by Ulff Lehmann
Guided by his nose, he looked around. Near the fireplace, its brickwork chimney still standing, he saw a few rags that had miraculously survived the flames. While everything else had gone up in smoke, why had these strips of cloth survived? He knelt and inspected the fabric. The flames hadn’t even come near this stuff! Instead he discovered teeth marks and dried blood stitching the cloth.
For a moment he halted, closed his eyes, and snarled back the shadowy creature that rejoiced at further evidence of violence. The Fiend scoffed as if his determination merely amused it, and then, finally, it retreated. Was he mad? Was it merely a figment of an insane mind, this monster? Even without Kildanor’s claim, he would have dismissed such a thought. He had met mad people before, lunatics who thought themselves Danachamain or elves of old, knew these maniacs truly believed in their delusions. None of them fought back like he did. On top of it, he hadn’t even heard this fiendish shadow pronounce it was somebody or other. No, there was a presence in his head, one of those feline bastards who pulled the strings. Given that the Chosen had described the same creatures and identified them as demons, he knew he was not mad. “Not that this makes it better,” he muttered glumly.
Unearthing the mystery of the missing rocks and now the bloodstained rags kept him busy. He did not want to think of this. Besides, he feared the Fiend knew exactly when he considered its presence and used that thought to reassert dominance.
“I control myself!” he growled, and then picked up a poker to prod the fireplace’s ashes. Oddly enough they looked fresher, more recent than the fire that had taken out the roof and interior. He halted his thrust; a terrible thought entered his mind. Had the bastards branded and tortured survivors? He sniffed at the rod’s tip. Burnt flesh. Looking closely, he even saw traces of blood. His gaze wandered back up to the disfigured walls. Up there, in all likelihood, builders had put thinner stones to close the gap between wall and roof. What would they need slabs of stone for? The answer came in an instant. “Cairns,” he muttered. Cremation was unheard of in Chanastardh, villeins got a hole in the ground, freeborn a box if they could afford it, again lowered into the ground, and the rich got cairns. “If the ground is too resilient even freeborn and villeins get cairns,” he concluded his thought aloud.
He stood and went back to the alley, inspecting the remains of other nearby houses. Many of them lacked the slabs that made up the upper part of the walls. A cursory inspection of these other fireplaces unearthed a few similar strips of cloth and the occasional bloodied poker.
“What the Scales are you doing?” Kildanor’s voice sounded from behind him as he knelt at yet another chimney.
“Trying to make sense of the things I can make sense of,” he replied. He stood and passed the Chosen. “At least some of this fucking world still does.” When the warrior fell into step beside him, and he saw no way of getting rid of him—killing him would solve many of his… this was the Fiend whispering, it was trying to tempt him, instead of roaring for control—he continued, “Found bloody cloth in some of the ruins, and ashes too fresh to be from the fires. I want to find out if the bastards tortured some of those who stayed behind.”
“You could ask the survivors,” said the Chosen.
Drangar hoped his scoff sounded genuine. “They’d lie most like, and I will not resort to violence again.”
CHAPTER 6
At first the ladders were few and they were short of things to do. So far General Kerral’s warriors manned most of the wall east of South Gate and had things well under control. Rhea and Briog stood on the side, watching the few ladders that were put up topple back down. Several fighters had learned the lethal way that the Chanastardhians were prepared; they dropped dead with arrows imbedded in skulls and throats. Danastaerian Bow-Captains had already ordered archers to nearby rooftops. The higher vantage points allowed for a greater field of fire. Besides, Rhea noted when the first missiles took out a bunch of determined enemy soldiers attacking a little spot of battlement, the archers were of far more use against unshielded foes; they would have wasted their ammunition on the well-protected warriors below.
The battle went in their favor; fallen enemies were tossed onto the Chanastardhians climbing the ladders, and their own dead were allowed to fall into the city proper where carters waited to take the corpses from under the boots of the living. So far Rhea had seen few corpses dropping into New Wall Street. But she knew the enemy had vast reserves and once the slingthrower crews got the angle right, the boulders that were now still crashing into buildings would strike the battlement. So far this had not happened, and at this range it might never happen at all, but she had learned very early in life that never was as finite as always.
