A spasm seized Taelyn. His head sagged backward, and his sword fell from his grasp. Vashni thrust his blade in deeper, leaning on it, until it would go no farther. When he jerked it free, Taelyn sagged to his knees, clutching his bowels. Rich blood poured liberally through his hands as he looked toward the top of the wall.
Minarik let go a long, despairing wail as Vashni ripped off Taelyn's helm and clutched a handful of hair. He raised his sword, and it paused in the air to catch the light before it whistled down. Thrice Vashni chopped before Taelyn's head came free. Holding his prize, he marched slowly back and forth before the walls of Parendur while a mighty cheer went up from the ranks of the Witch's soldiers.
In a rage, Minarik rushed from the wall, calling for his horse. Several of his generals hurried after him, trying to dissuade him from a rash act, but he wouldn't listen. He flung off the robe that covered his armor as a young soldier brought his gray mare from the stables.
He threw himself upon its bare back and clutched the reins. "Give me a lance!" he shouted to the top of the wall, and someone tossed one down to him. Catching it with sure skill, he balanced it under his arm. "Open the gate!" he ordered. "Open it!" Four men hurried to obey. It was barely wide enough before he dashed through it.
"He'll be killed!" Innowen said fearfully to Razkili.
Razkili held him tightly and whispered, "Then you'd better think about what your first order will be as Whisperstone's new lord."
Vashni saw Minarik and the long point of a lance rushing toward him. Instantly, he dropped Taelyn's head and ran for his own lance, which angled up from the ground a short distance away. Dust flew up from his feet, and his arms pumped furiously. Minarik bore down on him with swift speed. Vashni reached his lance, pulled it from the earth. In one smooth motion, he turned, balanced himself and threw.
Minarik gave a cry as Vashni's point slammed through his body. A collective groan of dismay went up from the soldiers on the wall, and Innowen screamed as he watched his father fall and lay still in the dust.
Vashni hesitated, breathing hard as he stared at the fallen form. Slowly, he walked toward it, his sword in his hand. The gray mare, uncertain of what it should do, snorted and trotted out of his way. Vashni picked up his lance. The point gleamed, red with Minarik's blood. He cast it down again and knelt beside the fallen lord of Whisperstone. Vashni paused to remove his own black-lacquered helm, and he set it down by Minarik's body. Then, tangling one hand in Minarik's hair, he raised his sword.
Minarik's eyes snapped suddenly open. Before Vashni could react, he twisted and struck, plunging a concealed dagger deep into Vashni's neck. The black knight leaped up and stumbled back, blood gurgling from the wound and rushing down over his armor. With one hand he tried uselessly to stanch the flow as he watched Minarik rise.
A new, jubilant cry of triumph went up from the soldiers on the wall. But Innowen was not so joyous. At first, he'd thought his father had faked it all, but the crimson stain on his side was real.
Minarik took the sword from Vashni's numb grip and clutched it in both his hands. An almost pathetic fear filled Vashni's eyes, but he stood rooted to the spot, waiting for the blow, unable to run. Minarik made a show of drawing back. The muscles in his arms and shoulders corded as he widened his stance. The blade flashed, and a spray of red fountained. Vashni never made a sound. Minarik struck twice more before the body hit the ground. Then he stood over it, glaring. His rage had not yet abated. Like a madman, he raised the sword and swung it down with all his might, hacking Vashni's corpse to pieces while tumultuous shouts of approval rose from the wall and angry cries issued from the Witch's troops.
I never told him, Innowen thought. A deep sadness replaced the terror that had filled him a moment before. He averted his eyes from the butchery, unable to watch. It's his own son he's just killed, and he doesn't know it. His son. Now, he must never know. He wondered, was this why he hadn't told Minarik? Had he sensed this coming tragedy? He gripped Razkili's arm with a trembling hand.
Abruptly, the cries from the far side of the field grew louder and more savage. The Witch's troops rushed suddenly forward. At the same time, the great gates of Whisperstone flung back, and a force led by Veydon charged out to surround Minarik. Archers on the wall let fly their shafts, and the air whistled with the whirling of slings.
