Blood and Sand Trilogy Box Set

by Jon Kiln

  “We have to,” the wall-captain said, as she turned around to look behind her to see a city still in flames.

  Fuldoon was cramped at the best of times, caught between a river and a rocky upland. The only deep, safe, and sheltered mooring for a day in either direction had meant that travelers, traders, and eventually citizens had flooded into Fuldoon harbor in ancient times past.

  The only thing saving the city is that most of it is built of soft stone, the woman thought, watching another eruption of smoke and soot as one of the smaller, shanty hovels of the poor collapsed in on itself. The fires had hit the poorest the worst. They were the ones who had their houses made out of wood, out of flotsam and jetsam and crowded up against each other in claustrophobic quarters.

  The streets nearest the walls were now a wasteland. If Suriyen had thought them ruined by the throw of the enemies’ trebuchet, then now she saw that they were beyond repair.

  She had once heard from a foreign merchant the tale of a strange incident that happened in the far north. A rock had fallen from the sky—some say it was a star, or one of the god’s very own necklaces—and that it had fallen and collapsed an entire region of the high world up there. Forests had been mysteriously flattened, hillsides split asunder, and the nearest town had been thrown apart by a great wave of force that had overturned everything in its path.

  Although what she saw below was not in that same category of destruction, the sight reminded her of it. Nearest the walls there was hardly a house that either stood or wasn’t burning. There were now great fields of rubble and soot, and avenues being driven through them by teams of citizens.

  “What?” Ruyiman said. It was still early in the morning, although it looked much, much later thanks to the greying ash-filled skies.

  “The war has come to them. The people of Fuldoon,” she said. “We didn’t protect them.”

  Ruyiman was looking at her oddly, not quite following what she meant. He grunted in frustration at her strangeness and started barking orders at the nearest runners. All of them looked like ghouls, ashen-faced with wide, blinking eyes in their centers.

  “Start getting what supplies you can. I want arms dumps every street. At the crossroads of every street. Quick now!” he was shouting.

  “How did this happen?” Suriyen was saying in a sort of stunned awe at the terrible devastation that sat on either side of her. “Did I do this?”

  “Too late now, ma’am,” Ruyiman said harshly. “And no, I don’t reckon you did. Look.” He pointed at the remains of the bridge in front of the walls, and the blackened soot-covered stones on the city side. “That’s the chemical fire up there. See what it did to the bridge. That, behind is natural. Stone’s sooted up but untouched, different, see? My money is that we had an infiltrator. Someone set that behind us deliberately to try and break the defense.”

  “Well, they might just succeed,” Suriyen said, as there was a shout from below the main gatehouse. “By the scorched bones. The gates! No one’s checked the gates.”

  But no one had to check the front gates, for it was obvious to everyone what state they were in. Their metal bolts and braces had buckled in the combined heat from one side or another, and burst from the ancient wood. The timber of the double front gates of Fuldoon was as solid as rock, but its front and back were scorched. Even from up here, Suriyen could see the wood steaming, and smoke escaping through cracks in the wall. The gates were lost. A strong axe would enlarge those holes, and after that all it took was an iron wedge, or a tree trunk, or a martyr to bring them crashing down.

  “The only advantage we have is time,” Suriyen hissed at Ruyiman, who also saw the calamity. “The enemy haven’t seen the state the gates are in, and they won’t be able to cross the boat bridge in the same numbers as before.”

  “But still too many for our archers to put a stop to,” Ruyiman grumbled.

  The Menaali war drums were starting up again. Somewhere behind the haze it must be dawn—not that it felt like it for Suriyen and Ruyiman and the rest of the sleep-starved, traumatized defenders.

  “Then we won’t use archers, will we,” Suriyen decided. “Someone get me a shield. And a helmet,” she added as she started running to the nearest stairs.

