Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 42–The Approaching Storm

---

Gall reined his horse to a stop at the crest of the rise, studying Landros in the fading light. The Nathair River caught the sun’s last rays as it snaked across the plains from the Krador Mountains. Years ago, he’d admired how cleverly the city’s original designers had used the river—letting it curve around the northern walls as a natural moat before it wandered southeast to join the Tenoachian River. The single northern approach required crossing a bridge just before the outer gates, making any assault from that direction nearly impossible.

But he saw only the city’s weaknesses from their position on the western road. No river protected these approaches, only a pathetic rocky culvert. The walls here betrayed years of neglect—their height jumping erratically from eight to twenty feet, collapsed watchtowers spilling rubble into the meager trench below. Two gates pierced these vulnerable walls, one west and one south, both standing open with barely a guard in sight. The southern gate opened onto the road to Tenoach, which lay some twenty miles distant, while before them stretched the western approach they’d just traveled.

“Why are the defenses so poor here?” Larah asked, drawing her horse up beside him.

Gall shook his head. “Because the city has never been assaulted from south or west. No one saw the need to fortify these walls.” He thought of the army marching behind them. “And they have no idea the Council is coming.”

“Can the city be defended?” The concern in her voice matched his own thoughts.

“If Britta was here with the army, I would say so. But she is not.”

“Is it hopeless then?” Riasean asked.

Gall turned his horse toward the gates. “It will be unless we warn them.” Darkness was settling over the plains as they rode for the southern entrance. Every moment they delayed meant one less moment for the city to prepare.

Reigning his horse to a halt before the closing gates, Gall studied the guards’ faces in the fading light. Three days of hard riding had left him looking more like a bandit than a noble – no wonder the guards were suspicious. Behind him, he could feel Riasean and Larah tensing for trouble.

“Halt!” their leader cried, hand dropping to his sword. “Who are you? We don’t recognize your uniforms.”

“Ho!” Gall kept his voice steady despite his urgency. Spooking nervous guards was never wise. “Let us in. We have an urgent message for the Governor.”

“A message from whom?” the guard demanded, still pulling the heavy gate closed. The grinding of iron hinges filled the air.

“From Lord Gall.” He drew himself up in the saddle. “Open the gates immediately.”

The head guard hesitated, then opened the door just wide enough to study Gall’s face in the torchlight. Recognition flickered in his eyes. “Get inside then. We have strict orders to keep the gates shut after dark.”

Gall nodded grimly. If they were already sealing the city at nightfall, perhaps Harald wasn’t as unprepared as he’d feared.

Their horses’ hooves echoed off the cobblestones as they rode through the quiet streets. The Council House rose before them, its windows glowing with lamplight. Too exposed, Gall thought, noting the building’s position in the lower city. If the walls fell, this would be one of the first buildings taken.

He took the steps two at a time, Riasean and Larah close behind. The guards crossed their spears before the door. A tall, red-haired man wearing a well-used sword approached from behind them. Gall recognized Hammel, the Governor’s Chamberlain, though the man looked more careworn than when they’d last met.

“What is the nature of your business?” Hammel asked.

“I have an urgent message for Governor Harald and Captain General Paulis.”

Hammel strode over and stepped into the Council House meeting room. “Lord Gall requests an immediate audience with the Governor.”

“Show him in then,” a voice replied.

Hammel turned to Gall. “Sire, you can follow me. But the other two will have to remain here.”

Gall met Riasean’s eyes, seeing the same concern that had driven them to ride three nights without rest. “I will be as quick as I can. In the meantime, get a close look at the western fortifications.” He lowered his voice. “And stay alert. We don’t know if the Council has sent spies into the city…”

Riasean nodded, understanding without words. He took Larah by the arm, but Gall caught the nervousness in her movements. Good. They’d all learned city streets could be as dangerous as battlefields.

Hammel escorted him into the meeting room, torchlight casting long shadows across the worn marble floor. Gall stood before the table, noting maps scattered across its surface. “The Grand Council under the flag of Cazidor is marching on Landros from the west. They have several thousand men under arms.”

Paulis’ face tightened, the scar on his jaw whitening. “Impossible. Cazidor has never attacked us, nor do they have any reason to.”

“You are mistaken. The Council believes, perhaps rightfully, that while the Queen is occupied trying to raise the siege of Keihl, they can take Landros and re-establish Brecc as King.”

Paulis stood, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. “We are well aware of your issues with the Council but do not make them ours. Brecc has no authority here and never will. He lost that when he overthrew Edwyn.” He looked sideways at Harald, “No King is preferable to one that is a criminal.”

Harald put a hand on Paulis’ shoulder, weathered fingers gripping the fabric of his tunic. “Relax. This whole situation should be easy enough to confirm. Send scouts to our western frontier and confirm whether or not what Gall says is true. In the meantime, calling up the garrison is probably in order.”

