The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  "Yes, I know. It was... unexpected. I'm still trying to understand what happened, and why. And what are you doing down here?"

  "There's so much to tell you," he said. And despite it all, despite the threat that still loomed large over them all, despite all the deaths and the strife to come, in that small and isolated moment, he felt a brief flicker of joy to have her here with him. "I hardly know where to begin."

  "Come," she said, with a new and quiet confidence that he'd not seen before. "I need to sit."

  She led him over to a flat rock. Nearby, the Bythians were helping the wounded Ennoians shuffle away down the path while Ser Cunad was moving through his troops, lining them up, inspecting them, having quiet conversations with this soldier and that. People who seemed to be part of Kethe's troops were sitting to one side, exhausted and still, speaking quietly with each other.

  Asho sat beside Kethe, and at first they didn't speak. Instead, they simply stared down the ramp, both of them content to simply be together. Asho thought of his father, of the movement he'd almost started, and the sense of belonging that had slipped through his fingers – but which, now, sitting here beside Kethe, he'd found again.

  He knew they had much to share, much to recount. He could sense that she'd changed in ways he barely understood, and all too soon, they would be plunged once more into battle, into a war whose end he couldn't guess. Tharok was below them with his kragh and trolls, and long as the night would be, he knew that dawn was coming. The morning would bring about the opening of the Portals and who knew what other developments.

  But for now, he was content to simply enjoy her company. He reached out and took Kethe's hand in his own. It was callused and strong. She squeezed his hand and gave him a tight smile, and he smiled back.

  Let their past and their future wait. For now, he would simply savor the present as best he could.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Tiron coughed and rolled onto his side. He couldn't breathe. The front of his breastplate was caved in, as if he'd been smashed by a battering ram. Wheezing, he drew his dagger and sawed at the leather straps on his sides. Stars of black were dancing in his vision. His ribs ached; his sternum felt like it was going to rupture.

  He sawed through the straps just in time. The breastplate fell from him, and he gasped loudly, sucking in sweet air and falling back onto his elbow. Instinct forced him to look up, look around.

  The inner courtyard of the citadel was awash with violence. More and more soldiers were spilling out from the tower bases to reinforce a line that had cut off the kraghs' route to the underground. The kragh were pressing ahead, throwing themselves forward, but being rebuffed.

  Tiron grunted and rose to his feet. He was outside the worst of the action; soldiers were running past him to join the melee. Where was that black-skinned kragh? he wondered as his head began to clear. Had that thing even been a kragh? Tiron rarely felt true fear in combat, but when his blow to its arm simply healed over, he'd felt a cold knife of terror stab him in the gut.

  Now, the black-skinned one was gone, as were the last of the kragh who had fled down the ramp. It wasn't his problem, then. He bent down to pick up his blade, his breathing finally normalizing. The urge to simply charge into combat was quickly controlled. He was no longer an impetuous youth. He took a moment to scan his environs to figure out what was happening, the ebb and flow of the siege.

  The walls were being hotly contested, but the sheer number of human soldiers defending the ramparts was keeping the kragh from seizing any serious foothold. The real contest was taking place at the ruined gate. The kragh were being thrown back by a group of Virtues and their Consecrated, their matchless skills reinforced by the deep and ever-growing ranks of the human soldiers.

  Tiron heaved a breath of relief. That critical moment when everything had seemed out of balance had passed. Not that they were in the clear –a dozen trolls were still fighting around the ruined grate, surrounded by a mass of spear men and archers. The roar of the kragh outside the walls was still punishingly loud. No, the battle wasn't over, but the first wave, the shockingly effective first strike, had been weathered.

  Tiron saw Ramswold and a half-dozen of his surviving knights walking toward the melee at the gate and grinned. The spring had gone out of their step, and some of them were even dragging their blades behind them. It took long years of training to get used to fighting in plate. Even the vigor of youth couldn't imbue a knight with that kind of stamina.

  "Ramswold!" Tiron raised his blade. "This way!"

  The young lord raised his visor, saw Tiron, and gave him a curt nod, then changed his direction to stalk over. "You're alive," he said hoarsely. "Good. Now, come. We must join the fray."

