by Ulff Lehmann
“She fainted right after tearing them down, sir,” Culain explained. “She tried to explain the magic, but I understood only half of it, sir.” The warrior grimaced, and said, “If Ealisaid is to be the weapon the Baron wants her to be, she needs to use magic in a way that is safe.”
“Uh,” the general said, and the Chosen knew exactly how he felt. The concepts of what had to be done to use sorcery at all were still beyond his grasp.
“If I don’t return, I’m probably dead,” the Wizardess stated. For a moment Kildanor thought he saw Culain hang on to his lover’s hand, but then he released her. “So, general,” she turned to Kerral. “Aside from the wood, what would you want me to destroy?” The warlord gaped at her, his mouth partway open. Ealisaid repeated the question, and still the warrior gave no reply.
Kildanor imagined what went on in the general’s head; he felt the same. If war were as easy as merely naming a target and seeing it destroyed, he wondered what sort of honor would be left. The idea was disturbing. Certainly, archers killed at a distance, but most times it still was the strength of a shield wall that decided which side won. During the Heir-War he had never considered how dishonorable magical mass destruction really was. It hadn’t mattered since the Phoenix Wizards had to be brought down, but now they were about to employ the same sort of thing against the enemy.
His eyes wandered over to Kerral who had closed his mouth, moistened his lips and now stared at the enemy camp. After a moment of consideration, the general said, “Destroy the timber and you have bought us a few more days.”
The Wizardess nodded. “Nothing else?” she asked.
Kildanor was as speechless as Kerral. Culain looked worried, but when the general remained silent the younger man relaxed somewhat.
“Didn’t you say it might hurt you? I’d hate to waste an asset such as you on random slaughter,” Kerral finally said. “No, for now the timber will suffice.”
“You’re right, general,” the sorceress said. “Thank you.” She gave them a brave smile. Kildanor had seen the same sort of simper on many people about to do something foolhardy. “If all goes well they will have toothpicks soon.”
Culain asked, “Are you certain, dove?”
“Only death is certain,” Kildanor muttered. This was one of life’s truths he had learned long before the guardsman had been born, but here was not the place to consider all who had died while he still lived on.
“I asked her,” the guardsman retorted, apparently very concerned about the Wizardess’ wellbeing.
“Chosen, guard your tongue,” Ealisaid said, a twinkle of mirth in her eye. To her lover, she said, “Aye, I’m sure. I swore to protect the city, same as you did, with every fiber of my being.” She cast a sad look at Kildanor, saying, “Even if victory means exile when it’s over.”
He sighed. “I don’t make the laws here.” He wanted to add she would already be dead if he was in charge but deemed it wiser to remain silent.
“Well, be that as it may,” Kerral interrupted. “If you can destroy the wood, and I still have no idea how you’ll get there, then the siege will be halted for a time.”
Giving her lover a brief hug, Ealisaid nodded confidently. “It’s there and will soon be gone, trust me.” To Culain she added, “Remember, do not search for me if I don’t return. Because if I don’t, I misjudged everything.” Without a word of goodbye, she closed her eyes.
To Kildanor it seemed as if she was meditating, preparing to enter the spiritworld, but instead the Wizardess’ feet left the ground. There was a collective gasp as the spectators, Kildanor included, saw Ealisaid fly. Only Culain, who must have seen her do this before, remained unimpressed, whispering encouragements to her. Quickly, the sorceress gained altitude, and in a matter of moments, Kildanor had lost sight of her.
“Amazing!”
“Gods!”
“Did you see that?”
“Incredible!”
“Of course I saw that!”
“She’s flying!”
“Like a bird!”
“Whoosh!”
The warriors muttered amongst themselves, still in whispers, but with an enthusiasm they had not shown when he had arrived at the gate. Ealisaid flew. This was not the same as the illusion she had created to mask the defenders in the first night of the siege. No, this was more like the magic of old, the magic he had seen Wizards employ in the Heir-War. Unlike her brethren, this young woman seemed more interested in men—or one man rather—than in power. The thought was a relief; on some level he didn’t want to see her die.
