A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga) (40 page)

He rose to his feet and walked a dozen yards to the horselines, stepping around tumbled orc corpses. He took the halter of Hall’s big draft horse and led him to where his master had fallen. Straining against the weight with a heavier heart, Boris heaved Sergeant Hall’s bulk over the steed’s back.

“One last ride back to the castle, my friend.”

Boris turned to the nearest officer. “I want everyone gathered and mounted immediately. We must get to the wagon train before they are ambushed too.” He climbed back into Balthar’s saddle, a deep pain behind his heart. “Everyone stays together from now on.”

A
small pillar of black smoke billowed toward them, blown by the wind before the storm. The clouds hung thick overhead, but no snow had fallen yet. Several bat-like forms circled the column of smoke, swooping downward as if chasing scattered prey.

“Dragons!” Boris cast his eyes back toward Gaeric, whose red-fringed cloak fluttered out behind as they galloped. “You and your mages are our best defense against them. We will get the teams cut free and mount up their drivers.” He shouted at the captain of Second Company. “Your men have already warmed up their bows. Use them on the beasts.”

The train came into view on the open plain. One of the supply wagons burned, separate from where the others had circled. A green-scaled dragon with red trim along its wings passed over the cluster of Bluecloak teamsters. The beast belched a green gush of liquid fire. Where it landed on the wagons, it burned through metal and wood alike.

Boris watched Gaeric raise his hand. A flash of lightning darted out, skittering over the dragon’s leathery wings, leaving them smoking. The beast roared in pain and pounded for the sky.

Urging his horse to more speed, Boris closed on the line of wagons. The ground beneath Balthar’s hooves churned past. Through his knees Boris felt the stallion tense, gathering strength. Balthar bounded into the air, carrying them over the tumbled wagon in a single vault.

Gael knelt before him, a goose-feathered arrow nocked to his long elven bow. His single violet eye widened at the sight of Boris and his steed. “Spirits of Air, am I glad to see you.”

Unable to stifle a sudden laugh of joy, Boris shook his head, whipping his horsehair tassel back and forth. “You are glad to see me? Ha!”

A second dragon swept downward, and a hundred arrows launched into the air to meet it. Few found lodging in the thickly scaled body, but more than a dozen stuck in the thin membrane of its wings. A fount of crimson sprayed from one of the veins that twisted through the leather. A bolt of lightning lashed out from Gaeric, wrapping the beast in blue-white sparks. One of the other mages gestured, and three Bluecloaks tossed their lances into the air. The mage sliced his hand forward, and the three projectiles launched toward the dragon at a fantastic speed, each planting in the beast’s side. Its beating wings faltered, and the yellow and gray beast crashed into the ground, ripping a furrow in the earth. It came to a halt, its eyes rolled back and its tongue lolling out between still jaws. Its two companions winged for altitude, soaring their way back toward Dragonsclaw.

Boris returned Greyiron to its sheath and looked at Gael. “Where have you been? How did you find the wagon train?”

Gael lowered his bow and gazed off toward Dragonsclaw. “We were surprised when the enemy poured from the mountain in far greater numbers than we expected. I wouldn’t doubt the entire mountain and ridge are tunneled out like a good piece of Gavanor cheese.” His brows furrowed. “They killed Delena and Sharvis before we even knew we had been set upon. Their bones will lie upon the mountain forever.” He shook his head. “Another two of our people passed on before having children.”

Shifting in his saddle, Boris bowed his head to Gael. “I feel for your loss, my friend.” He looked toward a large horse with a blue-cloaked body hung over it.

Placing one hand over his heart, Gael returned Boris’ tilted nod. He took the reins of his gray horse from the man who brought it to him and mounted. “We were separated in the fighting. I saw smoke from the wagon train and led my scouts toward it.”

Trotting Balthar closer, Boris licked his lips. “So you know what’s coming?”

Gael nodded, his grim expression only accentuated by his eye patch.

Boris waved to the bugler. “Then we should get moving.”

Quickfire was invented in Uria centuries ago. Some believe they based it on the burning substance of dragon fire. Aravath brought the formula with him when he and the People of Gan returned to Tarmor. Over the centuries since, the kings of Gannon and their powerful mages have found it an even more useful substance than the Urian nobility ever did.

— “The Gannonite Arsenal” by Yahn Folore

C
aptain Jaerd Westar dragged his finger along the cold, rough stone as he climbed down the spiral staircase. With steps in the thousands, it wound its way down through Highspur Mountain, all the way from the roof of the bastion to the deepest storeroom. Jaerd sought the armory level.

He stepped off the stairs, through a carved arch, and a wide chamber opened before him. Scattered torches and magical glowglobes lit the room. To Jaerd’s right, a crossed sword and shovel draped with a blue cloak hung above an entryway to the quartermaster corps. Thirty yards closer to the bright exit portal from the mountainside, another sigil hung – a hand wrapped in twisting grape vines. A dozen Talented healers, and twice as many trained in more mundane techniques, worked within the infirmary. Jaerd recognized three of the five healers that had travelled with his own forces.

