TWOLAS - 08 - Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  Talvish eased the wracked braid from Feylind's split lips. Her blue eyes stayed open and urgent. 'No such thing,' she husked, her whisper a thread through the raging howl of the elements. While Arithon's gift quenched his half-brother's cursed fury, she chose her words with spare strength. 'My choice was a gang-up agreement.' A brief struggle ensued. She could not move her arm. Her right shoulder had been stripped to gristle. Her chest heaved. 'The chain. At my neck.'

  There, a remnant of tarnished metal remained, stitched through the blood and stuck cinders. Arithon might have balked from sheer grief, had her expectant sight ever left him. For the adamant need in her dying request, he reached out and gently untangled the links from her fouled shirt. His own signet flashed back, green emerald and white gold: unwanted token of an oath renounced, and his pledge of honour to keep her from harm.

  'I grew up,' Feylind grated. 'You will make no apologies.'

  'You were ever your own mistress' Arithon allowed. Through tears, he stayed steady. Strict training let him use what voice he had left to ease her closure through comfort. 'Love does not cage freedom. I am nothing if not humbled by the devotion and courage that led you to defy the Alliance.'

  'The stores,' Feylind gasped. 'King Eldir's relief?'

  Around them, through the efforts of Parrien's men, the initial reports were being relayed to the war galley's watch officer: two crewmen below had died defending the locked hatches that accessed the hold.

  'The cargo's secure,' Talvish supplied, 'every cask, net, and barrel of flour untouched. I gather you've brought limes from Southshire as well, to spare us from the scourge of scurvy'

  Feylind coughed. Her distant eyes closed. The fingers too damaged to clasp Arithon's hand quivered, useless, so much capable muscle, shredded to mangled flesh. The harsh whisper resumed, as pain leached her fierce spirit. 'Then, my prince, live well. Accept that I'm satisfied.'

  But Arithon was not resigned. The agony of this parting would not rest, for the helplessness that stripped him naked. 'You leave us two children. As my own wards, they shall not want. Never mind that you tried to set my pledge aside, they inherit my claim of protection.'

  Feylind's lips turned. The wisp of her most stubborn smile trembled briefly. 'When were they ever not under your charge?'

  For one man had filled the empty shoes abandoned by her drowned father. The same generous heart granted Fiark his vocation, and restored Tharrick to the pride of manhood which husbanded Jinesse's healing and peace. For Arithon's caring, a tight family remained, respected and secure at Innish.

  'I had my brig,' Feylind whispered. 'A mentor's bright friendship. And Teive.' She shared her last smile: not the imp's grin of the laughing mischievous sprite who ran barefoot on white sands at Merior. This was the fulfilled tribute for her first mate and staunch lover, who had needed no vows to stand firm at her side throughout every madcap endeavour. 'Enough,' Feylind finished. 'I've had every desire held dear for the natural course of a lifetime.'

  The struggle reached an end, after that, too swiftly for even Arithon's talent to sing her a masterbard's crossing. Quickly, without dwelling, Feylind passed beyond reach. Arithon shed his cloak. Since he was left too tear-blind to see, Talvish's hands helped to wrap her, along with the bones that remained of her best beloved. The pair of them received her preference for burial, sewn into sailcloth and consigned to the sea. The brief eulogy was spoken, while around Rathain's prince and his silent liegeman, the heaped tackle and decks were cleared of their burden of dead. No wounded from Evenstar's company remained: Lysaer's assault had swept all exposed hands. The blockade patrol's rapacious strike had felled the cook, while the two merchant seamen stationed below finished their doomed stand at the hatches.

  The tribute to courage was never more poignant: still blanketed by active wards raised of Shadow, Parrien's war galley was being laden with the stores salvaged from the brig's hold. The men rigged the hoist from the sound vessel's mast, working fast, since the storm wind was rising. They emptied the hull of the last cask, sack, and barrel, and down to the precious nets of ripe limes. Amid such disposition, the pending gale broke, a black anvil squall line that howled down the funnelling throat of the estuary. At the ebb-tide, against the fierce eddies that sucked through the winched links of the harbour chain, and under the flickering reports of spat light-bolts, the blizzard came on like whipped smoke. Snow shrouded the singed timbers and stubbed masts in white; masked over the horror and blood, and the broken, charred wood that one day could see repair under Cattrick's sharp eye; or might not.

