"And if we ran too far?" Madia asked skeptically.
"You would die," Jaran answered, looking to Frost.
"Yes," Frost said. "Control is the greatest problem, though the pain is formidable as well. The Blade seems capable of absorbing my energy and directing its release, but I am still the focal point of the spell. My test on the tree went well; that spell would otherwise have taken much more time to finish, and nearly as long to undo. Instead, I was able to have my wish instantly. My arm is well because I let the Blade draw from all of me, so no part was severely injured, though I felt the shock throughout my body, and pain, briefly, of a sort I have never known."
Madia stood close to him now, looking at him as though she expected him to go on. When he did not, she said, "There is only one question, Frost: Can you use the weapon against Lord Ferris?"
"He withstood many of my best efforts at Kamrit," Frost replied, "but I do not believe he could withstand them all at once."
"Then," Jaran said, "you can hit him so hard the first time that he won't get up again."
"Something like that. I must stop short of never getting up again myself, however, and—" He looked back to Rosivok and Sharryl first, then into the bog, to the dark green shadows beyond their camp. "And I honestly don't know if I can do that, or if I can withstand the pain the effort may require."
"If you can," Jaran said, "you are our best hope of defeating him, and still our best hope for peace. If you and Madia are willing to return to Kamrit to face him, we will ride with you." He turned to his men, and found no objections among them.
"We must return," Madia said. "I thought we had already agreed."
"We had," Frost said, "but that was before we knew anything about the workings of the Demon Blade."
"Then what is your answer now?" Madia pressed, scowling.
Frost scowled back. "The attempt involves a fine fool's wager, of course. Risking all hopes, yours and mine, on a single untried attempt. If I fail, there can be no other. You will all die with me."
Everyone nodded.
But I have spent my entire lifetime avoiding such situations, Frost thought, keeping it to himself. Still, he reminded himself again, I lost. . . .
"Frost, my father may still be alive," Madia said, very close to him now, speaking just above a whisper. "And Ariman is surely dying. Perhaps all the realm with it. But if you do not try, then you will lose something too, something you thought you had lost in Kamrit. You said so yourself."
"I know, but should I then rush to follow a course so ill advised? Rush to lose everything this time, finally?"
"You may lose either way," Jaran Ivran said, glancing at Madia, settling on Frost. "Your life, or yourself. One is nothing without the other."
Madia looked at him a moment, then she turned an appraising eye on Jaran, who seemed to grow uneasy.
"What?" he asked.
"You may just do," Madia said demurely, "in desperate times."
"I strive for worthiness, my lady," Jaran replied sarcastically.
"You are probably right, young Jaran," Frost said, relenting. "And we will of course accept your escort. I expect the journey will not be an easy one."
"Why not look back into the waters and learn what will become of us?" Purcell asked, looking past his prince, glancing toward the still, green surface of the pond.
"Yes," Jaran agreed, "please do."
"No," Frost said.
Jaran furrowed his brow. "Why not?"
"I will tell you. But later."
Jaran seemed unhappy with the answer, though he said nothing more.
"If you like," Ergris spoke up, "I will give you horses to ride and pack. We have taken so many of the animals lately that they have become a bother."
"Then once more, we will help each other," Frost replied.
"And then you will go away," Ergris answered, nearly a snarl.
Frost took the king's words for what they were. So many human beings living in the heart of the swamps had made the leshys restless and irritated, no matter who those humans were. And living with leshys, so far as Frost was concerned, was somewhat unpleasant to him as well.
"Yes," Frost said, "we leave in the morning."
* * *
"Enter," Tyrr made the voice say. The door opened and Kaafk presented himself. He stood in the doorway to Tyrr's chambers, apparently hesitant, judging the mood of his sovereign. The merchant was certainly aware of the many problems facing Tyrr—from the reluctance of some of the lords scattered about Ariman to pay homage, to the growing struggles occurring in the northern fiefs, and the many loud grumblings from Neleva. Though none compared with the continued difficulties involved in obtaining the Demon Blade.
Finding it was a vital part of the planning he had so carefully done. The Blade could not be left to chance! Kaafk could never understand this, Tyrr thought. No one could. Not even Tybree.
"In the morning, we will leave," Tyrr said, maintaining a calm, steady tone, difficult though it was of late. Do not let frustration control you, he reminded, repeating it in his mind. Do not lose sight of your vision! He was not yet prepared to abandon any of his plans; rather, he was seeing them through! And that required changing the timetable slightly—moving it up, nailing things down!
"Where are we going?" Kaafk asked at length. He moved a bit closer, hands under his tunic. Tyrr made use of an augmentation spell and "felt" beneath the tunic. He found nothing but Kaafk's hands.
"The wizard, Gray, has not returned from Golemesk. Neither has our good Captain Ingram nor any from his company. I can no longer suppose any of them lives. I send soldiers and emissaries north in a constant stream and get nothing in return. There are reports, I am sure you have heard, of minor defeats in the great fiefs, of lackluster fighting, of standoffs. I hire men who die or vanish or do nothing at all! Men are worthless without guidance—constant, detailed guidance! Worthless!"
