by Lyndon Hardy
“The range is too great for them to be accurate enough,” the sergeant crowed. “They will never dislodge us from there. A few more hits will put the fire completely out of control. Let us see what kind of siege Bandor can conduct, demon driven or not, with no supplies and only this brushland to forage on.”
Alodar watched intently as the mangonels were turned into a straight line, halfway between their previous positions and the enemy camp. A hint of hope soothed the rumble in his stomach as the first volley fell short of the ledge, crashing into the face of the cliff far below. His eyes swept back and forth across the panorama, up to the ledge, into the burning camp, and back to the engines and the growing mass of men surrounding them.
“But wait a moment,” he said suddenly. “I see the logo of similarity on that cape down there. See, the tall one, next to the second mangonel. He is a master, just as Periac is. I fear that my craft will play a still larger role in the affairs of the day.”
As they watched, the master thaumaturge directed the three running up behind him to dump the sacks they carried onto the ground. A pile of small stones discharged from each. Two more men lugged into position a huge cauldron and began filling it from a wagonload of jars that halted alongside.
“Lodestones,” Alodar cried with sudden recognition. “Tracers. By the laws, let there be no marksman good enough for this task among them.”
A small group of archers formed a single file; as they passed the cowled figure, he deftly chipped a fragment from each rock and gave it to one of the bowmen. After each had received his charge, he bound it to the shaft of an arrow and let fly at the catapult in the cliff above.
Alodar watched the ledge as the missiles hurled upwards. Most were wide of the mark, splintering against hard rock and falling back to the floor of the pass. Several minutes passed as volley after volley did no harm. But finally one shot struck the frame of the catapult and held fast.
“Quickly!” Alodar shouted. “Signal them to remove the shaft before he can complete the incantation.”
“But a single arrow does them no harm, journeyman. Let them use their time to continue firing while it is still light,” the sergeant said. “You remain with your craft and I will manage mine.”
“Get it removed or they will hurl nothing more today. See, they have the other stone in the acid already.”
As he spoke, the master cracked one of the remaining untouched rocks in two and dropped one half into the cauldron steaming atop a hastily constructed fire. The brew frothed like storm-driven surf as three heavyset men slowly tipped the contents of the huge crucible onto a pile of artillery stones stacked at their feet. The crews from the siegecraft each retrieved one hot wet stone and loaded and cocked their engines. The thaumaturge held his hands high overhead. In one was the stone from which the chip now affixed to the catapult had been cleft; in the other was the remains of the one consumed in the acid bath. Alodar held his breath, knowing what was to come next.
A mailed figure astride the horse surveyed the ready engines and the waiting craftsman. He signaled the crews to fire and the projectiles sprang from their beds in unison. An instant later, with the missiles already rising high into the air, the thaumaturge brought the two small stones swiftly together.
The flying rocks wrenched out of their natural trajectories; like sunlight focused with a glass, they converged simultaneously on the ledge. The catapult exploded in a mass of ragged timber, splinters, and dust. The bombarding rock shattered into an avalanche of gravel against the cliff face and cascaded to the plain. The hills rocked with the violence of the impact and the shock threw Alodar nearly to his knees. Where once there had been form was now a shattered ruin of timber and flesh.
The scene was quiet, attacker and defender alike shaken by the force of the blow. Alodar looked back at the enemy camp and noticed only a few wisps of smoke where the fire had raged but moments before. Of course, the perfect source, he thought.
As the last rays of the sun faded, the detachment of artillery slowly returned to the besieging circle and both sides made ready for the cessation of action for the day. As elsewhere, the stunned silence continued for several minutes more up on the high keep. Finally the sergeant turned for the archway.
“In two days, for certain,” he muttered.
