“I can help you, Master Reader Fernip. I have come to hire you. I have struck a bargain with Mermi. You will serve me.”
“Forgive me, master,” Fernip read on, “but I have read here for my whole life. I intend to do so until that day comes.”
“As may be, but you will work for me. I can make this happen whether you cede to my wishes or not.”
Fernip laughed. His eyes were so bright, despite a lifetime of living in the dark. “I will die soon enough, Anamnesor Mard – yes, of course I know of you. There is nothing that you can threaten me with.”
“I understand you have a lifetime in this – but I can offer you something better.”
“Hmm.” He coughed something up and swallowed it. He turned to face Klan. His face was pale. “No attempt to bully? I knew you were dangerous…”
“Dangerous or not, I can give you what you want.”
“And what would that be?”
“This. I can give you this.” Klan swept his arm round the room.
“I already have this, Anamnesor.”
“But would you like it for longer?”
“Are you trying to woo me?”
Klan laughed this time. “You are everything I thought you would be Master Fernip. I intend no such thing. We both know I could have you tortured in eternity – I could probably do it myself but if that were my wish I would not be here now. “
“Then my death avails you nothing. So, if it is not my death which you desire, it must be my knowledge – I can think of nothing else I have to offer.”
“You are right. I would like you to head a project for me. One that will take quite some time and that no other would be better suited to.”
“I understand you have been building an army to rival most others in skill if not size – I take it you are the thinking General?”
“More so than most,” smiled Klan. “Will you head my project?”
“How long for?”
“For the rest of your days.”
“Then I fear you have chosen the wrong man for the job, Master. I have lung rot and will not last out the year.” He hacked to prove his point.
“That, Master Reader, I can do something about. I can extend your life beyond that which is normal. I cannot bring your body back to youth, but I can halt your descent.” Klan shrugged. “It may not be perfect…”
“You know as do I nothing is ever given…what is the price you ask?”
“I ask no price of you, just the use of your years and your insight. Intelligence in such a place as this is hard to come by and by all accounts yours is an…unusual…intellect.”
“No price, eh?”
“No, no price. Just agree that you will serve me in my demands, and I will stop your ageing now…”
The protocrat thought for a while. “Very well, then. If I can continue to read, then so be it.” He bowed his head and said to his feet, “You know, I have no need of my youth back – all it gave me was trunk for women I did not want. I always wished I had longer. There is so much to know.” He sighed and looked wearily at Klan from under huge bushes eyebrows grown around his deep-set eyes. “My death comes soon anyway, so I fear not if you really bear me ill will. I have nothing to lose.”
Klan smiled broadly. “Then, Master Reader, I thank you. Now, to your prize.” Klan took one step forward and took the man’s head between both hands. In Klan’s mind the process took an age but he had stepped through time of sorts and while he laboured hard within the man’s every cell Fernip Unger had time to take a breath.
Klan returned and smiled at the man.
“And the price.”
The master reader wept for the longest time afterward, long into the night. Through the night his hair grew thicker and his nails turned slightly less white. The blue veins on his hands stood thick like chains through his skin. He wept all night, his wrists pushed against his eyelids to keep out the dreadful sight of his new body. He wept against his knee. He wept against his shoulder. It did not matter where he tried.
He found no pulse.
*
Chapter Sixty-Eight
A team of soldiers had finished dousing any remaining embers by the time a team returned with water. Shorn was impressed in his own way by the young captain, thrust into the fire of his first battle with little training and one day’s experience. He was eager and bright and would improve…if they lived.
“You’ve done a remarkable job for someone with no battle training, and hampered as you are,” said Shorn.
“My talent is counting things, Shorn, not fighting. I have no talent for battle strategy.”
“True or not, you have a talent that any army needs. Now, how much food do we have? How much water? Weapons? Armour? How many Draymar?”
“Well, we have enough water for us for the next two weeks. There is enough food to last a week, but hunting parties can be formed – “
“Split the water – they will go for the water wagon the first chance they get. And ration the food – we do not know if we will be able to get out of the fort to hunt. Carry on.”
“Then, we have forty-three men. Seven archers – they went for the archers on their first attack, this was when the captain fell – the rest are swordsmen. We have a cook and a doctor and an armourer. We made a pile of all the bodies we could find. All of us are armed. There are fifteen refugees from the mountain settlement. Fortunately, they arrived before the Draymar with warning, otherwise we would have been wiped out. Seven men among them, four women and four children. They have their own food and cook for themselves. I could not count the Draymar accurately. There were too many – I estimate three hundred.”
Shorn blanched secretly. Three hundred!
They were all but dead. He kept his face straight though. No need to cause panic – these men had already fought against the Draymar and survived. They deserved respect. They all looked tired and scared but he noticed the ember of pride burning in the eyes of all those he looked at. He looked across the camp to where Renir was making friends with the children, trying to keep them giggling by talking. The parents seemed grateful for someone to take the little one’s minds off their predicament. The young were resilient. The older children already looked like they might be of use. Now he wondered about the adults. He noticed that all the men and women had the look of people used to a hard life of toiling for their food.
