The Ravenous Siege (Epic of Haven Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  "Well, what then? What do you propose?" Soren asked in reply.

  "We could ... we could hide," Kemen offered.

  "Hide?" Julen asked.

  "Hide … yes. We could make a new city, a new life ... one hidden from the sight of the sorceress and her gift," Kemen continued. "Perhaps we could find a sanctuary somewhere, where we might recover strength enough to rise again."

  The elders thought quietly for a moment before any dared to speak.

  "This would mean … this would mean the end of life the way we know it," Julen said.

  "Look around you, my lord," the white-bearded old man offered. "That time ... that life … has already passed us by."

  "This is lunacy!" Bakaren said. "We will become nomads, wandering enemies of the sorceress with no way to protect ourselves or our people!"

  "Do you know a place, hunter?" Soren asked.

  Kemen surveyed the eyes of the elders before he spoke. "I do."

  Chapter One

  HOLLIS, CHIEFTAIN OF THE WOODCUTTERS, surveyed the barren forestland with a wary and grim expression. The red, unruly eyebrows of this crestfallen hero furrowed as his eyes narrowed in calculated observation, straining to see by the dull, amber light that flickered leagues away from him. He squinted hard against the suffocating darkness that threatened to swallow up the encampment of woodcutters.

  He had done his best to retain some semblance of order and purpose here in the North, calling upon the fortitude of the woodcutters who had not been sent to harvest and colonize the Wreath. Timber carts had been sent back to the city as often as they could be filled, but the timber of the northern territory had finally been consumed. Now, with the last of the trees brought low by the holy axes of these holy men, Hollis and his woodcutters could do nothing but wait nervously in the dark. There, in the hopeless aftermath of the now-dead forest, the North grew darker and tenser since the felling of yet another branch from the great tree.

  There had been no further assault by the green-eyed evils since Hollis and the woodcutters had returned north, but the great chieftain and his men lived with the understanding that no moment was truly safe from them. In fact, the vanishing of the raven-fletched arrows and traceless disappearance of their shadowed assailants was perhaps more unnerving than their presence, for each and every northman could wonder only one thing: Where had they gone?

  Whispers in the wind and fogs in the air brought unrest to the brave, fur-clad chieftain, and though there were still nearly one hundred and fifty of his mighty axe-men remaining out here in the far north of the kingdom, he sometimes felt as if he were utterly alone.

  "Brádách?" the old chieftain called out. "Where in this damnable dark are those timber carts? Was it not seven or eight days now since we sent them south to the city? Should they not have arrived already with word from the Citadel?"

  Brádách looked down from the watchtower and eyed the fiery-haired chief. The surrendered look on his bearded face told Hollis what he already knew. There was no sign of the timber carts.

  The old woodcutter, who had been relegated to the tower due to the fact that he limped more than walked these days, began to make his way down the ladder to speak his mind. "I haven't seen any sign of them for days, Chief, and," he looked to see that none were listening in on his hushed, paranoid words, "if I may speak plain, I don't think we ever will."

  "You think they have deserted?" Hollis thundered. "Why would our comrades leave us stranded here in the shadows? Huh?" He spat in disgust. "My men are better than that, Brádách."

  "Aye, Chief ... they are. I don't mean deserting ... I don't mean that I think that they would leave us," Brádách said, nervously stumbling over his explanation.

  "Then you best tell me exactly what it is that you mean!" Hollis said through gritted teeth.

  The woodcutter shifted painfully back and forth from his good foot to his wounded one, trying to collect his words before he dared to speak them.

  "Well then? Out with it, Brádách! Before I bury a blade in your other boot!" growled Hollis.

  "Have you noticed just how quiet it has been these last four days, Chief?" asked Brádách. "Not one bird or beast in the wild has been spotted or heard. Even our own livestock have gone nearly silent. I've hardly heard a snort or whimper in almost a week of days."

  Hollis stopped to think as he listened to the eerie quiet that hung in the air. He could hear the sounds of the settlement—hammers working the forge, blades being sharpened, a few hushed conversations here and there—but not a single sound from the beasts of the camp.

