DragonCrown Saga - The Grand Crusade Part 30

Anger pulsed through him. Thinking he was invincible, he'd charged off into the darkness after several of the gibberers. As he caught one by the scruff of the neck, the creature mewed piteously and just went limp. Resolute had been prepared for anything but that. The creature's legs became entangled with his own and he went down hard. He cracked his head on a tree and struggled to get up, but by then three or four terrified gibberers had surrounded him and beat on him with sticks and rocks until he pa.s.sed out.

He did recall, a couple times, being carried along, and the presence of more than four pairs of hands on his body couldn't be denied. He a.s.sumed that once they'd run off, the Grey Misters had not pursued them and, without leadership, the gibberers had re-formed and were trying to figure out what to do next.

One of them had to be of above average intelligence because they'd kept him alive. There was not a sullanciriin Chytrine's employ that wouldn't like to be able to deliver him to her feet.

If his head hadn't hurt so much, he would have shaken it. His thinking he was invincible was pure hubris.

Somehow he had come to a.s.sume that, because he had fought for Vorquellyn's redemption so hard and so long, fate would let him be there to see it. It was an unwarranted a.s.sumption, and the hollowness of it battered him. His role, in many ways, had been one of mentor. He had trained Crow, both before and after his disgrace. He'd trained Will and even had a hand in training Kerrigan. His last moments with Kerrigan, telling him he'd have to take command and knowing that the boy actually could, should have been a clear signal to Resolute that his part in things was over.

He flexed his hands and found he could curl them into fists. Bringing his hands up to his shoulders, he gingerly pushed his body from the floor. His arms quivered, so he shifted to a hip and slowly sat up. A wave of vertigo washed over him, and a smaller one came in its wake. He steadied himself against the floor, then reached a hand out, found a stone wall, and inched over to it.

His arms and legs worked fine, though the stiffness in them was something he'd have to overcome before he made any attempt at escape.

That very idea brought a smile to his face, but one that tugged on a split lip.Escape? You don't even know where you are. You're hurt, unarmed, and your friends have moved on.

He shrugged slowly and opened his eyes. He found himself in a small room of stone. The wall opposite the door had a very small window, barred, set very high. Through it slanted enough dawnlight that he could see the door. Rough-hewn, though constructed solidly, it had a simple latch to open it and brackets that would allow it to be barred from his side. In an instant it registered in his brain that the door was most probably open, and all he had to do to escape was to walk out.

This time he did shake his head ever so slightly. Though he had a little ringing in his ears, it was not nearly enough to disguise the distant sound of snoring from the other room. It might have been four or a half-dozen gibberers who had brought him down, but more had joined them. He concentrated for a moment and estimated at least a dozen and a half lurked out there, and that was ifallof them snored. There could have been triple that number ofturekadineorkryal-niriout there and he couldn't have told.

The lack of a lock and restraints on him suggested against intelligent Aurolani leadership, but to a.s.sume that was to be even more stupid than he'd been in getting trapped in the first place. He pulled his knees up to his chest and sat back against the wall. He listened hard, beyond the snores to the sounds from outside.

It had been forever since he thought about the time before the conquest, but memories came unbidden.

He'd been in rooms like this before. On Vorquellyn they had such way-buildings out in the wilderness.

Everyone from weary travelers to artists or poets seeking inspiration used them. Small sleeping rooms like this would open onto a large common room with a fire pit in the center, an open roof to let the smoke out, and enough furnishings to make everyone comfortable on long nights when tales could be shared.

Resolute had loved those nights-nights well before he had ever taken his exile name. He'd loved to go out hiking in the countryside, thinking up stories, remembering other tales. Writing poems.

A shiver ran down his spine. He had forgotten ever writing a poem. In the wake of the invasion, doing that had seemed so self-indulgent. Had he spent that wasted time learning how to handle a bow or a sword, he could have defended his homeland. Were he there and prepared, the Aurolani would have been turned back.

And while he knew that was nonsense, somewhere deep inside him it still felt true. He wondered if part of the trouble he'd had with Will had been that the youth fancied himself a poet, too. Resolute had abandoned that pursuit for something more important and here was the Norrington, the salvation of his nation, wasting his time with poetry and other frivolous pursuits.

Resolute cradled his head in his hands. The fingers of his right hand found the wet blood and traced it back to a tear in his scalp. It would be nothing for anyone with healing magick, but that was nothing Resolute had ever bothered to learn.Another bit of foolishness for which I now pay.

