"Centuries," filled in Tate. "Yes, I know, you knew Vinas Solamnus."
"And don't you forget it," laughed Wolter, poking his young friend in the chest.
"Not for a moment, Wolter." Neither would Tate forget that Sir Wolter Heding was likely the reason the Knightly Council had finally agreed to let him undertake Stippling's assignment as his quest.
Sir Wolter had sponsored Tate as a squire. Since Tate's own father had not been a knight and Wolter had no children of his own, they formed an unusually tight bond. The elder knight had taught Tate everything he knew about knightly behavior and endeavor: horsemanship, weapons, archery, wrestling, hunting, fieldcraft, even teamwork. When Tate signed on with Stippling, Sir Wolter alone had understood his reasons for leaving Solamnia. When Tate returned after the ambush, Wolter had spoken up for the young man. The elder knight recounted an endless list of Tate's acts of courage, feats of strength, and skill.
In the end, the council had been swayed only when Wolter volunteered to accompany young Sekforde and act as wit shy;ness. The elder Knight of the Rose had long ago earned the right to sit hearthside and recount tales of bravery to children. He was the kind of knight Tate aspired to be, embracing the intent, not the letter, of the Oath and the Mea shy;sure. Sir Wolter's advice was infrequent but insightful, and always relayed in private, in respect to Tate's authority.
"Speaking of forgetting," Wolter said with bushy eye shy;brows raised, "I didn't see you at morning worship." Wolter eyed Tate's attire. "Hadn't you better get your dandified self down there and pay Kiri-Jolith his due?"
Tate colored, looking properly chastised. "I stopped for a brief moment to enjoy the good weather and lost track of time."
Wolter pushed him toward the steps. "I'll come and tell you when three hours have passed." He winked. "Just in case you get equally absorbed by your prayers." The old knight knew how difficult Tate found it to meditate for an entire day, especially with the castle in so much need of attention.
"Get you gone," Wolter said more kindly. "The meditation is as important to your quest as anything else. I'll keep an eye on things, don't you worry."
Tate clambered down the circular tower steps. He passed by the blacksmith's shop, forge always glowing to meet the constant demands of the craftsmen. He saluted the two sen shy;tries at the gate house, though he didn't know their names, or those of many of the younger knights.
The temple to Kiri-Jolith was defined more by function than decor. In reality it was a walled-off section of the first lord knight's once-sumptuous apartments. Long ago stripped of its riches, it now contained just six rows of hard wooden benches and a small altar, decorated only with the god's bison head symbol. The room was always cold and dark, lit by a single candle, which was meant to aid concentration.
The temple was empty now as well. Tate slipped inside and onto the wooden bench nearest the altar. He was glad for the privacy, since it allowed him to pray aloud and thus remain focused. Tate cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Kiri-Jolith, Sword of Justice, hear my call. Guide this humble knight in his quest for honor and justice. Help him to see grievous wrongs and right them. Let him never stray from the path of obedience. Keep his will and his sword arm strong in your service."
Tate chanted the lines over and over. He envied those knights who could simply meditate, free-form, for hours on end. He was not gifted with profound words or thoughts. Tate fancied himself a man of action.
The knight was reciting the prayer for the one hundred thirty-seventh time when shouts in the courtyard sliced through his already fragile concentration. One word alone was enough to draw his attention.
"Fire!"
Tate's heart skipped a beat. Fire in a castle could mean dis shy;aster. Certain Kiri-Jolith would understand the distraction, the knight jumped to his feet and was on his way to the door when a young squire, his thin face glowing from sweat, burst through it. He nearly knocked Tate down.
"Sir Tate!" cried the squire, his voice thin and reedy from inhaling smoke. "There's fire, sir! Sir Wolter sent me to get you." The youth collapsed on a bench, unable to draw a breath.
"Where is it?" The youth couldn't get enough air to speak. Tate shook him impatiently. "Damn it, tell me!"
"Bake house," the squire managed to rasp.
