At this, the enemy let out a mass roar of triumph and retaliated in furious onslaught. Cries of 'He is fallen!' made the Hunters Children at the front falter and glance back. The mercenaries seized the moment and made a disciplined rush in the direction of the wavering banner, even as some of the White Companions hauled a dazed Tauric from beneath the bleeding corpse of his assailant.
Then the enemy broke through, some four or five brawny soldiers wielding swords and maces and easily beating aside the few White Companions who stood against them. Without hesitation the Armourer shoved Tauric towards a knot of Hunters Children already moving to his aid, then lunged at the nearest mercenary and felled him with a single blow.
Recovering his senses, Tauric saw Aygil struggling to lift the great blue banner, its pole snapped in half from the crush of bodies moments before. Kodel's words came back to him once more - An emperor cannot be a mere symbol - and he snatched the broken banner from a surprised Aygil and with a sudden surge of strength held it above his head. He cried out, "In the name of the Fathertree!", and led a charge past the Armourer's melee and towards the open entrance of the Keep.
Someone bellowed orders and panicking defenders leaped to close the gates, but too late - Tauric and his followers rushed up to the heavy wooden doors and shoved them wide open. Inside was a high oval room with rich tapestries and drapes on the walls, heavy hide rugs scattered across the floor, and a fire burning in a massive hearth. Along the wall a stairway curved up to the rooftop battlements, and several teardrop-shaped lanterns hung from two tall wooden lampoles.
The few defenders near the doors retreated to the fire where a larger group of mercenaries waited. Although armed and ready, they made no move to attack and instead glared at Tauric and his metal arm and the banner which he had balanced on one shoulder so that the flag hung about him like a cloak. Tauric thought he saw fear in the eyes of some of them and felt a certain a satisfaction.
Then there were mutters, the mercenaries moved apart and a tall man stepped forward. He wore heavy leather armour, well-tailored in ochre and carmine, a close-fitting bronze helm, and on his right arm a spiderclaw. The gauntlet-sword was a thing of deadly beauty, overlapping strips of metal covering from the wrist down a long glove of some reptilian hide, its pebbled surface gleaming grey and silver in the firelight. The gauntlet's palm and fingers were fitted to the hilt of a broadsword with stitching and straps, making it all of a single piece.
The spiderclaw came up, levelled straight at Tauric, and golden light flashed along its edges.
"I am Crolas, governor of Sejeend," said the tall man. "Yield to me and lay down your weapons, and I will guarantee you all safe passage back to the south."
For a long moment there was only the sound of fighting from outside and the hiss and crack of logs burning in the hearth. Then Tauric spoke.
"I am Tauric tor-Galantai, heir to the throne of Besh-Darok, defender of life and land - " His voice shook but he had found the words and went on. "If you and your men lay down your arms now, much of what has happened here will be overlooked. Make term with us, Crolas, and join us in this fight."
Crolas regarded him levelly. "You speak well, for a stripling - "
"Thank you, my lord. I expect to be much improved come the day of my coronation."
At that, a crooked smile. "I fear you do not understand what stands against you, the sheer number and terrible powers of your chosen enemy. No, ser Tauric, I shall not surrender to you, for the sea does not make terms with a sinking ship." He turned to his men. "Take them."
But even as the words were out of his mouth, Tauric was dashing towards the stairway with the others hard on his heels. Crolas urged his guards after them and as swordfights broke out on the lower steps Tauric heard the mercenary chief call out his name. Slowing in his upward rush, he glanced down to see Crolas grinning and pointing to the head of the stairs.
More armed mercenaries were descending from the roof and edging down to meet Tauric and the vanguard of his outnumbered band. Fear and despair rose in him, threatening to overwhelm his reason. Trapped, he thought, because of me...
As the mercenaries came closer, Aygil spoke up. "We are here to die for you, lord. Let us face them!"