All around him the murmur subsided as the soldiers stared at the sky and the mist- and darkness-shrouded horizon. The Chosen felt the lingering expectation to witness something breathtaking, mighty magics unseen since the Heir-War. He had to admit he was hoping to view it.
“Lord Chosen?” Culain’s whisper brought his attention back to the battlement.
“Aye?” he asked, blinking.
“It won’t be a display, milord. She knows that the enemy is still pretty much in the dark about what happened five days ago and thinks it foolish to reveal all our weaponry now.”
He nodded his thanks, and then put a calming hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, son, she’ll return.”
The guardsman’s reply was drowned out by thunder. At first it was just a slight rumble, almost as if the wall was much closer to the heavens than it actually was. A heartbeat later the roar amplified. Kildanor stared south, tried to see something, anything of what was going on behind that hill. At the same time, he pressed his hands over his ears to block out the noise. The boom was so loud he felt the stone and mortar underneath his feed shaking. Then it was gone.
“Bloody Scales!” General Kerral shouted, stumbling back to his feet. Others also did the same, swearing and standing, hands still clutched to their ears, eyes on the horizon.
The astonished oaths and almost whispered complaints were nothing compared to the uproar in the Chanastardhian camp. Kildanor, both hands on a merlon, strained his hearing, trying to discern some phrase from the frantic shouts echoing across the plain.
“How the Scales did you manage to stay on your feet?” Kerral growled.
He glanced over to the warlord and shrugged. “Luck I guess. But listen.” He pointed at the commotion in the besieger’s encampment.
“Where is she?” Culain asked, ignoring the satisfaction that must have been apparent on his face.
“Right here,” Ealisaid’s voice called from above.
Kildanor looked up and saw a very exhausted-looking Wizardess floating toward them. She didn’t look as bad as she had when he had first taken her into custody weeks ago, and neither did she look as bedraggled and mangled as Ralgon, but she still looked weary. Culain caught her in his arms and held her close. “She’s freezing!” the young man exclaimed, and immediately carried her to the nearest oven.
The Wizardess managed a weak grin. “Guess we have more time now, right, Chosen?”
He didn’t reply; there was nothing he could think of saying. The destruction of the enemy’s timber stores would slow them down, but not send them packing. He doubted the Wizardess would recover as quickly as Ralgon had.
“Lord Chosen,” a voice interrupted his musings again. He turned and saw one of Cumaill’s pages hurrying up the stairs.
“Yes, lad, what is it?”
“Baron Duasonh needs to see you at once,” the boy replied, panting.
“Very well,” he said, turning to General Kerral. “See to it she is taken care of, and make sure the men keep quiet! None of us must appear to know what has happened to that timber. Understood?”
The general gave a toothy grin. “Certainly, sir.” Then, as Kildanor headed down to Dawntreader, he heard Kerral issue orders to be relayed to every man and woman upon the wall, threatening latrine duty if word about their secret weapon spread. Dawntreader was as disturbed as the other animals in proximity to the wall; he heard them barking and meowing and whinnying al
l up and down Halmond Street and even farther north. For a brief moment he inspected the wall, but the quake had done no damage that he could perceive. In the morning its entire length would have to be inspected, but he was certain General Kerral would think of this himself.
He had one foot in the stirrup when the clatter of hooves on cobble drew near. The approaching horse sounded nervous, skittish, and the rider’s muttered curses reflected his horse’s unease. Looking over his shoulder, in the flickering lamplight of a nearby house he saw it was Lord Cahill. The foot left the stirrup again. “Sir,” he said, inclining his head.
“You know where he is?” the nobleman grumbled, reining his mare to a stop.
“Where who is?”
“Ralgon! Been searching everywhere.”
“You think he is here?”
Dismounting, Sir Úistan said, “Damn well hope he is.”
“He wants nothing to do with battle, why would he come closer to it?”
“No idea, all I know is he attacked my daughter and ran!”
CHAPTER 22
West Gate, its barbican, and the wall arching south and east to surround warehouses and other buildings were manned well. For a moment Jesgar thought back to the time when he had merely been the Hand. It had been an easier way of living, but not half as exciting as spying for Baron Duasonh promised to be.
