Chapter 15

Square of the Mariners, Suluk

The sword felt right in his hand. The balance was, if not quite what he’d grown used to, close enough. The blade had the right amount of curve to it. It had only one edge, but that edge was keen enough to cut through steel plate. The Rainwarders called their blades talga, but to Hult it was the closest thing to a proper shuk as he might ever wield again.

He held the blade low, eyes closed, picturing the enemy in his head. They’d been waiting for hours, the soldiers massed along the waterfront, the wizards standing ready in the square beneath Sevenspires, which were lost in the mist high above. Two more scouts had reported back, telling of the hobgoblins’ progress; many of their crude boats had fallen apart or foundered when waves swept over them, but they were still coming… and steadily. By the guesses Hult had heard, they would arrive shortly before nightfall, streaming right into Suluk’s harbor and the teeth of the Rainwards’ armies. Even though all the kings had sent troops, though, the word was that the enemy outnumbered the city’s defenders three to one, and there was still Maladar to consider as well. But there wasn’t much they could do about that—certainly nothing Hult himself could do. If the Faceless Emperor entered the fray, it would be the sorcerers’ problem, not his. They would have to fight magic with magic.

So they waited. The soldiers, clad in the colors of each of the kingdoms—violet and gray and sea-green and the others—peered into the fog as if they might make the hobgoblins’ rafts appear through sheer will. The hours wore on as they waited for the iron harbor bell to sound again.

Hult shook his head, chuckling.

“What are you laughing at?” Shedara asked, sitting on a stone bollard nearby. She had one of her throwing daggers out and was flipping it from hand to hand, the knife spinning in the air with each toss.

“I was just thinking,” he said. “I’ve never been on this side of a raid before. The Uigan were always the ones doing the attacking.”

“Ah,” she said, flipping and catching again. “What do you think of it, then? Being on the defensive, I mean.”

Hult ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t say I like it.”

“You’ve learned something, then.”

They glanced down the wharf at the soldiers arrayed along the length of the shore. They stretched from one end of the harbor to the other, anywhere from three to five ranks deep, thicker in places where the seawall was lower and the hobgoblins more likely to come ashore. Here and there, the head and shoulders of a centaur towered above his fellows, or an apparent gap in the ranks marked where a dwarf stood. Many held bows ready, quivers of arrows on their backs, the fletching a rainbow of kingdoms’ colors. Others had poleaxes, and those in the rear held long pikes that could reach over and between the forward ranks. Almost all had large shields too, bound with iron and emblazoned with the sigils of their realms.

“You ought to have a shield,” Shedara said. “It might save your life.”

Hult shook his head. “I’ve never really used one. This seems a bad time to be trying a new style of fighting. What about you? Where’s yours?”

She tossed the dagger into the air, snatched it out again, and snapped it neatly back into its sheath on her belt. When it was tucked away, she held up her hand, her fingers wiggling.

“Mage,” she said. “Remember? I can’t cast anything with a shield strapped to my arm.”

Hult grunted. “What are you doing down here, then? I’d think you would prefer to be up above, with the other wizards.”

“I don’t have that kind of power,” she replied. “My spells are for close-up work, not raining death from afar. And you’ll want my blades around when I can’t cast anything more.”

“You have an answer for everything,” Hult said.

Shedara grinned. He wanted to kiss her again, but it wasn’t the time. Later, maybe, if they both lived through the day. He peered out into the fog again, seeing only the distant glow of torches on the breakwater, and the slanting shadows of the ships the soldiers had burned and sunk that morning. He dropped into a squat, his talga laid across his knees.

He didn’t like being on the other side at all.

Hult had actually dropped off to sleep when the iron bell began to ring again—not fully unconscious, but drowsing where he crouched, lulled by the sound of lapping waves. He could have been flat on his back snoring, though, and the sudden clamor from across the water, coupled with the burst of nervous chatter among the soldiers, would have had him on his feet in a heartbeat. His legs ached as he rose and gave his talga a few short, quick snaps back and forth. It whistled through the air.

“Enough of that,” Shedara said. “You know how to swing that thing. Get your bow out.”

She stood ready, alert, her hands empty at her sides, her lips moving—going over her spells. The bell’s ringing was constant, not one or two notes over and over; this was no scouting boat returning with more word about the hobgoblins.

No. This was it.

He slid his sword back into its sheath and picked up his bow from where it lay. It was a Rainward bow, longer on its top limb than the bottom, so an archer could kneel as he shot. Its pull was far stronger than anything the Uigan used. Still, he’d gotten the hang of it easily over the past few days. He reached to his quiver and pulled out a crimson-fletched arrow, fitting it on the string. All along the harbor, soldiers were doing the same, standing ready, waiting for the command to aim and loose.

The murmuring died away. Without warning, the bell stopped, and someone let out a choking cry. A terrible silence fell… then, through the fog, came a new, horrible noise: a tumult of shrieks and howls and snarls that made Hult’s mouth run dry. There were thousands of voices, made flat and hollow by the mist. Out across the water, weapons clashed against shields or against each other. They had come—the first dim shapes of their rafts fading into view, just beyond the breakwater—and the clumsy slap of oars in unskillful hands rose amid the battle cries.

