The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two (19 page)

Dozens of warships that had hovered for days near the horizon now sailed for the bay. It was, Cam had to admit, a perfect place to attempt a landing. The land around the bay was relatively low, giving no advantage for the Isencroft army’s catapults and trebuchets, which would have benefitted from positions on higher ground.

Between the troops on the beach and the incoming ships, the Isencroft navy sailed out to meet the enemy. From Cam’s vantage point, the ships appeared to be well-matched, both in size and in number. He fought down a tightness in the pit of his stomach. Isencroft’s strength lay in its army, not its navy, which had always lagged in both number of recruits and in the quantity of ships. Threats from neighboring kingdoms had kept the focus of Isencroft’s kings on their land forces, while no threat had arisen from across the sea in over one hundred years.

The ships appeared to steer straight for their opponents, meaning to ram or grapple. Iron-clad bows on the ships fitted with ramming pikes dared the captains of opposing vessels to shift course or face the consequences. The ships were fast, and their high aft and forecastles were designed to deter boarding and afford archers and mages the best shot at their opponents with maximum coverage.

A runner stopped just a few paces from Cam’s horse. “The beach is secured, sir. As you ordered.”

Cam nodded. “Well done, lieutenant. Have your men take their places.” He looked across the beach toward the water. Anticipating an attempted landing, Cam and Wilym had ordered their men to make the beach impassible. Crude fences made of logs scarred the beach, a way to slow down troops that waded ashore. Traps—magical and otherwise—pockmarked the shoreline. The land forces were ready.

“Why aren’t their ships moving?” Cam fretted under his breath. A cold feeling of dread sank into his gut. His soldiers had laid traps on land, but a nagging premonition warned him that Alvior’s navy may have done the same on the sea.

A flash of light as bright as the sun flared from the Temnottan ships on the horizon. A solid horizontal layer of flame blasted from the Temnottan line, overtaking the Isencroft ships before they had time to change their course. The flames enveloped the ships, setting masts and rigging on fire. Cam could see men jumping off the burning decks into the water, only to hear their screams as the surface of the water itself became an inferno. As fire reached the pitch and resin stored below decks for use in
flaming arrows and catapulted missiles, one after another, the Isencroft ships exploded, sending men, timber, and rigging into the air in a bloody, flaming hail.

Catapults began lobbing iron balls at the invading ships that neared their range, but even at a distance, Cam could see that many of their shots missed the targets. Suddenly, the sea swelled and a burning tide rose between the invading ships and the beach, a wall of what should have been water but was now fluid flame.

“Fall back!” Cam shouted as he realized the danger. “Fall back, now!”

Men and horses scrambled to outrun the flaming wave, deadly both from the fire and from the crushing weight of the water. The wave rose high into the sky, momentarily obscuring the enemy ships behind it, and then raced toward the beach, crashing down onto the shore with its full weight.

What defenses weren’t crushed by the huge wave’s power burned as the water spread the flames. Within minutes, the fences were gone and the beach was wiped clean of the pits and traps so carefully laid to snare the enemy.

A heavy blanket of smoke covered the shoreline. In the distance, Cam could hear the regular thudding of the catapults and trebuchets. Another wall of flame erupted from the invading ships, and the tall frames of the catapults became fiery towers. Across the water, Cam could hear the screams as the artillerymen burned with their machines, unable to outrace the flames.

The wall of water had washed the flames onto the beach, lighting afire the debris from the ruined ships. But the huge wave had cleared the fire from the surface of the water, and the masts of the invading ships loomed nearer
through the choking haze of smoke. The air was thick with the smell of burning wood, vegetation, and flesh.

“You’ve seen the worst they have to offer. Hold fast!” Cam shouted. Down the line, he heard Wilym second the call.

Nothing in Cam’s worst nightmares had prepared him for this day. The shallows of Fainrun Harbor were red with blood, strewn with the wreckage of ships and bits of human flesh. The invading fleet sailed into the harbor, their tall masts rising above the smoke, sails billowed by a wind that was more the creation of mages than of nature.

