Erik shouted.
It was a mindless howl of agony and fatigue, serving only to focus the rage he needed to continue the struggle. It was an animal sound, without meaning. It was a sound repeated throughout the night by thousands of men.
For the first time since the fall of Krondor, the main elements of the invaders’ army were locked in battle with the Kingdom. Throughout the night the wave of attackers had continued unabated.
As dawn hinted in the east, where the sky had softened from its funereal blackness to a dull grey, men had struggled to control a dozen yards of ground. The dead were piled high on both sides of the barricade, where Erik and Harper stood like anchors in a storm.
Three times in the night there had been lulls, when water buckets had come to them, and when young boys from the baggage company could haul away the wounded, dying, and dead. But most of the night had been filled with grueling butchery, with little skill, a simple raising and lowering of the blade, much as when Erik had hammered steel. Yet even steel yielded eventually to the smith’s hammer. But this sea of flesh, this never-ending supply of bodies willing to be cleaved and sundered, would not stop.
In a moment of lucidity, after striking down another man attempting to climb the barricade, Erik glanced to the rear. Dawn was less than two hours away. To Harper he gasped, ‘Hold them here for a few more minutes.’
Harper only grunted in reply as Erik stepped away from the fighting. He stumbled a few feet farther, and his legs went out from under him. He scrambled upright and saw he had slipped on a man’s leg. Where the rest of the man was, Erik couldn’t see.
He was thankful for the darkness. He knew that when the sun rose, the carnage would be unspeakable. The worst slaughterhouse in the Kingdom would appear a clean white room for milady’s sewing compared to what the two armies had done that night.
A messenger boy waited nearby with a bucket of water. Erik fell to his knees and picked up the bucket, pouring it over his face, his mouth hanging open. The water ran down his parched throat, reviving him. When he had finished, he told the boy, ‘Run to the rear and find Lieutenant Hammond. Do you know him?’
The boy nodded.
‘He’s with the reserve company. Tell him I need him now. And tell him to bring torches. And oil if there’s any.’
Erik rose on legs so heavy he could barely lift them, yet when he returned to Harper’s side, he found instinct and training driving him onward, filling him with a fire to fight, to kill the enemy, and to survive.
Time was suspended, just another series of savage sword blows, repeated over and over. Sometime during the night Erik had lost his shield, and now he grasped his sword with both hands in imitation of Harper’s mighty slices. Those who tried to duck inside the long sword’s reach were greeted with a kick to the face, or a downward slash, breaking spines and lopping off heads.
Suddenly a voice at Erik’s rear shouted, ‘Hammond, sir. What are the orders?’
Erik glanced over his shoulder and almost died for the effort. Only a glint in his peripheral vision caused him to dodge the sword point aimed for his side. He slashed backward with his sword and felt it strike, hearing the sound of crushing bone at the same instant. A man screamed. Erik moved back from the fighting and said to Hammond, ‘Did you bring oil?’
‘We have a dozen casks, no more.’
‘Light the barricade!’ he ordered, and then he said to Sergeant Harper, ‘As soon as the flames take, I want a full withdrawal.’
‘Sir,’ said Harper as he cut a man deep enough along the chest that Erik could see the whiteness of his ribs.
Behind them men moved and Erik could smell the fumes as men poured oil around the base of the barricade. ‘Ready?’ came the voice of Lieutenant Hammond.
‘Yes!’ shouted Erik as he killed another man.
Harper’s bellow carried above the sound of battle as he cried out, ‘Withdraw!’
Trumpeters blew the retreat, and as Erik and the others stepped away from the barricades, dozens of torches were stuck into the wood. Those invaders coming over the barricade were either burned as the flames quickly spread or were trapped on the wrong side of the fire and quickly killed by the soldiers of the King.
Half staggering, half running, the exhausted defenders made their way to the second barricade. Water and food waited there. Those men who could drank and ate, while those too tired to move just dropped down where they were. A few fainted from the effort, while others closed their eyes, grasping at the chance to sleep, if only for a few minutes.
