This is how they will ensure our defeat, Gilly thought emptily. Taking the strongest of us one by one…
“Will we be returning to Besh-Darok?” Keren said.
“The Archmage insisted that we continue on to Scallow,” Medwin said. “Now that the blow has finally fallen, our task in Dalbar has become even more urgent.”
Keren looked about her. “Then we had best be on our way.”
Severed branches from nearby trees were lit from the blazing stump to serve as torches. As Captain Redrigh led his men back down to the shore, Gilly stood gazing at the diminishing flames and the fading ruby embers in the tree's heart, wondering why Mazaret would have been at such a place at that moment.
Was it unavoidable fate, Ikarno, or did your grief lead you into folly? If chance wills it, perhaps we shall talk of this over some good wine one day. But if death comes for you, my friend, we will burn their towers in your memory, I swear it!
Turning, he walked over to where Keren stood waiting, torch in hand. Behind him the burnt-through stump split with a soft crack and a thud but he hurried on without a backward glance.
Chapter Nine
From his great hands came
Ships, laws and a mighty city.
Vessels all to sail the oceans
Of Peace, War and Fate.
—Jurad's Life Of Orosiada, Bk 8.
Not till Bardow reached the third floor of the High Spire did he realise how weary he was. His legs trembled and a hollow weakness in his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten for several hours, since mid-afternoon in fact. He stumbled over to a wooden bench near the head of the steps and sank gratefully down onto it, letting his heavy leather document wallet fall beside him. The past day and a half since the appearance of the citadels had been a non-stop round of the city's nobles and merchants, reassuring them and downplaying the enemy's strength, or if that failed to work, indulging in good old-fashioned bombastic bluster. Those who would not be swayed even by this were allowed to leave Besh-Darok however they wished.
Which gave rise to other problems.
Two palace guards on night patrol emerged from a side corridor further along, saw the Archmage seated with head bowed and hurried over. He looked up at the sound of their footsteps.
“Gentle sers, I am well,” Bardow said, forestalling any queries. “Just a little tired.”
“Forgive my asking, ser,” said the younger of the two, who was carrying a lantern. “We heard vague news of ships colliding at the Molembra wharf, and I was wondering if you knew aught of this. I have a cousin who works there.”
“I have just come from the Long Quays,” Bardow said. “There was a collision but it took place out in the harbour, so no-one ashore was in danger. Now, sers, the mage council should be meeting in the assembly chambers on this floor. Am I correct or have the proctors rearranged it to another place?”
“Nay, ser,” said the older guard, a smile twitching at his lips. “It has not been moved.”
“Good, then I shall not detain you any further,” Bardow said, ignoring the ache in his back as he stood. The guards gave a quick bow then continued on their way while Bardow headed in the other direction.
The high corridor followed the curve of the tower's outer wall and was lit at intervals by ornate copper lamps hanging from adjustable ropes. The walls on this floor were faced with pale grey and light brown stone, a smooth unadorned expanse broken by just a few tall, narrow windows. Each one that he passed had its iron-gridded shutters firmly fastened shut except for one which stood open, admitting a flow of freezing night air. When Bardow went over to close it he saw that it looked north, across the clustering lights of Besh-Darok and the farms and darkened estates beyond to the Girdle Hills, their flanks no more than a degree of darkness in the indivisible night.
But faint lines and strings of bright pinpoints told of the sorcerous battlements which now lay across those slopes. At the centre of these fortifications was the citadel Keshada, an immense cylindrical tower whose pale aura carried across the miles like a beacon promising only death and ruin. Bardow stared at the distant bastion for a moment, striving to master the cloud of doubts which stirred at the back of his thoughts. Then he determinedly closed the shutters, tugged the levers which locked the sliding bars top and bottom, and walked on.
The large, plain doors to the assembly chamber were further along the corridor. As he pushed them open a hubbub of conversation from within faded abruptly.
