The Burning Tower

by Colin Glassey

  The siege had gone on for months. Dombovar was not beaten, the Red Swords to the west were not beaten. Attacks on the supply lines heading north were a weekly occurrence. Nilin spent most of his time leading detachments of fast horses up and down the road to Lake Rudohe. Smashed and burned wagons littered the road, accompanied by the stench of rotting corpses and dead oxen.

  Gosta Feshti, the Iron King’s younger brother, gained his reputation for daring in those months as he raided and harassed the Kitran army. The few times Nilin’s men had seen Gosta’s raiders, they had galloped away into the thickly forested hills only to reappear a day or two later, in a new location. And the siege dragged on.

  After six months, three bastiuanis of Kitran imperial guard rode into the camp; at their head, imperious and arrogant, was Tolu Iefu, one of the War Eagles come to see for himself what progress was being made. Nilin showed the man to his father’s campaign tent, decorated with captured weapons and ropes of hair from the heads of slain Dombovar warriors. Nilin could see his father was concerned.

  “Report, war leader Ulim,” Lord Iefu said, standing with his legs apart, his cloak of white fox fur swaying from side to side.

  Bolod had explained the situation in detail, pointing out the problems they faced in every direction. Tolu Iefu snorted with disdain at all obstacles. Nilin could hardly contain his anger as he listened to Iefu belittling every difficulty they faced. Tolu Iefu seemed to think every Dombovar soldier was an infant lamb just waiting to die at the hands of a true Kitran warrior. Finally, his father had enough, and he stood with his nose right next to Lord Iefu’s and demanded to know why the man had come.

  “The War Eagles require your personal report on the siege of Naduva.” Iefu’s voice was like the crack of a whip. “You are to return to Daka immediately. In your absence, I will take charge of this army. I will follow the Sun Eagle to victory. Under his wings, Naduva will fall!”

  After the meeting, Bolod’s generals pleaded with him to reject Lord Iefu’s command. “Ignore Tolu Iefu,” said Orsbil. “This is the largest army for ten thousand tik. If the War Eagles want to help us take Naduva, they can summon the Great Host and bring it south. That would bring an end to this siege! What did Iefu bring? Two hundred of the Imperial Guard? His farts are just as useless against these walls. Phah!” He spat on the ground.

  But his father trusted the War Eagles, and so, despite everyone’s misgivings, he and Nilin and Orsbil and a hundred household warriors headed back north. The War Eagles in Daka listened politely to Bolod but dismissed him with talk of a future campaign directed at Kisvar. Six months later, Tolu Iefu himself returned to Daka, with no honors and no victory. Naduva remained unconquered.

  Nilin could see that the army that rode behind Tolu Iefu was but a shadow of the army that had laid siege to the city. He learned from men who had stayed with the army that many warriors had deserted since Tolu Iefu took command, and that Tolu had to retreat in the face of the Iron King’s superior numbers. The Iron King’s brother, now called the Iron Duke, harried them all the way to the borders of Dombovar. Although the retreat had not turned into a rout, nevertheless, thousands of Sogands had died or disappeared along the trail. Tolu Iefu was a laughingstock in Daka, but the War Eagles did not remove him from command of the army.

  Bolod Ulim died just two months later, shot through the eye by an archer outside of Somjarvi. Red Sword assassins, hired by the Iron King, was the story Nilin was told. So died the best war leader of the Kitran Empire, and what would have been a glorious victory over the Iron King was snatched away by political machinations. The most powerful army of the empire simply melted like frost on blades of grass in springtime.

  So it was that as Nilin Ulim’s small army pursued the broken and retreating Red Swords south, he swore to himself that he would regain his family’s honor, avenge his father’s death, subdue the Red Swords, and restore the Kitran Empire. In his heart, he thought: If the War Eagles would not rule the empire, why not him?

  Spurred on by loot and easy prey, his men drove the remnants of the Red Priest’s army like the wind blows chaff about the threshing yard. They plundered every village and town in their path. As the Serice had doubtless sided with the Red Priest, ruthlessness was required. Using some of the money he gathered, he sent riders to the northern lands of the Sogand tribes, recruiting warriors. Stories of riches, fighting, and slaves were spread through the camps of the north. His army grew steadily. In truth, despite the commands from the War Eagles, he sent very little back to the capital; most everything stayed with him as he rebuilt his army piece by piece. One year after he had ridden out of Daka, Nilin was in command of the largest Kitran army in Serica. He was, he told himself, the last hope of the empire.

