Chapter 23 #2
“Perhaps they will accept our terms,” said Oleg wistfully. He clutched the wall, leaning closer, and for a moment, Kassandr pitied his half brother. After today, Zagadka’s innocence would be long gone. No longer would they believe their gods and secrets would keep them safe.
He opened his mouth to say something, but the wail of a war horn had him snapping it shut.
The horns and drumbeats grew louder by the minute, and soon Urkan longships would drift into view.
The Zagadkian delegation would welcome King Ivar and Prince Bjorn upon their ridiculous pleasure barge.
Would try to buy peace with ore and grain and the promise of Saga Volsik.
“Excuse me,” said Kassandr, “I have work to do.”
He left his father and half brother in the gate tower and strode along the covered walkway leading to the keep. Just as he pulled the door open, Kassandr collided with a slight figure hovering in the doorway. His hands wrapped around Saga’s elbows, steadying her before she could fall on her arse.
“Saga,” said Kass, hands skimming up the backs of her arms. “A pleasure to run into you.”
Saga’s lacy veil had fallen askew, and she tore it from her head and threw it on the ground. His beast purred in appreciation—her fire was strong today. Good.
“They won’t surrender, Kass,” she hissed, glancing at the door leading to the defensive walls. “You know this…meeting is only a ruse.”
He nodded with a frown. “I do not doubt it.”
“We must gather provisions. Ready ourselves to fight.”
A slow smile spread across his face at her use of the word “we.” “At last,” he said, his grin growing wider, “here she is, my queen.”
Her expression grew thunderous.
“Come,” he said, before she could reply. “I will show you what we have already accomplished together.”
Kass led Saga to the military wing of the fortress, which bustled with activity.
Apprentices sharpened blades and pikes while weapons masters passed out armored jackets and pointed helms. The warriors paused their work, gazes hardening as they looked upon Saga.
Kassandr’s beast let out a low, warning growl, and the men bowed their heads in submission, then turned back to their tasks.
It wasn’t long before they entered his war chamber.
It was a small, functional room, with unadorned walls and a floor of packed earth.
Kassandr’s posadniki—chiefs from the eastern territories of Zagadka, each of whom was loyal to him alone—had gathered around the table over a map.
But as Saga and Kassandr entered the room, all conversation halted.
The posadniki straightened, then dipped their brows in deference.
“Rise,” said Kassandr, waving a hand in irritation. He slowed his Zagadkian, hoping Saga could follow. “Morzh, an update?”
The broad-shouldered man stepped forward.
His drooping mustache bore an uncanny resemblance to the walrus tusks the warrior sported when he shifted into his animal form.
“We’ve fifteen boatloads of seaweed, as you requested, Sire.
My warriors have been busy threading it into the nets, and many are ready to be strung from the walls. ”
“Good,” replied Kass, watching Saga from the corner of his eye.
“You—” She shook her head in disbelief. “Ocean plants…You listened?”
“Of course I listened,” he shot back. “It is as I have said. Who better to learn about our enemies from than the one who lived with them?”
Her blue eyes searched his face. He wanted to grab her shoulders and give her a good shake—when would the woman realize how clever she was? Instead, he turned to his next posadnik. “And the hides, Volk?”
The man who stepped forward was tall and lean, his eyes an amber yellow, which he maintained when shifting into his wolf form.
“The pelts have been gathered, Sire. They’ve been soaked and draped over the armory, the fortress, and the walkway roofs nearest to the river.”
“Clever,” murmured Saga. “Skins also will provide excellent protection from fire.” If Kassandr wasn’t mistaken, he heard a note of admiration in her voice.
Kassandr moved to the next man, whose hair tufted around his ears much like his mountain cat’s. “Grigorii, tell me of the sand.”
“The barge arrived from the coast last night, Sire. My warriors have worked tirelessly to portion it into barrels and distribute them throughout the city. Buckets have been hauled to the stockade walls; great barrels to the courtyard.”
“Sand for extinguishing fires?” Saga guessed.
Kassandr nodded. “As you have noted, the Urkans favor their firepots filled with oil and pitch. Sand is the only antidote.”
Her disbelief and wonderment shifted to determination before his very eyes, and Kassandr had the maddening realization that no one had ever shown this woman how great her potential was.
“Is there fiery pots here? For Zagadka?” asked Saga.
The corners of his lips tugged down. “Some. I fear not enough.” He could see her beautiful mind at work, yet he still was not prepared for the words she spoke in Zagadkian.
“I will finish. Maybe I can find helper.” Those blue eyes fell upon him, and the tongue of his beast lolled to the side. “Do you have additional—” She paused in search of the Zagadkian word, then shifted to íseldurian. “Pitch, or oil, or even wax.”
