“And just where are you running off to?” she cried out worriedly.
“I’ve got to make sure that Vŏlker doesn’t get himself killed!” he shouted back over his shoulder as he ran down the steps and out the large entryway into the courtyard beyond the walls of the keep.
“Portus!” Margarid called out. “Help me find something to bar those doors!”
Timorets entered in a hurry, his face washed with panic. “What is happening? Did anyone see anything? Are they close?”
Preparations in the great hall continued as Michael ran outside, chasing along after the giant. He stopped dead in his tracks as the sight of the Raven army came into focus, three, maybe four hundred paces away. “God help us,” he prayed as he kissed the flint around his neck. He caught up to Volker, who was mumbling and growling in the courtyard. The giant had a large iron helm atop his head, and he was gathering up his discarded, massive hammer in his hands.
“Vŏlker, wait!” Michael shouted after him.
“Me has been waiting, Michael,” he said coldly. “Ever since these crows stole me HlÍf from me.”
“I know you have,” Michael said, trying to reason with the enraged giant. “But don’t just throw away your life! One giant, against the entire army!”
Vŏlker twirled his mighty war hammer in his massive hands as he considered Michael’s words.
“You just showed us an entire armory! If you go at them alone, they eventually will overrun you. But if we defend the Halvard together … maybe this place could keep us all safe.” He ran to his friend. “And maybe you can still have that vengeance of yours.”
A black bolt shot through the air, narrowly missing the head of the giant. “Please!” Michael urged. “This is what they want! To cut you down and make their way back to whatever hell they came from on the other side of this gate. Do not give it to them, Vŏlker!”
“Have it yer way, Michael,” Vŏlker said, resigning to reason. “But Vŏlker will have me vengeance.”
Arrows flew at them again, and the horns of the enemy rang out their ominous tones. “Of course you will, now run!”
The two of them ran back towards the keep, raven-fletched arrows narrowly missing them as they darted back inside the ancient, stone walls. Vŏlker slammed the heavy, outer wood door shut and lifted a huge beam from against one of the stone walls, placing it in the cradle of the door brace.
“That is not going to hold off the entire army for long,” Celrod said.
“He is right, Michael,” Margarid agreed.
“Find what you can to block the door… anything at all to slow them down,” Michael ordered. “Everyone else … to the battlements!”
“The battlements?” Harmier asked. “To do what? We need to run! We need to hide and let the damn Ravens have this place if that’s what they want.”
“There isn’t time for cowardice, Harmier,” Margarid said. “Besides, if we don’t make a stand against them here, in a place like this … then who would dare to stand against them in the wild out there?”
BAROOM!
“How long, my friend?” Michael asked Harmier as he busied himself with the defense of the stronghold. “How long will we run … and to what end? If we are to make a stand, this place and its ancient strength might very well be the best chance we have.”
The group could feel the walls reverberate with the sound of the approaching army. “Whatever we do, it won’t be long now before they are upon us for sure,” the brewer said.
“He is right,” Celrod offered. “Maybe we should run. But I, for one, was not built for all this running.” He patted his significant midsection with a kind-hearted laugh. “And besides … this is the first place that has felt like home enough for me to want to make a stand on its behalf.”
“And maybe that is no accident,” Margarid said sagely.
The sound of the marching army was closer now, and the noise of their approach sent a grave chill through the warm hall.
“Get to the wall, now!” Michael ordered. “Vŏlker, is the gate secured? Is the portcullis locked?”
“Aye, it is,” the giant answered, never taking his eyes off of the large door below him at the bottom of the steps.
“Go now, Michael,” Vŏlker said, calm and cold. “Arm yer people and do your worst. When the ravens get in here, Vŏlker will do mine.”
Michael looked to the enormous giant, who had become such a friend in his time here. “Thank you, Vŏlker. Thank you for everything.”
“Go now,” the giant replied as the sounds of marching grew louder.
