The Weight of Honor (Kings and Sorcerers--Book 3)

CHAPTER SIX-1

CHAPTER SIX

Duncan led his men as they galloped through the moonlit night, across the snowy plains of Escalon, hour passing hour as they charged, somewhere on the horizon, for Andros. The night ride brought back memories, of past battles, of his time in Andros, of serving the old King; he found himself getting lost in thoughts, memories blending with the present blending with fantasies for the future, until he no longer knew what was real. As usual, his thoughts drifted to his daughter.

Kyra. Where are you? he wondered.

Duncan prayed she was safe, that she was advancing in her training, and that they would soon reunite for good. Would she be able to summon Theos again? he wondered. If not, he did not know if they could win this war that she had begun.

The incessant sound of horses, of armor, filled the night, Duncan barely feeling the cold, his heart warm from their victory, from their momentum, from the growing army behind him, and from anticipation. Finally, after all these years, he felt the tide turning his way again. He knew Andros would be heavily guarded with a sitting, professional army, that they would be vastly outnumbered, that the capital would be fortified, and that they did not have the manpower to stage a siege. He knew that the battle of his life awaited him, one that would determine the fate of Escalon. Yet that was the weight of honor.

Duncan also knew that he and his men had cause on his side, had desire, purpose—and most of all, speed and the power of surprise. The Pandesians would never expect an attack on the capital, not by a subjugated people, and certainly not at night.

Finally, as the first traces of dawn began to break, the sky still a bluish haze, Duncan saw in the distance, just beginning to appear, the familiar contours of the capital. It was a sight he had not expected to see again in his lifetime—and one that made his heart beat faster. Memories rushed back, of all the years he had lived there, had served the King and the land loyally. He recalled Escalon in the height of its glory, a proud, free nation, one that had seemed undefeatable.

Yet seeing it also brought back bitter memories: the weak King’s betrayal of his people, his surrendering of the capital, of Escalon. He recalled he and all the great warlords dispersing, being forced to leave in shame, all exiled to their own strongholds, all across Escalon. Seeing the majestic contours of the city brought rushing back to him longing and nostalgia and fear and hope all at the same moment. Those were the contours that had shaped his life, the outline of the most magnificent city in Escalon, ruled by kings for centuries, stretching so far it was hard to see where they ended. Duncan breathed deep as he saw the familiar parapets and domes and spires, all of which were deeply ingrained in his soul. In some ways, it was like returning home—except Duncan was not the defeated, loyal commander he had once been. Now he was stronger, willing to answer to no one, and he had an army in tow.

In the breaking dawn the city was still lit by torches, the remnant of the night’s watch, just beginning to shake off the long night in the morning mist, and as Duncan neared, another sight came into view which made his heart churn: the blue and yellow banners of Pandesia, flying proudly over the battlements of Andros. It made him sick—and gave him a fresh wave of determination.

Duncan immediately scanned the gates, and his heart soared to see it was guarded by only a skeleton crew. He breathed a sigh of relief. If the Pandesians knew they were coming, thousands of soldiers would be guarding it—and Duncan and his men would stand no chance. But that told him they did not know. The thousands of Pandesian soldiers stationed there must still be asleep. Duncan and his men, luckily, had advanced quickly enough to just have a chance.

This element of surprise, Duncan knew, would be their only advantage, the only thing giving them a chance to take the massive capital, with its layers of battlements, designed to withstand an army. That—and Duncan’s insider knowledge of its fortifications and weak points. Battles, he knew, had been won with less. Duncan studied the city’s entrance, and he knew where he’d have to attack first if they stood any chance of victory.

“Whoever controls those gates controls the capital!” Duncan shouted to Kavos and his other commanders. “They must not close—we cannot let them close, whatever it costs. If they do, we shall be sealed out for good. I will take a small force with me and make with all speed for the gates. You,” he said, gesturing to Kavos, Bramthos and Seavig, “lead the rest of our men to the garrisons and protect our flank against the soldiers as they emerge.”

Kavos shook his head.

“Charging those gates with a small force is reckless,” he shouted. “You’ll be surrounded, and if I am fighting the garrisons, I cannot protect your back. It’s suicide.”

Duncan smiled.

“And that is why I chose this task for myself.”

Duncan kicked his horse and rode out before the others, heading for the gates, while Anvin, Arthfael and a dozen of his closest commanders, men who knew Andros as well as he, men he had fought with his entire life, rode to follow him, as he knew they would. They all veered for the city gates at full speed, while behind them, Duncan saw, out of the corner of his eye, Kavos, Bramthos, Seavig, and the bulk of their army veer off for the Pandesian garrisons.

Duncan, heart slamming, knowing he had to reach the gate before it was too late, lowered his head and urged his horse faster. They galloped down the center of the road, over King’s Bridge, the hooves clopping on the wood, and Duncan felt the thrill of battle drawing near. As dawn broke, Duncan saw the startled face of the first Pandesian to spot them, a young soldier standing guard sleepily on the bridge, blinking, looking out, his face spreading with terror. Duncan closed the gap, reached him, brought down his sword, and in one swift move slashed him before he could raise his shield.

