Survive first.
Osrith stepped back as the survivor regained its footing, even as three more hrumm warriors hurdled the wall. Two of the three were graomwrnokk. Osrith kept a careful distance, staying just close enough that they feared to sheath their close-quarter weapons, but distancing himself from the wall. If they hemmed him in and pinned him against the wall, the rest of the Host would join them and the fight would be over.
Osrith backed away toward the farmhouse, but the hrumm moved quickly to cut him off and surround him. They started in slowly, taunting him and probing his defenses, but Osrith merely turned in circles, watching them intently. They drew in closer, tightening their ranks, then closer still. They understood the reach of his long axe, and though time and numbers were on their side, the advantage of fighting distance was distinctly his. He looked in their eyes and met their vicious stares with his own contempt. Then with a powerful battle cry he lunged forward.
The hrumm before him braced for an attack that never came, fooled by the feint, and Osrith attacked his left flank. With a swift stroke, he sliced through the neck of the nearest hrumm. It crumpled, clutching the open wound at its neck with a thick gurgle.
Osrith wasted no time on the dying, turning immediately toward the other hrumm and singling out the nearest graomwrnokk. He closed the distance between them as it raised its weapon back to strike, checking the sword stroke with the head of his axe before it had any force behind it. He rammed his helm into the hrumm’s face, and it gagged on its teeth as they shattered down its gullet. Reeling back from the blow, the hrumm created space for Osrith to swing his axe, and he hewed into the graomwrnokk’s shield arm. The kinsteel blade cleft through its shoulder and into the meat of its chest.
Osrith tried to pull his axe free, but the force of the mortal blow had wedged the weapon in his victim’s breastbone. He released the axe handle without wasting effort to free it. Instead, he spun toward the last two hrumm, his broadsword whistling from its scabbard to point unsteadily at his assailants.
They held their distance. Osrith was losing his fight against the poison, and he could see that they sensed it. He swayed, panting, staring them down and hoping to bluff through his faltering stamina by intimidation. The remaining graomwrnokk snorted and moved toward Osrith’s left, barking an order at its last surviving soldier. Osrith was fluent in hrummish, but his basic sense of tactics would have deciphered the guttural command just as well.
Let him fall, it had said. They would contain him until the poison brought him down. He would do the same in their place: take the most certain course with the least amount of risk.
Osrith’s head swam, and he stumbled down to one knee. There was a ringing in his ears, like distant horns, and a wave of nausea almost overtook him. The graomwrnokk was now almost directly behind him, and Osrith knew time was short. If he couldn’t draw them in, somehow engage and kill them before he collapsed, he would be at Dieavaul’s feet before mid-morning.
Osrith dropped his sword into the snow, his numb fingers shaking over the hilt. The hrumm in front of him snarled and edged closer. A disciplinary bark from the graomwrnokk stopped it in its place.
No matter, thought Osrith. He didn’t need this one too close, just off guard. His hand flashed to his belt of throwing knives and let one fly. The blunt end struck the hrumm’s helm with a loud clang and Osrith gritted his teeth. “Damn it,” he spat under his breath, and fell face first into the snow.
He welcomed the cold wet touch on his brow. It was an ally against the easy surrender of sleep. He heard horns again, this time closer, and felt a tremor through the earth. Horses.
No, not just horses… Cavalry.
The graomwrnokk snarled.
Osrith’s fingers searched for his dropped sword, wrapping around the hilt under the stillness of his fallen body. He waited, drawing shallow breaths and conserving his strength. They would come to him. Their hand was forced now if they wanted him alive – if only just barely.
A moment later hrummish claws grabbed at the fur-lined leather at Osrith’s neck, dragging him upward. He braced his arms at the elbow, letting the momentum of the hrumm’s action carry his sword into its gut. It howled and staggered backward. Osrith removed the blade with a twist and the hrumm slipped from the steel.
He tried to turn before the graomwrnokk reached him, but his leaden feet were too sluggish, and it tackled him to the frozen turf. Its full weight drove him hard to the ground, pinning him and driving the air from his lungs.
