The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  The laborers shouldered their packs, and then without comment allowed Asho and his group to join their ranks as they marched back across the plain to the distant cube city. They moved slowly, giving Zekko ample time to make his way, one man always at his left to assist while Asho never relinquished his father's right side. Watching the old man cross the distance without complaint, his face carved deeply with lines of pain and exhaustion, Asho felt both ennobled and humbled by his father's efforts. Hope, fierce and proud, spiked within him as he looked at the distant cubes. With his father by his side, he was going to succeed. He just knew it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Evening was falling when Tiron approached the surviving forester. The man had been bound to the base of a tree, his legs kicked out before him, ankles bound, the right side of his face swollen and bruised from the force of Tiron's blow. His right eye was squeezed shut, the skin shiny and mottled. Tiron was holding a small pot of coals in his left hand, his bare dagger in his right. The forester saw him coming and squirmed up, kicking furrows into the leaves with his heels, face growing pale.

  "Good. You remember me, then," said Tiron, squatting in front of the man. The forester was perhaps in his late thirties, with long greasy hair pulled back into a ponytail. His eyes were dark and bright, like those of a rat, and his mouth was a thin slash without lips.

  The forester gulped but didn't speak, his eyes darting down to the knife and the coals, then back up to Tiron.

  "Now, you know you're in trouble. You decided to betray your rightful lord at Warmund's behest. Maybe you were coerced. Maybe Warmund has your wife and children in his dungeon. Or maybe you just like the feel of gold coins in your palm. I don't care." Tiron slid the point of his dagger into the coals and stirred them around slowly.

  "Listen, please, I can explain. It wasn't my idea –"

  "Shh," said Tiron, not bothering to look up. He continued to stir slowly. "I told you I don't care. You made a mistake. Now, there's a chance for you to exonerate yourself, to make things right. But first, you have to convince me to trust you."

  "Trust me? You can trust me. I swear by the Ascendant and the Seven Virtues, you can trust me –"

  Tiron flicked his eyes up, and something in his stare made the forester go silent. They were alone, a good thirty yards away from Ramswold's camp. The only sound was that of the evening wind rustling through the canopy overhead.

  "There's nothing you can say that I'll believe, so save your words. Instead, I just need you to listen."

  The man nodded rapidly. "Listen. Yes, I'll listen."

  "Warmund is a dead man. When he only had Ramswold and his Order of the Star to contend with, he was doing all right. He was a little sloppy in hiring you four, but he would have probably gotten away with it. No longer. I'm involved now. That means he's dead." Tiron spoke softly, still stirring the coals. "You might be inclined to laugh. After all, Warmund has twelve knights in the Red Keep with him, along with thirty men-at-arms. I'm just a single man out in the woods. Laughable, am I right?"

  The forester's eyes were locked on his blade, which had begun to glow a dark crimson.

  "But perhaps you're thinking about how I killed your three companions by myself. How I came out of nowhere and took you down. You're wondering if I might not be able to do the same with Warmund, and I'll tell you this. I can."

  The forester's eyes looked like poached eggs. He raised them to Tiron, his face gone pale. Tiron smiled at him, and the man paled further. "Now you're wondering what I'm going to do with this knife. Take an eye? Cut off your balls? Slide it up your arse till it cauterizes shut, and then leave it for you to decide when to pull it out and tear it back open?"

  The man shrank back against the tree.

  "None of those, my good friend." He left the dagger in the pot and rolled his sleeve up his muscled forearm. "I brought it to underscore a promise. A simple one, and one I hope you'll remember."

  He drew out the dagger. The blade bled to crimson, then lightened to bright yellow at the very point. Tiron pressed it to his forearm. The hair there singed, and his flesh began to burn, but he drew the blade across his arm slowly, never flinching, never letting his smile falter. "This is my promise. If you betray my trust, neither the Ascendant nor or the demons beyond the Black Gate will stop me from hunting you down and doing such despicable things to you that you will weep for your death days before I am through."

  The man's eyes darted from Tiron's arm to his face and back again like crazed mice trapped in a barrel.

