Be'Var remembered something Caymus had said earlier. "You said the word 'Mrowvain' means 'Fire-Killer', didn't you, that he was some kind of assassin?"
Caymus nodded. "Essentially, yes. There are others out there, too: the water-killer, the air-killer, and the earth-killer. There would probably be more if there were other elements to get rid of in the Quatrain."
"Now that he's gone," said Be'Var, rolling the idea around in his head, "will they choose another fire-killer, a new Mrowvain?"
Caymus shrugged, his eyes closing. "Probably," he said. "I don't know for sure."
Be'Var thought back to the dark figure that they'd picked up on the road to Kepren. He still held no small amount of disgust for himself for not realizing sooner than the man was an agent of their enemy.
"I got them killed, Be'Var," Caymus said. "The two Grants, Cyrus, Harrison, Mally..." He looked up to catch Be'Var's eyes. "You'd have liked Amalwyn. He was a decent man: honest, forthright." He dropped his head to his hands again, letting out a huge sigh. "It was when the chieftain felt my presence out there that the dying started, but I got them all killed the moment I insisted I come with them."
Be'Var had never seen Caymus look so miserable. He hadn't known any of these men himself, but it was obvious that Caymus had discovered some kind of bond with them in the couple of days they'd traveled together. "You didn't know, Caymus," he said. "How could you?"
"I'm supposed to be this powerful warrior," Caymus said, now standing to his full height and looking out into the darkness with angry eyes. "I'm supposed to be able to protect people! How am I supposed to protect a whole city when I couldn't even keep a handful of my friends safe?"
Be'Var had had enough of this. "Protect?" he said, his voice rising in volume and intensity. "You think you're supposed to protect us?"
"Of course I am," Caymus said, still looking away.
"You are not!" Be'Var almost yelled.
The intensity broke whatever mood it was that Caymus had been sliding into and he looked, surprised, back at his old master.
"Let me tell you something, Caymus," Be'Var said, using as level a tone as he could muster. "There's a reason that you're not carrying a shield right now, that you're wielding this—" he motioned at the blade, "—this building of a sword. There's a reason that you're bigger than any man has a right to be and that you've learned how to hold onto a burning length of steel without getting singed."
He could see he had Caymus's attention. The orange eyes were becoming speckled with red.
"Stone protects," Be'Var said, "or maybe earth can soften a blow. Water soothes. Air can whisk away." He reached out and put a hand to Caymus's forearm. "You are not these elements, boy. You are fire!" He said that last from between clenched teeth. "And fire burns."
He could see it in Caymus's eyes now: the rage, the love, the passion, all the things that should fill the heart of a warrior of the Conflagration.
"In the morning," Be'Var said, taking his hand away, "you don't worry about protecting us. You don't worry about keeping this city, or its people, in once piece. You only worry about doing your job and burning those bastards to cinders." He lifted his chin. "Got it?"
Caymus closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, some of the intensity was gone. In its place was pure determination, evidence of a clear sense of purpose. Be'Var nearly stumbled backward; he had never seen the like of it.
"Got it," Caymus said. He smiled, warmly. "Thank you, Master Be'Var."
Be'Var gave him a curt nod. "You're welcome." He noticed that a large number of voices seemed to be gathering nearby, and he stepped out of the shadows to see several hundred men, as well as a number of women and children, gathered in the engineers' marshaling yard. Had an hour passed already? "It looks like you've got quite an audience tonight," he said, turning to Caymus, "Sir Knight."
Caymus smiled. "I'd better get on with it, then."
Be'Var put a hand out, stopping Caymus as he walked by. "Tell me something, Caymus: do you have an actual plan after this?"
Caymus looked out at the gathered people as he spoke. "I know something about carpentry," he said, "so I'm going to help with some of the fortifications tonight. After that, I could really use some sleep."
"And in the morning?"
"I suppose I'll do what I'm good at."
"Add to the general confusion?"
Caymus smiled. "That sounds like a good plan.
CHAPTER 21
"My father died this morning."
Garrin watched Be'Var turn toward him slightly in acknowledgment of the words. He thought the old man might be about to offer some manner of solace, but the fire-master didn’t seem particularly moved by the news. “I heard,” he said, then turned away. “Were you there?”
Garrin took a deep breath as the memory of it surfaced. Only a few hours after he’d regained consciousness, before the sun had even crested the horizon, word had reached him that his father was having convulsions, some sort of fit. He’d come as soon as he'd been able to rise, of course, but there hadn’t been anything he could do. The king’s mind had given up years ago; this morning, apparently, it had been his body’s turn.
“I was,” he said. “He didn’t last but a few minutes after I got there.”
Be’Var nodded solemnly as a stiff breeze grabbed the fabric of his cloak, whipping it up to his shoulders. “He waited for you, then?”
Garrin had wondered the same thing. Had his father, who had managed to recognize his own son only a few times in the past year, actually hung on to life long enough for him to say goodbye? The thought of it brought up conflicting feelings. On the one hand, his father might actually have remembered him at the end. On the other, Garrin wouldn’t have wished him all those extra long hours of suffering, even if it meant getting the chance to let him go.