"Fight and live, Aygil!" he cried as the standard bearer and five others dashed past him and stood shoulder to shoulder. He watched as the first rank of mercenaries attacked, feeling angry and helpless. Then a movement to the side made him look round, and he gasped and jerked backwards as one of the tall lampoles came toppling towards the spot where he stood. The teardrop lamps swung wildly on their chains, one came loose and fell to the floor with a deep chiming sound, spraying burning oil onto nearby rugs.
The top of the lampole struck the stair with a loud wooden bang, bounced once and for a moment was still. Then the end began to judder slightly, making faint scraping sounds on the stone. Tauric looked past the edge of the stairs and was aghast to see Crolas, with acrobatic grace and balance, running up the improvised ladder.
In the time it took Tauric to ready his sword with his metal hand, Crolas leaped the last few feet and knocked it from his grip. There was no hesitation in the mercenary's actions, only swift and brutal efficiency. But as he swung the spiderclaw blade down in a glittering arc, Tauric's desperation lent him speed enough to move his artificial hand in time.
Sparks flew as metal struck metal with a harsh clang. Hate spurred his strength, he closed his gleaming fingers about the blade, twisted and snapped it in half. Crolas' features betrayed a mixture of surprise and fury, but still he moved to the attack and lunged at Tauric with the broken blade, landing an awful blow to his shoulder. The leather armour he wore took the worst of it, but the pain was stunning. Semi-conscious, he crashed to the steps.
He did not hear the fearful shouts of his followers as they rushed to form a ring about him. His every sense was swamped by a shadowy numbness which somehow held him below the surface of the world but kept him from sinking into black nothingness. Yet he was not alone - another presence was here, a fleeting immensity, a pervasive nullity...
...oh, foolish son...
Sensation burst upon him, heavy smells of green growth -
...son of a foolish son...
— tastes of earth and decay and roots, odours of forest and fen -
...Your haste serves nothing, your death serves nothing. Knowledge serves, devotion serves, preparation serves. Listen now, and learn...
New impressions flooded into him, making him victim (hands tied behind his back, ankles bound, mouth gagged, and a heavy sheet lay over him), then observer (a horse and cart, a darkened alley, a weakly moving form in the cart, half- concealed, a grubby floral dress, long pale girl hair)
Tauric, help....please...
(Alael!) He could feel the texture of her thoughts, the closed-in terror and the narcotic weariness that deadened her limbs and dragged at her mind. (Where are you? Who - )
They...outside Oumetra they trapped me...drugged me...remember this morning, saw a white Keep, soldiers, riders...
But the effort was too much for her and he felt her thoughts drift apart and her presence fall away, even as he was plunged back into waking pain...
"No, wait! - he yet lives!"
Through blurred sight he recognised Lord Commander Mazaret crouched next to him, one hand keeping Tauric seated upright while the other had been lightly slapping his face. All the fighting seemed to be over, for there was only the moans of the wounded and dying to be heard. Tauric still felt the horrible pain of his shoulder, and his head was full of grey veils, but now he fought to stay conscious, to speak.
"She is here!"
"Don't tire yourself," Mazaret said.
Then another squatted on the steps nearby - Kodel. "Who is here?"
"Alael!" Tauric almost shouted. "She is a prisoner, here in Sejeend. We must rescue her..."
Mazaret and Kodel glanced at each other, then listened carefully as Tauric related the events of his strange vision. The Lord Commander'
s gaze became oddly intense when he spoke of the first voice and the strong odours of the forest, while the chief of the Hunters Children was a still, regarding presence throughout. When Tauric finished, Mazaret got to his feet.
"If her captors intend to leave, it will be by the north or east gates. I will have patrols sent to both - no cart or wagon will pass unsearched, I promise." With a sharp nod to Kodel, he hurried down the steps, shouting orders as he went.
"A good man," Kodel said. "If somewhat stiff-necked. He was not amused to learn that you and your followers joined the assault with my approval. My friend the Armourer was similarly put out by your impulsive charge, although like me he sees that you have the essential qualities of a good commander - intuition and luck."
"Kodel," said Tauric. "What happened to the mercenary chief, Crolas?"
