The Doomfarers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  Seeing him, Springbuck understood why the old man had, with indomitable pride—some would call it vanity, and be wrong—yielded up his rule and gone into seclusion when he no longer found himself whole.

  “I heard the sirens of war in the keep,” the giant said, face still turned to the fire. “Then yesterday the distant sounds of preparation for siege, and today the clamor of an army deploying and later the drumming of hooves, the battle horns and the din of the melee, mixed with the screams of the dying. So, I put on this armor I haven’t worn since before you were born and waited in the dark to learn what lesson the gods had for us this time. But you have come to me, and another with you, and so I know that the banner of the Hightower still flies over us. Well, that is good; I did not intend to be turned out of my home like a beggar, nor let our enemies kill me easily, but it was hard to wait in the darkness and not know what was to be.”

  He thought for a moment. “Yes, that was by far the hardest part,” he added.

  “Grandfather,” Sordo began, head high and face set against what he must say, “we’ve beaten the troops sent by the Usurper Strongblade with the help of the King of Freegate and Prince Springbuck, but your other son fell today and will not rise. Yet he lived to see it a victory, and the other with me is none other than the Prince.”

  The snowy old head dipped once in acknowledgment. Hightower stood, topping them by a head and taking his sword easily in one hand; he stepped with the sureness of familiarity to a nearby window, breathing deeply in the afternoon air.

  “I hope that it isn’t too warm for you here my young lords, but my bones ache at times nowadays.” He spoke to them as across a wide reach of years or miles. His face worked for long seconds, but what emotions interplayed there they couldn’t tell. Without turning to them, he resumed.

  “Sordo, son of my son, what will you do? How fares the household? Is your mother well? She always held my heart, a fair little maid forced before it was her tune to answer the obligations and duties of housemistress to this pile of masonry.”

  Sordo swallowed once before lying. “She’s well, Grandfather, quite well and safe.” He glanced nervously to the Prince, then said, “I’m going to posture the castle against renewed siege, and I think it’s best you go back to Freegate along with Mother.”

  Hightower’s control threatened to break. His body shook, yet he didn’t allow it to enter his voice. “Now you are Lord of the Hightower. I shall do as you say, but I would rather . . . nay, if things were different I, too, should want an old blind man out from underfoot.

  “The two decades I spent here haven’t been idle. I have thought much and meditated on the things I have learned. Occasionally, visitors have brought me news of interest. Yet, it won’t be difficult to leave, I suppose; darkness is the same everywhere and I carry my imprisonment with me wheresoever I go.”

  He sniffed the air again. “There is a storm approaching. It will not break this afternoon or tonight, nor even tomorrow. Yet soon, I think, there will be torrents and thunder crashes.”

  * * * *

  Few in the Hightower knew sleep during the next twelve hours save as a memory.

  Chains of men ferried weapons to the walls, bushels of arrows, racks of javelins and spears and other missiles for the repulsion of assaults. Volatile caldrons of vile-smelling, oily fluid were set over channels leading to spouts set in the walls.

  The main donjon was readied, its storerooms filled to overflowing with food and its cistern checked against an emergency withdrawal, should the outerworks be taken.

  Sordo fitted himself naturally to the task of bracing his garrison; it was the labor he’d been groomed for since boyhood. The third generation was preparing to stiffen the Hightower against one more assault on its dangerous walls.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  All warfare is based on deception.

  —Sun Tzu Wu, “Art of War”

  It was decided that the garrison would be augmented with infantry brought from Freegate. Springbuck also detached two troops of dragoons to stay behind with those organizing irregular action against the approaching army.

  The Prince wanted to stay and command the defense, but had met opposition from his companions, including Reacher. He maintained his stand until, unforeseen, Lady Hightower came to him. “I’m informed that my Lord the Ku-Mor-Mai offered to lend his good arm to the protection of our home. Though we thank him, surely he sees that he must remain at liberty and not be detained here? My son will bring us and the Hightower through this trial, as his sire and grandsire have in the past.”

