Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands (62 page)

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Authors: David B. Coe

BOOK: Rules of Ascension: Book One of Winds of the Forelands
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Javan nodded. “Lead the way, friend. Whatever you may think of me, I am of Eibithar before Curgh. And I’ll die defending your castle if I have to, as will the men you hold in the chambers below us.”
The man actually smiled. “Yes, my lord.”
The two guards led them down the stairs and in a few moments had freed all of Curgh’s men. They made their way to the arms chamber, where they found the weapons brought to Kentigern by Javan’s army. Javan’s sword wasn’t there, nor were Xaver’s or Fotir’s. Most likely Aindreas had taken them to his quarters. But that was of little importance just then. There were enough blades, shields, and mail coats for all of them, and after arming themselves, they stepped out of the tower into the inner ward. Soldiers of Kentigern were hurrying through the north gate from the outer ward and walls, pursued by the Aneirans who fought to break through to the interior of the castle.
“Find me your night captain,” Javan told the guard, surveying the scene before him. He turned to Fotir. “Take the men and help defend that gate. If we can’t keep them out now, we have no chance.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Master MarCullet,” the duke said, facing him. “You stay with me. I’ll need someone to run messages to Fotir and the captain, and I’ll need your sword, if the walls don’t hold.”
He nodded and swallowed. “Of course, my lord.”
The guard returned a few moments later with an older man who had to be the night captain. His head was clean-shaven, like that of a prelate in a court cloister, but the similarities ended there. He was tall and barrel-chested, and he wore a thick mustache and beard. He bled from a gash on his brow and there were raw burns on both his arms, but otherwise he appeared unhurt.
“My lord,” he said, stopping in front of Javan, a scowl on his crooked features. “I see these men freed you. That wouldn’t have been my choice.”
“I don’t imagine, Captain. But it was the right thing to do. I’ve added more than forty men to your army, and I’ve given you a Qirsi who has mists and winds as well as shaping power. You’d be a fool to keep us in that tower.”
The captain conceded the point with a single nod. “I take it you intend to take command of our defense of the castle.”
“I was hoping we could share that responsibility. I’d guess that I have more experience commanding armies. But I lack your knowledge of Kentigern or her men.”
“Very well,” the captain said after a brief pause. “We started the night with about six hundred, including those at the river, in the castle, and in the city.”
Javan raised an eyebrow. “That’s all?”
“The duke was intent on defeating your army,” the man said with a shrug. “Fewer than half were here when the Aneirans crossed the river, though our men by the river made it back to the castle in time to meet the siege. Still, I’ve only four hundred men here in the castle and while I’d like more, I’m reluctant to weaken the city’s defenses just now.”
“I agree. How many sorcerers do you have?”
“Six. Two shapers and three with mists and winds. The other is a gleaner and all but one of them are also healers.”
“What happened to the outer gates?”
The captain shook his head, his mouth twitching. “I don’t know. They just failed. I can’t explain it.”
“My first minister suggested that they were weakened by magic.”
“There were no Qirsi near the gates during the assault,” the man said, his voice rising. “I wouldn’t have allowed that.”
“Then I’d say you have a traitor in your castle. Unless you want
me to believe that the fame of Kentigern is based more on myth than truth.”
The captain’s face reddened. “What would you have me do now, my lord?”
Javan looked at the man a moment longer, the hint of a grin on his lips. “Secure that north gate,” he said. “And then get your bowmen on the inner walls. Mertesse has the upper hand right now, but as long as we can keep him from breaching the inner keep, we should be all right. That is, unless the inner gates have been weakened as well.”
“The bowmen are climbing the towers already, and the battle at the gate was going our way.”
“Good. Go back to your men.” Javan laid a hand on Xaver’s shoulder. “This is Xaver MarCullet. He’ll carry messages between us. Use my men however you see fit. Tell my first minister that he’s to follow your orders as if they come from me.”
“Yes, my lord.” He started to turn away. Then, seemingly as an afterthought, he offered a small bow.
“Oh, Captain, I forgot to ask. Is the duke’s family safe?”
The man hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if he wasn’t certain he could trust the duke with an answer.
“Yes,” he said at last. “As soon as I heard the Aneirans had crossed the river, I had the duchess and her children taken to the sanctuary.”
“That was wise,” Javan said.
The man nodded and walked away.
“The guards were right,” the duke murmured, watching him go. “He is a good soldier.” He glanced at Xaver. “Come along, Master MarCullet. We should be on the walls.”
Since Brienne’s death, Javan had appeared to age before Xaver’s eyes, his facing growing gaunt and pinched, his back more stooped by the day. But as the duke hurried up the winding stairs of the nearest tower, a sword in his hand, Xaver following close behind, the years seemed to fall away from him once more. The boy couldn’t help thinking that Javan was enjoying this.
For his part, Xaver had never been more afraid. He had no desire to walk the walls with the duke, in plain sight of the Aneiran archers massing in the outer ward. Yes, he was good with a blade. His father had taught him a great deal. But he had never fought for
blood, and he certainly had never killed, or defended himself against a foe who truly wished him dead.
“You’re very quiet, Master MarCullet.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You’re scared.”
“I’m sorry, my lord.”
“It’s all right. Only a fool knows no fear. The measure of a warrior is how he overcomes his fear. Always remember that.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Besides, I intend to keep you so busy that you won’t have time to be afraid.”
They stepped out of the stairwell and onto the castle wall, and Javan spat a curse. Already men in black and gold had reached the top of the wall and were battling Kentigern’s soldiers. More were climbing onto the ramparts by the moment. Scanning the rest of the inner wall, Xaver could see that Mertesse’s men were everywhere. The defenders tried to use forked sticks and even their pikes to push the hooked ladders away from the wall. But for every ladder they defeated, two more took its place. Archers loosed their arrows at the climbers, but they were too numerous to be driven back. It wouldn’t be long before the Aneirans controlled the wall.
