“Lady Moriah,” said Niall. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I wasn’t trying to surprise you,” said Moriah, stopping at his side. “I was doing a favor for a friend. A halfling I know…some of his great-nephews work at the gate, cleaning the guardrooms and feeding the soldiers. He wanted to make sure they were all right.”
“Oh,” said Niall. “That was nice of you.”
He wasn’t sure what to say for a moment. Standing here on the ramparts of Cintarra reminded him of Rhudlan, of the terrible fighting along the wall. Moriah had been in the thick of the fighting as well, though masked and armored as the Wraith.
He was spared the need to say anything when she pointed over the ramparts.
“Do you see?” Moriah said.
From here, Niall could just make out Queen Mara’s castra northeast of the city and the army assembling around it. He saw large bands of horsemen riding from the castra, their armor flashing in the morning sun, their banners flying overhead.
“At least several thousand horsemen,” said Niall. “Knights and mounted men-at-arms both.”
Moriah nodded. “They’re riding to meet the Heptarchy soldiers.”
Niall felt a chill. “The Heptarchy has landed?”
Moriah nodded again. “That’s what the messenger to the archbishop said. About twenty thousand arachar orcs have landed east of the city. The High King thinks they’re trying to make a secure beachhead so the Heptarchy can land the rest of their troops.”
Niall frowned. “I wonder why they don’t just sail into the harbor like the last time?”
Moriah shrugged. “I’m not Agravhask. You’ll have to ask him.”
“I’d really rather we never meet.”
She laughed. “Wise man. But maybe he’s smart enough not to try the same trick twice. You heard the Guardian, she thinks Agravhask is some kind of mad poet of warfare.” She shrugged again. “But if he’s so smart, why did he throw away several thousand of his troops attacking the harbor?”
“You heard the Guardian,” said Niall. “She thinks that the spiderlings forced him to do it…and he used the opportunity to get rid of several captains whose loyalty he doubted.”
“Too bad we can’t tell the spiderlings that Agravhask is the Warden’s vassal,” said Moriah. “Then they’d kill him, and they’d try to kill each other, and we’d only have to fight whoever was leftover. Are you heading back to the Prince’s Palace?”
“Aye,” said Niall. “The archbishop wanted me to inspect the eastern wall’s towers and then report back to him.”
“I’ll ride with you,” said Moriah. “The archbishop wants me to stay close to him. In case the opportunity arises to make myself useful.”
“Well,” said Niall. “You are very useful.”
She grinned at him. He was suddenly struck by how beautiful she looked, even wearing men’s clothing. Though when he had seen her wearing a noblewoman’s gown, it had been very close-fitting, and his treacherous imagination suddenly conjured an image of what she might look like without it…
For God’s sake. The Heptarchy was about to attack. This wasn’t the time.
But he might die in another few days. They all might die.
Would there ever be another time? Or did he want to stand before the judgment seat of the Dominus Christus with another grievous mistake on his conscience?
“That’s what people keep telling me,” said Moriah. “Though it’s amazing how courteous people get after you save their life.”
“Speaking of that,” said Niall, as he followed her down the stairs to the forum proper. He was grateful the loose coat concealed the shape of her figure. “Have you talked to Sir Rufinius?”
She glanced back at him. “Briefly. I think his father sent him to inspect the western watch towers. Why?”
Niall remembered Rufinius’s resolution to court Moriah. Apparently, the Swordbearer hadn’t acted on it yet. Though they had been so busy preparing for a potential siege that there hadn’t been time. And as Niall talked with Moriah now, he could not imagine that she would make a good match with Sir Rufinius. The Swordbearer had maybe made two jokes in the entire time that Niall had known him. Moriah mocked nearly everything. Rufinius was sober and direct, Moriah cynical. Rufinius had seriously considered entering the church before becoming a Swordbearer, and Moriah had been a master thief with absolutely no regrets over her past actions, believing them perfectly justified.