The two moons were full, giving sufficient light for an attack. He didn’t mention this to the captain – if the Draymar decided against form to attack before daybreak they would all be slaughtered anyway.
Dawn would come too soon.
Shorn began. ”First, appoint two men as your aids. One should be master at arms, one with a talent for leadership. You will need two deputies in case either of us falls. Each of those men should also have two deputies. Men will fall tomorrow, Captain Jermin. We must be prepared for other men to take the slack with no prompting.”
Captain Jermin nodded that he understood. He called over two men and explained to them that they would listen to Shorn. They paid attention and seemed bright enough.
“Next, I want all men split into three teams. That includes the men and women. We will find out what skills the caravaners have – we cannot afford to squander resources. You have two archers in that tower there, facing the wrong way. Leave one man atop, with pitch if you have it – “
“A little – “
“Then we’ll find a better use for it. One work party will go to the pile of bodies you have and lay them in a line in front of the main gates. If the Draymar horsemen circle from the back a wall of bodies is too easy for them to jump – lay them at irregular points, to make the horse’s stumble. That is all the defence the rear should need – but that’s a guess. I will hold the back. How many bows have you, captain?”
“Not many, this was a backwater fort – it is woefully undersupplied.” If the captain thought it strange that a man on a crutch would hold the rear of the pallisade he said nothing.
“
Have you any means of purchasing additional equipment?”
“From were? We have gold but no one to buy from.”
“Then you will buy from us. We have armour enough between us, high quality armour, that the caravaners and women and those men of yours without can use.”
“Very well, what would you like in return?”
“I would like you to outfit my friend Renir with what you can. I would also like to trade directly with your armourer. From the look of the men’s equipment I’m guessing he is good.”
“He is. A genius, poor man’s been stuck on military pay through lack of ambition.” He smiled. “Aren’t we all? But with your services that may be more than we can bear.”
“My services, friend, are the price of a few hours of work from your smithy and nothing more. You can thank Drun for that.” He said this last with a smile. If he resented being dragged into this war it didn’t show – his face looked truly alive for the first time since he had left Nabren’s camp so long ago.
“Now, when the men move the bodies of the dead, make sure that they take any usable weapons. I doubt they have any bows although they might have swords that the archers can take – they will need to be able to fight in close should the Draymar breach the walls. Have the women equipped with any spare bows. You can see well enough by this light so if you find any unbroken arrows collect those, too. The children will have to pass the arrows to the archers – this will increase their fire rate. The archers and reloaders should all take position in the middle of the fort. I want all caravans stripped of canvas – we may need to use it for bandaging – and turned on their sides outside of the walls, with the wheels facing out – I want the line of the wall to be ragged – it throws out the enemy advancing line. The centre needs to be clear as the archers will form a separate, mobile team, able to go to any wall as they are needed.”
“Then, I will have you dig periodic holes on this side of the walls. Fill the ditch outside the wall, directly opposite, with the dirt. Let’s entice them, Captain. If they leap over the walls and breach us then they will break their necks on the other side – we’ll not make it easy for them. “
Jermin explained all the orders to his men and then accompanied Shorn to ask for the refugee’s assistance. All looked grateful for something to do. Anything was preferable to the sleepless wait.
Shorn left the captain to work. He went directly to the armoury. Time to wake the armourer. Shorn could only hope there was enough time.
It was seven hours until dawn.
*
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Tirielle paced underground and waited for the interminably long night to pass across the sea, but the suns seemed to have forgotten all about Lianthre. Their gaze was firmly fixed on Sturma. Carious and Dow would not fail in their vigilance again, as they had once long ago over the forgotten city of Urlain. The fate of a nation lay in the balance, and this time they would be there, watching, come what may.
Rythe turned more slowly, the suns dallied over Sturma, and the longest day of Renir’s life began.
He awoke as the first rays of sun hit the fort. He rose, scratching his beard, blinked and looked across the fire burning in the heart of the camp. For the first night in an age, his dreams had been of sleep.
He stretched. His bracers clashed and woke the men next to him. He apologised and greeted them. The chill of the night had not touched him, and he felt warm after falling asleep from exhaustion in front of the fire permanently burning in the fort’s centre. Others around the camp were bedding down, finished in their night duties. Renir guessed, rightly, that most of the camp had been too tired to worry over any trifling noises in the night. Sunlight came ragged across the wooden spikes like blood from a hound’s teeth. The men around him looked scared of death.
Renir felt surprisingly chipper.
Strangely, he was not afraid of the Draymar. He felt no anger toward them, either. It would be a relief when they came. He walked across the fort to where Drun sat. So, he thought, I will get my second taste of battle.
“Good morning, Drun. Did you sleep?”
“No. I have been wrestling with my conscience, to aid or leave alone.”
“You will not use your magic then?”
“No, I do not think I will. My order would only use their gifts to fight evil and I believe I must also.”
