Sacrifice (Book 4) (32 page)

“It would be best to preserve the horses,” Maewen counseled. “They will give you no advantage against the birds. Hide them in houses and alleys. Do it quickly.”

“My Lord Kildan,” the Baron objected. “I see no need to. . .”

“Just do it,” Gerand said, dismounting his horse. “I’ve long since learned not to argue with someone who is over two hundred years old.”

Maewen nodded appreciatively as Gerand gave the order to the rest of his reluctant knights, finding himself needing to put a little angry fire in his commands to get the soldiers to respond with the proper celerity.

“Now listen!” Gerand yelled, raising his voice over the swelling shriek of the birds. “Lord Mikmir encountered these birds when he stood against Mikkik. Do not think of attack first. Use your shields to keep them away from exposed flesh. Their beaks wound like long daggers, and if you are stabbed, you must treat the wound immediately. There is something foul in their beaks that makes a wound bleed long and hard. A puncture cannot be neglected.

“Now, gather your courage! These are but birds that can be defeated if you are disciplined and careful. You will face worse in the coming days. Most importantly, do not flail wildly at them. If you have a clear chance to kill one, take a sure stroke, but it is most important to weather this assault without injury!”

No sooner had he given the advice than the dark cloud of the flock rose over the outer wall to their right and dove downward toward Harband’s men. A volley of arrows took a small toll on the birds, but the mighty swarm pelted downward below the roof line. The yells of men and the terrified screaming of horses echoed down the streets, and the birds burst again into the sky, flying low and driving down again in a different spot, spreading themselves farther apart from each other.

An armored horse, riderless and eyes wild, galloped in a frenzy toward Gerand. Blood ran in streams down its flanks and belly from several puncture wounds leaving a red trail on the road. A single bird clung to the horse’s head with sharp talons, and with a thrust of its own head drove its beak through the horse’s skull and into its brain. The animal collapsed, the bird taking flight until an arrow speeding from Maewen’s bow brought it down.

Gerand regarded his soldiers, sweating and nervous to a man. Give them a line of Aughmerian soldiers, and they would all lick their lips at the chance for battle; throw a flock of Mikkik’s birds at them and they were shaking. Every eye scanned upward for the dark fowl peppering the sky and then disappearing just as quickly. Gerand hoped to escape their notice altogether, but such luck did not attend them.

“Prepare!” Maewen yelled, the men pulling their shields close. Gerand stepped close to Maewen, who had nothing with which to protect herself. She didn’t refuse his aid, and then the birds were upon them. The pounding wings hammered them as the demonic birds descended upon them in a cloud of fury. Beaks and sharp talons whined against protective shields and armor, and curses and gasps of pain from the wounded mingled with the horrible cries of the birds.

“Damnable things!” Baron Rikken yelled, swiping the air with his broadsword, cleaving a bird in two, but one of its companions streaked down and avenged it, beak sinking into the Baron’s eye. Dropping his shield, the Baron fell hard to the ground and rolled over onto his stomach, two more birds taking advantage of the exposed backs of his legs. Gerand batted them away with his sword, a bird slashing down and grinding against his arm greave before leaping away.

The birds rose as one and departed to terrorize some other part of the city, and while only seconds had passed, Gerand felt weary. How could he lead men against such a foe? The safest move seemed to be to abandon their posts and get inside the dwellings and buildings around them, but he feared that was what Mikkik wanted so he could sneak some other horror inside the walls with no defense prepared. They bound the wounded quickly. A pool of blood gathered around Baron Rikken’s stricken eye. Despite Maewen’s quick ministrations, he died in minutes.

“How can such a thing be fought?” Gerand muttered under his breath.

Maewen heard him anyway. “Gen said that one of the creatures hosts the spirit that controls the rest. He told me he used Mynmagic to locate it when he fought Hekka Dhron, but we have no such aid now. We must endure it and exact what vengeance we can upon it.”

“It will sap the morale of the men.”

“Morale is your responsibility,” Maewen said, patting him on the shoulder.

Gerand ground his teeth. His morale wasn’t particularly firm at the moment, and he didn’t have much to offer other than to be with his men. In the respite from the attack, he wandered among them, trying to sound confident and in command, but he felt like a child when he looked into the weathered and battle-scarred faces of the more seasoned warriors around him.
Any one of them would be better at this than I am,
he thought. In a moment of idle reflection he wondered if the Chukkas even bothered to check on their Uyumaak charges after a battle, and that’s when the thought struck him.

“Maewen!” he yelled, running back toward the front. “Come with me!”

Gerand gave command of the men to one of his knight lieutenants, and he and Maewen ran forward toward the walls, wary of the erratic rise and fall of the birds.

“What are we doing?” Maewen asked.

“There are two kinds of Kings when it comes to war,” Gerand began. “One is the kind who loves his men and rides with them into battle. The other dwells on his own importance and sits back and commands others into battle while he sits back and surveys and executes strategy.”

“How does that help us now?”

“I’m not sure it will, but it’s worth a chance,” Gerand said. “I’m guessing the Dhrons are led by the latter kind of King that wouldn’t risk himself in the thick of a fight. We need the vantage point of the walls.”

They jogged to the left, where chiseled stone stairs led to the top of the outer wall that looked eastward over the city. Nearly all the men had hunkered down behind its fortifications to wait out the attack of Sethra Dhron. The dust from Mikkik’s approaching army rose in the afternoon sun, his army coming ever closer to the abandoned lower city. A Captain Eagen joined Gerand and Maewen as they crested the wall.

