"My prince—" Korwinder began to speak, but Garrin halted him with an upturned hand.
The young prince turned his head slightly as though to look over his shoulder. "My father is not the man he once was," he said, then turned his gaze back to the dukes. "But while he yet lives, he is still the king, and I am still the Champion-Protector. That makes me ultimately responsible for the defense of this city. My men and I are going to get this done." One side of his mouth turned up in a dark smile. "So we'd better figure out what you're all going to do if I don't come back."
Korwinder said nothing. The argument was over. Caymus watched on in fascination as the men around him, the decision having been made by the figure who was ultimately their monarch, erected plans for the defense of the city.
It was quickly agreed that a large number of the buildings which existed outside the high city walls would need to be evacuated, that the people who lived and worked there would be found lodgings inside one of the three districts.
There were also some places in the outer wall that had been weakened by previous attacks—whether by krealites, a few months ago, or Mael'vekians, decades ago—so plans were made to fortify and support those areas. Fel, the rotund duke of the Reed District, had raised concerns that most of those sections were in the southern wall, and that the fortifications might be a waste of time and resources, considering the fact that Black Moon was coming from the North. Even Caymus had realized, before it was said aloud, that the concern was foolish, that just because an army approaches a city from one direction, there is no guarantee that it will attack from there.
The farmlands on either side of the Silvertooth River had not been as productive as they had been in previous years, but plans were made for anything harvestable to be collected in the next few days, and for the rest to be burned so that, in the case of a protracted siege, the people of Kepren didn't end up feeding their attackers. There was some discussion of actually salting the earth, but it was agreed that such an action would be unnecessary. Even if the siege lasted for a year—nobody believed it would—it was unlikely that the invading army would actually begin farming outside the walls.
When the prince questioned Tanner about the readiness of the engineers—the Royal Engineers were stationed within the walls of the Keep itself, and were thus under his direct leadership—the man's face lit up with excitement.
"Ah yes," he said, then he crouched down, reaching for something under the table. "One of Draya's boys has something new for us."
When Tanner stood and set the small, clay jar on the table, Caymus felt Be'Var's hand clamp down on his shoulder. He understood why, too. Even from several feet away, he could feel that the vessel contained more of the fire element than anything he'd ever experienced outside of the Conflagration itself.
"Burn me!" Be'Var exclaimed, staring at the jar, and then at Tanner. "You're not planning on lighting that in here, are you?"
Tanner gave the master a mischievous grin. "That obvious, is it?"
Be'Var shook his head. "That," he said, pointing at it, "shouldn't even be indoors, Tanner. It shouldn't even exist!" He gave the Keep-Marshal an incredulous look. "How in the four elements did you manage it?"
The Prince, who had been looking back and forth between the men, cleared his throat. "Does one of you want to tell the rest of us what this is?"
Tanner turned his smile to the prince. He lifted the lid of the jar so that the prince could get a look inside. "It's, for lack of a better word, a kind of sludge," he said, "and it's made, in large part, from graysilt."
"Graysilt?" the prince said, looking up from the jar. "It's flammable, then?"
"Ha!" Tanner replied. "You wouldn't believe how hot the stuff burns, but to give you an idea…" He, once again, reached under the table. When he stood, he produced what looked like some kind of black metal plate; it was scorched and pockmarked and had several holes in it. He threw it onto the table, where it landed with a clatter. "That," he said, pointing, "used to be a half-inch plate of solid iron. The kid who made this stuff used one spoonful of the sludge," he pointed at the jar again, "to get it looking that way."
There were faint sounds of astonishment around the room, and Caymus heard Milo give a low whistle. After a moment, the prince turned to Be'Var. "Those creatures," he said, "the krealites. I've been told they're hard to set on fire, but that it's not impossible." He tilted his head at the little pot. "Could that do the trick?"
Be'Var scratched his chin and wrinkled his brow in thought for a moment. "It might," he said, then turned to Caymus. "What do you think, boy?"
