TWOLAS - 08 - Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  To which sweeping mouthful, Fianzia interjected, 'Rathain's prince is a man. Human enough to rue his mistakes and to challenge his outworn assumptions. That's what Mearn said, when I put the question. Grandame Dawr's tart wisdom agrees. If Liesse held the influence to batter her duke off his bone-headed complacency, I would not be lending false comfort to matrons! Alone, without loyalty to my marriage, I'd give birth at old Tirans, secure in the wilds of Atwood!'

  * * *

  The pinnacle towers of the citadel were bathed in the fading light of the afterglow, while twilight deepened over the outlying fields. To the captains at arms who safeguarded the ground before the remorseless advance, the swish of the crofters' scythes through the hayfields kept time to the tramp of the Alliance troops who marched in to the boom of the drums. The enemy established their lines beyond bowshot. They raised the banners of East Halla's towns, and other, far-northern garrisons, inbound from the sea routes past Vaststrait.

  Alestron's farm-hands set their sweating backs to their work. Strove to turn a blind eye, even while harried by the intermittent whine of an arrow, or the punching crack of loosed crossbolts as hostile archers tested their range. The grain shocks were gathered and tied. Fodder was roped onto carts under torchlight, while across the plain, more fires lit the enemy, swarming to close for the siege.

  'They'll have us bottled within a few days,' observed the grizzled scout, arrived overdue with fresh blood on his hands to recite his dismal report. 'Time to leave them a singeing wee present and run, if you'll hear my considered opinion.'

  Keldmar laughed. 'Soon enough, laddie! Get along. Clean your knives. Rest and grab a hot meal.' To Vhandon, who leaned with his back to a sheep-gate, taciturn as weathered teak, he mused, 'Damn well not soon enough to sow havoc!'

  The craggy field-captain never minced words. 'You've planned your parting gift for these invaders?'

  'Haven't we just!' Keldmar's raffish stubble split with delight. The cook's cobbled up a spiked broth to be left on the hobs in the farm-wives' kitchens. Tastes like your granny's savoury soup. Goes down slick as butter besides. Too late, the Light's dupes'll be gushing like gossips, but from the duff end, doubled at the latrines.'

  'Ath wept!' Vhandon had always been sharp on his feet. 'He used unboiled swamp water?'

  Keldmar's smile turned evil. 'Dysentery's no damned fun in the field. Make a few whimpering pansies bolt for home, once their bung-holes chap raw and start bleeding. And anyway, bowmen cramped up with the squirts will have a rough time taking aim.' His sideward squint narrowed. 'Are you frisky, tonight? I've an errand needs running inside enemy lines.'

  'Never ask,' Vhandon stated. 'My troop's at the ready'

  They would be more than keen; Keldmar's sibling had once loaned this war-captain to Arithon to clear a debt for mishandling. The veteran campaigner had been returned, but resharpened: depth now ran beneath that straight-thinking intelligence.

  Though Keldmar shared the s'Brydion penchant for armed force, he was not the brainless brawn he appeared, to blindside his opponents. As he realized the older man measured his mood, he looked away.

  'I want you to go in yourself,' he declared. 'Have the villagers' hedge witch fashion some talismans to muddle Lysaer's sighted priests. Then pick ten from your company and find out when the false avatar plans to arrive.'

  Vhandon took pause. Then he said, gently blunt, 'Since my presence should not be required for that mission, what do you fear to expose?'

  Keldmar's frown tightened. He was never easy with intimate questions. Vhandon was his elder by more than ten years; had been the mentor he had stretched to match in callow youth as example. Never Bransian's prized held officer by accident, all but a part of the family, now Vhandon was given the role of a scout whose assignment ran beyond dangerous.

  'Why?' Vhandon prompted, as silence extended, thick with the tang of banked cookfires, and the musty scent after hard frost. 'What do you dread for me, or yourself?'

  'Avenger's own death!' Keldmar swore. 'I'd not send you to a sure end as a suicide!'

  'No,' Vhandon agreed. Tonight, against his natural grain, he let down his granite mask. 'But both of us have too much seasoned experience. Survival may force me to return your answer by signal arrow, then stage my escape through the far side of the lines. If you want me shut safely out of this war, I deserve to know what you're thinking.'

