The Lord of Castle Black: Book Two of the Viscount of Adrilankha

by Steven Brust

  “Only minutes, I should think. There is no reason for them to delay longer than is required to organize a brigade or two.”

  “Then let us retreat to those fortifications you have so cleverly arranged. Do you agree with this plan?”

  “Entirely.”

  “Then see to it, and there is no reason to hesitate.”

  “I understand, my lord.”

  “Fentor—”

  “My lord?”

  “You were right.”

  “Sir?”

  “I had no conception of just how many they had. Or, to be more precise, I knew the numbers, but didn’t know what they meant. You were right.”

  “Yes, my lord. As were you.”

  “As was I?”

  “Indeed. We have delayed them considerably, and confused them more; your maneuver was far more successful than I’d have thought.”

  “Well, but—we cannot hold them, can we? Even in our fortifications?”

  “That seems to be the case. But then, as I recall, you had some tricks which ought, at least, to delay them.”

  “Verra! I had forgotten those! Well, let us retreat at once, as we discussed, and I will consider matters. Apropos, where are the Necromancer and the Warlock?”

  “Nearby. Neither has been hurt. I will send them to you.”

  “Very good.”

  The psychology of an army is a peculiar thing. After the first few victorious skirmishes, the entire force was filled with a spiritual fire, ready to fling itself at any enemy with no hesitation, whereas now they were slow, hesitant, fearful, and uncertain—yet not more than one out of three of Morrolan’s troops had, as of yet, actually faced an enemy; many of the companies had been in reserve, others had been moving from one place to another, while others had been in positions where there was no enemy. Nevertheless, they were as one in mood and spirit, and Morrolan, even then, was sensitive enough to be aware of this, and wise enough to know he must take it into account in his future decisions.

  His horse was brought to him at the same time as the Necromancer and the warlock arrived; he gestured to them to accompany him as he led the way back to the fortifications Fentor had labored so hard to prepare. These fortifications, to be sure, were not the sort of which a modern military engineer would be proud, consisting of little more than obstacles to make it difficult for an enemy to mount a strong charge, and some minimal protection against any sorcerous or projectile weapons that might be directed against them; yet, should the supposed military engineer to whom we have just referred be made aware of the lack of time or resources with which Fentor had had to work, he would, without question, have respectfully saluted the Dragonlord who had carried out this construction.

  We will not draw out the retreat unnecessarily—though it was, in the unanimous opinion of those who made it, drawn out almost beyond human endurance—and simply say that Morrolan’s forces made it back to their fortifications as dark was falling, where each soldier slept, arms in hand, at his post.

  We must also add that, by this time, the small troop led by Khaavren and including the Empress had succeeded in making their way around the flank of Kâna’s army, though, it is true, not without a certain amount of difficulty. The difficulty came only a mile outside of Nacine, when, in the course of avoiding a sizable body of the enemy, they stumbled upon an even more sizable body of the enemy—the most outlying edge of the massive search being conducted for Empress and Orb.

  Zerika drew her thin weapon and said, as cool as any Dragonlord, “How many are there?”

  Khaavren, who already had his weapon in his hand, said, “Perhaps a hundred. Rather less, I fancy.”

  “There are ninety-four of them, including officers and those who may not be engaged,” said Aerich.

  Zerika smiled. “You count quickly.”

  “Your Majesty will forgive me if I do myself the honor of disputing with her, but I did not count them.”

  “You did not?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then how are you able to know the number?”

  “In the simplest possible way. You see before you, arraying themselves to charge, a dismounted cavalry company—as evidenced by the standard which is born by the lady in the middle—which consists of forty men-at-arms, four sergeants, a lieutenant, and a captain. This makes forty-six. For the rest, we see two platoons of light infantry, each of which consists of twenty soldiers, a corporal, and a subaltern. This brings our total to ninety. If we include the usual three errand runners and a physicker, all of whom can fight if the need is great enough, but will not be involved in the charge that, you perceive, they are even now beginning, we find that we are about to face ninety-four of them; or, rather, the ninety, if we assume that four will not participate in the charge, which, observe, is the case—those are the four remaining behind.”

  “Your Venerance seems quite certain,” remarked the Empress.

  “There is little doubt of the sorts of troops involved,” said Aerich. “Your Majesty may observe the slight curve evident in the weapons of the dismounted cavalry, and how they do not charge in such an even, well-spaced formation as do the infantry—which infantry is proven to be light rather than heavy by the lack of pole weapons, as well as by the weapons they carry—either two swords, or sword and dagger. And you perceive their easy step, exact cadence—they have done a great deal of marching, and have often practiced this very charge—you see, in another moment, they will break into a run. Ah, you see, there it is. They really are well trained.”

  By the time the Lyorn had concluded this remarkable speech, Khaavren had arrayed his small company in a line, curving back on both sides. He made no observations about the unfortunate aspects of the situation—that is, that he was facing odds of more than four to one in an open area where there were neither any obstacles to interfere with the charge, nor enough time to permit maneuvering. In other words, he had no choice but to simply face the organized troop of trained Dragon warriors.

