by Brian Daley
The outlander laughed, scant humor in it. “My ‘predicament’ grows rapidly worse,” he shot back. “Of these good people, one in three sees fit to offer his help. And you? A week ago I would have welcomed you as a new student, but now you’ll have to run or fight before you can learn.” He seemed to think his own words over for a moment. “Perhaps you’ll prize the knowledge more for all of that. What do you say?”
The Prince considered this. He had nowhere else to go. But to stay here was to court capture or death. They were both the same for him, he realized.
“I say,” he replied at last, “that your people had better not use their barbed arrows. Use the narrowest points first; they’ll punch through armor more readily. How will so few resist troops of the Crown?”
“I’m at a loss to tell you. But you seem familiar with this sort of thing. Come, hold conference with us, and we’ll decide.”
Springbuck dismounted and lead Fireheel toward the wagon as the locals gave way before him. Van Duyn jumped down from his place and two others detached themselves from the scurrying peasants to join him.
The first with the scholar was a man far shorter and bulkier than he, and the Prince knew him as Andre deCourteney. The famous wizard was squat and plump, with a promise of underlying muscle, and dressed, as was Van Duyn, in commoner’s clothing, but had his sleeves rolled up and tunic open to reveal thick-matted hair in dark rings on arms and chest. Although he was clean-shaven, his chin and flopping jowls retained deep blue shadows. His head, however, was mostly bald. In his eyes the Prince could see only a friendly look to second the smile he wore.
The other one was even more easily identified, if only from reputation. She was an intimidating beauty of no certain age, with astoundingly red hair. Her brows were high-arched over sea-green eyes, prominent cheekbones and a wide, sultry mouth, contrary to the pouty vogue current at Court. Her skin held the whiteness of milk and, unlike those around her, she dressed self-indulgently. Gracefully wrapped in a long robe of glossy green-black silk that left much pale throat and bosom exposed, she wore a girdle of red leather sewn with pearls caught tightly around her waist, and her fingers blazed with rings. She met the Prince’s gaze squarely, looking him up and down, smiling a cryptic smile, and he knew that this could be no one but Andre’s sister, the celebrated sorceress Gabrielle deCourteney, though she’d never been to his father’s Court.
Van Duyn ahemmed, and Springbuck realized that he’d been staring.
“You have no doubt heard of my esteemed colleague, Andre deCourteney and, of course his sister, Gabrielle,” Van Duyn introduced them. But his hand reached out to squeeze the woman’s gently and received answering pressure, eloquent that she was far more to the scholar than merely his associate’s sister. He finished, “And I am Van Duyn. You are—?”
“How far away are the troops?” Springbuck asked, ignoring the invitation to introduce himself. For now, he preferred the anonymity of his mask.
Andre deCourteney shrugged. “We have the word of—informants—that they will be here momentarily.”
“I would not much care to defend this relic against regular soldiery,” said the Prince.
“Nor do we,” Andre confessed, “but we hope that it will not come to that. The truth of the matter is that we must come at bay for a little time; we have weightier problems than a few soldiers.” His speech was cultured and well modulated, in contrast to his unpolished appearance.
“Few!” snorted the Prince, “What if they send more than a few? What if they use their heads and send infantry, cavalry, knights and archers and siege artificers to pull this stone artifact down around your ears? And if you’re really ill-fortuned and they have magicians of their own with them, Yardiff Bey’s underlings? They’d make very short work of you indeed, is what would happen.”
“That would seem to be the promised scenario,” Andre conceded mildly.
A shout broke their conversation. They went to the open gate and saw a long column of mounted men wending their way from the edge of the forest into Erub. A smaller contingent had broken off and was steering for the castle.
“Time to close up shop,” said Van Duyn. Springbuck, standing near, put his shoulder to the gate and heaved, but couldn’t budge it. Then portly Andre was next to him, and the balky gate moved smartly at the wizard’s push. Springbuck noted to himself that there must be muscle to spare under all that avoirdupois.
“What about the portcullis and drawbridge?” the Prince asked as two men lifted a thick beam of wood braced with iron across the gates.
