Book 3: Shattered Fears

Book Three of Light in the Dark

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CHAPTER 1

Thirtieth of Chill, 1475 K.C.

Lord Commander Noel Trileigh’s return was happy news for Urgraith Mireynh. But instead of first reporting to the High General’s tent, Trileigh paid wounded Callan Farlin a lengthy visit. Finally, when Mireynh was about to storm out his tent and disrupt the meeting, the Lord Commander entered.

“Good day, sir,” Trileigh said, saluting. When his hand left the chest, the nobleman briefly grasped a pouch tied to his belt, as if finding reassurance in its presence.

“Why this visiting the sick business before coming to me?” Mireynh growled. “I’m about to begin bombarding the city, and any news that can help us is bloody welcome! Why did you dawdle, wasting your time with the cripple Farlin?” He didn’t care if the scholarly noble or the Black Guards detected his anxiety. Damn them all, he thought. The assault had to happen now, or they would be forced to retreat to Harail, an act akin to failure in the High Advisor’s eyes. And failure meant death to his family.

“I apologize, sir, for the delay. It was necessary.” Trileigh looked calmer and less out of place than he had a few weeks earlier. Initially the noble had been nothing more than a fop, his pretentious affectations, the order to lay siege to impenetrable Dragoncrest, all of that had certainly left its mark on Mireynh and the others, not to mention the ridicule of the veterans.

“Necessary?” he asked, letting irritation seep into his voice. “Unless what you have to tell me is really a new divine manifest, I shall judge what is and is not important.”

The time in Harail’s Library had really changed the man. Trileigh closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then said, “Sir, with all due respect, it was you who sent me to find out how to battle wizardry. And judging from what occurred here a few days ago, we truly are dealing with magic.” The Lord Commander’s voice remained even, although he thought he detected the slightest hint of resentment.

“Well then, speak on,” he said.

Trileigh remained silent, standing erect. What was the fool’s problem now? Mireynh stared daggers at the noble. “Spill it, man; I have no patience for games!”

The noble’s gaze met his, and for the first time he detected some fire inside. “You will address me by my name and title, High General, or at the very least my rank, sir.”

“Are you mad?” he sputtered.

“Quite the opposite, sir. I am of House Trileigh, a cousin to King Drammoch, and part of the Royal Family. You, not taking into account your experience, are nothing more than a freeborn upstart. Despite this, I have given you the respect you deserve as leader of my cousin’s troops. You, however, have not returned the favor. I am neither daft, nor some jester sent here for your amusement.” There was nothing Mireynh would have liked better than to beat the man’s superiority from his face. He held back, sensing, for the first time that maybe, despite Trileigh’s lack of experience in anything battle-related, there was more to the man.

“I admit, High General, that your knowledge of warfare and combat are superior to mine, and I value your advice,” the Lord Commander continued. “But your blatant disregard of my status and my expertise ends here, now.”

For a moment Mireynh remained silent, stunned by the noble’s vehemence. Had he treated Chanastardh’s aristocracy like idiots? Sure he had. With a few notable exceptions they were a bunch of bickering sycophants unworthy of their titles. Still, when Drammoch had made Noel Trileigh Lord Commander and thus second only to himself, he had thought it a joke. Now, considering the steel in the man’s voice, he wondered if he had underestimated the nobleman. House Trileigh was closely allied with the Royal House, but he had been disturbingly unaware of the nature of the relationship.

Finally, realizing he was staring, Mireynh averted his eyes and said, “I admit my mistake in underestimating you, milord.” Summoning all his resolve, he added, “Still, I am your superior, and will not be intimidated by your standing at court. No matter how much you think it wise to proceed otherwise, you will inform me of your intentions, provided, of course, the situation allows it. Next time you decide to take a detour, keep me informed. Do we have an understanding, milord?”

Trileigh snapped a hand to his chest, saluting. “Yes, sir!” he replied.

Mireynh thanked the gods for being able to rein in his temper, and then returned to his chair and sat. “Have a seat, Lord Commander.” He gestured to one of the other chairs that surrounded the table. For an instant he was tempted to offer the nobleman a drink, but then thought better of it. They were not on such friendly terms just yet. When Trileigh was seated, he asked, “All right then, what can you tell me? How can we defeat a wizard?”

“So now you believe me?” Trileigh asked, a slight smile playing about his lips.

