by Angus Wells
There are things I have done since that day I suppose men would name brave, but I think that was the bravest thing I have ever done. I felt in those moments I awaited her reply that all my life, all my future, hung suspended from the unspoken thread of her answer. It seemed to me there was no sound within the tavern save the drumbeat pounding of my heart, the tidal wash of my blood as I waited. It seemed a very long time, but I suppose it was only a little while before she lowered her face, gravely, and said softly, “No, I cannot tell you that.”
“You love me!” I fought the urge to shout as I said it. “You love me!”
She said, “Daviot, I cannot, either, tell you that.”
As a bird soaring aloft, free and triumphant, is felled by the hunter’s arrow, so my heart went down in ruin.
She could not see my face, save through the gift of her magic, but she heard my groan, felt the stiffening of my fingers where they rested about her hand. She said, “I do not tell you it is not so … or cannot be. But … Daviot, I’ve met you but these three times. You know nothing of me, nor I of you. And our Colleges … what should they say?”
Fierce, desperate, I answered her, “I care not what they say. I know only that I love you.”
She asked me, “How can you be so sure?”
“I am,” I said. “How, I know not; but I am.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled, and my spirits halted their descending arc. “And perhaps I am, too. But I’ll not tell you so certainly. Not till I know you better.”
So sensible: I did not know whether I loved her the more for it, or cursed her prudence. I knew I’d not relinquish my hope easily. I said, endeavoring a calm I felt not at all, “And how shall that be?”
I felt her fingers stroke my hand then. She answered me, “Not easily, but do we put our minds to it …”
“And all my heart,” I told her.
It was no easy matter, and had I not won Urt’s confidence it should have proven impossible. He it was, hearing me bemoan the difficulties of my thwarted affair to Cleton, who sought me out when I was alone to suggest a means of correspondence at the least, and trysts did the fates smile on us, thanks to that society of his kindred.
As with we of the Mnemonikos, so did the Sorcerous College employ Changed servants. Urt made it his business to seek them out, to learn their names and win their friendship. Rwyan and Chiara were tended by a Changed woman of canine stock whose name was Lyr. Urt made her acquaintance (she was not, he told me, unattractive) and persuaded her to join him as a go-between. Thus were Rwyan and I able to pass messages between us, to better organize those days we were permitted the freedom of the city, that we might meet more frequently—and, with the connivance of our chambermates, more privately.
I was joyous then, for all it dug that rift with Cleton deeper. He aided us because he was my friend and his loyalty was unquestioning, but I quite lost my taste for Thais and during my fourth year in Durbrecht refused to join Cleton on his visits to Allya’s house. I was determined to remain faithful to my love, which Cleton could not at all comprehend. Also, at every opportunity I was in Rwyan’s company, leaving Cleton either alone or with Chiara. I knew we drifted apart, but could not help it: I was in love.
The coin faced about, I was more in Urt’s company, for he was often my guide, bringing me to some clandestine trysting place where Rwyan waited with Lyr. The two Changed would go about whatever business they pursued, leaving Rwyan and I some few precious hours together.
It was our secret, a little portion of time stolen from duty and expectancies, and the sweeter for that. Perhaps, in our youth and innocence, we perceived ourselves as characters in some drama, tragic lovers. I do not know, for then we were too concerned with discovery to speak of the future, top busy with the exploration of one another to think beyond the present. We made the most of what we stole, and in the spring of that year, in a rooming house on the edge of a quarter, given over to the Changed and the poor, we became, truly, lovers. I will not speak of that, for it was a wondrous private thing (as doubtless it is for all who find their desires met and answered), and it told us in ways beyond words that for us there could be no others.
I was happy then as I had never been; but there hung above us that ignored shadow: I was Mnemonikos, she a mage. Soon—just as Cleton had warned—we should be sent out to pursue our callings. I should soon be a Storyman, itinerant, and she delivered to occult duties. We spoke not at all of that, but it lent our lovemaking an urgency that was edged with the poignant knowledge of impending parting.
And with the new year’s advent our meetings were made the harder for the renewal of the Sky Lords’ attacks.
