A stench permeated the heavy air, so rotten he gagged. He had cause, it seemed, to regret releasing Weilton from his service. He’d never smelled garns before, but he’d heard of their foul odor. How many descended?
His knees shook but held. The wall’s rough stone pressed his back. The shuffling neared. A shadow stretched long in the wavering light. The time for escape had fled. He thought to hide but that required he sheath his sword to conceal its light. Sweat beaded his brow. Words from the past crowded his mind.
My son, you shall make your own history. We all feel the bite of fear, Elcon. You must not let it devour you.
I receive and will keep the Alliance of Faeraven with all my heart.
He breathed a prayer and swung out to meet the dark shape on the stair, a welke and its hideous rider. The welke screeched. The muscular garn on its back, hair sprouting from places not covered by the befouled hides it wore, grunted. The welke responded, pecking at Elcon’s hand. He cried out and as blood ran down his forearm the great sword fell from his nerveless fingers.
The garn grunted again and bared fangs as it raised a barbed sword. Elcon flung himself backward but the welke advanced. He shot a glance at Sword Rivenn, its light flaring just treads below. He’d never reach it in time. He fetched against the cold wall, sorrow washing over him. Why had he rushed out alone and without his dagger? His foolishness, this time, would cost him his life.
20
Sword and Lance
The travesty of a smile stretched the garn’s flat features. The sword whipped downward as Elcon jumped out of harm’s way. Metal pinged against stone. The garn grunted. Elcon crept sideways along the wall. The welke followed.
A blade sang past Elcon to land with a thud. The welke fell with a hissing breath, a knife embedded in its throat. Elcon flicked a glance down the stair but saw nothing. The garn arose from the welke’s carcass, unfolding itself a long way upward to stand heads taller than him. Elcon fought to control his breathing. The barbed sword lifted, and the ugly face twisted in rage.
Torchlight died but revived and shadows swung wide. Sword Rivenn glowed, just out of reach, but hope still flickered within Elcon. Like Eathnor and Dorann, he would cheat death, although he had only his wit to pit against the garn’s strength. On impulse, he shifted to run down the stair but backed upward instead. The blade struck the wall where he would have been, scattering bits of stone. The garn bellowed and swung toward him, but paused to scan the shadows, now at its back, from which the knife had come.
Elcon pushed away from the wall. He couldn’t count on rescue, and his maneuvers had only taken him farther from his sword. He backed upward on the stair. If he lured the foul creature to the top of the tower he might cause its fall.
A stone thudded into the garn from behind. Although the stone clattered away without any apparent effect on its target, the garn turned toward the shadows.
A figure Elcon recognized sprang from the shadows. Dorann crouched before the beast, a hunting knife in his hand.
The garn roared, lunging as the barbed sword sliced air.
Dorann danced away.
The creature tracked him in grim silence. Again the barbed sword whipped through empty air. The garn roared as Dorann’s blade dripped blood.
The combatants faced one another, panting.
Raising its sword with both hands as blood ran down one arm, the beast uttered a bloodcurdling battle cry as it made a run at Dorann. The tracker whirled sideways and away but his opponent stumbled and pitched headlong down the stair. Dorann followed. Elcon caught up his sword, but by the time he reached Dorann, the garn lay still.
“Eathnor heard you at the door.” Dorann told him between breaths. “I decided you needed looking after.”
Elcon sought his voice. “Thank you.”
The tracker gave a curt nod and looked back to the dead garn. “Bruins fight harder.”
****
Elcon stood at one of the arrow embrasures in the gatehouse tower. The garn and welke no longer threatened, but dawn’s light revealed a tide of the foul beasts surging past the barbican and spreading out through the township of Torindan. Countless rafts sliced through the murky waters of the moat toward the fortress walls.
Elcon turned his head. “Can we hold them?”
Weilton’s expression was grave. “We expended the last of our dragonsfire to win and collapse the tunnels. As for the rest of our supplies, well, they can’t go on forever. Perhaps we should seek surrender.”
Elcon thrust away from the embrasure. “We can’t give up.”
The lines in Weilton’s face seemed to deepen in the feeble light streaming in from the arrow slit before him. “You should save yourself, Lof Shraen
.
Why not escape through the priests’ passageway? Don’t let Torindan fall in vain. As long as you breathe, hope lives for Faeraven.”
“My father would not flee like a coward!”