  The prince who wept with his returned signet in hand was too stricken with grief to make his will known on the matter.

  * * *

  For Sulfin Evend, the storm's savage onslaught became a back-handed gift as he sought to arrest the cascade that hurled the Alliance war host towards certain disaster. A raging mob faced him, massed against the handful of officers called out to stem burgeoning mayhem. Among the green captains and unseasoned men, the sharp, surprise strike of wrought Shadow had seeded ungovernable terror. Few of his ranked veterans had ever known the sorcerous works of Arithon s'Ffalenn, beyond the wild tales bandied about in the taverns. Now, with the estuary gripped under darkness at noon, the orderly encampment seethed with confusion. The shrill garble of horn-calls piercing the snowfall bespoke the on-going struggle to curb spreading panic.

  The ground shook. Another shock slammed through the Lord Commander's racing feet as, again, a retort by Shadow deflected. The recoil blasted an untenanted stretch of the far shore-line. Sulfin Evend shouted to direct his gawping officers. He waved the furled flag on the staff clenched in his armoured fist: a peace-keeping forethought, shoved at him by the royal valet in the tumult of Lysaer's first salvo.

  'Deploy your lines! Now!' he bellowed, across the heaving press of armed bodies. 'We have to establish a cordon!'

  He must not cry vengeance upon the perfidious Prince of Rathain. Not yet: caught in the breach by mass fear, he stared down the prospect of death on the swords of Lysaer's fervent followers. All remained blind to the danger, instilled by horrific experience. Devout faith placed their lives in deadly jeopardy, the most lethal threat never Shadow at all, but the afflicted insanity of the Mistwraith's design, driving the man they hailed avatar.

  Against a repeat of the tragedy that had razed his crack troops once before, Sulfin Evend had naught but bare wits, as events moved too fast to contain. Lysaer s'Ilessid wielded his mighty gift from the top of an unused siege tower, with the clamouring crowd packed beneath. The stair entry was choked. Everyone, down to the grimiest pot-boy, had thronged to observe the sizzling bolts arching outward. Each ground-shaking strike left them trembling as the concussive blasts creased the gusts into shock waves of heat. The mind-numbing, inconceivable phenomenon followed, as Shadow erupted, dense as thrown felt, from a placement just inside the harbour mouth. Each bedazzling outlay of Lysaer's gifted power sank into that void and unravelled.

  Now, discipline fractured into the fighting frenzy impelled by galvanic fear.

  Sulfin Evend faced the onset of riot, his seasoned officers too few. Past campaigns against Arithon s'Ffalenn had destroyed countless thousands of lives. The troops stampeding the siege tower stair demanded their Blessed Prince's due protection. All effort to turn them became battered down, the thin cordon chewed apart under rampaging panic.

  'Death to the Spinner of Darkness!'

  'Strike the minion of evil to Sithaer!'

  Trampling men rocked the wheeled base of the platform, crying the name of their avatar. Rage, frustration, and outright terror seethed into a rallying cry for the grandiose cause.

  'Rip down the s'Brydion citadel!'

  'Burn the black traitors who shelter the s'Ffalenn bastard!' Tear down the defences, stone by set stone! With swords and bare hands if need be!'

  Their jostling shoved Sulfin Evend aside. Cut off and deafened by shattering noise, he could never regroup his smashed line. Anxiety spurred him. Every second that Ly
saer succumbed to the curse increased the prospect of a mass immolation.

  Since Sulfin Evend refused to draw steel against his own men, the fool flagstaff must serve. He used the blunt pole as a quarterstave and leveraged his way to the choked stair.

  There, braced shoulder to shoulder, two of Lysaer's elite honour guard held off the press, entrenched behind the tow-chains that their harried enterprise had wrapped taut as a barrier between the post stanchions.

  'Go up, lord, you'll be trapped,' one screamed over the din.

  'I know!' Sulfin Evend reversed the flagstaff. Bronze knurl exchanged for the sharpened finial, he jabbed until the yammering fanatics caved into recoil. While one petrified guard loosed the chain from behind, the other snatched the neck of his surcoat and pulled him inside the planked stairwell.

  'Work fast,' his breathless rescuer pleaded. 'We can't last here for long. Ranne and Fennick keep the rearguard, above.'