They had not been defeated, as so many chose to believe. Rather, it seemed that twelvemonth respite had been for them a gathering of strength, for they came in terrible numbers, as if the calendar of the years were speeded forward and the Coming begun.
Skyboats were sighted early in the spring, few in numbers at first and destroyed before they reached our shores, but then in greater quantity, progressing deeper inland. We saw them again close to Durbrecht, and though none breached our defenses, the city fell once more into a mood of presentiment. Then, early in the summer, word came from the Sentinels of an armada. The Fend lay dark beneath the shadow of the massed airboats. They were too many even the augmented strength of our magical guardians might hope to defeat them. Durbrecht girded for the onslaught. The koryphon had not allowed his vigilance to slacken, and our walls were soon manned by his soldiers and the levies of the militia. The sorcerers readied. I wondered if Rwyan stood amongst them, within her College or on the city walls, but only briefly, for we of the Mnemonikos College were called to the fight.
I was in class with Telek when the message came, and I saw the herbalist pale as the news was whispered. He nodded and turned to us. “The Sky Lords come in strength,” he said, “and we must fight. Go to your chambers and find your sturdiest gear. Have you weapons, fetch them. You’ll assemble in the quadrangle.”
We hurried to obey. I found myself both excited and afraid as Cleton and I swiftly tugged on sound boots and leather tunics, which were, I thought, poor defense against Kho’rabi steel.
“By the God,” Cleton declared, “but they must come in force are we summoned.”
He seemed not at all afraid, only enthusiastic. I nodded, thinking that my mouth was gone very dry, and therefore wondering why I felt such a desire to spit. I hoped I should not disgrace myself. Urt was there, fussing about us, and I caught his eye. He smiled, which I took for encouragement, and I said, “Do you take care, Urt.”
“I’ve no fear,” he said calmly, at which Cleton chuckled sourly and said, “With the Kho’rabi wizards overhead, I think you should.”
I said, “Likely you’ll be safe enough here. The cellars are sound.”
I think I spoke less to reassure Urt than for want of calming my own pounding heart. He seemed very little disturbed, and had I not been so engaged with my own trepidation, I think I should have wondered at his tranquillity. He said, “Ward yourself well, Daviot,” which prompted a sharp, shocked look from Cleton, for it was the first time he had heard my Changed friend address me by my given name. Urt added, “And you, Master Cleton.”
I essayed an unconfident smile and said, “We shall, fear not.”
Then I went out with Cleton into the crowded corridor, jostling my fellow students as we ran to answer our call to arms.
Of all the folk in Durbrecht not of the warband, we were the best trained in combat. Even the militias, for all they were equipped with armor and the uniforms of war, were largely untrained citizens or aging soldiers, reinforced with officers from Trevid’s squadrons. There was neither sufficient time nor gear to armor us, but we were given what weapons were available—bows, swords, axes, even knives from the kitchens. Keran was our commander, his motley troops divided into squads, each ordered by one of the younger tutors. We numbered no more than a century and one half, but we were avid for our duty. I forgot all my mus
ings, all my talk of parleys and cycles of war, as Keran gathered us in the quadrangle. I was a child of my times. The blood of my Dhar ancestors ran in my veins (and should, I hoped, remain there), and it was that called me now. The Sky Lords came! They threatened my homeland! Against that weight of time’s and blood’s memory, my philosophical musings faded.
Keran sprang to the plinth of a statue that he might look down on us. He wore black leather that shone dull in the sun, as if it had seen much service. It reminded me of Andyrt’s gear. He wore a long sword and his face was grave as he addressed us.
“The Sky Lords approach,” he cried, shouting over the tumult that rose from the streets outside. “They come in numbers greater than any since the last Coming, and Durbrecht’s need of us. We are called to fight for our city and all Dharbek. How shall we answer?”
“We fight!” we roared.
Swords were flourished, bows waved aloft; sunlight glinted off axeheads and spears. We were patriotic, vigorous in our courage, our outrage hot. Keran told us off into companies, and I found myself under Martus’s command. He carried a long-hafted axe and from somewhere had found a dented helmet. His pleasant face was grim as we formed a ragged column and made for the gates.
