The Last Garrison (Dungeons & Dragons Novel) (25 page)

Mikal, much to Sten’s chagrin, was given to a less serious view of appointment keeping, a less sober outlook when it came to imminent danger, but was nonetheless at his sister’s side when the morning bell rang out from the village square. Sten saw him trace his fingers over the palm of his hand, imagined that he was bringing to mind the incantations for his spells,
and considering them—their cadence, their gestures. The art was lost on Sten.

Ekho had attempted to sleep within the boundaries of the village, but had found the fences and walls—crude as they may have been—too confining somehow. Sten learned from Spundwand that she had nudged him in the night—knocked against his window waking him from his slumber—and informed him she would be making camp a distance away from Haven, but would return when necessary. As the sun grew large and bright in the sky, she was nowhere to be seen.

Imony, with her brush and parchment, sat on the road at the entrance to Haven, outside the safety of the gate, tracing her symbol over and over. It seemed a dangerous place to meditate to all who did not know her as Sten did. Londih, dressed head to toe in the finest furs and leathers the village had to offer, looking every bit the figurehead commander of an army that he was, fretted over the woman. He insisted Sten ask her to come find cover behind the fences. “Bring your woman in, mercenary! We need to be ready. She is out of position. And she’s not even armed.”

“She waits for the kenku, Lord of Haven, from the position most advantageous to her. Imony prefers to strike quickly and directly.”

“She will be cut down before she can reach her
feet,” said Londih. “Sitting alone, out in the open, paying attention only to her scribbling.”

“You will see, Honored One of Haven. Return to your council hall. We will take this charge.”

“If you insist,” said Londih. “I suppose you know what is best.”

“And bring your son,” said Sten, pointing over to Kohel.

Kohel straightened. “I will stay, Father. My place is here, defending our home.”

Sten ignored Kohel and spoke only to Londih, in a quiet voice so that only the three could hear. “You know the boy barely has the stomach for this, Honored One. You know he does not have the presence of mind. He will fight with us. He may notch a kill on the hilt of his blade. But if he stays, he will not survive. Take the boy. He is too frivolous for this work.”

Sten saw Londih consider his words carefully. He looked at his son and after a long moment, wilted a little. “Kohel,” he said, loud enough for all around to hear, “you are the only heir to the Crook of Haven. Though it is sure that many of these creatures would fall before you today, you will stay by my side. This is my dishonor, boy. Not yours.”

Kohel appeared ready to speak, but Londih’s face stopped him. “Yes, Father,” he said quietly. And then, louder, “For Haven, I will stay by your side. And
protect you if necessary.” The two walked off, back into the village.

Spundwand approached Sten. “They have waited until morning to attack. An odd choice for a bandit race.”

“True, my friend. An advantage for us, though. I will take any such advantages I am given. We have the sun. We have a good position here, slightly higher up the mountain.”

“True. If only we had numbers. Ekho said she has seen many of the bird men in the forest. Many preparing for assault. Many more than we have here. And warriors all. Not just hunters used to engaging dull-minded beasts and farmers used to engaging with the soil.”

“Ever the optimist, my friend.”

“I expect that I will die this day, Captain. Forgive me if I have made my peace with it.”

Sten rubbed his head, and stared into the trees below. Spundwand twirled the end of his beard between his fingers and spat upon the ground. “Bury me with my hammer, Sten,” he said. “Bury me with a fine braid in my beard and a clasp of amber.”

Sten heard Magla give a whistle and all attention was given to the tree line and the road. It began with a rustle of leaves, and continued with a series of thumping steps. Before long, in parties of five
or six, bands of kenku emerged from the trees into the clearing below the walls and fences. They had short blades drawn and stood shoulder to shoulder. A dozen emerged, then two, then three. They kept loose formations, but were moving in step with one another. When all had flooded out, a mass of black feather and brown leather, cloaks and blades, slings and polearms held close, from the rear came a kenku in finer regalia. Older, some of the feathers near his beak and eyes had gone gray and white with age. To his left an unarmed raven man who appeared to hold a glass orb of swirling purple. And behind them, staying near the trees, a figure cloaked and covered entirely, taller than the others, but obscured by clothing and shadow, all except the huge blade at his side.
Who is that?
wondered Sten.

The older kenku, the warchief, peered at the village, the newly built fences and newly piked walls waiting to hold back his warriors. He cocked his head and croaked a word heard all the way in Haven to the creature with the orb. Both stirred and puffed the feathers of their chests. Sten wondered if they were simply amused by the preparations that had been made for their arrival, or surprised that the people of Haven had managed to ready themselves to the extent that they had. Either way, they appeared defiant. Or so Sten assumed. He had faced all manner of creature,
all manner of monster in his day. He had learned to read the nuances of behavior—knew confidence from doubt—even on visages that could hardly be called faces. The kenku, though, were uncommon enough for him to wonder at their behavior. And the inhumanness of them—their bird’s countenance—made them even more difficult to understand.

