They rose to their feet and raised both fists to shoulder height. But it wasn’t this gesture of oath-taking so much as the looks in their eyes that gave her the answer she was looking for. That look told her that to a man they would fight and die by her side.
Chapter Nine
Darik stood atop the Eagle Tower next to Hoffan and the others, watching the cavalry approach Montcrag. It was dark, but the enemy didn’t hide its numbers. Instead, it lit its way with torches. About thirty horsemen climbed the road that led to the gates, three abreast, which was as wide as they could get on the narrow road. They couldn’t spread out until much closer to the gates, and that would put them in range of arrow fire.
Darik could see a much larger force making its way up the Tothian Way. There were perhaps two hundred horsemen in this second group, and Darik could see more down in the valley who would arrive soon, although he couldn’t tell from here if they were more horse or footmen.
“Hah,” Hoffan said. “They’ll never mount an assault that way. What, are they going to send their cavalry three at a time to bang against the gates and beg us to let them in? And if they mean to simply starve us out, let them try. I’ve got enough foodstuffs here to last a year or more. One of the benefits of taxing every shipment that passes through.” He shook his head. “We won’t see the Famine Child at Montcrag.”
“I don’t think that’s their goal,” Markal said. “The dark wizard means to pin us in place until he can bring other weapons to bear.”
The big man looked skeptical. “This castle has withstood all manner of siege weapons and assaults. It will survive one more.” He shook his head. “No enemy has taken Montcrag by force since it was built in the wars.”
“The castle is much older than the Tothian Wars. Perhaps a thousand years older.” Markal explained, “The writing carved into stones outside the gates is an ancient version of the old tongue. Magical bindings to the stone. That would explain why the castle didn’t fall into ruins after the wars, when the passes were deserted for two hundred years. The talismans are worn, but still hold power.”
This bit of news clearly surprised the warlord. “All the better, then.” He grinned. “Won’t it amuse the world that the dark wizard was able to conquer the entire east but broke his army against a castle manned by eighty fighting men?”
True to Markal’s prediction, the horsemen stopped just out of bow-shot and waited. Their bath from Montcrag’s chamber pots must have taught them a lesson, for nobody attempted to approach the gates under olive branch.
Hoffan turned to climb down the stairs. “Come, they’ve not caught us by surprise. Let’s prepare for siege.” He looked at Darik and Sofiana. “I can even find use for our young companions.”
Darik had hoped that this use would include sword training, but no, it meant physical labor. While Hoffan talked strategy with Whelan and Markal, he sent Darik and the girl to help the fletcher carry stacks of arrows to the towers, then had them deliver supper to the men in the towers and on the walls. Darik suspected that if battle came, he’d be left with similarly menial chores. Sofiana too, chafed at this work, but Darik remembered Whelan’s comments about how she could shoot the crossbow. She, at least, would see some action.
Whelan told Darik of their plans after dinner. “We leave in the morning. We’ll hike over the mountain that rises behind the castle walls. Flockheart and his griffins live back in the mountains and I hope to convince him to fly us to the Citadel, where I can warn King Daniel and gather the Brotherhood.”
“What about Markal?”
“Markal is staying to defend Montcrag. He’ll catch up with us later if he can.” Whelan must have caught Darik’s concerned expression, for he added, “Don’t worry about the wizard. Whatever happens, Markal will escape. He always does.”
But that hadn’t been Darik’s worry, he realized somewhat guiltily. If Markal stayed, no doubt he would keep the steel book with him. Darik had begun to think of the book as his own, although he couldn’t say why. The wizard had recovered it from the tomb, after all, and the book was wizardry, pure and simple. No business of a sixteen-year-old boy.
Darik turned in for bed early at Whelan’s suggestion. It was nice to sleep on a bed rather than the hard ground or the back of a camel, but he’d have liked to see Montcrag defend itself. There would be no excitement for him, he thought as he fell asleep.
#
Darik woke in the night to a booming echo. At first he thought it part of his dreams and rolled over in bed. A moment later, another boom. He sat up in his bed.
