"Had I my powers--"
"Forget them," Desrenaud said, his contempt boundless. "They're gone forever."
"Are they, now." Meschante glanced behind him at the table where the xantal and other drugs were. "Not if I had some of that magic there."
"But you don't," Desrenaud said. "Here's just you and I." Silently he gazed upon his enemy, with absolute steadiness. Ryel had never seen eyes so dangerous. "Hylas met a cruel death, but never could I have dreamed it murder. He had no enemies…or so I thought."
"I cared very little for Hylas, truth be told. But I knew how much his death would hurt you, so I made it happen." At Desrenaud's stunned reaction Meschante grinned. "I knew Theofanu long before she served the Master in Hallagh. I knew her when she was a wandering witch that halted awhile in Ralnahr, calling herself a healer." The grin became a sneering chuckle. "To think of that malignant Ormalan crone as a healer…what a joke. Her fame soon spread, and I sought her out. From her I learned what drugs kill slow, with the most suffering, leaving no trace. It cost me deep, but I bought those drugs of her. You may know of them—quiabintha and celorn. Apart they're relatively harmless, but mixed together they're…” He winked at Desrenaud. “Well, you saw what they are, and what they did.”
“You monster,” Ryel whispered. And he flinched within to think of the agonies Prince Hylas must have endured, before death at last released him.
Desrenaud's voice shook as he spoke. "Make me understand how you could kill one that did you nothing but kindness, whose every thought was pure and high. The only one who did not despise you."
"Hylas only kept me about him because he pitied me. I loathed him for that." Meschante's thin lips curled in disgust. "But he never noticed, so taken he was with you. Neither of you heard the whisperings behind your backs, predicting that Hylas would never marry, besotted as he was with you..a passion you not only encouraged but gratified, according to hearsay."
Desrenaud colored hot. "I've no doubt you spread those rumors, as vicious as they were false."
"Some might not think them so--those who knew of your adultery with Sandrine de Tresk, dead of her sinful childbed. Ah, you thought it secret? Nothing you did was secret to me."
Desrenaud's heat turned to pallor. "You vile, worthless--"
"And no sooner was your mistress cold in her grave-clothes, but you needs must seek out new lechery in Almancar, and shame the Sovran's great celebration with your drunken tricks, and then roll in the dirty bed of Belphira, the brothel-quarter's most notorious wh--"
Desrenaud backhanded the word from Meschante's mouth even as he drew his dagger. "Give him a blade, Ryel."
The wysard shook his head. "I will not."
Desrenaud gritted his teeth. "And you call yourself my friend."
“You can't make me fight, Starklander," Meschante snickered. "You know I was never a swashbuckling bully, as you were. It'd be cold-blooded slaughter, you against me."
Desrenaud kept his weapon drawn, feeling its edge; had not yet noticed his cut fingers, nor the blood dripping. "You sniveling puritan, that never knew love in your life. Never felt pleasure, unless you deem your miserable rites of self-denial such. Always preaching dour damnation and the revenge of the Unseen. But you were more than willing to go over to the side of the Master, and set folk on to slaughter and destruction."
"I was always on Dagar's side, fool. The dull rites and strictures of the Unseen made the rich and powerful all the more willing to go over to the Master. Only the stupid simple folk, the petty merchants and tradesmen, hearkened unto me, never knowing how much I despised them."
"Now that your Master's gone, you return to being nothing," Desrenaud said, his contempt even greater than his rage. "Worse than nothing, after I avenge Hylas' death."
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure…" As he hissed those words, Meschante lunged for the xantal-tube, that scant quarter-dram more deadly than an ocean's worth of any other poison. “Mine,” he said, clutching the vial tight.
The entire world seemed to grow cold. "Stand back," Ryel said to Desrenaud, calm with fear. "Don't go near him."
"That's right," Meschante grinned. "I'm dangerous. I know about this stuff. I know—"
"It's deadly poison," Ryel said, horrified despite hatred. "Don't touch it!"
"Wysard I'm not, but no fool either, Markulit." Lifting the vial, Meschante turned to Desrenaud. "It was this drug that all but killed you in Ormala, Starklander. Too bad it failed. But I'm learned in all venoms, and know that xantal is no common bane. With it one can bridge the gap between this world and the Outer one."
Ryel reached out his hand, deadly calm. "No. Only the lord adepts of Markul and Elecambron can turn it to that use."
