In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  “Aye, but he hasn’t no patience,” said Callagh in an offhand tone, and then, as if just realizing she had spoken aloud, turned to her untouched stew.

  Brohan and Calvraign both started in their seats, turning in surprise to the young girl. Brohan spoke first. “How do you mean, lass?” he asked.

  Callagh looked sidelong at Brohan, carefully avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes directly. “Well, he moved his unicorn into danger when he needn’t.”

  “What would you know of it?” blurted Cal, slamming his wooden dish down next to him. “I –”

  Brohan held up a hand, motioning Calvraign to be silent. “How much of the game did you see?”

  Callagh continued scrutinizing her meal. “All of it. I followed you this morning.”

  “Really?” whispered the bard, smiling at the girl. “Was this the first time?”

  “No,” she admitted, “almost since the beginning. I’ve always loved the stories you told, and then when you started playing the game, that was even better. I was going to tell you, but then I thought you mightn’t want me to come along, and I certainly didna’ want that to happen.” She looked up from her bowl, then, and her face was defiant. “And why shouldn’t I come? I’m just as clever as Cal, and I’ve never so much as disturbed you. Why is it always –”

  Brohan laughed away her burgeoning indignation. “Easy lass, I’m not upset with you. I’m quite honestly amazed. You’ve been following us for years, then?”

  “Aye.”

  “You’ve no right!” cried Calvraign. He was being selfish, and he knew it, but he didn’t care. Brohan’s teachings were a gift for him, paid in full by the blood of his father. It didn’t seem right that she had made a place for herself in what was rightfully his. “You can’t just…”

  Brohan held up his silencing hand once more. “Be still, young Askewneheur. There’s no harm done, save perhaps to your pride – and mine, I shouldn’t wonder. Anyone who can sneak up on me deserves whatever knowledge they can get away with. It certainly doesn’t diminish the quality of your learning that someone else has benefited from it.”

  Callagh relaxed and sent a triumphant grin in Calvraign’s direction. He did his best to ignore her completely, shifting all of his attention to consuming his meal. He tried not to notice the amused glances exchanged by Oona and Brohan.

  Calvraign bent over his bowl, enjoying the treat of fresh mutton that Brohan’s visit had brought for him. His mother always did whatever she could to make his stay comfortable in their plain surroundings. The master bard seemed strangely at home here for a man who had supped with kings and nobles from Mazod to Tiriel. Calvraign risked a quick glance up at his tutor and immediately regretted it. Brohan acknowledged him with a grin and turned once more to Callagh Breigh.

  “What would you have done, Callagh? Did you see a different tack?”

  The girl first confronted Calvraign’s hard stare until he looked away and then met Brohan’s friendly green eyes with a small flush of ruby in her cheeks. “I wouldn’t take the nexus so quickly,” she started tentatively, but with a gentle nod from the bard, she continued with more confidence. “Calvraign’s gryphon knight could’ve protected the unicorn from above, then his marshal could move close enough to threaten the nexus. Then Master Brohan would have moved in to protect the nexus and the wilhorwhyr could challenge the reaver. That way, even if the wilhorwhyr lost, the lord high marshal could still take the reaver, or the nexus, or maybe both?”

  “The whole point of taking the nexus was surprise,” said Calvraign, shaking his head and wondering how she’d remembered so much of the game in detail. He attempted to mask his amazement with irritation. “You have to take the advantage while you have it.”

  Callagh snickered and brushed the hair out of her eyes with a finger. “Surprise is only good if you can win, Cal,” she taunted playfully.

  Calvraign’s jaw clenched. He felt his mother pat him on the shoulder, in part to comfort him, in part to warn him away from anger. This was only a game to Callagh, another diversion to pass her day. But it was his pride and skill that she mocked, though innocently, and he only swallowed his hot rage with an effort.

  “That’s interesting, Callagh,” mused Brohan, “but how are you so certain that I would scamper to the nexus so quickly?”

  “I can’t say.” She shrugged. “I’ve watched you both play so much I just knew you would. Ach, I’m prob’ly wrong.”

