by DAVID B. COE
“Perhaps I should leave you, my lord.”
Could he read Renald’s mind? Did Qirsi magic run that deep?
“As you wish, First Minister,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “We have much to do in the next few hours.”
“Yes, my lord.” He pushed himself out of his chair.
“Do any of the other Qirsi in the castle have mists and winds?”
“I’m not sure, my lord. I would doubt it. It’s one of the deeper magics and not terribly common.”
“Ah, well. I was merely curious. I take it you’ll be helping the healers.”
“As you wish, my lord. Though I had thought that I would stay with you. You may wish for my counsel when the fighting begins.”
“Yes, of course. I haven’t decided yet if I’ll be joining the fighting when it comes time to take back the city.”
“Even then, my lord, I’m willing to go into battle with you.” He smiled. “I’m not much of a swordsman, but I ride well, and I might be of some use in a fight.”
Renald forced a smile in return. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine, First Minister. I’ll let you know what I decide to do myself, and what I expect of you.”
The Qirsi’s pale eyes narrowed for just a moment, his smile fading. Then he nodded. “Of course, my lord. I think I understand.” He started toward the door.
The duke knew that he should let the man go, that he should end this awkwardness before one of them said something foolish. But he couldn’t stop himself. “What is it you think you understand, Pillad?”
The minister halted just a step or two from the door. He kept his back to the duke, taking a long breath. “Forgive me, my lord. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you did.”
Pillad turned at that. “Yes, I did. I sense that you still don’t trust me entirely. I wonder if you don’t want me riding to battle with you because you fear I might make an attempt on your life.”
“The conspiracy has disturbed us all a great deal, First Minister. The death of the tavern keeper only served to heighten our fears. I find it hard to believe that he was the only traitor in Galdasten, which would mean that there are still Qirsi in this city, perhaps in this castle, who wish to do me harm.”
“I’m certain that you’re right, my lord. But to my mind that makes those of us you know you can trust all the more valuable.”
“That may be so, but it also makes the task of distinguishing loyal Qirsi from traitorous ones that much more daunting. Surely you can appreciate that.”
“Yes, my lord. As always I’ll serve as you see fit. If that means remaining with the healers, so be it. I’ll await word of your decision.” With that, he bowed and let himself out of the chamber.
Renald didn’t know what to think. For just an instant he considered going after the minister, and saying that he wanted to ride with him into battle. But he couldn’t help wondering if that was just what Pillad wanted him to do, if the Qirsi’s words and bearing had been intended to produce just such a response. What scared the duke most was that in the past he had relied on Elspeth to help him make such judgments.
Unable to find any humor at all in this irony, the duke left his chamber and went in search of Ewan. Better to help the swordmaster with his preparations than sit alone in his chamber with his doubts and fears.
* * *
By the time the prior’s bells began to toll in the city, Renald’s archers were ready. They remained in the castle wards, where the enemy soldiers couldn’t see them. Only when the sunlight began to fail would they climb the towers to the ramparts. Standing together in the courtyards, their quivers full, many of them testing the tension of the bows for the tenth time, they reminded the duke of boys awaiting the start of their first battle tournament. Clearly they had been hoping for this moment, eager for a chance to strike at the invaders who had taken their city. Renald heard more laughter in those hours before dusk than he had in the last turn and a half. It lightened his spirit, gave him hope that they might really succeed in breaking the empire’s hold on Galdasten.
At one point, gazing up at the windows overlooking the upper ward, he thought he saw Elspeth. But when he looked again, no one was there, and he was left to wonder if he had only imagined her face in the late-day sun.
When at last the sky began to darken, Ewan ordered the archers onto the walls, imploring them to take their positions with as little noise as possible. He also sent his raiding parties to the castle’s sally ports, instructing them to wait just inside the hidden gates until they heard the bells ringing in the cloister tower. That would be their signal to attack.
