Chapter 65

The Deepest Blues are Black

Moments after the horn sounded, Rowan was taking steps two at a time to the battlements. The sky was utterly black, neither ecko or luna’s light breaking through the overcast. Despite this absence of light, the dustings of snow on trees and blanketing the ice of the lake were discernible as a murky grey against the otherwise dark emptiness.

Soldiers in armour that glinted in the torchlight milled about, rushing to their posts. Rowan spotted a man with a Captain’s plume sticking up from his helm and pressed towards him.

“Captain! Do you need another sword?” The captain’s face was mostly obscured by his helm but Rowan could see the man looking him up and down, taking in his warrior’s cut, his chainmail and sword.

“You’re one of the lads who arrived today?” the Captain asked.

“Rowan Shrydan,” he nodded.

“Grest,” the man replied, “the night scouts have reported a rak war party on their way here.”

“How many?” Rowan didn’t bother to mask the shock in his voice. A rak war party? Crann had warned about it, had explained how the sightings were becoming more frequent. But an assault on Twin Garde? It had been before even his father’s time that rakmen had attempted such a push.

“Scouts claim they saw a score of ‘em but you know how it is, they’re are good at keepin’ themselves hidden. ‘Specially at night.”

“And how many on the towers?” Rowan asked, his eyes scanning over the soldiers. Their armour was dented and their swords chipped. These weren’t the markers of novice fighters. These were men who’d seen and fought rakmen regularly.

“We barely had over seventy before the trouble with Ox, Hovis and Karst…” he shook his head in frustration. “Now, we’re forty… at best.” Not the most terrible of odds. They had superior numbers and they had the battlements. Rakmen were a different breed to ordinary men however. They were larger, stronger and if they had a runewielder…

“I have a topaz,” Rowan confided, “as does my brother. Tanlor also has eradite. We’re battle trained with them.”

“Good,” Grest nodded, and pointed to a group of soldiers arrayed above the tower closest the gate, “we’ve split the grenadiers and stonebreakers between the towers but this one could do with another.”

Rowan saluted—thumping a fist on his chest—and Grest responded in kind.

Not long after, Rowan was atop the tower amongst the other runewielders. They had two grenadiers, each had an array of powder explosives in iron boxes close at hand. Another three stonebreakers were dotted along the tower battlement, closer to the gate. Mixed in with the archers and a few riflemen. Only one of the stonebreakers was battle-trained, the other two were smithies. When the number of fighting men was low, you enlisted everyone who could deal some damage. Rowan even spotted the grey-haired healer who’d taken care of Tanlor, decked in chainmail, with a mace in one hand and a shield in the other, taking up position in the rear.

Crann and Mika themselves were on the other tower, directing the rangers into formations. Twin Garde wasn’t a large outpost. The barracks were housed within the two stone towers. A high wooden wall with stakes surrounded the towers. It wasn’t a town, although a few non-military folk did reside there. They had retreated into the safety of the towers when the horns were sounded. A low stone windowless building connected the two towers. The doors to it were sealed and barred in preparation.

There were a dozen men atop each tower. With another five on the battlements roof of the connecting building. It was a strong defensive position to be holding, the fact that the towers sat atop a rocky outcrop not-withstanding. Rowan didn’t envy the task of trying to take the towers.

Rowan spotted Tanlor’s blond head wielding his large sword appear on the other tower, accompanied by Daegan, his revolver and sword in each hand. Good lad. The Daegan he’d met a month ago would’ve been hiding inside the tower with that cowardly Aeth. He’d seen it happen before, young lads thrown into the deep end. Highborn youth often had dreams of becoming renowned knights. A lot of them carried aspirations of following in the footsteps of their ancestor’s glory. But reality is quick to set in. Long hard rides in the cold, the fear of having your life on the line, a lot of them just can’t hack it and give up after a few months. Occasionally, you’d get one that grows into a harder man. One who adapts and changes with the snowfalls. He wouldn’t have thought Daegan would be one of the latter but here he was; sword-in-hand and about to fight an unknown enemy.

Tanlor had the gait of a man recently healed. He was fidgety. His sword drawn. It was the adrenaline, working with his edir to heal his wounds. That rush was a powerful thing, but it was also dangerous. Rowan had been healed more times than he could remember. In battle, he’d had to be restrained from returning to the fray after a field healer had fixed him up. The healing gave you a temporary boost but your body would crash with exhaustion soon after. You did not want to be facing an enemy when that happened. If Rowan was on that tower he would have scolded Tanlor for being there, but his brother was a grown man, and this was his decision. Hopefully, the need for melee fighting wouldn’t arise.

