Wrath of the Usurper (The Eoriel Saga Book 2)

by Kal Spriggs

  “What?” he asked, sleepily.

  “Hall Prakka, the one you call Lord Hector, do you trust him?” she asked.

  He rubbed at his eyes and raised his head, “No. But we've got mutual interest in this alliance, which should be enough to keep him in line.”

  She clutched him tighter and wished she could find the words to speak of her worry. Even her people had heard stories of Hall Prakka, the warrior who slew out of vengeance. His hatred for her people was the stuff of legends, as was his calculation and cruelty. “Do not let your guard down, my Lord, he is a foe who doesn't forget a slight.”

  “What brings this on?” Christoffer asked and she heard sudden concern in his voice.

  She just rubbed her head against his chest, “I am allowed to worry for your safety, am I not, my Lord?” The warmth of his body against hers brought some reassurance.

  He chuckled and his arms went around her, “Of course, though I think I've proven that I can look after myself, at least somewhat. Besides, I have Gervais and his companions to guard me now, as well. I think you worry too much.”

  She could hear an edge to his tone, though, as though he sought more to reassure her than from any confidence. Clearly, then, he worried about Hall Prakka as well, which was good, because she would keep an eye on the man just as she might a venomous snake.

  Tomorrow, she knew, they would begin the next series of attacks. But any betrayal, she felt, would come later, when her love would have let his guard down. She would stay wary, especially since there were so many threats. He is mine now, she thought, I will not let anyone take him away from me.

  ***

  Lord Hector the Usurper Duke

  Hector stared through the spyglass at the Armen raid camp. Until now, there had been two problems with attacking them during the day and with enough numbers to sack one. The first was that the Armen would put to sea and escape, taking most of their loot and slaves with them as his force would draw close. The second was that the larger camps acted as nodes and they would send reinforcements as more of the raiders flocked to a good fight.

  The Boir Navy's presence prevented both those issues, which was one more reason Hector wanted a navy of his own. As he watched, one of the huge ironclads moved in position to block the entrance to the small harbor. Before the Armen could start flooding to their ships to ready them, his own forces came over the hill, presenting them with threats from both sides. Hector smiled as he saw them hesitate, caught between two threats.

  He turned to his signaler, “Order a general advance.”

  As the man blasted out the notes on his trumpet, Hector mused a bit as he and his escort followed behind the three companies. He had wanted to do this for years, but his own ships and crews simply weren't up to fighting the Armen at sea, where their sloops were faster and they had far more experience. He wished that Kerrel was here to see the fruits of her discussions with him. The reminder of the news about her brought an end to his temporary good cheer. Covle Darkbit's messenger had said that she was dying, stabbed by Katarina's rebels in the fighting that had erupted at the Ryftguard. Probably in the thick of it, trying to put a stop to it, Hector thought angrily, as if any peace with Katarina would be worth Kerrel's life to me. It was just like the damned woman to put herself at risk like that, he knew.

  A part of him wanted to forsake this battlefield and ride south, take ship, and to be there by her side when she died. The rest of him understood the foolishness of that desire. She would be dead long before he could travel such a great distance. Worse, he would throw away the gains that she had helped him fight for if he abandoned his army here in the North.

  Hector wished, more than ever, that he had kept her here, by his side. He should never have allowed Covle free rein in the south, he realized that now. If he could have, he would have traded any one of his other commanders, to include Zabilia Nasrat, for Kerrel alive and whole. She would love to see me working with the Duchy of Boir, he thought, though she'd think me insane for even listening to Lady Lindsee. The reminder of Lord Hennings wife reminded him of her information about the Ryftguard, however. If not for Boir's interference, he would still have the fortress, and Kerrel might still be alive. In Hector's mind, some of the blame for her eventual death fell at the feet of Grand Duke Tarken. That was a debt he would settle later, he thought, though for now their partnership was useful.