“Can’t be another explanation to what happened with our timber,” he replied, fighting to keep his resentment down. Now that they had established a new set of rules, he already felt as if Noel Trileigh, like the Chanastardhian noble he was, would use the situation to his advantage.

The Lord Commander surprised him by spreading his hands and bowing his head. “I take no comfort in knowing I was right, sir.”

Had he not known how treacherous nobles could be, he would have believed the apology. “Well then, what have you found out? How can we beat a wizard?”

“One moment,” Trileigh said before he began to rummage in the pouch Mireynh had noticed earlier. The nobleman retrieved a sheaf of papers that were wound together. He untied the string and the mass of documents unfurled, revealing tightly scribbled notes in what had to be the Lord Commander’s handwriting.

“Well?” Mireynh asked when the man had leafed through the pages a few times.

“You have to understand, sir, that there are some things one cannot easily solve within a Library as young as that in Harail,” Trileigh said, looking at the first page.

“I thought they record all history.”

“That is true. However, a Librarian starts penning history as it unfolds from the moment the last acolyte has entered the building, so to speak.”

He arched an eyebrow, staring at the noble. “Are you saying that what we need is not in Harail since the city was founded after the Heir-War?”

“In a way, yes.” Trileigh’s eyes darted to a cluster of bottles that were accompanied by several mugs on another, smaller table. “Do you mind?”

A noncommittal shrug was Mireynh’s reply, as he pondered what this revelation could mean for a defense against magic. The visit to Harail’s Library could not have been a complete failure since the notes from the Lord Commander’s pouch were certainly more than a quick reminder that nothing much had been found. Also, Trileigh had lingered in Harail for quite a while, which made him suspect the noble had indeed unearthed something.

Equipped with a filled mug, the King’s cousin returned to his seat. He took a sip, and then set the container aside, retrieving the papers once more. “I found no direct references to how Halmond, your esteemed predecessor, managed to defeat Wizards. Those records can most likely be found either here in Dunthiochagh, or back home in Herascor.”

“Here?” Mireynh echoed, regretting his lack of knowledge regarding the area.

“Certainly, sir,” Trileigh said. “Dunthiochagh once was the capital of Dargh, a kingdom of minor influence, but still a kingdom; as such, it had its own Library. Everything east of the Elven Road up to where the Flannardh flows was the kingdom of Janagast, while everything west of it was Dargh. Well, not everything, the nations beyond retained their borders.”

He grew impatient, already considering Trileigh a fool once more. History lessons were not what he needed. “I need tactics on how to beat Duasonh’s wizard,” Mireynh snapped.

Just as the Lord Commander was about to respond, the tent’s flap was lifted aside and Killoy’s head poked inside. “The two ’throwers are ready now, sir.”

“Start sending the packages,” he replied.

“Yes, sir!” Killoy grinned, saluted and left. A few moments later, Mireynh heard the distinct creaking of slingthrowers being made ready to shoot. Duasonh would not be all that pleased with half-frozen body parts showering down on the southern end of his city.

To Trileigh he said, “Thank you for the arms, milord. Please continue.”

Shaking his head, probably to rid himself of the gruesome image, the Lord Commander said, “Certainly, sir. As I was saying, there were no true historical records of the Heir-War in the Library’s inner chambers. Those still rest in Dunthiochagh. In the archives open to the public, however, I hit gold, so to speak.” The noble visibly became excited. “Several fighters, and no fewer than three Chosen, veterans of the Heir-War all, did pen their own memories of what had happened. Some of the texts are heavily edited, and I was unable to force my way to the originals. The Chief Librarian explained that the source-texts were never entrusted to the Library. It wasn’t as if the actual battles had been omitted, rather that some passages had been blacked before the papers actually reached Harail.”

“Yes, yes, enough chitchat,” Mireynh said impatiently, waving his hands in circles to urge the nobleman on. “Get to the good stuff, will you?”

“As you wish, sir,” Trileigh said, seeming slightly crestfallen, but right now there was no time for hurt egos. He had an escalade to win.

The slingthrowers had stopped lobbing sacks filled with body parts into Dunthiochagh by mid-afternoon, and were now pounding the city with stones. At the range the big engines were dug in, it was impossible to accurately aim for the walls, not that they needed a breach for the escalade. The return shots from the enemy artillery were as poorly aimed as theirs, and only a few actually caused damage.

Thankful for the trenches in which many of his warriors huddled, the only thing that bothered Urgraith Mireynh was his insane order to build siege castles when they had first come here. In hindsight it was always easy to analyze one’s mistakes; that sort of armchair tactician thinking might have been good for drunken veterans reliving their glory days; it didn’t help improve their odds now.

