Heavier Than a Mountain (Destiny's Crucible Book 3)

by Olan Thorensen

  Mulron Luwis, Vortig’s son and commander of the three hundred–man standing garrison in Caernford, had organized a sweep of the surrounding five miles and come up empty. There was no sign of the attackers or any encampment attributable to them. The search would continue at daylight. Yozef attested that at least some of the attackers still remained at large. He’d witnessed one of the four men he’d fought in the hall flee out a window, after stopping another man from climbing in. Yozef also thought he’d heard voices of more than one man outside the house, but he wasn’t sure amid everything else going on.

  Yozef couldn’t have slept if his life depended on it. He would later wonder whether his adrenaline level had set any new records, but whatever the physiological basis, his agitation wouldn’t brook any immobility. He listened in on Mulron and Denes making reports about no evidence of more attackers and Luwis and Kennrick saying something to someone, none of which registered in his brain. He went to the room with Anid’s body and hugged Maera and Aeneas, then strode out to the grounds where fourteen black-clad bodies were lined up. He walked over to a tent where medicants treated two badly wounded attackers not expected to survive, and then he started the same cycle again.

  He lost track of time. All he noticed was that the sun sat high in the sky, as he wandered among the remaining men and horses in front of the house.

  “Are you okay, Yozef?” asked a familiar voice that cut through the fog in his brain.

  He looked around, confused for a second about where he was, until he saw Balwis standing beside him, looking concerned.

  “I killed five men,” Yozef blurted without thinking.

  Balwis didn’t respond for several moments. His eyes narrowed, and he took in Yozef as if for the first time. “They got what they deserved,” he finally said. “I killed two and only wish I’d had the chance to gut more of them.”

  “Have you . . . you know . . . killed before?” asked Yozef, his eyes haunted and burning at the same time.

  “Yes,” said Balwis. “When I escaped from Preddi, I killed a Narthani who caught me stashing food I was accumulating. I was stupid and didn’t check carefully enough whether anyone was around when I went to my cache. He asked me what I was doing. I had no choice. I tossed him a sack of bread. He was startled and reacted to catch the sack, and while he was distracted, I pulled a knife and drove it into his stomach. He didn’t utter a sound, just gave me a confused look, while I pulled the knife out and stabbed him in the throat. Blood gushed all over me, and I almost puked.

  “The next time was easier. I had crossed into Eywell when four Eywellese men stopped me about thirty miles from the Moreland border. I was surprised I’d made it that far. I don’t know if they recognized my gear wasn’t Eywellese or what, but they demanded my identification and business.

  “I’d taken two pistols from the first Narthani I killed, and I shot two of them before they reacted. One of the others fled, but one went for a pistol, and I drove my horse into his. Both of our horses went down, and he lay pinned under his. He was helpless and probably had a broken leg, so he wasn’t going anywhere. Since the fourth had already fled, I had no real reason to kill him. But I didn’t hesitate. I could only remember how Narthani had killed my father, and in my mind, at that moment, I was avenging my father’s death. So, yes, I’ve killed, and I have no qualms. I only wish I could kill every last Narthani and Eywellese.”

  “This was the first time for me,” said Yozef, his voice detached, as if noting a casual event. “At St. Sidyrn’s, I wounded one Buldorian, more by luck than intent. At Moreland City I helped direct cannon, though I couldn’t identify whether we hit anyone. I assume we did, but they weren’t nearby. This time, I shot a man seven feet from me and saw him fall. I shot another one, and the light on the veranda let me see the impact on his chest. Another I shot in the back in the hall.

  “Then I pulled a knife, and the rest is a blur. I do remember that one of the attackers was still alive. I stood over him, thinking we needed to keep him alive for questioning. I don’t know what happened, but I stabbed him over and over. It was like I was a different person or insane, or . . . oh, I don’t know . . . not myself? I should have kept him alive,” Yozef said, looking at Balwis for an explanation or an exculpation. “All that seemed to matter was that he needed to be killed, and I almost felt disappointed when the fighting stopped and there were no more of them to kill.”

