The Motive for Massacre (The Kinless Trilogy Book 2) Page 18

  The were a motley crew, but no more so than when Weston was together with Catherine, Ellioth, and Alisanne, and they were able to do the impossible on more than one occasion.

  At present, they argued over what message to send Alisanne. The subject of what to do next had been resolved. No answers were to be found in Davisville, and as Samrale had suggested, researching New Falun might tell them enough to make a plan. They had concluded that a message to Alisanne done right would buy them time.

  "She'll want me to return when you return. If you head back to Daris, and I accompany you, she'll want an audience with me immediately," James said. "And we don't want that, because I can't lie to her. The longer I postpone seeing her, the more time we have."

  "So we tell her that we went somewhere else," Umaryn said. "Tell her we went straight to Duulan to find New Falun after talking with Weston."

  Mal disagreed. "No I don't like it. That message alone tells her Weston is alive, that he told us about New Falun, and that we know about the mine, as well as her bullshit against Mom and Dad. The message needs to be vaguer. Besides, if she thought we were heading to New Falun, wouldn't she gather up her things and follow us there?"

  "I suppose," Umaryn said, dejected.

  "We need to think of a different place that we can tell her we went, something that gives James enough of a kernel of truth that he can say it to her. Where's a place we might head naturally after this?"

  "After this I'm heading to the border to rejoin the 2nd," Chelsea said.

  "Perfect. That makes complete sense. We head to Daris together, then we board a train north. We get off after a stop. When Alisanne asks James where we went, he says they got on a train heading north. If she asks why, it's because we're heading north to join the battle. James, does an omission trigger the power of Saint Kincaid? If you were to leave something out of a conversation?"

  "Typically no. I think that would work so long as she doesn't pry. I can be careful with my responses. Formulate a few answers that might work ahead of time. Many of the Darisian business class have spent decades trying to trick the Spirit of Saint Kincaid."

  "Good. So then we tell her that in a sending. We're headed back to Daris, then north to the front. You don’t know what we're doing next, because we don't actually know. We slip back into Daris, and do some research on New Falun try and discover what's going on there now," Mal said.

  Weston finally added into the conversation, "With a little preparation I can use The Way to gain access to anywhere. Map makers, guilds, name it. I just need to find a place that might have an answer. My guess is I should find the embassy for Duulan and start there."

  "How does that work?" Chelsea asked him.

  "I'm a master of transmogrification. I teach shape shifting here. I can appear as anyone, given a few minutes preparation."

  "That could be useful. Let's make no decisions in front of James. At this point, the less he knows the easier it'll be for him to talk to Alisanne." Mal turned to the nervous Apostle. "James, you are certain you want to do this? Failure likely will mean she'll finish the job the bandits started."

  Weston watched as the cleric became a bit paler. "This is worth it. I think."

  Mal waited for him to add more, but he left it at that. "Better be sure, but so be it. We're better for having you with us. We'll book tickets back to Daris for the evening train. Send your message in the morning telling her as much?"

  James agreed.

  "Then we're off to Daris tomorrow. Then maybe we can get that damned key and find out what exactly it opens." Mal's eyes drifted to the stained glass windows, and watched as a gray storm thick with lightning strikes rolled in across the grand ocean, straight for them. He couldn't help but wonder if Elmoryn itself was telling them what was coming their way.

  - Chapter Fourteen -

  TO LAST A SIEGE

  Marcus stood outside the northern village of Ockham's Fringe just a short walk from the border Varrland shared with The Amaranth Empire. The Knight had only been in the town a few hours, and he had an enormous amount of work to do. His first step was to assess, organize, and delegate responsibility. He started by surveying first the small local Artificer rail station, then the village's outer fortifications.

  In Chelsea's absence a different sergeant stood at Marcus' side. Dunwood was a veteran of the Darisian 2nd, and stood tall and proud in his red and white uniform. He had mussed blonde hair, and a lean face that had weathered a difficult adolescence. He had a scar across his chin from an encounter with a wild Gvorn. He wasn't as hard-nosed as Chelsea, but he was an excellent planner, and his soldiers listened to his orders without question.