“What do you need?” the Captain asked, looking frightened.

“Just a look about,” Gerand answered. “Maewen, use those elven eyes and look to the sky. Can you see any bird not with its fellows?”

The three of them scanned the skies, Gerand keeping half an eye on the flock still rising and falling from place to place, leaving screams and curses in its wake. From the height of the walls, Gerand spotted horses running rampant through the streets and men diving indoors to get away from the assault. Blood ran in the grooves of the cobbled roads, the men’s hemorrhaging wounds resisting all attempts to staunch them.

“There!” Maewen said, unlimbering her bow.

Gerand followed her gaze. To his eyes, it was just a speck of black against the smoke and dust, but there, hovering on the wind, was a single bird. “Can you hit it?”

“It is a tricky shot with the distance and the wind. . .” she said, bow creaking as she pulled it back. Gerand held his breath as she sized up the shot and then loosed the arrow, bowstring singing. They followed the arrow into the sky. Upward it went into the dust and wind, almost impossible to see. To Gerand, the faint spot jerked ever so imperceptibly, but then it tumbled downward, wounded.

“I hit its wing,” Maewen said, disappointed. She lined up another shot as is spiraled down, but the jerky movements of its descent helped it avoid the killing shot, and it fell behind a nearby house. The flock of birds behind them continued its bloody work, but a group broke off from the main swarm.

“I’ve got to get down there!” Gerand yelled. He peered over the twenty foot drop. A house rose from the street, its roof ten feet below. Without taking time to think it through, he stepped up onto a crenellation.

“What are you doing?!” Maewen exclaimed.

“Cover me!”

Bending his legs, he leapt outward with all of his strength, aiming for the shake-shingled roof below. While he intended to land in the middle of the sloped side, the weight of his armor and shield rendered his leap much shorter than he had envisioned. He impacted with the lower eave of the roof shield-first, sending a numbing shock up his arm. Grunting, he slid down and landed on a decorative wooden planter not intended to take the weight of an armored man. It gave way in a splintering crack, soil and flowers and wood accompanying him to slam into a small gable over a window. He hit the ground with enough force to take the wind out of his lungs. Bruised and battered he scrambled to his feet and ran for the spot where he had seen the bird fall.

“They’re coming!” Maewen shouted.

The birds screeched and flapped close behind him. Churning his legs with everything he had, Gerand sprinted around a corner, birds wheeling behind him. There on the ground he saw it, a single bird hobbled and hopping away from him. Gritting his teeth he bowled after it. The small flock of birds engulfed him, their beating wings and shrieks deafening. To his surprise, they did not attack, but passed him to land about their wounded comrade in an attempt to confuse him as to which one held Sethra Dhron’s mind. But Gerand knew his target, and with a leap he came down shield-first among the small gathering of birds, a satisfying crunch rewarding his efforts while his arm took another painful shock.

The birds that could still fly exploded away like crows scared out of a cornfield by the barking of a dog. Gerand rolled over and found the sky filled with a disorderly scattering of birds fleeing masterless in every direction. Coming to a crouch, he looked down at the pulverized remains of Sethra Dhron.
One horror down,
he thought.

Taking a couple of moments just to breathe, he stood and walked back to the walls, trying to rub and roll his left arm back into shape. As he cleared the building a great shout and applause rose from the men on the wall, Maewen staring down with a barely perceptible grin on her face.

“Your wife would not approve!” she yelled. “You are a crazy fool of a man!”

“That’s
Duke
Crazy Fool of a Man, if you please!”

The Chalaine’s hand went to her mouth as she stared through the gates of Elde Luri Mora. Everything inviting about the city had gone, the entire island a ruined waste. The plants had not just withered and died, they appeared rotten, like spoiled fruit, black and covered in thick clumps of mold. The lake, once clear and blue, now looked sterile and black, corrupted and befouled. The white buildings, while having lost their splendor to a dusty dinginess that clung to them, still stuck out against the decay all about them.

Worse, however, the lands all around Elde Luri Mora struggled to live, trees and grass wilted despite the mildness of the summer, and what wildlife they saw moved listlessly, if it moved at all. The entire world was falling under a withering lethargy that all in their party could feel wrapping its weight about them every mile closer they came to the stricken city.

The Chalaine latched onto Gen, finding his face wrenched in sadness. They had speculated that the destruction of Elde Luri Mora would ruin the world, and every step toward the dead city bore witness to it. The effect was spreading. The city had to be restored to its glory and beauty, and they could not delay. But knowing what had to be done had not helped them conjure up a way to do it, and Gen appeared more concerned every day. That she had to bleed, they knew. Where and how much remained a mystery.

The journey had favored them with good fortune for the most part. The Church had not impeded their progress through the Portals, and Sir Tornus’s ruse to draw away Mikkik’s forces had left their trail empty of foes. Having Gen with her helped her stay calm enough to sleep, though she was pretty sure that all her stealth had failed to conceal from the five knights that accompanied them that she sneaked into Gen’s tent every night—and didn’t come out. What they might think of her, she could hardly care. She knew she was Gen’s wife and resolved never to pass through the night without him.

“We should be about it,” Joranne said. “It is late afternoon . . . I think. The haze is just as thick here.”

Gen nodded, wearing his worry openly, and pushed the tall gate open. They led their horses forward toward the cracked bridge at a slow pace, the deadness of the place calling forth an instinctual wariness. But they had hardly stepped inside when the skin on their bodies started to desiccate and turn gray. The horses whined and became restless. Only Joranne seemed unaffected.