Xahlven stretched and said good night. It was late—practically dawn. He went to his tent, which was really an anygate back to the Archmage’s Labyrinth in the Arcanostrum, and threw himself into his high-backed chair at its center.
He ought to sleep as Trevard proposed, but there was too much to do. For starters, he had to write some League-related correspondence. At that moment, a few dozen of the League’s most talented invokers were in Dellor, awaiting his word that the Grand Army of Saldor was about to reach Dunnmayre. Xahlven wasn’t sure how much of a difference they would make in the coming battle, but Sahand had requested them there, and far be it from Xahlven to get in Sahand’s way at the moment.
A little serpentine puddle of shadow leaked beneath a door into the room and pooled at Xahlven’s feet. “Master . . . master . . . Jyanix returns to you!”
Xahlven drew his foot away by reflex. The little demon was largely harmless, despite its ability to eat through wards. He sighed—the last thing he needed right now was a prolonged negotiation with a demon. “What is it?”
“Hungry . . . so hungry, master! Good Jyanix, loyal Jyanix—does Jyanix not deserve a treat? Yes? Yes yes?”
Xahlven slipped off one of his rings—one with a moderate enchantment warding him against intoxication. The little serpent of shadow pounced upon it at once and wrapped it up in its coils, sapping the sorcery away.
Xahlven watched the thing eat for a moment and then tapped his staff on the ground. “I told you never to return here unless you had something to report. Out with it.”
Jyanix was positively delighted to be of service. It bounced around the floor like a spring. “The girl! The girl has escaped! Gone away! All gone!”
Xahlven straightened. “What? How? Where?”
Jyanix giggled—a high-pitched, screeching sound. “She lied! Lied! Got a mirror man to help her! So naughty—so, so naughty. Went in tent with wards. Jyanix eats the yummy wards, finds them gone. Wicked girl, tricking friendly Master!”
The creature was, of course, delighted by the subterfuge. Xahlven sat back in his throne, hand beneath his chin. Myreon escaped, eh? Not altogether unexpected, given Trevard’s refusal to listen to her, though it did create certain loose ends. Where would she go to be heard about the Sorcerous League? In whom would she confide? She had no one of consequence left in Saldor, now that Lyrelle was out of the picture.
It seemed probable that she was headed here, to the Arcanostrum. Xahlven imagined she probably goaded that idiot Androlli to help her by explaining how helpful to his career it would be to show up an elderly Lord Defender and expose an ancient conspiracy. Not that anyone was likely to listen. Worst-case scenario meant the Black Hall would be compromised. A major loss, but one Xahlven would be willing to accept, as it would be only temporary. The Arcanostrum only had a matter of days left to interfere with his plans and then . . . well . . .
“More food? More food for greedy little Jyanix?” The demon was still cavorting at his feet.
Xahlven moved his hand once and banished the creature from the plane of existence. He didn’t need it anymore. He needed something slightly different. At a twitch of his head, a cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows of the labyrinth—it was nothing but cloak, a semi-real phantasm of his own design, pure darkness folded in on itself and made semi-solid. A specter of sorts, and so not terribly intelligent. Significantly more trustworthy than any Master of the Ether living in the Black College, though. “Go,” he said. “Bring me the woman named Myreon Alafarr and her companion, Argus Androlli. I would speak with them.”
It departed, passing through the door that the demon had wriggled under. Xahlven watched it go and sighed. Sleep was not his to have tonight, it seemed. No matter. He always did enjoy the dark, and sleep would wait.
Tomorrow, he needed to oversee a slaughter.
Banric Sahand sat in a small room—too small, really, for his purposes—a half-dozen sending stones arrayed in a half moon on the table in front of him, each showing the face of a different lieutenant. Sahand absorbed their reports, relayed to them by his field commanders. He steepled his gauntleted hands beneath his chin, brushing the edges of his close-shorn beard.
Trevard had raided the village of Dunnmayre in the middle of the night with a few dozen Defenders who seemed to come out of nowhere—sorcerous tricks, no doubt, but of little strategic importance, as he had left no garrison to speak of. Sahand expected Trevard to seize control of the ferries next.