  “Oh hell and heck,” Ruyiman swore, grabbing a skin of wine from the nearest resting soldier as he ran after Suriyen. “I think we’re both going to need this before the sun breaks the clouds,” he muttered angrily. “Soldiers! Get rocks to the gates. Masons. Repairers. Woodsmen. Any bloody one who can lift heavy things, and that want a fight, follow me!” he bellowed as he ran down the steps towards the front gates of Fuldoon, three steps behind Suriyen, already unslinging her long sword.

  20

  Suriyen’s boots landed on the dust and grit of the floor behind the gates, to see a forest of soot-scarred and blackened beams holding them together. Gaps as large as her fist peered through the plates of wood beyond that had once been the gates of Fuldoon. Around her, others from the wall guard above were crunching to the floor, jumping from the baskets and clattering down the steps. Any that had run out of arrows or preferred the short, nasty work of a sword, mace, or hand-axe had come with her. Not many.

  “Captain Suriyen. Captain, what are you doing?” shouted one of the master masons, a woman in cream and white robes, belted at the waist and wearing the heavy leather gauntlets of her profession. “We have to evacuate. There’s no saving this mess,” she said, her face pale and worried despite the soot that smeared it.

  “There’s always hope,” Suriyen said grimly. “I need a section opened up, big enough for one person at a time through. We’ll leave that way.”

  “But… leave, ma’am?” Behind her others were hurrying towards or away from the gates as their courage dictated.

  “Yes. Me and my fighters are going out there. But I don’t want to leave a bloody great big welcome sign behind us. A small opening, and a movable barricade.” Not that we’ll be coming back through, Suriyen thought to herself, but didn’t say. Everyone knew it.

  The master mason opened and closed her mouth half a dozen times, then merely nodded. “We have a cart, loaded with bits of rubble from the walls. We can drive that right up to the gates, and knock her wheels off.”

  “Good.” Suriyen nodded. “And the fires?” She gestured to where the sky was still heavy and black over the city.

  “Bad, ma’am. The only thing keeping them going through the whole city are the water tunnels.” She shook her head mournfully.

  “Water tunnels?” Suriyen paused. “Which water tunnels?”

  “They come in from the river, and out under the docks. Water flows under the city, and is diverted for washing and cleaning,” the mason explained. “We don’t how it managed it, but the fire somehow bypassed all of that and started in the tunnels and cellars just above them. The old sewage and access tunnels and catacombs. No fire was ever supposed to do that, because, well, the water was in the way.” She spat.

  So it was indeed an infiltration then. And that means that Fuldoon has traitors, and probably spies as well working on this side of the wall. Suriyen groaned, as the war drums of the Menaali outside broke her concentration. Fuldoon has a bigger problem right now.

  “Master mason. I can’t command you, because at times like this we all live and die according to our own creeds. But if you would, I would have you see if you can find a way to raise the level of those water tunnels. Block them, dam then, flood them. Whatever you have to do to get the water up out of the depths and into the lowest levels of the city.”

  “And put out the fire,” the master mason clapped her hands. “Of course, Captain Suriyen. But you’re right, I won’t do it.” Suriyen’s face fell, before the mason carried on with a wry grin. “But I will send my best apprentices to see to it. I’m not going to leave the tending of these gates, and if I can get something strong enough in place to hold those barbarians back for another night, then I can die easy.”

  “Don’t die too easy, now,” Suriyen save
gravely. “We need twenty of you.”

  The drums were getting closer, and with them the howls and cries of the approaching army, hollering and whooping as they sought to unnerve the last defenders left.

  “The time is upon us. The crucible of the present is now!” Suriyen barked at the assembled fighters behind her. “We are going to be forged in the fires, ladies and gentleman, and whether we wake up tomorrow on earth or in paradise, we’ll know that we gave our all to this fight!” A ragged cheer.

  “Who wants some Menaali blood?” Ruyiman jeered, and this time the assembled fighters gave a much lustier growl for the fight to come, and Suriyen led the way through the small gap between the doors, with Ruyiman right behind.

