Vesna’s face was ashen as he left. Lesarl shut the door behind him and stood with one hand pressed against the wood for a while. It was cold to the touch, polished smooth, and stained by age.
He faced the seat where Tila had worked alongside him the past few months, and murmured, ‘Thank the Gods I was not born a hero. I would not wish that on any man.’
CHAPTER 29
‘Well, engineer, will it work?’
The engineer froze in his tracks, like a rabbit that had seen the eagle’s shadow. Lips pressed firmly together, he turned to Lord Styrax, but it didn’t do any good. As soon as he looked directly at the black-armoured warrior his nerve failed and he began to hiccough.
The wyvern behind him was constantly trying to eat any horse that came near, and, according to the sergeant escorting him, it had only recently learned not to try and eat General Gaur. Its savagery was blunted, rather than tamed, and he was scared of it, yet the statue-still Lord of the Menin somehow unnerved him more.
‘Aye, I believe so, my Lord,’ he replied cautiously, remembering to bow only after he’d spoken. ‘It’s a battering ram; there’s not much to go wrong.’ The engineer wasn’t a real soldier, and the campaign had taken its toll. He felt exhausted, and as out of place as he looked, this fat little man of fifty summers, but every battle won took him a step closer to home, so even the task of fitting wheels to a huge tree-trunk had been carried out with exacting care.
Styrax turned and the man wilted under his scrutiny. ‘I know that, engineer,’ he said, no trace of emotion in his voice. ‘You are not a man of nostalgia, it appears.’
For a moment the Menin lord’s gaze drifted away into the distance. There were dark circles around his eyes, indications that Kastan Styrax was still just a man, and grieved as any would, but the white irises were colder than ever.
‘Ah — ’ He tried to reply, but found his mind empty of words. Last time Styrax had spoken those words to him, Lord Kohrad had been at his side, ready to prove himself to his father. The very idea of bantering with a grieving white-eye made his limbs tremble.
As the tribe’s foremost expert in artillery and siege weapons, he knew only too well what terrifying forces could be produced by wood, sinew and metal, to be unleashed as required. Such weapons had a resonance, a restrained stillness, like that he felt now in Lord Styrax’s presence. Power hummed through the man and strained at the clamps keeping it in check. The engineer fought down the urge to run, his deepest instincts screaming to be away before such catastrophic force was unleashed.
When Styrax turned away sharply he nearly sagged with relief. His shoulders jerked as he tried to hold back another hiccough, and he flinched as the ugly old sergeant appeared beside him.
Sergeant Deebek clapped him on the shoulder and grinned toothily, about to lead him away, when Lord Styrax spoke again. ‘Engineer, estimate the range of their fire-throwers.’ He pointed to the nearest of Aroth’s two high bastions.
Though no rival to Tor Salan’s defences, the fire-throwers of Aroth were still formidable, if their intelligence was to be believed. From what they knew, when it was fired, it released a curious horizontal main beam that whipped around the entire tower, then disengaged from the powering mechanism and pivoted back to its starting point, leaving the hanging bowl ready to be refilled while the mechanism was swiftly reset.
‘I — That is difficult, my Lord,’ the engineer stammered, ‘the mechanism has magically enhanced sections and we have yet to see it in action.’
‘I understand that. My concern is whether it could be employed against anyone attacking the causeway.’
Aroth was built on the shores of two lakes - a larger one, three miles across, that comprised nearly a quarter of the city’s perimeter, and a smaller body of water that had been artificially created; it was less than a mile wide. Between the two was a narrow belt of land no more than a hundred yards wide that served as the main entrance to the city. This was considered Aroth’s strongest point, and it was heavily defended with artillery-barges, positioned on both lakes, to turn the causeway into a killing ground. Naturally, that was where Lord Styrax had chosen to attack.
‘Would it have the range? Aye, I’d expect so,’ he said after a long while. ‘Whether it could be brought to bear, that’s more the question. They must have a way to tilt and turn it, because it’s covering that entire flank, but it’s one thing to cover half the circle; another entirely to go beyond that.’