Other men moved along the barricade, guarding against the possibility of the enemy somehow following closely, but as the fire rose along the first barricade, it was clear no one was crossing over that burning mass for at least the next hour. Harper said,’ ’Tis right daft you are, Captain, sir, but it was a hell of a notion.’
Erik sat upright, his back against the barricade. He finished drinking his third ladle of water and accepted a wet cloth, which he used to wipe the dirt, sweat, and blood from his face and hands. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. It gains us an hour’s respite, and gives us an open killing ground.’ He glanced at the east, where the sun would soon be visible above the mountains, and said, ‘If we can hold here for this day and tonight, we should be able to get safely to Darkmoor with most of the men.’ Erik stood and shouted for a runner.
‘Find another of your company,’ Erik ordered the youth. ‘I want orders sent to the north and the south that the time to fall back will come soon. Tell both flank commanders that once they see the enemy moving toward the center, I want a show of offense – make it look like a counterattack, then as soon as the enemy is moving away from those positions, they’re to move with all speed to Ravensburg.’
The runner sped off.
Erik sank back down behind the barricade and said, ‘I need some sleep.’
‘You should have an hour, sir,’ said Harper, watching the distant fire. When there was no answer, he turned to see Erik’s eyes already closed.
‘That’s a capital idea, sir,’ said the exhausted sergeant. He hailed a reserve soldier and said, ‘I’m grabbing a bit of sleep, so be a good lad and keep an eye on things for the captain and me, all right?’ Without waiting for an answer, Harper slumped down next to Erik and was asleep before his chin touched his chest. Elsewhere along the line, men who had fought all night also tried to rest, while the reserves kept vigil across the burning barricade.
Pug groaned. Miranda said, ‘Hold still!’
He lay on a table covered with a fresh white cloth while she massaged his back. ‘Stop acting like a baby,’ she scolded.
Pug said, ‘It hurts.’
‘Of course it hurts,’ she responded. ‘You get burned to a crisp by a demon, then as soon as you can, you go find another demon to battle.’
‘Seven of them, actually,’ Pug said.
She straddled his back, massaging him as they rested after their ordeal. ‘Well, you’ve got one left to deal with, and you’re not even going to think about it until you’re fit.’
‘We don’t have that much time,’ Pug said.
‘Tomas should be in Sethanon soon, and unless there are more surprises, I think he should be able to deal with this Jakan.’
Pug said, ‘I don’t know. What little I witnessed when your father fought Maarg, and what I remember when Jakan attacked me, leads me to believe we should all be at Sethanon when the demon finally reaches there.’
Miranda got off his back, and Pug admired her long legs, shown to advantage by a short Quegan-style skirt. He sat up and stretched. ‘That felt great.’
‘Good,’ she replied. ‘Let’s eat. I’m starved.’
They left the room in Villa Beata, Pug’s home on Sorcerer’s Isle, and retired to the dining room. A servant, a Ji-kora reality master, appeared. The creature looked like a large upright walking toad. A year earlier he had appeared unbidden and begged entrance into Pug’s school, and Pug had agreed. Like the other students on Sorcerer’s Isle, he gave service in exchange for his studies. ‘You eat?’ he asked.
‘Please,’ said Pug, and the ugly creature stalked off toward the kitchen.
The midday meal was pleasant, as it had been each day since they had returned from the Pantathian mines. Though it had been only a week, it felt like ages since they had awakened in darkness, disoriented and exhausted. It had taken all of Miranda’s energy for her to create a mystic light, by which to see.
The bisected demon had started to rot, so they assumed they had been in a stupor for at least two or three days. Pug used his last reserves of energy to transport them to Sorcerer’s Isle, where Gathis had immediately seen to their needs.
They had been carried to their room and put to bed, where they slept for another day. Upon rising they had eaten, returned to bed, and slept the day through again. It had now been over a week since their return, and Pug felt as if he were getting close to his old strength back.
Gathis approached as they finished their meal and said, ‘May I have a word with you?’
Miranda rose. ‘I’ll leave you alone.’
‘No, please,’ said the goblinlike creature. ‘This concerns you as well, Mistress.’
