Authors: John Marco
R
ichius awoke to the smell of kerosene. A familiar cry sounded in the distance. He knew what it was before his eyes snapped open.
Oh, God, no …
He was on his feet in an instant. Around him the trench bloomed big and black. The yellow fingers of a new day’s sun had barely begun to scratch at the horizon. He squinted hard, struggling to see down the earthen corridor. Dying torches tossed their light onto men in muddy uniforms, a group of soldiers huddling at the trench’s other end. Richius slogged toward them.
“Lucyler, what’s happening?” he called, sighting his bone-colored friend.
“It is Jimsin,” said Lucyler. “Got him while he slept.”
Richius pushed his way into the armored circle. At the center writhed what only vaguely resembled a man. Though the band of soldiers tried to pin his flailing limbs, Jimsin’s body pitched to the ugly cadence of his screams. Beside him, lying in a great unmoving heap, was the body of a wolf, its hide punctured with a hundred stab wounds.
“Took it in the throat,” said one of the group, a big ruddy man with the face of a boy. As Richius bent over Jimsin, the big man knelt beside him.
“Careful,” warned another. “It’s bad.”
The war wolf’s teeth had ravaged Jimsin’s throat, leaving a wound that ran all the way up to the jaw. A mangled windpipe blew on tattered flesh. Jimsin’s eyes widened hopefully as he recognized Richius.
“Don’t move, Jimsin,” ordered Richius. “Lucyler, what the hell happened?”
“My fault,” confessed Lucyler. “It was so dark. It was in the trench before I saw it. Let me help—”
“Get back to the deck,” snapped Richius. “Keep an eye out for them. All of you, get back to the deck!”
The big man passed Richius a soiled cloth. He wrapped it gingerly around the oozing wound. The muffled echo of a scream escaped the ruined throat and Jimsin’s hands shot up, seizing Richius’ wrists. Richius started to pull his hands free then stopped himself, unwilling to release the pressure from the wound.
“No, Jimsin,” he said. “Dinadin, help me with him!”
Dinadin quickly pulled Jimsin’s hands away, holding them down while Richius worked to secure the bandage. The awful half-scream kept coming, muffled now by the dirty rag. From the corner of his eye Richius noticed Dinadin’s blond head begin to turn.
“Are they coming?” Richius asked, already beginning to work more quickly.
“Not yet,” said Dinadin. There was a note of mourning in his voice. By the end of the day Jimsin would be lying next to Lonal.
“God,” Richius moaned. “He’s suffocating.”
Dinadin still had Jimsin’s wrists. He fought to hold his comrade down as blood gushed from the wound. Jimsin tried to scream again, each cry sending another bloom of crimson into the bandage. The high-pitched gurgles grew in urgency. Jimsin closed his eyes. A stream of tears burst from beneath the lids.
“Help him, Richius!”
“I’m trying!” said Richius desperately. If he removed the rag, Jimsin would surely bleed to death. Leave the bandage, and he would suffocate. At last Richius reached out and lightly touched Jimsin’s tear-streaked face.
“Jimsin,” he whispered gently, unsure if the man could hear him. “I’m sorry, my friend. I don’t know how to save you.”
“What are you doing?” shouted Dinadin, releasing his grip on Jimsin. “Can’t you see he’s dying? Do something!”
“Stop!” cried Richius, dropping down across the wounded man to hold him still. Dinadin made to undo the bloody bandage, but Richius pushed him aside.
“Damn it, Richius, he can’t breathe!”
“Leave it!” Richius ordered. The sharpness in his voice made Dinadin recoil. “I know he’s dying. So let him die. If you take away the rag he’ll live a lot longer. Do you really want that?”
Dinadin’s eyes were glassy and mute, like a doll’s eyes. He sat stupefied as Richius motioned him closer.
“You want to help him?” asked Richius. “Then hold him still. Be with him when he dies.”
“Richius …”
“That’s it, Dinadin. That’s all you can do. All right?”
Dinadin slowly nodded. He drew Jimsin into his arms and held him, hugging him tightly. Richius turned away to find Lucyler, leaving the two soldiers in their dismal embrace.
The Triin was easy to spot in the dim trench. His white skin was a beacon; his white hair waved like a flag of surrender. He stood upon the observation deck built into the trench wall, fascinated with the silent forest of birch trees in the distance. He hardly stirred as Richius climbed onto the deck.
“Is he dead?” asked Lucyler.
“Almost.”
Lucyler’s chin fell to his chest. “I am sorry,” he said wearily.