Osrith looked into the yellowed eyes of the predator, an inch from his own, and breathed in the stench of its hot breath as it twisted the sword from his hand. The graomwrnokk’s own blade made one thrust, penetrating Osrith’s armor and stabbing into his gut. The warmth of his own blood spread over his half-numb skin, but Osrith knew it was not an immediately fatal wound. It had been a calculated strike, to immobilize its prey, to make further struggle as dangerous to the wounded as to the hunter. He would likely die from blood loss or infection over time, but not before the hrumm delivered its prize to Dieavaul.
The ground trembled with the thunder of horses’ hooves. The graomwrnokk rose, pulling Osrith’s limp body over its shoulder as it turned toward the low stone wall. Osrith saw the colors of Castle Vae fluttering from cavalry lances. The hrumm stutter-stepped, trying to evade the mounted pursuit, and Osrith gritted his teeth against dizziness as the hrumm spun left and right, seeking escape.
One of the knights was bearing down on them, charging a few scant feet in parallel to the wall, the morning sun catching the blurring flash of his armor in an orange gleam. The knight drew his arm back, a short javelin in his grip. The hrumm mounted the wall and made a powerful leap. The javelin whistled through the air and cracked the hrumm’s skull before its feet touched the downward slope. The graomwrnokk fell, and Osrith tumbled with the corpse through the snow for several feet before another hrumm carcass brought him to a jarring halt.
Armored forms swam in and out of his vision, their voices in and out of his head, and the blackness threatened to take him once more. He coughed and tried to lift himself from the ground.
“More… down the slope,” he sputtered, trying to focus on the nothingness around him.
“Calm thyself,” a voice said from somewhere nearby. A steel gauntlet pressed him back onto the sod. “You have done well to survive, Sir Osrith. Now you must lie still.”
“Prentis?” The voice sounded familiar. Osrith could almost picture the gangly young squire who had borne the colors in the ranks of his House Guard, but the image refused to coalesce in his mind. Of course the voice was much deeper now, the quaver of youth long since shrugged off by the resonance of adulthood.
It had been eight years…
Drifting down the long tunnel of sleep toward the longer, darker tunnel beyond, Osrith couldn’t help but approve that the young man had become a knight, but something kept him from the comfort of oblivion. Something was still wrong. There was a greater danger near at hand. He was certain of it. The thin scar of an old wound awoke with a searing pain, and his eyes opened with an alertness borne of terror and fear.
“Dieavaul…. More following…. Get to the castle.”
“All is well in hand,” comforted the voice. “Rest yourself, you are safe.”
And with a deep-throated moan, Osrith was still.
CHAPTER THREE
PAST AND PRESENT
IN a village the size of Craignuuwn there was but one inn, a two-story building with a few sparse accommodations on its upper level and a tavern below. Not much trade came through this region of the Crehr ne Og, so close to the wilderness, but the occasional party of hunters or travelers did happen by. Two stone chimneys piped black smoke into the air from the thick-woven thatched roof. A simple sign hung above the door, depicting a mug filled with foaming ale. Normally, the sounds of drunken laughter and merriment would pour from within, but today there was but one melodious voice raised above the hushed silence. The word had spread quickly
that a bard had come, and the entire village nestled now inside, anxious for news, stories and song. All of these Brohan Madrharigal happily delivered.
Calvraign sat in a smoky corner of the inn with his mother and Callagh Breigh, a contented smile on his young face. He was handsome, his skin smooth and unblemished, his eyes a refreshing deep blue. The blue eyes, along with his blonde hair, were odd for the Cythe people, and marked him easily amongst the other youth of his village.
Still flushed with his early morning triumph over Callagh in their first game of Mylyr Gaeal, Calvraign felt vibrant and sure of himself. His hardwon victory had restored his self-confidence and his somewhat injured pride. Callagh had been excited enough at the chance simply to play the game she had watched so long in secret, it hadn’t seemed to concern her at all that she lost – or not much, at any rate. Currently, at least, she seemed more interested in Brohan’s storytelling than in reliving their hard fought contest.
