by Dave Smeds
The signal came. Owl cracked the whip lightly, guiding his vehicle into its place in the line. A total of ten wagons rolled down the road to the castle, clattering across the drawbridge with the women and youths jogging along beside them. Most were empty, their beds covered with straw, intended for transporting the wounded out of the battle zone. Owl's own was loaded with tarps and sacks of sand with which to snuff fires, for the battle would surely see lamps shattered and torches knocked from their sconces. An unchecked blaze in the main part of the fortress would create havoc for both sides.
The clamor of shouting men and the dull thump of a battering ram pounding somewhere in the bowels of the keep swept over Owl. He strove to keep his composure as he guided his team between the bodies of the fallen to an open space by the outer wall, away from the fighting. He climbed down immediately and freed his animals, for the latter could help in the effort to evacuate the injured. Some of his companions loaded stricken combatants onto the other wagons, in order to rush them back to the aid stations that had been set up beneath the trees. Others tended men still lying where they had fallen.
The courtyard was clear of Puriel's men, except the dead. A small fire snapped and spat in the barracks. Several men and women rushed to Owl's wagon and grabbed material. Those not occupied with saving the living were dragging the slain out of the way, stripping Puriel's guards of armor and weapons which might be used inside by those still fighting. Owl swallowed hard and told himself to relax. The battle was finished here. He was safe. A cadre of townsmen emerged from the main keep, urging a group of a dozen women along ahead of them. They collected the captives in a corner of the yard and put them under guard. The women's nightgowns showed no soil or rents to indicate that they had been touched. Owl nodded in satisfaction. Battle or no battle, the rebels and villagers of Old Stump would not stoop to the sort of abuses indulged in by the governor and his soldiers.
Owl surrendered his oeikani and went to the assistance of two women who were moving bodies. One was his neighbor, Nalicia, with whom he had grown up. The sight of her, shaking and pale, momentarily quieted his own faint heart. He met her eyes, and his own relative calm bolstered her courage. Together the three of them hauled the burden to the side of the yard.
Nalicia sighed, bit back tears, straightened her spine, and started toward the next one. Only then did Owl realize that the corpse was that of Yenni, the silversmith's son. They both knew his father well. But then, most of the casualties would be people with whom they were acquainted. The next, in fact, was a man who had swept the floor of his tavern as a boy. Fearing that the next victim might be his nephew or a close friend, he diverted Nalicia toward a fallen castle guard.
As he and Nalicia each grabbed an arm and lifted, the supposedly dead man awoke, despite the evil-looking gash across his pate, and with a sudden jerk of his elbow sent the unprepared Owl tumbling into the dirt. The latter inhaled a mouthful of grit, coughed, and scrambled to his feet. Too late. The guard plunged his knife into Nalicia's chest.
Owl cried out.
The guard let Nalicia fall, and stared about, dazed and unsteady on his feet. At Owl's outburst, he turned, widened his eyes, and charged. Owl gasped and, without consciously meaning to, kicked his attacker's knee. The man crashed forward, knocking the wind out of the tavernmaster, taking them both down. The knife spun away, kicking up dust an arm's length from their heads. Owl, for lack of a better strategy, seized the guard in a bear hug.
Had the guard not been disoriented and weakened from blood loss, he would have broken free in short order, but as it was, Owl held him just long enough that a teenage boy reached them and, using a mace salvaged from another fallen member of the garrison, caved in the man's head.
"Are you hurt, sir?" asked the boy, as he stared dumbfounded at the man he had just killed.
Owl wiped a fleck of blood from his eyelid. "No. My thanks." His stomach heaved. Next to him, Nalicia stared sightlessly up at the stars.
****
Hiephora took wing, abandoning the security of the forest. Once more, she endured the jolt as she broached the aura around the castle. This time she cried out, stabbed to the core. The energies roiled and snapped, fed by the fear of the dying, the cold dispassion of the dead, and the hatred of foe for foe. She flew high, where the impact was less severe, and hovered over the great courtyard. She could not bring herself to look downward.
"Cyfee!" she called out.
