Kitabı oku: «De Tappras Uppkomst », sayfa 3
Kyra märkte att han sa hennes farbror och inte din farbror, och hon undrade varför.
“Då ska jag följa med!” insisterade Aidan stolt.
Hennes far skakade sitt huvud.
“Det ska du inte,” svarade han.
Kyra log mot sin lillebror, så modig, som vanligt.
“Vår far behöver dig någon annanstanse,” sa hon.
“Vid krigsfronten?” frågade Aidan, och vände sig hoppfullt mot sin far. “Du ska mot Esephus,” lade han till lite snabbt. “Har jag hört! Jag vill följa med!”
Men han skakade sitt huvud.
“Det är Volis som gäller för dig,” svarade han. “Du kommer att stanna här, skyddad av männen som jag lämnar kvar. Krigsfronten är inte rätt plats för dig just nu. En annan dag.”
Aidan blev illröd av besvikelse.
“men far jag vill slåss!” protesterade han. “Jag vill inte vara fast i något tomt fort med kvinnor och barn!”
Hans män skrattade, men han såg seriös ut.
“Mitt val är gjort,” svarade han kort.
Aidan rynkade på pannan.
“Om jag inte kan följa med Kyra och inte följa med dig,” sa han, vägrade att släppa ämnet, “varför är det då lönt att lära mig om strid, lära mig hur jag ska använda vapen? Vad har all min träning varit till för?”
“Skaffa lite brösthår först lillebror,” sa Braxton skrattande och gick fram med Brandon bredvid sig.
Fler män började skratta och Aidan blev röd i ansiktet, och det var tydligt att han skämdes framför de andra.
Kyra, kände sig hemsk, och gick ner på knä framför honom och kollade på honom, samtidigt som hon la en hand på hans kind.
“Du kommer att bli en bättre krigare än alla dem,” försäkrade hon honom om mjukt, så att bara han kunde höra. “Ha tålamod under tiden, se över Volis. Staden behöver dig också. Gör mig stolt. Jag kommer att återvända, det lovar jag, och en dag kommer vi att slåss stora strider tillsammans.”
Aidan såg ut att mjukna lite och så kramade han henne ytterligare en gång.
“Jag vill inte att du ska åka,” sa han mjukt. “Jag hade en dröm om dig. Jag drömde…” Han kollade upp motvilligt, med en blick fylld av rädsla. “…att du skulle dö där ute.”
Kyra kände en chock av hans ord, speciellt när hon såg blicken i hans ögon. Den jagade henne. Hon visste inte vad hon kulle säga.
Anvin gick fram och drog över en stor tjock päls över hennes axlar för att värma henne; Hon kände sig flera kilo tyngre, men den stängde ute all vind och tog bort kylan från hennes vind. Han log tillbaka.
“Dina nätter kommer att bli långa, och elden kommer att vara långt bort,” sa han, och omfamnade henne kvickt.
Hennes far gick snabbt emot henne och omfamnade henne, den starkaste omfamningen av en krigsherre. Hon kramade tillbaka, förlorad i hans muskler, hon kände sig trygg och säker.
Du är min dotter.” sa han varsamt, “glöm inte det.” Han sänkte sedan sin röst, så att ingen annan kunde höra, och sa: “Jag älskar dig.”
Hon blev överrumplad av känslor, men före hon kunde svara vände han sig snabbt om och gick iväg—och samtidigt började Leo att gnälla och hoppa upp på henne, och gnugga sin nos mot hennes bröst.
“Han vill följa med dig,” sa Aidan. “Ta han—du kommer att behöva honom mycket mer än mig, instängd i Volis. Han är ju trots allt din.”
Kyra kramade Leo, och kunde inte vägra, då Leo vägrade lämna hennes sida. Hon kände sig tröstad av idén att få ha med honom, då hon hade saknat honom mycket. Hon skulle behöva ett till par med ögon och öron också, och där fanns ingen mer lojal än Leo.
Nu var Kyra redo och hoppade upp på Andor då hennes fars män delade på sig så hon kunde ta sig förbi. De höll upp facklor genom hela bron för att visa respekt, de fäktade bort natten, lyste upp en väg åt henne. Hon kollade ut framför männen, the där bredde vildmarken ut sig. Hon kände sig upprymd, och mest av allt, en känsla av att det var hennes plikt. Hennes mening. Framför henne låg det viktigaste uppdraget i hela hennes liv, ett uppdrag som inte bara skulle visa hennes identitet, utan avgöra ödet för alla i Escalon. Insatserna kunde inte vara högre.
