“So,” said Riothamus at last. “That went well.”
###
“Here,” said Mazael, handing Romaria a cup. “This will help settle your nerves.”
She swallowed the wine in one gulp. “Gods, I hope so.”
Romaria sat on a bench in Mazael’s tent. Riothamus stood nearby, his face drawn. Molly waited in the corner, arms folded across her chest, while Mazael paced back and forth, face grave.
“The power Lucan is stealing,” said Riothamus. “It is going to Knightcastle, just as we suspected.”
“It’s the Old Demon’s doing, I’m sure of it,” said Romaria. “He all but admitted it. He tricked Lucan into finding a way to enter Cythraul Urdvul, and whatever that way is, it’s at Knightcastle.”
“Which explains,” murmured Mazael, “why Skalatan wants to get to Knightcastle so badly.”
“And why Lucan has taken Lord Malden and his runedead to Barellion,” said Riothamus. “It allows him to harvest the life force he needs while slowing Skalatan.”
“Hugh needs our aid,” said Mazael. He closed his eyes and sighed. “But I cannot bring it to him, not yet. We must get to Knightcastle as soon as possible. If we do not, the world will fall to the Old Demon.”
“I doubt Caldarus,” said Molly, “will let us pass if we ask nicely.”
“No,” said Mazael. “He will not. We will have to defeat him, and march in haste for Knightcastle.”
He sounded so confident, but Romaria knew her husband too well to be fooled. He was not sure they could defeat Caldarus’s runedead in battle.
She hoped they found a way.
Because the Old Demon had seemed confident, so utterly confident, of his ultimate victory.
###
Lucan awoke, blinking.
He stood, unsure of what had just happened.
“An attack,” he muttered. Romaria must have been a distraction, holding him in place while the Guardian unleashed the full might of his magic.
But the attack had failed. Romaria’s transparent attempt to manipulate him had failed, and his wards had been strong enough to disrupt the Guardian’s attack.
He would take greater caution against such assaults in the future.
Chapter 18 - An Alliance
“Stand fast!” shouted Hugh.
He stood atop the Gate of Bishops, Barellion’s northern gate. Armsmen and city militia stood around him, long spears in hand and short swords at their belts, their faces tense and frightened beneath their helms. Before him the land stretched away in rolling plains, covered with farms and cultivated fields.
Though now runedead, countless runedead, covered the fields.
Lord Malden’s runedead had sealed off the city. Divisions of runedead guarded the northern, southern, and eastern gates, and besieged the castle lighthouses overlooking the harbor, cutting off the city. During the past several days, Hugh had watched as Lord Malden’s men assembled siege towers and ladders, catapults and ballistas.
Malden’s strategy was plain enough. He would build his siege machines, and then overwhelm the defenders in one massive attack on all three gates at once. Or Lucan’s strategy, Hugh guessed, given that Lucan was likely the one in control.
But before the final assault came the probing attacks.
“Brace yourselves!” roared the knight in command of the gate. “Spears in front, crossbows behind! Any man who lights his oil before the foe is upon us, I’ll have his head!”
Hugh had set every wizard in the city to making as much wizard’s oil as they could manage. So far their supplies had held, allowing them to resist the probing attacks Malden had launched against the Outer Wall. But once the main attack came, once the runedead threw their full weight at all three gates at once, the defenders might well run out of wizard’s oil in short order.
And then the city would fall.
Six groups of runedead strode towards the Gate of Bishops, each carrying a sturdy wooden siege ladder.
“Catapults!” Hugh said.
The knight gave the order.
The catapults atop the Gate’s towers released, twin balls of burning pitch soaring overhead. The engineers manning the war engines knew their business, and the burning missiles slammed into two different groups of runedead. A score of the undead went up in flames, as did their ladders. Yet four ladders remained, carried by the surviving runedead.
“Spears ready,” said Hugh. The knight and his sergeants relayed Hugh’s commands, and the spearmen reformed themselves, preparing to meet the charge of the runedead. The undead reached the base of the wall and raised their siege ladders, the heavy wood slamming against the stone battlements. Steel hooks topped the ladders, gripping into the rough stone.