Caymus regarded the little pot again, still amazed at the contents inside. He met the prince's eyes. "Whatever is in that pot," he said, "it has more fire in it than anything I've ever seen before. If anything can burn through a krealite's armor," he nodded at the pot, "that will be it."
"I don't want any qualifiers, Caymus," the prince replied. "Can it burn the bastards, or not?"
Caymus thought about what the Prince was asking. He thought about the times he'd managed to burn through a krealite before, thought about the heat it had taken, then compared it with what he was feeling from inside the little container. He thought back to the vision he'd just seen, the memory of the scout, of the gray-skinned men who had attacked the citizens of that foreign city. He wasn't sure how, but he knew those men weren't as well armored as the creatures. The huge insectoid monsters were beings far removed from the Quatrain, might have even begun their existences in the Sograve. Those men had seemed as though they'd started as human, were under the effects of some kind of transformation. They looked as though kreal had seeped into their skins, not replaced them.
He looked up again. "As far as the krealites go," he said, "Yes, there's enough fire in that jar to burn through a krealite shell. It's just a question of how quickly it can be applied. I believe you could burn one of the things, but you'd have to drench them in the stuff." The prince nodded, his face grim.
"But the men," Caymus continued, "the gray-skinned men that the bolts couldn't penetrate?" Caymus nodded at his own thought. "Whatever this is that the engineers have made, it will burn through one of them easy."
The prince let a slow, cautious smile creep onto his face. "What are the engineers calling this stuff, Tanner?" he asked. "And how much do we have?"
"Draya had some fancy, long-winded word for the concoction—you know how the engineers are," Tanner said, "but the boys are calling it 'Rill's sludge' for the time being."
Caymus nearly burst out laughing when he heard the new compound's name. Milo, never one to stand on formality, actually did laugh, and everyone turned at the outburst to look at him. "Rill's Sludge?" Milo said, an extremely pleased grin on his face. "Rill made this stuff?"
"That's the kid's name, so I'm told," Tanner said through arched eyebrows. "You know him?"
Milo, Caymus, and Be'Var shared a knowing, and somewhat astounded, look between them, much to the dissatisfaction of everyone else. "The boy was studying to be a master at the Temple," Be'Var finally explained. "He came down with the rest of us a few months ago." The old man shook his head in wonderment. "I figured there was a brain in his head somewhere, but I never thought it was sharp enough for something like this."
Caymus was beaming. He'd only seen his friend the one time since he'd come out of his long sleep. Hearing that the one-time failure had accomplished something so impressive was, by far, the best news he'd heard in a long time.
"The supply," Tanner said, trying to pick up the thread of conversation, "is another story, I'm afraid. So far, this one engineer is the only one who is able to make it properly," he let out a sigh as he spoke. "And one of the ingredients is hard to come by. Honestly, I don't know how much they'll be able to make before Black Moon is knocking on our door."
The prince's eyes were intense as he replied. "Make it a priority, Tanner," he said.
"I will, Sir," Tanner said.
"I mean it," Garrin said, making sure the marshal saw the seriousne
ss in his face. "You tell Draya to pour as much effort as they can into making more of this stuff, and you make sure that Rill character is teaching the rest of them how to make it by the end of the day." He looked down at the jar, then over to Be'Var and Caymus. "Our Conflagrationist friends say this 'Rill's sludge' can burn through our enemies," he looked back at Tanner, "so if my men and I aren't successful, it might end up being only weapon you have."
Nobody could argue with the prince's logic. Tanner had brought the jar of sludge into the meeting to show it off, to give the prince an idea of what the engineers had been up to. Caymus didn't think the Keep-Marshal had realized that he'd been holding what might be the city's only chance for survival.
"It will be done, Your Highness," Tanner said, his scowl matching the tone of the Prince's. Then, his eyes brightened a little, as though remembering something. "Draya did have a request that he asked me to pass along."
Garrin nodded. "Anything he needs," he said. "What is it?"