“He didn’t face this evil.”
Elcon shook his head. “No. I’ll stand before I die. I plan to lead a force of hand-picked wingabeast riders in a foray against the garns.”
Weilton stared at him. “Their numbers are too great. You speak of suicide.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I will bring honor to the House of Rivenn, even at the cost of my life. If I lay it down, I may win one more day for Torindan’s reinforcements to arrive. If we do nothing, all our lives are forfeit. Don’t deceive yourself. Surrender will bring no mercy.”
Weilton’s face flushed. “Your plan has merit. Only let me go in your place.”
Elcon put a hand on Weilton’s shoulder. “I count on you to hold the fortress in Craelin’s absence. Come, no more talk of surrender.”
A determined look crossed Weilton’s face. “Agreed.”
Light footfalls set up small echoes to meet them in the stairway. Eathnor ran toward them from below, passing in and out of shadow. He spoke before they met. “The garns run on the walls.”
“They waste no time.” Weilton swung toward an arrow embrasure in the wall.
Elcon took Eathnor’s arm. “Ride with me against them.”
Eathnor’s eyes widened, but then he squared his shoulders. “Aye.”
Elcon nodded to Weilton. “Send five of our best riders to the stables without delay. We’ll defend the wall.”
Weilton joined them. “As you say, only let the archers and foot soldiers guard the wall. Flying between them, the wingabeasts would get in the way, and you could be injured. But cut off the second wave of boats if you can.” He started back up the stairs. “I’ll send riders.” Elcon and Eathnor ran down the stairs together and found Dorann in the bailey. He bobbed his head at Elcon’s approach. “Craelin’s settled with the priests. Time will tell whether he lives or dies.”
Elcon and Eathnor did not slow as they took the path to the stables. “That’s true for us all.” Eathnor called to his brother.
“Tell me what’s happened.” Doran kept pace.
“Have you gone deaf, my brother? Can’t you hear the garn’s battle cries?”
“Of course. That’s why I left the wounded to fight alongside the footsoldiers.”
As they reached the stable door a ball catapulted through the air to thud into the path behind Dorann. Shards flew as Elcon ducked into the stable and Eathnor pulled his brother inside. “Watch yourself. It would be well if one of our parents’ sons lived through the day.”
Dorann pushed away from his brother. “You ride against garns without me, don’t you?”
Elcon left the brothers to their goodbyes.
“Lof Shraen!” A stableboy bowed.
Elcon waved a hand. “No time for that. Saddle seven wingabeasts. Lives depend on your speed.”
The stableboy stared at him, but then hurried toward the wingabeasts as he called out. Two other stableboys joined him at the task, and finally, Guaron himself. At last the beasts stood ready but only three riders had appeared, Demeric of Chaeradon, Pelsney of Daeramor, and Oalram of Rivenn.
Elcon paced to where Eathnor waited beside Dorann near the door. “Do any others approach?”
Eathnor shook his head. “Nay.”
“We’ll ride ahead without them then. There’s no time to wait.”
Dorann stirred. “I’ll ride with you.”
“Dorann, you’ve little experience on a wingabeast
and none in battle.
Dorann gave him a quelling look. “I rode to Maeg Waer and back, did I not?”
Elcon raised a hand to still Eathnor’s response. “Ride, then.”
They mounted and rode into the bailey at once. Two more guardians appeared on the path from the gatehouse, and Elcon nodded them toward the stables. They could follow to replace those who fell.
With a touch Saethril, the black he rode in place of Raeld, spiraled into flight. They lifted above the meager security afforded by the curtain walls. He pressed Saethril upward, out of the range of missiles, passed over the gatehouse, and hovered above the moat.
A sudden gust rushed against his ears and caught the edge of his cloak. Not far overhead, gray clouds scuttled across a pale sky. Distorted shadows raced over dark figures below. Six rafts of lashed-together logs bumped the walls between towers. The garns aboard them huddled beneath shields lifted to form a roof above their heads. More rafts entered the waters to cut through floating corpses.
Nearby, the bridge made of rubble acted as a causeway for masses of garns streaming through the barbican. A volley of arrows, stones, and pots of quicklime hurtled downward. He shook his head at the futility of such efforts, for as soon as one garn fell another took its place.
