“But I’m not as good a fighter as the others. Most of them, anyway. I’m just—”
“You’re a knight of the Divine Hammer, lad,” Cathan said.
The tears were gone from Tithian’s eyes. Slowly, a broad grin took their place. He clasped Cathan’s hand and pressed it to his lips—then stopped, catching his breath.
Cathan blinked. Tithian’s gaze had shifted, looking over his shoulder. He turned and let out a soft oath of his own. There, soaring toward him, was a clockwork falcon.
It swooped in low, gears clattering, its brass wings beating the air. Cathan took a step back as it touched down, landing on a nearby stone bench with a clank. It looked at him with glinting yellow eyes, and its beak opened to let out a metallic squawk. Looking closer, Cathan saw a message tied to its leg.
Gingerly, he retrieved the note. It bore the imperial sigil in blue wax. He broke the seal and unfurled the scroll—and something fell out. Tithian reached out, catching it, and they looked at each other in confusion.
“A cypress cone?” asked the younger knight.
Shrugging, Cathan looked down at the scroll. His mouth became a hard line as he read.
Grand Marshal Cathan,
The time has come for us to act. The cone you hold is the way through the grove. Plant it, and it will part the trees for you.
If you do not receive another message before Spring Dawning, you must proceed at once with your attack upon the Tower of High Sorcery, For the glory of Istar, it will fall. When it belongs to you and the last of the mages are fled or in chains, you and your men shall return to the Lordcity. I look forward to that day.
May Kiri-Jolith guide thy sword, and Paladine thy steps,
Beldinas Pilofiro
Voice of Paladine and true Kingpriest of Istar
Cathan stared at the message. Spring Dawning was only five days away. His eyes shifted to the cone in Tithian’s hand. Lord Yarns and Duke Serl would, no doubt, be receiving similar tokens. He wondered how Beldinas had acquired them.
“Best not lose that,” he said, taking it from Tithian. Carefully, he tucked it into a pouch.
As he did, the falcon vaulted into the air, flapped its rattling wings, and wheeled away to the north. Cathan and Tithian watched it go. When it was out of sight, Cathan glanced back at the message and sighed.
“Well, then,” he said, steering Tithian back toward the palace. “Come on, lad. We have a battle to make ready for.”
CHAPTER 27
“Six days!” roared Duke Serl, crumpling the missive in his hand. “I have half a legion of men awaiting my order, and that Istaran whelp wants me to wait another six bloody days!”
Emperor Gwynned of Ergoth grunted, leaning back in his bronze throne with drool on his chin. His audience hall, though one of the grandest ever built, was small when compared to the Kingpriest’s. It was a dim, smoky place, hung with the shields of the empire’s noble houses and the heads of dragons slain in ages past. Great fire-bowls flanked the throne, their golden glow bathing the sovereign of what once had been the greatest empire in the world.
Gwynned was a weak man, both in body and in spirit. He had been born sickly—centuries of dynastic inbreeding had seen to that—and had a fondness for drink that was killing him by inches. Barely thirty, he had the constitution of a man thrice his age, and half the time he was too deep in his cups to govern. Even now, a mug of ale rested on the arm of his throne, sweating in the fire’s warmth. His counselors had been ruling the empire in his stead from the day of his coronation.
Serl Kar-thon, one of the foremost of those counselors, was by contrast a strong man.
Tall and built like an ox, he could hold his own against the finest warriors in the land, despite his fifty-some years. His hoary beard covered a grisly scar where an assassin had tried to cut his throat. He had broken the man’s neck with his bare hands. Few men in Ergoth could match the duke in fierceness … and he was very angry just now.
“That whelp, need I remind you, is the one who discovered the way through the grove,” said a white-cassocked, gray-bearded figure across from Serl. Grand Celebrant Kyad, high priest of the Ergothian church—the only other man in the room—raised a bushy eyebrow.
“It may be he knows what he is doing.”
The duke shot him a glance that could bore through stone, but didn’t deign to reply.
Instead he turned to Gwynned, peering into his bloodshot eyes. Emperors past had beheaded good men for such presumption, but Serl got away with it.
