The Siege of Abythos

by Phil Tucker

  Warmund tongued the inside of his lower lip in thought, scouring Tiron's frame and face with his eyes. Tiron went on staring at the floor, doing his best to appear like nothing more than a fearful laborer. Given the beating his pride had taken over the past few weeks, that wasn't too difficult.

  "I don't recognize you. You've not the look of a miner. What did you say your name was?"

  "Pesold, my lord. I'm Clessel's nephew by way of his mother's side."

  "And how come you took the horse and not Ortlip?"

  Tiron shrugged. "Ortlip was piss drunk, my lord."

  Warmund nodded slowly. "Twenty men, you say? What kind of armor? What were they wielding?"

  Tiron scrunched his face up in thought. "Chain, I think, my lord, though they were wearing big cloaks as if to hide it. Black shields. They had blades drawn. I think I saw one large man with a big ax, but not the wood-cutting kind."

  Murmurs ran down the length of the table, and a man rose to his feet behind Tiron. "Let me lead the relief force, my lord. I'll teach them to meddle with the true lord of the Red Keep!"

  A number of cheers followed this announcement, but Warmund was still studying Tiron. "Black shields? Chain? That doesn't sound like brigands."

  Tiron gave a helpless shrug. "It's what I saw, my lord. I'm guessing they were brigands. Though in the torchlight I made out the shape of a tree on one of the shields, embossed like, as if it had been painted over."

  "Tree?" Warmund sat up. "Nyclosel. His men?" He scratched his chin. "Could Ramswold have been so damned naïve? You, there! Ulein, was it? Why did Ramswold go to meet with Nyclosel?"

  Ulein rose sullenly to his feet. "I told you, my lord. I don't know. He didn't confide in us."

  Warmund cursed, took a bone from his plate and hurled it at Ulein, who ducked just in time. "Ramswold's not done plaguing me. Very well. Ser Nickl, take eight knights and ride to the Teardrop's relief. Tell the constable to assemble a force of thirty men to march right after you."

  Tiron bobbed his head and began to shuffle back, but froze as Warmund pointed at him. "Where do you think you're going? Lead Ser Nickl back and warn him when it's time to slow down. I'll not have them blundering into the Teardrop by accident in the middle of the night."

  Tiron bowed. "Of course, my lord."

  The main hall erupted into activity, a number of knights beseeching Ser Nickl to take them with him. He was a short man with a fiery complexion and a sharp, brusque manner that quelled the cries of favor as he rattled off his chosen companions. Men rushed from the chamber to don their arms, and Tiron was pleased to see that they weren't too steady on their legs. He'd timed it right, interrupting their celebration just as their drinks were starting to get to them.

  Fifteen minutes, later he climbed back onto his steed. She'd been curried and well taken care of, but the ride back was going to push her hard. Tiron watched as the nine knights climbed onto their horses. They had donned their chainmail but eschewed their plate in favor of swift riding. At Ser Nickl's command, Tiron dug his heels in, and his horse cantered forth.

  It was a long ride back up the mountain. Tiron stayed just ahead of the knights, allowing them to jest and boast amongst themselves, but soon they fell silent and focused on the business of riding hard.

  The land to the left dropped away, becoming a sheer descent. They were close. Tiron rode fast around the great bend and saw just ahead the blockade that Ramswold's men had created. Six or seven tree trunks had been laid atop each other across the path, their branches extending high and forming a formidable blockade.

  Tiron continued cantering right up to the barrier as if it didn't exist; the knights, depending on him to alert them, noticed the fallen trees in the dark until too late. They came to a stop, immediately tense, hands going to the hilts of their swords.

  Tiron swung his leg over his saddle and dropped to the path. It was the signal the Order had been waiting for. Immediately, four crossbows twanged from the underbrush, and quarrels punched through mail to knock three men from their saddles.

  Tiron drew his sword from his bedroll, turned, and spitted it up into the armpit of the closest knight. The man screamed, dropped his blade, and fell over the far side of his horse.

  In just seconds, half of Ser Knickl's force was down. To his credit, Ser Knickl remained calm, roaring out for his knights to retreat, but they were packed in too close to turn their horses around.