“At last,” said a tall woman in black known as the Nightrook. “We were getting a little concerned.”
“My apologies to you all,” he said, walking down the inclined aisle to the great hexagonal table where most of those he had summoned were gathered, less than a score it seemed. Tiers of empty seats faced inwards in a great semicircle, and the few lit lamps were augmented by the large fire burning in the long straight wall's hooded hearth. That entire wall was a single, vast stone-carved mural depicting Orosiada's various triumphs and his later founding of both the mage halls of Trevada and the building of the Imperial palace at Besh-Darok.
As Bardow descended the gently sloping wooden steps, he noticed that Alael and Nerek were standing off to one side. Both appeared a little ill at ease, and he realised that bringing them into the company of other mages would be more difficult that he had first anticipated.
“Friend and colleagues,” he said as he drew near the table. “Please accept my sincerest gratitude for coming here at such short notice, and for your patience. I have just returned from the Long Quays where I was assisting Lord Sedderil's harbourmasters. There was a collision between a departing passenger carrack and an arriving cargo vessel, and they needed help finding survivors in the dark.”
Blind Rina stepped into the firelight. “Are many dead?”
“The pilot captain wasn't sure. He and his men rescued about two dozen from the waters, but the carrack was carrying at least two hundred.”
Rina put her hand to her mouth and turned away. In the darkness behind her Bardow noticed Terzis perched on the edge of a trestle to one side of the hearth, her features silent and sorrowful.
“Could it have been arranged?” said a tall, black-cloaked mage named Cruadin. “Someone working for the Shadowkings, perhaps?”
“One of those Mogaun, I'll warrant!” said the Nightrook bitterly.
“Don't be foolish,” came a dry, scornful voice. “It was a stupid accident caused by stupid people who wouldn't wait for dawn, nothing more.”
The speaker limped into view with the aid of a stick, an old man whose face bore terrible burn scars on the left side. The left hand was missing two fingers but held the stick's crook handle tightly, while a single, fervent eye regarded Bardow with an unkind intensity.
“Amral,” Bardow said to the others, “is, as always, succinct while avoiding the burdens of tact.”
Some smiled, or stifled their laughter while one or two chuckled openly. Amral ignored the mockery and kept his singular gazed fixed on Bardow.
“In the shadow of ancient evil, tact is for weak minds,” he said. “I don't think you brought us here to be tactful, Archmage, or to spare our feelings about the dread might that we face.”
Bardow spread his hands in a sombre gesture. “You are right, Amral - the situation is grim. Only if we were suddenly deprived of the Crystal Eye could things be worse. The fields and houses for miles around are standing empty, while yet more refugees choke the roads south. Panic and fear stalk the wintry streets and the docks are crowded with people so determined to leave that not even tonight's ghastly disaster will deter them. And all the time our enemies sit and watch from their parapets as Besh-Darok's will starts to crack before even a single skirmish has been fought -”
“Yes, I have seen this,” Amral said testily.
Bardow leaned towards him, not disguising his anger. “But isn't that what you wanted to hear, Amral? Does it satisfy your hunger for gloom and despond to know that darkness is coming and the light of day is bleeding away -
”
“Enough!” the old mage cried. “I will not listen to this poison - ”
“But you foster futility with your bleak remarks,” Bardow said. “Mindless optimism is not the only alternative to defeat. Not one of us here is blind to the terrible realities of who and what we all face, yet we must deny all temptations to despair and betrayal, and hold on to hope.”
He was addressing the entire gathering now. “The future is not written, whatever the seers may say. It is the masters of those baleful towers who work to forge a doom for us. It is they who seek to be the architects of the future, and it may well be that all our efforts and suffering shall be for nothing! But equally, it might just suffice in the end. You and I do not know what the future holds, and neither do they, so I will stand against the Shadowkings and fight them at every turn until the last breath is driven from my body…” He paused a moment, suddenly aware of the vigorous resolve coursing through his senses, and the rapt attention of his audience.
