“Mother!” Oskar struggled to get out of the bed, but he was too weak to rise.
“Stop!” Therula cried. She lunged at Margura, trying to grab her arm.
Again, Margura was too fast. She whirled and struck at Therula. Therula yelped and tried to jump back, but she was too slow. The bottle caught her above the left eye. A dull thump and terrible pain filled her head. She felt as if her skull had split. Therula stumbled backward and fell over Oskar's bed. She lay still for a moment, clinging to consciousness. Faintly, she heard another thump nearby, and a cry that sounded like Oskar's voice.
Therula forced her eyes to open. She gathered her hands beneath her to push up off the bed. Alustra lay face down. Dark fluid pooled around her head. Her arms and legs were oddly twisted beneath her. Oskar lay against the pillows, semi-conscious. His eyes flickered, while crimson trickled from a livid weal across his forehead. Margura was bent over, reaching into her basket.
As Therula watched, the traitress pushed aside the rolls and cheese. She straightened with a knife in her hand.
IN BLOODY SQUARE
Shadow raced down the ramp, never faltering on the switchbacks. Brastigan could already pick out details in the open square below. Water washed over the cobblestones, displaced from the moat when the south wall collapsed. He could see a worse tide coming, though. Red tunics flooded into Harburg through the fallen gate, as if the city itself was bleeding.
Brastigan closed his eyes for a moment as they passed through a swirl of thick, rank smoke. Another section of wall was already tottering. He clenched his teeth with helpless rage. What could a man do, when the enemy turned his walls to sand?
“Bras, look!” Lottres kicked his gelding to make it catch up with Shadow.
Brastigan drew Shadow up and glanced where his brother pointed. Farther back in the gloom came the sullen glow of the Dragon's Candle. So it was still open, still vomiting out Ysislaw's troops. He could have sworn the light hadn't been there when they came out the castle gate.
“It wasn't,” Lottres said, his voice high with excitement. “They're here, Bras!”
“Who?” Brastigan asked.
Then he saw them, huge and black against the leaden sky. Two dragons soared over the battlefield.
“Oh. Them,” Brastigan said. “I thought they were still in Carthell.”
Lottres shrugged. “Maess says they flew to Firice and opened the gateway for troops there.”
“I won't complain,” Brastigan assured him. He urged Shadow forward again.
Brastigan felt his heart rise. Maybe Crutham did have a chance, with those two in the fray. As the two princes approached the lower gate, the two dragons folded their wings and dove over the battlefield. Sheets of flame roared across the Silletsian lines in their wake.
Men cheered on the gate, though it was hardly likely the dragons could hear. Brastigan had to roar himself to get their attention.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Which way did the king go?”
The gate started to rise, and one of the soldiers made a broad gesture. “Bloody Square!”
As they passed beneath the pointed teeth of the portcullis, Brastigan thought about teasing Lottres. He held the jest in.
“Go ahead and say it,” Lottres said.
Brastigan grinned. “Who needs magic?”
Hooves splattered in the shallow water as the two princes entered the central square. A stream of Cruthan fighters were retreating from the disaster at the South Gate. Brastigan and Lottres slipped into the traffic and let it carry them past the barricades and sentries.
Except for the soldiers, the city was completely empty. Every window and door had been barred. The citizens must be hiding, waiting for the battle to end. Brastigan hoped the precautions would do some good. One advantage to the bone men—if it was possible to find anything positive about such monstrosities—was their single-mindedness. They would follow orders and not break into looting parties.
The two dragons continued swooping over the battlefield. As Lottres and Brastigan approached the Bloody Gate, columns of black smoke rose to meet the dragons. Fires burned atop the great towers, where cauldrons of boiling oil were poured on the attackers. They also heard a repetitive, dull booming. A battering ram, most likely. Although Brastigan had to wonder why they bothered with war machines, if their magicians could make the ramparts fall apart.
“I think it's a diversion,” Lottres said. “To keep everyone's eyes here while the south wall went down.”
“Could be,” Brastigan said.
All the barricades along the street were angled toward the Butcher's Gate, meant to repel invaders from that direction. They wouldn't be as good against attackers from the center of town. Word of the gate's collapse had reached the defenders, and men were frantically turning the defenses, though Brastigan could see it would take too long.
