Everyone turned to Rol and regarded him like you would a small child who’d said one of the most inane things you’d ever heard.
“Arrows,” General Hastings finally said. “Not boulders. Which army do you serve?”
Rol sputtered.
“Back on topic,” Oriana said, steering the conversation away from Rol’s incompetence. “Catapults would certainly work, if your aim is true and your arrows are strong. But we’re talking about potentially two hundred dragons. Unless you have four hundred catapults…”
“Two hundred?” the spymaster said. “We can’t do battle against two hundred dragons.” Jaw drawn to the side, he looked at Farris. “This is madness. They’ll obliterate this kingdom. Fleeing offers us a better chance at survival.”
The queen said nothing, keeping her hands clasped. She glanced around the table.
General Hastings sighed. “Much as it pains me, given I’ve sworn to protect this kingdom with my life, a good general knows when to retreat. Brom’s assessed the situation correctly. We’ve no hope of defending Torbinen against two hundred dragons. Might as well bind our hands and ankles and wade into the deep sea; better death than trial by dragon fire.”
Shaking her head with confusion, Oriana looked to the queen. “Did you not tell them of my sorcerers?”
Farris smiled. “No, dear. I wanted to see if my good men here could conjure themselves up a strategy without relying on sorcery.” The master-at-arms opened his mouth and stuttered. Farris shushed him with a finger. “And you boys did a fine job. Retreat is the only option without help from the outside.”
“Sorcery,” the spymaster said, brow wrinkled. “We’re playing with—”
“With sorcery,” Oriana said plainly. “That’s what we’re playing with. Nothing more, nothing less. You don’t have to like it, but you need it. General, how many do the Tridents number?”
“Two hundred,” he said, flashing a look of disgust. “I cut the numbers last year in favor of a budget to improve our defenses. But we can scale up promptly; every man and woman in Torbinen has gone through martial training. At a bare minimum, they understand the basics of hand-to-hand combat.”
Oriana frowned. “Swords won’t do us any good. We need bows and lots of them.”
“I can rush work orders,” the master-at-arms said. “Only one fletcher and a single bowyer in the city, but I can pool together Torbinen’s blacksmiths, craftsmen, anyone who can cut and assemble well enough to cobble together a respectable bow. Can’t promise you a thousand, but a couple hundred in a few days should be doable.”
“Sadly,” Oriana said, “I don’t think we have a few days. I’m not sure how long the clutches will remain at their staging area, but I doubt long. In fact… I wouldn’t be surprised if they came tonight. Or in the morning, before dawn.”
The spymaster belted out a despondent chuckle. “We’re fucked, then. Your sorcerers aren’t even here, sweetie.”
“Brom,” Farris snapped. “Admonish my guest once more and I promise you it will be the last time, unless you discover a way to speak without a tongue. Understand? Good.” She looked at Oriana. “Unpleasantries aside, he’s correct. This is problematic without your sorcerers here.”
“They can be here shortly after midnight. Exhausted, I’m sure, but we can push hard.”
“And if the dragons arrive before then?” General Hastings said.
“Let’s hope they don’t. I’m not certain they’ll come for Torbinen first. They’re close enough that it makes sense, but with the Evanescence Clutch, any location is possible.”
The spymaster cracked his knuckles. “Let us hope they burn the Roost first. Go north, give us some time to say our prayers”—he glanced at the master-at-arms—“make our bows.”
“No,” Oriana said, sternly. “They must attack Torbinen first.” That statement put five pairs of eyes on her. “No other kingdom is prepared for them. We are. You are. We stand the best chance, at least.”
That convinced absolutely no one, save maybe Rol, who was already convinced. The problem with a rah-rah speech about saving the world is that few people actually want to save the world. It has nothing to do with a weak moral fiber, but rather the fact that life is precious and you can never get it back once it’s gone. Saving the life of another by sacrificing yourself sounds good and noble, and maybe it is, but most would rather keep themselves on this world a little longer. And who could blame them?
Oriana didn’t. Which was why she quickly pivoted and showed them another angle.
