Mythborn: Rise of the Adepts (18 page)

The armsmark watched the king’s corded forearms bulge as he strung the powerful runebow with ease, and checked the weapon for signs of wear. Because of the king’s royal heritage, it was sometimes easy to forget he was also a seasoned warrior, a “soldier of the line,” so to speak. Ash had a healthy respect for his prowess in battle, knowing that what Bernal had lost with age he made up for in experience. In a low voice he said, “Thank you.”

Before the king could comment Ash continued, raising his voice and saluting fist to chest, “Captain Durbin and his men will be honored to have another marksman of your caliber amongst them, my lord.”

Bernal gave a small deprecatory laugh at that, hefting the bow and drawing an imaginary arrow as he sighted down his arm, careful not to touch the string without an arrow in place. As he raised his head, a familiar figure ran across the inner courtyard, carrying an armful of arrows. Smiling at the sight, the king addressed the armsmark behind him, “How does Niall like his new duties?”

Ash followed the king’s gaze to the courtyard. The prince shuttled between the lower courtyard and the upper archers’ loops, unloading neat bundles into quivers at each station. “He is taking the news better than most would. There is much to be said for his maturity.”

When the king turned and raised an eyebrow in disbelief, Ash quickly added, “At least, he’s working hard and not being petulant.”

The king shook his head ruefully. “He is still young and stubborn, just like his mother. And be assured, he will try to get on the wall, whether he has my approval or not.”

Whatever Ash’s reply was, a warning shout from one of the lookouts cut it short. Racing to the front wall both Bernal and Ash heard the fast chanting coming from the nomads’ front line. It droned across the desert like a buzzing of insects.

The sky was already a boiling mass of gray and purple clouds. Diffused flashes of lightning from deep within the thunderheads illuminated the fortress for a moment, before plunging them into the strange twilight created by this unnatural storm.

A howling rose and for an instant Bernal thought the nomads had commenced their attack. Then he realized it was merely the voice of the wind as it sped through the parapets and across the stone. Behind him the flag of Bara’cor, a golden lion rampant on a black field framed by lightning bolts, rippled and cracked in the stiff breeze.

“My king, we need to get to our stations, the attack will come soon.” Ash laid a hand on Bernal’s arm, trying to urge him toward one of the two archer towers. He felt himself easily shrugged off as the king pointed at the nomads’ front line.

Ash looked and gasped at what he saw. The front line parted as thousands of nomads went to their knees, heads bowed to the sand. It was not this sight that elicited Ash’s response, but rather the man who walked out to face the fortress.

Even at this distance, Ash could tell he easily dwarfed even the firstmark in size. He estimated the man to be almost eight feet tall, with legs as thick as his own body. The figure raised its robe-covered arms, displaying open palms. Then slowly, he began to pace forward toward the fortress walls. Behind him the nomads stayed bowed, their heads glued to the sand.

“I think we are finally to meet the leader of the nomads, Armsmark. Tell the archers to hold their fire.”

As Ash complied, Bernal waited for the leader of the nomads to come within hailing distance. He then climbed upon the wide battlements, so the figure could have a clear view of him. Around him the fortress grew silent, the only noise coming from the whistling of the wind through the ramparts.

“That will be far enough,” Bernal warned. He had a sergeant’s voice, the kind that carried through the din of battle. Ash knew the chieftain could hear him.

The figure stopped, then began to undo his mask. As the cloth fell away, he placed his fists on his hips and addressed the king of Bara’cor. His voice was deep and guttural, as if he found it difficult to bend his tongue around trade speech, but judging from his words, he was nonetheless educated. “You are the leader of these men?”

“I am.”

“Then you condemn your men to death. If you have any love for them, surrender.”

Bernal smiled. “Surrender is no way to show love to
my
men.”

The massive figure shrugged. “It is only a matter of time. You will fall and condemn your men to death.”

The wind picked up for a moment, making it impossible to answer the man. Bernal waited, his cloak flapping behind him while a distant thunderclap sounded. As the wind died down he yelled, “Your name?”

The figure paused as if considering Bernal’s question, then answered, “I am Hemendra, U’Zar of the Children of the Sun, and Clanchief of Sovereign’s Fall.”