  "Wait a moment," said Tiron. "Catch your breath. The fight will be there when you're ready."

  Ramswold looked fit to argue, but he simply nodded.

  Tiron looked over the other five knights. Ulein. Isentrud. Leuthold the lieutenant. All of them showed signs of rough combat. Their armor was dented and spattered with blood, and a number of them were limping or moving in the guarded way that denoted sprains and other minor injuries.

  "Listen," said Tiron, watching the line of combat as it pushed the kragh toward the gate some twenty yards from where they were standing. "This is a siege. We're not going to win this in one fight. You have to conserve your energy. Stay alive."

  At the front of the line, one of the Virtues leaped up, spinning like a dervish, his blade held out horizontally so that it blurred around him as he fell back amongst the kragh.

  "The Virtues," Tiron said. "We can't fight like them. We need to stay sharp. You can't push yourself so hard that you vomit inside your helm. Seize these moments when you can. Regroup. Refocus. And then attack where you can do the most damage, not just the closest fight to where you're standing."

  Ramswold inhaled deeply, held his breath, then let it out smoothly. "Wise words. So, where do we attack?"

  Tiron surveyed the battle that was pushing the kragh back out the gate, then turned to examine the trolls. Three more of them had fallen. Before he could speak, a deep and mournful note sounded from beyond the walls, some massive horn with a blast so powerful that it was heard even over the screams and cries inside the courtyard.

  Its effect was immediate. The kragh fighting on the walls began to fall back, some even retreating down their ladders and out of sight. Those few who were still contesting the gate, the last hundred or so, simply turned and ran. The Virtues and humans let out a ragged cheer and chased them to the threshold, where they stood waving their weapons in defiance of their bested foes.

  "A retreat!" said Ulein, raising his visor to grin wildly at Tiron and Ramswold. "We've repulsed them!"

  "Aye," said Tiron. "But only for a spell. They've tested our resolve and found us willing. Now, to mend that gate. We can't rest easy till we've found a way to bar their entry."

  Ramswold's spine straightened, and he flashed a smile at his men. "We've done it, my Order. Our brave and wonderful knights! We have survived our first true test and not been found wanting!"

  A ponderous drumbeat beat began to sound from outside the walls. Tiron felt each pound echo in his chest; there was a menacing edge to it that caused him to turn back to face the gate.

  "What's that?" asked one of the other knights.

  "A drum," said Ulein.

  Tiron glanced up at the walls. The last of the kragh had retreated from the battlements, and the soldiers up top were staring fixedly down at the plain below.

  "Something's coming," said Tiron.

  Ramswold stepped up next to him, blade in hand. "A second wave?"

  Tiron shook his head slowly. "No. Not so quickly, on the heels of their retreat."

  The drum continued to pound, a vast sound like the beating heart of the world. The hairs on the backs of Tiron's arms and neck prickled.

  "We should move to reinforce the gate," Ramswold said, then undercut his own order by glancing sidelong at Tiron. "Shouldn't we?"<
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  "Hold fast," said Tiron. "Wait."

  They stood still, and everywhere across the courtyard, the army of the Empire also waited, seemingly held still by the mesmerizing beat of the drum. Tiron cursed. Should they climb a tower to the wall? Press up against the back of the army plugging the gate? No. He bit down on his impatience. Wait.

  There was movement at the front of the line defending the ruined gate. Some kind of stir. Then Tiron heard a sound that chilled his soul for the second time that evening: cries of fear and panic. They came from their own soldiers, those who were standing behind the Virtues and Consecrated, facing out toward the kragh army.

  "Ramswold," Tiron snapped at the taller man. "What's going on?"

  "Nothing," said Ramswold. "The Virtues are standing completely still. Those behind them are backing away. No, now they're standing still as well."

  Tiron took a few steps forward. The entire force that was holding the gatehouse was starting to heave, hundreds of soldiers, those at the back pushing forward to see what was amiss while the center fought to retreat.

  Then Tiron heard another strange sound, a crackling, dusty sound like dried river mud being stepped on. It grew louder, and more and more of the cries of fear were suddenly cut off.

