Crovis said, “Isle Knights do not beg for terms. For implying as much, I am within my bounds to accuse you of cowardice in the face of the enemy.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Aeko saw Rowen cast her superior a murderous look. The others shifted uncomfortably, especially the Isle Knights. Aeko bowed. “I spoke in haste. Forgive me, Sir Ammerhel.” She straightened but kept her eyes low, as she knew she must.
“Indeed,” he answered. “Pray there will be time to make amends.”
“Thank you,” she forced herself to say, her face burning.
For a long time, all eyes stared over the battlements. The Throng drew steadily closer. Unease spread along the walls. The well-disciplined Isle Knights kept their composure. Meanwhile, the rest of the city’s defenders struggled to do the same. Lyos had not been besieged for as long as anyone could remember. Now, their king was dead, and an army bolstered by sorcery was drawing close. The men’s spirits—which had seemed so strong just hours before—began to erode.
Foreseeing this, Aeko had convinced Crovis to reassign most of the squires among the native defenders of Lyos, to give them courage. Unfortunately, many of these squires were equally untested.
Here and there, men threw down their weapons and ran. Where do they think they’ll hide—the sewers? Inside a well? Where will they hide where the Throng won’t find them?
Captain Ferocles swore. “If you’ll excuse me,” he grunted. He drew his sword and stalked off, shouting orders. Sergeant Epheus followed.
“Deserters,” Crovis Ammerhel muttered with disgust. The Knight of the Lotus said to Silwren, “I am told your kind can speak with their minds. If you wish, you may relay this offer to your former master: tell him I will accept his surrender now, should he wish to give it.”
Rowen Locke edged closer to Aeko and whispered, “Is he mad?”
Aeko did not reply. Despite the lingering warmth in her cheeks, she smiled at her captain’s bravado.
Silwren said, “I am already speaking with him.” Her voice was halting.
Crovis Ammerhel scowled. “What does he say?”
The tears building in Silwren’s violet eyes began to flow down her cheeks. The sight of so Human a gesture emanating from the ghostly eyes of a Shel’ai alarmed Aeko.
“He asks—” Silwren’s voice broke. She regained her composure and started again. “He asks why we betray him. He asks how we can do this... to our own people.”
Crovis Ammerhel drew his sword, the magnificent curved blade sparkling in the afternoon light. “Tell him you have chosen to ally yourself to the Light, to forsake the foulness of your wytchcraft. So, too, could his own sins be forgiven, by the Light’s grace.”
Silwren did not answer. Instead, she reached out her hand. El’rash’lin took it in his own. He said something in Sylvan. She hesitated then nodded.
The sorcerer turned to face Sir Ammerhel. “Open the gates,” he said simply. “I will go out and meet them.”
The Knight of the Lotus looked skeptical but gestured to one of the Isle Knights standing nearby. “Open the gates. The sorcerer goes out… alone.”
El’rash’lin and Silwren embraced. Silwren would not let him go. Finally, El’rash’lin gently pried himself free. His disfigured face broke into a sad smile. He whispered something into one of Silwren’s long, tapered ears, bowed to Rowen, then started down the stairs.
Rowen said, “I’m going with him.”
Aeko grabbed his arm. “You’re staying right here. That’s an order.”
Rowen blinked in surprise but obeyed.
El’rash’lin had reached the courtyard now, flanked on all sides by Isle Knights. His body already looked stooped again, as though merely descending the stairs had sapped his strength. How could such a wretched figure be their savior? Then again, most of what I’ve seen lately makes no more sense than that.
The Isle Knights signaled to the gate guards. They reluctantly hefted a stout, eight-foot crossbeam out of the way and pushed open the great oak gates of Lyos. El’rash’lin shuffled out, alone, and started down King’s Bend. The gates of Lyos closed behind him.
Far away, beyond the base of Pallantine Hill, Fadarah had dismounted his red-flanked, yellow-eyed bloodmare and stood alone at the head of his host, deep in mindspeak. “I have spoken with Silwren and El’rash’lin. They will not see reason.”
Shade answered, presumably from the place where Fadarah had sent him—east of the hill, near a break in the soil that led down to a great, underwater sea. “The fault is mine, General. I sought her out, but I spoke in anger.”
