Everything about the strange presence and the gargoyles gave Zollin the impression that each attack was well calculated, which made him wonder why the gargoyles hadn’t flown in through the cloud bank. They could have arrived completely undetected if they had flown through the clouds. Zollin could sense that the air above the cloud bank was much colder, and suddenly an idea struck him. If he could get enough moisture in the air, the clouds would open up and let the cold air pour through. Fighting the gargoyles in poor weather would be difficult, but Zollin was hoping that the cold air that had frozen the creatures when he’d fought them in Baskla would turn them back again.
“Brianna!” he called out, sending a mental call to Ferno. He imagined Brianna bathing the open ground beyond the Keep in fire. If she could heat the surface enough to evaporate the water frozen there, it would rise up into the clouds and trigger a snowstorm.
Zollin felt a questioning from Ferno, a strong sense that the dragon didn’t understand. He sent the mental image out again, and suddenly the dragon flew by the tower, just a few feet above the soldiers who were straining to catch sight of any gargoyle that might attack them.
Ferno swooped low, and then Zollin saw fire rolling across the landscape. His attention was diverted when three more gargoyles rushed toward the tower from opposite directions. Arresting their flight was too taxing, but he could nudge them off course easily enough. He sent bolts of blue and white magical energy shooting out toward the creatures. The magic tore through the thin wings of the gargoyles and sent them twirling down toward the ground.
When Zollin looked back at Brianna he felt a jolt of fear. There were half a dozen of the vile creatures flying toward her. Zollin sent a magical shield to cover Brianna, but she was so far away that he knew the barrier wouldn’t hold. When the first creature struck, Zollin felt as if he were being drawn and quartered by his own magic. Then Ferno attacked. The dragon was snarling as it flew in, flames licking up around its open maw. It caught one gargoyle in its mouth, and one in each of the huge rear talons. The fourth it knocked from the sky with its powerful tail.
Ferno was a formidable creature. With a shake of its head it sent the gargoyle in its mouth crashing to the ground in pieces. The two it carried were killed as the dragon slammed them together, then dropped the creatures as they morphed back into stone.
Zollin could feel the moisture rising in the air. He knew it was only a matter of time before the heavens opened up and forced the gargoyles to retreat. If they could just hold out long enough they might actually have a chance to win the battle.
There were gargoyles attacking both flanks. The soldiers were fighting hard to hold the beasts back. Zollin knew the creatures could have easily bypassed Ebbson Keep altogether, but that wasn’t their purpose. They were there to destroy Yelsia’s army and open the doorway for whatever evil was lurking in Baskla to flood into the next kingdom, his kingdom. Yelsia was Zollin’s home, and while not everyone in the kingdom embraced him, he didn’t want to see it brought to harm. They needed someone strong to lead them, someone who would put their needs first and ensure that the kingdom was safe.
The troops on the rooftop called out a new threat as a dozen gargoyles came fluttering out of the darkness. Zollin raised his arms, his magical power crackling inside him, ready to be launched at a new enemy, but the gargoyles weren’t diving toward the tower. They were flying slowly, moving toward their target with determined precision. Zollin knew instantly that he couldn’t simply knock the creatures off course, they would adjust and keep coming. He was the target now, the threat that had to be eliminated for the powerful evil to find its way into Yelsia.
“Shield wall!” Zollin shouted. “Spears ready. Fight for your lives. Fight for Yelsia!”
The soldiers were shouting defiantly as the gargoyles approached. Zollin sent a wave of magical energy shooting toward the first four creatures. The magic crackled and popped like lightning as it shot across the empty space between the top of the Keep toward the gargoyles. The magical energy snapped across each of the gargoyles, burning and shocking through their fat bodies and fragile wings, but just as the wave of magic struck, four more gargoyles leap-frogged the first. They rose up and then dropped toward the roof of the Keep.
