* * *
Captain Argot sought out Helmos in the tower room that had once been King Tamaros’s favorite place and that had now become a refuge for his son.
“The army of the Lord of the Void is on the march at last, Your Majesty.”
“Is that certain?” Helmos looked up. He might have been his father, sitting there, surrounded by books and papers. Helmos had aged much in the last few months and looked, in his thirties, very much as Tamaros had looked in his seventies.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Helmos smiled wanly. “I might almost say that I am glad, were it not wicked to be glad for war and its inevitable death and destruction. Yet”—he sighed deeply—“I will be relieved when this is over. We must summon the other Dominion Lords.”
“I have taken the liberty of doing so, Your Majesty.”
“We will meet and make final plans, then, this night. What is the disposition of the prince’s march?”
“That is what I find odd, Your Majesty,” said Argot. He gestured to an aide, who stepped forward and, at the King’s nod, cleared away a stack of books and spread a map out upon the table. “Our reports indicate that the main body of his forces—including the elven army—are taking the route we expected them to take, along the Vinnengael Road, intending to hit us at the north wall. This army is led by the Vrykyl, who we now believe to be a former army deserter turned assassin—a man named Shakur. According to the gaoler, Prince Dagnarus and the magus, Gareth, freed Shakur from prison only a short while prior to the prince’s Transfiguration. The prince kept Shakur locked up in a room for a few days, then that was the last anyone saw of Shakur alive.”
Helmos shuddered. He had turned very pale. “Poor wretch,” he said in a low voice. “I have been reading what information there is on the Vrykyl. Whatever heinous crimes he had committed, he did not deserve such a dreadful fate. But you said there was something odd about this, Captain. Surely, from what you have previously explained to me, we expected the Lord of the Void to attack Vinnengael from the north. Indeed, as you said, it is the only direction from which he could possibly attack us. You will therefore concentrate your forces at the north wall.”
“I know I said that, Your Majesty,” Argot said, frowning at the map. “But now I begin to wonder. Prince Dagnarus was the best, the most gifted commander under which I have ever served. He knows—he has to know—that a frontal assault on the north wall has very little chance of succeeding. As for putting the city under siege, we have food stores enough to hold out for months, throughout the winter if we are careful. We have water in abundance. Out there in the open, with no shelter from the winter winds, he and his troops would suffer far more than we during a prolonged siege. He could not sustain it. So what is his plan?”
Captain Argot’s frown deepened. He seemed to expect the map to tell him and was annoyed when it did not. He glowered at the map almost as if it were a prisoner, withholding valuable information. “What is his plan?” he muttered to himself.
“I think you overestimate him, Captain,” said Helmos. “Once, yes, Dagnarus was an able commander, but that was before the Void sucked whatever was good and best out of him and left his soul dark and empty. I have been thinking long on this, and it seems to me that Dagnarus does not even want to capture Vinnengael, at all. He wants nothing more than to inflict whatever terrible punishment he can upon us, never mind the cost to himself or those who follow him.”
Captain Argot and his aide exchanged glances—both had served under Dagnarus, both respected him, if they no longer admired him.
“There could be something in what you say, Your Majesty,” said the captain, unwilling to contradict directly his King. “And yet…”
“Speak plainly, Captain. I am no military expert. I rely on you for advice on these matters.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said the captain somberly. “According to our scouts, the Lord of the Void does not ride with his army. He has disappeared, and so has a considerable portion of his forces. At least that is what we believe.”
“You believe?” Helmos looked grave. “Can’t you tell?”
“Not with any certainty, Your Majesty. The prince is very clever. He did not bother to hide from us the fact that he was building an army, but he did manage to conceal its numbers from us. Soldiers were constantly marching in and out of the prince’s encampment. Their uniforms and their banners changed continuously. Our spies may well have counted the same man six different times, or there may be six men for every one we counted. The only force we are certain of is the elven force. Also, Your Majesty, it is said that the prince has gathered together a large number of sorcerers, magi dedicated to the Void. There has been inclement weather in the mountains—strange, thick fogs, unusual for this time of year. It could be that this weather is magical and has been devised to conceal the prince’s movements.”
