“Run, you pissants!” Sigurd was shouting at the soldiers. “Run all the way back to Sinaria!”
Skylan gave Sigurd a shove in the back, causing him to stumble. Sigurd turned to glare at him.
“What did you do that for?”
“Slow down!” Skylan commanded. “Wait for the ogres and the Cyclopes. We can’t get separated.”
Sigurd glowered, but then obeyed. Grimuir came over to join him, all of them gasping for breath. Sigurd and Grimuir were so slathered in blood Skylan couldn’t tell if they’d been wounded and he doubted if they could either.
“I think our road has reached its end,” Skylan said.
They could all now hear beating drums and see what they had long been expecting to see: officers trying to calm the chaos, attempting to gain some sort of control of their troops. To Skylan’s surprise, Sigurd gripped him by both shoulders.
“You have taken us on an amazing journey, Skylan,” said the older man. “And this last battle—the best of all. I haven’t said it,” he added gruffly, “but you have turned out to be a good chief. I am proud to stand in the shield wall with you.”
Skylan was taken aback, didn’t know what to say. Fortunately by this time, the ogres and the Cyclopes were catching up to them. Sigurd changed his grip on Skylan’s shoulders to a punch, then turned to make some undoubtedly crude remark to Grimuir.
Skylan greeted Bear Walker and Dela Eden, pleased to see that both were unhurt. They reported that their people had suffered few casualties thus far. Both knew that couldn’t last.
“And do not expect help from your dragon,” said Dela Eden.
Skylan glanced overhead to see three shadows wheeling among the stars. Raegar’s three dragons had apparently heard the battle and were closing in on Kahg, who was still wreaking havoc among the Sinarian fleet. The dragon had long vowed he would never fight his own kind, but he might not have a choice. Skylan wished the dragon well and turned back to his own problems.
He had been keeping watch for some high ground on which to make a stand and although the ridge of dunes rising between him and the sea wasn’t ideal, it would have to do.
“Form the shield wall!” Skylan bellowed out the command and Sigurd and the other Vindrasi passed the word all had been waiting to hear.
Cyclopes archers had shot the last of their flaming arrows into two massive siege engines. Wooden towers mounted on wheels, they blazed into pillars of flame that lit the camp as bright as day.
The ogres, led by Bear Walker, began jostling with one another for places. Dela Eden and her Cyclopes had used up all their arrows and they melted into the night, waiting with club and knife to rush into the melee to strike when least expected.
Skylan took his place at the center of the front row. He put Sigurd on his left and Bjorn on his right, their shields overlapping. Keeper stood behind him, a solid wall, ready with the other ogres in the second row to support the front row and keep them from breaking.
Sigurd was laughing with Grimuir, who was on his left. Bjorn smiled confidently. To his right, his brother, Erdmun, was looking nervous and sick and casting glances over his shoulder as though searching for some place to hide. The immense ogre standing behind him would see to it that he did not try to retreat.
Not that there was anywhere to go if he did, Skylan reflected. Their backs were to the sea.
If Aelon’s soldiers had been prepared for battle, they would have easily routed his smaller force. His attack on the ships and now the raid on the camp had taken the Sinarian troops by surprise, thrown them into confusion and turmoil. Surprise was over, replaced by fury.
Soldiers began forming into ragged ranks, armed with whatever weapons they had been able to grab.
Skylan’s warriors stood quietly, no one taunting or jeering at the enemy, who would come soon enough. Skylan was under no illusions. The Sinarians were well-trained, disciplined soldiers who would sober up and remember their training and their discipline.
Skylan looked at his men, his heart aching with pride.
“We will meet in Torval’s Hall,” he cried, raising his sword. “If we have to rebuild the damn thing ourselves!”
His words brought laughter and a cheer and they braced themselves for the end of the song.
CHAPTER
44
Wulfe crouched in the waves that lapped onto a strip of beach not far from the city gates and wondered what he was going to do now. He’d been stranded here in the shallows for some time, his way into the city blocked by enemy soldiers milling about on the beach below the plateau.
