted she paid attention; not even during the Demon War had the goddess intervened. He glanced back. Not one but many were praying, even the confident Úistan Cahill.