“Darik,” Sofiana called through the darkness. She slept in the next bed over, between Darik and Whelan. “What’s that?” Genuine fear sounded in her voice.
“I don’t know. Where’s your father?”
“His bed is empty. So is Markal’s.”
Darik climbed to his feet and threw open the door. It was dark outside. A cold wind blew in, a blast so unexpected that he took a step backwards. Yesterday, Montcrag was cooler than the valleys, yes, but Darik was unprepared for this bite in the air.
Another boom sounded, louder now that the door hung open. Shouts sounded from the walls and a fire burned on the far end of the green. He threw on his pants and shirt, while Sofiana hurried to do the same. She grabbed her crossbow and strapped a quiver over her shoulder. Darik wished he had a weapon of some kind, any kind. Together, they ran toward the front gates where the fire burned.
A man intercepted them. “Go back to your rooms. This is no place for children.”
“Children?” Sofiana said angrily. “We’re not children. We have work to do. Move out of our way.”
“No,” the man said, grabbing her by the arm and reaching for Darik. Sofiana held her crossbow outstretched to keep it away from the man. Darik didn’t know whether to keep running toward the tower, or obey. “Come on, then, boy, before I give you a whipping.”
“It’s all right, Traint,” a voice boomed. Hoffan strode toward them from the darkness. “They’re with me.” His voice was worried.
Hoffan led them to the Eagle Tower. At the top, archers fired arrows into the darkness. Whelan was nowhere in sight, but Markal overlooked the battle. The wizard gave them a glance, then turned back to the action below.
The boom sounded again, and Darik saw the cause. A dozen Veyrians bashed at the door with a battering log. Other men held aloft a platform topped by shields, deflecting most of the arrows. Every so often, a lucky shot slipped through the platform and a man fell to the ground, or scrambled backwards with an arrow in his shoulder. But every time that happened, another man ran toward the doors with his shield held overhead until he reached the safety of the battering platform.
Hoffan’s men clumped inside the bailey, ready to fight back any breach of the gates. Whelan strode amongst them, shouting instructions and encouragement. A cauldron of oil bubbled on a fire burning just beyond Whelan’s men, while men turned a spigot on the cauldron and carried buckets of oil to the walls.
Outside the castle, beyond bow shot, a row of torches lit the road leading up from the Way; Cragyn’s army readied a charge for when the doors broke. More fires burned all along the Tothian Way.
“Why aren’t we doing anything?” Darik asked, concerned at the lack of response.
“We could stop them, but as soon as we show our weapons, we lose the advantage. There’s no reason to panic. They’ll never break through unless they find something bigger than that stick to poke at us,” Hoffan said.
“And here it comes,” Markal announced.
Four giants carried an iron-headed ram between them. The pushed aside the men crowding the pathway. Horses snorted nervously and one danced out of the way, only to slide down the slope while the man on its back threw himself clear. Flailing, the horse screamed and disappeared from sight. The giants wore heavy armor and helmets that deflected the hail of arrows that challenged their advance. The Veyrians at the gate hastily retreated with their own battering ram. Another boom sounded, this one louder.
Markal said, “We need more wizards.”
Hoffan pulled nervously at his beard. “Whelan said you’d be enough.”
“Of course he would say that. But what you really need is Nathaliey or Chantmer the Tall.”
Hoffan listened to the ram boom again, then turned to Markal and smiled. “Not enough. The doors will hold.”
“No, nothing can destroy those doors,” Markal agreed. “But they might break the hinges. And if the hinges break—”
A light gathered back at the enemy’s army and Darik saw four men huddle together with a light in their hands. It grew larger until it illuminated their faces, clenched together in concentration. The men wore long robes inscribed with writing and cartouches. Dark wizards. The light spread toward the walls.
The giants roared and smashed their ram into the doors with new ferocity. Darik felt the light wash up the walls, sending a surge of strength through his body. What strength would the magic give the giants, who bathed in its full power?
The Veyrians who’d stepped aside, still holding their ram but no longer protected by the platform, galloped forward, impossibly fast for the terrain and ignoring the swarm of arrows. They threw themselves against the door. The giants bashed again. A scream of stressed iron filled the air. The doors would not hold long under the twin assaults.
