by Ulff Lehmann
“Aye,” she replied. “And assuming these two haven’t told you I am to wed some mongrel mountain dweller or another absurdity, you can consider all they said as confirmed.” She looked at the hunters, nodded briefly. “Good job.”
“Well,” Rhygall said, “We’re out to shoot us some raping Chanastardhians to put up on the mantelpiece.” One look in the man’s eyes and Anne knew the statement for what it was: cold-blooded vengeance sworn. Not that she couldn’t sympathize with them.
“House Argram did the foraging.”
Another of the bowmen spat. “Those sons of whores did more than just take our food.”
“We’re all aware of that, Duncan Argram has received twice the punishment his troops got. Forty lashes.” The number drew a gasp from the Danastaerians. “If you want to hunt an enemy, circle ’round and harry the eastern flank,” she continued. “If the gods are with us, we will be eastbound sometime soon.”
“Plus,” Paddy added, still busy with the buck, “House Farlin’s troops are there, and the stupid fucks are too inept to mount any sort of pursuit. Try your luck there.”
The Danastaerian noble nodded his thanks. Then, for the first time, she spotted the hidden archers, clad in earthen colors, sprinkled with the occasional green, they were hard to discern even in the open. The group counted some two score, those visible to her at least, though she couldn’t be certain there weren’t more. All of them carried a flimsy looking staff, far too slender to be either an unstrung bow or any sort of spear. One of the mottled warband tossed Rhygall the second branch she was carrying, and now that it was up close, Anne had the chance to inspect the thing. The noble gave strange hand signs, accompanied by a series of whistles, ignoring her scrutiny.
At first glance the staff looked like a strangely ornamented fishing rod. Only after a few moments did she notice how bloodcurdling the scrollwork imbedded in the wood really was. Amidst knots that looked more and more like entrails were scenes of grisly torture, intermixed with pictures of beings reclining on couches, obviously observing the suffering around them. All of those beings were not human, their features too elegant and cruel at the same time. Even in the victims’ faces the hint of cruelty was still present. Then she saw the cord wound around the staff.
Rhygall must have noticed her disgusted curiosity. “Elven warbow,” he said. “They look almost as unpleasant as humans when dealing with an enemy.”
“It’s so slender,” she replied, unwilling to meet the Danastaerian’s eyes. The almost reverent care with which he handled the grotesque instrument of death sent a shiver of dread down her spine.
“Steeloak,” he said as if that explained everything.
“How did you…?”
“We’ve traded with Gathran since settling here.”
Now she looked into his face. “You know elves?”
At that Rhygall laughed. “Milady, there haven’t been elves in these parts for nigh on a hundred years. The bows have been in our possession since long before the Heir War, heirlooms if you will.” By now the brown-green mottled archers were gone, only their leader remained. A succession of whistles sounded from the distance. “Enjoy your meal,” the Danastaerian said; then he hurried after the others.
Even with the city a few miles away they heard the thrum of slingthrowers and the crash of boulders. Anne anxiously paced the perimeter, waiting for a sign to return. How long had the other patrols spent away from the camp? Already her friends were annoyed by this one question none of them could answer. What happened if Mireynh decided not to send House Cirrain? They would have to strike out on their own. Scales, she didn’t even know what they were to do when they were with Duasonh’s forces. From what she had heard the Baron was a decent man. He had promised her support, but how and when was a different issue. First the siege had to be lifted. And then? Most likely Duasonh hadn’t thought that far ahead, because even if he managed to drive Mireynh off for the winter, what happened next year? She doubted the High General would return to Herascor without having conquered all of Danastaer.
The sun was inching down, soon night would fall. Returning in the dark was akin to suicide, far too many ruts and holes dotted the landscape, not to mention the stumps left behind by the lumber parties. Best to return now. By the sounds of the ’throwers the battle was still going strong. Dunthiochagh was holding. And why shouldn’t it? Mireynh had been unprepared for either siege or escalade, too comfortable in the thought that some traitor would open the gate. She shook her head clear and stepped into the makeshift camp. “Let’s be gone,” she said.