Paulis nodded but glared at Gall, anger burning in his eyes. “I will do as you command.” He walked out the door, and Gall heard his rapid footsteps fading down the corridor.

Harald sighed as the door swung shut, suddenly looking older in the flickering light. “He was a supporter of Edwyn, but Brecc imprisoned him.”

“Brecc is not the issue here. The Grand Council is,” Gall replied, leaning forward over the maps. “They will stop at nothing to take control of Bretagne.”

“If what you say is true,” Harald said, moving to the window where the city’s vulnerable western walls were barely visible in the gathering dusk. “We are in grave trouble. The city’s southern and western approaches are poorly fortified.”

Gall nodded, feeling the weight of their desperate ride in every muscle. “All our efforts must be directed toward improving the defenses on that side of the city. But I fear we may be too late and too few to defend against an attack. You must send word to the Queen.”

Harald turned from the window, his shadow stretching long across the chamber floor. “I will do so, but if she is north of the river lines, it will take her at least three days to get here. Until then, we are on our own.”

The words hung heavy in the torch-lit chamber. Gall thought of Riasean and Larah out there assessing the fortifications, wondering if they’d already found what he feared – that Landros’s walls, like its politics, had too many weak points to defend.

* * *

Riasean and Larah navigated the narrow streets along the outer wall. Larah looked about at the city dwellers going about their daily chores. “They have no clue what’s coming.”

“True,” Riasean muttered, his attention being drawn to the fortifications. “But they will soon find out, unfortunately.” He stopped and tried one of the watch tower doors. It popped open. Shaking his head, he stepped inside. “Follow me,” he said to Larah.

Together they wandered up a long spiraling staircase onto the battlements. At the top, they found themselves looking out over the western approaches to the city, a wide open field, with small groups of trees blocking the view. Beyond that lie the beginnings of the Old Forest that ran into the foothills of the Krador Mountains. But the far distance, a column of smoke rose into the air.

“A forest fire?” Larah said.

“No,” Riasean. “That is where a village sits on the road from the pass. I think war has reached the people of Bretagne, even if they don’t know it yet.”

“Why would they be burning the village? It makes no sense.”

“It does if you’re covering up your crimes and trying to intimidate the population.” He paused in thought. “Wait. How many other villages did we pass through to get here?”

“Three—Axon, Stepford, and Waterford. They should be warned to leave immediately and take what they can.”

“Yes and no.” Riasean scratched his chin in thought. “If villagers leave their possessions behind, that might slow the invaders.”

“But they’ll lose everything.”

“Except for their lives.”

Larah stood silent but then nodded slowly. “I see where you’re going with this.”

“Let’s go find Gall.”

* * *

Smoke rose from the village ahead, curling black against the afternoon sky. Viperious watched from horseback as Quorous’s men methodically stripped the hamlet bare. They worked with the efficiency of locusts, moving house to house with wagons in tow. The few unfortunate residents had been dealt with. Their screams had stopped—for the most part.

His fingers drummed against his saddle horn. Another delay. Another setback. Brecc had finally stopped retching and now sat in sullen silence beside him; whether it was an aftereffect of drinking or plundering, it was hard to tell. At least the man stayed quiet.

A commotion at the camp’s edge drew his attention. Four riders approached at a gallop; their Priori uniforms caked with mud. One of them was missing his great coat. Viperious recognized them as the advance scouts he’d sent ahead. Their arrival without their full complement sent a chill through him.

The lead rider dismounted awkwardly, favoring his right side. “Lord Viperious,” he gasped, “we had an incident on the road to Landros.”

“Incident?” Viperious kept his voice carefully neutral. “What kind?”

The man shook his head. “We’re… not certain. The horses went mad. Started bucking and throwing us. Tomas hit his head in the ditch. Stefan here,” he gestured to a dazed-looking soldier missing a great coat, “we found him unconscious by the road.”

Viperious’s eyes narrowed. He beckoned to Stefan. “Come here.” The Priori guardsman approached, his movements sluggish. Looking into the man’s eyes, Viperious saw the telltale glaze of magical tampering.

“Hold him,” he commanded. Two soldiers grabbed Stefan’s arms as Viperious pressed his palm against the guard’s forehead. Dark words slithered from his lips, and tendrils of shadow crept from his fingers into the man’s skin.

Stefan’s eyes widened, then rolled back as Viperious tore through the magical barriers in his mind. Fragments of memory flickered past: horses panicking, a woman’s voice chanting, three figures in the underbrush. One tall and commanding, another slight but deadly, and the third… the third wielding magic with disturbing skill.

The guard convulsed once and went limp. When the soldiers released him, he crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from his nose and ears. Viperious wiped his hand on the sleeve of a nearby guard, his mind racing.