Zollin raised a magical shield as he struggled to fend off the creatures. He could have blasted them again, but unlike the first four, the second wave spread apart, so that Zollin was forced to change tactics. The gargoyles hit the magical barrier like hammer blows on a wooden shield. Zollin held firm, and the creatures rose back up in the air, regrouping before the next attack. The young wizard and the soldiers with him were so focused on the gargoyles above them that they didn’t notice the third wave—four more gargoyles, who dipped low as they approached and then rose up just feet from the wall of the Keep. The soldiers screamed when the terrifying creatures landed on the Keep’s crenelated railing that circled the roof. It was like a scene from a nightmare. The horrible creatures had small eyes and huge mouths lined with pointed teeth. As they roared, thick mucus dripped from their fangs and their short arms reached out for the soldiers.
“Attack!” Zollin said, urging the soldiers into action.
Spears were leveled and three of the gargoyles were impaled by spears as the soldiers dashed forward. But the fourth managed to avoid the charge by diving toward Zollin’s feet. At that same instant the four creatures above them dove down once again. The magical barrier held, but the force of the gargoyle attack knocked Zollin off his feet. The soldiers around Zollin were shouting in terror, on the verge of panic as the gargoyle snarled and jumped onto the wizard.
Zollin had never been good at hand-to-hand fighting. As a young boy, his father had tried to teach Zollin the basics of self defense, but he wasn’t really coordinated enough to do the maneuvers well. When he discovered his power he thought he wouldn’t need to fight anyone or anything up close ever again. But suddenly, on a cold winter night on the roof of Ebbson Keep, he found himself fighting for his life.
The gargoyle pinned Zollin’s shoulders with its arms. The weight on Zollin’s body made it impossible to breathe. The creature snarled and then snapped its vicious fangs down at the wizard’s throat. The only thing Zollin could do was raise his arm, thrusting it between himself and the gargoyle. The vile creature clamped down on Zollin’s forearm, the teeth ripping through skin and muscle, snapping bones and causing a shock of pain to crash into Zollin so strong that he nearly passed out. Blood and the thick mucus from the gargoyle’s maw dripped onto Zollin’s face, and with a scream he unleashed his magic. The power came out like a flood, wrapped around the gargoyle, twisting its limbs and snapping the creature’s bones like dry twigs. The hideous head whipped back on the thick neck into an unnatural position, the bone cracking louder than the shouts of the soldiers. Both of the small arms popped from their sockets and the gargoyle, already dead, went sailing up into the air.
The other four creatures were about to attack again when the dead gargoyle exploded in a fiery burst of magic that ripped the beast into pieces. It had already morphed back into stone, and the shards flew out in every direction except down onto the roof of the Keep. They ripped through the other gargoyles, cutting the fat creatures to ribbons and sending them crashing down to the ground.
“Throw down your spears!” Zollin ordered as he climbed back to his feet.
He held his arm close to his body as magic from the purple pendant pulsed with his own power and began to seal up the wound and stanch the loss of blood. The soldiers hesitated for a moment, then dropped their weapons just as another group of gargoyles appeared in the night sky. Snow had begun to fall in large, heavy clumps, the clouds dumping the rising moisture back toward the ground. Zollin levitated two spears and sent them sailing toward the next wave of attacking gargoyles. The weapons raced through the sky, impaling the lead two creatures who wailed as they died, falling toward the ground far below.
Zollin repeated the attack until there were no more spears to levitate. Then h
e sent the soldiers’ shields spinning through the sky. The shields were made of wood but rimed in iron. They smashed into the gargoyles, snapping limbs and wings, sending the creatures crashing down. Zollin could feel the cold air pouring down from above. His plan was working, he just hoped it would be enough to turn back the attack of the gargoyles.
Brianna and Ferno had taken to the sky again. Fire shot out at the gargoyles, blinding them long enough for Ferno to knock them out of the sky. Zollin felt the tide of the battle turning. If the evil power that controlled the gargoyles wanted to win, it would have to send its creatures to fight in one massive group, but the temperature was failing fast. The snow was billowing, making it hard to see more than a few feet, even with torches lighting the night. If the gargoyles committed to battle, Zollin knew the vile creatures might all freeze before they could complete their task, and the sentient, evil presence knew it too. Suddenly, the gargoyles faded into the night. Those attacking the troops on the ground took to the air, racing away, and Zollin felt a pressure lift from his mind. The evil presence was gone, the Keep was saved, they had won.