Med hennes stav över ena axeln, hennes båge över den andra, och med Leo och Dierdre bredvid henne, Andor under henne, och alla hennes fars män som kollade på henne, så började Kyra att rida med Andor mot stadsportarna. Hon gick sakta från början, genom facklorna, förbi männen, och det kändes som om hon gick in i en dröm, som om hon gick sitt öde tillmötes. Hon kollade inte bakåt, hon ville inte förlora sin beslutsamhet. Ett signalhorn lät långt från hennes fars män, en signal för avgång, ett ljud för respekt.
Hon förberedde sig för att ge Andor en kick—men han hade redan förstått henne. Han började öka, först trav sedan galopp
Kyra sprang i full fart, genom portarna av Argos, över bron och ut på de öppna fälten. Kalla vindar i hennes hår, och inget annat än en lång väg framför sig, vilda varelser och mörker som sakta bredde ut sig.
KAPITEL FYRA
Merk sprang genom skogen, snubblade ner för den leriga backen, väjde mellan grenar och löv medan Vitskogen krasade under hans fötter när han sprang så snabbt han kunde, han kollade framför sig och höll koll på rökmolnen som bolmade på håll och blockerade den röda solnedgången, han började få en känsla av att det var bråttom. Han visste att flickan var där någonstans, och han hoppades innerligt att hon inte var mördad än och han kunde inte få sina ben att springa snabbare.
Mördandet verkade hitta honom, det kom runt varje hörn nästan varje dag, på samma sätt som männen blev hemkallade till middag. Han hade en dejt med döden brukade hans mamma säga. Dessa ord ringde i hans huvud, och jagade honom varje dag. Var hennes ord självuppfyllande? Eller hade han fötts med en svart stjärna ovanför sitt huvud?
Mördande för Merk var en naturlig del av sitt liv, som att andas eller att äta lunch, det kvittade vem han gjorde det för, och hur. Desto mer han tänkte på det, desto mer äcklad kände han sig, som om han ville spy upp hela sitt liv. Medan allt skrek åt honom att vända om, att starta ett nytt liv och fortsätta sin pilgrimsfärd till Tornet av Ur, men han kunde bara inte göra det. Våldet kallade på honom ytterligare en gång, och nu var det fel tid att vända om.
Merk sprang medan de bolmande rökmolnen kom närmare, vilket gjorde det svårare att andas, och lukten av rök fräste i hans näshår. En familjär känsla började ta över inom honom. Det var inte rädsla, eller efter alla dessa år, ens upprymdhet. Det var en familjär känsla. Av mördarmaskinen som han skulle bli. Det var alltid det som hände när han gick in i strid—sin egen, privata strid I hans strid, mördade han motståndarna ansikte mot ansikte; han behövde inte gömma sig bakom ett visir eller en rustning, eller en publiks applåder, som de flådiga knektarna. Hans synpunkt var att han var den modigaste krigaren någonsin, endast till för krigare som honom.
När Merk fortsatte springa kom en ovanlig tanke. Vanligtvis brukade Merk inte bry sig om vem som överlevde eller vem som dog; det var bara ett jobb. Det var det som höll honom fri från anklagelse, och fri från känslomässig inblandning. Denna gång var det dock annorlunda. För första gången någonsin som han kan komma ihåg, var det ingen som betalade honom för att göra detta. Han fortsatte för sin egen räkning, för ingen annan anledning än att han tyckte synd om flickan och ville rätta till saker och ting. Det gjorde honom inblandad, och han tyckte inte om den känslan. Han ångrade redan nu att han inte hade reagerat snabbare och vänt om.
Merk sprang som en stadig klippa, utan att bära vapen—och han behövde inte det heller. Han hade endast sin dolk i sitt bälte, och det var tillräckligt. Han behövde kanske inte ens använda den. Han föredrog att gå in i en strid utan vapen: det överraskade hans motståndare. Dessutom kunde han ta motståndarens vapen och använda de mot honom. Det lämnade honom med en känsla av alert vart han än gick.
Merk rusade ut ur Vitskogen, träden gav vida till de öppna fälten, de rullande kullarna och den störa röda solen som gick ner vid horisonten. Fälten spreds ut framför honom, med den svarta skyn ovanför, fylld med rök, och hus i lågor, där ett av de bara kan vara flickans hus. Merk kunde höra det där ifrån, det glädjefyllda skriken från männen, de kriminella, deras röster fylldes med glädje och blodlust. Med sitt professionella öga skannade han brottscenen och såg omedelbart ett dussin män, med ansikten upplysta av facklor, och satte eld på allt. Vissa sprang från stallet till husen, satte eld på höet, medan andra slaktade de oskyldiga boskapen och hackade ner dem med sina yxor. Han såg att en av dem släpade en kropp i leran.
