Torsten raised his hand. “Enough. None of this is up for debate. The King placed me in command. Redstar, you will take the Drav Cra west around the fortress and through the valley. When the flaming arrow hits the sky tonight, our cohort from Winde Port will charge from the east and you from the west. With the enemy surrounded, we will flood out of Marimount, surround them, and end this.”
“You have a fortress, yet you want to initiate the attack?” Redstar asked.
“This victory must be swift if our new king is to appear strong. Muskigo will expect us to dig in, but he will not be expecting Drav Cra allies. We’ll catch them preparing for a siege.”
“And this is what Iam tells you to do?”
“It is what Liam would have done.”
Redstar chuckled. “Of course. Bold and unexpected Liam. Well, you may be a fool, Torsten, but at least you’re not a coward. We’ll follow your plan for now, but I hope, for your sake, it works. You may hold the ear of the Queen Mother, but her son’s remains open.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And you can’t sleep with him.”
Torsten’s arm shot out and wrapped Redstar’s throat. Choking him was becoming like second nature. It took every ounce of his being not to fulfill Oleander’s desires.
“Just do what you’re asked to,” he said, seething. “Fire a flaming arrow into the sky when you’re in position.”
“I think I’ll just use my hand.” He purposefully sliced his thumb on the way to stowing his dagger, and a flurry of embers formed in his palm. “My Wearer.”
He bowed his head low, then muttered something in Drav Crava to Freydis. A horde of warriors and more warlocks branched away from the Glassmen, their heathen tokens rattling, furs billowing in the wind. As they vanished into the darkness of the valley, it was impossible to tell them apart from the dire wolves they ran with.
“Circling wolves,” Torsten muttered.
“What was that, sir?” Wardric asked.
“Nothing. Just something Uriah used to say.”
“Would that he were here. It would make him sick knowing we are fighting beside these savages.”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, I don’t trust any of them,” Wardric grumbled. “If Redstar’s trying to curry favor with King Pi, who knows what he might try.”
“Save your eyes for the Shesaitju. I’ll keep the corner of mine on Redstar.”
“I know, you’re right,” Wardric said, lowering his head. “It took me long enough, but I do trust the man Uriah trained to take his place.”
“Trust in Iam, my friend. We’re just here to do his work.”
Torsten kicked the sides of his horse and spurred it on ahead. The northern gate of Marimount clanked open to greet him. Soldiers ran out to help the traveling army with supplies. Lord Eveliss, Duke of Marimount, rode out to greet them. Gentry Eveliss came from a distinguished house of Yarrington who presided over the southern reach. His father and his father’s father had served the Kings of Glass for generations.
Eveliss himself, on the other hand, was about as green as they come. Barely able to grow a beard, he reminded Torsten of Rand.
“Sir Unger,” Eveliss saluted. “Everything is prepared to your specifications.”
“What of Black Sands?” Torsten asked.
“They remain out of range behind the tree line, preparing their siege engines. The man you described as Afhem Muskigo is in their lead.”
“Excellent,” Torsten said. “Wardric, ready the first legion at the southern gate. At my command, we charge their camp and end this.”
Wardric saluted and continued on ahead with Eveliss to prepare. Torsten dismounted and headed up onto the ramparts. Archers used pulleys to haul wood buckets of arrows up from the courtyard. Others carried food and water stores up from Marimount Keep. Torsten had no intention of withstanding a long siege but learned long ago it was always better to be prepared.
He climbed the watchtower, the highest point in the southern reach. From there beside the gate, he looked upon what was to be his canvas for battle. On a clear day, he might be able to see all the way to the mists of the Fellwater and along the coast of Trader’s Bay, but presently, the sight was even more ominous.
The greenish glow of nigh’jel lanterns stole away the darkness. Thousands of them—creatures born in the vastness of the Boiling Waters now confined to small, glass and bone lanterns—stretching across a vast swathe of forest. There seemed like even more than when Torsten had stumbled upon the Shesaitju camp in the swamp.
