The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  Asho didn't bother to respond. Other men were crowding in around them, other guards, all of them holding weapons. Six more? Maybe ten? His head was ringing, the pain making him see double. Should he get up? Should he fight from the ground?

  "Now, calm down. I'm not going to kill you," said Batou, drawing laughter from the others. "Maybe I'll just pulp one of your knees. Bend it the wrong way, you know, so that you learn respect. So that you learn who your betters are. Pukho, Randou, take his arms. Hold him steady, now."

  Asho lashed out, but strong hands gripped his wrists tight, and two other men grasped his ankles and spread him out on the cold floor. He gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out, but the pain caused a flood of nausea to roil through his belly, and he almost vomited. He reached over and over again for the Black Gate's magic, wanting to burn these cretins into wisps of ash, but there was nothing there.

  Batou licked his lower lip, took his club in both hands and raised it overhead, eyes locked on Asho's left knee.

  Then a knife appeared at his throat, curved and wicked. It pressed a dimple into his neck, and a bead of blood flowered and ran.

  "Easy, Batou." Kanna's voice was a whisper. "Don't tempt me. You know how much I'd enjoy pressing this just a little deeper."

  "Kanna," hissed Batou, all tension leaving his arms. "Get the knife away from me. Now."

  "Drop the club."

  "Last warning. You're not getting out of here alive if you don't."

  "Neither will you. Now, what's it to be? You want revenge on Asho so much you'll die for it?"

  Batou released his club, and it fell with a hollow clatter to the ground.

  "Smart. Now, Asho, get up."

  The other men released him. Asho climbed to his feet, swaying just a fraction, and before the man to his left could protest, Asho took his stone-notched club from him. It was surprisingly heavy. A swing with it would easily crush bone.

  Asho fought to keep his voice level. "All of you. Move to the back of the room."

  The crowd of guards glared at him but did as they were told, shooting glances at Batou for a sign that they should resist. He gave them none. When they were all crowded near the back entrance, Asho nodded and stepped up to the entrance to the complex. He saw two men slip away into the hall.

  Kanna turned Batou around so that he was facing his men, then stomped her foot hard into his calf, driving his knee down to the ground. Before he could react, she pulled her foot back and booted him between the shoulder blades with all the force in her hips, driving him face-down onto the ground.

  "All right, go!" She ran past Asho and was gone, a flitting shadow in the long tunnel leading to the distribution center.

  Asho ran after her, not bothering to cast a look over his shoulder. Doing so would only slow him down, and his balance was precarious enough as it was. The soles of his boots slapped the ground, and he occasionally brushed against the tunnel wall. The world stopped spinning at last, and by slow degrees his nausea receded. His head was still throbbing, though, and when they finally reached the steps leading up, he felt a sharp, visceral pang of relief.

  Kanna hurried up the steps to the trapdoor, then glanced down at Asho. "Don't waste your breath on Jhago. We need to go to ground. All right?"

  Asho nodded wearily.

  Kanna thrust open the trap door and stepped up and out of sight. Asho pulled himself after. He heard Jhago's mocking protests and saw Kanna striding right past him toward the front door.

  "Nothing? No help from old Mikho? Oh, more's the pity. Perhaps you didn't give him enough in exchange, hey, Kanna?" The old man stopped and stared at Asho. "That blood?"

  Kanna unbarred the front door and thrust it open. Asho followed her outside, ignoring the old man's protests. Without any hesitation, Kanna took off running across the open square and disappeared down a side alley. Asho ran after her.

  Was that a trick of his ears, or did he hear more footsteps ringing out after them? Still not bothering to look back, he ran into the shadows and was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tiron sat to one side, Starkadr's thick mist swirling over his knees, head hanging low, waiting for his pulse to slow, his breath to steady.

  He stared at his hands. At the dried mud on them, the splashes of blood, the dark arcs of dirt under his nails from when he'd tried to escape being dragged along the ground, fingers digging furrows in the mud. His body ached. His head felt as if it were filled with eels sliding over each other in a bucket of dirty water. His shoulder where the arrow had hit his mail throbbed. His whole back felt lacerated, and the joints of his knee and ankle felt filled with broken glass.