  All down the coast, his people had begun simultaneous assaults, aimed at the largest raid camps. He felt certain if they took those nodes out, his people could isolate and destroy the smaller camps. That would only leave Arkavar, the Armen town which had stubbornly resisted all efforts to seize it.

  The whine of heavy casters brought his gaze up to where the Boir naval ship lay. He saw the crews fire and saw the effects as the Armen who'd already put out in small boats died. He couldn't help a savage smile as he saw bits of wood, pieces of body, and water geyser upwards from a hit on one of the small boats. Damn me, he thought, but Hennings offer is tempting to get my hands on those weapons.

  He had already sent the 'gifts' south to Longhaven, where they would be put to use in his naval project. Hector hoped that the ships under construction could use the weapons, though he suspected that more knowledge of how to mount and best use them would be needed. Those damned Iron Wizards are too expensive, he thought, and the ambitious ones are too dangerous. It would not do for him to bribe one away from Boir only to have the fool blow himself and some chunk of city up while building weapons. Certainly he had heard stories of their mistakes and failures often enough. That was why he stuck with witches and when he could find one, a trustworthy warlock. They, at least, could get dependable results, even if the result were only to counter the Armen's shamans.

  He noted the direction of Armen warriors as they surged out of the camp, “Reinforcements to the right flank,” he said calmly, and watched as his third company reacted, the men from Longhaven eager to get into the fight.

  They arrived in position just before the Armen hit and even back where he was, the noise was deafening. Spears struck flesh and bodies slammed against shields in a riot of sound that sounded like nothing besides a stampede loose in a cutlery shop. Hector grinned savagely as the ragged Armen formation broke after the first surge. “Sound the advance!” he said.

  A moment later, all three companies advanced, spears leveled as they pushed the Armen back towards their camp and the waterline. Along the sides, some Armen managed to run, throwing away weapons and equipment as they ran for their very lives. That was expected and Hector didn't mind seeing a few escape. They'd be enslaved or killed by their own people, most of them, for their cowardice. Some handful might survive to become bandits, but the locals would deal with them. The locals knew the ground, they would find any survivors easily enough.

  Hector and his escort marched behind and soon he had to step over bodies. Many of them had been stabbed in the back as they tried to flee, which was how most died in fights such as these. Already the stink was powerful and he knew it wouldn't be long before it was almost unbearable. He gestured to his aide, “Send in the recovery detail.”

  A half-dozen men were already at work taking their own wounded back to the camp, he saw. But they could recover the weapons and equipment of the fallen Armen as well as any enemy wounded that might survive. The Vendakar slavers awaited any enemy survivors and a glance over his shoulder showed where they waited, like the crows overhead, to pick over the remains of the battle.

  The last of the fight seemed to have left the Armen and Hector watched confidently as his men pressed into the camp itself. The stink, as always, hit him the hardest; it was the combined stench of the slave pens and the sweet rot of decomposing flesh from those prisoners that the Armen torturers had made sport of as they hung suspended along the edge of camp.

  He could see that the Boir longboats had come ashore and their Marines moved on the seaside edge of the camp. They had discussed that, but he still bit back a sigh of displeasure, certain that the Marines w
ould follow Tarken's guidance and not pass over any 'prisoners' that they took. He hates the Vendakar slavers, but it isn't as if he can do anything with those prisoners, Hector thought. If he set them free, they'd return as still more raiders. They were savages, raised outside civilization, and they would recognize good treatment only as weakness.

  Still, it looked like they were most concerned with protecting the slave pens and rescuing the prisoners there, so he couldn't complain too much. That task was always dangerous, for the most fanatic of the Armen often sought to murder their captives rather than allow them to be freed.

  “Sir,” one of his captains said, “We've captured the chief's tent, killed one of his wives when she tried to burn some of his maps and letters.”

  “Oh?” Hector said. That kind of forethought showed that she had something to hide, something more important, possibly, than her husband's legacy. The Armen didn't normally think that way, which in turn, suggested something else might be involved. “Lead me there.”