‘Especially with that loading system,’ Styrax added, staring at the city. Aroth was set on a slight rise, making the tops of those towers the highest point for fifty miles in either direction, the lakes the lowest. Cultivated fields stretched into the distance on all sides, fertile lands that begged the question of whether King Emin could afford to continue his fighting retreat. Taking Aroth would shore up the Menin Army’s supply-lines and change the complexion of the war — but Styrax had a different plan in mind to change the game here.
‘Most likely they’d need a second reloading station, on the other side,’ the engineer said, swallowing a hiccough.
‘The effort would be worthwhile though,’ Styrax mused, almost to himself. ‘The smaller lake will have far fewer artillery-barges; it’s the weaker flank - unless the fire-thrower can hit its far bank.’
The engineer didn’t argue. He thought it unlikely they would have bothered; the long city wall at the back of Aroth unguarded by water was still the weaker point, and these defences had been designed before King Emin conquered the city. Chances were the builders hadn’t worked through every scenario as the King of Narkang might.
‘Gaur,’ Styrax said over his shoulder, ‘are they all in position?’
‘They are, my Lord. Shall I give the order?’
‘Not yet.’ Styrax set off towards his saddled wyvern. As he put on his whorled black helm the creature snarled and crouched down, hind legs tensing with anticipation as Styrax climbed into the saddle and clipped the silver rings of his dragon-belt to it.
General Gaur advanced towards Styrax, stopping short as the wyvern’s head lifted and its mouth opened hungrily. ‘My Lord, this is not necessary. The Litse white-eyes have already scouted from the air.’
‘Their mages weren’t unduly panicked by the scouts, so another demonstration is in order. It — ’ The white-eye paused and gathered up the wyvern’s long reins. ‘Trust me, my friend.’
With that he tugged hard on the reins and the wyvern unfurled its wings fully, with two half-beats to ready it, then, driving up with its powerful hind legs, it leapt into the air and caught the cool morning air. A longer stroke propelled it higher, and now it was turning in a lazy circle above their heads, climbing all the while.
Gaur watched the creature rise until it was hard to make out the figure on the wyvern’s back, then he stalked over to the engineer, who took a half-pace back.
The engineer couldn’t decipher the beastman’s expression, but he recognised the sense of purpose in his stride.
‘Get back to the baggage-train,’ Gaur growled at the engineer. ‘Your work here is done.’
Beyn peered forward, ignoring the bubble of chatter behind him. The King’s Man was intent on movement several miles away, beyond the Hound Lake.
‘Knew it,’ he whispered to himself, ‘I damned well knew it.’ He turned and looked down the line of frightened soldiers until he found the general, half-hidden by an enormous nobleman and his white-eye bodyguard - one inferior in every way to the vicious ogre who’d inspired that latest Narkang fashion. General Aladorn had withered in his retirement; now he could barely see over the shoulder of a normal man, and whatever he was trying to say was being ignored as the nobleman, one Count Pellisorn of the Arothan Lords’ Chamber, continued to fire demands at him.
‘General, have the mages turn the weather, now!’ Beyn called.
As he expected, Pellisorn just increased his volume, turned his back on Beyn and loomed over the elderly general.
‘Soldier,’ Beyn said quietly to the crossbowman next to him, holding his hand out.
The soldier handed over his weapon with a grin and watched Beyn quickly load it, raise the bow and put it to the bodyguard’s ear. To his credit, the white-eye didn’t flinch or move; he very sensibly stood stock-still.
‘What the — ?’ the count started, but Beyn cut him off.
‘Honour Council Pellisorn,’ Beyn said in a calm voice, ‘the enemy have made their first move. That means your authority is no longer recognised. The task appointed to me -
by the king himself
- is to ensure General Aladorn is unimpeded in his duties.’
Count Pellisorn leaned back with a look of distaste on his face, as though a favourite pet had just revealed yellow eyes and a forked tongue. Unlike most of the men assembled he was dressed in court-finery, his only armour a ceremonial gorget displaying his position on the Honour Council, the ruling body within the Lords’ Chamber.
