That did it; the head rolled free.
“Now let's get on with it,” he said. He turned to the woman. “Are you fighting today, or staying?”
“I'll fight,” she said.
“You're from Drievabor? What's your name?”
“Kiudegar.”
“Good.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Go get ready, Kiudegar. Today it's all or nothing.”
Then he turned to face the rest of the camp. “All right,” he shouted. “Where are those barricades we built?”
“There,” a familiar voice said. Duzon turned to find Onnell pointing.
“Oh, gods...” Duzon said, as he stared in dismay.
Most of the raft-barricades had been knocked down, pushed back from the earthworks and thrown flat to the ground. There they had served as platforms, and atop them, avoiding the mud, men (and a few women) had fought the invading nightwalkers.
The rafts were buried in the dead. Several bore the marks of blows from blades and clubs, and at least one had been battered to pieces.
“We need those!” Duzon shouted. “You men, get those rebuilt! Now!”
No one responded; Duzon turned and found himself staring at faces that were blank and sagging with exhaustion, the faces of men too tired to tackle anything more.
For a few seconds no one moved, no one spoke; then, fifty yards away, Malledd stood up and bellowed, “He's right! Lord Duzon's right! Come on, all of you – for the Empress! For your homes and your families! One last battle, and we can rest all we want!”
“We're doomed,” someone said. “The gods have forsaken us. The general is dead, and we have no champion.”
“What do you mean, we have no champion?” Malledd roared, marching forward. “We have Lord Duzon, right there! Now, come on!”
From the corner of his eye Duzon saw Onnell's jaw drop. Onnell looked from Malledd to Duzon, then back to Malledd, his astonishment plain on his face.
Duzon was gratified, but not astonished; he knew Malledd hadn't wanted the job, and what's more, he recognized that Malledd hadn't lied. Malledd had never said Duzon was the divine champion; he had merely pointed out that Duzon was there, available for a champion's role.
“Come on!” Duzon shouted, raising his sword.
Gradually, men started to move.
When the reassembly of the damaged rafts was under way, Duzon turned his attention to the New Magicians. He found them gathered in their compound, conferring quietly amongst themselves.
“Are you ready?” Duzon demanded.
Vrai Burrai frowned. “We'll do our best,” he said. He waved a hand at the eastern sky. “We weren't expecting that.”
“Weren't expecting...?” Duzon turned.
He had not consciously noticed that the sky was brightening more slowly than normal, but now he realized that although it was well after dawn the sun was still dim.
The reason was simple enough – smoke was pouring upwards from the enemy's camp in great billowing clouds, filling the sky and darkening the sun to the color of an old copper coin. A small moon was brushing against it in a partial eclipse, as if one side were notched, but the major reason for the lack of light was the smoke.
The light penetrating that smoke was enough to immobilize the nightwalkers, enough to constitute daylight – but not enough to fully power the New Magicians' crystals.
“What are they doing?” Duzon asked no one in particular.
“Burning their own camp,” Tebas Tudan replied. “They started at dawn, putting the torch to their tents and pavilions. Now the grass and crops are afire, as well.”
Indeed they were; the entire eastern bank of the river seemed to be lined with fire, spilling a torrent of smoke into the open air.
“Their soldiers, and the nightwalkers, are gathered on the bare earth or down in that hole of theirs, safe from the flames,” Tebas Tudan added.
“But why?” Duzon asked.
No one answered that, but Duzon knew part of the explanation without being told. This long campaign of attrition, of two armies facing each other and raiding one another, of strong defenses and unchanging positions, was over; whatever happened now, Rebiri Nazakri and the nightwalkers would not be staying in that camp any longer.
The smoke would weaken the New Magicians who fought for the Empire. Until now, the band under Vrai Burrai's command had been sufficient to neutralize much of the Nazakri's own black sorcery. This smoke was only a temporary measure, something that could only be used once and that would last only a few hours, but while it endured it might be enough to give the Nazakri a decisive edge.
Malledd had been right; Ba'el's Triad was when everything would be resolved, one way or the other. Duzon still didn't know just what Rebiri Nazakri planned, but he could no longer doubt that the old Olnami planned something.
That made it more urgent than ever to strike now, while Sheshar still controlled the sun, while there were still a dozen hours of daylight remaining.
“Do your best,” Duzon said. “Start whenever you can; get that bridge built!”
“We'll try,” Vrai Burrai said, holding up his staff and staring critically at the rather feeble glow of the crystals.
“Go to it, then!” He clapped Burrai on the arm, then turned and marched out, to oversee preparations elsewhere.
An hour later he headed back to the magicians' enclosure; none of them had yet emerged, and not a single panel had been moved to the river. Repairs were well under way on every raft that needed any, but the rafts were useless without the magicians. Duzon struggled to hide his frustration, fury, and genuine fear at this unexpected delay in the start of assembly.
“What's wrong?” he demanded, when he stepped inside. “Why isn't the bridge started?”
“This smoke!” Vrai Burrai shouted. “We can't get enough light!”
“Well, then, do what you can, but do something! We have men who can help haul, if that would speed things up.”
“It might,” Burrai admitted.