“They will engulf Avestas faster than you can imagine,” she said. “Even if Torbinen stands as the last bastion of hope… that buys us weeks. Not months. Not years. Weeks. General, can you even call in your levies before then?”
General Hastings was silent.
“Lord Grendig, how many bows can you have made in that time? A thousand shoddy ones? Maybe that’ll let us take down another dragon or three. No, we must lure them here while we know where they are and while they aren’t prepared for what we’re going to offer them. And I promise you it’s an offer unlike any they expect.”
General Hastings sniffed. “How do you intend to lure them here?”
Oriana licked her lips. “I need a few brave men. Four or five.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. Plenty of bravery within the Trident ranks.”
“There’s one thing,” Oriana said. “This is it for them. They won’t make it back.”
The general nodded solemnly.
“I’ll get my people here as soon as possible,” Oriana said, standing. “The clutches will come from the west, so you’ll want to have your catapults—”
“Positioned on the eastern wall,” General Hastings said. “I know my war strategy, girl.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you.”
The general pushed himself away from the table, got to his feet. “Lord Grendig will initiate conscription, I’ll ready the Tridents. Your sorcerers are the keystone to this; I hope you have a plan for them.”
“I do,” Oriana said. “Get all the women and children to the citadel. They’ll be safe there. Rol, stay here and assist the general. I’ll be back soon.”
With a sure nod and heavy breath, Oriana made her way to the door.
“Of course I approve this measure,” said a sarcastic Farris, voice chasing Oriana.
Oriana paused at the door. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to overstep my—”
Farris waved her away. “Get already, will you? I’d rather not be stuck sorcererless when two hundred pairs of wings are whooshing above my kingdom.”
Oriana didn’t need to be told twice. She hurried into the hallway, down the twisting ramp to the bottom of the citadel, and strode through the center of Torbinen like a woman on a mission from the gods. She didn’t even stop to say hi to Perfumer Fartook.
Outside the city and in the rear of the choppy hillside, she stepped into the illusion she’d used to conceal Sarpella. The dragon lifted her head in recognition of her master, burping a cute growl. Oriana called them dragon coos.
Sarpella took to the sky and flew a swift, relentless pace. She touched down in the camp in less than an hour. Dashing across the sand, Oriana went to Brynn’s tent; she’d left him in charge when she and Rol had left.
She threw open the flaps, ducking inside. “Brynn, gather everyone. We’re leaving for… what’s wrong?”
Brynn and Davok and Gamen were leaning over a rickety table that’d been hastily constructed. A map lay there, pinned down by two rocks that looked like war pieces. Brynn gestured for Davok to talk.
“Ori,” Davok said, his face twisting with pain, “Just did a scouting trip on the staging area. Half the clutches have left.”
Before she could think of what to say or even process precisely what that meant, the word what fell from her mouth. Then, after talking to herself in silence, she stepped back, calmed herself with deep breaths. “Okay. So… all right. Do you know their course?”
“No. But about
a hundred are still there.”
“Split attack,” Brynn said. “They don’t need the clutches together to mash a kingdom into mush; hundred’s more than enough. Only question is, where’s this half goin’?”
Oriana swore. “We need both, Brynn. Both halves—every single clutch, we needed them all!” She threw a fist into one of the tent poles, jolting the canvas. “Dammit. This is my fault. I should have posted someone at all four cardinal points. That was a mistake.” She stiffened her lip. “And mistakes kill at this stage. Saddle the horses; we need to leave. Forget the supplies, they’re no longer necessary.”
Oriana stormed out of the tent. She wanted to collapse to her knees, bury her face in the sand and scream. Scream like the world had spurned her, because it had.
But there was work to do. Half the clutches were gone, and that meant part of Avestas would burn; there was no way around that. But that also meant their task in Torbinen had just become easier. Not easy—death was by far more likely than survival still—but better to take the brunt of one hundred dragons instead of two hundred.
