Days Of Light And Shadow (14 page)

Chapter Twenty.

“Boy!” Yossirion let out his anger for all to hear when the brat walked into the market. He felt the need for all to know what was said.

He had waited for his prey to arrive all afternoon, knowing that sooner or later even Finell would leave his quarters and the Royal Chamber and head into what remained of the markets for his customary afternoon tea. He was young and spiteful, angry and sullen, but he was still a creature of habit.

He might have noticed though, as he took his customary meal, that the markets weren’t what they had been. They were empty. Most of the traders who had once plied their routes had gone, fled. And those stalls that remained open had no customers. With so much of the coin gone with the traders, there were few who could afford to buy. Even before this latest outrage, Finell’s rule had destroyed much of the life of the city.

He needed to be faced. Yossirion doubted that the spoilt little brat would understand it. But regardless he needed to be faced down for his own good as well as that of the realm.

Attacking a mission. Murdering the envoy’s staff. Kidnapping the envoy himself and locking him away in the prison his men had built. The Mother only knew what terrible evil was carried out in there, out of sight of the people. But there were rumours. And the other facts were not in dispute. There were witnesses. The word of what had been done had run through the market even before the first sales of the morning had been made. Even without the testimony of Pita and Mya they had word. Brave children, saving themselves and the hound. Clever too as they had known the one place that they would be safe.

And they were safe. Even while the mission’s remains smouldered in the middle of the city, they had made it through the city in their heavy cloaks, unseen. And by dawn they had found safety in the Grove. They had found kindness too as their wounds were tended to. Their companions though, had not been so lucky, and their bodies lay somewhere in the smouldering ruins of the mission. None of them had been more than children. Girls brought to cook and clean, and to learn the trade of making the nobles comfortable. In time they would have become accomplished maids and cooks and tutors, and their services would have in high demand across the human lands. Their families would have been proud of them. Now they were just ashes, foully murdered at the command of the high lord. A crime that should not go unpunished.

“Elder?” Finell looked surprised to hear himself so rudely addressed, even shaken. And that was as it should be.

“You have placed the envoy under arrest. Beaten him up and dumped him in your foul prison like a common criminal. Have you lost your mind boy!” Yossirion was beside himself with outrage as he faced down Finell in front of the vendors. He only wished he could do it in the Royal Chamber, and protocol be damned. But the guards would not let him enter. The high lord could not interfere with matters of faith and the priesthood in turn could not interfere in matters of the Throne. But when the ruler in question was an angry sullen child in desperate need of guidance? That seemed wrong.

“And then you burned down the mission and murdered the staff there. Innocent children and a cleric of Silene. Did the mist steal your wits?”

“How dare you -.” The elder didn’t let him finish.

“No! How dare you! This is an outrage! It is provocation of a war that should not be! It violates the most ancient laws and it shames us all. We are elves not brigands.”

“I know that you and the human envoy are friends.” The black blooded advisor jumped in before Finell could say anything, his tone one of conciliation, his tongue dripping with poisonous lies. “But this is not a matter of faith Elder Yossirion. Lord Iros of Drake is an enemy of the people. He has engaged in acts of unspeakable evil. He has attacked the Throne. And we must know what else he and his men have planned.”

“Bull slop! I know young Iros well and he is a man of utmost honour and decency.” The elder had to defend his friend, even though he had the worrying thought that he was stepping into a trap with every word. Y’aris was a cunning little rat and he had completely outwitted the young Iros. “And I was speaking to the spoilt little brat beside you, not his black blooded, toad skin advisor.”

Had he said too much? Probably. But Yossirion didn’t really care. Not when he finally had the little brat in front of him. Of course Y’aris didn’t agree and everyone could see the anger glowing in his face. Everyone that was except for Finell. He had his own anger blinding him.

“And you priest, have you too committed acts against me? You have spoken against me so often. But have you gone further? Have you tried to pit the Grove against the Throne?”