"And I'm one," Meschante replied, snatching the vial close to his chest. "I had the powers of the great Michael Essern, Steppes bastard—them and more. I'll have them again, thanks to this. With its help I'll be greater than Dagar. I'll return from the Void strong enough to crush you like a louse."
Desrenaud took a threatening step toward his enemy, his dagger clenched and ready. "Go, drink that hell-bane and reach the blackness. But whilst your ghost roams, I'll burn your ugly body to ashes. Come back then if you can."
Loud laughter met those words. "So much the better," Meschante said. "I always envied that shape of yours—I'll make it my own." Pledging his enemy with smug contempt, Meschante lifted the xantal-vial to his lips.
"Don't!" Ryel rushed to halt him, but with a brutal shove to the chest Meschante thrust him away, and drank.
"Now I have it," he crowed. "Immortality. Now I have—"
He never spoke another word; but he screamed. Ryel had always believed that of all earthly deaths burning alive had to be the worst, but Meschante's suffering went beyond any fire's torment. He fell to the ground, rolling and writhing as all his flesh erupted into loathsome boils that covered his entire head in a suppurating mass save for the red hole of his foaming shrieking mouth, and swelled his body until his clothes tore away. Convulsed and frantic he thrashed, tearing at his appalling deformity in a frenzy of excruciation, clawing the rotten flesh until the very bones were laid bare amid a stinking welter of blood and pus, and the heart might be discerned throbbing as if straining to free itself from the dissolving mass. His mouth no longer more than a toothed raw hole, Meschante with a last desperate scream wrenched the heart from his body, and hurled it from him; and then the horrible form was still at last, save for a few last twitching tremors.
Desrenaud had looked on with a dry wide stare, but now turned and staggered to the antechamber, bending strengthless against the doorframe, gasping for fresh unfouled air. The wysard yanked at a curtain, pulling it down, and threw the rich drapery over the mutilated remains; found the dead heart some distance away, and loathingly kicked it under the covering, along with the wrapped severed head he had despairingly thought Desrenaud's. He was trembling all over, and not even his Mastery could still it.
The Northerner shuddered, too, but less. "So grim a death I never saw before," he said at last. "Hylas has been well avenged, and I'm not sorry. But had I the ordering of Meschante's end, I'd never have wished it thus. Never this way."
The room stank. They went into the courtyard. The hour was very late, and the tumult of street-battle had died down. The stars shone all the brighter since the moon had set, and the air was sweet with the coming dawn. Desrenaud sank down onto a bench, lifting his face to the silvering heavens. He was quite calm now, save for a twitch at the left side of his mouth. "I've fought in cruel wars, and seen things I've willed myself never to remember. But blood and damnation, Meschante died hard."
"Deservedly," Ryel said through unmoving lips. Although his Art might be in life's service, he felt no sorrow for Meschante. None whatsoever.
Like time-wearied effigies the two men sat. After a long numb interval Desrenaud spoke again, with a faint trace of his wonted humor. "Well. What now, sorcerer?"
Ryel pushed back his hair. "I need sleep." He felt as if his bones we
re melting in his body, he was so weary and worn.
"I could use some myself. Since no orders were given for my lodging, and my lady is guest of your mother and sister, I'll make bold to share your quarters tonight, if you're agreeable."
Ryel nodded assent. "There's something you should know, Guy. Belphira is…" He tried to think of the most delicate way to say it. "She was under the Sovran's protection."
Desrenaud understood, but not willingly. "Meaning she was his mistress. You might have told me before this, sorcerer."
"There was no way. But Belphira never ceased to love you."
"I'd never blame her." After a time Desrenaud spoke again. "Priam's a brave lad and I love him like a brother, but he knows as well as I do that matters have grown desperate. The M'Klaren’s men, tough though they are, are far too few to ever prevail against that screeching horde of blood-drinkers that's come up from the Azm Chak. If the Rei of Zalla or some other friend doesn't get here in good time, we're fairly done for." He was quiet awhile, then gave that wry half-laugh of his. "Isn't it good as a play, sorcerer. To have everything on the point of being made right, yet at the same time tottering at the brink of doom."
"We'll finish the damned thing one way or the other tomorrow," Ryel said. "For now, I'm sleeping. Come on if you're coming."
Chapter Twenty-Five
He slept heavily, desperately, dreamlessly. When he felt a hand jarring him awake, he cursed it.
"Day’s wasting, magus."
He knocked the hand away from him. "Leave me alone, blast you."
"It's well past noontide, and battle looming fast. Roll out."
