A Thundering of Monsters, page 20
He looked to Erner and Wren and saw the same shock on their faces.
The Piper of the Keep changed her signal repeatedly, and the terrible Song withdrew, then advanced once more, scything into a different part of the enemy. Back it came, and this time remained poised as the Piper of the Keep stayed still.
The enemy pulled back another hundred yards but formed up again in attack lines. The Hamelyn Piper mounted the back of his dragon, and Patch saw how Rundel tensed, alert to the possibility that he would desert his forces. But no: the dragon pulled back its head and released a great spout of flame into the sky. They were holding their ground. There was no sign of the mercenaries’ resolve fragmenting.
Rundel bowed his head. “We could have attacked them just with the Songs,” he said. “But putting our troops out there made the enemy think that this was a battle, not a slaughter. It kept them close and made them vulnerable.” He looked to the Piper of the Keep once again, expectant. The Piper began to move, her signals rapid, and the Battle Horns grew even more terrifying—attack after attack, the range increasing with each strike. The dragons too were forced to move farther away as the vicious Song lashed out toward them as well.
No army could stand up to this kind of power, Patch realized. The Black Knight’s troops were being decimated. Victory was assured, and it should have felt like triumph, but all Patch felt was a deep and growing horror.
Then he heard something like a scream from behind him. He turned to look, but saw nothing. Something about the noise struck him as familiar, something he couldn’t place, but when the scream came again Rundel and Erner both turned as well.
It had come from the Keep. The sound was harsh, making Patch think of undesirable harmonics—the squeal of Pipes carelessly played with overblowing. He placed it, then: the kind of thing he’d heard on newly made Pipes that had been mistakenly carved with small irregularities, or which had become distorted in the curing process, particularly when cracks had appeared—
The scream came again, louder than before.
“No!” cried Rundel. He yelled to the Piper of the Keep: “Silence it! End the Song!”
The Piper of the Keep signaled frantically, but it was too late. Patch looked out to the distant Song as it seemed to draw in on itself, thrashing uncontrolled, before snapping back toward its origin.
Patch flung himself down, as they all did, the Song shrieking above them, the shimmering air reaching the top of the Keep. There the ends of the great Battle Horns shattered with an appalling cacophony, the explosion tracking down the wall of the Keep as the largest of the Horns tore itself apart, ripping a long wound through the Keep’s stonework all the way to the ground.
Pieces of Horn and stone blasted through the air, the shrapnel of the Song’s disastrous end. Even though they were far from the blast, Patch felt an impact on his arm that left his hand numb. As they stood, he saw blood drip from a small wound on Rundel’s neck. Erner had a cut above his eye.
“Look!” cried Wren, pointing to fallen figures of the Castle Guard along the top of the eastern wall. They’d been closest to the blast and had suffered its full force. Their colleagues were rushing to their aid.
“Come on!” said Rundel. “They need all the help they can get!”
He hurried toward the watchtower at the southeast corner, and they all followed. Patch glanced out at the battlefield and saw their own troops trying to fall back, undefended now, the Battle Pipers desperately attempting to create Shielding Songs as they ran. The Hamelyn Piper’s forces were advancing, their archers letting loose at will.
Patch reached the watchtower a moment after the others. He ran along the wall, passing the least wounded, who were still able to walk. The top of the wall nearest the Keep had been significantly damaged, leaving a breach. Castle Guards came from the far side to aid the fallen beyond the gap.
Soon they reached the worst of the injuries. One of the Guards had his hand clamped to his jaw, blood pouring between his teeth.
“Erner!” said Rundel. “Do what you can to slow the loss of blood. I suggest the Song of Salia. Wren—stay with him and help. Patch—with me.” On he went, Patch close behind. The next injury was worse, the soldier’s leg red and raw under the knee. Blood flowed freely, and Patch couldn’t bring himself to look too closely, fearing that bone protruded. He felt faint for a moment but drew deep and shook the feeling gone.
