Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 51–The Spoils of War

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In the early morning darkness, Brecc rubbed the sleep from his eyes as the chill seeped through his woolen tunic. The canvas walls of the royal pavilion snapped in the pre-dawn breeze, and the scent of damp earth mingled with woodsmoke from dying fires. Around him, the camp was already stirring to life—the soft murmur of soldiers preparing for what might come, the distant whinny of warhorses sensing tension.

“They rejected the parlay,” he said, his voice rough with fatigue as he reread Soroykin’s hastily scrawled message by candlelight. The parchment crinkled in his hands. “But why? The terms I offered were generous. They just need to bend the knee.”

Soroykin stood with casual indifference, a scarred hand resting on his sword. With the back of his other hand, he wiped his nose. “I don’t know why,” he replied with a shrug, “The Bretagne emissary tore your letter in half before he’d finished reading it. Said his people would rather die free than live under a false king.” His lips curled into a half-smile. “What now, Your Grace?”

Brecc rose from his seat and moved to the map-covered war table where wooden blocks represented where the troops were in and around the city. A decision had to be made.

“Storm the city,” he said, his voice hardening with each word. “We’ve given them every chance.”

“No quarter?” Soroykin asked, a glint of anticipation in his eyes.

The King frowned and rubbed his beard. He had hoped to avoid this. They had already taken the southwest gate and entered the city. Another push would put an end to the defenders. Yet their stubborn pride still wouldn’t yield.

“No quarter for those who resist,” he finally nodded. “But I’ll not harm those who surrender.” He hated to do it, but the Bretagne had left him no alternative. “Inform the commanders. We move at dawn’s first light.”

Soroykin gave a cursory half-bow and departed without waiting for dismissal, leaving Brecc alone with his conscience.

* * *

Across the sprawling encampment, in a tent adorned with trophies of conquest, Quorous strapped on his ornate sword and pulled the blade from it. The metal sang as it slid from its scabbard. The mercenary commander ran a thumb along its edge, drawing a thin line of blood that he licked away with a smile.

The tent flap parted, and Soroykin entered without announcement. The two mercenaries acknowledged each other with familiar nods. “So,” Quorous said. “What news from our reluctant king?”

“We attack at dawn,” Soroykin reported, dropping heavily into a cushioned chair and latching onto an open bottle of wine. “His Majesty says those who surrender are to be spared.” He rolled his eyes as he took a swig.

The mercenary commander laughed, a harsh sound that held no mirth. His scarred face twisted into a wolfish grin as he sheathed his weapon with a practiced flourish.

“He is as charitable as he is weak,” Quorous countered. “Run up the black banners, Soroykin. Today we collect our spoils of war.” His eyes glittered as he added, “And tell our brothers—what they find in the city, they keep.”

Soroykin raised the wine bottle in a toast. “To rich men by sunset.” He paused before taking another drink. “What do we do about sparing those who don’t resist?”

The veteran mercenary fixed his lieutenant with a hard look. “What the king doesn’t witness, he can’t condemn. By the time Brecc enters the city, who’s to say which deaths came before surrender and which after?”

* * *

As the sun peeked over the far distant Black Shadow Mountains and painted the eastern walls of the inner keep with golden sunlight, the killing began anew. Crossbowmen took up positions in every window and rooftop, squinting at the defenders crouched upon the surrounding walls and buildings. Preempted by a warbling war cry that echoed across the bloodstained cobblestones, mercenaries and Cazidoran conscripts poured from the buildings like wasps from a disturbed nest.

With sharp thunks, crossbowmen sent short darts whistling through the cold morning air, where fog from their breath mingled with the rising smoke of burning homes. Shouts and cries reverberated throughout the streets—cries of pain, the prayers of the dying, the rage of the vengeful. As the attackers swiftly closed in, the defenders rose, bows taut. The hum of sharp-tipped arrows felled men with a clatter and a groan, their bodies joining those lying quietly in pale death from the day before, faces already waxy and strange in the morning light. Soon though, the sound of sword on shield added to the crescendo, punctuated by shouts and curses that needed no interpretation.

Quorous ran behind his men, his voice hoarse as he exhorted them on with promises of looting. “The treasury lies beyond! Gold enough to drown in!” Blood spattered his face—none of it his own. At first, the defenders resisted fiercely, fighting with the desperation of men who knew defeat meant death, but by mid-morning, the greater numbers of Council forces began to exert pressure. The defenders’ flanks fell back, leaving their center threatened with being cut off. By noon they had to fall back too, leaving their dead where they fell.