There was no order to the chaos. The clash of weapons and battlecries and moans made a terrible music, and the sound of it filled Innowen's ears. More men poured out through the gate to join the battle. A cavalry troop charged out of the forest. Warriors fell, and the earth gorged itself on blood. A cloud of dust and ash floated up "and hung over the field as if it were a pall. Even the unarmed villagers under Minarik's protection rushed out to join the fray, seizing up the weapons of the fallen, wielding them with unskilled fury.
Innowen watched as Veydon and a circle of men worked their way backward toward Whisperstone's gate, ruthlessly cutting down all who tried to stop them. Two men had Minarik's arms around their shoulders, and they half dragged him to safety inside.
"I'll carry you down to him," Razkili said with a strange quietness.
Innowen tried to read Rascal's face. Usually, he knew what the other was thinking, but not this time. Razkili's jaw was set, the muscles in his cheek clenched until they showed through the skin. "Are you going out there?" Innowen asked with some trepidation.
Rascal shook his head as he bore Innowen down a narrow flight of stone steps. A soldier running past nearly knocked them down. "I've had enough of fighting," he said grimly. "My only thought now is to protect you. I'm beginning to wonder if I can do that in this country of the damned."
They couldn't get close to Minarik. His generals and physicians quickly surrounded him, lifted him on blankets and carried him into Whisperstone. Veydon lifted his helm and wiped sweat from his brow as he watched his lord borne away. He turned toward Innowen and Razkili. Blood covered both his arms and the sword in his hand.
"How bad?" Innowen asked.
Veydon frowned and shrugged. "The spear pierced his side. If they keep the wound clean, and there's no infection, he might live." He pushed his hair back with one hand, set his helm back on his head, and fastened the chin strap.
"Stop," Innowen said suddenly. "Go back on the wall. Sound the order to disengage."
Veydon stared. "What?"
"Disengage!" Innowen ordered forcefully. "Look out the gate, man! Even the villagers are fighting. It may look good right now, but that's not even a fourth of the Witch's army. If they come at us full strength we can't afford to be caught out there. Now call them back!"
Veydon snarled, but he knew the truth of Innowen's words. He hurried to obey, climbing the steps two at a time to seek out a trumpeter above.
"Not bad for your first order, my lord," Razkili said sullenly as he watched Veydon go.
"Minarik isn't dead yet!" Innowen snapped. "Don't call me lord. Someone's got to be sensible, though. Damn his generals! They should be out here giving the orders, not inside holding his hand!"
"The privileges of rank," Rascal muttered, "always include the safest, farthest retreat from the actual fighting."
It was Innowen's turn to snarl. "Then carry me back up so I can see what's going on. This day is far from over."
A blast of trumpets rang out from atop the wall, three long ascending notes repeated over and over. Down below, the villagers looked around in confusion until they saw Minarik's troops break off, one by one, and make their way toward the keep. The Witch's warriors fought after them, but archers and slingmen atop the wall drove them back.
Innowen watched with an odd sense of detachment as his father's people surged inside and his mother's soldiers withdrew to the concealment of the forest. He scanned the field. It was littered with the bodies of men and horses. There was no trace of Vashni's body, though. He would have recognized the black armor. No doubt his comrades had carried it away for a decent funeral.
Razkili set him down in Minarik's high-backed chair
. Below, though he could not see them, the courtyard rang with the excited voices of his soldiers and the villagers as they celebrated what they, no doubt, considered a victory. He could see no victor. Yes, they had rescued Minarik. But they had lost Taelyn and lots of other worthy men, and despite Veydon's optimism, Minarik might still die if his wound infected.
No, he could see nothing to celebrate. He rested his chin heavily in his hand as the great doors of the gate below boomed closed and the bar scraped home. A wind swept across the field and blew away the pall of dust. The wind seemed to whisper something as it passed, but he could not understand its words.
"I am half sick of shadows," he murmured to himself as a cloud crossed the face of the sun.