Ryel gave a heartfelt groan, groped for a pillow and crushed it over his head, only to have it ripped from him.
"On your feet, magus." Desrenaud flung open the window-curtains, and the light came in like a blast of fire. The wysard gave a furious grunt, scrabbling the sheets over his head.
He could still hear Desrenaud's laugh. "Some sorcerer you are. Come on, I've brought you some chal and breakfast. You can't slug abed any longer; we need you in the fight. Catulk's been calling you out since noon, by the way."
"Chal." Ryel thrust forth a hand from the covers, and closed it around a warm porcelain cup; took a preliminary sip, and emerged from the bedclothes by slow grudging stages. At the sight of Desrenaud his fatigued eyes glared bitterly, then widened a fraction. "By every god. You're armed to the teeth."
The Northerner looked down at himself with unabashed vainglory. "Dashing, aren't I?" Sometime between dawn and midday he had bathed with Almancarian thoroughness, submitted to some close barbering, and dressed in bellicose splendor half-Almancarian, half-Northern. Over the gleaming silk he wore a breastplate of silver-bright steel, with vanbraces and greaves of the same, all in the Hryeland fashion; under his arm he held a chain-veiled helmet. "I found these things in the palace armory--where you're expected to pay a visit straightway. The ladies are mad about me, but it isn't entirely for show. I expect to be pretty active soon."
Desrenaud looked so fresh and rested that Ryel could feel nothing but exasperation in contemplating him. He turned his attention to food, suddenly realizing he had famished need of it. "Don't the Zegry know that Meschante is dead, and the mercenaries have joined with Priam?"
Desrenaud nodded. "They know. It's only increased their desire to fight. Zegry reinforcements arrived midmorning, swelling their army to many thousands more. Surely they intend a full assault soon, knowing us weak within the city. Very many folk fled Almancar long ago, and those who stayed won't be of much help to us. The poor fools who followed Michael--or Meschante, rather--proved themselves no fighters at all compared with M'Klaren’s mercenaries, and were mostly cut down or taken prisoner. Not all of the Fourth District rebelled against Priamnor, and some have come over to our side, but they're a pitiful lot at best. The nobles and their hangers-on look to be fairly capable with their pretty gold weapons, but the merchants are as good as useless, and the slaves and the priests too. Your Art is going to be worked hard, magus."
"My Art would be very grateful for a rest."
"It's not getting one, conjurer. Roll out and come on."
Ryel finished his chal and went with Desrenaud, blinking against the light; followed him down the great ramped entry of the palace complex to find Jinn waiting ready saddled, along with another horse almost the twin of Desrenaud's black hunter, left behind in Hryeland.
"The M'klaren gave me this nag," Desrenaud said. "Not a bad one, either; I wasn't expecting that. We're free to ride where we like, so follow me."
After greeting Jinn with a hug, Ryel vaulted into the saddle, all his former weariness forgotten in the pleasure of being again on horseback. The mercenary forces of Rodhri M'klaren had put down the rebellion of Michael's followers, liberating the city, and already people had begun the slow work of repairing damage; but because of the siege the dead could not yet be buried outside the northern walls, necessitating cremation that enveloped the city in foul gray haze.
"Not a little noisome," Desrenaud noted. "Especially since Meschante's pocky corpse is feeding some of the flames. But order's being restored at a rapid rate. Priamnor's Sovran again--at least within these ramparts."
"The aliante force seems to be behaving itself," Ryel added.
"It has to. Rodhri's ordered instant decapitation for any instance of looting or rape, and flogging for all lesser offenses. Speaking of the devil, there he is, putting some luckless fellow to the lash." He indicated the mercenary warlord who stood some distance away from them encouraging every blow, and the quick-sensed M'klaren looked about and waved with jolly camaraderie to Desrenaud, blowing him a kiss before turning back to relish the conclusion of the correction.
Making haste through the ruins the wysard and the Northerner reached the southern wall. "We're to meet soon with Priamnor and the other officers," Desrenaud said as they climbed. "But I thought you should first get a good view of what we're up against."
Sheltered in an elevated part of the barbican they examined the enemy force. The Zegry army spread out in more than twice its former strength, further reinforced by a variety of siege machines. Ryel shook his head. "It looks bad."
"It's worse. Not a sign of help from any quarter. Can your enchanter's eyes see anything on the horizon?"
"Nothing. But I thought you said the Rei of Zalla was coming."
"I didn't. The M'Klaren’s scouts did, and they'd say anything that would make Rodhri happy--the sons of whores. It looks as if every man here will have to fight like a hundred."