He pulled in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. He had a simple problem that was without solution. At some point the gibberers would decide he had to be restrained or killed, and he could do nothing to prevent them from doing so. If he was to escape, he would have to get out of his prison and pick his way through them. Just one raising the alarm-and he had to a.s.sume at least one was awake and on watch-and he would be torn to pieces.

Either I stay here and die, or I go out there and take as many of them with me as lean.

He entertained that fantasy for a moment. Though unarmed, he could kill easily enough. Stiffened fingers driven into a throat would crush the windpipe and leave a gibberer choking out its life. Grabbing one by the muzzle was tricky, but once he had it, wrenching its head around so its chin tickled its spine wasn't hard. His kicks could shatter ribs and send them to puncture lungs, and just generally flinging a gibberer into a wall or pillar would do serious damage.

But so would their claws as they struck at him, or even flailed while dying. A gibberer bite could take a chunk out of him. If the blood loss didn't kill him fast, the blood poisoning would later. Just the ma.s.s of them out there would be enough to grab him, get him down, and even smother him-and all that was if they didn't bring weapons to bear.

How at odds that sort of ending would be with the heroic tales he used to enjoy. His cousins, Oracle and Seethe, would let him pretend to be a hero defending them from hordes. He would duel with shadows and phantoms while they laughed and cheered. Seethe was especially good at describing hideous foes that he would dispatch with elan, but usually not before taking some wound that threatened him. Oracle would then affect to heal him and he would continue the battle.

He started to think that those had been carefree times, but that made him laugh.Everyone describes childhood that way. It was a time before certain possibilities had been closed off. When he had been bound to Vorquellyn, his homeland would communicate its needs to him, and he would fulfill those needs.

As with all young elves, he had sampled life and found the things he liked, in hopes that Vorquellyn would match him with his pa.s.sion. That was supposed to be the way of it, that the homeland would direct one to occupations that made them feel most alive.

And now my pa.s.sion is killing.

Resolute began to wonder what Vorquellyn would make of him now, but before that dark path could be descended, a tiny sound interrupted him. It came as a light tapping low on the door. He wasn't certain he'd actually heard it at first. Then he forced himself to focus, and it came again.

It came again, followed by wearily whispered pleas.

"Open. Now."

Resolute sprang to his feet, then dizzily went to his knees again. He crawled to the door and reached for the latch, slipping it quietly. He opened the door, looking toward the bottom, whence the tapping had come. Even as he opened it, the scent wafting in from the other room told him what he would find.

Despite being prepared, he could not choke off his gasp at what he found.

With all four hands wrapped around his spear, Qwc knelt on the stone floor. Blood had pooled around him. It stained his wings. It pasted one of his antennae to his skull. His head hung low, with his chin on his chest. The little Spritha's body heaved as he labored to breathe.

"Had to be here." His words came out tight and filled with agony. "Had to be."

Resolute's head came up and his heart sank.Oh, Qwc, that spear stabbed far more than winterberries.

He surveyed the common room. Gibberers, over twenty of them, lay still and silent. Some had a mask of webbing over their muzzles, or a torn mask hanging from clawed fingers. In brief flickers of firelight from the pit, the Vorquelf saw trickles of black fluid running from ears or eyes or noses. In some places wounds appeared between collarbone and neck, stabbed right down in and deep, or on others they were opened on the insides of the thighs.

The gibberers lay there, growing cold.

Without saying a word, Resolute scooped Qwc into his arms and slowly stood. He waited for his dizziness to clear, then stumbled into the common room. The Vorquelf carefully stepped over bodies and around puddles of blood. He set Qwc down on a bench near where the gibberers had piled Syverce and a pouch of bladestars, then found a bowl. He discarded the water in it, then went to the way station's cistern and filled it with fresh. He returned to the fire pit, used a longknife to scoop up a couple of cherry coals, and dropped them into the water.

Their hissing sounded preternaturally loud in the abattoir. Resolute dipped a finger into the water, found it warm enough, then tore a piece of a blanket free and wetted it. Slowly and carefully he began to wash the Spritha. He started with Qwc's head and once both antennae were clean and again erect, the Spritha revived a little.

He looked up at Resolute. "You are safe?"

"We are safe, Qwc." Resolute smiled at him carefully. "I've seen what you did here..."

Qwc shivered. "Had to be here. Resolute has to be free."

"I am." The Vorquelf dabbed blood from Qwc's tiny hands. "Qwc, you had no choice."

"That does not make it better."

"Nothing ever does, Qwc." Resolute smiled. "Nothing but the grat.i.tude of a friend you have saved.

Thank you, Qwc. I had been ready to die."

