Night of the Eye

by Mary Kirchoff

  “Northern Ergoth,” muttered Lyim, scratching his head. “Isn’t that where you’re from?” Guerrand squeezed his eyes shut and nodded numbly. “Do you know anything about the notice?”

  “Too much,” Guerrand acknowledged wearily without thinking.

  “The local lord … wouldn’t that be your brother?” asked the other apprentice.

  “Look, Lyim,” Guerrand said, backing away, “I really can’t talk about this.”

  Lyim’s hand flew up to clasp his friend’s arm, holding him tight. “All right, I’ll do the talking. Your family is in trouble, and you’re angry. That’s understandable. What’s not is why you’re still in Palanthas. When are you returning to help them?”

  “Help who?” Guerrand asked, avoiding Lyim’s eyes.

  “Come on, Guerrand, I’m not stupid. I understand why you feel you can’t trust me, but …” He regarded his friend through one eye.

  Lyim’s tactics crumbled Guerrand’s resolve. “I can’t go back!” he confessed.

  “What do you mean? Your family won’t let you?”

  Guerrand shook his head miserably. “They don’t know where I am, or that Berwick means to attack them.”

  Lyim caught on quickly. “It’s Justarius, isn’t it? He won’t let you leave to help them.” Incredulous, Lyim shook his head. “Does he mean to tear you in two, choosing between him and your family?”

  Guerrand found himself in the odd position of defending his master. “He requires me to be true to my vow. Besides, he hasn’t forbidden me to go, only told me what the consequences would be for me here.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Guerrand looked to the notice on the post. “And I haven’t much time to decide.”

  Lyim’s eyes shifted from side to side as he considered something. He snapped his fingers. “Let me go to Northern Ergoth and at least warn your family. I could help them, if it came to that.”

  “What?” exclaimed Guerrand, scarcely believing his ears. “What would you tell Belize?”

  Lyim’s expression turned eager with enthusiasm as he warmed to the idea. “I’ll tell him nothing. Then I won’t be violating any rule like Justarius’s, will I? Besides, Belize won’t even notice I’m gone. He told me after my tongue-lashing that he’s retreating for weeks of meditation and work on his newest book of spells.” Lyim waved it away. “He does that all the time.”

  “But what’ll you do at Castle DiThon? Who’ll you talk to? You’re a stranger! Why would they listen to you?”

  “Give me some credit, will you?” said Lyim. “I’ll come up with some convincing story about, I don’t know, being in the Berwick’s hire, then defecting out of a sense of justice, or some such rot. They’ll have no choice but to believe me.” He shrugged. “If they don’t, I’ll be there to help your family magically. You know my magic is better than yours.”

  Guerrand snorted. “Cormac would no sooner let you employ magic than kiss him.”

  Lyim grabbed Guerrand by the shoulders. “That’s the beauty of this whole plot! They don’t know me from the great wizard Fistandantilus. No one has to know I’m using magic!” He frowned at his friend. “Now stop trying to think of reasons it won’t work and tell me what I need to know to make it work.”

  Guerrand shook his head vigorously. “It’s more than I can ask of you, Lyim.”

  “You didn’t ask. I offered.” Lyim looked at him slyly from the corners of his eyes. “You got a better plan, or are you just going to let them die?”

  Guerrand stopped shaking his head, slowly softening to the idea. Lyim was right about them believing a stranger over him, and also about his spellcasting abilities. Under the circumstances, it seemed like the perfect solution, when moments ago there had been none. Guerrand would be able to keep his apprenticeship, and his family stood a better chance with Lyim. Guerrand peered closely at the other apprentice. “Why would you do this for me?”

  “I’d be doing it for me,” he corrected Guerrand, his tone unusually earnest. “Maybe it’ll help me feel like I’ve atoned for my behavior at the Jest.” He shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, I could use the field practice—it’s tiresome learning spells I have no occasion to use.”

  Awash with relief and affection, Guerrand gave his friend a grateful smile. “Then I accept your offer.”

  Whooping his victory, Lyim slapped an arm around Guerrand’s shoulders and hustled him toward the tavern. “You can buy me a drink while we come up with a plan of action. It would help to devise a quicker means of travel than the mercenaries who are signing up, but that seems unlikely. Is there anyone I could trust with the truth? A servant, a sibling …?”