Javan started forward, his sword held ready. Xaver did the same, though his legs felt so uncertain that he barely trusted them to keep him standing.
“No, Master MarCullet,” the duke said, casting a quick look over his shoulder as one of Mertesse’s men advanced on him. “I need your legs more than I need your blade. Go to the captain. Tell him we need Fotir and the other shapers up here immediately. If we can’t break those ladders, we’re lost.”
“But, my lord—”
“Go, boy! Now, before it’s too late!”
Reluctantly, Xaver turned away from the duke and hurried back down the stairs, faltering only for a moment when he heard the ring of clashing swords just behind him. He was back in the ward within just a few moments, and, sprinting across the trampled grasses to the north gate, he soon found the captain.
“Yes, boy, what is it?” he said, his gaze flicking in Xaver’s direction for but a moment before returning to the fighting just in front of them. “Tell the Qirsi to use their fire!” he hollered, before Xaver could answer. “We have to drive them back and get those
portcullises down!” He looked at Xaver again. “Speak, boy! I haven’t time for shy children.”
“There are Aneirans on the wall, sir. They’ve got ladders and the men can’t hold them off for much longer. The duke wants his first minister and the other shapers up there to break the ladders. He thinks it’s the only way to stop them.”
“Demons and fire,” he man muttered. “I can give you one and the minister. My other shaper also has fire. I need her here.”
Xaver was speaking for the duke, but he was doing so in Kentigern. He couldn’t argue with the man.
“Very good, sir.”
“Tell your duke the Qirsi will be there shortly. I’ll see to it myself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Xaver ran back to the tower and started up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. The mail slowed him some and made it seem a far warmer night than it really was, but he still had his wind. His father would have been pleased, the boy thought, a smile briefly touching his lips. Running the towers of Curgh had prepared him well for this night.
Stepping out onto the wall’s walkway, Xaver felt his heart turn cold. There were even more men in black and gold than there had been a short time before. Kentigern’s men still fought, but they were outnumbered and falling back. Javan was still near the opening to the stairs, fighting off two Aneirans. Xaver’s father had spoken to him often of the duke’s brilliance with a blade, but until this night, Xaver had never seen his duke fight. The Aneirans he battled were far larger and brawnier than Javan. Indeed, the duke looked like a frail old man beside them. But it seemed to Xaver in that moment that the duke had been born to fight. He used his shield as if it were part of his arm, blocking every slash and thrust of the soldiers’ swords with apparent ease. All the while, the duke’s own steel whirled and flashed as if it were alive, flicking out like a serpent’s tongue to strike at the soldiers. Both of the larger men were bleeding from small cuts on their faces, arms, and shoulders. None of the wounds was enough to drop them, but together they had to take a toll.
Sweat ran down Javan’s face like early rains off the steppe, and his teeth were bared in a fierce grin. One man already lay dead behind the two Aneirans, his blood on the duke’s sword. Javan had to be tiring, but he showed no sign of weariness. Instead it was the
soldiers who appeared to be laboring, every blow they aimed at the duke seeming more desperate than the last. Even faced with two men, both of them younger and stronger, the duke was controlling this battle.
Which was why Xaver was still standing by the top of the stairs merely watching when the Aneiran swung himself onto the wall from an unseen ladder, landing just beside him. He was just about as tall as Xaver, but far broader in the chest and shoulders. He had a youthful, clean-shaven face, and Xaver had time to note that he couldn’t have been a year or two past his Fating.
For just an instant, the two of them stared at each other, the Aneiran seeming as surprised to find the boy standing there as Xaver had been by the man’s appearance. Then the soldier hacked at him with his blade and Xaver abruptly found himself battling for his life, his sword absorbing blow after arm-numbing blow. He heard someone grunt and fall to the walkway nearby, but he couldn’t even look away to see if it was Javan or one of the men the duke had been fighting.
He did see a second Aneiran climbing onto the wall from the same ladder his own foe had used, but he could do nothing about it. The soldier had driven him back against the rampart and was still hewing at him with his blade. Thus far Xaver had managed to block every blow, but the muscles in his shoulder were screaming, and his blade was notched.
The man raised his shield with his other hand and swung it at Xaver’s head. The boy blocked it with his own shield, his knees buckling under the weight of the blow. But even as he struggled to recover in time to block the man’s sword yet again, Xaver heard a voice in his head. His father’s voice.
The first thing an inexperienced warrior forgets in the heat of battle, is that he has two hands. Every time you defend with your sword, you miss a chance to strike at your opponent.
Of course.
When the Aneiran brought down his blade again, Xaver raised his shield to meet the blow. At the same time, he swung his own sword at the man’s side. The soldier lowered his shield in time, but already Xaver was starting his next attack, this one at the Aneiran’s shoulder. Again, his foe managed to block it. But the man stepped back, as if realizing for the first time that he was truly in a fight. Xaver gave him no time to rest, leaping forward with his sword
raised once more. He was still tired. His blade arm ached. But his fear had vanished. In his mind he was in the city ward of Curgh Castle with his father shouting instructions to him.
Don’t get careless! You should always be most careful when you’re certain the advantage is yours. A man who feels he’s losing is liable to try anything.
The man parried Xaver’s blow, then raised his blade as if to strike at the boy’s head. Xaver raised his shield, only to find that the soldier had dropped to one knee and was slashing at his legs. It was all he could do to wrench himself out of the way, tumbling hard onto his back so that all the air was forced from his lungs. Still on his knee, the soldier sought to finish him with a chopping blow. Again Xaver raised his shield in time, slashing at the man’s arm with his blade at the same time.

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