  After his hours of practice, he returned to his tent and ate a light lunch, following which he held his daily staff meeting. His spymaster, a sly criminal named Rini’i, had something juicy to report. Nilin could tell from the way the spy brushed his hands over his shaved head, something he did only when there was a secret in his possession that he was ready to reveal.

  Following Kitran custom, the generals spoke first, and then came the spy report.

  “Master Rini’i,” said Nilin, “what news today? What do your ears hear?”

  “My lord, we have confirmation that the Fire Toad, Arno Boethy, has joined the rebel lord of Kunhalvar.” Rini’i smiled, revealing several missing teeth. The man was a former smuggler who should have been executed ten years past but was instead pardoned by Nilin’s father in exchange for his services. “The Fire Toad travels under a new name, but it is assuredly Boethy.”

  While Nilin sat pondering the news and dredging up dim memories about the man, Fahjemon Orsbil said, “A dangerous adversary. We should have executed him when he said he was retiring to his home.”

  “That was not possible,” said Mazy, Nilin’s Serice advisor and paymaster. “Boethy’s reputation for incorruptibility was no less than the truth.” Mazy was a graying Serice scholar who had managed Bolod Ulim’s estates for as long as Nilin could remember.

  “Kitrans do not let wounds fester. We sear the wound with hot iron instead of waiting to see if it starts to weep green pus,” Orsbil retorted.

  “I remember him,” Nilin said loudly. “My father respected him. He served the War Eagles loyally for more than a quarter of a century, and when he retired, rumor had it that he was gravely ill.”

  “Lies, rumors, the stratagems of the weak Serice!” said Orsbil heatedly. “A wolf on a leash may serve you, even fight for you, but let slip the rope around its neck and one day it will turn and attack.”

  “What of it, Orsbil? Arno Boethy is one old man. Will he come north on his aged horse and challenge our host? Without an army, he is a mole in the dirt.” Nilin was hard pressed to see why this news mattered. He had lived in times of rapidly shifting loyalties—how many of the rebel soldiers they had defeated had once served under the Sun Eagle banner? And the Kitran, for all their talk of loyalty unto death, were little better. In his lifetime, three Golden Eagles had been assassinated, and the current “ruler” was just a boy, a pawn of the War Eagle council.

  “If I may interrupt, Lord Nilin,” Minister Mazy spoke slowly but deliberately “Arno Boethy is a threat, not so much in himself but in what he represents. If this report is true, Lord Boethy would be the highest-ranking minister to have switched sides since the rebellion began. Even the so-called Iron King has no one of his rank serving him. Boethy’s support of the Boatman Ruler of Kunhalvar will be seen by many as a powerful sign of change.” Minister Mazy paused and then continued: “It is hard to explain, but heed my words. This one old man’s defection is a threat to the empire.”

  “Mazy, I don’t see danger. Hasn’t Boethy joined the weakest of our foes? The Red Priest, the Iron King, even King Borsos—are not all of these more dangerous than the contemptible Boatman of Kunhalvar? Haven’t we deliberately been avoiding his lands
because you counseled it? Ten foxes are easier to fight than two saber tigers—those are your words. What has changed?” asked Nilin.

  Minister Mazy bit his lip and stared down at the ground. “I…I do not know, Lord Nilin. The Boatman’s power grows, while the greater kings around him seem content to wait for his inevitable fall, and yet he does not fall. Lord Boethy could have joined anyone, yet he joins with the Boatman?” The minister’s voice trailed off into silence.

  “Then we kill Arno Boethy. We send a message no one will mistake. Kill him, kill his family. Those who betray the Sun Eagle must die.” Nilin stared at his spy chief. “See to it. We have the gold. Hire fifty men.”

  “My master…once, hiring fifty men in Tokolas would have been easy, but now? If your army were closer, if men feared our swords at their throats, then they would be more eager to win favor with us. Can we not move toward Tokolas? Can we not attack them?” asked the spy chief.