  He was getting old. And yet, he'd survived, despite his best attempts not to. He'd made it back, and men had looked to him for guidance, for leadership. Damn them if he'd give it to them. He'd stalked off into the mist to collapse against the black wall, to let his pains immolate him and think of Kolgrimr. Kolgrimr who hadn't returned with them. Dead, no doubt, back on that battlefield because of him.

  The curt call of orders being given and the whinnies of horses echoed in the great chamber, which was filled with the hundreds of men who had ridden through the Portal and back into Starkadr. General Pethar was imposing order, sending as many as he could back into Agerastos to relieve the press.

  Let them handle the next phase, Tiron thought. Let them handle the attack on Kyferin Castle. He could barely stand, much less lead an invasion.

  He heard footsteps, swift and purposeful, and looked up to see the sole remaining Vothak. What was his name? Ashkalar? He'd remained with the soldiers to open the way home. Tiron watched him approach with lidded eyes.

  "Ser Tiron." Ashkalar's voice was flat, peremptory, even. "I've been ordered to heal you."

  Tiron leaned his head back against the wall. "Ordered by whom?"

  "General Pethar. You're needed."

  Tiron studied Ashkalar. His face was pale, and his eyes were bloodshot. A smear of red covered his upper lip. Nose bleed. He'd already been Sin Casting too much. "And what will that do to you?"

  "Make me lose what's left of my lunch." Ashkalar crouched in front of Tiron and extended his hands. "With your permission?"

  He could just tell the Sin Caster – no, Vothak – to leap through the Black Gate. Could tell everyone to go to hell. He felt spent, and not just physically. The fever of violence had snapped when he realized Kolgrimr hadn't made it. When he realized the man had died trying to save him. What a waste. The very thought sickened him. Kolgrimr had been a good man. He'd had a future. His people had needed him. Now he was dead on some muddy field, eyes being pecked out by crows, and for what? So Tiron could seek out death somewhere else?

  "Ser Tiron?"

  He closed his eyes and thought of Iskra. Could she know how painful his duty to her was becoming? How deep it was forcing him to go? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Did it matter? He was her knight, and nothing more.

  Self-pity washed over him, a self-pity that was poisoned with self-loathing. What had he become? What manner of man was he? Reckless, foolish, irresponsible, causing the deaths of fools who cared for him. A shadow of his former self.

  "Ser Tiron?"

  He cracked open his eyes and looked at Ashkalar's knees, at the mud splattered there, and a thin cut that had split the leather. What was left of him? Loyalty? Honor?

  "All right." His voice was a rough rasp, an iron file caressing a rusted blade. "Get it over with."

  Ashkalar leaned forward and placed a hand on Tiron's forehead. There was no preamble, no ritual, no muttered incantation. The Vothak simply stiffened, fingers pressing against Tiron's scalp, and with a rush the knight felt the pain fall away from him, felt something in the back of his head knit closed, felt his shoulder loosen.

  With a gasp the Vothak released Tiron and fell back onto his rear. His eyes were wide with shock. "So much pain," he gasped. "How?"

  Tiron stood. Even the stiffness was gone. He swung his arms and cracked his neck. He'd not felt this good in some time.
The new energy even helped with his black mood.

  "You get used to it," he said. "If you live long enough. My thanks."

  He strode past the fallen Vothak, leaving him behind as he entered the ranks of soldiers and made his way to the front. There, he found General Pethar with his advisors, along with Captain Patash and Orishin. They all turned to him, eyes lighting up with relief.

  "There he is," said the general with false joviality. "Good. Now, the Vothak said he can open an Ennoian Portal that is only an hour's ride from Kyferin Castle. You know the land, the castle, the guards. Are you sure we should proceed as planned?"

  Tiron frowned. Kyferin Castle was formidable. No siege would break through its walls in time. Their only advantage lay in surprise

  "Yes. There's no other way." Tiron looked from one man to the other. "Surprise. We'll attack through Mythgraefen's Raven Gate at the same time. It's our only shot. That, and my wager that Kyferin is undermanned, with the majority of its soldiers away at Otran."