The trick was luring them before they too vanished.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Krysch Jorner hadn’t been a guardsman long. In fact, his village hadn’t even designated a proper guard until a few months ago. But trade was strong and prosperous, and what used to be a tiny hamlet had evolved into a village and now could be considered a small city.
He pocketed significantly more as a guard than he had in his old life as a farmer. His little plot of land had been passed down, you see, but it wasn’t anything to hem and haw about. His grandfather could never afford more than a single goat and neither could his father, and despite having a strong, healthy goat himself that produced plenty of milk, Krysch never had saved enough for a second.
But as a guard, he could have bought five goats. Instead, he’d pocket that money, save it for when his children became sick and needed the best savant in all of Avestas. Or—this was his dream of all dreams—he’d take his wife to Torbinen and marry her in the grandest fashion possible. Torbinen sounded lovely, far away from the northern mountains that bore down on him every day and the winter cold that stripped him of both your warmth and senses.
One day, he thought, staring into the city square from the watchtower. Had he not been lost in his hopes and dreams, he would have likely heard a rumble in the distance.
Sounded like thunder, but curiously different. Thunder is much like lightning without the show: it strikes and scurries away. It never lingers. This thunder didn’t flee. It hung low on the horizon, gradually intensifying.
Krysch felt the wind before he heard the sky roar. He hugged himself and cursed the mountains for slinging down such a bitter, inescapable cold. Then he heard it—the growling, the drumming that seemed to come from the gods themselves.
He turned and witnessed calamity in the sky.
“That’s one helluva storm,” he remarked. Then he squinted. Was something… were those… wings?
Everyone—from freeman to mercenary to Lavery Opsillian—carried their own satchel of food and drink. The ride to Silderine would take only two days, and there they’d find plenty of frozen meat and cold water from wells far beneath the earth. There was no need for cumbersome supply wagons.
Lavery didn’t eat very much. Frankly, he was ill. Not physically, but mentally. He was sick of riding a horse. Done, entirely and thoroughly finished. His butt ached, his stomach felt knotted all day, and when he coughed, his insides felt like they’d explode out. Wind had burnt his cheeks to a rawness that made smiling painful. And there was never anywhere convenient to relieve himself—no leaves with which to wipe, no creek water to splash up there. That makes for an especially unhappy journey when you eat a rotten potato as Lavery had.
Also, he had to wear this stupid, outrageously gaudy crown. At least he had a sword now. Elaya had given him one, and a belt too, but said never to unsheathe it unless he had to protect himself.
He wondered if he could protect himself from saddle sores, the cold, and a churning stomach. Life was miserable, life was terrible.
Life was about to get a whole lot worse.
Baern had told him they were only hours from Silderine’s walls. That seemed unlikely from Lavery’s point of view. The frozen land before him twisted and climbed and spiraled, forming hills that rolled upward and terminated suddenly into chopped-off spikes and knives. Snow-capped bluffs hemmed them in, their faces rutted and pitted. How could life flourish in a place like this?
Lavery learned an important lesson only a few hours later: life flourishes anywhere and everywhere, because it’s resilient, unyielding and at times exceedingly stupid.
Beneath a depressing and gloomy sky, Lavery, Baern, the Eyes of Aleer, and a poorly trained, thousand-strong army arrived at a hilltop overlooking a mountainous, bouldered landscape, the womb of which cradled Silderine.
It was unlike any city Lavery had ever seen, even more impressive than Haeglin. No, not impressive—strange. That was the word. It was less an inanimate kingdom and more a living, breathing entity that seemed to have grown out from the bluffs and crags like a parasite.
Roads slithered up ridges, winding and snaking. Sheer drops edged them, with buildings that seemed to have one foot on and another foot off, not unlike trees rooted in places where chunks of the surface had eroded away.
The buildings were all made of slate, varying shades of blacks and grays, and roofs uniformly pitched—an all-around unwelcoming sight.
“What are those?” Lavery said, pointing at whitish humps within the city. He had a bird’s-eye view from the hilltop.