Fadarah said, “So you did. But she loved you once. If she will not listen now, then the fault can only be her own.” He faced Lyos. The Throng had halted near the base of the hill, still well out of range of archers and siege engines. Neither side sent emissaries.
Fadarah studied the challenge before him. The only way for an army to reach the walls of Lyos was to advance all the way up the winding road to the hilltop, trying all the while to keep their own siege engines from getting mired in mud, meanwhile weathering storms of arrows from the walls.
Azure banners of the Isle Knights fluttered from the parapets. Fadarah realized for the first time that the color of the Knights’ banners perfectly matched the color of Sylvan eyes—those who weren’t Shel’ai, that is. All the more reason for them to burn.
Fadarah focused once more on the slow-moving juggernaut that was the Throng, supervising its endless columns of cavalry and footmen. Shade’s slaying of the king and most of his family had weakened the will of Lyos but not broken it, as Fadarah hoped it would. But it made no difference. Fadarah had just given Shade a fresh host to command, which included the majority of the Unseen, plus a handful of Shel’ai. Even if El’rash’lin and Silwren managed to thwart the Nightmare, Shade could finish Lyos himself.
Fadarah asked, “Are you ready, my son?”
“We await your command.”
“It is given.” He broke off from the mindspeak. He trained his eyes on the hill again. A single figure had appeared, shuffling weakly down the long, winding trail toward them. “El’rash’lin, my old friend...”
No, El’rash’lin was his enemy now. The man could have no purpose in mind save to fight the Nightmare, to thwart the strategies he himself had helped invent. But where was Silwren?
Then Fadarah understood. He imagined her on the walls, preparing to use her own magic to bolster El’rash’lin’s focus. She would keep him from losing his mind in much the same way the sorcerers of the Throng controlled the Nightmare.
Fadarah closed his eyes. With his mind, he spoke to all the other Shel’ai, telling them to prepare. In a moment, they would rouse the Nightmare. In a moment, they would unleash their full fury upon these plains. Lyos would crumble—as would El’rash’lin. It could be no other way. He knew they understood. Still, Fadarah wept as he gave the order.
“Bring forth my Nightmare...”
Jalist Hewn was standing in the foremost row of pikemen, near the remainder of the Unseen, when the Nightmare was summoned. At once, the Dwarr’s blood ran cold. The monstrosity appeared out of nowhere, as though somehow spared the sane laws that governed the world of men.
It plodded through the ranks—a great, dark, smoldering thing, ringed by sorcerers in cloaks and hoods. Unease swept through the army, worse than usual. The men were tired, after all, and scared for their homelands to the west. They were unnerved, too, that so many Unseen had been sent to take the city from within—an unusual tactic for Fadarah.
And now, the Nightmare. Jalist clutched his long-axe until his knuckles turned white. Well over a dozen times had he lived this moment in his dreams, but still his heart filled with such panic that he wondered for a moment if it would wrench itself from his chest.
“Steady, lads!” he called, as much to embolden himself as those around him. “Think of Llassio. If he could die with honor, the least we can do is gawk at this abomination without pissing ourselves!”
The men around hi
m laughed uneasily. But the Dwarr’s words had an effect. Men straightened and lifted their eyes, gaining a thin measure of control over their fear.
Besides, all we have to do is watch. No rebellion today. He was glad that most of the men around him were veterans. They knew what to expect. The Nightmare would slough up to the walls, bring them crashing down with a jolt of raw magic that blasted stone into dust, then vanish. The Shel’ai would order the ranks forward. The city, unquestionably conquered, would surrender what remained of its army, and that would be that. So why do I have such a terrible feeling about this?
Jalist thought of Llassio, buried just the night before. The Dwarr’s strong hands were still blistered from digging the grave. He had dug it alone, refusing all offers of help. Something tells me you’re the lucky one, lad. Other images flashed through his mind: his one-time home in Stillhammer. Leander, the gentle Dwarr prince.
Jalist clenched his eyes shut for a moment then opened them. He had the awful feeling that he would never see Leander again. He would never go home. He and all the other fools around him were about to die.