“Now?” Hoffan asked Markal. “Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
Hoffan cupped his hands to his mouth and turned toward the men in the bailey. “Now!” The men below shouted to others.
Hot oil and pitch poured from arrow loops and murder holes in the wall. The men and giants below shouted and danced backwards, but others rushed to take their place. Arrows cut them down before they reached the doors.
“Move back!” Markal shouted.
They gave him space. The wizard held out his right hand, muttering words under his breath. A light flashed from his palm to the ground. Pitch and oil ignited in a fireball, and a wave of heat washed up the side of the castle.
Men screamed and scrambled away from the fire. A giant, flames roaring like a torch from his head to his boots, ran toward his army, knocking into men and beast and setting them afire. Two horses fell down the slope, taking riders with them. The giant himself lurched from the path, scorching the grass as he fell.
There was more magic in Markal’s action than a mere spark for oil and pitch. The fire roiled back from the doors toward the enemy forces like water pouring down a hill. The Veyrians had broken ranks when the burning giant ran amongst them, but now they lost all discipline. With nowhere to go, footmen and cavalry fought each other out of the way, knocking people over the edge, burning, and screaming. Some of the cavalry speared their hapless companions on foot to drive them from the path.
At the castle, water poured from arrow loops to protect the gates, but the fire ball continued its way through the enemy.
The castle gates swung open, and Whelan led Montcrag’s defenders on the attack. They drove a wedge through the enemy, killing scores, and sending man and horse tumbling from the road. The Veyrians fled before this attack, turning nothing but their own backs to defend against Montcrag’s swords. Whelan’s men drove the enemy to the Tothian Way before returning.
The fighting had lasted only thirty minutes, but when it ended, burned bodies and battering rams lay in a charred mass before the gates. As many as a hundred more soldiers lay dead along the path and strewn down the hillside. Darik could see none of Whelan’s men among them. A few had sustained serious wounds, but not many. Darik and Sofiana joined the others in a triumphant shout.
“Hah!” Hoffan said when they finished cheering. “So much for the vaunted armies of Veyre.” He clapped Markal on the shoulder so hard he nearly knocked the wizard over, then eyed the man’s withered right hand. Markal staggered under the blow, face completely drained of strength.
“Don’t worry,” Darik offered at Hoffan’s concerned look. “His hand will heal.”
Dawn crept over the horizon. Darik had hoped the victory would send Cragyn’s armies back to the valley, or that they would simply continue along the Tothian Way, leaving Montcrag alone. But instead, Veyrians kept gathering along the Way.
A thunderclap broke the sky. The castle walls shook, throwing men to the ground. Darik staggered backwards and his ears rang. A terrific wrenching sound split the air and the gates burst inward on their hinges. Veyrians rushed up the road from the Way, swords drawn.
Darik looked down at the shattered remains of the gates in dismay. Those doors had stood for a thousand years and yet lay splintered into kindling. He didn’t understand. Markal had declared the doors impervious to assault and nobody had touched them.
Markal answered the question. “The dark wizard.” His face was pale. “He’s here.”
The archers in the tower shot arrows as fast as they could toward the soldiers charging the gates. The man next to Hoffan screamed, an arrow embedded in his neck. A brave enemy archer stood at the base of the Eagle Tower, shooting up at them. Sofiana slipped a bolt into her crossbow, cranked the handle, then coolly leveled the bow at the man and fired. She buried her shot, and the man fell backwards, clutching at his chest.
A steady stream of arrows chopped down the first wave of cavalry, and of the second group, only one reached the green. He was dragged from his horse by half a dozen men and dispatched. By now, however, a perimeter of archers encircled themselves about the outer wall, shooting back at the men above them. They had a decided disadvantage, trying to shoot into the air from an unprotected position, but their ever-increasing strength forced Hoffan’s archers to keep low, and drew away firepower.
A small but growing band of footmen and horse fought their way into the bailey green. At first, Whelan’s men attacked each foe with overwhelming numbers, but soon, the battle broke into a general melee. Now that they were evenly matched, the Veyrians proved their worth. Slowly, the battle turned in their favor.