“But if he and an army are marching through the mountains, what can they hope to accomplish?” Helmos demanded. “They will still end up at the north wall. The city is surrounded by sheer cliffs on two sides and the river on the third. Even though he has every sorcerer in the world dedicated to the Void, they could not give his army wings like the birds who fly over the walls or gills like the fish who swim in the river!”
“No, but they could find a way to scale the cliffs and breach the walls with their magicks. I would like to hold a force in reserve, prepared to move to counter an attack from wherever it may come. Should it turn out that they are needed at the north wall, we can always send them there.”
“I will discuss this with the Dominion Lords,” Helmos said. “I leave this to their judgment.”
“Very good, Your Majesty.” Argot hesitated, then asked, “And where will Your Majesty and the other members of His Majesty’s family be during the battle?”
“The Queen remains here in Vinnengael. I tried to persuade her to take refuge in her family’s castle, which is located on the river, but she will not leave.”
“Her Majesty’s courage is well-known,” said Argot, bowing.
“Yes.” Helmos smiled, and this time his smile was warm, as always when he thought of or spoke of his beloved wife. “As to the Dowager Emillia, we had hoped to be able to accede to her wishes and give her escort back to her homeland, but she is not well enough for travel.”
The rumor was all over the city that the dowager had gone melancholy mad and had to be watched day and night or she would do herself or someone else some harm.
“And Your Majesty?” Argot asked. “Where will Your Majesty be during the battle?”
Helmos looked surprised. “In the Temple, of course. Praying to the gods to preserve us.”
“Very good, Your Majesty,” Argot said, but to himself he thought, You would be much better advised to be out on the walls alongside those of us who are going to die to preserve you, rather than with the gods, who probably care not one whit about this battle.
Helmos seemed to hear the unspoken words. A faint flush overspread his cheeks. “Though I wear the armor of a Dominion Lord, I am no warrior, Captain, as you well know. I would only be in the soldiers’ way, were I to try to take my place upon the battlements. But I will be fighting, though my sword is made of faith, not steel. I will be fighting to protect the Sovereign Stone,” the King said, gently touching the diamond pendant that he wore on a braided chain of silver and gold around his neck. He wore it always, now, so it was said. Even when he slept.
“I had not forgotten the Sovereign Stone, Your Majesty,” Captain Argot replied. “I was going to suggest that the sacred stone be sent away under guard to some safe place—”
“You’ve been speaking to the High Magus,” Helmos interrupted.
“Reinholt speaks with wisdom, Your Majesty. If—the gods forbid—Vinnengael should fall, the Sovereign Stone must be preserved. At least, it should be hidden in the Temple, in a secret place, kept safe by wizard locks—”
“And what good would it do any of us there? I have heard of misers possessed of
sacks of gold who, though starving and clad in rags against the cold, refuse to spend one penny of their hoard, not even to feed or warm themselves! I will not make that mistake. I will use the power of the Sovereign Stone to save the city.”
“Then at least allow me to place guards around you—”
Helmos shook his head. “That would make it look as if I lacked faith.”
“The Dominion Lords, then. Forgive me for pressing, Your Majesty, but I feel it is my duty—”
“No need to ask my pardon, Captain. You and the Dominion Lords may do what you like about protecting the city. In this, however, I hold sway. I took the burden and the joy of the Sovereign Stone upon myself. None other but myself may bear it. I have faith in the gods. They will keep it safe from falling into the Void. They will see to it that the stone that is now divided will once more be whole. That is all, Captain,” Helmos added, returning to his studies. “Let me know when the Dominion Lords have arrived.”
Captain Argot accepted his dismissal. He could do nothing else. But he planned to bring up the matter of protecting the Sovereign Stone before the Dominion Lords.