  “I agree,” said Orsbil. “Time for us to move south. We may not be able to cross the river as yet, but we now have the strength to take everything from the Boatman that lies north of the river Mur.”

  Nilin made his decision swiftly. This was good; this was the Kitran way of war. “It is decided. The host moves south. We will cut off at least one leg of this fox. And see to Arno Boethy’s death. If gold does not loosen daggers, there must be other reasons men would wish to see the old traitor dead.”

  For the next week, everyone was in a state of near frenzy. The Kelten expedition trained mostly at night and slept fitfully in the day.

  Olef’s baby was nearly due, and while she watched the others practice, she could not use her bow at full draw as her belly was in the way.

  Lady Tuomi read some books on medicine and visited one of the hospitals where wounded soldiers were treated. She came back pale but resolute. “The blood is not something that makes me unhappy, but the screams of grown men…those are hard to listen to.”

  Ashala mostly fretted. “I do not understand why you are involved,” she told Sandun. “Let these crazy Serice lords fight among themselves. Why should you pick sides? Traders come from Vasvar and Lakava to Gipu every year. They are no worse than the traders from Tokolas or Sasuvi.” Sandun had no good answer for her, but the approaching battle had all the Keltens in a state of excitement.

  Many of the men had fought at the battle of Agnefeld: Sandun, Basil, Sir Ako, Padan, and Farrel. They took turns telling stories about the fight, reassuring Damar, Gloval, and Wiyat and, truth be told, themselves as well.

  “In a big battle, no man sees it all. Just do your part and trust that it will work out,” said Sir Ako. “I’m not overly worried. If the reports are true, then ten thousand men—even supported by huge ballistas—cannot take this city. A direct assault on the capital city, held by the most loyal soldiers, defended by strong walls? I’m no general of thousands, but this seems like madness to me.”

  During the preparations, Valo Peli was in the cellar, making a special version of his thunder powder. He usually stank when he came upstairs. “Horse piss,” he said in response to questions about the smell. “One of the key elements of thunder powder is horse piss. There are other compounds as well. The alchemists here have some skill, so my job is not so difficult.”

  Four days passed, and Lord Vaina came to visit. Rumors from the street vendors and the servants had it that the Lord of Kunhalvar never slept, that he was always appearing at one spot or another of the city, day and night. Sandun did not doubt it.

  Lord Vaina came in like a whirlwind, asking questions, making suggestions, giving orders as his staff of scribes and messengers labored to keep up. He was like the fabled director at the mouth of a beehive: bees came in with legs coated with pollen, and other bees flew off in search of fresh flowers, with the bee king ordering all the others to their places. Here Lord Vaina was the center of information; messengers came in bearing morsels of knowledge, and he sent them back out with orders or instructions or the promise that he would look into it “soon.”

  “I have a request, not an order. You may decline. My advisors are opposed already,” said Lord Vaina.

  “Go on,” said Sandun. They were down in the cellar; Valo Peli had just finished showing off his work. The smells and the smoke had driven nearly everyone else back upstairs.

  “In two days, I will summon the first company from every regiment to the west market. I’ll give a short speech to inspire the men, and then I want you to cut an iron bar in half. Very dramatic. Symbolic of our coming victory.”

  Sandun thought about that prospect, he imagined a vast crowd, all eyes directed on him; what if he stumbled? What if he failed to cut the bar? Beads of sweat suddenly appeared on his forehead.

  “I’ll do it,” Sir Ako said. “With your permission, Master Sandun. I’ll wear my armor. Everyone seems to want to see a Kelten knight. Might as well give them a show.”

  “Thank you, Sir Ako, I think that would be best.” The relief Sandun felt was palpable.

  Lord Vaina was surprised. “But will the sword work in your hands?”

  “I don’t see why not,” said Sir Ako.

  “Have you tried?”

  “No.”

  Lord Vaina said, “The stories about these ‘iron-cutting swords’ are somewhat contradictory. Some say that the swords get old and lose their power with age. Others say that the swords only ever work for one man, and when that man dies, the sword becomes just an ordinary piece of metal.”

