Grisnal snarled something unintelligible. The misshapen wizard drew himself up, facing Loth with a look of defiance. He whispered a few words under his breath and a second Grisnal appeared beside the first. Loth blinked, not quite believing what he saw. Then a third Grisnal appeared, and then a fourth. In a matter of seconds Loth was facing half a dozen hump-backed dark elf wizards, as if one of the foul creatures was not enough. They all rushed at him at once. Loth fell back, confused. The wizards darted left and right, changing their order. Loth drove his sword through the nearest one, but the figure was as insubstantial as smoke. It blurred and swirled in the air, only to reform a moment later.
A bolt of emerald fire took Loth off his feet and threw him back across the floor. He rolled and slid, scrambling up again, his sword still in his hand. He smelled burning flesh and realized that it was his own. He looked down at the burned patch of skin and grimaced. Jankayla had to die, he thought irritably, but first he was going to have to kill this foul little wizard.
Chapter 28
Baron Cedric an Nachtwald woke from a dark, restless sleep. His dreams had been filled with pain and confusion. He had seen people and places he never thought to see again and heard things that troubled him, but he could no longer remember why. He had seen his father and heard his father’s voice and the voices of others, of friends and lovers from his youth, but they were gone now and he felt alone. He had seen Lady Katherine, his lovely young bride, the woman he had loved more than any other, but whom he had held for all too short a time. They had spoken together in a familiar place, a place that no longer existed except in his memory. What she had said to him, or he to her, was lost now, but there was a feeling of disappointment, mostly of her disappointment in him, but shouldn’t it be the other way around? Wasn’t he the injured party? It hardly mattered anymore. What mattered most was seeing her again, just being with her. He could not have wished for more.
Somewhere, far off it seemed and yet closer than he would have liked, he heard the sounds of battle. For a moment he thought he was still lying in the grass on the borders of Southside, with goblins and orcs battling his men-at-arms. His hand reached for his sword, but he found only soft linen beneath his fingers.
He opened his eyes. His vision was blurry at first but cleared after a moment. He was in his chambers, inside the keep, in his very own bed. He was safe. How had he come to be here? He could not remember that either, and yet here he was. He lay for a moment breathing in slowly, listening to the pounding of his own heart and feeling the surge of blood through his veins. His skin was moist with sweat and he felt uncomfortably warm all of a sudden, trapped beneath the sheets and blankets that were heaped over his body. He grabbed hold of them and threw them back, gasping with relief at the touch of the cool night air. He tried to sit up, but there was a pain in his side and he felt weak as a newborn babe.
“Ah, you’re awake,” said a man’s voice close to him. “Do not try to stand just yet. You’re still healing and your strength has not yet returned.”
Cedric blinked. Candles burned in stands around the room and on the table next to his bed. A man sat beside him, dressed in the gray robes of a priest of Aedon, the candlelight reflecting off his bald head. Cedric knew the man, knew him well, although it took a moment to recall his name.
“Father Moram.” Cedric’s voice was little more than a whisper. His throat was dry from long disuse, his lips chapped and split. “What’s happening?”
Father Moram reached for a pitcher on the bedside table. He filled a cup with water and, lifting Cedric’s head with one hand, held the cup to his lips.
“My lord, you’ve been through a terrible ordeal. You need time to recover...” his voice trailed off, then he added in a whisper, “but there is no time, no time at all.”
The water was soothing to Cedric’s throat and the night air revived him. He felt stronger with each passing moment, and for the first time in days, his thoughts began to clear. He could remember now, the terrible battle they had fought and the spear in his belly. Cedric gripped the side of his bed and, with an effort, was able to sit up. Father Moram reached for him and Cedric took the priest’s arm, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet but not unpleasant, and the night air was cool against his feverish skin. His stomach lurched, threatening to empty its contents onto the floor, but there was nothing to empty. His head swam in dizzying circles and he shook it, trying to clear away the shreds of mist that still drifted before his eyes.