Calvraign watched in blatant admiration as Brohan’s fingers danced fluidly across the strings of his intricately crafted lap harp. The clear notes sang from the instrument, rising and falling in both volume and tempo under Brohan’s flawless execution. Calvraign had long ago memorized this piece; it was a favorite of the locals here – The Lament of Celian. Though a general in the fledgling Dacadian Empire, Celian had befriended and fought with the Cythe in the ancient wars against Maccalah in these very hills. Brohan had already recounted his deeds of valor, and after this instrumental interlude, he would shift to a minor mode and sing of his final betrayal. As with every listener, Calvraign wanted desperately for the story to end cheerfully at each performance, but as always, it was not to be.
Brohan’s perfect voice flowed evenly into the chord transition as he sang the final bars.
“This day is ours, the battle won!
Let all the praise of bards be sung!
Put swords in sheath for peace is ours,
enemies were we – now friends avow!”
So Celian spoke, and held his council;
in triumph he was kind and merciful.
But with victory, life and hope secure,
Celian, by misplaced trust was lured.
His vanquished foes, penitent false,
dined within his gracious halls.
And Celian’s fate was sealed by vagary,
House Malminnion’s blackest treachery!
For the food he supped and wine he drank,
with Shadow’s blood and poison stank.
It felled him low amidst his throng,
his assassin named but in this song.
No heir had he or wife to sire,
and so with him his line expired.”
Now the entire tavern shook as the patrons raised their voices in the final chorus of the lament, some with tears in their eyes, others with sobs in their voice, and all with an ache in their hearts. And no voice held more emotion or sorrow than the ringing tone of Brohan.
“No more to ride the hills in Spring,
no more, oh more, oh Celian!
No more to dance and epics sing,
no more, oh more, our Celian!
The Sword of the North has been called to rest,
in Oa’s Halls of the True and Bless’d,
with Cyhlt, Cuaihln and the Duath Andai,
forever at peace, in the Palace of the Sky”
The tavern was silent for a moment as listeners of all ages said a silent prayer in honor of their long-dead hero. Brohan sat on the edge of his table and set his harp next to him, taking a reflective sip of his steaming spiced wine. Calvraign waved and smiled, wanting nothing more than to be the center of such unquestioned respect.
Someday, he thought. If ever this place is behind me.
After the brief pause, the room erupted into a din of hand clapping and fist pounding. Old Pek waddled from his place behind the bar and patted his meaty hands on the bard’s back, his puffy face glowing with pleasure and, no doubt, some of his best stock of ale.
“Oh, Brohan me lad!” he exclaimed. “If that don’t sound better every time you sing it, I don’t know me ale from me cider!”
Brohan raised his clay goblet in salute to the barkeep. “Well, sir, that is fine praise, indeed – for you certainly seemed to know both tonight!”
Old Pek joined his patrons in another round of laughter as he bustled about the inn refilling mugs and tankards. The arrival of a bard did more than just entertain; it filled the inn’s coffers more than weeks of normal business. As the general merriment died down, someone called out from the back of the room.
“Tell us another! Tell us another!”
Brohan shrugged in mock indifference and looked about the room. “Shall I? Does anyone else wish to hear another tale? I don’t want to bore you all with my prattle.”
There was a loud and emphatic shout of “More! More!”
Brohan held his hand aloft in a conciliatory gesture. “So, the people of Craignuuwn have spoken! More it shall be! What, then, would you hear? Something short, I prithee. I’ll not make it through The Litany of Swords tonight, for that I’ll give the gods’ own guarantee!”
The entire inn seemed to confer before an anonymous voice yelled out, “We’ve heard some tales of old. Let’s hear something from recent memory. Tell us again of Ibhraign and the King! He’s one of ours. Tell us of the Dragonheart!”
Brohan turned to Calvraign and his mother. His eyes asked an unspoken question. Oona nodded her assent, and Calvraign as well. It was easier for him, Calvraign guessed, since the memories of his father were just a few scattered images and broken phrases. Calvraign knew him better through the local stories and his mother’s own accounts than his own memory. She put up a strong face, he knew, and she mourned his passing quietly with every telling of the tale. But, as Brohan often told him, it was better to remember the greatness of a man in life rather than dwell on the circumstances of his death.