  "The station should be left alone in the event of an assault. The Empire can't risk bringing the Artificers into a battle, or risk them shutting the trains heading north into Graben down," Dunwood said as he took off his cap and ran his fingers through already sweaty blonde hair.

  "True, though in a siege there's still a very high chance errant undead will wander to the station and cause damage. Our dead or theirs. We should erect simple barriers around the station to help prevent wandering zombies. Then we hope the Empire necromancers keep their dead on a leash."

  Dunwood spat into the dirt. "This is unhealthy work Knight Major. Fighting against the dead like this. An army of the undead no less… it's sickening."

  "I know. More the reason why we need to successfully defend Ockham's Fringe should they lose their minds and come across the border. We need to buy time for the rest of the Varrland forces to arrive in the event of an attack. A five hour delay will buy us all the time we need."

  "Yes sir," Dunwood said as he put his cap back on, hiding his disheveled hair. The men watched the hustle and bustle of the soldiers unloading their equipment from the train. Everyone was sweating. The afternoon sun was warm, and as it set it was turning a warm orange color.

  "We'll need archer towers erected immediately. Fortunately the village is arranged in a near perfect square, so we can build on the corners of the walls they have now, as well as on the halfway points of each wall. The towers must be three stories, and built sturdy. Buckets of water should be at the top of each tower for fire, and we should sheet the sides with tin to help against that."

  "We didn't bring extra buckets Knight Major. Or tin."

  "Have one of our Apostles make a sending to the towns along the rail line. We'll need eight towers built, and no less than four buckets a tower. Ask for twice that. Send men to the smiths in town and have them repurpose to hammer out sheets of tin. Arrowheads as well. If they can't meet our demand, make another sending. And ask for oil. Lots of oil."

  "Done. What else?"

  "What state of affairs is the militia in?" Marcus asked him as they set out towards the sturdy gates in the wooden wall.

  "Larger than we had anticipated. Sixty foot, twelve cavalry, and 25 archers. Middling experience for the most part, a few hunters of skill, but they're dedicated to protecting their homes. We can use them."

  "That's good. That's very good. Are the bowyers and fletchers at task?"

  Dunwood coughed from the dust. "Most of the archers are the bowyers and fletchers. They're at work. Blistering pace too Sir. They aim to have a thousand arrows by sunset tomorrow, providing the smiths can make the arrowheads to keep up."

  "We'll need twice that to even have a chance at holding the wall."

  "Twice that and the help of a few thousand good natured Varrlander Ancestors. What about the wall? What should we do to prepare it?" Dunwood asked as the six militia guards stepped aside to let them in. The gate had been left open since the trains with the soldiers had arrived. As soon as they were inside the village, the gates would close again. It made Marcus' skin itch to see the gates opened with enemies so close.

  Marcus walked the loosely stoned narrow streets of Ockham's Fringe. Dozens of the men and women in his regiment moved to and fro, carrying gear and stowing it into alleys and homes that had opened up to host them. Locals shook hands and lent their ba
cks to carrying gear around, preparing for the war that may or may not happen. His unit had only been there a few hours and already the town stank. Salty sweat and the stink of human waste was already in the air. Flies had collected already, and a war hadn't even broken out yet. This was the true rhythm of the war drum. The dripping of sweat, the smell of shit and the grunts of labor.

  "Two gates correct?" Marcus asked as he waved at a few men who caught his eye. They looked fearful, but ready.

  "Three actually. One small gate was just built for a farmer who wanted an easier egress for his goats. It's not a large opening in the wall, but we'll need to address it." Dunwood waved at the same men. They wiped sweat from their brows.

  "Maybe we can leave that as our single entrance. Build a secondary fortification on it. A barbican of sorts. Is it in a decent spot to place a tower as well? Can we camouflage it if not?"

  "Yeah I think so. It's about at halfway on the southern wall. The Empire would need to encircle us to get to it so it could serve us as an exit for the cavalry. A tower built on the spot would conceal it. Strategically it could be sound."