But after a short exchange between the two, Sten saw a behavior that was the unmistakable action of a commander preparing to let loose his soldiers. The older kenku squawked loudly, gathering to him the attention of his bandits. With sound and gesture he harangued them, readied them for attack in the way Sten had many times done himself. He was, it appeared, making sure all the kenku knew their duties, and were confident in their plan. The kenku, beginning with a murmur, began to respond. The bird men grew excitable, loud, enraged. And the warchief continued his speech, working the bandits to a near frenzy, until, at a moment of great murderous excitement, something fell from the sky.

Something landed in the warchief’s eye. Something buried itself into the warchief’s head. The creature reacted quickly, startled and shook. Reached up to its head, grasping at whatever it was. Sten squinted, looked, saw: an arrow. The creature had been struck well. The flight had been true. The arrow had burrowed
deep into the warchief’s head, ended his speech to his bandit army. He fell, dead. Sten turned, searched Haven, and saw Magla lowering her bow and reaching to her quiver for another arrow. “It appears you will not need a second,” Sten said quietly.

“I grew bored waiting,” shouted Magla to Sten when she saw him looking up at her. And then shouted louder down through the clearing at the kenku. “What say, creatures? Let us not waste time.” She nocked a new arrow, raised her bow, and fired a shot into the earth at the feet of the closest flock of kenku, waking them from their stunned silence, their surprise at the sudden loss of their chief.

In the fleeting moment of disorientation, Sten saw Magla signal the other archers. “Choose your targets well, my friends. And fire until your quivers are empty.”

The arrows flew. The kenku, though stunned by what had happened to their chief, were quick to regroup, and quick to make ground on the fences and walls of Haven. Magla’s archers cut down a few during their advance, but they were quick, agile, and able to speed over the clearing.

At the entrance to Haven’s main thoroughfare, a squadron came upon the seated Imony. Their movement slowed, more curious than fearful. The archers had turned to other targets for fear of hitting the woman, so the kenku were able to approach her
in a more measured, careful way. Imony sat, legs crossed over each other in the way she had first been encountered by the teenagers, the old warrior, and his dwarf companion—tracing a line on the parchment with the brush in her hands. She appeared unaware of the battle about to commence, of the projectiles flying overhead. Sten watched carefully. He had, in the time he had spent around the disciple of unarmed combat, become a student of such situations with her. His greater task—the command of the defense of Haven—could spare a moment, he thought. A moment to observe her.

The moment arrived. A kenku bandit, short blade aloft, fell upon Imony, and another followed. But before their blades had cut the air, she was already up and beside them. They hacked into the dirt, turned, and before they could lift their blades again, Imony had thrown herself against them. One fell into the next, and Imony grappled the closest by the neck. She placed her forearm against it, applied pressure, snapped its spine. She transferred her body’s momentum to her legs, used the dying kenku as an anchor, caught the second in the back of the head with her right foot and sent it flying forward. Three more had gathered near, and Imony landed on her feet, dropped the kenku in her arms to the ground and stared them down.

Sten turned back to Spundwand and to the hunters he had armed for close combat. In the back stood Padlur, strong and tall, but very much afraid. Very much a teenage boy. “Hold steady, lad,” Sten said. “It’s your home we fight for.” The words sent a rush of confidence through the boy, and Padlur, newly steeled, spun his blade in his hand.

“My home, indeed. No carrion bird can take it from me.” And Padlur took his place beside the others, the farmers with pitchforks, and sickles fresh from the whetstone. A few even carried simply a heavy club, a solid piece of wood wrapped with a remnant of leather. Padlur looked at home among them, but more. He could make a fine soldier, the old man thought. A fine protector of this place.

Mikal had asked Nergei to stay near him, and the boy followed as the wizard found a place near his sister. Mikal had allowed Nergei to watch as he had prepared, through an evening’s study, his spells, marked them and memorized them. As the rushing mob of kenku reached the middle of the open clearing—the group that had managed to bypass Imony, who was doing a surprisingly good job of slowing and stopping any who dared charge the center road to Haven—Mikal unleashed multicolored missiles of arcane energy
that struck them, sent some reeling, and slowed their advance. He held his orb aloft and, with a word, a wave of thunderous sound flew forth. It knocked the kenku down, threw them back—deafened them. But for every one that fell, three more emerged from the trees and started their own charge. Nergei wondered,
Is it within me to do this? To gather and focus power like Mikal?
The half-elf was masterful. Could he be, too?

A kenku arrow flew and landed near Nergei. “Keep your head down, boy,” said Mikal. “Observe but stay hidden.” Nergei obeyed as best he could.

Sten shouted to the men behind him. “Enough waiting. Let us meet them in the clearing. No kenku shall reach this village, my friends. Forward!” So ordered, the villagers of Haven, all old enough or strong enough to wield a weapon, ran at Sten’s heels through the entrance to the village. Some, though, did not make it much past the door. A bolt of shadow blasted through, forcing the air from their lungs and toppling a handful with ease.