He shook his wet hair out of his eyes and studied the situation. The large, flat plateau on which the city was built rose out of the grassy dunes some distance from the beach. The city wall was situated almost on the edge of the plateau, leaving only a very narrow strip of land between. Anyone walking out the gates who took more than ten steps would walk off the rim of the plateau and end up, after a short tumble, on the beach below. The only way into the city was along a narrow road winding up the rise to the top of the plateau.
No iron wielding soldiers were on this stretch of beach. They were massed outside the city gates, most of them drunk and eager to start looting and killing. The fae had gathered here, some distance away, to watch the exciting events in safety and exchange the latest gossip, among them several satyrs who had come to the water’s edge to tease the oceanids.
Wulfe was still trying to locate Raegar and he had asked the satyrs if they had seen an Ugly matching his description, saying he was taller and uglier than all the other Uglies, strong and powerfully built and wearing a long, purple mantle. The satyrs remembered him seeing him enter the city or they thought they remembered him or they wanted to remember him, but couldn’t quite.
The one good piece of news was that at least no one remembered seeing Raegar leave the city.
Catching sight of a centaur who had strolled over to watch the fighting, Wulfe climbed out of the water, shaking himself like a dog, and went to speak to him. Centaurs were considered prideful by many of the other fae, because their horse bodies were strong and powerful. They were more serious minded, and they feared very little.
The centaur acknowledged Wulfe with a dignified nod of the head, introducing himself as Swiftwind. The two satyrs quit teasing the oceanids and came to join them, while the oceanids swam about in the shallows, keeping a fond eye on Wulfe and a distrustful eye on the satyrs. The centaur held himself aloof from both satyrs and oceanids, though he was gracious to his prince.
Wulfe again described Raegar.
“I saw a fine warhorse carry one of the Uglies to the gate,” the centaur offered. “I don’t think he was the one you describe, but I heard him tell the other Uglies that he had an urgent message for the emperor and the Uglies let him inside the gate. That’s all I know.”
“You could always ask the ghouls,” one of the satyrs suggested, snickering.
The oceanids were appalled and cried out in anger, “No, our prince cannot talk to ghouls! Get away, get away and stop bothering us!”
And they splashed water on the satyrs until they grew annoyed and sauntered off.
“The satyrs are right,” said Swiftwind, keeping his voice low so that the oceanids would not hear him. “The ghouls are hungry and they have been keeping watch on their prey.”
Wulfe eyed the loathsome creatures hiding in the shadows near the gate with a shiver.
Ghouls were evil fae who gathered at the site of battles to feed on the bodies of the dead. The fae wouldn’t have minded so much if the ghouls ate only dead Uglies, but during the First War between faeries and humans, the ghouls had fed on their own kind.
“I will talk to them,” said Wulfe, sending the oceanids into a frenzy.
“Do not go near those fiends, Your Highness!” the oceanids begged him, fluttering in alarm. “Your mother would not like it!”
Their wailings angered the centaur.
“Leave him be, women,” Swiftwind said sternly. “Don’t m
ake a prattling mama’s boy of our prince.” He reached out his hand to Wulfe. “I’ll take you to the ghouls, Your Highness. Climb on my back.”
Swiftwind took hold of Wulfe’s hand and pulled him up on his broad horse back that began at the centaur’s torso. Swiftwind was a male centaur; his human face was handsome and chiseled, with a long mane of hair that extended down his human back.
“Don’t go tattling to my mother,” Wulfe ordered the oceanids, who were watching him anxiously from the water.
They promised him they wouldn’t, though he had seen several swim off to do that very thing.
“I’m not afraid of the ghouls,” Wulfe boasted to the centaur as they galloped along the beach. He hoped that saying the words aloud might make them true.
“Nor should you be, Your Highness,” said Swiftwind in disdainful tones. “Ghouls are craven cowards who feast on dead men because they are terrified of the living.”
Wulfe could understand why ghouls would not dare come near Swiftwind. Unlike many fae, centaurs were expert in using weapons. Swiftwind carried a bow bigger than Wulfe and a quiver of stone-tipped arrows slung over his shoulder. With the powerful arms of a human and the slashing hooves of a horse, centaurs had no fear of iron and had been known to battle Uglies.