“A waste of time, if you ask me, Alodar,” Morwin said irritably as they stumbled along the passageway that evening. “How are we, in a single night, going to find something that has eluded the occupants of this fortress for probably three hundred years? And with a single torch yet? Why, I can barely make you out two feet before me, let alone some secret mark along these clammy walls. And you know Periac is probably pacing his quarters right now, wanting a full report on what happened today with the air gondola. Let’s be done with this, I say.”
“Not just yet, Morwin,” Alodar said. “I admit it seems hopeless, but what are we to do? Just follow through our prescribed tasks until the inevitable happens?”
“Oh, by the laws, Alodar, I relish this entrapment as little as you. But I would rather save my strength for something useful tomorrow, rather than burning off my evening gruel sloshing through puddles in the dark, three full flights beneath the ground.”
“But look, Morwin, there must be something to aid us here. Some clue to help us break the siege. Think about it. Why are these passages and chambers under the walls even here? The whole castle is laid out with such an economy of design, not a wasted stone anywhere. The perfect fortress, the men-at-arms say. The flanking towers project out just the right amount to cover walls of optimum height. Crenelations and loopholes are cut to maximize both protection and density of fire. The central keep is pocked with bartizans of all sizes for observation of missile launching. With all of that care, why honeycomb the thing with these subterranean caverns unless they too somehow play in the defense?”
“Well then, for what do the records of the builders say all of this is to be used? We use the chamber under the northeast tower on the first level as an area of discipline. Perhaps this place was intended to be a grand dungeon?”
“With this layout, hardly. There aren’t any small cells, just long corridors connecting large chambers, and no gates to impede one’s access. And as to the builders, would that we could ask them. The sagas say only that when the scions of Procolon first pushed into these desolate western lands they found the Iron Fist open and unoccupied. The portcullis was up and the oaken doors of the gatehouse full ajar. Inside was nary a trace of man or beast or any sign that any had ever been here. Just mute stone in a silent wasteland. Vendora’s forefathers used their luck well, granted. They garrisoned the place, and ever since it has protected Procolon’s western flank with its grip of iron against the likes of a Bandor gone wild. But no one living knows more of this castle’s secrets than even you or … Hold, I think we are under the keep again.”
Alodar thrust his torch forward, staring into the blackness ahead. He could see the walls receding from him on both sides into the gloom but could discern no other detail of their surroundings. He began to move cautiously to the left, one hand on moist stone, the other still advancing the torch in front.
“Look,” he exclaimed, “a wall cresset, and with oil still in it.” He touched his torch to the small pool in the lip of the rock and it sprang to life. He and Morwin again looked about them, now able to see to the opposite wall of the chamber.
“Cressets all around, Alodar,” Morwin said. “At least here we will be able to see what we are stumbling over.”
Alodar quickly circled the chamber, lighting the wall flames as he did so. When he was done, he moved towards the center to survey what the flickering light revealed. The chamber was large and circular, though not as huge as the massive keep which towered above it. The walls were smooth and damp, pieced with precision from many small stones and pierced by four dark archways evenly spaced around the periphery. The stone floor sloped downwards from all directions; in the very center stood a pool of dark water fed by the dripping
s from the walls. As he approached, Alodar thrust the handle of his torch into the still surface.
“Why, there is a well here, Morwin,” he exclaimed. “See, the depth is much greater than the slope of the floor would indicate. I wonder how deep it is?”
Suddenly a flicker of light in one of the passageways caught his eye. As he and Morwin turned, they heard the clank of arms and the stomp of many feet echoing down towards them.
In a moment, several men-at-arms tromped into the chamber, torches held high and swords drawn. “Halt, who’s there?” the first called out belligerently as his eyes adjusted to the increased light.
“Alodar, journeyman, and Morwin, apprentice, to master thaumaturge Periac, in the service of fair queen Vendora,” Alodar quickly responded as half a dozen more poured into the room.
“Then you serve me in most unusual ways, journeyman,” a woman’s voice answered him in turn, soft and distinctive amid the growing din.
Alodar turned from the approaching men to the new speaker, and his eyes widened in surprise.