But on the other hand, she was brave. She had helped keep Rhudlan from falling, and she had descended alone God knows how many times in the Shadow Ways. And she had told Niall the truth about Pompeia when he had been lying to himself.
“Well?” said Moriah, and Niall realized that he had let his mind drift from the conversation.
“I was just thinking about Rhudlan,” said Niall.
“Ah,” said Moriah. He wasn’t sure if she believed him or not.
“I know we didn’t get along at first,” said Niall, “but…in case things don’t go well the next few days, I just wanted to say that I’m glad I met you. Honored.”
Moriah stopped and stared at him for a moment.
“You’re serious,” she said.
“Yes,” said Niall. “I…why wouldn’t I be?”
She looked at him for a moment longer, and then let out a breath, shook her head, and laughed.
“You’re always so…earnest,” she said. “I can’t decide if it’s annoying or endearing. But thank you. When you tell me something, I can be sure you mean it. When I met you, I thought you were a simpleton from a farm…”
“You’re not wrong,” said Niall with a grimace. “After Pompeia…”
“Hey.” She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Don’t start on that again. Even Archbishop Caelmark had a bastard son, and you wound up saving Prince Accolon’s life because he was mourning for my sister, who was his mistress. Why should you carry on like your mistake was worse than theirs?” Niall had no good answer for that. “And you’re just…” She shook her head in exasperation. “You’re just so determined to do the right thing. I don’t understand. Trying to do the right thing is just asking the world to kick you in the teeth. But…it’s admirable.”
“You’re not as cynical as you like to pretend,” said Niall. “Else you wouldn’t have rescued Rufinius or helped Rhudlan. You would have fled, and there was nothing anyone could have done to stop you.”
She leveled an accusing finger at him, but she grinned. “And you’re not quite as righteous as you seem. Else you would have let Sir Ricatus bully you into submission by now.”
“Maybe doing the right thing isn’t so bad,” said Niall. “Sir Ricatus did the wrong thing, and he lost all his lands and all his sheep to the Dragon Cult.”
Moriah laughed. “Come on, we have work to do. We can debate morality later. You left your horse at the inn?”
Niall nodded, and they walked together to the inn.
He was surprised by how much better he felt.
***
Chapter 19: Red Orcs
Ridmark led a force of two hundred royal knights and men-at-arms to the southeast.
His second was Sir Peter Vanius, the scar-faced knight who had commanded the royal knights sent to escort Accolon to Cintarra. A solid soldier, Sir Peter had helped defend Rhudlan and had been Accolon’s advisor during the skirmishes against the Dragon Cult.
Calliande rode a short distance behind Ridmark, and for once, she had not argued when he had asked her to wear armor. Her powers would be needed to deflect the dark magic of the spiderling priests and the kyralven battle wizards. Sir Gavin and Antenora came as well. Gavin wore the dark elven armor he had taken from Urd Morlemoch all those years ago, and Ridmark was half-pleased, half-amused to see that Gavin had likewise bullied Antenora into donning chain mail. Although knowing Antenora, she had likely forged her own armor and worn it of her own volition.
Morigna rode next to Calliande, her black staff laid across her saddle. She looked the way gray e
lven noblewomen must have looked in ancient days, clad in golden armor, a gray cloak streaming from her shoulders. Yet her expression was solemn, and her green eyes worried.
She knew what was at stake here, perhaps more than anyone else.
The High King had sent out five parties of horsemen. Their task was to scout the Heptarchy army forming up on the beach and to learn anything they could of the enemy. They were also to attack if possible since the Heptarchy had no horsemen, and a charge of skilled riders could break footmen. But Morigna had warned that the soldiers of the Heptarchy were well-drilled and well-equipped, to say nothing of the increased strength and stamina of arachar orcs.
Ridmark crested a low rise and called a halt, gazing at the beach and the sea.
The army and fleet of the Heptarchy stretched before him.