  Khaavren frowned, studying the enemy approach, then said, “My dear Tazendra.”

  “Well?” said the Dzurlord, who was in position only a few steps away.

  “If you are able to do something, well, now would be a very good time.”

  “Oh, I am capable of doing something.”

  “That is good.”

  “And, in fact, I had been about to do so. Only—”

  “Well?”

  “I have been unable to select which spell would be the right spell. You perceive, I have been looking forward to such a moment for a long time, and there are so many choices that—”

  “Bah! Can you give us something with smoke, fire, and loud sounds that will disrupt their attack?”

  “Well, yes, I believe I can do something of that sort.”

  “Then, my dear, I beg you to do so at once. You perceive, they are nearly upon us.”

  “Very well, my dear. Fire and smoke and—but would lightning and thunder be appropriate as well?”

  “Certainly, yes, all of that.”

  “Then let us—”

  “Gently, however.”

  “Gently?”

  “You recall how it was when you made that test.”

  “That is true. Well, gently then.”

  “Very well, proceed.”

  Tazendra acted, raising the long, heavy staff she held in her left hand, and making certain gestures with it, while murmuring under her breath.

  “That had some effect,” remarked Zerika.

  “None too soon,” observed Khaavren.

  If the good captain was less than completely comfortable with how long it took Tazendra to cast her spell, he was, at least, entirely happy with the results—there was a flash that caused everyone present to shut his eyes, and to see spots when opening them, after which was revealed a long line of flame reaching to a height of ten or twelve feet, and, though it was a good twenty yards in front of them, the heat was sufficient to make them uncomfortable. These effects, spectacular as they were, were ac
companied by lightning, which, as is the custom in sorcery and nature, was, in turn, accompanied by a thunderclap.

  In point of fact, the effect of the spell was less than might be assumed—some five or six of the enemy were killed outright, and perhaps thirty more received burns sufficient to take them out of combat. But the reader can well understand that none of the rest had any interest in continuing the attack—nor, indeed, in doing anything except retreating as quickly as possible from the flames.

  “That was well done, indeed,” remarked Khaavren.

  Tazendra bowed.

  “It was,” echoed Zerika. “Only—”

  “Well?”

  “Can you put the fire out?”

  Tazendra frowned. “I’m not certain I know how to do that,” she said.

  “In that case,” said Khaavren, “may I suggest this way as a direction, and that we move quickly? The wind is blowing toward us, and I have no doubt the fire will follow the wind, and I do not think I would appreciate the irony of being destroyed by our own spell.”

  “I agree,” said Zerika.

  “Then let us mount up again, if the fire has not scared away the horses.”

  “It has not,” said Aerich. “The lackeys did a sufficient job of securing them to stakes; they are not happy, but they are still where they have been left.”

  “Then let us go.”

  Go they did, and quickly, so that, before their enemy had time to report their presence and ask for aid, they had gone some distance along what seemed to be a crude road, or perhaps a new but well-trod path, running west from Nacine.

  As they rode, Tazendra said, “Well, are you satisfied?”

  “More than satisfied, my dear friend,” said Khaavren. “You have saved us.”

  “It was nothing,” said Tazendra, smiling happily. “I could do the same a thousand times.”

  “Perhaps you will need to,” said the Tiassa.

  Zerika, overhearing this, said, “Excuse me, Captain, but you seem worried.”

  “Perhaps a little,” said Khaavren.

  “What, then, is the reason for this worry?”

  “It is this. We cannot continue at this pace all night without killing the horses; yet I fear to stop. There is no question but that there is a pursuit. Should they catch up with us, well, even our skilled Dzur will be hard-pressed to save us.”

  “It will be dark soon,” said the Empress. “Will we be able to hide in the darkness?”

  “I am not certain. But it seems we must try, or else, at least, abandon the horses. We will kill them soon.”

  She nodded. “Another hour, then, and it will be dark. We will look for a place to hide.”

  “I dislike hiding,” observed Tazendra.

  “Then,” said Khaavren, “do not think of it as hiding, but, rather consider it husbanding our forces for an attack on the morrow.”

  “I like that better,” said Tazendra.

  Chapter the Fifty-Fifth

  How the Ninth (If One Considers Geography,

  Or the Tenth If One Considers Personality)

  Battle of Dzur Mountain Was Fought—Continued

  Zerika and her escort were able to find a place between two hills some distance from the road, where ran a small brook, and they spent some nervous hours there, resting the horses, and themselves when they could, and keeping a constant and vigilant watch throughout the night—or, to be more precise, throughout much of the night, until a certain time when Röaana came to Khaavren where he was resting and said, “I hear something moving.”

  Khaavren was on his feet at once, listening (for it is well known that a Tiassa will listen better on his feet, whereas a Dzur will hear better with his ear near the ground).

  “It is the enemy,” he said in a whisper. “As I thought, they are searching for us even at night. This Kâna is more than a little anxious to possess the Orb. Come, let us wake the others, as quietly as we can, and saddle the horses.”

