Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  “What now, First Minister?” one of Javan’s men asked.

  The Qirsi glanced at the bowmen “How goes the fight at the top of the stairs?”

  The one who lit the pots shook his head. “The door’s held so far, but the archers on the tower haven’t enough shafts to keep the Aneirans away.”

  “We found more arrows in the weapons chamber. They’ll have more soon.”

  “Enough?”

  Fotir narrowed his eyes, wondering if the man was baiting him again. After a moment though, he shook his head. “No. Not enough.”

  The man looked around the room, as if searching for something else to throw at the Aneirans. “If the duke had been here, we could have beaten them. They would never have even tried this.”

  The minister stiffened. “Javan has done all he could to—”

  “I’m not blaming your duke. He’s done as well as anyone could expect with so few men. I do hold the boy responsible, though. It’s his fault we’re at war with Curgh. If my duke had been here, and the rest of his army with him, there would be no siege, and I’d be sleeping late today.”

  Fotir started to tell the man that Tavis was innocent, that he was certain someone else had killed Lady Brienne. But this was no time for that fight, and the man never would have believed him anyway. Still, he felt that by holding his tongue, he was betraying both the duke and the boy.

  “Our houses shouldn’t be at war,” he said at last. “I’ll grant you that much.”

  The man started to respond, but shouting from the stairway stopped him. All of them sprang to the door, and just as they reached it, the tower shook with a loud crash that seemed to come from overhead.

  “The door to the walkway!” the Kentigern guard said. He threw down his bow and pulled his sword from the scabbard on his belt. “Seems we were wasting our time with those fire pots.”

  The minister didn’t agree with the man on this either. Better to have only one door fail than both of them. But again, that was an argument for another day. Drawing his blade, seeing the men of Kentigern do the same, Fotir rushed out the door and started up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  They met the Aneirans just short of the top of the stairway, and before the men in black and gold could even raise their weapons, Fotir shattered their blades and ran them through. In his mind he heard Xaver MarCullet saying, That isn’t a proper kill, and he hesitated for just an instant. But as the next wave of Aneirans came at them, he summoned his magic again. Was it proper to drop lime and burning tar from a high window? Was it proper to loose arrows from murder holes and arrow loops? He had never considered himself a warrior; few of his people had since the time of Carthach. But he served an Eandi duke and had pledged himself to fight and die for the man. He felt his sword pierce the mail shirt of another Aneiran soldier. He smelled blood and sweat and smoke. This is war, he had told the MarCullet boy. But he couldn’t help but be surprised by his own lust for battle. It almost seemed to the Qirsi that all the anger and frustration of the past turn was pouring out of him now, guiding his sword, giving added potency to his magic. He wasn’t tired anymore. On the contrary, every blade he splintered, every life he took, left him wanting more. It didn’t matter that his wrath was directed not at Kentigern and his men, but at the soldiers of Mertesse. He was fighting back, finally.

  For what seemed a long time, Fotir’s power and the sword skills of the men beside him were enough to hold the Aneirans back. Sword fragments were strewn on the steps, and dead soldiers, most of them wearing black and gold, lay on top of one another, their blood flowing down the stairway like melting snow from a mountaintop. But there were so many soldiers from Mertesse, and even in his battle rage Fotir’s lack of rest and food began to wear on him. Eventually the Aneirans began to force the defenders back down the steps. The minister tried to direct his power at their blades, but he was tiring and every blade he broke made it that much harder for him to fight off the next man.

  The stairs narrowed as they descended, making their footing more treacherous and the fighting more difficult. The muscles in Fotir’s sword arm and shoulder and back burned like embers in a fire. He had cuts on his other shoulder and on his jaw just below his ear. For some time now he had been calling to Javan for help, hoping that the duke would send more men up the stairs to fight back the Aneirans. But thus far no men had come to his aid. He hadn’t even heard a reply.

  A few moments later, he realized why. From beneath them, echoing in the stairwell, came the clash of swords and the shouts of yet another sword battle. The ward door had given way as well. Javan and his men were being driven up the stairs just as Fotir and the others were being forced down.