  "And there." Brádách pointed southward. "The light from the tree dims more each day, though the last branch still remains. I can barely make it out through the shadows! Here, see for yourself," he said as he handed Hollis the brass spyglass that hung around his large neck.

  Hollis raised the monocle and squinted his eye. What he beheld made his mouth as dry as desert sand.

  "It grows by the day, Chief," Brádách said, obviously wishing that he had different news to report. "It's that same ... that same black fog. It has cut us off from the city, and now it cuts us off from the light of the great tree."

  Hollis lowered the spyglass; his stern face did not betray the ever-growing panic that rumbled in his bowels. "Aye," he told his comrade.

  "Even if orders were sent to us … or even if the timber carts did manage to make their way back … I do not see how they could have reached us here. Not with that damned, black fog, and whatever hells it hides," the woodcutter reasoned.

  "Aye, I see the meaning of your words now," Hollis replied.

  "How are we supposed to send the last bit of timber to the city without our carts and riders? What is to become of us? Surely the fog will be upon us soon?" Brádách asked in earnest.

  Hollis raised his bushy, red eyebrows in a moment of incredulity. "I do not think that the delivery of timber is of much concern any longer, Brádách, nor do I believe that we are the object of that black fog's intention."

  Brádách's face was lined with confusion as he listened to his old chief.

  "Whatever green-eyed evil it is that hides in that fog, it has not come to cut off our timber lines from the city. The timber is gone, brother. It has come for the city itself." The great chieftain looked around his camp, letting his eyes linger on a pile of axes that lay in a heap. "The days of the woodcutter are over."

  Brádách stood there in disbelief. The thought of any force daring to challenge the might and the brightness of Haven itself had not crossed his mind as a real possibility.

  "Are ... I thought … are you saying ..." Brádách stumbled over his words as he tried to make sense of it all. "Are you saying what I think you are saying?"

  "Gather the men, Brádách," Hollis said with a disproportionate calmness. "Be quick and be quiet as you do. The city is besieged, and we might be the only ones who even know about it. Whether the Citadel chose to listen to my words of warning or not, the woodcutters of Haven will not stand idly by and see this ... this darkness prevail. We still have strength, do we not?"

  Brádách nodded as he took in a deep, steadying breath.

  "And our strength, it is found where it has always been found … in the resolve of our spirits and the bite of our blades. I have wasted too many amber days as it is, licking the wounds of my bleeding pride, cowering in the shadow of this green-eyed doom." Hollis pulled at his braided beard as he spoke. "No more, Brádách, no more; not while our brothers still draw breath, and our hearts still beat with conviction. Gather them, brother, for there are deeds yet undone for us."

  "Aye!" Brádách said warily as he limped off into the encampment with as much haste as he could muster.

  Hollis stood tall, the white fur of his cloak whipping in the wake of the cold wind as he stared towards the unnatural darkness that swelled just a half-dozen leagues to the south. He fingered the fabled blade, Viőarr, his most trusted companion, and he brooded over the doom that waited for him and his men.

  "I told
you, Armas," he spoke into the darkness. "Didn't I tell you, old friend? Didn't I try to warn you?" His words turned to shouts. "And they named ME the crazy one! Me!" The angered words of the woodcutter echoed into the darkened forestland.

  "Hollis?" The pregnant silence that hung in the shadowy air was interrupted by the sound of a thin, bewildered voice. "Hollis … what is the meaning of this assembly that Brádách is speaking of? And where are the timber carts? I should hope that your final days as a woodcutter of the Citadel would be singularly focused upon the holy task at hand."

  Hollis turned to face the small, robed frame of the Priest assigned to his camp, and his mouth turned to a grimace. "What is it to you, Priest? From the looks of things, your days are numbered as much as mine are."

  "I have traditions and assignments that I must uphold, and no laziness or irreverence or random assemblies will deter me from my responsibilities. Tell me plainly what you intend here, that you would see fit to interrupt the righteous work of the THREE who is SEVEN?" he said with obvious annoyance dripping from his words.

