Enemy Read online

  “No one is bloody coming!” Draken swept his arm through Truls. It passed unheeded. Prickles climbed up his shoulder and slipped down his spine, chilling him from the outside in.

  Truls carried on looking at him with his black eyes but at least he fell quiet.

  “I need him gone, Osias.” His voice was rough. He cleared his throat. It didn’t help. “I can’t afford this distraction.”

  The Mance shook his head. “I cannot make him go.”

  “Of course you can. You’re a bloody necromancer.” Draken shoved himself upright. His knee held under Bruche’s ethereal grip. He ignored the tarnish the Mance’s skin took on, the distortion of his features into something less pleasing and symmetrical. It was the bloody light or something, stinging his eyes and driving him half mad.

  “The gods—” Osias began.

  “Hang the gods! I cut your fetter. You have your own will. I gave it to you.”

  Osias shook his head and rose, hands raised. The shadows cast a dull tarnish over his silvery skin. “Draken. Be easy—”

  But he couldn’t. Not now. He was too worn, too worried, too bloody terrified of all that could happen. “Ever since I set foot on this godsforsaken land I have shed buckets of blood, faith, and honor. I am running fair low on all. You owe me for your freedom. You owe me at least that much.”

  The Mance gazed at him. Draken had the sense of all the spirits within his friend, dozens of them, were vying for the chance to see the upstart half-breed, bastard Prince who dared befriend, free, and now challenge their host. He couldn’t hold that gaze for long.

  His voice lowered. “I saved the gods once. I’ll be damned if I’m doing it again.”

  Bruche shifted uneasily inside Draken. Do not speak so. Truls seems here to help. Perhaps you should listen to him.

  You don’t trust him any more than I do.

  Mistrust is my duty. Mistrust keeps you safe.

  “The gods allow you generous insolence,” Osias said. “But I’ve spent my meager defiance. I would aid you in any way, this you know. But I cannot—”

  “Will not.”

  The Mance dipped his chin, just barely. “Aye. I will not banish a Mance come to help you. If the gods will send him from you, so be it. But I will not meddle with my betters. Not this way, not since I have unbound my will from theirs.”

  “Why not?” An honest question. A valid one, damn it all.

  Truls slid about the room, swirling and morphing like Osias’s eyes. He wanted to order the Mance out—away—

  take the child and run

  Someone pounded on the door and shoved it open. Halmar’s immovable bulk filled the entrance. Aarinnaie was behind him, trying to push through. “Attack, Khel Szi,” Halmar said. “Lord Ilumat spoke true. Akrasia has come in force.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “They’re mad, Khel Szi. Must be to attack on a night like this.”

  Comhanar Vannis had enough Sohalias of battle experience that Draken always paid close attention to everything the man said. They huddled in a cold wood-plank building shoved up against the inside of Brîn’s walls like an afterthought. It wasn’t even a proper square or round shape, but oblong and awkwardly narrower near the ugly stone hearth so that Draken, Aarinnaie, Comhanar Vannis, and Tyrolean stood shoulder to shoulder around it. Local guards called it the Cindershack because its drafty wooden roof was a risk from flaming arrows or oil-soaked stones. It was all the more crowded for Truls accompanying Draken closer than his szi nêre, two of whom flanked the door. Draken could smell the reek of whatever necromancy held him to his side.

  He asked Vannis to put out the lanterns and candles. The room dipped into soothing darkness but for the fire. He was all right as long as he didn’t look at it. The others gave him strange looks, but he ignored them.

  The door slammed open, shoved by a heavy hand and the wind. Halmar caught it and kept it from swinging into himself.

  “My old fa says it’s the coldest ruddy Frostfall since his fa was alive, and he’s all crook-back now. Doesn’t even know his own name, poor old bast—” The city guard striding into the Cindershack stopped up short and whipped his helm from his head, staring at Draken and especially Aarinnaie in her leather armor. Sleet melted from his helm and shoulders and he’d brought a blast of cold air with him. His companion ran into him from behind and started to curse but choked it off as he saw Draken.

  “Shut the door,” Comhanar Vannis growled. “And report.”