The runedead swarmed up the wide ladders, ascending rung by rung.
“Crossbows!” shouted a sergeant. The militiamen with crossbows stepped forward, dipped their quarrels in burning pitch, and fired their weapons. A storm of flaming bolts shot towards the runedead. Fire and magic were the only things that could harm the creatures, and while wizard’s oil was in short supply, they had no shortage of flammable crossbow quarrels. A dozen runedead went up in flames, the fire chewing into their undead flesh, and fell blazing from the ladders.
But still the runedead climbed.
“Now!” shouted Hugh, pointing with his sword. “Ignite!”
The squads of spearmen standing before the four ladders ignited the wizard’s oil on their weapons. At once eerie white flames sheathed the spearheads, and the men attacked as the runedead crested the battlements. Spears pierced the runedead, the white fire quenching the sigils upon their brows, the corpses tumbling back to the ground below the Outer Wall.
One of the runedead threw itself from the ladder and landed upon a spearman, driving the man to the ground. The spearman just had time to scream before the runedead tore out his throat. Hugh darted forward, white fire flickering around his sword, and took off the runedead’s head. The corpse fell atop the dead man, and another militiaman hurried to take the slain spearman’s place in the line.
The fighting went on, the spearmen struggling to hold back the runedead. Hugh threw himself into the fray, fighting wherever the men wavered, shouting exhortations as he swung and stabbed. The crossbowmen hurried to the Gate’s towers, and fired down at the ladders, setting the runedead afire as they climbed.
Then the white fire on the spears began to dim.
“Rotate!” roared the knight in command, waving his sword over his head. “Rotate now, damn you! Relief squads forward! Rotate!”
The spearmen fell back, and the relief companies stepped forward, igniting the wizard’s oil on their weapons. They plunged into the melee, stabbing with their spears, their shields presenting a solid wall. But one of the companies stumbled as they fell back, and the runedead surged into the gap.
“To me!” shouted Hugh, attacking as the line threatened to waver. “To me! Reserves to me!”
A reserve company rushed to the call of their Prince, rescuing the retreating squad, and the sheer weight of numbers pushed the runedead back. Hugh hacked the hand from one runedead, and the head from another, and the spearmen drove the runedead back over the ladder.
And then the attack was over, the runedead scrambling back down the ladder. The undead tried to pull the ladders after them, and Hugh’s men leapt to stop them. They pulled two of the ladders over the ramparts, while the runedead claimed the other two.
A ragged, tired cheer went up from the defenders.
“You have fought well!” Hugh bellowed. “Barellion yet stands, thanks to your valor!”
The men cheered again, louder this time, but Hugh looked at the thousands of runedead waiting beyond the reach of the catapults and shivered.
The battle had not yet truly begun.
He left the Gate of Bishops and descended from the ramparts, accompanied by a guard of armsmen. Horses waited below, and Hugh rode through the streets, inspecting the efforts of his people. Despite the siege, Barellion se
ethed with activity, and every able-bodied man, woman, and child had been put to work. Children hurried with loads of food and arrows. Women prepared bandages, while old men made crossbow quarrels and repaired armor.
Again he marveled at Adelaide’s organizational skills. Without her to oversee the logistical efforts, the battle would have been twice as hard. When he had met her, he had never dreamed of becoming the Prince of Barellion, but he could not have chosen a more capable Lady Consort.
Hugh rode to the plaza below the Gate of Knights, Barellion’s southern gate. Armsmen waited there, along with horses to carry messages. Montigard stood below the lance flying the Prince’s banner, scratching his beard and scowling at the wall.
“Sir Philip!” said Hugh, swinging out of the saddle. “What news?”
“One attack since dawn,” said Montigard. “Nine dead and fifteen wounded in exchange for fifty or sixty runedead. Lord Bryce reports two attacks at the Gate of Merchants, and he managed to repulse them without too much difficulty.”
“Malden is poking us with needles,” said Hugh, “seeing where we’ll flinch.” He shook his head. “All he needs to do is to roll over us with one massive assault.”