On the heels of Zollin’s relief that the battle was over came the realization that his arm ached horribly. His magic had done little more than a tight tourniquet would have done. He needed to see to it, but he was tired. He felt weak. His body was aching from fatigue, from being pounced on by the gargoyle, and from the cold.
“Take turns keeping watch,” Zollin said in a husky voice to the soldiers. “Two men at a time, the rest stay inside and rotate often. It’s going to get cold.”
One of the soldiers stepped forward, saluted Zollin, and then repeated the wizard’s orders to the squad of soldiers. Zollin stumbled into the keep. He was shaking hard as he slowly descended the steps. It was warmer in the Keep, although there were very few fires burning in the fortress. He stumbled down the steps until his legs gave out under him. He was near a landing and managed to slump down onto the floor without hurting himself further.
The purple pendant was calling to him, urging his magic to work. Zollin’s mind was foggy, and isolating the broken shards of bone was difficult. If not for the pendant, the young wizard might have lost his arm. But even in a half-conscious state, just like when his father had stabbed him in the back in Orrock, Zollin was able to guide his magic into the wounded arm and let it heal. The bone was reformed, like assembling a complex puzzle. The muscle fibers reattached themselves, the arteries and veins were repaired, and the nerves reconnected. As the pain eased, Zollin closed his eyes, his body shivering with cold, unable to do more. He slept, the darkness engulfing his mind to sweep away the pain and fear.
Chapter 23
His army was exhausted, as was the horse under him. King Ricard couldn’t understand how they’d lost. His army outnumbered the outcasts ten to one, but the trebuchets had failed and Lorik had used magic to slaughter his men. And then there was the dragon.
The king was furious and terrified at the same time. When the sun began to set he called for a halt and ordered his troops to gather whatever they could find. There was no shelter, and the rolling hills offered very little fuel for fires. Some of the soldiers were sent to cut wood and others saw to the king’s horses, but most huddled together, miserable and cold.
“I’ve seen to the sentries, sire,” said Braynar. “We should have something to eat soon as well.”
“I don’t need food,” Ricard said. “I need victory. How is it that we are fleeing from fewer than two hundred men?”
“Lorik is a sorcerer,” Braynar said. “He used foul magic to slay our men, conjure a dragon, and sabotage our siege engines. You saw the evil spirit that came to kill you.”
“I’m tired of excuses. Witches and sorcerers and dragons are not my concern. If this Lorik uses magic, then I shall find a wizard to fight him. One with a dragon to boot.”
The king was forced to sit on a stump near the fire for warmth. As night fell the temperature dropped and he couldn’t help but worry that some of his men might not survive the night. Braynar stayed busy issuing orders and stomping about their muddy camp, but the truth of the matter was he was desperately trying to salvage his honor and prove his usefulness.
“Casualties, my Lord,” said Braynar. “We lost over three hundred footmen. Nearly a hundred knights are dead or unhorsed. And the supply train was a total loss.”
“What cheery news,” the king snarled.
He was about to say more when a piercing scream echoed through the camp. Braynar started, his hand on his sword, but King Ricard noticed the commander didn’t draw the weapon. A wellspring of contempt rose up in Ricard’s heart for Braynar. When the king had thought his daughter lost, he had leaned heavily on the commander, who oversaw the protection of Ricard’s entire kingdom. For the last year he had been nurturing the reign of Ricard’s cousin, Lord Yettlebor, who was using troops from Baskla to stabilize his reign in Ortis. They were supposedly rebuilding the kingdom, which would have been in Baskla’s debt for years to come. King Yettlebor’s murder was only the first of many bitter defeats, all of which Braynar seemed to be in the middle of.