She sat down. Gathis said, ‘As I once told you, I shared a bond with the Black One’ – looking at Miranda, he said to her – ‘your father, Mistress.’
She nodded.
To Pug, Gathis said, ‘When Macros last left Midkemia, at the end of the Riftwar, I told you I would know if he should die.’
Pug said, ‘You think he is dead?’
Gathis said, ‘I know he is dead.’
Pug glanced at Miranda, whose face was an unreadable mask. Pug said to Gathis, ‘Of all of us, you knew him best. The loss must be difficult for you. I am sorry.’
‘Your commiserations are appreciated, Master Pug, but I think you misread me.’ He motioned for them to follow. ‘There is something I need to show the two of you.’
They rose and followed him down a long hall. He led them outside, across the meadow that rolled away from the rear of the large house, and up a gentle rise to a plain hillside. When they were halfway up the rise, Gathis moved his hands and a cave was revealed.
Pug said, ‘What is this place?’
‘You shall see, Master Pug,’ said Gathis, leading them into the cave.
Inside the cave they saw a small altar, upon which rested an icon. The image was of a man sitting atop a throne, a man familiar to both Pug and Miranda.
‘Father,’ said Miranda.
‘No,’ said Pug, ‘Sarig.’
Gathis nodded. ‘It is indeed the lost God of Magic.’
‘What is this place?’ asked Miranda.
‘A shrine,’ Gathis said. ‘When the Black One found me, I was the last of a race that had once lived in a position of some importance in our world.’
‘You said you were related to goblins in the way the elves are akin to the moredhel,’ said Pug.
‘That’s an oversimplification. Elves and Dark Brothers are the same race, taken to different paths. My people, while distant kin to the goblins, were far more than that. We were a race of scholars and teachers, artists and musicians.’
‘What happened?’ asked Miranda.
‘The Chaos Wars lasted for centuries. To the minds of the gods they were nearly instantaneous, but to lesser beings they lasted for generations.
‘Humans, goblins, and dwarves were among those who came to Midkemia at the end of the Chaos Wars. My people remained on our birth world. While other races thrived, mine did not. Macros found me, the last of my race, and brought me here.’
Miranda said, ‘I am sorry.’
Gathis shrugged. ‘It is the way of the universe. Nothing lasts forever, perhaps not even the universe itself.
‘But one thing my people were as well as those other things I mentioned was a priesthood.’
Pug’s eyes widened. ‘You were a priesthood of magic!’
Gathis said, ‘Exactly. We were worshipers of Sarig, though by a different name.’
Pug looked around and found a rock ledge upon which to sit. ‘Go on, please.’
‘As the last of my race I was desperate to find someone to carry on the worship of the God of Magic. Before I died I wished to see the continuation of what we believed was a most important cause, the return of magic to Midkemia.’
Miranda said, ‘There’s always been magic in Midkemia.’
‘I think he means the Greater Magic,’ said Pug.
‘More,’ said Gathis. ‘The return of magic in the order intended.’
‘Intended by whom?’ asked Miranda.
‘By the nature of magic itself.’
‘There is no magic,’ said Pug, laughing.
‘Exactly,’ said Gathis. ‘Nakor believes there is a primary reality in the universe that anyone may manipulate, take advantage of, and use beneficially, if he but tries. He is partially right. What is known as the Lesser Magic to humans is an intuitive magic, and magic of poetry and song, of feelings and senses. It is why the Lesser Magicians chose totems and elements with which to identify.
‘The priests of the other orders believe that all magic is prayer answered. They are correct, though not in the way they think. It is not their gods answering their prayers, but rather magic itself responding in accordance to the nature of their particular clerical calling. This is also why the high priests and other highly advanced members of each order can effect magic that resembles one another’s, while lesser practitioners would find such displays anathema.
‘All is of a piece.’
‘So you’re saying that magicians are in actuality worshiping Sarig?’ asked Miranda.
‘In a manner of speaking, but not exactly that. Each time a spell of the Greater Magic is incanted, the opportunity exists for prayer, for a tiny bit of that worship to feed Sarig, bringing him that much closer to returning to us.’