  “No, dear girl, you are quite perceptive. Sometimes a quiet observer can see more than those absorbed in the game. Perhaps Cal and I have both learned our lesson for today. Tomorrow,” he paused, pointing at each of them in turn with his wooden spoon, “we’ll see how well you play against each other.”

  Callagh’s face burst into a broad smile. “I would like that!”

  “But only, of course, if Calvraign is willing to accept the challenge.”

  Cal looked up, his ego still injured but his temper subdued. It was next to impossible for him to remain angry with his friend when she smiled that way. At least this was a chance for vindication. “Tomorrow it is, then,” he agreed.

  “Good,” said Brohan. “Then let’s clean up this mess for your mother and finish your history lesson before I fall asleep sitting up.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE MESSENGER

  OSRITH Turlun crouched close to the small mound of warm, smokeless embers, his aging muscles sending a dull, throbbing ache throughout his body. His breath lingered about his lips in a wispy cloud, reluctant to leave the warmth of his body, but eventually drifting over his shoulder into the night sky. The frigid mountain air had begun to penetrate his fur-lined garments. It crept in slowly, stealthily, as persistent as Death Herself, until its chill seeped into his very bones and nibbled at his soul. Once there, it would stay; stay until he could set himself before a blazing hearth inside the thick stone walls of Castle Vae, a cup of mulled wine cradled in his hands and a basin of steaming water to soothe his tired feet.

  So vivid and appealing was the thought, Osrith nearly drifted from the nightmare that surrounded him. Away from the makeshift camp, away from the biting wind and the snow-darkened sky, away from Dieavaul, away most of all from the accursed rock that hung like an anvil in the pouch around his neck. Its very weight dragged him from his respite, forcing his thoughts back into the unwelcome fetters of reality.

  He reached for it absently, his right hand fondling the soft leather pouch. The stone was but a thumb’s width across, perfectly smooth and unblemished. The words of Gai came un-summoned to his mind. “Speak naught. Tarry naught. Speed this to the king and surrender it to none but he! The eyes of darkness are upon you even now. Make haste!”

  “Eyes of darkness,” mumbled Osrith through his numb lips, “seers and bards – all the same breed.”

  And now, sixty leagues later, here he sat – the stone still safe, but his body worn by fatigue and his destination still half a day before him. His tired brown eyes watered at a fresh and vigorous onslaught of wind, the tears freezing into his beard. Indeed, his resolve might have faltered already were it not for the sealed parchment buried safely in his bundle. The writ guaranteed him a handsome payment for his troubles. More than handsome – princely. Yes, that was indeed worth the bother of a few days’ hard travel. That, and a memory.

  A screeching howl echoed off the granite walls around Osrith. He lurched into motion, instinct driving him before conscious thought. The bestial cry rang with the urgency of a predator closing on its kill, and Osrith had no illusions regarding who was the prey.

  Damn nightwolves, he thought, sliding more than running down the steep, rocky slope of the mountain. The fir trees towering above him were heavy with snow, and the wilhorwhyr path beneath his feet icy and treacherous. The air pounded into his lungs, cold enough to strike like a solid block in his chest with every breath.

  He guessed that the war party following him was composed mostly of dringli. They were numerous in this part of the Ridge and it was their custom to
hunt with nightwolves. They would make fast and expendable scouts for the Hrummish Host. And leading them, of course, would be Dieavaul. In a dark corner of his mind, Osrith could still see the merciless coal-black eyes shining against the assassin’s porcelain skin, mocking him even as they delighted in the blood on that cursed sword. It had been many years, but the image of his failure was etched with the acid of guilt on his memory. He could only assume that Gai also lay slain and rotting by the hand of his nemesis, and knew well what his own fate would be if they overtook him.

  At the base of the slope was Ingar’s Way, a wide commercial road that ran between Ten Man Pass and Castle Vae. He was closer than he thought. Undoubtedly there was another hrumm or dringli contingent closing in on him from the direction of the pass, and Dieavaul would try to cut him off further up the road. The highway promised safety if he happened upon a squad of the Border Knights, but it would be pure folly to count on such an unlikely bit of providence.