“So be it,” Jalist muttered to himself.
An autumn breeze stirred his sand-colored hair, his neatly braided beard. He touched the ornately carved handle of his long-axe and fixed his eyes on the scene before him. The city on a hill. He was far from the mountains, he knew, but at least he would die on stone.
Rowen stared as chaos overran the battlements. Everywhere, men of the Red Watch shook with fear. Even the Knights stared, horrified, at what approached them. Men already poised to flee their posts did so now, running for their lives. Rowen realized, dimly, that they were only seeing the Nightmare as Fadarah intended them to see it. An illusion. But that did not help.
For weeks, he had heard about this demon, but nothing had prepared him for this. Not a man but a beast—huge, awful, burning. Smoke leaked from gaps in its scales. Its hooves left smoldering footprints.
Rowen looked away. He forgot everything: El’rash’lin, Aeko Shingawa, the city behind him, even his own name. A mad darkness flooded his brain. He closed his eyes and waited to die.
Then, slowly, the darkness faded. A strange light filled his mind—faint at first, then stronger. Rowen did not know at first where it came from, but then a face formed in the light—a face both strange and familiar. A man with ghostly, violet eyes. Young, gentle, sad. Rowen felt as though he was in the Wytchforest again, staring down at his own reflection. No. It’s El’rash’lin...
Rowen opened his eyes. The squire blinked in surprise. Before him lay King’s Bend, El’rash’lin, the army. And there was the demon—except that in place of a towering, scaled monstrosity, stood a man—cloaked and hooded, hideously twisted and deformed like El’rash’lin, but just a man.
“We have dispelled the illusion,” Silwren whispered.
Along the battlements, panic slacked, replaced by puzzlement. Rowen trained his eyes on El’rash’lin now. The stooped figure halted on King’s Bend, halfway between the city and the army below. He stretched, slowly, to his full height. He waited. Iventine—crazed—rushed up to meet him. The men grappled, wytchfire gushing from their fingertips.
Men watched from the plain and the battlements of Lyos alike as the ravaged sorcerers fought. Flames crackled in bruise-colored tendrils, alive and strong despite the frailty of the men who conjured them. Rowen watched, helpless. Then he looked to Silwren for help. But her eyes were closed now, deep in concentration. A violet glow enveloped her body. Everyone but Rowen drew away from her in fear.
She must be lending her strength to El’rash’lin. He wished he could do the same.
“Silwren, I’m here,” he whispered. He did not know if she could hear him.
Jalist Hewn stared. There, on the slopes of Pallantine Hill, the whole world seemed to have gone mad. The Nightmare that had plagued his dreams had disappeared. In its place stood a misshapen sorcerer of awful power. He was battling another Shel’ai—an equally disfigured man Jalist did not recognize.
“I think I’ve lost my mind!” someone muttered.
“Lost mine first,” Jalist said. He wondered why the Shel’ai of the Throng were just standing there. Why didn’t they rush to the defense of their demon? Why weren’t they ordering the Throng forward?
Jalist fixed his eyes on the nearest sorcerer. The man’s hood had fallen, revealing a face wracked by fierce concentration. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, his eyes clenched shut.
Jalist spotted a second Shel’ai not far from the first, flanked by a protective ring of Unseen. This sorcerer’s hood was still raised, but Jalist saw the man jerk, as though his whole body had gone so tense that it spasmed. Then he understood.
Brahasti was right. If they break their concentration, they’ll lose control of the Nightmare. Jalist’s mind raced. Shade and ten other sorcerers had already gone to slip into the city, taking the bulk of the Unseen with them. Something had already happened to the Nightmare, weakening it. All the Shel’ai left among the Throng were occupied, including Fadarah.
To the hells with Brahasti. It’s time! Jalist hefted his long-axe, thrusting the steely blade into the yellow glare of the afternoon sun. With all his strength, he shouted, “Now, lads! For Quorim! For Cassica! For Syros! For all you’ve lost and all we’ve yet to lose... fight!”
He charged. The Dwarr feared no one would respond, that he would die alone like the fool he was. Then he heard a great, furious shout as the army came to life. Some threw down their weapons and ran. Within moments, whole companies were deserting. But others echoed Jalist’s cry then surged forward, weapons glinting. No longer was their target the people of Lyos, but their Shel’ai captors.