Michael complied as he quickly ran up the back spiral staircase to the armory where Fryon was busy passing out helms and armor, bows and arrows.
“Michael,” Timorets said as he tossed him his own bow and a quiver of faded, yellow arrows.
“Why are they back?” Georgina asked worriedly. “I thought they wanted our city.”
“I don’t know, girl,” Michael told her. “I thought they wanted it, too.”
“I say, if they are going home, then we should let them be on their way already,” Portus argued. “We want them to leave, don’t we? Why should we stand in their way?”
“Because if we just let them leave, without so much as a stance or a fight,” Margarid said fiercely, “then no place in this world will be safe enough to make a home in. They just walked into our city and broke our walls, broke our families, and burned our homes. They killed Vŏlker’s wife, too. We can’t just let them take everything and then leave as if none of it even mattered.”
“She is right,” Celrod said as he tested the string on his bow. “And think about it … they want to leave, which means something on the other side of this fortress is more important to them than our whole city. I, for one, would like to make it rather difficult for them to return to it.”
“They are here!” Fryon’s brother reported as he ran into the armory from atop the battlements.
“No torches,” Michael told his friends. “We want to make it hard for them to see us. But take as many arrows as you can manage … and stay low!”
“But what if they get inside?” Georgina asked.
“Right,” Michael agreed. “Vŏlker is waiting for them there at the entrance to the hall. Harmier – you, Georgina, and a few of the rest barricade those steps leading down and make a position here inside the armory.” He pointed to the narrow stairwell. “At least from this position, you won’t have to fend off more than two at a time.”
Harmier put his arm around Georgina and nodded his understanding.
“Alright then, let’s go,” Michael said as he put one of the ancient, bronze-feathered helms atop his head.
They ran up the remaining flight of steps and out into the cold, north winds that blew hard atop the battlements of the Halvard. Spreading out among the merlons down the length of the barbican, they drew their arrows and held their bows at the ready.
“Steady!” Michael whispered.
The remnant took aim, sighting thousands of green-eyed warriors that were bottlenecked there at the entrance to the gate.
“Fire!” Michael ordered.
“Let them have it!” Timorets called out.
The arrows made contact, and they saw several of the Nocturnals begin to fall. But where they once stood, there were countless more to take their place. Raven arrows were fired in return, bouncing harmlessly off of the grey battlements of the barbican. “Careful now!” Celrod urged them. “This monster has teeth!”
Sounds of loud hammering could be heard below as the army beat against the great wooden door to the side of the main gate.
“Aim for the door,” Michael ordered them. “We can’t let them get inside!”
Bodies began to pile up, but the hammering did not cease.
“Keep up your fire!” Michael shouted as a raven-fletched arrow breezed just past his face, causing a chill to run down the center of his spine.
“Michael!” Margarid shouted with worry.
“I am alright!” h
e shouted in return, feeling a disrupted ribbon of metal there on the side of his helm where the bite of the arrow had just missed him.
BAROOM. BAROOM.
The long, soul-chilling blast of the sickly horns sounded again.
BAROOM.
“What does that mean?” Fryon asked his younger brother as he notched and let loose another of the Terrian arrows.
“I hope it’s not those damned dragons again,” his brother answered in return.
The long blast sounded yet again, followed by two more brief ones. Instantaneously, the Raven army ceased fire.
“What is going on now?” Margarid said to Michael as she, too, let loose another arrow, finding her mark and dropping another enemy.
The ranks of the surrounding soldiers began to part as a team of black beasts drove a sinister-looking chariot up through the sea of warriors and out into a clearing in the courtyard.
The green-lit torches that burned at the heads of their Raven-marked standards whipped and danced in the cold wind. The remnant of Haven saved their arrows and watched nervously as a large man, robed in black and wearing a helm adorned with raven feathers, stepped down from the seat of his chariot. He walked fearlessly out into the body-laden space before him.
