The Southern Trail (Book 4) (18 page)

Chapter 14

Marco sat with his eyes closed.  He could have lifted his lids to open them, but the absolute darkness of the cellar room at night made the effort fruitless.  Until his guards arrived, he would choose to do nothing.  He wanted to be at peace, to feel the peace that Ophiuchus had given him.

“Thank you Lord,” he whispered the prayer.  The spirit was still with him in the power of the sword, just as Iasco was with him in the power in his hand.  Even Diotima, the spirit that he hardly knew, was an ally on his journey.  There was a plentitude of holy power working on his behalf, and he had confidence that something would occur to see him through the troubles that the morning trial was intended to bring.

He was sitting in peace, his breath coming steadily, wondering if his guards had gotten lost somehow.  He sensed that an unusual length of time had passed since Serch and his partner had left, and he tried to think back, in the hopes that he could estimate the amount of time the shift change was taking.  He had come deeper into the cellar after the guards had left, and sat, then killed the rat, then sat again.  He had thought through a number of things, and he realized that far too much time had passed.  Varsen would not allow him to go unguarded for so long.

Perhaps his guards had gotten lost, or gotten injured in the ruins, Marco considered.  He stood up, then lit one of the torches, using the energy from his hand.  It felt comforting to use the power again.  He held the smoky torch high and off to the side, then started walking the length of the cellar corridor, and up the cleared stairs.

When he reached the top of the stairs he stopped.  The sky was clear overhead, and a thick band of stars was shining, but Marco failed to notice.  Instead, his attention was caught by the sound of swords clashing, men screaming, and a noisy battle taking place out in the open plaza in front of the ruined palace he occupied.

“Sword, come here!  Hurry!” he spoke aloud in a sudden state of agitation.  He dropped the torch and raised his left hand, then felt the weapon firmly place itself in his control as it came from the cellar in response to his need.

Marco started cautiously moving through the ruins, picking his way among the fallen stones and small trees that were in the path towards the plaza.

He stopped twenty yards short of his destination, around a corner from the gateway that entered the plaza.  The sounds were louder now, and gave a better portrait of the battle going on.  It was large, it seemed; there were enough sounds to indicate that the full membership of the column was engaged.  There were some swords in action, especially nearby, but not many – not as many as he expected for a battle of the size that existed.  There were many men being injured in the plaza, the cries indicated.  And there were many archers; he could hear bows twanging continually, firing from on high.  Worst of all, he knew that the marching column of men ejected from Athens had few bows among their armaments.

Marco took a deep, determined breath, sensing that he was about to enter a battle that was a very deadly ambush, then went around the corner and entered the fray.

He immediately found a small knot of Docleatean soldiers fighting against a quartet of unknown assailants.  The outside attackers were standing in front of and upon the bottom of a staircase, holding off a half dozen of the soldiers who were trying to defend the camp.  Marco jumped into the center of the fray and began slashing at the men on the stairs, striking one down quickly, then engaging two others. So that the rest of the soldiers from Docleatae were able to overwhelm the last of the men, then help Marco finish the fight with the men in front of him.

“We’re so glad to see you!” one of the soldiers told Marco as others started racing up the uneven, crumbling stairs, falling and stumbling as they tried to climb as quickly as they could.

“What’s happening?” Marco asked the man, grabbing his arm to keep him still to explain.

“There are archers atop all the walls around the plaza, and we were caught completely off-guard.  They’ve been picking men off without any resistance.  We’ve been trying to get up to the rooftops to stop the archers,” the man spit the words out in rapid fire fashion.

“Go on,” Marco urged.  “Lead the way up,” he said, then followed the other soldier up the turning stairway to reach the uneven tops of the buildings four floors above the plaza.  Marco glanced down at the pavement and debris of the open plaza.  Dead bodies were visible in the dim blue light cast by the stars overhead.  There were scattered survivors running in frantic bursts to try to stay alive, and a small knot of men engaged in a struggle on the far side of the plaza. 