“How dare you suggest such a thing child. Even the fact that you could proves to me that you were too young to take the throne.” The elder was angry and he let the ill-judged comment slip out. Naturally he got a reaction.

“And the fact that you would dare to accost me on the street, shouting insults, shows me that you are failing in your vows.” Finell was angry, spitting venom with every word out of his mouth.

“Guards!”

Perfectly on cue Y’aris gestured and the two watchmen that had been trailing them at a respectful distance, stepped forwards and grabbed the elder’s robes, pulling him away from the high lord.

“Unhand me!” Yossirion was shocked, as was everyone within eyesight of them. No one touched a priest. Ever.

“Return this heretic back to Honeysuckle Grove, and make certain he does not leave it again.” The conversation was ended. Yossirion knew that in the same moment the watchmen began pulling him away from the high lord, very nearly dragging him. And they didn’t seem to have the slightest regard for his position as an elder. Not even when he reminded them of it in his strongest voice.

Others did though. The people in the streets stared as he was physically returned to his Grove, shock and disbelief all over their faces. Some of them even tried to come to his assistance, but others of the watch stopped them. They seemed to come out of nowhere just to stand between the people and their fellow watchmen. A sea of black robes and steel making certain he returned to his home. And they weren’t gentle about their duty.

Yossirion could see the watchmen knocking back those who came to object. Punching some, kicking others, treating them as though they were dangerous animals. And behind him he could hear the worrying sound of steel being drawn. He couldn’t turn around to see what was happening however, the watchman had him securely in their grasp as they marched him back to the Grove.

It was then that he finally understood the terrible truth. The war had come to Leafshade, and it wasn’t the humans who were their enemies. It was their own mad ruler.

Chapter Twenty One.

Three thousand watchmen. It wasn’t enough, and more should have arrived by then. But they were also three thousand elves, and Terwyn knew that that made all the difference.

Few as they were, they would crush the city in front of them, they would destroy the vermin that inhabited it, and then they would claim it for their people. Their lord had told them they would, and they knew he spoke the truth. Y’aris could not lie. He was the purest of them all. An elf of unstained character. And though no one was supposed to know it, a true descendant of the last king. It was a secret held close by the watch. A confidence he shared with them out of trust. A confidence they would never betray. Just as they would never fail him.

Y’aris had told them they would do it, and they would.

Even so the sight of those towering walls ahead of them gave him pause. They were broken, but they were also massive. And behind them he knew, would be the utra. Not their soldiers, they had been crushed in the first attack, and few if any survived. But still the city had twenty or thirty thousand people calling it home, even if the stupid utra called it a town, and most of them would be armed. A child with a crossbow could kill a man just as dead as a soldier. They would have to be at their best.

“Line up!” The Sub Commander gave the cry and just as they had practiced it so many times before, they gathered into their lines. Two men deep and fifteen hundred across, it was a powerful formation for archers as it left them all with an open field of fire and if the enemy charged them as normally they would to close the gap quickly, those on the sides could pick them off as they ran. That distance between them was an archer’s best friend. But that wouldn’t happen this time. The utra had walls to hide behind, and they would use them, letting the watchmen come to them. That was their advantage. That and the accursed cannon, with their terrible range.

“Advance.” They took their first step as one, and then their second, and soon the entire line was marching on the city in perfect formation. None walked too far ahead, none fell behind. It was exactly as it should be. It would have been better if they had had the cover of trees to protect them as they advanced, but this was a giant grasslands. So they had to advance on the utra out in the open where they could be seen, and worse than that, up a gentle hill. So no one was surprised when they heard the bells and horns wailing their cries of battle from inside the city. They just kept marching, slowly closing the gap between them.

Terwyn couldn’t help but sweat a little as the walls grew closer. And thanks to a trick of perspective they seemed to grow so much larger. Soon they almost seemed to be towering over them. And just as they were coming into range of the cannon. Three hundred and fifty paces. That they knew from experience, was the critical distance. And that was when their battle would begin. That was when the plan their lord had so carefully prepared for them, would be proven masterful.

