Of course, he had been wondering how long it would take the slumdwellers to riot. He couldn’t exactly blame them, given the juggernaut of the Throng rolling across the plains. But he was not about to admit these violent wretches into his city, regardless of Aeko Shingawa’s pleas.
He signaled the archers and crossbowmen. They had already frightened off a handful of slumdwellers seeking to gain admittance behind the walls, even going so far as to wound one madman who claimed he’d been sent by the wytch to offer them a deal. But this would be worse.
Slender, steely arrows gleamed in bright, awful rows. Strings tensed, men waiting only for their captain’s signal to unleash devastation upon King’s Bend. Ferocles hesitated. He was loathe to waste so many arrows on the eve of a battle. And he doubly loathed the idea of heartening the enemy by heaping the corpses of his own people in front of the gates. Of course, these were slumdwellers, not true citizens, but he doubted the men of the Throng would appreciate that distinction.
The king would not approve, either. Not that he’s here to tell me that himself… Ferocles frowned. The slumdwellers were moving away from the gates. Were they running away? If so, where were the women and children?
He turned back to the Dark Quarter, following the sounds of weeping babies, and saw the women and children solemnly watching from a distance as, with surprising order, the men from the slums marched in haphazard columns partway down King’s Bend, then stopped and formed ranks.
“Have they gone mad?” Epheus cried.
Captain Ferocles ordered the archers to stand down. He scanned the haphazard ranks more closely. He spotted three figures at the head of the ramshackle host. He swore under his breath. One stooped figure wore a cloak and hood. Another—a woman—had bright hair that glittered like quicksilver in the sunlight. The third—a man—bore a mess of unruly red hair and carried a flashing adamune before him.
“Go get Ammerhel,” he ordered. “And Shingawa, too, I suppose.” Sergeant Epheus left at once, sprinting toward the barracks. Meanwhile, Ferocles fixed his gaze beyond the sun-warmed battlements at the strange, grim host arrayed beneath him. Men without armor or fortifications, barely armed, solemnly faced the juggernaut of the Throng as it swelled off the horizon like a great, bristling stain.
Despite himself, he smiled.
Crovis glared at the scrap of paper so hard that Aeko wondered if he would tear it in two. Instead, the Knight of the Lotus laughed. “Is this some kind of jest?”
“I think not, m’lord. Locke is many things, but I doubt he’s the type to make practical jokes on the eve of battle.” Aeko turned to look out the window of what had been the office of Captain Ferocles before Crovis claimed it for himself. A faint tendril of smoke drifted in through the window, carrying the scent of charred flesh as well as burned wood.
Rowen, what in Jinn’s name have you gotten yourself into?
Crovis said, “Well, I’m sure the Red Watch crossbowman’s shot served as adequate response. The captain says they’re massing on King’s Bend. If they want to throw themselves on the blades of the Throng, let them.” He pushed the note aside. “We have no time to deal with these two renegade sorcerers now—let alone your squire.” He gave her an icy look. “We must see to the defenses before the Throng gets here and make do with what we have left.”
“Which isn’t much,” Aeko muttered.
Crovis raised one eyebrow. “Your point?”
“Just that we’re hardly in a position to refuse assistance. Any assistance.” Aeko picked up the message and reread it herself. “Besides, if we don’t let them in, they might turn to the Throng instead.”
“So your brilliant advice is that I let this untrustworthy rabble into the city, into the very heart of our defenses, lest they aid the enemy instead?”
Aeko thought he had a point but kept that to herself. “We have nothing left to gamble with, m’lord. We can’t hold Lyos on our own. Not now. We both know it. But if Locke is telling the truth—and on that, I can vouch for his honor—then we might still have a chance.”
“Or our ruin will come all the sooner.”
Aeko nodded. “True. At worst, we’ll die a few hours sooner. At best, though, we’ll be the saviors of Lyos.”
Crovis’s eyes sparked with newfound interest. He held out his hand. Aeko returned the message.
“I cannot be seen acquiescing to demonic influences,” Crovis said after a pause.