  Sulfin Evend saluted such bravery and ran. The steep ascent snatched the wind from him, weighed down as he was by his chainmail. Stout timbers stung to the vibration of the light-bolts; and rocked as well, as the vicious throng surged to displace the valiant pair down below. Swaying on the first landing, Sulfin Evend cursed outright.

  The low vantage was useless. He could not see over the crowd to know if his earlier orders had been followed: whether Avenor's core companies had been deployed to stem the disastrous rush to launch boats. His best captains were tasked to seize priority command and direct the Light's war galleys to pull back the blockade. No more ships must risk a spear-head assault against the s'Brydion keeps at the harbour chain! Should their Lord Commander fail to recover his upset authority, Lysaer's powerful offensive might set fire to those allied vessels. Their hapless crewmen could be burned alive, entrapped between a curse-driven assault, and the wrought Shadow that sheltered the s'Brydion enemy.

  Sulfin Evend avowed he would see himself dead, first. Before ruin, he would put Lysaer to the sword. Slaughter his liege outright, rather than give free rein to the madness that had ravaged the field at Daon Ramon.

  Left naught beyond faith, that his best squad of shock troops in fact handled the precarious line at the beachhead, the Light's Lord Commander rushed into the breach. Whipped by on-coming storm, deafened by the colliding violence of the unnatural elements, he had only bravado to tame the raging pack mindset, below.

  Sulfin Evend unfurled the white banner. Snapped out its glittering, golden device where the streaming crack of the gusts caught gold-tinsel thread in the flash of the levin bolts. He seized on shameless drama: waved the gilt Sunwheel before the whelming spectacle of Lysaer's manic assault.

  "There will be an attack!' His cry for retribution had to rivet the rampaging mob. As craning heads turned, he spun the flagstaff. Draped the device from the railing, with his form looming over the livid arc of the Sunwheel. There, standing tall, he shouted again. 'There will be an attack! One that will not trample roughshod over wise deployment and tactical reason!'

  'Kill the Spinner of Darkness!'

  'Strike now!'

  'Let the sorcerer burn!'

  Sulfin Evend raised a mailed fist. Regaled in his badges and surcoat, he met the hysterical clamour with the force that had earned supreme rank. 'Are we insane? A pack of rank fools? Did you think I would waste our best lives in this war, only for glory and death? What cause sacrifices great men to the enemy? ' will authorize no such irresponsible move!'

  Sulfin Evend unstrapped his spiked helm. Against howling dissent, buffeted by the thunderous crack as each blasting light-bolt ripped skywards, he taunted the teeth of mass discontent; risked the fatal arrow a rival might loose to assassinate. While his better officers flushed with chastened shame, he resumed his peeling tirade. 'A war council will convene in the central pavilion! Stand there! Form up in parade lines and display the loyalty every one of you swore to uphold. Wait for instruction from your liege lord! After Lysaer s'Ilessid has done wielding Light to soften the lines of the enemy, he will honour the men among you with his presence.'

  The dissenters nearest the tower's base quieted. None could dispute that their mortal-forged steel was no match for a sorcerer wielding raw Darkness.

  Sulfin Evend seized on that slight hesitation. "See to your gear, soldiers! Sharpen your weapons! Cool your rash tempers, which will only attract infestations of plaguing iyats! On my word, under the name of s'Ilessid, I promise you'll see action taken. Our drawn weapons will shed enemy blood before midnight! By sure steps, I would have you survive to take victory home to your families!'

  The restless crowd milled. The cry for redress against arcane adversity blunted the shrill edge of fear. Sense had to prevail, as in the tossed channel, the outrushing tide would hamper the crossing of troops. Better, the winter gale swiftly worsened. Risen gusts streamed the troop banners, and lost them, as swirling snow thickened and pelted. Comfort inside a warmed pavilion must surely outweigh the prospect of battle under such adverse conditions. More officers breasted the bawling press. Their shouts to form ranks by cohort met resistance, but not overt insubordination. Now the men vented steam in euphoric excitement. Rank and file, they would soon pack the cook-shacks to chew over their formcoming deployment.

  Shown the dire hand of the Spinner of Darkness, most accepted the word of their Lord Commander: the siege would shift strategy towards an aggressive attack. The salvage of Evenstar's stores must buy the defenders no more borrowed time; nor would the slaughtering raid done by Parrien's fleet escape a fierce reparation.

