The eaters of time, p.56
The Eaters of Time, page 56
“I mean to save as many as we can, which means I’ll be too busy to catch arrows, other than the traditional way—hence my borrowing of Pallith. Still, I expect you’ll need the extra hands more than I will. You’ll almost certainly have bodies to shift.”
“Lord? Oh! Hells…” This was Morric. The proverbial torch had lit over his head, but Jastar still didn’t understand. Neither did several of the others, based on their looks of confusion.
Methias gave Morric a brief look of commiseration. “I know. It’s a grim prospect. I’d be happy to be wrong, but… something has to be keeping Wick’s remaining folk from hieing west as a mass. Tharus mentioned no siege equipment, so my guess is that the goblins are piling up the dead arrow by arrow at the postern gate.”
Apiné grunted in disgust but nodded. “Right. We ride north. Stay hidden as best we can. We cut west along the wall, dismount, leave a rear guard with the horses. Single-file to the postern. Clear the dead, or whatever’s slowing down the escape for Wick’s remaining folk. You should be in position to the west, and you’ll draw their attention as best you can.”
Methias nodded.
“Do we have a retreat plan?”
The lord appeared to think on that for a few beats. “Yes. You make your way to me. If that can’t be done, you head east as fast as you can, then north to the ford at Oacn Alifehv.”
You want us to race… toward you if we need to run away?
Jastar kept this thought to himself for fear of yet another collective glare. He bent forward as if to check his stirrup. The very last thing he wanted was for the others to mark his frustrated confusion—his anger at how absurd this plan seemed.
Apiné spoke up—all business now. “Right then. If you’ve any loose buckles or buttons, tie or fasten them down. We need to be swift and silent. Two-two-three? On me.”
Methias at last turned to face them. His eyes were distant things—a hazel turned amber as it caught the moon. In less than a minute, they were on the move.
I hate every part of this. We should be racing to the gate—either gate—and carving through the beasts. If the tower’s as defensible as Tharus says, why in hells aren’t we just pushing through to that?
Still, Apiné’s Third Lance was well-trained as a unit, based on all that he’d seen. And he’d do better to admit it. He knew nothing of magic or how to use it in the field. Time would tell the tale. He just hoped he’d still be around to pass that tale on to the Countess when all was said and done.
-II-
Olshnak saw his path now as a series of priorities.
I need to not just see but recall as much detail as I can. No stone’s too small. But if I focus too much on any one thing, I risk missing others. I need to escape this place. If I don’t make report on what’s happened here, many more will die. And if I’m able, I need to try and save Sir Kaith—and, if possible, his armsmen.
It wasn’t so much that the armsmen mattered as people… not to the greater war, at least. No, it was that those who’d survived this place would, to some extent, know what to expect when fighting them again. Failing that, their minds might have plucked another detail out of the forest of details they were now stood within.
He saw Aleks Silverson glance between the mob at the postern gate, the Braided Tower, and the silent, still goblins. The hellish mymmerkins were just standing there, watching them, on occasion looking up at the rift where the giant thing had felled Sir Gordan.
Silverson made a point of not looking at that strange rip in the air. Well, on that score, who could blame him? Looking at it hurt Olshnak’s head, yet he had to see it. To study it as best he could. They weren’t any of them going anywhere for a few beats… if they made it out at all. The goblins were between them and the main gate, and the press of screaming, sobbing folk were squeezing through the postern with an aching slowness.
“We need to clear a path, I think.” Huron fell back beside him. “I can make it up onto the walls, but I’ve no way down the other side. No rope, nor steps. I could shoot, but I’ve no bow.”
Silverson was still casting about, looking lost—and angry about it. Olshnak considered the idle youth, making no effort to hide his study. He made his voice sharp to gain the fellow’s full attention.
“You’ve lived here all your life. Where is Wick’s carpenter housed?”
“What? How sh’ I know?”
Olshnak bowed his head so as not to let the man see him roll his eyes. When the urge had passed, he looked back up, searching for the dullard’s mud-coloured dreamer’s lamps.