"Qwc watched Resolute a long time. Knew where to stab because of you." The Spritha's voice grew distant. "You saved you, Resolute."

Another one I've trained, even without trying. He wiped down along Qwc's torso. "No more talking right now, Qwc. You took care of me. I'll take care of you. And soon, my little friend, we'll take care of the world."

Markus Adrogans doffed his helmet and scratched at his head. With his disguise no longer needed, he had stopped shaving his head and his hair was growing back in. It itched. Scratching it did not wholly satisfy that itch, but he was content with even a modic.u.m of relief.

The same was not true with the situation on the ground in the Ghost March.

From Logbal his force had headed east behind the shield of Caro's hors.e.m.e.n. It only took them three days to reach the frontier with the Aurolani domain. Queen Winalia had sent a legion of scouts with Adrogans, and they had proven most useful. While he suspected her of playing games, the people she gave him clearly had some pride and no small amount of hatred for the Aurolani. Adrogans had them watched carefully, but none of them tried to communicate with the enemy, nor did they act to provoke an attack which would engage Adrogans' forces.

The frontier had been marked rather clearly. Many trees had been hewn and shaped into crosses, with the lower two portions stuck firmly in the ground and the upper two clawing at the skies. The individuals who had been bound to them ankle and wrist had no support for their backs and heads. As they slowly suffocated, with their viscera pressing in on their lungs, their heads fell back and their shoulders ground in the sockets.

The crucified individuals marked the frontier both in length and in depth. As they rode in, not only did crucifixions stretch as far as the eye could see to the north and south, but the first three miles of Aurolani frontier likewise sprouted them on every hilltop and in every hollow. Gyrkyme scouts confirmed that more waited in the hills much further north and south. As the sun rose that next day, the first thing it silhouetted was yet more victims bound to their trees.

Adrogans had expected to feel the agony in his shoulders and hips. He'd waited for the burning of exhausted lungs to start in his chest, or the dry dis- comfort of a parched throat to make it hard to swallow. He imagined the sting of sweat searing into eyes or-G.o.ds be merciful-the harsh sound of a carrion bird landing, not waiting for the victim to die before slicing flesh with a razored beak and beginning the feasting.

He would have felt all of those things if this scene had been in Okrannel. Pain would have spared him none of it. He would have known the rising panic as breathing became more labored and shorter. He would have felt the burn ofropes against his wrists and ankles.And if some carrion bird decided to help death claim me...

But so far from the Zhusk homeland, the power of theyrunhad been blunted. Adrogans had been glad for that in part because it made it easier for him to concentrate. He did not have to devote part of his mind to dealing with the demands of his mistress. Nothing stood between him and planning the next a.s.sault.

As much as he liked having his mind clear, however, he also missed Pain's presence. She reminded him that what he was doing would make so many of his men her wards. They would fight for him, die for him, and endure endless agonies for him. Without her it was always a temptation to forget that and somehow accept that casualties and deaths were just part of war.

A day's march inside the frontier, his scouts found an ancient tower that had been repaired by the Aurolani, but not much expanded. A legion or so of creatures seemed to be occupying it. The garrison looked to be composed mostly of gibberers, but a fewkryalniriand a couple of giant gibberers seemed to be in command. A small stable held frostclaws and, in the day they watched, a squad went out on patrol but had not returned by dusk.

The patrol's direction did seem to indicate they were looking to keep peopleinnot out, but the fortress'

position meant that any lumber caravans would have to pa.s.s by it. Without knowing how many patrols the fortress had out, or the locations of other towers in the area, slipping the bulk of his forces into the Aurolani domain without notice seemed impossible. Laying siege to the tower was something that could be done easily enough, but if a patrol escaped and warned those at the shipyard what was coming, the Aurolani might be able to bring enough troops in to stop his advance.

And if there is a singlearcanslatain there, alarm could be given even as we array our forces in the field to take the tower down. The war-mages under his commandsaid they detected no such devices, but Adrogans dismissed their a.s.surances. Magickal communication, no matter the means, had to be a.s.sumed and, somehow, worked around.

Adrogans sent his scouts out and around the tower. They searched for signs of patrols, their circuits, and if their routes seemed regular. When reports came back that it seemed as if patrols moved from one tower to another-based on one set of tracks going out and another coming back-he set up ambushes along the routes to kill the patrols. He a.s.sumed a day's delay in a patrol arriving from another post might not raise too much concern, but anything longer than that would be trouble.