“Lift the fog,” Shedara muttered. “Come on, Roshambur… get rid of this stuff already.”

Hult frowned, wondering what she was talking about; then, all at once, voices high above began to shout spidery words. Moon power rippled in the air, warming it, making it even muggier and heavier than before. And, all at once, it began to rain.

It was not just rain, it was a downpour, the rain hammering down on Suluk in thick, heavy sheets. It was like one of the summer storms that battered the Tamire, only there was no thunder, no lightning, no wind; it was simply as if the sky itself had turned to water and come crashing down. It cascaded down streets in frothing rivers, poured out into the harbor in foaming cataracts. And as it rained and rained, things began to change.

The fog began to disappear.

Hult realized it was happening only when the sunken ships at the harbor mouth faded into view. Glances to either side revealed more of the city’s defenders, arrayed between the sheer, rocky cliffs to the east and west of the city. He glanced back, just for an instant, and saw a jumble of stone buildings, and green and blue spires scattered up a steep slope behind him: all Suluk was visible for the first time since he’d come there. Above, in the courtyard before the palace and atop each of its towers, stood hundreds of robed figures: the war mages of the Rainwards, arrayed for battle. Most were chanting, drawing in energy to dissipate the fog. Their hands danced, weaving in the shimmering air.

“Blood of Lunis,” Shedara swore, her voice so soft he barely heard it at all. “Look at that.”

He turned to stare across the harbor. Dozens of wrecked boats listed heavy in the water, some still smoldering even then. Beyond them, the sea was black with crude, leaky craft: a thousand boats at least.

The horde had come.

“Bows ready!” shouted the Rainward officers, up and down the lines. “Front ranks low!”

At that command, the archers in the forefront knelt, raising their bows, aiming them high. The men behind them stayed on their feet and aimed even higher. The first shots would fly long, to the utmost extent of their range. Perhaps Eldako might have been able to hit a mark at such a distance; most bowmen could not… not intentionally, anyway. Yet hundreds of shafts, all flying at once, was a different matter. Some were bound to hit targets, if just by chance. Hult had heard tales on the Tamire of entire raiding bands getting slaughtered when they charged a proper group of Alan-Atu archers. The Uigan had long since learned better than to try.

Either the hobgoblins told no such tales or they didn’t care. Anyway, their numbers were too great for bows alone to stop. Fortunately, though, bows weren’t all the Rainwarders had. From the watches above, the chanting grew louder. The air smelled clean and crisp, like just before a thunderstorm, but the rain was letting up, and the sun was shining through the scattering clouds. Its light was red and heavy, hanging just above the cliffs at Suluk’s western edge: a bloody sun for a bloody day.

Hult raised his bow.

“Good luck,” Shedara said.

He nodded. “Jijin’s sword at your back.”

The hobgoblins crawled closer, moving past the breakwater, roaring and shouting; those who weren’t rowing were bashing their swords against their shields. They made it to the burned-out hulks and immediately fell into trouble. Some struck sunken spars and masts, which tore their rafts apart and sent them plunging into the water; others swerved to miss the obstacles and slammed into other boats when they did. Bellicose shouts turned into panicked death howls as the hobgoblins’ armor dragged them down. The water churned and frothed, but the boats claimed only one boat in five: good, but not good enough. The hobgoblins were too close to turn back or even to slow: blood and plunder drove them, and nothing would make them give up trying to reach the shore.

“Hold!” the officers shouted. Down the lines, one or two archers let off hasty shots that fell short of the advancing rafts, but most kept still. They knew their ranges, knew the enemy wasn’t close enough yet. “Hold!”

The wizards landed the first blows. Thunder pealed from on high, and a volley of lightning bolts, sizzling blue and violet in the ruddy twilight, arced overhead. They struck the lead boats, blowing them apart with a boom that made Hult’s ears ring. Shards of flaming timber and torn shreds of flesh flew through the air, amid gouts of spray. Men all along the wharf cheered; cries of dismay echoed from the horde. Fire quickly followed the lightning, billowing golden tongues that fell upon the boats and engulfed them, turning them into floating cinders. Hult winced as the heat washed over him. The hobgoblins shrieked as they burned, flapping their arms as they madly tried to save themselves and leaping into the water—only to sink like the rest.

Another spell went off, a blossom of white light overhead, raining silver motes down. Massive black tentacles rose from the water and began to batter and crush the rafts. One of the wizards had conjured some beast; the creature reminded Hult of the Vaka-te-nok he and his friends had fought in Neron, but much larger and more fearsome. It tore apart fifty boats, he guessed, while the hobgoblins hacked at its many arms, to no avail. Their swords bounced off its rubbery hide as it ripped them apart.

A brass horn blew from across the harbor—a signal to the soldiers. As one, they drew back their strings to their cheeks. Hult did the same, his arm burning from the weight of the pull. Beside him, Shedara’s hands and lips worked, drawing down magic and shaping it.

Guide my shots, Jijin, Hult thought. Help me.