Powerful magic users were rare enough, but one traveling with warriors, heading toward Landros? Could it be Faline? The rumors placed her in Drachnor, but she was known to move like a ghost through the kingdoms. If she had indeed left Drachnor…

He pulled a piece of parchment from his saddlebag and began composing a message to Dathon. The quill hesitated above the paper. Knowledge was power, and Dathon already held too much of both. Besides, there was no proof it was Faline. Better to wait, to gather more information before sharing such speculation with his subordinate.

The sun dipped below the horizon when Quorous rode up, looking too pleased with himself. Behind him, wagons groaned under their stolen bounty.

“The men are settled in for the night,” Quorous announced. “We’ll move on to Landros in the morning.”

Viperious crumpled the unfinished note in his fist. Another day lost, and an unknown magic user raced toward their goal somewhere ahead. He forced a smile. “Of course. We wouldn’t want to tire your men.”

But in his mind, he was already calculating how to turn this delay to his advantage. Once they reached Waterford, Landros would be just a few miles away. Barring any more looting, they should arrive with sufficient daylight to give terms to the garrison. He would send forward the Priori to surveil the city and determine the state of its defense and look for any evidence that they might face Faline or some other magical pretender. He hoped the latter situation would be unfounded, for if was indeed Faline… well, that would be … complicated.

He watched the village burn as darkness fell, its flames casting dancing shadows across his red robes. In the morning, they would march for Waterford. And this time, there would be no more delays.

* * *

The scouts confirmed Gall’s worst fears by morning. From the mountain pass, an army swept toward Landros, leaving the twin villages of Axon and Stepford as smoking ruins in their wake. He watched Governor Harald’s face darken when he received the news. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

“What is the state of our defenses?” Harald asked Captain General Paulis.

The soldier swallowed hard but answered. “Not good. We cannot hold the outer wall in the state it is currently in.”

“Then we are in serious trouble,” Harold said almost despairingly.” After a brief silence, he cleared his throat. “Send another message to the Queen, asking to send reinforcements as soon as possible.” Paulis nodded and ran off. He faced Gall again. “Will you help us?”

Gall smiled grimly and rested his hand on his sword. “I will do whatever I can. In the meantime, you should consider evacuating the city.”

“I agree, but the problem is, where to? The enemy comes from the west, and will soon block the south road to Tenoach, and Faline approaches from the north. To the east is the road toward High King’s bridge over the Tenoachian River. From there, they could take the coast road back to Tenoach.”

Gall shook his head. “That takes them dangerously close to Tamor. Slave raiders would prey on them.” Another option popped into his mind. “What about the highland pass through the mountains surrounding Tenoach?”

Harald groaned. “Many have died trying to navigate it. The trail is poorly marked, and wolves and bandits lurk off the trail.”

“I’m afraid those are your only options if people wish to leave.”

Harald rubbed his eyes. “Bad options are better than none. It is not safe for people to stay. Those who can’t fight must go east and take the highland pass. When should they leave?”

“Now. Send all spare horsemen to escort your people through the pass. Cavalry will be of little use in the fight for the city.”

* * *

They had no choice but to abandon the outer villages. The garrison needed every moment to prepare, and they put those hours to desperate use. Gall directed teams of soldiers and remaining residents in fortifying the lower walls, his voice growing hoarse shouting instructions. They tore apart abandoned buildings within the city, stone by stone, forming human chains to transport the rubble to reinforce weak points in the outer defenses. Others dug deeper the culvert at the wall’s base, turning soft earth into yet another barrier against the coming storm.

At dawn the next day, Gall stood on the western wall, watching another column of smoke rise from Waterford. The village where he’d passed through just days ago was becoming another sacrifice to buy them time. He’d convinced Paulis it was necessary – better to let the Council’s troops gorge themselves on abandoned villages than have them at Landros’s gates. But necessity didn’t make it easier to watch.

Larah joined him at the wall, her face drawn. “I’m glad we warned the villagers and gave them time to flee, but I am sad they are losing their homes.”

Gall kept his eyes on the distant smoke. “Don’t feel too sad on that account. If the enemy weren’t looting and pillaging the villages, they would already be in Landros.” The words tasted bitter, but they rang true. Each hour bought with burning homes was another hour to prepare defenses. Another hour for the refugees to find shelter behind Landros’s walls. Another hour to pray for reinforcements that might never come.

* * *

Brecc squinted against his lingering headache as Viperious scanned the city walls with his spyglass. From their position on the ridge, Landros looked smaller than he remembered—more vulnerable. His stomach churned, and not just from last night’s wine. The taste of bile lingered a reminder of burnt villages and screams he couldn’t forget.