It was all very well to talk of wielding a shining sword of faith. But, to the captain’s mind, such a sword would be stronger if the blade were tempered with the alloy of common sense.
Command the Darkness
The army of Prince Dagnarus, Lord of the Void, marched along the old Vinnengael Road, thousands strong, their gaily colored banners whipping in the wind blowing from the ocean, bringing with it the sharp tang of salt and winter. They were led by a figure wearing shining black armor, but that figure—so the Vinnengalean scouts reported, creeping through the brush, close as they dared—was not Prince Dagnarus.
Where was he? No one knew. He did not march with his army, that much was certain. The hearts of the people of Vinnengael were cheered; rumor spread that the prince was dead, that the gods—through the intercession of King Helmos—had struck down the evil demon before he could attack Vinnengael. His army was coming to lay down its arms and surrender. People built bonfires and began dancing in the streets. Captain Argot ordered his men to go into the city and quell the nonsense, tell the dancers to return to their homes or else find a place upon the wall with the rest of the city’s defenders. The army had not come to surrender. It had come to conquer.
As for the whereabouts of Prince Dagnarus, Captain Argot asked that question of himself a hundred times a day until he heard it hammering at him even in his sleep. Argot had fought alongside the prince. Argot had seen Dagnarus ride in the fore-front of the charge, lead the troops over the wall himself, be the first to reach the enemy lines. He was not the type of general to lead from the rear. He was out there somewhere, and if Argot knew where, he might have some idea of the prince’s strategy.
Not a single scout reported seeing the prince, but then the weather in the mountains was terrible. Hard-driven rain slanted down like arrows. Devastating lightning set trees to blazing. Thunderclaps started rockslides. Finally, a blinding fog enveloped the mountains, fog so thick that the entire dwarven nation mounted on horseback might have ridden through those mountains and no one would have been the wiser.
Argot held a force in reserve, ready to send it at a moment’s notice to wherever it was Dagnarus planned to try to make a breakthrough. This meant that the north wall was defended only adequately. If its defenders began to falter, he would have to send in the reserve force there. The Dominion Lords had elected to remain with the defenders on the north wall, adding their powerful magicks to those of the war magi.
King Helmos stood upon the walls with the Dominion Lords gathered around him—the human Dominion Lords only. The Shield of the Divine had sent word that the elven Dominion Lords, fearing that the Lord of the Void might turn his wrath upon the elven homelands, had elected to remain with their own people. The orken Dominion Lords sent word that because of bad omens the entire population had taken to the sea—the only place they considered themselves safe. As for the single dwarven Dominion Lord, Dunner sent no word at all.
Helmos watched the valleys to the north of Vinnengael fill with enemy troops setting up camp, preparing for the attack. They took their time, allowed the people of Vinnengael to get a good look at the size and might of their army. Let them tremble at the sight of the enormous siege engines, like no siege engines anyone had ever before seen. Great monstrous affairs built of wood covered over with armor plate. A platform built on the top housed what looked for all the world like a large water pump. The warriors on the walls pointed at these and laughed and wondered if Dagnarus meant to provide them with a shower bath.
“Still no sign of the prince?” Helmos asked.
“No, Your Majesty,” Argot replied. “He is not among the forces gathered out there, I would swear it. Not unless he is skulking about in disguise, and that is not his way. Prince Dagnarus is no coward, whatever else he may be. Our scouts who were outside the city have either all returned or we have lost contact with them. Those who came back reported that they had seen no sign of him, but that the strange weather in the mountains kept them from seeing much of anything.”
Helmos sighed deeply.
“Your Majesty!” One of the Dominion Lords pointed. The sun was dipping toward the horizon. Its red flame glinted off the spear tips of a small force of soldiers advancing along the road. The enemy troops allowed them to pass, appearing to afford them considerable respect, for wagons loaded with supplies imperiled their cargo as their drivers hastened to steer to the side, leave the road clear.
