The Free Kingdoms (Book 2) (26 page)

But further to the east, he saw something else. Hope swept despair from his heart. An army, small by the standards of the force pouring against the Citadel, but several thousand in number, marched along the Tothian Way. Still a few miles to the east, the force galloped toward the battle, and swept away Toth’s rear guard. Banners flew, white and emblazoned with the golden dragon of the Saffa family. Darik thought it the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Balsalom!” he cried, fighting down the lump in his throat. He swooped over the walls, shouting the news to the faltering defenders. “Balsalom! The khalifa has come!”

Chapter Thirteen

Kallia’s trek through the mountains had not been without incident, even after she drove away Tainara Faal’s wight. Enemy forces harassed them from Montcrag and Eagle Loft, while small bands raided from the forests around the Way. But Pasha Boroah swept aside these annoyances, and didn’t delay to pursue more active engagements.

The Teeth sat silent and watchful as they passed. Lord Garydon sent no riders to intercept them or bring them word of the man’s intentions. Boroah and Kallia rode with a small vanguard up the hillside to the castle gates, where Boroah shouted a challenge to Garydon to give supplies and men to help defend Garydon’s liege, King Daniel. The guards on the walls watched impassively, refusing to respond in any way. Boroah raged and swore he’d burn the castle to the ground and put its defenders to sword, but in the end turned to Kallia and shrugged his shoulders. They rode back to the Way to rejoin the army.

They reached Eriscoba three days after passing through the Desolation of Toth, keeping a pace that Boroah had thought unsustainable. But both men and beast were up to the challenge, and they forged on mile after mile. Recovering from the disappointment at the Teeth, Kallia moved among her men to shout encouragement.

The Tothian Way unraveled behind them, the miles stretching between them and Balsalom as they finished the long trek through the mountains; Kallia understood at last what sustained her men. She was drifting to sleep on the back of a camel one night when it came.

I sustain them,
she thought, rising in the saddle.
They are fighting for me, as much as for Balsalom.
She saw it in their eyes when she spoke to them, an expression she had long taken as admiration of her dead father, somehow transferred to herself. But she had earned it herself by fighting for them, by marching with them, by risking her life for them and for their families. And they loved her.

It humbled her and made her weep to remember how she’d betrayed those who’d died on stakes outside Balsalom. And did she lead these men to their deaths to satisfy her need for revenge against Cragyn? No, she told herself. It was more than that. If she didn’t stand up to him, who would?

The moon glowed overhead, a thin crescent, beginning to grow in size again. It was clear and cool, with a hint of autumn in the air. The mountains rose high on either side, but they’d begun to drop in elevation and would soon leave the Dragon’s Spine altogether. Kallia watched the sway of camels and the quiet movement of horses plodding along in the night, enjoying the silence. Pasha Boroah rode ahead to look for a place to stop for the night.

They reached Eriscoba the next morning. Standing on the Tothian Way as it flowed into the valley, she looked over the Free Kingdoms. She could see for miles. The land was so green and lush that it took her breath away, so unlike the plains in the khalifates. She breathed the rich air in great gulps.

The Citadel glimmered on the horizon, smoke boiling into the sky to mingle with the Cloud Kingdoms that drifted overhead. Cragyn’s army, so vast that it stretched for miles along the Way, piled up against the city. Were they too late? She found Boroah and they urged the army forward.

By midday they reached a small town straddling a river. Boroah consulted a map. Sleptstock. The town sat gaunt and empty, its wreckage a testament to the battles that had raged here. Bodies lay heaped in piles, Eriscobans mingling with soldiers from the khalifates. Here and there a mammoth or a griffin lay amongst the churned over fields. But nothing alive. They passed over the bridge and through the town, riding swiftly toward the Citadel.

The Citadel still stood, she discovered. But the Golden Tower leaned to one side, outer wall damaged. The enemy poured through a gap in the wall, while more fighting raged outside Eastgate. Boroah ordered the charge. Kallia drew her sword and swept into battle with her men.

They caught the first enemy troops completely unprepared, a group of footmen who flew the banners of Istancus, a khalifate just south of Veyre on the coast. The Istancans surged toward the Citadel, eager to join the battle and forgetting any orders to protect rearward positions. It proved their undoing.

