by Ulff Lehmann
Now they were battering back the defenders, gaining even more ground. Here the enemy had put up a good dozen ladders, and up the ladders came scores of warriors, bolstering the twin assault.
Her magic was needed here! She wished she had more time to perfect the battlespells, but given the situation, this was impossible. Gritting her teeth—the wind was as icy as it had been in the Shadowpeaks—with tears streaming down her cheeks freezing to nothingness the same instant, Ealisaid swooped for the embattled wall. The chill air caressed her body through the seams of her dress; she shivered, ground her teeth, and sped on.
The closer she got the more distinct the sight became. With the sun now beyond the western hills, torches and burning roofs were the only illumination left. The breach was worse than she had initially thought. If the Chanastardhians kept pushing like this, and more people scaled the wall with every heartbeat, the wall would not last much longer. A valiant group of infantrymen tried to stem the tide of steel flowing toward them, but the enemy crashed into and over them. She saw reserves rushing for the wall, too late.
“Wind,” she muttered, “remember your strength. Remember how it felt, crashing through the mountains, across the sea, ripping with you everything in sight.” The cold around her intensified then eddied away; the air remembered.
Now that she knew what to do, directing the magic was easy. But she had to get closer to ensure that she cleared the entire wall. Through the stiff gale, her dress and hair whipping about her, stinging her face and legs, she dove for the ground and swung into position a few yards above the nearest roof.
The wind followed, went lower.
When the blast closed in on the enemy, just before the wall was to be swept clear, somebody amidst the foe shouted “Wizard” and before Ealisaid even realized what was going on, three score crossbowmen took aim and fired at her.
The gale struck from behind and below, but the bolts flew unhindered, and though she tried to dodge and weave, the strain of the past days made her slow. As the combatants atop the battlement were blown clear off the wall into the forces beyond, the first missile pierced her thigh. Ealisaid let out a scream, which was redoubled when a second and third bolt struck home. The bowmen had spread their volley, many shots missed, striking chimneys, and shingles. A fourth and fifth punctured her; she plummeted down, coughing blood and screaming in agony. The last thing she saw was a band of Swords retaking the cleared wall. Then she hit the roof.
“Someone sure looks over her,” a man close to her said.
“Will she live?” another asked.
“Hard to say, Cumaill.”
The Baron was here? Ealisaid strained to open her eyes. A sliver of light flashed into her, sliced into her mind.
“She’s coming to.” Now she knew it was the Baron; his voice was one of a kind.
“Would’ve been better if the lass had just died like most of the poor sods she dumped on the other side,” a third voice grumbled. “That hothead Kerral is furious, can’t blame him.” Was that the Paladin? Nerran? “Why didn’t she check with us first?”
“Same reason your princess got half your Riders killed, she thought there was no time,” the first man retorted, and then said, “Can you hear me, Lady Wizard?”
She wanted to nod, instead hot pain coursed through her neck. A whimper escaped her lips.
“Will she live?” the Baron asked again.
“No idea, the bolts alone were enough, lung pierced, some tendons ripped. The fall did the rest.”
“Can’t you pray for her health?” Duasonh said.
“Prayers help the spirit, rarely the body,” the Paladin said with a derisive snort. “A Caretaker’s blessing is that he can treat a wound without risking infection.”
“But I heard what happened to Fynbar,” the Baron interjected. “He was healed.”
“Rumors spread like wildfire; he was brought from the brink of death, but he still has to heal,” Nerran grunted.
“Aye,” the third man agreed. “If you want me to, I can cut her and try to mend whatever wounds there are. It’s dangerous; the blood loss might kill her just as well.”
“As if the bolts and her fall aren’t doing that already,” Duasonh muttered. “What’s the Lady of Health and Fertility’s job if not to heal the ill and injured?”
“The Lady rarely heals those who are dying; otherwise we’d have no death…”
“So, she is dying!” Duasonh said. “That won’t do. She can help end this nonsense.”