‘Well then,’ said Miranda, ‘why aren’t you down at Stardock gathering converts?’
Pug laughed. ‘Because of politics.’
‘Exactly,’ said Gathis. ‘Can you imagine what should occur if one such as I appeared and claimed all that I have told you?’
Miranda nodded. ‘I see your point. I’ve experienced enough to know you’re probably right, and I still find it difficult to believe.’
‘That’s because you’re a product of your training, as was I,’ said Pug. ‘We must rise above that.
‘What does this have to do with us? I mean, why are you telling us this now?’
‘Macros the Black was the single most powerful master of magic upon Midkemia until the advent of Master Pug’s return from Kelewan,’ said Gathis. ‘It is my mission to remain as close to whoever that person may be as long as I live.
‘As long as the Black One existed, no matter how far removed, I was bound to him. Now he no longer exists, and I must continue in my mission of working on behalf of Sarig.’
‘So you want to create a similar bond with me?’ asked Pug.
‘In a manner of speaking, but you must understand exactly what this entails.
‘You know what the bond was between Macros and Sarig. Sarig claimed Macros as his own, his agent on Midkemia, and provided him with his powers. You were the one who severed the bond between them.’
Pug said, ‘But at the last Macros used Sarig’s powers to defeat Maarg.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Gathis. ‘I was not a witness to that, but if it is as you described it to me when you first returned, then that was Sarig’s last gift to Macros, the power to destroy himself and the demon, rather than fall prey to whatever it was stood behind the demon.’
‘Whatever it was stood behind the demon?’ asked Miranda, and suddenly she was aware again of the knowledge that had been blocked from her memory. ‘I think I understand.’
Gathis nodded. ‘I think you do, as well. Master Pug, you, on the other hand, are not connected to Sarig. You were not even given your powers on this world. Your ties to the Tsurani heritage and their practices, your native ties to Midkemia, conspire to make you something of a neutral agent in this.
‘Which is why you now have a choice.’
‘And that is?’
‘You now understand that an ages-old conflict is under way, between powers so vast and ancient our mortal minds can barely comprehend them; we can only serve our tiny part in the great conflict. Your choice is this: you may continue to act as an independent agent for those causes you consider worthy, or you may dedicate yourself to Sarig, taking the place of Macros. If you do so, you gain greater power than you already have, for you will not only have the full measure of the gods’ powers and knowledge native to Midkemia, you will also have your knowledge from Kelewan.’
‘So you’re saying I was chosen and trained to be Macros’s successor?’
Gathis regarded Pug for a silent moment. ‘I have come to know this much about the gods: often we act for reasons about which we are uncertain. Who is to say if anything Macros ever did was without Sarig’s influences? Macros found you as a baby and unlocked something rare and powerful within you; I do not know if he understood where you would be today. I can’t say he chose you to be his successor, but I can say you now stand in the place where you can choose to be such. It is up to you.’
‘What do I give up?’ asked Pug.
‘Freedom,’ said Gathis. ‘You will find you need to do things without understanding exactly why. Macros claimed he could see the future, and that was partially true, but part of that claim was theatrics, the showmanship of a vain man attempting to make everyone think he was far more than he really was. It’s ironic, for he was more powerful than any man I’ve met, until I met you, Master Pug. But even the most powerful among your race has flaws, I have discovered over the centuries.
‘In any event, you will find your life is no longer your own.’
Pug said, ‘You offer a great deal, but you demand a great deal as well.’
‘Not I, Master Pug; he does.’ Gathis pointed to the statue of the god.
Miranda said, ‘How long does he have to think this over?’
‘As long as he needs,’ said Gathis. ‘The gods move along a stately course, in their own time, and the lives of mortals are but fleeting heartbeats to them.’
Pug said, ‘You’ve given me a great deal to think about. What happens if I say no?’
‘Then we will wait until another appears, one whose nature and powers are such that the god chooses him to assume the mantle of Sarig’s agent.’
Pug looked at Miranda and said, ‘Something else for us to discuss.’
She nodded.
Gathis said, ‘I will leave you alone. Perhaps the god himself will guide your thoughts. If you need anything, I will be back at the villa.’