  Four of Ramswold's followers came running out from the underbrush, Osterhild at their head. "For Lord Ramswold!" they screamed. "For the Order of the Star!"

  Tiron was a shadow between the horses, moving quickly, stabbing and cutting as he went. The mounted knights fought to control their horses, who were snorting and pushing against each other, and then Ser Knickl ordered them to dismount just as the crossbows fired again.

  Only one man fell, but that was enough to even the odds. Tiron saw Ser Knickl leap to the ground with surprising agility and charged him, not bothering to waste his breath on a war cry. The knight saw him coming and grinned, acknowledging Tiron's duplicity, and then their swords met with a clash.

  Ser Knickl was skilled with the blade. He'd cast aside his shield and clasped the sword with both hands, weaving it in a series of feints that kept Tiron back. Fighting by moonlight was a dangerous proposition, making fortune as important as talent, but Tiron kept calm and waited, ignoring the hacking that was taking place around him, the jostling of the mounts, the screams of pain.

  Ser Knickl didn't waste his breath on insults or questions. He just kept coming, his guard exquisite, his blade a flickering tongue of silver fire. Tiron could feel himself growing tired. It had been a torturously long day. He stepped back and smacked the flat of his blade against the muzzle of the horse to their left. The beast screamed and reared, kicking its legs over Ser Knickl's head. The knight raised his sword as if to parry a hoof, and Tiron stepped in and stabbed him in the neck. Ser Knickl cried out and fell.

  The battle was over.

  Tiron pushed his way through the panicked horses to the forest bank. The remaining knights had fallen before the Order's charge, though one of Ramswold's followers lay dead and Osterhild was cradling a badly cut arm. They were ebullient, however, and Ramswold himself emerged from the forest with his other three companions, crossbows raised, his stunned smile reflecting the light of the moon.

  "Listen up!" Tiron used his sergeant's bark, and the seven men and women immediately turned to face him, their faces going blank with surprise. "We're not done yet. You and you, gather the horses, calm them down, and bring them to where your mounts are tied up. Osterhild, see to that arm. The rest of you, help me drag the bodies up onto the bank. We have to move fast. Strip them of their armor and tabards, and find the closest fit to your own frame. Move!"

  Sobered by Tiron's urgency, the Order set to work, calming horses and hauling dead knights by their heels. It was grisly work, and more than one of the young men had to step aside and take deep breaths before returning to his task.

  Ramswold worked alongside Tiron, sitting up Ser Knickl's corpse so that his tabard could be pulled free. "How did it go? What was the situation in the keep?"

  "Just as I'd hoped," grunted Tiron. "They were celebrating your death and already well into their cups. I'm glad." He tossed the tabard aside. It was fortunate that the knights wore crimson. It masked the blood. "Had Warmund been any more sober, I think he might have ordered me spitted."

  Ramswold shuddered. "I'm surprised he didn't. But then again, your plan is brilliant. One for the sagas!"

  Tiron sighed. "No, not brilliant. I copied part of it from a ruse my former liege used once to set up an ambush of her own. The rest? Just improvisation and luck."

  "You're too modest, Ser Tiron. Who knew to rush our plan to take advantage of Warmund's inevitable celebration? Who thought to send Wigant and Ulein ahead to convince Warmund to accept Nyclosel's attack on the Teardrop mine? Hardly your liege."

  "Well, perhaps." Tiron grunted as he rose to his fee
t. "But, as I said before, we're not done yet. Now comes the final test. Are you ready?"

  "I could ride all night," said Ramswold, his voice full of youth and conviction.

  "Well, I can't." Tiron pressed his hands into the small of his back and stretched till his spine popped. "Now, let's make sure Osterhild hasn't made her wound worse and then get everybody ready to ride. Warmund has celebrated enough for one night. It's time to take back the Red Keep."

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Kethe descended upon the Red Rowan's estate with minimal pomp. Only six of her Honor Guard accompanied her, led by Kade in his enameled green armor the color of lush field grass. Kethe had refused to ride in a gilt palanquin, and instead walked in the center of her guards, clad in the softest clothing and a gorgeous cloak that fell sumptuously from her shoulders. Her blade hung at her hip.