Convinced that all was ready, Renald and the swordmaster climbed the nearest of the stairways to the turret atop one of the towers, where they could watch the battle unfold without getting in the way of Ewan’s bowmen.
The sky above the tower had deepened to a dark velvet blue, and the western horizon glowed brightly, the thin clouds over the North Wood touched with yellow and orange and pink. There was still enough light to see—Renald could make out the soldiers standing at the base of the castle, leaning against siege engines that had seen little use in the past half turn. From the beginning, it had seemed that Braedon’s men had known Galdasten wouldn’t oppose them. They had prepared for an assault on the gates, but had done nothing more, as if believing that the mere threat of attack would be enough to keep Renald from fighting back.
And for too long it had worked.
“Give the order, swordmaster. I grow tired of seeing the emperor’s men on my soil.”
Ewan grinned. “With pleasure, my lord.”
He took a torch from a bracket on the stone wall beside them, raised it over his head, then brought it down in a chopping motion. Immediately, two hundred archers stepped forward to the outer wall, arrows already nocked in their bows, and let their darts fly, the thrum of their bowstrings echoing off the castle walls like the roar of some great strange beast from the Underrealm. Screams rose from below, cries of alarm and rage filled the lanes surrounding the castle. Ewan raised and lowered his torch again, and the archers loosed a second volley.
More shouts reached them from the streets, repeated now farther off, as word of what was happening spread toward the piers. Ewan turned toward the cloister tower and swept his torch back and forth. A moment later the bells began to toll, and an instant after that, a different kind of cry arose from the soldiers around the castle. In just a few seconds Renald heard the clash of steel on steel, the urgent calls of men doing battle.
His eyes were adjusting to the evening light, but the shadows at the base of the castle walls were deepening. He couldn’t tell who had the upper hand. In just a few moments, however, he saw men retreating down the lanes that led to the port, and he knew that the invaders had been driven off. The men below gave a ragged cheer that was repeated by Ewan’s archers.
“Well done, swordmaster!” Renald said over the din, clapping the man on the shoulder.
It was not something the duke would normally have done, and Ewan gave him a strange look. “This is only a small victory, my lord. Braedon’s men gave up too quickly. No doubt they’ve simply gone to join their comrades in the city. They haven’t been beaten yet. Far from it.”
“I know that,” the duke said, forcing a smile so the swordmaster wouldn’t see how much the words had sobered him. “Still, I’m pleased. Surely this is a good beginning.”
“Yes, my lord, I believe it is.” He looked down at the city again, seeming to mark the progress of the retreating soldiers. “We have to choose now, my lord. Do we wait until morning to attack their strongholds in the city, or do we pursue them immediately?”
Renald stared at him a moment, suddenly out of his depth. “I’m … I’m not certain. What would you do?”
“Well, on the one hand, we would do well to attack before they have a chance to marshal their defenses. On the other hand, they’re already entrenched in the city, and with night falling, they have the advantage of b
eing able to conceal themselves more easily. If we attack, our men may be rushing headlong into a trap.”
The duke felt his face coloring. He had pushed to begin all this sooner. Had he been willing to wait for daybreak, there would be no question as to what they should do.
“Our men know the city, swordmaster,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Braedon’s soldiers may be established there now, but the city has been home to many of our warriors since they were children. I believe we can pursue them now without placing the men in too much danger.”
“Very well, my lord.” He nodded once—it took Renald a moment to recognize it as a bow—and started to walk away.
Is that what you would have done? he wanted to ask. Am I doing the right thing? But he didn’t dare show the man how uncertain he was, how ill-equipped to be leading this army to war. And then a thought came to him, one that turned his innards to water and nearly made his knees buckle. He would be leading this charge into the city. How could he not? He almost ran after the swordmaster to tell him that he had changed his mind, that they would wait for daybreak. But did he really want to lead a charge into an ordered defense, one that the emperor’s captains had all night to plan?
Ean have pity, what have I done?
“Are you well, my lord?”
Renald turned so quickly that he nearly lost his balance. Pillad was standing just beside him, having snuck up on him like a cat stalking prey.
