Throne of Llewyllan (Book 2) (17 page)

The guard stood at attention. “Should I blow reveille, sir?”

“If you do before dawn,” said Kendril, “the Jogarthi will know you’re on to them. Every barbarian within a mile will be on this camp quicker than you can blink.”

Lord Whitmore glared at Kendril, but nodded to the guard. “No trumpet, Sergeant. Send men around tent to tent.”

“Yes, sir.” The guard saluted, then left the tent quickly.

“Dawn is just an hour or so away,” said Kendril quickly. “There’s a good chance the Jogarthi might attack then.”

Lord Whitmore lifted a finger. “Don’t mistake me, Ghostwalker. I don’t know if I believe your story or not.” He turned, and gestured to a nearby servant to bring him his clothes. “So I intend to see for myself.”

The sky in the east began to turn the softest of grays as the camp bustled into action.

Men grabbed their pikes, strapping on breastplates in the cold morning air. Regimental flags were hoisted as the troops quickly assembled into lines. There was little cavalry, but the troopers that there were quickly loaded and checked their pistols, slapped their rapiers to their sides and formed up into squadrons.

Lord Whitmore himself came out of his tent in full battle dress, long buffed greaves on his legs and an armored breastplate on his chest. On the surface of the fine Balneth steel breastplate was etched the image of a peacock surrounded on all sides by a long rose-covered vine. An open-faced helmet covered his head, though his long golden hair wisped out from underneath the back. He mounted his horse, and rode across the camp towards the small company of Royal Guards that awaited him.

Kendril watched the nobleman go, frowning as he sat on top of Simon.

“Things seem to be going splendidly,” remarked Maklavir brightly. “The whole camp is forming up.”

The Ghostwalker shook his head. “Forming up won’t be enough.” He glanced over at the eastern sky, which was paling with the rising sun. “We have to get out of this valley.”

Kara rode up beside them, keeping her hood pulled low over her face. “Why?”

In the distance there was a brief flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder echoed over the low hills. A few drops scattered to the ground as the steady patter of rain started up again.

Kendril motioned to the bustling camp. “The terrain here is too uneven. The slopes are too steep, and there are too many rocks. There’s no way that three regiments could keep formation here, especially under attack.” He glanced up at the hills on either side, their dark forms stretching up towards the bluish-black sky. “If Lord Whitmore doesn’t take the high ground quickly, this camp will be the scene of a massacre.”

Maklavir glanced over as several soldiers ran past, matchlock muskets slung over their shoulders. “Shouldn’t you tell Lord Whitmore, then?”

“I already tried,” Kendril said blithely. “He’s not listening to me anymore.”

The captain of the Royal Guards saluted Lord Whitmore as he rode up. Rain dripped down the side of his helmet. “The Royal Guard awaits your command, General.”

Lord Whitmore adjusted one of the straps on his breastplate, and looked over the fifty men on horseback before him.

A sudden creeping doubt entered his mind once again as he remembered Bathsby’s conversation with him the previous day. For a company of Royal Guard to accompany a small force on a mission of simple pacification was highly unusual, to say the least. Bathsby had said that he had sent the Guards along for their own good, but could there be another, more sinister motive…?

He shook off the thought. First things first. He had to see if the Ghostwalker’s tale was accurate, or if there was some darker design at work.

Whitmore glanced behind him. The camp was moving quickly into motion. The campfires were being dashed out right and left. Spurts of steam and smoke rose in the falling rain.

In the growing morning light he could see the Dragon banner of Colonel Fielding’s regiment flapping in the wind, surrounded by the half-armored pikemen and musketeers and crossbowmen in their bright scarlet uniforms.

Behind them and a bit to the right Mulcher’s regiment was forming up, though it had little room to deploy on the sloping valleyside. Between both these regiments on the far side of the camp was Whitmore’s own regiment, hastily being formed by his second-in-command, Lieutenant Colonel Lasinger. Just like Mulcher’s regiment, the men were struggling to maintain a coherent organization amongst the wet boulders and uneven ground.