“Then get on with it!” Duzon spun on his heel and marched back out.
Many of the soldiers were snatching a little sleep while they could; others were standing or sitting in small groups, talking, many of them staring at the ominous columns of smoke that still rose steadily from across the Grebiguata.
“You,” Duzon said, pointing at one of these idlers, “get in there and offer to help.” He jerked a thumb at the gate to the enclosure.
The man hesitated; then Malledd, who was among the idlers, said, “Come on, let's get at it.” He marched into the magicians' area, and, reluctantly, the other followed.
“The rest of you, too,” Duzon said.
He stamped on, through the camp, cursing under his breath as the delays continued.
Finally, though, when the sun was almost overhead and clear of the worst of the smoke, the rafts that were to make up the bridge were arrayed along the riverbank, ready to go. The New Magicians emerged, crystals glowing atop their staves, and went to work.
The work still went slowly. The sun passed its zenith and crept down to the west.
On the far side of the river the fires had largely burned out now – that was a relief for Duzon, who had feared that the smoke might become thick enough that the nightwalkers would awaken early. That horror, at least, had been avoided; the eastern sky was gradually clearing.
The western sky was clouding up, though, and that was almost as bad.
Across the river, surrounded by the desolation that had been the enemy camp, the possessed corpses were still stacked in their neat rows, untouched by the flames. Their living guardians prowled between the rows and along the riverbank, watching the Imperial preparations. Duzon thought that a large cluster of them near the rim of the great pit was probably Rebiri Nazakri and his staff.
He wished he had some way to strike directly at that group, but the New Magicians were busy with the bridge, and no one else could possibly reach the foe.
Besides, he knew that any attack would be countered by th
e Nazakri's own black sorcery. The New Magicians had tried any number of magical assaults over the past two seasons, and the Nazakri had countered them all easily.
Something flared red as he watched – the wizard's evil magic, undoubtedly, though Duzon could not see what it accomplished.
One of the New Magicians who had been hovering over the assembling bridge turned and swept toward Rebiri Nazakri, crystal blazing – and smoky red light flared up to meet him. Golden sunlight clashed with baleful crimson for a few seconds, then dispersed, and the New Magician tumbled from the sky, landing in the river with a tremendous splash.
For a moment all work on the bridge ceased as the other New Magicians hurried to aid their fellow, and Duzon cursed this new delay. He also realized that the Nazakri could undoubtably destroy the bridge if the New Magicians weren't there to defend it. In past encounters Vrai Burrai's band had always been collectively powerful enough to counter every magical assault Rebiri Nazakri attempted, and the Nazakri in turn had had the power to resist all attacks, but the smoke and the clouds had left the Imperial College low on energy, and the assembly of the bridge was consuming what was left.
The army would need to get across fast, while the magicians were still functioning. The Nazakri himself might be more dangerous than all the rest of his rebel force put together, if there was no sun-powered New Magic to oppose him.
They had no choice, though; this was their last opportunity to defeat the rebels before...
Before Ba'el's Triad, whatever that meant.
The living, fully-human rebels were beginning to organize now; the group that had clustered around their commander was now marching down toward the river, and others were collecting around them.
“Malledd!” Duzon called, turning away. “Onnell!”
Chapter Fifty-Five
The Imperial Army was marching at last; Prince Granzer had slipped away from the Empress' bedside long enough to look out the tower windows at the long columns of red-and-gold moving out of the Agabdal camps and passing around the northern side of Seidabar on the Gogror Highway.
Lord Kadan was at their head, by Granzer's own order.
Prince Graubris would be furious when he found out, of course; Granzer knew that. Graubris was still in the Imperial bedchamber, by his mother's deathbed, awaiting the inevitable; he had not noticed when Lord Kadan left the Imperial Palace. One Councillor among sixteen would not be missed; in fact, Councillors and family members drifted in and out constantly. No one could be expected to stand there, silently waiting for the inevitable, indefinitely.
The doctors had been too pessimistic; old Beretris was still clinging to life, two days after they had pronounced her death sentence. For two days, courtiers and Councillors and the entire imperial clan had been clustered in the tower, watching over their Empress, awaiting that final breath, and it hadn't yet come.
Graubris had watched most closely of all, the devoted son – and the others had all watched Graubris, watching for any sign of impatience, any wish that his mother would get it over with and leave him Emperor. Graubris had, so far, disappointed them – he had hovered at his mother's side, displaying nothing but the most sincere concern.
That close attention had made it easy for Granzer and Kadan to act unnoticed elsewhere.
When he did notice, Graubris would be furious. He might well, as Emperor, insist upon Granzer's removal from the Council presidency, perhaps expel him from the Council entirely.
At this point, Granzer didn't think he cared. Graubris was being a fool. All the evidence pointed to Kadan's innocence, and Shoule's involvement in the treacherous conspiracy; if Shoule was not himself the ringleader, he was at the very least a dupe of whoever was plotting against the Empire. Kadan had said he would rather die than serve such an Emperor as Graubris; Granzer would not go that far, but like Kadan, he had no desire to serve a fool.
He hoped his brother-in-law had merely been distracted and upset, and would recover his senses once the crisis was passed and he was installed upon the throne.