The battle had begun.

Anvin, Arthfael, and the others hurled spears, felling a half-dozen Pandesian soldiers who turned their way. They all continued to gallop, none of them pausing, all of them knowing it meant their life. They raced over the bridge just like that, all charging for the wide-open gates to Andros.

Still a good hundred yards away, Duncan looked up at the legendary gates of Andros, a hundred feet high, carved of gold, ten feet thick, and he knew that, if sealed, the city would be impregnable. It would take professional siege equipment, none of which he had, and many months, and many men pounding at the gates—which he did not have, either. Those gates had never given, despite centuries of assaults. If he did not reach them in time, all was lost.

Duncan surveyed the mere dozen Pandesian soldiers guarding it, the guard duty light, the men sleepy at dawn and none expecting an attack, and he urged his horse faster, knowing his time was limited. He had to reach them before they spotted him; he needed but one more minute to assure his survival.

Suddenly, though, a great horn sounded, and Duncan’s heart dropped as he looked up to see, high atop the parapets, a Pandesian watchman staring down, sounding a horn of warning again and again. The sound echoed throughout the city walls, and Duncan’s heart sank as he knew that any advantage he may have had was lost. He had underestimated the enemy.

The Pandesian soldiers at the gate broke into action. They rushed forward and put their shoulders into the gates, six men on each side, pushing with all their might to close them. At the same time, four more soldiers turned massive cranks on either side, while four more pulled at chains, two on each side. With a great creaking, the bars began to shut. Duncan watched with desperation, feeling as if they were shutting a coffin on his heart.

“FASTER!” he urged his horse.

They all picked up speed, in one final, mad dash. As they neared, a few of his men hurled spears at the men at the gate in a desperate effort—but they were still too far, and the spears fell short.

Duncan urged his horse like never before, riding out recklessly before the others, and as he neared the closing gates, he suddenly felt something whiz by him. He realized it was a javelin and he looked up to see soldiers atop the parapets hurling them downward. Duncan heard a cry and looked over to see one of his men, a brave warrior he had fought beside for years, impaled and go flying backwards off his horse, dead.

Duncan pushed harder, throwing caution to the wind as he aimed for the closing doors. He was perhaps twenty yards away and the doors were just feet away from closing forever. No matter what, even if it meant his own death, he could not let that happen.

In a final suicide charge, Duncan threw himself off his horse, diving for the open c***k just as the gates were closing. He reached out with his sword as he did and thrust it forward, and he managed to jam it in the c***k just before it closed. His sword bent—but did not break. That slice of steel, Duncan knew, was the only thing keeping those gates from closing for good, the only thing keeping the capital open, the only thing keeping all of Escalon from being lost.

The shocked Pandesian soldiers, realizing their gate wasn’t closing, looked down at Duncan’s sword, amazed. They charged, all rushing for it, and Duncan knew that, even it cost his life, he could not let that happen.

Still winded from his fall from his horse, his ribs aching, Duncan tried to roll out of the way of the first soldier pouncing for him, but he could not move quickly enough. He saw the raised sword behind him and braced himself for the deadly blow—when suddenly, the soldier cried out and Duncan turned, puzzled, as he heard a neighing and saw his warhorse leaning back and kicking his foe in the chest, right before he could stab Duncan. The soldier went flying back, ribs cracking, and landed on his back, unconscious. Duncan looked up at his horse with gratitude, realizing that he had, once again, saved his life.

Given the time he needed, Duncan rolled to his feet, drew his spare sword, and prepared as the group of soldiers descended upon him. The first soldier slashed down at him with his sword and Duncan blocked it overhead, spun around, and slashed him across the back of the shoulder, sending him to the ground. Duncan stepped forward and stabbed the next soldier in the gut before he could reach him, then jumped over his falling body and with both feet kicked the next one in the chest, knocking him to his back. He ducked as another soldier swung for him, then spun around and slashed him in the back.

Duncan, distracted by his attackers, spun as he sensed motion behind him and saw a Pandesian grabbing the sword wedged between the gates and yanking it out by its hilt. Realizing there was no time, Duncan turned, took aim, and threw his sword. It spun end over end and lodged itself in the man’s throat, right before he could extract his long sword. He had saved the gate—but it had left him defenseless.

Duncan charged for the gate, hoping to widen the c***k—but as he did, a soldier tackled him from behind and drove him down to the ground. His back exposed, Duncan knew he was in danger. There was little he could do as the Pandesian behind him raised a spear high to impale his back.

A shout filled the air as Duncan saw, out of the corner of his eye, Anvin rush forward, swing his mace and smash the soldier on his wrist, knocking the spear from his hand just before it impaled Duncan. Anvin then jumped off his horse and tackled the man down to the ground—and at the same time, Arthfael and the others arrived, attacking the other group of soldiers heading for Duncan.