The Flame Upon the Ice by Forstchen William R

Author:Forstchen, William R [Forstchen, William R]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9781470845315
Google: _leuwbPzcEgC
Amazon: 1470845318
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

BOOK IV

CHAPTER 10

“ Gregorson, look, there to the southwest. Don’t you see it?”

The Comathian guard leaned out over the wall and looked where his comrade was pointing. “Ragarth, I see nothing.”

The guard continued to point into the darkness. Overhead, the Arch still cut a shimmering band of light; however, in the east, its silvery band disappeared into the scarlet of dawn.

“There, can’t you see it? By the Saints, I’m calling the priest.”

Ragarth fled from the ice wall that surrounded the Comathian trading post of Ivar and raced to the long barrack shed below, which housed the two hundred guards of Cornath's most southerly outpost.

Gregorson stood alone atop the fifty-foot-high watchtower, carved from the winter’s ice. Suddenly, he heard a muffled shout from the building below. Looking down into the courtyard, Gregorson saw a dark blue robe appear in the doorway— a Morian priest. The cleric raced across the open space and ascended the ladder. Breathless, the heavy monk reached the top of the platform.

“By all the Saints,” the monk shouted, “sound the alarm. You damned fool. It’s the Mathinians.”

Gregorson raced along the wall, grabbed hold of the long wooden horn, and gave breath to it while the monk called from the tower that they were under attack.

A host of men poured out of the barracks, their breath freezing in the bitter wind. Turning away from the rapidly approaching fleet Gregorson looked across the narrow harbor of Ivar and watched as the frantic crews of fifty or sixty Cornathian trade ships screamed and raged at the fate that awaited them.

“There, a rocket, three of them to the northwest,” Ragarth shouted as he returned to his post atop the watcher’s tower. Gregorson faced into the wind and watched the red light of the flares plummeting back to the ice. To the south, a formation of ships veered off and started to run parallel to the fortress wall at a range of several miles.

Four men rushed up the ladder, crowding the small space atop the watchtower. Two of them were carrying heavy wall-mounted crossbows; their comrades each carried a bundle of quarrels. The men lifted the weapons up onto the wall and mounted them on wooden swivels, which were permanently embedded in the ice.

“Rofeson, can we hold them?” Ragarth shouted l his voice cracking with fear.

The commander of the crossbow section was quiet, his steel gray eyes locked onto his weapons, ignoring all else around him. Rofeson worked the pulleys on his weapon, while the second bow captain imitated his actions on the other weapon. They laboriously cranked back the bows and locked the strings into position.

The ships drew closer and closer. After the initial excitement of the alarm, the Cornathians had fallen into a nervous silence from which even the priests could not rouse them with their calls for battle and prayers.

“Must be two hundred ships at least,” Rofeson’s assistant mumbled pensively.

“’Tis the Saint-cursed Prophet, to be sure,” the monk whispered, blessing himself, then mumbling a prayer against possession.

The men looked at him with fearful expressions.

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