Enchanter

by Sara Douglass

  In the months leading up to the siege of Gorkenfort, Borneheld and Magariz had planned for every eventuality. Among the less palatable had been a retreat from Gorkenfort. But neither had been sure of which direction they’d be able to retreat in—south through central Ichtar to Jervois Landing or east across the Icescarp Barren and through the WildDog Plains to Skarabost? In the end, Borneheld had ordered that supplies be secreted across both lines of retreat. And while Borneheld and his command had undoubtedly made effective use of the reserves in central Ichtar, so Belial and his command had benefited from the supply route across the Icescarp Barren and the WildDog Plains.

  Borneheld would be horrified to realise that his planning had saved the lives of men openly allied with the Forbidden.

  Surprisingly, the Skraelings had hardly bothered Belial’s force as they moved east and then south. Belial wished he knew what the Skraelings were up to. Had they hurt them so badly in the ice fields above Gorkenfort they’d gone to ground to lick their wounds? Or were they even now massing for a devastating assault on Achar through Ichtar? Belial irritably brushed his sandy hair off his forehead, the green thread Faraday had given him to tie about his biceps catching his eye. Perhaps the Mother’s magic still protects us, he thought. Whatever the reason, there had been a few half-hearted attacks on stragglers and nothing else.

  While they were still close to the Icescarp Alps the Icarii farflight scouts had kept in contact, occasionally sweeping down to share a meal in the evenings. Only Belial and Magariz had ever seen the Icarii at close range previously—during the tragic meeting atop Gorkenfort’s Keep—and the first evening two of the farflight scouts had alighted in the camp had caused a sensation. Scores of men suddenly found pressing need to consult with either Belial or Magariz.

  The Icarii had taken the curiosity of the men in good humour—indeed, they had been almost as curious themselves. They were fascinated with the type and composition of the armour the Acharite soldiers wore, and Belial had to restrain them from stroking the soldiers in much the same fashion as they had the strange and wondrous horses.

  Whenever they’d visited, the Icarii gave Belial what news of Axis they had, although he spent so much time with his father that few of the Icarii had yet seen him. They did have news of Azhure, however, and Belial fully intended to wring an apology from her for clubbing him unconscious in her bid to free an Avar man and child from their cell in Smyrton.

  The Icarii had disappeared as Belial led his force into the central WildDog Plains some two and a half weeks ago. They were as yet reluctant to fly too far from the relative safety of the Alps, and Belial missed their company as much as he missed their mobility.

  Belial was looking for a suitable site to base Axis’ rebel army. On farewelling Axis at the Icescarp Alps he had thought to move down to Smyrton with its extensive grain fields. But Sigholt was far more defensible and had better facilities for training and barracking troops. And the daily company of the stolid villagers of Smyrton held little appeal for Belial—not to mention that his army now supported a cause which their beloved Seneschal found heretical.

  Had Sigholt been destroyed by the advancing Skraelings who even now lurked in its cellars? Was there a contingent of Borneheld’s command there who would resist their arrival? Too many unknowns—and Belial did not like unknowns. He chewed his cold-chapped lip and cursed when it cracked and split in the bitter wind.

  So now here he sat, anxiously awaiting the return of Arne and his men, the bulk of his army lying half a league behind, as anxious as Belial was. All wanted to find somewhere to dig in for the inevitable attack from the Skraelings and to shelter from this cursed weather that roiled down from the north. If nothing else, the worsening weather conditions—not as bad as they had endured in Gorkenfort, but still abnormal for this part of Ichtar—told Belial that Gorgrael’s influence was finally spreading south after the fall of Gorkenfort.

  And with the wind and ice would come the Skraelings.

  Belial shifted in his saddle. Five days was plenty of time for Arne to ride to Sigholt, scout the garrison from a safe distance, and return. If they weren’t back by this evening then Belial would be forced to admit that something was wrong. He hunkered down a little further in his saddle, pulling the hood of his cloak far over his face in an effort to keep the freezing wind out.

  They waited.

  At dusk Belial finally stirred and turned to Magariz, the man only a dark shape in the deepening twilight.

