Finding Destiny (18 page)

FIVE

The clang-clang-clang of nearby bells, beaten fast and furious, startled Zeilas out of a sound sleep. It also startled his Steed. Fireleaf reached out to him even as he fought to make sense of the noise.

I don’t know,
he sent back, blinking and scrubbing at his eyes. He heard Sir Collum swearing, a crumpling sound, and a moment later the embers in the fireplace flared up, igniting the scrap paper the younger man had tossed onto the fire for illumination. At least, it was supposed to be scrap paper, from the bin set in their bedchamber for such things. The other two male Knights sharing this room grunted and sat up, squinting through the gloom as the bell or gong or whatever kept banging for a few moments more.

It fell silent just as he drew in a breath to speak. Caught off guard by the silence, he listened—then winced as the clang-clang-clang-clang started up again.

“What in the name of rotten trees is
that
for?” one of the others snapped.

“Hell if I know,” Collum muttered, feeding more paper and bits of kindling onto the fire.

Shoving out of bed, Zeilas flung open his trunk and started pulling on his clothes. Nothing fancy, just shirt and trousers, socks and boots. He was still stamping into the lattermost when the bell stopped banging again, only to be replaced by voices shouting in the distance. Tugging one last time, he crossed to the window, unlatched it, and poked his head out, ignoring the near-freezing night air and the protests of his roommates.

Somewhere nearby, several people were yelling something. Yelling and pounding, like they were banging on doors. Noise from nearby had him hastily closing the window. The voice was muffled by distance and a few stout walls, but the words were somewhat clear.

“
Palace Precinct, arm and stand ready! This is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill! Precinct captains, report to the War Room! Sergeants, report to the motorbarn! Palace Precinct, arm and stand ready! This is not a drill!
”

Someone banged on what sounded like
their
door. First one out of the bedroom, Zeilas hurried down the short hall to the front parlor. Sir Catrine had beaten him to it. She was still clad in her nightclothes, loose shirt and worn trews, but a ball of flame burned over her uplifted hand, illuminating the room, the door, and the person on the other side when she flung open the panel.

The man flinched back from the sight of her hovering fire, then recovered his composure. “Begging pardon, but Heiastowne’s about to be attacked. Or maybe the palace; we don’t know, yet. Precinct Command says the Knight-envoy and Knight-mage need to report to the War Room immediately. ’Scuse me—I have to wake the rest.”

Without waiting for questions, the man spun on his heel and strode quickly down the lantern-lit hall, banging on the walls with the edges of his fists as he went, weaving back and forth.

“
Palace Precinct, arm and stand ready!
” he shouted as he left. “
Precinct captains, report to the War Room! Sergeants, report to the motorbarn! This is not a drill!
”

Sir Catrine shut the door with a wince, for the middle-aged man had more than enough lung power for his task. She grimaced. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

“You heard the man, get ready. I’ll go on ahead—the War Room is in the Precinct annex, ground floor. If the valley’s under attack, we need to know if they’ll want us to fight,” Zeilas said. Catching sight of her roommate, he nodded at Eada. “You’re the Knight with the most combat experience, so I’d like you with me, too. The rest of you,” he added, turning to face the others who had come out of their rooms, “... get yourselves and your Steeds ready for battle, just in case.”

They nodded and scattered. Since he was mostly dressed, if not warmly, Zeilas grabbed his riding coat from the row of pegs by the front door of the suite. It had been made from felted wool in the local style, commissioned after having seen Marta, Gabria, and others riding around on their motorhorses. While it didn’t cover him from shoulders to ankles, just from shoulders to thighs, it did keep him warm as he headed down the cold halls.

The Precinct annex had technically been built first. Or rather, remodeled, since it was part of the original castle built on the rise which the locals had turned into the palace compound. Now it was reached via a stout-walled corridor that dipped underground. Joining the half dozen or more bodies headed that way, he managed to spot Marta simply from the glint of gold circling her felted black cap. She was huddling in one of her thickest-knit tunics, smothering a yawn and eyeing the map on the central table in the hall as the man known as Precinct General Stalos thumped it with his fingers.

Edging up next to her, Zeilas managed to catch her eye. And that of the Precinct General. The other man spoke first, giving him a brisk nod, but forestalling any questions.

“Sir Knight. If you’ll wait a few moments while everyone gathers, we’ll get the briefing done all at once.” The gray-haired warrior returned his attention to the map, continuing whatever it was he had been saying. “If they do go for the palace, if we can delay two hours, we can still bring in the South Fluttersfield Precinct, but if we delay three, that might give the West Freshford Precinct time to sweep up in a pincer on the northwest flank. It all depends on whether or not they’ve spotted us spotting them, and if they’ll want to pause their troops to refuel and refresh.”

A talker box operator hurried into the room, calling for the general’s attention. He elbowed his way to the edge of the table and displayed his tablet, murmuring in the older man’s ear. Hands in his pockets to keep them warm, Zeilas strained to hear what was being discussed but couldn’t make out any words. Too many people were murmuring and whispering around him, trying to make sense of their abrupt awakening and summoning.

Someone touched Zeilas on the shoulder. A glance back showed it was Sir Catrine, with Sir Eada at her back. Both women looked hastily dressed—Eada was still lacing the cuffs of her sleeves, in fact—and a little flushed from having raced to dress and get here, but they were more or less ready to hear what was going on. If they wanted to be ready for combat, it would take each of them several minutes to don their armor, but it looked like they might have that much time.