Tyrr felt himself edging past the brink, losing control of the shape-shifting spells that formed the construct, losing control of his anger, his balance. Again the urge to strike out and annihilate those who insisted on causing him such troubles was all but overwhelming. He made the lungs breathe, made the legs pace, made the hands touch each other in a rubbing motion as he had often seen men do when they were called before him. This helped very little.
"Many of your troops seem unreliable, I agree," Kaafk said, shrugging from the shadows. "But I am not sure I see what you hope to do about it."
"I am taking my army north to join that rabble and crush the armies of Bouren and Jasnok and Vardale and Thorun. And to lay siege to Golemesk! The Blade is there, it must be, and I will have it! I will destroy every living thing in that swamp if need be, but I will have the Blade!"
"Easy now, easy," Kaafk said, stepping out into the light. "Perhaps you are just too worried about that Blade. You don't need it, if you ask me. I have been thinking things over of late, thinking about the future. You already have greater armies and riches than any man this realm has ever known, and more to come. More than enough to keep the lords of the great fiefs from marching against you. In time, cut off, weakened, they will have no choice but to give you whatever you want, pay whatever we charge. So you see, there is no hurry."
Tyrr allowed the remarks. "You do not understand, Kaafk."
"But I do. You want to go riding up there and get a lot of people killed for nothing; you want to ride around some swamp for days looking for mythical weapons. Well, it is your life, my lord, but myths are nearly always just that, and the dead buy no wares, they till no fields. Do not count on me when you go."
"It was not meant as a request," Tyrr replied, gritting the teeth, losing the battle to retain his shape and his carefully cultivated state of mind. Losing control.
"My lord, I hardly see how you can—"
"You will go! Bring enough merchants and goods to set up trade in the region as soon as I am finished."
Kaafk had a sour look on his face, one Tyrr had never seen before. One Tyrr did
not enjoy.
"That depends on the war. We may have to do all that setting up long after you are finished."
"I think you are mistaken," Tyrr forced the lips to say. "You would threaten your own prosperity."
"Battles threaten prosperity," Kaafk came back. "The greatest threat to my purse appears to be yourself. I think you need me as much as I need you, and I expect certain dispensations, my lord. I do not tell you how to run your empire, and you do not tell me how to run mine. I have no wish to do business with someone else . . . now."
Kaafk leaned forward slightly, squinting at Ferris. He grinned, or it was more of a scoff. "You know, you do not look well. Perhaps you should be in bed, resting."
Tyrr slipped—and let a fierce burst of energy free, let it find Kaafk with its full force almost before he realized what had happened. He began to regain control after that, determined to do so. The task was nearly beyond his reach. Already the Ferris construct had deteriorated nearly beyond restoration; he thought he might have to start over again, a process Tyrr no longer had the patience to endure.
Then he made the body sit in a chair; he began wringing the hands and slowly began to wrestle back his senses until he gained minimal stability. Finally his thoughts reformed nearly as they had been, as did the body, more or less; not so perfect anymore, he decided, but it would do.
He stood, then bent to examine the body of Kaafk, a lump of blackened flesh and clothing mixed with splinters of charred wood from the chair that had rested a few paces behind him, near the door. Frustration welled up inside Tyrr, an anger he could direct nowhere but toward himself.
I needed him. . . .
But thinking this only made things worse. He changed his thoughts again before it was too late.
Others will take Kaafk's place, he insisted, attempting relief, finding some. They will do. The plan will evolve, will go on! Somehow. . . .
Tyrr rose and dressed the body, then left to summon his captains.
Chapter XXII
Hoke turned his horse, walking the animal slowly through the main body of the combined forces, working toward the rear. He found Lady Anna quickly enough, settled comfortably under a stand of trees, chatting with a handful of peasants collected along the road. She looked up as Hoke approached.
"The Arimanian force has been here for many days," Anna said as Hoke dismounted. "According to the villagers the castle has been under frequent attack all summer, but every assault has been repelled. Lord Ivran conducts night raids, and does well by them, it seems. He destroys his attacker's siege engines, and twice his men have hidden in the countryside until dark, then attacked their enemies as they slept." She stood up, straightening her skirts.
"About three weeks ago the invaders were driven off completely and the people returned to their villages. This week the soldiers returned once more. From what I am told, they have not many men."
"They have no friends, either; they must take their supplies by force and watch their backs all the time," Hoke said, looking to the villagers, peasants all. He saw a worried look in the eyes of some, though he might have expected fear. Their courage came not from themselves, though, Hoke thought, so much as from faith in Jurdef Ivran, their king.
"No, no friends, but such men never do."
"Soon there will be an end to it." Hoke turned, looking back over the army gathered all around them. "And today, I think, we will truly begin."
He started to go and Anna touched his arm. "Thank you," she said, though she'd said so already, several times. Hoke smiled as he shuffled his weight off the stiff leg. "I know," he said. He returned himself to his saddle, then rode back through the camp to join the others.
