He was to be proved right. He ran into West Street and straight into a group of Lasgaart’s men; the Baron himself was there shouting out orders at their head. He had entered the street at just the right place. Carts and wagons were strewn around and about the street’s length; many were on fire. Some of the doorways had been smashed open; he saw the body of a woman lying in one. Other bodies lay scattered in the street; he could see women and children among them. Lasgaart finally noticed him and called for him to come over.
‘They have pulled back for a minute. I think some of your men have run across the wall and are trying to win the gate.’
‘Then,’ said Varen, wiping his sticky hair from his eyes, ‘we attack them! For Tanaren! Tanaren and Artorus!’ It was a call taken up by all the men and then, with weapons unsheathed, they charged down the street, dodging the obstacles in their path.
Varen led the way. His blood was up and his anger was given further focus as he passed burning houses and the smoking bodies of the dead. The invaders had spared no one that had been unfortunate enough to cross their path. Many of the dead had been hacked and hewn by sword and axe; some limbs had been severed and splashes and pools of blood covered the uneven road. He would make these demons pay for this, he thought.
He was so preoccupied with the sights of death and destruction that he stopped looking at where he was going. He was only bought back to his senses when the men around him started roaring their battle cries and cursing their enemies. They were nearly at the gate and it was here that the enemy was congregated, maybe fifty of them engaged in a bloody struggle in the square in front of the gate. The gate itself was of wrought iron and narrow, so as only to admit one person at a time and housed in an archway within one of the thickest parts of the city wall. Outside, a narrow treacherous path led down the hill to the woods. It was rarely used, even in times of peace. For so many men to get through unopposed there must have been some sort of collusion from somebody inside the town. That, however, was a problem for the morrow. Right now, it was his own men he was concerned for. They had obviously run across the wall and down the narrow steps next to the gate in an attempt to seize back the initiative and prevent any further enemy breaking into the town. But they were in danger of being overwhelmed.
‘Shayer Ridge!’ he shouted. ‘Shayer Ridge and Tanaren!’ he cried before plunging headlong into the fray, slashing at anything that moved in his fury. Lasgaart and his men followed suit, starting an almighty ruckus. Bodies were slashed, limbs sliced, blood spurted from stumps and opened flesh. Men screamed as they fell, clutching at their opened stomachs or maimed faces. If Keth returned to this earth bringing his demons with him, he could not have engendered a bloodier scene.
Soon, though, the slaughter was over. The invaders were caught in a bear trap and, unable to regain the gate, they threw down their weapons and begged for mercy. Varen gave it to them; he needed to know how they got into the city and dead men could not answer him. He was about to question the men, who had been ordered to their knees with their heads facing the ground, when another of his men-at-arms ran into the square.
‘Sir, the culvert! They are trying to get in through the culvert!’
The culvert, a great iron grid allowing the fledgling river Vinoyen to exit the town, was in the east of the city, the furthest point from where he was at the moment. Leaving Lasgaart to deal with the prisoners, he was soon running again, back along West Street to the square, and thence eastward then southward, following the course of the river to the city wall and the culvert.
By the time he got there he was relieved to see the fighting was over. Bodies lay piled on each other in the water. The iron grid was twisted and bent and a man-sized hole had been fashioned within it. Those that had managed to create it, though, had not benefited from their ingenuity. His own men surrounded it; some were standing knee high in the water, including one familiar face.
‘Late as ever,’ Samson said cheerfully. ‘I think these fellows were trying to sneak in and unlock the main gate, but we were wise to them. They kept coming, too, even though they had no chance here. It always astounds me you know, man’s inability to learn, or to admit when he is wrong. How is your father?’
They kept vigil until dawn. When it finally arrived, it found Varen back in his spot on the wall, watching thin tendrils of mist clinging to the pines far below him. Blood and streaks of soot despoiled the shine on his breastplate, covering the eagle claw emblem at its centre. Samson was with him perusing the horizon and watching the crows call out over the treetops. Behind them the fires in the grain store and the town had long since died.
‘They have gone, haven’t they?’ he mused softly. ‘I can see no sign of them at any rate.’
‘Well, your eyes are better than mine,’ said Varen. ‘I certainly cannot see them. I wonder if it was last night that did for them or whether they have received orders to abandon this place.’
‘Does it matter?’ Samson sounded pleased, as pleased as Varen had heard him since his cousin’s death. ‘They are gone. There has been loss certainly – a great deal of it – but we are triumphant and the town is saved, and praise Artorus for that.’
‘Praise him, indeed’ Varen mumbled, expecting a band of soldiers to run out of the forest and charge the gates at any second. He watched and watched, but nothing of the sort happened.
‘If they have gone,’ Samson asked, ‘may I petition you to be allowed to return to Leon’s widow? I feel I owe it to her, after all.’
‘Of course, my friend. You may go now if you wish. I will clear it with Baron Felmere. You know what his answer will be anyway.’
Samson bowed slightly. ‘I will return, as soon as I am able.’
‘Sir Varen!’ came a voice from the road below. ‘Sir Varen!’