  Without waiting for a reply she went, ending her confinement to the sickbed she’d occupied since receiving the ministrations of Andre deCourteney, and commenced to help in the affairs of the castle. She’d settled the matter completely. Springbuck couldn’t go against the wishes of that great and gallant Lady.

  Still, they were left with the quandary of a retreat in a perilous situation. An immense force had been mustered and sent out from Earthfast with the double mission of suppressing outlaw activity and breaking the Hightower.

  Now that Yardiff Bey knew of the presence of the allied expedition, it was logical to assume that his commander in the field, Novanwyn, would dispatch a strong element to block and hold the Western Tangent where it entered the Keel of Heaven, to preclude their escape back to Freegate. He could eliminate them and the castle at leisure, since further relief would thus be cut off. The poser was that, though the allies felt that they could cut their way back to the Free City if the odds were fairly well matched, a larger enemy force might be too much for them to deal with. But taking more men along with them against that contingency would both leave the Hightower undermanned and slow them down.

  The wrangling was going nowhere when Gil spoke up.

  “Suppose we could convince Bey and Novanwyn that we have a bigger army here than we really do? That we’re going to stand and that they have a chance to wipe us out, but only if they commit all their muscle?”

  Bonesteel thought for a moment, then nodded. “Then Bey would, I think, try to deal us a deathblow. I know old Novanwyn would consider it a fine idea; it fits with his heady notions of audacity and resolve. But how to accomplish this? It may be that Yardiff Bey has seen our strength already through Ibn-al-Yed’s dead eyes.” The creature that had been Ibn-al-Yed had died the preceding evening, not of its wounds or for any reason they could see other than that it was bereft of the will of its master.

  “I’ve been talking with Andre here,” Gil replied, “and I think I can tell you. Now here’s Bey, with this aircraft he’s so fond of, and he knows that he can use it to scout us, yes? Think about it. Tomorrow, when times and distances are about right—if the reports about his troop movements are true—and our men are active and his are near, I bet he’ll make a firsthand decision on how to commit his men. If he has any brains at all, he’ll make a flyby and check us out. What I propose here is that we scam our friend Bey.”

  With the exception of Andre they had all become lost. He elucidated.

  “Our boy is clever, right? But he has introduced a new concept in warfare into this world, and I don’t think that even he has tumbled onto all the angles. He hasn’t twigged that forward air observers can be conned, but, folks, we’re going to teach him. Oh, my, yes. I just hope he’s never heard of Quaker guns.”

  * * * *

  “No, no, no!” Gil MacDonald grated in exasperation. “We can’t put mockups out in the open. Look, and get this for once and for all; we’ve got to make him believe we’re trying to hide the troops and siege engines, not parade ’em.

  “Pay attention! Real siege machinery and so forth inside the walls. Fakes and such down there among the tall trees in that meadow and the soldier simulacra—is that the right word, Andre?—among the trees there, there and all through there. A real trooper every few yards or so later, to scuttle around when the aircraft shows—if it shows—and one string of picketed horses to get spooked and set loose down by the tree line at the r
im of the forest. Got all that?”

  The officer in charge of the work detail wasn’t really sure he did, but nodded and went back to his men. They were still mystified as to why they’d been pulled from siege preparations to do this pointless labor. They were tying bright strips of cloth from torn uniforms around man-high crosses, roughly made from branches and jammed at intervals in the earth near unused cooking fires. Their comrades in the next stand of woods knew no more than they, so they just marked it up as another unexplained whim of Command.

  Storm clouds rolled in, hiding the sun, as Andre set himself to cast his glamour. Without Gabrielle to aid him, he found the task desperately taxing, the more so since he must concentrate on precision and at the same time hide his spell from Yardiff Bey. Still, if Bey were both flying his demon ship and assessing the numbers at the Hightower, he’d probably miss the traces of Andre’s thaumaturgy.

