by Ian Irvine
“The surviving scaffold guard couldn’t tell us much,” said Ricips. “He was buried in ash and his lungs are full of it. Though he did see a boy run up the steps to the scaffold-henge. A boy with a shaved head.”
“Lots of urchins in Caulderon have shaved heads. It keeps the lice away.”
“They also have tanned heads. This lad had very pale skin—as pale as one of the Pale, in fact. The guard noted it because the boy’s hat fell off. The description matches Tali… and the door into the tunnel below the mound had been unlocked and relocked with magery. I feel sure it’s her, Lord King.”
“So do I,” said Lyf. He rose and pulled his boots on over his shin stumps. Ricips politely looked away.
“What’s Tali doing in Caulderon?” said Moley Gryle.
“She swore to ‘bring me to justice’. It’s her weakness; it makes her predictable.” Lyf turned back to Ricips. “Useful work, Captain, even at this late time. I’m putting you in charge of finding her. I want a report on progress every four hours, night and day.”
“I believe I know where she’s gone, Lord King,” said Ricips. “As I was waiting outside for this audience, a message came from one of my most reliable informers.”
“What message?”
“Two fugitives answering Tali’s and Glynnie’s descriptions were overheard late last night, trying to join the Resistance.”
Lyf cried out, shot into the air, floated for a few seconds, then settled.
“Lord King?” said Moley Gryle.
“The tunnel flushing—with stink-damp. Has it been carried out?”
“Hours ago, Lord King. It was done exactly as you ordered.”
Lyf groaned. “If she’s dead… if the master pearl is lost… tell Hramm to get down there the instant it’s safe. Check the bodies and report back to me.”
CHAPTER 44
An hour before midnight, Rufuss staggered into the main hall of Castle Swire, his black opal teeth bared and the stump of his right arm dripping blood. Grandys was so shocked that he dropped his wine jar, which smashed on his right big toe. The Five Heroes often took minor wounds in battle but, apart from Yulia’s arrow wound at Reffering, none of them had ever been seriously injured before. Could the day get any worse?
“What happened to you?” Grandys roared.
A movement on the stairs caught his eye. Lirriam was standing halfway up, holding a note. A message that had just come in by carrier bird, Grandys assumed. It could wait.
“Rixium—Ricinus,” said Rufuss, and collapsed onto a chair, his left hand spasming around his stump. He was as grey as mud.
He choked out the tale: how he had lured Rix’s army out with magery, knowing he would want to strike back for the abduction of Holm; how Rufuss had quickly encircled them and was cutting Rix’s army to pieces when he realised that it was led by Captain Hork, and Rix was not there. Then—Rufuss struggled to get the words out—Rix’s reckless counterattacks that had turned victory to utter defeat and taken his arm.
“Why did you attack in the first place?” Grandys said coldly.
Rufuss stared at him as if he did not understand the question. “They’re the enemy!”
“I’ve told you, over and again, that Rixium is part of my endgame. He has to be there, alive, when I cast the Three Spells.”
“He’s alive and well,” Rufuss said defensively.
“Only because of your incompetence and cowardice.”
“I’m not a coward!” cried Rufuss.
“You ran from the battlefield!”
“As did you, from that fight you had with Lyf at Reffering.”
“There’s a big difference,” Grandys said glacially. “I was alone and weaponless, so I had to retreat. You abandoned your entire army, knowing that without a leader they would be cut to pieces. Aaarrgh, get out of my sight!”
Rufuss stumbled from the hall.
“It gets worse, Grandys,” Lirriam said with offensive good cheer. “News of your defeat has spread faster than a forest fire. Rixium rode across Fennery this afternoon, displaying Rufuss’s severed arm in every town and village, and calling for the news to be spread by carrier bird to the four corners of the land. All Hightspall will know by tomorrow night.”
“It’s Rufuss’s defeat, not mine,” snapped Grandys.
“Rixium is broadcasting the defeat in your name. ‘Grandys lost. Grandys’ army stampeded into the swamps and drowned. Grandys fled the scene leaving his men to die.’ He’s turned the tables on you, so you’d better do something to counter this defeat, right away.”
