The Curse in the Gift (The Last Whisper of the Gods Book 2) (49 page)

The possibility existed that, upon recognizing Sorial’s demise, she would have the fortitude to stand her ground. After all, there would be nothing she could do. If that happened, Justin would confront her directly. He didn’t expect her to be a formidable foe, but any confrontation with a wizard, even a weak and inexperienced one, carried hazards, and water was potent against fire. Fighting Alicia wasn’t desirable but he would do it if necessary as a prelude to joining the assault.

There was still one last surprise that Justin was ready to unleash. It was a matter of the timing being perfect. The defenders of Vantok were foolhardy enough to believe they had a chance. They would soon learn what it meant to face The Lord of Fire.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE BATTLE OF VANTOK

Carannan would have dearly liked to wipe away the splatter of blood partially obscuring his left eye’s vision but he didn’t have the time. The warm sticky substance coating half his face - it was in his nostrils and mouth as well - wasn’t his; it was a gift from a craggy-jawed mercenary he had beheaded. Thus far, Carannan had three kills to his name and, in return, had received only a superficial cut to the forehead and a slightly more serious gash on his right thigh. Neither was likely to hamper him as much as the blood dripping into his eye.

He fought side-by-side with Rotgut, whose achievements thus far were more impressive than his lord’s. In fact, one of Rotgut’s victims had been about to brain Carannan. The duke would have liked an opportunity to return the favor but Rotgut rarely seemed hard-pressed and the line was so closely packed that no more than one or two could get to him at any time.

Based on Carannan’s impressions, parochial though they were, victory might be achievable. The optimism was new but not unwarranted. In his immediate vicinity, the number of deaths among the enemy exceeded those among the defenders. Of the forty men directly under Carannan’s command, only seven had been killed or seriously wounded. In turn, they had dispatched perhaps as many as fifty of the invaders. The fighting here wasn’t as intense as it was further down the line. Justin’s army was using a brute force attempt to drive a wedge directly through the strongest part of Azarak’s defense - not the most strategically sound approach. To counter this kind of attack, all Overcommander Vikon had to do was dispatch reinforcements to the center. The flanks weren’t being pushed hard enough for him to be overly concerned about one or both collapsing. It seemed that whoever was running The Lord of Fire’s battle plan was unskilled in the basics of warfare.

This ignorant strategy worried Carannan and he suspected it worried Azarak’s commanders as well. Thus far, Justin had shown himself to be shrewd and savvy, cautious and patient. This kind of blunder, which would only succeed at a vast cost of life, was not in keeping with the measured style he had thus far displayed and that could mean only one of three things: he was being driven by desperation; his generals, culled from mercenary troops, were overmatched; or there was something else in waiting.

Carannan parried an off-balance, desperate lunge by a man wearing poorly cured animal skins that stank of rotting flesh. In these close quarters, the stench was so strong that it penetrated through the odor of blood in his nostrils. Rotgut, despite being engaged in a battle of his own, noticed a perfect opening on the blind side of the man pressing Carannan and stuck a dagger into the exposed stomach with little more than a flick of his wrist. The man staggered and the duke skewered him through the heart. No sooner had he fallen than a replacement slid into the open spot. At the same time, the defender to Carannan’s right fell with a scream and suddenly the duke found himself pressed on two sides.

Neither of these new attackers was foolhardy or impatient. They worked in concert with one another. Carannan had to adopt a purely defensive approach to avoid losing an arm or his head. Their attacks, however, were sure and methodical, with one striking immediately after the other. They communicated silently with each other using glances and gestures. They had room for error; he didn’t. One slip, no matter how minor, and he would leave an opening for one or the other. Rotgut, dueling with an opponent of some skill, wouldn’t be able to help him this time. Carannan’s vision narrowed to these two men alone; his sense of time slowed. There was no retreat; the second line and reserves were pressed up behind him, waiting to step into the breach when he fell. It was kill or be killed and, for the first time since the fight had begun, the latter seemed more likely.

Then, almost silently, the man in front of him dropped as if poleaxed. The attacker to his right followed immediately. There was no indication of how they had died except that their clothing was sodden and water seeped from their eyes and ears. Carannan didn’t take the time to look toward Mount Vantok. There was no need. His daughter had seen his plight and taken action.

