Haven 5 Blood Magic BOOK (25 page)

“We attack Gronig next,” he told his captains. They nodded grimly and leaned upon their bows and shimmering blades.

Oberon used the hound then, sucking blood from the Kindred corpses and healing those of the bodies of the merlings and elves who were not beyond repair. Sweating, he summoned his runners. “What of the goblins?” he demanded.

“No sign, milord,” said an elf runner.

Both of them turned their eyes toward the dark forest, then up to the starry skies. If that bastard Hob didn’t show up, Oberon swore to himself, he would hunt the goblin down in Eire or whatever stinking swamp he lay in. He would have his vengeance, if it took his dying breath from him.

Gronig had only a single regiment of heavy troopers and a company of lighter crossbowmen as a garrison. Oberon had long ago scouted the town, of course, and clearly recognized Gudrin’s wisdom. She had lightly garrisoned the town, just enough to give an enemy pause, but not enough to split her forces. The vast majority still guarded Snowdon.

Oberon ordered the merlings forward under the cover of darkness, which had fallen hard and heavy this moonless night. His people did not shine and give themselves away when the moon was absent from the heavens, making this the optimum time of the month for such an attack.

The enemy was ready, naturally. War beacons burned on every stone roof, providing light and signaling allies. All the way up to Snowdon, the roaring fires would be visible. His greatest desire was that Gudrin would march down into the open to meet him. He didn’t expect her to, but he could hope.

Just before he ordered his elves to commit to the assault, he paused. This step, attacking enemy families, would not soon be forgotten. The Kindred, should there be any of them left breathing when this was over, would sing of this day and curse by it. If the Kindred were to prevail, there would be a terrible price for the Shining Folk to pay in the Twilight Lands.

He nodded to himself. His path was clear. He must not fail.

* * *

Gudrin paced, her face storming. Few dared speak to her when she was in such a state, but the chamberlain, a sallow fellow who valued duty over his own skin, cleared his throat and approached her. She ignored him, and continued to pace.

The chamberlain cleared his throat a second time, but she still ignored him. He spoke anyway, impressing Gudrin, because as he spoke she truly did consider burning him down where he stood. His words were most unwelcome.

“The reports are in from the spyglasses buried within Snowdon’s crown, milady. It appears the elves are attacking Gronig.”

She stopped pacing, but her eyes stayed upon the flagstones at her feet. She did not look at the chamberlain, because she would have to burn him then, she knew. She had already burned off beards and slagged a few chins as well from messengers this dark day. She felt bad about it, but the Jewel, Pyros had a temper of its own. She wondered now that Brand had ever been able to control Ambros, which was reputed to be worse than Pyros. The Orange was positively evil when her mind was under real stress. Rather than just making one argumentative, it made one half-mad with fury at the slightest annoyance.

“What report is there of the River Folk?” she demanded, keeping her eyes focused on the cut granite at her feet. Each tile was carven with an intricate bas relief of crossed hammers. A thousand such fine, ancient tiles covered the floor for a hundred paces in every direction.

The queen of the Kindred and her counselors stood atop the Great Gate itself, on the inside of Snowdon. A large area of crenulated battlements thronged the inside of the mountain here. Few travelers ever looked up enough to examine the shadowy areas over the Great Gate once they passed inside, but it was in fact a strong point of the mountain’s defense. Should an enemy break the gates and press inside, they would be struck from behind and above by the warriors and weaponeers who waited here. The fortifications also made an excellent headquarters for the management of any fighting in the Black Mountains.

“My queen,” said the chamberlain, hesitating. For the first time, she heard a quaver enter his voice and knew that whatever he had to say, the news would be bad. She steeled herself, promising herself not to lose her temper—and thus her mind.

“Wee Folk runners have come from the River Folk,” he said at last. “The good news is that they march.”

“And the bad?” she snapped, pacing again.

“They have just entered the Deepwood—on their side, of course. They will not arrive for two days, possibly three.”

Gudrin halted. Everyone fell silent. The torches around them fluttered and roared with the whipping winds that came up from the open gates below them. There was always a strong breeze here when the Great Gates were open. Heated air was endlessly exchanged for cold through this portal to the surface world.

Gudrin’s eyes rotated up to gaze upon the chamberlain. Everyone tensed, especially the chamberlain. He did not cower or seek to cover his face, however. Instead, he stood taller. He even had the temerity to stare back at her.

“You’re telling me that Gronig is lost.”

“Yes, my queen. Unless—”

“Unless we do something.”

The chamberlain nodded. In her mind’s eye, Gudrin saw herself raising a single finger. No more would be needed. She would burn him down with a single blue-white beam of heat. She would burn him down to his boot stumps, and it would make her smile. Nothing else could please her right now.

As she thought about it more seriously, the idea growing in her mind, she considered he wouldn’t feel much from the kiss of her blazing fire. It would be very quick, and the shock would be such that it would be practically painless. As a bonus, some part of her mind argued, she would probably find discipline improved among all her commanders, who stood around watching.

She did begin to slowly raise her hand, and everyone in the room sucked in their collective breath. She caught the hand, however, with her mind. She caught her own hand the way a person might collect a butterfly that flutters near. She stopped the hand and forced it to obey her. She moved the hand to her own cheek, where she rubbed her scarred flesh as if thinking.

All around her, a collective breath was released.

She nodded and began pacing again. “The elf lord seeks to force me to take the field. He knows we are strong here. He wants us out in the open. He wants us to leave Snowdon undefended from beneath as well, so his minions might bubble up from the Everdark.”

“Milady, we don’t know that—” began one of her captains, but the rest of the words were swallowed. His name was Thorkil, and he was known for his outspoken nature, even among the Kindred. She had raised a palm to him, and Thorkil had frozen. She did not look at the captain, but everyone there knew she did not need to. From her palm she could release a gush of heat like dragonfire, a broad cone of flame that could consume many irritants at once.

