Arutha half
expected the Armengarian commanders to protest, but without a word
they left to begin the work ordered. Guy interrupted Arutha before he
could speak. “You’re a better field commander than any of
the city men, Arutha. And if we must quit the city, you may find
yourself in charge of one portion or another of the populace. I want
it known you are to be obeyed. This way, even if one of the local
commanders be with you, your orders will be followed.”
“Why?”
Moving toward
the door, Guy said, “So that perhaps a few more of my people
can get to Yabon alive. Come along; just in case, you should know
what we’re planning here.”
The second major
assault began while Guy was showing Arutha the deployment of units in
the citadel, against the fall of the city proper. They rushed back to
the walls, while old men and women were rolling barrels through the
streets. As they reached the outer bailey, Arutha saw dozens of
barrels being placed at each corner.
They reached the
top of the wall, finding heavy fighting along every foot. Blazing
boxes teetered in the breeze a short distance from the walls, but no
company of moredhel, goblin, or troll had safely passed the parapets.
Gaining his
command post, Guy found Amos supervising the deployment of reserve
companies. Without waiting for Guy’s request, Amos began
relating the situation. “We’ve had two dozen more of
those box contraptions rolled out. This time we shot them full of
fire arrows and heaved the oil after, so they went up farther away
from the walls. Our lads are peppering them heavily and we should
take their measure this time. His unholy bastardness is fit to be
tied.” He pointed to the distant hill where Murmandamus sat. It
was difficult to see, but there was a vague hint the moredhel leader
was less than pleased with the assault. Arutha wished for Martin’s
hunter’s eye, for he couldn’t quite see what Murmandamus
was doing.
Then Amos
shouted, “Down! All down!” Arutha crouched below the
merlons on the wall as Amos’s warning was echoed by others, and
again scarlet fire exploded over their heads. Another blast followed,
then a third. The distant sound of trumpets could be heard and Arutha
chanced a glimpse over the wall. The surrounding army was in retreat,
heading back for the safety of their own lines. Guy got up and said,
“Look.”
All below them,
incinerated corpses lay, smoking from the blast of Murmandamus’s
mystic flames. Amos surveyed the damage and said, “He doesn’t
take too kindly to defeat, does he?”
Arutha studied
the walls. “He’s killed his own soldiers and done little
harm to ours. What manner of enemy is this?”
Amos placed his
hand upon Arutha’s shoulder. “The worst sort. Insane.”
Smoke covered
the field and the defenders almost collapsed from fatigue and lack of
clean air. Large constructions of wood and brush, fashioned in such a
manner as to allow quick ignition, had been brought forward on wagons
and placed before the walls. They had been set afire and had sent up
a foul black smoke. A different manner of scaling had been attempted,
long ladders set atop platforms. Companies of goblins ran forward
carrying these. To the defenders it seemed a wall of black smoke had
obscured the air, then suddenly a ladder would loom out of the smoke
before them. While they vainly tried to push aside the fixed ladders,
attackers swarmed up them. The attackers wore cloths over their
mouths and noses, treated with some mixture of oils and herbs, which
filtered out the smoke. Several positions along the wall were
overrun, but Arutha helped direct reinforcements, which soon pushed
the attackers back. Guy had ordered naphtha poured down upon the
fires, causing them to explode beyond the ability of the attackers to
control. Soon an inferno blazed at the base of the wall, and those
upon the platform ladders were left to die in burning agony. When the
fire had at last died down, not a ladder was left intact.
The late
afternoon sun sank behind the citadel and Guy motioned Arutha to his
side. “I think they’re done for the day.”
Arutha said, “I
don’t know. Look how they stand.” Guy saw that the
attacking host had not retired to camps as they had before. Now they
reformed in attack positions, their commanders moving before them,
directing replacements into the line. “They can’t mean to
attack at night, can they?”
Amos and Armand
had approached. “Why not?” said Amos. “The way
they’re throwing their men at us, it matters little who can see
who. The silly swine-lover doesn’t give spit for who lives and
who dies. It’ll be pure butchery, but they may wear us down.”
Armand surveyed
the wall. The wounded and dead were being carried down to infirmaries
set up within the city. “We’ve lost a total of three
hundred twenty soldiers today. We may find the number higher when all
the reports are re-checked. That leaves us with a standing force of
six thousand two hundred and about twenty five.”