Rundel crouched by the man and studied the wound, then looked to the next injured soldier, whose head was drenched red. “Patch, you must stay here and stop the blood loss if we’re to save his life.”
“But I don’t know the Song of Salia . . . ,” said Patch.
Rundel shook his head. “It wouldn’t be enough here anyway,” he said. “A Song isn’t always the best way to use your hands . . . watch!” He showed Patch what to do, clasping the wound to stem the flow. Patch held as tightly as he could, trying not to think about what he gripped beneath his fingers. “I must see to the next guard,” said Rundel. “I’ll return as soon as I can.” He looked to the courtyard and caught sight of Alia—she, Underath, and Alkeran had emerged from the refectory. “We need the griffins!” shouted Rundel. “Carry the wounded down to where we can treat them!”
“Rundel, what happened?” cried Alia. “What about those outside?”
What about Tobias? Patch thought, for surely that was foremost in Alia’s mind.
“The Battle Horns tore themselves apart,” yelled Rundel. “We’re defenseless until our troops fall back—you and Underath must fight until they’re here!”
Fight? thought Patch. Fight what?
And then he looked over the wall and saw. The dragons had seen the disaster that had befallen Tiviscan. Several dozen of them approached now, breathing fire as they came. “We will,” cried Alia. “And you’d better keep those children safe, Rundel. You’d better.”
Underath mounted Alkeran’s back, and together they rose above the courtyard. The Sorcerer conjured a ball of light at his fingertips, hurling it toward the dragons. It split into two, then doubled again, too bright to look at in the fading daylight. Alia stood where she was, purple sparks flowing over her hands. She reached to the sky and drew lightning from thin air, its tendrils spreading out.
For now, the dragons backed away.
Barver and the rest of the griffins were in the air, helping take the injured down from the walls. Barver came to Patch first, but Rundel waved to him.
“Over here,” ordered Rundel. “I need to work more on Patch’s patient before it’ll be safe to move him. This one can go now.”
Barver went to Rundel, carefully picking up the injured Guard before flying down. To Patch’s right, the Guard that Wren and Erner had been helping was taken by Merta.
Rundel came to Patch and took out his Pipe, playing a Song Patch didn’t know. “My hand still lets me down,” said Rundel, shaking his weak right hand in frustration. “It cramps quickly, but I can play well enough. Just.”
Well enough may have been how Rundel described it, but his playing was intricate and precise. Patch could feel the pulsing of blood in the wound under his fingers slowing down and reaching a steady beat.
He looked to the Castle Gates, where the soldiers and Pipers were still streaming back through, desperately fleeing the battlefield. Pipers—both Custodian and Battle—played Shielding Songs that were beginning to overlap. It would take time, but soon it would create protection that, while far weaker than the Songs of the Battle Horns, still provided a reasonable level of defense to the Castle. He could see Lord Drevis and Tobias at the Gates, urging their troops on. What he couldn’t see was how many more remained outside or how close the enemy forces were.
Then thunder rolled across the Castle, and Patch felt his blood chill. Even Rundel was put off his playing for a moment as the Black Knight’s laughter filled the air.
“You actually thought you were going to win . . . ,” said the thunder. “And now you think you were unlucky.” Laughter again. “You fear you pushed the Horns too far. But did you? Was the work flawed, or was there treachery?”
Patch and Rundel shared a wary look: those they had found under a spell of magical persuasion . . . whether controlled by Quarastus or the Hamelyn Piper, any one of them could have sabotaged the new Battle Horns.
“You have nothing left,” said the thunder. “People of Tiviscan, your Council has failed you. But I am a man of my word, even after such a merciless attack on my troops. I told you I would give you until dawn, and I honor that pledge. But if the Council is not handed over . . . you will all perish.”
As the thunder faded, the Castle Gates began to close. Beyond the breach of the collapsed wall, the last of the injured on that side were being gathered up by the griffins. On this side, closer to the watchtower, Wren and Erner were helping another of the injured Guard. Everything was lit brightly by the lightning and fireballs that Alia and Underath were sustaining to keep the dragons at bay.