Whitmore looked back over the men in front of him, his stomach tightening. He suddenly wished that Lord Bathsby were here. It was one thing to take orders, but quite another thing to give them.

There was another rumble of thunder as he looked down the valley before them. The crest of a tall hill loomed about half a mile to the right, just visible beyond the end of the ravine.

Whitmore wiped the rain from the brim of his helmet, and turned towards the captain. “Let’s make for that hill, Captain. I want a look around.”

Kendril watched in silence as Lord Whitmore and the Royal Guard company began to ride towards the large hill in the distance.

Raindrops pelted the ground and tents around him in an ever-increasing tempo as the brooding clouds overhead moved closer. Wind rippled through the tall grass, whistling sharply as it tore around the edges of nearby boulders.

“We have to do something,” said Joseph.

Kendril said nothing. His dark eyes were on the distant figure of Lord Whitmore.

Joseph turned his horse around. His greatcoat was soaked with rain. “Kendril?”

There was another flash of lightning, followed seconds later by a roar of thunder that boomed across the breadth of the camp.

Around them the Llewyllian soldiers continued to struggle into position. The shouting voices of sergeants rose above the rattle of weaponry and the sloshing of feet in the mud.

Through the driving rain Lord Whitmore and the Royal Guard entered the narrow nape of the valley, moving into a column formation.

Kendril sat on his mule as if paralyzed, his eyes following the group of men.

And then, all at the same time, they heard it. A low, wailing noise rose above the sound of the wind and rain. It had an eerie tinge to it that sent chills up their backs, as if the spirits of the dead were crying out together all at once.

 Lord Whitmore and the Royal Guards halted, looking around them in confusion.

“What in Eru’s name is that?” said Maklavir, looking around nervously at the hills to either side.

The wailing noise increased, joined by a steady drumbeat that seemed to echo off every rock and ravine in the valley. A chanting in some horrible language filled the air, harsh and unfamiliar to their ears.

The troops standing idly in formation tensed, gripping their weapons and scanning the hilltops above them with sudden fear.

And then, like ghosts from out of the ground, a line of armed men appeared on the top of the valley first to the right, and then to the left. They chanted incessantly, their drummers beating a staccato beat as they marched forward.

Above their heads, against the early light of the dawn sky, flew the tattered banner of a raven, its black fabric glistening in the pounding rain. The pale gleam of morning glinted off huge double-handed swords, battle-axes, and spears too numerous to count.

There had to be thousands of them. All with blood in their eyes, and all of them raving for battle.

“Now we die,” said Kendril.

Chapter 11

Kara galloped up, her bow in her hand. A full quiver of arrows that she had managed to acquire somewhere in the camp jangled across her back. She pulled her horse to a stop, her hood up against the rain.

“We’re trapped!” she shouted to Joseph and Maklavir. There was a sudden flash of lightning, followed by a crashing of thunder that caused the horses to jump with fright. Kara struggled to control her mount. “They’re on both sides of the valley.”

Maklavir drew his sword with shaking hands and mumbled a hurried prayer under his breath.

The soldiers jostled and turned, the fear showing on their faces. Sergeants and lieutenants shouted out orders, beating men back into line. A line of pikes came up within each of the regiments, clacking and bristling as the wooden stocks collided with each other.

Like fireflies dozens of matchcords flickered in the falling rain as musketeers attempted to light their weapons. Cursing was heard up and down the line as cords sputtered and went out, doused by the wind and falling water. Hundreds of crossbows were bent back and locked into position, their strings humming as they were stretched into place.

The wailing began again, howling over the darkened valley and the struggling regiments.

Maklavir’s face went white as a ghost. “What is that exactly?” he stammered.

“Bagpipes,” said Kendril. His face didn’t turn. “They’re trying to unnerve us.”

Kara strung her bow. “Then they’re doing a good job.”

Joseph turned his head away from the Llewyllian regiments, and looked over at the Ghostwalker beside him. “They’ll all be killed, Kendril!”

He didn’t move, his eyes staring straight ahead from underneath his black hood.

Without warning, Joseph reached over, and slapped the Ghostwalker hard across the face.

Kendril jumped, and wrenched his head around in anger.