The land descended in a gentle incline to the shore and the sea beyond it. Scattered on the waters, Ridmark saw hundreds of ships, more ships than he had ever seen together in a single place at one time. Likely more ships than he had ever seen in his entire life, come to think of it. There were dozens of longships like those that had chased Morigna, but Ridmark saw warships bristling with ballistae and catapults and huge transport vessels that could have carried hundreds of soldiers. All the ships had vast black sails adorned with the crimson spider sigil of the Heptarchy.
An army sprawled across the beach and the land beyond it.
Thousands of arachar orcs unloaded their ships. The huge transport ships had moved as close as they could to the shore without scraping their keels, and an endless stream of rafts and longboats went back and forth between the vessels and the shore. Several fortified camps had been raised beyond the high tide mark. Like the Anathgrimm, the arachar orcs preferred to fortify their camps or had been trained to do it. Attacking those camps would be like trying to break into a walled town.
“God and the saints,” said Gavin. “There’s so many of them.”
Ridmark nodded. “A pity we couldn’t have intercepted them while they were landing. They’re damned vulnerable now. A few catapults and barrels of burning pitch, and we could have destroyed a significant portion of their supplies.”
“I gave what warning I could,” said Morigna. “I only wish it had been more.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” said Calliande. “If you hadn’t warned us, we’d likely be offering battle to Merovech and the Dragon Cult right now. Then the Heptarchy could take Cintarra with ease.”
“There are several hundred users of magic among that host,” said Antenora, her voice distant as she drew on the Sight. “Some spiderlings, I suspect, and kyralven battle wizards.”
“What do you think?” said Calliande. “Can we strike them?”
“Arandar will likely offer battle between here and Cintarra,” said Ridmark. “The more we can weaken the enemy now, the better chance we shall have later.”
He gazed at the assembling arachar force, and felt…was it despair? No, not that. He was going to fight and had no inclination to lie down and die. Perhaps it was more like regret. How had it come to this? An enemy had just landed a large army on the shores of Andomhaim. How could they have stopped this from happening? They had known the Heptarchy was coming. There had been rumors of mysterious red-skinned orcs for over a year.
Yet Ridmark could not think of what they could have done differently. The Dragon Cult had demanded their attention and left unchecked, Merovech and Aeliana might have seized the Great Eye and found a way to open it. And even if Arandar had chosen to abandon Cintarra to Merovech and devoted every bit of Andomhaim’s resources and manpower to defending against the Heptarchy, it wouldn’t have made a difference. What else could they have done? If they had built a fleet and tried to sail across the ocean to invade the Heptarchy, they wouldn’t have been able to finish the ships in time, and there weren’t enough skilled sailors in Andomhaim to man such a fleet. Nor could they have fortified every single inch of coastline.
Some evils in life, Ridmark had learned, could not be avoided. No matter what you did, no matter what choices you made, those troubles found you.
And when they did, the only option was to fight.
“There, to the south,” said Ridmark, pointing. “Those arachar orcs are still assembling that camp. We can strike them there, and then withdraw back to Mara’s castra before they pursue us.”
“They have already set guards,” said Calliande. A rank of spearmen stood guard over the orcs digging trenches for the camp. Some of the arachar orcs had crossbows, and the weapons looked powerful. The Azrikai halflings were perhaps as capable as smiths as the nations of the Heptarchy believed.
“I wonder why they do not attack,” said Gavin. “They see us.”
“We are mounted, husband,” said Antenora. “The soldiers of the Heptarchy may not have a tradition of mounted warfare. But they must realize that if they chase us, we can draw them away from their comrades and then destroy them.”
“But we have a way we can force them to attack,” said Calliande. “Antenora?”
She nodded, and both women began casting spells. Antenora gestured with her black staff, and a sphere of fire whirled to life over the top of it, growing larger and larger with every revolution as it spun. Calliande lifted her staff, white flame and lightning rolling up and down its length. Morigna gestured as well, purple flame and mist shimmering around her fingers.
“Though I should mention that at this range,” said Antenora, “my accuracy is questionable.”
