Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

And now he had traveled the halls of Bokagul and saved a Murosan Princess from a horde of gibberkin.

Any one of his adventures would have been more than enough for a heroic song. He had, in less than a year, achieved far more than he could have ever dreamt of in his childhood. In fact, he realized, had he been born that very day and raised as he was, his hero would not have been the Azure Spider, but Will the Nimble.

Yet, in realizing that he had attained his childhood goal in less than a year, he discovered how hollow an achievement that was. Princess Sayce had been right: heroes did not think about acting heroic, nor did they dwell upon having been heroic. And while things he had done might seem heroic in hindsight, at the time they had to be done and, more important, if he had not done them, someone else in the company would have. His actions were not at all special in the company he kept.

Will smiled slowly as somewhere, deep down inside, the child he had once been screamed in outrage at the idea that he was not special. The times, they are special, and they call for a lot from us . He looked around the coric and nodded as Resolute entered and Kerrigan scolded Lombo into silence.

Qwc buzzed over and landed on Will’s right shoulder. “Doing well, Will?”

“I am indeed, Qwc.” The thief smiled. “I’m tired, sore, sewed up, and not looking forward to the winter trek to Caledo. I know we’re going to get hurt, and I fear some of us will get dead.“

“Does not sound like doing well to Qwc.”

“But I am, Qwc.” Will nodded solemnly. “The company I keep sees to that.”

Try as he might, General Markus Adrogans had not found a way to guarantee that less blood than water would flow in the taking of the Three Brothers. The arrangement of the three fortresses had thwarted enemies for centuries, and most of them had not had to contend with the frigid cold snap that had settled over the countryside. For while it brought no snow, it made the march north agonizing.

Adrogans had brought his troops down into position three days before the assault and begun creating two siege machines. He opted for rams, with roofs and stout sides to protect the men wielding them. That made them incredibly heavy and slow to move, but if Darovin did have dragonels, the rams’ robust construction might shrug off a few balls. The question really became one of whether or not they could withstand enough shots to break through the first oak gate.

The Jeranese general had deployed the Blackfeathers to snipe at guards and keep them always on alert. While the river supplied no real attack route against the Three Brothers, its frozen surface did allow Beal mot Tsuvo and her troops to range north around the forts and along the road, setting up ambushes for any Aurolani reinforcements coming south to the Three Brothers.

Adrogans huddled inside a thick, furred robe, then pulled his scarf down and spit. His spittle cracked in the air as it flew. “At least Duke Mikhail’s dream was accurate concerning the day’s weather.”

Phfas snorted. “You place too much trust in Svarskya and the Kingsmen.

“If this plan works, it will be because of them.” Adrogans glanced back along the roadway. The ram slowly advanced thanks to the efforts of the Gurol Stoneheart battalion. They sang a deep, lusty tune, rhythmic and guttural. With each repetition it grew in power. The ram, which looked very like a covered bridge on wheels, ground forward. The heavy wheels crushed the snow as it moved, while the ram itself swayed forward and back, side to side, with each motion. The warriors had hung their round shields on the exterior walls, so the bold devices painted in reds, blues, greens, and golds lent it a fierce martial air.

The horses and liveried warriors of the Kingsmen waited around the corner from Darovin. Their horses stamped and blew out great plumes of angry steam. The warriors all had lances. From the tips of some fluttered gay pennants. Anonymous in their heavy armor, they would not be easy to kill, yet Adrogans knew that many of them would die. Any mounted horsemen trapped in the citadel would be slaughtered, yet there had been no way to deny Duke Mikhail’s request to let the Kingsmen go in first.

As the ram slowly came into view of Darovin, activity increased on the battlements. A few arrows arced out at the crawling ram, but none of them hit. Out by the river, a few elven shots hit the tower from the far shore. One gibberer did fall flailing to the ice below, but its body failed to break through. The crusted snow cracked beneath it, and a light dusting of powder puffed up and quickly floated down to cover the body.

Phfas pointed a finger at the top of Darovin. “They signal.”

The yellow flag that had been flying over the first tower slowly came down, then a red flag and a black pennant were raised. Across the river, elves flashed mirrors to communicate what the flags at the other sites were doing. Varalorsk acknowledged the signal by repeating it, then offered a green flag. Darovin replied by lowering, then reraising, its red and black flags.

Adrogans smiled. “Red to report a threat, black to dismiss it and the offer of help. The commander at Darovin is confident he can deal with the threat. Good, very good.” He turned to the signalman on his left. “Signal the Black-feathers to advance toward the Darovin river tower.”

“Yes, sir.”

The signalman used his mirrors to communicate that order to the elves. Mistress Gilthalarwin ordered her warriors to emerge from the brush on the far shore and approach in a long skirmish line that began to tighten into a semicircle as it drew closer. The gibberers launched arrows at them. While their height did allow the Aurolani archers greater range, their lack of accuracy—especially in face of the breeze—made their defensive efforts less than effective.

The Darovin commander reacted by sending more troops running out over the arched pathway to the river tower. The Darovin garrison should have numbered approximately one hundred, and the river tower had enough room for half that number of archers to be employed effectively. Even with the elves’ superior skill at archery, the chances of their doing much against the tower were nil.

“Signalman, tell the Warhawks it is time.”

The man shifted and flashed his mirror at the mountain high above the Three Brothers. No light came back, no signal acknowledged the message, but this did not surprise Adrogans. Instead of looking upward, he shifted his glance to Darovin’s river tower and, leaning forward with his hands on his saddlehorn, waited.

The first Gyrkyme he saw was traveling so fast that he was certain the winged warrior would never manage to pull out of his dive. The Gyrkyme had folded his wings in tightly and dropped toward the river, as if a suicide who had flung himself from the mountain. Nothing more than a brown streak, the Gyrkyme then snapped his wings open, twisted right, then left, and shrieked as he shot past the river tower. He swooped up abruptly, rolling in the air and gliding toward the river’s far shore.

By rights that level flight should have made him an easy target, but the tower behind him was in chaos. The Gyrkyme, and those who flew in his wake, carried firecocks. The devices consisted of a crockery oil reservoir and a fusing mechanism that ignited the puddle of oil once the globe shattered on the tower. The resulting explosion launched balls of flame and black smoke into the air.

A half-dozen firecocks slammed into the top of the tower, instantly immolating the archers at the top. Several more laced fire onto the archway, cutting off both retreat and reinforcement. One Gyrkyme flirted with death as she streaked low and deliberately aimed her firecock at a lower level arrow slit. The device apparently made it through, as fire burst out the other openings and one burning body remained lodged in the slit on the tower’s far side.