  Halfway through her walk to the Red Rowan's estate, she regretted her decision. Word of her appearance had spread ahead of her, and people everywhere stepped aside and bowed. It was ridiculous, and Kethe sported a low-level blush the entire way. Only too late did she understand the benefit of curtains; not only would they have protected her identity, they would have saved everyone on the street from having to genuflect.

  Kethe practically jogged the last third of the trip, slowing down only when Kade signaled that they were close. She stopped, adjusted her cloak, smoothed down her shirt, wiped her brow, then strode forward.

  The Red Rowan's estate was gorgeous. The road approached it in a grand curve along the outside of the stone cloud so that the series of ascending tiers appeared gradually, drawing the eye up past endless cypress trees and statues to the home itself, which was subtle and elegant, expansive and clearly ancient.

  The great gate was well-lit with torches. An honor guard had been assembled, and the chamberlain of the household was awaiting her in his finest robes. Everyone seemed to be wearing at least six or more layers, for some reason, but the combinations of colors were pleasing. Kethe smoothed out her expression and prepared herself for the formalities.

  It took almost half an hour for Kethe to exchange greetings, accept gifts, and make her way up to the house itself. Flower petals were cast before her, dancers leaped and twirled alongside the path, and voices were raised in song, though she couldn't see the singers. Somewhere, someone was playing a plangent, almost wailing tune on a stringed instrument of some kind.

  When they finally stepped up onto the veranda and passed into the house, Kethe was struggling with her impatience and annoyance. She'd never visit anyone again if it took this long to simply make it past the front door. Still, she drew on her mother's schooling and managed a passably neutral expression as she stepped into the main hall.

  The air was deliciously scented with cedar, and made cool not only with the falling of dusk but with a subtle moisture added by a waterfall that splashed its way down a wall of unworked stone. It was part of the stonecloud itself, Kethe realized, and was intricately manicured with tiny wizened trees and expanses of the most brilliant moss. Small bronze animals had been perched on miniature ledges, giving the wall the scale of a mountain. It was delightful, but a sudden sense of foulness caused Kethe to tear her eyes away to greet her host.

  "Audsley?"

  She blurted out the magister's name before she could control herself. It was him! Audsley was approaching beside a voluptuous woman who looked to be in her late forties, clad in rich robes, cradling a thin-necked instrument idly in his hands and radiating a thick sense of foulness that made her gag.

  Audsley smiled at her, but there was something different about him, something wrong in his expression. His eyes – they were haunted, almost hollow, and his very demeanor had changed. Gone was the anxious, stammering pleasantness. The Audsley before her seemed older, more mature, and in some way she couldn't pinpoint, he appeared to be less of the man that he had been, as if he had been eroded by great forces, assailed to the point of breaking.

  What had happened? Why was she so repulsed by him?

  Collecting herself, she tore her gaze away from her mother's magister and greeted the Red Rowan, who was gazing at Audsley with a complex expression, part calculation, part surprise. She was clearly taken aback by his being recognized by the new Virtue. Which meant that Audsley hadn't revealed their shared history. Why not?

  "You honor my humble home, esteemed Virtue," said the Red Rowan. Her thick hair was unbound, and if she was wearing more makeup than Kethe thought was strictly necessary, well, so did almost every other woman she'd met.

  "The honor is mine, my lady."

  Kethe returned the bow, then settled into the exchange of titles, honorifics, greetings and lines of poetry that Kade had insisted she memorize. She did passingly well, fumbling over certain words only a couple of times, and by the time they were done, she was as weary as if she'd just finished a practice bout with her Consecrated.

  Finally the extraneous servants withdrew, leaving only Kade, Audsley, the Red Rowan and herself seated on large cushions.

  "Kade has been very honest about how he achieved his position," Kethe said, setting down her cup of tea. "He's spoken very highly about both your husband's and your own continuing role in Aletheian politics."