  Keldmar recoiled, then curbed his venomous retreat. 'Ath, I can't hide this! We've fought at each other's shoulder for too long.' How he hated to grapple the emotions he preferred to vent, picking blustering fights. 'You realize Jeynsa's decision must break Prince Arithon's ultimatum. With his Grace gone, you freely gave your loyalty back to Alestron. But sitting here, I don't know how to ask what you feel.' Anguished, he clenched the fists crossed at his knee. 'Are you fighting because Bransian gave no other choice? Or do you honestly think we can win this?'

  Before Vhandon's response, Keldmar smashed on, 'If the Master of Shadow returns to spare Jeynsa, how will you reconcile your split allegiance?' Then, 'No!' he snapped, over stripped nerves and hurt, 'No, don't speak! I've granted you space to choose your own fate because I don't want to hear how you'll answer!'

  'I'll tell you, anyway' Vhandon persisted. 'Doubt packs more damage, kept secret' His stalwart manner ploughed on with an eloquent care that was new. 'I don't know what the future will bring us, or what fate may befall your brothers. But my birthright lies here. This is my home ground. I won't be dusting my hands of our friendship, or bolting for Atwood.' Through a tensioned breath, he regarded the sky, pricked by cold stars and a rising moon through the gathering sea-mist. His form was a statement of unshattered strength, from the trim of his officer's surcoat, to the competent hang of his sword and his matched brace of knives.

  That self-possession lent Vhandon the vulnerable daring to hazard the rest. 'There are depths to Prince Arithon few understand. I've lost my temper with him often enough. And bled from the heart every time I've encountered the mercy he shields behind satire. That hurt made me change. I had to drop every rigid concept I held over the meaning of honour. Though I don't see your duke's act of war the same way, I won't disown my roots. If your citadel stands, it will be for right reasons. If it falls, what survives will be raised out of ruin, reforged with more flexible temper.'

  Though Keldmar's casual posture was forced, and the grip on his knee now was shaking, Vhandon finished off with a love that exposed without flinching.

  'My commitment is made to serve Alestron. Lean on the fact I will stay here. Our needs have never been separate, my friend. Brought against his free will, his Grace of Rathain is going to be savaged by pressures no one can foresee. You will need a bridge. If your family name can survive this unscathed, you'll have Talvish and me at your side to stand as liaison.'

  Keldmar pushed erect, too embarrassed to bare his own spirit. 'You don't need to go, personally' he allowed, cringing red. 'Any ten trusted scouts are sufficient to handle this foray instead.'

  'No, friend, they're not.' Vhandon surveyed the man who had grown in his shadow, since their earliest days wielding practice sticks. They had shared the joy. The same punishment, too, nursing the bruises and triumphs that raised them to mastery-at-arms. For all Keldmar's juggernaut muscle and will, despite the courage that wedded his life to s'Brydion defence, he nursed a bitter uncertainty. Tonight, no sharpened sword or soft word could assuage the storm raging inside him.

  His blood heritage had been hounded by enemies for too long. Survival came at too high a cost for a blindfolded leap on another man's faith.

  As darkness fell, marred by the fires and smoke of the enemy war host, the field-captain longest in active service held his peace. He knew not to try his titled commander with a comforting clasp on the shoulder. 'I will go in myself,' he insisted, flat calm. 'But only to prove my conviction as truth to rely on, when I return.'

  * * *

  The second Alliance entourage was dispatched to confront the s'Brydion stronghold at daybre
ak, well after Vhandon's picked squad had departed.

  This pass, the approach to Alestron's barred gate was attempted by the Alliance's gaunt Lord Justiciar. That worthy proposed no amicable settlement. Clad in arrogance and finery, he bore the Light's sealed arraignment against the recalcitrant duke and his blood family. No one spared time for his pompous town document, sent by a posturing upstart. Since his glittering cavalcade never asked leave, Bransian also declined every civil respect. No safe conduct was granted.

  Lysaer's polished state overture encountered, instead, Keldmar's entrenched field troop, and one arrow, shot dead-centre through the cloth-of-gold blazon worn by its delegate.