“Yes, I’m fine,” the duke said, a bit too quickly.
“You look pale, my lord.”
“A trick of the light, no doubt. As I said, I’m fine.” He had no desire to be anywhere near this man just now. “We ride into battle within the hour. We’ll be attacking the Braedony strongholds in the city. I want you with the healers. I’m sure they’re already tending to the men who were wounded in our first assault. You should find them now.”
“But, my lord—”
“You’ll have an opportunity to ride with me when we go south to the Moorlands. Right now I want you with the healers. Do I make myself clear?”
“Of course, my lord.” The Qirsi bowed, his expression revealing little. He looked like he might say more, but instead he withdrew, descending the tower stairs.
Renald intended to go that same way, but he waited until he was certain that Pillad had reached the bottom of the winding stairway. He could feel some of the archers watching him, but he kept his eyes fixed on the city. When he finally left the ramparts, he welcomed the solitude of the tower stairs as he would rain on a sweltering day. He had to resist an urge to leave the stairs at the castle’s second level and take to his quarters until the fighting was over. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he stepped into the ward and was greeted by a sight that did little to calm his nerves.
The wounded had been brought back into the castle and placed on pallets in the ward, where the Qirsi healers were now ministering to their wounds. Pillad was among the healers, looking slightly lost, and flinching at much of what he saw.
The duke hurried past, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. Still, he could hear the moans and cries of the injured men, and he nearly gagged on the smell of the herbmaster’s tonics and poultices. When at last he entered the lower ward, he rested, leaning against the stone wall and trying to slow his pulse. Nearby, the people of his city, who had been driven from their homes, eyed him with curiosity, and, he thought, some contempt. He tried to ignore them, and when he couldn’t, he started across the ward. At the far end of the courtyard, near the main gate, Ewan was mustering his soldiers, barking commands and sending his captains scurrying in all directions. He didn’t stop when he saw the duke, but he did stride in Renald’s direction, even as he continued to yell at his men.
Stopping beside the duke, he asked in a low voice, “Is everything all right, my lord?”
For a moment, Renald considered telling the swordmaster that he had decided to put off the assault until dawn, but he wasn’t any more certain about the wisdom of that course of action than he was about the one they were on already.
“I was going to ask you the same,” he said at last.
“My lord?”
“I sensed before, on the ramparts, that you preferred to wait for dawn. If you feel strongly that we should, I’ll heed your counsel.”
Ewan turned his back on the soldiers. “Please turn as well, my lord. I don’t want the men to know what we’re saying.”
Renald turned, feeling somewhat foolish standing shoulder to shoulder with the swordmaster, facing the castle wall.
“If you’re at all uncertain, my lord, we shouldn’t attack. The men will sense it, and their confidence will suffer.”
Of course I’m uncertain! I don’t know what I’m doing! “I merely meant to ask if you disagree with my decision.”
“It’s not my place to disagree.”
“Well, damn it, I’m making it your place!” The duke winced at what he heard in his voice. “Forgive me, Ewan. I don’t … I don’t have a great deal of experience with such matters.”
“None of us do, my lord. But we’ve begun to ready the men. To change our tactics now would be to put doubts in their minds. I’d rather not do that.”
“So we march tonight.”
“I believe we should.”
“Very well.”
“Is there anything else, my lord?”
“The archers are still atop the walls. Shouldn’t they be marching with us?”
“I thought to leave them on the battlements, my lord. I’m having oil and tar brought to them now. In case the empire’s men circle behind us and try to take the castle, I want the archers ready. I’ve instructed them to fire flaming arrows in case of attack. That will alert us to the danger, and we can return here and see to the defense of the fortress.”
Renald regarded the man, not bothering to mask his admiration. “Very impressive, swordmaster. Very impressive indeed.”
“Thank you, my lord. Now if I may return to the men, I’ll have them ready to march within the hour.”
