“We have killed almost a dozen of them, Khorsk. There cannot be many of them left. Send in the converts first.”
“The Mhajhkaeirii?” the Veteran Brother’s broad face showed clearly how little he thought of the fighting skill of the proselytes.
“Aye, it is time they demonstrated their devotion to the Duty. They can shield our Salients from the crossbows if nothing else. Follow with the remainder of the Second. Bring up the other brethren of our own team as well. We will stiffen the assault and crush these corsairs once and for all."
“You should not put yourself at risk, brother,” Khorsk contradicted, frowning. “If you become a casualty, our mission may be jeopardized. Perhaps it is time to send for Brother Zhel.”
Eu shook his head. “Not yet. I was instructed to withhold his magic lest the apostate appear. I will not fall, brother. Now, go down and order the Mhajhkaeirii up.”
Khorsk hunched his head in a slight bow and then extended his hand. “The Work.”
Eu clasped Khorsk’s forearm, wrist to wrist, and locked eyes with the Veteran. “The Duty.”
Khorsk released his arm without another word and scrambled down the stairs, the last passage of the catechism left purposely unsaid. Thus was made the warrior pact of the Salient Order.
If they both lived through the next assault, then they would clasp hands again and complete the ritual. If only one survived, then that one would be bound to speak the final phrase over the grave of the other, releasing his comrade’s spirit to the comfort of the Great Phaelle. If neither lived, then their spirits would be condemned to tarry on the physical aspect forever, banished from the paradise of the magical aspect.
The Salient covenant was not simply Victory or Death! It was Victory or Eternal Damnation!
THIRTY
Mhiskva cast a practiced eye over his men, checking their equipment while he spoke to Berhl.
“Has their been any success raising the drawbridge?”
“No, sir. The pivots are solidly rusted together and there are no lengths of chain in the Keep large enough to support the weight.”
Mar had learned from their discussion that no one had raised the Old Keep’s long drawbridge in half a century. The huge chains had gone missing not long after its last use and the intricate iron mechanism had been allowed to corrode into uselessness.
“Keep trying. Plat some ropes into cables if nothing else. Perhaps we can lay fifty men to a line and break it free.”
Berhl looked dubious but nodded his head.
“Did you ask Vice-Captain Evfesch about High-Captain Orhlum?” Mhiskva continued, finishing his inspection and turning his full attention to the fugleman.
“Aye, sir. He said the High-Captain should have arrived by now. He and a couple of guards stayed behind to destroy his brigade’s muster lists and pay records.”
The captain frowned. “If High-Captain Orhlum arrives, then he is to take command, otherwise, brief Commander Lhervhes when the last troop of the Defenders comes in. Until then, lock the keep down. Post watches all along the outer wall. Keep all the men in armor and under arms.”
“Aye, sir. You expect more assassins?”
“I do not know what to expect. Be ready for anything.
“Aye, sir.” Berhl repeated, saluting, and then stepped quickly over to Mar. “Let me help you with that, sir.” The marine circled around behind the younger man and began to adjust a strap.
Mar rolled his shoulders broadly as Berhl tugged, stretching his arms in the baggy chain sleeves. Mhiskva, with Berhl’s and Ulor’s wholehearted agreement, had insisted that Mar wear one of the marine style leather brigandines over a chain shirt. He had never worn armor before and the constricting weight was oppressively uncomfortable.
“This won’t stop the Phaelle’n green lances, you know,” Mar told the big captain, regretting still his decision to acquiesce to the Mhajhkaeirii’s demand. “That’ll punch right through this.”
“True,” Mhiskva agreed, “but it will offer protection from mundane weapons, and if nothing else it will make you harder to spot from a distance. With a helmet, you would look just like one of my men.”
“Now, that’s a thought,” Berhl chipped in. “Phehlahm, fetch the High-Captain a helmet.” The fugleman swung his head about and then pointed to one of the men waiting to raise the portcullis. “There, Hryen, you’d be the same size as the High Captain. Off with your helmet. That’s a good man.”
