Missing Piece

by Robert Priest

  Lirodello’s only response was to hang his head in shame.

  “Come now, Lirodello,” she chided him. “It’s not without hope.”

  “I am without hope. I no longer trust myself,” he answered. “I am not fit to govern.”

  “Mr. Lirodello, get a hold of yourself.”

  “No, Tharfen, I am not fit. I surrender my office to you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s in my authority to do so. You have training in strategy, and … and you are trustworthy. And you are still a citizen, so it is perfectly legal. And we need you, Tharfen. I have outrun my usefulness.”

  She could see he meant it. And he was right, she had been trained in strategy and she was trustworthy. And she would probably do a better job than he. “Yes then,” she said in a slightly clipped tone. “But I will only remain until this is over. As soon as we fling these pirates back to whatever swamp spawned them, I will resign and continue my travels to the underearth.”

  Lirodello nodded, and as they shook hands, those who had fled the fall of the dragon began to show their faces again. Slowly more and more of them stepped out from their hiding places and stood around Tharfen and Lirodello, marvelling at what had just happened. As the two began to walk toward the palisades, Lirodello explained the current state of the city’s defences and his plans should a battle come. Looking over the dark, still ocean, they could see many places on the cliffs where there were still large gaps in the wall.

  “I did my best,” he said tearfully, gesturing at the area above the broken ramparts where he had built palisades. “But it was not good enough.”

  “You’ve done very well with the resources at hand,” Tharfen stated, hands behind her back as she paced back and forth.

  “So you approve my plans?” Lirodello asked.

  Tharfen stroked her chin between thumb and forefinger as though she had a beard. Finally, she stopped and looked at Lirodello and said,“I do. But I will no doubt want to add some elements of my own.”

  “Do as you must,” Lirodello said. “I am done.” There was a catch in his voice. He hung his head and was obviously deeply sad.

  “Not yet you aren’t,” Tharfen said. “You are still needed.”

  “It is you who are needed, Tharfen, I am done. I am ruined. I have dishon—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I still need you!”

  “But I am so … tired. I am so … broken.”

  “Yes, I am tired, too. And I have been very ill. But I still have to do what I have to do, and so do you.”

  “But—”

  “So, as governor I am ordering you to go to your quarters tonight and get as well rested as possible. I expect you to report to me in the morning.” Tharfen felt right at home with her new authority. Lirodello nodded, causing two moonlit tears to cascade down his cheeks.

  News that Tharfen, the alleged coward, had ridden a dragon down and taken over the governance of the city from Lirodello sped through the barracks and the ale tents and the hospitals and the sick beds. In an hour, the legend of Tharfen the fleer was transmuted into Tharfen the dragon rider, and many were enlivened by a new hope that the ancient allies of the Phaer people, the dragons, would return en masse to the Phaer Isle to rescue them.

  “To Tharfen Slingdragon,” went the toast. And the tinkle of glasses meeting rippled all throughout the city in great waves like bells of victory finally rung. “Tharfen Slingdragon!” they sang. And they said they had never doubted her. And they said they’d always known she was there for them. And the poet heard them, and he sneered at them, and he knew otherwise.

  51

  Atathu and Lirodello

  Atathu was trying to stay away from Lirodello. She had isucceeded for several days and nights but not tonight. Tomorrow was the equinox. It was tonight or never. Whatever was going on in that shuttered apartment, she was going to find out. And if, as she hoped, nothing was going on, if it was just Lirodello in his loneliness pacing around in the dark weeping for her lost sister, then she would take charge. She would say something.

  She had fought in the Second Battle of Phaer Bay. She had stood in the face of Pathan war pigs and not flinched. She had hurled a burning spear into the thigh of a Minotaur. She had wrestled two big Kagars to the ground and smashed their heads like eggshells on the beach. She was dangerous and she was rough and she was shy. This latter fact she believed was her best-kept secret. She began to climb up the outside of Lirodello’s building.

  Slowly she made her way up three floors till she was just below the shuttered window. Trembling, she reached up with one hand and edged open one of the shutters enough to swing it wide and get a good grip on the ledge. Her other hand opened the other shutter and then she lifted herself up and pushed the window inward. It was completely dark inside and it smelled dank. She squeezed her way in through the opening, closed the shutters and then the window behind her.

  She used the light from a canister of Pathan fire to look around, but there was little to see. Certainly no unaccountable items of clothing that might have indicated the presence of another woman. There was something in that mossy aroma that was causing her to feel very sleepy though. Atathu sat down on the end of Lirodello’s bed, put out her Pathan fire, and hung her head, feeling ashamed of her trembling and her suspicions. She decided she should rest for a while, so she stretched herself out. Not long after her head hit the pillow, she was asleep.

  She dreamed that Lirodello came to her finally and he said. “Oh my love, you’ve come back. You’ve come back to me.” In her dream she almost did something she rarely did. She almost spoke. She almost said “But it’s only been three days.” But then she awoke in the pitch black and she sensed that Lirodello really was there.

  “I thought I’d lost you forever,” his voice cooed. “I’m so sorry that I hurt you. I swear I’ll never hurt you again,”

  Atathu sighed. She had been right to stay away from him. Let him learn to value her.