  "See to it."

  "As you wish."

  "The carpenters and laborers. We were to get forty from Daris. What is our final total?" Marcus stopped and shook a local's hand. The man was in a state of half panic, half jubilation. Several soldiers had been trying to calm the man in order to move him to no avail. Marcus' soft smile calmed the man quickly. Marcus guided him to the side of the street gently, and the man sat down, crying.

  "There's good news to be had in that. Fifty men came with us from the city and we had to turn away half that again. Here in Ockham's Fringe we've picked up another thirty men, give or take. All strong with hardened hands."

  "A glimmer of hope appears eh? Send the others you sent back. Twenty five more workers will give us significant production ability," Marcus said, looking up at the clouds drifting above.

  "How will we pay them? Pay for their rail tickets?" Dunwood asked.

  "I'll forego my salary if it comes to it. Get them here, we'll figure out where the Marks come from later."

  "Yes sir, here sir," Dunwood said, pointing to a large tavern they were approaching. Above the door hung a poorly painted sign that read; Howard's Inn and Brewery.

  The two soldiers let themselves in.

  Inside the tavern and inn it was shoulder-to-shoulder military personnel. All of the locals had cleared out to make space for the men and women who had come to help protect them. Tables had been removed entirely, or stacked in the corner awaiting removal. A single long table was in the center of what was to be Marcus' war room. Behind the counter a bulky, gravel faced older man stood with a pipe jammed in the corner of his mouth. Luxurious smoke drifted out of it, giving the room a more pleasant scent than the street outside. He surveyed the clamor inside his establishment as both of his bear paw sized hands rubbed his apron over his ample belly. Marcus couldn't tell if the man was happy, or irritated. The man with the pipe looked over the top of the soldiers and made eye contact with Marcus. The two knew each other.

  Marcus made his way through the throng of soldiers and overwhelmed wait staff to the counter and shook the big man's hand. "Howard. Good to see you again," Marcus said with a grin.

  "I'd disagree with that. You're a sure sign of trouble Sir Gray," the barkeep said grimly back. He puffed his pipe and thick ribbon of smoke wafted up.

  "Well yes, there is that too. Tell me. How are the townspeople? Are they positive? Hopeful? Morale will be very important if we are laid siege to."

  Howard wiped up a spill of ale off the counter with a rag from his shoulder that looked dirtier than the floor. "They're scared. They're also Varrlanders Captain. It'll take more than a few undead knocking at the door to get them to turn tail. We're made of tough stuff."

  "It's Knight Major," Dunwood corrected.

  "Sorry, Knight Major," Howard said sarcastically.

  Marcus clapped him on the shoulder. "Have you enough ale for a few months?"

  Howard nodded emphatically, happy about that at least. "I've got much brewed and more brewing. The rest of town has a fair amount of food as well. We've been stockpiling since this all started. Regular customers have been rightfully cross with me about the serving limit, but they'll get over it."

  "Good. Is the hunting still shit up here?"

  "Made worse by the presence of the Empire's minions. You couldn't catch the clap from a whore out there now."

  Marcus and Dunwood laughed heartily. It was welcome.

  The gruff barkeep leaned over the battered wooden tavern top. He lowered his voice so only the two men could hear him. "It's bad Marcus. I've never seen so many. I've never seen so many people, let alone dead at the same time." He leaned back up, shaking his head unhappily. "I set aside a room upstairs, the suite, for you. The window looks out upon the northern plain where they're gathered. I figured you'd want the best view."

  "Very thoughtful of you. I'm sure the sight will keep me awake at night."

  "The mere thought of it keeps me awake," Howard said as he poured an ale for himself.

  "Thank you Howard. The nation will not forget your generosity in this time."

  The barkeep swigged down the mug of ale in a series of rapid swallows. He followed that up with a few tugs off his pipe. "Tell the nation to get its ass up here and lend us a hand. I've no use for gratitude when I'm dead."

  "Fair thing that," Marcus said. With a nod of his head, he and Dunwood made their way through the men again and over to the stairs.