  The tent was a bit larger than the others and Hector stepped over the dead woman in the entrance and looked around in some surprise. He saw that this chief, whoever he was, must have been literate, at least. He saw stacks of books along one side and reams of maps, letters, and even what looked like drawings in piles along the other side. What caught Hector's attention, though, was the charred set of papers near the fire pit. He stooped and picked them up and inspected them for a long moment.

  Ah, he thought, finally, more proof of this southern wizard's involvement. For just a moment he entertained the notion that it might be the wizard said to be at Katarina's side. He doubted it, though, the effort to organize her rebellion in the south and to run the Armen campaign here in the north would require too much attention and movement. Only the wizards of old had been able to travel so quickly and even they had limits.

  His eyes locked, though, on the signature at the bottom of the note and he felt the blood drain from his face. I told him, Hector thought coldly, no more secrets, and he hid this from me? On top of the news of Kerrel's injury, it was too much, and he felt something of his brittle veneer of civilization shatter. This further betrayal was simply too much and he didn't care, for the moment, about repercussions or alliances or even what it might cost him in his war against the Armen. I must punish him for this betrayal, he thought.

  He looked up sharply and met the captain's gaze, “Who else has been in here?”

  “Two soldiers from the detail and myself, my Lord,” he responded.

  “Keep it that way and warn them to hold their tongues or they face the lash,” Hector snapped. “This... this changes much. No one comes in here, no one without my permission, understood?”

  As his captain nodded, Hector returned his gaze to the letter. Best, he thought, to address this soon.

  ***

  Grand Duke Christoffer Tarken

  Aboard the Ubelfurst, near Arkavan

  27th of Namak, Cycle 1000 Post Sundering

  “Your thoughts?” Christoffer asked as he and Admiral Elais Wachter stood near the bulwark.

  “It's going well enough,” Elias shouted over the whine of the heavy casters. The five ships from Boir sat across the harbor mouth and as they watched, the fusillade smashed more of the wooden palisade flat and left a wider gap. On the other side of the town, Lord Hector would be readying his men to assault the Armen from the front even as Christoffer's Marines readied themselves to go ashore.

  Off to the side, the three captured ironclads sat at the deepest end of the harbor. The docks that led to them were exposed to his Marines in the rigging, who had already driven back several attempts to reach the vessels. If all goes well, Christoffer thought, we'll recapture those ships soon.

  The Admiral gave a sigh, “My Lord, I still don't think it is safe enough for you to go in.”

  “It's not as if I'm going in the first wave,” Christoffer said. Part of him wanted to do just that, but he knew better than to risk himself. Against the raid camps he had allowed himself to be dissuaded from going in at all. Arkavan, though, was different. Boir had launched attacks here before, and Christoffer remembered the last one, back when he was a ship's captain. The town was a warren, carved from the bluffs by a mix of wind, weather, and human hands, with twisting streets between ramshackle structures. Though it had a population year-round, few lived there longer than a few months, other than in the dead of winter when ice choked the harbor and snow piled high enough that travel was impossible. Still, the town rarely had fewer than four or five thousand Armen warriors at any given time, most often the poorest equipped and most desperate, those driven down from the north by the infighting that preceded winter. From what Lord Hector had said, it seemed that their numbers had been thinned as the other raid camps came under attack. Christoffer glanced over at where Siara stood, “Are you still coming?”

  She nodded, “Of course, my Lord.” He saw that she carried her bag of healing supplies. He just hoped that she wouldn't need it.

  “Sir,” Midshipman Jenkins rushed forward. The young man had settled into his new position well, Christoffer thought. “Message from Lord Hector, his men are beginning the assault now.”

  Christoffer nodded at that. The plan was that after Boir's Marines drew the Armen's attention here at the harbor, Hector's army would attack on the other end of the town. “Very well,” Christoffer said, “Midshipman Jenkins, you may signal the attack.”

