Wytchfire (Book 1) (34 page)

By order of Captain Ferocles, every other able-bodied man was sent to the armory as well. Rowen saw men close their doors, as though intending to hide inside their homes, only to look out their windows, see mere slumdwellers bravely arraying themselves for battle, and hurry out to follow suit, ashamed.

Along the battlements, archers took position near murder holes, beside trebuchets and ballistae that looked as though they had not been fired in years. Elsewhere, those who could not fight were tasked with filling buckets of water, in case the enemy hurled fire over the walls. Chief among these were the women and children from the Dark Quarter, along with the wealthy women of Lyos. All had been granted sanctuary by the clerics of Lyos, but most refused to sit idly by while the men fought and died.

Rowen did what he could to help. Years as a sellsword had taught him a little about the engines of war—knowledge that the defenders of Lyos sorely lacked. He directed the positioning of the trebuchets and ballistae then helped instruct teams of men in how to load, aim, and fire the massive weapons. When he was done, he went to find Aeko on the battlements overlooking King’s Bend.

The Knight of the Stag stood beside Crovis Ammerhel, the latter still speaking in heated tones with Silwren and El’rash’lin. Rowen listened a moment and guessed they were trying to figure out how to incorporate magic into the city’s defense strategy. With King Pelleas dead, the Knights had assumed command of the city. Ferocles insisted all the murderers had been trapped in the palace and killed. Still, the murderers’ grisly work had not included killing just the king, but the queen and their children, too. Nearly the entire royal line had been butchered in their beds. A messenger had been dispatched for Phaegos, summoning the last surviving son of Pelleas, but it would take days for him to arrive.

This left matters in the hands of Aeko and Crovis. Rowen sensed the tension between the two Knights, but for the moment, it seemed they had laid their animosity aside for the sake of duty. Rowen joined them quietly. Aeko cast a quick glance at her new squire and smiled—though so far, his title had been purely ceremonial since Aeko preferred to sharpen her own weapons and polish and don her own armor—then returned her attention to the conversation.

Their first concern was to ascertain how the murderers had breached the city and to prevent it from happening again. El’rash’lin confirmed that a Shel’ai—with the use of magic—might muddy the senses of a couple guards and enter a place undetected, a handful of armed men in tow. But secreting an entire company of swordsmen through either the front or rear gates, past dozens of watching eyes, was impossible.

“Maybe they came through the aqueduct,” Rowen offered. The aqueduct was covered to prevent an enemy from poisoning the city’s water supply, guarded as well by squads of bowmen along the walls, but perhaps the Shel’ai had secretly breached it.

Crovis glowered at him. “With weapons and armor on their backs? They’d need gills and the strength of oxen.”

El’rash’lin grew thoughtful. “Shel’ai can use magic to survive in unfamiliar elements for a time—even underwater. It is also possible to cast such spells on someone else. But the pain would be maddening.”

Rowen swore. The famous aqueduct of Lyos fed fountains, wells, and bathhouses all over the city. If what El’rash’lin said was true, it would be impossible to seal or guard them all.

“Can your magic aid us somehow?” Aeko asked.

Silwren shook her head. “It takes too much effort to control the magic. We might do more harm than good.”

Crovis faced her. “Do you intend to offer
any
substantial assistance, or shall I dissolve this alliance right here and now?”

El’rash’lin fixed the haughty Knight with a sobering gaze. “When the time comes, we will do what must be done. Rest assured, Lyos will not fall to sorcery. As for swords—you must contend with those yourself.”

Crovis fumed for a moment then stalked away, as though to inspect the battlements’ defenses.

Aeko bowed to El’rash’lin. The latter had removed his mask upon entering the city. If his disfigurement unsettled her, she did not show it. “Forgive the captain. It wounds his pride to ask for help. I do not think he would have asked at all, were it not for the panic after the king’s murder.”

El’rash’lin eyed her sadly. He started to answer then stopped, took Silwren’s arm, and drew her away.

Aeko said to Rowen, “Crovis does not approve of their plan. And by the Light, I don’t either.”

“Is this a new plan all of you dreamt up while I was in the privy?”