  General Pethar sighed and scratched vigorously at his sideburns before nodding. "All right. I'll give the command. I've picked the troops myself."

  The order was given, and immediately servants began to rush to and fro, pulling the selected soldiers out of their ranks and ushering them to a staging area where full suits of armor lay in careful piles. Tiron stalked over, frowning, running his plan over and over in his mind. It would have to do.

  An hour later, about sixty men were clad in the suits of full plate armor that had been taken from Lord Laur's first assault on Mythgraefen Hold. More importantly, the soldiers were also wearing the tabards of those knights, a host of minor lords and vassals who were known to serve Lord Laur. Tiron scrutinized them. Many of them were still fussing with their armor, seeking to tighten straps on plate that had been molded for different men. But in the dark, from a distance, it just might work.

  Purpose fired him. Fifty-eight men were following him into battle. This was the size of engagement he'd grown used to partaking in with the Black Wolves. He clapped his hands and gestured for everyone to crowd around. Orishin stepped up to translate.

  "All right. From a distance we might fool them, which is why we're going to ride in fast. Once we get within sight of the walls, keep your visors down, lances up. I want those pennants flying. There will hopefully be enough confusion with the attack taking place on top that they'll let us in. Now, this is important. We're not going to stop at the gatehouse, even if they try to fight us. We're punching through. We're also not going to let them bog us down in a fight in the bailey. Remember: we're punching all the way through into the barbican."

  He waited as Orishin translated. The men were focused on him, some of them even mouthing Orishin's words so as to better memorize them. Tiron waited patiently, then resumed. "The barbican has a single hallway in it, shaped like a capital 'L'. We'll abandon our horses in the bailey and head up the ramp. The ramp is actually a second drawbridge. It's kept down normally, and should still be down if we move fast enough. Then we'll move through the hallway, which is riddled with murder holes. We'll have guards firing arrows at us the whole way. We'll only go into the side rooms if they drop the portcullis at the end of the hall. Otherwise, we'll head out over the third drawbridge and up the steps into the keep."

  There was no need to tell them about the twin drum towers that watched the approach to the keep, or the arrows or worse that would fall on them from there.

  "Again, we can only pull this off if we move fast. We approach calmly and stay calm for as long as they don't raise the alarm. With luck, we'll be able to walk through most of their defenses. As soon as the alarm is given, however, we run. We stop for nothing. A friend falls? Leave him behind. A man attacks you from the side? Run past him. Understood?"

  These men had been hand-picked from thousands. They had been selected by their sergeants, pulled from the most elite and veteran squads, some of them even from the Emperor's Hundred Snakes cohort; looking at the hard faces that stared back at him, Tiron felt a small measure of reassurance. This might be a death trap they were walking into, but these men had made their peace with death. Tiron got the sense that they would hold, they would fight, and they would die if need be to accomplish this mission.

  "Now, our hidden ace lies in the Raven's Gate. That's the Lunar Portal located outside Mythgraefen Hold. We'll be opening it tonight and attacking through it. We're going to time our approach to coincide with that attack. With a little luck, that attack through the Gate will distract our enemies enough to give us a fighting chance of breaking all the way through. Understood?"

  He received a series of grim nods in reply. Tiron waited, letting the silence play out, watching the men carefully, looking for pale faces, wide eyes, rapid breathing, nervous movements, but saw nothing of the kind. The men around him stood there stolidly. They weren't excited what they were about to do, but they weren't on the verge of panic.

  Good.

  ***

  Fifty-six mounted men were arrayed in a tight column behind him, their armor glinting in the light of the moon. The air was chilly, and Tiron felt a building urge for release, for violence. Perhaps that fever for destruction hadn't left him after all. Perhaps it could never break. Was he cursed with it? Blessed?

  Tiron's horse sidestepped, snorting, and he quieted it reflexively, hand on the pommel of his sword, eyes on the moon.