The men he had helped climb to the top were going both right and left, Marco saw.  They were fighting to stop the archers who continued to play havoc by firing their arrows for as long as they could before the Docleateans reached them.  On the other sides of the square there were no Docleatean soldiers up among the archers in those locations, and Marco knew that he needed to do something desperate.

He closed his eyes momentarily to focus his thoughts, then placed his sword in his left hand.  He raised his right hand and pointed his finger at an archer who was standing and firing downward from the top of a building to his left.  Marco released a bolt of energy, a bright red flash of energy that streaked through the air above the plaza.  He missed the archer, but struck the stony parapet just two feet to the man’s left.

The bright light of the energy bolt momentarily blinded Marco.  He rubbed his eyes and looked, to see the archer running from the spot, holding a hand over his shoulder after being hit by a flying fragment of the exploded stone.  All battle had momentarily ceased, Marco realized.  All eyes from both sides were turned to look at him, standing as the source of the astonishing new weapon.

Marco raised his hand and looked to his right, where a number of archers were standing and staring, their weapons held motionlessly in their hands.  He pointed at a spot in the center of the group, deliberately lowered his target to the stone structure just below their feet, and released another bolt of energy.

He heard the sound of the small explosion as his shot struck the building, and after he blinked his blindness away, he saw one man had fallen from the roof to the plaza below, while the others were fleeing.  The archers on the far side of the plaza were scrambling too, running already in anticipation of the next attack he was likely to make that might be aimed at them.

Marco switched his attention to the battle in the plaza.  The invaders who had been fighting in the plaza were likewise retreating, pulling back to an alleyway where they could scramble away to safety.  None of them wanted to face the unmatchable power of a sorcerer, and they were fleeing for safety.  He had managed to turn the tide of battle more easily than he would have imagined.  It gave him an insight into why Moraca retained and used sorcerers so freely in battle.  It also made him momentarily reflect on an army that expected to have sorcerers available to fight on their behalf.  Perhaps the defeat of the Docleatean sorcerers had been the reason that Athens had fallen to the invasion of the forces from the cities of the old Clovis empire; without the sorcerers, the soldiers had felt defeated, and then been defeated.

Marco started down the stairs, on his way to the plaza to learn what was happening.  When he reached the base of the stairs he found one of the attackers who he thought had been killed there was barely alive, trying to rise to struggle away from the battle.  Marco crouched over him.

“Who are you?  Why did you attack us?” he asked.

“We are the Ruritans,” the man gasped.  “We were called together by the people of the valley that you attacked, the farmers whose homes you burned.  We wanted revenge, and we got it.”

Marco looked down at the man, and remembered the columns of smoke he had seen rising.  The attack of the forces in the plaza was justified in Marco’s mind.  “Here, suck on this finger,” he told the man, pushing his enchanted finger into the man’s mouth.

Startled, the man actually complied with the command, then coughed, and looked up at Marco with wide eyes.

“Go on, it will help you heal,” Marco told him.  “Now, spit some of the water on your wounds,” he instructed the man after he had taken multiple swallows of the enchanted water.

“What is this?  Who are you?” the wounded man asked.

“I am a friend of Rurita,” Marco answered.  “Now, treat your wounds,” he commanded.

The man did as told, then Marco helped him move to a hidden corner of the alleyway.  “Stay here and heal, then go back to your family and live in peace,” Marco told the unfortunate rebel, and he left him behind.

Marco strode into the plaza and looked around.  There were no more arrows descending upon the plaza, nor were there sounds of conflict any longer; he heard only the sounds of wounded men crying in pain, and other men moving about, trying to give directions or bring order to the chaos that enveloped the scene.

He walked across the plaza, looking at the men on the ground, then stopped by a body, and knelt.  He had found Serch, the guard who had been assigned to spend time watching him for so long.  The man was dead, an arrow in his chest.  Marco sighed at the needless loss, then closed Serch’s eyes, and said a momentary prayer over him.

The number of dead men was startling; well more than half the soldiers in the column appeared to be dead, their bodies lying everywhere.