It was a difficult march, every step they took bringing them closer to the moment the cannon would spit their fire, closer to the moment when many would fall. But also closer to when they could begin their charge and kill the filthy utra.

And then it happened. There was no warning, nothing to warn them, but suddenly the angry roar of the cannon shattered the silence, and the battle had begun.

Watchmen fell all around, hundreds of them. The shot from the cannon tore into their bodies, spinning them around, knocking them down, shredding them in a frenzy of bloodshed. Just to his right Terwyn saw a dozen of his fellow watchmen fall. But that was all a part of the plan. That was why their line had been so wide. The cannon could only hit a few, and while hundreds fell, thousands survived.

Thousands that immediately ran forwards as fast as they could. One hundred and fifty paces, that was the goal, and they were elves, naturally fleet of foot. One hundred and fifty paces flew by as their hearts pounded in their chests, and then, as if they had practiced it every day of their lives, they stopped dead, raised their longbows, and sent their first volley of arrows high into the air, up and over those walls, and down on to the heads of their enemies. After that they kept launching, sending arrow after arrow on their enemy’s heads.

It was brilliance. Their high commander had thought of everything, and they kept launching their arrows into the midst of the utra in complete safety. The longer range of the longbows let them attack from just out of the range of the crossbows. The utra’s pathetic bolts fell at their feet. And they were protected from the fury of the cannon by the time it took the crews to reload them.

But was it enough? Did they kill some? Yes, Terwyn knew that they had. Even from where he was standing he could see some of the utra falling from the sides of the breaks in the wall, dead or dying. But did they get the cannoneers? That was what mattered. They were the most dangerous, and the ones that had to die first.

Ten, a dozen arrows he fired high into the air towards where the fire had come from, hoping to hit at least a few of them. And all the time he nervously waited to find out, waited to hear the thunder of the cannon. And then when it finally came, he almost cried out with joy as he realised it was less than before. The cannon were firing out of order, there was no controlled volley, and he was sure that there were less of them. The high commander’s plan was working exactly as he had said it would.

“Charge!” The moment the cannon fell silent for the second time the sub commander gave the call for the next phase of the attack and they ran for the walls with everything they had. Y’aris had realised that walls could defend both sides, something the utra had surely never guessed. They were simple creatures. But as they ran this time it wasn’t the cannon they had to worry about, their time was over. It was the crossbows that threatened them, and watchmen began falling all around. To both sides of him Terwyn could see more falling as they ran, blood covered bolts sticking out of them. But somehow they missed him and he kept running, seeing the safety of the wall ahead.

A bolt slipped past his ear, slicing through his skin, and making him flinch. But it wasn’t a serious wound. Not compared to the watchman just in front of him who fell gurgling to the ground with a bloody bolt sticking out of the back of his neck. Yet even as he fell in front of him, the wall was so very near that he could almost feel its safety, and he hurdled the dead man and pushed his every last effort into completing the last few paces.

He reached the wall, almost injuring himself in the impact as he crashed into the unforgiving stone, and then doubled over trying to catch his breath. The others were the same, and for as far as he could see there were watchmen hanging on to the stone, gasping for air. But that didn’t matter when he knew that they were safe. Still a good two thousand watchmen stood with him, protected by their enemy’s walls, and soon they would burst through the gaps in the wall and slaughter all the utra. If he’d had the strength he would have screamed in triumph.

“Form up!” Before he’d even finished catching his breath Terwyn heard the sub commander screaming the command, and he knew they had to. They couldn’t stay where they were or sooner or later the utra would come around the breaks in the wall or over the top. They had to be there first. It didn’t matter that his lungs were burning or that his feet ached. It only mattered that they struck, and struck hard. Everything depended on that.

Reluctantly he slung his longbow on his back and drew his sword. From here on in, it would be hand to hand combat. And then he followed the men in front of him towards the nearest break in the wall, and started screaming with them as they broke through.