Renir leaned against the wall next to Drun and looked out to the river, where the still-clear water ran from the trees covering the lower reaches of the hills, and further up, from the mountains.
He turned his gaze back to Drun. The Watcher looked old than usual today, haggard, even. The old man’s hair was lank, his face filling on the bones but still weary. Renir’s own beard would look like Drun’s soon if he didn’t have a shave.
Renir wondered when the Draymar would come.
“I will aid the Doctor where I can,” said Drun. “But there are some rules I cannot break, for the Draymar are not truly evil. This is their way and nature’s way. It is a part of…evolution. I cannot get involved. This is outside my sphere.”
Renir looked out again and said to Drun, “Well then, they’ll probably have to do it without both of us. I’m sure Shorn will try to stop me from fighting.”
“I believe Shorn’s intentions in this matter will not change the outcome. You will find blood today, Renir. We all will.” Drun grimaced. “I see no chance for us to escape unharmed.”
Renir took a deep breath through his nose and placed the head of his axe against the point of the wall. “I’ll not die a coward, at least.”
“I think there are greater plans in place than would allow you to die for Shorn, Renir. Shorn and I, it seems, are not the only ones with power.”
“Ha! I have no powers and I can hardly even hold this axe!”
“That, I think, will change. Dream much?” Drun asked quietly.
The camp was up and there was still no sign of the Draymar. Shorn walked in the courtyard, speaking with a burly man. There was a maker’s mark upon the man’s leather apron.
Shorn looked happy and grateful at the same time. He gave a rare smile to the man who had worked with him all night and thanked him heartily. The mercenary’s scar smiled too.
It wasn’t very endearing.
The man next to Shorn turned to ask a question. “You stay, though you realise reinforcements won’t be on the way for at least another day, you require no payment for your services, although you work as a mercenary – still you stay?”
Shorn’s sword was on his back. Weeks of nightly practise had brought him back to some semblance of health and his eyes sparkled with vigour. Renir watched the mercenary pace and realised what was wrong. He limped a fair bit, but seemed able to stand and walk thanks to a new brace outside of his breeches. It was of shining steel, attached with heavy leather straps and buckles. The brace fared out at the knee and was then held in place by straps attached to his back scabbard. His left hand also sported something new; a steel gauntlet, curved inside to hold his sword. This also fared out to cover his entire forearm like a second blade. He saw Renir and called up.
“Renir! Drun! Good morning!”
Drun turned. “I see you are joyous for the coming battle.”
“Ah, Priest, do not spoil my good mood – that is not the reason for my mood – but this!” He brandished his gauntlet and brace. “Not only can I walk again, but thanks to this man I will be protected now I am slower of foot and hand.” He introduced the man standing next to him. “Roge Rephan, Master Armourer. He knew of Gordir’s work and agreed to take it for the fort’s Captain…Renir, he has made something for you, too!”
He turned to Roge and said, “This is why I stay, Roge. Because I have debts to pay. To them and to you all.”
Roge thumped Shorn on the shoulder. “Don’t forget, don’t get cocky. It will take some getting used too, and you will tire and chaff until you get some padding.”
“No time for that. Good luck and my heartfelt thanks, Master Armourer.”
The armourer led Renir into a small forge. Roge told Renir to help himself.
After some deliberation, Renir equipped himself in a fine breastplate that the armourer agreed to give as part of the exchange for Gordir’s armour. It was loose across the chest, but the straps had some give in them. Shorn apologized that he had not had time to get Renir something properly fitted. Renir didn’t mind at all. Any additional protection would be welcome.
In the armoury Renir took his time trying out all the spare armour. He tried on various helmets but decided he did not want one. When he emerged he wore steel backed gloves, the steel attached to the hand by rings and a bracelet, and his new breastplate, waves in the metal curving away from a raised point just below his sternum, designed to take away a thrusting blade.
The Armourer had also agreed to fashion Renir a sheath of sorts for his axe, which he had worked on with Shorn’s assistance. Shorn had stolen Renir’s axe from beside the sleeping man, snoring gently and mumbling something in his sleep about blessed quiet.
The sheath was of thick Satmir grine and two steel bands ran along each half on the inside, protecting the hide from the axe’s touch. He could slide the axe in or out, if he got it in blade first and then turned it so the handle was facing down. After a few minutes he managed to get the blade in one handed. His shoulder ached early.
The day became steadily brighter. Shorn could see the Draymar waiting at the tree line.
Legs did not waiver. The gates were barred and they were ready. The sky turned to clear bright blue, the clouds pearled low and the underside glowed red. They ate as Dow broke the horizon.
The Draymar came streaming from the trees before they could get to the fruit.
Renir heard the horn and ran to get his axe. When he couldn’t find it Drun pointed to it hang down from the scabbard. He grinned wryly, then joined Shorn.
Shorn looked over the picket fence, out to the advancing horses. A couple of miles distant…the horsemen would be here in a few minutes. He squinted and counted a rough hundred pounding across the long grass. He called everyone to him.
Rythe Awakes (The Rythe Trilogy) Page 29