Grandys stood up abruptly, shards of the wine jar crunching under his armoured feet. He kicked the pieces across the hall and stormed up to her, trying to dominate her physically.
“I won’t be mocked by a woman who’s just failed me disastrously.”
Lirriam did not flinch. She looked up and met his eyes. “How many men have you got left? Five thousand, counting Rufuss’s survivors down at Flume. You can’t do anything with five miserable thousand.”
“With five thousand good Herovian warriors,” he said with reckless passion, “I could storm the strongest bastion in the land.”
Lirriam’s smile was as red as blood. “The strongest bastion in the land is Lyf’s personal temple in Caulderon, the very heart and soul of his realm, and it’s beyond you. You couldn’t storm Caulderon if you had twenty thousand men.”
He knew she was trying to provoke him, but after the triple blows he’d suffered in the past day he had to bite. “Couldn’t I?”
“You wouldn’t dare—not with Maloch’s loyalty in question.”
“It’s not in question.” He walked across to the fire. “It’s 11.30 p.m.,” Grandys said aloud. “Two and a half hours to feed and mobilise the men; we can be gone by 2 a.m.; a little earlier if I push them. Six hours to march to Flume. Two hours to discipline the troops who ran from the battlefield. Then the men can rest until 9 p.m. And then we’ll march through the night, to strike Caulderon at the instant of dawn. Yes, it can be done.”
He drew Maloch and slashed it through the air above her head. “I swear on the blade of this enchanted sword that I’ll stand victorious on the altar of Lyf’s personal temple by this time two days hence.”
“Assuming you’re still Maloch’s true master.”
He smiled. “I’ve always been its true master. Lyf used a deception last time and he won’t get away with that again.”
He strode to the doors, bellowing, “To arms, to arms! We ride to battle this very night.”
Lirriam drew Incarnate from her bosom. As she brought it to her lips, her eyes caught the crimson gleam in the centre and reflected it back.
It said she hoped to win the sweetest victory of all.
CHAPTER 45
“Rufuss should have reached Swire by now,” said Rix that evening. “Grandys will know about the defeat. How will he strike back?”
After discovering that Holm had been abducted, Rix and Jackery had spent the rest of the afternoon riding across Fennery, displaying Rufuss’s severed arm at the nearby towns and villages and spreading the news, before rejoining his army on Bolstir hill.
Now the healers were attending to the last of the injured and his troops were lying about, resting or sleeping. Rix and Jackery perched on stones by the pond in the moonlight, drinking tea.
“If I were Grandys,” said Jackery, “I’d attack us with everything I had, right away. He’s got five thousand men, over half of them rested. You’ve got two thousand and they’re battle-weary. How could the result be in doubt?”
“If we can predict it, he won’t do it,” said Rix. “Grandys takes pride in being perverse. But he will do something…” Rix tossed a pebble into the water and watched the ripples spread. “My best chance is to take him on before he’s ready. Right away.”
“You mean tonight?” said Jackery in alarm.
“Why not? Our troops are on a high, and they haven’t had the chance to get drunk yet. Grandys and his men will be dead drunk by no
w—”
“How do you know?”
“They always are; victory or defeat, it’s the Herovian way. We can march to Swire in three or four hours and attack in the middle of the night.”
“Drunk or sober, his army greatly outnumbers ours.”
“Ah, but does it?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“The survivors of Rufuss’s army headed back towards Flume. Grandys can’t have more than three thousand at Swire.”
“They still outnumber us.”
“And the longer I give him, the more new recruits he’ll gain, and the more savage he’ll be when he finally attacks.”
“This is a bad idea, Deadhand,” said Jackery. “It’s reckless—too many things are unknown, and too much can go wrong.”
Rix suppressed his own doubts. “He’s got Holm, and if he also has Tali—or can find her—he can take the master pearl at any time. I can’t risk it. I’ve got to attack now.”
“All right,” Jackery said unhappily.