Given a momentary respite, he took the opportunity to stab the thug exchanging blows with Rutgut then turned to face his next opponent, an emaciated man with a bad case of acne wearing only a loincloth and wielding a stout tree branch. Although some members of Justin’s army were professionally equipped and armored, there were others, like this one, who seemed like vagabonds picked up along the way. The Lord of Fire didn’t seem particular about who he threw onto the front lines. But looks could deceive, as Carannan learned when the man nearly brained him with a swift, expertly aimed blow. By the time the duke had dispatched this soldier after nearly five minutes of brutal parries, feints, strikes, and dodges, he was as exhausted as if he’d run the city’s perimeter in full armor, and he had a nasty rib bruise to add to his list of injuries.

* * *

“Report, Overcommander!” demanded Azarak of Vikon as the man’s destrier topped the summit.

The army’s leader dismounted and gave his king a perfunctory salute before speaking. “The trebuchets have been remarkably effective, Your Majesty. The enemy appears to have been unprepared for them and, as tightly as they’re packed together near the center of their wedge, each missile is doing considerable harm. The rocks provided by Sorial are heavy yet break apart on impact, creating widespread damage from fragments. Additionally, our front lines are fighting better than theirs, which was expected, since that’s almost always the case in an invasion. Their advantage in manpower, which was substantial at the outset, has been greatly diminished.”

Azarak nodded.
Good news at last…maybe.
Then he glanced skyward, to where the sun, past its zenith, was on a rapid decline to the west.
But so little time to finish this off
.  Meanwhile, Alicia, his best weapon, was sitting on a boulder under the watch of two guards, reviving her flagging energy. Her chest was heaving as if she had completed a long run. But, with the trebuchets working, ostentatious displays were no longer needed.  Azarak required her for more precise, targeted attacks.

“Casualties?” asked Azarak. That was the bottom-line determiner of who was winning at the moment.

“Our dead number twelve hundred. The list of critically wounded is close to four hundred. Another seven hundred have suffered significant injures but are able to continue in some capacity, either combat or non-combat. Total dead and injured: twenty-three hundred. Estimated enemies killed exceeds two thousand in addition to those drowned at the ford. They have close to another thousand injured.”

The math was simple enough. Based purely on percentages, Vantok was faring better than the invaders, although not by a margin that gave Azarak comfort. What had begun as a battle of ten thousand against eight thousand was now on the order of perhaps seven or eight thousand against sixty-five hundred. The gap had been narrowed, but could that continue? And what would happen when night arrived and the bonfires were lit? Thus far, there was no indication that The Lord of Fire had become directly involved in the battle, but for how long would that continue? Perhaps Azarak had invested too much hope in one as young and untried as Sorial, but what choice did he have?

“Arrow!” The shout was urgent, issued by one of the guards posted to watch for the occasional missile sent in this direction from the enemy army. Immediately, a wall of shields went up to protect the three most vulnerable people atop the mountain: Azarak, Alicia, and Chancellor Gorton. This particular arrow fell short of the summit, embedding itself in a clod of dirt on the mountain’s side. The shields were lowered.

“We’re winning. That’s something,” said Gorton, who had been listening to the report. His tone, however, was not that of a man who sensed victory to be within his grasp.

“You don’t sound convinced,” said Azarak. He suspected that the chancellor was beset by the same misgivings he was experiencing.

Gorton lowered his voice so as not to be overheard by Vikon, who remained nearby, conversing with the soldiers who comprised the king’s guard. “In the normal course of things, if the battle was to continue like this, the invaders would never take the city. It might be a close fought struggle but, in the end, we’d triumph. Vantok’s militia might have only a thousand men left by then but the threat would be neutralized and The Lord of Fire would be beaten. You don’t have to be a military genius to recognize that and, if we know it, so does he. So why does he persist attacking in a reckless manner that purchases every square foot of land with a steep price in blood?”

Azarak nodded. “I have my own misgivings about this. Something we can’t see is coming and I fear that by the time we see it, ’twill be too late.”