“Excellency,” the Duke declared, “this is an outrage. We are Ergothmen—we ruled here when the Istarans were barbarians in skin huts! The fame of taking the first Tower should belong to us, but it’s the knights in Losarcum who get to strike the first blow, while we wait another day to follow their lead.”
Gwynned pursed his lips, as if he thought to say something, then made a sound like a small explosion as he stifled a belch. Serl fought back the urge to grab the emperor and hurl him into a fire-bowl. One day, he hoped, a Kar-thon dynasty might replace the degenerate Gwynned and his line, but not today.
“Take heart, Lord Duke,” said Kyad. “At least we move before Yarns in Palanthas.”
“Pah,” declared Serl, spitting on the stone floor. “Some glory. We should be first. We have the seed to do it.” He held up a fist, clasped about the pine nut that had come with the message, strapped to one of the Lightbringer’s mechanical raptors. “Give the order, Excellency, and I shall assail the Tower tonight. Then the world will celebrate Ergoth’s might!”
Gwynned followed hardly any of this. His face showed only stupor, his head lolling first to one side, then the other. That gave the Grand Celebrant time enough to speak up again, the cleric leaning so far forward that it seemed his tall miter might topple from his head.
“My lord,” Kyad declared, “we must cleave to the plan. I think the good duke’s thirst for vengeance blinds his judgment.”
“And I think,” Serl shot back, his voice dripping with venom, “that the good celebrant is far to eager to climb into the Lightbringer’s bed.”
That shut Kyad up. The cleric’s swarthy face flushed, but he looked away and said no more. Serl stood there, seething—not the least because Kyad was right. He had lost two sons to the sorcerers in the Lordcity, which was more than Beldinas or Yarns could claim.
Why should he not deserve to strike first blood against the wizards for that offense? Why should—
“Tomorrow.”
Serl’s eyebrows climbed up toward his receding hairline. He turned away from Kyad, back to the throne, whence the voice had originated. “Excellency?”
“We … attack early,” Emperor Gwynned declared, his voice soft and halting. “Not tonight … though. Tomorrow.”
Laughter formed on Serl’s lips, but he held back the urge. Instead, he bowed. “As you will it, my liege,” he declared. “May I have your leave to make ready?”
Gwynned took a deep drink from his tankard. His moustache came away soaked in creamy foam. With his other hand, he waved the duke away.
Bowing, Serl turned to go. As he did, he noticed the Grand Celebrant. Kyad looked as if he had just been punched in the stomach, which filled Serl with a great satisfaction. As he strode out of the throne room, however, the duke did not openly gloat over his victory. It was unseemly in front of Gwynned. Besides, there would be plenty of time for that later, after he took the Tower.
*****
The next day was rainy, as often was the case in Daltigoth in the spring. The sky hung heavy with what folk called widow clouds, for they wore dark veils and never stopped weeping. Water flowed down the streets and overflowed the banks of the Nath and the Ord, the twin rivers that met in the city’s midst. The colors of the city—never bright to begin with, the folk of Ergoth being more fond of granite and bronze than marble and gold—grew more muted still. Even the emperor’s palace, an ancient sprawl of buttresses and towers normally hung with green and scarlet banners, seemed wan, half-lost in th
e drizzle.
Then there was the Tower.
It stood atop a hill that gave it a commanding view of Daltigoth itself, and the fields and mountains all around it. Unlike the white hand of Istar and Losarcum’s black needle, this Tower was a rich shade of crimson. Square and stout, with crenellated battlements and glowering gargoyles, it sported five parapets—four white ones at each corner, and a larger fifth in the midst, as black as a raven’s eye. The widow-clouds swirled about, hiding them from view and revealing them again. All around it, dark and swaying, stood a sward of tall pines, whose whispering boughs put any man who set foot within to sleep.