“Yet we shall not stand alone,” he went on, turning back to the crippled mage. “Cavalry reinforcements have already arrived from Sejeend and eastern Cabringa, and a steady stream of cargo boats has began unloading at the docks. All the peoples and cities of the south are ready to come to our aid, so if we can hold the city we shall become stronger with every passing day. But if the city falls - ”
Bardow left the unfinished sentence hanging. Amral stiffened his stance and looked up to meet Bardow's gaze.
“Forgive my earlier words, Archmage,” he said levelly. “I have lived with personal bitterness for so long that hoping for the benign providence of the unforseen seems like a childish act of faith, and still does…” There were angry mutters at this but he went on. “Yet I have left my hillside home to come here and fight these lordlings of foulness and their slave creatures. When my turn to stand in the breach comes, Bardow, rest assured that I shall not break.”
The others murmured agreement and Bardow felt at once elated and humbled.
“I am gladdened beyond words,” he said, staring up at the tall image of Orosiada on the wall above the fireplace. “Together we reaffirm the courage and responsibilities of the mage council as it was at its foundation. Soon we shall debate how best to deploy our various strengths and talents in the coming struggle, but firstly there is another matter
“The High Conlave is divided on how to respond to the appearance of Gorla and Keshada. All three of the City Fathers and a third of the lords want to despatch some kind of spearhead host as a show of strength to our unwelcome guests, and to bolster the city's morale.”
“The plan of an idiot,” said the Nightrook, her eyes dark with contempt.
“That was my initial counterargument,” Bardow said drily. “Although I phrased it a little differently. Neither Emperor Tauric nor Lord Regent Yasgur ventured a preference, seeking instead to wait for this council to present its advice.” He paused to glance round the table. “Such advice, of course, would not be binding on the High Conlave but I am certain that Tauric is yet to make up his mind.”
“What of Yasgur?” said Cruadin. “Wants to sit tight, I'll wager.”
Bardow regarded the dark-cloaked man. Like most of those gathered at the table, Trandil Cruadin had been a mage of the order before the invasion sixteen years ago. He had fought as a senior mage at the Battle of Pillar Moor which put him well into his middle years, but to Bardow's eye he had somehow retained the look of a man in his early 30's. His views on the Mogaun, however, had the inflexibility of his true age.
“I know that the Lord Regent's advisors are opposed to any such sortie,” Bardow said. “But it seems that he himself is in favour of it.”
“It would surely be extremely rash to send any size of army against such unknown odds,” said a portly mage called Zanser. “Even after an entire day we know next to nothing about those fortresses.”
Bardow sighed. “I was hoping that Creld and his birds might have helped us arrive at some kind of map, but he's not here, is he.”
“He left on a merchantman bound for Gindoroj,” said Luri, one of the Anghatani twins. She exchanged a look with her sister, Rilu, and together they produced from within identical blue, hooded coats several sheets of parchment covered in detailed drawings and notes.
“It was not easy using insects,” Rilu said as Bardow peered wonderingly at the intricate plans, which had been delineated in fine silverpoint. “They kept getting eaten by birds and other vermin, but we were able to sketch all the main fortifications and guard towers, as well as the outlines of the citadels.”
“These are excellent,” Bardow said. “I'll have the scribes make copies.”
There were murmurs of agreement from the others as they pored over the fine plans, but the twins looked nervously at each other.
“Sadly, our maps are no longer accurate, Archmage,” Luri said. “You see, the enemy's walls are growing.”
All fell silent at this, and Bardow frowned in puzzlement,
“You sound very certain of this,” he said.
Rilu nodded. “Through the eyes of insects we have seen entire walls gradually pushing up out of the hills like ice rising from muddy ground, although the further from either citadel the slower the growth.”
“But the walls appear to be extending along a curve which will eventually enclose the city,” said Luri.