  “It’s just the heat of battle,” said Balwis, laying a hand on Yozef’s shoulder. “We need that extra energy, or whatever you want to call it, to survive. Listen to yourself, Yozef. You say you killed five of them. How many lives did you save? What if those men had gotten to the great room? Who else might have died? Perhaps everyone. You and I are different, but if it was me, I would give thanks to God for giving me the strength to kill and save those who survived.”

  Yozef patted Balwis’s arm. He didn’t feel reassured about himself but appreciated the human contact. He opened his mouth to ask something—he later didn’t remember what—when voices alerted them to get out of the way, as a rider tore down the drive toward the house.

  Everyone’s nerves were on edge. “Damnation, watch where you’re going!” and “God’s blood, who’s this idiot?” were only a few of the imprecations hurled at the rider.

  “Messages for the hetman!” shouted the rider, overriding all other noise. “It’s the Narthani! They’ve invaded Swavebroke and attacked other hetmen!”

  The previous level of shouts would have been lost amid what resulted. Only when Vortig Luwis burst from the house did the cacophony subside.

  “SHUT UP! All OF YOU!”

  The rider, whom Yozef identified as one of the Caernford semaphore station staff, ran to Luwis and handed him several sheets used for semaphore messages. Luwis read the first, clenched his teeth, and moved to the second sheet. If anything, his face turned redder than from reading the first message. By the time he finished the third message, the red had faded to pale, almost white. Not the white of fear, but the white of fury beyond mere blood. He read the messages several more times.

  The forty or so men and a few women who’d crowded around Luwis murmured until Luwis gathered himself, his voice oddly emotionless, considering the expression on his face and the look in his eyes.

  “The Narthani landed in force at Shullick, the Swavebroke capital. Their hetman has ordered the city evacuated inland, and they’re fighting within the city to delay the Narthani from pursuing those who fled.”

  Questions and exclamations began, only to be silenced again by Luwis.

  “The Farkesh, Vandinke, and Pewitt clans have started men moving toward Swavebroke, but it’ll be several days before enough get there to stop the Narthani. The son of Hetman Swavebroke sent messages that they expect the city to fall completely before help can arrive.”

  Luwis held up both hands to quell a renewed chorus. This time a deafening quiet ensued, as if everyone dreaded what would come.

  “There have also been assassination attacks on the Skouks and Bevans hetmen. Zitwyn Bevans is safe, and all of his attackers were killed. Elek Skouks is dead, along with his wife and the entire family of one of his daughters. If I remember, there were six children in that family.” He spoke the last words softly, in wonder and anguish.

  * * *

  To find a quiet, unbloodied room, where they wouldn’t bother the wounded and grieving, the Keelan leaders moved to the cottage used by Yozef’s Shadows when they spent the night. No one sat, not that there were enough chairs. Vortig and Mulron Luwis, Pedr Kennrick, Denes Vegga, and Yozef stood in a circle, along with Abbot Walkot of St. Tomo’s, who had returned as soon as he heard the news of the other attacks.

  “The hetman is resting right now,” said Luwis. “The medicants say he just got to sleep an hour ago, so I don’t want to wake him yet.”

  “There are already plans in place for just this eventuality,” said Yozef.

  Denes nodded vigorously. “Yozef’s right. The ready-reaction force must move to
Dornfeld to re-equip with the pre-positioned horses and weapons. Then we move into Eywell and raid as far west as we can.”

  “That’s a decision only Culich can make,” asserted Kennrick.

  “The decision was already made,” Denes shot back.

  “The intent was made, not the decision to do it,” said Luwis.

  “Father,” said Mulron Luwis, “I agree with Yozef and Denes. “The hetman approved this action based on the same scenario that has happened—the Narthani attacking a clan on the other side of Caedellium. We couldn’t send men to Swavebroke in time to help, and even if we could, I don’t think we’d want too many of our men that far away. However, by raiding inside Eywell and threatening Preddi we might cause the Narthani to withdraw from Swavebroke before they do maximum damage. Even if that’s too late, the idea is sound that it might prevent them from doing the same thing again.”