Serl glared at the Tower, just beyond the edge of the grove. He was in full armor, steel covered with gildwork and black enamel, a greatsword strapped to his back. His antlered helm he held tucked under one arm, and a flame-colored cloak hung damply from his shoulders. Behind him were a thousand men arrayed in bronze mail and armed with axes and broad blades. Clerics of Draco Paladin and Corij—as they called Paladine and Kiri-Jolith in the west—walked among them, droning in Old Ergothian. The people of Daltigoth mingled nearby, the curious and the morbid gathering to watch the battle.
The duke was not happy. Having lost Reik and Parsal, his two eldest sons, in the disastrous incident in Istar, he had hoped to bring his youngest, Arn, with him today, to share in his revenge. The boy had been more than willing to come, too, until his mother found out. While Serl could fight a hill giant without fear, Duchess Sheran Kar-thon was another matter. Arn remained behind at the family’s manor while the duke marched to battle, rattled and upset.
Rainwater running down his face as he gazed up at the red monolith, Serl reached into his pouch and pulled out the pine nut that had come from Istar. If this didn’t work, if he planted the seed and nothing happened, he would look a fool. If it did what the Kingpriest claimed …
He smiled, stepping forward. Serl, conqueror of mages had a ring to it.
Rust-colored needles blanketed the earth among the pines. They gave off a rich smell as he brushed them aside. At once his eyelids drooped, and his thoughts grew muzzy as the grove’s magic began to wash over him. He blinked, sucking in a jaw-cracking yawn—then shook his head. No. He focused his will, fighting off the enchantment. After a moment, it abated. He was only on the fringes of the pines, where the power was weakest. Snarling a wordless curse aimed at all wizards, he drew a dagger from his belt and began to dig.
After a while, he judged the hole deep enough. He glanced back at his men—standing patiently, waiting for whatever was about to happen—and sheathed his dirk. Another man might have prayed at that moment, but Serl had seldom bothered with the gods. Instead, he simply placed the seed in the ground, covered it with soil, and stepped back to wait.
He waited for several minutes. Nothing happened … then nothing happened some more. Serl’s mood grew darker. Was this a trick? Some ruse concocted by the Kingpriest to make Ergoth—and him—look foolish? If so, he would set sail for Istar again before nightfall, find the thrice-damned Lightbringer, and shove his sword—
The first tremor hit, heaving the dirt beneath his feet. It was gone a moment later, and he frowned, wondering if he had imagined it. He heard his men muttering, invoking Draco Paladin and growling imprecations. When the ground shook again—harder this time, bringing showers of needles down from the pines above—he spat a few vile words himself.
Stepping back, he saw the ground where he had planted the seed start to bubble and rise, like a boil or blister. He kept backing away and heard the clatter of his men’s armor behind him. A couple fled, but most stood their ground, watching.
With a sound not unlike timber falling, the earth exploded, showering dirt everywhere.
Serl got a faceful, spitting and sputtering as he tried to clear his eyes. When he could see again, a tree had begun to rise from the spot, shooting up with startling speed, branches unfolding, needles sprouting before his eyes. The tree had black needles, black bark and sticky black sap oozing down its trunk. He stared at the strange growing pine, appalled, as it soared higher and higher, above its surroundings.
“Blood of a thousand wyrms,” he swore reverently.
When it finally stopped, the black tree was as big and thick around as a house, overtopping the other trees by half. It swayed, creaking, the rain pattering down among its boughs. Then, it did something even more amazing. It spoke.
Avasti kushan, it said, the words creeping across Serl’s mind like insects. Satong du galantim….
Again the ground shuddered, then bucked like a wild hippogriff. More of Serl’s men slipped away, some of them weeping, but still the bulk of the warriors stood their ground.
Swords scraped free of scabbards. The duke himself set his helm upon his head and reached over his shoulder to draw his double-handed blade. Peering through narrow eyeslits, he watched in astonishment as the grove began to move.
It was swift, even violent. One moment, the black pine stood surrounded by its brethren.
The next, trees were twisting aside, digging furrows in the earth, some even uprooting themselves in their eagerness to shy away. A gash ran deep through the grove, ripping through the heart of it, filling the air with a storm of dead needles—until finally the crimson walls of the Tower of High Sorcery appeared. Only then did the rumbling stop, and the forest grew quiet once more.