Hryen, grinning, swept off his helmet, which was in the standard Mhajhkaeirii’n style -- cross-shaped nose guard, flattened conical dome, and hinged cheek guards -- and tossed it to Phehlahm. The young marine, who had appeared somewhat stunned after the Phaelle’n attack but seemed to have recovered his composure completely, presented it to Mar with a flourish.
Mar frowned. “I think I’ll pass on the helmet.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Mhiskva acceded. “But it is clear now that your bare head will mark you and it will be necessary to assign men to shield you as we march to the Palace.”
“I’ll shield the High-Captain,” Phehlahm volunteered immediately.
“I’ll do it,” Ulor countered steadfastly. “It’s my task.”
Several of the other marines of Mhiskva’s scout group, assembled about them in the barbican gatehouse tunnel, were close enough to overhear the conversation and immediately crowded forward with similar offers of sacrifice. Several had ridden to safety in the solarium.
Knowing full well that the Mhajhkaeirii marine officer had adroitly manipulated him, Mar shot the big captain a sour look. “Alright, give me the helmet.”
Mhiskva smiled. “Thank you, my lord.” As Mar settled the helmet on his head, grateful to discover a quilted padding within, the captain gestured the men of the scout group into a tight circle.
All were hardened, heavy men with thick shoulders and steady eyes. The majority were obviously veterans, not young with the exceptions of Phehlahm and one of the legionnaires. Their armor was scarred, not only from recent battles, and their weapons well worn. The swordsmen, about a dozen and a half, were all marines of Mhiskva’s troop. The crossbowmen, two quads, were legionnaires of the Defenders, and were mainly unfamiliar to him. These last wore heavier armor than the marines, including steel breastplates, thigh and shin guards, and pot helmets with chain neck skirting. Their cloaks, though the same sea blue as the marine’s, sported a small stylized device of a leaping hound on the right trailing corner.
“We are going to assemble in four by six order and march directly to the Palace,” Mhiskva told them. “We will hold to a fast road march pace, which Fugleman Ulor will set. Our route will be as follows -- east from here along the Moat Road and then north up the Transverse March. I require each man to maintain a tight formation. We will not stop for any reason. The roads should be clear, but if we encounter any crowds or blockages, we will bypass them or force our way through. Any man that falls behind will be left behind. Understood?”
The marines and legionnaires responded as a group, “Aye, sir!”
Mhiskva turned politely to Mar. “My lord Magician, if you would remain in the front rank nearest Ulor and myself, I would be most appreciative.”
Mar nodded, finding his place between Ulor and Phehlahm as the group shifted into ranks. Moments later, the captain raised his hand and Hryen and his mates laid into the winch wheels. As soon as the portcullis had ratcheted up into its alcove, Ulor growled a command and the group, with Mhiskva leading the way, started forward across the drawbridge. The worn, blackened timbers of the narrow span reverberated with the synchronized tramp of the armsmen’s boots. The sound echoed flatly from the rock-overlaid floor of the moat two manheight below.
At first, Mar struggled to match the marines’ stride, which was just short of a run, and had to concentrate on staying in rank. He bumped shoulders with Phehlahm on his left and then, as he swerved to adjust, almost collided with Ulor on his right. Within a dozen paces, however, he learned the steady rhythm and, by the time they reac
hed the sentry blockhouses at the foot of the drawbridge, felt confident that he could hold his place.
The guards at the blockhouses braced in salute as Mhiskva passed, but the captain did not slow, rolling left onto the Moat Road. The center of the broad brick paved way was clear, kept so by frequent patrols from the Old Keep, but camps of family groups, mostly women and younger children, some with tents or awnings, but most with no more than pallets, occupied the promenades to either side. As everywhere in the Citadel, the porches and balconies of the commandeered villas and apartments were lined with refugees.
Mar knew the route. It was the same, in reverse, that he, Berhl, Ulor, Drev, and Phehlahm had taken from the Palace to the Old Keep. This section of the Moat Road mirrored its namesake for a tenth of a league, curving in as the moat circled a round tower jutting from the barbican, doglegging out as it followed a flanking curtain wall, and bending back as the wall swung inward again. Nearly due east of the Old Keep, the road merged with the north-south oriented Transverse March and then separated again to continue around the keep to the northwest.