No response. She quailed to think that her protegee lay embroiled in the carnage, yet Cyfee and three other rythni had not returned to the woods. They could not be dead. Her prophecy had been clear in that regard; no rythni would die in this fight. Otherwise she could not have asked a single one of her subjects to participate. She called again, flying a circuit of the fortress walls.
Over the governor's keep, away from the worst of the din, she heard a faint, urgent, keening cry, unmistakably a rythni song of distress. Yet, strangely, she thought she could detect an alluring whisper beneath it. Both emanated from the northwest tower of the keep.
The wizard's sanctum.
She circled warily before she dared land on the balcony. The room within was dim, foreboding, tinged with the mephitis of sorcery. The distress cry flowed from it clearly, mournfully. She ventured nearer the opening. A strange music, very unlike the harmonics of the forest, reached out and murmured to her.
"My queen!" cried a familiar voice.
Hiephora peered inside. Four rythni lay on the table in the center of the room, under a faintly luminescent net, beside a crystal vase containing a sprig of herb thick with white flowers.
"Cyfee!" At last Hiephora identified the odd undertone that she had heard above the castle. It came from the herb-a whisper promising love, dancing, dreams, and song, the perfect lure for a rythni. It was subtle, almost subliminal at first, drawing in the unsuspecting listener until the trap was woven too tightly for escape. She herself wanted desperately to venture inside, though clearly she, like her subjects, would be snagged like a fly in a web.
"Are you hurt?" Hiephora called.
"No," Cyfee replied. "But it won't let us go." She lifted an arm. The strands kept her from extending it. The other three companions, though awake, seemed unable to move at all.
"Stay still, then. I will bring help as soon as I can."
****
The wind over the lake licked at Alemar's hair, twisting it into his face. He blew it clear, since his arms, like the rest of him, were propped up by dozens of rythni. They were getting tired, these little ones. They had carried him non-stop from the site where he had been maintaining the camouflage spell around Claric until Omril's arrival. Their strength was fading rapidly, or perhaps it was the essence of the castle, sapping them of their resolve as they drew near.
"Just a little farther," he murmured. "You've done well."
A flutter of movement ahead of them pulled his gaze away from the battlements. "Prince Alemar!" called a small voice.
"My queen?" Alemar frowned at the sight of Hiephora. "What's wrong?"
"Treachery from the wizard," she declared. "Fly with me to his tower."
Following their monarch's lead, the weary carriers deposited Alemar on the balcony. "Stay," she commanded. "The prince will need you to take him off; the stairs are not safe." They gathered obediently upon the balustrade, though they shivered, stared nervously to either side, and occasionally flitted an inch or two into the air.
Alemar stared into the wizard's den, a furrow gathering in his forehead. He glanced back at the serene waters of Rock Lake, watching the ripples gleam from the light of Serpent Moon. Omril and his men would scarcely have reached the shore. It would take them until dawn to return to the fortress. His fingers abstractly stroked the pommel of his sword, unaccustomed to the weapon's presence on his belt.
From down in the guts of the keep came the sound of furniture breaking and doors being rammed open, and the shriek of metal on metal. Alemar disregarded it, focussing on the threshold between the balco
ny and the room. He saw a glow, hanging like a veil across the opening.
"There is a guard spell here," he told the queen, and suddenly thrust his gauntlet forward. The veil parted, falling into shreds on the floor and slipping like water into the cracks of the masonry. "Not a potent one. Just one to put strangers asleep should they intrude. Rythni must be too small to activate it."
He entered, found an oil lamp, and gingerly set it on the table. "Touch nothing," he warned as he lit it. The yellow glow spilled across shelves of thaumaturgical volumes, bottles of rare minerals, and complex equipment. The cage of pigeons caught his attention. The birds cooed, bobbing their heads, as graceless as only pigeons could be.
Cyfee and the three rythni waited quietly, their eyes full of doelike apprehension. Alemar examined the vase, the herb, and the net that confined them. "It's a moly-see the black roots? You'll have to warn your people. Omril may have planted others in the forest in order to snare you."
