The Grand Design (69 page)

“You and what’s left of your army can catch up with us. But yes, I intend to drive straight on to Eneas. He will see us from Gray Tower and surrender, I’m sure. And if not …” Vorto sighed with pleasure. “So much the better. I will kill him, and all his wretched birds.” Then he crossed himself and closed his eyes. “For God,” he added. “We do it for God.”

Colonel Kye returned with two plates of food. One plate, heaped high with beans and meat, he handed to the general as he sat down. Vorto took up his spoon and began shoveling the hot stew down his throat with remarkable speed, hardly pausing to breathe. After a minute of non-stop eating, he let out an enormous belch. Enli grimaced, disgusted with the company. Not all these Narens were like Vorto, but Enli could still see killing them. Without remorse, he thought of his lead raven in the trees above, and how on the morrow Dragon’s Beak would be his. If Grath and the other mercenaries were waiting for him as planned, and if Nicabar had managed to get his dreadnoughts into position, then the day would be interesting indeed.

Drive to Gray Tower, Vorto
, thought Enli happily.
Nicabar will see you there.

Vorto was such a perfect fool.

The next morning, at the first hint of dawn, Enli gathered Faren and the others and made ready for the trip across the border. They would ride just beyond the woods to the village of Larn, where, hopefully, Grath and the mercenaries would be waiting for them. Enli shook off his nervousness as he mounted his horse, desperate to be gone from the camp. The next time he saw the general, he would be a corpse.

“Don’t wait for us,” Enli told Vorto as he settled into his saddle. “Take your men and head for Gray Tower. We’ll catch up. There may not be many of us, but we’ll be there.”

“Come when you can,” Vorto agreed. “We’ll try to save something for you.”

For a brief second Enli stared into Vorto’s eyes, searching for one reason not to kill the man. He found nothing. Vorto stared back at him with a kind of confusion.

“You look afraid, Enli,” he observed. “Do not be. We will win your land for you.”

The duke smirked. “Yes,” he said softly. “Thank you, General.”

Enli reined his horse around and rode off, his fellows of Dragon’s Beak following. They plunged into the still-dark morning, taking the road toward their homeland and heading toward the south fork, Enli’s own fork, where Grath and the Dorians would be waiting for them. None of them spoke as they rode, but Enli could feel the glee of his men, all of them eager to be away from the Narens and to join with their hired brothers. Enli wanted to laugh, but he let only an unseen smile creep beneath his red beard, and when they had ridden for long minutes and were deep in the
forest, Enli brought his horse to a sudden stop. Faren and the others did the same. Enli looked over his shoulder and saw nothing but dark forest behind him. Listening, he heard nothing. Satisfied, he gazed heavenward, putting two fingers in his mouth and whistling.

“Cackle!” he cried. “Come to me, my friend. It’s safe now!”

His eyes scanned the dark canopy of branches and the spots of sky peeking through. Long seconds passed. His men began to murmur. But Enli was confident, and in a moment a black speck wheeled overhead, becoming ever larger as it spiraled down. Duke Enli thrust out his arm, summoning the creature. Cackle swooped down in a graceful arc, alighting on his master. When he saw Enli’s red-bearded grin, the raven laughed.

“Master,” it cawed. “Home!”

“Home indeed, my friend,” declared the duke. With his free hand he took up the raven and brought it to his face, gazing into its onyx eyes. “You’ve done well, my beautiful bird,” he crooned. “Tell me the others are ready for me. What of my army of the air?”

The raven bobbed its head, its awkward signal for “yes.”

“Then we ride,” Enli declared. He put the bird on his shoulder and turned to his men. “For Larn, lads. And be quick, like the wind.”

Quick they were, riding hard in the growing light, racing down the narrow forest road toward the south fork. There were farms and villages nearby, but Larn was the closest, and as they thundered through the dawn Enli’s heart raced, hoping that Grath had indeed bested the troops of his brother and cleared the way for Vorto’s run to Gray Tower.

We will drive him to the ocean
, thought Enli.
We will drive him there and destroy him!

