Sea Born (Chaos and Retribution Book 3)

by Eric T Knight

  They all but carried him back to their camp and laid him down on his bedroll. Someone brought warm water and a rag and Ravin knelt beside him, gently cleaning the blood from his back.

  “I got some bandages from the healers,” Strout said, handing them to Ravin. “They said to wrap him tight.”

  “When did you get bandages?” Noah asked suspiciously.

  “Earlier, while you were busy whining and threatening everybody. What, it never occurred to you that he’d be bleeding afterwards?” Strout stalked off.

  “You going to be okay, lieutenant?” Gage asked, kneeling beside him.

  “I’ve never felt better,” Fen replied. This time he did manage to smile a little, though that seemed to make the pain worse and he gave it up quickly.

  The others fussed over him for a few minutes, then finally Cowley told them to leave Fen alone and quit smothering him. Cowley knelt down and grinned at Fen. “At least you’ll get some nice scars to impress the ladies with,” he said. A moment later he said, “Ow!” as Ravin slugged him.

  “I was only trying to cheer him up,” he said.

  “Get lost,” Fen told him.

  “Okay, okay. I can see I’m not needed here anymore,” Cowley grumbled with mock hurt. He walked away and Fen and Ravin were left alone.

  She leaned down close to his ear. “I’m proud of you,” she said softly.

  “I was trying not to cry out,” Fen said. “Not sure how well I did. It’s kind of a blur.”

  “Not for that,” she said. “I heard what you did. You saved that woman’s baby.”

  “Oh, that,” Fen said.

  “It took real courage to do that.”

  “I’m scared,” he said quietly. She stroked his face with her fingertips. He turned his head so he could see her better. “How do I do both? How do I honor my oath and yet do what I know is right?”

  “I don’t know,” she told him, fresh tears starting in her eyes. “But I know you will figure it out. I believe in you. And I will be there for you, no matter what.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  It was late in the day when the Samkaran army arrived at the city of Marad, the sun due to set in an hour or so. The Fist held up his hand and the army ground to a halt. The Fist sat there on his horse, staring up at the high walls of the city. Marad was a significantly bigger city than Samkara, bigger than Fen had expected, and the Samkaran army suddenly looked small in comparison. Just encircling the city to properly besiege it would stretch their lines very thin, thin enough that it wouldn’t take much of a sortie to break through them.

  Marad’s walls were higher than Fen had expected too. There’d be no scaling them. Siege engines would have to be built, big ones. They’d need siege towers, catapults, a battering ram. He looked around. Marad sat in a wide valley, nestled in the bend of a large river, rich fields bursting with crops all around. The hills were gentle and covered with orchards and forest. There was hardly any stone to be seen, which meant they would have to cart catapult stones in from who knew how far away.

  For the first time Fen began to seriously doubt they could defeat Marad. They simply weren’t strong enough, not prepared enough. From the muttering he heard around him, he wasn’t the only soldier to think so. Yet the Fist didn’t look concerned at all. He looked fierce and confident. Impatient too. Which made no sense because if they were ever going to make it through those walls it would take months at least.

  Fen waited for the Fist to give the order to make camp. Every soldier there was waiting for the same thing. Not only did tents need to be pitched, wagons unloaded, cook fires built, but defensive works would need to be dug, to protect the army from a sortie. And the siege engines would have to be started as well, teams of soldiers dispatched into the woods to cut the logs necessary to build them. The reality was that many days of work likely lay ahead before any fighting was done at all.

  But to Fen’s surprise, instead of giving the order to make camp, the Fist turned to face his army. He stood up in his stirrups and called out to them.

  “Remember what they did to us!” he yelled, his voice carrying across the ranks of sweating, tired men. His eyes had a fell light in them that for some reason made Fen uneasy. “The time for retribution is at hand!”

  From the ranks of massed soldiers came an answering roar. Men banged weapons on shields and pounded on their chests. Fen was stunned. He turned to Cowley. His friend looked as surprised as he was. Were they really going to attack Marad right now? It would be pure suicide. They had no way to mount the walls or break through the gates. The Maradi would slaughter them by the thousands. On top of that, the Fist wasn’t even wearing his armor. He wouldn’t be so foolish as to ride into battle unprotected, would he?