Broad and arrow straight, the Transverse had been constructed originally to move troops of defenders rapidly along the axis between the Citadel’s northern and southern gates. However, as with all of the Citadel, decades of unrelenting peace had encouraged the Mhajhkaeirii to erect various obstructions along the way – monuments, statues, fountains, reviewing stands, and interconnected plazas. Until the Phaelle’n attack, as Mar had guessed and Berhl had confirmed, the Transverse March’s main purpose had been to host parades and festivals.
Mhiskva veered right to take the Transverse northward, swerving around a particularly ostentatious hydraulically fed fountain where a crowd of women and girls were drawing water. Most of them did not bother to look up as the file passed. Beyond the fountain, the marine captain slowed as he negotiated a circuitous route around a decorative colonnade and a forest of larger than life-size statues.
Mar welcomed the slower pace, as he was already feeling the strain of the rapid march. His new armor added thirty weights that his muscles were unaccustomed to bearing, and this burden had tightened his legs and started a burn in his lungs. Also, his not quite fitting boots were raising blisters on his feet.
Abruptly, Mhiskva stopped. The marines and legionnaires halted with practiced precision as Ulor snapped a short command, but Mar, caught off guard, took an extra stride that left him forward out of line with the front rank. He started to step back between the fugleman and Phehlahm, but, prompted by curiosity, moved up instead beside the captain. Following the Mhajhkaeirii’s gaze, Mar looked toward a wide plaza about a hundred paces forward. He recognized the plaza as the intersection of the Transverse and the other main military road, the Transept.
People, of every description and in increasing numbers, were fleeing across the plaza from the east. There were many women dragging children but also a good number of men. Some of these were armsmen, but they moved singly and without direction, looking as if they were simply running away. Most of the people sped north or continued west, but a few turned south. A disturbance passed like a wave through the camps of refugees along the Transverse as questioning shouts followed the panicked flight.
Mhiskva leapt out quickly and snared the arm of the first man plunging down the way. The fellow, a middle-aged man in the light armor of the militia, had tried to bolt around the scout group when he caught sight of it. He was bareheaded and carried no weapon.
“Why are you not with your unit?” Mhiskva demanded.
The militiaman jerked back, trying to break free of the captain’s iron grip, but his efforts did not budge Mhiskva’s massive limb.
“Let go, you idiot!” the man screamed madly. ”I’ve got to get to my family!”
Mhiskva shook the man lightly until he stopped struggling. “Now, tell me, what has happened?”
“The Monks have been let in the East Gate! They’re killing everyone!”
“What do you mean, ‘let in?’” Mar questioned, alarmed.
The militiaman looked from the marine captain to Mar and apparently decided that the younger man would be more receptive to his pleas.
“The Stalwarts have turned!” the militiaman blurted, stress twisting his voice. “They’ve opened all three gates and the Monk’s legions are marching directly up the Transept! My family is in a house in Old Practice Field and you have to let me get to them!”
“What of Knight-Commander Zhelorthoz and the Corsairs?” Mhiskva persisted.
“I don’t know! I was with a patrol on the Upper Reach of the Tertiary. We barely made it out of the Dangling Tower. The Monks had already overrun the East Redoubt!” The militiaman began to shake, tears forming in his eyes. “I’ve got to get to my wife and children,” he pleaded.
“Let him go, Mhiskva.” Mar told the captain gruffly. “He won’t be able to tell us anything more.”
The big marine released the man’s arm immediately and the militiaman fled south, not looking back as he pelted headlong. It was only then that Mar realized that Mhiskva had taken his suggestion as a command.
Before Mar could correct this false impression, a woman strode up to confront the captain. She was not young and wore a finely cut gown soiled with sweat and dust that had obviously been slept in. Her once elegant coiffure had slumped into a tangled mass that bound haphazardly beneath a ripped piece of cloth.