Nicabar’s dreadnoughts would do the rest. Trapped between the naval guns and the army of the air, Vorto’s battalion would be decimated.

“Ride, lads,” urged the duke. “We race against time.”

The sun was fully up when at last the riders reached the village of Larn. It was a tiny community of farmers and smiths, all nested together in small stone houses. At this time of year, with the cold and snow, Larn was a sleepy bump in the road, barely alive in the choking winter. Enli knew it was the perfect place to hide his army. Being so close to the border, they could strike at the north fork in an hour. As they rode into Larn, Enli called out for his mercenaries.

“Grath!” he shouted. “We are here. We are here!”

He saw his hired soldiers, waiting impatiently on horseback in the center of the village. The people of Larn had shuttered themselves in their homes, giving the warriors full run of their village. There were at least three hundred of them, milling around aimlessly. They were a cruel-looking lot, and in their eclectic armor they seemed like a fractured mosaic of colors and metal, a sea of unruly barbarians. Long spears glinted in the new morning sun and unshaven faces laughed, and when they saw the approaching duke, the mercenaries hardly stirred to attention. Enli raced up to them, looking around for their leader.

“Where’s Grath?” he barked. “Tell me!”

Some of the duke’s own men, who were mixing within the throng, trotted over quickly to greet him. Yarlyle, a dragon soldier of Red Tower, led the procession. He looked gaunt and worried. Enli glared at him.

“What is it, Yarlyle?” he growled. “What’s wrong?”

“My Duke, I’m sorry,” the soldier stammered. “Grath isn’t here. He is …” Yarlyle frowned. “Dead, sir.”

“Dead?” blurted Enli. “How?”

“Killed in the fighting?” asked Faren.

“No, sir,” said Yarlyle. He addressed Faren directly, who was his superior. “Not in the fighting. He was killed by the beasts, we think. The ravens.”

Enli fell back in his saddle with a groan. “Explain it all to me,” he ordered. “Quickly, man. I want answers!”

Yarlyle explained how the mercenaries had subdued the north fork. As per Enli’s orders, the town of Westwind and all of Eneas’ troops had been slaughtered.

“So?” said Enli. “This is good news. What happened to Grath?”

Yarlyle grimaced. “My Duke, I’m sorry, but …”

“What?”

“Your daughter,” said the man shakily. “Nina. Grath and some others took her to Gray Tower. They did not return.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did Enli’s jaw fell open with a moan. “Nina?” he gasped. “My Nina?”

“Sir …”

“Nina! Oh, God, God!” groaned Enli, balling up a fist. It was unthinkable. Faren and the others were speaking, trying to comfort him, but he heard their words as if through a fog.

“You’re sure?” he managed. “You have seen her dead?”

“I have not,” said Yarlyle. “But truly, it is impossible for her to have lived. The ravens—”

“No!” Enli railed. “They would not have harmed her if Cackle was with her!” He turned angrily toward the bird. “Tell me,” he demanded. “Where is Nina, Cackle? Does she live?”

The mention of Nina’s name made the raven dance excitedly. “Nina!” he cawed. “Alive! Alive!”

Enli held his breath. Alive! Cackle would know, surely. And if she were alive, there was only one place she could be.

“Good Lord,” Duke Enli cried. “Gray Tower.”

General Vorto rode at the front of his thousand-man column, resplendent in his armor and newly shaved head. On his back rested his giant war-axe, and in his heart was the need for blood. Colonel Kye rode in silence next to him, brooding over the cold, and beside the colonel trotted a standard-bearer, a proud young man bearing aloft the Light of God, high and white so everyone could see. The sound of snorting horses and clanking armor filled the air, and Vorto could hear the reassuring, grinding din of the war wagons as they rolled forward on their metal tracks. They had set out an hour ago and were making steady progress, having already crossed the border into Dragon’s Beak. A peculiar calm lay before them, making the general uneasy. This was the one real road into the north fork. He was sure the inhabitants had spotted them by now. They hadn’t reached a homestead yet, but their numbers were too big to conceal, and General Vorto frowned a little in the biting wind.