  “I don’t want to live without your love any longer,” the impassioned, perhaps drunken, Lirodello continued. It was completely dark and everything smelled of peat and smoke. Somewhere a nightingale began to sing as she let him tenderly kiss her face.

  Some hours later the first rays of dawn beamed through the wreath of black leaves about Lirodello’s window and lit up the room just enough for him to see that the enraptured face before him was not that of the returned Zila.

  “Atathu?”

  Just then a battle trumpet sounded so loudly it startled both of them. Atathu jolted upright. “Ahai!” she yelled triumphantly. She looked majestic there in the light of morning, her voice deep and gravelly like that of a lioness. “Come. We have made our peace. Now it is time to make war.”

  52

  The Cyclopes Equine Corps

  If the prince’s plan had gone as expected, the battle might have been over quickly, but it took longer to row the great ships across the still waters than he had predicted. It was the lookout atop the highest turret of Phaer Castle who sounded the battle trumpet. He should’ve seen the ships much earlier but the watch had been lax. Even though it was the dawn of the equinox, there was still no wind and no one expected the invasion to begin before the wind did. So the watch had been lax.

  Fortunately he spotted the ships while they were still approaching the harbour. Just as Icrix had known it would, the tide had drawn back far beyond its usual limit, leaving a large area at the bottom of the cliffs exposed. Here the mud shone gold in the rising sun as the smaller oar-driven boats tugged the large warships forward. When they drew near the water’s edge, the rowers leaped into the shallow water and, taking the ropes fastened to the larger ships, began to drag them forward on foot till they were as close to the shoreline as they could safely get.

  Above them in the Phaer City the citizens did for the most part as they had been instructed when the battle trumpet blew. Lirodello’s pla
n, which Tharfen had approved, was that each should be distributed a spell kone from the weapons box. Some had great objections to and fear of these devices, but their fear and objections to being carried off into slavery were much greater. Nimble fingers assembled spell kones as though they’d done it all their lives. Special meal kones had been issued, as well, and the defenders took care to fill their bellies on the spellcrafted foods and to drink their fill of the spellcrafted ales, for they didn’t know when they’d eat or drink again.

  They waited as long as possible to turn the weapon kones and no one knew for sure what they would get. Each one would place some small metal object like a pin at the base of a kone and turn the crank handle. Sometimes the pin became a rapier or cutlass or a short stabbing sword or a curved scimitar-style sword. Sometimes a little stick would become a bow and whoever spun that kone, if they were not a bowman, had to find someone who was and exchange weapons. Some had strange axes with blades on both sides that emitted sparks when they were swung. There were long pikes with hooks on the ends, shields, shivs, dirks, crossbows, breastplates of all sizes, gaudy helmets with high red feathers, gauntlets, steel-toed boots, and metal greaves. There were spiked metal balls on the ends of long black chains and spears and javelins. All the defenders spun their kones and in their hands the weapons felt solid and sharp and they took heart knowing that though they may only last a day, for that one day they were deadly and real. A goodly portion of them assembled along the clifftop looking down on the harbour below as the invading vessels drew closer.

  The Cyclopes Equine Corps were fully armed and mounted inside the first of the ships, a model of unity. Not just family unity but martial unity. Though they were much larger than the average horseman, and despite the fact that their horses were much larger than the average horse, the Cyclopes were still too large for the animals, which struggled to bear them. But they did not let this effect the outward form of their unity in any way. They had learned to move as one. They marched as one. They charged as one. One head did not turn unless another did. They were one unit, but many archers.

  At Icrix’s signal they came down the ramp with an alarming symmetry and reached the wet mud of the shoreline two abreast, their horses all adorned in bright caparisons, bows and quivers on their backs, lances set in holsters on their saddles. They were far enough away and well enough armoured that they had little to fear from those on the clifftop. They had not come to be in the thick of the fray. As befitted their high status and the virtue of their bows they were here in a protective role. One went one way and one the other as they spread out along the beach facing the cliff that arced around the bay. Now from the second cargo boat emerged a battalion of fjordsmen carrying climbing gear. Running through the squelching mud, the front rank of them raced toward the bottom of the cliff below the partially repaired ramparts.

  As the Phaerlanders stood between the gaps in the ramparts and began to hurl rocks, stones, and bricks down upon the mountaineers, the Cyclopean archers unleashed their arrows with deadly accuracy. In the first volley, twenty brave Phaer citizens were knocked back, pierced through the chest, their posts left vacant. Others soon took their places, but another volley flew and more were hit. The fjordsmen did not go unscathed. Crossbows had by now found their way into the hands of the marksman among the Phaerlanders and their shafts were taking a heavy toll. The Phaer Academy sling corps was also living up to the promise of its intensive training, bringing down numerous others with their well-aimed rocks, including even one of the distant Cyclopes, who was knocked from his horse.