“I don’t want the soldiers to see me,” Wulfe told the centaur. “Is there a back way to reach the gate?”
Swiftwind investigated and found a wide, deep crevice in the rock that would take them near the top of the plateau. He climbed swiftly and with ease until they reached the shadows of the wall and Wulfe called a halt, fearing the ghouls would catch sight of the centaur and flee in a panic. He slid off the centaur’s broad back.
Swiftwind offered to wait to make certain the boy didn’t get into trouble. Since getting into trouble was Wulfe’s goal, he didn’t think the centaur would be much help, so he thanked Swiftwind and said he could manage on his own. The centaur raised his head, said he heard sounds of battle, and, wishing his prince well, galloped off to view the fighting.
Wulfe heard the sounds of battle himself and thought that Skylan was likely in the middle of it, and he had better hurry. He crept along in the shadow of the wall, sneaking up on five ghouls, who had their backs turned, gazing hungrily at the gate and the soldiers guarding it.
Wulfe could see them clearly in the moonlight and they were even more loathsome up close. Always ravenous, with a hunger that could never be sated, ghouls were thin and gaunt with bulbous heads on skinny necks, wide mouths filled with long, sharp teeth and pale skin drawn tight over fleshless bones. Their ragged clothes were stained with the leavings of their feasts and the stench made Wulfe sick to his stomach.
He was very close now, priding himself on his stealth, when one of the ghouls pricked up its ears, hissed a warning, and turned to stare at him with lidless eyes.
Wulfe stared back, hard and unblinking, until one of the ghouls seemed to shrivel and shrink away from him.
“What are you looking at?” a ghoul asked Wulfe, leering.
“He’s His Highness,” the groveling ghoul warned.
“His Highness should find his own food,” another growled, fixing Wulfe with a hungry gaze. “He eats well enough, by the looks of him.”
Wulfe repeated to himself that he wasn’t afraid, then said, putting on a bold front, “I want to know if you have seen an Ugly wearing a purple cape. He’s really big.”
“We saw him. Lots of meat on his bones,” said one of the ghouls as the others began to gibber and drool.
Wulfe gave himself a moment to appreciate the thought of Raegar being devoured, then returned to business.
“Is he still inside the city? Did you see him come out?”
“He is still inside,” said several, licking their bloodless lips.
“He will make a fine, fat corpse,” said another.
“Not skinny, like His Highness,” said a third, reaching out a bloodstained, filthy finger to poke at Wulfe.
Wulfe bared his teeth and growled, and the ghouls slunk off. Keeping to the shadows, Wulfe drew nearer the gate. The guards were watching the ships burning and saying that the emperor would be angry and he would make whoever was responsible pay with their blood.
Wulfe had been trying to think of how he would bring Raegar and Skylan together and this gave him an idea. Raegar would be furious at any foe who had set fire to his fleet and he’d be out-of-his-mind furious when he knew that person was Skylan.
But here was Raegar in the city at one end of the beach and there was Skylan fighting at the other end. Wulfe needed to bring the two together and suddenly he knew how to do it. The problem was that he had never worked such powerful magic himself. He’d seen it done; other fae used it all the time to play tricks on the Uglies.
He was reciting to himself over and over the spell he was going to cast when he heard the clatter of horse’s hooves and Raegar’s voice bellowing for the guards to open the gate.
The guards sprang to obey, lifting the heavy bar that kept the gate closed. Wulfe began to sing softly to himself.
I can be
Any face I see.
Make you think
I am not me.
The magic started to work. Wulfe watched his short, scrawny body grow tall and muscular. He added leather armor and long, blond hair and a face he knew better than his own. The guards hauled on the gate and Raegar, mounted on a horse, galloped out onto the road. He took one look at the burning galleys and gnashed his teeth.
“Who did this?” he demanded.