Kallia’s men were upon them before they knew they were under attack. Balsalomian camel riders drove them from the road, slaughtering any who stood in their way. The rear guard destroyed, the Balsalomians raced toward the gates, driving a wedge in the enemy, right down the heart of the Tothian Way.

A great cry went up through her men. “Balsalom! Kallia.”

An answering cry sounded from the beleaguered city walls and the towers of the Citadel. “Balsalom!”

#

I am the Huntsman,
Markal said in the old tongue, invoking the ancient name of the Harvester. Magic rippled through the Thorne Chamber, coursing like lightning among the surviving members of the Order. They were few, but they were united in purpose, determined to leave no shred of magic untapped.

Pure, raw power poured through Markal’s veins. His muscles rippled and a scythe appeared in each hand and a bag at his belt for gathering souls. The world turned gray and he saw the hidden life in everything around him: from the wizards to the very walls. Outside the window, the pulse of a hundred thousand souls, some free and ripe, and ready for gathering.

Narud reared his head back and howled. Fur sprouted along his face and his lips curled in a snarl. His robe fell around him and he stood in the chamber, a massive hound, with eyes that glowed with fierce desire. The other four wizards became smaller dogs and Narud snarled and snapped at their haunches to keep them in line.

A voice sounded in Markal’s ears.
The Huntsman.
“You have wrested my power, mortal. Use it wisely.”

“Come my hounds,” Markal told the dogs, surprised at how deep and husky his voice had become. “We hunt for Toth. Nothing else.”

He lifted the horn about his neck and blew. The horn wasn’t loud, but it carried, even over the battle. All fell quiet outside to listen. And then the shouts and clashes of steel again.

Markal flowed down the stairs after his hounds. Men fought on the stairs and in rooms, but they turned and fled when they saw him. Narud snapped at the other dogs, who tried to get around Markal and give pursuit, forcing them into line. They reached the bailey, but didn’t turn toward the battle, but toward the breach instead.

Men and beast alike ran in terror. He resisted the urge to wreak havoc amongst the enemy ranks. They left the city behind, pushing toward the Tothian Way. Narud and the other dogs snarled through the army, cutting a swath for their leader. Souls dangled helpless and tantalizing on either side, but ahead of him was the scent of something bigger, so close that even he could smell it. The dogs raced ahead, insane with the hunger of the hunt. He blew his horn again.

They caught Toth at Sleptstock.

The battle had destroyed the town. Foundations of buildings peeked from the ash and mud, while the ground everywhere looked as though it had been pounded by Cragyn’s Hammer. Dead men and animals lay everywhere.

Toth’s scent was overpowering through the town and grew stronger as they approached the mill next to the river, where Hoffan had set his initial headquarters. Badly damaged by trebuchets in early combat, the water wheel itself was completely destroyed, and the roof burned off. But it remained standing.

Markal followed his dogs into the building. A young soldier stood in the room, a bloody gash above his forehead, terror on his face. He struggled with a box, first picking it up and then dropping it again, hands trembling.

Triumph rose in Markal’s bosom to see the dark wizard so weakened that he failed to control a single body. The battle in the Thorne Chamber had taken more than Markal had thought. Toth lost the struggle with his new body as soon as he saw his new visitors. Blue smoke bled from its body, and poured onto the floor. The young soldier collapsed to the ground. The young man regained his feet and fled.

The blue smoke gathered into the form of a man, standing tall in the mill room, flour dust clinging to its body. The wight turned to flee, but Narud and the other hounds set into the spirit. Toth cast them away, but they attacked again.

“No!” the dark wizard shouted, making the hounds hesitate. “Huntsman, you have no power over me. You cannot gather my soul, so leave me be. Or do you meddle in the affairs of men, now?”

“I am not the Harvester,” Markal said, stepping forward and swinging his scythe.

“Then who?” Toth cried.

Markal said, “Can you forget the Thorne Chamber so quickly?”

“Markal!” Toth snarled.

And then Markal attacked. He swung his scythe, biting deep into the wight’s arm, while Narud and the others savaged its legs. Toth retreated, grabbing for his box of souls. He stumbled and the dogs were upon him. But as he fell, he threw open the box and reached inside.

