Haven 3 Shadow Magic (Haven Series 3) (11 page)

Chapter Ten

Battle

Everyone ran to the walls and looked out to see the rhinogs, but none had eyes as keen as Telyn. After a while, they thought they saw a few black-furred backs moving over the downs a mile or more off.

“I see many men on rafts as well!” cried Telyn excitedly, pointing in the opposite direction.

“Can you see whose side they’re on?” shouted Brand.

Telyn leaned out farther, poking her head through the opening Myrrdin had made in the living wall with a single wave of Vaul. As the lightest and most agile, she had been elected to climb the thorny mass to the top of the dome overhead. “Ouch! Damn these thorns. Yes, I see the blue and white livery of the Riverton Constabulary. They must be ours!”

“Will they reach us before the rhinogs?” asked Corbin.

“They come by water while the rhinogs march through mud. They should be faster,” said Modi.

“There are others with the men,” called down Telyn. “Wee Folk bound ahead of them on the shores and I think some of the Battleaxe Folk are weighing down the rafts as well.”

“Huh,” grunted Modi. “It would be good to have some true warriors at my side.”

Brand ignored the jibe and went back to work, storing arms the others had carried up from the redcap’s armory inside the dome. “We must work fast. We can’t be sure that the charm will hold Herla until help arrives. Already, his coursers test the boundaries.”

“Already the place abounds with Wee Folk spies,” complained Modi, moving an armload of crossbows to the walls where loopholes had been set up.

Tomkin put in an appearance then, using the front entrance this time. He watched Modi warily as he entered, but the big warrior just ignored him. He approached Brand with a toothy grin.

“It appears that help is on the way,” he said.

“I doubt your word no longer,” said Brand, grunting as he helped Corbin roll a fallen stone back into place on the wall.

He looked down at the armor he had gotten from the red cap’s horde. Most of it he had not bothered to put on yet. The breastplate and greaves lay in a heap, but he wore a chain shirt over his homespun tunic. The rings jingled and clinked against the stone as he heaved stones with Corbin. He wasn’t sure if all their efforts would help in the coming fight, but it was easier on the mind than just sitting around waiting.

“Thou art clad in armor,” said the manling, watching him. He looked Brand up and down with a discerning eye. “Add the breastplate and some leggings…a full-fledged Rabing knight you would be! To the untrained eye, that is.”

Brand tried to think of something useful that the manling could do, but he was so small that nothing came immediately to mind. “What tidings do you bring?” he asked.

Tomkin grinned. “Popular, we are. Three armies march to meet us. And a likely Fourth might appear.”

“Three? Four?” demanded Brand, almost letting go of his end of the block.

“Watch what you’re doing, Brand!” cried Corbin. They both had to shuffle under the block’s weight to prevent smashed fingers and toes. Grunting and heaving, they worked the block into its place, and slumped against it, panting.

“What are you talking about, manling?” demanded Brand. He was wishing he had removed his chain shirt now, as Corbin had. The extra weight was tiring. But he couldn’t help thinking that a pile of armor lying on the ground would do him little good if the enemy were to suddenly appear.

“Army one, the rhinogs who follow their goblin sires, who in turn follow their sire Old Hob,” began Tomkin, ticking them off on his thin fingers. “Two, the merlings that churn the river to boiling mud as they come down from their village bent on vengeance, no doubt. Third is the possible—and quite likely—appearance of Oberon with a host of his kind.”

“You said four armies. Was that just big talk?”

“Four would be the River Folk coming to help. But, as you suggest, they hardly count as an army.”

“That wasn’t what I meant, you—” snarled Brand.

“What of the Wild Hunt?” interrupted Corbin.

Tomkin shrugged. “Good point, but I account them as one with the rhinogs.”

“Merlings and Oberon,” muttered Brand. “Who will they side with?”

“Themselves, of course,” said Tomkin.