“One mage cannot defeat an army,” Nerran said. “Besides, the way she is going she will likely kill as many of ours as of theirs. The lassie isn’t fit to do battle even if she were healthy.”
“So what, pray tell, do you Caretakers do? Just take care of people, tell ’em all will be well and not lift a finger?”
“Bullshit! We mend wounds, we make sure crops thrive, but bringing back one who is already toeing the Bailey Majestic is… well… a miracle. Eanaigh guides my hand during surgery, whether the one cut open survives is up to themselves.”
“Then sharpen your knife, you’re going in.”
She wanted to scream, tell them she could hear them and that they were discussing cutting open her body while she was wide awake. Why was she unable to enter the spiritworld? And where was Ysold to talk some sense into this trio of jesters? Another thought struck her. What if the Eanaighist wanted to cut her open while she was awake? Her entire body ached as it was, and though she couldn’t speak, she could listen, perhaps even scream.
A door opened. “My lords?” a woman said.
“Fetch Winna from the Lady’s Temple,” the Caretaker said. “Tell her she is needed here, and ask her to bring the ophain; we need to send someone to sleep.”
“Certainly, High Priest,” the servant replied and the door shut again.
“Ophain?” Nerran said. “Strong stuff.”
“Aye,” the Baron agreed. “Didn’t know you had drugs like that at the place.”
“It’ll slow the heartbeat, and make her as oblivious to pain as possible. And yes, we have things like that at the temple; after all, even though my predecessor made people pay for what should be given freely, our duty is to tend to the ill and injured.”
Consciousness came and went. The voices faded in and out. One moment Paladin Nerran was there, the next he was gone. Then he returned, only to fetch the Baron. Someone else came, Winna most like. The two Caretakers conversed in hushed tones. Only fragments reached her ear, even less penetrated her mind.
“… so many wounded…”
“… the Baron…”
“… at her… dead for… the fact…”
“… save her…”
“… kill her…”
“… all we can…”
Her head was lifted carefully and tilted back. For an instant her eyes fluttered open. She saw an older woman, looking at her through weary eyes. “Drink,” the Caretaker ordered. Ealisaid wanted to laugh. How should she drink this when even breathing was painful? It was dark once more.
“No, we need to get it into her blood.”
“What do you suggest? We pour it onto her wounds?”
“Close.”
Though her body was numb, she felt the blade cut into her arm, but not because of sharp pain. The steel was cold. “Keep her down!” She wanted to roll away, prevent more harm coming to her body.
“You’re crazy, High Priest!”
“Cumaill wants her safe, so I do my godsdamned best to save her. Hand me that tube.”
“That thing is bigger than the entire vein!”
“You have a better idea, something that we can use now? No? I didn’t think so.”
“You need to stop the blood flow!”
“Tie her arm.”
By now she was almost beyond caring. Through a haze she heard voices, the argument. The excruciating pain that stabbed into her vein was like the bolts that had pierced her. Suddenly, it felt as if she was floating. Then…
She came to aga
in. Her head felt worse than before.
“The goddess was with us.” The voice sounded like the High Priest’s. “Did you feel her?”
An uncertain laugh. “I’m not sure what I felt.”
A door opened, and heavy feet stomped in. “Gods, what a bloodbath!” Was that the Baron?
“Not worse than the battlements, really,” a fourth voice—the Paladin’s?—said.
“You didn’t kill her?”
“If she lives through the night, she might make it, if not, I’m sure Jainagath won’t mind yet another soul to take to the Scales.”
“How many of ours died during this madness?” Duasonh asked. “Not the entire assault, mate, I mean how many did she kill?” The question should be how many still lived because of her action. She wanted to scream, protest, but the pain in her head redoubled. Though she found it easier to breathe, she remained as she was.
“Had she not done it we would’ve lost one-half of the city, lad,” the Paladin said grimly.
“So that makes it right?” the High Priest asked. If she could only open her eyes! She wanted to defend her actions. Was the spiritworld a possibility? Maybe. She had to try. The first calm breath she tried to draw sent blazing pain through her body. Scales! Talking to Ysold in spiritform was out of the question as well.