The bake house … It was next to the granary. They'd had to rebuild a lot of it with wood. He thought of Abel-every shy;thing had looked fine just a few short hours ago. Tate bolted through the door and headed for the opposite corner of the courtyard, where black smoke choked the sun. The normal bustle of the castle had been replaced by near panic. As Tate approached the bake house, it came to him that he'd broken another of the laws of the holy day. He'd spoken harshly to the squire.
A good morning was suddenly turning very bad.
Abel, covered in flour and soot, ran to and fro in front of the small building, clutching at everyone who came near enough, begging them to fetch water. A few ran to the well, others with more level heads went to nearby shops or to the stables to find buckets. The stonemasons, working above the kitchen and very near the burning bakery, scrambled down from their scaffolding and joined the force; the blacksmith bolted from his forge; the sentries left their posts to help. Even a small fire could rage out of control and consume an entire building in the time it took to organize a fire brigade.
The well was more than a hundred paces away, too far to form a continuous water supply line to the fire. Dozens of workers ran back and forth, sloshing water from heavy wooden buckets all the way, to splash a few gallons onto the rapidly growing blaze.
Wolter dashed out of the knights' barracks, weaving and dodging his way through the sprinting water carriers. He had barely reached the scene before Tate grabbed him by the shoulders. "I thought you were keeping an eye on things!"
Sir Wolter's eyes already appeared red from smoke. "I couldn't be everywhere there was flame," the old knight said sadly, "and neither could you."
"Send word out to the village," Tate told him. "We need every man, woman, and child who can carry water, and every container that will hold it."
Wolter immediately collared half a dozen boys and dis shy;patched them with Tate's message, along with a warning to "run their hearts out, and pound down people's doors if nec shy;essary."
Meanwhile, Tate had captured the distraught baker and removed him a few score paces from the tumult. "Is anyone still inside?"
The baker shook his head vigorously. "No, sir, I don't think so. But all my implements are there, everything I need to do my job. It's all being destroyed." Abel's wide eyes turned back toward the smoking, half-timbered building, and he started to pull away.
Tate grabbed the man's arm and commanded his atten shy;tion. "How did it start?"
"It was Kaye, sir, the apprentice." Abel wrung his flour-covered hands uncontrollably. 'The boy's apron must have caught an ember when he crouched down to feed the fire. Suddenly it was burning and Kaye, why, sir, he nearly expired of a fit right there. Lucky for him young Idwoir was nearby, waiting for a biscuit. Idwoir ripped the apron off the boy and tried to get rid of it, but it fell to the floor.
"The reeds on the floor caught up next. Idwoir tried to douse them, but I guess he was too excited because he missed the flames. Before we could fetch more water, the whole place was filled with smoke so bad it choked a man just to be near it. Oh, I'm awfully sorry, Sir Tate. This is a catastrophe, thaf s what it is."
Tate was in no mood to soothe the man's nerves. "See if you can help by passing a bucket," he ordered, then turned back to the fire.
The blaze was intensifying rapidly. Tall flames were visi shy;ble through the windows, gyrating in the black billows. Yel shy;low smoke, so thick that it looked like raw wool, streamed upward through the thatched roof.
By now, villagers were arriving with leather and wooden buckets, cooking pots, ancient helmets with chin-strap han shy;dles, even crockery mugs and tin cups. Wolter and the other knights directed them into two long lines from the bak
ery to the well.
"Every able-bodied person available, and some not so able, is here," Wolter reported. "We've got to make sure we keep rotating the men at the front. It's hot as wizard fire, and no one can stand it long when they're up close enough to throw on water."
One line of people, containing mainly men and matrons, passed the heavy, sloshing buckets from the well to the fire. Empty containers traveled back to be refilled along the other line, passing through the hands of grandparents, children, young women, even some ailing residents who, Tate real shy;ized, must have left their sickbeds to take a place in line.
With the bucket brigade operating at full speed, the fire seemed to be held in check. Tate marched up and down the lines, yelling encouragement. The roar of the flames mingling with the grunts and shouts of the fire fighters was nearly deafening. On returning again to the front of the bakery, Tate found Raymond of Winterholm, the master architect. The man's forehead was furrowed with anxiety, his face filmed with perspiration. The heat here was nearly unbearable.