  The corpse was packed off at an indecorous gallop. Pounding after the caparisoned horse, the Light's ceremonial escort took panicked flight, spurred ragged by more hostile volleys released by Alestron's crack marksmen. Sunwheel banners made irresistible targets, flushed into routing retreat. Cocky defenders leaped at the excuse to display their frustrated prowess. The exercise inspired Keldmar's outlying companies to skilled contest and spirited wagers. No one else died. But the avatar's stainless, white standard returned, sliced to fluttering rags in the hands of the rattled bearer.

  The savaged procession reached friendly lines. Too hot to rein up, they belted in lathered disorder through the troop tents of the central encampment. If they dressed their torn ranks before they slowed down, nothing could mend their decorum. The murdered corpse of Lysaer's titled emissary woke turmoil and rage in its wake. Camp-followers shouted. Wash women and cooks broke away from their wagons to scream with indignation. Dedicates and new recruits faltered at arms drill, then jumped as their sergeants barked to upbraid their strayed focus.

  Through the tolling bells of alarm, and the outcries of furious priests, the officers bugled for order. The sharpened swords, and the honed sinew of men might be promised for war against Shadow. But not before the Light's avatar chose to unsheathe the aimed spear of his vengeance.

  Therefore, the horse with its blood-stained burden was passed through the innermost check-point. The mauled cavalcade crossed the gamut of garrison flags and filed past the officers' quarters. Now trailed by an irate mob of captains, they came to a stop at the white-and-gold canopy that fronted the Sunwheel pavilion.

  The experienced strategist from new Tirans held charge of the Alliance command, ranked second beneath the Lord Sulfin Evend, still absent to levy troops on the southcoast. A blustery man not given to patience, he burst from the tent in a spatter of shaving soap to dress down the tumultuous intrusion. His balding servant chased after, in vain: the offered towel was hammered aside by the livid standard-bearer, who brandished his shredded banner and howled in shame for the injury.

  'By Dharkaron's Spear, I haven't gone blind!' The lather was swiped off with an immaculate bracer, while the displaced equerry winced. 'We're not here to mince words over etiquette! Nor is an enemy who won't negotiate any cause for hysterics!'

  The field-captain advanced on the clustered horsemen. A hulking tyrant, he silenced their clamouring and issued brisk orders for the slaughtered envoy. 'Bear our casualty inside. Then bring the women who work for the healers. I want the Lord Justiciar's body laid out straightaway. He'll be honoured in state with new robes and candles. Move to it! Clean him up before the Blessed Prince and his retinue arrive with the Mayor of Kalesh!'

  Two liveried servants left at a sprint, while the armed hotheads set hands to drawn swords, prepared to rally the ranks.

  'Stand down!' barked the captain. 'No one moves without leave! Damn you, those horses are too hot to be standing. Where are the boys to attend them?'

  The chastised riders dismounted, while the idle grooms jumped to take charge of their blowing mounts.

  Engulfed by that bottled-up swirl of banked rage were two onlooking bumpkin recruits. They still wore the sunburn of toil in the field, rough-clad in the stained boots and coarse cloth of crofters.

  'You there!' bawled the thick-set master of horse, too overburdened not to collar the available by-standers. 'Hop to! We've got bridles to clean and soiled brass that needs polish!'

  The pair were shoved forward by one of the sergeants and heaped with armloads of stripped harness. The older one tugged his grey forelock and bent to unbuckle stained bits, while his freckled companion fetched a bucket and rag, and crouched over the task foisted on them.

  'We're hooked, now,' the younger one fretted, as pandemonium continued to inflame the surrounding Alliance encampment. 'We've got to reach Keldmar. Dharkaron's black bollocks, he's got to be warned the false avatar's due on the front lines in an hour!'

  Vhandon buffed the rimed dirt from a curb chain and frowned. 'Be still! Mind your tongue. Slouch your posture, and damned well stop acting desperate. We've got to wait for a safe opening to slip out.'

  The impatient scout with him snatched up the next head-stall. 'What if the moment fails to present?'

  Vhandon shrugged, absorbed. 'Then we do our best to create one. If we fail, there's no gain in suicide. We bide on the hope that someone from our party finds his chance and wins through.'

  Climbing sun burned off the last wisp of sea-mist. The camp hummed, set in ominous order, with too many sentries left sharp at their posts in the atmosphere of agitation. The two covert observers cleaned bridles with lowered heads, while Tirans' abrasive captain at arms convened a council of war. He could not give the order to deploy the Light's troops. But zeal could ensure the men were prepared to fight at a moment's notice.

