And then, a trumpet sounded overhead, followed by an answering call. Darik looked into the sky. He’d seen the cloud castles since Balsalom, watching the battles, but refusing to participate. Throughout the day they’d drifted ever lower, as if they wanted a closer view. And now they rode to war.
Hundreds of winged horses dropped from the castles, white armored knights in their saddles. Visors lowered on helmets and shields outstretched, the winged knights lowered lances and charged. Wasps rose to meet them, but they scattered wasp and kin and rode at the nearest dragon. They hit the beast before it knew it was under attack. Some lances broke on the impact, but others bit deep. The dragon roared in pain, while the other three flew to meet the new attack. The winged knights turned from the wounded dragon to meet them.
Rolling forward in a series of precise charges, the winged knights fought away the dragons between belches of fire. They killed dozens of dragon wasps, and wounded all three remaining dragons, but none as seriously as the first, who’d born the brunt of a full charge, unprepared.
At last, the three strongest dragons turned east and fled, building speed as they headed toward the mountains. Darik expected the winged knights to ride in pursuit, or sweep down and turn the tide of battle yet again, and allow Hoffan to recapture Cragyn’s Hammer. Instead, they flew for the Golden Tower.
Daria shouted for the griffins to regroup, and the survivors came to her call. Her father had fallen, and she rode on an unfamiliar mount, but Daria looked every bit the warlord. She sat high in the saddle, her hair blowing back from her head, her mouth firm and defiant. Daria held her sword overhead and ordered a charge at the remaining dragon, wounded but still dangerous.
“Daria!” the other riders shouted. “Daria Flockheart!” They followed her into battle.
#
Markal and Narud carried King Daniel toward the door. Still weakened from his brush with Toth’s wight, he struggled to his feet and reached the stairs under his own power. Markal turned back to retrieve the Tome of Prophesy. The room hung heavy with death, so palpably thick that he didn’t know how the Order would ever meet here again, should the Citadel survive. He stepped past the dead wasp and Toth’s body toward the dais.
A commotion sounded outside the windows, and a man swooped into the room on the back of a winged horse. Dressed in white armor, the man kept his face hidden behind its helm until the winged horse came to a stop a few feet away from Markal. Three more winged knights flew into the room. Their mounts pranced nervously in the enclosed area, shaking their heads and wings, while their riders calmed them.
Markal grabbed the Tome and ran. Shouts and neighing horses sounded further down the stairs, and he knew they’d taken the lower levels already. He turned back to the four knights, readying a spell.
The first of the knights threw off his helmet. A circlet of gold sat on his brow. Markal was struck by the resemblance between Collvern and his father. The piercing blue eyes and the strong jaw-line had been in the royal family since the fall of Aristonia. And like the rest of them, pride soured his face.
“Collvern,” Markal said.
“Markal. You lied to me. Kallia never had the book.”
Markal said, “Did you expect the truth? I’m not beholden to you.”
“But the lies. What of your oaths to your Order?”
“A lie, Collvern?” Markal said. “You meant to kill two innocents, and I had to prevent you. Even my oaths don’t compel me to protect my enemies at the expense of my friends.”
Collvern shrugged. “I hope that story comforts you. Alas, we punished the khalifa of Balsalom simply to disprove your lie. I hope the khalifa’s death doesn’t tax your conscience.”
Markal searched his face and saw the lie in his eyes. Something had happened, but not Kallia’s death. “Enough of this. Have you come to our aid, or are you an enemy?”
The king shook his head. “We are neither. We care nothing for Outlanders, or your wars. Only taking back what is ours so we can defend ourselves.”
“Aristonia is dead, and the Desolation has existed in its place for so long that revenge is meaningless,” Markal said. “Why not join the battle and together we can drive the dark wizard back to Veyre?”
Collvern said, “The Cloud Kingdoms are for the Cloud Kingdoms. Nothing more and nothing less.”
“Then why have you come?” Markal asked. “To scold me? Have you no more pride than that?”