He was, however, a consummate politician, and he recovered as soon as he realised it was his bodyguard in danger, not he. ‘I don’t give a damn for the opinions of some low-born thug!’ the count announced, his hand moving to his sword hilt. ‘Unless you think threatening my man will earn you anything but a slow walk to the headsman, you will lower your weapon immediately.’
‘Take your hand away from your sword, Honour Council,’ Beyn advised. ‘You’re as fat as you are past your prime, so don’t embarrass yourself further. I suggest you get out of my sight.’
‘You a King’s Man?’ the white-eye rumbled. He was a block-faced specimen of indeterminate age with a bulbous brow and a nose broken many times - and old enough to have a shred of common sense, Beyn guessed from the look in his white eyes. He had to hope so, at any rate; they didn’t have soldiers to spare in Aroth.
‘I am.’
‘Then ah’m takin’ your orders,’ the white-eye said ponderously, trying to watch the point of the bolt out of the corner of his eye. ‘Is the law, I were told.’
Beyn heaved a sigh of relief that the king’s decree had reached the white-eyes here. He lowered the crossbow and ordered, ‘Step back, and remove your former employer from my sight, soldier. Use as much force as you think necessary.’
The white-eye’s face split in into a grin, and Count Pellisorn’s objections were cut short when his erstwhile bodyguard grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him towards the door by his jewel-inlaid gorget, leaving Beyn free to approach the general.
‘What was that you said?’ Aladorn demanded, squinting up at Beyn. ‘Are they advancing?’
‘I saw the wyvern; you have to get the mages to turn the weather, sir.’
‘He’s not going to attack all by himself,’ Aladorn croaked, waving a liver-spotted claw dismissively. ‘No need to waste their strength.’
‘He can soften us up first,’ Beyn said, ‘we’ve nothing that can fire so high. You need to order the mages now, the only way to stop him is to threaten a storm.’
The general made a contemptuous sound. ‘Afraid of thunder, is he?’
Beyn ground his teeth with frustration. He was used to folk believing him on matters of war. While General Aladorn might have been pretty good during the conquest of the kingdom, magic hadn’t played a great part. Now he was just a stubborn old man, as far as Beyn could see.
‘Lightning is attracted by magic,’ he explained, as calmly as a man facing imminent death could, ‘and he’ll be up there raining the fury of Ghenna down upon us unless we do something to stop him!’
‘And tire our mages in the process.’
‘They can’t stop him head-on, any road,’ Beyn snapped, his patience gone. ‘Magic ain’t going to win this for us, only our bloody artillery.’
General Aladorn scowled at Beyn, his mouth becoming even more pinched and wrinkled as he thought. ‘Very well, lieutenant, give the order,’ he said at last to an aide standing by the door.
The man saluted and turned stiffly about.
‘Run, you fuck!’ roared Beyn after him, startling the man out of his formality and sending him scrabbling through the door.
Once the lieutenant had gone Beyn turned his back on the rest of the assembled command staff and remaining councillors, uncaring of their reproachful faces. He wasn’t there for decorum, after all, and right now he had bigger concerns. Out of those assembled, all of Aroth’s ruling circles, Beyn was the only one showing any genuine concern for the coming siege. The councillors and nobles alike were all claiming they had supplies enough to outlast the enemy, and the soldiers were confident in both their defences and their prowess. But Beyn had seen nothing to give him any confidence at all in either claim.
The king’s order to refuse battle was pronounced cautious prudence, nothing more, conceding unimportant ground. That the kingdom’s second city might actually fall to the Menin didn’t appear to have occurred to any of them, and Beyn knew if he mentioned the possibility he’d be laughed out the room.
Damn fools
, Beyn thought, as uncharacteristic doubts marched through his mind.
Not one person’s noticed I’m the
only
King’s Man here. None of the king’s best warriors or mages have been sent to join this defence
. His hand clenched as a sense of helplessness unexpectedly washed over him.
When the king himself doesn’t believe we can stand against them, what chance do we have?