Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

He sought for signs that his other efforts might have borne fruit, but he saw nothing. The Okrans exiles had raised a battalion of light infantry, and he’d combined it with the Svoin Irregulars. He had infiltrated them into the city’s sewers, in the hopes they could slip in and attack the defenders from within. That, too, like Beal mot Tsuvo’s charge, was suicide, but neither group had shrunk from it. As if it would make them invulnerable, they murmured to themselves “dreams can come true,” and accepted their assignments.

Pain rippled jagged sensations through him as warriors fell. He could sense the panic of people drowning in frigid sewer water. The hopelessness of a dying soldier trying to stuff his own entrails back into his body came to him with piercing clarity. More things, from burns and cuts to crushed limbs and implements, flooded into him.

This was the sort of battle he hated. There was no fast or easy way to do things. Until the barriers were cleared, his cavalry could not move. And even when they could, he didn’t know what they would face.

Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good. No matter what, Adrogans could not shake the feeling that he had already lost the battle. All the blood is being spilled needlessly and yet for a purpose of which I know I will not approve .

He glanced up at Nefrai-kesh’s tower and the fire burning there. I am defeated, but I know not how or why .

Suddenly, over to the west, a firecock exploded against one of the barriers. He smiled and pointed. “Our luck may have changed.”

Caro followed his line of sight, then nodded. “I shall see you within, then.”

“Yes, good hunting.” Adrogans reined his horse around and rode west to where his Horse Guards waited with the Okrans Kingsmen. As he neared the cavalry and the Gurol Stoneheart Battalion trotted toward the burning barricade, he saw fighting behind it. Somehow, the Svoin Irregulars had won their way through the sewers and were attacking the Aurolani forces at the breach.

The Stonehearts raced up the debris hill and met little opposition. They, too, used grapnels and ropes to haul burning debris aside. As the lead ranks parted, the trailing legion surged forward and fought its way through the gap. The other legions widened it further, then Adrogans and the cavalry started forward at a trot.

With every hoof-fall Adrogans waited to see that mountain of debris become a volcano. He sought through the driving snow for the first hint of light and some sensation of warmth. He waited to see men begin to topple as the midden erupted. He knew fire and stone would shred them, then a rock shower would crush his horsemen.

Closer and closer they rode. They got close enough that he could see warriors grappling with gibberers and spitting vylaens. Axes rose and fell; longknives flashed. Bodies—man and animal—reeled away leaking and torn. Screams and howls echoed louder than war cries, but war cries still could be heard. As his horse started up the slope, he shouted as well.

“For Duke Mikhail!” Adrogans drew his sword and leaned forward, urging his horse on. Powerful muscles bunched as the beast propelled itself upward. Rock tumbled, but the horse kept his balance, leaping forward, cutting sideways and up. Foam flecked beast and bit and, finally, they reached the summit.

Adrogans had a moment to survey the heart of Svarskya. He had expected to see fire-blackened ruins, for the walls and the bits of towers that rose high enough to be seen had given that impression, but his expectations were dashed. Streets were clear and buildings, though they lacked for paint and plaster in places, appeared in good repair. After Svoin and the outer city, he had not been prepared for such order.

If one did not look too closely, it would be easy to imagine this place never having been touched by battle.

But he did look closely. As his horse descended, signs of battle were everywhere. Blood ran thick in gutters and bodies lay twisted on cobbled streets. Some corpses burned and others were in pieces. The wounded twitched, cried, and scrabbled for cover or weapons or anything that might succor them.

The Horse Guards poured through the gap behind him and inside the inner city they cut to the east. Riding fast, with the Okrans Kingsmen behind them, they reached the main gate quickly. There they found Aurolani infantry massed to oppose the charge that would be coming through the main gate. The cavalry slammed into the rear of one battalion, riding soldiers down, slashing madly and driving forward into another battalion.

The Kingsmen sheared to the left and obliterated the last two battalions that had been waiting. The city streets trapped the Aurolani troops and only allowed the rear ranks to run. They could not run far, however—and certainly could not escape the vengeful warriors who, after more than a generation in exile, had come to reclaim their homeland.

Dismounted warriors flew up stairs and into the chambers above the gate.

Any Aurolani therein would be able to rain molten lead or boiling oil down on troops riding through. They could even have had a boombag ready to detonate. But the Horse Guards, bloody swords in hand, burst into that chamber and bare minutes later returned triumphant.

Adrogans directed other men to clear the main gate, which they did, then Caro and his Alcidese Horse Guards rode through. They fanned out through the city, hunting and killing. Farther east the Savarese Knights and Matrave’s Horse rode in through the gap Clan Tsuvo had cleared.

Despite the success, something was wrong; Adrogans knew it. He had lost people, but not nearly as many as he should have. There were no dragonels—not in the city, not used at the bridge or the Three Brothers. There were not enough troops. And the city was pristine.

Phfas appeared at his side. “The tower.”

Adrogans looked to the top of it and saw the fire burning there, then it rose into the air. The two of them, father and son, rode together on a horse with dragon wings of fire. They galloped into the air, circled the tower once, and headed off to the north and east.

Nefrai-kesh threw Adrogans a salute.

Nefrai-laysh’s laughter mocked him.

Once they had secured the city, Adrogans entered the tower with Caro, Phfas, several other of the Zhusk, and two of the men who had attended Duke Mikhail at his death. The group made the ascent carefully. They watched for traps and proceeded as if each step would betray them.

Pain again slumbered, so Adrogans had no fear.

At the top of the tower, in a chamber half-open yet somehow immune to the weather, they came to a banquet table laden with food still warm. The candles there had burned halfway down, and had they entered the tower immediately upon the sullanciri’s departure, it would have made for an elegant scene.

Phfas sneered dismissively. “Too many chairs.”

Adrogans moved to the head of the table. There, instead of a plate being set, a sheet of parchment had been stuck to the table with a dagger. The script had an easy flow, but the general found the dark brown hue of the ink unsettling.

Blood. Its being still a bit moist unsettled him more.

Adrogans leaned heavily on the table, holding himself up on straightened arms, and read aloud. “My dear General Adrogans. I congratulate you on a campaign fought brilliantly and well. Neither I nor my mistress thought you capable of waging a winter war. Because of this, I have been caught without reinforcements or supplies, all of which were required in the east.

“You have won the freedom of Okrannel. I was here to see it fall and though it saddens me to fail my mistress in losing it, I do not begrudge the Okrans people their homeland. They now will know a peace that I have not known, nor am likely to know.