  Before a heated argument started, Yozef spoke up. “There’s no conflict in both setting the reaction force in motion and getting Culich’s approval. Given his condition, it could be hours, even a day or two, before he’s fully aware enough to judge the situation. It will take that long or longer for the reaction force to get into position. I suggest they start off toward Dornfeld immediately. Time is a critical factor. If we wait, and it takes two or three days for Culich to give approval, it may be too late to act. If the force starts off and Culich does not give approval, the raid can always be canceled or even called back, if they have already crossed into Eywell.”

  Denes leaned forward, as if on a starting line. “I’ve already sent word to the RRF camp to prepare to move. We could be on the road in an hour.”

  Luwis still frowned but had a sense of hesitancy in his expression. “Well . . . I—”

  “Vortig,” Kennrick interjected, “I see no harm in letting Denes start. And let’s be honest. Culich lost Anid. It’s more likely you and I would have to counsel restraint, rather than him not agreeing to strike at the Narthani.”

  Luwis’s face saddened at the mention of the dead Keelan daughter. “I hate making Culich deal with anything right now, except his family. God’s mercy! I hope God doesn’t think me blasphemous, but how can he allow something like this to happen?”

  “God understands how you feel, Vortig,” said Abbot Walkot. “Remember that he allows humans to make their own destinies. We can call on him for strength but cannot lay on him what is caused by ourselves.”

  “I know, Abbot, it’s just . . . ” Luwis shook himself and stood stiff from the dejected slump he’d briefly assumed. “All right. I agree there’s no reason not to put the reaction force in motion.” Luwis looked at Kennrick. “Pedr, do you agree?”

  “Yes. Denes, get your men headed to Dornfeld.”

  Denes’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “I’m sorry, Abbot, but may God curse every Narthani and give us strength to send them all to hell. I’ll send word when we start off. As I said, it should be no more than an hour.”

  Denes walked to the door, and Yozef followed to stop him outside the cottage.

  “Remember, Denes, we are not trying to achieve a victory in battle or even kill Narthani. Our objective is to cause damage and make the Narthani draw inward. Don’t get carried away and put yourself and our men in a situation where you can be trapped. The Narthani should be surprised, but they still have thousands of men in Preddi, and they control the seas. Give them time and opportunity, and they could land troops behind you to cut off the direct way back to Keelan. Don’t get carried away by a sense of either victory or vengeance.”

  Denes’s face remained impassive. He wasn’t offended by Yozef’s reminder that at the Battle of Moreland City, he had almost continued the attack on the Narthani after they had repositioned from the clan’s surprise attack. Only Yozef’s grabbing his attention and yelling that it was time to withdraw had saved them from a potential disaster.

  “I learned my lesson, Yozef. I’ll bring the men back. We’ll need every one. This second Narthani invasion won’t be the last, but maybe we can buy time to get the clans better prepared when it happens again.”

  “Good man,” said Yozef and let Denes hustle to his horse and several men waiting for him.

  Yozef saw him say something to the men, who received his words with grim approval. The group mounted and galloped toward Caernford, and Yozef walked back into the cottage. The group there exchanged a few last words, before each man returned to what he saw as his immediate task.

  Yozef stopped Balwis. “Wait a moment.”

  When they were alone, Yozef let self-control slip away, and Balwis saw an expression and a pair of eyes he had never seen before on Yozef. Balwis couldn’t exactly define what he saw. Cold fury, deadly intent, and other phrases passed through his mind, without being an exact match.

  “We hope the reaction force raid makes the Narthani rethink any future plans about attacks like the one on Swavebroke,” Yozef said in a low voice. “The assassinations are something else. This is the second time they’ve tried multiple attempts at the same time. Just as the raid is meant to discourage them from not keeping all their forces at home, we need to send another message.”

  Yozef’s eyes took on the distant look Balwis usually saw when Yozef considered ideas or heard a voice. Balwis waited. After almost a minute, Yozef’s eyes refocused.

  “Not now, Balwis,” said Yozef. “I have to think more on this. We’ll talk later.”