En kvinna.
Merks hjärta rusade när han undrade om det var flickan—och om hon var död eller levande. Han drog henne mot vad som såg ut som att vara flickans familj, alla var bundna i rep mot ladan. Där var hennes far och mor, och bredvid, antagligen hennes syskon, två stycken yngre, flickor båda två. As a breeze moved a cloud of black smoke, Merk caught a glimpse of the body’s long blonde hair, matted with dirt, and he knew that was her.
Merk felt a rush of adrenaline as he took off at a sprint down the hill. He rushed into the muddy compound, running amidst the flame and the smoke, and he could finally see what was happening: the girl’s family, against the wall, were all already dead, their throats cut, their bodies hanging limply against the wall. He felt a wave of relief as he saw the girl being dragged was still alive, resisting as they dragged her to join her family. He saw a thug awaiting her arrival with a dagger, and he knew she would be next. He had arrived too late to save her family—but not too late to save her.
Merk knew he had to catch these men off-guard. He slowed his gait and marched calmly down the center of the compound, as if he had all the time in the world, waiting for them to take notice of him, wanting to confuse them.
Soon enough, one of them did. The thug turned immediately, shocked at the sight of a man walking calmly through all the carnage, and he yelled to his friends.
Merk felt all the confused eyes on him as he proceeded, walking casually toward the girl. The thug dragging her looked over his shoulder, and at the sight of Merk he stopped, too, loosening his grip and letting her fall in the mud. He turned and approached Merk with the others, all closing in on him, ready to fight.
“What do we have here?” called out the man who appeared to be their leader. It was the one who had dropped the girl, and as he set his sights on Merk he drew a sword from his belt and approached, as the others encircled him.
Merk looked only at the girl, checking to make sure she was alive and unharmed. He was relieved to see her squirm in the mud, slowly collecting herself, lifting her head and looking back out at him, dazed and confused. Merk felt relief that he had not, at least, been too late to save her. Perhaps this was the first step on what would be a very long road to redemption. Perhaps, he realized, it did not start in the tower, but right here.
As the girl turned over in the mud, propping herself up on her elbows, their eyes met, and he saw them flood with hope.
“Kill them!” she shrieked.
Merk stayed calm, still walking casually toward her, as if not even noticing the men around him.
“So you know the girl,” the leader called out to him.
“Her uncle?” one of them called out mockingly.
“A long-lost brother?” laughed another.
“You coming to protect her, old man?” another mocked.
The others burst into laughter as they closed in.
While he did not show it, Merk was silently taking stock of all his opponents, summing them up out of the corner of his eye, tallying how many they were, how big they were, how fast they moved, the weapons they carried. He analyzed how much muscle they had versus fat, what they were wearing, how flexible they were in those clothes, how fast they could pivot in their boots. He noted the weapons they held—the crude knives, daggers drawn, swords poorly sharpened—and he analyzed how they held them, at their sides or out in front, and in which hands.
Most were amateur, he realized, and none of them truly concerned him. Save one. The one with the crossbow. Merk made a mental note to kill him first.
Merk entered a different zone, a different mode of thinking, of being, the one that always naturally gripped him whenever he was in a confrontation. He became submerged in his own world, a world he had little control over, a world he gave his body up to. It was a world that dictated to him how many men he could kill how quickly, how efficiently. How to inflict the maximum damage with the least possible effort.
He felt bad for these men; they had no idea what they were walking into.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” their leader called out, hardly ten feet away, holding out his sword with a sneer and closing in fast.
Merk stayed the course, though, and kept marching, calm and expressionless. He was staying focused, hardly listening to their leader’s words, now muted in his mind. He would not run, or show any signs of aggression, until it suited him, and he could sense how puzzled these men were by his lack of actions.
“Hey, do you know you’re about to die?” the leader insisted. “You listening to me?”
Merk continued walking calmly while their leader, infuriated, waited no longer. He shouted in rage, raised his sword, and charged, swinging down for Merk’s shoulder.
Merk took his time, not reacting. He walked calmly toward his attacker, waiting until the very last second, making sure not to tense up, to show any signs of resistance.