The Temnottan ships dropped anchor, and smaller ships began to fall from their sides, filled with soldiers. Cam saw the battle mages move forward, preparing their own attack.

As the invaders drew near to the shoreline, many of the soldiers leaped overboard to drag the boats ashore. Suddenly, the shallow water around them that had so recently been aflame now began to boil. The invading soldiers screamed, trying to leap back into their flat-bottomed boats or run for the shore. In the panic, several of the small boats capsized, sending their occupants into the boiling sea. The harbor wind stank with the smell of cooked fish and roasting meat.

A sudden wind blasted toward shore, cold as the dead of winter. Water that a moment before had been boiling now calmed, and then began, in the shallowest parts, to form a thin skin of ice. The wind howled across the ruined coastline, extinguishing the last of the flames, strong enough to make the men in the front row of foot soldiers fall back a pace to brace themselves.

Propelled by the sudden gust, more landing boats filled
the harbor, bristling with men and weapons. The small boats crunched through the ice, beaching quickly and unloading their deadly cargo. Heavily armed soldiers formed ranks and marched up the beach, trampling the charred remains of men and ruined ships.

“Get the mages behind!” Cam shouted, raising his sword. “Charge!”

Footsteps thundered as thousands of men moved as one, followed by the clatter of hoofbeats. The chill wind fell quiet as the shouts of soldiers filled the air. To Cam’s eye, the Isencroft troops had the advantage of mounted soldiers and more men. Yet the invaders moved forward undaunted, against superior numbers.

Something’s not right
, Cam thought as he swung his sword. An attacker on his right fell to the ground, cleaved from shoulder through the rib cage. The invaders swarmed toward the defending troops, heedless for their own safety, like men possessed.

Cam nearly lost his saddle as one of the Temnottans launched himself into the air brandishing his sword. Cam’s horse reared just in time, giving Cam the leverage to deflect the attack with a kick of his boot and a thrust of his sword. For an instant, the attacker hung in midair, impaled on Cam’s blade, and Cam saw ferocity past the point of reason in the man’s eyes. It chilled him to the bone. The attacker fell to the ground and then struggled to his knees, apparently heedless of the gut wound that would quickly prove mortal. Blood poured from the man’s abdomen as entrails began to slip from the gash, yet the fighter came at Cam again, swinging his sword like a wild man.

“They’re bewitched!” Cam shouted. “Watch yourselves!”

A bolt of mage lightning struck down Cam’s would-be attacker, and Cam looked up to see one of the battle mages. Before he could nod his thanks, the mage had turned to loose another blast against two more soldiers who were headed straight at them. Across the battlefield, Cam could see flashes of mage lightning crackle through the press of battle, reflected in the haze of smoke that still hung over the battleground.

What the Temnottans lacked in number they made up for in frenzy. Yet these were not
ashtenerath
, Cam realized. These men had none of the dead-eyed look of the drugged and magicked
ashtenerath
, men so broken by torture and potions that they resembled wild beasts. The Temnottan attackers moved with the skill and strategy of soldiers, yet to a man, they seemed to lack any desire for self-preservation.

Are our enemies so enamored of their king to swear themselves to mass suicide?
Cam wondered as he fought. Despite the day’s chill, sweat ran down his forehead and back, soaking through his shirt. His warhorse reared again, kicking with its deadly hooves, smashing in the heads of two advancing Temnottan soldiers.

All around Cam, the battle raged. The Temnottans, showing absolutely no fear, took on the Isencroft troops relentlessly. One Temnottan, fighting in a fury of motion, could hold his own against two or three Isencroft soldiers, at least for a while.
What is possible when men care nothing for their own lives?
Cam wondered, simultaneously amazed and horrified.

The smoke was clearing, and as he spared a gaze for the horizon, Cam spotted the flags that had risen on the masts of the invaders’ ships. Unfurled on the cold wind,
Cam could see the bold colors of the Temnotta flag, and large in its corner, the crest of Brunnfen.