Ryel had no wish to consider that necessity. "What did you mean before, when you said Catulk's been challenging me?"
"Just that. He's been riding up and down along the walls, vowing your destruction and proclaiming his betrothal to the Sovrena Diara."
"He sounds very foolish."
"He doesn't look it--not with his golden armor and scarlet plumes and white horse with its mane and tail down to the ground. But see for yourself. There he comes for the tenth time today."
Fitting Desrenaud's description exactly with the addition of a gold-hafted spear and a bristling beltful of daggers, the Zegry lord Catulk spurred his snow-white streaming-maned barb not too dangerously near the wall, brandishing his javelin and shouting in strident mangled Almancarian terrible and wildly uninformed insults regarding the wysard's parentage, courage, and intelligence.
"Very foolish," Ryel said, unable to quell a smile.
Desrenaud laughed. "It gets worse."
"Come out, warlock! I know you there, I know you fear!" In his dusky bearded tattooed face Catulk's filed teeth glinted like mirror-shards. "The girl Diara is mine, she and I will lie together this night! I get her virginity, and if she have no virginity because of you, foul magician, I kill her!"
"Well, that was stupid," Ryel said, adding a word and a sign; and in another moment the splendid warrior's exquisite mare stumbled, throwing her rider clean over her head. Proud Catulk sprawled face first in the dust, his filed teeth
bloodied; and all along the wall a laugh went up, accompanied by a rain of malodorous missiles. With the help of his soldiers and his sister Catulk was led away, limping badly and cursing vehemently in his native tongue.
"Looks like he's twisted his ankle," Desrenaud observed.
Ryel shrugged. "I was hoping for his neck. But I see to my great happiness that he's lost one of his front teeth."
"You don't want to fight him face to face?"
"Not in the least." The wysard stood up. "Let's put an end to this."
*****
As Desrenaud had only too accurately predicted, the battle began a little after dusk, and raged without respite through the night. Almancar had no defense against the Zegry army's great catapults, that rained an unceasing barrage of rotting-dead animals and human corpses, knots of venomous snakes, and jars full of poisonous or flaming substances upon the city; and the forces of Catulk and Coamshi had brought new weapons with them, never seen before—great cylinders of iron that blasted like thunder, sending up great balls likewise of iron, which crashed against the city walls and splintered the stone, destroying the mural sculptures that were meant to outlast time. It took every effort of both soldiers and citizens to combat the enemy's swarming attempts to scale the walls and break open the gates. All night the clamor and riot of arms shook the air, and still the archers and spearmen of the Azm Chak kept up the assault, loosing barrage after barrage of missiles at the outnumbered and exhausted force upon the wall.
From the tower where he had once stood with Desrenaud the wysard watched, alone and deeply distraught. He was uniformed and armed in the manner of a high officer, but his Art served life, not death. He could only watch the fight, and say mantras of his own devising to protect the Almancarian forces from harm. Those spells met with success, he was relieved to see. But he couldn't be everywhere, nor save everyone.
He had come up to this high place to gain an overview of the chances and changes of the war, and to gather his thoughts awhile. Matters had been worsening apace, despite the headlong desperate efforts of the M'Klaren’s men and the wholly unexpected valor of those Almancarians, noble and commoner, who had resisted Dagar's persuasions. Directly beneath him, Ryel had a perfect, terrible view of the southern wall roiling in savage battle bloodily hand to hand, as wave after wave of the Zegry force assaulted the stone ramparts and were repelled ever less forcefully by the combined powers of the Almancarian forces and the mercenary cohort. The wysard could descry Priamnor Dranthene in golden armor gleaming by the moon's light and torchlight, standing in full view of the enemy shouting orders and encouragement to his men, laying about him with the sword that had nearly reft the wysard of his life that night in the Diamond Heaven. Nearby him Lady Srin led her band of warriors in battling against the enemies' efforts to scale the wall. Her moonstone eyes glowed with fury and delight as they glanced now here, now there, wherever the fight was at its worst; and as she fought, hacking and hewing with her razor-edged axe, she grunted underbreath Art-words to ward off enemy arrows, saving lives countless times. He saw Guyon Desrenaud and Rodhri M’Klaren fighting side by side, both of them splashed and stained with their enemies' blood and their own. But bravely as Almancar was defended, and high and strong though its walls were, no victory would come to the Dranthene loyalists. They were far too few, even with the mercenary army's crucial assistance.
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