The boy, Father Moram’s ward, stood near the door, a small figure clad in white, ghost-like in the dim light. The boy’s face was still, but his eyes were bright.
“My lord,” Father Moram said. “Nachtwald stands on the brink of a precipice. Many brave souls have already gone to the halls of Mirid this night, and more still will fall before the dawn finds us.”
“What’s happening?” Cedric’s voice took on some of its old authority.
“The city is under attack, my lord. A vast army of goblins and orcs are inside the walls and they are winning. I can see no escape. Sir Ardunn has betrayed us and Sir Eris is dead, as are a great many others.”
Cedric’s nostrils flared. He could smell the blood and the burning. He could taste fear in the air. He took a long shuddering breath and tried to stand. His legs quivered and threatened to give out beneath him. He reached out a hand and Father Moram took it, supporting Cedric against his shoulder. Cedric looked down searching for the wound in his belly but found nothing, no sign at all of what should have been a fatal injury. He thought again of the orc’s spear, the sickening pain as the steel head tore into his guts. The wound should have killed him, and yet it had not. He was healed. Miraculously he had been saved. But, no, this was no miracle. This was magic. He looked at the priest, his eyes hard.
“Yes.” Father Moram seemed to read his thoughts. “You have been healed by magic. But it was not my magic that brought you back from the brink. Judge my actions as you see fit but later, when the danger has passed. For now, your city needs you.”
Cedric took this in, absorbing the priest’s words. Magic was supposed to be a boon to mankind, yet Ninavar’s history was filled with stories where magic had been the catalyst for mayhem and disaster. Magic had killed Katherine—Zerabnir’s magic had killed her—but it was Cedric who had been the instrument of her destruction. The memory shook him and tears slid down his face, unbidden. He wiped them away angrily.
“It was my fault that Katherine died. I blamed Zerabnir for her death, but I was just as responsible as he was.”
“I know,” Father Moram said. “It was an accident. You never meant...”
“The talisman he gave me. It was meant to protect me—that was all. I did not realize how violently her spells would be repelled or that she had grown so powerful. If I had known...” Cedric ground his teeth in frustration.
Father Moram said nothing. He waited patiently for Cedric to speak his confession. Was that what he was doing? Confessing? Ren appeared beside the priest. Cedric had not even noticed that the boy had moved, but there he was, his golden eyes watching Cedric with sudden interest.
“It was her lover.” The word was like acid on Cedric’s tongue. “He was her teacher as well, damn his soul, and then there was the child. There is nothing more dangerous than a woman trying to protect her child. She was afraid I would do him harm.”
“Was that not your intent?” Father Moram asked.
Cedric looked into the priest’s eyes. “Perhaps, perhaps at first. But I didn’t know. I couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t mine.”
“And now?”
“He is nothing like me.” Cedric’s voice was bitter. “But I still don’t know, not with any certainty. I have met many sons who are not like their fathers. It doesn’t mean...” he let the words trail away, unwilling to speak the rest.
“He is a good man,” Father Moram said, “or, at least, he will be one day.”
“Meddling. You are always meddling.” Bu
t there was no heat in Cedric’s words. “Portia. Where is she?” Hers was the last face he could remember seeing. So like her mother she was, and with her mother’s power and skills. For a moment he had feared that it was her hand that had healed him, her magic. “Did the Briar Knights get her away from the city? Is she in Anhalth?”
“No, my lord,” Father Moram bowed his head. “She has left the city, but without the Briar Knights. She and Finn went with the elf and the Northman. They went to Arrom’s Rock, to the source of this plague that has fallen upon us. I believe they are doing what they can, what they believe they must, to save the city, but they went in secret. We had no chance to prevent it.”
Cedric shook his head, trying to subdue the shadows and memories that threatened to overwhelm him. Portia and Finn had gone to Arrom’s Rock? Madness. They should be here. But there was no safety here either. There was no safety anywhere.
“Take me to the window,” he insisted.
“You must take it slowly,” Father Moram said.