In their light, he could see the charcoal-colored wooden planks of siege towers—that unmistakable wood from the palm trees littering the black, sandy, Shesaitju coast. Massive stones were being loaded into catapults.
“Lord Eveliss could have lent more urgency to his words,” Torsten said to the archers posted around him as if any of them were listening. The siege wasn’t just being prepared. From what Torsten could see, Muskigo appeared to be planning to unleash the fury of his forces that very night.
There was no time to waste.
Torsten leaned out over the ramparts. “Muskigo!” he bellowed. It carried across the cold night air, and at the sound of his voice, all his men stopped what they were doing. It grew so quiet he felt he could even hear snow flurries bouncing about on the light breeze.
Torsten saw motion behind the cover of the thicket. He kept his peripherals on the alert, waiting for the other units to get in position.
A thunderous rumble was the first indication that Muskigo had answered the call. He rode out alone into the clearing. His zhulong mount let out a roar that, combined with its heavy footsteps, shook earth and sky. Gold plating wrapped its tusks, but it wore no armor. Its thick, rust-colored scales and rock-hard hide were all the protection it needed.
Muskigo himself wielded a long glaive, staff made of blackened wood and a flawless emerald set in the curved blade. It caught the light of the nigh’jel hanging from the post on the back of his mount, which made it glow as if there were some great power sealed within the gem.
Even from so far, Torsten recognized the afhem. He could never forget that intense glare. The Shesaitju were from a place where winter never brought snow, yet Muskigo barely wore a hint of armor, tattoo-covered body bare against the cold.
But Torsten had seen the man fight in the Fellwater Swamp, and there was no better way to measure a man. He was a true showman who would freeze to death if it meant intimidating his enemies.
“Muskigo!” Torsten roared again. “Surrender now, and you alone will be tried for your crimes. Spare your men!”
Muskigo didn’t answer. He moved closer still, until he was so near a single arrow could easily end it all. Now Torsten’s men atop Marimount’s walls could see, in detail, the great zhulong and the man’s corded muscles. Torsten heard some of the archers already beginning to mutter about how he didn’t need armor.
“Stop this!” Torsten shouted. “No one need die here today. We can all find peace in the light of Iam.”
Finally, Muskigo stopped and looked up at Torsten, his eyes boring through him.
“The time of the Glass is over,” he said. His voice was calm, like the rising of a wave carrying with it the threat of devastation.
“Caleef Rakun swore fealty to the Nothhelm’s in perpetuity. Stand down, and he will not be harmed. We will continue in the prosperity of King Liam that has helped both our lands flourish.”
“It is too late for that. Your child-king thinks he can insult the mighty Sidar Rakun? His flesh, borne from the Black Sands—our beaches themselves. His blood, fused from the waters of the Boiling Waters. You’ve sealed your fate; all afhems will stand with me now. We will carve through you, straight to the capital, and free our great Caleef ourselves.”
“In the name of Iam and your king, you will lower your arms and surrender. This is your final warning.”
“The boy is no king of mine! I will string him up in the Boiling Keep and bleed him over the waters as his father did to mine so l
ong ago. Pray to your god, Glassman. You will see him soon.”
Muskigo snapped on the reins of his zhulong and raced back toward the forest, leaving Torsten with a hundred different responses on the tip of his tongue. He hadn’t expected diplomacy to be an option—not with the size of Muskigo’s army—but he didn’t expect such coarseness either.
He looked to the sky, his blood boiling. A flaming arrow arced across the inky darkness to the west.
Commander Citravan.
The green lanterns in the forest suddenly drew back his attention. All at once they began to stir, their bearers falling into formation. As they spread apart, the numbers seemed to swell, ranks stretching across the breadth of Fort Marimount, extending deep into the thicket.
There was some shouting in Saitjuese, then a crank and a loud snap.
“Hold ranks!” Torsten yelled. He grabbed onto the parapet as Celeste illuminated two chunks of rock soaring through the air. They slammed into the walls, chewing out stone, and causing the entire keep to buckle.
“It doesn’t appear catching them napping is still an option!” Wardric called up from the bailey.
