The Dread: The Fallen Kings Cycle: Book Two (61 page)

“There’s a group of Temnottan soldiers ahead, maybe fifteen of them at most. They’re moving around one man in the center, and they seem more intent on reaching the coast than rejoining a regiment.”

Cam smiled tightly. “That’s Alvior. Lead the way.”

Within a few minutes at forced march pace, they closed the gap. Cam gave the signal for his archers to circle around, flanking Alvior’s small group on both sides. When Cam could see that the archers were in position, he ran forward.

“Alvior of Brunnfen. Stand and fight!”

At that signal, the archers let fly a volley of arrows. Six of Alvior’s guards dropped in their tracks, arrows protruding from their chests. As the archers readied for a second strike, Cam broke into a dead run, sword raised, along with the rest of his soldiers.

Alvior’s guard rallied around him, forming a ring with
Alvior in the center. The archers sent another flight of arrows, but these soldiers were better armored than the others and only three fell to the archers’ assault. The surviving guards launched themselves at Cam’s soldiers with desperate ferocity.

With a battle roar, Cam and his soldiers attacked. One of Alvior’s soldiers stepped in front of Cam, sword raised in challenge. With a curse, Cam swung hard, a blow the soldier struggled to parry. Within three strikes, Cam’s strength beat through the soldier’s defense, and his powerful two-handed blow cleaved the man from shoulder to hip.

Alvior did not run. Instead, he raised his own sword and charged at Cam, rage reddening his features. Cam stepped into the charge, throwing aside Alvior’s blade in a parry that pushed Alvior off balance. Cursing, Alvior regained his footing and came at Cam slashing with his full might, broad, fierce strokes meant to eviscerate an opponent or cut a man in two.

“You murdered father,” Cam shouted, as Alvior came at him again.

“I should have murdered you.”

Steel screeched as their swords met, throwing off sparks at the force of the blow. Alvior’s height gave him an advantage in his reach, while Cam’s bulk and surprising speed were a formidable asset. “You betrayed the king. You funded the Divisionists. And you nearly killed Renn.”

Cam saw a deadly smile touch Alvior’s mouth. “Should have killed that scrawny pup, too. And yes, I betrayed Donelan. Brunnfen never received the honor it deserved, despite the way father fawned over the king. It was time to change the order of things in Isencroft. Time to take control.”

“So you sold out for the promise of a puppet’s throne?” Cam put his weight into a downward stroke that nearly broke through Alvior’s guard. Alvior managed to parry, barely, and Cam smiled in satisfaction as a series of brutal, pounding strokes beat Alvior back several paces. The battleground around them was littered with broken spears and shattered swords and the bloated, discolored bodies of the men who had no more need of their discarded weapons. It made for tricky footing, and more than once, Cam had to maneuver at the last minute to avoid putting a foot down on a rotting corpse or tripping over a downed body.

“Better than a starving kingdom and a Margolan alliance.” Alvior took the offensive, striking with surprising force and speed. He pressed forward, and his reach nearly got inside of Cam’s guard. Alvior’s blade missed its target, but he swung into a side kick that took Cam in his bad knee, the leg the Divisionists had shattered. The knee buckled under him, and Cam went down as Alvior swung again, a blow Cam barely blocked, shattering Cam’s sword.

Cam’s leg throbbed, but the pain rekindled his rage. Alvior was standing over him, both arms drawn back over his head to plunge his sword point down in a killing thrust.

Cam lurched forward, heaving his heavy body toward Alvior’s legs. He brought the shattered hilt of his sword up with all his might, digging it deep into Alvior’s right knee just above the joint and leaning his weight into it, to separate the knee cap from the joint itself.

Alvior screamed in agony and went over backward, landing hard on his back as Cam threw his bulk onto the
bloody sword hilt, driving it deeper into the joint. Alvior’s blade sliced wildly, barely missing the top of Cam’s head. Cam took the brunt of the swing on his metal vambrace, trapping the blade with the vambrace’s curved spikes and wresting it out of Alvior’s hand.

Alvior gave a shriek of rage and pain, twisting underneath Cam, his right hand scrabbling for a weapon. Alvior’s hand closed around a broken spear on the ground, and he rammed it toward Cam’s neck with his full strength. Cam caught Alvior by the wrist, twisting until Alvior released the weapon with a curse.

