Sons of Ironstorm - Book 1: Griffon's Rise

Old Tricks

Jerald let a long sigh whistle out his nostrils as he lifted a hand to brush rain-soaked hair out of his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time this Watch. In the same gesture his other hand, gauntleted for battle, adjusted the hood of his cloak closer about his neck in a vain attempt to slow the trickle of cold rain water making its way down his spine to chill his whole body.

Shortly after the caravan bearing Jeorgina and the children had left the city, the rain had returned. Thankfully it was only a typical Aramas spring torrent, sleeting cold and pure from the heavens to sluice away any remaining disease from the earlier magical storm, cleaning the great city's streets and returning luster to her walls. Unfortunately it also served to cloak the rebel army from watchful eyes, leaving them an indistinct mass gathered on the western approach.

"Bah," Kent muttered in frustration from where he stood a pace away, trying to catch a glimpse of the rebels through a distance glass raised to an eye.

"The rebel sorcerers may not have conjured this storm, but it hides them just as well," he continued in eerie echo to Jerald's own thoughts.

"Too well," Tenne agreed from his place on Jerald's other side, his dark face grim as he too stared at the dark mass crouched on their western approach, filled with grim promise of havoc.

"They've hidden behind it for the last three days, the bloody cowards!"

The wiry war king let another sigh ease out as he considered his generals' words. With most of Talemon's massive military scattered across the nation's far flung marches and in the Hammer Peninsula, good tactics dictated they sit tight behind their fortifications and wait for the rebels to make their move. That translated into three days of waiting for the rebels to act, three days of frantic planning, hurried preparation and anticipation of attack. It wound the tension coiled in his belly so tight, he thought it would snap him in half.

At least it also allowed them to readjust the troops in the city to better handle a western assault, as well as empty Tal Morun of its non-combatants, along with the many towns and villages within sight of the city's walls. The evacuation sent a thick stream eastward to safety. With several columns of quada protecting the eastern approaches, it was doubtful the rebels would be bold enough to attack there. Still, ... 

His frown tightened as Jerald considered that. With what history he had gathered during the rebellion these last eight cycles, he wouldn't put it past Urud to make a move there, regardless.

The hollow sound of hoof on stone provided a momentary distraction from his gloomy ponderings. Jerald looked up in response to the tell-tale approach of a quada and smiled to find Commander Vodun making her careful way through the soldiers and officers thronging the guard tower's top platform. A more than capable officer, she had proved invaluable in coordinating the efforts to ready both human and quada forces, a liaison that spoke both languages and understood the intricacies of tactic, strategy and logistics as only a soldier could. And, oddly enough, she was a strangely effective bodyguard for the one member of his family he hadn't sent out of the city.

"Papa!" Lawrence cried from Vodun's back, cloaked against the rain, the seven-cycle old boy's hands clinging tightly to the leather straps holding Vodun's breastplate tight to her woman body.

"Lawrence." Jerald wiped the smile from his face and frowned in mock anger. "Are you bothering the good commander again when you should be about your studies?"

It was Vodun who answered, reaching down with a gauntleted hand to pat Lawrence's hand in reassurance and obvious affection. The two had quickly bonded shortly after the quada arrived in the city.