Her silent prediction came true in the early afternoon. The two Chanastardhian slingthrowers had their aim improved, or worsened, she thought wryly. It all depended on where the observer stood. For Dunthiochagh’s defenders it had certainly worsened. The boulders had not reached the battlement yet, but they were getting closer. The rate at which the engines were firing was abysmally slow; she had given up counting between each salvo. At this extreme range the bastards were firing blindly, and quite effectively so. Already the abandoned building behind them sported a pair of massive holes; its inhabitants had fled across the river the moment half-frozen, half-rotted strips of human flesh had rained down onto the earth. Rhea didn’t blame them. To her surprise a good number of chubby merchants, tradesmen, and tradeswomen remained, armed and armored in well-tarnished but serviceable gear.
Now the enemy slingthrowers again gave muted twang. They had missed the wall so often that only the Bows atop the roofs paid attention to where the missiles struck. This time, however, the Chanastardhian engineers got lucky.
To her left both stones touched the battlement, skipped into the assembled defenders and off into the roofs beyond. It all happened so blindingly fast that as soon as the sound of the ’throwers reached her ears, two blood-smeared breaches split their lines, and a pair of roofs crashed down with two-score archers standing on them. Into this moment of shock, Rhea was as stunned as the others, when none of the defenders lifted a finger or moved a foot to fill the gaps, a wave of enemy fighters mounted the battlement.
They were already pulling up ropes that held stacks of tower shields. So well-trained was this warband that in mere moments, they had complete control of the crimson strip of wall. Joining those already on the battlement were half a dozen lightly armored Bows, weapons ready in an instant. They began to pick their targets in a routine manner that Rhea had only seen in seasoned hunters. When those already on the wall were joined by a yet another group, this one led by a giant in plate armor wielding a greatsword, and none of the Captains or Wardens reacted to the threat, Rhea shouted “To arms!” to the Riders waiting below.
Now, as they gathered on the battlement, swords and shields in hand, a warleader, further east of the breach, finally reacted to the intruders. Unfortunately, the enemy was ready for them. In quick succession, before the Riders had advanced more than a few yards, soldiers blocked their paths with a wall of interlocked shields.
“Bastards,” muttered Briog, voicing her thought. Whoever was in charge of the beachhead knew what they were doing. She had an idea.
“Fetch the horses,” Rhea ordered, getting some incredulous stares from her companions. Then the others realized what she had in mind.
Gail Caslin snorted, saying, “Woman, you’re crazy! But it can work.” The Caretaker hurried after the others.
“Fetch Talaen, will you?” she called after Gail, and received a nodded affirmative. Then she turned to the nearest Sword-Warden who, finally, tried to organize an assault from this side of the breach. “Warden!” Rhea shouted.
The woman turned a one-eyed glare at her. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” she snarled, and returned to hollering orders at a score of warriors that headed for the enemy. “Get them off my wall! Shield on shield and spears atop, aim for the fucking heads!” Rhea searched for her companions, and fou
nd them leading the chargers up the nearest ramp. Unfortunately, the bloody thing was some fifty yards west.
“Gods,” she whispered, “hurry up!”
By now the Chanastardhians’ beachhead had swelled outward. As one they pushed the defenders back with their wall of shields, spears and lances flashing out, much like the Warden had ordered. A cautious glance to the ground on the other side of the rampart showed more enemies climbing the ladders.
“Make way!” Fynbar shouted from behind. His order was answered by exasperated insults, as the defenders stood aside, either closer to the merlons or off to the rear. By now they all kept their heads down, the slow learners had died quickly enough.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the warden, accompanied by a warleader, snarled.
Rhea turned from the approaching line of horses to the warriors, a grim smile on her lips. “We intend to breach the breach. If you send infantry in there,”—she pointed at the troops pushing against the enemy wall, half of them already dead—“you won’t ever reclaim that wall and the number of foes will grow with each breath! Horses will do the trick!”
“You’re crazy!” the woman retorted.