“I don’t know,” he finally said, then he turned his gaze out over the city before them.
The two men stood atop the White Spire, the highest point in the Keep, and also in the city. It had been built centuries ago, before the city of Kepren had grown to include the Grass District, as a lookout point. Standing just a handful of yards taller than any other structure in Kepren, it allowed fair warning to be given, should the armies of Mael’vek suddenly amass to the South. Garrin had never imagined he’d be watching an army approaching from the North from up here
Standing behind the two men—very nearby, as the spire's top was only a couple of yards in diameter—were three boys, not yet old enough to be soldiers, who would serve as runners today, carrying messages from this, the highest authority of the Royal Army of Kepren, to the various commanders down below. The boys had all been trained how to wait patiently for orders, but they were unable to keep still. They could see the encroaching army as well as Garrin could.
Be’Var grunted. “Long live the king, then.”
Garrin winced and touched his recently closed wound again. He had enough to worry about today without Be’Var grunting at him. “You’re in a mood today, Master Be’Var.”
“I am,” Be’Var said. He looked down at the city below. “I should be down there, tending to the wounded we’re going to have today.”
“You know I need you here, Be’Var,” Garrin said.
Be’Var spun on him. Garrin had never seen him so angry. “Only because you won’t stay in bed and might tear another artery open!” he said in a livid whisper. “You have a man down there who is perfectly capable of leading the defense of this city today. You need to let him do it!”
Garrin inhaled sharply, grimacing at the tightness that the breath caused in his gut. Shortly after his father had passed, he’d briefly met with the Keep-Marshal, the dukes, and several captains regarding the best way to defend the city. At some point during the meeting—he didn't know when, exactly—he’d managed to undo some of Be’Var’s work, and his wound had begun bleeding again, rather heavily.
He knew he’d been lucky that Be’Var had actually been in the Keep at the time.
“I know you don’t approve of my decision, Be’Var,” he said. In fact, he completely understood why the old man was upset and so kept his voice gentle. “But it’s made.” He gave the master a knowing look. “You don’t have to stay, you know. You could just leave me here.”
Another deep grunt rose from Be’Var’s throat, and he turned back to the North, casting his eyes upon the black mass outside the walls. “I have half a mind to,” he said. “Your Majesty.”
Garrin allowed himself a smile at that. Be’Var was frustrated, just like everyone else, but he would stay. The old healer would keep him on his feet and in command of his army. He had to stay on his feet, if only long enough to see the day through.
The dark stain of Black Moon was just outside the northern gate now, collecting around the portal. Everything seemed so quiet, in stark contrast to what his eyes were telling him. Garrin had been told there were between two and three thousand men at the core of that army now, but they looked to be so many more. Somewhere in that mass, also, were the krealite creatures, those huge, many-legged insect things that had seemed so indestructible the last time they had appeared.
Somewhere, too, was their leader. According to Be’Var, Caymus had called him their chieftain. It had apparently been he that had been able to sense their trap in the pass a few days ago, and who had sent the bulk of an invading army after eight men. Garrin suspected the man—the monster, probably—was even more dangerous than he'd already imagined, and he wondered what other tricks a Black Moon chieftain might have in store for the defenders today.
“You still think that sludge Rill made is going to do the trick?” he asked.
Be’Var nodded. “I took another look at it last night. I’m sure.” He pinched his face slightly. “I just hope that, between the traps and the bombs, we end up having enough of it.”
***
Caymus could feel his heart racing, crashing like thunder in his chest, as it rushed blood through his veins. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The back of his neck was telling him that Black Moon's main force was collecting just on the other side of the North Gate. The bulk of the army would be massed shortly, then the inevitable attack would come. A large part of him wished they'd just get on with it. The waiting, the anticipation, was driving him mad.
Still, wait he did, crouched alongside three of Kepren's royal soldiers, behind one of the barricades that had so recently been erected a dozen or so yards inside the gate. He didn't like these barricades, didn't like what they meant for the soldiers beside him. They were positioned in such a way so as to coax the enemy to take the easy path down King Street, to force the dark soldiers to pool in a few selected courtyards and junctions, the idea being to gather the near-invincible warriors as densely as possible so that the fire-sludge could take out as many of them as could be had with each strike. Caymus knew the plan was a good one, that it should be effective; he also knew that there would be a cost to trying to control Black Moon in such a way, and that the cost would be measured in the lives of the men he now waited with.
Nearly a hundred soldiers were currently arrayed around Caymus. Some were quiet, but many of the more experienced men were talking quietly, some even finding opportunities to laugh, on occasion. Caymus wondered at those men in particular, those who were so used to war and violence that they could just carry on as though a force of killers wasn't standing just outside the doors. The low hum of voices was soothing though, undoing some of the tension that otherwise filled the air.
The man next to him, Carlson, was still. His steady hands, which were working a small whetstone against the blade of a boot knife, revealed that his stillness was the result of patience, rather than paralyzing fear. Caymus admired the man's calm. The two of them had met the previous night, and had gotten to talking after Caymus had given his brief demonstration on how to fight a krealite. The man's inability to be rattled had shone through even then.