  Lyim waited with growing impatience in the chilly seaside cove, listening to the gentle crash of waves from the Strait of Ergoth. The fresh white tunic he’d donned two days ago to meet Guerrand’s sister had turned yellow under the arms and was stained with damp red clay. Yet he couldn’t leave. Kirah might show up at any time. And after having spent more than two weeks aboard ship with sweaty, lice-ridden mercenaries headed for the Berwick shipping line’s port of Hillfort, he’d be damned if a chit of a girl would keep him from his promise to his friend.

  “This is all Guerrand’s fault,” Lyim growled aloud in his growing frustration. “He was the one who told me to wait in Kirah’s usual refuge, instead of seeking her at the keep.” If he hadn’t listened to Guerrand, Lyim would have thought of some pretext upon which to call for Kirah at the castle. “I’d be talking with her now,” he said, “instead of sitting in this damp, dark cave.”

  You could still do that, the young mage reminded himself. And yet Lyim hesitated, feeling like he’d invested too much time here to leave just as Kirah might finally show.

  Pushing himself up with a sigh, Lyim stepped through the mouth of the cove to find distraction in the sea. Even its too-steady rhythm would break the monotony. The apprentice felt the tide lapping at his boots as he watched the seabirds wheeling overhead. Among their screeches he thought he heard a faint gasp.

  Lyim held himself still, listening. Something was nearby. He heard a second gasp, the rustling of stiff cloth, and then someone scuttling away overhead. Lyim spun around and looked on the rock shelf above the cave, shading his eyes from the sun.

  Curled in upon herself against a rocky crevice, like some enormous cornered spider, was a slip of a girl with stringy, shoulder-length blond hair. She wore the tattered remains of a once-fine dress, and was barefoot.

  “Kirah?” Lyim called, incredulous.

  The girl’s eyes went dark with fear, and she would have scrabbled back farther if her spine weren’t already pressed against the rocks. “Wh-Who are you? Leave me alone, or I’ll scream!”

  Lyim was surprised. This was not the spunky tiger Guerrand had described, but more a scared rabbit. He put on his most disarming smile, the one that showed his dimples and the sparkle in his eyes. “I was told you were a girl, not a lovely young lady.”

  Kirah wrapped her arms around her bent knees and seemed to pull into herself even further, until all that was visible among the shadows of the rocks were her wide, white eyes.

  “I am Lyim. Your brother sent me to find you.”

  “Cormac?”

  “No, your other sibling. Guerrand.”

  The young girl shook her head vigorously, limp hair swinging in pale yellow ropes. “I no longer have a brother by that name.”

  Lyim’s eyebrows rose in mild amusement. “Guerrand said you might be angry.”

  “Angry!” scoffed Kirah. “That’s an understatement.” She abruptly pinched her lips into a tight, pale line, unwilling to be drawn further into the subject.

  “I can see you’re more than angry,” Lyim continued in his most soothing tone. “And I know that seeing me is nothing like having your brother back again. But he did send me; I was with him less than three weeks ago.”

  This line of approach didn’t seem to be getting Lyim very far, although Kirah hadn’t tu
rned and run, which he counted as a victory of sorts. “You don’t look anything like your brother,” he said at last.

  “I’m told I favor our mother.” Kirah eyed his attire suspiciously from the ledge. “And you don’t look like a friend of Rand’s—a pirate, maybe.”

  Remembering the prejudice he’d encountered when last on board ship, Lyim had left his trademark red robe in Palanthas. He’d been on the wretched, rocking boat for over two weeks and had grown a thick beard and mustache, well trimmed, the same glistening blue-black as his shoulder-length hair. His clothing was unusually subtle for Lyim: undyed chamois, a jerkin with short, flared sleeves over a white linen shirt. Lyim’s breeches were of the same soft leather, tucked into high boots. Kirah was right—no one would mistake him for a mage.

  Lyim laughed. “Your brother tells me that all the time.” An awkward silence fell.

  “So … is Guerrand a mage now?” Kirah asked at last.

  “We’re apprentices, actually.”