  "He's a good man?" Dunwood asked his superior officer. The sergeant had never made the trip to Ockham's Fringe.

  "The best kind. Makes a mean nut ale too. We'll have one later. Strong enough to clean a Gvorn's hooves. A moat. I was about to ask you about a moat."

  "Right. We're drawing up a grid now on how to funnel their movements at the wall. Not sure how to handle the train traffic."

  "What do you mean? Marcus asked as they rounded a landing on the stairs.

  "The rail station is going to be important. If we dig a moat around the village walls, we'll cut off easy access to the rail station. Not sure how you feel about that."

  "Dig the moat to the rail station, include it inside as best you can. Shore up the earth near the rails to ensure they don't collapse. We'll have access to the station. What about water to fill it? Is that an option? For that matter, do we have enough fresh water to drink?"

  "We won't be able to fill any meaningful depth of trench with water. A dry moat will have to suffice. Hopefully we can dig it deep enough that it takes them an hour or two to fill it with dead bodies. There are four wells in Ockham according to what my runners told me, and buckets at a time won't be sufficient. I'm told there was enough rain and snow this year that the water runs fresh. We should have plenty to drink."

  "With news like that I feel like we've got this baby war almost won, and it hasn't even started yet. What is our final Apostle count?"

  "We've the Apostles assigned to our unit, plus fifteen more Bishop Alisanne at the Cathedral had assigned to us. Thirty healers. A powerful number considering our foes."

  "Excellent. Make sure they are spread about the city in the event of an attack. And please do remind the men and women that we are on twenty four hour footing. At any moment they could attack, and when they start to see us preparing, that might be enough to force their hand. In fact, all work visible to them should be done at night to obscure their ability to see it."

  "Easy enough sir. We'll use torches. I'm sure there'll be some smashed thumbs, but that's better than getting killed. When is Chelsea joining us?"

  The two men had reached the end of the hall on the top floor of the inn. Marcus opened the unlocked door to the suite that he had always stayed in when his patrols wandered this far north, which they often did. "I left instructions with Chelsea's family for her to not join us."

  "Why? She's your squire and we could use her experience. The soldiers love her," Dunwood
said as they stepped inside and closed the door. The younger warrior surveyed the room with two twin beds, and a bath. It was far below the standard of most Darisian hotels and inns, but was still above his pay grade. Only officers like Marcus could afford a room like this.

  "She's working with some people on a different task that I believe might be helpful to us here. A different front of this war so to speak." Marcus pulled his leather riding gloves from his belt and sat them down on the small desk in the room.

  "Didn't she go to the Protectorate? To visit that waymancy college? Is she trying to get them to join us in the fight?"

  "Something like that. Don't worry about her. That's my job. Let's have a look, shall we?" Marcus walked over slowly to the small twin windows that faced north. A pair of white curtains so thin they were nearly transparent were pulled shut, and they obscured the view out of the window like a thick fog. Marcus pulled one away as Dunwood pulled the other.

  Neither man had breath nor words for what they saw.

  The border between Varrland and The Amaranth Empire had no geographic boundary. There was no river, or mountain, or line drawn in the sand. For miles heading north into the flatlands of The Empire, there was nothing other than grasslands.

  But that was not the case any longer. Marcus and Dunwood were looking out over a dead man's land in every sense of the phrase. For perhaps two miles the familiar sea of plains grasses could be seen blowing back and forth in the wind, but then, in the dwindling golden sunlight the soldiers could see a hive of activity, spread near as wide as they could see out the windows.

  It was impossible to count, but there had to be ten thousand bodies, some standing, others moving in the distance. So many of them were lined up in rank and file, standing perfectly still at the front of the Amaranth war host. Behind them were dozens of tents, some small and mundane, others massive and ostentatious. To the wing and to the rear of the gathered force a hundred Gvorn Cavalry could be seen. Each wore heavy purple barding, and stood statue-still, as dead as could be. They were the skeletal and rotted mounts of the Order of the Purple Flower, the Queen's elite knights. Their presence meant her will was at hand, and that this assemblage was doing her direct bidding.