Two ride with Earl Boris.

Off to his left, the clanking of the forge rang out. Jaerd took only a couple of steps toward it before the person he sought emerged from the red-lit interior.

“Ah, Captain Westar.” Tarrak Goldmar waddled over closer to Jaerd, lifting up a curved bracket of metal. “This should work for those new catapults we’re building along the inner wall.”

Squinting in the faint light, Jaerd inspected the object that Tarrak turned with his tongs. The metal still radiated waves of heat, but it looked like it just might do the trick. “You have enough iron from the new vein you found to make this a dozen times over?”

Tarrak laughed, his thick shoulders bouncing. “That, and plenty more. I also thought we might get really ambitious and build two new trebuchets for the rim towers to match the older ones on the gate towers.”

Jaerd nodded slowly. “Excellent.”

Tarrak carried the new catapult part back to the forge. It radiated a comforting warmth. “We’ll be ready, Captain.”

“One more thing,” Jaerd called at the dwarf’s retreating back. “Do you still have all that extra pot metal lying around?”

Tarrak glanced over his shoulder. “Aye!” he shouted over the clanging from the smithy.

With a smile that left the dwarf wearing a puzzled expression, Jaerd turned back to the stairwell.

The clank of metal on metal followed him as he returned to the spiral steps, echoing up the long, carved-out tube. Sighing when he looked upward, Jaerd began his ascent back to the bastion. Dozens of soldiers – human, elf, and dwarf – dashed past. Every one of them seemed to salute in a different fashion, and he did his best to return the compliments correctly.

To think I was a gate lieutenant in Gavanor only four months ago. Now I get saluted by the elite soldiers of the greatest powers in Tarmor.

When he passed the officer’s level, the scent of ham cooking filled his nose. His stomach growled, reminding him he had not eaten since breaking his fast at dawn. He stopped by the mess, picking up a tray of warm ham, brown bread, and a cup of rough-ground mustard.

“Put two mugs on the tray,” Jaerd told the cook. “I have a meeting with another officer.”

The pale ale, kept cool in deep storerooms of Highspur Mountain, bubbled to a frothy head. Jaerd grabbed a couple of wrinkly apples from a barrel in the corner. Grasping the tray, he returned to his ascent. With each step, the ale jostled a little closer to the rim of the mugs.
This is why I left the inn!

Relieved that he wore no armor, Jaerd still breathed hard by the time he reached the second level of the bastion. He passed down a narrow hall, carpeted with thick rugs. Pushing his way through a double door, he entered the main library of Highspur.

A magnificent bay window opened along the northern wall, looking out over the Dragon’s Feet and the Norvus River in the distance. The natural light spilled across a half dozen tables, each ringed with comfortable looking chairs. Rows and rows of shelves filled the rest of the room. In the center stood an ancient globe, scrawled with the continents of Tarmor, Uria, and Jahad. The lopsided circle of the Jade Isles drifted across the Eternal Ocean. Parts of the globe were clearly marked unknown.

“I brought you lunch, Magus.” Jaerd walked to a table scattered with maps. Magus-General Joslyn Britt leaned over a sketch of the Northlands, frowning. Brawny lay curled up on a rug, his chin fixed to his feet, though his eyes followed Jaerd and the tray. “And a mug, if you like.”

The Battlemage looked up. “Ah, Captain Westar…” He eyed the ale before returning to his figuring. “Boris estimated twenty days to Dragonsclaw, even at his slowest. The last dispatch rider put them exactly on schedule, five days from the mountain.” The mage closed his eyes, counting on his fingers. “That courier reported in two days ago. Another one should arrive before evening.”

Jaerd had done the same math himself while looking at that exact map. “So they should arrive there any day now.” He sat the tray down on the next table, one empty of papers. “Is there a reason Boris is headed for that mountain?”

A low growl emanated from Magus Britt’s stomach. Brawny’s ears pricked at the sound. The mage pulled the tray closer and picked up a slice of ham. Slathering it in mustard, he stuffed it in his mouth. “We have seen proof of at least three orc clans working together. Boar and Ram may be allies, but Shark is allied with Wolf Clan. We know that Boar and Wolf fought a couple of wars against each other in the last century. So either Shark Clan has switched sides…” He mumbled around another mouthful. “…or Wolf and Boar are working together too.”

Grabbing a piece of bread and a slice of ham for himself, Jaerd furrowed his brow. “I understand that part, but what does this new alliance have to do with Dragonsclaw Mountain?” Unable to resist the hound’s eyes, Jaerd tossed the end piece from the ham toward Brawny. It disappeared in a snap.

“That black mountain is sacred to the orcs,” Britt said. “The only time they have ever been known to gather there is when the clans unite, usually to strike at Highspur or raid the eastern coasts.”

Jaerd shook his head, forcing himself to swallow a too-dry bite. “Ah.” He picked up his mug to wash down the crumbs of bread. “It’s like their Mootlawn.”

