Emissary Page 2

  Draken stared at him, incredulous the rumors had proved true. “Fools all! No one is fighting back?”

  The runner flinched but his unblinking gaze met Draken’s. “Not from ships, Khel Szi. I heard Seakeep is firing on them from the clifftop, though I did not see it.”

  Elena must be cursing Draken roundly. The delay in defensive maneuvers was his fault. He’d taken the Brînian navy under tight control amid efforts to eradicate rampant corruption; the navy had practically become a merchant marine operation, rife with piracy and extortion. Not to mention their blatant disregard for the Akrasian crown. Each fleet comhanar and ship captain had standing orders not to act without direct command from the Citadel. He hadn’t had time to meet and vett each one. Now he was wishing he’d enacted an innocent-until-proved-otherwise policy, though it was damned difficult when so many of them were corrupt. Besides, how was he to know they would actually follow their new Khel Szi’s policy under duress?

  He almost heard Bruche’s dry chuckle and could imagine what he’d say: A Prince knows such things. “Did they use the boatcaves to get here?”

  “No, Khel Szi. The caves are secure. No Monoean came through there. I was inside all night.”

  Gods, he was probably a fishnetter or salt boiler. Draken had only just come to realize the inked sigils and jewelry on his adopted people indicated caste and position; he had no idea what they all meant yet. “You have my gratitude. See to him.” He gestured to two healers waiting inside the city gates to help the bleeding messenger, shoved down the thought of their macabre presence, and turned to Tyrolean.

  The Escort Captain met his gaze and then turned his head to look downcoast, though all that lay within view were the cliffs and the edges of a few bridges spanning the River Eros. Constant haze and mists, especially on this hot, humid morning, concealed most of the other side of the river.

  Draken mounted Tempest, thinking hard. According to maps, Brînian downcoast was more hospitable to landings than the well-defended Blood Bay. It had plentiful small bays and shallows for dropping skiffs and rowing ashore. The better for trade … and smuggling. “The nearest cove is a day’s hard ride, maybe three to march.”

  Tyrolean shrugged his brawny, fishscale-clad shoulders. “It’s been in the works then.”

  Aye, for a sevennight at least, and the attack could be more widespread than Draken first thought. If the Monoeans brought five septenaries to Seakeep—three hundred and fifty soldiers—how many other septenaries were roaming the countryside? Countless villages and holdings were in danger. He slammed his fist against his saddle. Tempest skittered again, forcing Draken to haul on the reins. The charger chewed his bit and snorted. How in Khellian’s name had Monoea marched so many soldiers through Old Brînish farmland and mines without his receiving a warning? And why? What had inspired this attack? That it was happening now, with Elena and the High Houses in residence at Seakeep, raised his ire and suspicion. Had a traitor betrayed them? Or had some magicks informed the Monoeans? Surely not …

  “We can outnumber them, given time to gather troops,” Tyrolean said, keeping close.

  “We don’t have time.” Not against the nimble, brutish Monoean army. Draken watched another three of their soldiers scale the gates. It took a hailstorm of arrows from the gate tower to bring down just one. The other two Monoeans continued doggedly up, using their wide-brimmed helms to shield their backs.

  A flock of Monoean arrows soared up to cover them. The Akrasian Escorts inside Seakeep braved the arrows to roll hurling balls down the gates. That did the trick. He wondered if the winds actually carried the screams of the falling men to his ears or if the sound was imprinted upon his memory from countless battles.

  He started thinking out loud, giving his people a short course in Monoean battle tactics. Horses crowded round him as he spoke. “They’ll keep on the gate. It’s their only way in since they’ve no large artillery. When we attack, they’ll form a phalanx with shields and spears. We’re enough to break through.” He hoped.

  “Spears are Moonling weapons,” the Akrasian horsemarshal said. He spat on the ground.

  Draken marshaled his patience. “They don’t usually throw them. They stake the butts in the ground and make a wall with them.”

  Tyrolean’s brows drew down. “You seem to have made a study of Monoean tactics, Your Highness.”

  A study, indeed. Draken schooled his expression to betray nothing.

  The Brîn City Comhanar urged his horse closer. A chain looped his torso diagonally from one shoulder, marking his rank. Vannis was his name. Grey laced his woolly locks and battle scars etched his dark skin. “Shields and spears make a damned prickly wall, I remember from the Decade War.”