  "They're just standing there," said Ramswold, rising to his toes in an attempt to get a better view. "More and more of them. Just – standing there."

  Now, those at the back of the force began to retreat, spreading out into the courtyard, facing the frozen core who had been crying out in alarm just moments ago. Tiron took a step closer, peering at the still figures. They were literally frozen in unnatural postures, some shoving at their fellows, others turning to race away. Hundreds of men reduced to statues.

  "By the Ascendant," Ramswold said in awe. "What is going on?"

  Tiron looked up at the walls. Those soldiers who were manning the battlements, looking down at the land outside the castle, were also standing frozen, their silhouettes unmoving in the dusk.

  Soldiers were hustling back from the gatehouse, some grabbing at each other, others moving back a dozen steps only to stop and peer ahead. Hundreds of men opened up a growing semicircle around that frozen core.

  Tiron saw one nearest the front suddenly freeze. Again, he heard that crackle of dry mud as the man's skin drained of color and turned an ashen gray.

  "Tiron?" Ramswold was gripping his blade with both hands. "What's going on?"

  "The end," Tiron said. "We can't fight this. We have to get back."

  "Back?" Leuthold echoed. "To where? The gate to Bythos is closed."

  More men were turning to stone, dozens at a time. Then Tiron saw movement amongst the tight group of soldiers that had filled the gate's opening. Something serpentine undulated between the frozen soldiers, past the Virtues and Consecrated. It was enormous, rising up nearly as tall as a troll, vividly colored even in the gloom of twilight, smoldering crimsons and burning yellows. A flush of heat crossed Tiron's face as the creature turned toward him, and with a cry he looked away and threw himself at Ramswold.

  "Don't look!" The instinct that had saved his life on countless battlefields kicked in. "Don't look!"

  But it was too late. Two of their knights suddenly crackled and went still. Ramswold collapsed beneath Tiron with a cry.

  Tiron crawled off the fallen knight and shoved at Ulein and Isentrud. "Get back to the tower!"

  "What is it?" Isentrud's voice was sharp with alarm. She obeyed Tiron, though, and began to run toward the closest tower door.

  Tiron hauled Ramswold up. "I don't know," he growled. "But it's our death if we stay. Run!"

  Around them, more and more soldiers were turning to statues. Some threw themselves into frantic charges only to have their cries bottle up in their throats. Others dropped their blades and began to pray to the Ascendant. Their prayers were similarly interrupted.

  Tiron pounded after the knights, running toward the tower door. He could feel heat lashing against his back like an open fire, could feel it scorching the back of his neck. He felt numb with shock. The screams and yells of a thousand men were being silenced, one by one, replaced by a silence that chilled him to the bone.

  And over it all he heard a rattle, a susurrating clatter of warning and death.

  A soldier fell from above just as they reached the base of the tower. He hit the paving stones with a crash and exploded into shards of rock. Tiron flinched back as the man's helmeted head rolled by, his eyes wide and unseeing, his mouth open in a frozen scream.

  "Get inside!" He shoved Leuthold ahead of him, and they fled into the lantern-lit gloom of the tower's base. Soldiers were pressing past him, trying to see what was happening, and Tiron had to force his way through the flow of bodies. "Don't go out there!" he cried, but his roars were ignored. Men screamed sharply as they emerged into the courtyard, and then their screams were cut off.

  "Ramswold!" He waved at the stairs. "Down! Get below!"

  The young lord nodded and began to descend. They hurried down the spiral, their breath and clank of their armor loud in the confines of the staircase. Tiron tried to stay focused, to keep his mind clear, to not be overwhelmed by what had just happened.

  Abythos had fallen. There was no doubt in his mind that the siege was over. Thousands had been turned to stone, and thousands more would soon follow. What could he do? The ballistae had been ruined by the trolls. Any hope of using one of them against the serpent had gone with them. How could you fire bows to cut something down if you couldn't look at your target? How could you charge it, if doing so would mean your death?

  "The Virtues," Isentrud gasped, turning to them as they spilled out into the base chamber at the bottom of the cylinder. "The Virtues fell to that monster. If they fell, what chance have we?"