Magus Britt cleaned his teeth with his tongue. “I suppose. Regardless, that is where Boris seeks to draw them out.”

Setting down his mug, Jaerd folded his arms. He considered not asking the question, but he felt it his duty. “Do you believe his numbers are sufficient to such a task? If three or four orc clans are united, might they not have thousands of warriors to call upon?”

The mage turned away and carried his mug over to the wide bay window. Jaerd followed, close behind. The morning sunlight cascaded through the glass in dust-sparkled beams, bathing the older man’s face in a yellow glow. It seemed to age him further, emphasizing the wrinkles behind his jaw and the lines on his forehead. Jaerd watched him stand there, casting his gray gaze over the long spread of the Northlands and the heavy shoulders of the Dragonscales that marched off to their right.

“They might well have those numbers.” Magus Britt sipped from his mug, his other arm wrapped behind his back, holding onto his red-trimmed cloak. “From experience, though, I can tell you Boris’ detachment could handle at least five times its number in orcs – maybe ten.”

Jaerd stepped between the mage and the globe, his eyes tracing the northern parts of his home continent. “What if there is more than that?”

Sipping again from his mug, Magus Britt gazed out the window. For a long moment he said nothing, his lips pursed as if the ale tasted too bitter. “Boris will lead them back here, and we will smash them with the new toys you and Maester Goldmar are building.” The Battlemage turned to stare at Jaerd. “How goes that project, by the way?”

Jaerd pointed at the tray. “That was part of the reason I sought you out bearing gifts. I heard you talking with Boris about a special, highly explosive form of Quickfire. Does it have something to do with that wagon full of naphthous sulfite we brought with us?”

“Yes.” The mage’s face perked up. “It can be made quite concussive when formulated by a powerful Fire mage.” He lifted his head in pride. “I just happen to be one.”

Jaerd smiled. “Well, I spoke to Tarrak about all the pot metal he has lying around…”

W
hen the sun drifted from its height, a slight breeze picked up, cooling the perspiration on Jaerd’s brow. He leaned against a battlement, watching the wind scoop up swirls of dust as it whipped down the approach to the gate. Working day and night for the last few weeks along the front wall, they had placed ten new turrets, each built of heavy oak beams and dwarf-cut stone. Scorpions that fired three, yard-long shafts at once sat mounted in each turret.

Casting his gaze up the slope at the secondary gate, he realized how much more formidable it was.
Tarrak said it is far older. I guess they really don’t quite build them like they once did.

A squad of men dug about underneath the foundations of the interior walls. They scurried in and out of man-sized holes that bored into the solid stone.

“What are they doing there?” Jaerd asked of Captain Dercester, a Bluecloak engineer who had served at Highspur for nearly a decade. “Are those boltholes if the forward wall falls?”

“Aye.” The man in the brown-trimmed cloak nodded. He looked at the towering fortress above them. “When this outer wall was added, fifteen thousand men stood garrison here. Now, even with the men you brought, we are lucky to have seven.” The grizzle faced engineer spat off the edge of the wall, watching the gobbet fall to the distant ground. “The Empire of Hadon has barely two hundred men here. The elves and dwarves little more. Saria hasn’t sent a delegation for nearly a century, though I suppose that might be because their Union doesn’t really exist any more.” Dercester shrugged, clacking his tongue. “This front wall cannot be held if they send the kind of numbers against it you keep warning me about. It’s why we keep the trebuchets and most of the catapults posted on the inner wall.”

Jaerd lifted his eyebrow. “So it is customary to abandon the outer wall in the event of a siege?”

The captain spat again. “Nothing is customary. There hasn’t been a siege of Highspur in over a century. I’m just telling you what can and cannot be done.”

Folding his arms in thought, Jaerd looked at the gate towers above him.
Look at all that stone – the weight of it.
He stared at the newly finished turrets and noticed how small the men crawling about them looked.
And those scorpions would be turned around on us. The wall will give them cover – a raised platform to fire upon the inner wall.
The kernel of an idea sprouted in his mind. “I need to talk to Magus Britt again.”

“Rider coming!” Lieutenant Kent Varlan waved down to Jaerd from his perch atop the gate tower. “It’s one of our outriders!”

“Damn.” Jaerd pounded his fist on the stone battlement. “I hoped it would be the dispatch courier from Boris.”

The front portcullis lifted with a squeak of heavy iron, and a rider in the mottled Fadecloak of a Bluecloak ranger trotted in.
.
Trotting down the steps along the inner side of the wall, Jaerd returned the scout’s salute.

“An armed force approaches along the southern road, sir. You’re not gonna believe who it is.”

Jaerd heard a distant horn echo off the shoulders of Highspur. “I don’t recognize that call. Who comes, man?”

“Dwarves, sir. Hundreds of them.”

Grabbing his cast-off tunic, Jaerd pushed the scout toward the inner gate. “Take your message to the bastion. I will meet our new friends.”

The buttons on his tunic fought him as he marched toward the main gate. Dust from his work clung to the blue wool.
They arrive unannounced, they can expect a little informality.