“Take me to the window, damn you!” Cedric coughed and wheezed as he tried to clear the dust from his throat. But it wasn’t Father Moram, but Ren, who took his hand and guided him toward the window. The boy’s hand was warm against his skin and his grip was sure and strong. Cedric felt life flowing through his body and, after a moment, was able to pull away and take several steps on his own. He leaned heavily against the sill and looked out into the night.
Nachtwald was on fire. The red flames climbed high into the night illuminating a scene of chaos and bloodshed. Orcs and goblins swarmed over Nachtwald. They ran through the streets unopposed. There was a large force of armed men and townsfolk clustered in the courtyard below, waiting for something.
“I need to get down there.” The cool air revived him and he felt steadier, more alert. The waves of sickness that threatened to overwhelm him a few moments before were at last receding, and the quivering of his limbs had stilled.
“Your wounds are healed,” Father Moram said, “but it will be some time before you are whole again.”
“You said it yourself, there is no time.” Cedric was comforted by the familiar tenor of his voice, rough and demanding. “If I don’t get down there now, there will be nothing left. It’s my city, and those are my people fighting for their lives. I will go out to face the enemy, and if I am to die, I will do it with a sword in my hand.”
He turned from the window and found Ren standing before him. The boy had retrieved his sword and now held up the scabbard with the pommel toward him. Cedric took hold of the grip and drew the sword, feeling a quickening of his blood as he did. He held the blade up admiring the cold steel, and then he looked down at the boy again.
“Who are you?” Cedric asked. “Who and what are you that you can do such things.”
The boy just smiled at him and turned away.
Cedric took a step, then another. His strength returning to him and he breathed easier. He put a hand on his side, running his fingers over the place where the spear had pierced his flesh. The wound was healed, but the pain was still there, a dull ache beneath the skin. It hardly mattered. He could fight, at least. Fight and die with his men as Aedon intended.
“Where are my guards?”
Father Moram shook his head. “They’ve all gone, my lord, to defend the walls.”
“Then you will have to be my squire, you and Ren.” Cedric gazed down at the boy who stood beside the priest again, still smiling, seemingly content despite all that was happening around him. Cedric couldn’t explain why, but the boy’s smile gave him hope.
“Find me my armor,” he demanded. “And be quick about it. If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the whole damn war.”
* * *
From the parapet above the gate, Blayde watched as the tide rose. A veritable deluge of foes filling the barbican, a writhing mass that ebbed and flowed, storming the walls one moment, then receding slowly before crashing down again. After a while, the orcs brought up a battering ram and used it to pummel the iron portcullis until it was wrenched from the wall and fell in ruin, a tangled latticework of twisted iron. They poured into the outer ward, looking for foes to hew and slash, but found no one waiting for them. Tentatively they approached the abyss that separated the inner and outer wards. Below them was a dry moat that ran between the walls, a hidden garden lost in shadow. The orcs shouted at the defenders and slammed their swords and spears against their shields.
Nachtwald’s archers shot at them from the safety of the wall, but there were few archers left and few arrows remaining for them to shoot. The orcs had grown bold and impatient. They roared their dissatisfaction and chided the defenders to come out and die like warriors instead of sheep.
In the midst of this scene, the wyvern fell from the sky to settle atop the barbican wall like a monstrous bird of prey, a colossal raven, bereft of feathers, its oily, midnight blue skin shining in the light of the burning city. From the saddle on the monster’s back, Durog looked down on his army. His lips pulled back in a satisfied snarl and he bared his teeth. Blayde stared at him, as if she might bore a hole through his malformed skull with the heat of her gaze. Seeming to sense this, Durog looked up and the two locked eyes across the distance, silently warring with each other, like a pair of wrestlers, grappling, each longing to choke the last breath out of their enemy. Soon enough, Blayde thought, soon enough.
