Guardians of the Lost (21 page)

“You are in trouble, soldier,” Drossel roared. “Drunk and disorderly at a time like this.” He dragged the body into a dark corner and lowered it down, making certain that the small patch of blood on the man's uniform was hidden from view. The soldier's head slumped forward, his chin resting on his chest, his arms flaccid.

“Sleep it off, you reprobate!” Drossel growled and, looking disgusted, he took up his place again by the gate, thrusting the blood-stained dagger into his belt.

“Get on with it!” he hissed under his breath to the shadow nearest him.

A few soldiers had looked around at Drossel's roar. Seeing nothing except one of their own apparently inebriated, they went back about their business.

Shadowy hands rested on the cross bar and Drossel heard the whisper of the spell-casting words. He was wondering nervously if he would recognize the signal, but then it came, and he knew he need not have worried. The sound was unmistakable—as of someone stomping on broken glass.

“Now!” whispered a voice from the shadow nearest him.

Drossel grabbed hold of one of the immense war hammers that stood against the wall. Fear-laced excitement surged through him. The hammer was heavy, but he never noticed the weight. Grasping it convulsively, he swung the hammer at the iron cross bar. If the Void wizards had failed in their spell-casting, the hammer would strike the bar with a horrendous clang and send shattering and painful vibrations through Drossel's arms and shoulders. He thought of that and dismissed it in a fleeting instant. He was seized with a kind of euphoria that made him invincible.

He struck the cross bar. Altered by Void magic, the bar shattered as if it had been made of ice, not iron.

Drossel dropped the hammer and shoved with all his strength at one of the gates. He could not take the place of ten men, not even
with the adrenaline pumping through his body, but he could open the gate a crack and that was enough.

Hands with long talons, covered with a thick leathery hide, thrust through the crack. Guttural voices called out and were answered by a single voice that sounded as if it were issuing an order. The hands grabbed hold of the door and pulled it open so swiftly that Drossel lost his grip and fell flat, face-down on the cobblestones.

He was in danger of being trampled, for the taan who had been waiting outside the gate now surged inside. Other taan were forcing open the other side of the gate.

Frantic voices shouted from the guardhouse, but the guards didn't have time to do much more than shout before the taan were on them. Wielding strange looking curved-bladed swords, spears or bludgeons, the taan slaughtered the guards with cruel efficiency, bashing in skulls, cutting off heads, impaling bodies on spears.

Scrambling to his hands and knees, Drossel realized that his fall had saved his life. He crawled swiftly outside the gate and crouched in the shadow of the wall, shaking with fear, for he knew as well as he'd ever known anything in his life that if the creatures spotted him, they would kill him. He had no way to communicate with them, no way to tell them he was on their side.

Ripping off the white uniform, he cursed himself, wondering why he hadn't foreseen this predicament, and he cursed the Void wizards, who, in their shadowy guise, would blend with the darkness and make good their escape across to the enemy lines. So far, no one had noticed Drossel in the chaos, but he knew his luck wouldn't last.

More and more taan poured through the open gate, a flood of death rushing into Dunkar. Blood-curdling yells rose from the plains outside Dunkar. The entire taan army was on the move, running to attack the city.

Siege ladders sprouted like evil weeds up and down the wall. The taan climbed them swiftly and surged over the walls as more taan continued to pour through the gate and now began to attack the battlements from the inside.

The taan were truly fearsome looking, seen up close. They
walked upright like any human, and stood over six feet in height, some much taller. The bones of their arms were thick and their hands were enormous. Their faces were the faces of animals, with long snouts and mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth. Their eyes were small and wide-set on either side of the snout. Their hide looked tough and leathery and each creature was heavily scarred.

The scarification appeared to have been done deliberately, for the scars formed intricate patterns on the hide. Some wore armor, either chain mail or leather or a combination of both, while others marched into battle with little but a loincloth wrapped around their limbs. They fought fearlessly, but not recklessly, and handled their weapons with skill.

Drossel watched as a soldier on the wall tried to surrender to the taan who had him surrounded. The soldier knelt down and lifted his hands in supplication.

The taan sliced off the man's hands and cut off the soldier's head, then kicked the corpse off the wall. The headless body landed not three feet away from Drossel. Obviously, he realized, surrender is not an option.

Drossel drew his sword, hoping to take one of the Void-begotten fiends with him, when a voice from the shadows spoke right in his ear, nearly scaring him to death.

“An army of human mercenaries is located about twenty yards to the north,” said the voice. “If you can make your way to them, you will be safe. Tell them you are Drossel and mention the name Lessereti. Good luck.”

