by Brian Fuller
“You have fulfilled your end of the bargain,” Gen said. “Once we are finished here, I can use my blood to destroy you. I have the essence of the Millim Eri flowing through my veins, and only one bleeding should be sufficient to end your life.”
Sir Tornus’s eyes bulged. “Did I mention that controlling my appetite isn’t one of my strong suits? When I see a delicious soul, I really just stick my fork right in it, so to speak.”
“Do be quiet, Tornus,” Joranne said acidly. “Why don’t you run off and keep watch? Mikkik may have left a surprise or two for anyone who might enter here.”
“I do believe I was to be the surprise,” Sir Tornus answered. “Very well. Do hurry.”
He wandered off toward the door muttering to himself. The Chalaine let Gen help her recline close to the great crack in the center of the floor. She squeezed his hand and felt a little lightheaded. From her previous experience, she knew the cuts would hurt, but even worse was watching her blood spill from her and feeling the warm, comfortable slipping away that brought her close to death. With Gen to watch over her, she felt more sure, but Joranne she could not trust despite her assertions of common purpose.
“Teach me the words of healing for blood magic,” Joranne said.
Gen complied and then reclined next the Chalaine, keeping a tight grip on her hand. He said, “She and I will bleed together. When we begin to get faint, use my blood to heal her, and then she will heal me. We cannot touch while we bleed, so the curse of this place will be upon us for a short while. You must watch closely, Joranne. Lose either one of us, and all is lost. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” Joranne said. “We must begin before I become too old for my eyes to be of any use.”
Gen reached down and removed the dagger from his boot. “I am sorry, Chalaine. I hoped there would be another way.”
“It must be done. Let’s get it over with.”
Gen cut her wrist and then his own. She flinched at the pain, sucking air through her teeth. Gen had long since accustomed himself to cuts and wounds and didn’t seem the least perturbed as he bled out onto the floor with her. The darkening and drying skin overtook them almost immediately when they no longer touched, the familiar ashen curse covering her as it once had when she fled in despair from Echo Hold.
Her blood spilled away from her onto the floor to drip down the sides of the chasm, Gen’s flowing the other way toward the watchful Joranne. Just as the woozy sleepiness took her into her own mind, she was healed, and she reached out to Gen immediately, their strength and skin returning to health.
They rested for a few moments before Joranne prodded them onward. “Six more times.”
Time after time they bled, each time the summer sun sinking lower and the room dimming. Joranne aged with every passing minute, her hair grayer every time the Chalaine woke from being healed. Blood slicked the floor in both directions, fanning away from both of them as they endured the awful cutting for the last time.
The last time!
The Chalaine’s heart leapt with hope. The task was nearly done, and the pain and weakness would end forever. As her life force slipped from her after the seventh cut, she fell into one of her favorite daydreams of living with Gen in Blackshire. They walked among the woods and rivers hand in hand, evening sunlight streaming down as they swam naked in forest pools and laughed around a campfire in the moonlight.
And then she awoke, healed and staring through the broken ceiling into the sky. The smoke and dust in the air from the night of fire cast the sunset into a vibrant orange and blue, ragged clouds taking up the rich colors as they sped past above her. She smiled and turned, reaching out to heal Gen. His blood still flowed away from him, and she was alarmed at how pale he seemed. A foot smashed her hand to the ground and she yelped.
“Not so quickly, dear,” Joranne said.
CHAPTER 87 – PUSH
Evening had fallen, but the cool breeze and soft shadows brought no relief from the toil of war. Gerand and ten of his knights waited astride their horses in an alley close the the Quickblade Inn. After the fight with Sethra Dhron, his contingent of men had the only intact cavalry left, owing to Maewen’s advice to hide the horses until the birds were vanquished. His heroics in slaying the Dhron had earned him respect and renown from the men under his command, although it had also left him with a shield arm that ached terribly. With magic healing an impossibility, he had to rely on Maewen’s ministrations. Herbs and poultices, while welcome, took time, and time was not on their side.