Keran led us at a trot to the south wall. The streets were emptying as the inhabitants sought the refuge of their homes or took up weapons and straggled after officers of the militia. The bazaars, all the emporiums, were closed, save for those of the herbalists, the apothecaries, and the chirurgeons. I thought they would likely have work enough before too long.
We reached the wall and found ourselves deployed along a length between two of the bolt-throwing engines. It was early in the afternoon and the stone was warm from the sun’s caress. The sky was blue, streaked with high cloud blown out like the manes of running horses. It was a day when larks and swallows should have darted about the ramparts and the fields beyond, but there were none. I looked to the east, where farmland stretched away from the city, and saw folk hurrying for the safety of Durbrecht. To my right, the wide expanse of the Treppanek glittered silvery blue, empty of vessels. I licked my lips and spat; fingered my borrowed sword. I thought of those days—ages past, it seemed now—when I had voiced childhood’s bravery to Andyrt and thought there could be no better life than to be a soldier. He had told me that was largely waiting, and that the waiting was the hardest part. He had been right. I felt a great desire to relieve myself; and a greater fear of embarrassment. I looked to Cleton, who grinned as if he had not a care in the world. Past him, I saw Pyrdon. His freckled face was pale and his eyes were narrowed as he stared at the empty sky. Then it was empty no longer.
It was as though a storm swept toward us from the east. The horizon was dark, as if a great bank of nimbus advanced. I heard Pyrdon muttering and turned my eyes briefly sideways, seeing him make the God’s sign as he prayed. He was not alone. I heard Keran shout, “Courage! Stand firm!” I thought Cleton’s tan a shade lighter. I forgot my need to urinate.
The darkness came on, and through it I saw the spark and flash of magic as the keeps along the Treppanek flung sorcery at the airboats that were the fundament of the shadow.
Someone cried, “So many! How can we defeat them?”
Martus answered, loud so that all his troop should hear it, “With courage. We’ve magic of our own, and stout hearts.”
Darkness and light approached in unison. I saw airboats fall flaming from the solidity of the armada, great balls of awful fire that drifted almost leisurely to the land, or the water. Along the wall, from by a war-engine, a jennym shouted, “They’re not so many. See? They use the darkness like night-come thieves!”
Surely they used the darkness, or it was manifestation of Kho’rabi wizardry, for it came as always before them, and where it fell there was a numbing cold, a horrid sensation of dread that crept into our souls and slowed our blood. I could see now that the jennym spoke true—what had first seemed to be a fleet that filled all the sky was, in fact, only a wave of airboats, perhaps twenty of them. But twenty, their magic said, was ample. How should we stand against so many? Twenty was too many. The sky-borne craft would land their fylie of Kho’rabi knights and those warriors would slaughter us. I stared, a rabbit transfixed by a stoat’s rabid gaze.
Once again I discerned those half-seen elemental things that sported about the airboats, thought I heard their weird, wild singing. I realized abruptly the skycraft were almost on us. There was a ghastly familiarity to the scene as the shifting sigils that decorated the bloodred cylinders grew clear, the black baskets that hung beneath began to show the pale blurs of faces. I stared, paralyzed, convinced of our defeat.
Then hope sprang bright and burning from where a group of sorcerers stood. It flew, magic’s unleashed arrow, into the sky—a searing blast of light that struck the foremost airboat as spark to tinder. The darkness was exiled, replaced with honest fire. The airboat did not burn and drift to earth, but exploded, incandescent, thunder roiling above the ramparts, echoed by a great surging cheer as ragged, flaming fragments of vessel and men dropped all helter-skelter down onto the fields.
To right and left I heard a deep twanging sound and saw vast bolts of wood tipped with sharp metal hurtle upward. The war-engines had loosed their shafts! I cheered as those missiles struck, tearing through baskets that broke apart to spill Kho’rabi like dark-armored raindrops. I saw a bolt pierce the supporting cylinder, which emitted a shrieking whistle, expelling fetid gas, its structure collapsing. It deflated like a drained wineskin, crumpling, losing height. A second missile and then a third drove in, and the airboat, like a broken-winged bird, began a rapid descent.
I waved my sword, defying the Sky Lords, challenging them to set foot in my city, my spirits risen anew. I cheered as the airboat fell—then staggered as it struck the wall directly below my position.