“That’s all right,” said Ridmark. “They’re packed close enough that it doesn’t matter.”
“Just like the old days, is it not?” said Morigna.
Calliande snorted. “Except the Anathgrimm are on our side. And we aren’t chasing Tymandain Shadowbearer to get the empty soulstone back.”
The absurdity of the conversation made Ridmark shake his head, half with dismay, half annoyance. “And we’re older, and some of us have children.” He drew Oathshield, the soulstones in the blade and pommel flickering with pale white light.
“Well, then,” said Calliande. “Shall we go to war together again?”
As one, the three women lifted their staffs and worked their spells.
Calliande’s took effect first. A bolt of lightning screamed from the sky and landed amid the arachar spearmen. The thunderclap boomed over the beach, and a dozen arachar orcs were flung into the air. Most of them were dead by the time they hit the ground. Antenora thrust her staff, and the sphere of fire hurtled forward. It had swelled to the size of a horse’s head, and just as Antenora had said, her aim was a little off across such a distance. The fireball missed the spearmen but sailed past them to land in the midst of the orcs laboring to dig the camp trenches. The explosion rang out, and a score of orcs perished in the blast. A few seconds later, Morigna’s sphere of mist followed. It unraveled into a bank of acidic fog that sank into the trenches, and the screams of the wounded orcs were audible even across the distance.
Calliande, Antenora, and Morigna lifted their staffs and cast their spells again.
And again.
After the fourth volley of deadly magic, the arachar orcs responded. A mob of swordsmen and spearmen charged up the slope, weapons in hand. They were making an effort to keep in formation, but Calliande hurled more lightning among them, tearing holes in their lines.
“Now, Sir Peter,” said Ridmark.
The scarred knight lifted a horn to his mouth and blew a long blast, the note ringing out. The knights put spurs to their horses and charged, and Ridmark rode at their head, Oathshield in his right hand, Aegisikon in its shield form on his left arm. White fire began flickering up and down the soulblade, reacting to a source of dark magic nearby. Probably one of the spiderling priestesses.
The horsemen smashed into the arachar orcs. Ridmark swung his sword, and Oathshield took off the head of an orc even as another was trampled beneath his mount’s hooves. Some of the horsemen were knocked from their saddles, slain by arachar swords and spears,
but far more arachar fell.
The knights and men-at-arms thundered onto the beach, cutting down the orcs.
###
Calliande held her magic ready, preparing to strike.
But not at the arachar orcs. The knights and men-at-arms were punching through the enemy lines with ease. The half-finished camp had been overrun, and they had cut down hundreds of orcs. But the rest of the enemy was reacting, and the horsemen would have to withdraw before the arachar put together an effective response.
But the Sight burned in Calliande, and she saw auras of dark magic flaring among the orcs.
There were a dozen of them. Calliande saw the familiar malignant aura of dark magic, potent and corruptive. The Sight showed her the aura of the spiderlings, the descendants of a female urdmordar. But all the spiderlings that Calliande had ever encountered in Andomhaim were born of human males and urdmordar females. These creatures were hybrids of dark elves and urdmordar, and therefore far stronger with dark magic.
But Calliande was still the Keeper of Andomhaim, and there was no magic of this world that could challenge the mantle of the Keeper. Especially with spells of warding and defense. Calliande was neither the most skilled nor the most powerful wielder of magic she had ever encountered, but the mantle of the Keeper gave her a potent advantage.
Blue fire and shadow flared among the milling chaos of the half-completed camp. Calliande summoned power of her own, the fire of the Well of Tarlion fusing with the magic of the Keeper’s mantle. A warding spell flared to life before her, rising in the form of a shimmering wall of translucent white light. A half-dozen bursts of dark magic hammered into the ward, withering spells that looked like spears of shadow merged with blue flame. The attacks crackled against the ward, and Calliande gritted her teeth, pain flaring through her jaw. The spiderling priestesses hit hard, but she had faced far stronger attacks.
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