“Lad, you’ve never seen or been in a real battle; the skirmish here in the Palace doesn’t count. If you win, your actions were right, if you lose, well, then it won’t matter fuck all if what you did was right or wrong. What the Scales is she doing?”
“Give her something to make her rest; having her conscious won’t help,” Duasonh ordered. “You can send her to sleep?”
“Of course I can.”
“More ophain? Is that wise? She’s just been cut open and sewn shut,” Winna said.
“It’s out of our hands now anyway.”
“No more pouring it through the vein!”
“What the Scales do you mean?” Nerran grumbled. After a short pause he asked, incredulous, “You put that into a vein? Braigh, you are crazy.”
“I knew it would work.”
“True, you couldn’t have made it much worse.”
“This time she’ll drink the ophain.”
“Then don’t just stand there, if she lives there might be some who’ll bitch about her actions, but in my book she did good. The lass has spirit. Too bad she doesn’t know spit about defending herself.”
Something dribbled down her throat and she swallowed. The voices faded away.
CHAPTER 9
First of Cold, 1475 K.C.
“You truly intend to abandon the city?” Fiacuil asked, the look on his face showing that he battled with concern and comprehension. The Black Guard still served his master, Mireynh had seen no indication otherwise, but still he felt a sort of kinship had grown between them.
“Abandon it?” the High General said. “Hardly, my friend.” He thought a glimmer of pride briefly illuminated the younger man’s face. Maybe he was probing the waters; maybe having Fiacuil as an ally would ease the High Advisor’s inevitable blow. Right now, it hardly mattered. His family was less important. The tactical situation here by the Dunth mattered not. Last time, he would have had a mutiny on his hands had he hammered the bastard Ralgon to the next wall. This time, none of his soldiers cared. “I’ve halted the escalade, not given up on conquering the bloody town. The King’s spies have failed us, and I’ve done everything in my power, in our power, to take the city. Now we’ll sit back and consider our options.”
“My lord, the High Advisor will not look kindly on any delay,” the Black Guard replied.
“I did the best I could do given the fucked-up situation we faced,” he snapped, regretting the outburst almost immediately. “Forgive me, my friend, matters have been tense.”
“Think nothing of it, milord.”
“You probably know better than I what is at stake here,” Mireynh said in a calmer tone. “Scales, who knows, maybe you are under as much compulsion as I am.” As the words left his mouth, he wondered if this had been too much.
For a moment Fiacuil remained silent, and then said, “We all do our duty to the best of our abilities.” It was neither the confirmation Mireynh had hoped for, nor the firm denial he had expected. The guardsman’s statement could be seen from both positions and still make sense. For now, it had to suffice.
“Assure the High Advisor I will stay the course, even if we have to wait until next year.” Mentioning only the title, not the name, was intentional, a test to gauge the Black Guard’s reaction. Fiacuil remained silent. “Winter’s almost upon us, and even though I have no doubt that our warriors are hardy folk, the snow works to Duasonh’s advantage. With one slingthrower gone, taking any part of the wall is dependent on luck, and I am tired on relying on chance to get things done.” Now he had to wait, the bait was laid out and all the Black Guards had to do was follow the line to its logical conclusion. No, it wasn’t his fault the bloody city still was in Danastaerian hands, had he had his way the army would have taken ’throwers and other heavy equipment with them. He saw understanding dawning behind Fiacuil’s eyes. “Now, if you excuse me,” he added, giving his voice an extra note of having other matters on his mind, “there are things I need to see to. An army unfortunately does not run itself. There are lists of dead and wounded, and I need to assess the situation completely.”
“Certainly, milord, I understand.” The warrior saluted—a first, Mireynh remarked silently—then left the tent.