Aeko caught his meaning. She forced a bow. “I will see to it, m’lord. If I am wrong, the shame will be on my name, not yours.”
Crovis thought a moment longer and nodded. “So be it. See it done—while there’s still time. And gods forgive you if you’re wrong.” He held the message in the flame of a candle until it withered in a fresh curl of ash and smoke.
Rowen Locke glanced back at the walls of Lyos. “Something’s happened,” he said.
El’rash’lin laughed, the sound muffled by the thin white cloth he’d tied over his face to mask his disfigured appearance. “That’s quite the understatement, Human.”
“No... I mean, something’s happened in the city!” Rowen pointed at a thin column of smoke, deep behind the walls of Lyos.
El’rash’lin turned to look. Before he could answer, the gates of the city opened. The army of slumdwellers tensed. Was the Red Watch coming to disband them—or worse?
Rowen drew his sword, brandishing Knightswrath overhead. “Hold your positions!” He lowered his voice so only El’rash’lin could hear. “If they ride out to kill us, can you conjure up something to stop them?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“An illusion of burning Olgrym, the visage of Zet himself, a few million giant ants—hells, Sorcerer, anything!”
El’rash’lin hesitated. “Yes... but it will leave me unable to fight the Nightmare.”
Rowen grimaced. He was about to pose the same question to Silwren when Aeko Shingawa rode out of the gates toward them. A full squad of ten smartly armored Isle Knights followed her. “At ease!” he called to his newfound army. He sheathed his sword. “They’re friends.” At least, I hope so. “Let them pass.”
Grumbling but obedient, the armed men from the slums broke ranks, letting the Knights on horseback through. Rowen moved ahead of the Shel’ai, toward the Knights. Aeko spotted him and slowed. She tossed the reins of her destrier to the Knight next to her and dismounted. After the previous night’s rain, her boots sank into the mud of King’s Bend.
In addition to her chain-mail hauberk and azure tabard, the Knight of the Stag now wore breast- and backplates, pauldrons, rerebraces, couters, vambraces, gauntlets, tassets, and greaves. Each piece of strong, exquisite armor was emblazoned with stags and balancing cranes and the distinctive, snowy scrollwork of kingsteel.
The Knights behind her wore kingsteel plate as well. All carried adamunes. In addition, some carried broad, fearsome polearms that gleamed wickedly in the sunlight. Most of the Knights were no older than Rowen. They glanced uncertainly at the throngs of shabbily dressed, armed men milling around them.
I wonder how many of them used to be poor… and how many haven’t been this close to poverty in their whole lives!
Aeko freed her boots and steel greaves from the mud with a look of irritation. Rowen fell to one knee before her. “On your feet, Squire,” she snapped. She stared past him, at the Shel’ai. “Someone explain this!”
El’rash’lin stepped forward. “The king would demonstrate sense and compassion if he let these poor people behind the walls. He would also gain a few hundred fighters.”
Aeko Shingawa flinched. “King Pelleas is dead.” She gestured back up King’s Bend, at the smoke still rising from Lyos. “He was murdered last night.”
Word of her pronouncement spread among the listening slumdwellers.
Rowen blanched. “How...”
“Hacked to pieces in his bed,” Aeko said. “They came out of nowhere. Shel’ai, plus a squad of Human warriors. They slipped into the palace, slaughtered almo
st everyone before the alarm was raised. After that...” Grief shone in her eyes. “We lost a lot of Red Watch and Isle men—including Sir Paltrick Vossmore, my junior officer.” She cleared her throat. “The city’s been in chaos ever since. We’ve taken command as best we can. But now we know what we should have guessed days ago: steel alone won’t beat the Throng.”
Aeko went to stand before Silwren. Dark-haired Human and pale Sylv, Knight of the Stag and renegade sorceress, they regarded each other in silence. Then Aeko bowed. Taking her cue, the other Knights bowed from their saddles. Aeko stood lance-straight and said, “Silwren of the Shel’ai, on behalf of Sir Crovis Ammerhel, Knight of the Lotus, I come to you—and your companion—to formally request an alliance, and to offer you our full amnesty and protection. We swear this on our honor, in Jinn’s name.”