“What have you in mind, Winterwing?” he asked in her language.
A beautiful blush suffused her cheeks. “Boil it. And when the berserkers set their ladders in place, cast it down upon them.”
His beast howled in agreement. She thirsted for their blood, hungered for their misery, just like him. “What else?” urged Kassandr. He wanted to absorb each violent thought in her head. To set upon these Urkans with the vengeance wrought from her beautiful mind.
“Is there time to open the land gates? Grant the city’s protection to those who live beyond?”
“It is done,” Rov called out, sauntering into the room. A thin sheen of sweat misted his brow, but otherwise, the man held his trademark casual demeanor.
“The firepots you mentioned,” Saga said, “how many do you need?”
Kass shook his head in delight. “My wicked little bird wishes to give to the Urkans a taste of their own ale.”
“A taste of their own medicine.”
Kass waved a hand and switched to Zagadkian. “Grigorii and Rov will show you the room where they are made and how this is done.”
“Elisava,” said Saga, in stunted Zagadkian. “Tell to her bring women to…help with fiery pots.”
Each minute her confidence grew greater, and with it, Kassandr’s hope. The Urkans were coming, but they expected to find an unprepared nation and frightened woman.
Kassandr sent Volk to fetch Elisava. He turned to Saga, who readied to leave the room with Grigorii and Rov.
But she paused. Looked up at him. With his enhanced hearing, it was impossible not to hear the blood rushing through her veins; the irregular beat of her heart.
It took every ounce of Kassandr’s will not to gather her in his arms, not to kiss her like he had in Askaborg’s gardens.
But that would not win back her trust. Only patience could do that. Only time.
“Be safe,” she said softly.
“And you,” he replied.
Their gazes held. But they were soon wrenched apart by screams from above.
Kassandr’s feet were moving before he could think, carrying him up a staircase and down a corridor.
Soon he was bursting onto the defensive wall.
Another scream, projectiles thudding against the protective roof.
Kassandr braced himself for the scent of smoke, for the sound of crackling flames.
Instead, a metallic tang met his nose.
“Blood,” he hissed. Another scream had him racing along the defensive walls leading to the gate tower where he’d left his father and Oleg.
The Urkan fleet now dotted the river—a hundred prowed ships crawling with warriors.
Before, it had been merely a warning, a thing that had not yet come to pass.
But now that he laid eyes on the Urkans, everything became real.
Kassandr’s heart pounded as he stared at the largest of the fleet, trying to see King Ivar’s blond head of hair.
A wail from the turret had him tearing his gaze away.
There he found his father and brother huddled on the tower’s floor.
Kresimir and his retinue stood around the high prince and his son, shields raised protectively as heavy objects battered down from above.
Thank the four gods, Kassandr’s kin were unharmed, but he jolted back as a projectile split through the timber roof and crashed onto the walkway.
Kassandr stopped, staring at the missile.
Not a missile. A human head.
He was not proud of his first instinct. You see?
Kassandr wanted to gloat. Why did you not listen to me—to Saga—when we warned you of the Urkans?
They were selfish and petty thoughts to have in such dire times, and as Kassandr’s gaze slid about the gate tower, he felt nothing but pity for those present.
Oleg twisted to retch on the floorboards, Kresimir’s face white as candle wax.
And his father stared blankly, clutching something to his chest.
“Father,” Kass hissed. “There is only one way forward now. We must get to the war chamber. Mobilize our warriors.”
But as the high prince’s retinue parted, the item in his father’s hands came into focus. Elder Bogdan’s lifeless eyes stared up at Kassandr, his face twisted into fear and agony.
“They’ve killed them,” said the high prince dully. “They’ve killed them all—Elder Bogdan and the rest of the delegation. Every hostage taken from the ocean gate.”
“Is something in mouth.”
Kass whirled, a low growl coming from deep within him.
There stood Saga in the gate tower’s doorway, as human heads rained down on the fortress from above.
She was still clad in the ethereal gown, and looked out of place among the soldiers rushing about.
Kassandr’s instincts urged him to usher her back into the keep.
But hadn’t he wanted this? For her to work alongside him?
And so he swallowed his irritation and snatched Elder Bogdan’s decapitated head from his father’s grip.
He pried the elder’s broken teeth apart and worked a wad of parchment from his mouth. Kassandr unfolded it carefully.
“What does it say?” demanded Oleg, jostling to his side and yanking the note from his hand.
Oleg’s face drained of color, one hand flying to his mouth.
“Their demand is this,” read Oleg, “that the river runs red with our blood.”