Not that Granzer was eager to see Graubris become Emperor Graubris IV. He had tried very hard to stay out of any disputes about the succession, if only to ensure his own marital harmony – he knew his wife would make an abominable Empress, and had had no strong preference between her twin brothers. Now, though, the more he saw of Graubris' attempts to act authoritatively, the more he favored the idea of putting Zolous on the throne. Darisei was still out of the question, but Zolous... Zolous had, so far, behaved admirably. And Zolous had six healthy children – or at least five, since Prince Bagar's current whereabouts were unknown. The idea of Emperor Zolous III looked better all the time.
Of course, Granzer didn't dare say so when his wife was listening. And he wasn't planning to contest Graubris' claim to the throne; even a bad Emperor was surely better than risking civil war, especially with the rebel wizard still out there at the head of an undead army.
A bad Emperor... the Domdur had never had one, of course. The gods had made sure of that, even if it meant sometimes skipping over several candidates for the throne and choosing an obscure cousin.
What a shame the gods had left the decision to mortals this time.
The marching lines, partially obscured by intervening structures, now stretched from Agabdal to the eastern horizon; as Granzer watched the last of them left the camps, and the gates swung shut behind them. He turned away.
“Your Highness,” someone said.
Startled, Granzer turned to find Lord Passeil standing at his side. He quickly suppressed the urge to take one final glance out the window; if he did, Passeil might look as well, might see the marching troops, might know what Granzer and Kadan had done. It was too soon; the army could still be stopped, if Graubris chose to stop it. Passeil could probably be trusted, but there was that slight uncertainty.
“What is it, my lord?” Granzer asked, trying to move to block Passeil's view without making his intent obvious.
“Her Imperial Majesty's breathing has become uneven; her heartbeat is weak and erratic. I fear she has but minutes remaining.”
“I'll come,” Granzer said.
Passeil put a hand to Granzer's chest to halt him. “A moment, first,” he said. “A word about the succession.”
Granzer looked down at the be-ringed hand pressing at the front of his blouse; Passeil dropped it.
“What about the succession?” Granzer asked. “I believed we had settled that.”
“I believe we have not,” Passeil replied. “The Empress expressed a preference, but by what right does she choose her own heir? Ancient tradition says that the imperial family must ask the Council, and the Council must consult the gods. If the gods do not answer – as we must anticipate they will not – then it falls to the Council, not the Empress, to name the heir.”
“I can see how you might reach that conclusion,” Granzer said slowly.
“I can reach no other,” Passeil replied.
“But how does this alter anything, my lord?” Granzer asked.
“I should think it would be obvious. The Council must meet and choose a new Emperor – or Empress, your Highness. The matter has not been decided.”
“Do you think that a majority of the Council would choose to oppose Her Imperial Majesty's wishes in this matter?”
“Indeed, I think they might,” Passeil said. “I have not come entirely on my own initiative, your Highness; I speak for Lord Graush and Lord Niniam, as well as myself, when I say that we would be pleased to vote for you as the heir to the throne.”
Granzer's jaw dropped.
“Me?” he said. “Are you mad? When the Empress has three children and six grandchildren yet living, and I'm no closer in blood than a dozen others?”
“You're first cousin to the three heirs...”
“On their father's side, my lord – my uncle was Prince Consort, not Emperor. That's not Imperial blood.”
“...and married to the eldest.”
“And how can I possibly
claim the title for myself, when she has a claim so much greater?”
“Because you are who you are, your Highness. You've served long and well as President of the Council; we have faith in your abilities.”
“It's absurd,” Granzer said.
Passeil sighed. “We thought you might say that. In that case, we are willing to support your wife's claim to the throne, rather than your own.”
“My wife, much as I love her, can be thoughtless and intemperate; I cannot believe she would fill her mother's role well.”
“Can you believe her brother would do better? You saw him in the Council Chamber yesterday – ”
“The day before,” Granzer corrected. “Yes, I saw him. No, I do not honestly think he'll be as good a ruler as his mother, or most of his other predecessors. Still, I can't see Darisei doing any better, nor any of them accepting my own claim, should I be foolish enough to make one.”
Passeil hesitated.
“There is at least one other claimant,” he said at last.
“Zolous?” Granzer sighed. “If he were to make a claim, I would support it. But how can he? He's the youngest of the three.”
“And the only one with heirs of his own,” Passeil pointed out. “The age difference is only ten minutes, after all. I think the Council can make a case for him very nicely, on that basis.”
“Would Lord Graush support this? Would the others?”
“Graush and Niniam and I would indeed back such a choice, your Highness; we discussed this at some length. We would prefer you, and then your wife, but Zolous would be acceptable as a third alternative, and preferable to his brother. Alas, I can't speak for the rest of the Council on this.”
Granzer stared at him.
Graush, Passeil, Niniam, and himself – that was one-fourth of the Council right there. Five more would be enough.
He could be certain that Shoule and Orbalir would oppose any such scheme. Kadan would almost certainly support it.
He glanced at the window before he could catch himself.
“We know,” Passeil said, seeing that glance. “We approve. But I suspect Prince Graubris will not.”
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