  “Are you all right, my lord?” Fotir called down, even as he continued to fight.

  “I’m alive.”

  “And Master MarCullet?”

  “He’s with me. Many of the others wound up in the ward. I fear they haven’t a chance.”

  And what chance do we have?

  They battled on, the sound of Javan’s struggle growing louder and closer by the moment. It wouldn’t be long before the first minister and his duke were fighting back to back.

  Fotir heard more cries from outside the tower and he felt despair seeping into his heart. All the towers were falling just as theirs was. Kentigern was lost.

  “Do you hear that?” It was Xaver’s voice, and something in his tone gave the Qirsi pause, making him listen again, more closely.

  This time he did hear it. These weren’t death cries from the soldiers of Kentigern or cheers from the Aneirans. They were simply the voices of men from every corner of the castle. And all of them were saying the same two words again and again.

  “The duke!” they called. “The duke! The duke!”

  With the consent of the duke of Glyndwr and Tavis’s mother, Aindreas had driven the three armies back toward Kentigern Tor at a punishing pace. They hadn’t slept more than an hour or two since leaving the battle plain, and they had taken their meals without stopping. Tavis was so weary that he could barely carry on a conversation, much less lift a weapon and fight a war. And he had been on horseback the entire way. He couldn’t imagine how the foot soldiers continued to march.

  Yet, when they finally emerged from Kentigern Wood and saw the castle belching smoke like some creature from a child’s nightmare, it seemed to the young lord that the burden of the march fell away, leaving him almost eager for battle.

  He had dreaded seeing Kentigern again—the image of its dungeon had haunted his sleep since his escape. But the siege changed everything. This might have been Aindreas’s home, but it was also Eibithar’s first defense against the Aneirans. In spite of all that had happened and all that the duke had done to him, he meant what he said a few days before, beside the waters of the Heneagh. He would give his life to guard this castle.

  His mother had ridden with him and the army of Glyndwr for more than two days, but seeing the castle now, she reined her mount to a halt and faced Tavis, who did the same.

  “I should return to Curgh’s army,” she said. “My place is with them.”

  As is mine.

  She glanced at Kearney, and it appeared that she intended to say something. After a moment, though, she merely offered a sad smile and turned her horse to go.

  “May the gods keep you safe, Mother,” Tavis said. “We’ll meet again in the castle.”

  “Be careful,” she said, looking back at him, her eyes wide. “Orlagh guide your sword.”

  She rode on without looking back a second time, and Tavis watched her go.

  “Come, Lord Tavis,” Kearney said at last. “Hagan will keep your mother safe.”

  The boy nodded and started forward again, following the duke and his dour swordmaster to battle.

  As they crossed the open land between the wood and the tor, Aindreas broke away from his army and rode to Hagan and Tavis’s mother. The three of them spoke for a few moments before the duke turned from them and steered his mount toward Kearney and T
avis.

  “I’ve told MarCullet and the duchess to ride around the tor to the Tarbin gate,” he called as he drew near. “Your army should stay with mine. We’ll ride through the city and enter the castle from the east.”

  “Very well,” Kearney said. “You command us today, Lord Kentigern. My men and I are yours to use as you see fit.”

  Aindreas frowned, as if he had hoped for a fight. “My thanks,” he said, his tone gruff. His eyes flicked to Tavis, but he said nothing to the boy. After a brief, awkward silence, he wheeled his mount away and returned to his men, leaving Tavis to wonder if he wanted Glyndwr’s army with his own so that he could find a way to avenge Brienne during the battle.

  “No one would blame you if didn’t join this fight, Tavis.”

  The boy looked to the side to find Grinsa eyeing him closely, and for just an instant he wondered if the gleaner had been reading his thoughts. Could the Qirsi do that? Could a Weaver?

  “Given what Kentigern did to you …” the man went on.

  “I pledged my sword to the defense of his castle,” Tavis said, his tone harsher than he had intended. “A Curgh doesn’t break his word.”