“Rusted into place,” replied Van Duyn, “but for now I suggest that we repair to the rampart. Heralds are due, I think.”
Springbuck followed the outlander and the deCourteneys up the stone steps, arriving just as a truce-flag bearer and a herald rode up before the castle to parley. Another group sat their horses in the meadow out of bowshot.
“Fetch me my rifle,” Van Duyn instructed a youngster who had been on watch there, and Springbuck puzzled over just what thing that might be.
The two soldiers wore long mail hauberks and steel caps and had triangular shields slung beside them. The truce flag was a white rectangle of cloth on a lance decked with heron feathers.
“Now heed us, the castle,” roared the herald. “For crimes both treasonous and seditious, all who are within merit the death penalty. Clemency will be shown only to those who quit these premises and surrender to the duly authorized representatives of His Grace, Strongblade, by right of ascension imminent the Protector Suzerain of this place.”
“Strongblade,” the Prince repeated to himself, hand hard and resolute on Bar. Bey hadn’t lost any time having his puppet proclaimed rightful Heir.
Now Gabrielle had passed her brother a scabbarded sword of ancient design and Van Duyn held the exotic implement he’d sent for, a “rifle.” It was a curious club-like affair of wood and metal, longer than a man’s arm.
The scholar leaned out over the merlon’s lip and spoke back. His teeth were showing, but it was no smile. “Tell your commander and your counterfeit Ku-Mor-Mai that we don’t surrender ourselves to usurpers or their ass-kissing messengers.”
“I wonder what’s happened in Earthfast?” Andre was saying, one cogitative finger at his thick lips.
“—and if you’ve seen what I did to your friends in Erub,” Van Duyn continued, apparently with huge enjoyment, “you’ll know enough to stay well away from our walls. Or would you like a taste of this?”
He brought his rifle to his shoulder, sighting down it, Springbuck thought, rather as one would squint down an arrow to gauge its trueness. There came an explosion.
A spit of flame and smoke shot from the armament’s end and a clot of dirt leaped between the feet of the herald’s horse. The air was filled with the same smell that the Prince had noticed lingering in the air in Erub, and the horses threatened to go mad, eyes rolling white and ears flattening to their skulls in terror as they screamed in fear.
Springbuck staggered back with a yell of alarm at this, ears ringing from the blast. The outlander was calmly lowering his weapon, watching herald and standard-bearer withdraw in disarray.
A small capsule of metal had been flung from some hidden opening in the rifle and now lay smoking at his feet. Springbuck picked it up, juggling it to keep from burning his fingers, and found that it exuded that peculiar odor. He thought about the tongue of flame and about the curious wound-holes in the dead cavalrymen in Erub.
“Who were the two who remained at a distance with the other troops, those in bright clothing?” Van Duyn was asking.
The sorceress answered, perfect brow wrinkled for an instant in thought. “Creatures of Yardiff Bey. He in the golden full-helmet is Ibn-al-Yed, Bey’s right arm. The other, I believe, is Neezolo Peeno, known as a premier druid. It would seem that, while he cannot do us the honor of attending our demise in person, Bey sends his closest vassals to do so.” Amazingly, she chuckled. Seeing Andre’s face afflicted with doubt and concern, she st
opped her low laugh and asked, “Why so glum, brother dear?”
“What about the soldiers?” Springbuck interrupted.
She turned her mocking gaze to him. “What about them? Here you are, dressed and plumed for war and wearing a sword. Have you no suggestions?”
She slipped her arm possessively through Van Duyn’s and waited.
Springbuck’s ire rose. Spotting the youngster who’d fetched Van Duyn’s rifle, he said, “Find yourself four more men and begin making forked poles to push scaling ladders away from the walls. Make them at least fifteen feet long.”
The boy looked from the Prince to Van Duyn and the deCourteneys. At length Andre cleared his throat and said, “Do as he tells you, Byree. His idea makes sense.”
Byree dashed off as the wizard turned to Springbuck. “What else can we do?”
