Flight of the Fallen

6 Ambush

By the time the fire burned through the flimsy barricade erected by the defenders, the remaining mercenaries caught outside the palace had been eliminated and those trapped inside had been demoralized. As soon as the gate fell, the Tarmaks charged in and captured the throne room. It took most of the day to track down and slaughter the entire garrison of slightly more than four hundred mercenaries, for the old ruin had warrens of tunnels, numerous rooms, and more hiding holes than anyone could count. The mercenaries put up more of a struggle than expected, but in the late afternoon the Tarmak warriors gathered in the forecourt of the palace, confident they had the palace to themselves. Beyond the gates, in the grassy meadow, a huge pyre took care of the final mercenary problem.

An ekwegul, the leader of a Tarmak hundred (or ekwul), that had been assigned to this job, wiped his hands in satisfaction and watched the black smoke rise from the pyre in the nearby field. His warriors moved confidently around him, picking up weapons, kicking dirt over pools of blood, and looking for anything of interest. Their general would be coming soon to inspect the dragon’s lair, and while no one was squeamish about pools of blood and bits of bodies lying around, the mess did tend to draw flies and those vicious ants even the Tarmaks had grown to hate.

A human man, wearing filthy bloodstained clothes, emerged from the open doors of the throne room and strode across the courtyard toward the ekwegul. None of the Tarmaks made a move to stop him. In fact many tilted their heads or touched their chests in gestures of respect when they saw him. The ekwegul watched him come, a lazy smile on his face.

“So, they fell into our trap,” he said when the man stopped beside him.

“We had the right bait.”

The ekwegul looked down at the man. The Tarmak officer was over seven feet tall, a normal height for his people. The human barely reached six feet and did not have the elegantly pointed ears the Tarmaks prized. Yet he was a cunning warrior, an astute military planner, and the adopted son of the Tarmak king’s beloved younger brother. The Tarmaks had long ago forgotten the man’s minor physical deformities.

“Where are they now?” the ekwegul asked.

“The centaurs have been sent to the slave pens. I separated the woman from the buckskin stallion. He is very loyal to her. The lady knight and men are in the cells under the palace.”

The Tarmak nodded. “Good. I’ve seen those cells. A rat could not escape from one.”

The human gave a brief laugh. “Don’t underestimate the talents of that woman. I want a guard on her day and night. Did the owl get away?”

“Mathurra told me it was nicked by an arrow, but it escaped. Into the trees he thinks.”

The man’s mouth and eyes narrowed in displeasure. “Send someone out to scour the grounds under the trees. Be certain. The owl must be undamaged.”

“It will be done.”

They stood for a moment in thoughtful silence, watching the smoke rise into the afternoon sky, before the man said, “The attack is still set for tonight. The 2nd and 4th ekwul will lead the way, but you will be needed to watch the paths and escape routes. Will your warriors be ready?”

The Tarmak did not hesitate. “Of course. We had light casualties. I will see they are fed and rested, and they will be ready to serve.”

“The goddess be with you tonight,” the man replied.

They exchanged salutes, and the man walked back toward the throne room.

Linsha was still awake when the Tarmaks brought down another prisoner. She heard the creak of the door at the top of the stairs and the plod of feet coming down the stone steps into the circular room that had once been an interrogation chamber of sorts. Five stone cells set in the wall opened into the room and could be watched by one man. Several torches in brackets on the walls lit the room and cast some illumination on a bare table, several stools, and the rusted remains of a few chains dangling from the ceiling. Two Tarmaks sat at the table and did nothing but watch the cell doors.

A dim light from the torches lit the cells as well through the barred doors. The bars were in remarkable shape in spite of their age and the dampness in the room, prompting Linsha to test one when the Tarmak guards were not looking her way. As she suspected, the bars had been forged with elven spells and still carried vestiges of that power. There would be no bending or crumbling or snapping of a rusty bar in these cells, even if any of the humans could wield enough magic to try it.

Feigning disinterest, she leaned back against the damp wall of her cell and watched through half-closed lids as two new Tarmaks appeared at the foot of the stairs carrying a litter. The two guards rose to greet them, and one pointed to Linsha’s cell. Linsha tensed. She dropped her pretense of inattention and opened her eyes as the Tarmaks unlocked her cell door.

Linsha made no effort to move. She did not even entertain the notion of rushing these warriors and trying to battle her way out. Besides being skilled warriors, the Tarmaks were all six feet or taller, well muscled, and as graceful in their movements as hunting cats. Up close, without their blue skin paint, they were a handsome people with dark hair usually worn long, fair skin, and eyes of earth colors that often burned with a fanatical zeal. She would have as much luck fighting four Tarmaks barehanded as she would facing four minotaurs.

Her own eyes wary, Linsha watched while the Tarmaks dumped the occupant of the litter to a pallet of straw on the floor and left. One Brute said something to the guards in their guttural language, then the two left. She waited until the door creaked shut at the top of the stairs before she slipped over to the pallet and rolled the man over onto his back. He groaned and opened a pair of vivid blue eyes.

“Lanther.” Linsha couldn’t help but smile. “I thought you were dead.”