Rowen’s world seemed to move at a breakneck pace after that. Aeko personally escorted them through the open gates and up the stairs to the battlements, where Sir Crovis Ammerhel waited. Meanwhile, her squires and Knights herded the slumdwellers into the city, past the disapproving gazes of Captain Ferocles, the Red Watch, and the wealthy citizens of Lyos. The Islemen led the motley host straight to the armory and outfitted them with weapons and whatever mismatched armor could be found. Though tempted to remain with Silwren, Rowen knew that Aeko’s vow now protected them just as surely as the Knights’ steel, so he stayed with the slumdwellers instead.
By order of Captain Ferocles, every other able-bodied man was sent to the armory as well. Rowen saw men close their doors, as though intending to hide inside their homes, only to look out their windows, see mere slumdwellers bravely arraying themselves for battle, and hurry out to follow suit, ashamed.
Along the battlements, archers took position near murder holes, beside trebuchets and ballistae that looked as though they had not been fired in years. Elsewhere, those who could not fight were tasked with filling buckets of water, in case the enemy hurled fire over the walls. Chief among these were the women and children from the Dark Quarter, along with the wealthy women of Lyos. All had been granted sanctuary by the clerics of Lyos, but most refused to sit idly by while the men fought and died.
Rowen did what he could to help. Years as a sellsword had taught him a little about the engines of war—knowledge that the defenders of Lyos sorely lacked. He directed the positioning of the trebuchets and ballistae then helped instruct teams of men in how to load, aim, and fire the massive weapons. When he was done, he went to find Aeko on the battlements overlooking King’s Bend.
The Knight of the Stag stood beside Crovis Ammerhel, the latter still speaking in heated tones with Silwren and El’rash’lin. Rowen listened a moment and guessed they were trying to figure out how to incorporate magic into the city’s defense strategy. With King Pelleas dead, the Knights had assumed command of the city. Ferocles insisted all the murderers had been trapped in the palace and killed. Still, the murderers’ grisly work had not included killing just the king, but the queen and their children, too. Nearly the entire royal line had been butchered in their beds. A messenger had been dispatched for Phaegos, summoning the last surviving son of Pelleas, but it would take days for him to arrive.
This left matters in the hands of Aeko and Crovis. Rowen sensed the tension between the two Knights, but for the moment, it seemed they had laid their animosity aside for the sake of duty. Rowen joined them quietly. Aeko cast a quick glance at her new squire and smiled—though so far, his title had been purely ceremonial since Aeko preferred to sharpen her own weapons and polish and don her own armor—then returned her attention to the conversation.
Their first concern was to ascertain how the murderers had breached the city and to prevent it from happening again. El’rash’lin confirmed that a Shel’ai—with the use of magic—might muddy the senses of a couple guards and enter a place undetected, a handful of armed men in tow. But secreting an entire company of swordsmen through either the front or rear gates, past dozens of watching eyes, was impossible.
“Maybe they came through the aqueduct,” Rowen offered. The aqueduct was covered to prevent an enemy from poisoning the city’s water supply, guarded as well by squads of bowmen along the walls, but perhaps the Shel’ai had secretly breached it.
Crovis glowered at him. “With weapons and armor on their backs? They’d need gills and the strength of oxen.”
El’rash’lin grew thoughtful. “Shel’ai can use magic to survive in unfamiliar elements for a time—even underwater. It is also possible to cast such spells on someone else. But the pain would be maddening.”
Rowen swore. The famous aqueduct of Lyos fed fountains, wells, and bathhouses all over the city. If what El’rash’lin said was true, it would be impossible to seal or guard them all.
“Can your magic aid us somehow?” Aeko asked.
Silwren shook her head. “It takes too much effort to control the magic. We might do more harm than good.”
Crovis faced her. “Do you intend to offer any substantial assistance, or shall I dissolve this alliance right here and now?”
El’rash’lin fixed the haughty Knight with a sobering gaze. “When the time comes, we will do what must be done. Rest assured, Lyos will not fall to sorcery. As for swords—you must contend with those yourself.”