Someone on the defenders’ side was paying attention. A barrage of stones fired from the city’s eastern wall plowed into the troops assembling near the proposed siege castle construction site. Why had he relied so much on the promise of the High Advisor that traitors would open the gates for an easy invasion? Yes, it had worked with Harail, had promised easy victory with Dunthiochagh. It had also caused him to not prepare for a direct assault. Two slingthrowers were hardly enough to suppress the defender’s activities, and the Danastaerians grew more daring.

The effective range of a siege engine was some four hundred yards; any precise aiming beyond that distance was impossible. But the artillerists on the city walls were adjusting. They had the high ground and were less prone to run out of ammunition. With every shot, the impact came closer to his positions. They sure couldn’t aim properly, but were able to adjust their angles.

A succession of boulders hit the ground near the pits, skipped over the dug-up earthwork and continued to tumble on through the row of carts assembled beyond. Wood splintered, oxen howled in pain. Mireynh even heard some of the drovers scream. He glanced in the direction of the noise.

The boulders had cut a swath of bloodied, splintered wood through the depot that had stored his ammunition. Why the Scales had it been this important to attack at the onset of winter? He closed his eyes and turned away from the carnage.

Again, missiles from Dunthiochagh bounced across the field, this time tearing down a few of the horses tethered off to the side, beyond the pits. If this went on, the Danastaerians would beat his army by mere chance. “Drummers.” Mireynh turned to the lads standing to his left. Their faces were ashen. “Signal the advance.” Best to face the enemy head on, otherwise those bastards would, by luck, eventually manage to beat the army’s confidence.

Now, as the drums rang across the field, Duasonh and his band of bastards would have to quickly adjust their artillery if they wanted to slow them down. Mireynh allowed a grim smile to cross his lips when he saw clusters of soldiers rise in the trenches. Some heaved up planks that lay hidden in the holes, creating makeshift bridges across the ditches. From behind the tor, on either side, veritable streams of wooden barricades were pushed to the front. As each of the contraptions reached the timber crossings, double lines of thirty warriors stood and joined the men already pushing the shelters. Their pace increased.

Every second fighter pushed a handle that was attached on one side to a long pole fastened to a thick, uninterrupted, wooden roof, and on the other to a wheel taken from the disassembled wagons. Crossbars running from pole to pole gave the construction a minimum of stability, but it was enough. A third of the warriors carried between them ladders long enough to reach the merlons on top of the wall. Nailed to each side were shields to protect against missiles. Behind this vanguard came smaller bands of thirty each, again with a roof shared between them. If he hadn’t miscounted some of the artillery, they were facing a half-dozen ’throwers, far too few to stop all the advancing columns.

And should Duasonh’s pet wizard join the fray, the woman—Farlin had confirmed seeing a woman above the timber before it exploded—was in for a surprise; those pushing the wheels were equipped with bows. If the woman showed herself, she would be greeted with arrows. History had its uses, and if Trileigh’s research was correct, a wizard could not concentrate on too many things at once. The assault was unusual, but so was the situation. He felt confident that southern Dunthiochagh would fall at dusk.

One of the wooden roofs splintered as a boulder struck, spilling mangled corpses left and right. A lucky hit, for his army was too quick a target for the enemy to effectively strike from afar.

“Distance?” he asked Trileigh who stood to his right.

The scholarly Lord Commander looked at the leading column and then at a chart in his hand. A moment later, he said, “Hundred and fifty yards left, sir.”

The Danastaerians knew the distance as well, because as the slowing companies crossed that invisible line, arrows flew from Dunthiochagh. The missiles swarmed at a high angle across the sky, lodging themselves in roofs and shields. Some even slipped through the defenses. Mireynh saw a few groups falter then resume their advance, picking up speed once more. It was grueling work, but it had to be done.

Another roof caved, sending splinters and people flying as an enemy stone smashed through. Thankfully it wasn’t one of the ladder carriers. The groups behind the shattered shelter veered off and closed ranks, just like he had ordered. Mireynh looked at Noel Trileigh. “Thank you for your assistance, milord.”

“You already had the plan well in hand, sir, I only made a few suggestions,” the nobleman replied. It was obvious Trileigh was grateful for the compliment. The Lord Commander looked at his chart and back to the advancing columns. “Less than a hundred yards now, sir.”