“We know that,” said Montigard, “but he might not know that.” He snorted. “Malden might look young, but he’s still an old man. Old men are cautious commanders. He knows he can squeeze us like a fruit…but he’s still cautious, in case we have a trick up our sleeve.”
Alas, Hugh had not been able to think up any tricks.
“Keep me informed,” said Hugh. “I’m going to the Knights’ Inn for a few moments to visit the wounded. If the runedead launch a major attack…”
Montigard nodded. “Send for you at once, I know.”
Hugh strode across the square. The Knights’ Inn stood at the other end of the plaza, a tall, impressive building constructed of cut stone and polished timber. The Inn catered to wealthy merchants and minor lords visiting the city, and more than once Hugh had bedded a romantic conquest in its opulent rooms. Adelaide had commandeered the Inn and put it to use as a hospital for the wounded. Hugh had expected the Inn’s owner to put up a fight, but the man seemed eager to surrender his establishment.
Perhaps he recognized Barellion’s danger, or perhaps he wanted to curry favor with the new Prince. Either way, Adelaide had put the building to good use.
Hugh entered the common room. Cots lined the walls, wounded men lying upon them. Women worked throughout the room, cleaning wounds, stitching cuts, and giving strong drink to ease the pain. Hugh greeted the nurses and the wounded, thanked them for the valor, and found Adelaide near the stairs leading to the second floor. The Lady Consort wore a simple gray dress, her sleeves and the hem spotted with blood from the wounded. She looked stern and confident, but Hugh saw the dark circles under her eyes.
“Hugh,” said Adelaide, taking his hands. “You’re alive. Thank the gods.”
“It will take more than a pack of rotting corpses to defeat the Prince of Barellion,” said Hugh, trying to keep his tone light.
Her mouth curled. “Certainly not, my Prince.” The smile faded. “Many wounded have been coming in. I fear we shall not have beds for them all. Those with minor wounds, we patch up and send back to the Outer Wall. Those with more serious wounds we treat, and pray they recover. And those beyond hope…we ease their pain and wait for the end.” She took a ragged breath. “It is bad, Hugh. It reminds me of the first hours of the Great Rising, when we thought the gods had forsaken us and the Destroyer had come to bring the end of days.”
“It’s going to get worse,” said Hugh. “The attacks we’ve seen so far have been probes. Malden and Lucan have yet to throw the full weight of their runedead against the walls.” He took a deep breath. “When they do, it…will be very bad, Adelaide. You must be ready to fall back to the Inner City, if the battle goes against us.”
“Lucan Mandragon,” said Adelaide, her voice bitter. “The Dragon’s Shadow is too kind a name for him. He inflicted so much suffering with the Great Rising, and now he must make war upon Greycoast. The evil he has worked, the widows and orphans he has made…there is no answer for it. A noble lord like Malden Roland should know better than to listen to such a villain.”
“He should,” said Hugh, “but evidently he did not. I am needed at the walls. I…”
A flicker of motion caught his eye, and Hugh turned.
A figure in a gray robe stood atop the stairs, face shrouded in the darkness of a heavy cowl. The figure lifted its head, and Hugh glimpsed the black-slit yellow eyes of a serpent in the hood’s depths. It raised an arm, and Hugh saw a skeletal hand at the end of the sleeve, the bones bound together by flickering green sparks.
A surge of fear and alarm went through him.
Skalatan.
Had the archpriest come here to kill him?
“Hugh?” said Adelaide, looking up the stairs. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She could not see the San-keth archpriest, he realized.
Skalatan crooked a finger, beckoning.
“What is it?” said Adelaide again.
Hugh thought about lying, but he was likely going to die in the next few moments. He would not end his life with a lie to his wife upon his lips.
“Skalatan,” he said, voice hoarse. “I see Skalatan. But you don’t see him. Which means…which means he is projecting an illusion from some distance away.”
“Well reasoned, Lord Prince,” hissed Skalatan. Adelaide flinched, her eyes growing wide, and Hugh realized she could now see the image of the archpriest. “Come. We should speak, you and I.”