The green-faced steward of the villa departed and Pug said, ‘What should I do?’
‘Be a god? Seems like a hard one to reject.’
Pug reached out and pulled her to him. As he held her close, he said, ‘It also seems like a hard one to accept.’
‘Well, we have time,’ said Miranda, hugging him back.
‘Do we?’ asked Pug as his mind turned to the question of the war.
Erik shouted orders as the battle reached a critical stage. For two days they had fought along the second barricade, suffering one breach which had taken every reserve at Erik’s disposal to close. He had successfully evaluated the demands for defending this position and had set up a schedule for rotating his soldiers in and out of the line, so that those who had fought longest could get some rest.
The wounded were being evacuated along with the support baggage to Darkmoor. Erik knew that it was only a matter of minutes before he would give the order to withdraw and he had to set the torch to his boyhood home.
He’d had moments of regret in anticipation of that act for months, since reviewing Calis’s original plan of battle, but at this point he was so exhausted he felt nothing. Perhaps that would change when he actually saw the Inn of the Pintail, the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall, and all the other familiar landmarks of Ravensburg in flames, but right now all he was concerned with was an orderly withdrawal.
The enemy seemed limitless. By Erik’s rough calculation they had lost six thousand men at the two barricades, while he had lost fewer than fifteen hundred. But he knew that losses of four to one were acceptable to the Emerald Queen, while such a ratio was disastrous to the Kingdom. He needed to do better than six to one for the Kingdom to withstand the enemy.
Erik blocked a blow from a particularly muscular man with a war axe, then skewered him with a sword thrust. He stepped back from the battle, letting a soldier take his place. Glancing around, he judged it time to withdraw. By the time they reached Darkmoor, night would be falling. He moved far enough from the fighting so he need not have to worry about anything except possibly a stray arrow and signaled for runners. Four of them came to stand before him and saluted. He said, ‘Pass the word up and down the line. General withdrawal on my signal.’
The soldiers hurried off, and Erik saw the magician Robert d’Lyes hurrying toward him. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ the magician asked.
‘Thanks, but unless you have a way to get those bastards on the other side to withdraw for a few minutes, so we can get out of here safely, I think not.’
The magician said, ‘How many minutes?’
‘Ten, fifteen. More than that would be good, but in that time I can get the last of the wounded to the wagons and the rest of the mounted infantry in the saddle. The horse archers can hold the enemy at bay while the foot soldiers move out; if we can do that, we might all survive to fight in Darkmoor.’
Robert said, ‘I have an idea. I don’t know if it will work, but it might.’
‘We’re pulling out, so give it a try,’ said Erik.
‘How long before you give the order?’
‘Five more minutes,’ said Erik as he signaled for his horse.
As a soldier ran up leading Erik’s mount, d’Lyes said, ‘That should be enough.’
The magician hurried to a position a short distance behind the fighting, risking an errant arrow for his troubles. He closed his eyes and started a chant, then put his hand in his shirt and pulled out a small leather pouch. Opening it, he reached inside and took out something – Erik couldn’t see what – and made several passes with his hands.
Suddenly a cloud of greenish-black smoke appeared at the crest of the barricade. Instantly those inside began to cough and retch. The smoke expanded, following the ridge line, and men on both sides fell back.
Then d’Lyes shouted, ‘Poison!’
Erik blinked in astonishment, then he shouted in the dialect of the invaders, ‘Poison! Poison! Withdraw! Withdraw!’
The cry was echoed up and down the line as men from both sides fell back. Erik wasted no time. He signaled up and down the line, crying, ‘Retreat! Retreat!’
The command echoed up and down the line, and the Kingdom Army withdrew from the barricade. Robert d’Lyes hurried to where Erik sat and said, ‘They won’t be fooled for long. When those men who are vomiting recover, they’ll be back.’
‘What was that you did?’
‘It’s a useful little spell designed to kill mice, rats, and other vermin in barns. If you breathe the smoke, you get very sick to your stomach for about an hour, but after that you’re fine.’
Erik was impressed. ‘Thank you for thinking of it.’