  Draken nodded. “Aye, Comhanar. Behind the phalanx, they will have seaxes and metal-strapped gauntlets for close work if … when we break the line. Few if any longswords. If you see one, it’s on a commander or a lord.”

  “Seax …” Tyrolean’s dark brows fell, shadowing his lined eyes. “So they stab?”

  “Aye, Captain.” Comhanar Vannis said. “Monoeans block and hit with their bracers and stab with their long knives for a killing blow.”

  Draken eased a breath from his tight chest as Vannis unwittingly helped protect his secret past. “Their whole strategy is to fight close and dirty. It cuts the leverage of swinging a longer weapon.” He paused. “As I understand it.”

  “So what do you suggest, Khel Szi?” Vannis asked. “We’ve only bows and our longswords.”

  “They’ve got field position, too,” Tyrolean said. The land separating the city gates from Seakeep was a rock-strewn, treeless expanse with no cover from arrows; the enemy could see them coming.

  “The best we can do is trap them and divert their attention from Seakeep,” Draken said.

  Draken wished futilely for Mance magic. King Osias’s arrows landed precisely where he wanted and his magic could block them as well. For that matter, he wouldn’t turn down the Moonling Abeyance, valuable magic which stopped time. But he was on his own in this, and there was only one way to crush the Monoean attackers. It would fair cost him men, horses, and weapons, but he had no choice, not with Elena and the High Houses inside. He outlined his plan to the dubious Akrasian horsemarshal, the war-painted Brînian Comhanar, and Tyrolean.

  “We’ll lose horses,” the horsemarshal said.

  “We’ll lose more than horses, but we are out of time.” Draken raised his voice to be heard over the chatter of his troops. “Comhanar, order the men accordingly. Shields up as soon as we’re in bow range.”

  “Aye, Khel Szi.” The Comhanar dipped his chin. He put on his helmet, covering the Khellian’s horns painted on his brow, wheeled his horse, and shouted orders to his men.

  Tyrolean drew near enough for a private talk. “You cannot fight, Draken. You’re Prince.”

  At least Tyrolean wasn’t asking him how he knew so much about Monoean battle tactics. “We need every man.” Draken’s attention remained riveted on the gate. He tightened as arrows flew toward it like a swarm of riverbugs. Flames licked across the oiled wood like ginger ripples on a black pond.

  “You’re not just any man, Highness.”

  “No. I’m not. Elena is at Seakeep and I am sworn to protect her.” He touched the chain around his neck. Elena’s pendant bound him to his position as Night Lord and his vow to protect her, by honor if not by some magic he hadn’t run across yet.

  “Not by your own person. Not in this. If we lose you and Elena in the same day, what will happen to Akrasia? This is madness.”

  Madness? Tyrolean didn’t know the half of it. “Odd, I thought being Prince would save me from fruitless arguing.”

  A muscle twitched in Tyrolean’s cheek. “Apologies, Your Highness.”

  Draken sighed. “It’s the only way to get through the gate and protect Elena. See there. It’s aflame already. They’ll be through in little time if they aren’t already.”

  “The gate wood is still quite green. It won’t burn
so easily,” Tyrolean said.

  “It won’t stand long to the heat of Monoean oil.” He’d seen it burn ship wreckage on calm seas for the better part of a sevennight. “Come. Opportunity wanes.”

  He alone knew how to fight Monoeans, and he must lead by example, without faltering in his resolve, or his strategy would fail. If the gods saw fit to let him die this day; so be it. It might be their sword in his hand, but it was his Queen and child at risk in Seakeep.

  They had a third as many soldiers as the Monoeans. He took a moment to examine a few of their faces, his heart clenching. Many of them likely wouldn’t make it through the opening assault. But it wasn’t the first time he’d led men to their deaths and wouldn’t be the last. He spurred his horse, and his szi nêre fell in to flank him. Tyrolean let him ride without further protest, though Draken could feel his disapproving glare drilling a hole through the back of his armor. Five quarters of conscript Brînians spread into three rows behind twenty-five Akrasian mounted Escorts.

  Peculiar, undulating battle cries drifted across the field from the enemy. Draken had never heard it before—it sounded like a mourning wail, the sort professionals sang before kings’ funereal processionals. Lesle … I never heard the lament of your passing. Did she even have an altar—

  Tempest yanked hard on the reins, trying to break into a gallop. Draken blinked. Around him horses were falling back or leaping ahead with no thought to formation. Godsdamn it, men. Focus! With a hoarse shout he yanked Akhen Khel from its scabbard. Sunlight flashed in the blade.

