Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 56–Water and Shadow

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The sun rose over Landros, its harsh light revealing the smoking remains of funeral pyres outside the western walls. Across the northern plain, Faline’s army stretched like a dark tide, halting on the shores of the Nathiar River where it curved protectively around the city’s northern walls.

From atop the Inner Keep, Gall and Paulis surveyed the enemy forces. The disciplined Drachnorian soldiers formed precise ranks opposite the North Gate, carefully positioned beyond bowshot. On both flanks, bands of Nagun tribesmen shifted restlessly, their formations loose and chaotic.

Paulis snapped his spyglass shut with a satisfied click. “At least they don’t appear to have siege equipment.”

Gall’s weathered face remained grim. “They won’t need it,” he said, his voice low. “They have Faline.” He paused, the weight of his following words hanging in the air. “And Shatain.”

Paulis turned sharply. “How do you know?”

“Wherever she is, they are as well, like maggots on rotting flesh,” Gall replied as Paulis’ face whitened.

Footsteps announced Queen Britta’s arrival with the city governor, Harald, at her side. Though exhaustion still shadowed her eyes, she carried herself with renewed strength—a marked improvement from her state the previous night. Her gaze swept over the northern plain, assessing the threat.

“How soon before she attacks?” Britta asked, her voice steady despite the concern etched in her features.

“She will take her time,” Gall replied. “But when she does move, we will have our hands full.”

Paulis directed his spyglass westward toward the river. “I see horsemen scouting along the riverbank. Searching for a crossing, no doubt.” He lowered the instrument, a hint of confidence in his tone. “They’re wasting their time, however.”

Gall uncrossed his arms and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Don’t be so certain. Have the Preytars patrol the river—harass anyone attempting to cross.”

“Men and Nagun don’t trouble me,” Britta interjected, her eyes fixed on the distant army. “But what defense do we have against Faline herself?”

A heavy silence descended upon the group. One by one, their eyes turned to Gall. He released a deep sigh, the burden of their expectations visible in the set of his shoulders.

“I will do what I can,” he said carefully, “but I make no guarantees. For now, the Preytars are our best defense. If we can keep her from crossing the river, she’ll have to assault the North Gate.” His expression darkened as he added, “Which I doubt she’ll do directly. For now, though, we wait.”

* * *

Within the hour, hoofbeats echoed across the courtyard as the Preytar leader Mikial dismounted and approached Britta with purpose in his stride. His clothes bore splashes of river water, a testament to recent skirmishes.

“The Drachnorians have tried and failed to find a crossing,” he reported with a hint of pride in his voice. “Our riders have driven them back from the river each time they’ve approached.”

Paulis allowed himself a cautious smile, the first in days. “Good. If we can keep them on the far side of the Nathiar, we might have a chance to hold the city.”

Gall felt his jaw tighten at how easily they were being misdirected. They were falling for exactly what Faline wanted them to believe. “Do not underestimate Faline,” he said, his voice sharp with urgency. “All efforts must be focused on repairing the western walls.”

The command drew startled looks from everyone present. Paulis gestured toward the exhausted soldiers moving through the bailey below, many still bandaged from yesterday’s fighting.

“The men are exhausted,” Paulis protested, “and our flanks and rear are secure. The threat is clearly from the north.”

This was the trap—exactly what Faline was counting on. “That’s what she wants you to believe,” Gall said, forcing patience into his voice. “Those ‘failed’ river crossings? She’s masking her efforts to cross. She’s putting on a show, making you think she’s stuck on the far side while massing her visible forces opposite the North Gate.”

He could see skepticism in their faces, but pressed on. “It’s a classic deception. Draw your attention to the obvious threat—all those banners and campfires you can see from the north walls—while she moves her real strike force into position elsewhere.”

Gall turned toward the damaged western fortifications. “The western wall is breached and weakly defended. That’s where she’ll hit you, probably at dawn when your guards are tired and you’ve got most of your strength watching the north.”

“But the river crossings…” Mikial began, confusion evident in his voice.

“Are meant to fail,” Gall finished. “She wants you to drive them back. Every small victory there makes you more confident that the river is a real obstacle, that the northern approach is her only option.” He had seen this tactic work too many times against overconfident defenders. “Meanwhile, she’s already found or made plans for a real crossing point—probably upstream, under cover of darkness.”

The tactical picture was so clear to him, but he could see others still wrestling with abandoning what seemed like solid evidence. “Think like Faline,” he urged. “Would she mass her forces in plain sight if that’s where she planned to attack? She’s showing you exactly what she wants you to see.”

He turned to Britta, meeting her sharp gaze directly. From what Katun had related, the queen had learned to think beyond the obvious on the road to Keihl. “It is your decision, Your Grace.”

Britta studied him for a long moment, and Gall could see her mind working through the deception he’d outlined. Then she glanced north at the enemy lines visible across the horizon—too visible, perhaps—before returning her attention to the group.

“Do what Gall says,” she commanded, her voice leaving no room for further debate.