He loitered near the corner of New Wall Street and Dunth Street, waiting on the sign the Baron had assured him would come. “You won’t bloody miss it, son,” Lord Duasonh had said, and had sounded so confident that Jesgar was certain. Already the air near the river was ripe with fog, and the overcast sky brought visibility to the barest minimum. The Sword-Warden of the gate knew of his mission and would tell him the password the moment it began. Dunth “pea soup” the locals called this autumn mist and pea soup it was. The longer he waited the murkier things around him grew, until one could hardly see more than a few yards ahead. No one would be able to see him descending the battlement, unless they were truly close to the wall, and he doubted any Chanastardhian was that foolish.
The evening gong came and went, and with it the last sunrays disappeared from the western horizon, painting the mist first blood red, and then a deepening orange, until it was only grey. Lord Duasonh had suggested this part of the wall; Jesgar was surprised the Baron knew about the foggy cover so close to the river and wondered what his liege had done in the past to be aware of such features. He had always thought nobles were raised behind high walls, away from villeins and freeborn. Obviously, the Baron had not grown up that way. Sure, the Palace had its share of fog, but climbing down those walls on a pea soup night was very close to suicide. Maybe Dunthiochagh’s master had had a rebellious streak as a youth, though Jesgar found it hard to imagine the Baron as a young man. Maybe that was because he had only known him as a portly man with salt and pepper hair and beard but Duasonh had a certain air of timelessness about him.
Standing anywhere near the Dunth this time of the year was cold, he noted for the tenth time and again considered joining the warriors on the battlement. At least they had ovens to keep warm. This time the need to feel warm overcame his desire to remain hidden, and with the fog as thick as it was he doubted any foe would be able to discern anything that was going on upon the wall. Quickly he mounted the stairs.
Too late he remembered the lack of visibility worked both ways and heard at least one sword slide out of its scabbard. “Halt! Who goes there?” a muffled voice asked.
“Friend,” he replied.
Someone came from the side and put a pike on his shoulder. “We’ll soon know, won’t we, eh?” the sentinel said.
“Password?” a woman asked.
“Piss and blood, you think I know a password for getting onto the wall? I was supposed to get a password from you louts!” Jesgar replied more boldly than he truly felt.
The pike’s pressure on his shoulder lessened slightly. “That him, chief?” the one holding the polearm asked.
“Baron said he’d be an arrogant fart,” the woman said.
“Let’s have it, sonny! Down with your hood!”
Gods, he cursed himself, he still had the hood pulled low into his face. How stupid could one person really be, he wondered, realizing he had much more to learn before he could truly call himself a spy. Pulling off the cowl, he turned and squinted into the fog. Not far off he saw a sliver of light trying to pierce the vapor, a lantern.
“Show your mug!” another warrior hissed.
Jesgar turned toward the light. “I am who I am,” he said.
“Sure you are, boy,” the woman said. The others chuckled.
“I was in the Palace’s dungeon, not much worries me,” he retorted with false bravado.
“Could have been a leftover traitor,” the pike-bearer behind him said, as the weapon lifted off his shoulder.
“Were there any?” he asked.
“Not here, but one hears rumors, boy,” the woman said.
“Yeah, but Darroch is full of shit anyways,” another said.
“I heard he and Graeme were both drunk as shit and Graeme took a dive over the wall puking his guts out,” a new voice added to the muffled conversation.
“Bashed his skull right in,” the Sword-Warden said. “Garinad, the ground is thirty feet below us, need a rope?”
“Fuck me; I thought that voice was familiar.” A face came out of the mist and stopped right in front of his. “Damn, it is you!” the face exclaimed.
It took Jesgar a moment to realize whom he was looking at, it had been years since he had seen this face, but with the pockmarks there was no mistaking this man. “Pad the Channeldipper!” the Hand said. “How’ve you been?”
“Channeldipper?” echoed the others, snorting.
