“Damme, I hadn’t seen tha’ wi’ me own peeps, I’d no’ believe it.”
A chorus of somber “ayes.”
“They’re spooked,” Luc-Jon muttered.
“I’m spooked,” Elora agreed.
“So what do we do then?” she heard asked.
“What DeGuerin said,” came the gruff reply. “Kill ’em.”
“Kill them all?”
“ ’S’na’ like we have much choice, boyo. We sent ’em a herald under flag o’ truce an’ look you how they sent him home, the bastards, with his head in a bag.”
The next round of comments were so profane that Elora, who thought she’d heard it all in terms of soldiers’ language, blushed.
She started to sing.
She didn’t push the moment, but kept her tone relatively close, reaching out only to the clutches of men nearest her. It was a saga, with a clear melody and a strong refrain, of a battle against hopeless odds. She didn’t remember where she’d heard it, but the voice that led her in her head was deep and rich, with the rounded burrs of a Highlander. She sang of a dark time, with hope all but beaten from the world, when life was short and brutal and too often defined by the spiked mace of oppression. The Daikini were a people in chains, at best slaves but more often considered common prey, to be hunted and slaughtered for sport.
From that awful darkness came a man with a dream, that there was a better way for the world to be ordered. He had more passion than was good for him and a tongue to charm the devil, and a sword arm to serve when persuasion and diplomacy failed.
They were three comrades in arms, the like of which the world had never seen, before or since—a Daikini, an elf, a Nelwyn. They weren’t Kings when first they met, that came later. One was a slave who would no longer serve his masters, the other a thief who lost the pleasure of plucking purses in a world that stole the souls of the living, the last an artisan who yearned simply to create beauty.
Fate brought them together, circumstance turned that meeting into a pitched battle for survival. When it was done, the rock and snow about them strewn with Death Dogs and their ensorcelled handlers, plus (most terrifying and impossible of all) the corpse of one of the Malevoiy themselves, the shape of their future had been defined.
Elora was on her feet, conscious of eyes turning toward her from every which way, a few voices hesitantly taking up the refrain of her song. She executed a series of pirouettes in time to the music playing in her head, building force and speed with each until her warcloak billowed out from her shoulders. Then she slipped its clasp, catching it in one outstretched arm, holding it through a last revolution before letting it fly off to Luc-Jon, who caught it as smoothly as if the sequence had been choreographed and rehearsed. Watching, he realized this was one of Elora’s great gifts, the ability to improvise a performance with such a strength of character and personality that her audience couldn’t help but be swept up in the action. At the same time she created indelible portraits of the subjects of her song—Eamon Asana, conflicted yet committed, who never desired the crown ultimately placed upon his head yet who would not abandon the responsibility that came with it; Rafiel of Greater Faery, who lived utterly for the moment, every decision made and acted upon with the speed and suddenness of a bolt of light; Borugar of Lesser Faery, a man of absolute precision, not so much deliberate (for when necessary he could move as quickly as Rafiel) but exact.
Humble men from humble beginnings, who stumbled onto greatness.
Arrayed against them, an Imperial dominion that acknowledged no equal.
Their cause was hopeless, yet they didn’t care. They adapted, they improvised, time and again they found a way to win.
And so, Elora sang to the assemblage of Fort Tregare, will we!
Musicians among the civilians picked up the tune she’d begun a cappella and with their participation, Elora allowed herself more freedom to dance. In the torchlight, in her Maizan colors, she was a figure of blood and silver, at one and the same time so unearthly she seemed more icon than real yet imbued with a human passion that could not be denied. Her voice filled the waryard, topped only by the chorus, which itself grew in force and defiance with every repetition. She yanked a pair of torches from their sconces and for a series of verses left trails of sparks and fire in her wake, using her own special powers to inspire the flames to burn so brightly these alone were able to illuminate the entire compound.
Without missing a step, she tossed one brand to Luc-Jon, returned the other to its cradle, and came away with a pair of swords, the air ringing with the sound of steel on steel as she brought the blades together.
She sang of struggle, of commitment, of hardship, of glory. Ultimately, she sang of triumph.
Three men, who alone were less than nothing, who found it in themselves to change the shape of a world and its future.
She dropped to one knee, and plunged two swords point first into the ground on either side.
The song ended as it began, with only her voice, and the silence that followed was complete.
Someone at the back began to chant her name, “Elora! Eh-lor-ah!” and it raced through the crowd like wildfire, first as an expression of acclaim for her performance but quickly changing, growing in intensity as it did so, into a war cry. An expression of defiance, a challenge to the Chengwei to do their worst; they’d find within these walls a foe well worthy of the contest.
She drew herself to her full height, facing the headquarters building and Ranulf DeGuerin himself, who was watching from his porch and cheering as lustily as any of his troops, making sure he was seen by all to do so. She raised both swords high, and blades were raised on every side to join them. Without a care for their razor edge, she flipped them simultaneously end over end, to catch them bare-handed by the blade and extend them hilt first, one toward the soldiers, the other to the civilians. Shando grasped the one, and from among the settlers stepped a woman in the homespun of a farmer’s wife. Without a visible cue, but again giving the eerie sense that they knew precisely what was called for, Shando and the woman raised their blades at an angle to the full extension of their arms, crossing them two-thirds of the way to the swords’ points. DeGuerin provided the third sword, striding into the heart of the assemblage to form the third of the cardinal points of this human compass.