Aeko smiled faintly. “No, the same one. When the Throng comes, El’rash’lin will go out to meet the Nightmare—alone. Silwren will stay on the walls and use her own magic to help him, to keep him from losing focus somehow. They think they might be able to hold back Fadarah and his Shel’ai, but that’s the best we can hope for. We’ll have to face Fadarah’s warriors on our own.”

Rowen thought of Jalist again. He looked westward and shuddered. The Throng spread across the horizon, close enough that he could see individual banners, horsemen, siege towers, and company after company of footmen.

“You’ve seen more of magic than I ever will,” Aeko said. “Do you think those two can do what they promise? Can they destroy the demon?”

Rowen winced. He wanted to tell her that it was not a demon. It had a name. It had been a man, once. His friend.
No, those are El’rash’lin’s memories—not mine.

Aeko took his silence as an answer. Her sharp eyes surveyed the battlements. “The men’s spirits have improved, at least.”

Banners rippled in the breeze—not just the Lyos falcon and the balancing crane of the Lotus Isles, but the crude symbols of the Dark Quarter, too. The new alliance had filled people with hope. Sunlight flashed off armor as men went about their feverish preparations. Men of the Red Watch labored alongside squires and Isle Knights. Rich citizens of Lyos took up weapons, assuming posts alongside slumdwellers. All, for a moment, were equals. It could not last forever, but would it last even as long as the battle?

He remembered Silwren’s words in the Dark Quarter. Perhaps this would be their finest hour after all—though he doubted many of them would live to appreciate it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Nightmare

A
eko estimated six thousand mercenaries, all marching under different banners, and four hundred horsemen with spears and shields. She saw the outlines of trebuchets and siege towers, too. These worried her far more than the enemy cavalry, which would have to dismount sooner or later since horses were practically useless in a siege.

Unless their demon tears our walls down
. There was no sign of it yet. But here and there at the head of the approaching host, Aeko caught sight of tall, lean figures in bone-white cloaks and hoods. Even from this distance, she could make out the extravagant crimson greatwolves sewn into cloaks and banners. Around these men rode others dressed head to toe in black.

Given the Nightmare’s penchant for tearing down walls as though they’d been built from a child’s wooden blocks, Aeko had suggested they not array themselves along the battlements, massing instead in the courtyard or even along some makeshift fortification deeper within the city. But Crovis refused, very nearly accusing her of cowardice.

So here we are.
Aeko tapped her sword hilt.
Let’s hope our new allies can stop the Nightmare before he turns the walls of Lyos to dust… and us with them!

She turned to Silwren. “Will Fadarah try to parley with us?”

The Shel’ai regarded Aeko with her ghostly, disconcerting eyes. “They never offer truce until after the walls are breached.”

“So I hear.”

Crovis Ammerhel overheard and faced Silwren. “Keep your word, and the walls will stand.” He touched his sword. “Keep it not, and I’ll have your head.”

El’rash’lin said, “Captain Ammerhel, if we fail, I doubt you will have that pleasure.” The stooped sorcerer coughed then straightened. “The magic we wield is the same as the Nightmare’s. We survive it only because we do not use it. If we unleash what we must to win this battle, it may kill us.”

Crovis said, “Then I shall pray for your souls.”

Aeko flinched at her superior’s callous tone, but the disfigured sorcerer appeared unfazed. “You would do better to pray for our deaths, Sir Knight. If the magic drives us mad—as it might—then all of Lyos will become a smoldering graveyard.”

Aeko saw by Crovis’s scowl that the Knight of the Lotus did not believe a word of it. But she met El’rash’lin’s gaze herself. Her revulsion melted. Fear and pity swelled inside her. “Perhaps we should attempt to parley first,” she suggested. “We could ask for their terms—”

Crovis said, “Isle Knights do not beg for terms. For implying as much, I am within my bounds to accuse you of cowardice in the face of the enemy.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Aeko saw Rowen cast her superior a murderous look. The others shifted uncomfortably, especially the Isle Knights. Aeko bowed. “I spoke in haste. Forgive me, Sir Ammerhel.” She straightened but kept her eyes low, as she knew she must.