From the hill's crest, he could see the cultivated fields, thick stands of woods and many small villages that spread for miles around the city's walls. Lord Ivran's castle stood on its own small hillock near the city's southern edge, high stone walls basking in the morning sun, the largest castle north of Kamrit itself. Rich lands, these, ripe with summer crops, though Lencia's fields were unattended this day. Even at this distance Hoke could see the signs of recent neglect, the absence of movement, even on the roads. Lencia had been under siege for too long.
He turned to the other men who waited atop their mounts at the edge of the trees, Bennor of Vardale, Dorree of Jasnok, Burke of Thorun, and two others who were known only by their chosen names, Grish, the older of the two, and Marrn, court sorcerers to Dorree and Bennor. Their presence, like that of their lords, was nothing less than the best of fortune. Hoke had fully expected interest, perhaps even generosity, from the lord kings of the great northern fiefs, but the depth of their enthusiasm had surprised him. Lady Anna, of course, deserved a share in the credit. Spurred by her impassioned pleas and testimony, the lords had rallied about Hoke not only in spirit but in deed. Dorree, great lord of Jasnok, had set the tone. Unwilling to leave his lands unprotected, and with skirmishes more than plentiful everywhere in the countryside, he had left most of his regular army and commanders in place, but he had supplied Hoke first with himself and then his entire personal guard, nearly one hundred of his most elite troops. They had traveled north together, where Lord Bennor had received them well and acted in kind. Finally, Burke of Thorun had agreed to join them, offering a major compliment of his best troops as well.
The remainder of their journey through Thorun north of Golemesk had been a quiet one. Men eager for righteous battle found little resistance along the way, a few handfuls of Ferris' troops, most of them too long away from the control of their liege to face such odds. The great lords took turns, rallying their troops to fight these small battles, as eager to lead as their men were to follow. Not one among their newly allied forces had been lost in those skirmishes. Nearly five hundred strong now, they were more than ready for a good fight.
"Most of the siege troops are gathered over there, east of the castle," Lord Dorree said, pointing a gloved hand in that direction. Smoke from morning fires could be seen rising among the trees, many fires. "Our scouts say they may number two to three hundred men, though none of them are fresh."
"A tired, token force," Hoke told the great lords. "And an unwelcome one. We will ask them to go."
"I'll gladly give the order," Lord Burke declared. "My men are waiting."
Hoke watched Bennor nod agreement. He looked away again to the encamped Arimanian troops in the distance. "They are preparing to attack, I believe. Probably this afternoon. We might make our way down to that cover, this side of the woods there below us. If we move now and approach from the north we may be able to keep ourselves a secret. When those troops attempt to move against the castle, we could strike from behind."
Hoke paused for the reaction—nods all around.
"I would ask our wizards to make sure there is no magic protecting the camp. And perhaps they can help shield us against enemy eyes when we move?"
"We will do all that is possible," Grish said, and Marrn quickly agreed.
"Anna is right," Lord Dorree said, chuckling. "Kelren never should have let you retire."
"It would seem he has not," Hoke said wryly. He turned with the others to prepare for war.
* * *
Just after noon, with the sun well overhead, the forces of Ariman again attacked the castle of King Ivran, an assault led by men-at-arms and a small cavalry backed by three groups of archers and what remained of their catapults. As the main force drew nearer the castle's outer walls, they were met by return fire, a fierce barrage of armor-piercing arrows that filled the air and left several wounded and a few dead. Most, however, took cover beneath their shields and continued slowly forward.
The entire action was unremarkable, a scene that had been repeated many times, Hoke decided, watching the siege forces go about their business in an almost automatic fashion. There was no sense of excitement, only a steady determination to try once again, to gain a position near the walls so the battering rams could do real damage, so the invaders could get inside: mercenaries, the bulk of them, Ho
ke realized. True knights and men-at-arms, or even militia forces, would not return to fight on so methodically for weeks and against such unattractive odds. These men were being paid to stay, and likely, paid well. Victory was not apparently a requirement. They could afford to wait for Lord Ferris to send a larger force or finally call off the attacks. They had everything to gain, and only a few of each other to lose.
Though that was about to change.
Hoke watched as the great lords gave the commands, sending their foot soldiers and cavalry charging from cover to pound the attackers from the rear. Archers found their targets easily, ready clumps of men with their eyes and shields facing the other way. The forces of Ariman began to turn in circles as arrows fell on them from two directions. They broke ranks just after that, as the severity of the situation quickly became clear to even the slowest and most determined among them.
Hoke left the hill and descended into the battle below. He rode straight ahead amidst the armies of Jasnok, Thorun, and Vardale, heart pounding, blood racing. He had not ridden to war in more than a decade—the fatigue that came with age and the thought of finding himself dismounted, his leg stiff and useless beneath him, had forbidden the very idea—but now, with the rush of battle all around him and the cries of men prepared to fight and die ringing in his ears, he had no choice. He could not sit idly and watch, could not deny himself this chance.
He advanced to join the first ranks of cavalry as they reached the enemy and was quick to ride among them, then to pick out another rider, striking the man in the chest with a measured swing of his battle-ax. But the ax caught in the other man's armor and would not pull free. Hoke let it go at the risk of being pulled to the ground as the other man fell. He drew his broadsword and pushed forward again, clashing against the steel of a second rider, fending two blows, then delivering a decisive thrust.
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