“I am the wife of Chlavees, who is a factor of the Lhorghan Merchant Company,” she announced, attempting a hauteur that her current bedraggled state did not support. “What is happening here? Where are those people going? She gestured vaguely toward the growing flood of people fleeing the Phaelle’n advance. Already, nearby occupants of the temporary camps were snatching up bundles and infants, clearly frightened but unsure. Some of these drifted toward the scout group, seeking information.
Mhiskva stared down at the woman, not unkindly. “My lady, I suggest that you evacuate.”
The woman looked flustered, and as she spoke, her voice became progressively shrill. “Evacuate? What do you mean? This is the Citadel! We are safe here! We have to be safe here!”
Another woman, younger but with features similar enough to be a daughter, darted up and dragged the merchant’s wife away forcefully. As soon as she had gathered a boy and a smaller girl in tow, the younger woman started walking briskly north, pulling her agitated mother along relentlessly. Her example apparently made up the minds of those near by. In just seconds, a general migration began. The occupants of the buildings to either side began to spill into the roadway, drawn by the exodus.
“All of you!” Mhiskva called out. “Prepare to evacuate!”
“Where should we go, captain?” an elderly man shouted from the curb.
Mhiskva cut his eyes south, then shook his head. “West! Evacuate toward the West Redoubt!”
As if the captain’s words had set a fire behind them, the refugees surged out into the Transverse, mobbing the already congested way.
Mhiskva rotated to Ulor. “Take two quads and scout the east arm of the Transept. If you can get to the Armory above Berghaern Cross, barricade the building and take command of the men there. I am going to rally as many armsmen as I can and regroup there.”
Ulor saluted. “Bakhor, Whehfv, your quads with me! Let’s move!” The fugleman and his marines took off at a dead run, knifing through the thickening crowd.
Mar grabbed Mhiskva’s arm. “What are you going to do? If full legions are coming through the eastern gate, you won’t stop them with just a few men.”
The captain nodded, his lips tightening. “But I can slow them down until a counter attack can be organized. We cannot allow the Monks to take the crossroads. That would open the entire Citadel to their attack. My lord Magician, you should retire to the Old Keep. Take word to Berhl that he must –“
“No,” Mar countered. “Send one of your men to take word to Berhl. You can’t stop the Phaelle’n, but I can.”
The captain looked examin
ed Mar calmly then braced to make a precise salute. “Aye, my lord. What do you require?”
“Wood. Something – anything – big, but made of wood.”
THIRTY-ONE
Martial Director Lhevatr, reading from the latest message handed him, addressed the Conclave.
“The First Battlegroup, composed of the 6th , 13th, and 22nd Fraternal Legions with the conscript legion from Droahmaer in reserve, has successfully entered the Citadel by the Eastern Gate and has taken control of the fortress there. Resistance has been light and casualties minimal. Large numbers of prisoners have been taken. The 22nd with the 13th in support has begun a probe west along the major avenue and has reached objective number one. Scouts report the Mhajhkaeirii civilians fleeing west. No sign yet of a counterattack.”
Traeleon leaned forward to locate the indicated spot on the large map spread on the central table. “Objective number one is this intersection here?”
“Aye, Preeminence.”
“How accurate is this map?”
“As accurate as the Mhajhkaeirii can produce,” Brother Bhrucherra supplied. “We created this map from an original possessed by the Mhajhkaeirii Council of War and it is correct to scale as far as we have been able to determine.”
“Our covert brethren within the Citadel have confirmed distances on site, Preeminence,” Vice-Deacon Kleghaier added ingratiatingly.
Brother Kleghaier, a consummate political animal whom Traeleon knew had nevertheless failed election to full deacon on five separate occasions, represented the College of Promulgators in place of the temporarily banished Zheltraw. As it was clear that Kleghaier’s ambitions included the chair of the Archdeaconate, Traeleon himself had engineered Kleghaier’s last defeat and fully intended to continue to frustrate the aspiring brother’s advancement.
“Then our forces have penetrated only one hundred paces beyond the Redoubt?” Traeleon questioned. “This does not appear to be a significant gain.”
Key to Magic 02 Magician Page 16