‘You’re welcome. It might be more useful if I could figure a way to make it more toxic, so the enemy would really be poisoned.’
‘Only if you also can figure out how to keep it on the correct side of the battlefield.’
‘Yes,’ said the magician. ‘I see the problem. Now what do we do?’
‘Run like hell,’ said Erik.
‘Very well,’ said d’Lyes, and he started running as fast as he could to where his horse was tied.
Erik gave the order and watched with relief as the men too wounded to walk were carried to the last of the baggage wagons. Others hurried to mount waiting horses. The archers in the rocks climbed down as fast as they could, and mounted also or joined the general withdrawal, depending on which units they served.
Erik saw the enemy fleeing to the west, many of them rolling on the ground, clutching their stomachs, in what they thought were death throes. A few of his own men, also incapacitated by the smoke, were helped to safety by their comrades.
Erik counted the minutes, and after ten had come and gone, he said, ‘Fall back!’
The light cavalry, spears at the ready, were scheduled to be the last units to withdraw before the horse archers. Erik passed them and saw tired, bloody men, but men with a look in their eyes that made his chest swell with pride. He saluted them, then cantered his horse toward town.
As he rode away, he saw firelight on the ridges, as the engineers torched their catapults and mangonels. The machines too big and difficult to move without dismantling were destroyed to deny them to the enemy.
Reaching Ravensburg, he saw men with torches at the ready. He glanced around his boyhood home as the baggage wagons rolled through the center of town, taking the wounded and the supplies to the next defensive position. Erik dismounted and loosened his horse’s girth, giving the animal a bit of rest. He led the horse to a trough and let him drink a little. Erik watched, waiting for the signal from his rearmost scout that the chase was on, when he would have to burn his boyhood town.
But time passed and no enemy approached. Erik considered they might be leery of approaching the place where d’Lyes had ‘poisoned’ them until they realized it was a ruse. That extra hour would gain them a precious advantage. When he judged they would safely be through, he shouted, ‘Order the archers and lancers to retire!’
A messenger rode off to the west, carrying word to the last of the Kingdom’s scouts to withdraw, and Erik rode toward the Inn of the Pintail. He reached it as a soldier stood ready to ignite hay piled against the fence and outer wall. Erik said, ‘Give that to me,’ indicating the torch.
The soldier did as ordered, and Erik threw the torch into the hay. ‘No one’s going to burn my home but me,’ he said. Then he turned and shouted, ‘Burn it!’
Everywhere soldiers rode or ran through the town, tossing hundreds of torches. Erik couldn’t bring himself to watch the fire destroy the inn, so he put heels to his horse’s barrel and rode back to the center of town. Flames were rising quickly on all sides as the first elements of the light cavalry rode through. He knew the horse archers would be the last out, and was determined to ride with them.
The horse archers came fast, in a maneuver created by Calis, one he said originated with riders in Novindus, the Jeshandi. Half the squad would ride, while the other half would cover and fire, then the squad that had ridden would stop and offer cover fire to the group that had just been firing. It required precision and practice, but Calis had drilled these horse archers to perfection, so their withdrawal was nearly flawless. A few enemy arrows sped after them, as the fires announced to the invaders that the Kingdom was withdrawing, but most were fired blindly, arched high from behind the cover of boulders, and fell harmlessly to the ground.
As enemy fire increased, Erik felt it was time to go, so he shouted, ‘That’s enough! Retreat!’
The horse archers turned as one, set heels to their horses, and galloped to the east. They rode furiously until they were sure no enemy followed close on their heels, then they slowed to a relatively relaxed canter, saving the horses as much as they could.
The usual travel time to Wolverton was three hours on a walking horse. Erik reached the town in less than one. The entire way he saw the baggage wagons lumbering down the road, and as he reached Wolverton, he saw them slowing, moving around a building on the edge of town. Jadow and another man from his company stood waving, and Erik rode up. ‘What is it?’
‘Most of your cavalry and infantry went by about ten, fifteen minutes ago. We almost had a disaster when they tried to run over the wagons.’
‘Are you overseeing traffic?’