“This may all be a feint, Your Majesty. A prelude to the true attack.” He glanced toward Alicia. “I don’t think Sorial’s coming back and, as a force in this battle, the Lady Alicia is spent. It may be that The Lord of Fire is out there, watching and waiting, allowing his people to die while he plots the end game.”

“And when that comes, the hammer will fall fast and hard.”

“We may have little warning and no chance of escape.”

“Very well,” said Azarak. “Go to the palace and evacuate the queen and her entourage. Stay with her and support her as best you can. Should I fall, she’ll have need of you. Send the word throughout the city that we are abandoning Vantok and anyone who remains will be subject to the whims of an invader who has given scant reason to believe he’s a man of kindness or mercy. If we’re wrong and there’s no subterfuge, everyone can return when the enemy has been defeated. Otherwise…” He left the thought unfinished.

Gorton nodded. “It shall be as Your Majesty requests. On a personal note, might I add that I hope we meet again, but the fortunes of war being what they are, nothing is certain. It’s been an honor and a privilege serving under you and I promise to keep Queen Myselene as safe as my abilities allow.”  He vaulted atop his horse with the practiced ease of a man who had spent time serving in the cavalry, gave a final salute, and headed for the downward road at a gallop.

Azarak turned back to the battlefield below. There was little doubt watching the undulating line that the defenders were winning. If the tide had been against them, it had turned. But was that reflective of reality or a diabolical illusion concocted by The Lord of Fire?

* * *

Myselene stalked around the closed throne room like a caged wolf. The high elliptical windows that normally provided light to the domed chamber were shuttered, engendering a timelessness that created a sense of perpetual dusk. Shut away from the world for her own protection, the queen felt blind and deaf, not to mention restless. She had never imagined the impotence that came from being forbidden to participate - rarely, even as princess of Obis, had she been deemed so important. A constant stream of messengers kept her abreast of every development, but it wasn’t the same as being next to her husband atop Mount Vantok, watching things with her own eyes. Here, surrounded by nervous noblewomen, sycophants, and her small cadre of personal guards, she felt like a coward. She itched to bolt from the throne room and wondered whether her protectors would physically restrain her. Not that she would ever put them to the test...

Rexall watched the queen with fascination. There was something in her almost predatory gait as she repeatedly paced the length of the room that he found enticing. Of course, if he was honest, he’d admit that the sight of any attractive woman with shapely legs would have been sufficient to stoke his interest. That was what had gotten him in trouble in Sussaman; it wasn’t a mistake he was about to repeat here and certainly not with the king’s wife. Not that Myselene had shown the slightest interest. The only reason she had singled him out from her other guards was that she was aware of his role should an evacuation occur. Still, a man couldn’t be condemned for his fantasies and he had experienced more than one featuring his queen.

The monotony of Myselene’s pacing was interrupted by the arrival of Chancellor Gorton. She stopped immediately upon his entrance and approached him, recognizing that Azarak wouldn’t have sent him unless there was a message of some importance. His features were unreadable. She couldn’t tell from a glance whether the news he bore was hopeful or dire. Gorton’s inscrutability was one thing she had always admired; in this moment, it was a source of frustration.

“Your Majesty.” He inclined his head.

“Get on with it,” Myselene snapped. Too late, she nearly bit her tongue to stop the words but they were out.
Never let them see your calm slip. You may be roiling inside but you must display nothing but poise
. That was Gorton’s advice, spoken to her shortly before she had left for Vantok.

He didn’t comment, either verbally or by expression, on her impatient lapse. “I bear a message from King Azarak. First, let me assure you that the battle is progressing favorably. In fact, our troops have performed extraordinarily well. If things continue as they have been, victory will be ours.  However, the king has concerns - ones I share - about the sustainability of the status quo. At the heart of our trepidation is the possibility that The Lord of Fire may be preparing a secret offensive that, if launched, could crack open our defenses and admit a flood of enemy troops into the city without adequate time to enact an orderly evacuation. To that end, the king is ordering that the city be emptied now. That means everyone in the palace should follow the predetermined evacuation plan. It is precautionary and, if it turns out to be premature, messengers will escort you back to the city with nothing suffered beyond the discomfort of a few days on the road. If, however, our worst fears should be realized, this action may save not only your life but the lives of many innocents who would perish if the city’s defenses fall.”