  But instead of calling for a charge, the Fist ordered that the prisoners be brought forward. There were close to a hundred of them now, stumbling along roped together, their hands bound in front of them. They were haggard, looking around fearfully.

  “Keep these six back,” the Fist ordered. “Drive the rest forward.”

  The prisoners he indicated were held back. The rest were driven toward the walls of the city until they were just out of bowshot range, where they stopped. The Fist dismounted and followed them. Confused murmurs arose from the soldiers as they wondered what was happening. Did the Fist mean to execute them in front of the watching Maradi? But for what purpose?

  Fen watched the prisoners stumble forward, a sick feeling in his gut. Something terrible was about to happen. He could feel it. He wanted to run forward, to plead with the Fist to not do this, whatever he was about to do. But he knew it would do no good. He clenched his fists and fought to control himself as the power of the Stone inside him began to awaken.

  “Get on your knees,” the Fist ordered, his voice carrying clearly through the still air.

  Most of the prisoners complied. The few who resisted were quickly knocked down by the soldiers who guarded them. One of the men who resisted was the young father whose baby Fen had saved. “Don’t do this!” he yelled. “I beg you!” Then a soldier drove the butt of a spear into his stomach and he went to the ground.

  Fen saw that next to him was his wife, but their baby was nowhere to be seen. He wondered where the child was. He’d seen the mother carrying the baby several times over the past few days, so he knew the child hadn’t been left behind. But where was it now?

  There was movement in the ranks of watching soldiers. They parted and the four Ankharans emerged, walking forward. They had their hoods back. All of them had the same oddly-white skin as Maphothet, the same eerie sigils tattooed in blue ink all over their faces. Black metal rings pierced their cheeks. They stared straight ahead as they walked, as if the soldiers around them were too far beneath them to warrant notice.

  As they passed, Maphothet turned his head and looked at Fen.

  Now you will see what real power is, boy.

  Fen started and shook his head, not sure what had just happened. It was as if the words were spoken directly into his mind.

  “What’s wrong?” Cowley asked him.

  “Did you hear him say anything?” Fen asked. Cowley shook his head.

  The Ankharans split up and took up positions surrounding the huddled prisoners, who eyed them fearfully. The Fist waved the soldiers who were guarding the prisoners back. They retreated quickly, none of them wanting to be near whatever was about to happen.

  For several minutes the Ankharans did nothing. They stood with their heads down, their eyes closed.

  The whole time the Samkaran soldiers were utterly still. No one spoke. No one fidgeted. Every eye was riveted on the Ankharans, wondering what was coming next. The defenders on Marad’s wall were silent also, watching the strange scene unfold. The prisoners could have tried to make a break for it then, but they seemed frozen in place, like birds mesmerized by the snake. Everyone present could feel that something awful was about to happen, something that could only be watched, not interfered with. Inside Fen Stone power grumbled and
pressed for release. He was burning up, his head hurting from the pressure inside.

  Then Fen saw something move underneath Maphothet’s robe, on his chest. It slid over to his shoulder, then down his arm. The same thing was happening with the other three Ankharans.

  Something emerged from Maphothet’s sleeve. Hairless, it was the color of ashes and had a blunt face. About the size of a rat, it had four legs and on its back were vestigial leathery wings. Its eyes were black orbs. It squatted on Maphothet’s outstretched palm, leathery wings flapping slowly.

  The Samkaran soldiers all took a step back, every one of them sensing instinctively that there was something deadly about the things, despite their small size.

  Maphothet spoke a single word in an unfamiliar language. The creatures’ mouths opened, stretching impossibly wide. From each mouth issued something that looked like a thick fog. As the fog poured out, Fen felt a strange tugging sensation in the pit of his stomach and a blank, unreasoning fear. He had a sudden feeling of standing at the edge of a vast, bottomless abyss. It was sucking at him, trying to pull him over the edge. The other soldiers were feeling it too. Men bent over, clutching their stomachs. A number went to their knees and began retching. Fen’s horse jerked the reins from his nerveless fingers and bolted, along with all the other horses near the front of the army. No one made any move to pursue them.