"What's your opinion, Master Raymond?" Tate shouted over the din. "Are we beating it back?" The knight's heart hammered in his chest from the excitement and exertion.
"That's hard to say, Sir Tate," the architect bellowed back. "There's so much smoke we can't get a good look at the extent and direction of the fire. At the very least, we've slowed it down. And a good thing, too. Those support beams to the left of the bakery are reinforcing the new upper por shy;tions of the east wall, where the mortar isn't completely set. If we lose those beams, the battlements could crumble." Wincing, he ran a hand through his hair. "I don't want to think about how much more damage that would cause."
Tate clapped the man on the shoulder, trying to be reassur shy;ing though his own doubts were great.
A torrent of flame suddenly burst through the thick roof of the building. The column of yellow smoke that had been pouring upward ignited into a writhing pillar. And then, a vast portion of the roof broke away and tumbled downward. Spitting fire and smoke, the roof section broke off and crashed into the midst of the people below, who had charged forward with buckets of water.
Men, women, and children scattered from the sudden onslaught, dropping buckets as they ran; all but two, who were pinned beneath the searing mass. Their screams seemed to have no effect on those who scrambled for their lives, but in moments, knights converged on the scene.
One of them, armed with a long-handled military hook, plunged the weapon into a bundle of thatch. As he pulled aside the burning mass, Tate and another knight grabbed the two victims and dragged them out into the central courtyard, away from the heat and danger.
Both men appeared horribly burned. Their clothes were scorched, their faces blackened, much of their hair fried away. Remembering his own painful, narrow escape from burning death, the young knight thanked Habbakuk that both were unconscious.
Momentarily the barber, a dwarf with long braided locks, rushed up and began gingerly peeling the smoking clothes from the victims. Tate watched helplessly for several moments until Sir Wolter jolted him, saying "You'd best come back to the fire. We've a new problem."
The hole in the roof was acting like a chimney; the sudden rush of heat and flame through the opening drew a blasting draft into the house. The building had become a furnace.
"That's not the worst of it," the older knight added. "We can't possibly put it out, but we must keep it from spreading. There's new construction to the left of it and the granary to the right."
Once again Master Raymond was at Tate's elbow. "Sir, that new construction must be protected. If the supports burn away, anything could happen."
"But if we lose the grain," Tate responded, "we can't sus shy;tain the castle and village in the coming winter." Though he already knew and now feared the answer, Tate asked Sir Wolter, "How full is the granary?"
"Dol tells me if s about half full," Wolter replied. "Damnation!" Tate slammed his fist into his hand. "Thaf s not just our food for the winter, it's next year's seed. Take whomever can be spared from the bucket lines and start emptying the granary. I don't care where you put the grain- dump it on the ground if you have to, but get it out of there." Turning to Raymond, Tate barked, "Find the head groom and have him get all the horses out of the stables. We can't chance losing them, too."
"Of course," Raymond replied. "If the granary goes up, the stables will be next."
Tate cut him off. "I don't intend to lose either of them. Get some people on top of the granary and tear off its roof. Don't leave any kindling up there for a stray spark to ignite. Then use chains or ropes or whatever else you can find and hitch some plow horses to the granary. If it catches fire, pull it down and scatter the pieces so there's nothing for the flames to climb."
"What about the new wall?" the architect asked. Tate peered through the smoke at the scaffolding behind the kitchen. "We'll just have to hold the fire off as best we can." After Raymond ran off into the smoke, Tate rubbed his face in his hands. Great Huma's ghost, he didn't have all the answers, even if they expected him to.
Tense minutes later, Wolter and Raymond were again back at Tate's side. "We're ready to topple the granary, but I hope we don't have to," the knight reported. "What with the heat and the smoke, getting the grain out is next to impossi shy;ble. If s going awfully slow because the men have to work in short shifts to keep from searing their lungs." "And the wall supports?"
Raymond's soot-streaked face looked worried. "The beams are scorching, and the ropes are smoking like a dwarf's pipe. If the bakery collapses soon, and I expect it will, we'll be a lot safer."