True to his word, Ewan and his soldiers were ready to march from the castle just as the bells rang in the city’s Sanctuary of Amon, marking what would have been the gate close had the Braedony army not held all the city gates. Renald and the swordmaster sat atop mounts at the head of the column, and now the duke raised his sword, silencing his men.
“I know that you’ve waited a long time for this night,” he said, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Believe it or not, so have I. We fight for our people, for our city, for our realm. Let the men of Braedon learn the peril of awakening the Galdasten eagle! Let them feel the bite of our steel and rue the day they set foot on our hallowed land! Let them scurry to their ships like vermin and leave these shores forever!” He reared his mount, holding his sword high again. “For Galdasten!” he cried.
And his men called out as one, “For Galdasten!” the might of their voices threatening to topple the castle. Even the city folk cheered.
Renald felt a chill go down his spine, and he wished that Elspeth could have seen him, armed, astride his horse, leading these fine men to war. The thought was fleeting, however, replaced as they rode through the castle gate and into the lane leading down to the city, by the same debilitating fear he had felt earlier, atop the walls.
“Well done, my lord,” Ewan said, his voice low.
Renald merely nodded, unable to speak.
“Stay close to me, my lord, and together we’ll see this enemy defeated. I’ll do all I can to keep you safe.”
At that, he glanced at the man, a grateful smile on his lips. “Thank you, Ewan.”
They rode slowly, keeping pace with the soldiers, who were on foot. Still, it wasn’t long—not nearly long enough, as far as the duke was concerned—before they were in the heart of the city, making their way past a burned-out smithy and a tavern that seemed eerily quiet. The marketplace was completely empty, save for a stray dog that sniffed about for scraps of food. They saw no signs at all of the enemy.
Ewan had appeared composed as they approached the city, but once on its lanes, he had grown increasingly tense. He was frowning now, shaking his head.
“I don’t like this at all,” he said under his breath. Renald wondered if he was keeping his voice down for the sake of his men, or to keep the empire’s soldiers from overhearing. “We should have seen them by now.”
“You’ve said all along that you were surprised they left so few men in the city. Perhaps they saw how large a force we brought, and retreated to their ships.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” the swordmaster said, but Renald could tell that he didn’t really believe this, that he was merely humoring the duke. He continued to glance about anxiously, as if expecting an attack at any moment.
In the next instant it came. An arrow buried itself in Ewan’s shoulder, tearing a gasp from the man. Before the duke had time to act a second barb hit Renald in the thigh, the pain stealing his breath. An instant later, arrows were whistling all around them. It was as if they had disturbed a nest of hornets.
“Shields!” the swordmaster roared through clenched teeth. “Take cover!”
The men broke formation, scattering in all directions. And even as the arrows continued to fly, Renald heard the ring of steel and saw that the enemy had been waiting for his army to do just this. Abruptly he was surrounded by a melee. Everywhere he looked, men were fighting and falling. Soldiers in Braedon’s gold and red pressed toward him, and he hacked at them with his blade, making his horse rear again and again so as to keep them at a distance. Ewan battled as best he could, though he had taken the arrow in the right shoulder and so was forced to fight with his weaker hand.
Another arrow struck the duke’s shield and others streaked past him, making him cringe repeatedly. He would have liked to jump off his horse—as it was he presented Braedon’s bowmen with an inviting target—but he didn’t dare descend into the maelstrom of steel and flesh that swirled all around him. All he could do was fight, clinging desperately to his mount with his legs, the wound in his thigh screaming agony, his back and buttocks aching, his sword arm flailing at the enemy time and again until the muscles in his shoulder seemed to be aflame. Time came to be measured by the rise and fall of his blade. He thought nothing of the realm or the throne or the renegade Qirsi. He cared only for his own survival, not for years to come, nor even for this night, but for each moment as it passed. Would he live long enough to kill this man in gold and red who sought to pull him off his mount? Would he survive the next volley of Braedony arrows? Would the next pulse of anguish from his leg make him fall to the street?