Serl stared, his heart galloping. It had worked. The seed had done as the Kingpriest promised. He found it strange and unsettling, but there was no denying the evidence of his eyes: the path to the Tower … the path to glory . . . was clear.
His men were wary. He could feel their tension. Attack or flee, they needed to do something. A smile curled his lips. Raising his greatsword, he gave a mighty bellow and led the charge.
*****
Arn Kar-thon leaned forward, biting his lip as he watched his father disappear through the rift in the grove. Duke Serl’s warriors streamed after him, around the dark tree that had sprouted from the magic seed. Swords and spears punched the air as they ran, their battle cries muted by distance and rain.
“I should be down there,” muttered Arn. “I should be with them, damn it.”
No one answered. There was no one else left behind. His mother, after thirty years of it, no longer watched her husband ride off to battle. His sisters didn’t care, but Arn … Arn was fourteen, for the love of Habbakuk! Another year, and he would be a man by Ergothian law, free to marry and hold land and title. Another year and the Duchess Sheran would have had no power to stop him from donning his mail and following his father into the fray.
Reik and Parsal had been careless, that was their mistake. He would have heroically slain every damned wizard in the Lordcity, if he had been there … just as he wanted to now if he were permitted to be among those attacking the Tower. He swore, hammering his fist down on the railing of the balcony—the best vantage in his family’s great manor by Daltigoth’s north wall. It just wasn’t fair… .
Once the warriors were through the grove, things grew even more frustrating. There was little for Arn to see, no pitched struggles, no flashing swords and sizzling spells. The grove and the black pine hid any fighting from view. The Tower’s red walls—and parapets fading in and out among the widow-clouds—told no tales. Every now and then, a flash of light, violet one moment, sickly green the next, and the occasional dull boom or ungodly screech cut through the gloom, echoing weirdly through the rain-dampened city. Once, Arn could have sworn he’d heard his father’s voice, shouting vicious curses upon the sorcerers, but that was probably wishful thinking. For the most part, the fighting within the Tower remained a mystery to all in Daltigoth who had braved the elements to watch it.
Arn waited impatiently to see his father emerge, carrying the head of the archmage who was Master of the Tower. By nightfall, he expected that head to be tarred and spitted on a pike above Daltigoth’s main gates.
He didn’t see the change at first, it was so subtle. It grew more pronounced with each heartb
eat, though, and soon became obvious despite the weather and the miles. He rubbed his eyes. The Tower seemed different now, just slightly. The straight edges of its walls twisted, bowing outward in a way that made him think of overfilled wineskins. Farther and farther they seemed to bend, and a moment later the groan of stone reached his ears, grating loudly.
“Draco Paladin,” Arn murmured. He thought of his father, and his father’s men. What was happening?
Threads of blue and gold lightning began to play along the crimson walls, leaping from turret to turret, sometimes bouncing away to strike a pine tree, turning it into a pillar of flame. Above, the widow-clouds started swirling, moving around and around the Tower like one of the great maelstroms the sea lords told tales about. A faint glow surrounded the parapets, growing stronger with each moment—a roseate light, black and white and red all at once. Arn stared, plucking at the sparse beard he’d been trying to grow for months now.
Whatever was going on, the sorcerers were controlling it… doing something to their own Tower?
A queasy feeling settled in Arn’s gut. He heard a sound, low at first but soon louder even than the growl of the bulging walls. It was a musical noise, like a hundred reed pipes playing in unison—but not a melody, and the harmony was questionable. The shrillness got worse as he listened, the tones growing more and more discordant. Arn clapped his hands to his ears, wincing. Behind him, a window shattered, raining shards of glass. The same was surely happening all over Daltigoth, probably worse for the buildings nearer the Tower.
The glow around the parapets was bright now, turning into spires of light that shot up into the whirling clouds. Real lightning struck all five parapets, thunderclaps roaring after it. Cracks appeared in the overstressed walls, and ghostly flames poured out like blood from so many wounds. The chorus of noise grew more furious, like the cries of madmen, each vying to be the loudest. The noise bored into Arn’s skull. He thought his head would burst.
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