  The Red Rowan paused for a moment and then smiled, setting her own cup aside as well. There was something leonine about the woman, a reserve of authority and confidence that made Kethe feel like a teenage girl – which she was. But she was also a Virtue, so she smiled and waited.

  "Indeed. Have you heard of cycuolins? It is an old concept, a belief that there occurs from time to time in the spiritual realm a gathering of coincidences, a storm of events that align perfectly to bring about great change. I believe that we are in the midst of a cycuolin, that the time is propitious for change." The Red Rowan smiled wryly, as if mocking her own words, then continued, "My consort has provoked –"

  Kethe nearly choked and fought strenuously not to stare at Audsley, who had remained silent this entire time. Consort?

  " – Many interesting thoughts and ideas over the course of our conversations. The Empire is on the brink of catastrophe. The Agerastians present a terrible threat to our way of being, but beyond that, our politics have brought us to such a depth of decay that we may not be able to rebuff them."

  "Is that so?" asked Kethe.

  The Red Rowan leaned forward. "Makaria, I am risking much by speaking so bluntly with you. But my consort and I are in agreement: you represent a unique opportunity to effect change in a time of crisis. The Fujiwara clan have long wielded great influence over the Ascendant and his Empire. We have but one year before our Ascendant passes into divinity through the White Gate, and the Minister of Perfection will be charged with guiding a new Ascendant, a prince who is but five years old. If we are to effect change, it has to be now."

  "Please, I am ignorant of much that you take for granted. Why, exactly, is the Minister of Perfection such a problem?"

  The Red Rowan looked to Audsley, who leaned forward slightly, hands on his knees. "The tradition of Apotheosis is only a century old. Before that, the Ascendants ruled until death. Now, each one passes through the White Gate at the age of fifteen."

  Kethe frowned. "So?"

  "Who do you think instigated this tradition?"

  "Let me guess. The Fujiwaras?"

  "Precisely," said Audsley. "I have been studying the records. The first Fujiwara appeared in Aletheia two hundred and fifty-seven years ago. Given that the original Thirty Families that accompanied the First Ascendant in his conquest have been here for nearly five centuries, it is remarkable that the Fujiwara clan, relative upstarts, have gained such ironclad supremacy in such a relatively short time."

  Kethe stirred uneasily. "So, they're good at politics."

  Audsley smiled sadly. "It goes beyond that, I'm afraid. They have an unfair advantage. Before the arrival of the Fujiwaras, Virtues died at a young age despite their Consecration. The eldest was an Akinetos who lived to reach forty-three. But the lifespans of t
hose Virtues who did not die of violence nearly doubled after the arrival of the Fujiwaras."

  Kethe felt a jolt of alarm. "Doubled? What does that mean? Are you saying the Fujiwaras...?"

  Audsley nodded. "The numbers are all a matter of public record. I'm sure I'm not the first to remark on it. But the Virtues have always been secretive about this means of extending their lives. It's only recently that I have heard tell of others in high levels of government benefiting from this secret."

  A cold hand clutched tightly at Kethe's heart. "The Ascendant's Grace."

  Audsley nodded again. "Precisely. A black potion, I was told. Now, Makaria, the puzzle pieces begin to form an image. The Red Rowan has shared information with me that has helped me make sense of these secrets. There is a formula, both secret and most potent, that helps the Virtues resist the draining effect of their own powers. This formula was introduced by the first Fujiwara, and because of it, they gained such power that today the Minister of Perfection can compel the young Ascendant to pass through the White Gate before he matures and becomes a threat to his authority."

  The Red Rowan placed a hand on Audsley's knee. "That is why we oppose him. I've always known that the Fujiwaras had an unfair advantage, but it took my consort to help me put the pieces together. Now that we know what is taking place, we must expose this secret to the world so that we can destroy the Fujiwaras' noxious control and investigate what is corrupting our society."

  Kethe fought the urge to gulp. "But – wait. How are you going to do that? How are you going to depose the Minister of Perfection?"

  The Red Rowan sat back. "That is our challenge. His might is unassailable, in no small part due to his familial connections. Our only hope is for you to help us. Can you bring us a sample of this secret formula for us to examine?"