“Caution, my fair lady,” growled the tall, white-haired man who now entered and stood beside her. “I remember this name, Alodar, and I doubt his interests would truly serve your crown.”
Vendora the queen smiled at Alodar and then turned to her advisor. “And what great threat does this journeyman harbor, lord Festil?” she asked. She brushed back the tumble of her golden blond hair with deliberate casualness. Her blue eyes, that mirrored the morning sea, sparkled above a small upturned nose and lips of apple red. Her smile radiated the promise of delight, and Alodar felt his pulse suddenly quicken. She wore men’s clothing, leggings, tunic, and cape, but they did not hide the thrust of her ample figure. With a dramatic sweep, she thrust back the cape and stood arms akimbo, left fist above a small dagger, awaiting Festil’s reply.
“You were too young a princess to take notice, my fair lady,” Festil said. “But many were the council meetings in which your father pounded the table with rage, the blood bloating the veins of his neck, his face flushed red. And all because one headstrong vassal dared to stand fast to his opinions when unanimity with royal persuasion was obviously what discretion demanded.”
Festil stopped and then pointed his red-gloved fist at Alodar. His lips downturned with displeasure, pulling tight age-blotched skin across high-thrust cheeks on his narrow face. “No, my fair lady, this man’s father put his interests before those of the crown. In the end, he refused to yield one time too often and received his just due. It was a matter of no lasting importance, but your sire demonstrated that he was indeed king. His lands confiscated and title revoked by royal decree, Alodun ended his days in common squalor, trying to enlist others in his effort to regain what was no longer rightfully his. I judge his son tracks you here seeking restitution, hoping the years would dim the memories of your father’s faithful advisors. But I served your sire well, as I serve you now, and on his deathbed promised that I would ensure nothing be forgotten in matters of state.”
Vendora dropped her arms to her sides and laughed. Her voice floated lightly like a wind-blown leaf, with no hint of the weight of the crown. “But if I were but a young princess, lord Festil,” she said, “then the journeyman here could have been but a lad. How deep could such passion burn in a heart so young?”
She turned to Alodar, eyes widening, and he felt the royal demand for a reply. For an instant he paused. Festil’s words stung, and the memories boiled out of their hiding places, fresh as when they were new. He had been young, yes. Too young to aid, but old enough to feel the helplessness when he saw the faces of cruel laughter and the sneers over shoulders of hastily turned backs. He remembered the image of his father, eyes finally dim and spirit broken. Not a single vassal had pledged to convince a stubborn monarch to return what he had so capriciously taken away. The impulse to lash out with words of his own welled up within him, but he clenched his fist into a tight ball and swallowed painfully.
It was so futile a struggle then, he thought. Could it be any different now? Was not the decision to cease resistance to the forces which overwhelmed him a good one? Renounce the claim to be a noble of Procolon and follow instead wherever fate might lead him. Ignore the feeling of incompleteness, of nagging dissatisfaction with each niche in life that he might try. Travel on to the next and the next, sampling and testing until he found the one that he could embrace with relaxing acceptance.
He looked into Vendora’s eyes and spoke slowly. “As I have said, my fair lady, I am a journeyman thaumaturge. Not that my craft should matter. Since my father’s death, I have been many things, goatherd, woodcutter, tavernhand. And it is true that I seek, but my presence here is not by plan of supplication. Rather I had hoped that these dungeons might finally yield something to aid us all.”
“And what have you found?”
“Nothing, my lady, nothing yet,” Alodar said turning his gaze from Vendora to answer the smaller woman similarly clad standing at her side. She too had her cowl thrown back revealing short auburn hair and eyes that danced darkly in the firelight. If she were by herself, men would turn to look, but next to Vendora her beauty would go unnoticed.