  The two guards held a moment like they didn’t know whether to kneel or bow or straighten into attention. They settled for the latter. “Khel Szi. Comhanar. We estimate two thousand Akrasians at these gates. We have not engaged the enemy, as you ordered. So far they hold.”

  Enemy. Draken couldn’t keep the wince from reaching his face. “The Akrasians are allies until proved otherwise.” Allies in a bigger damned war everyone but him seemed to have forgotten. They needed the Akrasians or Monoea would slaughter every last Brînian. Did no one understand that?

  “I think they just did, Khel Szi, aye? They are holding us under siege.” Only the presence of the others kept Aarinnaie’s tone on the virtuous side of courtesy. There were several darting eyes and clearing of throats among the men.

  “On Ilumat’s treasonous orders,” Draken retorted. “And there’s no attack as of yet. Just a show of force.”

  Aarinnaie scowled. “Semantics don’t win wars.”

  Draken’s patience rested on a precipice. “No, but they can prevent them.”

  Another soldier pushed in, halted, and blinked rapidly when he saw Draken.

  “Shut the damned door, then. What’ve you got?” Vannis said. Draken nodded for the man to speak.

  “Khel Szi.” He swallowed. “They’ve dragged our scouts to the gates and left them. Five. Dead to a man.” His voice trailed off as Aarinnaie cursed softly.

  Gods, all five were dead? No wonder they’d had no word. Draken waited a breath. Two. “There’s more, obviously.”

  “The Akrasians are assembling a king’s ram at the gate.”

  He stared at the rough-faced soldier, taken aback. The mechanisms on a king’s ram were tall as a man, crafted of solid metal, and required specially reinforced wagons and four cart horses to pull just parts of the machine. The ram itself bore a spiked metal head and armor to prevent the wood from burning under flaming arrow attack … How in Korde’s name could they have dragged the pieces across the country so quickly? It wasn’t possible. And yet he didn’t doubt the report.

  Six wagons, I reckon. This was long in the planning. Bruche took on a strange musing tone. It occurred how seriously Bruche was taking this since he wasn’t just rushing to the attack, sword in hand. Aye, move carefully on this one.

  He took it from either the Bastion fortifications or Khein, Draken replied. Meaning Ilumat had stolen the damned thing from Elena’s own troops, or Draken’s. Unless both garrisons were in collusion with Ilumat … He hissed a curse. The others waited, Comhanar Vannis with a deep frown.

  “Captain. Have you dealt with one of these rams?” Draken asked.

  Tyrolean shook his head. “Not personally, my lord. I believe it will take all night to assemble. It requires several men and horses to position.”

  “So kill the men and horses.” Curly sprigs had escaped from the braid twisted and pinned to the back of Aarinnaie’s head. They bounced as she moved, belying her grave tone.

  “The moment arrows fly this turns from a stand-off to a battle.” A battle they might fair lose. Draken looked at the soldier reporting and gave him a nod. “I want frequent updates, whether there are any changes or not. See to it personally.”

  “Khel Szi.” The soldier dipped his head—hair shorn tight from grief or penance—and stepped back out. A blast of damp wind scattered sparks from the hearth and Tyrolean went to stamp a couple out. Needless; they were on the dirt floor. He needed time to think, then. A commodity they were short on.

  Draken gave him a close look. “Well, Captain?”r />
  Tyrolean rubbed his clean-shaven chin with the back of his leather glove. “They did not haul that ram here to assemble it and let it rust. They are my countrymen, but the Princess speaks truth. We should attack now and do our damnedest to disable the ram and kill the servii who operate it. This is already a battle, my Prince.”

  Draken eased a breath from his chest. “The king’s ram I saw in the Bastion had metal armoring over the top. No way to reach the wood with flaming arrows.”

  “If we can oil the ground and set fire to it—”

  Draken cut Aarinnaie off. “How are we to do that without risking the gates? And there are no grasses nor soil to burn … the stone is cold and icy this time of year, especially with the storm.” Some thoughtful Khel Szi had long ago laid thick pavers over the road to the city. It kept ditches from forming and cut down on maintenance. It also made a reasonably secure place to set the ram.