  The Qirsi shrugged. “All right.”

  “Have you ever been to war, Lord Tavis?” the duke asked.

  He felt his cheeks grow hot. “No, my lord. I haven’t.”

  “Then may I suggest that you stay close to Gershon and me? I haven’t fought many battles, certainly none of this magnitude. But I have been in my share of fights.”

  Tavis had to keep himself from refusing outright. He was, he realized, too much his father’s son. True, he was a man of Curgh, but that didn’t mean he had to let his pride get him killed.

  “I’d be grateful, my lord.” He made himself smile. “And I believe my mother would appreciate it as well.”

  Kearney grinned. “For her then.” The duke turned to his first minister, the gleaner’s sister. “I want you nearby as well, Kez.”

  “Don’t worry, my lord. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  For the first time in days they all laughed, even the swordmaster, who seemed to have little use for either the minister or her brother.

  They reached the city gates a short time later, and as Hagan and Tavis’s mother led the men of Curgh around the city walls toward the Tarbin, the armies of Kentigern and Glyndwr marched through the gates and along the city lanes toward the castle. There were few guards in the city—no doubt most of them had gone to defend the castle. But as the armies entered the city, people spilled out of their homes and shops to cheer Aindreas and his men, as well as Kearney and the soldiers of Glyndwr.

  Tavis sat motionless on his mount, his eyes fixed on the road before him, fearing that at any moment, the crowd would topple him from his mount and exact their revenge for Lady Brienne’s death. But if any of the men or women on the streets recognized him, they didn’t let it show.

  “No matter what fate awaits you, Tavis,” Grinsa said to him quietly, “today you’re a hero. All of us are. Enjoy it.”

  The boy looked at him sidelong, drawing a smile from the gleaner. Tavis nodded once, then faced forward again, his hand straying to the hilt of his sword.

  As they approached the base of the tor, arrows began to rain down on the road, whistling like slashing blades. The two armies were still beyond the reach of the Aneirans’ bows, but the warning was clear. The ascent to the castle would be deadly.

  Aindreas rode toward them again, this time accompanied by his first minister.

  “I had hoped that I would never have to retake my castle,” the duke said, as he pulled his mount to a halt. “Just for this reason.”

  “My minister can cloak us in a mist, Lord Kentigern,” Kearney said. “If you think that would help.”

  “I do.”

  “The fires are still burning,” Grinsa said. “I don’t think the Aneirans hold the castle yet. Perhaps the defenders that remain can keep Mertesse’s archers busy a while longer.”

  Aindreas twisted his mouth, looking like he didn’t wish to say anything to the gleaner. Once more, his gaze shifted to Tavis, though only for an instant. “Perhaps,” he finally said. He faced Keziah again. “Weave your mists, First Minister. A wind might help us as well.”

  The woman bowed her head. “I’ll do what I can, my lord.”

  Kentigern rode off again, though his minister lingered a moment, his eye fixed on Grinsa. “My duke has asked a great deal of her,” he said, nodding toward Keziah. “Perhaps you can help her?”

  “I don’t have the magic of mists,” the gleaner said.

  The minister gave a thin smile. “Of course not. A pity.” He clicked his tongue at his mount and rode after Aindreas.

  “What was that about?” Kearney asked.

  “It was nothing, my lord,” Grinsa answered with a shake of his head. “Some court Qirsi have little regard for those of us who work in the Revel.”

  The duke raised an eyebrow and nodded, as if satisfied by this. But judging from the brief look that Grinsa shared with his sister, it seemed clear to Tavis that there was more to it than that.

  Keziah took a long breath and closed her eyes, as a strange stillness settled over the two armies. A moment later strands of grey mist began to rise from the road, swallowing the soldiers and horses like a highland fog. At the same time, a wind rose, blowing from the north across the road. Tavis had thought that the Qirsi would have the gale blow back toward the castle, to knock down the arrows loosed by the men of Mertesse. But he saw now that this made more sense. With the mist covering the armies of Glyndwr and Kentigern, the Aneirans would have enough trouble aiming their darts. A crosswind would make it nearly impossible.