  Without further thought, he plunged into the trees on the far side of the road. He had lost the wilhorwhyr trail that had taken him the last few leagues, but considered himself lucky enough to have stumbled upon it for any length at all. Legend had it that Nighthawk himself blazed the paths through the wilderness for the benefit of his disciples. But Osrith held little stock in legend. Legends were good for campfires, not so good for marking and maintaining hidden trails.

  The howl assailed the silence of night once more, louder and closer than before. They would be upon him soon. His keen ears discerned the cries of several scouts and the snort of a nightwolf. He pushed himself forward with renewed vigor. He didn’t fear the dringli. They were dangerous enough to the inexperienced, or in waves of hundreds sweeping across the field of battle, but to a seasoned warrior such as himself, a dringli out of its lair was little cause for worry. If he tarried to deal with the scouts, however, it would be a short time before his neck was within range of Dieavaul’s damned blade.

  Osrith soon found himself at the icy bank of the River Daemeyr. The nearest bridge was more than half a league upstream, where the highway met the river. He didn’t have the time to reach it. He extended his foot over the Daemeyr’s silvery surface and tapped the ice. It was solid enough to the touch, but Osrith knew full well that this was merely the wintry river’s tempting deceit.

  It might hold his weight; it might not.

  He delayed only a moment before edging out onto the river’s surface, flat on his stomach to spread out his weight, using his hands to propel him to the middle of the frozen waterway. He spun around to face the shore he had just left and removed his great axe from its traveling harness on his pack. The axe was a heavy instrument, made of sturdy blackthorn oak and cold-smelted kinsteel. The haft was just more than three feet in length, the dark blade’s cutting edge slightly less than a foot. It was at home in the winter night, grey and cold as its surroundings.

  Osrith turned the axe in his hands and drove the haft cap of the mighty weapon into the ice. He used great care not to crack the ice through and through, using only enough force to fracture the surface in thin silvery spider webs. When he felt the ice sufficiently weakened, he made his way slowly to the opposite bank, cracking the ice as he slid backward across the captive rapids of the river. He covered the marred ice as best he could with the thin layer of snow on the river. With any luck, it would serve to attract their attention to his trail without garnering careful examination. He crawled to the safety of solid ground, thankful his attempt to thwart pursuit hadn’t backfired and sent him into the deadly cold waters.

  He stayed in sight until the nightwolves burst into view. They padded up and down the riverbank, their thick, bristling black fur raised on their hackles. Their white-masked snouts lifted from the ground at the riverbank with a snort. They had his scent, and soon after their light blue eyes looked across at him hungrily. There were two of them, both stepping on the ice and then retreating, cautious of the frozen expanse before them. Splintering howls sang their discontent.

  Osrith watched patiently as five hideous creatures armed with broadswords appeared from the tree line to join the wolves. They were roughly the same height as a human, but thicker in torso and limb. Their heads were larger as well, with sloping foreheads and small unobtrusive noses level with their deep-set eye sockets. Coarse black hair was pulled back from their faces, tied in topknots that allowed the excess hair to fall about their necks. Their lower lips protruded distinctively, accentuating their powerful, jutting jaws. A web of criss-crossing scar tissue snaked around their grey, chiseled features, dyed black as night. In the flickering light of their torches, it seemed as if the tattoos leapt from their eyes like ebon lightning.

  Osrith’s perception of his situation changed within the beat of a heart. These were not dringli, but their larger cousins, the hrumm. And, if he read their tattooed markings correctly, not simply hrumm, but elite hunters of the Host – graomwrnokk. This, then, was why the pursuit had been so swift, so persistent. This was why Gai had urged him to accept no delay in his journey. He turned and sprinted through the thinning trees, not bothering to wait and see if his trap would snare any or all of the scouts.

  He had underestimated his foe. Not drastically, but enough to cause him some worry. A scouting party of dringli or hrumm he could handle; a party of graomwrnokk was another matter entirely. He gripped his axe tightly as he ran, his feet pounding the snowy fir bedding of the forest floor with the steady rhythm of his long stride.