To Fiacuil he had spoken more confidently than he truly felt. It seemed moot to discuss whether it was wiser to waste the army on wall and plain, maintaining the siege and assaulting the city on a daily basis, or retreating to Harail to regroup. In the end, the result was the same: the High Advisor had to wait. Not that he knew what the bastard had in mind. When he had been told the invasion was to happen in late autumn, he had first decided the King was mad. Then, with the revelation of the mind behind this plan, he had attributed the High Advisor with the same disease of the mind.
But the bastard had prepared for Danastaer, and as leader of Chanastardh’s army he had been forced to obey. Actually, he had made the best of the situation. If only the spy within Dunthiochagh had been more reliable.
Now he was trapped. The future looked gloomier by the heartbeat. No doubt the High Advisor would vent his displeasure on Mireynh’s family. Why had he agreed to become leader of a regular army in the first place? As mercenary general he had been content. Until… “Ralgon!” the name hissed from Mireynh’s lips. “Damn you!” His life had changed the day that whoreson had tossed his boy’s head at his feet.
All this was Ralgon’s fault. Had the bastard not killed Kirran, Mireynh might have never opted for this life of servitude. He hardly dared to hope Anne Cirrain would capture the cutthroat, would have preferred Duncan Argram hunt him down. If it hadn’t been for the Baron’s pet wizard, the hulking nobleman would be halfway to Ondalan now. Argram was ruthless enough to carry out any mission, no matter the cost. Scales, even with his arm and legs braced Argram was a far more efficient leader than Trileigh, even though that man had his uses.
“Sir?” someone asked. Mireynh turned and saw a young man poking his head into the tent. His complexion and features were similar to that of Sir Duncan. “Murray Argram, milord General, here as requested.”
“I asked for a report, not a visitor.”
“I have the information,” replied young Argram proudly.
“Well then,” he said with a sigh, hoping that at least one part of the planning had gone as intended. “Come in.”
Murray Argram was almost as tall as the Argram heir, though he lacked the elder’s muscled physique. Still, his salute was crisp and he wore the scabbarded sword with the ease of an experienced campaigner. “Sir,” the lad said, standing at attention.
“Well?” Mireynh asked impatiently.
“The Lord Commander’s tactic proved successful, sir.”
“Did it n
ow?” he asked. Maybe Trileigh was no fighter, but as a tactician he might be useful come spring.
“Aye, sir.” Young Argram fingered in his pouch and pulled out a folded paper. Opening it, he began to recite, “Of the hundred atop the wall forty-one were killed, the rest, like my cousin, were injured, some suffered only a dislodged shoulder or a few broken fingers, more had serious breaks, and a few had to undergo cutting.” A moment later, he added, “Sir!”
“The numbers are of minor interest,” Mireynh spat back, annoyed. Too many good people had been injured or killed. “What I want to know is if the wizard is dead!”
“She flew into the cluster of bolts, just as predicted.”
“And?” he prompted. Even if they retreated to Harail to sit out the winter, with the wizard gone Duasonh would only be able to muster natural defenders. Natural he could deal with; the supernatural would make the next siege unpredictable. Who knew what sort of destruction the sorceress could unleash with a few months’ respite?
“At least a score of Crossbows saw her hit and crash into a building, sir. None could confirm a kill since they were all pushed off the wall, sir.”
“Chance a guess,” he said. “Could anyone survive such a crash?” He had seen people live through a lot of punishment. The human body was quite resilient, and since he had no idea how many missiles had struck the wizard, and more importantly, where they had hit, eyewitness reports might prove more conclusive.
“One claims her chest was punctured; nobody could confirm it, though. Unfortunately. They all say she was flopping about the air pretty wildly before crashing. If I were to guess, I’d say she’s dead, but as my da always says, anything’s possible, sir.” His face must have darkened for young Argram uncomfortably shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Thank you,” Mireynh said with a nod that he hoped looked less angry than he felt. “Send in my aide, and tell your cousin I demand his attendance at once. Dismissed!”
The young nobleman gave a shaky salute, turned about smartly, and strode out. When the flap had shut behind the youth, the High General went to his chair near the small iron oven, and sank down into the furs. “Fucking wizardry!” he swore, clenching his hands.