With a sudden burst of strength, Alvior bucked, throwing Cam off him. Alvior seized the broken spear and lunged. Cam reached back to break his fall, and his hand closed around the pommel of Alvior’s discarded sword. Cam fell onto his back and angled the sword toward Alvior. Alvior’s momentum left him no way to evade the gleaming blade angled at his heart and the blade tore through Alvior’s cuirass, sinking deep into his chest.

Alvior’s body began to tremble as blood poured from the heart wound and trickled from the corner of his mouth. With the sickening screech of ring mail against the steel blade, his body sank against the blade until the hilt was flush with his armor. Alvior struggled to lift his head, and Cam thought that his brother might finally have an admission to make. Instead, Alvior spat in Cam’s face.

“Alvior of Brunnfen, you have been accused and found guilty of patricide and high treason,” Cam said coldly, using his sleeve to wipe away the spittle. “By the order of Kiara, Queen of Isencroft, the sentence is death.” Cam’s eyes narrowed. He met Alvior’s gaze. “And may the Formless One feast on your faithless heart for all eternity.”

W
e’ve got to hold the ridge. Tell them to dig in and hold fast. I have a feeling Imri’s going to come at us with everything he’s got.”

Jonmarc watched the runners disperse in both directions with his order. He let out a long breath and wiped his forehead with a grimy sleeve. The battle had raged all night, back and forth over the same ground, each side gaining only a temporary advantage. He looked out over the hastily dug earthworks, staying low to avoid tempting the Temnottan archers. While the night’s battle had been grueling, it had not cost as many lives as he feared. He looked out over his soldiers, an unlikely group of last-minute volunteers and seasoned mercenaries. In their faces, filthy with the mud, blood, and ash of the battlefield, he saw a weariness that rivaled his own.

By the Dark Lady! How long can we keep this up? Imri’s thrown magicked beasts, hollowed spirits, the walking dead, and forced shapeshifters at us and we’ve managed to push him back. That’s worse than most men see in a
lifetime of battle. Why do I feel so certain we haven’t seen the end of it?

He looked up to see one of the
Hojun
priests striding toward him, hunched to keep his head below the trench. Jonmarc frowned in concern. “How’s Gethin?”

“He had a rough night of it. The wound festered quickly and the sickness went to his blood. It took both my fellow priest and me to cleanse it.”

“Will he live?”

The
Hojun
nodded. “Yes. And we saved the arm. But it was close. He’s too weak to return to battle.”

“Is he conscious?”

The
Hojun
managed a slight smile. “Barely. And already, he argues to return to the fight.”

“He’s made his point. The last thing I need is to end up at war with Eastmark because Gethin’s gone and gotten himself killed.”

The
Hojun
priest sobered. “I assure you, while King Kalcen loves his son, he knew what was at risk when he sent Gethin to Principality in such dangerous times. His death in battle would be mourned, but it would not provoke a war.”

Jonmarc gave him a sideways glance. “I’d rather not take your word on that. Knock Gethin out if you have to, but keep him behind the lines. I have a feeling it’s going to get nastier than ever tonight.”

“I, too, would not want to see the prince put needlessly at risk. He won’t be healed enough to fight for several days. Perhaps by then this war will be over.”

The
Hojun
gave a stiff half-bow and left just as Valjan sprinted up from the other direction. “By the Whore, Jonmarc! You look as bad as I feel.”

Jonmarc shrugged. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

Valjan laughed. “You’re a good ten years younger than I am. If an old War Dog like me can take the punishment, I don’t doubt that you’ll make it.” He grew serious. “Were your
vayash moru
able to scout the field before daybreak?”

Jonmarc nodded. “Casualties on both sides, to be sure, but they estimated no more than two thousand new dead.” He looked out over the battlefield. “Of course, we don’t know how many of the bodies they counted were the old dead that Imri sent at us with those damned hollowed spirits.”

Valjan let out a potent curse. “I thought I’d seen everything war had to throw at me, but this battle has been a thing of horrors.” He followed Jonmarc’s gaze toward the devastated land between the two army’s entrenchments. Hastily dug trenches carved shallow scars across the burned and pockmarked battle zone.