  Clitwyth, Stent Province

  The Stent Clan capital lay eighty miles inland. The province’s coast was so rocky and the waters so marked by reefs and shoals that the only settlements were two small fishing villages. Both of these had moved their families farther into Stent, and even the fishermen slept in tents three miles from the coast.

  Although the news of the Swavebroke attack and the assassination attempts shocked the populace of Clitwyth, they didn’t panic. The distance from potential seaborne attacks and the preparation plans Hetman Stent had put in motion gave the people a sense of focus absent in Swavebroke.

  The planning had also accounted for their not being able to consult all of the clan’s boyermen before major decisions needed implementing. Thus, within hours of news of the Narthani attacks, Stent’s actions were in motion. The word went out, and fifteen hundred men from all over Stent moved to assemble near the location where the borders of the Stent, Swavebroke, Pewitt, and Vandinke provinces touched. Whether the men moved into Swavebroke and into action against the Narthani or assisted the Swavebrokers in some other manner would be left to later circumstances and decisions, but they were on the move.

  The second action occurred in response to word from Caernford that the southern rapid-reaction force had deployed in preparation for a raid into Eywell and possibly as far as Preddi. Welman Stent had understood the reasoning behind that proposed raid and the one his own clan would participate in, but he felt uneasy, because their reaction force was not as well developed and trained as he would like.

  He also felt disquieted because he would have to lead the foray into Eywell. He wasn’t concerned about his own safety but because of the necessity that only a hetman had the stature to hold together a force composed of men from four clans. The 1,200 men included 500 of his own clansmen, 400 Morelanders, 200 Oroszians, and 100 Bulteckians. He would have preferred not involving the men from Moreland, but since the raid would launch from Moreland territory, it needed their titular approval. Welman had voiced his doubts in a meeting with Tomis Orosz. Although the Orosz hetman had sympathized, he had argued for the importance of not only integrating Moreland into any effort against the Narthani, but also that involvement in the reaction force might help divert the attention of various Moreland factions that kept jockeying for position, trying to replace the leadership ranks devastated by their deceased hetman’s mistake at the Battle of Moreland City.

  Welman briefly considered whether he could avoid using the reaction force and employ only his own clansmen. However, he had to quickly dismiss that option. It would take too lo
ng to gather enough men. The northern reaction force encamped only forty miles from the Eywell border, and he needed to ride hard to cover the seventy miles from Clitwyth. Before leaving, he would order four hundred Stent men to muster and head for the encampment. They would serve as a reserve, if the raid went poorly, and would be the only help available. At least, they would be his own clansmen.

  Caernford

  After leaving Balwis, Yozef had gone to Maera sitting in the room with her sleeping father. Breda sat in a chair with Mared asleep in her lap. Maera was breastfeeding Aeneas. The otherwise intimate scene was marred by darkness in her eyes and tracks of dried tears on her cheeks. He mouthed whether she needed anything, but she only shook her head.

  He walked to the great room, still covered with evidence of the previous night. Furniture that had been pulled to form some protection was now pushed aside. Blood. So much blood, now dried into dark patches on the carpets and the wooden planks. Holes where shot balls had missed targets or passed through flesh. Discarded weapons.

  Yozef picked up a heavy chair and hurled it across the room, overturning one of the few undamaged pieces of furniture. A man he didn’t recognize rushed into the room in response to the noise, took one look at Yozef, and left.

  Part of Yozef wanted to get away from the house, but the part that prevailed wanted to ingrain every image into his brain. The bloody room; Aeneas’s nightshirt with the hole mere inches from his tiny body; Anid lying dead—the warm teenage girl would never grow into the beautiful woman who dreamed of her own family; Norlin, who would not finish his education or decide, as he’d confided to Yozef, whether he wanted to change the focus of his studies; Mirramel, Aeneas’s wet nurse, relatively simple-minded but friendly and looked on fondly by all who met her; the three guards who had done their best to do their duty, who probably had families, and whose names Yozef didn’t know; Culich, who would be fitted with a peg for his missing lower leg and, more important, who now had a dead daughter; the news about the slaughter of Hetman Skouks and many members of his family, including children; the attack on Swavebroke and the unknown number who would die fleeing or defending.