"It's for My Lord Dukes, actually," Tanner said, turning to the three men. The three of them, so different in appearance and yet so similar in attitude, raised their eyebrows in curiosity. Caymus realized that they had all kept quiet throughout the previous discussions, but that they currently appeared involved, present in the moment, taking a serious interest in matters. Whatever the situation between the dukes and the prince, Garrin's refusal to let them sway him from riding north seemed to have affected their demeanor.
"What can we do for the captain of the engineers?" asked Korwinder.
"He needs an inquisitor," said Tanner. "There have been four reported acts of sabotage in the yard in the last few days. Damage to the catapults, supplies going missing, that sort of thing." He gave Korwinder a slight smile and a shrug. "Draya would rather police his own people, of course," he said, "but, given the current state of things, he just doesn't have time."
Korwinder gave the marshal a sincere nod. "Of course," he said, then looked to the other two dukes. "We will make sure an inquisitor is stationed at the yard as soon as possible."
"Thank you," Tanner said. "I know the captain will appreciate it." His smile seemed to Caymus to be genuine, as did Korwinder's, and he briefly wondered why. Had the dukes' collective outlooks really changed so much in just a few minutes, or did they simply enjoy a better relationship with the marshal than with the prince?
All eyes turned back to Garrin. "Is there anything else you need, Tanner?" he asked, when he saw that they were all waiting for him to speak.
Tanner shook his head.
"Anybody?" The prince looked around at all those gathered. "Is there anything any of you needs from me so you can prepare for this invasion?"
Men looked at each other, expectantly, but nobody said anything.
"Good," Garrin said. "I will be taking my guard with me to the Greatstones tomorrow night. With the progress Black Moon is making..." he looked at Milo, "what's the latest?"
Milo grinned, his arms folded across his chest. "This sunrise," he said, "the bulk of the regular army was several miles in already, but they seemed to be waiting for the mercenary groups to catch up."
The prince nodded. "In other words, they're moving slowly enough that we'll have just enough time to set our trap." He looked at the faces around the table. Caymus was moved by the sincerity of this man, the leadership he seemed to exude without expending any noticeable effort. He found this Garrin hard to reconcile with the easy-going young man he'd first met at Flamehearth a few months ago. "When I'm gone," he continued, "it will be up to all of you to make sure the city is ready to defend itself. I don't need to tell you," he nodded to the scout, still standing next to Brocke, "the cost of failure."
Caymus, replaying the scene of the burning city in his mind, knew the cost all too well.
***
The streets were too quiet.
The sun still hovered over the rooftops in the Grass District, yet Caymus passed very few people as he made his way back to Flamehearth Mission. A few dozen citizens made their through the major arteries of the city, but most of the vendors' stalls, which had been so prevalent when he'd first arrived, were now missing, and the sounds of yelled conversations, of hawkers, of the footfalls of horses, appeared to have followed after them.
To Caymus, it seemed as though the city itself was holding its breath.
He only gave the silence a passing thought, however. His mind was filled with thoughts of the prince's meeting, of the things he had learned there. Tanner, the Keep-Marshal of Kepren, had held him back for nearly half-an-hour afterwards, asking him to recount, in as much detail as possible, his battles in the Conflagration. Caymus felt badly for the man. He wanted to defend his city, to find a way to teach his men how to beat back this enemy that would fall upon them so very soon.
When he'd finally left, Caymus had had the feeling that Tanner hadn't gotten what he wanted. He'd explained what he could about pressing into the krealites, rather than striking at them, and he hoped that relaying that much to the soldiers would help them stay alive, but he wasn't optimistic about it. He wished there was more he could tell the marshal about fighting the krealites, but his own instruction had involved no lessons, no manuals, only experience, and that was one thing he couldn't pass on.
He could imagine the visions that must have been haunting the marshal's mind. As he made the last turn and headed down the street that housed the mission, he saw them too: the dying people of a burning, nameless city. There had been so much fire in the scout's memories, so much chaotic, horrifying destruction. Caymus had always been fascinated by flames, drawn into them somehow; the images he'd been shown this day made him ashamed of those feelings.