Kodel reached behind him and dragged something into view - it was the spiderclaw, the reptile-hide of its upper-arm covering torn and slick with blood. "I heard of the offer you made him. It was more than he deserved - pity that he made such a poor choice."
"He didn't seem like an evil man," Tauric said, troubled. "I almost found myself liking him, even though he was my enemy."
"Of course," said Kodel with a wintry smile. "Your enemies cannot betray you - they can only kill you."
Chapter Twenty-Three
The standard has been raised,
And the dagger is blooded.
The enemy knows our names,
And the number of our arrows.
Driven by the blast of Time,
We rush towards the brink.
—Vosada Boroal, The Great House Of Hallebron,
bk.iii, 1.27
Cloud-broken sunshine was brightening and darkening the courtyard outside when Mazaret emerged from Hojamar Keep. The first person he saw was Rul Yarram climbing the long main steps, so he descended to meet him part way.
"Commander," Yarram said, saluting with open right hand against his chest. "I can now report that the enemy's presence within Sejeend no longer presents a threat. Apart from those we have killed or captured, there are no more than a dozen Mogaun still at large, with about a handful of mercenaries holed up somewhere, perhaps hoping to pass themselves off as townsfolk or Roharkans from the country."
Mazaret indicated the smoke trails rising from a number of places across the town. "But it seems that our problems are not over."
The Rul nodded. "The mobs. We've been hard put to deal with some of them, especially when pursuing enemy stragglers - the looters attack us and the Mogaun without discrimination."
"So - sixteen years of barbarian rule has finally borne its fruit," Mazaret said, staring bleakly out at the town. "Did you know that Sejeend was once a haven for master weavers and tapestry-makers, Yarram, a place of learning and beauty?"
"My grandfather was from here, ser," Yarram said thoughtfully. "I used to visit him twice a year until he died, almost a year before the invasion."
Mazaret looked at him in faint surprise. It must be hard for him to see the town brought so low, he thought. How might I feel to walk the streets of Besh-Darok again after sixteen years?
For an awkward moment neither spoke, until Yarram broke the silence.
"When will the reinforcements arrive, ser?"
"Two hundred knights of the order are due by nightfall, and another hundred before the dawn. As for the Hunters Children, Kodel tells me that a hundred bowmen will here by late evening with smaller groups arriving throughout the night." He gazed levelly at Yarram. "But even if our forces grow, the Mogaun will inevitably move against us and when they do it will be a sore, hard fight."
Yarram straightened. "What are my orders, Lord Commander?"
"Place all your men, bar twenty, under your most trusted officer - by my order they are to seek out any grain or victuals store still intact and near the Keep, make it secure and send a messenger to me here. In the meantime, Yarram, you will take your twenty men across the town, post ten at the east gate and the rest at the north gate where I want you to remain. All wagons and carts leaving the town must be searched for a young girl, perhaps bound and concealed. She seems sixteen summers of age, slender with long, fair hair and maybe wearing a floral dress."
"And if we discover her?"
"If it is safe and if she is fit to be moved, bring her to the Keep with all despatch - otherwise, she is to be kept from harm at all costs." He laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "It will be dangerous, Yarram, but the girl must be found. She is an unschooled mage of great power and must not fall into the hands of the Acolytes."
A steely determination came into Yarram's eyes. "I understand, ser. By your leave."
Mazaret nodded and watched the officer hurry away down the steps. Would you be equally eager if I told you that she was Tauric's rival for the throne? he thought, then smiled ruefully. Yes, I think you would. You are an honourable man, Rul Yarram.
Tauric. Thoughts of the young heir brought back with sharp clarity the wild alarm he had felt on seeing the Fathertree banner unfurl on the Keep's high battlements. When he and scarcely a score of his knights broke through into that great chamber and saw the mercenary chief Crolas standing over the prone Tauric, Mazaret was certain that all was lost. Then Kodel had appeared out of nowhere and after a mad flurry of blows Crolas lay dying at his feet.