  “If the gears are oiled, maybe we can set it alight … how far have your firemasters gotten with replicating the Monoean stuff, Khel Szi?” Comhanar Vannis asked.

  Draken dragged up what he knew of the ram. It’d been ages since he’d seen one and then only briefly. The last use had been when Elena’s father had employed one when he’d taken Brîn. Draken had a feeling their fire oil wouldn’t be of much use. “It doesn’t slow burn like theirs, and it’s difficult to catch in this damp.”

  “Arrows, then. We start picking them off. We’ve got the archers for it.”

  Draken cursed, staring at the fire. The last thing he wanted to do was to kill Akrasians. Every servii and horsemarshal were needed in the war against the Monoeans.

  too late too late they will come they come to burn the citadel

  “Shut it!”

  Aarinnaie blinked. “Draken?”

  They were all staring at him. “I’m just trying to bloody think.”

  She frowned. Her confusion was clear. None of them had said anything.

  “Fetch the firemasters. See what is to be done with what we have. In the meantime, start archers picking off draft horses and anyone who—no, wait.”

  “Aye, Khel Szi?” The Comhanar, voice calm though he must be wondering at his erratic behavior.

  Draken narrowed his eyes. “I assume the pieces are not dragged up to the gates yet.”

  “They are still hauling the carts in.”

  “The wagons are wood, aye? Those we can set alight. And the ram is big enough it might make an effective barrier in front of the gates.”

  “But we could be trapped in the city,” Aarinnaie said, echoing Bruche’s wordless concern.

  Bruche, you and I both know this city can’t stand up to one thousand troops, much less three. Not with all the best Brînian fighters at the front. “Better than letting them dance in with ease. Allow the Akrasians to haul the pieces to the gates. After they start to assemble the ram get our best archers to kill the draft horses and pick off the men. Spare the flaming arrows for the wagons.”

  “What about Ilumat’s claim he has troops inside the city?” Tyrolean asked.

  “I think Akrasians would stand out on the street. You certainly do.”

  Tyrolean didn’t let a flinch from Draken’s comment reach his face but a pall fell over the room. Draken’s tone, no doubt. Vannis brushed his hand over the spotless plate armor protecting his chest, worn under strict orders from Draken who had no interest in losing his top commander to a cleverly aimed arrow. Even Aarinnaie’s knife hilt seemed to need a quick polish from a tongue-dampened thumb.

  But she was the only one who dared say it in the offhand tone he knew so well: “You are hardly well-loved by everyone and many Brînians love coin more than they love any Khel Szi.”

  Draken gave himself some credit for not scowling at this blunt truth. After one of Aarinnaie’s previous “investigations,” he’d had a run-in with a bloodlord’s son. Khisson, the father and a powerful man in Brîn and her outlying islands, was definitely not loyal to Draken. He knew his local enemies were prevalent, but they’d failed to show much of themselves during his reign. He snorted softly. Reign. If one could call it that.

  Even so, Brînians allying with Ilumat and handing their beloved City of Brîn over to an Akrasian lord was a fair reach. “And so Ilumat allied these Brînians and organized them to rebel when he announced his intention to usurp both thrones? Never mind they’ve no reason to trust him or obey him.”

  She didn’t restrain her own scowl. “It might not take so much convincing. What if he promised your throne to Khisson or some other bloodlord? I wouldn’t put it past Ilumat to strike such a bargain, nor Khisson to take it. He was your enemy before you killed his son.”

  Vannis had been pretending not to listen but now his head snapped up.

  Draken sighed. “It’s a long story, Comhanar.”

  “I’m certain you had every reason, Khel Szi.”

  “A couple of very sharp ones, aye. Aarinnaie, go to ground. Find out what you can. And don’t,” he added in a growl, “be gone many nights. I need you to hand.”

  Aarinnaie nodded and turned for the door. The wind caught it and slammed it behind her. Tyrolean’s lip twitched and his boot moved forward without his actually taking a step.

  Draken ran a weary hand over his face. “I can’t ever quite escape the feeling that I’ll never see her again when she bolts off.”

  “Nor that she might be right about the bloodlords, eh, Khel Szi?” Vannis said.