“Given your hope to be elevated as one of Lord Ricgerd’s vassals? You must know the other tradesmen in the village.” Based on Aleks’s shocked glare, he hadn’t realized anyone else knew of his ambitions.
So you’re twice the fool I took you for. Servants listen, and servants gossip. Your wealth’s taught you to think of them as pets, not people … to your cost.
“You’ve no idea?”
“Mind eer tongue, tusk. Else when this is over, it’ll be cut from ee…”
Olshnak was certain the man fancied himself threatening, but it was all worthless wind. The fool had no personal force to carry out his threats. He was a freeman, but that offered no protection if he killed the property of a knight of Thorion, let alone that of the damned Throne.
Huron was stepping over, trying to placate the fellow. “Olshnak only seeks to aid in our escape. He knows much of making and breaking, balance and breaching.”
But Aleks Silverson spat at Huron’s feet. The display was about as impressive as the lone silver braid in his otherwise dark hair—an affectation if ever there was one. “Mind eer own, sandblood. Ee’ll meet the same end as the tusk if ee’re n’ respectful t’ me.” For emphasis, the youth put his hand to his sheathed sword.
Olshnak laid a hand on Huron’s shoulder. The armsman was quite pliable, stepping back without much urging. His face showed confusion, but no concern.
How quickly we forget the power of folk like that. It was ironic, really. In truth, Huron—now a free man in service to a knight—was actually more vulnerable to this fellow’s reprisals than Olshnak. Were Huron still a slave, Aleks would have to weigh out, and, in all likelihood, pay out for the anger of the slave’s owner. Most owners were willing to take coin in recompense for damaged or dead slaves, but some demanded blood for the slight.
For the second time in two days, Olshnak chastised himself for finding the good in slavery. Next, I’ll be lauding fever for granting me a day without work, or the grave for letting me finally sleep.
He snorted, eliciting looks from both Huron and the silversmith’s son or grandson—however many generations removed Aleks Silverson was from the trade that gave him his name.
He looked from Huron to the screaming, weeping, and for some reason, stalling exodus of Wick’s citizens. Huron had the right of it. There had to be a blockage of some sort. He could think of no other reason for the maddening slowness. The gate wasn’t massive, but it was large enough for a narrow cart to drive through.
“Huron?” When the youth acknowledged him with a questioning look, he continued. “Your sergeant and the tactician are deep in the press, and Sir Kaith’s trying to hold a defensive wall, else I’d ask them first.” Huron grinned at the mocking description of Vilmocz—Kaith’s other, more loutish armsman. “I think you’ve the right of it. There must be something on the other side of that gate. Can you mount the wall and have a shifty at it? At worst, you might find a bow, string, and a full quiver or two. We’ve no more archers left on this side of the wall.”
Huron nodded. “Can, and will.”
As the armsman jogged off, Aleks stepped over and tried to cow Olshnak with another of his glares. “Ee’re a herald, tusk. Eer ’dvice ain’t a thing ‘s needed, nor wan’ed.”
Olshnak stepped to his left and dipped down to pick up a fallen armsman’s shield, sliding it into place. Standing, he drew breath to make reply, but the words caught in his throat. He saw a row of goblins in the rear ranks drawing back their bows. One of them was aiming at the oblivious yapping pup that was Aleks Silverson.
That worthy grinned, blind to his danger, and delighted to see what he thought was fear on the gnoerk’s face. His expression showed surprise, therefore, when Olshnak’s sudden charge knocked him onto his self-important backside.
“Arrows! Shields up! Arrows!”
Olshnak’s initial push let him get his newly claimed heater into position just in time. He blocked an arrow meant for a resigned-looking granddame at the back of the line. Once the pin thunked into his shield, he looked over his shoulder to be sure she was unscathed. She looked surprised, but only for a beat. She reached her leathery hand up to caress his green cheek, nodding, before withdrawing it.
Aleks struggled to his feet, growling, and hunted for a shield.