  “I thought I gave a pretty good speech,” Suriyen muttered back to her second, as they clambered over twisted and broken wood, some of it still steaming.

  “It was okay.” Ruyiman shrugged. “I’ve heard better.”

  And then they were on the other side of the gates facing a wide space whose grit and sand had been churned into solid, baked-clay mud from all of the fighting and siege engines that had traipsed back and forth over the last few days. Although the Menaali had done their best to clear their dead from the site, there were still ominous, dispossessed remains like one left boot, scraps of cloak, a ring, a broken dagger, a tooth that lay baked into the ground or embedded into the hardened timbers of the first boat-bridges’ footings. It made Suriyen feel sick just to think of the carnage that had occurred here, as well as the terror as she had unleashed the chemical fires onto those trapped inside the siege engine.

  Ahead of them, the bridge was littered with blackened shapes with odd, jutting corners. Everything was wreathed in a dense river fog and steam that made it impossible for them to see the other side. Instead, the bridge faded into ephemeral grey, as if it were a bridge to the Halls of the Undying itself.

  And it might as well be… Suriyen spat onto the ground, and cracked her shoulders.

  Although the space that they had was wide, their small group filled it easily. About four people could swing a sword and move with grace, but they had about twenty, forming a rough gaggle of about three lines. Looking at the soldiers of Fuldoon beside her, she had never seen such a bunch of disreputable, and unprepared soldiers in her life. Most of them seemed to know Ruyiman in some form or another, and Suriyen wondered if at least half had once been pirates or navy, and had followed their vagabond captain to the defense of Fuldoon. They had no uniformity of weapons, but each was sporting their preferred choice: long swords, hand axes, hammers, a spear or two, and even one with two long daggers.

  “Those that have shields, with me.” Suriyen affixed her own small buckler onto her forearm, and beside her Ruyiman held a more conventional shield round. The time for brave speeches were gone, and now it was just the hard business of making the enemy bleed more than you did. The Menaali hadn’t led their attacks with archers, but it was clear that they had some good archers in their numbers. The wall-captain was hoping that the boat bridge beyond was so damaged and littered with the detritus of war, that it meant that the Menaali couldn’t attack in ranks, or have lines of bowmen. If they did, then her small band were already doomed.

  Suriyen didn’t bother saying anything about when they should retreat, or how. Even now, they could hear the crunch of the heavy wheels of the rubble cart as it was pushed into place, thudding against the wall.

  So this is it, thought Suriyen. She only wished that she could have had a chance to meet Dal Grehb in single combat, one on one. Her anger flared in her then, and she took a step forward.

  “Woah there, captain,” Ruyiman said, stepping forward half a step. “Don’t be so eager to get killed now.”

  “Who says that’s going to happen?” Suriyen said fiercely, as the first shapes started to emerge from the fog.

  21

  The Menaali had sent scouts into the fog first, carefully picking their way along broken timbers and skipping over places where the holes fell all of the way through to the river beneath. From their side, they must have been able to see the glow of the inferno beyond, as well as hear the screams and shouts of the Fuldoonians fighting the fire, and thought, even with their own high number of losses, that the gates had fallen. The three scouts that they sent were here to make sure that was the case.

  As soon as the shadow of one man turned into the bearded, only lightly armored form of a crouching Menaali tribesman, Suriyen had thrown a long knife into the man’s throat. He gurgled awkwardly, before thumping to the floor below.

  “Dorg?” another shape whispered, unsure of what had happened to their fellow as there was another hiss of air over Suriyen’s shoulder.

  One of her gate-fighters had a short bow, and had used it to puncture the man’s leather suit so he fell backwards and splashed into the river.

  There was a moment of silence, and then, the third shadow grew deeper, and more defined, stepping out of the murk and into the form of the third Menaali scout. He called to his fallen comrades, before looking up to see an angry Suriyen swinging her longsword with all of her might, and separating head from body.