Crovis fumed for a moment then stalked away, as though to inspect the battlements’ defenses.
Aeko bowed to El’rash’lin. The latter had removed his mask upon entering the city. If his disfigurement unsettled her, she did not show it. “Forgive the captain. It wounds his pride to ask for help. I do not think he would have asked at all, were it not for the panic after the king’s murder.”
El’rash’lin eyed her sadly. He started to answer then stopped, took Silwren’s arm, and drew her away.
Aeko said to Rowen, “Crovis does not approve of their plan. And by the Light, I don’t either.”
“Is this a new plan all of you dreamt up while I was in the privy?”
Aeko smiled faintly. “No, the same one. When the Throng comes, El’rash’lin will go out to meet the Nightmare—alone. Silwren will stay on the walls and use her own magic to help him, to keep him from losing focus somehow. They think they might be able to hold back Fadarah and his Shel’ai, but that’s the best we can hope for. We’ll have to face Fadarah’s warriors on our own.”
Rowen thought of Jalist again. He looked westward and shuddered. The Throng spread across the horizon, close enough that he could see individual banners, horsemen, siege towers, and company after company of footmen.
“You’ve seen more of magic than I ever will,” Aeko said. “Do you think those two can do what they promise? Can they destroy the demon?”
Rowen winced. He wanted to tell her that it was not a demon. It had a name. It had been a man, once. His friend. No, those are El’rash’lin’s memories—not mine.
Aeko took his silence as an answer. Her sharp eyes surveyed the battlements. “The men’s spirits have improved, at least.”
Banners rippled in the breeze—not just the Lyos falcon and the balancing crane of the Lotus Isles, but the crude symbols of the Dark Quarter, too. The new alliance had filled people with hope. Sunlight flashed off armor as men went about their feverish preparations. Men of the Red Watch labored alongside squires and Isle Knights. Rich citizens of Lyos took up weapons, assuming posts alongside slumdwellers. All, for a moment, were equals. It could not last forever, but would it last even as long as the battle?
He remembered Silwren’s words in the Dark Quarter. Perhaps this would be their finest hour after all—though he doubted many of them would live to appreciate it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE NIGHTMARE
Aeko estimated six thousand mercenaries, all marching under different banners, and four hundred horsemen with spears and shields. She saw the outlines of trebuchets and siege towers, too. These worried her far more than the enemy cavalry, which would have to dismount sooner or later since horses were practically useless in a siege.
Given the Nightmare’s penchant for tearing down walls as though they’d been built from a child’s wooden blocks, Aeko had suggested they not array themselves along the battlements, massing instead in the courtyard or even along some makeshift fortification deeper within the city. But Crovis refused, very nearly accusing her of cowardice.
So here we are. Aeko tapped her sword hilt. Let’s hope our new allies can stop the Nightmare before he turns the walls of Lyos to dust… and us with them!
She turned to Silwren. “Will Fadarah try to parley with us?”
The Shel’ai regarded Aeko with her ghostly, disconcerting eyes. “They never offer truce until after the walls are breached.”
“So I hear.”
Crovis Ammerhel overheard and faced Silwren. “Keep your word, and the walls will stand.” He touched his sword. “Keep it not, and I’ll have your head.”
El’rash’lin said, “Captain Ammerhel, if we fail, I doubt you will have that pleasure.” The stooped sorcerer coughed then straightened. “The magic we wield is the same as the Nightmare’s. We survive it only because we do not use it. If we unleash what we must to win this battle, it may kill us.”
Crovis said, “Then I shall pray for your souls.”
Aeko flinched at her superior’s callous tone, but the disfigured sorcerer appeared unfazed. “You would do better to pray for our deaths, Sir Knight. If the magic drives us mad—as it might—then all of Lyos will become a smoldering graveyard.”
Aeko saw by Crovis’s scowl that the Knight of the Lotus did not believe a word of it. But she met El’rash’lin’s gaze herself. Her revulsion melted. Fear and pity swelled inside her. “Perhaps we should attempt to parley first,” she suggested. “We could ask for their terms—”
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 32