  "You are a damned fool. All of us, the whole lot of us … fools." As Hollis spoke, a mix of defeat and disgust colored his words and washed out his face.

  The Priest just stared back with a suspicious scowl, offended and silenced at the insult hurled by the chief of the woodcutters.

  "There are no more carts, Priest. There are no more trees to fell, and no more carts to fill with their timber." Hollis reached up to the flint that hung around his burly neck, and with one violent tug he snapped the leather thong. "All of my life I followed your flintish ways. All of my days were in service to the Citadel and to my city ... hoping beyond hope that my deeds would somehow assuage the wrath and anger of the THREE who is SEVEN." Hollis looked back towards the growing darkness. "But we have failed, Priest. Our service, our sacrifice, our piety … it is not enough!"

  "Blasphemy, woodcutter!" the Priest shouted back in defiance.

  Hollis held his large, calloused hands up. "Oh, save your offense, Priest, and look out there at that fog. I'll wager that whatever green-eyed devils lurk within that darkness wait only to destroy our city."

  The Priest looked confused as the gravity of the words took a moment to settle down upon his understanding.

  Hollis flung the flint and thong toward the dumfounded Priest. "I suggest that you put down that precious flint of yours and pick up a blade if you ever hope to see our city in one piece again."

  Chapter Two

  IT HAD BEEN NEARLY A score of days since the men of the first colony landed on the sandy shores of the Western Wreath. Their voyage had come at a great expense, for though the expedition had set sail from the Bay of Eurwen with two bright, strong vessels, only one had arrived at their long-anticipated destination. Seig, governor of the first colony, had set his men into a flurry of motion as soon as their feet reached the dry land. Scouts were sent to survey the terrain nearest the shore, and guards were posted as the company of Haven staked their claim on the Wreath. Some had been given the task of ferrying the stores and supplies from the hold of the grey ship to the newly constructed shelters. The guardsman stockpiled a great wealth of weapons and water, tools and tents, here upon this foreign soil.

  The governor had seen fit to make his stronghold near to the shoreline, deciding it prudent to let the still, silent waters of the Dark Sea serve as guardian to their eastern flank.

  The woodcutters, under the guidance of their comrade and chieftain, Yasen, went to work straightaway, setting sharpened steel to the virgin forest. The hero of the North commanded his men with prowess and fervor. Their blades were faithful to their cause, though their allegiance rested firmly with their leader. Watch fires had been set ablaze by the spark of the men of the flint, and the rhythm of progress and determination woke the long-abandoned coast with the light of life. Palisade walls, hewn from the large pines that dominated this part of the Wreath, were quickly erected to offer these brave colonists some sense of safety here in the ever-dark wilderness. The newly fashioned defenses stood nearly as tall as two full-grown men. At their peaks, the timbers had been cut to a deadly point so as to deter any Wreathers from scaling them.

  At both the western and the southern points of the circled stronghold, two watchtowers had been hastily constructed. They stood nearly fifty hands high, providing the guardsmen a safe vantage point into the dark woods that expanded beyond the scope of their sight. Each tower was crested with its own large, metal brazier. The fires continually burned atop the towers, casting a welcomed light into the busy settlement. Day and night, without fail, the watchtowers were occupied with the nervous men who made up this new colony. Wells were dug, gardens were planted, and stable yard sprung to life there in the relative safety of the wooden walls. The men began to settle into the routine of their new calling, spurred on by the knowledge that their mission must succeed.

  The light from the great tree upon these wilderlands was nothing but a faint glint of illumination. Though it still existed beyond the black water of the Dark Sea, its influence on their colony was little more than a rumor and reminder that they were living in the last days of the last branch of the great tree of Haven. Each morning by the light of the watch fires, the men would wake to the round, earthen sound of the woodcutters' horns. Cutters and guardsmen alike would don their furs, collect their weapons, and gather in the center of the stronghold to speak and hear the words of the Priest. The colony had but one Priest remaining after the perilous voyage had claimed the life of his counterpart. This young, determined man of the flint had taken it upon himself to win back the favor of the THREE who is SEVEN by way of ritual and piety. None—neither governor nor groomsman, guardsman nor woodcutter—were exempt from his rigorous resolve in this matter.