“Then, Hemendra, hear this. I am King Bernal Galadine, and by might and right I hold these walls. Get used to the heat, dog. Lap the water your master gives you.” The king undid his water skin and opened it, but did not drink. Instead, he upended it so the water fell down the front wall, soaking into the stone and sand below. “We have plenty.” Behind him echoed the cheers of his men, emboldened by his resolute courage and divine right as king.

* * * * *

The silence deepened as Bernal’s voice echoed from Bara’cor’s walls. Hemendra held himself still, one part of him surprised by the lord of Bara’cor’s bravery, the other barely able to restrain his anger at the insult. However, years of living had taught Hemendra that anger led only to ruin.

He gestured to his line with one of his muscular arms. Three groups of nomads detached themselves from the main body, each group holding upright a long spear. As they neared the fortress, the men’s cheers turned to cries of horror, for each spear held an impaled figure.

At another gesture from Hemendra, the nomads drove the spear ends into receptacles designed especially for this purpose, planting the poles with their gruesome burdens so they faced the fortress’s walls.

The u’zar knew Bernal recognized Ben’thor Tir and the other kings of the fortresses ringing the Altan Wastes.

Hemendra raised his voice again. “You say I speak empty words. These others thought the same. Food for the
vulkraith—”

“Jackal!” cried one of Bernal’s captains as he leapt onto the battlements, bow in hand. Before anyone could stop him, he had nocked and released an arrow in the smooth motion of a master archer. It sped true to its mark, toward the clanchief’s heart.

The nomads around Hemendra scattered, but the u’zar held his ground, not moving an inch. He heard the hiss of feathered death as the arrow neared. Then, with a quickness that belied his bulk, he caught the arrow in mid-flight, a hand span from his chest.

Looking up at the defenders of Bara’cor with contempt, he crushed the arrow in one meaty fist, hurling its broken pieces to the desert floor. “We shall speak again, when you have had time to consider your words.” With that he spun, stalking back to the nomad line and through the parting, which closed behind him.

* * * * *

The king’s aide-de-camp, Sergeant Alyx Stemmer, had pulled Durbin off the wall before a second arrow followed the first, holding him pinned against the rear lip. Under the dark gray clouds, she watched the king still standing on the battlement, looking at the impaled figures below. The sergeant quickly motioned to some men to escort Durbin back to his post, and then moved to stand next to the armsmark.

The wind had picked up again, angry rumblings echoed across a leaden sky. Ash and Alyx waited for their king to climb down off the outer lip. When he did so, Ash saw tears in his eyes and politely dropped his gaze.

The king looked at the stones of the battlements for a moment, composing himself, then addressed Ash. “Armsmark, I will need to inform Princess Tir of the death of her father and the fate of EvenSea,” he said in a voice tight with grief, “but that will wait till this attack is over. Prepare the catapults. I will await your signal with the other archers.”

Ash saluted once, then sprinted for the center wall. The trumpeter sounded the battle ready signal. Ash waited a few moments for his men to get to their positions, then gave the signal for the catapults to be loaded.

The chanting had increased, driving the front nomad line into a frenzy. Like penned animals awaiting release, Ash thought. The clanks and groans of the large winches as they bent the arms of the three catapults back, caught his attention. Engineers scrambled forward to secure them, as others filled the great iron cups with large stones, the size of a man’s head.

Raising his right arm, the armsmark looked out over the horde, smiling to himself. It was then that the horde surged forward like a wave during a desert storm, sweeping across the windswept sand with hoots and yells. Some paused to kneel and shoot arrows at those ranged along the wall.

Ash paid no attention to the buzzing shafts, keeping a careful eye on distance, his arm still raised. As the nomads crossed a mental line, Ash dropped his arm, taking cover.

With a crack, the great arms released, swishing upward in an arc and hurling their contents at the attackers. Between twenty and thirty good sized rocks fit into each cup, big enough to crush skulls and break bones. The result was a barrage of missile fire that to the nomads, must have felt like the very heavens opened and rained rocks upon their heads. Ash heard the cries of the dying men below, and stood waving a short red flag.