The camp looked different. By chance a few boulders had skipped and bounded through the tents, plowing down horses and warriors alike. Their host was huge, and the losses from the slingthrowers were minor, or so a Sword-Warden informed her, playacting the concerned warleader. She sent Gwen with a group of four to retrieve her tent, determined to sleep in the company of her band in case the hoped-for order come in the morning. Then, escorted by Paddy and Dubhan, she rode to Mireynh’s position.
The closer they got to the city, the clearer recent events became. Long rows of wooden roofs seemed to home in on the city, providing shelter from enemy arrows. Some of those contraptions had already been reduced to blood-soaked kindling, but the majority remained standing. Beside her, Dubhan snorted.
She threw him a questioning glance. “Hmm?”
“Foolish, if you ask me,” he grunted. “We have only one ’thrower remaining.” He pointed in the direction of the two holes dug for the siege-engines. The farther one was just now lobbing another rock at Dunthiochagh, while the other was surrounded by a host of warriors who, in the flickering torchlight, were busy with repairs. “It’ll be a bitch without proper artillery support.”
Most of the soldiers they passed were bruised, some with broken bones perhaps, but most showed only signs of exhaustion and frustration. “There’s still the reserves,” Paddy pointed out.
“Aye, still won’t do much good unless they manage to dislodge a part of the defenders and gain a foothold on the wall.” The old warrior spat on the ground. “Look at them corpses.” He motioned to a score of men and women carrying off their slain comrades. “Most of them have been stabbed in the back, not by anyone’s intention, mind. They just fell in a bad spot, mate.”
Anne looked north, at the wall lined by ladders with milling, eager soldiers at their feet. Farther to the east, she saw, a whole stretch of wall that actually was held by—what should she call it anyway? Chanastardhians, Enemy—the attacker, House Argram’s banner visible even from this distance. “What about that?” she asked, indicating the spot. In the gloom of twilight, the only good light source were the flames of some of the wheeled roofs. “They… we’re already occupying a piece of the wall.”
Dubhan spat again. “So? Do you see a steady stream of people rushing up the ladders? They are on the wall, sure, but the buggers can’t move on.”
“Think they…” she fell silent. Now House Argram was on the move once more, pushing back against the defenders. For several long heartbeats it seemed as if they would actually manage to take a long swath of battlement, and then—she had to rub her eyes to make sure she was not seeing things—the entire contested length of the wall was wiped clean. “Gods!” she hissed.
In a wide arc bodies tumbled through the air, crashed down onto frozen ground, onto wooden roofs, barreled into unprotected archers. Then, from the hill to their left, she heard Mireynh’s unmistakable roar of anger.
Tugging her horse’s reins, she wheeled the mare around, and applied pressure with her thighs. “Come on, let’s see how the High General’s faring,” she said, as the charger took off at a light canter. Paddy and Dubhan followed. Again, their path took them through clusters of wounded and beaten soldiers. Others, looking eager and fresh, went the other way, straight for the mobile roofs.
When they reached the command hill, Anne’s attention was immediately drawn to the man on a visibly exhausted stallion. Upon closer inspection the rid
er looked even worse. Not a spot on his surcoat and armor was free of caked blood, though none of it seemed to be his own. A gory patina that accentuated his jutting cheekbones marred the man’s face. It seemed as if he had wallowed around in a butcher shop’s muck. Dubhan and her cousin must have thought the same, for both men swore under their breaths.
Then the blood-caked face turned her way, and she was finally able to identify the rider. “Braddan,” Anne whispered. Of all the nobles, she despised the scion of House Kirrich the least, Gwen was the only true exception but still, to see him like this stunned her.
“Trileigh!” Mireynh snarled. His eyes were focused on the empty spot of wall that was filling with Danastaerians. “Before anyone goes up there again, make sure they got the Wizard! And get a count of dead and wounded; that was House Argram up there; get a healer to Sir Duncan right away.”
“Sir!” the nobleman confirmed, turned, and called for a runner. “Fetch some healers and someone from House Argram, tell them to do what’s possible and count the dead!” he briefly summed up the order, and then added, “Make haste, damn you!” The runner rushed off.