He waited until his opponent’s sword reached its highest point, high above the man’s head, the pivotal moment of vulnerability for any man, he had learned long ago. And then, faster than his foe could possibly foresee, Merk lunged forward like a snake, using two fingers to strike at a pressure point beneath the man’s armpit.
His attacker, eyes bulging in pain and surprise, immediately dropped the sword.
Merk stepped in close, looped one arm around the man’s arm and tightened his grip in a lock. In the same motion he grabbed the man by the back of his head and spun him around, using him as a shield. For it wasn’t this man that Merk had been worried about, but the attacker behind him with the crossbow. Merk had chosen to attack this oaf first merely to gain himself a shield.
Merk spun and faced the man with the crossbow, who, as he’d anticipated, already had his bow trained on him. A moment later Merk heard the telltale sound of an arrow being released from the crossbow, and he watched it flying through the air right for him. Merk held his writhing human shield tight.
There came a gasp, and Merk felt the oaf flinch in his arms. The leader cried out in pain, and Merk suddenly felt a jolt of pain himself, like a knife entering his own stomach. At first he was confused—and then he realized the arrow had gone through the shield’s stomach, and the head of it had just barely entered Merk’s stomach, too. It only penetrated perhaps a half inch—not enough to seriously wound him—but enough to hurt like hell.
Calculating the time it would take to reload the crossbow, Merk dropped the leader’s limp body, grabbed the sword from his hand, and threw it. It sailed end over end toward the thug with the crossbow and the man shrieked, eyes widening in shock, as the sword pierced his chest. He dropped his bow and fell limply beside it.
Merk turned and looked over at the other thugs, all clearly in shock, two of their best men dead, all now seeming unsure. They faced each other in the awkward silence.
“Who are you?” one finally called out, nervousness in his voice.
Merk smiled wide and cracked his knuckles, relishing the bout to come.
“I,” he replied, “am what keeps you up at night.”
KAPITEL FEM
Duncan rode with his army, the sound of hundreds of horses thundering in his ears as he led them south, throughout the night, away from Argos. His trusted commanders rode beside him, Anvin on one side and Arthfael on the other, only Vidar remaining home to guard Volis, while several hundred men lined up beside them, all riding together. Unlike other warlords, Duncan liked to ride side-by-side with his men; he did not consider these men to be his subjects, but rather his brothers-in-arms.
They rode through the night, the cool wind in their hair, the snow beneath their feet, and it felt good to be on the move, to be heading for battle, to no longer be cowering behind the walls of Volis as Duncan had for half his life. Duncan looked over and spotted his sons Brandon and Braxton riding alongside his men, and while he was proud to have them with him, he did not worry for them as he did for his daughter. Despite himself, as hour followed hour, even though he told himself he would not worry, Duncan found his nighttime thoughts turning to Kyra.
He wondered where she was now. He thought of her crossing Escalon alone, with only Dierdre, Andor, and Leo to join her, and his heart tugged at him. He knew the journey he had sent her on was one that could imperil even some hardened warriors. If she survived it, she would return a greater warrior than any of the men who rode with him here today. If she did not, he would never be able to live with himself. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and he needed her to complete her quest more than ever.
They crested a hill and descended another, and as the wind picked up, Duncan looked out at the rolling plains, spread out before him beneath the moonlight, and he thought of their destination: Esephus. The stronghold of the sea, the city built on the harbor, the crossroads of the northeast and the first major port for all shipping. It was a city bordered by the Sea of Tears on one side and a harbor on the other, and it was said whoever controlled Esephus controlled the better half of Escalon. The next closest fort to Argos and a vital stronghold, Esephus had to be his first stop, Duncan knew, if he were to have any chance of rallying a revolution. The once-great city would have to be liberated. Its harbor, once so proudly filled with ships waving the banners of Escalon, was now, Duncan knew, filled with Pandesian ships, a humbled reminder of what it once was.
Duncan and Seavig, the warlord of Esephus, had been close once. They had ridden into battle together as brothers-in-arms countless times, and Duncan had sailed out to sea with him more than once. But since the invasion, they had lost touch. Seavig, a once-proud warlord, was now a humbled soldier, unable to sail the seas, unable to rule his city or visit other strongholds, like all warlords. They might as well have detained him and labeled him what he truly was: a prisoner, like all other warlords of Escalon.