In the center of the barricades, just where the street met the square, he could see three things of great importance: the banner of Crutham, hanging dull and limp in the still air; Habrok's hulking figure; and a pair of dragon horns sticking up, much too close to Habrok. Brastigan drew Shadow aside for a moment, wondering if he dared approach Ysislaw so directly. But then, why not?
“Wait,” Lottres whispered as Brastigan urged Shadow forward. “You can't just ride up to him!”
“He'll give himself away if he tries any magic,” Brastigan said.
“But you —.” Lottres faltered.
“Follow my lead,” Brastigan said. “While everyone is staring at me, get Habrok to safety.”
Brastigan didn't wait for Lottres's reply. He tightened his knees and Shadow crowded through the slow stream of moving men.
“Hail, Habrok!” Brastigan cried as he approached the Cruthan standard.
Habrok turned sharply. He bellowed, “Where were you this morning? We had servants scouring the keep.”
“You didn't search Eben's tower, where I was lying in chains,” Brastigan answered amiably.
As he spoke, Brastigan looked past Habrok, straight into the face of the pretender. Ysislaw's eyes were brilliant and cold under the shadow of his helmet.
“You are a fool to come here,” he said in Brastigan's mind.
“I could say the same to you,” Brastigan smiled through gritted teeth.
“We've no time for games,” Habrok scolded. “I've been waiting to see you test your mettle, you braggart.”
“You'll see that,” Brastigan answered, “but Lottres would like a word with you, brother.” Lottres, who rode close on his left, moved forward. Brastigan urged Shadow a bit to the right, bringing her between Habrok and the imposter. Shadow snorted, and Ysislaw stepped back slightly.
Brastigan could hear Lottres speaking quickly, in a low voice, and Habrok's startled exclamation, but Brastigan knew Lottres would need more time to convince Habrok. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the Urulai saddle's high pommel, so he could look Ysislaw in the eye.
“You've lost,” Brastigan said with relish.
“Why, brother, have you so little faith? The battle is barely begun,” Ysislaw replied. There was tension in his voice, though. He must be realizing that since Brastigan was here, free, Oskar must be loose, too.
“No brother of yours,” Brastigan replied, pitching his voice loud enough to be heard over the battering ram and the babble of voices around them. “For I know well you are no man, of Crutham or any other place. You —.”
Ysislaw interrupted before Brastigan could say his name with too-hearty laughter. “Ever the prankster, Brastigan, but I find this jest ill timed.”
His oratory was a fair copy of Oskar's broad style, but Brastigan knew bluster when he heard it. Ysislaw's eyes darted left and right, watching the bystanders for their reactions.
Indeed, men murmured around them, as if they had only just noticed how their king's helmet obscured his features and couldn't think what it meant. Ysislaw must have been using his magic to cloud their judgment, make them accept him without question.
&nbs
p; “Do you call me a liar?” Brastigan demanded, even more loudly than before. In the corner of his left eye, he could see Lottres pulling Habrok back from the confrontation. “Well, I say that you are the liar. Aye, and traitor as well. You aren't my brother. You are a fraud!”
“Madness!” the pretender cried. “Fear has undone your mind!” Ysislaw edged backward, as if he feared for his safety. A line of men crowded near, dutifully protecting their nemesis. At that moment, Habrok broke away from Lottres.
“If what you say is true, I will not flee from my enemy,” Brastigan heard him say. Habrok pushed his way forward.
“Psh. It's easy enough to see the truth. Take off your helmet.” Brastigan grinned, daring Ysislaw to refuse. “Prove me wrong.”
“Aye,” Habrok cried. He strode around Shadow and stopped with fists planted on his hips. “Show your face, if you are the king!”
Whatever reply Ysislaw might have made was lost in a rush of hot, smoky wind. Everyone turned, looking up and up and up at the enormous black dragon that had just landed on the wall.
* * *
The knife was long and serrated, the kind a serving maid might use to cut bread. Margura held it as if she knew exactly how to use it.
“You should have just drunk the brandy.” The traitress spoke with something like regret. “I wanted this to be easier.”