“Indeed,” he answered. “Pray there will be time to make amends.”

“Thank you,” she forced herself to say, her face burning.

For a long time, all eyes stared over the battlements. The Throng drew steadily closer. Unease spread along the walls. The well-disciplined Isle Knights kept their composure. Meanwhile, the rest of the city’s defenders struggled to do the same. Lyos had not been besieged for as long as anyone could remember. Now, their king was dead, and an army bolstered by sorcery was drawing close. The men’s spirits—which had seemed so strong just hours before—began to erode.

Foreseeing this, Aeko had convinced Crovis to reassign most of the squires among the native defenders of Lyos, to give them courage. Unfortunately, many of these squires were equally untested.

Here and there, men threw down their weapons and ran.
Where do they think they’ll hide—the sewers? Inside a well? Where will they hide where the Throng won’t find them?

Captain Ferocles swore. “If you’ll excuse me,” he grunted. He drew his sword and stalked off, shouting orders. Sergeant Epheus followed.

“Deserters,” Crovis Ammerhel muttered with disgust. The Knight of the Lotus said to Silwren, “I am told your kind can speak with their minds. If you wish, you may relay this offer to your former master: tell him I will accept his surrender now, should he wish to give it.”

Rowen Locke edged closer to Aeko and whispered, “Is he mad?”

Aeko did not reply. Despite the lingering warmth in her cheeks, she smiled at her captain’s bravado.

Silwren said, “I am already speaking with him.” Her voice was halting.

Crovis Ammerhel scowled. “What does he say?”

The tears building in Silwren’s violet eyes began to flow down her cheeks. The sight of so Human a gesture emanating from the ghostly eyes of a Shel’ai alarmed Aeko.

“He asks—” Silwren’s voice broke. She regained her composure and started again. “He asks why we betray him. He asks how we can do this... to our own people.”

Crovis Ammerhel drew his sword, the magnificent curved blade sparkling in the afternoon light. “Tell him you have chosen to ally yourself to the Light, to forsake the foulness of your wytchcraft. So, too, could his own sins be forgiven, by the Light’s grace.”

Silwren did not answer. Instead, she reached out her hand. El’rash’lin took it in his own. He said something in Sylvan. She hesitated then nodded.

The sorcerer turned to face Sir Ammerhel. “Open the gates,” he said simply. “I will go out and meet them.”

The Knight of the Lotus looked skeptical but gestured to one of the Isle Knights standing nearby. “Open the gates. The sorcerer goes out…
alone
.”

El’rash’lin and Silwren embraced. Silwren would not let him go. Finally, El’rash’lin gently pried himself free. His disfigured face broke into a sad smile. He whispered something into one of Silwren’s long, tapered ears, bowed to Rowen, then started down the stairs.

Rowen said, “I’m going with him.”

Aeko grabbed his arm. “You’re staying right here. That’s an order.”

Rowen blinked in surprise but obeyed.

El’rash’lin had reached the courtyard now, flanked on all sides by Isle Knights. His body already looked stooped again, as though merely descending the stairs had sapped his strength. How could such a wretched figure be their savior?
Then again, most of what I’ve seen lately makes no more sense than that.

The Isle Knights signaled to the gate guards. They reluctantly hefted a stout, eight-foot crossbeam out of the way and pushed open the great oak gates of Lyos. El’rash’lin shuffled out, alone, and started down King’s Bend. The gates of Lyos closed behind him.

Far away, beyond the base of Pallantine Hill, Fadarah had dismounted his red-flanked, yellow-eyed bloodmare and stood alone at the head of his host, deep in mindspeak.
“I have spoken with Silwren and El’rash’lin. They will not see reason.”

Shade answered, presumably from the place where Fadarah had sent him—east of the hill, near a break in the soil that led down to a great, underwater sea.
“The fault is mine, General. I sought her out, but I spoke in anger.”

Fadarah said,
“So you did. But she loved you once. If she will not listen now, then the fault can only be her own.”
He faced Lyos. The Throng had halted near the base of the hill, still well out of range of archers and siege engines. Neither side sent emissaries.