The enemy’s fire increased. Another line faltered. This time it was a ladder warband that stopped, but only briefly. In a matter of anxious heartbeats, they resumed their advance, leaving behind a few dead or wounded. And still the enemy fire came. Joining the mostly ineffective barrage of arrows were the tower-based ballistae. The shields and roofs offered little protection against those, and it was only thanks to the long reloading time that the damage wasn’t as devastating as it could have been.

With a twang the engines on top South Gate began to fire, and the missiles went through the shields as if they were paper. Again, the advance paused, if only for a moment. With spears still embedded in walls and, most likely, people, the survivors pushed on. His warriors were determined to take the city, and angry with the arrogant defenders who hadn’t had the decency to surrender beforehand. Mireynh smirked. He would show the bastard Duasonh what it meant to fight.

The first ladder-bearers had reached the wall and were immediately greeted by oil raining down on them. Unperturbed, the mobile roof behind halted, opened the front shields, and released a group of archers. The Bows took aim and fired before the torch-wielding defenders could throw. They had only been able to practice the maneuver in theory, and he was amazed to see it executed to perfection. Now the shields would close again, and the soldiers pushing the cart would lift the contraption and rotate it until it stood perpendicular to the wall. At the same time the next unit in the column would take their place, again opening the front shields and shooting at Danastaerians who dared to throw either oil or torches. He had expected some of the movable roofs to go up in flames despite the tactic, and was, in a way, not disappointed. It seemed, however, that Duasonh’s troops had not prepared enough oil to douse every ladder-band, or maybe there wasn’t that much oil to keep the walls supplied. Either way, now that the second wave had established their parallel position, they would open the shields facing the wall and begin to return selective fire, whereas the subsequent units would attach to the lead roofs.

The first ladders were pushed up under cover of the archers. Now that the corridor had been established, the remaining companies pushed their shield-wagons up to the leading, perpendicular carts and set up a good score of yards behind them. Then they began to shoot as well.

In addition to a few blazing shield-wagons, it seemed as if the Danastaerians had managed to pour oil down a couple of ladders, for now there were also human torches falling to the ground. Still, his troops were scaling the walls.

Mireynh turned to Trileigh. “Nothing will go wrong now.”

The noble shrugged noncommittally.

The sun was setting slowly and his soldiers were on Dunthiochagh’s walls. Lesganagh was with them, the invasion of Danastaer would come to an end tonight, he was sure of it. Allowing himself a moment of self-indulgence, Urgraith Mireynh grabbed the skin of mead tied to his saddle and took a long pull. He felt good about himself and the world. Dunthiochagh would fall, his family would be safe, and his troops would be able to billet in the city’s houses by midnight. Life, he felt, was good to him once more.

The escalade had not stopped by nightfall, but the fighting atop the walls hadn’t subsided either. Mireynh dismissed another of Sir Duncan’s messengers, turned to a runner, saying, “Relay this to Killoy: send in five hundred of the reserves, they’re to bolster the center.”

The young man gave a brief salute and departed. The High General was now less pleased with the day than he had been when the attack had started. It was almost evening and still Duasonh defied him. What was worse was that the escalades planned for the eastern and western parts of the wall had been repelled numerous times, and now the main attack had to do without the additional support from the flanks.

Pulling his cloak tight, he stared at the city’s stony silhouette. The wall was packed with combatants. From a distance, even with fires burning within and without town, it was impossible to make out whose troops were whose. “Damn those Danastaerians,” he grumbled.

“Sir?” Trileigh asked.

“Bastard Duasonh’s good.”

“Aye, sir, so it seems. But we can count ourselves lucky,” the Lord Commander added.

“Why’s that?” His eyes were back on the battle.

“The Baron’s Wizard hasn’t acted, yet.”

He glared at the nobleman. “Don’t you dare fucking jinx it!” He wasn’t superstitious, but his initial confidence had soured while the escalade dragged on. “Don’t fucking jinx it!”

Trileigh was about to reply when two things happened at once: the first was that an entire section of Dunthiochagh’s wall, the part where his troops were thickest, or so he had hoped, was wiped clean as if someone had taken a broom and swept away dirt. And the second was the arrival of a blood-covered rider on a tired looking horse coming up their hill.

Mireynh didn’t know where to look. Openmouthed he stared at the empty portion of the battlement, and then glanced back at the rider who barely managed to leap free of his collapsing steed. It was Braddan Kirrich, leader of the force meant to take the crossing at Ondalan.