He rubbed a hand over his battered face and winced when he hit a large bruise on his temple.

“So did I.” With her help he managed to sit up and prop his back against the stone wall of the cell. “Is there any water in here?”

She brought the small bucket the Tarmaks had left in her cell and gave him a few sips of water. She was bursting with questions, but she waited for him to gather his wits and find the strength to speak. Pale and dirty and splattered with blood, he looked terrible in the half-light of the cell. She could not see any obvious wounds leaking blood onto his clothes, but she could not tell yet if he had any broken bones or internal injuries.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked, staring blearily at the crude wrapping on her upper arm.

“Crossbow. The Tarmaks were kind enough to pull it out. They slathered some of that odd smelling blue paint of theirs on it.” She twisted her arm around to look at it. “When they put it on, the wound started to tingle and the pain eased. I would not be surprised if that paint had some healing properties to it.”

“Maybe that’s why they don’t wear armor.” His eyes crinkled in a slight grimace, and he shifted to get more comfortable. “Where are we?”

“Under the palace. In those prisoner cells Iyesta did not like.”

“Of course not. She couldn’t get to them,” he said with a grunt. “Where are the centaurs?”

Linsha sat down beside him and let her breath out in a long sigh. “I don’t know. They were led away while we were still out in the palace courtyard. There were only four left.”

He took her hand in his and held it, their fingers intertwined. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly. “Or mine. We acted on good evidence.”

“We were deliberately trapped like wild dogs,” she said forcefully. “They led us in and slammed every door. I wouldn’t be surprised if they watched the pool entrance and timed our capture with the attack on the palace. Neat, efficient, and successful.”

Lanther leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “You may be right.” After awhile he added, “Gods of all, I hate prisoner cells.”

Linsha took several long moments to gather her courage, then asked, “Lanther, what happened to Tanefer?”

“He’s dead. Two arrows to the chest. When he fell, I hit my head on the wall. The Tarmaks took me for dead, too, until later. Now I’m here.” He spoke his short narrative with spare words and little emotion, and when he finished, his words faded into steady breathing.

With gentle hands Linsha laid his shoulders and head down on the pallet and straightened his body. While she moved him, she carefully checked him for broken bones and unseen wounds, and when she was satisfied that he was basically unhurt, she made him as comfortable as possible on the lumpy pallet. She wished she had a cloak or a blanket for him, for the underground cells were chilly and damp, but he would have to be content in his ragged, dirty clothes.

“Lady,” a soft voice hissed from the next cell.

The Tarmak guards watched the two cells with avid eyes, but they did not try to stop the speaker.

Linsha responded quietly, “Yes?”

One of the Legionnaires in the neighboring cell asked, “Is Lanther injured?”

“He seems well enough. He is asleep now.”

A sword blade slammed on the table indicating the Tarmaks had heard enough talk. The prisoners retreated to the back of their cells.

Returning to her own pallet, Linsha lay down and tried to sleep. She didn’t know what time of day it was, but it felt like evening, and her body, deprived of a night’s sleep, was aching with exhaustion. She wanted to sleep, to slip into the forgetfulness of slumber and let her thoughts rest, but her mind wouldn’t let her. Too many worries, concerns, and feelings of guilt and recrimination played through her head.

Where were the centaurs? Had the Tarmaks killed them or just imprisoned them somewhere else?

Where was Varia? She had seen the owl falter in flight. Was Varia dead? Wounded? Was she slowly bleeding to death somewhere out in those trees? Or was she all right? What would she do? Surely she wouldn’t try to get Crucible again. That fearful thought led to another that repeated over and over in her head as if Varia could hear. Don’t tell Crucible. Don’t bring him back here. He must stay in Sanction. He must stay with Lord Bight. Don’t risk yourself.

Linsha put an arm over her face and groaned. By Kiri-Jolith, she had caused enough death and defeat for one night. She couldn’t bear it if the owl or the dragon died too.

How could she have been so careless? She had taken the word of a dead man—second-hand information!—and had not checked it out. Instead of following the basic rules for a good clandestine operation, she’d followed her desires and led good men and centaurs to their deaths or captivity. And Lanther had gone along with her! She hated to admit it, but the only one who had guessed it right was Sir Remmik. She could just imagine him lifting his long aristocratic nose, raising one eyebrow, and silently radiating “I told you so” from every line of his lean posture.

Thinking of Sir Remmik put her on a different path—the Tarmaks. They had effectively destroyed the mercenaries. Why hadn’t they tried to bribe or pay off the soldiers? If the Tarmaks were truly building a new army, why hadn’t they tried to hire the mercenaries? Why kill them all? And who had the dragon’s treasure now? Where was Iyesta’s hoard? Where were those damnable eggs? It seemed to her that the Tarmaks now had everything the Missing City had to offer—the city, the harbor, the lands, the palace, the dragon’s eggs, and the dragonlord’s treasure. What was left?