Once Sethra Dhron had been defeated, the surge of hope and enthusiasm among the armies defending Mikmir lasted a short two hours until Mikkik’s host poured into the city. Heavy arrows fell from deadly Archers, and the armored Gagons pounded down the gates like they were made of rotten wood instead of reinforced oak. Uyumaak sprinted and leaped and marched into the city in droves, and brutal fighting spilled from street to street.
Despite the heavy bloodshed, pride and purpose remained firm until Ghama Dhron made an unwelcome appearance. The memory still chilled Gerand’s spine. It came in the shape of a giant man, snakes coalescing to form a chest, legs, arms, and even a wicked head, all of it constantly slithering and slipping about, its constant angry hiss a poison to the ears.
What archers dared stick their heads above the walls shot arrows into the roiling mass, only rewarded by single snakes dropping away from the main body. But as Ghama Dhron approached the walls, the man shape simply fell apart, the vipers scattering in every direction among the ranks of soldiers, biting horses and legs, the venom of such potency that death claimed its victims with alarming speed. Bodies blackened everywhere, dark lumps in the dimming street.
While Gerand wished he could repeat the same trick he had pulled with Sethra Dhron, the slithering chaos of serpents made it impossible to find the body that hosted the spirit. His men had nothing but the force of arms to butcher the snakes one at a time as they darted about with uncanny speed, sinking fangs into their prey and then fleeing to hide in nooks and crannies to await another victim. Gerand had lost nearly twenty men and six horses to the serpents, but as the day wore on, they encountered them less frequently, and he hoped they had at last killed enough to consider Ghama Dhron vanquished.
Fires burned throughout the city, the thick smoke adding to the already hazy sky. Every intake of breath tasted acrid, and the entire company reeked of fire and sweat. Their enemies had pushed them back to the castle wall of Mikmir in one day, and Gerand feared the city would fall before the sun rose the next morning. General Harband had ordered one last assault before nightfall to try to push their enemies back to the outer wall, but Gerand thought the real reason was to buy them time to get inside the castle to prepare for a night of anguish and hard fighting.
Nothing they had done all day seemed to dent the ferocity or capability of their foe. However many they killed, more simply poured through the ruined gates, and the enemy never retreated or rested, exerting a constant pressure that Rhugoth’s forces could hardly match, despite the advantages afforded them by the city.
A trill whistle rang through the air. Maewen’s signal. Gerand raised his hand and his knights readied themselves. Out on the street, his foot soldiers were drawing a contingent of Uyumaak toward a killing field of their choosing. It was the first offensive strategy they had attempted since the battle began, and Gerand was determined to make it count. Archers poised at the ready on nearby roofs and his cavalry were secreted with him in the alleys at the top of the hill. His footmen served as unfortunate but necessary bait. They would draw the Uyumaak to the street, the archers would let loose, and then the cavalry would charge down the hill and decimate them from the rear. The half-elf’s whistle meant the footmen were within a quarter mile, and—if they obeyed orders—were in a fighting retreat.
A second whistle, but too soon. A fighting retreat should have taken longer. In a few moments, he could hear his men yelling and the thumping of Uyumaak drums, but the expected clash of weapons and yelled
orders from his captains were conspicuously missing. This was not a fighting retreat or an orderly one; his men were running for their lives. After a few moments more he knew why. The very stones beneath their feet shook with its coming.
A Gagon.
“Gagon,” Gerand said, though he felt his announcement was unnecessary. “Switch to spears.”
The third signal. His men had rounded the corner. The Uyumaak would be charging up behind. His men readied their weapons as the first of the bowmen began to loose their barrage, the pounding of the Gagon’s feet close. When the fourth whistle came, Gerand hefted his heavy spear and tore out of the alley with a mighty yell. The other line of cavalry galloped out of an alley on the opposite side, and in two columns they descended the hill.
