The Crimson Lord (The Dark God Rises Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  The powder turned to fire and smoke in the air. Sparks of many colors streaked toward the men and they jumped away in astonishment, opening a gap. Through this Horta charged, and the Arnhaten thundered after him.

  He was on his way, and nothing would stop him, but fear rode in the saddle beside him. Would he be too late?

  14. You Need Swear No Oath

  Tinwellen had been right, Brand realized. The whole Duthgar knew where he was, which was what he wanted, and rebellion was ablaze through the land.

  Since dawn, warriors had been coming to the fortress to join him. They looked warily at the old structure, but men on the walls rather than ghosts reassured them. That, and the Dragon Banner of the chieftains of the Duthgar that rippled lazily in the air.

  They came at first by their hundreds. And then they numbered in their thousands. He had a true army now. This was no mere band of rebels, but a force to be reckoned with. Well led, they could achieve much. And they brought food and equipment with them.

  They also brought tidings. Unferth was on the move. He had indeed commenced to march from the south, and he would not take long to reach here. If he knew yet that his enemy had secured a fortress, no word told. Still less what he thought about it. Brand wished he could see his face when he heard that news.

  More pressing was the possibility that Unferth had sent spies ahead of him. It was possible. Even among the Duthenor there would be those who would serve an enemy for gold or the promise of status to come. Against this, Brand took precautions.

  The new men were spread out. No larger group that came in together was allowed to stay together. They were watched, and Brand had his own men throughout them to listen and report back anything suspicious. This had not happened, but he would not expect it yet either. There was little any traitor could do for the moment, except perhaps to send word back to Unferth of numbers of soldiers and the state of the fortress. But now only trusted men were allowed to leave.

  Against the possibility of the fortress’s water supplies or food being poisoned, guards were set of trusted men. Against sabotage to the gate, men were also set to watch. If Unferth had sent agents for these tasks, he would likely be disappointed. But Brand doubted the man had the luxury of time to plan such things before he marched, and may only now be discovering the exact whereabouts of his opponent anyway.

  One question worried him more than any of the many other concerns he had. Would Unferth attack the fortress? This was the center of his strategy. Despite the new men coming in, he was still at a numerical disadvantage. He needed the walls of the fortress to balance the odds. But that did not mean Unferth would do as expected. On the other hand, if he did not attack and win quickly, revolt could spread through the land. Then he would have to march to stamp it out, probably to several places at once. If he did so, Brand could leave the fortress and crush the enemy piecemeal.

  No. Unferth would come. He had to. Having, for the hundredth time satisfied himself of that, Brand left his accustomed position on the battlements to see for himself the many tasks underway.

  Tinwellen joined him as he came down the stairs.

  “What now, O mighty warlord?” she said. Her eyes gleamed with humor as she spoke.

  “Now, we check the gate,” he said.

  “I’m glad you said that. I’ve been fretting over the gate ever so much.”

  Despite her sarcasm, she slipped her arm around his and he led her through the gate tunnel.

  “I know you’re joking,” he said. “But the gate is important. We’ll not hold the fortress long without it.”

  She grinned at him, her teeth white in the dim light of the tunnel.

  “I know, city boy. I know it well. But you drive yourself too hard. All work and no play is a bad way to prepare for battle. You need something to take your mind off things.”

  She slowed her step in the middle of the tunnel, at its darkest point. But Brand had seen the bones of dead men here. He knew how they had died, for he had seen men die in terror like that before. Arrow and spear coming through the walls. Nowhere to go except forward, and men waiting there to kill too. She had not seen that, and did not understand it. The remains had been taken away before she arrived.

  He kept moving ahead, and he felt her reluctance. Almost, she seemed to stamp her foot, but he might have imagined that. It was dark. Nevertheless, she came along with him and did not let go. If she was offended, she did not show it. But he knew too well that she was not one to trifle with.

  There was movement ahead, and the sound of men’s voices. Suddenly Shorty loomed up out of the dark.

  “Ah, perfect timing. We’ve just put the last finishing touches on things.”

  “Let’s have a look, then,” Brand suggested.

  His old friend led them the rest of the way along the tunnel. The light grew swiftly, and the gate stood there, closed.

  Brand was impressed. “The smiths have done a good job.” It was hard to believe that this was the same gate that he had seen lying in ruin on first entering the fortress. The metal had been straightened, and the rust removed. “It looks like it’s newly forged.”

  He stepped forward and gripped one of the thick bars. There was no weakness there, and he grinned. Unferth would not like this at all. A walled fortress with a good gate? He could picture the anger of the man building up. It would be one thing to learn that his enemy had encamped in such a place, but quite another that the fortress had been made sound and was no ruin of ancient and crumbling defenses.

  “Want to see it in action?” Shorty asked.

  “By all means.”

  Brand led Tinwellen back a little. The workmen came away from the gate too, some into the tunnel but most outside beyond the wall.

  Shorty brought both hands to his mouth and hollered to the tower above. “Raise the gate, lads!”

  A call came back in answer. “Raising the gate!”