“Hold!” Torsten answered.
He looked back to the eastern sky and braced himself for another round of catapult fire. One of the boulders smashed into the base of the tower on which he stood. He reeled with the impact, feeling the vibrations in his glaruium armor and his bones. In the forest, the siege towers begin to budge, and through the two in the center, a pair of zhulong charged, a massive battering ram being hauled between them.
Time was running out. If the Shesaitju advanced, they’d trap his forces within the keep. Their only route of escape would be funneling through the South Gate straight into Muskigo’s hands while he held off the smaller forces to the east and west.
“Redstar!” Torsten screamed, and just as he finished the word, a ball of fire traced across the sky like a shooting star. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see magic.
His head rang from the crashing of stone, but he gathered himself and raced downstairs to the South Gate where Wardric waited with his horse. The rest of the King’s Shieldsmen sat atop their own horses at the front of the mass of Glass soldiers—their mighty cavalry.
“Open the gate!” Wardric shouted. “Archers, loose!”
Torsten caught Lord Eveliss' attention. “My Lord, barricade yourself and your most loyal guards in the keep. If we fail, hold them off as long as you can.”
He glanced between Torsten and the slowly rising gate. Another bang of rock on stone sent Eveliss into to a crouch. Torsten hoisted him back up by his fanciful collar and shoved him toward the keep, then turned to take his position at the head of the army, claymore drawn.
Green tinted dust swirled about in front of the gate as it rattled, colored that way by the distant nigh’jels. All he could hear was the chattering of armor and rapid breathing as some of the less experienced soldiers behind him shivered in fear.
Torsten, however, was calm, his hand steady. It had been a long time since he saw battle but there was nowhere else where he truly felt at home. The simplicity soothed him. Kill or be killed, in the name of God and Crown.
“Men of the Glass!” he yelled. “The Vigilant Eye falls upon us today, forgiving of what we must do. Our enemies pillage and raze. They would slaughter our women and children, destroy our very way of life. But their master is only mortal, as our great King Liam proved so many moons ago.
“I beg you now, find the strength of light in your heart, for we are the sword of peace. Let us show now that the Glass will neither bow nor break. Our lives for Iam!”
“Our lives for Iam!” Wardric repeated along with the entire army. Nervous as so many of them might have been, together the boom of their voices shook the walls. Torsten didn’t wait for the echo to quiet. He snapped on his reins and charged forward, the thundering sound of pounding hooves and footsteps just behind him.
A volley of Glassmen arrows momentarily blotted out the light of the moons before they went stabbing into the forest to a chorus of screams. Then came the snap-hiss of another round being loosed from atop the keep. Torsten closed the distance on the tree line and could now see the silhouette of men within the green glow.
His gaze was fixed on only one: Muskigo atop his beast. The afhem barked orders in Saitjuese, sounding panicked, clearly having expected a long siege and not to fully unleash his army so soon.
Suddenly, a cluster of trees straight ahead went up in flames. Their naked boughs were too powdered with snow for it to spread but it was enough to burn the bark fast and hot and coat the forest in a thick fog of smoke.
Whale oil, Torsten realized.
“They’re trying to split us!” he shouted. “Forward. Charge through with all your might Glassmen, and let Iam’s light shield you!”
The red radiance of flames coalescing with that of the nigh’jels made it seem as though he were charging into Elsewhere itself. But he didn’t slow. His horse leaped over a tendril of flame and into the Shesaitju ranks.
His claymore arced down, gashing one of the battering-ram-pulling zhulong across its thick hide. He swept it to the other side, expecting to find a soldier, but it was only a silhouette in the smoke. His men rushed through the blaze at his rear. Torsten whipped his horse around, trampled another Shesaitju soldier, but again, wasn’t able to quickly find a second target.
He spun, searching the smoke, expecting to hear the clash of metal and the unforgettable shrieks of death as two great forces collided but the cries were scattered, drowned out by the sound of feet on earth as the unit from Winde Port and the Drav Cra converged from the east and west.