He plucked at the net with his gauntlet hand. The fibers clung to the gold mail like cobweb, and would not let go. It did nothing to free the rythni, merely mired himself.
"Hmmm," he muttered. He traced the strands to their source, a series of minuscule holes in the stems, just beneath the seductively fragrant blooms. He moved the flame of the lamp beneath the latter. The petals shrivelled and blackened, giving off an acrid smoke. A portion of the web loosened, allowing one of Cyfee's companions to sit up.
"It's working," Hiephora said.
Alemar nodded, and moved the lamp to the next stem. Suddenly the flame leaped sideways, igniting the entire net, enveloping the captives in a conflagration. Alemar gasped, flinging aside the lamp. The rythni shrieked.
He dived for the curtains, tore one from its rod and cast it over the table, snuffing the flame. At the same time, in the far corner, a new fire sprang from the spilled oil and licked its way up a bookcase. He ignored it, pulling back the fabric.
The four rythni writhed in agony, coughing, their skin baked deep red. Seared stumps twitched where their delicate, membrane-thin wings had been. Alemar choked.
It was instinct alone that made him duck. A massive tome on alchemy sailed through the space where his head had been. From another direction, a bottle launched itself from a rack. He twisted sideways. The glass shattered against the wall, releasing an acid that sizzled and ate into the marble floor. A drop struck his wrist, dissolving a patch of his skin the size of a small coin.
Hiephora landed on the table, wilting over Cyfee as if unable to believe what had just occurred. "Out!" Alemar cried. He raised his gauntlet to fend off more books. The queen acted as if she did not hear.
Alemar's sword tried to draw itself from its scabbard. He slammed it back into place. Then, with a flash of insight, he drew it on purpose and whirled toward the cage of pigeons.
One of the birds was staring straight at him, unperturbed by the fire, the moans of the little people, or the cyclone of flying objects.
Alemar lunged, thrusting, and drilled his sword through its avian chest. It died without a flutter.
Immediately one of the two remaining birds ceased its panicked squawking and beating of wings, and settled onto a perch. Alemar's weapon twisted in his grip, the tip slicing toward his throat. He seized the blade with his gauntlet, immobilizing it.
Before the barrage of objects, or some other magical attack, could begin again, he kicked the cage from its table. As soon as it struck the floor, he kicked it twice more. It bounced into the fire raging in the corner. The lacquered wooden bars sizzled and burst into flame.
"You're mine, Omril," Alemar snarled. "Beware the hour we meet!"
He jabbed his steel between the bars. The pigeon danced to the side, barely dodging the point. The blaze ignited its feathers. The spark of intelligence left its eyes, and like its surviving companion, it whirled madly around its confines, screeching in desperation.
Alemar kept hacking at the cage, until he had decapitated one bird, and skewered the other three times. His boots smoldered as he retreated. He stamped his feet.
Except for the fire, the room was at last still, with no sorcerer looking on to guide an attack. Consumed with black anger, Alemar only gradually became aware that Hiephora was staring at him, horrified. She shrank back as he approached.
"Don't!" he pleaded, but even as he spoke, she darted out the archway and into the night sky, screaming a note he had never heard a rythni make before.
A cold hand clasped Alemar's heart. He steadied himself, keeping the shock in check. Cyfee and the three other injured rythni still moaned on the table, tucked into fetal positions.
He tugged off his gauntlet, held it under an armpit, and picked up the diminutive creatures as gently as he could. He carried them from the heat and the smoke, out to the balcony. The rythni who had transported him across the lake had vacated the balustrade, abandoning their comrades, abandoning him. He clenched his teeth, blaming himself. One could not make the little people into something they were not. They could not have stayed to watch the fight, any more than he could take these wingless ones down into the castle, into the battle. The atmosphere of combat would kill all four, just as surely as would the burning of the tower.
He laid the tiny bodies on the balustrade. They flopped into limp piles, unconscious, save for Cyfee, who opened her mouth as if to speak, but fainted before she could. They all still breathed.
Come back, Hiephora, he prayed.