Which meant that Kodel had saved Tauric from looming death twice, and in turn Tauric was clearly coming to regard Kodel as a mentor. Mazaret, uncertain of Kodel's motives and uneasy at the possible consequences, now felt a vague resentment after hearing Tauric's account of his vision. Listening to the boy speak of a terrifying spiritlike voice and strange, intense smells of leaves and earth, he was privately amazed at the similarities to the reverie he'd had when his family died in Krusivel years ago.
Not for the first time, he found himself wondering what kind of presence truly lay behind such visitations. His own had suggested that of the Earthmother, but what could her purpose be, and was it good or evil or neither? Once, while on a secret buying trip to Scallow, he had chanced upon a travelling Ogucha seer from the islands and queried him about a few details from his vision. The aged man, sitting cross-legged beneath a low canopy of cheap yellow silk, had fixed Mazaret with a doleful stare as he produced a little sack from within his grubby robe and tipped out the contents. After poking amongst the bones and pebbles and dusty feathers for several moments, the seer had muttered - "You will have no wife, but many sons."
At the time he had felt like striking the scrawny old man but the need for anonymity had stayed his hand, and now he smiled wryly at the memory.
One of Kodel's men, a flame-haired youth in the greys and browns of the Hunter's Children, approached with a message from the mage Medwin. At once Mazaret followed him down the steps, in through the great doors to the lower Keep and along to a dining chamber hastily rearranged to hold meetings. For the next half an hour he engaged in heated discussions with a handful of men who had been town stewards and wardens before the invasion, two administrators appointed by the Mogaun chieftains (and now cooperating rather than face the mobs), and several surviving nobles released from the dungeons.
With a combination of coercion and cajolery, Mazaret and Medwin persuaded them to work together in restoring order to Sejeend. Mazaret found himself playing the harsh disciplinarian to Medwin's reasonable negotiator, and thoroughly enjoying it. As the provisional town council began drafting its first decrees, the soldier and the mage walked back up to the courtyard.
"That was a fine performance, Lord Commander," said Medwin, a grey- bearded, portly man whose dark brown robe was as spotless and undamaged as it was before the battle. "I almost believed you when you proposed burning at the stake anyone guilty of supplying the Mogaun with harvests from seized lands."
"If I didn't believe it," Mazaret said, "neither would they. Nor would a couple of the former collaborators have turned quite so gratifyingly pale."
Medwin laughed. "Then I should assure you that the flattery I e
mployed in that room was far less sincere."
"And where is your fellow-mage?" Mazaret said as they emerged into the courtyard. Uninterrupted sunshine was filling the walled-in parade ground with brightness, warming the stones and baking the dust out of the ground, and Mazaret felt a sudden prickle of perspiration across face and neck.
"Oh, Eshmor is talking to the town's Earthmother priestesses and initiates about opening healing rooms in the Keep for the sick and wounded."
Mazaret frowned. "I thought the Earthmother orders in Sejeend were wiped out - the persecution and torture in this part of Roharka was especially savage."
"They went to extraordinary lengths to maintain the offices of their chapter with initiates trained and ready to assume another's position if they were taken by the enemy." Medwin shrugged. "How such an arrangement would rest with the Abbess back at Krusivel is, ah, debatable..." His eyes widened and he waved to someone across the courtyard. "Why, there's the Archmage - he would be able to shed more light on the question."
Mazaret saw Bardow and the female mage Terzis entering through the tall courtyard gates, the former leaning on the latter's arm. Medwin raised his arm in greeting and strode on faster, drawing ahead of Mazaret. The mage was barely two paces in front when he stumbled, put both hands to his throat, let out a strangled cry and slumped to the ground, gasping. At the same time, over at the gates, Terzis had uttered an agonising scream and was lying in the dust, writhing while Bardow crawled towards her.
Mazaret rushed to Medwin's side and found him with his hands clapped over his eyes and muttering - "In the name of the Mother - he's dead!..."
A pair of Hunters Children came over, offering help, but Mazaret waved them away. "Who is dead, Medwin? Who?" he said.
His voice seemed to break through the hysteria and the mage lowered his hands and looked straight up at him.
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