The mercenary commander sensed victory in the air—smelled it like the copper tang of blood—and waved his men forward with his crimson-streaked blade. Another rush would clear the way to the eastern gate of the inner keep. Only a small knot of men stood between them and their objective, grim-faced defenders whose shields bore the marks of relentless assault. With hand signals practiced across a hundred battlefields, he sent men around their flanks to converge on them from all directions.

Gripping his sword tighter, the worn leather of the hilt sticky against his palm, he made his way forward. Using several burnt-out buildings as a screen, he and a column of men swept closer to where the defenders huddled, their backs to the gate they’d sworn to protect. But as he turned the corner, ready for the final thrust of battle, a wave of paralyzing fear and hopelessness swept across him like icy water. His legs suddenly felt leaden, his courage evaporating like morning mist.

Wails and screams erupted behind him, and he turned to find his men—hardened killers who had faced death a thousand times—running or cowering and weeping where they stood, weapons forgotten in limp hands.

What madness was this? He felt it as well, a profound dread that threatened to unmake him, but success was so close he dared not let his emotions master him. With slaps and shouts, he grabbed the men. He urged them forward, but even veteran mercenaries—men who had followed him into the jaws of death without hesitation—now turned and ran, eyes wide with a terror no physical enemy had ever inspired.

A cut-off cry suddenly caught his attention, and he whipped around to find a black-robed figure limping into the street, pushing past the still-collapsing form of one of his men. Where the figure’s blade had touched the mercenary, the skin had turned gray and withered, as though years had passed in moments. The air around the robed stranger seemed to bend and distort, and though its face remained shadowed within its hood, Quorous felt its gaze upon him like a physical weight.

The men needed a leader. He drew his sword, the blade trembling in his hand for the first time since he was a boy. Whatever magic this was, steel had always served him well.

“What are you?” he demanded, his voice sounding thin and childlike in his own ears.

* * *

The defenders holding the flanks near Gall and his men fled, their boots scraping against the blood-slick cobblestones as they abandoned their positions. The last reinforcements, mainly consisting of Ulrich and his free Cazidorans, had been committed an hour ago. Nothing stopped the enemy from encircling and destroying them, like wolves around wounded prey.

“Fall back,” he shouted, his voice hoarse from hours of battle. Following his men, they traced a path toward the inner keep, weaving between abandoned market stalls and the smoldering remains of homes. But halfway there, groups of the enemy on parallel streets began slipping past, their shadows stretching long in the afternoon sun. They would not make it to the gate before being overtaken. He had to give his men time to reach the keep.

Gall closed his hand upon the black-handled sword hanging on his hip and braced himself, feeling the familiar dread rise within him. A slimy touch probed his hand, as if uncertain of its handler. Gall grew concerned, but then the entity smashed into him with redoubled force. A chill descended upon his bones, and his stomach churned as the daemon within the Mordblade made itself at home within his form. A dull ache throbbed throughout his body, and a voice manifested itself in his mind, ancient and hungry: “I smell death–take me to it.”

Soldiers shouted and cried as a wave of fear and hopelessness poured over them, radiating from Gall like a frigid winter wind. “Release me. I hunger for blood,” the daemon screamed with an insatiable longing that made Gall’s teeth ache.

Gall drew the Mordblade from its battered scabbard. The nearly translucent blade shimmered in the afternoon light, catching the sun in ways that seemed to bend the very air around it.

“Time to feed,” it growled, as the howls of bloodlust rang in his ears. A group of three men whipped around the corner, armor clanking as they rushed forward. Two pulled up short and ran back the way they came, their faces contorted with supernatural terror. The third, a man nearly as tall as Gall, roared as he swung a massive ax, somehow resistant to the fear that had claimed his comrades.

Gall spun away, his black robes swirling. Sparks flew from the paving stones as the blade smacked into them, leaving a gouge in the ancient street. He raised his blade to strike, but his opponent moved like a man possessed. With a loud grunt, his warrior opponent whipped his weapon sideways. The flat of the ax blade slammed into Gall, hurling him off his feet against a stone building. Pain radiated throughout his back, and he slid down the rough wall, feeling stone scrape through his robes. The warrior swung the ax blade once more, this time sharp edge out, to cleave him in half.