Luc-Jon assumed Elora would provide the fourth point but it was Tyrrel who now made the trio a quartet, adding his straight-edge cutter to the construction. It was then that the young man realized Elora stood beneath the tent of weapons and that she had a sword of her own in hand. This blade was curved, much like an unstrung bow, and if there was steel in its makeup that metal was subsumed beneath a sheen of silver that matched the color of Elora’s skin.
With a war cry of her own that sounded like it came from no human throat—indeed, it sent chills through the souls of all who heard it, not so much of fear but of awe because this was a clarion call heard only in dreams, sounded by dragons—Elora Danan thrust her own sword straight up through the heart of the four above her.
The shout that answered, from every throat in Fort Tregare, would have done the dragons proud. They meant it to be heard to the farthest reaches of the heavens, and perhaps it was.
Elora lowered her sword, the others followed suit, and the five of them stood a while longer, rocks upon which a storm of passion broke again and again as the crowd vented its fear and proclaimed its heart.
She felt DeGuerin’s hand gently come to rest on her shoulder.
“I couldn’t have asked for better, Elora Danan,” he said. “I am in your debt.”
“Nothing’s changed,” she marveled.
“Not so. Death is a soldier’s lot, we know that one and all when we take the oath, and occasionally it comes in a lost cause. Moments like that, we fall back on our pride, as warriors, as members of this command, as citizen-soldiers of the Republic of Sandeni. If we must d
ie, in this place and at this time, then we will do so with honor, even if none but we know of it. That is what had been forgotten tonight, until your song reminded us, and for that you have my gratitude.”
* * *
—
At dawn, the Chengwei came again, but not to go blindly once more to the slaughter. They staked out a battle line just beyond the maximum range of the mounted crossbows in the corner towers and sallied forth skirmishers to trade volleys of harassing fire with the archers on the ramparts. The attacks were neither concentrated nor intense; in fact, it was their random and unpredictable nature that made them so dangerous. You never knew when an arrow was coming, whether on a flat trajectory to the wall or a high and arching one meant to strike the yard beyond, and so had to be constantly alert, on guard either for the sight of an inbound shaft or a shouted warning. Absent that, there was the hollow thok of a steel point into wood or earth, the softer sound of an impact on flesh, followed by a cry of pain that could mean a casual wound or a mortal one.
The archers on the walls gave better than they got, since they had the advantage of position and better cover. This wicked game of attrition cost the Chengwei far more than the defenders, but not so dearly that their commander considered either disengagement or a modification in tactics.
The real trouble began at night, when the Chengwei snipers moved closer still to the walls. Their archers split into two distinct teams, one along the line they’d established by daylight, their positions marked by braziers of hot coals that they used to ignite their fire arrows. They had no real hope of setting the walls themselves alight but who knew what they might hit beyond them: a stack of hay, somebody’s tent or wagon, perhaps even a roof? Every arrow that found a mark was a distraction, every distraction drew warriors from the wall and served to keep the defenders awake and busy; the more that happened, the more physical and emotional reserves were sapped for the days and battles to come.
The problem was that the braziers were themselves ideal targets—which was where the second group came into play. They were pure snipers, with superb night vision, whose job was to deal with anyone on the wall. The moment a defender rose from concealment to mark his target, the poor soul became one himself. And because these Chengwei were beyond the light cast by the braziers, or any capable of being cast from the fort, they were near impossible to spot.
The Colonel’s initial response was to put Tyrrel’s people on the wall, to use the exceptional night sight of the Veil Folk to mark targets for the Sandeni archers. Here, though, his and Drumheller’s suspicions about some magus-level sorcery directed at the Veil Folk to protect the invaders found a measure of proof. For the fairies, of all sizes and shapes and kinds, there was nothing wrong with their sight; they viewed the night as clearly as they did the day—only they couldn’t clearly see the Chengwei. Some field of distortion enveloped the invaders, that made the fairies ill to look at them.
Only Elora Danan appeared immune.
Reluctantly, because the job was dangerous, DeGuerin sent her to the wall with the best of his archers. She was the spotter; they would do the rest.
It didn’t take the Chengwei long to realize a new factor had entered the engagement and their own snipers began searching Elora out in earnest. She and her team had to move constantly along the wall, hoping to keep the Chengwei guessing as to where she’d strike from next, praying all the while they’d never realize the main Sandeni asset was a single girl.
In a way, the danger was far greater for the warriors who followed her. Once she marked a target, she could duck behind the safety of the rampart. If the Chengwei had spotted her at the same time, her archer would be met by an incoming arrow as he rose to let fly his own. The first such casualty took a bolt under the outstretched left arm that held the bow, the barbed point punching up and out through the hollow of the collarbone. Elora’s own reflex was to follow the warrior to the hospital and try her best to heal him, but Shando held her back, telling her what the Colonel had, that she was needed here. Another was wounded soon after, messy to look at but otherwise of no major consequence, by a shaft that tore straight through his flank. The third to fall did so without a sound, dead before he had a chance to hit the floor of the parapet.