Duncan rode through the night, the hills lit only by the torches of his men, hundreds of sparks of light heading south. As they rode, more snow fell and the wind raged, and the torches struggled to stay alight as the moon fought to break through the clouds. Yet Duncan’s army pushed on, gaining ground, these men who would ride anywhere on earth for him. It was unconventional, Duncan knew, to attack at night, much less in the snow—yet Duncan had always been an unconventional warrior. It was what had allowed him to rise through the ranks, to become the old king’s commander, was what had led to his having a stronghold of his own. And it was what made him one of the most respected of all dispersed warlords. Duncan never did what other men did. There was a motto he tried to live by: do what other men expected least.
The Pandesians would never expect an attack, since word of Duncan’s revolt could not have spread this far south so soon—not if Duncan reached them in time. And they would certainly never expect an attack at nighttime, much less in the snow. They would know the risks of riding at night, of horses breaking legs, and of a myriad other problems. Wars, Duncan knew, were often won more by surprise and speed than by force.
Duncan planned to ride all night long until they reached Esephus, to try to conquer the vast Pandesian force and take back this great city with his few hundred men. And if they took Esephus, then maybe, just maybe, he could gain momentum and begin the war to take back all of Escalon.
“Down below!” Anvin called out, pointing into the snow.
Duncan looked down at the valley below and spotted, amidst the snow and fog, several small villages dotting the countryside. Those villages, Duncan knew, were inhabited by brave warriors, loyal to Escalon. Each would have but a handful of men, but it could add up. He could gain momentum and bolster his army’s ranks.
Duncan shouted above the wind and horses to be heard.
“Sound the horns!”
His men sounded a series of short horn blasts, the old rallying cry of Escalon, a sound which warmed his heart, a sound which had not been heard in Escalon in years. It was a sound that would be familiar to his fellow countrymen, a sound that would tell them all that they needed to know. If there were any good men in those villages, that sound would stir them.
The horns sounded again and again, and as they neared, slowly torches lit in the villages. Villagers, alerted to their presence, began to fill the streets, their torches flickering against the snow, men hastily getting dressed, grabbing weapons and donning whatever crude armor they had. They all gazed up the hill to see Duncan and his men approaching, gesturing as if filled with wonder. Duncan could only imagine what a sight his men made, galloping in the thick of night, in a snowstorm, down the hill, raising hundreds of torches like a legion of fire fighting the snow.
Duncan and his men rode into the first village and came to a stop, their hundreds of torches lighting the startled faces. Duncan looked down at the hopeful faces of his countrymen, and he put on his fiercest battle face, preparing himself to inspire his fellow men as never before.
“Men of Escalon!” he boomed, slowing his horse to a walk, turning and circling as he tried to address them all as they pressed close around him.
“We have suffered under the oppression of Pandesia for far too long! You can choose to stay here and live your lives in this village and remember the Escalon that once was. Or you can choose to rise up as free men, and help us begin the great war for freedom!”
There arose a cheer of joy from the villagers as they unanimously rushed forward.
“The Pandesians are taking our girls now!” called out one man. “If this is freedom, then I don’t know what liberty is!”
The villagers cheered.
“We are with you, Duncan!” shouted another. “We shall ride with you to our deaths!”
There arose another cheer, and the villagers rushed to mount their horses and join his men. Duncan, satisfied at his growing ranks, kicked his horse and continued to ride out from the village, starting to realize how long overdue Escalon was to revolt.
Soon they reached another village, its men already out and waiting, their torches lit, as they heard the horns, the shouts, saw the army growing and clearly knew what was happening. Local villagers called out to each other, recognizing each other’s faces, realized what was happening, and needed no more speeches. Duncan swept through this village as he did the last, and it took no convincing for the villagers, too eager for freedom, too eager to have their dignity restored, to mount their horses, grab their weapons, and join Duncan’s ranks, wherever he should take them.
Duncan charged through village after village, covering the countryside, all lighting up in the night, despite the wind, despite the snow, despite the black of night. Their desire for freedom was too strong, Duncan realized, to do anything but shine even in the darkest night—and to take up arms to win back their lives.
*
Duncan rode all through the night, leading his growing army south, his hands raw and numb from the cold as he gripped the reins. The further south they went, the more the terrain began to morph, the dry cold of Volis replaced with the wet cold of Esephus, its air heavy, as Duncan remembered it to be, with the damp of the sea and the smell of salt. The trees were shorter here, too, windswept, all seemingly bent from the easterly gale that never ceased.