“Scutum [shield],” Gall barked with an open palm, feeling the magic surge from his core to his fingertips. A massive breeze swept past and threw the ax stroke to one side, sending the warrior stumbling off balance. Gall lunged forward and plunged his Mordblade into the wide-eyed soldier’s chest. His cry sliced through the air but was cut off instantly as the daemon consumed the man’s essence, sucking it down like marrow from the bone. The body collapsed, skin graying and withering within seconds, as Gall pulled the Mordblade away. “Enough, there are others here for you,” he cooed to the daemon’s delighted cackle, fighting the urge to let it feast unrestrained.

But as he stepped away from the wall, a volley of crossbow bolts sailed in his direction, whistling like angry hornets. He raised his hand to shield himself once more, but it was too late. Two bolts lanced into his thigh with sickening thuds. His leg collapsed, and he stumbled sideways, plowing into a low stone wall. Pain coursed through him as he peered over the wall to find crossbowmen on the rooftops, already reloading.

With his arm extended, he shouted, “Ventos cultures [winds of knives],” and a sudden rush of wind swept the enemy from the roofs. Their screams faded as they tumbled to the streets below, the wind carrying them further than any natural gust could explain.

He pushed off the wall, and wobbled into the street, his blood leaving a dark trail behind him, just as another mercenary appeared, which Gall instantly recognized as Quorous.

“What are you?” the mercenary said through gritted his teeth, his eyes wide but determined, fighting through the supernatural dread.

“I am your end,” Gall growled out.

Quorous shook his head, as if to clear it, then barked out, “You will die at my feet, beast.”

“I welcome that day,” Gall said, drawing up his Mordblade, feeling the daemon’s excitement at the prospect of such a worthy soul. “Do your best.”

With an arcing cut, Quorous’ sword connected with Gall’s Mordblade in a shower of sparks that briefly illuminated both men’s faces. Dipping under the strike, Gall pushed off, but his wounded leg buckled again. His blade thrust sailed through the open air as he splayed out on the ground, tasting dirt and copper.

Quorous slashed downward, his blade catching the afternoon light. A ripping sensation ran across Gall’s arm as the mercenary’s blade tore through his left shoulder blade. He whipped out a leg and caught the back of the man’s calf, dropping him to the ground. The clatter of a blade could be heard against the stones.

Now was his chance. Gall rolled and whipped his blade toward his opponent, but despite the man’s size, Quorous had managed to snatch his weapon. The blades crashed together with another trail of sparks that smelled of brimstone. Both men scrambled to their feet, but the mercenary managed to do so first and slashed hard at Gall.

The Brin Shar, still on one knee, had to duck to avoid being decapitated. Missing him, the mercenary turned his shoulder. Seeing his opportunity, Gall thrust directly at Quorous. Once again, the man stepped aside, and Gall found only empty air. Now, he was over-extended and vulnerable.

The mercenary gripped his sword with both hands and brought it down in a vicious cut. Gall twisted to keep the Mordblade between him and the descending blade and barely stopped the downstroke inches from his face. “Take him!” the daemon urged inside his mind. “Let me in deeper and I will save us both!”

The air around them erupted into a series of shouts and trumpet calls from the walls above them. Quorous hesitated and glanced toward the source. In an instant, Gall seized hold of the Mercenary’s blade with his bare left hand, feeling it slice into his palm, and plunged his Mordblade into the man’s midsection. His enemy’s body and face went rigid, eyes widening not in pain but in the horror of feeling his very essence being devoured. Pulling the blade free, the man fell upon Gall, flattening him to the ground. Sightless eyes stared into him as Gall forced the Mordblade back into the scabbard with trembling hands. A sense of relief poured in as the tainted spirit drained from his body, leaving him empty and cold, yet his own once more.

The heavy corpse of the dead mercenary continued to pin him to the pavement. He pushed without success as sounds of booted feet approached and sprinted past, sweeping toward the outer walls. More arrows twanged in the air, followed by shrieks of pain. Despite being able to lift the body a few inches off him, Gall couldn’t roll the heavy-set mercenary off his wounded leg.

Suddenly, the bulky form rolled away, and Gall looked up into the smiling, black-bearded face of Duke Katun.

“Odd place to be taking a nap,” Katun said. “And with a strange blanket.”

Gall suppressed his annoyance but answered, “It’s about time you arrived. Is Britta here as well?”

“The Queen? Why yes, of course,” Katun said. “She is meeting with Harald right now.”

“Take me to her,” Gall said, clawing to a stand.