“Pasha?” Drossel cried, but there was no answer.

A shadow glided away from him across the moonlit ground, heading to the north.

Drossel wasted no more time. He had noticed that the taan attacked in waves and when one wave reached the gate, there was a slight lull in the action until the next wave surged forward. Taking advantage of this lull, Drossel made a dash for it. He flung away his sword, for it was weighing him down, and, after a struggle with himself, he threw away the bag of silver argents.

Dead men spend no coin, as the saying went.

A
lmost eight hundred Trevenici mercenaries fought for the Dunkargans, but there were rarely that many in the city at one time. Some were out on patrol, some were traveling to their villages. About five hundred Trevenici were in the city of Dunkar the day the herald of Prince Dagnarus rode into the city to demand its surrender. A simple people, the Trevenici developed a simple plan for their escape. Moving through the city in small groups of no more than ten, they headed toward one of the three points designated to scale the eastern wall, their leaders dividing up the group in order to speed the escape, while the capture of one group would not mean the capture of all. Tribal members split up, so that if one was taken, the other might have a chance to escape and carry word to the tribe.

Trevenici tribes live isolated one from the other. Early in the history of the Trevenici, the tribes fought each other, for they are warriors born, the need to test oneself in battle is in the blood. This constant warfare proved ruinous. The Trevenici soon came to the realization that they might well wipe themselves out. A meeting of the tribal elders of the Trevenici was held in Vilda Harn, at which
time it was determined that the tribes would be at peace with each other and at war with all the rest of the world. Since this was about the time the Vinnengaelean empire was on the rise and looking to expand, the Trevenici were not short on enemies.

Tribes live apart from each other and rarely have contact, but there are times when it is deemed necessary for one tribe to disseminate information to the others—in the case of a common enemy attacking their lands, for example. Thus it was that before they separated, the Trevenici warriors took blood vows to spread the news of this new and fearsome looking enemy among all the tribes.

Raven considered trying to pass along his warning to his tribe, but the more he thought about it, the more he wondered what he would say to them through another. He could not put a name and a face on his fear and so how could he relate it in terms his tribe would understand? The general warning that would go out to all the tribes would not suffice. The danger that shadowed his tribe was specific. It had to do with the accursed armor and the dying knight and his nephew, Jessan. Raven alone could say these things to his people. He had to escape, that was all there was to it.

The Trevenici left camp at just about the same time that Captain Drossel and the Void wizards headed to the gate. As did Drossel, the Trevenici discovered the streets to be crowded, but, unlike Drossel, the Trevenici did not find it particularly difficult to make their way through the crowds. At the sight of the tall, strong warriors, decked out in their gruesome trophies and carrying their weapons, the Dunkargans quickly made room for them to pass. The Dunkargans even raised a few cheers, thinking that the Trevenici were going to man the battlements.

The Trevenici reached their meeting points on time. Raven's group had chosen a place on the wall where a wealthy merchant had built a house whose upper stories extended to within a few feet of the wall. The Trevenici were prepared to deal with the merchant, but they discovered the house empty, the merchant and his family having been among the fortunate few to escape the city by boat.

This part of the city was dark and mostly deserted. Raven's eyes
took a moment to adjust from the torchlight flaring in the streets to the moonlit darkness of this part of the city. He found other Trevenici already arrived. Silent and patient, they squatted in the shadows of the buildings. He looked up toward the wall, saw a few soldiers walking back and forth.

“How many are there?” Raven asked one of the warriors.

“Sixteen, maybe. Some left as you said they would. The moment they came on duty, they abandoned their posts.”

“Anyone in the house?”

“No, it is empty. Fox Fang climbed to a window on the second floor, slipped inside. Food for supper was still on the table, clothes strewn all over. Whoever lived there left in a hurry. Fox Fang is in there now.”

Raven stared intently at the wall. Those few guards who remained were nervous and fearful, constantly looking westward, trying to see something. One strange sound and they'd think they were under attack by the monsters and raise the alarm.

“I need eight warriors to go up there in advance of the main group to silence those guards,” Raven said.

Eight warriors rose up and crossed the street to the house, keeping to the shadows. The front door of the house opened to them and they vanished inside. The rest of the Trevenici waited in the shadows.

As Raven headed for the house, he watched the silhouettes of the warriors materialize on the roof. They were about to make the leap from the house to the battlements, when a sound arose from the western part of the city, a sound that was strange enough and terrible enough to cause even the battle-hardened warriors to come to a startled halt, turn to stare westward.