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Any man who’s fought against the rak, knew it was better to take them down before it came to one-on-one. In single combat, rak always had the advantage. They were larger, stronger and faster. Their flaw was that they rarely fought as a team. Because they almost never worked in co-ordinated attacks, taking them down was achievable if you had the superior numbers.

Rowan recalled the first time he'd faced a rak. He’d heard they were large, but being a big guy himself, Rowan had anticipated facing someone roughly his own height. The rak had towered above him, his thick curved blade coming in fast, brutal sweeps. The rak had wielded a weapon larger and heavier than Tanlor’s like it was a rapier.

“You need some?” The grenadier next to Rowan asked, he knelt measuring out pouches of gunpowder out of his iron strongbox.

“If you’ve any to spare.”

“If you use it to kill some rak, I won’t complain none,” he gestured to the mound of pouches leaning up against the battlement.

“Name’s Puck, yer Rowan?”

“Yup.”

“Taran the Hunter’s son?”

“That’s me.”

“Well I’m glad you’re here,” Puck cast a worringy glance at the surrounding trees, “you fought ‘em before?”

“Aye, at Balfold. Every now and then, some get spotted south of Nortara, too.”

“So you know, then,”

“I know… they’re not easy to kill.”

***

Ardy scowled when the fat cook asked for a swig of his flask. The man’s face was blotchy and held an expectant expression. Like Ardy would really just hand over his flask to this stranger. But then again, this man controlled the kitchens. Always a clever move to be on the good side of the kitchen staff. He’d learned that when working on the old Alron’s ship.

He flashed the man a grin and handed the flask over. A generous offering today could mean a few extra tankards of ale with his dinner tomorrow. That’s assuming we live. Another blast sounded outside and Ardy felt his heart lurch in his chest. Oh how I hate grenadiers… Soot-stained and stinking of sulphur. The grenadiers that worked the cannons on Alron’s ship had always insisted on an extra store of spirits for themselves. They claimed it was for the machines but Ardy would catch them taking sips throughout the day. The bastards.

He watched as the cook took a hearty gulp, and then another! Ardy reached his hand back out to the man and clicked his fingers before the man emptied the blasted thing. The cook gave him an apologetic look, handing it back.

“Uh,” he stammered, wiping spittle from his chin, “just need to settle the nerves, y’know yerself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ardy grumbled, then took a swig himself. The whitewhiskey tickled as it went down and he felt a comforting warmth spreading in his belly. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the calming lapping waves of the sea once again. Another blast hit outside, pulling him from his tranquillity.

“How’d an Aeth end up here anyways?” the cook asked and Ardy sighed. Oh yes, the usual series of questions. He normally tolerated them if there was a promise of a friendly drink to be awarded throughout the telling. Desmond’s company had been endured initially for this reason, and then because he was a friendly enough fellow… doubly because he was rich and didn’t seem to care how much of his money was spent on friendly drinks. He was the kind of man that Ardy would latch onto for as long as he could.

That is if the man wasn’t a magnet for disaster. First, that lunatic stonebreaker in Urundock, and now this—a bloody rak assault! If he survived this, he would be jumping back on his raft and heading straight back to Urundock. After Desmond paid him what he owed him, of course.

When Ardy didn’t answer the cook tried another tact, “you ever see a rak?”

“Course I have,” Ardy replied. He had in his shit, Ardy had never been anywhere close to a rak before.

“Rak, bandits, raiders, they’re all the same,” Ardy grumbled, “…trouble.” Not worth the hassle and certainly not worth his life. He’d ferried smugglers before across the Lake, traders who risked dealings with the rak. He knew enough about them know he wanted no dealings with them.

“You’re an icerafter, right?”

“Aye,”

“I heard some traders’ve been selling the fuckers weapons and runestones. They’ve got gold y’see, the Rak. There’s lots a gold up in the Black Sands, they say.”

Says who?

“Maniacs,” Ardy replied, “or liars. Rak would soon as cut your throat as trade with you.”

“You think that we’ll have to fight?” he asked nervously, sweat glistening on his brow. I fuckin’ hope not. There was another explosion outside and Ardy took a comforting swig of his flask. I should’ve left the second I dropped them boys off. Never hang around on the north shore. It was his only rule.

Another blast sounded, this time followed by a shuddering of the walls, dust falling from the timber rafters above him. Nope. That’s it. I am not dying here! He leapt to his feet and the cook looked at him with fear. “You’re going to fight?” he asked.

“Not a chance,” Ardy spat, and made for the door.