  “My friend,” he croaked, his voice hoarse from the cold. “We have waited long enough. Tomorrow we will break camp, turn for Smyrton, and take our chances with homespun village life.”

  Magariz kneed Belaguez closer. “Yes. Only adversity could have kept Arne from returning by now.”

  “Only adversity or a good meal,” a dour voice interrupted from behind them. Belial and Magariz both swore in surprise and swung their horses about. Only a few paces behind them stood Arne, his face no more cheerful or less austere than it normally was. He was alone, but looked fit and uninjured.

  “Arne, how did you—” Belial began.

  “Your men?” Magariz barked. “Where are they?”

  Arne chewed on a piece of dry grass, then abruptly spat it out. “At Sigholt, my Lord.”

  “Prisoners?”

  Arne actually laughed. “In a manner of speaking. They are trapped before a roaring fire, hearing tales of adventure from an arthritic old cook and a genial pig-herder as they sip good dark ale. They were too comfortable to move, so I returned on my own.”

  As Magariz took a deep breath and fought to keep from swearing at the man’s misplaced sense of humour, Belial slid from his horse and stepped closer to Arne. “What did you find, Arne? What?”

  “Sigholt is ours once we overcome the resident force,” Arne said. “An old retired cook and a pig-herder. There is no-one else. None of Borneheld’s men. Not even a Skraeling. They reached Hsingard and destroyed it, but according to the pig-herder, they have not approached Sigholt.”

  “Why?” Belial asked Arne. “Why has Sigholt been left untouched? Surely it is too important for Gorgrael to leave it alone?” After the events of the past few months, Belial no longer believed much in good news or good luck.

  “The pig-herder said the Skraelings did not like Sigholt.” Arne paused, debating whether to continue.

  “Speak up, man!” Belial snapped.

  “I have seen this pig-herder before,” Arne said finally. “Outside the Silent Woman Woods. He had his pigs there.”

  Belial frowned. This pig-herder had been outside the Silent Woman Woods—two hundred leagues to the south? It seemed a lifetime ago since they’d camped at the Silent Woman Woods. Then Axis had simply been the BattleAxe of the Seneschal and Belial his second-in-command. No-one knew then what they were riding into. “What is his involvement in this, Arne? Do you know?”

  “He is involved, Commander. I know not how.” Again Arne paused. “But I trust him. And he seems eager that you move this ragtag army to Sigholt. He says he has a job for some strong backs.”

  Belial frowned. These were strange words for a pig-herder. He looked at Magariz. “My friend. What do you think?”

  “I am surprised,” said Magariz, “that Sigholt should be sitting there waiting for us as eager and as open as an Ysbadd whore—and I wonder if it has as many traps. I say we should approach…carefully. Why has Gorgrael not attacked?”

  “Jack said he could answer that when you arrived,” Arne replied, giving Belial and Magariz the pig-herder’s name. “He said to remind you that Sigholt was where Axis was conceived, and,” Arne hesitated, “that Sigholt was an Icarii stronghold long before the Acharites and the pox-cursed Dukes of Ichtar made it their home. He said Sigholt has some secrets that you could make good use of.”

  “A most unusual pig-herder, Belial,” Magariz murmured. “Either a friend or a cunningly laid trap for us.”

  Belial considered a moment. “Then we will break camp in the morning and ride west
to Sigholt. But we ride carefully.”

  Arne spat on the ground. “If you had been an enemy, the first you would have known of my approach was the feel of my blade in your neck. Perhaps it is as well you only have a cook and a pig-herder to battle with at Sigholt.”

  Belial grimaced and swung onto his horse. Arne was right. He should have been more careful.

  Three days later Belial sat Belaguez a half-league from Sigholt. Approaching him was an open- and genial-faced middle-aged man in peasant garb. Dark blond hair flopped untidily over his forehead and he carried a heavy staff with a curiously worked metal head. At his heels trotted a number of well-fed pigs, grunting and rolling cheerfully as they picked their way across the stony ground.

  Belial had ridden out alone, leaving Magariz and the three thousand some one hundred paces behind him.

  He risked taking his eyes off the approach of the pig-herder to glance at Sigholt itself, standing stark but peaceful in the cold morning air. If there were troops waiting to surprise him, then they were hidden well.