Therula felt frozen, too terrified to move. Somehow, she forced herself to rise.
“Don't you dare,” she croaked, though she held to the bed post for balance.
“Oh, I dare.” Margura had the nerve to laugh, brittly and without joy. Her face was chalky white, as ashen as Oskar's was, but her eyes were wild and desperate. “I dare this and more to pay you all back for how you've treated me. But you don't need to worry, Princess.” Margura sneered, mocking Therula's heritage. “You're wanted alive.”
“I will never submit,” Therula said.
On the floor, Alustra groaned again. Her hands twitched against the carpet. Margura swiftly turned from Therula. She knelt and grabbed a handful of the queen's hair. She drew back the knife.
“No!” Therula threw herself at Margura, trying to drag the woman away by her knife arm. “Mother, wake up!” Therula begged. “Run!”
Margura made a kind of shrug, fighting Therula's grip. “Get off,” she snarled, “or you might get hurt after all.”
“I won't let you touch her,” Therula cried as they struggled for the knife. “Help me, someone! Help—Pikarus!”
Immediately, Therula heard the rattle of the door behind her. “Sister?” came Cliodora's trembling voice.
“Get help!” Therula shouted.
Margura cursed, trying to throw Therula off. The princess held on with all her strength, but Margura was stronger. She shoved and sent Therula staggering away. As she did, candlelight flashed off the blade on her hand.
Cliodora screamed at the sight of it, her shrill voice piercing even the rumble of combat in the hallway. Therula glanced around and saw her little sister doing a frantic dance in the doorway. Courtiers, concubines and servants crowded behind her, trying to see what was happening. Cliodora continued to shriek hysterical nonsense words.
“Move! Let someone in,” Therula wailed, exasperated. Then, “Oh, no!”
Margura had stepped backward, assessing the situation. Her lovely face hardened into an ugly mask. She whirled and lunged at Oskar with the knife held high.
“The king!” Therula cried. She leapt after Margura, knowing she would be too slow, too late.
There was a sharp report, a blinding flash and wave of searing heat. Therula stumbled against the bed, clasping her hands to her ears. Through the haze in front of her eyes, she saw Margura slumped on the floor. The knife lay nearby, its blade blackened and wooden handle smoking. Oskar remained propped up in the bed, still unconscious, unaware how close death had come.
* * *
Silence fell over Bloody Square. Only the battering ram pounded on, monotonous in its destructive intent. For a long moment, everyone stared at the monster on the wall. Men who had never seen a real dragon before stood thunderstruck, speechless. Lottres sensed the mind of Ymell within the great beast. Ymell glared down at Ysislaw, who gave him back eye for eye. Lottres could feel their emotions like a hot mist in the air. No words were adequate to express the long centuries of their enmity. Ymell roared, and the very stones vibrated with the force of his hatred.
The result was predictable. Soldiers cursed and ran, or ducked behind their shields. Horses screamed in panic, including Lottres's mount. The bald-faced gelding reared and shook his head, fighting Lottres's hand on the reins. Only Brastigan's gray seemed immune to the screaming, bucking frenzy that gripped the beasts. Being of Yriatt's company, it must have been accustomed to a dragon's presence.
“There is your enemy.” Ysislaw's voice rose over the chaos. “Archers, fire! Shoot the monster down!”
“No, he's on our side,” Brastigan countered. “Habrok, stop them!”
“Hold, men of Crutham!” Habrok bellowed.
It did little good; Ysislaw's command fit too well with everyone's gut reaction. Arrows filled the air, a cloud as black as the smoke that rose from the gate. Ymell reared back, wings sweeping wide open. More cries of panic came, especially from the soldiers in the gate's towers, but none of the arrows touched the dragon.
“What was that for?” Ymell asked. He blew out a scornful breath, and arrows fell to the cobbles with a rattle like hail. Ysislaw did not reply answer, but continued exhorting the soldiers to shoot.
“There, there, there,” Lottres crooned, trying to control his hysterical horse. Just as he had done in Altannath, he poured a feeling of calm into the animal's mind. “There, there, there.”
When he finally quieted the beast, Lottres was facing away from Ysislaw and Brastigan. Thus he heard the shouts as the bone men reached the barricades. The battle had been creeping closer, street by bloody street. For a moment, Lottres felt as panicked as his horse.