The presentation itself hadn't gone as well as Caymus had hoped. Not having an actual krealite body to demonstrate on had meant that he'd only been able to mime the 'set and push' technique and give a few pointers on the footwork that was likely to get a man to the point that he could use the strategy. Most of the soldiers, young men who had more ambition than sense, hadn't thought much of his effort. Carlson, a soldier in his forties, had asked questions afterward, having known what wisdom in battle looked like when he saw it.
"Don't worry about it," Carlson said, his words snapping Caymus back to the present. The soldier's thin, graying mustache rose with his grin when Caymus looked at him. "The attack's going to come, eventually. No sense in trying to will them to hurry it along. You'll just frustrate yourself."
Caymus nodded, smiled, and turned back to the gate. Carlson was right, of course; he needed to be more patient. He realized he was tapping his foot, and stilled it. He chuckled to himself. The foot was probably what had prompted the sudden bout of good advice.
He looked to his left at the other two soldiers who were hunkered behind the barricade with him. He didn't know their names. He realized, too, when he looked at the insignias on their arms, that he didn't even know how to properly address them by rank. The organization of Kepren's military was something he was going to have to pay better attention to. He'd have to ask Carlson about it...if they both lived through this.
The two soldiers were perhaps a few years older then he, and the tightness in their jaws signified they were just as tense. He tried to think of something encouraging to say, but nothing particularly useful came to mind. He just hoped the one furthest from him didn't panic; he was the one in charge of the fuse.
Caymus had hardly managed to get any sleep at all the previous night. He blamed nobody but himself for that. He'd done as he'd said he would, having helped with the formation of this particular barricade after the demonstration, but the construction hadn't taken all that long, and he'd found himself with more time to spare than he'd expected. Rather than sleep, though, he'd spent most of the night wandering the deserted streets of Kepren, feeling the silence of the streets, the calm before the storm. He'd barely spent any time in this city at all—not awake, at any rate—but it somehow felt like home to him. Perhaps that was because so many of his friends were here. Perhaps it was because he was now so irrevocably committed to destroying the army that was coming to claim it.
Perhaps it was because he now wielded what had once been the sword of the Champion-Protector of Kepren, and that fact made him feel intimately responsible for the city's defense.
He hoped he was ready. He'd never been in a fight like this before.
When the steady hum of voices suddenly turned to silence, Caymus knew the moment was upon them. He tensed his body, gripped his sword in both hands, and waited. When the first, huge clattering sound came, signifying that Black Moon was attempting to bring down the gate, he made sure to turn his face away. The engineers had stripped the gate of most of its supports the previous day, so the process of knocking it down wasn't expected to take very long, and he didn't want to get any dust or wood splinters in his eyes when the massive doors fell.
Captain Draya's boys, it turned out, had been as good as their word. The gate's structure had been weakened to the point that Black Moon only had to hit it one more time to gain entry into the city. One of the massive wooden structures fell off its hinges and hit the ground with a loud slap that blew a thick wall of air past the barricade. A roar erupted from the invaders, the sound of a thousand voices raised in triumph. When Caymus stood, turned to look, he saw that Black Moon was coming in force. The void left by the gate was wide, wide enough that six or seven men at a time could push their way through at once. The sheer volume of dark ar
mor and ashen faces mixed with bloodied swords and axes was astounding, and more than a little terrifying.
Kepren's first strike would be an important one: it needed to catch the enemy by surprise, to throw them off-balance so that the defenders might start the battle with a favorable morale, and so Caymus held still, kept his composure, and waited for the strike to come. He didn't see the soldier with the spark-striker do his work, but he knew when he had done it, heard the whoosh of the graysilt fuse as it carried the small, spark-laden flame across the street and up the northern wall. Again, he turned his face away, preparing for the explosion of stone and fire that would follow.
But the explosion didn't come.
When he turned around again, everything seemed to be going wrong at once. He saw the astonished faces of soldiers who had been expecting the same explosion he'd been waiting for. He saw the oncoming storm of Black Moon blades, and, behind them, he saw a remainder of unburned graysilt fuse hanging down the inside of the wall. He didn't know what had gone wrong, only that the fuse hadn't carried the flame all the way to the fire-sludge.
The realization struck Caymus in the same moment that the tide of Black Moon soldiers washed up against his fortification. The men on either side of him stood with their pikes at the ready, using them to try to hold back the ashen-skinned warriors, to prevent them from engulfing their defenses. But Caymus could see that the attackers were already making too much progress. Unless something was done about the fuse, and quickly, the barricades would very quickly be overrun.
Caymus looked at the pike at his feet and then back at the hanging fuse. He had only the briefest of moments to decide what to do. Cursing fate for forcing the responsibility of that moment upon him, he ducked down behind the barricade, closed his eyes, and reached out with what he could muster of his concentration. The fuse was dozens of yards away from him. He'd never tried to manipulate anything so far away before—he couldn't even see the fuse from here—but he believed he could do it, could set the fuse alight, from where he was.
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