So few! Gerand thought as he surveyed the scene. Not even half of his footmen had survived the ruse. As they ran to escape their pursuers, the footmen darted to the side to allow room for the horses to do their work. As Gerand had intended, the Uyumaak had pooled at the bottom of the hill. Only the Uyumaak Warriors continued their pursuit of the fliers. The Bashers had stopped, hastily forming a line in preparation to cut down the horses with their wicked battle axes. The Gagon bringing up the rear had turned about, arrows from the archers protruding from its back while it used its massive club to beat at the buildings from which the archers shot. The Uyumaak Archers returned in kind, their deadly aim thinning Gerand’s men at an alarming rate.
An Uyumaak Warrior raised its club and Gerand took it on the shield as he flew past. The shock and pain of his injured arm watered his eyes in agony. The Basher ahead of him raised its ax to strike his horse’s legs, but one of Maewen’s arrows punched into its face through the tiny visor in its helmet and it fell. Gerand shot through the gap and knocked down an Uyumaak Archer before unleashing his heavy spear toward the raging Gagon which was stomping about twenty feet ahead. The spear flew true, sticking the Gagon at the base of the neck between its helmet and back armor. It collapsed without a twitch to the street, limbs flaccid and body crushing the unfortunate Uyumaak nearby. The rest of the knights unleashed their spears at the Uyumaak Archers and Bashers, felling enough to allow Gerand’s archers to resume their work. Sword drawn, Gerand rallied his foot soldiers and knights to him, and in minutes they had butchered every Uyumaak in the street.
Wincing, Gerand dismounted as Maewen left her perch at the top of the hill and ran to him.
“Well done, Lord Kildan,” she complimented. “You are earning a name for yourself today.”
“It cost too many men,” he lamented. “We won this battle, but paid a heavy price. Would you mind helping me unbuckle this shield? I’m afraid I haven’t had time to find a squire yet.”
“How is your arm?” she asked as she carefully lifted his shield and undid the inner buckle.
He sucked air through his teeth at the painful movement. “It’s worthless. I can’t lift the shield anymore. I’ll be better without it, though if another Sethra Dhron shows up, I may ask for it back. Knight Captain Gremaine! Get everyone together and let’s see what we have left for the push.”
Maewen handed the shield to one of the nearby foot soldiers and probed Gerand’s arm, shaking her head. “You’ve broken it. Try not to move it too much.”
“I think an Uyumaak Warrior broke it for me when I came down the hill.”
“I think you broke it yourself when you jumped off the wall like a madman.”
Gerand smirked. “This from the person who took Gen along for a little suicide run on an Uyumaak unit.”
Maewen leaned on her bow. “I didn’t say I disapprove of what you did. After all, the brave are merely the stupid who live through their poor decisions. I just hope we can live long enough to tell Lord Mikmir about your exploits.”
“I wish Lord Mikmir would arrive,” Gerand said. “I have every confidence in General Harband, but somehow I think our mutual friend would have done better at the defense of the city.”
“I agree.”
At last his men had gathered, and Gerand had to stifle a frown and put on a proud face instead. He had lost nearly half his men in less than a day of fighting, and the ones that remained were bloody, beaten, and exhausted. They had one more battle to fight before night completely fell, and Gerand sought the words to tease a flame from what embers remained of their enthusiasm.
He raised his good arm for silence. “Well done!” he yelled. “Well done! I am fortunate to have the bravest and the best of men under my command. We have sacrificed dearly this day for a good cause, but we have made the enemy pay for every inch forward. I could ask for no finer men in this dark hour than the ones that stand bruised and bleeding before me. I am honored to call you countrymen, and no man can fault our valor and skill at arms this day.
“Now, our half-elf friend tells me that I have broken my shield arm and can no longer protect myself. My arm may be broken, but my spirit is not. When the trumpet sounds, I will ride this horse and I will take my sword and cut the enemy back to the gates of this city. . .”
As he said the words, the trumpet sounded, but not for attack. It sounded for retreat.
Things are worse than even I thought.
“We are being called within the gates!” he announced. “Let’s go with all speed and see what deeds of valor await us this night. Cavalry, to the back! Form on me! Foot soldiers, walk at the head!”
They traversed the wrack of the streets with the best speed they could, bodies of monsters and men littering every thoroughfare and alley in all directions. They met up with the main column of men streaming uphill toward the main gates, a ragged collection of the weary, wounded, and fearful shuffling eagerly toward the greater protection of the main wall.