He wanted him to.
His own scouts now reported that the whole Grand Army of Saldor was in the process of ferrying themselves across the river. There was, of course, only one ferry, so Trevard had ordered makeshift ones fashioned from commandeered riverboats—the crossing, Trevard knew, had to be quick, and six thousand or so soldiers and their supply train would take a long time to ferry. Sahand was getting reports of boats of every kind, filled to the brim with the martial strength of the Arcanostrum, tottering slowly from one bank of the Whiteflood to the other.
Which was why Sahand was sailing an armada of armored barges down on them at that exact moment.
The reports done and his orders dispatched, Sahand ducked his head to escape his tiny cabin and walk onto the deck of a floating castle. It was square, sixty feet long to a side, with three decks. The bottom deck, closest to the water, had a gunwale of shields and sharpened steel stakes backed up by a company of men with pikes and bows. The second deck, the one on which Sahand stood, had three ballistae to a side, their bolts coated with all the nastiest things Sahand’s private collection of alchemists and thaumaturges could devise. The top deck, last, featured the small sails and navigational equipment that fulfilled the barges’ modest maneuverability requirements—namely that they not run aground or get hung up on a sandbar.
Ten such barges were cruising quietly downstream. One thousand hard-nosed Delloran killers, trained by life on the frontier and the tender attentions of Sahand’s best captains, all waiting for the enemy to come into sight. It was a beautiful thing.
Well, for now.
The captain of this particular barge—Orten was his name, or something like that—saluted him. “Sire, Dunnmayre will be in sight shortly. Would you care for a viewing glass?”
Sahand took the offered glass without comment. When it became clear that he had nothing more to say to Orten, the captain trotted off to inspect the war machines one last time. Sahand squinted into the glass as he pointed it downstream. They had to be close . . .
There!
In the midsummer sun, the calm waters of the Whiteflood glittered, almost obscuring the boats staggering across the river. There were dozens of them, each packed beyond what would be considered safe weight—they rode low in the water. Sahand grinned as the lookouts atop the masts of his armada took up the call, blowing horns. Men scrambled around him, winding their ballistae and stringing their bows. Orders were barked and the deck thundered beneath hurrying feet.
“Captain,” Sahand said, “I want four war barges athwart their crossing point. The other six are to anchor wherever the targets seem the most plentiful. Anything flying purple and white dies before it lights us aflame. Understood?”
Orten saluted. “As you command, sire!”
The commands were relayed via a series of flags waved from the top deck. Those barges closest to the center of the river gradually aimed themselves to stand as impassable bulwarks against crossing ships. The others split their attentions between each bank—one half to attack that part of Trevard’s army trying to organize itself outside Dunnmayre, and the other half to face the remainder of the army camped on the southern banks and awaiting its turn across.
Sahand watched the banks closely. He could see griffons taking flight and saw banners waving. There was commotion in the ranks—the Saldorians weren’t ready for this, their augurs hadn’t foreseen it. Sahand couldn’t help but laugh—all the sorcerous might in the world, and they’d forgotten all about boats.
The first war barge came into rang
e of a ferry that was frantically trying to row itself back to the southern bank. A few men aboard discharged firepikes, but the range and accuracy weren’t sufficient to do more than scorch a few of the shields of the barge’s bottom deck. The volleys of arrows, however, found easy purchase among the pressed ranks of Defenders, glancing off mageglass helms just to get stuck in arms, legs, feet, and hands. Sahand could not hear their screams, but he imagined them, he savored the idea of them.
The first ballista bolt raked the deck of the ferry, exploding in green fire and throwing men into the river. The second struck at the waterline in the bow, blowing off a chunk of the barge. The whole thing listed to one side, and the men went into the water. The arrows kept falling.
The other war barges were soon engaged. They fired from three sides at the soldiers crossing the river, sinking boats and killing those who tried to swim away. One boat rowed into a barge and tried to board it—he was almost impressed. Sahand watched the desperate melee from a bad angle, but the outcome was never really in doubt. The barges afforded their pikemen a solid footing with which to repel boarders and they had numbers on their side, anyway. The river was as good as his.
