William King - The Serpent Tower

“What’s it like outside?” he asked.

“Stick your head out the door and take a look. I’ve not been out myself.”

The sun was bright. The pavilion sat on a rise. The standards of the army flapped in a light breeze nearby. He looked down on a camp buzzing with activity, an anthill poked with a stick. Units of men moved in controlled chaos. Massive, long-necked bridgebacks, big as houses, headed off towards the east. Units of cavalry followed them. Scarlet-coated Terrarch officers bustled over the hill, coming and going, doubtless getting final instructions.

Asea’s black clad bodyguard approached. The cowl of his tunic covered his hair; a scarf was wrapped around the lower part of his face. Only his eerie animal-like eyes and the swarthy skin of his forehead was visible.

“Good,” he said, his accent foreign. “You are up. The mistress commands you to her presence. In the absence of my brothers, she requires bodyguards and she seems to think you three are worthy.”

The rest of Asea’s black-clad protectors had died in the hellhole beneath Achenar. Rik wondered how this man felt about that. Had the men been his kin or part of his religion or was there some other reason for his calling the dead men brothers.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he said, hoping to draw the man out.

“Do not be. They died performing their duty. It is what they wished. There is no greater honour.” Rik could think of a few but now did not seem to be the time to point this out.

“I am Rik.”

“Karim is my name.”

He glanced inside to see that Weasel had already woken the Barbarian. They were eating away merrily.

“Time to go,” he said. “The Lady Asea commands our presence.”

Sardec rose. He was tired but he could not sleep and he wanted to check the sentries. He found most of the men already awake, readying their weapons, preparing to fight. He strode up onto the wall and saw that mist covered the land below them. It was quite common at this time of year in these woods, but it would not help their cause any. The enemy could get almost to the walls without being shot at. He wondered why they had not tried that already. It was what he would have done. He prayed to the Light for the sun to rise and blow the stuff away. They had little enough chance in this fight already. The mist would only work to their enemy’s advantage.

He wondered once more whether the messengers had made it through. It was all too easy to imagine the things that could have gone wrong. The men could have been captured or got lost. The high command might not believe them. Sardec shook his head and tried to ignore the pain at the end of his stump. There was no sense about worrying about such things now. They were outside of his control. He would deal with the things that he had some sway over.

It looked like Sergeant Hef had already done a good job of preparing the men. Half of them were already on the walls, crouching down out of sight so that no random shot could get them. All of them had loaded weapons near at hand, and bayonets ready. They were going to be needed, Sardec guessed. Sergeant Hef saw his approach, rose and saluted.

“Good work, Sergeant,” Sardec said.

“I’ve got a few men in the old mansion house preparing a field surgery, sir. The rest of the lads are down below having breakfast. I thought it best to get them fed before the fight starts. Who knows when they’ll next have a chance? One thing gets me, sir.”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“Why have they not attacked yet?”

“I don’t know, Sergeant but perhaps we’ll get a chance to ask them.” He pointed with his good hand. A group of Terrarchs emerged from the mist below. One of them held a stick with a bit of white cloth on it. It was obvious they wanted to parlay.

“Do you accept the flag?” shouted the leader. Sardec raised the spyglass to his eye, and fumbled with the hook to adjust it. He studied the speaker carefully. He was a tall Terrarch wearing a long blue frock coat and a half-face mask of archaic style. A waterfall of pure white hair descended from below a tricorne hat.

“Aye,” said Sardec. “To whom do I have the honour of speaking?”

“I am Esteril of House Morven. May I ask the favour of knowing your own name?”

“I am Sardec of House Harke.”

“A good name. I knew your father.”

“Then our acquaintance is doubly welcome. I will mention you to him when I next write home.”

“Do remind him of the day we routed the Lords of Valastne together.” Sardec remembered his father speaking of the day. He recalled also what he said of Lord Esteril: a Terrarch of great courage and honour but unburdened by high intellect. If he was in charge down there, that would certainly explain the slackness.

“It will be my pleasure.”

“I regret to inform you that you are surrounded.”

“I had noticed this,” said Sardec.

“It would do me great honour if you would accept my protection.”

“That is as gentile a surrender request as I am ever likely to hear, but I regret I must decline it.”

“Surely you can see that you are greatly outnumbered.”

“I can, but I hold the superior position.”

Esteril laughed. “I like your spirit, lad, but you know that if I order the attack there can only be one outcome.” Sardec decided to play to the elder Terrarch’s sporting instincts.

“Surely you cannot expect me to leave my command without a shot being fired.” Again Esteril laughed. It was the sort of laugh that would not have been out of place around his father’s table after a hunt, the laugh of the sort of warrior to whom war was another form of sport, like hunting or shooting game.

“Nay, lad. I respect your gumption. Let us try your lads against mine, and see whose humans are better.”

“Very well, Lord Esteril. Let us have some sport.” Sardec turned to Sergeant Hef. “Be prepared to give milord’s men a warm welcome. I have a mind to hold our position for as long as there is a chance of Lord Azaar relieving us.”

“Very good, sir,” said Sergeant Hef. “After seeing what happened to Kalmek I doubt the lads are in any mood to down arms.”

Sardec could have told him that things would be different now with a Terrarch like Esteril in command. Such a one would no more torture men who had surrendered than he would mistreat a dog. At least Sardec hoped that was the way of it. In any case, he saw no need to share this information with the men. He wanted them to fight as hard as they could.

Briefly he felt a surge of guilt about condemning some of them to death. It occurred to him that he might be condemning himself to death as well. This was the sort of bloodsport in which accidents happened all too easily.

A line of soldiers emerged from the mist. “Give the bastards hell!” he shouted. Musket fire erupted all around him. He stood firm even as musket balls took chunks out of the palisade before him.

“This is the way to travel,” said the Barbarian. They sat at the back of the howdah of Asea’s bridgeback. The enormous quadrupedal wyrm strode through the forest, picking its way through the trees and over the rough ground with surprising delicacy. Asea sat at the front, just behind the mahout. She was garbed in the odd sorcerous armour she had worn beneath Achenar. It was made of leather strips that seemed to hug her figure without support and flowed sinuously with her slightest movement. A cowl of the same leather emerged from the shoulders to cover her head. A mask of living silver covered her face, turning her into a mysterious goddess.

Branches scratched along the awning that shaded the howdah. It looked like silk but it must be made of something tougher to resist the constant abuse.

The ground here was rough and unsteady. The earth had the contours of a scrap of parchment crumpled by an angry scribe. The mountains were close. At this early hour, mist still hung over the woods giving the morning a faint wet chill. Rik stifled a yawn. He realised that he had managed only a few hours sleep. Excitement warred with fatigue.