  Tiron lifted the blade and held it between them. "That is my oath to you. Nothing Warmund has promised or threatened will come close to the misery I will inflict upon your body should you break faith with me. Do you understand?"

  The man was frozen. He seemed to have collapsed in on himself. He managed a jerky nod.

  "Tell me your name," said Tiron.

  "Wi – Wigant, my lord," whispered the forester.

  "Wigant. This is what you are to do. You will ride from here on your own steed, straight to the Red Keep. You will tell Warmund that you and your companions killed Ramswold and his Order, but four of his soldiers fled before you could kill them. Do you understand?"

  "Killed Ramswold. Four fled. Yes."

  "You will take Ramswold's Triangle as proof of your deed. The four who escaped will return shortly after you to report to their liege lord and corroborate your tale, though they will claim it was bandits."

  "Triangle. Proof. Bandits."

  "Yes, Wigant. Warmund will ask about your three forester friends. You'll tell him they chose not to believe in his promises, and took the armor, mounts, and weapons of the dead as payment and fled. You alone have returned. Now, repeat that back to me."

  Wigant did so in a faltering voice. Tiron made him repeat it five more times before he was satisfied. "When you are done, leave the Red Keep. Doom is coming to it. If you stay any longer than you need to, you will die. Am I clear?"

  "Yes," whispered the forester, mesmerized by Tiron's gaze.

  "Good." Tiron watched the man. Made no move. Waited till the other stilled, till Wigant's breath ceased hitching and became shallow, till he was sure, or as sure as he could be, that the man would do as he was told. Tiron leaned forward and sliced through the ropes. "Now, get up."

  Wigant hobbled to his feet, limping badly and clenching his jaw against the pain. He followed Tiron down the path, moving from tree to tree for support. The four horses were ready, their reins held by members of the Order.

  "Here, traitor," said Osterhild, holding out Wigant's belt and dagger. "Can't have you returning home unarmed."

  Wigant fumbled the belt back on, then mounted his horse.

  Tiron took hold of the horse's halter and stared up at Wigant. "Mark my face, my friend. Picture it if you're tempted to betray me. Picture it and remember my oath."

  Wigant gave a jerky nod once more and then took Ramswold's Triangle and stuffed it into a pouch. Tiron released the halter, and the forester turned his horse around, got his bearings, then rode off down the path into the darkness.

  Osterhild stared after him. "What did you say to him? He looked near ready to soil himself."

  Tiron allowed himself to hiss in pain at last and stared at his forearm. The welt was already swelling and sending pain radiating up to his elbow. "I can be charming when the need arises."

  Osterhild stared at the wound, and her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply. "Ah. Does that need tending to?"

  "Eventually. But we don't have time. You four. Your names?"

  The four members of the Order that Ramswold had chosen for this part identified themselves: Ulein, Stephke, Siffrid and Petran.

  "Now, remember. You're panicked and grieving for your dead lord. You're returning to the Red Keep since you don't know where else to go. You were en route to meet with Lord Nyclosel, but you don't know why. You're ashamed for leaving Ramswold's body, but you ran to save your lives. You're cowards. You saw a force of twelve, maybe fifteen crossbow men
shooting down at you from the ridges. It was a massacre. Am I clear?"

  They nodded stiffly. They looked stiff and apprehensive, so Tiron walked up to Ulein, a stocky, kind-looking young man and slapped him hard across the face.

  Ulein staggered, stunned, and pressed his hand to his face, his eyes wide with pain and shock, but Tiron wasn't done. He cuffed Siffrid across the back of the head, sending the willowy youth staggering, and then feinted at the other two, scattering them back onto their heels. Petran tripped and fell.

  "Your lord is dead!" Tiron bellowed right into Ulein's face. "You're a coward! You will never live this down!"

  "I –" began Ulein, staring to nod, and then Tiron slapped him again.

  "You feel that? That surge of fear, of anger?" He rounded on the others. "The alarm? Your panic? That's what you're feeling. That's what you're carrying with you. Cowards! You're going to slink up to Warmund and confess that you abandoned Ramswold, and when he looks at you in disgust, you'll remember this moment. This shock, this humiliation, this fear. Do you hear me?"