“We’ll get the job done,” Rhea said confidently. To the warleader, she added, “We can break through the wall, but only if you clear enough room for us to charge.” A quick estimate told her the enemy was some hundred yards away. “It’ll be tight, sir, clear us the way if you please.” The Sword-Captain nodded, frowning, as he inspected the breadth of the battlement.
“Three horses abreast, if you’re lucky,” he said, “if we clear the entire length of it. But…”
“No,” interrupted Rhea, taking Talaen’s reins from Gail, “if you withdraw, they will follow all the more quickly.”
The noble seemed to have an idea of his own. A grim smile formed on his lips. To the warden, he said, “Lynne, get your five best, take them against the enemy.” The subordinate frowned. Beside them the groan of wood and the wails of falling soldiers indicated a ladder had just been toppled into the milling army below. “I assume you have a horn or some other sort of signal?” he asked, looking at the double row of riders.
The horses, although used to combat, were skittish. Rhea couldn’t blame them. What living being in their right mind would want to stand in midst of any sort of battle? “Aye,” she answered, scratching Talaen’s muzzle. That always calmed the mare. Then she understood what the captain had in mind, and saw Sword-Warden Lynne did as well. “That’s still a drop of a couple of yards,” she told the woman.
Lynne grimaced. “Aye, but ain’t it better to die whilst trying to get those bastards out of the city than to wait on death?” she replied. “Maybe yonder Caretakers can take care of our broken bones once we touch ground?”
Gail, Briog and Fynbar, the only ones close enough to hear, answered at once. “Sure.”
Turning to her commander, Lynne said, “It can be done, sir.” To the Riders she added, “Just make sure we have time to make the dive, will you?”
“Count on it,” Fynbar answered.
In a matter of moments, Lynne had assembled her warriors. Burly men, all encased in splint armor and well taller than the average man, they each had a sword in one hand and a solid-looking shield in the other. The Warden took the shield from her back, strapped it to her forearm and drew her own blade. “We’ll tell those we pass to back off.”
The Riders were equally prepared, and as the half-dozen fighters trotted toward the enemy shield wall—how far had they come, Rhea wondered. Five yards? Ten?—they mounted their chargers, strapped tear-shaped shields to arms, and drew their lances from the hoops of their saddles. “Keep your heads low,” Briog reminded. Rhea and the others smirked. It was not the first time they charged into an enemy under fire.
From the east, Chanastardhian arrows kept their own Bows at bay, but as the occupied area grew in width, so grew the distance between the shields protecting them. The archers of Dunthiochagh inflicted more and more damage. And still the enemy swarmed onto the wall.
By now Warden Lynne and her veterans were almost upon the enemy. “Let’s go,” Rhea said, nudging Talaen into a canter. Horseshoes clattered on stone; the others were with her. Warriors parted in front of them, to the left and right they went, pushing off those enemies who had just found footing on the battlement, or cheering the riders on.
The half-dozen hammered into the enemy shields. For a moment it seemed as if the defense would break altogether. Then the Chanastardhian line straightened. Sixty yards. Was it possible that Lynne was actually clearing space for them? Forty yards, she thought. “Fynbar, horn!” she called.
As the single note rose, she spurred Talaen into gallop, just as the six, no, five warriors jumped clear of the enemy’s shields and dove off the wall. She heard Gail whisper the same prayer to Eanaigh that was in her mind. “Goddess, protect these brave souls.”
The sudden absence of pressure made the enemy lose their coherence as they stumbled forward. Rhea and Gail were the first in the line at ten yards away. Horseshoes showered the stone with sparks, and they lowered their lances, the gleaming points aiming straight at the faltering Chanastardhians. A pair of shield-bearers had the presence of mind to dive out of their way, further reducing the effectiveness of the wall. Rhea didn’t see where they went down. Talaen crashed into the enemy a moment after her lance had impaled two soldiers. Against infantry the method of one rank steadying the next was good enough, provided the line was even. When already in tatters, those who remained in formation were easy killing for cavalry.