Blank faced, the remaining Unseen braced to stop them. Jalist had expected this. The awful Blood Thrall forced the Unseen to defend their masters from attack—even though they hated them more than anyone. Don’t worry, lads. Our blades will set you free.
He faced the nearest shadowy fighter. They traded swings, then Jalist ducked beneath a shortsword and came up fast, swinging his long-axe in a vicious, sweeping cut. His Unseen opponent staggered and fell, throat open, eyes wide with gratitude.
Jalist leapt over him and chose another opponent. When his long-axe stuck in a man’s shield, he drew his broad-bladed shortsword instead. He finished off this opponent then paused a moment to take stock of the situation.
The Throng roiled now, in full revolt. Most of the men had fled westward, deserting back toward their homes, but hundreds remained, hot for revenge. They charged the Unseen, hoping to cut their way through and hack the Shel’ai to pieces. Then, a terrible flash of wytchfire lanced through the ranks, burning pikemen like candlewicks.
Jalist cursed. They were too slow. The revolt had broken the sorcerers’ concentration, all right. Only now, the Shel’ai were turning their magic on the mutineers!
Violet flame billowed over Jalist’s head, followed by more screams as the fitful magic slew anyone who happened to find themselves in its path. Jalist spotted the sorcerer just a few yards away, guarded now by just a single Unseen warrior.
Jalist wrenched his long-axe free, lowered his head, and charged. The Unseen warrior spotted him and braced. But Jalist was not in the mood to duel. He threw his broad-bladed shortsword, and the Unseen toppled, eyes brimming with that same awful gratitude. The Dwarr leaped over the body, returning both hands to his long-axe.
The cloaked Shel’ai twisted toward the sound, unleashing a second storm of wytchfire. But he was not expecting someone of Jalist’s short stature. The Dwarr ducked well beneath the flames and swung. The sorcerer crumpled.
“Not so powerful now, are you!” Jalist swung his axe twice more. Then he looked about, searching for another enemy. Other Shel’ai battled in the distance, refusing to die quietly, wytchfire streaming from their fingertips. But all were far away now. He was tempted to yank back the hood and see the face of the one he had just killed.
What if it’s Que’ann? Shaking his head, he straighte
ned, chose the nearest enemy, and charged, howling like a madman.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
TURNING TIDES
High atop the battlements of Lyos, standing next to Silwren, Rowen Locke watched in disbelief as the Throng turned on itself. Hundreds of men fled westward while others surged toward the hill, battling the Shel’ai and their dark-garbed bodyguards. Screams and the din of battle filled the air. Rowen spotted who he thought must be Fadarah himself: a huge man, big as an Olg, dressed head to toe in black armor. He stood at the head of his great host. One hand carried a great sword while the other crackled with wytchfire. Then he lost sight of him in the swirling chaos of battle.
Meanwhile, El’rash’lin and the Nightmare continued their mad battle on King’s Bend. Wytchfire flew from their hands, their bodies bathed so brightly in magic now that men turned away, blinded. Though there were no houses on King’s Bend, abandoned carts and vendors’ tables went up like dry kindling.
Rowen shouted to Aeko, “We have to get down there and help him!”
“And how, Squire, do you suggest we do that? We’d be burned alive once we got close.”
Rowen was tempted to grab a longbow, but the Nightmare would be a hard shot even standing still. Besides, the battling sorcerers blazed so fiercely now that he could no longer tell who was who. Nor, he realized, could they ride out to join those rebelling against Fadarah since the two Dragonkin were battling in the middle of King’s Bend.
Silwren remained deep in her trance, her face strained with exhaustion.
Frantic, Rowen looked toward King’s Bend again. The blazing Dragonkin continued to grapple, awash with fire and light, but he could not tell how the battle was faring. Then, an awful cry split the air as one of the blazing figures toppled, his body smoking. The other reeled over him and stumbled but did not fall. At the same time, Silwren whimpered and slumped toward the battlements. Rowen caught her as she started to fall over the edge and lowered her to the ground.
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 33
