Part 39 (1/2)

Brant nodded, his face thoughtful. ”In the right hands, such a message might lend courage to a few.”

”Or lead to betrayal.”

Kath ignored the fox and seized the boar's words. ”A few can become many. Even a small rebellion will bring confusion to the enemy.”

Royce nodded. ”It might work.” Others echoed his agreement.

Kath figured she'd won two-thirds of the council. She began to hope they'd agree.

An owl faced woman blinked up at her. ”But your plan requires stealth and surprise. How will you sneak an army through the gargoyle gates?”

The question struck like an ambus.h.i.+ng dagger. Kath struggled to keep her face still. It was the one problem she hadn't solved. The gargoyle gates scared her. Even Zith described them as an abomination. She forced herself to meet the owl woman's stare. ”I need to see them before I'll know how to defeat them.”

”Defeat them!” The fox faced man spat the words in her face. ”The gargoyle gates have stood for a thousand years and you're just going to walk up and defeat them?”

Kath was beginning to hate the narrow-faced man, but she kept her voice level. ”I'll lead a small scouting party to the gates. If I can't find a way for an army to pa.s.s then the plan is defeated before it ever begins.”

”You'll lead them?” The question came from Brant, the boar faced man. ”And if you can't defeat the gargoyles then the army does not march?”

She made her words a promise. ”Just so.”

Brant nodded, his grin twisting the blue tusks tattooed on his face. ”That's good enough for me.”

Others shouted their agreement. ”Let the gargoyles prove her worth.”

”The gargoyle gates will be her true trial.”

More proof, Kath wondered if a woman's word was ever enough.

Royce, the leader of the lions, stood, ”It is time to decide. A show of hands for peace, and the army stays at home. A show of daggers for war, and we follow the War Leader's plan.” Royce went first. Pulling a dagger from his belt, he lifted it high.

Around the chamber, the leaders declared their choice. A few hesitated until the Old One pulled a dagger from beneath her sheepskins. In the end, even the fox lifted his dagger for war, a grudging look on his face.

Royce came towards her, beaming a smile. ”The victory is yours. The painted people prepare for war.”

A victory of words, Kath smiled, but it felt hollow. The real fighting had not even begun, yet she already felt tired, as if she'd run for leagues. She gave Royce a small smile. ”There's much to be done before the dark of the moon.”

Royce seemed to understand, his face turning solemn. ”We're a proud people and we love a good argument, but once a thing is decided, you'll find us swift to act.” He leaned towards her, his voice dropping to a whisper. ”But can you truly defeat the gargoyle gates?”

The question pierced her to the core. She didn't know the answer but she put on a brave face. ”I'll do my best.” In truth, it was the only thing she could say. She prayed to Valin it would be good enough.

47.

The Knight Marshal The battle for Raven Pa.s.s became a weary blur. The marshal lost count of the number of a.s.saults they'd repulsed. Tide lines of corpses littered the steppes, marking the waves of attack, but the walls held strong and defiant. Corpses piled like cordwood near the gate, many of them blackened and burned, raising a horrible stench, yet the horde never dwindled. The Octagon remained triumphant, vigilant atop their walls, yet the marshal could not shake the impending sense of doom.

A cold wind blew out of the north, a harbinger of snow. From the height of the second wall, the one dubbed Swordbreaker, the marshal had a clear view of the enemy. A pity the living so outnumber the slain.

Lothar joined him, a s.h.i.+eld on his left arm, his battleaxe strapped to his side. ”What are they waiting for?”

The marshal shrugged, ”Perhaps they're conjuring a nightmare.”

”I like it not.” Lothar shot him a grim look.

A flight of black-fletched arrows leaped from the enemy lines. Soaring over the thirty-foot outer wall, they arched skyward, reaching for the second.

The marshal watched them come. ”s.h.i.+elds!” He swung his own s.h.i.+eld up, bracing for impact. Arrows thudded down, striking oak, and stone, and flesh. A single arrow thunked deep into his s.h.i.+eld while another clipped his maroon cloak, tearing a jagged hole. ”d.a.m.n.” He rubbed his shoulder, thankful for his chainmail, and plucked the offending arrow from his s.h.i.+eld. The marshal surveyed the wall. Only two wounded, Valin's luck favored them this time. ”Get the wounded to the healery!” A detail of soldiers scurried to obey.

He'd ordered a rotation on the walls, keeping the archers on the battlements while the knights waited below, easily summoned by a trumpet's call. For the thousandth time, he gave thanks for the stout walls of Raven Pa.s.s. The builders had wrought well.

A trebuchet shuddered and groaned, hurling another boulder skyward. The monstrous wooden beasts worked day and night, heaving stones against the horde. The ma.s.sive boulder tumbled out over the enemy. Sailing deep behind enemy lines, it fell with a bone-crus.h.i.+ng thud, raising a cloud of dirt and blood.

”Thirty with one stone!” Lothar shook his head in amazement. ”An ugly way to kill but I wish we had twice as many of the wooden beasts.”

”Aye, but even then they'd make little difference.” The marshal leaned against the rampart, staring out at the enemy. So many, they eclipsed the steppes with their black armor, like a shadow cursing the land. ”How many do you think we've killed?”

”I'd wager nigh on two thousand.”

”Yet it changes nothing. We're still outnumbered twenty to one.”

Lothar grunted, ”Or more.”

”Yet their tactics trouble me more than their numbers.” A squire drew near, a wicker basket slung over his right shoulder. The lad stooped to collect the enemy's spent arrows, inspecting the shaft before adding it to his basket. Their own stores were running dangerously low.

The marshal forestalled his friend with a glance, waiting till the lad was well out of earshot. ”We need no ill rumors.”

Lothar grunted. ”So what troubles you about their tactics?”

”What doesn't?” He shrugged, fingering a dagger at his belt. ”After the monk's warning, I half expected monsters and magic, yet we've seen neither.”

”Perhaps we haven't looked hard enough.”

”Or perhaps they're waiting for something.” The marshal shook his head, trying to dispel the feeling of dread. ”Their tactics make no sense. I keep expecting grappling hooks in the dead of the night, or a thicket of ladders raised against the outer wall, but they seem content to fight with spears, and arrows, and battering rams.” He tightened his grip on his s.h.i.+eld. ”Something's not right.”

Lothar shrugged. ”Thank Valin for small favors.”

But the marshal did not think it was the war G.o.d's doing.

”Lord Marshal!”

A gray-cloaked squire ran toward him. ”I've a message from Prince Ulrich.”

He recognized the lad; a pug nose and a tousle of curly black locks, the personal squire to the prince. ”What is it, Brock?”