It was Rordan, sprinting as fast as he could. He bounded up the cracked steps, two at a time in his haste, almost stumbling on more than one occasion.
‘What is it, Rordan?’ Varen attempted a mollifying tone. ‘I am sure there is no need for such alacrity.’
‘But there is, sir, there is.’ Rordan was flushed; he looked exhausted. He stopped and tried to calm himself. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I have come to tell you that your father is dead.’
Varen bit down hard on his lower lip, so hard it caused a small tear of blood to drip on to his chin. ‘When?’
‘Just minutes ago. I was there, sir; the last thing he heard was me telling him of our victory, of your victory. His lasts words were “Artorus bless my son, for I am so proud of him.” He smiled then, and passed to Xhenafa’s side peacefully. He still smiles now.’
Varen shut his eyes, fighting to control his emotions. There was much still for him to do before he could grieve properly. Much indeed.
Rordan continued to speak. ‘It is incumbent on me as one of the town fathers to formerly offer you the position of chief magistrate. The town is yours to command, Sir Varen. If you accept, your time as a knight will be over.’
Varen did not answer. Instead, he looked back over the forest once more. Nothing stirred; the enemy had definitely gone. Then he looked over the town, at the smoke rising from the grain store and around the west gate. So many problems: how to ensure that people were fed, how to find out who the traitor was who had opened the gate, what to do with the prisoners, how to deal with Lasgaart, a man he could never fully trust, despite his oath ... so many problems. Who would want such a burden? Then he thought of his father, a magistrate for thirty years, a man with a reputation for fairness and probity making his family the most important and respected in the town. And he knew what his father would want him to do.
‘Of course I will accept,’ he told Rordan. ‘For this town I could do no less.’
He walked down the steps next to the gate, where the city guard, his city guard, tired but exultant, hailed him with all the enthusiasm in the world.
43
At last Cheris climbed on to the plateau. Her knees were muddy, as were her light boots, and sweat made her
dress cling to her back but she had got there, and there was still some light left to work by. She had left her horse loosely tethered among the pines before the final, steepest part of her climb. It patiently stood among the trees, nibbling quietly at the wet grass; she might still need the creature after all. If she got out of this alive.
The plateau was just as she remembered it, its western point covered in mist from the falls, its eastern part, where she now stood, littered with fallen boulders and sharp rocks, screening the lower part of the mountain from view.
‘Lucan give me power,’ she whispered softly to herself.
She carried her heavy pack just past the rocks to a point where a single boulder stood. It was small, and relatively flat, ideal to serve as an impromptu table. Just what she was looking for.
She walked over and stood behind it with the mountains behind her and the forest ahead and below. She started emptying her pack: a shallow-sided bowl, a candle, a small but sharp knife and finally a book. The book. The book of demonology stolen by Anaya and appropriated in all innocence by herself. A book that could be a death sentence for any mage caught reading it, such was the power it contained. She set the items down neatly on the rock with the book at its centre, ignited the candle with a single word of power and then, opening the book to the correct page, began to chant in a quiet but well-modulated voice, speaking such words that had not been heard in this world for hundreds of years.
Evening was beginning to set around the town of Felmere where its baron stood on the walls gazing out at the campfires of the enemy. A great fiery crescent they made, enclosing the southern part of the wall where the main road led to the great gates and portcullis. Without being aware of what he was doing, Morgan looked over to the east again where the cataract that thereafter became the river Fel could still be seen through the woods and surrounding hills.
‘What is so special about the eastern woods? You have not been able to stop looking at them today.’ It was Syalin, her quiet approach startling Morgan into a mumbled reply.
‘Nothing. You are mistaken, I have just been surveying the land, that is all.’
‘As you wish, have it your way.’ Morgan hoped she would now let the matter rest but Syalin continued to talk.
‘They still have not found Cheris the mage, you know. Incredible really, such a pretty girl disappearing like that, despite the attentions of those knights and the entire guard not on duty on the walls being turned out to look for her. I wonder how she did it; it was almost as though she had assistance from elsewhere.’
Morgan coughed into his hand. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Oh nothing.’ Syalin sounded nonchalant. ‘How did she ever get out of the castle and past all your oh-so-alert guards without a pass I wonder?’
‘Perhaps she made herself invisible,’ said Morgan gruffly.
‘Oh!’ Syalin’s eyes widened in mock surprise. ‘So she did get out of the castle!’
‘I don’t know; I was just responding to your musings. I don’t even know if mages can make themselves invisible.’
‘They cannot.’ Syalin wore a thin smile. ‘Leastways, I have never heard of one that could. We have a saying in Koze: “The answer lies to the east”, referring to the Temple of the Sages and its location in relation to the Lilac Palace; it is used whenever a great imponderable question comes up for which no one has an answer. I wonder if it applies now?’
‘Spare me your questions, woman! And your insinuations! You know I cannot answer them.’ Morgan tried to sound angry, but failed miserably. ‘I could always send you back to your Emperor; he likes blondes such as you, so I hear.’
‘The Emperor’s tastes are extremely varied – women, men, old, young, blond or otherwise; he does not differentiate. I always thought it was because of the absolute power he wields. He could say to anyone: undress, turn around and bend over ... and no matter who they were – soldier, wife, merchant, advisor – they would have to do it.’