  Kirah shrugged, signifying the distinction was unimportant to her. “Where is he?”

  Lyim coughed at the inevitable question. “Guerrand asked me not to tell you that, for your own sake.”

  Kirah pursed her lips in disgust but didn’t press him on the point. “So, did he send you merely to tell me he’s still alive?”

  “No,” said Lyim, “he sent me to warn you.” He was squinting into the sunlight above her. “Say, can you come down off there? I’m nearly going blind.” Kirah hesitated to get any closer.

  “You realize, of course, that if I were here to hurt you,” said Lyim, his handsome face smirking, “a little thing like a ledge wouldn’t stop me.”

  Kirah seemed to consider that, then extended her hand for him to help her down. Lyim took the pale little thing, like fragile bird bones, and steadied her as she jumped to the tide-washed sand at the mouth of the cove. “Much better,” he sighed, settling himself onto a knee-high shelf of rock.

  “Warn me about what?” Kirah asked, skipping back in the conversation. “The furor over Guerrand’s leaving has finally passed. Cormac simply seized the land he wanted from Berwick, and the mood in Castle DiThon is, for once, almost ridiculously happy—particularly since Cormac left to defend Stonecliff against retaliation from Berwick. He also wanted to use the time to draw up plans for the fort he intends to build there.”

  Lyim snapped his fingers. “That’s just it. Berwick intends to strike back, and soon, but not at Stonecliff. He’s gathering an army of mercenaries and Knights of Solamnia to besiege Castle DiThon.”

  Kirah’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How would you know that? Perhaps you’re really a spy in the employ of Berwick, sent here to cause trouble and learn whatever you can by lying to young girls.” She stepped away from him, waves lapping up to fill her sandy footprints.

  Lyim shook his head sadly. “Your suspicions are misplaced, Kirah,” he said. “How can I prove to you that I am truly your brother’s friend sent to help you, and not some spy for a man on whom I’ve never laid eyes?”

  She jutted her chin defiantly. “Tell me where Guerrand is, so I can ask him myself.”

  “You couldn’t reach him in time to prevent the Berwick attack, even with the fastest ship.”

  Kirah arched a pale brow. “So he’s not on Northern Ergoth?”

  Lyim chuckled. “Guerrand told me you were clever, but I’m not foolish. You’ll have to think of another way to be reassured I am who I say. Quickly now, before I lose my considerable patience,” he finished, his sarcasm evident to Kirah even through her own frustration.

  “So tell me how you learned of this plot.”

  Lyim looked relieved. “I can tell you that much safely. Guerrand and I saw the recruitment notices, and I traveled here with many of the responding mercenaries.” Lyim plucked at his shirt. “That’s why I’m not wearing my usual wizardly garb. Anyway, unless I miss my guess, we have just a matter of days before they attack—the time it takes to march an army from Hillfort to here.”

  Kirah pondered that for a while. At length she said, “Let’s say I believe you. What would you have me do about it? Cormac’s at least a day away, even if he would listen to me, which he wouldn’t.”

  “You could never explain where you’d learned it,” agreed Lyim. “From what Guerrand has said, your elder brother isn’t as tolerant of magic as you are.”

  Kirah chuckled without humor. “Tolerant isn’t a word I would use to describe Cormac under any circumstance.”

  “We’ll have to tread carefully, then,” said Lyim. “I have an idea that just might work, but you’ll have to give me some information on the Berwick family,” he said mysteriously, piquing Kirah’s interest.

  Lyim looked about the cove with disdain. “We’ve got to work fast. I need to prepare some spells. Can you sneak me into the keep where I can work in relative comfort—” he brushed at the moist clay on his tunic “—or at least under drier conditions?”

  Kirah smiled broadly. Here, at last, was something she understood. Lyim was very charming. If she was making a mistake in trusting him, at least life would be interesting for the first time since Guerrand left.

  “If it’s a sneak you need, then you’ve come to the right person.”

  * * * * *

  One hundred mercenaries and men-at-arms stretched across the heath behind Sir Morris Whetfeld. For three days, the Knight of the Rose had ridden before them from Hillfort, leading them to the castle of his father-in-law’s nemesis. To the family his new wife had twice nearly joined. The Berwicks had been thrice betrayed by the DiThons. Morris’s mailed fists curled in anger. These barbarians from Northern Ergoth had no sense of honor. No wonder they were merely cavaliers, instead of true Knights of Solamnia.