“As I feared, the garrison is positioned and waiting for us.” Viperious snapped the spyglass shut with a grunt of annoyance. “Our opportunity to quickly take the city has been lost.” He turned to Brecc, lips curved in what might have been a reassuring smile. “We ought to give them terms, I suppose, to avoid having to destroy the city entirely.”

Brecc’s jaw clenched at Viperious’s casual tone. How very considerate of you. The man spoke of destroying Landros as if discussing the weather.

Three months ago, Brecc had ridden through those same streets as King, Edwyn’s crown barely cool on his head. The memories flooded back: merchants bowing deeply as he passed, nobles rushing to pledge allegiance, common folk watching with careful neutrality. Not jubilant, perhaps, but accepting—especially those who’d opposed Edwyn or saw an opportunity in the change. He hadn’t needed to shed blood then. Hadn’t wanted to.

But now violence seemed inevitable. His gaze swept over the city walls, the familiar towers, the houses crowded within. These were his people, whether they wanted him or not. But was the point of ruling if all that remained were ashes and corpses?

Viperious was watching him, those snake-like eyes missing nothing. Brecc straightened in his saddle, fighting to keep his face neutral. He couldn’t show weakness now, not after coming so far. But staring at the rooftops of Landros behind the city walls, he wondered if it was worth the price of his soul.

* * *

With the sun high overhead and from his position at the Council House window, Harald watched columns of troops appear on the western approaches. The Royal banner of Cazidor—a yellow lily on a field of green—fluttered alongside red banners bearing crossed axes and swords—symbols of the mercenary Mortain Guard. The combined force fanned out with practiced efficiency over the plain before the southern and western approaches, their left flank resting on the south shore of Nathair River and their right stretching just across the southern road to Tenoach.

His stomach tightened as he observed work parties scrambling back from the incomplete outer defense line. The garrison troops took up their positions, but Harald knew there weren’t nearly enough of them. Captain General Paulis would fight bravely – of that Harald had no doubt – but bravery alone couldn’t compensate for their weak fortifications and limited numbers.

By late afternoon, a group of black-clad soldiers approached under a flag of truce. Harald gathered Paulis and Gall in the Council House’s main chamber, its high stone walls casting long shadows in the waning light.

A balding, heavy-set mercenary in black leather stepped forward, his leather creaking with each movement. “I am Quorous, commander of the Mortain Guard, and a representative for King Brecc of Cazidor and Bretagne. We demand the city to be surrendered to us. Here are your terms.” He tossed a rolled-up scroll onto the table in front of Harald with calculated disrespect.

Paulis grabbed the parchment and handed it Harald, who barely needed to glance at it before looking up. Harald’s voice was clear and resolute, “We do not recognize Brecc’s authority here. Queen Britta is our sovereign leader.”

“Is Brecc not her husband? And, therefore, the rightful King of Bretagne? Edwyn is dead. His crown should come to Brecc, his brother,” Quorous said, his tone a mixture of arrogance and conceit.

Paulis leaned forward, his voice rising with genuine anger, “Brecc committed treason by overthrowing his brother. That is reason enough to reject his claim to the throne.”

Quorous smiled. “Treason or not, the throne goes to the male relative–not a foreigner.”

Harald felt his anger rise at the implied slight to his Queen. “We considered that, but since Brecc abandoned his country to seek refuge elsewhere, his status as a citizen of this country is in doubt. Queen Britta came to this country in its hour of need and took the throne by personal feat of arms, a tradition even older than the rules of succession.” He tossed the scroll back at Quorous’s feet, knowing he might be signing their death warrant. “Brecc is the foreigner here and a criminal one at that. Take your terms and leave before I have you locked away.”

Quorous snatched up the scroll, his face red. “For that impudence, there will be no quarter for you or the city’s inhabitants.” He turned on his heel and marched back out the door.

Once they were alone, Harald turned to Paulis. “Can you hold them back?” He trusted the man’s honesty as much as his courage.

The Captain General stood silently, his expression grim. “We will do our best. May I be dismissed?”

Harald nodded, watching his military commander stride toward the doors. Paulis paused and grimly nodded toward Gall before he slipped out.

“Any word from Britta?” Gall asked, moving to stand beside Harald at the window.

“The Queen? No. It will take another day before a messenger reaches her.” Harald felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him as Governor. He’d sworn an oath to hold this city in Britta’s name but might have condemned it instead.

Gall’s voice was barely above a whisper as he looked out the window. The sun poured through, oblivious to the growing danger around them. “We may not have another day,” he muttered, then caught himself, knowing his old friend didn’t need to hear such doubts spoken aloud.

Harald clasped Gall’s shoulder. “Hold onto hope, my friend. That may be all we have left.” He spoke the words with more confidence than he felt, his eyes fixed on the army assembling outside his walls, knowing that courage and loyalty might not be enough to save them.