“Heads,” Elaya said. “Goats, mostly. The game they hunt gets dragged inside the walls and buried beneath the snow and ice to preserve it. They keep the head visible so they know where to look when butchering time comes.”
“That’s a relief. I thought you were going to say they were people’s heads.”
“Well…”
Lavery’s eyes swept over the slate wall sealing the kingdom against the mountain; only one wall was needed when you had an earthen defense to your sides and flank. That’s when he saw the towers. Their dull white color contrasted starkly from the darkness of the wall, and also it didn’t appear they were made from any rock Lavery had ever seen.
Upon squinting and blinking, and after muttering gods, Lavery swallowed, pointed and said, “Those are skulls.”
“Indeed,” Elaya said.
“And they’re not goats, I’m afraid,” Baern put in.
Lavery asked how anyone could be so morbid, but his question was ignored.
“There’s no one here,” Elaya said.
“Mm,” Baern murmured. “Maybe they caught wind of a sorcerer and are sniffin’ him out.” He gave a sidelong glance to Laythe. “Or maybe it’s just abandoned. Looks it to me.”
Elaya put her hands on her hips. “Gate’s open. If this doesn’t feel like a trap, I’m not sure what would.”
“What do you expect?” Laythe asked. “For Daughters to jump up from the snow? They’re gone. They left. For whatever reason, they’re not here. We should move in while we still can.” Urgency dripped from each word.
Lavery looked to Elaya. He didn’t like the worried expression on her face; it made him nervous.
“This isn’t right,” she said.
Baern took a step forward, toward the descending earthen ramp. “Right or wrong, we’ll need to get a move on. If it’s a trap, so be it. We’ve an army behind us. I sincerely doubt it’s a trap, though. Laythe is correct—where would they hide? Is there a network of caves built into that mountain?”
“No,” Elaya admitted.
“Well?”
She glared at him severely. “When have you known Silderine to be empty?”
Baern flung a limp wrist behind him as he started down the slope. “I’m not going to wait up here for it to repopulate itself. Only so much food, and every night gets bloody colder. Laythe, let’s go.”
“So you don’t need me anymore?” Elaya asked.
“It would appear not.”
Elaya fussed. “There are redoubts all throughout the mountains and hills. They could be—” She paused, realizing how ridiculous she sounded. If the Daughters received word that an army marched on their walls, they’d never flee to the redoubts. They wouldn’t hole themselves up in some faraway cave or even the looming keep high above.
They’d stand and they’d fight. Most likely they’d win, too, unless the attackers sparked a rebellion. Silderine’s natural bulwark and high ground proved too imposing for a traditional assault.
That made the scene below all the more bewildering, especially the open gate.
Lavery didn’t trust it either, but he thought it best to remain silent, appear strong with a healthy fortitude. He figured you needed those intangibles if you were going to lead an army of the dead.
Huh, he thought, gobsmacked by a sudden question he felt he should have asked a long time ago. Why did he need to take on the responsibility of leading the dead? Sure, he was the only one who could retrieve the phylactery and the crown inside, but after coming into possession of it, anyone could wear the crown. Even Baern.
He would have asked the old man this question—fiercely too, because he felt that he was being lied to, or at least tricked—but he found both Baern and Laythe had gotten far ahead of him. They were almost off the hill.
As he went to catch up, a hand on his shoulder pulled him back.
“Let them,” Elaya said.
“But—”
“He didn’t ask for you to come. He asked for Laythe. If there’s a trap, they will spring it.”
If that was meant to provide him with reassurance, it did not. “If it’s a trap, they’ll die.” He jerked away from her grip, but she wrapped her gloved fingers around his arm, stilling him there.
“You’re staying with me, Lavery. Like it or not.” She readjusted his crown so it fit more snug.
He did not like it. Not one bit. He huffed, eyed Elaya reproachfully, and huffed again. That seemed to have exhausted his options at the moment, sadly. He wondered what Baern and Laythe were saying down there. He could see their heads turning, hands talking.
The Dragon Thief (Sorcery and Sin Book 1) Page 35