Raven had never heard a sound like this before and he never wanted to hear it again. It was the sound of howls rising from a thousand throats, howls that were high-pitched and jarring and unearthly. The howls came from the throats of the taan and they were raised in battle-cries as the western gate fell to treachery and the taan launched their attack.

Raven blessed this assault, for at the very first cries, the guards
who had remained at their posts took to their heels, some heading for the source of the howls, others running away as fast as their feet could carry them. The Trevenici could make all the noise they wanted to now and no one would pay heed to them. Once over the wall, they could take advantage of the chaos around the gate to slip off into the night.

The Trevenici raced for the wall, no longer needing to hide. They clambered up the stairs and onto the battlements. The first warriors on the wall were already tying ropes around the crenellations. Raven tested the knots to make certain that they would hold, then looked out across the moonlit plains to see if he could see any signs of the enemy. He saw movement, but could make nothing of it, for it was too far away. If it was a group of enemy soldiers, the group was small.

The Trevenici descended rapidly, lowering themselves down the rope hand over hand, using their feet to help propel them. The first down drew their weapons, faced outward, ready to protect the rest. Raven was the last man on the wall, having remained up above in case any of the guards decided to return. He could not see what was happening at the gate, the roofs of buildings blocked his view. He had excellent hearing, however, and he guessed from the screams and cries blending with animal-like howls that battle had been joined.

When the last man was down, Raven followed. The Trevenici set fire to the rope, once they'd reach the bottom, not wanting to leave any means for the enemy to ascend. Gathering his group together, Raven led them out across the plains, heading east, away from the fighting. They would eventually turn north, to reach Trevenici lands.

He took the lead, breaking into a long, loping run that he could keep up for hours, if need be. He looked out across the plains, saw only the grass waving in the moonlight. He could no longer see the signs of movement that he'd seen earlier from the wall and figured that any enemy that was out here would go toward the sound of fighting, not away from it. Raven heard some muttered comments behind him, warriors disappointed that they were missing what appeared to be a good battle. None had any thought of going to join it, however. Their thoughts were on their tribes, on home.

Raven's spirits soared as they always did when he was free of the confinement of the city walls, back to where he could feel the wind on his cheek and smell sage and wild garlic. Drawing in a deep breath, he noted another smell on the wind this night, a putrid smell, as of decaying flesh. The scent came and went, for the wind was blowing at his back, coming from the south. He took another step and felt a hand seize hold of his ankle. The hand yanked him off his feet.

Raven pitched face forward into the tall grass. The fall was so completely unexpected that he landed heavily on his stomach. The fall knocked the breath from his body and left him half-dazed. Raven heard sounds all around him, the cries of his people and the strange howls he'd heard earlier, only now right on top of them. Raven realized that he'd led his people straight into an ambush.

A guttural snarling came from directly behind him, and a scrabbling noise. As Raven scrambled to his feet, hands grabbed him from behind, sought his throat.

The taan's hands were powerful, his fingers strong. Seeing the purple and yellow stars that meant death burst in his eyes, Raven used what the Trevenici call the gods' own fear to find strength. Grabbing hold of his assailant's hands, he bent forward and flipped the creature over his head.

The move broke the taan's hold on him. Now the taan was the one lying on the ground, blinking up at the stars.

Gasping for breath, Raven fumbled for his sword. The taan regained his feet with speed and alacrity and Raven got his first good glimpse of the thing that had attacked him. The face was the face of a beast with a snout for a nose and rows of sharp teeth and the gleam of intelligence in its baleful eyes.

Raven drew his sword, fell back on the defensive, for he was still trying to catch his breath. A quick and agonized glance around him showed him the Trevenici were surrounded by hundreds of the taan. He could not look longer, for he dared not take his eyes off his attacker. The taan held his sword, but did not immediately attack. Instead, the creature pointed at Raven and, shouted something in his uncouth language.

Raven heard feet crashing through the grass behind him. He halfturned, ready to face this new enemy when he saw, out of the corner of his eye, his opponent hurl something at him. A net made of thick, heavy rope dropped over Raven's head and body, knocked the sword from his grasp. He fought to free himself, but the taan pulled the net tight around him, so tight that he could no longer move his arms. Raven continued to struggle ineffectually until the taan pulled his feet out from under him.

Taking hold of the end of the net, the taan dragged Raven through the grass like a cow going to slaughter.

Raven fought to free himself, but his struggles availed him nothing, except to annoy his captor. The taan halted, kicked Raven in the head.

The blow stunned Raven. The last thing he felt, before he lost consciousness, was the ground moving beneath him.