“Keepers of this northern pass,” the general said in a booming, emotionless voice. “Nogcwren, Queen of Aiénor, commands that you lay down your arms and raise the portcullis at once.”
Margarid looked at Michael, searching his eyes for a sign of what to do next. He swallowed back his own fear, his mouth devoid of any moisture.
“Open these gates at once,” General Aius continued coldly. “Our battle waits beyond these northern mountains, and I will not suffer delay. Your lives need not be lost in the waste of a puny resistance.”
“We will not allow you passage!” Michael shouted boldly from the hidden safety of the battlement.
Aius turned his singular, glowing, green eye towards the direction of the defiant voice. “Your queen demands it.”
“She is not my queen!” Michael shouted, more brashly this time, his courage fueled by his defiance. “She is queen to none of us!”
“Then die as an enemy of the realm,” the general angrily said as he motioned with his hand to a sortie of the Raven soldiers.
“Michael?” Celrod said as he worriedly watched the soldiers part their ranks again and move a giant, black, iron scorpion into position. “They have a siege engine.”
Michael peeked out over the stone merlon just as the mighty crossbow shot a massive, black arrow deep into the wall of the tower above them. The black barb bit and caught in the ancient stone, and trailing behind its iron shaft was a thick, knotted rope.
“They are going to climb the tower wall!” he whispered desperately.
“You have made your choice, foolish men of the dead tree,” the general said in flat disgust. “Now you will die by it.”
THWACK! The bite and crack sounded again as another of the enormous arrows were hurled against the other ancient stone tower wall.
“Fryon!” Michael ordered. “We have got to cut those ropes, or the whole damn raven army will soon be upon us!”
Fryon and his brother understood, nodding in agreement as they tightened their grips on the hilts of their blades.
“Quickly, now!” Margarid shouted after them as they retreated into the archways on either side of battlements. Below, the sounds of ramming and pounding resumed on the great wooden door.
“We cannot let them gain entry, we have to keep them outside this keep!” Michael urged his friends. The remnant concentrated their fire there at the entrance to the Halvard, and as dozens of their arrows rained down upon the besieging army, hundreds of the enemy replaced the fallen.
“Michael!” Celrod shouted as he fired his own arrows and then quickly shrunk back behind the stone merlon. “Look, over there! It’s Fryon.”
The dark-haired young man had signaled to his friends below from high in the parapet of the eastern tower. Raven soldiers had already begun to climb the rope, scaling the wall amidst a barrage of arrows.
Fryon looked out at the hopeless battle before him. His friends, not even a score in number, loosed what resistance they had upon an army a thousand strong.
One of the black barbs of the scorpion was just twelve hands below the arched window, but his blade was not long enough to reach the rope that was tied behind it. Fryon took a steadying breath and hoisted himself through the slim opening of the window at the top of the tower. His hands were sweaty, even in the biting, cold air. He gripped the brick-lined edge and slowly began to lower himself down, inch by nervous inch.
His boot searched and probed the old, stone walls, feeling desperately for the iron barb to make safe purchase. THUANG! An arrow clicked against the wall next to him.
“Come on, where the hell are you?” Fryon growled between gritted teeth. His foot bumped into a hard, resistant object and he knew at once he had found what he was looking for. “Steady now,” he told himself as his second boot followed the first onto the shaft of the arrow. THUANG! Another arrow ricocheted off the wall. He let out an exhausted breath, turning his head to see the enemy below.
“They’ve spotted me, the bastards spotted me,” he said to himself.
“Fryon!” he heard from the wall below. “Hurry!”
He could feel the vibrations in his feet as the Ravens climbed their way up along the rope, closer and closer to him.
“Hurry!” a voice yelled up to him.
“I can’t bloody reach the rope,” he growled as he bent his knees to lower himself closer, steadying himself against the wall with his hands. Suddenly he felt a great shift of force as some of the Nocturnals swung off of the knotted rope.