“Dagnarus?” Helmos asked, leaning over the wall, trying to see.
“No, I do not think so, Your Majesty,” said Lord Altura, her eyesight keen as that of an eagle. “It is the Keeper of Time, here to record the battle.”
The enormous Omarah bodyguards paced along slowly, not in the least discomfited or intimidated by the vast army through which they marched, nor yet by the opposing army that lined the city’s walls. In their midst rode a small brown woman mounted upon a small gray donkey.
“Let the gates be opened,” Helmos commanded. “Give the Keeper escort to the Temple and there let her every wish be granted.”
Argot relayed the order. The gates, which had been shored up against attack, were opened with much trouble. But no one murmured a word of complaint as the Keeper of Time, smiling benignly, trotted through them.
The sun vanished. Night marched with the invading army, or so it seemed. As the numbers of troops increased, so did the darkness. Campfires sparkled, as thick or thicker than stars.
“When will they attack?” Helmos asked quietly.
“With the dawn, Your Majesty,” Argot replied.
“Get what sleep you can. Tell the men to do the same,” Helmos said.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Argot replied.
He and the King both knew there would be no sleep for anyone in Vinnengael that night.
Helmos returned to the palace, where his chamberlain captured him and tried to entice him to supper. The very smell of the food made the King nauseous. He waved the plate away.
“Where is the Queen?”
“She is with the Dowager, Your Majesty,” said the chamberlain, adding, in a low voice, “The Dowager is very bad this evening. Worse than I have ever known.”
Guards opened the door to the Dowager’s chambers for His Majesty. Helmos entered Emillia’s presence silently, subdued by an odd mixture of loathing and pity. Gone were all the ornaments and knickknacks that had once cluttered her chamber. Emillia had either broken them, when one of her mad fits was on her, or they had been removed out of fear for her safety. Gone were the numerous ladies-in-waiting. Most had fled Vinnengael for the safety of their own noble houses. Those who remained had been sent by Queen Anna to assist in the Halls of Healing, which would soon be filled with wartime casualties.
An elderly servant, who had been with the Queen’s own personal household, was all that remained to wait upon her, along with one of the healers, who watched over
her constantly.
The Dowager sat preening before the empty wall where her mirror had once hung. The mirror had long ago been broken; she had attacked one of the servants with the jagged pieces. Helmos tried to be as silent as he could, hoping to attract his wife’s attention without disturbing the Dowager, but at the sound of his footfall, Emillia looked quickly around.
She was a pathetic sight, her hair flying about in crazy wisps, for she was constantly fussing with it, ordering it to be put up, then taken down, then put up again a hundred times a day. Her body was shriveled and shrunken. They had to force her to eat, feed her like a baby. Her eyes stared at him from out of a cadaverous face.
She looked, Helmos thought, as her son had looked, withering in the holy fire.
“Dagnarus?” she called, peering through the gloom. “Dagnarus? Where is that boy? It is high time he visited his mother! I have sent for him and sent for him and he chooses to ignore me. We shall have to teach him a lesson. Where is that whipping boy?” The Dowager straightened herself with a jerk. “You there!” She had caught sight of Helmos. “Send in the whipping boy! I shall have him flogged within an inch of his life. That will teach my son manners, I am sure.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Helmos. The only way to handle Emillia was to humor her madness, according to the healers. The least little ray of reality slipping in through the chinks in her walled-up mind was unbearable for her. Only time and patience would bring about a cure, lead her out of the cell into which she had escaped to protect herself from the pain. “The whipping boy shall be sent, as you command.”
Helmos beckoned to his wife, who was seated beside the Dowager, a task she took upon herself for hours every day, catering to Emillia’s mad whims and listening with patience to her pitiful prattle. Anna rested her hand sympathetically upon Emillia’s withered hand. Rising, she bowed, as if Emillia were still Queen and Anna just another lady-in-waiting. The healer took Anna’s place.
Well of Darkness Page 50