  Ulein began to stride back and forth. "This can't be happening," he moaned. "Did we dream that? Up there? A dream?"

  "Silence," said Ramswold, his voice shaking. "Come over here. Stand straight. We are the Order of the Star! Don't you forget that."

  To Tiron's surprise, both Isentrud and Ulein took deep, shuddering breaths and stepped up to stand before him. Leuthold's gaze was glassy, but he stood to attention.

  Ramswold turned to Tiron. "Thoughts?"

  "We have to get out." Tiron licked his lower lip as his mind flew over the facts. "With the bulk of our army defeated, we've no way of stopping the kragh from coming down here and massacring us."

  "The gate is closed," said Ramswold.

  "There has to be a secret way out," said Tiron. "A bolt-hole. Something. We have to find it."

  "But how?" Ramswold's voice was still shaking, but he was doing an admirable job of holding himself together. "And we can't flee. We can't abandon our duty."

  "This battle is lost," Tiron said, rounding on the four of them. "We've lost the gate, lost thousands of our soldiers, and we cannot fight back against the creature that did that to us. Worse, ten thousand kragh are about to occupy this castle. They will flood the tunnels and kill every one of us. We might be able to hold them off for a time, but there is no winning this fight." He looked from one frightened face to the next. Damn, they were so young. "We find a marshal, and we force him to tell us where the bolt-hole is." He gave a sharp nod. "And fast."

  "And, if there is none?" Ulein's voice was thin and reedy. "What then?"

  "Then?" Tiron grinned wolfishly at the youth. "Then we sell our lives dearly, boy. That's what we do. But only then. Now, come!"

  He hurried out of the cylinder, down one of the radial halls and out into the main corridor that connected with the Portal chamber. He could hear the sound of fighting coming from that direction, so he turned and ran on, searching for the gray uniform of a marshal.

  Soldiers ran by in tight units. Servants screamed and called out questions, while other slammed doors and hid. Tiron ran on, and finally came to the administrative quarters, a warren of small stone chambers clustered around a central cavern. It was nearly deserted, with only a handful of adviso
rs standing close together around a marshal. They were furiously arguing with each other and ignored Tiron right up until he forced his way into the group and grabbed the marshal by the front of his tunic.

  "Where is the way out of here?" he demanded.

  The marshal was an older man with chalk dust smudged on his robe and spectacles precariously balanced on his snub nose. "The – what? Get your hands off me, good ser!"

  Tiron growled and shook the man hard. "Enough. Don't make me ask again. The bolt-hole!"

  "Bolt-hole? There is no bolt-hole! Are you mad? There's only the Solar Portal, and that's –"

  Tiron growled, drew his dagger, and pressed it to the man's scrawny neck. "Don't lie to me. I know people. I know cowards. I know the way men think and plan. So, I'll ask one more time." Tiron bent the man back over a table, ignoring the yells of the advisors. "Where is the bolt-hole?"

  The marshal's eyes flicked to the left.

  Tiron followed his gaze. There was nothing on the cavern wall where the man had looked but a bookcase. It wasn't even flush with the wall, and a number of books lay spilled out on the floor.

  Tiron laughed darkly and released the man. "It's already been used, hasn't it?"

  The marshal coughed and smoothed down his tunic. "By cowards, yes. Just as you said."

  "Then you'd best come with us," said Ramswold. "The battle is over. It means death to stay."

  The marshal lifted his chin. "I will not abandon my post. I am no coward."

  "You may not be a coward," said Tiron, moving over to the bookcase, "but you will definitely be a dead man soon, which makes your bravery suicidal." He grabbed the edge of the bookcase and heaved it over so that it fell with a crash, revealing a slender tunnel. With a sharp look at the marshal, Tiron said, "Which makes you stupid, not brave."

  One of the spluttering marshal's advisors cut in, a plump, round-shouldered Noussian woman of middle years. "He's right, Marcus. You know it."

  "It's your life," Tiron said, then took a candle from a wall sconce and moved up to the tunnel. "Where does this lead?"