“Damn those wizards!” Mireynh shouted. He turned to Braddan, his face betraying conflicting urges. Anne could only imagine how the High General felt, not having known the man for that long, though the anger and shock at the devastation atop Dunthiochagh’s wall was slowly being replaced by a worried scowl.
“Gods, Kirrich,” Noel Trileigh said. “What the Scales happened?” That Mireynh remained silent and did not lash out at the Lord Commander suggested something serious had passed between the two.
“My… my lords,” Braddan stuttered. He looked weary, and up close it was not only from the patina of blood. The haunted, wandering stare, eyes that rarely remained steady for more than a few heartbeats, darting, furtive glances as if Jainagath himself was trailing the noble.
“Gods, man,” Mireynh grumbled. “Pull yourself together.”
“Maybe he needs a drink,” Paddy suggested. As always, her cousin had no respect for any sort of etiquette, speaking even when his opinion was not wanted. That the High General merely waved for a page to bring a tray of bottles, however, was enough evidence that Mireynh had other things to worry about. Her reproachful glance was answered with a mocking wink.
Anne waited, along with the others who alternated their attention between the exhausted nobleman and the once more well defended wall. Finally, after several long pulls from a bottle of wine, Braddan had dismissed the goblet with a fierce shake of the head, and an equally long time with a jug of spirits, he spoke. “Horror, slaughter, Ondalan’s in his hands now,” he muttered, words spilling franticly from his lips.
“Godsdamnit, man,” Mireynh snapped. “Has the booze gone to your head already? Speak sense!”
“He said he wants his reward!”
“Calmly, Sir Braddan,” Noel Trileigh intervened, casting a reproachful glance at his superior. Something had definitely changed. “Tell us what happened at Ondalan, there is no need for panic, you are here among… friends.” A quick look about told her she was not the only one to have noticed the slight hesitation in the Lord Commander’s voice, although Mireynh was too busy shifting his attention from the faltering escalade to the wounded and back to Braddan Kirrich. Dubhan moved not a muscle, but his lip twitched in a slight sneer; Paddy’s right eyebrow was gently arched. “Tell us what happened, calmly,” Trileigh repeated.
“At noon he came, with a score of others. The perimeter must’ve been taken completely by surprise, for only after a blast from the horn signaling immediate danger were we alerted. I rallied my men, trained veterans mind,”—Anne knew House Kirrich’s well-disciplined infantry—“and as a wall we advanced, blocking the path.” Braddan groaned, requested the spirits with a wave of his hand, and took another long pull from the bottle, the liquid spilling down his blood-caked chin.
“One man had taken the sentinels posted in the village stronghouse. He stormed at the wall, again and again, like one possessed. I gathered the others to bolster our defense. And the madman just kept running and running against the shields.” A shudder ran through Braddan. “They pierced him, stabbed him, but his wounds closed. And then the wall faltered.” He let out a dismayed wail. “Arrows from his allies opened a gap and he was amongst them. Those who didn’t flee were butchered on the spot.”
Anne looked over to Mireynh whose gaze had stopped roaming, eyes intent on the raving warleader. Was that a glint of recognition in his eyes?
“We retreated around a bend, and waited with a new wall in place.” Braddan took another long pull from the bottle, the booze cleaning his chin, bloody droplets splattering on his surcoat, mixing with the gore there. “He followed. Then, as he stood before us, he faltered, stopped. When he remained unmoving, I ordered my troops to take him down most painfully.” A shuddering breath and hacking cough later, he continued.
“I was with them. We charged, beat him down, kicked, scratched, pounded, and he just hung there, took the blows as if they concerned him not! Then he looked at us, cursed us, and took us apart with his bare hands at first, and then with his sword. He was mad with rage, but he did not heal anymore. My cousin and I fled. He followed, ran my cousin through, and with his still twitching body impaled on his blade, the sword keeping poor Ailan’s legs a foot above the ground, he demanded that I relay a message.” Quivering, wavering eyes met Mireynh’s as he waited for the High General to respond.