He had thought he'd seen Mrowvain, the man who had called himself Callun, and who had been the one to cut him with a krealite blade, in those images. At least, in the brief instant he'd seen that face, he'd thought he'd recognized it as Mrowvain's. The face had been walking through fire. The man that had worn it also wore skin that had seemed darker, more ashen than that of the man Caymus remembered, but the clothes were the same, as were the hollow, soulless eyes.
What could actually be done about that image, about the fact that he'd seen the man who had nearly killed him, Caymus wasn't sure, but the memory stuck in his mind like the haunting recollection of some vivid nightmare. He supposed that the conclusion was obvious, really: if it was, in fact, Mrowvain that he had seen, then the man was marching with Black Moon and would be here, at the gates of the city, in a matter of days. He wondered if they would meet again, whether the man who had so grievously wounded him, had nearly killed him, would get another chance to finish his work.
He also wondered at the merit of the prince's plan, whether it stood any chance of succeeding. Could he really prevent the bulk of Black Moon from reaching Kepren? Or would he simply die in the attempt?
Caymus found that his estimation of the prince of Kepren had risen a great deal in the last hour. When he'd first met Prince Garrin, he'd seemed charming and good-natured, but he hadn't appeared to be a man ready to lead people in a war. This afternoon, Caymus had seen the other side of him, seen his resilience, his pride in his people, his willingness to die for them. He felt drawn by the man's presence, ready to follow him into any danger. He understood why his people looked up to him, despite his young age.
Still, the prince obviously faced other challenges. When Caymus had first entered the city, he'd had some difficulty understanding the order of things in Kepren, and his grasp of the politics of this place still wasn't complete. He knew, for instance, that the three districts of Kepren were each ruled, in their entirety, by the three dukes: Chenswig, Fel, and Korwinder. The king himself rightfully claimed dominion over only the Keep itself, which occupied a relatively small space inside the Guard District. The king was given responsibility for, and dominion over, the army, but it was the dukes who were in charge of raising the troops, and the prince, the Champion-Protector, was the man ultimately in command of leading the city's forces.
Caymus often wondered at the seeming madness of it. In theory, the king had the authority to overrule the dukes; in practice, he didn't seem to wield any real power outside his own castle. These days, Garrin was king in all but name, but he still retained his leadership of the army. It would likely have been easy for the dukes, for the Keep-Marshal, for anybody in a position of authority to claim that he was no longer the Champion-Protector, and that he be officially crowned the king of Kepren, and thus have the leadership of the army taken from him and given to a new Champion-Protector.
The fact that nobody challenged Garrin's rule seemed to provide evidence of just how well-respected the prince was among his subjects. The overall impression Caymus had gleaned from the day's meeting was that everyone in that room knew precisely how tenuous Prince Garrin's authority really was. Everyone also had such great respect for their leader that nobody dared mention that fact. How did a man become so strong, so respected, and at such a young age? Caymus knew he would have to find a way to learn from him.
As he passed through the front door of Flamehearth, he decided he would ask the prince to allow him to join in his mission, to help him strike the first blow against their enemy.
Something about having made the decision lifted his spirits.
In the moment he closed the door behind him, he realized that the silence of the city had been broken. His eyes went wide when he heard the distinctive sounds of steel on steel. He turned his head. The sound was coming from the courtyard. There was fighting in the mission!
Quickly, he drew his sword and ran through the front room and the corridors, heading for one of the rooms with an entrance into the courtyard. He placed his weight carefully, keeping his footfalls quiet. If there were attackers out there, he might be able to surprise them.
When he stepped onto the dry grass, however, he was momentarily confused by what he saw. Aiella was there, standing amongst the small group of children that lived at the mission. She and one of the girls were attacking each other with rapiers, and he wondered what could possibly have possessed the woman to attack children.
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