The captains in the command tower responded. With another quick signal, two hundred archers, bows bent to their limits, loosed arrows. Steel-tipped shafts hummed through the air, cutting into the front ranks of nomads still alive after the first wave of missile stones. While the bowmen nocked and released with deadly accuracy, the engineers started cranking the great arms back again.

Ash watched their practiced efficiency with satisfaction, but knew this was only the first phase. The wind had already doubled in force. Soon the archers would be useless.

Regrouped, the nomads raised large flat shields over their heads and rushed toward Bara’cor’s forward gates. Groups of them carried siege hammers and picks. Under the cover of the wind and blinding sand, the nomads started smashing at the gate, hoping to break through. If they could see the size of the interlocking granite stones that made up Bara’cor’s gate, thought Ash wryly, they would not be so foolhardy. And it was only the first of three barriers leading to the fortress interior.

Ash raised two fingers of one hand, then made a quick slashing motion across his other wrist. The signal passed down to the wall crews, who in turn made their way to the large cauldrons based near the edge of the wall. These cauldrons, filled with a mixture of boiling pitch and oil, stood ready for use.

Once in position, they looked to Ash, who squinted down at the nomads through wind-blown sand and grit. With a downward slash of his hand, the contents of the cauldrons poured down the wall, splashing the nomads below. The screams of burned and dying men were almost drowned out by the now howling wind.

The archers of First and Third Company renewed their assault, sending feathered death among the barbarians. Many found, however, their arrows were caught by the wind, flying wide of their mark. The storm had hit in full force.

Ash pursed his lips, hardly able to make out Bernal in the windstorm. Leaning close to Captain Durbin he yelled, “I fear sappers on the far right, where our vision is least.” At this, the captain nodded and then sped off to investigate.

The nomads had pulled their wounded back, taking cover behind large, flat shields. Then they rushed forward again, converging at a point on the main wall: the castle gates. Ash could see they had hammers and picks and smiled to himself at the futility of such a gesture. No one carried a satchel, or anything else that looked like an explosive. Bara’cor’s granite walls stood impervious to breach by hand tools, but explosives were another matter entirely.

Ash raised two fingers and the cauldrons refilled, but this time with rocks and stones. It took time to bring oil or water to a boil, time they no longer had. With another signal, these heavy rocks were dumped onto the nomads clustered around the main gate. The lucky ones died never knowing what hit them.

Realizing they could not stand at the base of Bara’cor’s walls unprotected much longer, the assault leaders ordered their men to pull back. They had accomplished what their clanfists had ordered, taking the fortress’s eyes off the main horde.

Ash watched the retreat in confusion. Though the defenders had inflicted casualties, the barbarians had more than enough to continue their assault. He had expected them to erect a shielded battering ram, then have at the gate in earnest. Then the wind died for a bit and through a gap in the sandstorm, Ash caught a glimpse of something that made his stomach clench with fear.

Six large shapes stood well within arrow range as if they had been magically conjured. Trebuchets! He suddenly realized with dread that the force at the gate had only been a diversion.

“Take cover!” he screamed, just as the first of the attackers’ weapons fired, flinging a large boulder easily the weight of a man. Arching high, it came screaming down with a sound like the crack of thunder.

Men stumbled and fell as the wall shook under the impact. Five more boulders came crashing in as the nomads’ remaining trebuchets released and the air filled with a mixture of sand, pulverized stone, and dust. Ash took cover from stone shrapnel whizzing by, his mind already formulating a defense. Sprinting to the second tower, the armsmark met Captain Durbin.

“Fire at will! I want those crews dead!” Ash screamed into the rising wind.

“We cannot, Armsmark. The storm!” Durbin gestured around him and Ash realized their predicament. Unlike stones, arrows did not have the weight to combat the heavy wind. The nomads had known this would happen, giving them relative safety to fire their engines at Bara’cor’s walls.

Ash nodded to the captain, his mind already looking for alternatives. He noticed two of his catapults were already drawn and secured, filled with missile stones. Ash watched as the engineers took time to aim them at the nomad line. Running over to the crews, he directed them to fire instead on the enemy’s trebuchets.