  Then he heard it: the sound of splitting ice and the surprised squeal of its victims. If nothing else, it had bought him some time.

  Emerging from the trees, he found the countryside familiar. The High Ridge formed a mountainous wall to the north and west, but only a brief expanse of rocky hills and small farm plots lay between him and the castle. A low stone wall sat atop the next incline, delineating the border of one of the outlying properties. A small trail of black smoke drifted skyward from somewhere beyond. Osrith took his bearings once more: the copse of trees to his right, the bald limestone crest of the hill on his left, the overgrown horse trail winding its way down to the river behind him. He knew this place! The Eavely’s farm lay on the other side of that wall, the smoke rising beyond evidence of a sizzling breakfast on their hearth.

  Osrith almost felt relief as the morning’s light slowly pushed away the black curtain of night with the soft amber glow of dawn. Even the grey clouds above looked less threatening with their edges painted in gold. His legs pushed hard against the snowy slope as he struggled up toward the wall. The Eavely’s farm might be a pleasant memory, but it offered little in the way of escape from his pursuers. Thomas was a man beyond the years of battle now, and his surviving son crippled by a cruel twisting of bones, if he still lived at all.

  A sharp twang preceded the hail of arrows. Osrith dove into the snow, his axe out to his side, and covered his head with his free arm. One arrow stabbed into his left leg, just above the back of his knee, another into his right shoulder. Osrith pulled them from his flesh and, with a grunt, started again for the wall. They weren’t broad heads, and the thin, light points hadn’t penetrated far through his furs and leather armor. Another discordant strum of bowstrings sent a barbed shaft into his lower left calf. He cursed, but continued doggedly toward his goal, ignoring the pain. It was clear these arrows hadn’t been intended to kill, and he wondered for a moment why they bothered loosing the shafts at all – until the burning of poison slowly spread from his wounds, followed by creeping numbness.

  They want me alive, Osrith thought. Another volley fell around him, two arrows snapping harmlessly on the fur-covered iron shield strapped to his back. Or he does.

  Osrith chanced a quick look behind. Six hrumm made up a row of archers; six more climbed after him. He didn’t see Dieavaul among them, but a growing pain in an old wound assured him he was near. The nightwolves were nowhere to be seen, evidently sucked into the chilling current of the Daemeyr or, at the very least, scared off. He couldn’t tell
if the scouts from the riverbank were among his pursuers, and didn’t particularly care. A dozen would be enough to finish him handily even if five were frozen to the bone.

  Osrith dove for safety over the four-foot wall, blinking away a brief ripple of dizziness. A hail of arrows clacked harmlessly against the granite as Osrith pulled his shield loose from the bindings holding it on his back and discarded it. Even as he found the balance of the axe in his hands, he heard the heavy tread of the hrumm warriors closing in.

  No more arrows, at least. The hrumm were vicious opponents, but they wouldn’t needlessly risk their own.

  Osrith breathed in the still morning air. He savored the breath before battle. His fingers unraveled the knot securing the hilt of his broadsword to his scabbard, tapped each of his throwing knives, and then his long knife, before settling back on his axe.

  Poisoned.

  Injured.

  Outnumbered.

  Graomwrnokk leading the pursuit.

  He exhaled.

  Survive first, he told himself. There is nothing else. Survive.

  Osrith stood and turned, steadying himself for the coming onslaught.

  The first of the hrumm jumped the wall with little effort, its blade scything down at Osrith. It was too fast, too strong and far too eager. Osrith stepped inside the swing and pivoted, cleaving its back with his axe as it stumbled past and sending it crashing to the turf with a wail. Two of its fellows cleared the wall, and Osrith rushed them as they were in mid-air, barreling one creature into the next. As they flinched, he pressed the attack on the closest hrumm with a blow to the chest. The hrumm fell back against the wall, the crunch of its splintering ribcage louder even than its cry of pain. Osrith pulled his axe out of the beast with an effort and stumbled backward, out of the spray of its heartblood. Numbness tickled his extremities, and he dug his fingers into the haft of his axe.