“I think Tomkin’s right,” said Corbin. “We ourselves aren’t the reason they come, it’s the concentration of power that we represent. They aren’t interested in us, just the three Jewels that we bear.”

Tomkin nodded. “The Wild Hunt has treed us, but has taken too long to finish the prey. Now others have taken an interest.”

“Hmm,” said Corbin, rubbing his chin. He walked over to his own chain shirt and began to struggle it down over his form. It clinked and rasped as he fought with it. A shirt of chain is much harder to put on than a normal shirt of wool or leather. Metal links do not give and stretch like cloth.

“What is it?” asked Brand, looking around the green dome. Everything seemed deceptively calm and normal.

“It occurs to me,” said Corbin through the clinking links, “that the merlings aren’t likely to be stopped by the charm. I doubt the rhinogs are ghostly enough to be halted, either. Could you give me a hand, here?”

Brand helped him tugging the chain shirt down over his barrel-chested form. He then eyed his own pile of armor. “I think you’re right. The time is past for shoring up our walls. We must prepare ourselves for battle.”

Tomkin hopped after him as he began to don his armor. The metal pieces had been well cared for. Wearing his regular clothing for padding, Brand pulled on a chain shirt and worked to buckle on a breastplate. Corbin helped him don the unfamiliar armor. Modi had suggested that they only wear a few key pieces as they were unaccustomed to it and that full armor would be as likely to kill them as save them in battle. As he buckled on the breastplate Brand realized with a shiver that the leather straps should have long ago fallen to dust. They felt supple and fresh, however.

He looked up to see that Corbin was looking at him in concern. As had so often happened in their youth, they were thinking along the same lines.

“How is it that these straps and buckles are so fresh and new?” asked Brand, his lips curled.

“I think we both know,” said Corbin, eyeing the straps in his hands as if he held a fistful of worms.

“The redcap?”

Corbin nodded.

“But what kind of leather, then…?” asked Brand. He dropped the breastplate and wiped sweat from his brow. “It’s human, isn’t it? What else would the redcap use for leather?”

“I don’t know,” said Corbin, examining the straps, “he could have used merlings, or animals…I doubt too many of the marshmen would have ventured this far north, so far past the borders of the Haven.”

“Right,” said Brand, grabbing at this straw to keep his stomach steady, “right! Just merling skin at worst, perhaps even something more wholesome.”

Not speaking, they buckled the rest of their partial armor into place. Still, each time his hands had to touch the supple leather of the straps, Brand’s finger tingled and his stomach churned. He had touched merling skin before, and this felt different, and the tone of it was much too light.

“How are our junior warriors?” asked Modi, coming up to them. He wore a breastplate and a giant shirt of chain that hung down almost to the ground.

“We stand ready to fight for the Haven,” said Brand, reciting a line he had heard from the Riverton Constabulary weekly meetings.

Modi nodded at this answer. “Good,” he said. He paused for a moment, thumbing his axe. “There are things…” he said, and then faltered.

The two river-boys watched him, their faces expressionless.

“There are things that warriors must say to one another before entering battle together,” said Modi at last. “Our personal differences we must set aside. Often, warriors in the very act of a duel will quit their struggles and fight together as brothers against a common enemy. Sometimes, after the battle is done, the duel resumes. Other times, it does not.”

Brand and Corbin looked at one another, and each knew what the other thought. It wasn’t exactly an apology, but it would have to do. “We will fight at your side, Modi,” said Brand.

Modi nodded. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but nothing came out. He nodded again and turned to stump away.

Brand and Corbin each carried shields now. Brand had given the sword he had found in the armory to Myrrdin, who refused to wear armor. Corbin had a real battleaxe now, to go with his shield. Even Gudrin had armed herself with a jacket of woven steel scales and a heavy crossbow. Telyn kept her familiar bow, but chose a long slim dagger with a very keen edge and attached the sheath to her belt.

Brand, having found no better storage for the axe than the knapsack, kept it there still, riding on his back. It seemed less troublesome when it was kept covered, like a horse that is quieted by wearing blinders.