Strangely relieved by the news that the bakery was about to fall, Tate relaxed slightly. But cries of "Water! Water!" from the fire fighters cut short his brief respite.
Tate's heart nearly choked him when he saw bucket passers and fire fighters standing idle, shuffling their feet and looking quizzically back toward the well. A few empty buck shy;ets were still moving down the line, but no newly filled ones came forward.
At the well, the blacksmith and the farrier both dripped sweat. They stood panting, their hands on the rope that dis shy;appeared down the dark shaft. Tate stopped his headlong rush by crashing into the side of the well, clutching the rough stones to keep his balance. Before he could blurt out the obvi shy;ous question, the farrier answered it.
"We've drained it to the bottom, Sir Tate. If s just filling at a trickle now, not nearly as fast as we've been taking it out. And we've already drained the cisterns, too."
"How much water can we get?" Tate asked softly, almost a whisper. Everyone's eyes were on him.
The blacksmith arched his eyebrows momentarily as if to apologize. "We can get one bucket in the time it took us to get
ten or fifteen before."
Tate stood straight as a pike and glared at the sky, dark shy;ened with smoke and soot. "Gods' teeth!" he screamed. "Am I to be opposed by fate at every step?" He stared into the roaring sky, then turned to the men waiting by the horses. The words to command the destruction of all their hard work choked in his throat. Tate waved his arm.
"Pull down the granary," Wolter bellowed, correctly inter shy;preting the gesture.
Grooms tugged on bridles, chains lifted off the ground, then grew tight and strained. Slowly a chorus of "hiyaa" and "g'yon there" gave way to groaning timber and splintering lath. The granary building leaned at the top, then buckled at the bottom, and collapsed into a dust-obscured heap of rub shy;ble. Flames shot up and danced across its surface. As the horses continued dragging the massive timbers, they scat shy;tered the burning matter across the inner courtyard. Women and children swarmed around it to beat out the flames with brooms and blankets.
Unchecked, the fire now raced along the wall support beams above the kitchen. With no water to hold back the flames, the kitchen would soon be engulfed the same way the bakery had been.
The throng of people who had worked so hard to slay the wicked fire now watched it rage out of control. As a group, they backed
across the courtyard toward the temple and the main gate, then stood and watched, eyes streaming with tears, as the kitchen was consumed. Above the kitchen, workers' scaffolding swayed in the heat. Ropes smoldered before snapping loose. Support beams, already charred, began to glow from within.
As the blaze in the kitchen reached its height, the first of the wall supports collapsed. The sound was like nothing Tate had ever heard before-like a whip crack, only as loud as an avalanche.
Uncured mortar, weakened further by the heat of the fire, could not hold up the massive stones. One stone slid out and crashed through the kitchen, casting up a shower of sparks to more than twice the height of the curtain wall. Several more stones followed, then the entire upper section of the wall poured down.
The castle shook under the blows, and people claimed later they were actually knocked off their feet by the shock. When the dust cleared, Tate didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A gaping hole forty feet wide and twenty feet deep made the wall look worse than it had four months ago, when the restoration had just started. But in collapsing, the stones had buried the kitchen, extinguishing the fire that had caused them to fall.
Wolter came to stand by his slack-jawed friend. The old knight's face was streaked with soot and sweat, gray hair hanging in his eyes. "We'll rebuild, Tate. We did it once, we can do it again."
Tate nodded numbly. In spite of his misery, Tate recalled a legend his father had told him often. It was about two ances shy;tral enemies who fought for hours only to ultimately kill each other with simultaneous deathblows. As a child, Tate had thought the story epitomized the ideals of honor and passion. Now, it just seemed a waste.
Chapter 13
Fed up with inactivity and pteros's indecision, Khisanth slipped out of the elemental air pocket. Outside was the same turbulent world as before, featureless, constantly changing, lit by light shy;ning and pounded by thunder. Khisanth pushed herself away from the bubble and drifted slowly, trying to focus her thoughts on escape.
The Black wing (d-2) Page 16