Fadarah studied the challenge before him. The only way for an army to reach the walls of Lyos was to advance all the way up the winding road to the hilltop, trying all the while to keep their own siege engines from getting mired in mud, meanwhile weathering storms of arrows from the walls.

Azure banners of the Isle Knights fluttered from the parapets. Fadarah realized for the first time that the color of the Knights’ banners perfectly matched the color of Sylvan eyes—those who weren’t Shel’ai, that is.
All the more reason for them to burn.

Fadarah focused once more on the slow-moving juggernaut that was the Throng, supervising its endless columns of cavalry and footmen. Shade’s slaying of the king and most of his family had weakened the will of Lyos but not broken it, as Fadarah hoped it would. But it made no difference. Fadarah had just given Shade a fresh host to command, which included the majority of the Unseen, plus a handful of Shel’ai. Even if El’rash’lin and Silwren managed to thwart the Nightmare, Shade could finish Lyos himself.

Fadarah asked,
“Are you ready, my son?”

“We await your command.”

“It is given.”
He broke off from the mindspeak. He trained his eyes on the hill again. A single figure had appeared, shuffling weakly down the long, winding trail toward them. “El’rash’lin, my old friend...”

No, El’rash’lin was his enemy now. The man could have no purpose in mind save to fight the Nightmare, to thwart the strategies he himself had helped invent. But where was Silwren?

Then Fadarah understood. He imagined her on the walls, preparing to use her own magic to bolster El’rash’lin’s focus. She would keep him from losing his mind in much the same way the sorcerers of the Throng controlled the Nightmare.

Fadarah closed his eyes. With his mind, he spoke to all the other Shel’ai, telling them to prepare. In a moment, they would rouse the Nightmare. In a moment, they would unleash their full fury upon these plains. Lyos would crumble—as would El’rash’lin. It could be no other way. He knew they understood. Still, Fadarah wept as he gave the order.

“Bring forth my Nightmare...”

Jalist Hewn was standing in the foremost row of pikemen, near the remainder of the Unseen, when the Nightmare was summoned. At once, the Dwarr’s blood ran cold. The monstrosity appeared out of nowhere, as though somehow spared the sane laws that governed the world of men.

It plodded through the ranks—a great, dark, smoldering thing, ringed by sorcerers in cloaks and hoods. Unease swept through the army, worse than usual. The men were tired, after all, and scared for their homelands to the west. They were unnerved, too, that so many Unseen had been sent to take the city from within—an unusual tactic for Fadarah.

And now, the Nightmare. Jalist clutched his long-axe until his knuckles turned white. Well over a dozen times had he lived this moment in his dreams, but still his heart filled with such panic that he wondered for a moment if it would wrench itself from his chest.

“Steady, lads!” he called, as much to embolden himself as those around him. “Think of Llassio. If he could die with honor, the least we can do is gawk at this abomination without pissing ourselves!”

The men around him laughed uneasily. But the Dwarr’s words had an effect. Men straightened and lifted their eyes, gaining a thin measure of control over their fear.

Besides, all we have to do is watch
.
No rebellion today.
He was glad that most of the men around him were veterans. They knew what to expect. The Nightmare would slough up to the walls, bring them crashing down with a jolt of raw magic that blasted stone into dust, then vanish. The Shel’ai would order the ranks forward. The city, unquestionably conquered, would surrender what remained of its army, and that would be that.
So why do I have such a terrible feeling about this?

Jalist thought of Llassio, buried just the night before. The Dwarr’s strong hands were still blistered from digging the grave. He had dug it alone, refusing all offers of help.
Something tells me you’re the lucky one, lad
. Other images flashed through his mind: his one-time home in Stillhammer. Leander, the gentle Dwarr prince.

Jalist clenched his eyes shut for a moment then opened them. He had the awful feeling that he would never see Leander again. He would never go home. He and all the other fools around him were about to die.

“So be it,” Jalist muttered to himself.

An autumn breeze stirred his sand-colored hair, his neatly braided beard. He touched the ornately carved handle of his long-axe and fixed his eyes on the scene before him. The city on a hill. He was far from the mountains, he knew, but at least he would die on stone.