“So be it!” proclaimed Brohan, his smile returning. “Then I shall tell the tale of a great man and an honored warrior, not of noble house, nor great wealth, nor at the time even a king’s knight, but a fearsome madhwr-rwn of the Cythe and one of your own – Ibhraign Askewneheur.”
At this point, a few of the older patrons, and even Old Pek himself, raised a salute to the widow and her son. Brohan continued, drawing himself up to full height and projecting his voice clearly and cleanly throughout the room.
“It was nigh on fifteen long winters gone that the men of Providayne marched to war in the Southlands. Messengers from King Guillaume rode forth to all his vassals, urging them to send what men they could to join in the defense of his realm, for his allies in Paerytm were heavily beset by the warlords of Callah Tur. There were many who balked at these words, and asked what concern it was of the Cythe to fight the battles of a foreign prince. But from within these voices of dissent there was one man who spoke for the king, and his name was Ibhraign.
“I speak for no other here, but I for one will go and fight, he said. For if Paerytm falls, then Mneyril or Providayne will surely be next. Then do the Cythe march? Or do we hide still behind the lances of our allies, waiting as the Calahyr come closer, hewing away stone by stone the wall of friends that stands between us and our foe? Then, when they are all gone, and the fiends are upon our homes with torches in their hands and lust in their eyes, you may argue when to fight them with your heads at the top of their spears!
“All who heard this plea rallied to Ibhraign and the cause of the king, and so the War of Thorns was joined. Many battles were fought, and many great and brave men died on the hills and plains of Paerytm before the southerners were driven back to their own lands. But it was in this last battle that the Cythe were given their greatest honor and dealt their saddest loss. The king and his Knights Royal, cut off after a failed charge, were trapped between their foes and the swift merciless waters of the Vlue Macc. The Knights Lancer had been outflanked – the knight captain general himself captured by mercenaries from the Iron Coast
! There was no relief in sight. None but the Cythe.
“Ibhraign, seeing the plight of his king, leapt upon the horse of a fallen comrade.” At this, Brohan jumped on the table, brandishing an imaginary sword. “To the king! To the king! he yelled. Marshaling what stalwarts he could to the king’s aid, he blasted through the enemy lines by sheer force of courage. Mightily he hewed at the barbarians, and they fell back from him like corn before the reaper! He joined the king and his knights, and they held the Calahyr at bay.
“But, alas, of their foe there were many and of themselves but a few, and one by one the great knights of Providayne fell dead or wounded around their king. Sir Halen of Bridmark, Sir Vanelorn the Grey and the mighty Sir Gruswold would wake not for days; while Sir Oulds the Stout, Sir Pyrtwin and Sir Qurisin were but a few of those who would wake not at all! Of all these and many more, the only left standing were Ibhraign and the good king himself! On they fought, pressed against the foaming rapids, when finally the last of the Calahyr came at them. Adhrig Red-Axe, the Macc adh Calha, led the charge himself, flanked on either side by his fearsome skull-bearers, who carried no less than fifty gilded heads between them.”
Brohan looked sadly across the room. “Now Ibhraign knew his time had come. His blood lay mostly at his feet, and his wounds were deep and many, for any stroke meant for Guillaume he had taken himself. Pheydryr held out Her pale hand to take him, but he swatted it aside with his sword, for he would not leave his king even at the summons of Death Herself.
“And so he stayed on the bright side of Shadow, raining blow after blow upon the frightful enemy, slaying such multitudes that the Grey Lady could spare no time to pry his own life from him! It mattered not who challenged him, knight or squire or skull-bearer of the clan, one by one, each fell in turn. When Ibhraign finally laid himself down, there were no more foes to fell and but one king left standing. Guillaume’s army was victorious. The Battle of Vlue Macc was won!”
There was a subdued cheer from the crowd, and some scattered toasts to Ibhraign’s courage, but the gathering quieted as Brohan held up his hands.
In Siege of Daylight Page 4