They crested hill after hill. The clouds parted, despite the snow, and the moon opened up in the sky, shining down on them, lighting their way enough to see by. They rode, warriors against the night, and it was a night Duncan would remember, he knew, for the rest of his life. Assuming he survived. This would be the battle upon which hinged everything. He thought of Kyra, his family, his home, and he did not want to lose them. His life was on the line, and the lives of all he knew and loved, and he would risk it all tonight.
Duncan glanced back over his shoulder and was elated to see he had picked up several hundred more men, all riding together as one, with a single purpose. He knew that, even with their numbers, they would be vastly outnumbered and would be facing a professional army. Thousands of Pandesians were stationed in Esephus. Duncan knew that Seavig still had hundreds of his own disbanded men at his disposal, of course, but there was no knowing if he would risk it all to join Duncan. Duncan had to assume he would not.
They soon crested yet another hill and as they did, they all came to a stop, needing no prodding. For there, far below, sprawled the Sea of Tears, its waves crashing to shore, the great harbor, and the ancient city of Espehus rising up beside it. The city looked as if it had been built into the sea, the waves crashing against its stone walls. The city was built with its back to land, as if facing the sea, its gates and portcullises sinking into the water as if they cared more about accommodating ships than horses.
Duncan studied the harbor, the endless ships packed in it, all, he was chagrined to see, flying the banners of Pandesia, the yellow and blue that flew like an offense to his heart. Flapping in the wind was the emblem of Pandesia—a skull in the mouth of an eagle—making Duncan sick. Seeing such a great city held captive by Pandesia was a source of shame for Duncan, and even in the black night his cheeks blushed red. The ships sat there smugly, anchored safely, none expecting an attack. Of course. Who would dare attack them? Especially in the black of night, and in a snowstorm?
Duncan felt all his men’s eyes on him, and he knew his moment of truth had come. They all awaited his fateful command, the one that would change the fate of Escalon, and he sat there on his horse, wind howling, and he felt his destiny welling up within him. He knew this was one of those moments that would define his life—and the lives of all these men.
“FORWARD!” he boomed.
His men cheered, and as one they all charged down the hillside, racing for the harbor, several hundred yards away. They raised their torches high, and Duncan felt his heart slamming in his chest as the wind brushed his face. He knew this mission was suicide—yet he also knew it was crazy enough that it just might work.
They tore down the countryside, their horses galloping so fast that the cold air nearly took his breath away, and as they neared the harbor, its stone walls hardly a hundred yards before them, Duncan prepared for battle.
“ARCHERS!” he called out.
His archers, riding in neat rows behind him, set their arrows aflame, torching their tips, awaiting his command. They rode and rode, their horses thundering, the Pandesians below still not aware of the attack to come.
Duncan waited until they got closer—forty yards out, then thirty, then twenty—and finally he knew the time was right.
“FIRE!”
The black night was suddenly lit up with thousands of flaming arrows, sailing in high arcs through the air, cutting through the snow, making their way for the dozens of Pandesian ships anchored in the harbor. One by one, like fireflies, they found their targets, landing on the long, flapping canvas of Pandesian sails.
It took but moments for the ships to be lit up, the sails and then the ships all aflame, as the fire spread rapidly in the windy harbor.
“AGAIN!” Duncan yelled.
Volley followed volley, as fire-tipped arrows fell like raindrops all over the Pandesian fleet.
The fleet was, at first, quiet in the dead of night, the soldiers all fast asleep, all so unsuspecting. The Pandesians had become, Duncan realized, too arrogant, too complacent, never possibly suspecting an attack like this.
Duncan did not give them time to rally; emboldened, he galloped forward, closing in on the harbor. He led the way right up to the stone wall bordering the harbor.
“TORCHES!” he cried.
His men charged right up to the shoreline, raised their torches high, and with a great shout, they followed Duncan’s example and hurled their torches onto the ships closest to them. Their heavy torches landed like clubs on the deck, the thumping of wood filling the air, as dozens more ships were set aflame.
The few Pandesian soldiers on duty noticed too late what was happening, finding themselves caught in a wave of flame, and shrieking and jumping overboard.
Duncan knew it was only a matter of time until the rest of the Pandesians woke.
“HORNS!” he shouted.
Horns were sounded up and down the ranks, the old rallying cry of Escalon, the short bursts that he knew Seavig would recognize. He hoped it would rouse him.
Duncan dismounted, drew his sword, and rushed for the harbor wall. Without hesitating, he jumped over the low stone wall and onto the flaming ship, leading the way as he charged forward. He had to finish the Pandesians off before they could rally.