  He saw the boy stand up straighter and he ran to the stern. After a moment he began to run up the signal flags. Christoffer's gaze went to the troopships and moments later he saw boats set underway from their sides. A thousand Marines in the first wave, he thought, and a thousand more sailors in the next... I hope this works.

  The Armen shamans and their abilities made Christoffer nervous. Their spirit magic was always stronger on the defense and many slaves had been sacrificed to their dark spirits here. While it was true enough that Hector had witches to counter that magic, the Iron Wizards of Boir had yet to effectively defend against the variety of attacks the shamans could call upon. When he'd last seen Arkavan, the Armen shamans had called up a howling gale that had driven ships up on the sharp rocks to either side of the harbor, and over five hundred sailors and Marines had died before the attack had even fully gotten under way.

  This attack was larger in scale and Christoffer knew it was a good attack plan. Even so, he felt uneasy as he watched the boats go ashore. But the Marines met little opposition, clearly, the Armen were distracted and focused on what they saw as the main threat, unaware of the dagger coming for their guts. He waited a moment more and then nodded at Admiral Elias, “Signal the second wave... and I'm going to join them.”

  He climbed down into the boat and waited as Gervais and four more armsmen settled into the boat as well, followed by Siara. Christoffer gave Gervais a slight smile, “You're not worried the armor might weigh you down if you go overboard?”

  Gervais Wachter shook his head, “I won't.” The confidence on his face was surprising, but Christoffer hoped it wasn't misplaced. All five of his armsmen would sink like stones if they went into the water wearing all their armor and laden down with weapons.

  Of course, Christoffer thought, the same armor and weapons will be mighty useful once we make landfall. Most of Boir's Marines wore only a leather cuirass, light enough to swim in if they went over the side, but painfully inadequate against armored foes. Thankfully, they shouldn't find many of those among the Armen.

  The sailors got the boat away from the side of the Ubelfurst and then around the big ship and headed for shore. Christoffer saw that the Marines had already set up a perimeter and that the teams assigned to clear the captured ironclads had hoisted flags there to show they'd succeeded. Christoffer felt tempted to call for Elias to send crews for those ships, but he restrained himself. The last thing he wanted was for the rehearsed attack plan to become a mess of orders and counter-orders. Best to follow the plan, he knew.

  His boat and those of the
other sailors came directly into the harbor and then alongside the piers and boats that remained. One of the Marines detailed to the task threw them ropes and Christoffer waited impatiently as the boat was made secure before he stepped ashore. Gervais and the others formed up around him as he moved forward to where he saw Colonel Gudal stood with his command post. “Colonel,” Christoffer said.

  “My Lord,” Gudal nodded sharply. Though Christoffer had met the man before the expedition, he hadn't been his first selection. Gudal had plenty of experience in combat, but most of it was against Norics along the Ryft and he'd only come from the Southern Fleet a few weeks before the siege. However, the Council had wanted someone senior to command the Marines, rather than the recently promoted Captain Steffan, and Christoffer hadn't pressed them over it. “We've secured most of the water-front, most of the Armen warriors are at the far end of the town, though we're seeing some of them come back now that they know we're here.”

  Christoffer nodded. He was surprised, though, that the Armen hadn't flooded back to defend their women and loot. He gestured at where the boats remained, some drawn up on the rim of the Harbor and others still tied alongside the piers. “Are you sending the boats back out?”

  Colonel Gudel shook his head, “No, my Lord, I'd rather have them handy if I think we need to withdraw.” He turned away as a messenger came up.

  Christoffer stepped away and looked up the winding, muddy street. He felt uneasy at the success they had found so far. The place almost seemed abandoned... His eyes widened, then, as he realized what was missing. Normally the Armen raid camps had their women and children present, but the waterfront was deserted. He spun, “Colonel Gudel, have your men encountered any of the Armen women or children?”

  “What?” he asked, his face confused, “Uh, no, we haven't, we assumed they withdrew.”