Screams and shouts came from below him, and he looked down to see Timorets and Celrod fending off attacks from the Raven soldiers who had just landed on the top of the barbican wall.
THUANG! Another arrow barely missed his head. Fryon steadied himself, grabbed the iron shaft with both his hands, and then let his feet drop out beneath him. He hung there, swinging in the wind as he inched closer and closer to the rope attached to the end of the barb. Once he grasped it with his hands, he securely wrapped his feet around it, working himself down the rope as fast as he could. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother following suit on the opposite side as he climbed out the window of the western tower.
Fryon came down as close as possible to the top of the wall, watching as a whole contingent of Raven soldiers climbed up towards him. He reached for his blade and cut the rope beneath him, releasing those below into a heap of blood and brokenness upon the ground.
Fryon sheathed his sword and used his feet to run sideways across the side of the tower until he could swing his body out and over the top of the wall. He released the rope and rolled in the dust as he landed near his friends.
“Where is my brother?” he asked, breathless and quite amazed to still be in one piece.
“There!” Portus said as he helped him to his feet.
“Everyone take cover!” Michael shouted amidst the madness as a volley of arrows rained in upon them. Screams and shouts could be heard as every member of the remnant tried to make themselves smaller in the wake of the hells that were being unleashed upon them.
Fryon dove back to the ground, using the merlons of the wall to shield his body, when a loud THUACK cut through the clamor.
“They got me!” Celrod shouted through his pain. “The bastards shot me again!”
“Is everyone else alright?” Michael yelled again as he turned and loosed another arrow towards the invading army.
“Michael!” Timorets shouted.
Michael turned and looked, and what he beheld made the world around him go silent.
“No, no … NO!!!” Fryon shouted as he ran desperately towards the bleeding, broken body of his brother. Arrows flew and the remnant cowered, but Fryon paid these dangers little mind.
“Get down, Fryon!” Michael shouted.
Ignoring him, Fryon ran across the battlements of the wall, raven-fletched arrows flying wildly about him, and at last reached the body of his brother. “Brother! Brother, no!” he cried out as he cradled the limp, lifeless head of his younger brother.
Margarid had crawled over towards Celrod to examine the wounded schoolmaster; the flesh of his left arm had been pierced clean through with one of the black arrows. She tore the hem of her dress and tied it tight, just below his shoulder. Through gritted teeth and a pained wince, Celrod nodded his permission. She reached up and snapped the head off of the arrow, then quickly pulled it free of his sizable arm.
Celrod growled in pain, but quickly silenced his protest when his eyes found the tear-filled face of Fryon. “God, no.” He kissed his flint.
Tears began to stream down the faces of all who saw, for a friend and a brother had died trying to save them all. But their grief was short-lived, for a mighty pound and a splintering crack wrenched them all out of their momentary mourning. The Raven army flooded into the Halvard as the resolve of the mighty wooden door finally gave way to the assault from below.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Keily, Marcum, and the other survivors had been ushered through the hallowed halls of the mountain palace, Petros. Although wonder flooded their thoughts, rest was the priority for this group of weary travelers. The Poets tended to their wounds, changing soiled bandages for fresh ones while seeing to the endless questions of the children. Though the circumstances were dark, and the danger all about them was severe, the company was a joyful and welcome change for everyone in the Poet home of Kalein.
As time passed and wounds healed, Keily began to feel better about their current situation. “This place,” Keily said as she sipped her warm, spiced ale while her eyes scanned the massive, arched ceilings of the great hearth room. “This place feels like it is from another world.”
“That is because it is … well, sort of,” Klieo said kindly as they sat and warmed themselves near the smoldering coals. “From an age long-past, really. This room here was a great ballroom once. Kings and queens, lords and ladies, gathered, danced, dined, celebrated, and mourned … right here in this very space. Though that was an eternity ago, it would seem.”
The Coming Dawn: Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 3 Page 26