Springbuck showed no sign of hesitance, knowing how important confidence was in a leader. Other, more vital abilities would come only with painful experience.
“Start some of the others assembling makeshift mantlets and have them brought up here. And set out buckets of water and earth or sand in case they loft fire arrows at us. We’ll need anything we can get as polearms: scythes, flails, pitchforks, anything.”
“Have you no orders for me?” Gabrielle asked with heavy sarcasm.
“Yes,” returned the Prince, “you could gather some help and pull the birds’ nests from the chimneys.”
* * * *
The patchwork command took shape quickly. A room was prepared for any wounded they might suffer. Springbuck walked among the men of Erub and divided them into subgroups, selecting those he deemed most alert and aggressive-looking for leaders.
By this time it was deep dusk and the cooking fires were burning in the two hearths of the main hall. Noticing that some of the Erubites appeared to resent his new authority, Springbuck commanded each subleader to pick two men for sentinel duty, and announced that he and Andre deCourteney would take first watch. This struck the peasants as fair—the Prince wondered what his father would have said about placating farmers—and the wizard raised no objection.
The two began to pace their circuits of the walls in opposite directions, and though the Prince would have liked to ask Andre a number of questions, he decided to keep his own counsel for the time being. Van Duyn was sure that the soldiers would come no closer to the castle, fearing his rifle and the deCourteneys, and so far he’d been right. Springbuck hoped that he would continue so; if there were a major assault now, they’d all be slain unless the outlander’s weapon could kill many men all at once.
During the watch he felt the fatigue of the day overtake him. He considered the chain of events that had begun with Hightower’s death, and pondered his new allies and their strange self-assurance.
At the end of the tour he and Andre awakened their relief, for the balance of the band had toppled into sleep after the exhausting day. He made a final check of Fireheel’s accommodations and groped around by a dying fire until he came across an unfinished bit of sausage and biscuit.
Propped against a wall, he huddled in his cloak as it became chillier, and heard Andre snoring loudly nearby. He removed his war mask and gobbled the cold meal quickly, licking his fingers afterward and wishing that there were more.
Divesting himself of boots, demisleeves and sword belt, he went to sleep with his head pillowed on his saddle pad, not considering first that, without his mask, he would be recognized by those who saw him in the morning light.
Chapter Six
On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?
—William Blake, “The Tyger”
“Breakfast, O Ku-Mor-Mai?” said a female voice. But why did it use his father’s title?
He burst to his feet, cloak flung aside in alarm. He found himself facing Gabrielle, who offered him a bowl of thick stew, no longer warm, and a succinct nod, even colder, for the day’s beginning. He knew instantly what had happened and told himself with some chagrin that it would have happened anyway.
“You sleep like a dead man,” the sorceress was saying, “long after others are up. But Edward said to leave it so.”
Rather then extend the bowl in common hospitality she set it on the ground and turned to leave.
“Wait,” he called after her. When she turned back he found himself with nothing to say.
“Ahh, who is Edward?”
“Edward is Van Duyn. Do they have to teach you everything fresh each day?”
She left as be mumbled, “I didn’t know.” He wolfed the stew, watching his new compatriots bustle around the courtyard, carrying trash and rubble from the interior of the buildings and bearing arms to the ramparts. His meal downed, he buckled on demisleeves and pulled on his boots. Taking up mask and sword belt, he searched out Van Duyn and Andre, who were studying the countryside from the ramparts.
Andre greeted him with a friendly clap on the shoulder. “In truth,” he declared, “I knew you as soon as ever I saw you yesterday, though you’ve changed. But what brings the royal Heir to join us? I’m afraid we must ask.”
The three sat on a make-do bench under the climbing sun while Springbuck told them the tale of his escape from Earthfast. He found himself irritated by Van Duyn, who was skeptical throughout, but discovered the wizard to be an amiable fellow and a cordial listener. Both showed keen interest in the portion of his story dealing with Eliatim’s remarks. They asked questions, going back over the conversation almost word by word. By then the sun had grown warm and the Prince was glad to accept a gourd of water at the conclusion of his narrative. The two listeners were comparing thoughts on their new information when Gabrielle arrived.