Morgan took out his knife and ran it along a seam in the stone battlement, digging out a small amount of earth and moss. ‘You know,’ he said finally, ‘you could still do your initial job, kill me and return to the Emperor, I am sure you would be well rewarded.’
‘I swore an oath to you,’ Syalin said tersely.
‘But as you said before, your oath to the Emperor endures for ever. If you killed me now, all you would have to worry about was getting out of the castle. I imagine that would be easy for someone like you.’
‘Possibly.’ Syalin sounded dismissive. ‘But you did spare my life and that is something I will not forget. Besides, I have not told you, but the parameters of my mission are somewhat broader than you may realise. I have more than one way to complete the task given to me by the Emperor and I can do this without killing you. My attempt on you did not succeed, but my mission may still yet do so.’ She raised her hand. ‘Do not ask me to tell you, for I cannot. Many things may still come to pass before we see the path before us.’
Morgan smiled. ‘Could you possibly be a little more cryptic?’
‘Easily.’ Syalin replied with feigned indignation.
Morgan cleaned his knife and sheathed it again. ‘I am going into the tower to have something to eat. Once I have done that I may tell you to undress, turn around and bend over if you continue to be so elusive.’
‘Ha!’ Syalin replied haughtily. ‘You are so short you would have to be endowed like a horse to reach me.’
‘Then perhaps I will let you off for tonight.’
He reached the door to the tower and started to clamber up the spiral stairs, Syalin following closely behind.
‘Well?’ she said when they reached the door to his chamber. ‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Whether or not you are endowed like a horse. The Emperor is, so it is what I am used to – anything less would be a real disappointment to me.’
Morgan turned to face her, his tone sardonic. ‘I might have known that your damned Emperor would be overly proportioned. Mind you, he is a god, isn’t he?’
‘Of course. I have to confess, though, that I did make that bit up. He is very modest in that department, even deficient; the only thing that is overly proportioned on him really is his stomach.’
Morgan grinned. ‘See, not even the Gods can have everything.’
They both went into his room, where some food was being prepared.
She had been chanting for almost an hour now. Her throat was dry but she could not yet break from her task to drink from her water skin. To do so would be to break the spell and she had no desire to start it again. Her bag of components had been emptied into the bowl where a few drops of added water had created a sludgy brown paste that smelled a little of the river. The light was fading fast and her candle was proving inadequate; she would have to cast a light spell soon, once she had finished the initial stages of her chant.
‘Tafalla culeth
Tafalla culthar
Tafalla culessa
Tafalla vona
Atan haraska olea liath uven haraska
Tafalla vona demontia
Tafalla vona.’
As she finished speaking, the contents of the bowl started to steam slightly. Cheris grunted with satisfaction and at last took a much needed drink. So repetitive these things were, she thought, but then again that was the nature of incantation. She looked up at the first tiny stars appearing above her; it was a fine night for winter with little cloud. From behind the rocks to her left a mountain goat timidly poked his head out to see if the coast was clear. One glimpse of Cheris, though, and he was gone; she heard the fall of loose stones as he clambered back up the mountain side. The noise of the waterfall soothed her a little; it was a relaxing sound, one she could almost sleep to. She listened for a little while trying to ignore the knots in her stomach from telling her an unpalatable truth.
She was beginning to get frightened. Soon she would be at the point of no return; she would be so far advanc
ed with her spell it would be impossible for her to turn back, to do so with a spell of this magnitude could well mean death to the caster. But now, at this moment, she could still stop if she wanted. Felmere would remain besieged and there would be nowhere for her to go, but she would still be alive, an outcome that was far from guaranteed if she pursued her present course. Could she live with Trask still out there? Could she live with the shame and the guilt? The humiliation? Could she ever not feel dirty even after washing? Ever be touched by a man without squirming in horror? Even here alone on this remote mountain side she trembled as she dwelled yet again on past events. Why could she not move on? Would she ever be able to even with her tormentor dead? As ever, she had no answers.
Cheris said a couple of words and a tiny orb of pure white light materialised at her shoulder. Then she returned to the book and after taking the deepest of breaths resumed her chant, her hands clenched tightly beside her.
For Sir Trask today had been one of the better ones of the last few months. He had learned that the assassin had switched sides, something he understood and respected, and that the little dark-haired mage was alive but fortunately still utterly terrified of him. He had not expected Morgan to take up his offer, so things had gone as expected there. Cannefar was handling Axmian and Vinoyen; he had recently put another raid by the Grand Duke to flight, and reinforcements had arrived to bolster the garrisons on the river. Granted, like the force he commanded here, there were many young boys drafted into the ranks, but he had started at fifteen; there was no reason they could not do the same. If they were not good enough, they would die, but that applied to men of any age.
In his full armour, with a bear pelt over his shoulder and his infamous necklace of fingers, he strode out of his tent to check things in his camp. Fenchard’s finger was the latest addition, easily recognisable as it had yet to blacken, as well as for the baby-like smoothness of the skin.
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