Marco suddenly thought of the Princess and Duchess.  He prayed they were unharmed.  “Ellersbine!  Rhen!” he shouted.  “My ladies – where are you?” he shouted.

“They were over there,” a passing soldier pointed towards the area where the battle on the ground had taken place.

Marco felt a chill run up his spine, and he started running toward the north end of the plaza, where he saw the darkness of several men milling around, and numerous bodies lying on the ground.

“Ellersbine!  Rhen!” Marco called.  “Hearst, Sergeant Hearst!  Captain Fyld!”  he was calling for everyone he knew, desperate to find information, praying for good news.

“Marco, over here,” a voice called him from the left side of the battle scene.   He ran in that direction, and found Hearst bent over a badly wounded Fyld.  “Thank the stars you’re here!” Hearst shouted.  “Did you see those lights in the sky?  Whatever they were, wherever they came from, we were lucky,” the sergeant said, looking directly at Marco, eye to eye, telling him that the identity of the sorcerer was unknown to those in the plaza.

“How’s the captain?” he asked, looking down at the wounded man.

“Not well.  He’s badly hurt.  He fought as well as anyone down here,” Hearst said.

Marco sucked a mouthful of water from his finger, then dribbled it into the bloody wound in Fyld’s stomach.  He repeated the process, then looked at Hearst.  “This should help him heal,” he grunted, and resumed using his water to treat Fyld’s shoulder as well.

“Keep an eye on him.  Where is the princess?” he asked.

“The nobles had tents up on the other side of the battle,” the sergeant gestured.  “Good luck, sir,” he said.  “I hope all’s well over there.”

The moon was starting to rise, a half circle climbing as a serene lantern that shed additional light upon the scene of the massacre in the plaza.  "Marco, thank goodness you're here," A voice called.  It was Wilh, Marco saw.  "What was that light in the sky?  What do we do now?" his friend asked.

"We need to set out pickets to make sure they don't come back," Marco answered.  "We need to gather the wounded together, and we need to bury the dead," he tried to figure out the most pressing needs.  "Do you know where the princess is?" he asked.

"The nobles were over there," Wilh pointed further to the right.

"Thanks," Marco said.  "Get the wounded together over by that wall," he pointed, then left to find the women.

"Marco! Marco!" Rhen's voice rang out as he strode up to the cloth ruins of a pair of tents.  Marco finally saw her just moments before she hurled herself into his arms.

"My lady Rhen, I'm so glad you're safe," he whispered into her ear as he held her.

"They took her, Marco," she cried, making Marco shiver, as if a cold wind had blown through him.

"Ellersbine?" he asked.  "The princess?"

"Yes, yes," she answered.  "They took her and Argen when they left," Rhen told him.  "Varsen died trying to protect her."

"I'll go get her," Marco said instantly.  "Let me find out who's in charge, and once I know you're safe, I'll go find her and bring her back."

His search for someone in charge took nearly an hour of talking to soldiers he knew and setting them to work, while he failed to find any living officers other than the wounded Fyld.  After his time spent unexpectedly directing the survivors, he realized that only Hearst and himself had the ability to direct and hold the survivors together.

He looked around the plaza by the light of the moon that had risen overhead, and wanted to shout in frustration at the delay in his departure.  He needed to leave the ruins of the city as quickly as possible in order to begin to track down the captors who had taken Ellersbine.

"I've got to get moving," he said in frustration to Hearst as they stood amidst the score of men who lay together, wounded but still living.

"We need you to remain among us until sunrise, my lord," Hearst answered quietly.  "The men need a leader they can believe will keep them safe."

"But if I wait that long the trail will be harder to find and follow," Marco objected.

"I understand, my lord," Hearst said.  "It's a pity we don't have a captive we can question to find out where they've gone."

Marco's head swung around to look at his companion.  There was a survivor of the attackers he could talk to, he realized.  There was the man from the foot of the staircase, the man he had taken pity on.  The man was likely to still be where Marco had left him, and be a source of information he could use to expedite his pursuit of Ellersbine.