  The fog billowed out over the mass of prisoners, who were already rolling on the ground, holding their stomachs, vomiting. The fog settled over them, gradually growing thicker until they were obscured completely. The leather-winged creatures closed their mouths and retreated into the Anhkharans’ robes.

  Screams began to come from within the fog, terrible screams of pain and horror. In answer, Fen felt the Stone power inside him surge anew, trying to break free. He bit his lip, fighting to hold it back.

  A beam of white light shot upwards from the fog. In rapid succession more beams of white light joined the first until there were scores of them, all focused on a single point about a hundred feet overhead. At the focal point a cloud began to form. It swelled into a towering thundercloud. Cancerous purple light flickered in its depths. The Samkaran soldiers shrank away from it, holding their hands over their heads as if they could ward it off.

  The beams of white light tapered off, then faded completely away. The fog faded as well, the last vapors drifting away in the rays of the setting sun. All of the prisoners were dead, their corpses withered and shrunken looking. Eyes were blank sockets, mouths stretched wide in a rictus of horror, limbs bowed as if exposed to extreme heat.

  Maphothet pointed toward the city wall and the purple-tinged thundercloud began to move that way. The defenders on the wall looked up at it in alarm and a few began fleeing. Most stayed at their posts though, weapons useless in their hands.

  The thundercloud hovered in the air above the wall. Maphothet gave a signal and all four Ankharans cried out a word of command.

  A bolt of purple lightning stabbed down out of the cloud, striking a defender. He screamed, a high, lost, forlorn sound, and toppled over dead.

  Three more bolts came down in rapid succession, each one killing a helpless defender. More followed, and still more, until the air was filled with purple bolts. The defenders ran to escape the death stabbing down from above, but there was nowhere to go. Very quickly the top of the wall was empty of living people, only tangled piles of the dead remaining.

  While this was happening, the Fist walked over to the six remaining prisoners. They were staring at the unfolding horror and didn’t see him approach. He grabbed the first two by the necks. From his mouth came a harsh, alien word.

  The prisoners screamed and fought to get free, but they had no chance. White light poured out of them, flowing up the Fist’s arms and into his body. In seconds it was over. The prisoners went still, their bodies withered like mummies, eyes melted away so that only empty holes remained.

  The stolen lives swelled the Fist. He already looked several inches taller, his tunic stretched taut with new muscle.

  The remaining prisoners were fighting wildly to get away, but they were roped to the two the Fist was holding and they couldn’t get free.

  The Fist tossed the first two corpses aside, and before the others could escape, he leapt forward and grabbed two more by the necks. These he lifted into the air, holding them over his head. He barked the same word and the white light of their lives poured out of them and into him. As the light hit him, his back arched and his head tilted backwards. A strange sound came from him, and it took Fen a moment to realize that it was maniacal laughter.

  He tossed their lifeless bodies aside and grabbed the last two. By the time he was done with them, the Fist was grossly swollen with new muscle. His tunic had ripped down the back, and his trousers had split down the legs. He was glowing, the light coming off him tinged with purple and black.

  The Fist strode over to a waiting wagon, which Fen realized was the one carrying the giant hammer. He climbed up onto the wagon, threw the tarp aside, and picked up the hammer. Though the thing had to weigh hundreds, or even thousands, of pounds, he lifted it easily, and held it over his head with one hand.

  “They slaughtered our families!” he shouted. “They killed our children! They raped our women! Today, retribution is ours!”

  At his words, Fen felt rage boil inside him and he roared back, shaking his weapon in the air wildly. What he felt was more than rage though. It was hatred. Hatred for the Maradi and what they had taken from him. Battle lust rose up inside him, and he wanted to charge the city, barehanded if necessary, and make them pay with blood for what they’d done. The Stone power was fighting harder than ever to be free and only dimly did he remember the need to hold it back. All around him soldiers were going crazy, screaming madly, banging weapons against their shields, snarling with bloodlust.