She let go of her lance. It, and the pair twitching on the shaft, went down. For one frightening moment, it felt as if Talaen had lost her footing amidst the enemy bodies, but then the mare surged on, into the next cluster of foes. Amidst the near stumble, Rhea had trouble drawing her sword. Finally, she slashed down to her right, noticing that Gail was no longer beside her. The steady beat of hooves reassured her that the charge was continuing. There was no time to look for her friend; danger lay in front, what lay behind was up to her comrades to deal with.
Close to the inner ledge stood the archers, in front of them the soldiers wielding the shields. Had it been possible to give Talaen a reassuring pat, she would have done so. The mare trusted her guidance, but sure could have used some encouragement, some show of support, considering what she intended to do now. Rhea fended off a halfheartedly aimed sword—the enemy still confused—then spurred Talaen into a fresh burst of speed, reining the charger as close to the ledge as possible.
Talaen’s tremble was a sure sign of how frightened the mare was, and still Rhea sped on, driving Bows and Swords off the wall to the wild cheer of the Danastaerian archers atop the roofs. Before her, the distance shrinking by the heartbeat, the Chanastardhians had finally managed to come to their senses. A wall of lances formed, spears, polearms, a hedgehog of weapons. Already it was too late to turn. Talaen, sensing her tension and frightened by the massive obstacle, veered off. In her panic the charger went left, there at least she could see the ground, even if it was far too much of a leap. For a moment Rhea thought they both might actually make it. Then the mare’s front hooves impacted on the cobblestone, slipped. Rhea tried to jump clear as Talaen’s legs snapped and the horse wailed in pain. She struck cobblestone hard, slid into a nearby wall, banged her head. Talaen, her thoughts were a jumble, but she knew her duty to the loyal trusting mare. With the world whirling around her, Rheanna stood, stumbled, went to her knees, and then tried to stand again. Finally, her legs steadied. Dizziness rushed her like a wave, and despite the splitting headache and a shoulder that felt half-torn out, she made her way to the pitifully whining mare.
Talaen, despite the obvious pain, tried to stand. The splintered bones of her front legs scratched ineffectually across the stones. Rhea wept, failing miserably at soothing the animal as she cut her mare’s throat. “May your life be a better one in the next world,” she said, grief gripping her heart. “May Rauggeeth know your quality, my
dear friend,” she whispered. For a moment, it was as if the world around her had stopped, but then the clash of arms and the screams of the dying engulfed her once more.
On top of the wall she saw fewer than half of the Riders were still in the saddle, reeling back from the bristling Chanastardhian spears. Surging around her friends came foot soldiers, shields raised, intent on driving the foe back even farther. Gavyn and Briog, swords in hand, stood amidst the dead and dying, fending off enemy steel in a wild dance of blades. If Gail, Fynbar, and the others still lived, she could not see. One last look at Talaen then Rhea trotted for the nearest staircase to join the battle once more.
Numb, her shoulder aching, she was barely able to move the shield; yet still she was determined to keep on going. Her friends were up there.
When she reached the battlement, infantry had reclaimed the ground lost to the chance breach caused by enemy ’throwers. Amid the roiling soldiers and horse, the Riders tried to get off the wall once more, she spotted Briog and Gavyn dragging Fynbar away from the melee. Their faces were drawn, that much she could tell even from the distance, and as they drew closer, she saw that Fynbar was barely clinging onto life. His armor was pierced in at least three places, his right arm hung in tatters, and copious amounts of blood covered his face. She hurried to his side.
“The rest?” Even to her ears the question sounded hollow, and the silence of her comrades returned a grim answer.
Briog grunted. Then, to the warriors crowding behind her, he shouted, “Clear the godsdamned way!”
“Can he…?” she fell silent.
As Gavyn threw her a warning glare, she followed them down the same stairs she had ascended only moments before. At its foot the two men put Fynbar down. “Eanaigh,” Briog said, his voice reflecting the pain she felt, “we all are mortal. We live, we die. I ask you for the strength to heal this servant of yours. Always has he worked to remind people to live and let live, only has he ended life when necessary. Please, Goddess, grant me the might to cure him.” Gavyn, kneeling down beside Briog, added his whispered prayer, and continued chanting while the older Rider closed his eyes and waited.