The king ignored this insult. “To retrieve the Tome of Prophesy, of course. It is rightfully ours, scribed by an Aristonian wizard.”
Maybe so, Markal thought, but the steel plates had been forged so long ago that such claim was meaningless. The writer of this book hadn’t even spoken the same language as was spoken in Mithyl now. But more importantly, he knew the misuse Chantmer had put the tome to and didn’t want to relinquish it.
He stepped back toward the door. “No. I found the book and I have given it to the Order of the Wounded Hand. And I have the means to protect it.”
Collvern narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps,” the king said. “But as you can hear, we’ve taken the Golden Tower. Indeed, my magistrate Kreth is below with the weakened remnants of your Order. If you hide or protect the book, I promise you that the Citadel will fall tonight. We will destroy the Golden Tower and let the enemy into the city. And we will destroy the remnants of the Order of the Wounded Hand. Otherwise, we will leave you alone.”
Disbelieving, Markal stared at the king. The book belonged to the successors of the Crimson Path, that order of Aristonian wizards destroyed in the wars. And the leading survivor of that order, was Markal. Indeed, the Mountain Brother had put the book into his care at Flockheart’s tower. Furthermore, he’d already seen how dangerous the book was in the power of someone like Chantmer, or King Collvern, equally as arrogant.
But he had no choice. There was no way they could stand against the Cloud Kingdoms and Toth’s army. Very well. He might give the book away, but he would get it back soon enough.
Reluctantly, Markal stepped forward and held out the Tome of Prophesy, all too aware that he betrayed the promise he’d made to the Mountain Brother. Collvern took the book with a triumphant smile, then turned his mount toward the window. The others followed. They flew from the tower.
Markal dropped his head. As he did, Memnet’s Orb rolled from the shadows to lie at his feet. Markal retrieved it, surprised. He remembered the day the orb first appeared to Memnet the Great while he studied in the library, and wondered why the orb wanted him to take it. The glass was cool under his touch. A tiny ember glowed at its center, struggling to stay lit. Chantmer had drained it to the point of death. Markal caressed it, gave it just enough life force to keep it alive, then turned back toward the window.
As the winged knights disappeared into the sky to return to their Cloud Kingdoms, the tower shuddered beneath Markal’s feet, struck by some object. He shoved the orb into his robes, then looked down from the window to see what new blow had fallen.
#
Daria’s griffins attacked the wounded dragon with a fury that belied their reduced numbers. They attacked it with sword, claw, and beak. The dragon’s skin was thicker than leather, but not invulnerable. Soon it bled from a hundred cuts, griffins at its neck and attacking its back. Darik rode underneath, Waspcleaver biting into the dragon’s underbelly. It loomed above him, massive and scalding from the fires in its belly. Broken lances protruded from its flesh.
Twice the dragon roared fire, catching griffins both times, but the attack continued, unrelenting. It lifted higher into the air to flee, but griffins pinned it against the Golden Tower. At last, wings torn, tail broken, the dragon lurched toward the ground, eyes dimming. It crashed into the Golden Tower, just above where Cragyn’s Hammer had attacked the masonry, then slid to the ground, fall broken by the wall. It shuddered twice, then lay still.
They had done it! Darik realized with elation. They had killed the dragon. He could see no other dragons or wasps anywhere on the battlefield. They
had fled.
And, as he looked back at the battle, he saw further good news. Most of Hoffan’s men reached Eastgate in time, while protective barbicans slid to secure their retreat. Arrows rained down from walls and towers at the enemy, forcing them from the walls. Toth’s army had retaken Cragyn’s Hammer, but it lay in the ground, its cart destroyed. Useless for now.
But the enemy surged toward the walls. Not toward the gates, but to the base of the Golden Tower. The dragon’s fall had broken through the damaged masonry, opening a breach into the bailey and the lower levels of the Golden Tower itself. Archers slaughtered the enemy by the score, while griffins harried their assault, but the Veyrians would gain entrance to the city.