  “Peace, Belial,” said the pig-herder and stopped a few paces from him. “Sigholt is yours. Use it.”

  “Jack,” Belial said by way of brief greeting. “I hope you mean that. Why should I trust you?”

  Jack smiled. “You have known my friends well, Belial. Through them, I know you.”

  “Your friends?”

  “Ogden and Veremund. My friends and my companions.”

  Belial’s mouth dropped open. “You’re one of the…?”

  “My task is to serve the Prophecy, Belial TrueHeart, as yours is to serve Axis.” His eyes suddenly glowed a vivid emerald.

  “You’re a Sentinel!” Belial gasped, his shock making Belaguez sidestep nervously.

  “Then trust me,” Jack said, as the light died in his eyes.

  Belial still hesitated. “Jack. I come from Gorkenfort. I have had enough of sieges at the mercy of the Skraelings. What chance is there that once I have this army settled into Sigholt the Skraelings will lay siege to us? I have no wish to endure another Gorkenfort.”

  “I understand your concern,” Jack replied. “But there are good reasons why the Skraelings would hesitate to come within leagues of Sigholt. They have destroyed Hsingard, which is not a great distance from here. Do you not think that if they destroyed Hsingard they would have destroyed Sigholt if not for very good reasons?”

  “Such as?”

  “Come inside, Belial, and bring your army. It is a long story.”

  6

  NEW RESPONSIBILITIES, OLD FRIENDS

  Axis stood at the open window and watched two Wings of the Strike Force wheel and somersault through the sky in a dazzling but utterly useless display of grace and fluidity.

  He sighed and turned into the spacious meeting chamber. Soft light shone from concealed ceiling lamps on a massive round table of highly polished dark-green stone that dominated the room. The mottoes of the various Crests were carved in elegant gilded Icarii script into the walls above pennants and standards.

  Around the stone table sat the twelve Crest-Leaders of the Icarii Strike Force, their wings draped across the gleaming floor behind their stools. Each Crest-Leader commanded twelve Wings of twelve members; the total Strike Force composed over seventeen hundred Icarii. Not overly large, Axis mused, but their flight abilities should give them the advantage over any ground force. But Axis had severe doubts about the capabilities of the Strike Force. Currently they were more gorgeously decorative than practically potent.

  Axis gazed at the Crest-Leaders, all with their wings dyed in the black of war, all staring back at him flintily. He, too, had dressed entirely in black; it was the colour he’d worn as BattleAxe. Except now the twin crossed axes were gone from his chest. He felt naked without a badge of office.

  RavenCrest SunSoar, sitting with the jewelled torc of his office glowing about his neck and his black brows meeting at an acute angle above sharp eyes, had called the Crest-Leaders together to meet Axis. FarSight CutSpur, the senior among the Crest-Leaders, had made a gracious speech of welcome. Axis had made, he hoped, an equally gracious reply. And now no-one quite knew what to say next.

  Finally Axis broke the uncomfortable silence. “You have the makings of a good Strike Force. But I need to take command and shape it to make it more effective.”

  Backs stiffened noticeably about the table and wings rustled in agitation. Looking each Crest-Leader in the eye as he slowly circled the table Axis continued, his voice low but intense. “Do you really think the Strike Force can harm Gorgrael in its current state?”

  There were low murmurs of protest, but Axis ignored them. “You have a Strike Force, but what are its accomplishments? What its experience? Where its battle honours?” he asked. “Where its successes?”

  Crest-Leader SharpEye BlueFeather suddenly pushed his stool back and stood. “Do you accuse us of failure, BattleAxe?” he hissed, his neck feathers rising aggressively.

  SharpEye’s use of this title was an indication of the depth of ill will that some in the room bore him. For a thousand years the person and the office of BattleAxe had been reviled and loathed among both Icarii and Avar.

  Axis held the birdman’s eyes in a fierce stare. “I am Axis SunSoar,” he retorted. “And, yes, it is true, I have the experience of a successful BattleAxe behind me. But I am BattleAxe no longer, SharpEye. I am SunSoar born and it is with that right and heritage that I stand here today.” SharpEye dropped his eyes a fraction, and Axis shifted his gaze about the table. “Should I accuse you of failure? If not, then inform me of your successes.”