  One breath, then another. His heart thudded in his throat. All around him battle cries rose up. The men reined and spurred their horses back into thundering formation.

  Arrows soared overhead, forcing him to sheathe his sword and yank his shield up. Men screamed, drowning out the Monoean war cries. The acidic stench of the burning oil roiled through them as he held Tempest to a controlled canter for the attack. As they reached range, arrows hammered his sheild. Draken rode by feel rather than sight, forced to throw himself forward as his horse leaped over a screaming mount rolling in agony from the arrow sticking in its chest. Its rider lay stunned, face in the churned dirt.

  He wanted to use his bow for return fire, but the Akrasian servii behind him were fair deadly enough with bows for the broad target of Monoeans swarming the gates, and his own hands were tied up with reins and shield. Their arrows scored the sky and fell into the smoke clogging the air in front of Seakeep.

  His stomach clenched tighter yet. Had the Monoeans broken through the gate? Were they bursting through with blade and bow to spill the blood of his countrymen? Had they found Elena?

  Men shouted. Hooves pounded. Draken’s blood roared. The world tilted up at him and sprang back to right as Tempest stumbled over a fallen Brînian and his gait went lopsided. Lame, but Draken kicked him on. Tempest was as good as dead anyway. He only needed to carry Draken to battle. To Elena.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Oily smoke choked his lungs and stung his eyes, filling him with a strangeness he recognized but couldn’t put a name to. For a brief moment all fell silent as if an ocean had closed over his head. Sharp heat seared his back, radiating from his sword harness, and the urge to draw the blade tingled cold in his hands.

  Bruche?

  Silence.

  Phantom sensation, like in a lost limb. Draken gritted his teeth and drew the sword. It glowed white and cut a swath through the smoke. The hollow ring of hooves thrashing against steel shields sang out ahead. Voices clogged his ears from all sides. High pitched shrieks and thundering shouts. Bodies and flailing limbs. Blood on his tongue. Smoke clogging every breath. He swung blindly at a dull grey figure emerging from the smoke. His sword skipped off it with a jaw-clenching clang.

  His horse kept moving, snorting and screaming, ears pinned, gait lurching. Every stride threatened to jerk Draken from the saddle. He dug his heels into Tempest’s sides. Then abruptly they leapt, climbing, hooves pounding over their own horses and screaming men and flailing bodies and the collapsing wall of Monoean shields. Stone walls and narrow guard towers whirred by him as he passed through the ash and kindling that had been the new gates to Seakeep. He had the distant sensation of terror. Or the sensation that he should be terrified. He wasn’t certain which.

  The world twitched sideways. The pavestones of Seakeep’s courtyard grabbed him and slammed him down. Helm and sword clattered away. He lay unmoving, stunned as the tang of blood thickened the reek of smoke. Someone screamed their death, an undercurrent to the clash of steel and grunts of soldiers. His armor felt like a seacleaver’s suckered grip closing around his chest.

  His lungs sucked in a harsh, stinging breath, balking at the thick air. It leaked back out in a whine. Curse the Seven, this was like drowning all over again. Whoever was dying carried on screaming behind him.

  He turned his head before his body could refuse to move and shoved feebly at the ground with his hands. Sharp pain in his neck made him wince. He wiggled his toes in his boots to make sure he could. Seaborn lay dull and clean-edged, well out of reach. His horse thrashed, trying to regain its feet, mouth yawning wide with the effort. Draken started to shove up but a boot thudded against the middle of his back. It didn’t hurt much; armor was good for something. He caught the flash of sun on a sword in his peripheral, blinding as gods’ lighting. He shoved to one side, trying to anticipate the blow. Steel rang against the flagstones near his head. Whoever swung at him snarled and then the weight fell away from his back—

  Draken pushed to his hands and knees, scrambling for his blade. A boot kicked it further away. Something bludgeoned his back, knocking him down again, though his knees were under him and he managed a crouch. His lower back seized and his bad knee bent too far. He grunted, desperation warring with pain. Elena—

  A dead man makes no echo when he falls. Three such dull thuds surrounded him. He shoved up again and met no resistance. Tyrolean stood to one side, both narrow blades crimson to the hilt. Halmar panted just behind him, gore-splattered from the tip of his longsword to his shoulder. Behind them, all around them, soldiers fought and ran.

  The screaming was from Tempest, bones jutting from both forelegs.