Jadow grinned. ‘More. Got a few of those traps you asked for, enough so that after a couple of them go off, the enemy should slow down a bit.’ They waited as the wagons rolled on. Again Erik rested his horse. He and Jadow were too concerned with the possibility of the enemy’s overtaking the last of the baggage train to engage in small talk. For another two hours the wagons rolled, until suddenly a company of riders could be seen, Erik’s rear guard. Jadow motioned toward the company of riders. ‘They the last?’
Erik nodded. ‘If you hang around, my advice is, the next rider you see coming down the road, kill him.’
Jadow motioned to where he had two horses tied to a broken-down fence and said, ‘Think I’d rather ride with you.’ Jadow and his soldier got the two horses, mounted and returned to Erik’s side. ‘Ride where I tell you, boys, and everything will be fine.’
Erik motioned for Jadow to lead and followed him into the small town of Wolverton. ‘What have you done?’
‘Well,’ said Jadow, ‘you asked for some nasty surprises, so we obliged. A couple of pits here, a few casks of oil there, some torches we just set burning in that building, some other little things. Nothing will be too damaging, but it should slow them as they start inspecting every building.’
Erik nodded his approval. ‘Very good.’
They rode through Wolverton. The town lay across the King’s Highway, but it was surrounded on the north and south by flat meadows and groves, providing an impossible defensive position. If Jadow’s surprises slowed the enemy a little, making them circle around the town instead of marching straight through, the extra minutes would save lives. Erik and Jadow came up behind the last wagon, slowly working its way along the King’s Highway. Erik turned to Jadow. ‘You and the horse archers guard this and the other stragglers. I have to ride ahead.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jadow with his customary smile and halfmocking salute.
Erik pushed his tired horse forward, passing the last of the baggage wagons and a few walking wounded who could find no room in the wagons. Twice he found men resting on the side of the road, and he ordered them to keep going, lest they fall too far behind and be killed by the enemy.
As sundown neared, he was forced to rest his horse. Here the road rose steeply, heading to the summit. He looked down the trail and was astonished to see the long line of men and wagons trudging along the highway. He had ridden past every wagon behind him, yet until this moment he had no concept of how many men were still on the road. Torches were lit here and there, and soon a long, flaming line seemed to be creeping along the King’s Highway, coming his way, a stately procession.
Erik felt a quickening urgency that precluded his standing idle, so he dismounted and led his horse along. He passed a wagon at the side of the road, where men worked frantically to repair a broken spoke, and when he turned a bend in the road, he saw it: Darkmoor.
Athwart the highway rested the walled city of Darkmoor, and along the eastern side of the mountains ran Nightmare Ridge. There, Erik knew, the fate of the Kingdom and the world of Midkemia would be decided. The city was now ablaze with lanterns and torches along the wall, so from this distance it looked as if a celebration was in progress. Erik knew it was an illusion, for those lights meant the full weight of the Western Realm’s defenses would soon be in place.
The region of Darkmoor was actually to the south and east of the city that bore its name. The original Castle Darkmoor had been built as the Kingdom’s westernmost defense long before the founding of Krondor. Over the years the town, then the city, of Darkmoor arose, until it, too, had been enclosed by a wall. After Wolverton, Erik had ridden through a relatively empty landscape, as most of the terrain close to the city was rocky and non-arable. Small trees and tough mountain grasses, low brush, and some flowers hugged the roadside. Farther back, trees grew deep in the valleys and gullies running down the west face. Most of the area around the city itself had been forested clear ages ago. Food and other perishables were hauled into Darkmoor from lower-lying farming hamlets.
On the highest peak to the north of the King’s Highway, rising like a guardian, was the original Darkmoor Keep. It was now a citadel, for it had originally been built as a walled fort and the wall and moat around the castle had never been removed. Now the city sprawled out across the pass, and the King’s Highway ran through a massive oak gate, bound with iron and flanked by high turrets, each with crenelated, overhanging parapets. Erik judged that no one attempting to reach the gate would be able to do so without being exposed to bowfire, catapults, or hot water or oil from above.