* * *
Among goblins, Sham was known to be both smart and ambitious, traits not usually associated with members of his race. He had found the strange tunnel, the opening located a dozen feet up the side of the castle wall above a cesspit stinking of human waste. It did not take him long to deduce its purpose and the opportunity it presented. He reported the finding to his commander, Ugak, who in turn told the Dragmal of their warband, an old orc warrior called Mulk. Mulk, who had been digging through the ruins of a merchant’s dwelling, looking for coins and other trinkets worth stealing, had been annoyed at the interruption, but after thinking it over in his slow, deliberate way, decided it was worth investigating.
Mulk studied the hole for some time before pronouncing it a garderobe, a toilet chute that men in castles sometimes used to drop even more shit on the outside world. He laughed uproariously at his own joke and slapped Ugak across the back of the head. He told Ugak to gather up a dozen of his stoutest warriors, preferably those with the worst sense of smell, and to have them bring their climbing gear.
A short time later Sham and his companions waded through knee-deep filth to the base of the wall. They scrambled up, climbing one on top of the other, each standing on the shoulders of the goblin beneath him and leaning against the wall. Sham was the last, and he was eventually able to climb up over his fellows to reach the base of the hole. It was a dark, forbidding tunnel, and the stench of it brought up copious amounts of bile in the back of his throat. But orders were orders, and it had been his idea after all.
It was an awkward and dangerous climb from there, even with the little claw-tipped boots and hand hooks. The walls were slick with excrement and breathing in the confined space was almost impossible. Still, he managed it, and at last crawled out through a hole in a bench seat at the top of the awful tunnel.
He stood there for a time, his muscles quivering, his head spinning, breathing in the sweet, clean air. He was fairly certain the smell would not leave his nose for some time. There was a window above the bench and looking out it Sham could see for many leagues, all the way to Arrom’s Rock and beyond. After a few minutes, he shook himself and, uncoiling the length of rope he had brought with him, dropped it down the hole to where his companions waited below.
Soon Ugak and eleven other goblins had climbed the rope. All of them stood squeezed together inside the little room, each of them struggling in his own way not to vomit up his last meal onto the floor or onto his friends.
Ugak once more assumed control of the stinking band of interlopers. Sham was beside him as he opened the door. There they discovered a wide passage running a
long the interior of the castle. Signaling to his companions, Ugak ran for the stairs at the end of the hall and climbed quickly to the walkway above, with Sham close on his heels. They took a moment to orient themselves and then sprang along the walkway to a tower near the middle of the castle. Looking in through the arched opening they spotted four guardsmen. Fortunately, the men were not looking their way. Their attention was on the ground below and on the orcs who were storming the gatehouse, trying to gain entry to the inner ward.
Sham drew his sword, a short notched blade that was comfortable in his hand and followed Ugak. The goblins leapt across the tower floor, falling on the guards from behind. They hacked and slashed at the men, stabbing and biting, until the bloodied guardsmen fell and lay still. The scent of fresh spilled blood was as sweet as summer rain after the tunnel and Sham sneezed loudly. Ugak clapped him on his ear and told him to be quiet.
The goblins crept out along the rampart, keeping low so as not to be seen by the defenders below. They approached another stair that led down onto the parapet beside the gatehouse. Here there were a number of men, archers and men-at-arms, gathered to defend against orcs trying to climb up onto the wall using ladders and grappling hooks. Sham drew Ugak aside and suggested a plan. Sham was good with details. In fact, he was better than Ugak when it came to planning and couldn’t understand why Ugak was the leader and not him. Maybe that would change after this.
Ugak selected two others and the four goblins quickly stripped the tabards, cloaks, and helms off of the fallen guardsmen in the tower room. The men’s clothes were torn and soaked in blood, but in the dark who would notice? They hastily donned their stolen attire and, taking a deep breath, went down the stairs. The guards’ clothes were loose on them, and they were all too short to be mistaken for real guardsmen, but in the confusion of the moment no one took any notice of four small soldiers, bloody, and smelling of shit, as they ran the length of the parapet and leapt into the gatehouse.
A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 34