For Elora, it was little solace to know bodies were falling just as certainly below. She wanted to leap atop the rampart, or into the heart of the enemy camp, and somehow find a scream, an incantation, a song which would end this conflict. DeGuerin had made the stakes brutally plain. The General Staff in Sandeni had never taken seriously the possibility that a force of such size might come at the Republic from below the Stairs to Heaven. Why traverse the greatest mountain range in the world when you could attack across a far broader and more accessible front over the plains? Consequently, both defenses and strategic plans were inadequate to a threat of this magnitude. Even if the campaign ultimately failed, it would demand resources desperately needed to face the Maizan horde riding forth from Angwyn, and yet another Chengwei army undoubtedly advancing along the traditional invasion route.
Tregare was a key, absolutely critical to both sides. Bestriding as it did a natural choke point along the Chengwei line of march, the fort would have to be eliminated for the army to proceed. By the same token, if it held, the Chengwei plan would fail. DeGuerin had no illusions on that score—the odds against his command were simply too great—but he knew that each day’s delay was another day his comrades in Sandeni could use in preparing the city’s defense.
Elora Danan said the Chengwei would not notice a hundred dead for every one of his, but that a thousand might possibly give them pause. So, DeGuerin resolved to aim for that figure. To make the invaders bleed and learn once and for all time that when they took up arms against a free people they did so at their peril.
To that end, for DeGuerin and his command, Elora realized, the Chengwei attackers became simply The Enemy, without any existence other than as foes to be slain or driven to surrender, as she was sure the Chengwei viewed them in return. Elora couldn’t do that. Each one to fall on either side had parents, siblings perhaps, or children. Dreams, for certain. Each was a light of life—until she snuffed it out.
Elora looked around suddenly, a foolish move that almost got her killed had not Shando and Luc-Jon together yanked her flat. She paid them no heed, nor the arrows that whizzed close overhead or broke themselves on the stone of the parapet. She was thankful her face was hidden because she didn’t want to have to explain its look of startlement as she swept the waryard and the far ramparts for the source of the voices she’d heard calling to her.
There was nothing to be seen, of course, because they hadn’t originated on this side of the Veil.
The Malevoiy had called out to her, chiding her stubbornness, offering aid, offering the power to end this conflict. And she had been tempted.
“Sodding bastards!” Luc-Jon raged quietly as they crept along the rampart. “They’re so close, Shando. If we slipped a small force out the side gate—!”
“Learn, boy, an’ live! ’Tis what they want, don’t’cha know? Aye, that’s why there’s three levels t’ their encampment. Archers close, but so far forward from their main force that we might be tempted into a spoiling assault t’ bloody ’em an’ maybe drive ’em back a ways. Thing is, y’look close at that third picket line, their nags be all saddled, lances one by each. The first shock of arms’ll see those troopers mounted an’ on the move.”
“We have to find another way, then. Elora Danan can’t take much more of this.”
“I’m fine,” she protested.
Luc-Jon put his back to the rampart and pulled her close, searching her eyes before turning his gaze back to Shando.
“It’s murder, Shando.”
“It’s war, boy.”
“Was the Sacred Princess born to be a killer?”
“Haven’t a clue, Luc-Jon, anymore’n you do. I take my days one by each an’ bless t
he Maker f’r ev’ry new dawn I see. It’s not in me t’ think so well as some, mayhap like y’rself. I got no truck with the fate o’ worlds, what matters are my men. I want t’ bring ’em home, alive an’ whole. If that means the Sacred Princess has t’ get her hands bloody, same as us who fight in her defense—!”
“Hoy, Shando,” came a call from farther along.
“Yah, Racay?”
“Take a gander. Nowt much t’ see but some interesting sounds carryin’ our way from the Chengwei camp.”
Experience suggested this was some kind of trick so initial glances were quick and wary, mostly taken through the narrow arrow ports that were cut through the ramparts. The soldier was right about the noise, a growing cacophony could be heard from the distant encampment, the cries of men—some in panic, others trying to restore order and discipline—interspersed with the shrill screams of horses frantic to escape.
With a tremendous whoosh, an entire line of tents erupted into flames. A large central pavilion was where the conflagration started. It was consumed so quickly and fiercely that those watching concluded the canvas must have been soaked with oil or pitch. The fire jumped to neighboring rows, as though someone was racing along the neatly described avenues, laid out with appropriate military precision, torching them all.
Then a roar was heard that every soldier on the rampart recognized, and made more than a few take a reflexive step toward safety.
“Can’t be,” Luc-Jon breathed, unaware that he’d gone as pale as Elora.
“Can’t fake that noise,” Shando said, the stillness of his tone indicating he was as disconcerted as the young scribe. “That’s an ogre.”
“Two of them,” Elora corrected, as their massive forms appeared as silhouettes against the flames. The anchor ropes of the picket lines had been cut. In the face of a massive fire and creatures they numbered among their mortal enemies, the horses responded accordingly; they bolted, which added magnificently to the confusion.
Shadow Star Page 18