A screeching cry split the air—griffons. A flight of three swooped overhead, the riders tossing thunder orbs down on the decks of the barges. One hit near Sahand, and he was barely able to take cover before it exploded, destroying a ballista and killing five men. His ears rang with the power of the concussive force, but he was yelling anyway. “Bows! BOWS! Shoot them down! Shoot!”
He was not alone—other barges were also hit, but volleys of clothyard shafts arced up from the decks, forcing the griffons to keep their distance. His initial worry was quickly allayed. They were doing some minor damage, but they were a distraction—griffons tired quickly and would have to land before long. No, nothing was going to stop him. Not today.
Then one of his barges burst into flame—the whole thing, top to bottom, immolated in an angry red fireball. Even Sahand’s breath caught at that. Sorcery. But his barges were warded!
At least, they were supposed to be . . .
Scanning the banks, he spotted two cadres of magi pointing their staves and carrying on in a way that could only be some kind of incantation. Sahand couldn’t hope to decode their exact purpose, but he made an educated guess—one group was dispelling the wards and a second group was calling down the fire. He ordered a man to bring him his sending stones just as a second barge was pummeled by an unnatural barrage of heat-lightning that lit it on fire.
The soldier came back, cradling the six stones in his arms like goose eggs. Sahand picked up one and yelled into it. “Tell them to shoot the magi! Shoot the magi!”
It was an unnecessary command. Two other barges began sending ballista bolts their way, only to see them deflected by guards and potent bow wards. Dammit! Sahand felt acid biting in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t realized the wards would be so easy to dispel at that range. Perhaps it had something to do with the ley. He cursed the death of his wyvern—that would have come in damn handy right now.
A third barge burst into flame, but the men on board were doing a good job of fighting it this time. Well, until the river itself rose up and threw it onto shore. The massive barge tipped over sideways, an upended top, and men and materials spilled out. The soldiers on the shore pounced on them and Sahand looked away—those men were as good as lost.
Three barges down! What could be done about those magi?
Surveying the river, the rest of the battle was going well—his own cavalry was charging the half of the army that had already crossed, catching them off guard, while they were being shot by the barges in the river—those were as good as surrendered. No more crossing was possible, either, but Sahand could scarcely rain destruction down on the other half of the enemy army if it was guarded by those thirty or so magi. A crushing victory would turn into a merely decisive one, and that wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want the armies of Saldor to merely retreat—he wanted them routed, scattered to the winds, and left for the ravens and the wolves to peck at. He wanted this to be their Calassa—an embarrassment from which they would never recover.
Another barge was crippled with lightning. “NO!” Sahand screamed, kicking a helmet across the deck. “No, no, no!”
“Sire.” Orten was there, saluting again. “We cannot get close to the southern bank. Not so long as . . . AHHHHH!” Sahand grabbed him by his hauberk midreport and hurled him off the barge like a bale of hay.
The men on deck looked at him, wide-eyed. Sahand met their stares with his own. “Order all barges to make for the southern bank.”
A man wearing lieutenant’s epaulets blanched. “But sire, we can’t—”
Sahand put a spike of pure fire through the man’s throat and, with a twist, popped his head off. “No man tells Banric Sahand what he can and cannot do! Fly the flags, dogs, or drown here!”
The orders were relayed. The barges pivoted from their moorings and slowly made their way toward the enemy army.
From behind the magi, great colossi arose, their mageglass armor glittering in the afternoon light. They threw boulders at the barges, doing heavy damage. Some waded into the shallows of the river, trying to come to grips with the enemy. However, most could not sustain too many direct hits with enchanted ballista bolts and faltered, either coming apart or flickering out of existence. A few had to be fought in close, with a legion of Sahand’s best men wedging pikes between armored plates until the wearer of the colossus could be exposed. A bloody business, but the men of Dellor were equal to the task.
Arrows rained down on the magi and still their guards and wards held. The other five barges were suffering severe damage. Most were at least partially aflame. Sahand’s own flagship had sustained heavy losses from a volley of mageglass darts that materialized out of nowhere and fell to the deck.