Kaith had given the order to dress the line. He and Ricgerd were doing their best to hold their last ragged defenders together. Terrek and Vilmocz were trying to push through toward the back of the mob, but it was like fighting a strong current. They’d been needed there a moment ago—had tried to keep something approaching order among the fleeing folk. And while that had been a fool’s errand, they’d done their best. Now they were needed to help act as rear guard, but…
“Eat your fill, my brothers and sisters. Their fear and valor have seasoned them for long enough. The Face of Endings comes, and there is work to be done.” It was a male voice, but not a mortal one. That didn’t make much sense, yet it was an undeniable truth. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was full, but not booming, though it rolled with a strange, almost mournful greed.
The nearest goblins reacted at once, racing forward toward Wick’s last wall, even as goblin archers continued to loose arrows from their back ranks.
“Olshnak!” Huron’s voice from somewhere above. “Riders! There are riders!”
-III-
Kaith anchored the left side of their line—the traditional place from where men expected orders to come. That voice had shaken him, but there wasn’t time to contend with that just now.
“Dress the line! Remember, it’s stabs, not cuts if you want them to stay down!”
He was pleased to hear them echo the command to dress the line—to feel the mild thumping as their shield wall tightened up. He was less pleased when Ricgerd appeared at his left shoulder.
“Back, Ricgerd! Second rank!”
“There is no second rank, Kaith!”
“You’re it! That sword’s too big for the wall!”
Kaith dropped his center of balance for a blink, then rammed upward to knock the first goblins back into their fellows. A quick glance to his right told him men all along their defensive line were doing the same. Good. Good enough, at least… for now.
“Fight in our shadows. If they get past our line, it’ll be you who has to put them down! Now, to it!”
Ricgerd growled at that but did as bidden.
An instant later, Kaith felt a hand grip his shield shoulder, trying to pull him back just as he was about to drive forward into another few goblin chargers. He lost his balance for a beat but regained it in time to catch and kill one of the beasts. A second vaulted onto, then over Kaith’s shield, landing in their back ranks.
Alec-Aleks’s pup’s snarl had managed to spit the words, “’Ow dare ee” at Kaith before he screamed in either panic or pain.
Kaith cursed. He glanced at the attackers, thought he might be able to risk it, then glanced over his shoulder. Ricgerd was engaged about halfway down the line. He was using his oversized sword to both knock great swathes of goblins off allied shields and shoulders and deliver the occasional vicious stab to end one of them. Nearer at hand, Alec-Aleks was on his back, trying to crawl away from the lone goblin that loomed over him. His own sword, Kaith noted, was still in its sheath at his waist. The goblin’s was raised up over its shoulder, preparing to deliver the death blow.
He had a moment of indecision, but as so often happened in such situations, Greggor’s voice spoke up in his mind.
Do what you can. The rest? Leave it where you found it. And learn from it. There’re enough woes in life. Don’t ever willingly add “If Only I’ds” to that already long list.
He took a breath and spun in place, keeping his shield where it was. He delivered a low back cut to the creature’s back leg. The blow knocked it on its side, causing its curved—talwar? Is that a damned talwar?—sword to fly from its grotesque fingers.
“Stab the damned thing!”
He’d given Alec-Aleks all the time he dared. Already, more goblins were slamming into his shield, trying to pull it down. He turned his body back toward the attackers and left the silver-braided skelpie to his fate… for the moment, at any rate. He couldn’t afford to just hope the foe in his backfield had been taken care of.
As he repelled the next pair of goblins—they’re getting more organized, he thought—he nearly had his forehead split by a pair of incoming arrows. He managed to half-crouch behind his heater in just the nick. Before he stood again, he heard the unmistakable sound of a sword clearing leather behind him. Then came Alec-Aleks’s voice. It was changed, somehow. It was as if the act of killing the goblin had restored—or perhaps outright granted him—a species of self-confidence.
“Lord Ricgerd! We need to make for the Braided Tower … now.” His voice wasn’t an excitable shout. It was an attempt at an emphatic, if not downright threatening, command.