“Blame the rebels,” said Richius. “Not yourself.”
“I should have seen it coming.”
“A single wolf in the night? No one could have seen that, Lucyler. Not even you.”
Lucyler closed his eyes. “Why only one?” he muttered. “Voris never sends only one.…”
“To break us. We’re not up against honorable men, Lucyler, you know that. Hell, you’re the one who told me that. They’re Drol. They’re snakes.”
“Voris does not lay siege, Richius. It has never been his way. They are out there. They will be coming.”
Richius nodded. When it came to figuring out his rebellious adversary, he always deferred to Lucyler’s judgment. Lucyler wasn’t Drol, but he was a Triin, and there was a perplexing chemistry in all Triin brains, a singleness of thought that even the most intelligent Naren couldn’t decipher. Call it instinct or breeding, call it the “touch of heaven” as the Drol did; the Triin did indeed seem more than human sometimes. And Lucyler’s mind was like a razor blade. When this particular Triin smelled fear, Richius never argued.
Lucyler had been somewhat of a gift, an aide sent by the worried Daegog to make sure the valley war went right. Of them all, Lucyler was the only Triin in the company, and he did not hail
from Dring but from Tatterak, the rugged region of Lucel-Lor to which the Daegog had been exiled. As a sworn servant of the Triin leader, Lucyler had one mission—to ensure Richius was victorious. Though they didn’t always agree, Richius was forever grateful to the Daegog for sending him Lucyler. He was the fastest bowman in the company, and he could spot a red-robed Drol faster than a hawk.
Richius looked out over the trenches behind them. Barret gave them a wave from the one his men were stationed in, some ten yards to the rear. Behind Barret’s trench he saw that of Gilliam, and behind Gilliam’s the least-seasoned men in the company sat in their own trench, commanded by Ennadon.
There were those in the company who had quarreled with Richius about the way he had posted the new recruits. Lucyler had argued that only battle could teach the new men the things they needed to know. Richius saw no use in such a tactic. He remembered with painful clarity his first days in Lucel-Lor, when Colonel Okyle had been in charge of the valley war. Okyle had ordered Richius and a dozen other “virgins” into a forest on a scouting mission. Like Lucyler, Okyle believed battle to be a soldier’s best teacher, and it only made things worse for Richius that he was the king’s son. Favoritism, Okyle had told him sternly, was not to be expected. Only when Richius returned from the forest alone did Okyle start rethinking the way he handled new recruits. But Okyle was dead now, and Richius had taken over. He was determined to do everything he could to spare his new men the horrors that would be upon them too soon anyway.
Keep them in the back and they’ll be safe
, he told himself as he signaled to Ennadon.
Let Ennadon teach them what they need to know first. Time enough for fighting.
Still …
If Voris came at them fully it would do the new men no good to be in the back trenches. There would be no haven in the Dring Valley for any of them. He supposed that he had three hundred men left, yet he had no idea how many Voris still had. A thousand? More? Even Lucyler couldn’t guess at the numbers of their enemy. They knew only one thing for sure; the master of the valley had enough warriors to destroy them.
Only the cannons can save us now
, thought Richius fretfully.
If the fuel lasts …
At both ends of the trench, where men gathered in little bunches to talk and worry, the flame cannons were heated and poised. Wisps of smoke rose from their tapered noses, their igniters glowing red against the coming dawn. The sight of their two-man teams forced an uneasy smile from Richius. These machines had been their salvation. Though a dearth of fuel had forced him to ration their use, he was grateful to have even a few of the weapons. The scientists who tinkered in the war labs of Nar had outdone themselves when they created them.
To the men in the trenches the cannons were worthy of worship. Like the soldiers of Aramoor, the Triin of the valley had arrows and spears and their own odd-looking swords, but they had nothing so powerful as the cannons. Even their magic—the dread of which had long deterred invaders from their land—had yet to prove a threat. Though many said otherwise, swore in fact that the Drol leader Tharn was a sorcerer, none of the men had seen Triin magic, and Lucyler had been vocal in his skepticism. The belief in the touch of heaven was the one great division that separated the Drol from the rest of the Triin. It was part of what made the Drol fanatics.
“Richius?” asked Lucyler. “Should I have Dinadin take a cannon?”
“Kally and Crodin can handle them.”
“Dinadin’s the best cannoneer left. What if …”
“Lord, Lucyler,” interrupted Richius. “Look at him.” He pointed down the trench to where Dinadin sat, cradling the limp body of Jimsin. “You want to tell him?”