  By now the front rank of the fjordsmen had reached the cliffs and were beginning to hammer in the series of supports that would allow their new pulley system to get them quickly to the top. But the going was slow. All manner of stones and debris were being cast down on them and many had already fallen. One who had nearly reached the top was detached from his perch by the falling body of a Phaerlander, more and more of whom were being pierced even through their shields by Cyclopean arrows. The prince could see that it was not going well. If his fjordsmen did not succeed in getting up the cliffs, the gates to the tunnel would not be opened and he and all his forces might be lost.

  Tharfen, too, could see that whichever way the battle went, the costs would be terrible on both sides. She had been considering what to do if it came to this. She had come up with a three-tiered plan to save many lives, though it was very risky and might well cost her her own life. Stepping up to the edge of the cliff, she waved the flag of parlay.

  When the prince took out his telescope and saw that determined face framed by long tresses of red hair, he felt his hatred surge. He wanted to unleash an arrow right now and pierce her through the heart. But that would be too quick and easy. Instead, he made his trumpeters sound a halt and had his herald signal back.

  Tharfen stood between one of the gaps in the wall at the edge of the cliffs, signalled to the Phaer defenders to likewise cease fire, and yelled down. “It is I, Tharfen of Ilde, you want. You bring a whole army to subdue me, but why would you not come and subdue me yourself?”

  There was an almost indiscernible rustling amongst the equine corps at this. The prince snorted, but did not answer.

  “I am a veteran of three wars,” Tharfen continued, “and have taken seven lives, including those of five of your brothers, yet you claim you, who have never even fought one battle, could defeat me in single combat.”

  The prince looked up at her, gritting his teeth, his one eye squinting so tight it was almost shut.

  “Why wouldn’t you spare the lives of these many mountaineers? Why would not you prove your prowess over me and meet me one-on-one in armed combat in accordance with the sacred rules of honour? If you defeat me, your revenge is complete. I am yours to do with as you will. I swear it. But if I defeat you, you leave these shores, never to return!”

  The prince’s horse reared up beneath him and whinnied. The equine corps looked on silently. People lined up along the cliff or looking over the seawalls cheered and raised their fists in joyous salute. The prince called over his herald. The herald then called up to her. “The prince is a member of the Royal House of Icrix and may not lower himself by contesting with base persons.”

  “I may be base,” Tharfen yelled back in her most penetrating voice, “but I at least am no coward!”

  The crowd atop the cliffs cheered so loudly it caused the prince’s horse to rear up again and he had to rein it in fiercely. Once again he instructed the herald and the herald called up to Tharfen. “My prince swears to the terms of engagement and bids you to make ready with the weapon of your choice.”

  Tharfen reached behind her and someone passed her a long lance, the end of which she planted on the ground beside her, the point reaching some five feet over her head. There was laughter from the mountaineers. There was laughter and cheers from the Phaerlanders gathered on the edge of the cliff. The lance, they all knew, was the emblematic weapon of Cyclopean nobility. In Cyclos, commoners like Tharfen were not allowed to even touch a lance. But the prince was not going to be fussy about such rules at this point. His hate was gnawing at him like hunger.

  With banners and pennants flying above them, the prince and his entourage made their way four abreast to the mouth of the inner harbour. There the gate between the Lion’s Paws was lifted and, entering the narrower channel, they watched as the massive portcullis over the cavern mouth rose and a solitary rider, lance in saddle, approached them.

  53

  Montither at the Gates

  Brothlem Montither, as always, had slept well. The same battle trumpet blast that had awoken Atathu and Lirodello left his rich dream life undisturbed. That was the rule. No one wakes Montither. He had killed one of his own men, it was said, for this very infraction. The others were up and had breakfasted two hours before he finally arose. By then Moley the messenger had returned from the city.

  “There are thirty or forty well-armed men guarding t
he western gate,” he reported, trying to avert his eyes as Montither began the process of dressing.

  “Well-armed?” Montither asked in disbelief.

  “Very well, sir,” Moley continued. “One minute very few of them had arms of any kind. Then this morning the trumpet blows and suddenly they’re all showing up with full suits of armour, heavy broadswords, rapiers, shields, and ball weapons. Some even have those broad curved swords they call scimitars.”

  “And you are sure of this?”

  “Saw ’em with my own eyes, sir. Must’ve had ’em hid.”

  Montither considered this. “Well, we can’t go through the main gate then. Not if they can put up resistance and delay us. We will have to go over the wall a little farther along.”

  “Something else, sir.”

  “Yes.”

  “Everyone in Ulde is talking about the mage Xemion … and the maid.”

  “And?”

  “Well, sir, it seems the authorities in Ulde have also been searching for him. And they seem to have found him.”

  “Where?”

  “Eastern side of the city, sir. Say he’s been living in a tower over there.”

  “What tower?”

  “Supposed to be the tallest tower in all of Ulde.”

  “And what makes you so sure this information is correct?”

  “My girl, she waits on ’em in the council chamber. She heard the very man who found him. Says after his report he even presented ’em with a map.” Here Moley could not help but smile. He drew a folded piece of paper from inside his tatty robe. “She even made a copy.” He held the sheet up before Montither’s eyes and pointed to it. “See how nicely? This is the thorn forest and she’s drawn these lines here to show the way you go in tunnels underneath the thorns and the fallen houses.”