  From the scaffold platform, Sulfin Evend's black rage could all but be felt, as he shouted to hasten the laggards. 'Alestron will fall! If the stones of the citadel's foundation must be mined and hurled one by one into the race in the chasm, I will leave no toe-hold for the Master of Shadow. The muzzle comes off, as of this hour. Your enemy shall be broken.'

  As the loud-mouthed stragglers were dispersed towards camp, the view opened at last, to show the blockade patrol ship limping in under gapped oar strokes. She listed, deck and railings splintered by rock shot. Half her pummelled crewmen were likely dead, with as many maimed from the ferocious defence launched from the keeps at the harbour chain. Shadow aside, the s'Brydion garrison were masters of war beyond parallel.

  To breach their fast citadel became no mean feat, even under the skeleton companies manning their walls since the exodus. Sulfin Evend viewed the harsh prospect, unflmching. For all dangers paled before the impossible action lying ahead of him, now. Granted a cleared field as the last gaggle of protesters were bridled by burly sergeants, the Light's Lord Commander left the white banner draped over the rail. He resumed his ascent of the siege-tower with no choice but confront the stark madness unleashed by the curse of Desh-thiere.

  He could not move quickly. The plank risers were treacherous, shaken by gusts and made slippery by fresh snow.

  Worse, Ranne met him on the landing above, the chisel-cut frown above his hawk nose riding him haggard with worry. 'I have to say that black crows will hatch eaglets before you could withstand this onslaught, alive.'

  'You say? Then the damnable crows will just have to brood their miraculous eggs and oblige!' Sulfin Evend ducked past.

  Morose for that failure, Ranne shouldered grim duty and pursued.

  Fennick's Camris-born toughness withstood the cold wind, halfway up to the next tier. 'No sign yet, of slacking,' he greeted, looking fraught. 'Lord? Your only course is to wait out the fit and pray that Lysaer wears himself down to unconsciousness.' His glance clung to hope, though his freckled face had blisters from more than windburn. This near the top scaffold, the back-lashing heat of each light-burst hissed downward in punishing blasts.

  'I know.' The bitten resurgence of the Hanshire aristocrat meant the warning would be disregarded. Mean as a ferret, Sulfin Evend refused pity as the guardsman's kind features drained white.

  'You're not going up there!' Fennick gasped, shocked.

  Ranne kept his silence, beyond distressed. Their p
ast mistake, that once lost them Tysan's young prince, now haunted the tension between them.

  'Someone must try!' Sulfin Evend insisted, despite his dread terror. 'Desh-thiere's curse has prevailed. Lysaer can't break off! You know this! If he's not shaken free, he won't come down standing upright.' If he came down at all. More likely the madness would drive him to death, as the platform ignited beneath him.

  'This cannot happen,' Sulfin Evend resolved. 'I have promised the masses an Alliance council of war that he must be left fit to mediate!'

  The man styled as avatar dared not collapse while the Master of Shadow threatened the warfront. The least sign of weakness could not be shielded. Anyone who presumed to usurp Lysaer's place would be killed in cold blood for presumption.

  'My lord, we won't find your charred carcass to bury!' Fennick despaired, while Ranne more discreetly gathered himself to block the stair's upward access.

  'I have to go!' Sulfin Evend ignored the loyal protests, laid open. 'Nobody else is equipped to survive.' The blasting barrage on the s'Brydion harbour mouth would be turned upon helping hands in assault. 'I do know the measure of danger I face.'

  'But not how to solve the insane confrontation,' Fennick argued.

  'Then I will have to trust that somewhere, somehow, I can discover an answer' Sulfin Evend showed teeth as he drew a firm breath. 'There are no sureties. I will not live in fear! We cannot hang back and still serve our commitment to the troops under us.'

  What could be done, but salute such rash courage? Ranne edged aside, face turned in rife misery, while Fennick closed a mailed hand on his Lord Commander's left bracer. 'Go in grace, then, my lord!' He let go with regret. 'Bring yourself down in one piece, if you can.' Though endangered as well, he rejected retreat. 'Count on the fact that this stair stays secure, with both of our swords at your back.'

  Far more likely, Sulfin Evend thought wildly, they would all meet flaming oblivion. He adjusted his mail shirt, eased the sword at his hip for quick action, then mounted the plank stair, bent against the onrushing storm that screamed through the gaps in pegged scaffolding. The nailed cover of hides slapped like shot in the gusts, while the pelting snow blanked visibility, and reduced him to a featureless shadow.