But further to the east, he saw something else. Hope swept despair from his heart. An army, small by the standards of the force pouring against the Citadel, but several thousand in number, marched along the Tothian Way. Still a few miles to the east, the force galloped toward the battle, and swept away Toth’s rear guard. Banners flew, white and emblazoned with the golden dragon of the Saffa family. Darik thought it the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“Balsalom!” he cried, fighting down the lump in his throat. He swooped over the walls, shouting the news to the faltering defenders. “Balsalom! The khalifa has come!”
Chapter Thirteen
Kallia’s trek through the mountains had not been without incident, even after she drove away Tainara Faal’s wight. Enemy forces harassed them from Montcrag and Eagle Loft, while small bands raided from the forests around the Way. But Pasha Boroah swept aside these annoyances, and didn’t delay to pursue more active engagements.
The Teeth sat silent and watchful as they passed. Lord Garydon sent no riders to intercept them or bring them word of the man’s intentions. Boroah and Kallia rode with a small vanguard up the hillside to the castle gates, where Boroah shouted a challenge to Garydon to give supplies and men to help defend Garydon’s liege, King Daniel. The guards on the walls watched impassively, refusing to respond in any way. Boroah raged and swore he’d burn the castle to the ground and put its defenders to sword, but in the end turned to Kallia and shrugged his shoulders. They rode back to the Way to rejoin the army.
They reached Eriscoba three days after passing through the Desolation of Toth, keeping a pace that Boroah had thought unsustainable. But both men and beast were up to the challenge, and they forged on mile after mile. Recovering from the disappointment at the Teeth, Kallia moved among her men to shout encouragement.
The Tothian Way unraveled behind them, the miles stretching between them and Balsalom as they finished the long trek through the mountains; Kallia understood at last what sustained her men. She was drifting to sleep on the back of a camel one night when it came.
I sustain them, she thought, rising in the saddle. They are fighting for me, as much as for Balsalom. She saw it in their eyes when she spoke to them, an expression she had long taken as admiration of her dead father, somehow transferred to herself. But she had earned it herself by fighting for them, by marching with them, by risking her life for them and for their families. And they loved her.
It humbled her and made her weep to remember how she’d betrayed those who’d died on stakes outside Balsalom. And did she lead these men to their deaths to satisfy her need for revenge against Cragyn? No, she told herself. It was more than that. If she didn’t stand up to him, who would?
The moon glowed overhead, a thin crescent, beginning to grow in size again. It was clear and cool, with a hint of autumn in the air. The mountains rose high on either side, but they’d begun to drop in elevation and would soon leave the Dragon’s Spine altogether. Kallia watched the sway of camels and the quiet movement of horses plodding along in the night, enjoying the silence. Pasha Boroah rode ahead to look for a place to stop for the night.
They reached Eriscoba the next morning. Standing on the Tothian Way as it flowed into the valley, she looked over the Free Kingdoms. She could see for miles. The land was so green and lush that it took her breath away, so unlike the plains in the khalifates. She breathed the rich air in great gulps.
The Citadel glimmered on the horizon, smoke boiling into the sky to mingle with the Cloud Kingdoms that drifted overhead. Cragyn’s army, so vast that it stretched for miles along the Way, piled up against the city. Were they too late? She found Boroah and they urged the army forward.
By midday they reached a small town straddling a river. Boroah consulted a map. Sleptstock. The town sat gaunt and empty, its wreckage a testament to the battles that had raged here. Bodies lay heaped in piles, Eriscobans mingling with soldiers from the khalifates. Here and there a mammoth or a griffin lay amongst the churned over fields. But nothing alive. They passed over the bridge and through the town, riding swiftly toward the Citadel.
The Citadel still stood, she discovered. But the Golden Tower leaned to one side, outer wall damaged. The enemy poured through a gap in the wall, while more fighting raged outside Eastgate. Boroah ordered the charge. Kallia drew her sword and swept into battle with her men.