  Draken looked up, eyes narrowed. Apparently Comhanar Vannis didn’t much appreciate the fact that Draken had killed a bloodlord’s son, though his face was bland despite his impertinence.

  But is it impertinence when he’s twice your age and seen four times the blood you have? Or are you the impertinent one?

  He answered both Vannis and Bruche in one go. “Aye. That’s what bothers me worst of all.”

  * * *

  Draken sent Tyrolean back to inform the Citadel of the news at the gate and to order them to prepare for attack. Halmar would have been the ideal choice for this errand, but he refused to leave Draken’s side.

  Outside on the wall, he shielded his eyes with his cupped hand, trying to study the Akrasian force through the weather. Behind the first few lines of soldiers, harried, bent figures put their backs into it to wheel the great pieces together. They were making damned quick progress; even now a dozen soldiers were installing the metal shielding on the top of the ram. He cast an annoyed glance up at the skies. Swirling clouds concealed the Seven from his glare and occasional waves of sleet caught on fierce winds stung his cheeks. His stomach churned as he considered. Enough archers and arrows might take some out some of the servii on the ground, but they’d never get anything to burn in this storm, never mind shooting blind against the wind. They didn’t even have enough bloody archers, nor his finest. Most of them were gone to the bloody front, which was where bloody Ilumat should have been.

  He reckoned he’d better give it a go though, and see for certain what they were up against.

  “Fire!” he shouted, waving an arm at a squad. A dozen archers did as he bid. One arrow skipped off the top of the ram; most caught in a gust and tumbled to the ground.

  Waste, shooting in this wind, he thought sourly.

  Spears are heavier. Hail the Moonlings. Bruche was joking.

  The Moonlings aren’t exactly my friends at the moment. It was they who had abducted Elena under the pretense of taking her to safety, they who had bargained his Queen’s life, and very nearly his daughter’s, for some abstract power they thought they deserved. For all he knew they’d helped Ilumat with this scheme. Though it gave him an idea. If he could buy some time with the magical Abeyance … I should speak to Setia.

  She can’t reach the Abeyance so easily.

  How do you know?

  An inward shrug. You need sleep. I don’t. Sometimes we talk, Setia and I.

  How did he not know? He and Bruche shared all.

  You never asked. All sorts of things go on in your hind-m
ind.

  A less than comforting thought. Draken turned his attention back to the mess at hand, puzzling over the angle to shoot and about to ask for a bow. The Akrasians were so intent on setting up the ram they ignored the arrows. They didn’t even bother firing back.

  Beyond lay shadows of men, shouts silenced in the wind, but for one. A big body, too big to be a soldier … Draken’s vision sharpened. Rain glinted on something looming over the man’s helm. They slowly took shape, like twisted tree branches or curled spikes … No, Bruche whispered. Horns.

  Draken couldn’t breathe. Horns. It couldn’t be.

  The man … the god … met his gaze. Inclined his head, too slight to be subservient. A gesture of respect between equals.

  But why would he be there, with the Akrasians? Khellian is your patron, not theirs.

  The back of Draken’s neck prickled and stung. The horned god of war carried on staring.

  “Khel Szi?” Sharp, feminine.

  Draken spun, slipped forward a little. A crosswind gust pushed at him from inside the city against the outer wall of the walkway. His stomach dropped, but Halmar hauled back on his arm. A greying woman waited a couple of steps down on the flight leading to the top of the wall. Draken dragged his gaze back to the battlefield.

  Khellian was gone.

  Bloody odd, that.

  He ignored Bruche and stubbornly clung to the ordinary. He’d imagined it. There was no one below but Akrasian troops. He’d seen a soldier, and his mad mind and the bad weather had turned him into a god. Too long without sleep, losing Elena, gaining a daughter, the war, Truls, and now this attack. The pressure was getting to him.

  “The firemaster, Khel Szi,” Halmar gestured to the woman.

  He suppressed a growl of frustration at the interruption and gestured to her to rise. “Archers, fire at will. Keep them hopping if you can.” He held out little hope at their hitting anything in this gale. It would be a matter of moments before they started pushing the ram toward the gates. He couldn’t help thinking the gods had something to do with the poor weather that kept them from defending themselves. But perhaps there was good news on the fire oil.