  The shed pile of harness was only half-cleaned, when Lysaer s'Ilessid arrived on his dappled charger. He reined in, a white cloud against storm amid the mounted guard wearing the silver-and-sable surcoats of Kalesh. From shining blond hair to immaculate appointments, to eyes glinting blue as cut sapphire, the avatar's presence seared sight to witness. Men in his shadow were reduced to servants, but never so callously disregarded. Lysaer's smile of welcome to his least groom made the bearded, blunt mayor in his gaudy wealth an overstuffed caricature.

  Both men dismounted. For an instant, the attentive descent of trained staff obscured the immediate view.

  Then the acting captain at arms shoved from the shaded pavilion. Massive and rumpled, he forced his way through. Man and horse, groom and equerry, the tableau before the staked standards and awnings crystallized to expectation.

  Sunlight shone down on snowy silk and cold majesty as the dawn's urgent news reached the Blessed Prince.

  'Ath above, show us mercy and sense!' murmured Vhandon, unwittingly stunned. No thought had prepared him as his lungs stopped with awe. He had never expected such beauty and strength, or the impact of Lysaer s'Ilessid's innate charisma.

  Every retainer's rapt face showed that grace. His brief smile to the least, insignificant page could have fuelled a torch by sheer caring.

  Before this, the patient years spent unravelling Arithon's reticent quiet became as a dream, scoured off by noon heat.

  Then the moment passed. The pavilion's flap was thrust open again. More ranking officers rushed out in a pack, dedaiming Keldmar's brute ferocity. Lysaer asked them for calm. Against abashed silence, he demanded the recount of his Lord Justiciar's murder.

  There came no self-righteous cry to raise arms. No flourish of trumpets to strike in retaliation. Lysaer stood firm. Upright as the poised spear-shaft, he heard through his officers' riled account with focused attention. That stillness gripped him for one second more. Not a diamond stud on his gold-braided collar flashed in the flood of the morning.

  Then he said, 'Fetch the banner-bearer who carried the Light's abused standard. I want a front-rank witness to corroborate.'

  'But of course!' Flushed by self-conscious embarrassment, the subordinate captain from Tirans backed down. Movement ruffled the packed horsemen as he sent an equerry, bearing the summons. Liveried grooms crept on with their chores, apologetically gathering reins and pinning up dangling stirrup-irons. Inert in their midst, Kalesh's flummoxed mayor watched the proceedings like dead w
ood.

  'Carry on,' murmured Lysaer. His wave dismissed the hovering escort. Sun burned through his jewels, as he raised taut fingers and raked back his sweat-damp blond hair. For that brief moment, he averted his face, a seamless pause, apparently made to ease his overwrought company. The wise leader with setbacks allowed his fraught men to vent their unconstrained reactions.

  Yet the perfect, staged move granted Vhandon full view, as the impact touched Lysaer's expression.

  He looked tortured with pain. Sorrow transformed his face. Given his stance, he now had to act, regardless of personal preference. He was no born killer. Only a man, dedicated to courage, who carried a steadfast commitment. He commanded selflessly, and without stint. But never without thought: and not without feeling the hideous cost for the retribution he must now carry forward.

  Soul spoke, in that instant of scalding agony, torn down to honest revulsion. For Lysaer's sworn covenant to stay unbroken, he would bear the weight of the service he had pledged all his resource to defend.

  Then the distraught standard-bearer arrived. Lysaer straightened to meet him; reforged the facade that claimed to be avatar, and with the purity of his conviction, requested the spoken truth.

  Hush fell over the officers gathered for council. Their advice was not asked. None ventured to speak, while the barbaric fate of the Light's dead ambassador became repeated in full. Lysaer s'Ilessid did not interrupt. Every inch of him royal, he listened as though each stammered word was the last sound in the world.

  Then, as fresh anger savaged the ranks, shouting for blood in redress, Lysaer raised his fist.

  Silence descended. 'Fetch another white stallion,' he bade. 'Bridle and saddle him in full state panoply.'

  As his dismounted lancers crowded and begged for the chance to bear arms as his vanguard, Lysaer turned them down. 'I have no need for protection! No call to risk you, or rely on your bravery. Not for this, the opening hour that the Light is called to scour this land of hypocrisy.'