  There was a telling silence about the table.

  “Was Yuletide a success?” Axis asked, anger creeping into his voice. “How many died, FarSight?”

  “We lost several hundred, the Avar lost more.” FarSight looked steadily at Axis. “I am not proud of that, Axis SunSoar. But we rallied after the surprise of the initial attack.”

  “You rallied after Azhure showed you how to kill!” Axis snapped. “Did not Azhure kill most of the wraiths until the Earth Tree struck? And would you have triumphed over the Skraelings if StarDrifter had not roused the Earth Tree?”

  “What would you have done differently, Axis?” FarSight challenged, his fists clenching.

  “You gave them a feast, Crest-Leader, with the Icarii and Avar herded tight into that grove,” Axis said. “The Strike Force should have remained in the air, FarSight, where the Skraelings could not have reached them—and where they might have actually seen the wraiths approach. What would I have done differently? I would have had the Strike Force ready to strike, FarSight, and I would not have allowed the Yuletide rites to go ahead with so many people packed into one place waiting to be killed!”

  “We could not have known the Skraelings were going to attack!” RavenCrest shouted, self-reproach raising his voice.

  “What?” Axis said, turning to his uncle, who subsided back onto his stool at the expression on his nephew’s face. “What? You knew they were massing to the north of the Avarinheim. You knew that the Prophecy walked, that Gorgrael was ready to drive his Ghostmen south. What do you mean you did not know they were going to attack?”

  Again there was silence for a full minute. Axis slowly shifted his gaze from face to face, knowing he had struck home. He walked back to the window and watched the Icarii manoeuvre in the sky.

  “How did you lose the Wars of the Axe?” he asked finally. “How did you let yourself be driven from the southern lands? How could you let Tencendor be destroyed?”

  “The Acharites—the Axe-Wielders—were too fierce,” FarSight replied grudgingly. “They hated too much. We could not withstand them.”

  “I have spent years with the Axe-Wielders,” Axis said. “I was their leader for five of them. I know what they are capable of. And I know that no ground force, no matter how motivated by hatred, could do so well against an airborne force unless that force was pitifully weak to start with. You should have won the Wars of the Axe.” He paused,
then repeated his words to drive his message home. “You should have won. Why didn’t you? Why?”

  “We lacked the determination,” said FarSight CutSpur, almost whispering. “We were so horrified that the Acharites had actually attacked that we fled instead of fighting. We lacked the resolve. We lacked—lack—the instinct to attack and defend the instant it is needed.”

  Axis nodded. “Good. Shall I tell you your other major flaw?”

  FarSight, as the others in the room, stared at him levelly.

  “Your Icarii pride constantly leads you to underestimate your opponents. You underestimated the ill will the Acharites bore you, which fed their desire to drive you from Tencendor. You underestimated their fierceness and their determination in doing just that. You underestimated Gorgrael’s ability to drive his Skraelings through the Avarinheim to attack the Earth Tree Grove. And most recently SpikeFeather underestimated Azhure’s ability to use the Wolven, leading to the loss of one of your most prized weapons. Have I made my point?”

  FarSight CutSpur nodded once, jerkily.

  “What do you use the Strike Force for, FarSight?” Just one more humiliation, Axis thought, then he would begin to rebuild their hopes.

  “To scout, to observe and to defend.”

  “Then why call it a Strike Force?” Axis commented dryly. “At the moment you have a force that is incapable of defence, let alone a strike.” He paused to let it sink in, then his face and voice softened. “My friends, you have the makings of an elite force, one that could defeat any other in these lands. But at the moment you have neither the means nor the knowledge to create that elite force from the ineffective one you now have.”

  Axis pulled out the spare stool and sat down among the Crest-Leaders. “You need a war leader,” he said finally. “You need me. You know that. It is why you are all here. Give me the Strike Force. Let me realise its fabulous potential. Let me turn you from birds of paradise into hawks. Killers. Don’t you want to regain your pride? To avenge Yuletide?”