Chapter 24
Innowen entered the courtyard and walked toward the gazebo where Razkili waited for him. He wore his mother's golden armor and the white cloak he had stolen from her. The light from four tall torches that lit the courtyard shimmered and danced on the breastplate and greaves and arm braces. He carried her helm tucked under one arm. On a belt around his waist, he wore her sword in its white-lacquered sheath.
Razkili sat on a bench near the gazebo. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, as he twirled a cup of wine between his hands. His eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted. Innowen approached him quietly.
"Rascal?"
Razkili sat up with a start. "Innowen," he responded. "I didn't hear you." He looked up toward a particular window high above. "I was listening to her music."
Lost in his own thoughts, Innowen had barely noticed Dyan's piping. It floated on the night wind, sweeter and softer than he had ever heard it before. There was a sadness to it, a melancholy that made him forget briefly where he was, what was happening around him.
"What will Minarik do with her?" Razkili said suddenly as he rose to stand beside Innowen.
Innowen shook his head. "He has many options. She saved our lives, but she killed her father and Ispor's king."
Razkili gazed back up at the window. A single light burned in the room beyond it, and Dyan's shadow swayed back and forth in rhythm with her music. "I never wanted any harm to come to her," Razkili said.
Innowen looked at him. "What do you mean?"
Razkili looked away, then took a sip of his wine. "I knew how she felt about you," he answered at last. He gave a shrug of his shoulders. "I was jealous."
Despite the seriousness of the admission, a small grin turned up the corners of Innowen's mouth. "You never said anything about it," he said softly.
Rascal shrugged again. "What was there to say?" He stared back at the window and the shadow of the piper. The wan lamplight flickered as if in a draft. "Now, I'm afraid for her."
"I'm afraid for all of us," Innowen confessed. He took the cup from Razkili's hand and sipped the wine. "The Witch will come tonight. I feel it in the air, somehow, as surely as I feel this vessel in my hand. She'll come tonight to avenge Vashni."
For the first time, Razkili seemed to notice the armor Innowen wore. He ran his eye up and down it appraisingly and folded his arms over his chest. "You've told Minarik?"
Innowen nodded. "I didn't want to," he said. "He can barely walk with his wound, but he's already on the wall, watching and waiting." He hesitated, handing the winecup back to Razkili, who set it down on the bench. "When one of the physicians tried to stop him, Minarik nearly killed the poor fool."
"He hates the Witch that much," Rascal said, "that he would risk bleeding to death to see her."
Innowen bit his lip. "Or loves her that much. Who knows? Love and hate. After so long, maybe they've become the same thing to him."
Razkili adjusted his own sword on his hip, and they walked across the courtyard, their sandaled heels ringing on the paving stones. Suddenly, Rascal halted and caught Innowen's shoulder. "The music," he said quietly. "It's stopped."
They both stared back at the lit window above, then at each other. Without another word, they walked through Whisperstone and out across the crowded grounds where soldiers huddled around campfires sharpening weapons or polishing armor or grabbing a hasty meal of barley broth and bread prepared by the women. Upon the wall, twice the usual number of men stood watch. Bundles of arrows were stacked everywhere, and stones were piled high for the slingmen.
The moon, no longer perfectly full, but still quite bright, cast a pale wash over the blackened field. During the afternoon, a squad of soldiers had ventured beyond the gate to gather the bodies of their comrades and to collect weapons and usable pieces of armor from the fallen enemy. The ground, however, was still littered with numerous corpses.
The forest beyond the field was silent. The moon dusted the tops of the trees with silver, and the breeze caused the leaves to ripple like the surface of the sea.
The soldiers turned to acknowledge Innowen as he passed them at their posts. By seizing command earlier in the day, he had somehow risen in their regard. Before, they had avoided or tolerated him for Minarik's sake, sometimes eyeing him suspiciously, aware of his strange curse. More than once he had heard the half-whispered word, abathakati, behind his back. That had all changed. Now they nodded to him. A few greeted him by name.
His father sat stiffly in his high-backed chair above the main gate. He wore no armor, just a kilt and a thin cloak. Even in the torchlight, his face was pale and drawn, and droplets of sweat beaded his brow. A swath of bandages enwrapped his middle, and he kept one hand pressed over the wound. Veydon stood behind him with a couple of pillows under one arm. He just shrugged and shook his head when he saw Innowen, indicating Minarik had refused such comforts.