  Alone atop the central donjon, Andre spread his arms and summoned a servant of malignant power. By order of the allied leaders, all men were under shelter and cautioned against interfering or even watching the incantation. Scant enough warning had been required.

  The magician reached outward, flexing his arms and calling in a forbidden language. Moisture ran down his pudgy face and collected on his shaggy chest and potbelly. His back was soaked and his brow furrowed by the awful effort, as the being began to take shape, a sparkling nimbus of light.

  He would have preferred to do this in a proper sanctum, but he must be outside to watch his vassal’s every move. The being fought his will, its aura flaming angrily; but he ended its obstinacy with words of enforcement and made it agree to do his bidding precisely. With a snarl it sped away, eager to be done with its servitude and back to its own plane.

  As it flew, the rude simulacra began to waver and re-form into brightly attired soldiers who stood, squatted or lay patiently. And that, in truth, was their only function.

  * * * *

  Of all his pleasures, Yardiff Bey most cherished flying his unique sky craft, Cloud Ruler, through the high airs. Then he felt master indeed of the wide world unfolded beneath him, removed from the sordid doings and goings of common men. He’d contrived, fought and suffered to achieve its construction, paying a dear price; his hand went to the ocular where his left eye had once been.

  Now he leaned forward in his luxurious chair inboard Cloud Ruler and uttered a low oath, peering into the ground-glass optical device before him. His mind was only partially occupied with his reconnaissance, since he must keep under his control the fire elemental trapped in the bowels of his ship. He perceived faint traces of magic smelling of the hated Andre deCourteney, but so slight were these that he attributed them to minor protective spells and the like. He didn’t consider deCourteney a magician of any note.

  The demon ship circled lower on red flames while he stared down through his magnifying disk. Bivouacked around the castle were more fighting men than he’d thought possible for his enemies to field altogether. Many more besides were within the walls of the Hightower. Here and there some of them ran for cover, but most were frozen in fear. Good.

  He’d have liked to put trees and castle to the torch with his ship, but disliked bringing it low or otherwise endangering the product of his long labors.

  Then he was gasping in outrage as a boulder half the size of a horse zipped up from the Hightower. The Keep’s biggest stone gun, modified by artisans working under Gil’s direction, had barely missed bringing down the Hand of Shardishku-Salamá.

  “Chowderheads!” roared the American as the crew reset the long throwing arm of the stone gun. “Don’t hit him, dammit! We want to send him on his way, not bring him down. One more now, lower this time so he thinks he’s getting above our range. We don’t want him to risk another pass.”

  They needn’t have bothered. Yardiff Bey was causing the fire elemental to lift Cloud Ruler higher and bring it around on a course for the approaching force from Earthfast. He’d never heard the term beachhead, but he’d long since mastered the concept and didn’t intend to see Freegate establish one in Coramonde.

  He was disgusted with his commanders’ apparent inability to flush out bothersome peasants. Herdsmen who knew every inch of the wilderness and hunters who’d stalked the lion and the deer were tormenting regulars, fleeing for sanctuary to treacherous bog and trackless mountain. Yardiff Bey had contrived through agents to have Lady Hightower kidnapped to force Bulf to fight, and still his field commander had been beaten.

  But here, at last, was an open battle to fight. He’d rush up his second great corps and crush these insects as soon as possible.

  * * * *

  The return to Freegate began ill.

  The bulk of the foot soldiers of Coramonde under Bonesteel were undismayed at the prospect of fortifying the Hightower. Almost every member of the allied leadership volunteered to be part of the garrison; but Springbuck overruled all but one, Bonesteel’s second-in-command, a tough old veteran who had experience in siege, useful to Sordo.

  Though they were to travel light, Gil made sure they took certain things captured with Ibn-al-Yed’s tent: writing implements, scrolls, seals, maps and order-of-battle listings. To Gil’s great unease, he found that a large part of the forces mentioned in the latter couldn’t be accounted for. They definitely hadn’t been at the battle outside the Hightower. Captives of that engagement were either unwilling or unable to explain this.