Rhughoth has enjoyed uncontested peace for so long they have forgotten the rigors of war, Gerand mused. While his soldiers fared little better, the war with Aughmere at least had ensured him veteran fighters in his ranks. They merged in with the stream, several looking on the mounted knights with jealousy. Mikkik’s minions had taken a heavy toll on the horses in the city, and the loss of that advantage was felt keenly.
They rode in silence through the deep archway of the massive stone walls, their sturdy construction and imposing height inspiring some comfort. Even the most colorful imagination would find difficulty conjuring up an enemy that could breach such a fortification, but Mikkik, so far, had proven his genius at finding ways to overcome every device they had to defeat him. Only now could the soldiers who had served at Echo Hold appreciate the deceptive joke Mikkik had played on them during their carefree days of archery practice against the hapless Uyumaak streaming up the road to be slaughtered.
In the waning stages of twilight they emerged into the courtyard, the thick press of men rendering the immense space cramped and noisy. A Captain of Rhugoth unhelpfully ordered them to “find a spot” to encamp and to have the healthiest half of his men to report to the base of the walls. This duty done, Gerand found Maewen and made their way toward a pavilion set up in front of the Great Hall where the Generals consulted together, all looking as ragged their men. Even the steely-eyed, half mad General Harband appeared spent. Three of Tolnor’s Dukes were among the party, and they perked up a little as Gerand and Maewen joined them.
“How are you, lad?” General Harband inquired as they approached the table.
“Lad?” Duke Greenwall protested. “This is Duke Kildan, and you should render him the respect he is due!”
“Be at ease, Milord,” Gerand said. “He and I need not stand on ceremony. What is our situation?”
“Dire!” General Harband reported. “We have had no answer for this kind of a war! No one’s fought an army of this magnitude and composition in two hundred years! We paid for our naiveté today.”
“We should have abandoned the city and fought them from here, behind the walls,” General Torunne opined. “We thought we would have the advantage in the streets—but birds with dagger sharp beaks? Poisonous vipers? Gagons at every turn?”
> “How many men have we lost?” Gerand asked, fearing the answer.
“It’s hard to say,” General Harband replied, rubbing his thin goatee. “At least a third are dead. Only about half of what remain are in fighting condition. Let’s just hope the walls are enough to buy us some time to heal and wait for Aughmere or Lord Mikmir to show up with reinforcements. I thought we would hold the city for days, not hours.”
“We’ll hold this wall forever,” General Torunne stated confidently. We’ve got ballistae for the damned Gagon, and they would grind their battering ram to powder on the gates. We’ll hold.”
“Where do you want me?” Gerand asked.
“He should rest,” Maewen piped in. “He has a broken arm.”
Gerand shook his head. “I can still lead and swing a sword. Put me on the wall somewhere.”
“Go there now and take the southern side,” Harband commanded, “but when the fighting starts, I’ll pull you down to rest and bring you in reserve if needed. I know your mettle, boy, but trying to mount a wall defense with a broken arm will get you killed. Don’t worry, I’ll be there to beat them back. Besides, defeating that cursed flock of birds has earned you a pass.”
Gerand bowed and left, striding through the makeshift camps with Maewen in tow. He didn’t want a pass!
“I’m sorry if I put you in a bad light in front of your peers,” she apologized, “but they are right. You cannot lead a defense along the wall as wounded as you are.”
Gerand gritted his teeth. He could not afford an injury! “Do you have any of that pain draught that you gave to the Chalaine when she broke her wrist?”
“No, but if I could borrow a fire and a pot, I could brew it.”
“It would help.”
Maewen left, and Gerand ascended the steps to the south wall, relieving a General Forswright of Rhugoth. The men on the walls were Rhugothian and fresh, having been stationed inside the protective fort for the duration of the battle. They wore the blue capes and silver breastplates of the Castle Guard, and although clean and rested, their faces registered the same sober worry as the men who had passed through the now-sealed gates.