Guy swore. “If
Martin and the others reach Stone Mountain in the fastest possible
time and get back here as fast, it will not be soon enough. And it
seems our friends out there have something planned for tonight.”
Arutha leaned
against the stones of the wall. “They don’t seem to be
readying for another assault.”
Guy looked back
toward the citadel. The sun was now behind the mountains, but the sky
was still bright. Banners and torches could both be seen on the plain
before the city. “They seem to be . .. waiting.”
Guy said, “Have
the companies stand down, but feed them at the forward positions.”
He and de Sevigny left without ordering a sharp watch. There was no
need.
Arutha remained
on the wall with Amos. He felt some strange sense of anticipation, as
if the time for him to play his part, whatever that would prove to
be, was rapidly approaching. If the ancient prophecy told him by the
Ishapians at Sarth was true, he was the Bane of Darkness and it would
fall to him to defeat Murmandamus. He rested his chin on his arms,
upon the cold stones of the wall. Amos took out a pipe and began
filling it with tabac, humming a sea chanty. As they waited, the army
beyond was cloaked in darkness.
“Locky,
no,” said Bronwynn, pushing the boy away.
Looking
confused, the squire said, “But we’re off duty.”
The tired girl
said, “I’ve been running messages all day, the same as
you. I’m hot and sticky, covered with dirt and smoke, and you
want to lie with me.”
Locklear’s
voice betrayed a note of hurt. “But . . . last night.”
“Was last
night,” said the girl gently. “That was something I
wanted, and I thank you for it. But now I’m tired and dirty,
and not in the mood.”
Stiffly the boy
said, “Thank you! Was . . . that a favour?” His wounded
pride showed and his voice was thick with youthful emotion. “I
love you, Bronwynn. When this is over you must come with me to
Krondor. I’m going to be a rich man someday. We can be
married.”
Half-impatiently,
half-tenderly, the girl said, “Locky, you speak of things I
don’t understand. The pleasures of the bedchamber are . . . not
promises. Now I must rest before we are called back to duty. Go.
Maybe some other time.”
Feeling stung,
the boy backed away, his cheeks burning. “What do you mean,
some other time?” Colour rose in his face as he almost shouted.
“You think this is some game, don’t you. You think I’m
just a boy.” He spoke defiantly.
Bronwynn looked
at him with sadness in her eyes. “Yes, Locky. You’re a
boy. Now go.”
His temper
rising, Locky shouted, “I’m no damn boy, Bronwynn. You’ll
see. You’re not the only girl in Armengar. I don’t need
you.” Awkwardly he stepped through the door, slamming it behind
him. Tears of humiliation and anger ran down his cheeks. His stomach
churned with cold fury and his heart raced. Never in his life had he
felt so much confusion and pain. Then he heard Bronwynn shout his
name. He hesitated a moment, thinking the girl might want to
apologize, or afraid she might simply want him for some errand. Then
she screamed.
Locklear pushed
open the door and saw the girl clutching her ribs while she awkwardly
held a dagger in her hand. Blood poured down her arm and along her
side and thigh. Before her crouched a mountain troll, his sword
upraised. Locklear’s hand flew to his rapier as he shouted,
“Bronwynn!” The troll faltered as the boy leaped toward
him, but even as Locklear raised his own weapon, the troll’s
blade came down.
In blind rage
Locklear slashed out, cutting the troll across the back of the neck.
The creature staggered and attempted to turn, but the boy ran it
through, the point of the rapier finding a place under the arm where
no armour protected the creature. The troll shuddered and its sword
fell from limp fingers as it collapsed to the floor.
Locklear stabbed
it one more time, then was past it to Bronwynn’s side. The girl
lay in a pool of blood and instantly Locklear knew she was dead.
Tears ran down the boy’s face as he cradled her in his arms,
hugging her close. “I’m sorry, Bronwynn. I’m sorry
I was mad,” he whispered in the dead girl’s ear. “Don’t
be dead. I’ll be your friend. I didn’t mean to shout.
Damn!” He rocked back and forth as Bronwynn’s blood ran
down his arms. “Damn, damn, damn.”