The stone shuddered beneath me, the impact greater than any structure so flimsy as that emptying sack should impart. There was a gout of sulphurous flame in which it seemed weirdling creatures were borne aloft, their ethereal features contorted in rage, their mouths loosing a horrid howling. I could not be sure. I was flung against the ramparts and felt heat sear my face. Cleton snatched me back. His fair hair was dark with soot, dirt streaked his face, and he was smiling ferociously. He stooped to retrieve my sword, which I had not known I dropped, and set my hand about the hilt. I found no comfort there; I was afraid. I thought it should perhaps be easier to face a Kho’rabi in honest fight than suffer this onslaught of untouchable magic. I realized we stood in shadow that was no longer that nimbus produced by the Ahn wizards but the physical penumbra of a sky occluded by their vessels.
Whatever occult wind transported them from their distant land to ours had ceased: they hung as if at anchor above us. Arrows, javelins, balls of spiked metal rained down. Then worse—shining glass globes fell, and where they struck, they splashed liquid fire that ran and flamed and could not be doused. A commur of the warband came running down our line, bellowing over the tumult that all save those wearing armor should quit the wall for the surer refuge of the avenue below. Martus shouted for us to go, and we darted for the stairs.
I felt a plucking at my sleeve and saw a black-fletched arrow driven through the leather. I snapped it off and flung it from me as if it were a serpent. Cleton was at my back as we reached the stair, and I saw Pyrdon ahead. He waited for the crowded steps to clear, and as he did, I glanced up. Whether I saw the globe that fell, or somehow sensed it, I cannot say, only that I shouted and flung myself back against Cleton, knocking him into the men behind so that we all fell down and thus were saved.
The globe struck Pyrdon’s left shoulder, and he became on the instant a column of flame. I am not sure he screamed, even, so swift was it. I scrabbled back, horrified, as his clothing and then the skin beneath blackened and was devoured. The spear he held was a brand that dropped to the street below, soon followed by Pyrdon himself, a human torch. Where he had stood, flames licked as if in search of some
fresh victim. I clambered to my feet, staring aghast at that unholy fire. Then Martus’s hand was on my shoulder, and he urged me forward. I held my breath and lunged through the flames, plunging down to the street. I saw Pyrdon there, or what was left of him, and promptly emptied my stomach.
Keran appeared, rallying us, advising us that we were to be a flying squad, to go where commanded. I thought that we should not be enough, that all the city’s warband, all the levies of militia, should not be enough. Yet there were now only some dozen of the Sky Lords’ craft left above us, the rest downed by magic and war-engines, and of those remaining some burned and fell even as I stared.
And yet, as I crouched in the poor safety of the ravaged wall, I felt neither comfort nor confidence. I knew fear; oh, yes, in full measure. I knew, also, anger—that this city I now thought of as my own should be so threatened, that friends and fellow-soldiers should die, that the Sky Lords should dare this affront. For all my fear I knew that did a target for my rage present itself, I should attack.
Meanwhile, however, I saw the sky dark with the foul shapes of the Sky Lords’ boats, the flash and blast of magicks. I saw a war-engine consumed and topple, blazing, into the street. I saw airboats fall in flames over Durbrecht. I wondered if the city should survive.
Then orders came, and half our number was sent racing through the streets. I saw the object of our pursuit some time before we reached it: a stricken airboat descended toward the center of the city. It was pierced with bolts, tongues of flame darting about its flanks, brighter and cleaner than the bloody red of its canopy. The carrier basket beneath had been struck—I could make out the holes—but still it held its lethal cargo and would deliver those Kho’rabi knights into the very streets of Durbrecht.
It was lost to sight after a while, but the reeking smoke it trailed served for a marker and we ran toward that. A company of foot soldiers joined us, led by a commur to whom Keran deferred, and a troop of militia. I hoped there would be more. Then we emerged on a plaza filled with the wreckage of the burning airboat. Some thirty Kho’rabi had survived the landing and now stood ready to fight. At the head of our column, Keran raised his sword, halting us. The commur roared orders—that we should avoid close combat if possible, use bows and spears, that if we faced the Kho’rabi knights it should be only in numbers, that we should better employ cunning than courage. Then he waved us to attack.