  Within a few moments a tremor ran through the metal, and the gate rose on two great chains that disappeared up through the lintel and into the gate mechanism above. The chains moved smoothly, and the gate rose steadily. For all that it must have been extraordinarily heavy, it rose as easily as a man might open a cottage door until the gate was fully open.

  Shorty flashed him a grin. “Not a sight that Unferth will ever see.”

  “I should think not,” Brand replied.

  Shorty hailed the men above again. “Lower the gate!”

  “Lowering the gate!” came the reply. This time there was a tremendous blast from several horns. It was a warning for all to keep clear. Then swift and smooth the gate dropped. With a mighty clang that boomed through the tunnel the metal rim at the bottom slammed home into its shallow footing of stone on the ground. It was likewise secured within parallel furrows on each side, greased in order to ensure the gate rose and dropped with ease.

  Brand could not have been happier. The gate had worried him, but it was as good now as it was when the fortress had first been built.

  “Good work!” he called out to all the men gathered there. “Excellent! Let Unferth crack his head against that!”

  The men cheered and shook each other’s hands. But Tinwellen gave him a sultry look and moved to press her back against the bars, arms flung out and a grin on her face.

  “O, great lord! You have me prisoner now. What will you do with me?”

  The soldiers erupted with laughter, and Brand tried hard to suppress his own grin. He moved in close and took her by the hand.

  “I’ll think of something,” he said, winking at Shorty.

  The men cheered again, even louder than before. Brand led Tinwellen back into the tunnel, and the cheering seemed to not only follow them but to get louder.

  They walked ahead, but this time Tinwellen quickened her step as they went through the darker parts of the tunnel. Truly, he could never quite guess what she was going to do next. And maybe he liked that.

  “There are quite a few things I need to check on yet,” he said as they came bac
k into the courtyard.

  “Lead on,” she replied, slipping her arm through the crook of his again.

  The next few hours went well. If Tinwellen was bored of inspecting the many things that needed checking, she did not show it.

  Brand went first to the various wells that had been found. Some were shallow and some deeper. This was good, because it indicated different sources of underground water. If one went dry, the others might keep producing.

  He did not doubt that there had been a great quantity of water available when the fortress had been built. Otherwise, it would not have been positioned were it was. Water was critical to an army, and the original army that held this fortress was much larger than the one that occupied it now. But all of that was long, long ago. Since then, the underground water levels could have fallen. It was just as likely that they had risen too, but one was a problem and the other was not. Still, all the signs looked good.

  Next, he inspected the kitchens. These had been cleaned and fires burned day and night. An army needed a lot of feeding, and soldiers manned the battlements in shifts day and night. Cooks had been selected too, and though these no longer wore armor or sword, both were piled neatly in corners and ready for use if needed.

  The kitchens had been well designed. They were spacious, and there were stone-lined ovens and fire-pits. Each had a chimney too, and these drew the smoke well to send great plumes of blue-white clouds to hang above the fortress when the air was still. They had needed much clearing of debris though to unblock them, the cooks told him.

  Brand toured the battlements as well. These were cleaned now, free of debris and little structural work had been needed anywhere. Long poles were stacked in many places, to be used to dislodge scaling ladders. There were axes also, for the severing of ropes thrown over the ramparts with grappling hooks. Fresh made timber buckets were there as well, some containing water and others sawdust. These were to clean the rampart floor of blood, and then to dry the surface once more so that soldiers could better keep their footing.

  Away over the Duthgar everything seemed peaceful, but that would change. In the foreground, the land was barren now and clear of tree and shrub. It was a good killing area. Further out, the pine-clad ridges marched away. Brand’s heart was in places like that, with the scent of resin in the air and the mysteries of forest paths that led to the high places or down into secret valleys. But war was his life now, and he drew his gaze, and his thoughts, back to his responsibilities.

  In many places along the battlements mock battles were being fought to get the defenders used to siege warfare. What these men learned now as a game, Unferth’s would learn later at a cost of blood. He could not pity them. The general who pitied the enemy lost. At least, he could not pity them until he won, if that came to pass. Truly, he had less choice in things than he had ever thought. Necessity drove him, as it always had and always would.

  The soldiers were good with the long poles, dislodging ladders swiftly. It would be harder with the weight of people on them, and the fear of death breathing down their necks. But they were hard men, and they understood this.

  In other places, groups of archers took turns to fire at targets below. There were too few archers for Brand’s liking, but it was a skill that needed learning like all others. He could put bows into the hands of many other men, but ten who could shoot with accuracy and speed were worth more than a hundred without skill. He would make do with what he had.

  There were more spearmen, and this too was a skill, but not so great as archery. Strong men, and athletic, as most Duthenor were, could hurl a javelin with great force. One by itself might be dodged and avoided. But thrown as a unit as these men were training to do, to dodge one was to step into another, and to raise a shield to protect the face was to expose the legs.

  Tinwellen also took in the training, and seemed impressed by it.

  “You leave nothing to chance, do you?”

  “Not if I can help it,” Brand said with determination. “But the chances of the world are many, and no general can foresee them all.”