“Sweetbalm, of course nothing. Nothing as one with any sanity would expect,” Festil exploded, brushing aside Alodar’s presence with a wave of his hand. “May I state the case bluntly again, my fair lady? We will not extricate ourselves from this siege by following the whims of lady Aeriel here, no matter how good her intentions. This is a matter that can be settled only by arms, arms striking in unison to achieve the same objective. You must choose, and choose now before it is too late.”
“My choice for life, merely to help us better fight a border skirmish. A weighty choice indeed, lord Festil,” Vendora responded.
“It may well be your life, my fair lady. We are too undermanned to defend the walls properly. We must use every man and weapon we have with utmost efficiency. Yet we squander our time and resources in as many ways as we have lords within these walls. Andac launches a sally with no cover; Fendel crams all of his archers into the southwest tower, leaving the whole southwall unprotected; old Cranston detaches his men to the bidding of a mere craftsman with some mad gondola scheme. And why is this chaos so? Because each man strives to outdo the next in some feat of valor, some deed for the sagas, to make you swoon and choose him for your champion. Your beauty inspires great desire. Vendora, as perhaps no queen of Procolon did before, but thus far it has also created great turmoil in the realm as well.”
Alodar watched as Vendora received Festil’s words with a slight smile, again brushing back her hair. She glanced about the room, testing what was being said, her smile broadening as she caught the reaction of each man in turn.
“My fair lady,” Festil continued, pounding one fist down upon the other, “we need your choice now, not after each brave man here has gone singly to his fate in a vain attempt to impress you. Name the man and the petty bickering among our young scions will cease. Name the man and all here will follow him as we are sworn to do. Name the man so that we may fight as an army, rather than a horde of errant lords, each intent upon his own private quest.”
“And so, rather than many small uncoordinated thrusts,” Aeriel cut in, “we will unite and make one large one that will prove equally ineffective. You deprecate the sagas, Festil, but in your heart you cling to them still. One last hurrah and men of stout heart and unity of purpose rout the enemy against overwhelming odds and secure the Iron Fist once again. A noble tale, but one that we cannot make so. Our salvation, I think, lies outside the traditions of our forefathers.”
“Had we the wisdom of our forefathers, we would not face the difficulties we have here now,” Festil boomed, his voice echoing off the walls. “Had our queen chosen the hero of the realm last solstice, he would have the kingdom in good order by now. The states to the south would not risk his displeasure, and all of the border fortresses would be fully manned. Had we the champion now, he would have persuaded her to remain where she b
elongs in the safety of the palaces of Ambrosia. He certainly would have had the sense not to send her venturing unto the very borders with only a small party of retainers, more for show than for protection, no matter what the babbling of some court sorcerer. The mines in the Fumus Mountains may indeed be surrendering the last of their wealth, and the royal revenues thereby decreased. But to risk seeking alchemical formulas hidden here, merely on the word of enfeebled Kelric, is the height of imprudence. Why, Bandor merely had to wait until the portcullis clanged down and he nigh had Procolon handed to him on a platter.”
“Enough, Festil,” Vendora interjected softly but with authority. “I grow weary of the same long-winded discourse between you and Aeriel whenever you get the opportunity. You have served my father well, and I value your council now. But I wonder how hard you would press were not your own son within these walls and vying with the rest for my favor. I will choose the hero of the realm when it suits me personally and not just the circumstances.
“And Aeriel, I weary also of this tramping about in the gloom. This chamber holds for us no better clue than the ones above, I fear. A thick iron slab on the floor of the topmost, a featureless pillar floor to ceiling in the second, and this pool of water here, with nothing else to catch the eyes. Let this journeyman continue his search and report to us anything unusual that he may find. We should now return to our chambers and contemplate how we shall conduct ourselves tomorrow.”
With these words, Vendora turned and marched back into the passageway. The two men-at-arms nearest scrambled to pass in front and light the way ahead. The rest dutifully filed out behind. In a moment, Alodar and Morwin were again alone, surrounded only by the musty smell and echoes from the retreating party.