“Loose!” shouted the officers, and the bowmen obeyed. With a low thrum, they let go all at once, and the sky grew dark with arrows. Hult lost track of his shot amid the storm and watched the arrows climb high—a thousand soaring shafts—then drop like a hail of death onto the enemy fleet.

From across the water came the clatter and chunk of arrows striking wood and flesh. Hobgoblins screamed. Rafts capsized. The archers drew their second shots and launched again, then their third, and on and on. The harbor waters darkened with black hobgoblin blood. The creatures began to shove at each other, paddling madly, backing water—anything to get out of the archers’ lethal sights. A few broke through the slaughter, pushing on toward the wharf as more lightning and fire and sparking white darts rained down from the wizards. The smells of burning, both wood and flesh, stung Hult’s nose and made his eyes water.

The Rainwarders were winning. They were keeping the hobgoblins at bay.

But there weren’t enough arrows to last forever, Hult thought as he drew and loosed his eighth shot, then his ninth. The Rainward fletchers could have toiled for a month, and they wouldn’t have made enough shafts to stop the countless enemy. Some of the archers were beginning to tire too, their shafts falling short. They would hold back the hobgoblins for a while longer, enough for five or six more volleys, before the scattered rafts broke through in a flood. Even with the support of the mages above, it was only a matter of time before the enemy reached the shore.

Let them come, Hult thought, shooting again and again. His sword needed bloodying. After all they’d been through, if he got his only kills that day with a bow, it would be disappointing.

Sure enough, the archers began to falter. More and more shots went wrong. Boats shot across the harbor, the hobgoblins’ eyes gleaming with battle madness as they stroked toward the wharf. Hult feathered three more as they neared the seawall then threw down his bow and whipped his sword from its scabbard. The air rang as soldiers did the same, all along the seawall. As mage-flames poured down behind them, incinerating their fellows, the first of the hobgoblins bumped up against the piers.

“Axes!” barked the officers. “Break them up before they can get off their boats! Get at it, lads!”

The soldiers armed with poleaxes snapped into action, darting forward and hacking at the rafts and the hobgoblins in them. Black blood and splinters flew. The dwarves reveled in that work, laying into the foe with reckless fury. But the first screams of dying humans also rose above the dwarves’ war shouts, and the battle began to change. The hobgoblins were fighting back, climbing up onto the wharf and laying about them with cleaver and cudgel. People were dying on both sides. Red blood mingled with black. Some men broke and ran, but most stayed in the thick of the madness, forming pike hedges to keep the hobgoblins from advancing too far while the swordsmen laid into the rampaging creatures.

A dozen hobgoblins vaulted over the wharf near Hult, and red mist settled over his eyes, the old battle fury swelling in his breast. He leaped at them, howling in the Uigan tongue, invoking Jijin and his ancestors and yes, even Chovuk Boyla, then whirling and hacking his sword into one hulking brute’s face. The creature went down, its skull cleaved in two, and Hult didn’t even break stride, feinting to his right before reversing the blade and hammering it through another hobgoblin’s gut. The creature let out a bloody, barking cough as he tore the talga free, spilling its innards all over the ground. It fell to its knees, trying to hold itself together, and Hult took off its head with a sweep of his blade. The body stayed upright for a moment, fountaining inky blood, then tumbled back into the water with a splash.

After that, Hult lost sense of time. It grew dark, the sun disappearing behind the cliffs. There were only the hobgoblins, wave after wave of them, their blood collecting in black pools between the cobblestones as he cut them down, one after another. Beside him, Shedara poured out all her spells, fire and thunder and blazing white darts—lesser versions of the great war magics the Rainward wizards had cast from Sevenspires, which killed hobgoblins by the dozen, by the score. When the effort of casting them finally grew too great, she drew her sword and a dagger, set her back against Hult’s, and ripped through the hobgoblins with steel until the ground was littered with bodies and severed heads and limbs.

All along the waterfront, the same scene was played out, though for every three or four hobgoblins who fell, one of Suluk’s defenders fell with them. The creatures hacked men apart, stove in dwarves’ heads, and dragged down centaurs and ground spears into their flanks. The city walls and the mountainside rang with the song of steel and the cries of the dying. Bedlam reigned, and still the hobgoblins kept coming, more and more rafts moving through the maze of charred ships and flotsam to reach the shore. The water near the piers was thick with abandoned boats, making a treacherous bridge for the hobgoblins to run across and gain the shore.

“Hold the line!” the officers shouted. “Keep them from breaking through!”

Orders didn’t matter anymore, though. They were in the thick of dirty fighting, the insanity of battle, blood and screaming and hacking blades. No matter what the strategy, no matter the kings’ and viziers’ intricate plans, it always came down to this, to fear and rage and death. The soldiers fought like madmen, protecting their homes, their families, their own lives.

Hult bellowed, his sword dancing. He stabbed and slashed; he punched and kicked; he broke one hobgoblin’s face with a hard butt of his forehead. Black blood covered him, soaked his eyes and mouth, foul and reeking. He only grimaced and spat it out and kept on killing.