“Like a trap,” said Rilu.
“Well that puts a different cast on it,” said Cruadin. “Should those walls reach the sea, everything we need will have to come in by ship. And how do we know that these walls won't continue on into the sea and completely surround the city?”
“Ah, panicking, forgetful youth,” Amral said. “The sea is a place of primal and subtle powers, all of which have historically been inimical to the Wellsource.”
Cruadin gave the old man a dark look. “What has the historical record got to do with this terrible crisis? - I'll tell you, nothing. We are facing - ”
“The same evil that has harried this continent for centuries,” Amral said, rapping his stick on the floor. “We ignore the past at our peril…”
“Sers,” Bardow said sternly. “We have strayed from the matter most urgently at hand. The High Conclave is due to reconvene soon after dawn and will be looking for this council, such as it is, to offer sage advice on the question of sending forth troops.
“The consequences of doing so could be disastrous,” said the barrel-chested Zanser. “But the consequences of doing nothing…” He shrugged. “Imponderable, now that we know about those walls.”
“If we sent a sizeable host against, say, Keshada, then we might force their hand,” said Cruadin, flattening one of the maps on the table. “Or if we sent the troops up the coast on barges, we might gain an element of surprise and rather than having to fight their way back they just return to the boats.”
“A mage would have to accompany such an army,” said the Nightrook. “Naturally, I volunteer for the post...”
As argument and counterargument took hold, Bardow stepped back from the table and beckone Alael over.
“Would you do something for me?” he said. “A small errand.”
“Of course, ser Bardow.”
“Good. Take the main stair down to the second floor and walk left until you find the scriptory - you'll know it by the quill device over the door - and ask one of the scribes to return here with you. By my command, of course.”
“I understand, ser.”
He gave her a narrow look and in a quieter voice said, “What do you think of this gathering of mine?”
Alael frowned. “They are very….self-admiring,” she murmured then bit her lip.
Bardow smiled. “Vainglory is part and parcel of magehood, I'm afraid. But without them, the city could not withstand even a single assault on the walls. That's the truth of it.” He straightened. “Now hurry on your way.”
She nodded sharply and made for the door while Bardow turned back to the table and the heated discussion raging across i
t. Nerek was still sitting off to the side, watching the proceedings with disapproval plain in her lean features. He smiled at this for a moment, then silenced the rancorous exchange with upraised hands.
“Sers, be gentle to my ears,” he said, bringing his hands together. “Clearly our advice needs to satisfy both caution and boldness, hard things to reconcile, I know. I have listened to your arguments, and what I propose is this - that the High Conclave sends two or three companies of infantry out to the ruined fort on the old smugglers ridge, accompanied by carpenters and stonemasons and wagons of building materials. Once there, they would set about shoring up and repairing the defences and erecting a mast from which the commander will fly a truce flag.”
“You don't seriously believe that the enemy will accept the offer of a truce,” Cruadin said abruptly.
“I don't know what they'll do,” Bardow said. “But they might consider their own position so strong that toying with us in a truce would afford them some amusement. And if we use such a face-to-face encounter with wise cunning, we could buy ourselves more time.”
A slow smile spread across Amral's scarred face. “Aah, I see - ‘Are they merely insanely rash or do they harbour some unknown power?’”
“Exactly,” Bardow said.
There was a chorus of approval from the rest, except for Trandil Cruadin who folded his arms and glowered. He was about to speak when a rapid string of oddly harmonised musical notes sounded above the babble. Bardow noticed that Blind Rina was the only one smiling at this interruption, then glanced over to where Nerek had twisted in her seat to look behind her. A few tiers back a gaunt, red-haired figure sat with his feet on the chairback in front while balancing upon his chest a curved silvery instrument consisting of a row of bulbous chambers sprouting slender musical pipes. Bardow almost laugh out loud - Osper Trawm was the last person he had expected to see here.
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