  With them, too, they took Lord Hightower. “There’s much he’s seen and heard,” Andre said of his old friend. “Much he’s pondered that may help us before this struggle is over. More, he’d be of little use here.”

  Gil, looking at the former Duke, couldn’t help but think of the majestic gods of William Blake.

  Though they’d planned to take Lady Hightower with them, they didn’t. In her own gracious way she forbade it and they couldn’t make her leave the Hightower.

  Bonesteel gave her and his nephew each a strong hug. He was torn, and would have liked to stay and watch over them, but knew that he’d be needed badly elsewhere.

  They left at midnight, taking extremely light rations and leaving most of their supplies. All were mounted, their horses fairly fresh; many had been able to rest briefly in the hours between Yardiff Bey’s departure and the call to mount.

  They pushed as much as they dared on a journey of such length. Few were their stops; they alternated riding with walking and leading their horses. Hightower had ridden grimly on a mount lead by Andre and, over his protests, was borne on a litter on the shoulders of the strongest when the rest walked. They took main trails to the Tangent. They didn’t think that any troops of Earthfast were in the area yet, and the need for haste was great.

  For a night, a day and into another night they went. The skies remained threatening, and the Prince was glad he had mighty Fireheel under him. They would stop for food and to rest their horses, make relievements or utter a word of prayer, then go on.

  At last Springbuck called a halt, knowing the men must rest before the long trek through the Keel of Heaven. Gil slumped from his saddle, asleep before he hit the ground.

  The air was hot and close. Lightning began to flash intermittently in the east. Men picketed their horses and those lucky enough not to draw guard duty threw themselves down, exhausted.

  The Prince was seeing to the arrangement of watches, trying to assure himself of each man’s welfare. The seemingly indefatigable Reacher had disappeared hours earlier, loping toward his homeland to reconnoiter. Bonesteel was obviously strained by the ordeal, and Andre was snoring loudly a few paces from the slumbering American.

  Of Hightower there was no sign. The night was black, and now thunder swelled in their direction out of the mountains, and spears of levinbolts flew.

  Springbuck found the old man on a low, open knoll outside camp, just as rain began in fat droplets. He thought he came up silently, especially in the midst of the growing thunder and racing lightning. But when he was near the other, Hightower asked, fa
irly bellowing to be heard, “Who draws nigh?”

  “Springbuck,” he answered, “to see that you come and get some rest now. We have a long road yet to wend.”

  The hulking old champion didn’t move except to raise his head to chaotic skies and open his arms, as if to embrace them.

  “Too long has it been since I have stood this close to the earth. Too long between ground and sky in that tower, suffering the wrath of the gods and the wages of mine own folly, content to escape with my life.

  “But hearing, smelling, feeling the things of the world again, I remember life, I remember. I must have my whole life again, or none of it.”

  Springbuck knew Hightower was no longer talking to him, that he was not speaking to any earthly ear. The focus of the storm swept closer.

  “Let my penance be done! Take my life and this half-existence, or do with me whatsoever you will. Have I not been punished enough?”

  Deafening crashes and blinding lightning swirled around them. The Prince, awed by the fury of the sky, faltered and fell sprawling. Gazing up, he saw Hightower’s figure silhouetted not ten yards from him. The man seemed to gather all his substance and, in a voice strained and uncharacteristically shrill, repeated: “Enough!” He thrust both gauntleted fists into the air over his head.

  A bolt from above struck him, setting forth his shape in blue-white radiance and blasting the Prince into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  He came partially awake, with Andre hovering over him apprehensively. He couldn’t hear and blood was running from his nose. Gil was standing and looking over the mage’s shoulder. Torches had been brought; in their glare, the Prince made out Hightower. The old man, too, was staring at him; plainly he could see once again. His face held a mien of wonder and fear.