But he was close enough now. And the Fey was strong enough here, in the madness of battle, that he barely needed to reach out to seize it.
And seize it he did. Enveloping himself in a ball of crimson fire, Sahand launched himself from his barge onto the shore just in front of the magi. This they hadn’t been expecting. Guarding parties of Defenders pivoted to confront him. Sahand laughed at them.
“Too late!”
The Mad Prince of Dellor lashed out with a wave of fire that incinerated the mirror men closest to him and forced the party of magi to alter their wards to deflect his attack. This was long enough for a volley of arrows to get through, injuring several magi and killing two or three more.
Sahand strode toward his enemies, a shield of flame swirling around him. He threw a lance of fire at the closest mage. She wasn’t quick enough to defend, and she was reduced to ash in a blink of an eye. The second threw a lode-bolt at him, but it was eaten by his fire-shield with little trouble. Sahand responded with a fireball that blew the mage off his feet.
Sahand’s assault and the steady volley of arrows from the war barges forced the magi back, falling behind ranks of Defenders-at-arms, these armed with halberds. Sahand raised his arms, ready to smite them all into cinders. He roared at them, “I am Banric Sahand, Prince of Dellor—kneel or die!”
And then his shield of flame vanished. His arms locked up, as though turned to stone. He couldn’t move.
From the chaos stepped a tall, thin man with a pointy bald head, leaning heavily on an elaborate gray magestaff.
He spoke to Sahand in calm, even tones. “I am Trevard, Lord Defender of the Balance, Archmage of the Astral. I do not kneel before any man.”
Sahand struggled against his binding, but he could not move. He could scarcely even breathe. As archer fire fell toward him, Trevard raised one hand and stopped the arrows midflight. Indeed, the entire battle seemed to freeze. A deathly quiet fell.
Trevard stepped between the frozen missiles and came before Sahand, a faint smile on his thin lips. “Banric Sahand, you stand accused of forbidden sorcery, biomancy, and the atrocity of Ayventry. How do you plea
d?”
Sahand could only growl through his paralyzed jaw. “Kiss . . . my . . . arse . . . old . . . man . . .”
Trevard frowned. “I will call that an admission of guilt. No need to stand on ceremony.” He raised his staff, light warping around its end. “Now, let us proceed to your sentence.”
Sahand hissed and cursed through his teeth, struggling like mad. It could not end here—it couldn’t!
But the blow never fell. The battle resumed suddenly, and Trevard blinked, surprised. He turned to look behind him. “What the . . .”
Sahand was free! He had his sword out in the blink of an eye and, before Trevard could turn back around, Sahand cut his leg off at the knee. The Lord Defender shrieked and fell over. Three arrows embedded themselves in his side and the old man groaned again.
Sahand stood over him, sword raised. “Here in Dellor, it is the Prince who passes the sentence. And yes, there is no need to stand on ceremony.”
Trevard held up one hand to ward off the blow, so Sahand cut off his hand first. Then, as the old man’s eyes rolled back in his head, he plunged his blade into the fool’s heart.
The Lord Defender of the Balance was dead.
He looked up to see three Defenders flicker and vanish to reveal robed figures in their place—shrouds. The lead one saluted Sahand, placing her fist to her chest. “The Sorcerous League sends its regards, Your Highness.”
“Took you long enough.”
The sorcerers bowed and then vanished again. That was all the help they were going to provide, it seemed. Sahand looked around—it didn’t matter. His own forces were storming the shore by now. The Saldorian army was in disarray. He grunted—even that little bit of assistance was all the help he needed.
He hefted his blade and charged back into the fray.
Chapter 37
The Black College
When Androlli and Myreon at last emerged from the pervading gloom of the Black Hall, they found themselves beneath an enormous elm tree in the center of a small lawn bordered by cobblestone streets and flickering feylamps. There were two teenagers in drab brown robes nearby whose heads perked up when they saw them, but when they saw Androlli’s mirrored armor, their eyes were once again buried in the scroll they were sharing between them.
The Far Far Better Thing Page 36