“Kaith?” Ricgerd’s voice. He wasn’t asking for permission, so much as a tactical read on the idea. Ricgerd had always been a tourney fighter, not a group tactician. It was fortunate the man both recognized and, indeed, reveled in that fact. For all his grumbling bluster, Wick’s lord knew his own shortcomings, and was only too happy to lean on those he felt he could trust in those matters.
Kaith considered, opening his shield from the wall as if it were a door and stabbing the climber that was trying to kill his neighbor. He must’ve taken too long to answer for Alec-Aleks’s liking. The man stepped forward, snarling a rebuke toward his lord.
“Sir Kaith isn’t lord here, Ricgerd. You are! We’ve a better chance of holding them off from the tower’s stones. Give the damned order and have done!”
Kaith snapped his shield closed, hearing the screams behind him as arrows struck the mass of fleeing folk. The enemy had finally opted to aim past Wick’s last defenders. He cast an eye back toward the gate and saw, for a wonder, that the exodus had picked up its pace at long last. He reckoned there might be as many as two score left on this side of the wall. A final glance toward the north made the decision clear. There were too many to fight through. The only path would be single-file, and the goblins had already proven they were adept at scaling buildings bare-handed.
“Stay the line! We’re nearly ready to withdraw, and we’ll never make the tower. Stay—this—line!”
Ricgerd echoed Kaith’s order, and the others took up the call. Most of them, he knew, had already resigned themselves to die here. They contented themselves, he reckoned, with the notion that by their efforts, their kith and kin might yet live. Kaith hoped for a bit more. In another few beats, he’d give the order to retreat by step. Ricgerd would argue about being sent out first, but he’d go. Once he was out, the rest would follow.
Casting about one last time, he saw three things. Alec-Aleks seemed to have indeed found his fire, for he walked with purpose and resignation toward the line. Enough of the Wickish refugees had cleared out that he could begin their withdrawal. And, as he turned back to refuse yet another disorganized goblin charge, his eyes fell on the black rift where Gordan had fallen.
Only it wasn’t black anymore. The starlight had drawn in toward the center, making the thing look like a giant eye turned on its side.
No, not like an eye. That is an eye! The eye of some ancient thing adjusting to the light!
He had no idea how he knew that, or where the thought had come from, but he was as certain of that as he was that it was time to go.
He drew air down into his lungs. “Ricgerd? Shield wall? Retreat by step! Ret—”
“Ee’ve corrupted my lord… My friend. N’more, wandought…”
Kaith had just enough time to register the bastard’s words before the blow came. Then his legs gave out. He felt burning, stinging pain along the back of his bright-leg, where thigh met torso. He’d have been happy to scream, but before he could get more than a shouted growl out, the world upended, the ground had come rushing up to meet him, and his head struck something hard. Light and pain became his whole world.
His body sent out bursts of white agony to all points north of his neck. Even the simple act of inhaling hurt his face. He thought he heard men screaming. Ricgerd? Yes, Ricgerd was shouting… screaming, actually. Where had Kaith heard that sound before?
It was… was when he’d lost his… his crimson heart.
Kaith thought he felt hands on him, then a moment of vertigo that ended with blissful, empty quiet.
-IV-
Venzene Duchy of Kovalun
County Jižní Pochod
Barony of Hartscross–Jižní Lov
Lashjuk moved along the stone corridor at speed, just behind Andrej, his hound, and his lantern. Maksu and Vlk jogged at her heels. She didn’t relish the idea of running deeper underground, of limiting her escape options, but there was nothing for it.
They couldn’t fight all the forces arrayed against them without help. There were too damned many. This Red Storm was coming, whatever that was. Both Eliška and the devil Ebistian’s men were preparing for that event, and they’d ridden into the encampment as heroes. Who would listen to a gnoerkish woman speaking out against them? She’d have truth on her side, but what of that? The folk of the Empire had long since proven that truth only mattered if it came from a familiar face—most often one that reminded them of hearth and home.