“We ride north at ten o’clock. Make sure the men are well fed. They can have enough grog to make them happy, but not enough to get them drunk.”
At 2 a.m. they stopped by the western shore of a large lake, half a mile south of Swire, and Rix addressed his officers.
“The plan is simple. We kill the guards, as silently as possible, open the gates and burst in. But we’re not trying to take Swire—just to cause as much chaos as possible in the shortest possible time, then get out of there.”
“Grandys will be ropeable,” said Sergeant Tonklin.
“That’s the idea,” said Rix. “We’ll be doing to him what he’s always done to others; let’s see how he likes it. Pomfree and Waysman, you’ll lead the men to attack the Herovians in their tents. Then torch their supply wagons and set their horses free. Jackery, you and I will spearhead the attack on the castle and try to rescue Holm. And Tali, if Grandys has her.”
“A quick attack,” said Jackery.
“In and out in fifteen minutes, if we can manage it. That’s all.”
They moved in a silent mass. The night was still; a scattering of spring snow muffled their footsteps. No dogs barked, no night birds called.
“It’s too quiet,” said Jackery. “I don’t like it, Deadhand. What if it’s a trap?”
Rix was worried too, though he could not afford to say so.
“How could it be? We only made the plan a few hours ago. And we can rely on Grandys and his men being pissed.”
Rix wondered, briefly, about the poor fellow who, after Grandys’ first victory, had pleaded a bad liver. Grandys had forced half a gallon of wine down the soldier’s throat. It had probably killed him.
They topped the rise. Rix scanned the land with his binoculars. Castle Swire was a quarter of a mile ahead. The front of the castle lay in the shadow of the setting moon and he could not make out its details, though he saw no lights and no indications of movement. Again his unease stirred. Grandys probably had scouts out.
He was bound to. Rix shivered. If Grandys was forewarned, he’d be rousing his men right now…
“Go!” said Rix. He scanned the walls and the gate one last time. “No, wait!”
“What is it?” said Jackery.
“The gates are broken.”
“How?”
“It’s too dark to tell.”
“Who would have attacked Swire?”
“Only Lyf,” Rix said grimly. “Presumably after Tali. That must be what brought Grandys back in such a desperate hurry. Go!”
The signal was relayed back. The army moved forward and, when they were a hundred yards from the gate, they charged. Rix scanned the walls as he ran but he could see no sentries, no lantern lights and no glow of braziers. It was eerie.
They reached the gate, which was loosely barricaded with heavy beams as though the guards had begun a temporary bulwark after Lyf’s attack, only to abandon it. Rix and another dozen men took hold of the beams and heaved them aside, and they burst into the castle yard. The squad behind them lit their oil-soaked brands and held them high, casting a guttering light across the crowded yard.
Hundreds of bodies were stacked on a pyre—no, two pyres, ready for burning. Judging by the smell, they had been dead for more than a day.
“It must’ve been one hell of a fight,” said Jackery.
Where the yard bellied out to the left, a forest of tents arose, a makeshift soldiers’ barracks. A man staggered out of one tent and stood there swaying, blinking into the light of the brands. He did not seem to understand what was going on. Then he turned and ran between the tents, shouting.
“Get moving!” Rix bellowed.
Most of Rix’s army stormed the tents; others ran to free the horses. Rix clamped his steel gauntlet around a blazing brand, raised his sword and ran for the front doors of Castle Swire. They weren’t locked. He burst in, followed by Jackery and another fifty men.
A junior officer emerged from a door, cried out and turned to bolt. Jackery cut him down. Rix raced down the hall to his left, kicking doors open and waving the light inside. Most of the rooms were empty. A few contained sleeping, drunken officers. He killed any who tried to fight, disarmed three others and drove them out into the main hall to be taken prisoner.
“Where’s Tali?” he bellowed.
No one spoke. Rix put his sword to the throat of the nearest officer. “Where—is—Tali?”
“Who?” the officer said, seeming genuinely puzzled.
“Into the hall, hands above your heads. Do anything suspicious and you die.”