“What preparations we can make have been made,” she said. “I’d like to speak to you, Edward.” The two left, arm in arm once more.
“Does your sister find in me some offense?” the Prince asked Andre. “She seems hostile to me.”
“Perhaps,” was the answer. “Or again, perhaps her motives are quite the opposite. Of all the things beyond my power, reading my sister’s thoughts is foremost.”
He took Springbuck on a tour of the castle’s defenses. These were none too reassuring, though one could scarcely hope for better under the circumstances. They discovered a number of the men drilling awkwardly in the courtyard, and the Prince was so disgusted by their ineptitude that he took charge and corrected their more obvious lapses.
Others joined, and soon he was putting a sizable body of tyros through their paces in such fashion that one might almost have thought that they knew what they were doing.
With a flash of inspiration he drew rude diagrams on the wall with a charred stick and showed them where armor of various types was most vulnerable to arrow, pike or sword. Andre slipped away as he began to explain the technique of pushing scaling ladders away from a rampart, undaunted by the fact that he himself had never done it.
When reliefs were changed at the walls, those who came off duty were eager to try their hand, and the practice continued. There was no sign of any activity from the troops occupying Erub, except that a company of light horse kept watch on the castle from a nearby rise.
The Prince began thinking of ways for the lot of them to escape under cover of night. He stopped his impromptu lessons when the afternoon grew too hot for them, and once more sought Andre deCourteney, who was thoughtfully gnawing a bit of jerked meat, sitting on a crenel.
“We cannot leave tonight,” the wizard said in answer to Springbuck’s ideas. “We can’t afford to be caught in the open come dawn.”
The son of Surehand leaned against another crenel and waited.
“Van Duyn, Gabrielle and I can deal with those soldiers out there if the necessity arrives. For that matter, the two magicians with them don’t worry us overly.”
“But there’s Yardiff Bey,” the Prince ventured.
“But there’s Bey,” Andre agreed. “He can’t touch us directly with spells, because of this.”
From his shirt he d
rew forth a chain of some black metal from which depended a shimmering, chatoyant gem the size of a large grape, set in a simple retainer of silver. The Prince sensed that he was in the presence of an object of tremendous consequence.
“Calundronius,” Andre explained. “Because of it, my sister and I are alive. Because of it, no one can spend a spell against us directly, or against anyone close to us whom we choose to protect. But Bey intends to destroy us himself, nevertheless. Tomorrow, just at dawn, we have learned, he’ll summon a being of the half-world: Chaffinch, a winged fire-dragon who is proof, like this gemstone, against enchantments.”
Springbuck couldn’t frame any remark, and so gulped air and listened.
Andre felt of his rough face with the back of his hand as he returned Calundronius to its shaggy resting place. “Well, we think Van Duyn may have the solution here. Bey will summon Chaffinch in Earthfast or some other place far from here and send him against us. Van Duyn’s idea is to conjure up a defense.
“Edward, you see—or, will see—comes from another reality than ours. ‘It’s simple, Andre,’ he told me once, ‘I just hail from different probabilities than you.’ Don’t let that sour look fool you; he must have his little jests, that one.
“At any pass, Edward’s learned a good portion of sorcery from Gabrielle and me since he came here and contacted us. He has a peculiar, sideways aptitude for it. He says that there are, in the world he left behind, machines of war that could slay even Chaffinch. One such is a thing all of metal in which men ride, driven by some internal motive arrangement, mounting weapons like Van Duyn’s but far larger. What he proposes is to conjure one of these machines here—and gods know, the spell will be nearly as dangerous as the jeopardy in which we find ourselves now. Yes, but it’s either that or die under Chaffinch’s flaming breath.”
Andre got up, wiping fingers on thighs. He checked the sun’s declination and said, “Come with me; it’s nigh time.”
They set off together, entering the once-respectable main hall to climb a winding, spiderwebbed staircase and walk down a dusty corridor. They came to a musty suite of rooms uppermost in the castle. There, a hasty sanctum had been set up.