With his war-mages set up to detect use ofarcanslata, he then put his next phase of the plan in place. A ragged band made up of six of Queen Winalia's scouts rode toward the tower under a flag of truce. One of the large gibberers asked what they wanted. The scouts told them that an Alcidese general with a thousand hors.e.m.e.n was headed in their direction and that Queen Winalia wanted them warned.

Adrogans was willing to give them that much information, since he had to a.s.sume news of Caro's advance had already filtered over the border. The scouts were dismissed, and they headed back west.

Within an hour, two riders on frost-claws headed east at high speed. That told Adrogans that the Aurolani were not using magick to communicate and, further, that other towers or way stations along the road would provide fresh mounts for the couriers. He would have to watch out for them.

The war-mages confirmed that no magick they could identify had been used to communicate with the east. So Adrogans let the two couriers move on without molestation. The gaps in the patrol schedule created when his ambushes killed the Aurolani scouts let him slip the bulk of his forces past. He then had Caro's cavalry ride all over those tracks, obscuring them-which would let any subsequent scouting parties a.s.sume Caro's people had killed the patrols.

A day after Winalia's scouts had warned the Aurolani of Caro's presence, his horde arrived at the fortress. Caro advanced under a white flag and informed the tower's commander that Queen Winalia had been deposed. He said trade in wood and other goods would continue, but that any incursion into his kingdom would be swiftly repulsed. Caro and his people then rode west again.

Aurolani scouts trailed after them, but were swiftly murdered. Two more couriers headed east and were let pa.s.s with the confirmation of the earlier news about Caro. Adrogans fully expected the Aurolani commander-either asullan-ciriat the shipyard or a local commander-would react to the news swiftly.

He felt quite certain of that, for reasons he could not pinpoint, and reacted accordingly.

The road to the west wove through some hills between the tower and the nearest town, which served as a way station for couriers. Adrogans had the luxury of two days in which to prepare for the arrival of Aurolani reinforcements for the tower. During that time Caro's people regularly patrolled the frontier and skirmished with Aurolani scouts, drawing all attention to the west.

Adrogans only had twenty dragonels to use, so he set them up in four groups. He placed two batteries of two dragonels at one point along a long stretch of roadway. They pointed back along the road toward the east and had been filled with scatter-shot. Likewise another pair of batteries were set up seven hundred ^_.

yards further west, though they pointed east. The east and west batteries could have hit each other at that range.

In the middle he arranged the remaining dozen dragonels along a hill on the south side of the road. There he placed the best of Agitare's crews, since they would have to reorient their weapons depending on where their shots were needed. The east and west batteries could remain fixed for the most part, and just needed to be loaded quickly.

Infantry was deployed behind the hills, but in a position to support the dragonels. The enemy trying to get at them would have to charge up a hill, and infantry would deny them their goal. He placed the Gurol Stonehearts on the hill directly across from the central battery, hoping they would be brave when the dragonels were shooting in their general direction. A lot of Aurolani would attempt to escape up that hill, so they would have plenty to do to keep them bottled up.

The ambush went off almost too easily. The reinforcements consisted of a regiment of infantry. The gibberers were being driven hard bykryalniriand the large gibberers, which Adrogans took to calling gibberkings in his mind. While they did have a small squad out in front to act as scouts, clearly their commanders feared no trouble until they reached the frontier. The scouts pa.s.sed the well-hidden western battery and the main body of troops moved into the kill zone.

Once the last of the Aurolani had moved past the easternmost battery, it fired. All four dragonels blasted canisters of plum-sized shot into the last legion of gibberers. White plumes of smoke gave away the batteries' positions, but it mattered not at all as the closest enemy group evaporated. The iron shot came with sufficient force to blow through one gibberer and still manage to take an arm or leg off another.

Bodies exploded, with blood, bone, and brains splashing far enough to paint the roadway. Horrid howls filled the hollow in the wake of the dragonel thunder.

As could be expected, half the troops in the middle turned to see what was happening behind them, while the other half began to run from the danger. The confusion and collisions further compacted the formation. Gibberkings andkryalnirishouted commands, but few of their troops complied. Given time, they might have been able to summon order from chaos, but that was not afforded them.

The southern battery vomited smoke and metal into the milling ma.s.ses of gibberers. The shot vaporized the nearest ranks. Those behind fell as their legs were carried away, or their bellies were opened.

Headless corpses tottered about for a heartbeat or two, blood geysering from ragged neck stumps, then pitched over. Those left miraculously untouched crawled from beneath their dying brethren, throwing off ropes of intestines or severed limbs, and moved away from the cloud of smoke slowly drifting down the hillside at them.