“Alright, listen up!” Stalos called out, silencing the speculative murmurs in the room. The air was cold and slightly smoky from the braziers hastily lit in the corners of the room. A couple of people coughed, but otherwise gave him the silence to speak. “This is the situation. Three of our border scouts due north of Heiastowne failed to report in on time. Only one of the four scouts sent by the Pliny Pass Precinct managed a partial report before her talker box failed. This was a quarter hour ago. Pliny Pass relayed the report to me, and I have called for a general mobilization from all precincts within four hours of Heiastowne. This is
not
a drill.

“Warlord Durn has crossed the border and is invading Guildara with a very large force. Scout Theress estimated that there were at least ten precincts’ worth of engines mobilized and headed our way, possibly twelve. Her communication cut out before she could estimate more closely. We lost communication with her for at least ten minutes, until she managed to get outside what appears to be a magical anti-communications field cast by whatever sources Durn is fielding.” Lifting the sheet most recently torn from the talker box operator’s tablet, Stalos continued. “The latest report—again, only from one scout—is that there is somewhere between ten and twelve precincts’ worth of troops and engines, including motorhorse ranks, hexaleg transports, at least four giant-class motormen,
and
mobile cannonry.

“We can only assume, coming from the farmlands to the north as they do, that they have more munitions than we have,” the Precinct General reported grimly. He glanced over at Zeilas and the two lady Knights behind him, and switched to a grin. “On the plus side, while we don’t know the full capabilities of Durn’s mages, we have mages trained in Arbran magics, and we should therefore be able to neutralize the impact of those cannons and the giant-class motormen. We also have the familiarity of the terrain and the defensive construction of both Heiastowne and the palace.”

“What of the missing scouts?” someone called out from off to the right.

Stalos lost his brief show of good humor. “We have to assume they’ve been captured or killed, and if captured, they’re being tortured for information. We know this Durn the Dreaded doesn’t balk at using such tactics.”

“He is
nothing
more than a Godless priest!”

Those strong-voiced words came from Marta, startling Zeilas. The Knight hadn’t known she could speak so loudly or so vehemently. Firmly, yes. Sternly, perhaps. But not with a tone that could cut through steel. She didn’t stop there, either.

“We all know what tactics
they
used to get their way.” Lifting her arm into the air, she jutted out her thumb sideways. “And by the pricking of my thumb, I say, no more torture!”

Arms shot into the air around the Knights, thumbs thrust out sideways. “
No more!
”

“No more conquest!” she shouted.

“
No more!
” the men and women in the room shouted back.

“No more death!”

“
No more!
”

Lowering their arms, everyone except the startled Arbrans faced their Precinct General in grim, determined silence. He faced Zeilas, dipping his grizzled head in acknowledgment of the younger man’s attention. “Sir Knights ... this isn’t your fight. But your presence here means your lives are equally in danger, for I doubt this warlord will stop to ask for nationalities before he attacks. You also have an undeniable level of experience in thwarting Mekhanan-style war engines ... plus an enviable level of magical skill. Any advice you can bring to this moment, please feel free to give.”

“I haven’t had long, but I’ve trained a number of your mages in several defensive magics meant to counter and disarm or dismantle your machines,” Sir Catrine stated, raising her voice so she could be heard. “They know enough to be effective. I also trust you Guildarans when you say you want peace. I have no reason to expect similar sentiments from this Durn fellow. I would offer my services as a combat-trained Knight-mage against these invaders.”

She’s come a long way from shuddering at the thought of sharing any Arbran secrets with these people,
Zeilas thought, proud.

“Is that offer acceptable to your government, Sir Zeilas?” Marta asked him. While it was clear the Precinct General was in charge of the kingdom’s defenses, she was still the head of their government, and that was a government-sensitive question.

“We are Knights,” he replied succinctly. “We may be mages and diplomats, teachers and couriers, but we are trained for war. Arbra has signed its initial treaties of peace with your nation. While the treaties involving mutual assistance are still some ways off in the timeline of our negotiations ... it is understood that offering our assistance in this instance—where you are not the aggressors—is politically astute ... and morally just. As chief envoy for the Arbran delegation, I approve of our participation.

“As for any suggestions toward your battle plans ... I defer to Sir Eada as our most experienced military advisor. She has engaged in defensive combat against the forces of old Mekhana, the bandits of Sundara, and spent time instructing the arts of tactics and strategy to our people.” Shifting a little to the side, he let Eada step up next to him. The movement shifted him up against Marta’s side.

Her fingers found his, a little cold to the touch but comforting nonetheless. Zeilas twined them with hers and tucked their joined hands into the still-warm depths of the pocket on that side of his felted riding coat. Together, they listened as possibilities were outlined and plotted, pushing around tiny carved and painted counters on the map to represent different configurations of troops.

Sir Eada finally straightened and shook her head. “... It’s a hard case to judge. They have three times as many troops, possibly four, as you can field. They don’t know the terrain, and if you can get them into the right spot between Heiastowne and the palace, you can bombard them with your own cannons from both sides ... but that puts your own troops at risk. They have to be whittled down and led to the right spot before a rapid, strategic retreat of all our forces can commence so that they
can
be bombarded in a cross fire situation.

“The biggest factors are those giant motormen, their mobile cannonry, and whatever forces they have riding those motorhorses—the hexaleg engines are easily dealt with,” she dismissed. “Even if their limbs are shielded against direct attack, there are things our side can do to the ground on which they step to bring them tumbling down. One mage, mounted behind a motorhorse engineer, can take all of those out with the right spells. In fact, they could take out most of the giant motormen, too.