  They'd cantered up ten minutes ago, every step exquisitely timed. Their horses had been pushed, but not too hard; carrying men in full plate was something the beasts were meant to do for a brief time in battle, not for hours crossing fields and skirting the edges of forests. Still, they'd made good time, with only one horse pulling up lame, forcing them to leave a suddenly very nervous knight behind them.

  He heard no whispers amongst the ranks. They were good men. They were all watching him, waiting for his mark. The road shone bone-white under the horses' hooves, cresting a final rise up ahead them before revealing Kyferin Castle. Five minutes at a canter would take them up to the main gate. Which meant, if possible, giving their allies' attack on the Raven's Gate a couple of minutes to grab their full attention before riding into view.

  The storm that had smothered the skies of Otran hadn't reached this far south. The moon was clearing the horizon. A vague certainty began to coalesce within him. The Portal should be flickering now, its interior filling with black ink.

  "Now," whispered Tiron, raising his lance. He spurred his steed forward, and the column lurched forward behind him, harnesses jingling, hooves clopping against the dirt. Tiron's breath plumed out before him, and his heart began to beat faster. What was his responsibility to these men? They were following him on something that was nigh on to a suicide mission. Should he shoulder the responsibility for their fates? Resign himself to losing many, if not most, of them?

  Tiron gritted his teeth and rode up over the rise. He inhaled deeply at the sight of Kyferin Castle, so familiar after a lifetime spent riding home to it, and lowered his visor. Never before had its walls seemed so daunting, its high keep so impenetrable. All comfort that he'd once taken in its might had turned to fear.

  He tried to pierce the night and make out the top of the keep. Was a battle underway? He couldn't tell. It was hard to hear anything over the sound of sixty men riding at a canter.

  The pale road led up the huge gatehouse. The portcullis was down, but guards would be watching, would have seen them already, would have marked that they were approaching in a calm manner, a gentle canter. Friendly. Nothing to worry about. Allies.

  On they rode, ever closer. Sweat ran down the back of Tiron's neck. He sat up straight, waiting for a cry of warning, for a hail of arrows. It was possible the gatehouse was being defended by men he had once known, guards who had opted to remain and serve Lord Laur in Iskra's time of need. As such, he felt little regard for them. They had chosen their new master. He would see how loyally they served him now that they were to be put to the test.

  The massive gatehouse lo
omed ahead, flanked by towers that bulged out of the curtain wall. The arrow slits were lit from within by the light of torches. No arrows came flying out. Tiron forced himself to breathe easy.

  Convince them you're a friend by believing it yourself.

  Tiron slowed his horse and stopped just shy of the great drawbridge. Who could ever storm this castle? They'd need a hundred siege engines, a thousand soldiers, a year's worth of supplies to outlast the stocks held within. Impossible.

  "Who goes there? Is that you, Ser Dirske?"

  Tiron felt his heart flutter with relief. "It is. By Lord Laur's command, I've brought sixty good and righteous knights to assist in the defense of the castle and the garrisoning of Mythgraefen Hold. "

  "And welcome, my lord!" There was stark relief in the man's voice, followed quickly by the rumbling of the portcullis mechanism. Men stepped out into the gatehouse tunnel, burning brands held aloft so that horrific shadows danced and leaped on the walls around them.

  The speaker ducked under the portcullis and ran up to Ser Tiron's side. "The Ascendant be praised! The Raven's Gate is being attacked – nobody knows what's happened!" The man's face was flushed with fear and excitement. "They're fighting on the keep's roof! We heard the cries, but Constable Brocuff told us to hold the gate –"

  "Make way!" Tiron kneed his mount forward. He pitched his voice to carry. "The keep is under attack! We must assist them!"

  Ragged cheers followed his party as they thundered over the drawbridge into the tunnel, a dozen guards pressing their backs to the walls as they watched them pass.

  It's working, thought Tiron breathlessly, riding out into the bailey.

  It was almost painful to return here, most wonderfully strange and surreal. He'd grown up serving Lord Kyferin, knew this castle better than his own hands. He threw his lance to one of the stable boys who had run out to greet them and then leaped from his horse, armor crashing around him as he hit the ground.