Hoffan pulled his sword from its scabbard, then turned to Darik. “Can you fight, boy?”
Darik hesitated. No, he couldn’t fight. He remembered his clumsy attack when guildmaster Fenerath took him for a slave in his father’s manor.
“Boy?” Hoffan demanded, sharper this time. He pulled out a second blade, this one shorter, a parrying weapon and held it out to Darik, hilt-first.
“I can,” Darik said, grabbing the sword. He followed Hoffan down the tower stairs. Markal and Sofiana stayed above.
The sword was still too long and it felt heavy and strangely balanced. He’d had training with a rapier as a child, and even a little with the scimitar, but those were stabbing and cutting weapons. This was a chopping weapon, designed to separate bone from sinew. He followed Hoffan onto the green.
The battle was about to be lost. Montcrag still maintained a slight edge in numbers, but they slowly lost ground and men. Some looked ready to flee, although there was nowhere to run. Hoffan bellowed in rage, throwing himself into the fray. The sight of him fighting by their side encouraged his men.
Whelan himself emerged from the rear, fighting into the heart of the enemy forces. His sword glowed in hand. Soultrup cut down any who dared stand in the man’s way. The enemy shrank back and Hoffan started a shout that spread across the green.
Darik still stood next to the bailey, unsure what to do. A man in black and gold spotted him and came to attack. He was taller than Darik and wore a breastplate and helmet and showed a gap-toothed grin as he sized up his opponent. He swung his sword at the boy’s head. Darik lifted his sword just in time, but was driven backwards, jolting his shoulder. He attempted a counterattack, but the man knocked it aside easily. His enemy brought the sword around again, and this time Darik stood on uneven footing and fell to his knee. With a shout of triumph, the man swept aside Darik’s sword and prepared for the killing blow.
Whelan appeared from nowhere, driving the man backwards. Whelan’s second blow broke down the man’s defenses and the third finished him. By now, Hoffan’s me
n regained the upper hand and sealed the entrance to the castle with more burning oil.
Montcrag’s archers dropped the enemy with a steady rain of arrows. At last, Veyre’s captains ordered a retreat. The green was clear again. Hoffan’s men let out another shout, but much weaker than before. There was no attempt to drive the enemy back to the Tothian Way a second time. It would not be long before Cragyn attacked again. Indeed, the enemy gathered just out of bow shot, organizing into ranks, and bolstered by more giants.
Whelan found Darik. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you stay where it was safe?”
Darik struggled to regain his breath. “Hoffan needed me.”
“He did? Is that what he said? I’ll wring his neck.” He turned to go.
“No,” Darik said, catching him by the arm. “I wanted to help. When everyone else is fighting for their lives, I can’t hide in the corner.”
Whelan considered for a moment, then nodded. “Well said. Where’s Ninny?”
“In the tower. With Markal.”
“Good. Stay here. If you’re going to fight, we’ll get you a proper sword and armor. Oh, and teach you how to hold that thing. You can’t swing it around like a stick.” He ran toward the gates.
Darik stood gasping, struggling against the shakes. The man who’d nearly killed him swam in a pool of blood a few feet away. That dead body could have been his own.
He was stung by Whelan’s criticism, but also hoped he’d crossed a hurdle in the man’s eyes. Darik had hardly proven himself a hero, but he’d stood next to the men and fought, and it was exhilarating. And, Whelan had as much as promised to train him in swordsmanship.
Darik joined the others at the gates. They pulled a cart in front of the door and stacked enemy bodies into a makeshift wall. Almost twenty of Montcrag’s men lay dead, far fewer than the enemy, but Hoffan had started with fewer than a hundred defenders, while the enemy had almost unlimited resources.
Hoffan was giving the order to bring barrels to the barricade when the third attack came. Darik joined the row of pikes bristling through the wagon. He took up a pike and braced himself. Grim faces surrounded him, dirty, wounded, and tired. Some of them were criminals or escaped slaves from the khalifates, and like Darik, knew what awaited them if captured. They’d be led in chains to Veyre and sent to the mines. If lucky.
The Dark Citadel Page 15
