Nightlord: Shadows (53 page)

I plan to get a wagonload of gravel and lay a line of it down for the mountain to follow, just to see if that speeds up progress. If not, it’ll be weeks before the road reaches the Eastrange. But if the mountain can grow a road, it can grow bridges. That’s my hope, anyway.

I spent more than one night with the mountain, trying to be sure it understands about bridges. I really hope this works.

I was expecting Bob to visit me today. He didn’t make it during the day, which wasn’t terribly surprising, so I was on my covered patio-terrace-balcony-thing as soon as sunset stopped prickling. I looked north and west, expecting to see him and his escorts.

Well, if Bob was in that bunch, he was certainly taking his security seriously. They were streaming out of the tunnel behind the waterfall, running to catch up with the guys in the lead. My current estimate put them at two thousand, give or take, with more still pouring out and no signs the flood might let up. It looked as though they were grouped in company-sized packets—maybe two hundred infantry apiece—each led by a mounted officer, an elf. These ten or so lead companies were entirely
orku
, with a few ogres attached to them.

Their equipment was interesting. Their armor was higher in quality than I recalled, both in design and in materials. It seemed to consist mostly of brigandine and chainmail. They were all armed pretty much identically—one-handed axes with a pick on the back of the head, like cross between a military pick and a battleaxe, or a shortened guisarme-voulge—and carried metal body shields. Auxiliary weapons had some variety, but usually included a sling.

The ogres were also armored, but had no shields. Instead, they carried tree-trunk clubs appropriate to their size, currently slung over their backs to leave their hands free. Twenty-four of them—four groups of six—hustled along, each group carrying an iron-capped ram.

Behind this vanguard, streaming out of the tunnel, were
galgar
, all dressed in lighter armor and carrying small crossbows and big knives, hustling to catch up. Even farther behind, there were companies of mixed races, more militia than army. And they still kept coming out.

I watched for a while. At a steady jog, they finally dumped about twelve thousand troops onto the road. They didn’t pause to regroup, just streamed east at their best speed, not waiting on the stragglers.

In all of that, there was no sign of Bob; and with my eyes, at night, I would have picked him out, no problem.

That’s no escort. That’s an invasion force.

Next on my list
, I thought,
is to get Kavel to make some big,
loud
alarm bells
.

I settled for casting a mental sending spell to everyone in the mountain:
Wake up! We may be attacked within the hour! Get up! Get dressed! To arms!

Having done that, I then thought about Firebrand and assembled a spell. Much like a location spell, it would range outward until it hit the target, but I didn’t need it to be strong enough to echo back the location. I just needed it to make contact at all.

I pumped power into it, aimed it generally northward along the Eastrange, and chucked it as hard as I could.

FIREBRAND!

Contact! Shock, surprise, pleasure.

Boss! You’re awake! About time! Where are—

And a sizzling crackle threw mental sparks all along our connection. The connection dropped like a cell phone down a mineshaft.

That wasn’t a lack of signal. That was interference.

All right, second choice. I cranked up my communication spell again and focused on Bob, this time.

BOB!

Crackling. Interference. Someone was using the magical equivalent of active jamming.

I looked westward at the oncoming horde.

It was a good thing I was already dead; I didn’t have to fear for my life. All I had to fear for was the lives of everyone in the city. And my corporeal existence, but I’m kind of used to that.

At least I know there’s an afterlife.

I looked again at the horde. I wasn’t comforted.

After a brief discussion with my personal guards and Kelvin, we decided that holding the city was impossible. We just didn’t have enough people to man the walls. If the invaders were smart, they would simply surround the place and attack from all sides at once. That would overrun us in less than an hour.

As cities go, it’s a tough nut to crack. If you can’t defend it, though, any fortification is just a bunch of rocks to climb.

“If we don’t defend the city,” Kammen asked, “what do we do? Defend the inner wall?”

“I’m thinking that, yes,” I said. “We have enough people for that, and we can make getting those rams up to the gate a serious problem. Unfortunately, the rams are small enough they can actually use them on that little piece of road in front of the gate.” I added, “I’ll be redesigning that.”

“We are not well-supplied with arrows,” Kelvin pointed out. “We are not well-supplied in any respect, I should say. It is a magnificent fortress, but it is garrisoned as an outpost, no more. We have barely taken the city; we do not have a firm hold on it.”

“We could retreat to Mochara,” I suggested. Kelvin nodded, thoughtfully.

“As much as it pains me to give ground to an enemy, I fear I must agree. Although they might pursue us,” he said, “I think it more likely they would occupy the mountain.”

There was some spirited debate about that. Nobody liked the idea of retreating—running—from the oncoming horde. On the other hand, nobody liked the idea of making an heroic last stand, either. Or, rather, they liked the
idea
of an heroic last stand, dying at the very last after building a mountain of corpses, but were open to other suggestions.

I already knew what I was going to do, but it helps to let them work around to the only feasible solution themselves.

“Okay, that’s enough,” I said. They quieted and listened. “You four know me well enough to answer this question. Do I give orders a lot? Or do I usually make requests?”

They agreed that I usually asked, rather than commanded.

“We take them as orders,” Seldar pointed out.

“You are the King,” Torvil added.

“And I appreciate your loyalty in that regard. Now, when I do give a direct order, what does that mean?”

“Since Your Majesty makes an issue of it,” Kelvin said, “I presume it means you want it obeyed, without argument, without question, and without hesitation.” The other three nodded agreement.