“I did!” Wulfe shouted and he jumped to Raegar’s side, put his hand on the horse’s bridle, looked at Raegar and said, “Me—Skylan Ivorson! What are you going to do about it?”
Raegar stared at him blankly, then his face contorted, his mouth twisted, his eyes blazed. Roaring in fury, he reached for his sword.
Wulfe made a crude gesture and ran off down the road, heading for the beach.
“Don’t just stand there! Stop him! Seize him!” Raegar yelled at the soldiers around him.
No one obeyed him. The soldiers were running headlong for the open gates, pouring into the fallen city to claim the spoils of war. Wulfe heard Raegar swearing at them, and he grinned as he ran.
The beauty of this magic spell was that it worked only on someone who either loved or hated with such passion that he would believe in his heart that the illusion was real, even though his head told him it couldn’t possibly be true. For if Raegar had stopped to think, he must have wondered why Skylan was now seven feet tall. Wulfe had been a bit off on his calculations.
Raegar didn’t take time to think. He kicked his horse in the flanks and charged after Wulfe, forcing those in his path to leap out of the way or be trampled.
Wulfe ran onto the beach with Raegar galloping behind. All Wulfe had to do now was find Skylan.
The real Skylan.
CHAPTER
45
The burning siege engine blazed like a huge torch, shedding a lurid orange glow over the beach, seeming to vie with the bright, cold moon to see who could best illuminate the field of battle. The moonlight glittered on the swords and armor of Aelon’s soldiers, rank after rank, stretching far into the night. Flames tipped spears and shone in the eyes of Skylan and his warriors lined up shoulder to shoulder, shields overlapping.
The soldiers of Oran cast grim glances at each other, no one wanting to lead the charge. Skylan grinned in sympathy. He had faced ogres in a shield wall and knew that the first wave crashing against those boulder-size bodies would end up in a foaming, churning mass of blood and bone.
Even as he thought this, he heard a command and the jingling of armor and felt the ground shudder as the soldiers began to march toward them.
Spears leveled, weapons in hand, shields locked, Skylan and his warriors braced for the shock as the front ranks crashed into them. Ogre spears pierced helms and shattered skulls. A Sinarian spear point thudded into Skylan’s shield. The spear split in two the next moment when a second sp
ear slammed into it.
Skylan used his shield to block a sword strike aimed at Sigurd, driving God-rage into the Sinarian’s throat. He was vaguely aware of Keeper, behind him, reaching over him to jab his spear into the chest of a soldier about to cleave open his head.
After that, all Skylan saw were flashes of bloodied steel and disembodied faces set in fierce grimaces, intent upon killing. He fought and ducked, kicked and stabbed. God-rage shone red in the fire’s light.
Men screamed and the faces vanished, only to be replaced by more. His hand was slippery with blood and then the faces were gone. The Sinarians had fallen back to rest and regroup and drag their wounded from the field.
Skylan gasped for breath, grateful for the respite, and looked swiftly up and down the line. Their shield wall had held.
Erdmun had fallen, but one of the ogres in the row behind had stepped up to take his place. Sigurd was grinning and wiping blood and sweat from his face. Grimuir had lost his own helm and replaced it with one from the corpse of a Sinarian. Bjorn was grim and tight-lipped.
“What happened to Erdmun?” Skylan asked.
Bjorn only shook his head.
The Sinarian ranks came again, as more and more soldiers heard the clash of arms and hurried to join the battle. Their blood burning, the soldiers shouted in anger as they ran, heedlessly trampling the bodies of the dead, and smashed into the shield wall.
Three men crashed into Skylan, knocking him off balance. He floundered in the wet sand, desperate to stay on his feet, for if he went down he was finished. The three slashed at him, but they were so tightly bunched together none of them could manage to hit him. Sigurd dispatched one and Bjorn attacked another. Keeper caught hold of Skylan by the scruff of his neck and hauled him upright.
“You’re wounded!” the ogre roared.
Skylan felt a vague burning pain somewhere; the blood on his armor did not all belong to his foe. He was still standing, still breathing, still able to wield his sword, however, and he shook his head.
Doom of the Dragon Page 35