  Siffrid helped Petran to his feet. Ulein dropped his arm and nodded. Stephke slowly shuffled back up to the others.

  "Good. Warmund must fear nothing from you. Your family connections will keep you safe. He'll commiserate and then plan to send you whimpering back to your family homes the next morning. Just stay quiet, endure the taunts, and, when the time comes, be ready to draw your blades. Am I clear?"

  "Yes, Ser Tiron," said Ulein. The others echoed their agreement.

  "Good," said Tiron, then took hold of Ulein by the back of the neck and gave him a reassuring shake. "Your lord chose each of you for this mission because he trusts your ability to carry it out. Don't fail him. Don't break his trust."

  The four men nodded and stood a little straighter.

  "Give Wigant perhaps ten minutes before timing your arrival," said Tiron. "Clatter in like the Black Gate's open behind you and steal the show. We don't want Wigant having to endure Warmund's scrutiny any longer than is necessary. Now, go."

  The four turned and hurried through the trees toward where the horses were tied up.

  "Do you think they'll fool Warmund?" Osterhild's voice was quiet.

  Tiron flexed his left fist, trying to squeeze the burning pain in his arm into nothingness. "Perhaps. Wigant will have predisposed Warmund to believing them. Their claiming it was twelve attackers when Warmund knows it was only four will only confirm his contempt for them."

  "And if he sees through their lies? You don't know how canny Warmund is."

  Tiron shrugged. "Even if they're caught out, they can't reveal our plans." He grinned wolfishly at her. "It's why we didn't share them. Now, come. I want to scout out this location Ramswold has chosen for us."

  It took two hours to ride up the main road toward the Red Keep, and another to skirt around it to the high trail that led to the silver mine. Tiron rode at the head of the column alongside Ramswold, who insisted on peppering him with questions Tiron couldn't answer.

  Finally, he sighed and turned to the young lord. "Enough. We're playing the odds. I think they're in our favor, but if not? We'll find out soon enough. Now, tell me again about the silver mine. Start with the overseer and work your way down the command structure."

  "I've already told you," said Ramswold. "I haven't visited it since I turned eighteen."

  "But you recall the layout well enough, and know the names of those in charge. So, repeat them for me. My memory's not what it used to be."

  They rode on, Tiron drilling Ramswold and several others of the Order of the Star until they finally reached the stretch of road that Ramswold had selected.

  Tiron dismounted. It was a good spot. To the left, the road gave way to a sheer drop, a steep incline of broken rock that culminated in a bank of wiry bushes some fifteen yards down. A belt of trees and underbrush lined the right bank, but it wasn't deep; the mountainside climbed back up into view just behind it. Tiron walked the length of the path, then entered the belt of woods. He selected the best trees and told the Order to get to work.

  Finally, he returned to Ramswold, who was standing out under the light of the moon. Under its light the path was a luminous trail and the valley below them a dark and mysterious ocean.

  "My lord, we have cast the dice. Warmund won't be expecting so bold a ploy so quickly after this attack."

  "Yes, I agree, it's just – I don't know." Ramswold stared out over the forest below, at the disc of the moon hanging over the horizon. He rubbed his palms on his clothing.

  "My lord." Tiron moved up beside him and crossed his arms. "Don't be hard on yourself. I felt much as you're feeling before my first battle. It's natural. Only monsters and idiots feel nothing before a clash."

  Ramswold laughed nervously. "Yes, so I've read. But it's so sudden, when it happens. And so – banal? Horrific? I don't know what I expected. But that ambush knocked all the romance out of my point of view. I thought – well, I don't know what I thought. That combat would be more glorious? More ordered? Not just a mess of bucking horses and trying not to get unsaddled as people yell and curse."

  Tiron smiled. "I'm afraid that's how it usually goes. But, with a little luck, it will be our enemies who are confused and trying not be unhorsed." He clapped Ramswold on the shoulder. "You're seizing your destiny with both hands. Take pride. It's better to die walking your own path than to waste away in the shadows."

  Ramswold swallowed, then gave a decisive nod. "Yes. Quite. Thank you, Ser Tiron."