Markal thought he meant to hide inside and redoubled his attack. They would destroy the dark wizard if he took refuge in the box. But instead, Toth summoned his two champions. They rose from the box with ghostly swords in hand. Tainara and Ahmaad Faal, the khalifa and high khalif of Veyre. They attacked the dogs, driving them from the dark wizard and his box, then turned to Markal with such strength that he knew what power Toth himself must have wielded before Markal wounded him in the Thorne Chamber.

Narud threw himself at Ahmaad’s throat, forcing him to his knees, while the other dogs tore at legs and face. Tainara killed one of the dogs but Markal cut her down at the knees. He turned toward the dark wizard, who gathered his box to flee and leave his champions. But before Markal could stop his escape, Tainara swung her sword. It bit him with a cold, deep pain and he turned to this new threat. The wizard disappeared.

Narud and the other dogs struggled with the high khalif, while Markal attacked Tainara. He took little pleasure in his assault, but the binding of her soul broke apart with every blow. Ahmaad broke with an anguished sigh, and Markal opened his bag. The threads reached and pulled for the high khalif’s soul and drew it inexorably into Markal’s grasp. The bag closed itself, bulging.

Markal turned back to Tainara. She lay on the ground, broken, but still trying to lift her sword to fight. Markal lifted his scythe overhead and brought it down to finish the harvest. She cried out and then drifted helplessly into the air, the dark wizard’s binding destroyed.

As Markal opened the bag and drew her wight inside to join her husband, Tainara whispered, “Thank you, my friend.”

“May the Harvester rest your souls,” Markal said.

He turned to the hounds, prepared to start the hunt again, but it was not to be. The magic they’d cast in the Thorne Room was strong, but not that strong. It left the hounds first, leaving the wizards naked on all fours. They sniffed on the ground for a moment, still dogs in mind if not in body.

Markal felt the magic bleed from his own skin. Frustration welled inside him. The scythe and the bag disappeared, returned to their master. He was a man once again, weak and vulnerable.

“Well,” Narud said, dusting the flour dust from his skin with his wrists; both of his hands were withered and useless. “We had a good chase, anyway.” The others rose to their feet.

“True,” Markal said. “And we freed Ahmaad and Tainara.” He wasn’t sure yet what it all meant, but they’d delivered a blow that would not be easy to recover from.

#

And at last it came to this, Darik thought, swooping his griffin to the tower when it grew too wounded and exhausted to fly. Wizards nowhere in sight, griffins spent, dragons and gurgolet dead or fled, even Cragyn’s Hammer and the trebuchets knocked out of the battle. Just men and their beasts.

The khalifa’s troops fought through the surrounding Veyrians, making progress toward the gates. But the Veyrians were disciplined, and commanded by hundreds of pashas and captains, who quickly regained control. Balsalom’s initial push faltered, and turned into thousands of individual battles. Kallia had distracted much of the enemy, but they still poured by the hundreds into the courtyards, while armored mammoths and giants widened the gap in the walls.

Darik drew Waspcleaver and ran down the stairs to the close, then made his way to the bailey. Dead men littered the ground, but most were Veyrians. The archers on the walls picked their shots well, bringing down any enemy who stood apart from the battle. The fighting raged so thick, however, that these open shots came infrequently.

Darik rushed to the side of a wounded Eriscoban who battled a Kratian fallen from his camel. The barbarian blade met scimitar, already slick with blood, but the Eriscoban bled from his shoulder and couldn’t sustain the fight. Darik lifted Waspcleaver and drove the man backwards. The Eriscoban recovered from his blow and swung his sword in an arc that cut the man from his knees. They finished the Kratian and then parted ways, throwing themselves back into the battle.

Sanctuary Tower, sitting on the far side of the bailey, fell to Toth’s forces. Giants broke down the doors, followed by enemy footmen. From there, they gained the walls and fought their way toward the gate towers. Take the gate towers and they could throw open Eastgate and let the rest of the army in. Eriscobans and Veyrians fought across the walls, the latter slowly taking ground. Hoffan appeared among his men, fighting with the strength of three.