“I didn’t come out here to die, Kendril,” Joseph roared. He grabbed the Ghostwalker by the lapel of his cloak. “And neither did you. You know what to do here. I
know
you do. Now stop moping in self-pity or whatever it is that you’re doing, and
do something
!”

Kendril’s eyes blazed. His cheek stung red where Joseph struck him. “Lord Whitmore’s in command here,” he shot back. “Not me. I—”

There was another loud wailing noise that echoed over the valley, followed by the thunderous noise of drums. From the line of barbarians several women came forth, wearing animal skins and deer antlers on their heads. They began cutting themselves with knifes and sharp flints, screeching obscenities to the skies above. There was another burst of nearly simultaneous thunder and lightning.

“Lord Whitmore doesn’t know what he’s doing,” shouted Joseph. “
You do
. Now do
something
or we’re all going to die!”

Kendril’s face twisted in fury for a moment. He opened his mouth to respond.

Before he could Lord Whitmore’s regiment, alone on the far side of the encampment, collapsed.

The soldiers, already struggling to form into lines, and unnerved by the screeching mob on the valley rim above them, began to disintegrate. Pikes were tossed to the ground as men began to scatter, tearing off their buff coats and breastplates. Some ran screaming, covering their ears with their hands.

Lasinger rode up and down the crumbling line, waving his sword and shouting at the men to stand their ground.

Above them on the valley crest the barbarian line gave a terrifying shout, then surged forward, their warriors gibbering for blood.

Lord Whitmore’s regimental banner toppled, then fell to the grass, trampled in the mud by the fleeing men. On the other side of the valley crest the barbarians gave their kinsmen an answering shout. With a blare of bagpipes and rolling of drums they attacked as well, hurtling down the steep slope toward the other two regiments in the valley below.

Joseph stared, his mouth open.

In the space of a heartbeat something seemed to snap in Kendril’s eyes. “If that regiment breaks the others will be caught in the rear. Let’s
move
!” He spun, and kicked Simon into an unsteady gallop.

Startled by the sudden change in their companion, Joseph, Kara, and Maklavir obeyed, lunging their horses into action.

Lord Whitmore had just enough time to draw his rapier before the barbarians attacked, crashing down into the narrow ravine where he was.

The Royal Guards reacted instantly, pulling out pistols and drawing rapiers with a fierce battle cry. Their horses reared in confusion, pawing the air as the barbarians surged forward with bagpipes droning.

A few arrows whistled through the air, and next to Lord Whitmore’s side a rider fell with a shaft protruding from his chest. The man’s horse cantered off, riderless.

A sudden panic seized Whitmore and spread through his body until he couldn’t move.

Around him came the screams and cries of dying men. Pistol shots began to crack off in rapid succession.

The Jogarthi swept in amongst the horses, slashing and pulling at the riders while howling curses in their dark tongue.

The Royal Guards fought back furiously, slashing and hacking down at the enemy with the edges of their rapiers.

Whitmore watched it all, his body frozen.

Kendril had been right, he realized with a horrific thrill.

They were all going to die.

Simon lurched to a stop, and brayed irritably as Kendril whipped out his sword, holding it aloft. He tore back his hood, rain spattering against his raised arm and head.

Kara came up beside him, her bow out and ready.

In front of them was the remains of Lord Whitmore’s regiment, broken and fleeing through the tents of the camp. Behind the scattered soldiers the barbarians were streaming down the hill, waving battle-axes and double-handed swords as they came.

On the top of the valley crest the barbarian women continued to scream supplications to the skies above as the howling mass descended onto the camp below.

Kendril charged forward. He grabbed a fleeing man by the shoulder and wrenched him around.

The sputtering soldier lashed the Ghostwalker’s arm away. “Let me go!” he screamed. He stumbled in the mud.

Kendril punched the man hard in the face and knocked him to the ground. He whirled, then snatched another man and yanked him back. “Form a line!” he yelled, pushing him back. “
Now
!”

Kara and Maklavir rode up.

They stared at the Ghostwalker in amazement. Rain and mud spattered his face, but there was a look of fire in his eyes.