  Suriyen took no pleasure in this assassination, but she knew it was necessary. Anything to buy the master mason behind her time, as she stepped back off the bridge, and crouched by the side, waving a hand to indicate that others should do the same.

  Moments afterwards, a short, ugly little black arrow shot through the murk and thudded into the wood of the barely standing gate. Suriyen could hear the jangle and crunch of more feet coming forward, slowly, testing the defenses. On the other side of the gates they could also hear the hurried hammering, knocking, and thuds of the work teams trying to get anything in place that would stop an army.

  But nothing will, in the end, Suriyen knew. Nothing will, except a miracle.

  Guttural, thick voices called out to the fallen scouts, but there was no reply. There was the sound of muttered arguments from the dark, the slap of leather on skin. Suriyen could swear that she could almost smell the soot and sweat of the army crawling closer over burned and shattered bridge beams.

  Suddenly, a strangulated cry, and a sudden skidding of a body part along gravel, as a shape was pushed forward through the fog. Ruyiman was the first to the shape, lunging with a sword at the form, just as Suriyen hissed at him.

  “No!”

  The shape had been barely clothed, and barely alive. A slave, just like she had been, only this time male. He screeched in fear as Ruyiman’s aim went awry with the sudden disturbance by Suriyen. The slave fell to the floor, his loud, whooping wail rising into the air between the two armies as Ruyiman scowled at Suriyen angrily.

  “No slaves,” Suriyen snarled, standing up from her hiding place as the slave looked forward at the defenders, then back into the fog, and decided instead to leap into the river. But the damage had already been done. The enemy knew that there were defenders there, and they rushed forward.

  The first Menaali to charge out of the fog were the berserkers, those savage, barely armored warriors who fought singularly, and often without any thought to their personal protection. Where the Menaali couldn’t subdue their enemy with arrows, mounted archers, or slaves, Suriyen had seen them throw teams of these frothing madmen at enemy lines, their sheer savagery usually enough to disrupt the defenses or break them utterly in time for the rest of the army to arrive.

  In a flash, Suriyen knew what the Menaali were trying to do. The boat-bridge, although wide, was damaged by the chemical fires and days of fighting. There was no way that they could drive a battering ram or a contingent of marching soldiers up here. They had to walk them, carefully and in small groups over the broken beams, and that left them vulnerable.

  If they can clog us up with these berserkers first, then by the time they have a few hundred over, we’ll already be too tired to fight them. Suriyen whirled, her long sword held out in both hands like a child might play with a stick, as she caught the bare, tattooed and scarred chest of the fi
rst berserker in a blow that punched through ribs and viscera.

  The man snarled, not even falling as he spun on his heels, his chest a dripping mess of ruined flesh as he still sought to bury his axe into Suriyen’s head. The woman quickly stepped away, narrowly avoided being hit, as the berserker’s body slowed, and realized that it was dead.

  Beside her, Ruyiman had dropped to one knee and swiped at the second berserker’s legs, making him tumble over into a mess of wounds, whilst the fighter behind them quickly finished the still raving man off.

  Suriyen had no time to worry about anyone else’s fight but her own, as a rough hand shoved her in the back, sending her sprawling against the bridge’s stone pillar, and then to throw his axe at her head. She dropped and rolled as the axe sparked splinters of lightning on the stone, kicking out at the berserker who apparently didn’t mind his kneecap shattering, as he turned, guffawing with manic laughter and took another swing at the captain on the floor.

  Suriyen knew that her longsword—really a hand and a half sword—was far longer than the man’s axe, and swiped it across in a blow that severed the man’s hand, wrist, and forearm.

  She snarled at him, as the berserker looked dumbfounded at his ruined arm, as the woman drove her sword into the berserker’s belly, turning to see yet another run screaming past her and into the weighting spear tip of one of the defenders. Another was leaping into the air, intent on landing on her back had it not been for Ruyiman hitting him with his shield and putting an end to him on the bridge floor.