Alvior! May the Crone take his soul, and may I be the one to send him to the Abyss!
Cam cursed his brother under his breath, finding new energy in the anger to take on another crazed attacker. The Temnottan’s uniform was ragged, burned, and bloodied, and his left arm was a bleeding stump, hastily tied off with rags. Anger burned in the man’s eyes, not unreasoning rage but intelligent fury heedless of cost.

Cam blocked the man’s lunge. He was carried back a half step, although he outweighed the Temnottan, yet the man ran for him at full speed, sword swinging. The force of the man’s swings reverberated the length of Cam’s sword, making his forearm shudder. Although he deflected the worst of the blow, the point of the man’s sword cut into his shoulder. The fresh blood raised a shout of triumph from the attacker, who doubled the speed of his press. This time, the man’s speed amplified Cam’s swing, which severed the soldier’s head from his shoulders, carrying the headless body forward two or three steps before it fell.

Cam stepped back, sword raised, ready for another attack. Two Temnottans rushed at him, swords at the ready. Just as suddenly, they stopped, a look of bewilderment on their faces. Cam and a nearby soldier seized the advantage, running at them with a battle cry. To Cam’s astonishment, the Temnottans fell to their knees and raised their hands in surrender.

All around the battlefield, Cam saw the scene repeated, as soldiers that had, moments before, charged into unwinnable odds heedless of survival stopped dead in their
tracks and dropped their weapons. While their numbers were far reduced from the original invasion force, Cam had expected them to fight to the last man. Their sudden shift left him baffled and suspicious.

“Tie them up and take them for questioning,” Cam shouted. “Don’t turn your back until they’re secured.” He watched as his soldiers moved to comply, braced for treachery. Then he spotted the battle mages, arms outstretched, faces rigid with concentration, as the last of the attackers laid down their swords. After a moment, the nearest mage turned with a weary, bleak smile.

“The fight’s gone out of them,” the haggard mage said, tiredness clear in his voice. He was a young man, not much older than Cam, with a thin face and dark, intelligent eyes. Blood stained his torn robes, and in many places, there were burn holes from flaming debris.

“What drove them? They looked too… sane… to be
ashtenerath
.”

The mage nodded. “They weren’t. But they were bewitched. Your shout helped me realize that. Their master didn’t break their will, as
ashtenerath
are broken. He just removed all fear, including the fear of death.” His eyes hardened. “It’s an abomination to do that to men, to rob them of their will to survive. No Light mage would do such a thing.”

“Obviously, our enemy doesn’t worry about niceties.”

The mage grimaced. “Once we realized what was going on, we were able to use our magic to break the spell. When they saw how outnumbered they were, the men came to their senses and surrendered.” He looked out across the carnage and shook his head. “Men should not be driven like pigs to slaughter, even in war.”

Cam sighed, too tired to argue the realities of war. “What about the fire? Was that magic?”

The mage wiped a grimy hand across his forehead, trading a streak of soot for the sweat that ran down his temples. “No. It wasn’t. I’ve never seen anything like that, though I’ve heard rumors that such things exist, far beyond the borders of the Winter Kingdoms, past the western horizon.”

“What, then? Do you have any idea?”

The mage shrugged. “A mixture from the alchemists, no doubt. Something that won’t mix with water, or be quenched by it. I assure you, when this day is over, we mages will be digging through our texts for anything we can find to avoid a repeat of today.”

Cam’s attention strayed to the harbor. The Temnottan ships, disgorged of their human cargo, had withdrawn to the mouth of the bay. In their wake they left the burned hulks and wreckage of the Isencroft warships that had, just a few candlemarks earlier, proudly defended their shore.

“Cam!” The shout brought Cam’s attention back to the battlefield, where Wilym was striding toward him. The head of the Veigonn looked as worn as Cam felt, with his uniform sliced and torn and one sleeve caked with blood.

“You’re hurt,” Cam said, with a sharp glance toward Wilym’s left arm and its bloodied sleeve.

“It’s not bad, considering.” Wilym glanced at the mage. “I assume you’ve just heard what’s been behind all this?”