Pad groaned. “Until now I was dipshit, cuz I’m new with them, but thanks to you I’ll be Channeldipper now.”
“Which is better than dipshit, Channeldipper,” the woman said. “You can catch up some other time, boys. Channeldipper, bugger off and get the rope.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Pad said and hurried off.
To Jesgar she said, “Rope’ll be safer, and faster.”
“I agree. What’s the password?” he asked.
“Steeloak, you bastards, steeloak,” she said.
“Steeloak?” he echoed.
“No, you idiot!” one of the hidden men said. “It’s ‘steeloak, you bastards, steeloak.’”
Now he understood and scoffed. “Should they catch me…”
“Yup, they’ll question you, and you can tell the truth,” the Sword-Warden said, this time leaning so far toward him that he saw her face. The woman looked almost as old as his brother Ben, but her face was rougher. One scar ran down her forehead across a milky-white eye and ended on her left cheek. The other eye was piercing blue. Her hair was dirty brown and tied back into an unruly knot. “Just make it sound like they actually tortured it outta you.” She pointed at the scar. “Don’t give it up at the first sign of trouble, got that?” He nodded, feeling slightly intimidated. “Good, we’ll be here when you return. And remember the password.”
“Steeloak, you bastards, steeloak,” Jesgar replied.
“Good boy,” she said, winking her good eye at him.
Pad returned. “Rope’s here,” he said as a deafening boom rung across the plain. It was followed by another, even stronger thunder.
“Let’s get you down!” the warriors said, and mere heartbeats later Jesgar the Hand was outside Dunthiochagh heading away from the fog, along the city wall.
He had no idea what had caused the thunderclaps. He suspected the Wizardess was behind it, but none of that mattered. The Chanastardhians acted like headless chicken, running around yelling and shouting in confusion. Jesgar had memorized the lay of the land outside the city walls and had paid special attention to the route he wanted to take to reach enemy lines. A few score long steps south, the pea soup was thinning slightly, he came across the trampled path used by herders and their flocks. It
was frozen solid now, he could feel the tracks left by animal hooves, and a few strides later he came to the modest outcrop that signaled the beginning of the fields.
Weeks ago, the farmers had brought in the harvest. He remembered their praises for the exceptional yield, how they had plowed the fields for the winter crop. Now he trod upon soil flattened by hundreds of feet and hooves, not that next year’s harvest would matter if Dunthiochagh fell.
Slowly the fog thinned, to the point where he actually made out shapes hurrying to and fro. Jesgar hesitated, reminding himself of what the Baron had sent him out to do. The fierce Sword-Warden and her warriors were in for a long wait, because he would not come back this night. Part of him worried he would not return at all. He reviewed his lessons in dialects; the decision from which area he was hailing had to be made at a moment’s notice, depending on whom he would come across first.
The voices ahead sounded muffled, and he slowed his pace. His clothes were villein’s garb, poorly made but sufficed as a costume. Now he made out clear sentences.
“Scales, what the fuck was that?” the speaker came from the coast though he could not place the dialect. Maybe it was someone from Merthain, vassal to Chanastardh, and a regional tongue he had not yet learned. It was impossible to blend in with a people he hardly understood.
“Dammit, mate, can you hear that?” the other speaker came from the same region.
Jesgar trudged on, heading east.
After a while he crossed a wide swath of beaten earth. Trade Road. The fog had disappeared during his slow trek, and he was forced to hunch in ditches, observing the turmoil inside the besiegers’ camp. A quick glance north and he saw he was well out of range of the walls, but to reach the main encampment he would still have to walk a couple hundred yards. Cross-country, he decided, and sidled up one of the trenches that ran at an angle to the road.
When he came to a cart-path running north to south, he angled southward. Now he discerned more of what went on. He was probably two hundred yards away from the camp, the partially finished siege castle looming right ahead. Behind the barricade he saw people milling about, brightly illuminated by several large fires. Last night the light had hinted at small cooking-fires, but now the enemy had lit blazes. Outlined by the flames, Jesgar saw warriors running back and forth, carrying stretchers. He crept closer, trying to see exactly what had happened.