They caught the first enemy troops completely unprepared, a group of footmen who flew the banners of Istancus, a khalifate just south of Veyre on the coast. The Istancans surged toward the Citadel, eager to join the battle and forgetting any orders to protect rearward positions. It proved their undoing.
Kallia’s men were upon them before they knew they were under attack. Balsalomian camel riders drove them from the road, slaughtering any who stood in their way. The rear guard destroyed, the Balsalomians raced toward the gates, driving a wedge in the enemy, right down the heart of the Tothian Way.
A great cry went up through her men. “Balsalom! Kallia.”
An answering cry sounded from the beleaguered city walls and the towers of the Citadel. “Balsalom!”
#
I am the Huntsman, Markal said in the old tongue, invoking the ancient name of the Harvester. Magic rippled through the Thorne Chamber, coursing like lightning among the surviving members of the Order. They were few, but they were united in purpose, determined to leave no shred of magic untapped.
Pure, raw power poured through Markal’s veins. His muscles rippled and a scythe appeared in each hand and a bag at his belt for gathering souls. The world turned gray and he saw the hidden life in everything around him: from the wizards to the very walls. Outside the window, the pulse of a hundred thousand souls, some free and ripe, and ready for gathering.
Narud reared his head back and howled. Fur sprouted along his face and his lips curled in a snarl. His robe fell around him and he stood in the chamber, a massive hound, with eyes that glowed with fierce desire. The other four wizards became smaller dogs and Narud snarled and snapped at their haunches to keep them in line.
A voice sounded in Markal’s ears. The Huntsman. “You have wrested my power, mortal. Use it wisely.”
“Come my hounds,” Markal told the dogs, surprised at how deep and husky his voice had become. “We hunt for Toth. Nothing else.”
He lifted the horn about his neck and blew. The horn wasn’t loud, but it carried, even over the battle. All fell quiet outside to listen. And then the shouts and clashes of steel again.
Markal flowed down the stairs after his hounds. Men fought on the stairs and in rooms, but they turned and fled when they saw him. Narud snapped at the other dogs, who tried to get around Markal and give pursuit, forcing them into line. They reached the bailey, but didn’t turn toward the battle, but toward the breach instead.
Men and beast alike ran in terror. He resisted the urge to wreak havoc amongst the enemy ranks. They left the city behind, pushing toward the Tothian Way. Narud and the other dogs snarled through the army, cutting a swath for their leader. Souls dangled helpless and tantalizing on either side, but ahead of him was the scent of something bigger, so close that even he could smell it. The dogs raced ahead, insane with the hunger of the hunt. He blew his horn again.
They caught Toth at Sleptstock.
The battle h
ad destroyed the town. Foundations of buildings peeked from the ash and mud, while the ground everywhere looked as though it had been pounded by Cragyn’s Hammer. Dead men and animals lay everywhere.
Toth’s scent was overpowering through the town and grew stronger as they approached the mill next to the river, where Hoffan had set his initial headquarters. Badly damaged by trebuchets in early combat, the water wheel itself was completely destroyed, and the roof burned off. But it remained standing.
Markal followed his dogs into the building. A young soldier stood in the room, a bloody gash above his forehead, terror on his face. He struggled with a box, first picking it up and then dropping it again, hands trembling.
Triumph rose in Markal’s bosom to see the dark wizard so weakened that he failed to control a single body. The battle in the Thorne Chamber had taken more than Markal had thought. Toth lost the struggle with his new body as soon as he saw his new visitors. Blue smoke bled from its body, and poured onto the floor. The young soldier collapsed to the ground. The young man regained his feet and fled.
The blue smoke gathered into the form of a man, standing tall in the mill room, flour dust clinging to its body. The wight turned to flee, but Narud and the other hounds set into the spirit. Toth cast them away, but they attacked again.
“No!” the dark wizard shouted, making the hounds hesitate. “Huntsman, you have no power over me. You cannot gather my soul, so leave me be. Or do you meddle in the affairs of men, now?”
“I am not the Harvester,” Markal said, stepping forward and swinging his scythe.
The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) Page 20