  "I'm no knight," said Tiron. "And don't thank me yet. We're just getting started. Now, I have to introduce myself to Warmund. If you'll excuse me."

  He went back to his horse. He unbuckled his sword, wrapped it in a blanket, and lashed that beside his saddle, then swung up onto the horse. He surveyed the path once more, then turned his steed around, dug his heels into its ribs and urged it into a gallop.

  Tiron pounded down the mountain path, leaning forward in the saddle, urging his horse ever faster. He needed it to be nearly blown by the time he arrived, needed it lathered and foaming at the mouth. The moon was a constant to his right, until finally the path plunged back down into the forest and obscured it from view. His horse began to flag, and still he urged it on, till at last they broke out into a small clearing and the Red Keep reared before them, squat and impregnable at the top of a high cliff.

  The Keep looked like a mailed fist raised in defiance to the world. Tiron had seen its like scattered across all of Ennoia, powerful bastions that were usually taken only by protracted siege. This one was wickedly placed, set high over the path that climbed up to its base along the cliff face, approachable from the rear only if an attacking force were willing to navigate the treacherous mountain paths above.

  Its arrow-slit windows were ablaze with light, and shadowed figures were walking behind the high crenellations along its battlements. A number of small buildings were set off to one side – stable, smithy and the like – but Tiron ignored them as he charged the great gate.

  "Ho, the keep!" He pitched his voice into a ragged cry, infusing it with as much fear and panic as he could muster. "Hello, the keep!"

  He reined his horse in savagely just in front of the two guards, who lowered their spears and glared at him. His horse stomped and breathed raggedly, the lather along the length of its neck gleaming in the torchlight.

  "Who goes there? What's going on?" The guard's voice was tight with barely controlled anger, likely born of fear.

  "Pesold, come direct from Teardrop! We're under attack! We need help!"

  The guards exchanged looks, then raised their spears. One hauled open the gate and disappeared inside, while the other walked up to Tiron's side and took hold of his horse's halter. "Attack? What are you talking about?"

  Tiron ducked his head respectfully. "Brigands, ser, leastwise I think so. A large band! They surrounded the mine head and were calling out demands."

  "Brigands, hey?" The man looked Tiron up and down. "How many?"

&n
bsp; "I didn't get a good count. Twenty? They were well-armed, and mounted, all of them."

  The man canted his head to one side. "And how did you get away?"

  Tiron ducked his head again. "I was out playing cards at the warden's shack. I'm Pesold, Clessel's new quartermaster. Pesold!"

  "Doesn't matter how much you shout your name, I've still not heard of you." He looked at the horse, then nodded. "Looks like you came at a fair clip, though."

  The second guard appeared in the doorway and beckoned. "Come on, then. Old Warmund wants to hear your report directly."

  The front gate led straight into the main hall. The entirety of it was lit by a great fireplace along one wall and numerous torches burning within black iron sconces. Three tables were laid out in the shape of a horseshoe, and the floors were covered with rushes and great wolfhounds. Old war banners and rusted weapons hung from the walls, and a good number of armed men were seated at the tables, many of them rising to their feet as Tiron entered.

  At the head of the tables sat a powerful man of advanced years, his white hair pulled back into a knot with twin locks streaming down past his sideburns to his jawline. His craggy face seemed cast into a permanent frown. He was an intimidating presence, the years seeming not to have diminished his vitality or his glowering menace.

  "Silence!" he roared, slamming his fist on the trestle board.

  The arguments and shouted questions immediately ceased. Tiron cast around and saw Ulein and the others seated at the very foot of the table, all of them watching him guardedly. There was no sign of Wigant.

  Warmund leaned forward on one elbow, chewing something with his molars. "You, there. You claim to have come from Teardrop?"

  Tiron hunched his shoulders as he was led up between the arms of the tables to stand before the lord. He stared at the filthy stone floor and nodded. "Aye, my lord. Brigands, by the look of them, some twenty or more. They came storming down the River Path. I reckon they must have spent the night on the far side of Iron Pass. I was playing cards with the warden and some others. Soon as I saw them coming, I leaped on the messenger's mount and came galloping to warn you."