Mireynh was ashen, even with the walking dead and the shattered lumber he had kept his emotions hidden. Now they were plain on his face. “Speak!” he whispered, his hushed voice still carried to her ear, and Anne heard the rage and grief within.
“He said to tell you, Drangar Ralgon is there, and he still wants the promised reward. That you still owe him,” Kirrich stammered, his haunted look intensifying.
The High General’s reaction was different, but just as shocking. “Damn you, Ralgon, you whoreson! Fucking bastard! Should have put his accursed head on a pike when I had the chance!” He turned to a drummer. “Sound the retreat, son, we have other things to do.” Anne felt her eyes grow wide.
“Sir!” Trileigh intervened.
“What?” Mireynh glared at the Lord Commander. As she stared on, incredulous, she noticed for the first time that the High General’s bodyguard had inched closer to their charge, hands on their weapons. It did not look like they were trying to protect him.
“We have a city to worry about, an escalade! You cannot commit the entire army to the capture of one man! That is madness, sir!”
“Bastard Ralgon won’t get away this time!”
“The army will not hunt down this friend of yours, Mireynh.” She wasn’t sure the words had actually been spoken, so hushed had they been. One look at the High General and the Black Guard at his side, with Mireynh’s face plunging from furious red to a deathly pallor in a heartbeat, told her she had not imagined it.
“Damn this fucking…! Runner!” he roared, and as a young woman rushed to his side, he continued his verbal abuse.
To the girl he said, “Get Lord Argram here!” Anne felt her heart sink; that he would send the butchers of House Argram there she had not anticipated.
The runner was about to hurry off when another returned, leading a horse. On a stretcher, attached to the saddle lay Sir Duncan. Her spirits rose as she saw how beat up the nobleman was. The right leg was splinted, covered in bandages. His left arm hung limp in a sling, also splinted and bandaged. “Belay that!” Mireynh snapped.
“Fucking wizard,” Argram muttered drowsily.
“The healers gave him ophain to keep him calm,” the runner explained.
“Damn those wizards!” Mireynh snarled. Then his sight fell on her and his face lit up. “Cirrain!”
“Sir?” she replied.
“Rouse your warband.”
Playacting had never been her strong suit; the recent days deceiving everyone around her, however, had improved her skill. “Sir?” she ask
ed, trying to sound confused. “We’ve been out hunting Danastaerians all day.”
“Damn you, woman, I thought your kind was highland-folk, trained to fight wherever and whenever.”
Paddy, by far the better liar, snapped, “House Cirrain is always ready, milord!”
“Good!”
“Your orders, High General?” she asked, throwing a glance at the Black Guards who had now returned to their customary positions, their faces betraying no emotion.
“Take two score of House Kirrich’s warriors with you and head to Ondalan! Bring me Drangar Ralgon’s head on a pike!”
“Yes, sir!” To her companions she said, “Let’s get going, we have a long way ahead of us.”
“And Cirrain.”
“Sir?”
“Be careful, the bastard is very dangerous.”
“We can handle it, milord,” she said confidently. They took off, heading first to their tents, and then to freedom, rebellion, and war with their own country.
CHAPTER 8
Ysold’s voice was still pounding in her head as Ealisaid swooped over the Dunth toward the wall that encircled the southern portion of the city. In the final moments of sunlight, she saw pockets of fighting everywhere. From this high up it was hard not to. For a moment the myriad flickering flames, the screech of steel on steel, the shouts of the dying, and the curses of the living painted a tapestry of destruction. Then, with a clarity that had previously eluded her, she discerned more detail. Most melees were in control, and the Danastaerian forces dealt with the enemy swiftly. The area west of South Gate was contested, yes, but not so fiercely fought over as the east.
The enemy’s roofs, corridors through which the attackers could advance unhindered, spread from the wall like the spokes of a wheel. Jutting out like fingers from the ends adjacent to the wall she saw ladders, three or four to each corridor, and up those the Chanastardhians came. Most were sent sprawling the instant they reached the battlements, but in the east the enemy had gained a foothold.