From then on it was all madness. Watchmen and utra both fell in front of him as they burst through the gap at a run. Swords were swinging in all directions, some theirs, some the enemy’s and people were screaming as though the underworld was opening up beneath them. He swung his sword in the direction of anyone who was swinging at him, ducked and dived as best he could, and stepped over the blood soaked bodies of the fallen as he fought his way into the city.

Time seemed to have no meaning for Terwyn as he fought. He couldn’t tell if seconds or hours were passing, only that his sword was swinging and the enemy were falling before it. He simply kept running and screaming, striking at every hideously ugly face he could see, and watching them fall before him.

And then at some point he was in the heart of the city itself.

It took him a little while to realise that, to understand that he was beyond the wall and on a city street, but when he did it was joy itself. They were winning. They were killing the filthy savages, and taking the city from them. He screamed with triumph. They all did, and in that moment the enemy finally seemed to understand that they were losing.

They fell back before them, running away in fear like vermin, and Terwyn gave chase. It wasn’t enough to win, they had to destroy these foul things that had attacked innocent elves. And as they ran they screamed with triumph, knowing that the city was theirs. Knowing that Y’aris would be so pleased with them.

And then things went wrong. At first Terwyn didn’t realise it. He didn’t understand what was happening. All he knew was that one moment they were hunting down the vile utra and taking the city for their master. They were winning. And then a moment later the others started falling all around him, bloody bolts sticking out of their bodies. But it didn’t make sense. Not when the enemy was running away. Not when they weren’t even carrying crossbows. Until he looked up.

It was then that he understood the terrible truth. They’d run into a trap. The roofs of the buildings, those that were intact and those that had been burnt out, were lined with archers, and they were running a gauntlet of death.

“Inside!” It was the only thing they could do, to take cover inside the buildings, and he hoped that the others understood his yell. But even if they did they didn’t have much time. So many of them were already down, and so many more were falling, that he knew they had to be quick.

Terwyn found the nearest door to a burnt out building and hurled himself against it. It held somehow, resisting him, and he bounced off it. And to make matters worse a pair of bolts slammed into its heavy wood as he did so, narrowly missing him.

Desperately he smashed into it again, this time hitting it with every ounce of strength he had, and the door finally gave way, letting him through into the safety of the house, and he fell to the floor in a tangled heap. More bolts slammed into the walls above him as he fell, and he hurriedly rolled to the side and kicked the door shut.

After that he gasped with relief, knowing he was safe for a moment, safe enough to crawl to his feet and pull his longbow. It was time to take the fight back to the savages. It was time to kill them as they had so foully murdered his comrades. And he was sure that few others had made it to safety. All he could do was pray that some of the other troops had done better.

He notched an arrow and edged towards a burnt out window, determined to kill as many of the enemy as he could. If he was to die this day, these savages should still know that they had fought an elf. They should count the cost of their victory in blood. But then he heard a sound that told him he had made a dreadful mistake.

It was a child crying, from somewhere inside the house. Terwyn cursed himself for his stupidity as he realised that he hadn’t even thought to check if the house was empty. How many mistakes could he make? And yet there was still nothing he could do. So instead of raining death upon the enemy soldiers, he put away his bow, drew his sword and advanced cautiously further into the house. Whoever was inside, they had to die so that he could return to the window.

He poked his head through the doorway to the next room and saw nothing. It was just an empty room full of half burnt stuff. He rushed through it as fast as he could hoping to spoil the chances of anyone inside looking to take off his head, but there was no one there. What there was was a doorway to the side, and when he looked through it in to the room beyond, a child.

A filthy utra child. Small and smelly and so ugly that she made him want to turn away. She was so hideous as she stood there crying, that he felt the need to slaughter her on the spot, and yet she was also so small and piteous that it felt almost wrong. It was his duty and yet still a part of him almost baulked at the thought of killing her. After all she was so young. She couldn’t harm him. But then he remembered the wise words of his lord and realised the truth. She might be harmless now, but one day she would grow up to become a monster and murder his people. He raised his sword and advanced into the room, intending to kill her quickly. It was the right thing to do.