Rundel stopped playing and called to the griffins. “This one is ready to move,” he cried.
“I’ll return as quickly as I can,” called Merta as she flew down with her charge held delicately in her grasp, heading to the north wall where all the injured had been taken.
Rundel took a knife from his belt and cut a strip from his Custodian robes, wrapping it around the patient’s wound. “You may release your grip,” he told Patch, pulling the material tight as Patch let go. Rundel nodded. “Good. I must keep the Song close, though, so I’ll descend with Merta. Give Erner and Wren assistance with their final patient.”
Patch nodded, stepping back as Merta returned. The griffin perched carefully on the narrow wall-walk. She gathered the injured Guard as Rundel climbed onto her back, then she flew off.
Patch looked at his hands, drenched in blood, and felt overwhelmed with hopelessness. Above him, the sorcery of Alia and Underath lit up the sky, but their magic would do little to hold back the Hamelyn Piper’s forces once the villain chose to press his advantage. The Shielding Songs of the Pipers would succumb quickly to the kind of onslaught that was now inevitable.
From outside the walls, the battle cries of the enemy filled the air.
“Come on, Patch,” Wren called to him. He looked and saw her and Erner with the Guard between them, arms around their shoulders for support, the three already limping to the watchtower. He started moving toward them.
But another sound came, even louder than the roar of the battle cries—a sound like the bones of a giant breaking. Pipers and soldiers in the courtyard started running. Patch turned as the huge sound grew, and he saw it.
The Keep.
At its base, cracks were spreading through the stone, great chunks falling from the gaping scar the Battle Horns had left. It was already leaning, he could see, figures on the ground scrabbling to get away from it before . . .
It began to topple, crumbling at the base as it did, pitching over toward the eastern wall. Toward him.
He ran and saw the horror on Wren and Erner’s faces ahead as the noise behind him grew ever louder. He felt the impact, felt stone shift under his feet, the top of the wall giving way. In an instant he was tumbling, falling.
Above him, he could see Wren against the lightning and fire in the sky, reaching out over the battlements, her mouth wide as she screamed his name.
Below, at the base of the cliffs of Tiviscan Castle, death waited.
31
No Way Back
Patch tumbled, losing sight of Wren on the battlements.
He saw dragons flying just above the forest ahead and the rocks below getting ever closer . . .
When a dark shape loomed above him he closed his eyes, thinking it would be a dragon that ended his life and not the ground after all. The breath was knocked out of him as he was plucked from the air.
“Got you!” cried Barver.
Patch opened his eyes. He was dangling from Barver’s feet, and they were plunging downward at a terrifying rate, the ground coming up awfully fast. Barver barely managed to pull out of his dive, speeding away from the cliff face and over the trees.
“Be ready to grab my harness when I throw you,” yelled Barver.
“Wait, what?” said Patch, but Barver was already flinging him over his shoulder.
Patch slammed into Barver’s back, grabbing the harness for dear life. He sat up, facing the wrong way, and was shocked to see Wren sitting there.
“Thought I might be able to help!” she cried. “Now turn around and anchor your feet!”
Patch did so, putting his feet under the harness straps. “We’re secure!” called Wren, and Barver banked suddenly. The nearest dragons had been slow to spot them, but there was no question now that they were closing in. As Barver turned, Patch’s heart sank—there were already dragons between them and Tiviscan.
“Hold tight!” cried Barver, climbing then diving as two dragons came at them from the front. He outmaneuvered the larger creatures, zipping between them and battling to keep his speed up. Patch looked back and saw that the dragons were still on their tail. Ahead, a dozen more were turning toward them.
Barver was heading north, away from both the Castle and the dragon camp. There was no clear path to get back within Tiviscan’s walls. “I can’t shake them off!” he cried.
“How do we get around them?” said Wren.
Patch felt an idea brewing in his mind—a desperate one, certainly, but it was all he had. “We don’t,” he said. “We go up. Barver, do you hear me? Go up, where it’s too cold for them to follow . . .”