“Grandys can’t be here,” said Rix, stopping for a moment to catch his breath.
“Why not?” said a soldier whose name Rix did not know.
“He’s like a roaring bull—at the first hint of fighting he’d be down here, tearing through us. So where the hell is he?”
Tonklin came running in. “Deadhand, most of the tents are empty. Grandys’ army is gone.”
Chills whirled across Rix’s back. Could he have got wind of the plan? If he was in hiding outside, they would be trapped here.
“Set guards at the gates and lookouts up on the wall. Then find out where he’s gone.”
Tonklin saluted and ran out.
Rix went back to the three prisoners, the officers. “Where’s Grandys?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” blustered a red-faced lieutenant who reeked of cheap grog. He swayed, still drunk.
Rix knocked him down and addressed the second man, but he refused to answer and so did the third, no matter how Rix threatened them. They were more afraid of Grandys’ retribution than they were of dying at Rix’s hand.
“Deadhand!”
It was Tonklin again, yelling from the doorway.
“Yes?” said Rix.
“Grandys left with his army at 1.30 a.m., heading for Flume.”
“One-thirty? Then how did we miss him? We were outside at 2 a.m.”
“We came up from the south. He was heading east to clear the lake, then south-west to Flume.”
Jackery came back. “Nothing down there.”
Rix ran up the stairs; he sent Jackery and his men to search the second floor, and continued up to the third. It did not take him long to find the room where Tali had been held prisoner, and the hair on the floor. He had never met anyone else with hair that particular golden-blonde colour. He picked up a clump and rubbed it between his fingers, remembering all the times, and all the dangers, they had shared. What had happened to her?
Jackery burst in, saw Rix standing there, and made to retreat. Rix gestured to him to stay. “Any trace of Holm?”
“No. Is that her hair?”
“Yes,” said Rix.
“Do you think she’s—?”
“I don’t know,” Rix said hastily, to prevent him from finishing the sentence.
Jackery went out and Rix searched the room carefully, looking for evidence that Grandys had taken the master pearl. Or rather, that he had forced Holm to cut it out.
He found no blood, no sign of any kind of operation or butchery. It gave him a little comfort, though Grandys could have had it done somewhere else. Or, more likely, taken Tali with him.
Jackery reappeared. “There’s a locked door down the end. Nothing will open it.”
Rix followed him down. “Not even a sledgehammer?”
“Nope.”
It looked like every other door in Castle Swire, made from inchthick planks reinforced with cross-braces, but the lock could not be picked, forced, broken or opened with the battle magians’ most subtle spells.
“There’s magery here, though,” said Jackery.
“And I’ll bet it’s got to do with Maloch,” said Rix. “The door must lead to Grandys’ rooms, but we can’t afford to spend any more time on it.”
He had planned a quick raid, in and out, but they’d been here the best part of an hour already. And always, in the back of his mind, was the fear that it was a set-up to lure him in and trap his whole army here. Grandys might have pretended to head for Flume, then doubled back around the lake. He could be out there now, just waiting for the right moment.
The gate guards had nothing to report, so Rix continued the search. At the rear of the ground floor he caught a whiff of freshly baked bread—real bread such as they’d eaten at home, back in Palace Ricinus. A wave of longing overwhelmed him. He followed the smell, shouldered open a door and found himself in the castle kitchen. It was empty save for a red-faced cook, who turned from a vast brick oven, saw Rix and dived for a rack of knives.
“Touch one and you die,” Rix yelled.
The cook froze.
“What’s going on?” said Rix. “Where’s Grandys?”
“Gone,” said the cook.
“When?”
“One-thirty a.m.”
“Where?”
“I can’t say.”
Rix pulled the steel gauntlet off his right hand. “Do you know who I am?”
The cook’s eyes drifted to Rix’s right hand, then flicked away. “You’re Deadhand. Lord Rixium. Commander of Hightspall’s army.”
“What’s left of it,” said Rix. He put his sword to the cook’s throat. “Speak or die.”