  And so, before they broke their fast each morning, the men of the first colony listened to the fiery charge of the lone Priest.

  "This new day, born from within,

  Was predetermined victory.

  The choice for life now begins

  As you subdue this darkened territory."

  "We, by the THREE who is SEVEN," the men of the camp would echo in reply.

  Flints were kissed, bread and ale were passed among them, and day's work would commence. The woodcutters would take up their blades and pass through the timber gates to make war with the darkness of this world, while the few remaining guardsmen continued their frenzied efforts to fortify their stronghold.

  Governor Seig observed the activity of his men while he sipped from his flagon of warm ale as it steamed in the cool, morning mist. Standing in the center of the stronghold, with fires burning brightly around him, Seig could not help but allow a smile of self-satisfaction to stretch across his proudly punctuated features. Glory for both his name and his station were within his reach, and his brief reign as lord of the first colony was well on its way towards receiving the renown and victory that he singularly longed for.

  "Captain Tahd!" the governor called as he beckoned his second in command to come to conference.

  The short, silver-haired man saluted as he approached. "Yes, Governor?"

  "Tell me, Captain, of what news can you report this morning? Are we nearly ready to begin harvesting for the sake of the city?" Seig asked pointedly as he savored the warmth from his drink. "For I am indeed eager to report back a bright victory for our Priest King. Soon, Jhames and all of Haven will be indebted to our work here upon the Wreath."

  "I should certainly hope so, Governor," the captain replied. "It would seem that nearly all of the defenses are adequate enough for the moment, though I would soon prefer to reinforce the timber walls with stone." Tahd was more than eager to please his arrogant commander. Although Seig seemed rather oblivious to the way his decisions truly affected those under his command, the short-statured captain could not help but continue to kiss the boots of his shortsighted leader.

  "All in good time, Tahd. All in good time," Seig said with a condescending smile. "We must not forget the intenti
on of our work here is not to merely fortify our position. The Citadel expects a load of timber, and we cannot afford to delay any longer."

  "Yessir ... though I must say that we should not grow too comfortable in our routines and defenses just yet. For we do not know what kind of enemy lies beyond the coastlands," Tahd said tentatively with a wary glance into the forest.

  "Is that fear I detect in your voice, Captain? If so, you had best be rid of it. We shall remain on guard … with that I agree. But I would not risk the well-being of our city for your speculations of phantoms out here in the shadows of the Wreath. The light is dying, and Haven needs the timber. Do not for a moment presume that I will take good, strong backs from our true mission, just to quarry rocks in appeasement of your worries." Seig scowled at the little man in front of him.

  "Of course not," Tahd said, shrinking away from the menacing presence of the governor. "Your bravery is enough to fuel our men with courage of their own. I only mean to suggest that we ... I mean, you ... might consider ordering a scouting party to search deeper into this wilderness. There is no need to distract the woodcutters from their assignment, of course. I know our guardsmen number fewer than any of us would have expected. Perhaps we can task some of the other members of our colony for this particular mission."

  Seig stared at his captain for what felt like an eternity before he spoke. The steam of his drink danced and swirled about his dark, bearded face, deepening the already silent tension. "Very well then, Captain. Send your scouting party ... but you will not diminish our already thin defenses by sending what few cavalry we have left on this errand. Send some men that we can afford to spare."

  Not forty paces from the center of the stronghold, a young, blonde-headed groomsman was busy seeing to the colony's herd of horses with a care and a deep ease that seemed almost out of place. His way with them was a bright pinprick of light in this otherwise dark, industrious outpost on the edge of the world. He brushed their coats and shod their hooves; he oiled their leather saddles and worked at softening their cart harnesses, all the while singing poetic tunes to their nervous ears.