Lucyler said nothing. Of the three close friends that remained, Lucyler was the hardest of the trio. Perhaps it was his Triin blood that made him so callous, or perhaps it was because he had seen more of the war than any of them. Whatever its origin, Lucyler’s severity was always evident. It was only at times like these, however, when he had a mind to question decisions, that Lucyler’s hard-heartedness irritated Richius.
And Dinadin had changed. He still followed orders, but there was a reluctance in his eyes, a kind of sad maturity that had never been there before. Richius had promised Dinadin’s father
he would look out for the man, that he would bring him home alive from this hellish place, and that one day they would sit again around the hearth in the House of Lotts and laugh about better days.
“He’ll be ready,” said Richius with feigned confidence.
“I hope so. We’re going to need him if …”
Lucyler stopped, his gray eyes widening. Richius let his own gaze slip back to the birch grove. There, among the twisted limbs, something stirred. From behind the trees and rocks came a torrent of crimson. Spots of charcoal with shining eyes dotted the forefront of the flood.
A knot of terror tied itself in Richius’ stomach.
“Ignite the cannons!” he cried.
Far down the trench Kally fired up his weapon. The cannon screamed as it came alive, belching a cloud of spent kerosene into the air. Within seconds a red funnel of flame poured from its orifice. Next Crodin ignited his own cannon, trimming its fiery plume into a spear-shaped stream. Other cannons ignited in the trenches behind them, kerosene pumping into their long noses and being spit out again as fire. Even in the cold morning, Richius could feel the heat of the bursts beneath his armor.
“Protect the cannons!” Richius barked. “They’re coming!”
What had looked at first like a flood of scarlet water was now plainly a wave of red-robed men breaking toward them. Wolves were running before the wave. Dozens of them.
“Lorris and Pris,” whispered Lucyler. “We are finished.”
Behind the beasts came swarms of warriors, each one shouting and brandishing a dual-bladed jiiktar. Lucyler gritted his teeth and snarled.
“Come then, damned Drol!” he cried, and gave the center of his own jiiktar a powerful twist. The weapon came apart in his hands, forming two light, long-bladed swords.
Along the deck the soldiers steeled themselves. There was the snapping of bowstrings as the air filled with arrows. The missiles landed among the wolves, puncturing their thick black hides. An arrow caught one of them in the snout, lodging itself between flaring nostrils. Undeterred, the wolf raced on, homing for the cannons—just as Voris had trained it to do.
At once the archers at the trench’s left flank focused on the
pack. Kally aimed his cannon, his face streaked with black smudges from the weapon’s backblast.
“More fuel!” he barked.
His lineman twisted the valve on the feed hose. Kally squeezed the trigger. Red lightning erupted. The bolt blew the wolves backward, their coats torn by the impact of the fire. An unearthly shriek rose above the bellow of the cannons. To Richius, the sound was like music.
Dinadin climbed onto the deck and peered out into the distance. His face was flushed from weeping.
“Bloody gogs,” he spat, fumbling an arrow to his bow.
“No,” said Richius. “Not here. I want you near a cannon.”
“They’re already manned.…”
“By a cannon!”
Dinadin grumbled and started off down the deck, squeezing his big body past the others. In wolf attacks, cannoneers were always the first to fall.
A shout from Lucyler galvanized the deck. The Triin stretched out one of his swords, pointing at a black mass closing quickly in on them. The wolf with the arrow in its snout had somehow made it through the cross fire of the cannons. Little blazes glowed and smoldered in its coat, sending bits of burning hair drizzling down in its wake.
The beast leapt, a howl tearing from its mouth, its nostrils snorting bloody mucus. Lucyler cried out. He dropped to one knee and swung his curved blade in a blazing arc. Richius stumbled backward, falling off the deck into the trench below. He felt the shock of pain as his armor was driven into his back and rib cage. The head with the arrow splashed into the mud beside him.
Quickly Richius got to his feet and dashed to the nearest ladder. But before he could place his foot on a rung another scream stopped him. He looked left and saw a wolf on top of Kally. The beast had knocked the cannoneer into the trench. Already Dinadin had leapt into the ditch after it, smashing his bow against the wolf’s head. Yet it wasn’t the sight of Kally being savaged that frightened Richius; it was the sight of the unmanned cannon. The wolf had toppled the cannon from its base so that the weapon pointed skyward, spewing flame upward like a huge orange fountain. And though he was no longer on the deck to see it,
Richius knew the wolves had already sensed the hole in the Narens’ defenses.