He heard the clatter of boots on the staircase. The door appeared to be locked, but it would not hold against desperate men, as these must be to have climbed the tower in search of escape. He glanced down. From this height, a leap into the waters of the lake was foolhardy, even assuming he missed the rocks hidden just below the surface. The fire was reaching the main mass of scrolls, books, wood, and cloth; in a few moments Omril's sanctum would become an inferno. He slipped the gauntlet back on his hand.
Heavy blows landed against the door, making it vibrate. Men cursed. Abruptly Alemar plunged across the room, sleeve in front of his face to ward off cinders. Smoke stung his eyes, stealing breath. The door groaned on its hinges. Wood cracked. He drew his blade.
He released the latch. The door slammed open. The foremost of the men on the other side stumbled into the room. Alemar tripped him, propelling him into the worst of the blaze. The prince spitted the second man before the latter realized there was an enemy present.
There were four others crowded on the landing beyond the threshold, one of them holding a thick coil of climbing rope. Once they saw Alemar's expression, they stepped back.
The prince had not wielded a sword in actual combat since his sojourn in the Eastern Deserts, but at that moment nothing felt more natural in his palm than the hilt of his weapon. Even his former swordmaster, Troy of Calinin South, could not have intimidated him. As the burning man rolled out of the fire, screaming, Alemar dealt him a deathblow of almost casual expertise.
Alemar gathered his rage about him in a pulsating, almost tangible shroud. "Come in," he told the others.
Two of the soldiers were armed only with knives, including the one holding the rope, and all of them drooped, battle-worn. Only one, at the rear, wore enough armor to pose a problem. Alemar feinted and jabbed his point into the lead man's gut. As the man groaned and bent forward, clutching his wound, Alemar kicked him into the armored man. With two swift thrusts he mortally wounded the two knife men. He danced back, letting them fall.
Only the armored man was left. He gawked at the swift disposal of his comrades, but the blossoming conflagration seemed to worry him even more. In another few moments it would not be possible to cross the room. He charged forward, swinging his broadsword.
Alemar ducked and leaped sideways, narrowly avoiding the steel. The fire and the tangle of dying men on the floor left little room to dodge. The prince jabbed, but the point hit the mesh of his attacker's hauberk and bounced away ineffectually. Fortunately the man's haste made him clumsy. Alemar stepped into the next swing an
d grabbed the blade with his gauntlet, immobilizing it. The gauntlet's ward saved his palm. He kicked the man's knee. It gave way.
The man screamed and fell to the floor. Alemar bounded through the bodies of the wounded men at the threshold. One of them, snarling in pain, tried to grab his ankle, but he was too fast. Back in the room the heat reached an amphora of oil. It ignited with a sinister hiss.
A man with the broken knee howled as he caught fire. The other who could still move crawled frantically after the prince, leaving bloodstains as he went.
Alemar whispered a plea once more for the rythni on the balustrade and sped down the stone steps, his jacket hot against his shoulders, the cloth reeking with smoke. He coughed, unable to clear the sooty pungency from his breath.
He heard the sound of footsteps coming to meet him.
Around the curve of the wall came another guard, so worried about what was behind him that he was oblivious to the situation above. He turned just in time to see his death arriving.
Alemar pushed the body aside and continued on. At the bottom of the stairs he emerged into a corridor. To right and left he heard muffled sounds of clashing metal and screaming men. A tendril of smoke, from still another fire, undulated against the high ceiling.
Two of Puriel's soldiers, fleeing for their lives, rounded a corner and bore down on him. They spotted him and halted in their tracks.
He lifted his gauntlet, showing them a blazing jewel on the middle knuckle. Their expressions changed as they recognized him. One man stepped back, eyes wide. The other advanced, smiling.
"He's alone," he told his companion.
Alemar charged, his thrust bursting out the closest man's back. He abandoned the weapon without breaking stride, and took out the second man with a straight punch to the face with his gauntlet fist. It was not so much that he was as fast as Elenya, but that, once moving, he could not be deflected. He returned to the first victim, set his boot against the man's chest, and freed his sword on the third pull.