Locklear wept
aloud, his pain a hot iron in his stomach and groin, his heart
pounding and his muscles knotted. His skin flushed, as if hatred and
rage sought to leach through the pores of his skin, and his eyes
seemed to burn inside his head, suddenly too hot and dry for tears.
Then the sound
of alarm brought him from his private grief. He rose and gently
placed the girl upon the bed they had shared the night before. Then
he took his rapier and opened the door. He took a deep breath, and
something froze inside him, as if mountain ice replaced the burning
agony of the moment before.
Before him a
woman held a child as a goblin advanced, his sword upraised. Locklear
stepped calmly forward and ran the goblin through the side of the
neck, twisting his sword savagely, so the creature’s head fell
from his shoulders. Locklear looked about and saw a brief shimmer in
the night air, and suddenly a moredhel warrior appeared before him.
Without hesitation Locklear attacked. The moredhel took a wound in
the side, but managed to avoid being killed by the boy. Still the
wound had been serious and Locklear was a swordsman of above-average
skill. And now he had come to command a cold, controlled rage, a
disregard for his own safety that made him the most fearful of
opponents, one willing to take risks because he didn’t care if
he lived. With astonishing fury the boy drove the moredhel back to
the wall of the building and ran him through.
Locklear spun
about, looking for another opponent, and saw another form appear in
the street a half block down. The boy ran toward the goblin.
Everywhere in
the city, the invaders suddenly appeared. Once the alarm had been
sounded, the defenders had dealt with them, but a few goblins and
moredhel had joined in force and were now fighting from pockets
within the city. As the invasion of magically transported warriors
reached its peak, the army outside the walls attacked. Suddenly there
was the risk of enough soldiers being pulled from the walls to deal
with the teleported soldiers to allow those without to find a point
of defence they could breach. Guy ordered one reinforcement company
to the point of heaviest attack upon the wall, and another off the
wall to aid those in the city. Hot oil and arrows quickly turned back
those at the wall, but the constant appearances within the city
continued. Arutha fought off numbing fatigue and watched his father’s
most bitter rival, wondering how the man found the reserve of
strength to carry on. He was a much older man, yet Arutha found
himself envying Guy his energy. And the speed with which he made
decisions showed a complete understanding of where every unit at his
disposal was at any time. Arutha still couldn’t bring himself
to like this man, but he respected him and, more than he cared to
admit, even admired him.
Guy watched the
distant hill, the place where Murmandamus oversaw his army. There was
a faint flicker of light; after a moment, another; then a third.
Arutha followed Guy’s gaze and, after witnessing the lights for
a time, said, “That’s where they’re coming from?”
“I’d
bet on it. That witch-king or his snake priest is behind this.”
Arutha said,
“He’s too far for even Martin’s bow, and I’ll
wager none of your archers can reach him. Nor can your catapults.”
“The
bastard’s just out of range.”
Amos came along
the wall to say, “Things seem to be under control, but they
keep popping up everywhere. I’ve a report of three in the
citadel, and one appeared in the moat and sank like a stone, now . .
. What are you looking at?”
Arutha indicated
the hill and Amos watched for a while. “Our catapults can’t
reach it. Damn.” Then the old seaman’s face split in a
grin. “I’ve an idea.”
Guy waved toward
the bailey, where an astonished looking troll had suddenly appeared,
to be overwhelmed by three soldiers. But while he died, another came
into existence and dashed away down a street. “Anything. Sooner
or later, they’re going to gather into a large enough company
to cause serious trouble.”
Amos hurried
away, toward a catapult platform. He issued instructions and soon a
cauldron was heating. He oversaw the preparations and returned.
Leaning upon the wall, he said, “Anytime now.”
“What?”
said Guy.
“The wind
will change. Always does this time of night.” Arutha shook his
head. He was tired and suddenly was visited with a funny image. “Are
we going to sail closer, Captain?”
Abruptly a troll
was upon the rampart, blinking in confusion. Guy struck it with the
back of his fist, knocking it to the cobbles far below. It landed
with a thump of finality, it seems they have a moment or two of
disorientation, which is a damn good thing,” said the
Protector. “Otherwise that one might have had your leg for
lunch, Amos.”