Lightning flashed overhead and thunder shook the air. His pulse surged in his ears. There it came again—a distant trumpet blast. On the horizon to the north and south armies approached. He met Eathnor’s vivid gaze. Dorann, hovering on Sharten beside Eathnor’s wingabeast, Roaem, looked ready for anything, as did the other riders. Elcon took a breath to steady himself before raising his lance. At his signal Saethril plunged toward the second wave of rafts as Elcon voiced the ancient battle cry of his people.
Arrows whizzed past, launched by hostile archers in the barbican’s battlements. At their approach, the garns stopped rowing. A shield deflected Elcon’s first thrust and a barbed spear followed him upward. Another volley of arrows zinged through the air. A wingabeast
shrilled. Elcon lifted out of range. The other riders fell in rank behind him, all save one. Dorann pushed away from Sharten’s limp body, heaved a breath and dove under the water. Arrows pricked the surface where he had been.
Elcon turned Saethril with the speed of thought and dove toward the garns, Eathnor on Roaem
beside him. As they neared, the raft beside the dead wingabeast rocked and two garns fell into the water as the others fought to remain standing. Elcon frowned in puzzlement, but then Dorann push away from the edge of the raft. Eathnor dipped low on his wingabeast and reached for his brother. Dorann’s eyes widened and he slipped beneath the water.
“Dorann!” Eathnor’s shout pierced Elcon.
Arrows sang through the air, forcing Elcon and Eathnor to lift above them. One of the garns Dorann had tipped into the water cried out, and then stretched in a dead man’s float, arrows bristling from his back. Elcon scanned the surface. “There!” As he pointed, Roaem hurtled downward. Eathnor must have already seen Dorann rolling in the water, locked in a deadly embrace with the second garn that had fallen from the raft.
Saethril dove through the air behind Roaem, and Elcon’s lance found its mark as a garn grunted. The rest of the wingabeast riders descended, and more garns fell. Wingabeasts shrilled. Foul water splattered upward, and Elcon no longer saw Dorann. When Saethril lifted away two wingabeasts floated motionless in the moat, their riders face-down nearby.
Shadows winged overhead, black against the sun-welke riders. Saethril shuddered. Elcon put a steadying hand on the wingabeast’s shoulder and checked the riders he led. Only Eathnor and Pelsney remained. He glanced toward Torindan, but no other wingabeasts lifted into the air. Had the other two decided not to ride?
Death rode over him, delivering an unseen blow that sent him reeling in pain. Despair smote his mind with force, and the world went dark. He listed in the saddle, clinging to the pommel. “Steady!” he called to Saethril. If his wingabeast shifted, he would fall. As wave after wave of power lashed his mind there was nothing he could do but grit his teeth and endure.
Another, gentle touch whispered across his mind to shield him. Shae. Somehow his sister had found a way to protect him, even from the world between. He pulled upright in the saddle, and his vision cleared.
He gave again the battlecry and turned to meet the welke riders. A ragged raptor fell upon him with claws extended. He pulled Saethril upward and rolled sideways to catch the creature and its rider by surprise. The lances met, the first shock jolting through him. Saethril screamed and showed the whites of his eyes but at Elcon’s command spun back toward the welke. The lance’s second impact nearly unseated Elcon. At the third his lance fell from his already wounded fingers. Drawing Sword Rivenn, he reined Saethril about.
A shadow rode in from the side. The hair on Elcon’s arms rose, and he fought the rise of panic. Saethril shuddered and arched his neck, but held steady even as raptors neared on either side.
Elcon gave the signal that sent Saethril upward.
Screeching, the welkes collided and plummeted together.
Shrieks rent the air. A welke tore into the wingabeast Pelsney rode even as the garn rider’s barbed lance penetrated his chain mail. Pelsney and his wingabeast hurtled downward as welke and garn screeched in triumph. The welke wheeled about and glided toward Elcon. He had time to register a vicious battle between Eathnor and two welke riders before the garn reached him.
One of the garn rider’s eyes carried the opacity of blindness, but the other fixed unwaveringly on Elcon. The welke the garn rode neared with claws at the ready, perhaps emboldened by its taste of blood. Saethril shrilled and shuddered but held. If they lived, he would give Saethril carrots every day. Elcon waited until he swore he felt the welke’s hot breath, longer than his own nerves could stand. At last he signaled Saethril. As the welke screeched and the garn grunted, the wingabeast dropped into a rolling spin that leveled just above the ground.