  The Fist jumped down off the wagon and began running toward the city, the huge hammer over his shoulder. Still screaming madly, his army streamed after him. Blinded by his rage, Fen ran with everyone else. Close around him ran his squad mates, all howling for blood.

  Fen barely saw the mass of corpses as he ran by them. His gaze was fixed on the looming city. Nothing mattered but getting inside those walls and exacting revenge.

  The Fist halted before the massive city gates and hefted the enormous hammer. Only minutes before the iron-bound gates had looked to Fen to be nearly impregnable. Now they looked as thin and fragile as parchment, only a temporary impediment to their inevitable progress.

  The Fist howled and swung the hammer. The gates boomed and shook on their hinges. Dust and bits of stone fell from the walls on either side.

  He struck again and again with lightning speed, the hammer a blur in his hands. The booming of the gates became a steady roar. Cracks appeared in the stone walls around the hinges. The iron cladding on the gates became badly dented, holes appearing in a few places.

  The Fist swung the mighty hammer around his head a few times, building up speed, then struck the gates a final time. The hammer smashed into the gates. One tore free from the wall and collapsed in a cloud of dust. The other one sagged to the side, barely still upright.

  Beyond, in the passageway under the wall, stood a small band of soldiers, at their head an officer of high rank in brightly-polished armor, medals across his chest. Behind them the portcullis was open.

  The officer threw down his sword and his men did the same. “We yield!” the officer yelled. “The city is yours!”

  The Fist screamed and swung the mighty hammer. The officer was obliterated and as the hammer passed through his remains it took out several more soldiers.

  The Samkaran army roared and charged forward. Wielding the massive hammer like a weapon of the gods, the Fist led the way.

  But when the Fist slaughtered the defenseless soldiers, something changed for Fen. The red fog cleared and he realized suddenly what he was doing. The horror of it struck him and he glanced down at his hands as if unsure whether they sti
ll belonged to him.

  This is wrong, he thought.

  Around him Samkaran soldiers were streaming forward, fighting each other to get through the broken gates and at the beaten enemy. The lone standing gate collapsed suddenly, crushing a soldier as it did so.

  Fen began grabbing wildly at his squad mates. “Stop!” he yelled at them. “Stop!” They ignored him and in his desperation he released some of his power.

  Strout was trying to get by him and he shoved the young man to the side hard enough that he got tangled up with several other soldiers and fell down. He grabbed Lukas and threw him into the brothers, who were running by with their swords in their hands. All three went down in a heap.

  He grabbed Gage by the front of his surcoat and slammed him into Noah, then spun and grabbed Cowley’s arm as he ran by. He spun Cowley around and yelled at him. The ferocity of what he did was enough that a space had cleared around him, filled mostly with his squad mates. The bulk of the Samkaran soldiers veered around them blindly.

  “Let me go!” Cowley yelled.

  “Stop!” Fen yelled and shook him. “That’s an order!”

  A semblance of reason came into Cowley’s eyes and he shook his head as if to clear it.

  Seeing that he had stopped resisting, Fen let him go. “Help me with the others!” he yelled.

  Strout had gotten up and was trying to run through the gates. Fen grabbed the back of his mail and tossed him back down. He looked up at Fen with blank rage in his eyes. He fought to his feet and raised his weapon, but Fen grabbed his arm and yelled, “Stand down!” into his face.

  Strout blinked and something in his eyes changed. Confusion replaced blind rage.

  Fen turned to the others. Cowley had tackled Noah, who was kicking at him, trying to get away. Lukas and the brothers were getting to their feet, strange looks on their faces. Fen grabbed Gage, who had just gotten up, but Gage held up his hands.

  “I got it,” he said simply.

  Still powered by Stone power, Fen picked Noah up bodily. He had to shake him hard twice before Noah quit struggling. Reason returned to Noah’s eyes and he looked around.