  The expression on her face indicated she agreed with that, but she only nodded solemnly and did not reply. Brand led her back along the rampart to the gate towers, and there descended the stairs at the back of the wall into the courtyard.

  Even as they reached the bottom a new batch of men was coming in, several hundred strong. Two lords led them. Their fine armor and jewel-hilted swords identified them as such, but their clothing was of a finer cut also. They saw Brand, and recognized him by the Helm of the Duthenor that he wore, for they strode over quickly and bowed.

  “Lord Garvengil at your service,” the first said.

  “And Lord Brodruin, also at your service,” the second added.

  “Pleased to meet you, gentlemen.” Brand only glanced at them. Most of his attention was on the men the lords had led into the fortress. They seemed well equipped, and they were all tall and strong. They would be a good addition to the defense, but Brand could not help wondering how young they were. Some at least would not yet have seen their twentieth winter, and it disturbed him. How many would die beneath the same Dragon Banner now marked by Haldring’s blood? Too many, and every one would be on his conscience. But war gave generals few choices.

  Garvengil drew his gaze off the Helm of the Duthenor down to the hilt of Brand’s Halathrin-wrought sword. The blade was a legend, but it was a true fighting weapon and the hilt was not decorated in the fashion lords seemed to favor these days. But still Brand sensed a little of the man’s unease, even awe.

  Brand clapped him on the shoulder, and his companion as well.

  “Thank you for coming. You and your men will make a great difference.”

  “It’s nothing but our duty,” Brodruin replied.

  That much was true, Brand knew. But he knew also that these men might not have come at all unless they believed he had a chance of winning. It was only the recent victory against Unferth that had swayed them, but still, they were here, and that was what mattered.

  “When shall we swear our oaths?” Garvengil asked.

  Brand was confused. “What oaths?”

  “Oaths of fealty to you as our chieftain, or our king if you wish. Unferth calls himself such, but you are more worthy. We hear many things here in the Duthgar, even from far away Cardoroth.”

  Brand hesitated, and he felt Tinwellen’s eyes upon him. This was not why he had come back to the Duthgar. Not exactly. And yet it was his right by birth. It was the destiny stolen away from him. But what of his responsibilities as a lòhren? It was true that he felt more a chieftain than a lòhren, but it was not that simple. Or perhaps for a time he could be both.

  “There’ll be time enough for that later. In the meantime, you need swear no oaths of loyalty to fight for the freedom of your land.”

  The two lords seemed a little perplexed, but they bowed.

  “As you wish,” Brodruin said. “In that case, perhaps we had better see to our men.”

  Brand nodded. “Of course.”

  They left him then, but Tinwellen’s gaze did not. He led her to one of the tables along the side of the courtyard, and there they sat and rested for a while.

  All around him men were working feverishly on one thing or the other. It would not stop until well into the evening, and what work that could be carried out was done then by torch light.

  “They know the enemy comes,” Brand said.

  Tinwellen gazed around, and nodded. “You can feel the tension in the air, thickening it.”

  It was a good way to put it. But if she felt any of that tension herself, she did not show it.

  He thought suddenly of the archers that he had seen practicing earlier. If need be, a thrown spear could still do damage with only a sharpened timber point, but better if it had a metal head. The same could be said for arrows, but doubly so because arrows were more deadly due to their accuracy and the numbers that could be shot.

  He signaled a man over. “Track down either
Shorty or Taingern,” he instructed. “Tell them, if it has not already been done, to find whatever scrap metal is in the fortress. Old door hinges, cutlery. Anything. Not all will have rusted away. Some must have been protected from the elements. Find it and use it to make arrowheads. We don’t have many archers, but we’ll make the most of them. At least they’ll not run out of good arrows.”

  The man went away quickly to fulfil his task. Shorty and Taingern had probably already thought of it, but it may have been overlooked. The weapons and armor of the long-dead soldiers had rusted to dust, but there must be places in the fortress away from water and humidity where some useable metal had survived.

  “Will you never rest?” Tinwellen asked, her dark eyes studying him.

  His answer was bleaker than he intended. “Time enough to rest when I’m dead.”

  For once, she had no quick joke or rejoinder. But her dark eyes remained on him, weighing him up as though he were a piece of metal himself being tested for soundness.

  15. Dark Dreams

  Brand dreamed that night, and it was like no dream that he had ever had before.

  His room was small, likely some sort of officer’s quarters within one of the barracks of the fortress close to the courtyard. It was dark and windowless, but he had it to himself unlike the men outside who slept in long rows along the floor. Whatever beds had once been here were long decayed. The area had been cleaned though, and the roof was in good condition, considering. If and when it rained, it would prove a good place to be.

  With a feeling of unease, Brand woke. Only, he knew that he was still asleep. He was dreaming, and yet his mind was conscious of it and capable of rational thought.

  He was alone, and unarmed. He wore neither his helm nor carried a sword. But even as he realized this, enemies appeared all around him. And they each held weapons, drawn and ready for use.

  That they were enemies, he knew by the looks in their eyes. There was hatred there. It gleamed in their gazes like a torch in the dark.