* * *

Banoch stood before Faline, his posture rigid and frustrated. “We cannot cross the river. Every approach is watched.”

“I do not see that as a problem,” Faline replied, calm and untroubled. Her fingers gripped the folds of her robes. “The river may not be crossable by humans, but for others, it is not an issue.”

Her gaze shifted to the Nagun Chieftain—a mountain of a beast adorned with a necklace of bone talismans, and leathery skin covered by ritual scars. He grunted in acknowledgment, understanding her implication without needing to elaborate.

“Even so,” Banoch persisted, his brow furrowed, “the problem is that the Preytars are keeping us from getting near the shoreline. If the Nagun attempt to swim across, they will be vulnerable to the Preytar bowmen.”

A smile ghosted across Faline’s lips, the kind that had preceded the battle for Keihl. “I have a solution for that,” she said, her eyes flashing with something ancient and hungry. The air around her seemed to darken slightly, though the sun still blazed overhead.

“We will cross the river by nightfall.”

The certainty in her voice sent a chill through those gathered.

* * *

As hours passed with agonizing slowness, defenders seized what rest they could between watches. Work parties labored along the western walls, their hammers and voices creating a desperate rhythm as they patched breaches left by the Council troops. Sweat-streaked faces grimaced with effort, knowing their lives might depend on the strength of each repair.

As sundown painted the sky in shades of blood and fire, the two armies continued their silent vigil. Across the plain, campfires began to flicker into existence within the Drachnorian lines, mirroring the stars appearing overhead.

Gall paced the ramparts with measured steps, his gaze repeatedly drawn to the forces gathered on the plain. Every so often, he would pause, studying some detail invisible to others before resuming his patrol.

“They have not moved the entire day,” Harald observed, joining him at the wall’s edge. Torchlight cast deep shadows across his face as he searched Gall’s expression. “Do you have any idea of what they are up to?”

“Uncertainty works to Faline’s benefit,” Gall replied, his voice low enough that only Harald could hear. “She makes us wait, knowing she can move when she pleases.” He left the implication hanging between them unspoken that each passing hour further drained their already exhausted forces.

* * *

Darkness shrouded the riverbank where a figure in midnight robes crouched, barely distinguishable from the shadows surrounding it. An arm extended over the rushing waters; fingers splayed as ancient words slithered into the night air.

“Aqua ad caligo, caligo in umbra, ascend [Water to the darkness, darkness in the shadow, ascend].”

Faline’s voice resonated with unnatural power. Vaporous tendrils rose from the river’s surface at her command, pale and writhing like living things. They spread outward, a spectral blanket unfurling across the water, building upon itself and spilling over the banks.

The mist crept forward with purpose, swallowing the landscape. It thickened until the bottoms of trees appeared to float, disembodied, in a sea of ghostly white. What had been clear night air became an impenetrable shroud, muffling light and distorting sound.

From within this supernatural fog came the first splashes—tentative, then growing bolder. Snarls and guttural growls accompanied the sounds of many bodies entering the water. Misshapen forms, their outlines twisted and wrong against the mist, plunged down the far shoreline into the river.

* * *

Mikial leaned against the rough bark of an ancient oak, his weathered hands resting on the pommel of his sword as he gazed into the darkness beyond. The wan moonlight cast silver threads across the river’s surface, revealing little more than the skeletal silhouettes of bare trees along the far bank. Behind him, most of his Preytars dozed fitfully beside their mounts, hands never straying far from their weapons—ready to mount and ride at the first sign of trouble.

Their vigil had been successful. For hours now, the Nagun had learned the bitter lesson that approaching the riverbank meant swift death. Even in this meager light, Preytar arrows found their marks with deadly precision, and the wolf-creatures had grown wary of testing their defenses.

But something was wrong.

Mikial’s eyes narrowed as he watched ghostly tendrils of mist begin to creep across the water’s surface like pale fingers. The fog moved against the wind, unnatural in its purpose, swallowing the gentle murmur of the current and smothering what little moonlight filtered through the clouds. The temperature dropped suddenly, and an unnatural silence fell over the riverbank.

“Magic,” he breathed, recognizing the unnaturalness of the scene. Ice formed in his veins as understanding struck him—they had been outmaneuvered.

He drove his boot into the ribs of his lieutenant. “Korvain, up! Now!” The man jolted awake, instantly alert. “Rouse the others—quietly. We’ve got trouble.”

The fog rolled toward them like a living thing, a gray wall that devoured everything in its path. Already, Mikial could hear the first tentative splashes from the river—the Nagun were moving.

“On your feet!” Korvain hissed to the sleeping men. “Form ranks but stay low!”

The Preytars moved with practiced efficiency, years of campaigning having honed their responses to deadly precision. Steel whispered from scabbards as they drew their weapons, the sound barely audible above the approaching fog.

Then, like a nightmare made real, the night transformed.

The scrape of claws on wet stone echoed from the riverbank, followed by the soft thud of padded feet hitting dry ground. Through the thickening mist came squishy sounds of creatures emerging from the water—dozens of them, maybe more.