For a moment King Ricard considered the possibility that his commander was a traitor, but he waved the suspicion away. Braynar wasn’t capable enough to carry out treachery. The man had risen to his position strictly on charisma. In peace he was proficient, but probably only because he delegated most of his responsibilities to more capable commanders. Yet he had fooled everyone into believing he was the finest soldier in all of Baskla. In fact, King Ricard had been making plans to pass on his crown to the confident commander. Without his daughter the world had nothing he desired, but Amvyr had returned to him and he had seen with his own eyes the sheer incompetence of the man he’d meant to name as a son.
Another wail cut through the camp, but this time from the opposite side. King Ricard finally got to his feet and looked across the crowd of soldiers. Everyone was looking for a cause for the screams. Finally a foot soldier came running to where the officers were bunched together. He gave a report and Braynar relayed the news to King Ricard.
“One of the sentries was wounded, my Lord,” the commander said. “He was hit with an arrow. We’ve sent search parties out looking for the culprit.”
“Is it the outcasts?” Ricard asked, trying to mask his fear but failing.
“I don’t think so, my Liege. It was an isolated attack. Just one arrow.”
Another runner informed the officers of news from the other side of camp.
“It is the same report, my King,” Braynar said. “One of the sentries was wounded with an arrow.”
“They could mean to attack us while we sleep,” the king said.
“I don’t think so. This is nothing more than a band of brigands. The outcasts aren’t archers. It could even be just one man.”
“No man can attack from opposite sides of a camp this size.”
“Of course, my Liege, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Double the watch. I don’t want to be taken unaware.”
“As you wish, my King.”
Ricard sat back on the stump, staring into the fire. He felt fear gnawing at his courage. He hadn’t felt such stark fear since he was a child. Another scream rang out, and the king clenched his teeth. He simply couldn’t believe the magnitude of his misfortune, or how he had been completely routed by such a small force. Yet he remembered the eyes of the demon who had attacked him. The smoky body, the hooded face with glowing eyes. And the knives, flashing in the sunlight, dripping red with blood. He knew the creature, whatever it was, would be coming for him. And he was terrified.
***
Lorik and Spector had no trouble pursuing the army from Baskla. They caught up to the disheartened mob well before sundown, but kept their distance. Lorik’s plan hinged on fear. He needed to break the king mentally, before he took his revenge on the man who had enabled Yettlebor to usurp the throne of Ortis and eventually murder Lorik’s closest friends.
When night f
ell he gave specific orders to Spector. The wraith was desperate for blood, but they couldn’t just attack the retreating army that was still well over a thousand men.
“Only kill those you find sleeping,” Lorik said, “no one else.”
“I want to see them all bleed,” the ghostly figure hissed.
“We will, but we want them to suffer first. Stay away from King Ricard and his commanders. Kill the wounded and anyone by themselves. Stay away from groups.”
“As you wish,” Spector said, before gliding off into the darkness.
Lorik watched the camp for a short while, picking out targets. He was hidden in the darkness, which made him feel invincible. The sentries bunched near the fires. The soldiers were cold, hungry, discouraged. They didn’t want to be alone, or far from the fires that kept them warm. They had no shelters and very little food. The warmth of the fire was their only comfort, but it also made them vulnerable.
Lorik drew an arrow, aiming for the sentry’s stomach. He let the missile go. It flew true, streaking through the darkness, a silent assassin. When the arrow struck the sentry he grunted, stumbled backward, then toppled over with a scream that made the hair on Lorik’s arms stand up. He didn’t linger to watch the chaos he’d caused. Instead he sprinted around the camp, taking another position in the darkness on the far side of the mass of soldiers.
His second arrow found its mark, hitting another sentry in the shoulder. The soldiers were trying to get organized. Torches were taken up and even more sentries peered into the darkness, trying to catch sight of their attacker, but Lorik was invisible. He moved swiftly around the army, stopping and wounding man after man. Time passed quickly. The soldiers took up their shields, most kneeling and peeking over the rim of what they hoped would protect them, but Lorik had the advantage. He was hidden in darkness, the camp was illuminated with fires so that Lorik could aim past those trying to defend themselves and target anyone within range who was careless enough to drop their guard.
Chaos Raging (The Five Kingdoms Book 11) Page 19