“Good. I now order you to gather up everyone in the mountain, take all the horses, and escape in the longboat. You are charged with saving the civilians’ lives.”

They looked as though it was physically painful, but they clenched their teeth and saluted. I dropped my illusions so that I reverted to my nighttime coloration. They’ve seen it before, but they still shudder with something like fear every time.

“And,” I added, smiling, deliberately showing a lot of very sharp teeth, “I’ll take care of the army.”

There were a lot of arrangements to be made, but we worked quickly. The civilians fit on the canal boat; the draft horses hauled it down the southern canal. The knights either rode in the boat or rode their horses, depending on whether or not they
had
a horse. It was a tight squeeze to get everyone headed south, but we managed. The group headed off at about the speed of a fast walk, but they had a head start and could keep going like that indefinitely, or until they reached Mochara.

While everyone evacuated, I took a moment to give the mountain some orders. Rather than take the time to merge with the stone and discuss things, I built a spell structure, put my commands into it, and had the spell play that back for the mountain at geological speeds. Close off the air vents in the great hall. Shrink the internal corridors, both in height and width. Put a ridge along the walls, next to the pivot-doors, so they only open one way. Adjust the pivot-doors themselves; tilt the pivot axis just a trifle, and make them ever so slightly out of balance so they gradually swing shut on their own.

With that done, I double-checked my armor, defensive spells, and guts. All seemed in good order, aside from that terrified little spot somewhere around my stomach, so I mounted up on Bronze.

The canal road on the south side of the western canal dead-ends in a rock wall in the Eastrange. The army was therefore marching along the north side. That meant to get to the main bridge across the lake-moat, they either had to ford the canal or cross at the canal-bridge. While
orku
, elves, and ogres could do it without too much trouble,
galgar
and any of the shorter races would have to be assisted. I was pretty sure horses—normal horses—wouldn’t manage it easily or quickly, if they could do it at all.

I picked my spot at the highest point of the arched bridge over the western canal. I worked on my defensive spells while Bronze walked us out there. I raised a deflection spell, because the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and hostile people bother me. I also wrapped Bronze and myself in my gravity-warping spell and took the time to tighten it down to about fifty percent of normal gravity. When we ran—I certainly planned to run—I hoped we could pound over the lake-bridge and simply jump over the wall.

The outer wall needs more gates. Mental note.

I drew my sword and held it across my lap. Everything was going to go just fine. Everything. I kept telling myself that, all the while being thankful my palms don’t sweat when I’m dead.

Then we waited. We were both tense, but Bronze felt a little eager. Well… maybe I had a little anticipation, myself. I don’t like fighting; I just do it when I have to.

Or do I? Taking stock, I have to wonder… Am I actually starting to enjoy this? Me, the untenured professor and computer programmer? When did that start? Does it come with being a human-hunter? Or with being a king? Or is it just part of human nature, brought out and to the fore? Or all those lives I’ve swallowed from cultures that regard killing someone as an acceptable solution?

I shelved it. Now is not the time for introspection.

The vanguard, led by an elf I didn’t recognize, signaled a halt. The column clanked to a stop, or mostly; a squad or two kept going, circling around the mountain at a jog. The rear of the column took the opportunity to do some catching up. They were still strung out almost all the way back to the Eastrange, but now they were gathering together. Most of them looked tired; at a guess, they came a long way very quickly. Three days isn’t much time to throw together several thousand troops and march them anywhere. I was impressed at their speed and organization.

The elf in command—or just the unlucky guy who had to do the talking—urged his horse forward at a walk. The rest of the elf commanders closed in on the front of the army and formed a line behind him—quite a bit behind him. I noticed Salishar among them. The leader came to a stop at the foot of the bridge, twenty or thirty feet away, because his horse refused to go any farther. He struggled with it for a moment before deciding that maybe it had a point, and this was close enough.

Bronze looked at it; she was not in a domesticated mood. The horse really didn’t like that. It kept shifting and trying to back away. The elf had to work to keep it in place. Unable to approach and unwilling to dismount, the elf raised his voice.

“Are you the one called Halar, King of Karvalen, once the Lord of Vathula?”

Oh, this is going to be interesting.

“Who are you? —your short name, if you please.”

“I am called Zaraneth.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Zaraneth. I am Halar,” I admitted. “I am King of Karvalen. I was not aware that I was no longer lord of Vathula, however. Who claims lordship of that city?”

While I spoke, I looked past him at the soldiers. The
orku
elite troops in the vanguard carried magical objects. Mostly the size of golf balls, the things had spells I didn’t recognize. Magical missile weapons, probably. Grenades? Bombs? Whatever they were, the
orku
loaded slings with them and held them ready—not actually swinging them, but loaded. I could see more than a little fear in their spirits.

Good.

The elven commanders carried enchanted weapons and wore enchanted armor. Typical. Elves don’t really do spells, but they are masters of craft. They build or make things that contain power; it’s their talent. Magical swords, glowing amulets, sparkly wands—the elves are the ones who mastered the art of making material objects magical, or making magic into material objects. If the elves are Auguste Rodin, humans are still making messes with modeling clay.

What I found more disturbing was the distortion effect of scrying points. A dozen or more people were watching and probably listening, but their points of view were scattered all over the place, most back behind the line of elves. That wasn’t a safe distance for them, but they obviously didn’t know that. Besides, shattering their spells would probably precipitate open hostilities…

Who are these observers, anyway?
I wondered.
I would have thought everyone knew my feelings on this sort of thing by now. Or are they just counting on using the army as cover?