The west battery then spoke, ripping through the forward legion. Its standard wavered and fell. One gibberking scooped it up and raised it defiantly. He shouted at his troops, but could not be heard above the cacophony of screams. Dying gibberers clutched at him, forcing him to use the b.u.t.t of the standard to knock them away.

The east battery let loose with another volley, then a ripple of fire came from the south battery. More gibberers died as a metal storm ripped them to bits. Survivors clawed at the hillside and raced upward, both at the batteries and away from them. In their hasty flight they never saw the soldiers waiting for them. Those who escaped hot iron met cold steel and ended up just as dead.

A third volley from each dragonel finished the grisly work. The light southerly breeze slowly cleared the smoke. Adrogans and every other soldier stared down at the road now paved with torn fur, pulverized bone, and an occasional twitching of a limb. Adrogans saw a heart beating within the shattered rib cage of a gibberking, and the matching spurt of blood from where the creature's left arm had once been. The spurt trailed into a drip and the heart's sluggish rhythm ceased altogether.

It had been one thing for him to see the destruction done by the dragonels to a building, and yet another to view the aftermath of the boombags on troops. This, however, had been something Adrogans had no way of putting into perspective. Before that ambush, slaughter on this scale would have been something only the G.o.ds could have engineered.

Adrogans shook his head.And there are crowns who would not blanch from seeing men and women bobbing in such a death-soup. He shivered, then looked away from the road at Captain Agitare.

"Your people are to be commended, Captain."

"Thank you, General." The young man's face had a bit of an ashen hue to it. "We'll do even better next time."

"I'm sure you will, Captain." Adrogans ran his hand back over his skull. "And the prospect of that fills me with dread."

Erlestoke groaned inwardly as he and his command company came around a hill and started down the road. He glanced right and saw Count Wightman taking in the sight below. The other man's eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed in calculation.When next I have to deal with him, I will see this again.

The road descended to a narrow bridge over a small river that flowed slowly. It was not terribly deep, but did have steep sides and was too wide for a horse to leap. On it waited a group of mounted warriors beneath the banner of the Malviston family. Erlestoke looked for Baron Hallard Malviston, but saw no one with his long white mane or his thick beard in that group.

There was, however, a wagon behind them draped in black. A single horse drew it. The cargo in the back rested on a bier likewise covered in black. It contrasted with the white pine of the casket, and Erlestoke had no trouble imagining where the baron rested.

Beyond the bridge, on each side of the road, square breastworks had been raised. Spiked logs decorated the gradual slope leading to the small earthworks. The necessity of weaving in and out of the abatises meant any cavalry charge at the breastworks would fail-not that any horseman would take his mount at the earthworks, since they bristled with spears and were filled with men. Past that, at the top of the hill, more abatises blocked the road, and another line of earthworks crested the hill.

Dranae rode up between the prince and Count Wightman. "It would appear you're not to pa.s.s. Would you like me to deal with this?"

"Your offer is tempting, my friend, but I think we try talk first. Do come with me, however." The prince glanced at Borell. "Will you fix a flag of white to that lance you're carrying?"

"Yes, Highness."

The youth complied with the request, then rode out a few yards ahead of the command company. He raised the standard three times and got a white flag raised three times below. Borell looked back once, then led Erlestoke, Dranae, and Nay forward. Overhead, Preyknosery Ironwing drifted lazily, cradling Erlestoke's quadnel in his arms. With a Gyrkyme and a dragon to act as bodyguards, Erlestoke knew he should fear nothing.

But only a fool fears nothing.

They approached the bridge at a walk, which gave Erlestoke enough time to recognize the tall man with long red hair flowing from beneath his helmet. The baron had one son who lived. Sambell Malviston was someone Erlestoke had met before but not particularly liked. Sambell had seemed to loathe Erlestoke, much as he loathed King Scrainwood, but the baron had been one of Scrainwood's staunchest allies, so Sambell's hatred for him had been left to simmer in silence.

The slender man's head came up, and even at twenty yards distant the intensity of his blue stare chilled Erlestoke. At half that distance the prince saw the orphan notch cut in Sambell's mask, confirming the old baron's death. With hatred that bald and cold, and a corpse on a wagon, the death was recent. And clearly the new baron thought Erlestoke had something to do with it.

Erlestoke reined up and rested both hands on his saddle horn. "Greetings, cousin. I grieve for your loss."

Malviston spat. "Call me not cousin, murderer. My father lies there in that box, cold and dead because of you. You'll not enter our lands without paying a blood price-and a dear one."