The setting sun threw a red highlight on the castle, and Erik turned to the west. In the distance he saw the sun disappear in a haze of smoke, from the fires in Ravensburg and Wolverton.
Erik reached the gate of the city to discover that the street was packed with refugees from the west. He led his horse past frustrated soldiers trying to deal with the throng of humanity attempting to squeeze into the city.
Erik shouted, ‘Which way to the keep?’
A soldier looked over his shoulder and, seeing the crimson eagle on Erik’s tunic, and the badge of rank, said, ‘To the center of town, and then left on High Street, Captain!’
Erik led his horse through the throng, occasionally having to shove someone aside to get past knots of confused citizens and fatigued, short-tempered soldiers. The journey took him nearly an hour.
Eventually he reached the ancient drawbridge that crossed the moat separating the citadel from the rest of the city. A squad of soldiers had blocked off the street for a hundred yards in all directions, so that those needing quick access to and from the Prince’s headquarters would not be impeded.
Erik approached the guard and pointed to the west. ‘Tell me, is that a clear passage to the western gate?’
The guard said, ‘It is. Runs along the wall and turns at that corner down there.’
Erik sighed. ‘I wish someone at the gate had mentioned that.’ He started past the guard, who dropped a spear before Erik’s chest.
‘Here, now. Where do you think you’re going?’
‘To see the Prince and General Greylock,’ said a very tired Erik.
‘And suppose you show me some orders, then?’
Erik said, ‘Orders? From whom?’
‘Your officer, assuming you’re not another deserter looking to tell the General some cock-and-bull story about being separated from your unit.’
Erik slowly reached up, took a grip on the spear shaft, and without apparent effort moved it back upright, despite the soldier’s attempts to keep it where he had it. As the man’s jaw tightened and his eyes widened, Erik said, ‘I am an officer. I know I look worse for wear, but I need to see the Prince.’
Other soldiers were approaching as they noticed the confrontation. Another shouted, ‘Hey, Sergeant!’
A sergeant in the uniform of Darkmoor, a black shield with a red raven on a branch on a tan tabard, ran over. ‘What’s this, then?’
The soldier said, ‘This fellow wants to see the Prince.’
The sergeant, a tough old boot used to instant obedience by his men, snapped, ‘And just who the hell might you be that the Prince would want to see you?’
Erik pushed aside the spear and stepped forward, locking eyes with the sergeant. ‘Erik von Darkmoor, Captain of the Prince’s Special Command!’
At the mention of his name, several of the soldiers stepped aside, while the others glanced at the sergeant. The old veteran grinned and said, ‘Looks like you’ve seen a bit of trouble, then, Captain.’
‘You could say that. Now, step aside.’
The sergeant didn’t hesitate, moving briskly to one side. As Erik passed, he handed the reins to the sergeant, saying, ‘Get him some water and feed him. He’s all done in. Then send word where you’ve stabled him. He’s a good horse and I don’t want to lose him.’
The sergeant took the reins. As Erik walked away, he said without looking back, ‘Oh, and when my sergeant arrives, send him straight to me. You’ll have no trouble recognizing him. He’s a tall, Keshian-looking fellow, dark skin and he’ll snatch your head right off your shoulders if you give him one half the trouble you just gave me.’
Erik crossed the drawbridge. He looked up at the lights shining in the many windows of the ancient castle. Founded by one of his ancestors, Castle Darkmoor was an alien place to Erik. As a boy he had dreamed of someday being summoned here by his father, to be recognized and given a place in the household. When those dreams died, they were replaced by curiosity. Then they faded altogether. Now the castle had the ominous look of a bad place to die, and as he walked through the gatehouse, entering the ancient castle bailey, Erik realized that the feeling came from the fact that not only was there an army on its way here that wanted him dead, inside was a woman who had vowed to see him dead: Mathilda von Darkmoor, his father’s widow and mother of the half-brother he had killed.
With a deep sigh, Erik turned to a captain of the Guard and said, ‘Take me to Greylock. I’m Captain von Darkmoor.’
Without a word the captain saluted, turned smartly and led Erik into his ancestral home.