  “With Master Sandun’s permission, I will try it first. If not, then he will handle the task.” Sir Ako was quite matter-of-fact about the prospect of standing in front of a crowd of thousands of men. That was the sort of thing kings or great nobles did—not archivists, thought Sandun.

  “I must go. Twenty things to do before sunset. I’ll send word two hours before the rally.” And with that, Lord Vaina was off, his staff following behind him, leaving an odd void in his wake.

  That afternoon, Sandun, somewhat reluctantly, handed over the Piksie sword to Sir Ako in his room. A short iron bar as thick as a man’s forearm had been obtained by Scribe Renieth. Sandun held one end, Kagne held the other. Sir Ako drew the sword from its sheath and, with some effort, pushed the blade down through the bar. The strange whine echoed through the room as the sword cut the bar into two pieces.

  “This thing worries me,” said Sir Ako, handing the blade back to Sandun.

  “Me as well. It’s unnatural, like a thing out of legend. Who am I to have such a thing? Are you sure you don’t want it?”

  “No. No. My sword, she is everything I ever wanted in a blade. You can tell your weapon was made by Piksies, not men. And anyone who knows its power can just use his shield to take its blows, making it less useful. Why don’t you give it back to Basil?”

  “He doesn’t want it either.”

  “Do you know of any stories about Piksies making weapons like this?” said Sir Ako. “They always seemed mysterious and somewhat comical, but did they make iron-cutting swords?” Sir Ako’s voice dropped, as if he thought the sword could hear him when he talked about it.

  Sandun thought about that, and then a dim memory came up. “Once I read an old history of Kelten, full of tales about the years before the founding when the empire had shattered. The story of King Arktorus and the Lake Knights was briefly mentioned, and it said that Arktorus’s sword, Chalris, was originally made by mighty smiths from deep within the earth. Perhaps that tale refers to Piksies?”

  “Hmm. That puts a different light on the stories about Chalris, doesn’t it? Not a holy weapon blessed by Saint Hurin but a Piksie blade? I wonder what King Pandion would say if you come back with your very own version of Chalris in hand? You could claim to be the new king of Kelten!”

  “I could give it to the king.”

  “Aye, that you could. He might make you a baron instead of me.” Sir Ako’s face fell. “We will be lu
cky to bring the Piksie sword out of Serica after the big display in two days. Lord Vaina said we could decline his request, but I don’t see how we can.”

  “That thought crossed my mind also. Perhaps I should be the one to cut the bar. We could tell Lord Vaina that he was right, and it does only work for one person. If the Serice believe that, there is much less incentive for anyone to steal it.”

  “That’s true enough. Since you are going to become a knight, you need to learn how to perform before the public. I’ll demonstrate. Everything I know about public performance, I learned from Sir Kerick.”

  “You know Sir Kerick? I mean, you’ve talked to him?” When Sandun was a young man, Sir Kerick had been perhaps the most famous knight in Kelten.

  “I watched him carefully. He was the best jouster in the land when I was squire. Now, you can wear my helmet, and I think most of the upper body armor will fit you with some padding. Try this pose: chest out, chin up, as if you survey the world and find it lacking!”

  Two days later, Sandun was riding through the crowded main street, accompanied by most of the Kelten expedition; Olef was not feeling up for travel, and Basil stayed with her.

  He had been wearing most of Sir Ako’s armor all day to get used to it. The armor was heavy, and it chafed despite the layers of clothing underneath it. But he felt safer with it on, as though the armor protected both body and spirit. The helmet Sir Ako had brought was light, and gaps in the visor were reasonably open so he could see well enough while wearing it…if it didn’t slip in front of his face when he turned his head rapidly. He had learned to avoid that.

  A crowd filled the market square, but a lane had been cleared so Sandun could reach a platform that had been erected near the salt note merchant’s house. Sandun and the rest of the Archive Expedition stood behind the platform, surrounded by some of the Tokolas palace guards. Then Lord Vaina arrived, dressed in bright, silvery armor. He dismounted from his horse and walked past the front ranks of the soldiers, greeting many of the men by name, shaking hands with officers. Eventually, Lord Vaina climbed up onto the stage and quieted the crowd by holding his hands out, palms down.