  Shrouded in the sorcerer’s cloud, the armies started up the road, their swords drawn and their shields held high. Occasionally arrows struck the shields, and a few men fell, but for the most part Keziah’s wind and mist protected them.

  To Tavis, who didn’t know the road, their ascent seemed endless. He felt his fear mounting by the moment and he had to wipe the sweat from his sword hand several times. The fog was so thick that the young lord didn’t realize they had reached the castle until the great stone gate loomed just before him.

  Aindreas bellowed to his men; Kearney called out, “For Glyndwr!” And the men marching behind them surged forward, to be met by a mass of men in black and gold. Abruptly Tavis found himself being swept forward by a turbulent sea of men and horses.

  Somewhere behind him, Kearney called to his minister to drop her mists. Almost immediately the air began to clear, the gale to subside. But Tavis still felt as though he were in a storm, the rush of the wind giving way to the wails of the dying, the impenetrable grey of the mist replaced by the whirling confusion of battle. Not knowing what else to do, he kicked at the flanks of his horse and swung his sword from side to side, desperate to free himself from the grip of the battle.

  Before he knew it, he was through the castle gate and in the first ward. Grinsa was calling to him, as was the duke of Glyndwr, but they were both far behind him. Tavis was surrounded by Aneiran soldiers. Men clawed at his legs and arms, trying to pull him from the horse, and he slashed at their arms with his blade. He pulled hard on his reins, trying to turn his mount and ride back to the gleaner. The animal reared, nearly throwing him. But the Aneirans backed away for an instant, giving him just enough room to spur the beast toward the gate. A moment later the soldiers closed on him again, and he hacked at them like a madman, ignoring the smell of blood and the screams from those he wounded.

  The gleaner and the duke were only a few fourspans away, and men from both Glyndwr and Kentigern had gained the ward, pushing back the army of Mertesse. Somehow, Tavis had managed not to get himself killed. Or so he thought.

  In that second his horse reared again, letting out a screech that echoed off the stone walls, making every man pause in the midst of the combat. Even as he felt himself start to fall Tavis saw the arrow that had pierced the beast’s neck, and he threw hi
mself to the side to keep the horse from falling on him.

  He landed hard on his shoulder, tumbling over once and winding up on his back, dazed and breathless. Instantly, before he could even try to stand, a soldier was above him, chopping at him with a sword. Tavis didn’t know he had managed to hold on to his own blade until he raised it to block the blow. Rolling to the side, he scrambled to his feet just as the Aneiran sprang at him again, his sword arcing toward Tavis’s head. The young lord parried this strike as well, though the force of it sent a stinging pain up his arm and knocked him off balance. Rubbing his arm and backing away, Tavis saw that the soldier was grinning as he advanced on him, as if he knew that Tavis couldn’t hurt him.

  He swung his weapon again and though Tavis managed to deflect the blow, he couldn’t block it entirely. The man’s blade pounded into his side, driving the boy to the ground and making him gasp at the pain. His mail shirt kept the soldier’s sword from drawing blood, but his ribs ached and Tavis wondered if any were broken. He tried to crawl away, but he could barely move at all.

  The Aneiran walked toward him, raising his blade for the killing strike. Tavis felt tears on his face and he choked back a sob. Had he survived Aindreas’s torture only to die here fighting for the man’s castle? Certainly there was nothing he could do to stop the soldier. He raised his sword, hoping at least to make a fight of it. But just as the man reached him, something hit the Aneiran’s leg, causing him to pitch forward. The soldier threw out his arms, grasping for anything that would stop his fall, but there was nothing. He toppled onto the young lord, his neck impaling itself on Tavis’s blade. Hot blood flowed over the boy like bathwater. He opened his mouth to cry out, only to have the man’s life pour down his throat.

  All around him men were fighting and dying. Any Aneiran who saw him there, who thought him worth the effort, could have killed him with a single thrust. But all Tavis could do was push the man off of him, roll over onto his stomach, and retch like a sick child.