“This is a trap to lead me to my death, I assume,” said Hugh.
Skalatan made the hissing San-keth equivalent to laughter. “If I wanted you to die, Prince of Barellion, I need only wait until Malden Roland spears you upon his black dagger. Come. I merely wish to speak.”
Speaking with Skalatan seemed like a remarkably poor idea. Yet Skalatan was right. If the Skalatan wanted him dead, he need only stand back and let the Malden take the city. And Hugh was desperate. Unless he did something, Malden and Lucan were going to conquer Barellion.
He would use any tool he could reach to save his city…even if it meant speaking with Skalatan.
“Adelaide,” said Hugh, voice quiet, “don’t let anyone disturb me.”
She hesitated, nodded, and then squeezed his hand.
Hugh climbed the stairs, and Skalatan gestured at one of the doors. Hugh opened it, and stepped into a lavish bedroom that had been converted to a sickroom with six cots. The cots were empty at the moment. Hugh closed the door, and Skalatan stepped through the wall, his illusion rippling for a moment.
They stared at each other.
“You have risen in the world,” said Skalatan, “since last we met.”
“When we last met,” said Hugh, “you had taken me prisoner, and offered to make me Prince in exchange for vassalage and offering my soul to the serpent god.”
“Indeed,” said Skalatan. “Yet you have become Prince without our aid. You have a gift for choosing powerful allies.”
“Now I assume you’ve come to make the same offer?” said Hugh. “Shall you repeat it now, or should I merely laugh in your face and save us some time?”
The San-keth had no human expressions, but Hugh sensed a distinct note of irritation in the flicker of Skalatan’s forked tongue.
“You humans,” he said. “So ruled by your emotions, and so distant from the clarity of logic. Yes, I would have made you Prince, and bound you to both the Aegonar and Sepharivaim. But of what relevance is that to your current woes?”
“Little enough,” Hugh admitted. “I assume you have come to make another offer?”
“I have,” said Skalatan. “I see that your city is threatened by Lucan Mandragon and his runedead. Without aid, you will almost certainly be defeated, and Lucan will unleash his servants in a rampage of slaughter, as he has done in the other villages and towns he conquered.”
“W
e will fight,” said Hugh.
“And you will lose.”
Hugh could not deny that. “And why is our fate a concern of yours?”
“It is not,” said Skalatan. “But the fate of your foe is of great concern to me.”
“Lucan Mandragon,” said Hugh.
“Indeed.” Skalatan’s tongue flickered back and forth within the darkness of the cowl. “He has grown powerful, and his runedead army is strong. Facing the lords of Greycoast was one matter. Facing a necromancer of Lucan’s power and an army of runedead is quite another.”
“You don’t think you can win against him,” said Hugh. “That’s why you’re here. If he takes Barellion, he’ll control southern Greycoast…and you’ll have to go through him to reach Knightcastle.”
“I am sure you can agree that would be an undesirable outcome,” Skalatan.
“I do,” said Hugh, “especially since it means Lucan will take Barellion.”
“There is a way to avert that fate, Prince of Barellion,” said Skalatan.
Hugh braced himself. “And just what is that?”
“This,” said Skalatan, gesturing with his carrier’s skeletal hand.
The air rippled next to him, and an image of Ryntald, High King of the Aegonar, appeared besides the archpriest.
Hugh had not expected that. Ryntald looked much as Hugh remembered, with the same lean build, the same close-cropped red beard and hair, the same armor of steel scales. But now a diadem of red gold rested upon his head…the diadem of the High King of the Aegonar and the Anointed of Sepharivaim.
“You have risen to higher rank than we last met, Prince of Barellion,” said Ryntald, his quiet voice a deep rumble.
“As have you,” said Hugh. “Were you able to recover Agantyr’s diadem from Barellion, or did you have to forge a new one?”
“The diadem is merely a symbol,” said Ryntald. “What we offer you is something more concrete.”
“An alliance,” said Skalatan.
Hugh laughed. “Truly? You offered Malaric an alliance as well. That did not end well for him, as I recall.”
Soul of Swords (Book 7) Page 24