  The Knight of the Rose shuddered at the thought of the misfits behind him who’d answered the notices the Berwicks had placed in every port of call. They were a scruffy lot, the dregs of society no doubt. Sir Morris would be happy when this siege was over and he could pay them and send them back to whatever holes they’d crawled from. He had no illusions about the honor of these swords-for-hire, but at least their loyalty could be purchased temporarily.

  From the looks of things at Castle DiThon, Sir Morris would not need to purchase it for long. Aside from some sheep grazing on a nearby hillside, the place looked nearly deserted. Advance word of the attack had obviously not leaked to Cormac DiThon. It was doubtful, even, that anyone inside had yet noticed that an army stood at the ready beyond the eastern walls. Morris had expected at least some sort of nominal, everyday castle defenses to be in place. The closed northern and eastern gates, from the knight’s vantage point, appeared to be the extent of its security.

  Could it be a trap? Was DiThon more clever than Morris anticipated, or as foolish as he appeared? The knight could hear the men behind him getting restless, their horses prancing. Sir Morris was about to force an answer to his question by preparing his men for the initial charge when a lone figure appeared on the eastern battlements.

  Wearing a tabard bearing what Morris knew to be the DiThon coat-of-arms and a helmet that was much too big, the smallish man called out nervously, “Yes? What is it? May I help you?”

  Sir Morris Whetfeld was thunderstruck! “Good heavens, man,” he roared, “have you truly no idea we’ve come to siege your castle? Tell your master to come forth. I would speak with the blackguard before I lay waste to his moldering keep.” Even at such a distance, Sir Morris could see the man’s fear and indecision.

  “I-I’m sorry, sir,” the quivering man said. “I’m just the chamberlain. The lord, hmm, isn’t in residence today,” he blundered.

  Sir Morris could scarcely believe his luck. “All the better, then. Direct whatever men-at-arms you have to open the eastern gates, and we’ll have a minimum of bloodshed and damage.”

  The chamberlain wrung his hands. “That would mean surrendering, wouldn’t it? I don’t believe I can do that, sir. I’m just the chamberlain.”

  “You’re abo
ut to be a dead chamberlain!” shouted Sir Morris, growing frustrated with the man’s timidity. He rubbed his face beneath the uplifted visor of his helm. “Go and fetch the lady of the keep, if you must,” he ordered briskly. “And be quick about it, man, or we’ll open the gates for you from the outside.”

  “One moment, please,” the chamberlain called, as if speaking to an unexpected guest at the door.

  Not knowing what else to do, Sir Morris crossed his arms and waited, amazed at the odd turn of events. Many minutes passed, and still no one returned. Hearing his commanders behind him whispering among themselves, Morris began to feel foolish, which made him angry. Even the mercenaries began to joke loudly.

  Sir Morris’s cheeks grew hot in his helm, until he could no longer stand it. “Time’s up!” he bellowed. Morris signaled to the men behind him. A group moved forward, carrying a massive tree trunk between them. Positioning themselves in front of the main gate, they began battering their way through.

  Three times the huge ram crashed like thunder into the stout gate, and each time the timbers cracked and splintered a bit more. But the portal was built to withstand such punishment and undoubtedly would for some time.

  Sir Morris shifted in his saddle. Surely these fools would just let them in. Even the pretense of resistance was foolhardy under these conditions. Another crash resounded. After a few more strokes, Morris would order a fresh crew to the ram; swinging the enormous log was a tiring job.

  As his eyes ran along the parapets, Morris caught a movement several dozen paces to the right of where the chamberlain had been. Perhaps a sniper with a bow, waiting to pick off a juicy target like a knight on horseback. He waved several of the mercenary archers to his side and was in the process of pointing out the potential danger spot to them when the flutter turned into a figure of a young man Morris estimated to be approximately a score of years in age. He appeared unarmed, and had more the look of a pirate than a soldier about him.

  Cupping a hand to his mouth, the young man hollered down to the assembled warriors, “Halloo! I wish to speak with Master Berwick.”