“You’ll both freeze!” yelled Barver.
“Trust me!” Patch shouted. He leaned over and unbuckled the flap of one of Barver’s harness packs, pulling out a coat from among the warm clothing stashed there. He handed it to Wren.
“Watch out!” cried Barver, jerking suddenly right as a jet of fire shot past them, a dragon darting up from below. He dived down to pick up more speed, skimming over the tops of the trees and making Patch very grateful that he wasn’t still dangling from Barver’s feet.
Patch reached to the harness pack again, pulling out a second coat and a scarf, other items falling free in his haste. Wren had her coat on already, and Patch hurriedly shoved his arms through the sleeves of his own.
Barver snuck a glance back. “That won’t be enough,” he said, but now the dragons were closing from all sides.
“I can play a Heating Song,” yelled Patch. “It’ll be plenty.” I hope, he said to himself. “Now go!”
Up they went, Barver straining hard to maintain speed, his passengers clinging on for dear life. There was a ring of dragons closing in on them from below. Bursts of flame came, uncomfortably close, but the air was starting to chill already as they reached the higher windways.
Patch took his Pipe from his pocket and built a Heating Song. His fingers started to go numb in the freezing wind, but he managed to get the basic elements of the Song in place and could feel the glow of warmth spread out.
“It’s working!” shouted Wren.
The dragons weren’t wasting their breath on fire now as they began to struggle with the altitude.
The air was thinning, and Patch suddenly feared that he wouldn’t have the breath to spare on his Piping. The cold began to get truly brutal, and Patch sped up his Song to increase the heat it provided. He began to feel light-headed. This was as fast as he could go, he knew, yet the cold was quickly working its way in; the feeling in his feet already gone.
Barver cried out from the sheer effort, but then he looked down and cheered as the dragons below broke away one by one, their flight stuttering.
“Too much for them!” he yelled, leveling out. He looked to Patch and Wren. “Once we’re far enough away, I can circle around, then dive back to the Castle.”
Patch broke off playing his Heating Song. “We’re not going back,” he said.
“What?” cried Wren. “You mean we just abandon everyone in Tiviscan? They need all the help they can get!”
Patch shook his head. “We’re not abandoning anyone.”
“So you have a plan?” asked Barver.
“I think so,” said Patch. “Half a plan, at any rate. But I think it can work. More than that: I think it can defeat the Hamelyn Piper.”
“What is it?” asked Barver.
“Monsters,” he said.
Tiviscan was fifty miles away by the time they landed on a grassy hill to the northeast. Barver had dropped to a less brutal altitude once the Castle disappeared over the horizon and they were far beyond the sight of any dragon. Patch and Wren fell from Barver’s back when they touched down, their feet numb and their joints stiff.
“Let’s n-never do that again,” said Wren. “My f-feet may never forgive me.”
Barver breathed flame on a large rock until it glowed, giving Patch and Wren much needed warmth. It was a few minutes before they stopped shivering.
“Come on, then,” said Barver. “Tell us.”
Patch had put off explaining his idea until now, wanting time to think it through and make sure it wasn’t absolutely crazy.
He told them.
“That is absolutely crazy,” said Wren.
“I’ve tried to think of other ways,” said Patch. “They’re all much worse. Barver?”
Barver shrugged. “It does sound pretty desperate,” he said. “Which is exactly what we are. So I say we try it.”
“Well, a bad plan is better than no plan,” said Wren. “Isn’t that a famous saying?”
“No,” said Patch. “Nobody has ever said that. Also, there’s one big problem with it.”
“Just one?” said Wren.
“My plan deals with the mercenaries, but not the dragons,” said Patch.
Barver scratched his muzzle, deep in thought. After a minute he widened his eyes. “There is one thing I can think of. Timing will be pretty tight, though.” He looked to the setting sun. “How long until dawn?”
“About nine hours,” said Wren.
“Should be enough,” he said.
“Enough for what?” asked Patch.