“Yes,” she said, lowering her palm slowly. “Yes, we
do
know. We know they are down there, awaiting the signal. If you don’t know it, you are a fool.”

Thorkil stepped from boot to boot, frowning, but he kept quiet.

“We will move,” said Gudrin, coming to a final decision. Many of the assembled Kindred whistled and thumped their breasts with their shields. This they understood. This they yearned for with all their hearts. Hiding inside their mountain fortress was fine, but not when their brethren died at the cold stone feet of these same mountains, only a few miles away.

“I will send out a regiment of heavy foot. They shall be accompanied by an auxiliary force of three scout companies, armed with crossbows. The last and most important element of the expedition will be the steam-driven bombards. All of them we have built will be deployed.”

“What’s this?” dared captain Thorkil, who had spoken before. Thorkil was tall for one of the Kindred and had a wild froth of orange hair that stuck up in every direction. From the center of the frothing hair blazed eyes as orange as lava.

Gudrin turned to face him. She smiled slowly. “I like your fire Captain Thorkil. You will lead the expedition. Bombard the elves and allow them no peace. If our people attempt to retreat from Gronig into the mines, blast any elves that follow them.”

The captain sputtered, but lowered his frowning face under the gaze of his queen. “As you will, milady. But what if they slaughter the town?”

Gudrin tilted her head, pursed her lips. “If they see we are content to bombard them, and all they are gaining is more time under our heavy bombards, they will soon tire of their sport in my town.”

The captain shook his hoary head. “You are a cold one, milady. Despite the fire that whispers over your palms.”

Gudrin glanced down and noticed Thorkil was right, her hands were indeed running with crimson flames. She drew in a breath and nodded.

“It is the job of a monarch to make the hard decisions,” she said, surprised at how calmly her words sounded. She was back in control of herself, now that the initial shocking news of the war’s beginning had sunken in. She had known for months it was coming, but somehow the reality of it was worse still than the anticipation. “I will not leave Snowdon undefended. I will gladly forfeit one thousand lives to avoid losing ten thousand more. The elves will be in an uncomfortable position. Rapine and frenzy will be theirs, but they will be under fire and they will know another force marches up behind them. If they want to defeat us, they must advance onto the cliffs quickly or be caught between two armies. Oberon will see that and come up to silence the guns.”

“And what are my orders then, milady, when he does come for the guns?”

“Withdraw, firing as you can. Spend the lives of your troops to cover the bombards.”

The captain nodded. Thorkil looked anything but happy with his new command. He turned to go.

“Captain,” said Gudrin.

“My queen?”

“Bring everything you can back intact.”

Thorkil nodded. He shook his frothing orange mane of hair and grumbled as he stumped down the spiraling stairs to the Great Gates below. A dozen pair of eyes followed him, and everyone wondered as to their futures.

Chapter Eighteen

Twists of Flesh

Oberon’s forces soon surrounded Gronig and drove its pitifully few defenders back into the circle of blocky stone structures. Fortunately, the town had no walls. Crossbow bolts, well-placed, found the throats of a dozen merlings, but more poured forward. The elves stood in a rippling line behind the light merling infantry, shooting their bows with careful precision. Kindred chests and eye-sockets sprouted arrows. Often, the Kindred still fired and reloaded several times, cursing and working their weapons furiously. At last, however, the ensorcelled arrow tips worked their way too deeply and stilled their pounding hearts or severed their raging minds from their bodies.

Then the merlings were inside the town and the fighting became house-to-house. The heavy stone walls and small cut windows served the Kindred well in defense, channeling the enemy attacks through tight doorways. Vicious fighting erupted at each threshold as small knot of Kindred struggled with a pick, shovel or axe against a wave of croaking, hooting enemies. Hundreds perished on both sides.

It was soon after that Oberon saw the skies light up with orange glare to the North. Every elf and every merling who wasn’t in melee gazed up toward Snowdon. A few seconds after the orange glare came a booming report like thunder. The hearts of the Kindred who heard it leapt with glee. They struggled with the merlings in their own doorways with renewed ferocity. They grinned and howled, throwing off a score of slimy, grasping hands.

Oberon and the oldest of his children knew the sound. They had not heard it for many, many centuries, but it wasn’t something that one could forget. There was no time to signal for his troops to take cover, so Oberon simply dove against one of the Kindred houses, putting the solid stone walls against his back and crouching down. He watched the skies, as did a thousand others.

The first of the stones fell upon a Kindred brewery in the eastern quarter of Gronig. The roof had been built to withstand many things, but a direct hit from a bombard was too much. It stove in and a great explosion erupted. Fire and body parts flew everywhere. Kindred and merlings died, their bloods staining the ground and mixing like two shades of paint.

More stones fell and more explosions geysered up earth, stone, fire and flesh. This shock, combined with the renewed ferocity of the Kindred defenders, proved too much for the merlings. They broke at one threshold, then another, and soon were humping and croaking in all directions, screeching and clawing over one another in a desperate panic.

Oberon straightened, brushing his fine vest after the first volley ended. It would be a minute or two before the next volley fell among them. He heaved a great sigh. The merlings were second rate troops at best, worthy only of slaying peasant girls, and perhaps not even that task was within their power.

Gudrin had surprised him. She had overcome her fury at his attack, and worse, had cunningly fired her guns on his army when they were most exposed and embroiled in combat. She cared not a whit for her own folk, and planned his destruction with cold precision. He had hoped she would respond with the fury of Pyros and march to meet him, leaving Snowdon weak to the secondary attack from below. But that was clearly not to be.