Knight Commander Jamis uth Remmik slapped irritably at the flea on his neck and shoved his blanket aside in disgust. This sleeping place was just too crowded. Between the sand fleas, the bed mites, and the occasional scorpion that crawled in for warmth, there wasn’t a peaceful scrap of material on the entire bed. He rubbed his neck again and crawled to his feet. There was no need to put on boots or a tunic. Like everyone else in the Wadi, he slept fully dressed.

Stretching his aching back, he walked out of the cave and into the cold night air. How he longed for his comfortable bed and warm fire in his room in the Citadel. That room had been built exactly to his specifications and needs and had been kept scrupulously clean. Everything had been in its place—his armor, his uniforms, his books of Solamnic law, his razor and toiletries. Now his magnificent Citadel was a pile of rubble and he was reduced to one tattered uniform, a pallet full of fleas, and a cold, stinking cave he had to share with twenty other people.

He drew in a deep breath of cold air, let it out in a cloudy exhalation, then walked over to the small fire still burning in one of the cooking hearths. A pot of hot water was always kept on the hearth for the night sentries who wanted hot tea or kefre. The ale and beer were long gone.

For a long while Remmik stood and stared at the small flames dancing in the hearth. He let the silence of the night fill his troubled mind. The presence of nearly six hundred people in the narrow, twisting canyon rarely made for long periods of stillness, but this late at night a semblance of peace had settled over the camp. Most of the inhabitants were asleep. Some were on guard duty scattered through the canyon, and some were on patrol or manning the lookout posts. One guard walked by the fire on his rounds and nodded once to the Solamnic commander. Sir Remmik noted the man’s signal horn, his bow strung and hanging ready from his back, and his sword loose in his sheath. He nodded back in approval.

He was reaching for the pot of kefre, a powerful concoction favored by the Khurs, when a small sound reached him. He jerked his head up and stared in the direction of the guard. The young man had just reached the edge of the firelight and could barely be seen against the intense darkness of the canyon. A second person appeared to be with him, although they were so close together it was hard to tell. Then Sir Remmik abruptly straightened, the hot pot still in his hand. The young guard made an odd gurgling sound and slumped to the ground. The second person stood over him, dark and indistinct, a long slim knife in his hand.

Sir Remmik fumbled for his sword and realized with a start of horror that he had come out of the cave without his weapons. He stared in disbelief as the dark figure leaped toward him. For a moment everything seemed to move slowly while his mind absorbed the shock of what had just happened. A heartbeat later his Solamnic training jolted him out of his astonishment, and he hurled the pot of hot kefre at the figure and bolted for the cave. He forced out one shout of warning before a tremendous pain slammed him on the back of his head and sent him crashing to the ground. In that instant of woozy consciousness, he felt himself waiting on the edge of eternity. In a blink, he knew the warrior with the knife would be on his back, the blade would be at his throat, and then his blood would spill on the ground and he would die. He was so sure of it that he could only stare at the earth inches away from his eyes. He felt the weight of a man press a knee into his back.

Then someone said something quiet in a strange tongue to the warrior on his back, and a different figure moved over to Sir Remmik’s head. By lifting his head, he was able to see bare blue feet. The Brutes. A cold fear for himself, for the camp, and for the Solamnic Knights he had brought here filled Remmik until his head throbbed with pain. He stifled a groan and waited for death.

But death did not come. The Brute on his back complained—quietly—for a moment, then stuffed a gag in Remmik’s mouth and tied his hands and feet. Sir Remmik found himself lying by the fire totally helpless to stop what happened next. The Tarmaks were joined by three more, and together they dashed into the cave. Ten minutes later they emerged with four prisoners and blood on their hands and knives. There had not been a single scream. After binding their captives, they dumped the two men—both Solamnic Knights—and two women beside Sir Remmik and moved on to the next cave. More Tarmaks slid by in the darkness. Shouts and screams suddenly rang through the camp. Somewhere down the canyon a guard sounded a belated warning that was answered by several other horns. But Sir Remmik knew it was already too late.

The Tarmaks had somehow slipped past the pickets and infiltrated the canyon. All of the fortifications and preparations the militia had made had been with the one belief that the Tarmaks or mercenaries would attack up the canyon in a full frontal assault. The back of the canyon was too steep and rugged to bring troops down in large numbers, and the walls of the canyon were too sheer. No one imagined the Tarmaks would try something so audacious as to slip in small numbers that would slaughter the inhabitants of the Wadi while they slept. Perhaps he and Falaius and Dockett had relied too much on the daunting presence of the bronze dragon to keep the enemy at bay. They should have set more sentries, done something constructive after he left.

Remmik’s vision began to swim into slow, dizzying waves. The terrified faces of his fellow prisoners blurred out of focus, and Sir Remmik found himself slipping inexorably out of consciousness. Briefly his mind thought of the others, of Falaius and Dockett, the other Knights, and even of Linsha away on her useless quest. The party had still not returned, and Sir Remmik suspected he knew why. As his vision dimmed to black and his thoughts slowly receded, one stray flash of curiosity surfaced in his mind. Was this how the Rose Knight had felt that night of storm when the honor guard was attacked and she had been knocked unconscious? Could there possibly have been some truth to her story? But as soon as it took shape, the idea faded and the Knight Commander slid into a black sleep.