Something was strange. The last Shesaitju he slew had a post sticking up from his back, but that wasn’t it. That was normal. They hung their lanterns from tall poles attached to their rear armor at night so that their hands would be free—but this one was positioned horizontally in a way that would make it difficult to traverse the dense woods and impossible to fight effectively. A half-dozen lanterns hung from it alone, each filled with a nigh’jel hanging at different heights, tentacles pulsing green.
“Torsten!”
Wardric dove from his horse and tackled a Shesaitju drawing back a bowstring. The man’s arrow sped over Torsten’s shoulder, and the thought of having to remove another of their barbed projectiles stopped his heart. He watched it stab into a burning tree, then noticed more of the lanterns strung up between boughs.
His men raced by, plowing through only a handful of enemy soldiers who had abandoned their posts at catapults to take down as many Glassmen as they could before dying.
“Torsten, where are they?” Wardric asked. He unsheathed his sword from a gray chest and stood.
A Drav Cra horn sounded, followed promptly by fur-clad warriors swarming the forest. From horseback, Torsten could see, but down in the fog of smoke, everyone was a shadow.
“Stand down!” Torsten ordered! “Fall back. It’s a trap! Fall back!”
Wardric echoed his command and Torsten spurred his horse out of the woods. He coughed as he emerged on the plains, smoke filling his lungs.
“Drad Redstar, where are the enemies?” Freydis said, her hair wild as the fires.
“What is the meaning of this?” Redstar questioned as he approached.
All Torsten could manage was to shake his head.
“Must I do everything?” Redstar moaned. He hopped down from his horse and advanced toward the burning trees. Glassmen and Drav Cra poured past him in full retreat. He stopped, removed his dagger, and drew a deep cut across his hand. Blood dribbled onto the snow-covered grass.
He whispered something, then swiped his wounded hand to the side. In an instant, all the fire was snuffed out, and the smoke swirled out to either side. Then, a soft light bloomed in his palm as if holding a star. Murmurs of confusion broke out across both armies until Redstar laughed.
Torsten jumped down and ran to his side. With the smoke and fire cleared, Redstar’s illumination
spell revealed the entirety of Muskigo’s camp amongst the trees.
A single boulder sat by two operational catapults, and all the rest were simple planks of wood balanced to appear like weapons. The siege towers were hollow, with wheels that barely worked. The battering ram didn’t even have a ram under its cover. Thousands of nigh’jel lanterns were strung up everywhere as well as littering the ground by corpses.
There were no supplies alongside their tents. No food or water, none of the essentials needed to man a successful siege. And amidst it all, were the bodies of no more than one hundred Shesaitju warriors and a handful of Glassmen.
That was all.
“What sorcery is this?” Torsten snapped at Redstar. “What have you done!”
“What have you done, Shieldsman?” he replied. “It appears to me that Muskigo’s army is not here.”
“You think I can’t see that!” He whipped around. “Wardric, send scouts out in every direction. Find where they went. We won’t be caught out here in the open. Everyone, return to Marimount!” He went to take a step, but Redstar stopped him.
“What of the men you summoned from Winde Port?” he asked. “I see no new faces among these men.”
“He signaled his approach. They’re likely still in the for…” The words got lost in his throat when one of his men shouted and pointed east. Sitting on his zhulong, atop the hill, moons at his back, was Muskigo. He fired a flaming arrow straight up into the sky, then disappeared over the peak.
“That treasonous scag,” Torsten swore. He rushed back to his horse and took off toward the afhem.
“Sir, it could be a trap!” Wardric called.
“Don’t follow,” he called back. “Get them all back to the keep!” He snapped his reins as hard as he could.
A horse appeared next to him carrying Redstar. Two dire wolves dashed at his sides.
“I said don’t follow!”
“You’re not the king,” he answered.
They crossed the hilltop and Torsten could hear the echoing snorts of the zhulong long before he saw them. A full regiment of mounted Shesaitju raced across the plains, so far now they were only shadows. Muskigo was chasing after them, all headed east toward Winde Port.
Winds of War Page 16