  Instead of helping Draken up, Tyrolean strode a few steps to grant mercy to the charger. His blade cut him off mid-scream. The smell of fresh blood and acrid horse urine competed with human waste expelled by those who had died around them. Draken cinched off rising bile with a hard swallow.

  A muscle in Draken’s back protested every twist of his body and his knee felt like someone had flayed the inside with a fish knife. He nodded as Halmar offered him a hand up, and limped to retrieve his sword. His shadow was sharp at his feet. Odd to realize the warm sun was beating down while the dead surrounding them made such a quiet, cold space. All around the courtyard Brinians, Akrasian Escorts, and servii beat the Monoeans back, confining the fighting to walls and corners. His soldiers were armed with longswords and the Monoean seaxes couldn’t hold up against them.

  His back seized as he bent to pick up Seaborn. “Tow-er?” His voice broke over the word, caught on the pain. Halmar gave him a worried look, which he ignored as he eased upright, teeth gritted.

  “Enemy made it inside. I was headed there when I saw you fall.” Tyrolean led the way to the tower steps amid strewn dead and injured. None threatened them; everyone was too involved in their own close fights.

  An Escort sprawled in front of the tower entrance, dead from a nasty gash that left his head dangling off his shoulders at a very wrong angle. Another moaned, eyes wild, clutching the stump of his sword arm, his greens stained with crimson. Draken swallowed and looked away. He was like to bleed to death before a healer could reach him through this melee. The arched wooden door hung from its thick hinges, wrenched from its bolts by a pry bar.

  Fury and fear roiled through Draken. If anything happened to Elena he would hunt down every last man responsible and—

  Halmar stepped aside from the tower entrance, blo
odsplattered and stinking and calm.

  “Let no one pass, Halmar.”

  “Aye, Khel Szi.”

  Draken ducked under the sunken lintel and strode up the steep, winding steps. Doors had been forced open; more quick work with the prybar. A few rooms held collections of dead Akrasians, gory from deep slashes, ghastly in their fine clothing.

  “The Monoeans inside have swords,” Draken said shortly. They’d be officers—prized, highly trained warriors. Landed and minors raised to the fight.

  His thighs burned from the steep climb but thuds and shouts echoing down the spiral stairs urged him to keep on. He had to slow to step over another body; someone had killed an Escort and shoved her down the stairs head first. She’d left a bloody smear on the steps and crumpled into a sharp curve with a landing beneath an arrow slit. The reek of salt and bowels made the stone walls close in as he climbed past her. His fingers tightened on his sword hilt. One of Elena’s favorite guards, she would have been close to the Queen, or running to her aid.

  He fought the urge to shout Elena’s name. It would only warn her attackers she was there and he was coming. Two more turns and he’d be at her quarters. He slowed just enough to quiet his bootfalls, though his roaring blood and a muffled scream urged him to rush in. Four grey-armored men clogged the narrow steps ahead, talking in hard, excited voices. The crack of wood echoed back to him against the stone and in a heartbeat two of them pressed through an entrance. Someone screamed beyond.

  Draken snarled. His legs pumped and he rushed the nearest Monoean, stabbing his blade under the man’s back plate into his kidney. The soldier twisted with a grunt, nearly wrenching his blade from Draken’s hand but mostly serving to injure himself irreparably. Draken grabbed him by the shoulder armor and shoved him out of the way. Tyrolean cursed and pressed against the curved stone wall in order to keep from getting dragged down with him. Armor clanged as he tumbled down the steps.

  The next soldier turned, seax raised in one hand, an axe in the other. He swung the axe at Draken, forcing him to lean back hard on his back leg, which was down a step. Draken swung but the seax’s small crossguard caught on Draken’s. The soldier pushed hard, trying to unlock them, shove Draken back, anything. Seaborn was angled up, out of reach of doing much damage, but the tip of the seax was close to Draken’s chest—one good shove from the Monoean and it’d pierce his leather armor—and Draken had to use brute force, uphill, to push him off. Fools all, he didn’t like being downstairs from his opponent, but there was nothing for it, no room to slip through and grab the high ground. He swung with his double-bladed sword but the Monoean used his steel arm bracer to block it. It was too short a swing to do much more than bruise the bastard anyway. Draken grunted a curse as his blade skipped over the bracer. The Monoean stabbed with his seax toward Draken’s face, forcing him to tip his head and shift down another step. The Monoean’s blade caught his forehead. Blood poured from the wound into his eye and it stung like a viper bite. He lost his balance, tilting dangerously.