“The catapults and trebuchets have been moved,” Jonmarc said, fighting an overwhelming exhaustion no amount of
kerif
could revive. “I’ve put a mage with each grouping. They’ll see to the lighting of the missiles and offer some defensive cover. We can’t spare men to protect the war machines.”

Valjan nodded. “Exeter’s in position. He’s either crazy or brilliant, but his men were willing to see if they could slip around behind the enemy, and at this point, I don’t see how we have much to lose.”

Jonmarc grimaced. “I try not to say that, because there’s always more to lose than you think. But I agree: It’s worth a try. He’s still got a contingent to strike from the flank?”

“They’ll be in place by nightfall. They intended to
draw off the Temnottans and open a gap for the others to slip in behind.” He shrugged. “We’ll see.” Valjan was quiet for a moment, and Jonmarc found the other’s gaze uncomfortable.

“There’s more on your mind than the war, Jonmarc.”

Jonmarc let out a long breath and looked away, annoyed that his old commander knew him quite so well. “If I’ve got the date figured right, and there’s no guarantee of that out here, Carina’s due with the twins. At one point, I hoped to be home by then. Now… now I just want to live long enough to see them.”

Valjan clapped him on the shoulder. “I always said that the Dark Lady had her hand on you. I can’t guarantee that you won’t take a few more scars with you, but I’ve no doubt that you’ll make it home.” He managed a tired grin. “You might find battle more restful than two squalling babes and a woman who’s gotten no sleep. I’d fight the Crone herself in battle rather than relive those days in my own house!”

Jonmarc forced a chuckle he did not feel. “Point taken. But after this, I have a mind to retire from war altogether. I’ve had my fill.”

Valjan gave him a sideways glance. “I’ve tried twice to retire from service, and twice circumstances made it impossible to say no when the call came to return. So I wish you well with that, Jonmarc.”

“Let’s just hope we both have the luxury to plan a long, comfortable retirement when this is over.”

The sun had no sooner dipped behind the horizon when screams rose from the Temnottan camp. Jonmarc smiled. Laisren and the
vayash moru
had orders to fly into the
midst of the Temnottans and pluck men from the fortifications, sowing terror and confusion. The strike lasted just minutes, followed by a barrage from the catapults. Men had worked through the night to move the catapults into new, fortified positions. Mages positioned with each catapult or trebuchet lowered their defense of the war machine long enough to lob several burning volleys at the enemy, only to slam the magical defenses back into place while another catapult picked up the offense.

“Go!” Jonmarc signaled the attack. Men and
vayash moru
swarmed over the embankments, their advances timed to correspond with the cover provided by the catapults. Each attacking division had at least one battle mage with it near the front lines, with instructions to lay down a barrage of fire to force the enemy from its fortifications. A second wave of men and
vyrkin
was poised to fill in gaps in the assault and reinforce where needed.

Jonmarc let the battle coldness take him, reacting on instinct as the hand-to-hand fighting grew increasingly intense. Whether or not Imri’s forces feared death less than defeat Jonmarc did not know, but the invaders fought with tenacity.

Two of the Temnottan fighters came at him. Jonmarc crouched, and then swung into a high Eastmark kick that sent one of his opponents reeling. He rose from the swing with a blade in each hand and let the momentum deliver a shattering blow to the first attacker. With a cry, the second soldier regained his feet and ran headlong at Jonmarc, fury blazing in his eyes. Jonmarc dove and rolled, neatly slicing through the second attacker’s heel to drop the man in agony midstep, unable to regain his footing. Jonmarc rose from the roll closer than the first soldier expected,
enabling him to come up inside the man’s guard, sinking his blade deep into the man’s chest before the soldier ever realized what was happening.

The dying man swung hard with the last of his strength, a blow Jonmarc did not expect. He parried, but the attacker scored a gash on Jonmarc’s arm between his vambrace and his chain-mail shirt. As the dying Temnottan sank to his knees, his eyes showed unreasoning fury, making a final grasp for Jonmarc’s boots to pull him from his feet. Jonmarc stepped back to evade the man’s reach. Behind him, the hamstrung soldier threw a dagger, lodging it high on Jonmarc’s thigh. Despite his wound, the man was trying to drag himself closer to Jonmarc, cursing in Temnottan as he clawed his way across the ground.