The Lord of Whisperstone turned his head ever so slightly toward Veydon and dismissed him with a gesture. Razkili drew off a few paces as well, following his spear-mate.
When he and Innowen were alone, Minarik stared back toward the dark forest. "Do you feel her?" he said to his son. "She's coming. The night tingles with her presence."
There was a strange quality in Minarik's voice that frightened Innowen. He set his helm aside as he knelt at his father's right side and touched his arm. "Maybe we can stop this, Father," he said earnestly. "Give her Kyrin's body. When she sees that he's dead, perhaps she'll be satisfied."
He didn't believe it even as the words tumbled from his mouth. Vashni was dead. Minarik had hacked him to pieces. The Witch wouldn't stop now until the last stone of the keep was cracked asunder.
Minarik covered Innowen's hand with his own and leaned close to his son. Pain reflected in Minarik's eyes, and he winced as he settled himself. With a frown, Innowen reached up and snatched one of the pillows from Veydon and thrust it down between the arm of the chair and his father's side, prepared to stifle any protest from his father. Instead, Minarik smiled tolerantly.
"Should I give her Kyrin's crown, as well, and let her rule Ispor, my son?" Minarik asked pointedly. "Should I deliver our country into the hands of this woman who has torn it apart with mercenary armies and rebels? How many villages has she destroyed, Innowen? How many farms and homes has she burned?"
Innowen bit his lip as he squeezed his father's arm affectionately. He feared suddenly that nothing could stop the Witch, that Whisperstone would be crushed, and with it, his father. He feared losing what he had only so recently found.
"Was Kyrin a better ruler?" Innowen asked stubbornly. "Ispor suffered under his heavy hand, father. He tilled the ground and sowed the seeds of rebellion himself. He burned his own share of villages. Don't defend him."
Minarik snorted and sagged back into his chair. "Defend him?" he sneered. "He murdered my brother—his father. What a family we are!"
Innowen clenched his father's arm with both hands and leaned forward intently. "Then try to stop this!" he appealed. "What's a crown, but a piece of metal. Minowee is my mother, and you're my father!"
A long sigh slid from Minarik's lips, and he clutched gently at his wound. "And you're caught in the middle," the lord admitted. He stared out again at the forest. The leaves, dusted with moonl
ight, rippled in the breeze. "My poor Innocent," he said sorrowfully, "a crown is more than mere metal. It is a symbol of responsibility. A king must be responsible for the well-being of the weak and the less fortunate. That's the responsibility our family has carried for many years now." He closed his eyes briefly as a spasm of pain shook him, but he waved off any assistance.
"I can't give that crown to your mother," he said when the pain had passed. He cast a glance to either side, as if to assure himself they were still alone. "I loved her once. You know that. I loved her with all my heart and soul—gods forgive me—even after I discovered who she was. But I had to tear myself away." He swallowed, then tried to sit up straighter in the chair. He turned his head again to meet Innowen's gaze. "She's evil, Innowen. Even the good she does has a dark side, and that darkness always comes to the fore. She's not in control of her power. Her power controls her."
Innowen felt Razkili's hand suddenly on his shoulder. Despite their whispering, he could see by the look in Rascal's eyes that he had overheard, and he knew what his lover was thinking. The Witch had made him to walk, yes, and made him to dance. Once, that had been his most fervent wish, to dance. But he knew, too well, the dark side of that. Razkili knew it, too.
Minarik stared at Razkili for a moment, as if resenting the intrusion. Innowen, however, drew strength from that touch. He caught Rascal's hand and squeezed it, refusing to let him withdraw again.
Minarik shrugged. At last he continued. "I can't surrender Ispor into her hands," he said grimly. "I am not king, but I'm the son and brother of kings, and I'm responsible for my people. Think of them, Innowen." He directed his gaze outward again, while the wind rumpled his hair. He sat up straight, and the pain seemed to vanish abruptly from his features. When next he spoke, there was no weakness in his voice. "Reflect on your own life, and think of them."
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