  By chance, this complex operation was performed, even in the nearly complete darkness, quickly and without undue noise or mishap. Very soon, they were traveling once more, Khaavren setting out in a northwesterly direction, hoping to stay parallel with the road, but fearing to ride on it before knowing if it was safe. After an hour or so, the captain decided they were secure for the moment, and called for a rest.

  “Well, what do you think, Captain?” asked the Empress.

  “Your Majesty, it is a difficult situation. We are still at least two days’ ride from Dzur Mountain, and the forces arrayed against us are overwhelming. If they are now between us and the Enchantress, well, it could be difficult. If they come upon us, it could be unfortunate. But I see no alternative to our plan—that is, to continuing toward Dzur Mountain, avoiding the pursuit as best we can.”

  “Very well. How long shall we rest this time?”

  “A few minutes only. Alas, I should have liked to rest until dawn, but the enemy is too close.”

  Zerika nodded. “We are in your hands, Captain.”

  At this expression, a certain shade passed across Khaavren’s countenance, as if of a sudden pain, or a painful memory. Zerika affected not to notice, and soon it passed. A few minutes later, Khaavren gave the word, and they mounted up once more, picking their way carefully, according to Zerika’s map and the few landmarks they could see, through fields parallel to the road.

  As the first soft glow of morning began to spread itself through the gentle fields of Southmoor, Khaavren stopped, and said, “Come, my dear Pel. Bring those sharp eyes of yours here along with a touch-it glass, and tell me what you see.”

  After some moments, Pel replied, “Makeshift fortifications, defended by some few thousands of men.”

  “And the banner?”

  “I do not recognize it.”

  “Aerich?”

  The Lyorn took the glass, glanced through it, and said, “It is the sigil of the Counts of Southmoor.”

  “Who would raise that standard?” said Zerika.

  “There are rumors,” said Aerich, “that an offspring of Rollondar e’Drien survived the Disaster.”

  “Then that would be Morrolan.”

  “Very likely,” said Aerich.

  “Rollondar was always loyal; perhaps his offspring is, as well. In any case, he fights our enemies.”

  “I should like,” said Zerika, “to be certain of his precise loyalties before we approach him, Sethra’s remarks notwithstanding.”

  “I will go and ask,” said Piro.

  “I will accompany you,” said Kytraan.

  “That is a good plan,” said Khaavren, himself now looking through the touch-it glass. “But, on reflection, I have a better.”

  “Then let us hear your plan, Captain.”

  “I propose we join them, for the simple reason that we have no other choice. His battles, yester-day and to-day, with our enemies, are sufficient, I think, to guarantee that we will have some welcome there.”

  “Can we,” asked the Empress, “reach those fortifications before the enemy does?”

  “I believe so,” said Khaavren, taking the glass again. “But—what is this? There is now another force, a smaller one, directly in our path.”

  “Smaller? Small enough that we can make our way through them?”

  “Perhaps,” said Khaavren. “In any case, I should very much like to try. If I am not mistaken, there is someone in that troop I recognize.”

  “Who?”

  Khaavren turned to the Empress, and, behind her, the rest of the small band, and permitted a slow, grim smile to spread over his countenance.

  “An old friend,” he said.

  “Grita?” said Pel.

  “You have named her.”

  “What forces does she have?”

  “A mounted escort of perhaps a hundred and fifty.”

  “Those odds are not impossible,” remarked Pel, “if our friend Tazendra can repeat her infernal performance.”

  “Why,” said Tazendra, “I can do it a hundred times, if
necessary.” (The reader may observe that this estimate had been reduced by a factor of ten; we cannot say precisely why, and will not speculate.)

  Khaavren continued looking through the glass.

  “They are not moving,” he said. “They have positioned themselves as if they knew where we are, and where we are going, and wish to prevent us from reaching it.”

  “Is it possible they know?” asked Zerika.

  Khaavren shrugged. “I cannot imagine how,” he said. “But who can say what is impossible?”

  “I can,” remarked Tazendra. “It is impossible for there to be a spell for which there is no counterspell. Sethra told me this is the case, and I believe she would know.”

  “But,” said Zerika, “how does this affect our present situation?”

  “Oh, it does not,” said the Dzur. “But Khaavren asked who knew what is impossible, and so—”

  “I comprehend,” said the Empress.

  She turned her attention back to Khaavren, and said, “Well?”

  “Well,” he said, without removing his eye from the glass, “I had been about to suggest that we charge them, counting on the skill of our friend who knows what is impossible. Only—”

  “Yes, only?”

  “Only if she repeats her performance exactly, we will find that we have barred our own way with fire, and we might find it problematical to convince our horses to ride through it. They may balk. And do you know, I do not believe I should blame them. Therefore, Tazendra, you must find a spell that will not prevent us from passing through the area now occupied by the enemy.”

  “I can do so,” said Tazendra.

  “Very well. But that is not all.”

  “What else?” said Zerika.

  “The circumstances have changed, and we must consider how these changed circumstances affect our plan of action.”

  “What has changed about the circumstances?”

  “The force that flies the banner of the Count of Southmoor—”

  “Well?”

  “They are now under attack by what appears to be an entire army.”

  “Yes, that does change the circumstances, doesn’t it?” observed Zerika with all the coolness of a Lyorn.