“We should ride ahead,” suggested Kye. “Find out what’s waiting for us. Or else wait for Enli to return. He knows the terrain better.”

“Look around, Kye,” said Vorto. “There’s nothing here to threaten us. We go on.”

“General, I think—”

“I don’t care what you think, Kye. Really, I don’t.” Vorto didn’t like being questioned, especially by Kye, who lately was less loyal than he should be. The general was beginning to think his aide a coward. “We don’t need Enli and his dregs. And it looks to me like the fighting’s stopped on its own, damn it all to hell.”

Kye wasn’t convinced. “It’s winter,” he reminded his superior. “Wars like this aren’t fought in the winter. Perhaps they’ve called a truce until spring. Or perhaps they’ve seen us, and are laying a trap.”

“A trap? With what? Eneas has maybe two hundred men. Probably half that now from the fighting. You worry too much, Colonel. We ride on.”

Colonel Kye looked over his shoulder. Their numbers were vast indeed, enough to easily crush Eneas’ troops. Yet there was real fear in Kye’s expression, and it soured Vorto to see it. The general sighed bitterly, turning on his aide.

“Tell me, Colonel,” he said. “What worries you? The ravens?”

“Yes,” Kye replied. “And the quiet.”

“We carry the Light of God into battle, Kye. Have faith. God will protect us.”

“I prefer the protection of my sword, General.”

Vorto laughed. “I wear no helmet because I fear nothing, Colonel Kye. I am protected by Heaven. You should have that kind of faith.”

“I have instinct,” Kye argued. “That serves me well enough, sir.”

“Faith, Kye,” repeated Vorto. “Faith.”

They rode on in silence, and the column behind them ground forward. A snow began to fall, adding to their misery. Slowly at first, it soon quickened into a white fog that whipped at their faces and speckled the road. The horses snorted and greegans honked, but Vorto’s legion didn’t grumble or complain. The general stuck his face into the wind, smiling.

They are the best
, he reminded himself proudly.
They will do as expected.

But when the snow began to thicken, Vorto himself grumbled. His head was burning from the cold, and Kye was periodically blowing into his hands, trying to warm them. They would need shelter if the storm kept up. Should they stop and make camp? the general wondered. He bit down hard on the notion. No. There was work to do, and do it they would, and so they continued to ride, though the road became slick, and soon they were in a clearing rolling with hills and dotted on the horizon by shabby homesteads and farms. Again Vorto thought to stop, but a happy exclamation from Kye changed his mind.

“There, sir,” said the colonel. “Look.”

Vorto peered through the wind-blown snow. Across the hills, far off in the distance, stood what looked like a village. From his vantage the place looked decrepit and old, but it was shelter from the storm, and the sight of the village lightened Vorto’s mood. He brought up his hand and ordered his column forward.

“Ride with me, Colonel,” the general ordered, then spurred his horse on faster, eager to learn what the village could teach him. Colonel Kye snapped his reins and chased after his leader, and soon the pair were far ahead of the others, dashing through the storm toward the collection of broken homes and storefronts. Vorto knew that the people of the village had seen them by now. He expected to find peasants waiting for him when he reached the village, gawking at him in the middle of the avenues. But when he and Colonel Kye rode into the outskirts of the village, he saw no one. Not a single soul was there to greet him, and all the windows of all the shops were tightly shuttered. Vorto suddenly pulled in his reins, abruptly halting his charger. Something in the streets disturbed him.

“What is it?” Kye asked, bringing his own steed to a stop beside Vorto’s.

The general stared very hard at the village and its avenues of dirt and gravel, scanning it all with a practiced eye. The snow hadn’t been falling very long and still left uncovered patches of earth beneath his feet. There were hundreds of hoof marks in the dirt all around him, the telltale marks of hard riding. And the eerie quiet of the homes spoke to him loudly, reminding him of Goth. He looked around, studying the buildings. There were people inside them, watching him, fearing him.

“They’ve seen us,” he told Kye. “Even now they watch us.”