“Archers,” Mikial commanded, his voice cutting through the fog. “Loose on my mark.”

Bowstrings thrummed in the darkness, but the arrows disappeared into the gray void without the satisfying thuds of impact they’d grown accustomed to. The fog had stolen their greatest advantage—their sight.

A blood-curdling howl split the night, answered by a chorus of similar cries. The Nagun had crossed.

“Swords up. Spears forward.” Mikial roared as the first shapes materialized from the fog—hulking forms with glowing amber eyes and fangs that gleamed like ivory daggers.

The clash of steel against claw rang out as the two forces collided. Men screamed. Creatures snarled and yelped. The acrid smell of blood mixed with the cold dampness of the unnatural mist.

Mikial parried a swipe from razored claws, his blade biting deep into a Nagun’s forearm. The creature’s howl of pain was cut short as Korvain’s spear punched through its ribs. But for every beast that fell, two more seemed to take its place.

“We can’t hold,” Korvain shouted over the din of battle. “There are too many.”

Mikial’s mind raced. The fog had turned their defensive position into a death trap. They couldn’t see their enemies until they were close enough to kill, and the Nagun’s superior numbers were overwhelming their disciplined formation.

“Fall back,” he commanded, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “Fighting retreat to the city. Sound the horn.”

The urgent blast of the warning horn pierced the chaos, its mournful call echoing across the fog-shrouded battlefield. The signal every citizen of Landros had prayed they would never hear—the river had been breached.

* * *

A messenger jolted Gall from uneasy sleep. “Nagun have crossed the river on both sides of the city.”

Gall leaped to his feet, sleep falling away instantly. “Raise the alarm! The west wall and gate are in danger.” He snatched his battered sword and raced toward the southwest gate, his footfalls echoing through the stone corridors.

The last of the Preytars thundered through the hastily repaired gates. Their mounts lathered and wild-eyed as they fled into the city with tribesmen in close pursuit. Arrows sang through the night air—each twang of bowstrings followed by the thud of falling bodies as Nagun, who ventured into the torchlight, crumpled, riddled with missiles.

Mikial rode up to Gall, chest heaving. “Fog swept out of nowhere,” he reported between labored breaths. “They were upon us before we knew it—like phantoms rising from the mist itself.”

“Even without her dark arts, Faline’s Druidic talents are strong,” Gall replied grimly, his eyes scanning the darkness beyond the walls.

Queen Britta appeared with Katun at her side, her hand on her sword hilt. “What has happened?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the chaos.

“We are now surrounded,” Gall explained, turning to meet her gaze. “Nagun have crossed the river and control both western and eastern approaches to the city.”

“Do we simply wait for her to attack?” Britta asked, her eyes hardening.

“I don’t see that we have much choice.”

“If they attack from every direction at once, we won’t be able to keep them out of the lower city.”

“I agree,” Gall replied, the torchlight casting deep shadows across his face. “But we should hold the lower city for as long as possible. If we can’t, we’ll fall back to the Inner Keep.”

Britta grimaced; the weight of command evident in her expression. “And if the Inner Keep should be breached, what then?”

Gall frowned, his voice dropping lower. “We either cut our way out or make a last stand near the reservoir walls.”

Riasean looked up at the massive structure dominating the Inner Keep. “Could we empty the reservoir into the keep? It might help us defend.”

Paulis turned to him, horror etched across his features. “But that’s our water supply.”

“What good will it do us if no one is alive to drink it?” Britta interjected, her voice sharp as steel. “We need to consider all options.” She turned to Harald. “Can the reservoir be emptied into the city?”

“I think so,” Harald replied, his brow furrowed. “But it has never been attempted, at least not in my lifetime.”

Gall faced Riasean. “Go see the city engineer. Find out what can be done.” The young man sprinted away, disappearing into the shadows.

Paulis shook his head, despair creeping into his voice. “You realize that by doing that, we will only be buying time until we are overwhelmed.”

Gall placed a weathered hand on the man’s shoulder. “You say that as if I had thought otherwise. No, if we are to die here, let it be because we did everything we could to live.”

From out of the darkness came feral snarls and ululating howls, punctuated by the mournful blare of goat horns. Nagun warriors emerged from the shadows, running and leaping toward the city walls. They raced into the defenders’ torchlight, clambering up the western fortifications with inhuman agility. Arrows buzzed overhead as archers on the keep walls picked off individuals, but two more appeared for every tribesman who fell.

Britta and her companions drew their swords in unison and raced along the outer walls. The clash of steel echoed through the night as the defenders met the assault. Dodging pikes and axes, tribesmen leaped upon the ramparts and lunged at the defenders. All along the western wall, soldiers struggled against beasts, the narrow walkways becoming slick with blood.

Gall grabbed Mikial by the arm, pulling him close. “Go to the north wall and inform me of Faline’s movements. This must be a distraction from her main attack.”

Mikial darted into the darkness while Gall turned to run another attacker through. His blade sank into flesh, but his mind remained fixed elsewhere—on Faline and her Shatain. When would they appear? The actual test was yet to come.