Telyn shouted down a warning that none of them understood.

“What?” shouted back Brand. She poked her head down from the leafy dome and Brand’s heart was gladdened by the image of her face, surrounded by her dark hanging hair.

“The Riverton Constabulary! They’ve made landfall at the ruins of the southern tower!”

“Perfect!” shouted Brand back. “We must meet them and show them the arms there!”

It was quickly decided that he and Corbin should go and greet the newcomers. They marched proudly out into the daylight. Brand felt glad to be free of the oppressive green gloom of the domed gatehouse. The axe was particularly pleased, it sensed battle was imminent.

“I wonder if your father leads them,” said Brand, puffing a bit as he hurried in the heavy armor. He wondered too, if he could last a whole day’s march in such gear.

“I hope Tylag is with them,” agreed Corbin. “He will be proud to see us armored like lords.”

“Do you think he knows of Clan Rabing’s real history?” asked Brand.

“He might. I find it difficult to believe that the Clan Elders don’t know the truth behind these secrets.”

Brand nodded and was about to say more when a shape bounded up from behind them. He reached for his axe reflexively.

“It’s only Tomkin,” said Corbin, putting a hand on his elbow.

“And a good second you make,” replied Brand quietly. He turned to the manling. “Are you joining us to greet your fellows, Tomkin?”

“My fellows are knaves,” said Tomkin, “I am to bring two wet-nosed warriors back to the gatehouse.”

“Why?” demanded Brand.

“The wench lookout has spied a conflict. The merlings have met with thy army before it could reach safe land. The river is filling with blood even now. I suggest you forget about them and retreat.”

Brand and Corbin looked at one another. They both knew there was only one thing to do. They took off toward the southern tower at a run. As he ran, Brand pulled the anxious axe into the light. It gave him a surge of strength and soon he had outdistanced Corbin. The other shouted to him, but Brand neither heard, nor cared to hear, his words.

Tomkin kept up with him, however.

“Thy feet are like the pounding hooves of a charger,” he remarked.

Brand made no reply.

“Thy pace is a killing one. I wonder at the endurance of thy heart. Will it explode, or simply stop of its own accord?”

Brand felt a flash of irritation. He made a sudden sweep with the axe, and clove Tomkin’s soft fawnskin cap from his head. Tomkin made a squeak of surprise and missed the next log he was bounding over. He tumbled through the air and landed in a heap.

Corbin puffed by a few moments later, hooting at the Tomkin, who growled back at him. Corbin’s chain shirt jingled madly as he followed Brand, hopelessly trying to keep up.

Brand reached the southern tower and paused there. All along the shore raged the first true battle he had ever set eyes upon.

About half the rafts and boats had reached the shoreline. A line of blue and white clad men, armed with every manner of makeshift weapon, faced the swarming merlings. On the land they had the advantage, but in the brown, churning water the merlings roped and plucked them one a time from their boats. Once in the river, the men were made quick work of.

In the center of the conflict a large raft worked its way toward the shore. A banner of blue and white flew from its mast. The men aboard cast lines to the men on the shore, but as often as not the merlings intercepted the casts and yanked the boatsmen into the muddy water. Brand’s eyes fixed upon a large figure at the center of the raft. It was his uncle Tylag, Corbin’s father.

Vaguely, he knew he should wait for Corbin, his second. But the desires of the axe, never greater than when in the face of battle, were too much. He raised both his shield and Ambros high over his head and charged. As he charged he screamed like a madman. Flecks of spittle showered his new grown beard and his eyes all but started from their sockets. Far more noticeable to the combatants, however, were the brilliant flashes of light that Ambros loosed. It was as if lightning struck in their midst. Merlings and men alike were blinded and many were struck dead on both sides after a slight lull in the fighting. The merlings got the worst of it, as they liked bright light less than men and seemed to recover more slowly from the dazzling effects.