“Brastigan! Habrok!” he cried with mind as well as voice. “They're here!”
Both men jerked around. Brastigan scowled at the interruption. Lottres could feel his brother's mind see-sawing between this new emergency and the ongoing confrontation with Ysislaw. Habrok reacted a little faster.
“We will speak more of this,” Habrok told Ysislaw. He reached forward to seize the banner of Crutham from the startled bearer. Habrok bellowed, “Crutham, to me! Man the barricades! The black tower will never fall!”
With a massed shout, the Cruthan soldiers rushed to follow Habrok. Oskar might be king, but Habrok was a known and trusted leader. They followed him without hesitation.
Ysislaw showed no reaction to the defection. Perhaps he was even glad of it. Lottres sensed Ysislaw gathering his resources. His gaze was fixed on Ymell, whose huge shadow plunged the courtyard into even deeper gloom.
Like Brastigan, Lottres didn't know what to do. Habrok needed them, yet he was afraid to turn his back on Ysislaw. He also feared Brastigan might attack the tyrant and get himself killed.
“Maen?” Lottres looked to the wall, hoping Ymell would give some guidance.
“Not now,” Ymell answered curtly.
As Lottres watched, the dragon wizard kicked off the wall. He hovered a moment, falling in on himself like an empty sack. Wings shrank into robes, and great claws into feet. Ymell glided downward, shrinking as he came, until he set down lightly in his human guise.
“Give up,” Ysislaw said. He spoke to Ymell, yet his words burned Lottres like hot embers. Lottres quickly threw up his mental shield.
“Never,” Ymell answered with fierce resolve. “I will no longer permit you to meddle with humans. Nor to harm my loved ones. The time has come to end this.”
Ysislaw gave an arrogant laugh. “Let us see, then, who will have his end.”
“Let us see,” Ymell agreed.
He raised his hands slightly. Lightning blazed, forming a shield around the horned man. Lottres sensed Ysislaw's p
ower gathering in response. The very air around him shuddered with unseen fires.
Lottres felt Ysislaw's attack as a wave of pure force. The two wizards grappled, mind-to-mind, in an invisible combat. Even Lottres could hardly follow it. Still, he knew that Brastigan was sitting much too close to the action.
“Bras,” Lottres hissed, hoping Ysislaw was too busy to notice.
The struggle at the barricades wasn't going well. Lottres heard the crash of steel and cries of the wounded. Swordsmen hacked at the oncoming foes with all their might. In the butcher shops along the street, their brother Miswald had his archers pouring streams of arrows into the advancing bone men. It made little difference. Lottres knew all too well how hard it was to keep those cursed creatures down.
“Bras, let's go.” Lottres reached out to grab his brother's elbow. “There's nothing we can do here. Ymell will handle Ysislaw. Habrok needs us.”
Brastigan seemed to shake himself. Lottres felt his brother's reluctance as he turned his horse toward Habrok's position. Brastigan drew his sword. Lottres concentrated, summoning his own power. In Altannath, Shaelen had taught him to make his arrows explode. He ought to be able to the same for Miswald's arrows, if he could get a clear view.
“I think not.”
Lottres gave a choked cry as Ysislaw's presence shattered his barriers and flooded his mind.
“What is it?” Brastigan demanded. Lottres barely heard.
“Hold your hand, Ymell.” Ysislaw's voice in Lottres’s mind was rich with triumph. “This is your eppagadrocca, is it not? Stand down, or I will crush his heart.”
Lottres gave a strangled cry. He couldn't move. His horse bolted, and he was jerked out of the saddle. Pressure squeezed Lottres's chest, so it was a struggle even to breathe.
“I do not hold slaves,” Ymell replied. His guard didn't waver. “Release him.”
“Leave him alone!” Brastigan yelled. He charged past Lottres with Victory held high.
“No!” Lottres croaked. “Stay back!”
Ysislaw made a bored, swatting gesture. Brastigan's horse shrieked and tumbled to the ground. Lottres watched in horror, fearing his brother would be crushed by the animal's weight.
Too Many Princes Page 45
