Tensely, Maurin checked the saddle girth one last time. As he swung into the saddle, he hoped fervently that there were no Lithmern anywhere near the edge of the woods; the noise of so many men mounting, however quietly, seemed loud enough to be heard all the way to Brenn. He settled his feet in the stirrups and looked back toward the center of the line, from which the signal to attack would come.
The light increased slowly, and Maurin chanced another look toward the wizards. Even to his untrained eye, they seemed to be reaching the end of their spell-casting; when they finished, they would only have to keep it reinforced, and then the attack would begin. The wizards lowered their hands. Maurin tensed and looked back toward the center, barely in time to note the sweeping gesture of the Shee officer commanding his portion of the line.
Almost as one the Shee cavalry began moving out of the woods and across the fields toward the Lithmern tents. They moved slowly and quietly; it was still dark enough for them to be overlooked if they traveled silently, and every minute before they were discovered meant precious ground gained. The city was visible now, its outer walls looming over the Lithmern tents clustered untidily to the west.
Ahead of them, a Lithmern sentry shouted. The Shee urged their horses to a gallop, all hope of concealment gone. The Lithmern on guard wheeled to face them, shouting to their fellows. There was a brief shock as the foremost Shee met the thin line of Lithmern sentries, then the Lithmern went down before the unexpected onslaught.
As the two lines met, Maurin raised his sword and dug his heels into the sides of his mount. A dark-haired man in Lithmern garb swung at him with a wicked-looking blade on a long pole; Maurin barely parried it in time. He hacked at another that appeared briefly by his right stirrup, but the charge carried him on before he saw whether the man fell. One of the few mounted Lithmern rode toward him, swinging wildly. Maurin stood in his stirrups and spitted the man cleanly. He barely had time to yank his sword free before the Lithmern toppled, leaving the way clear.
The Shee swept on around the city, toward the camp. Ahead, the Lithmern were beginning to stir, and Maurin realized with a shock how little time had passed since the first alarm. One of the Shee riders was already among the tents, a little ahead of the others. A Lithmern soldier carrying another of the bladed poles tried to stop him, but the Shee parried and ripped the weapon away. He rode on, controlling his mount with his knees, while he wrapped a strip of his cloak around one end of the captured pole.
By this time the rider was nearing the first of the Lithmern’s dying watchfires. With a shout he thrust the end of the pole into the flames. It caught rapidly. Carrying the makeshift torch, the Shee began riding through the camp, setting fire to the tents. A Lithmern archer, belatedly realizing the threat, took aim and fired.
The Shee horseman fell, but several tents were already ablaze. A stiff breeze sprang up ahead of the attackers to fan the flames as the foremost Shee saw their advantage and exerted their powers to encourage it. The camp was in turmoil now, with men and Shee shouting and running everywhere. Among them was the Lithmern commander, trying to impart some shred of organization to the chaos among his men.
Behind the attacking Shee, a horn sounded. Maurin looked over his shoulder and cursed. The Lithmern troops which had been stationed to the east of Brenn were marching to the aid of their embattled fellows. In a few moments, they would fall upon the cavalry’s rear, forcing them to turn and battle on both sides at once. Seeing his enemies” predicament, the Lithmern commander began collecting his men at the edge of the woods, where they could surround the Shee completely under cover of the smoke which was beginning to blanket the camp.
Just as the second group of Lithmern reached the Shee, another horn sounded, high and clear. In their eagerness to attack the Shee, the Lithmern troops had forgotten that behind them was an entire city; they could not have known that Bracor had been forewarned by Isme and the Veldatha and was prepared for immediate attack. The Lord of Brenn and the mounted guards of Styr Tel, supported by nearly all of the foot soldiers of Brenn, were issuing from the North Gate and attacking the Lithmern rear.
At almost the same time, a flight of arrows whirred out of the woods and into the forces that the Lithmern commander was gathering for an attack on the Shee flank. A rain of the deadly shafts began to fall on the Lithmern as the Wyrd archers opened fire from their concealed positions in the forest. A few moments later the first of the archers came into view as they began advancing in their turn.
It was too much for the Lithmern. Rumors of black magic had already taken their toll of morale among the common soldiers, who viewed the disappearance of five experienced scouts as proof of their fears. The sight of the small, furred archers with their gleaming, pointed white teeth was the last straw. Shouts of “Demons!” began to be heard above the noise of the battle, and the confusion grew worse as the men at the edge of the forest tried to flee.
The two thousand Lithmern stationed on the south side of the river were unable to cross to the battle; Grathwol’s scouts had wrecked their boats during the night. They were forced to watch helplessly as the battle became a rout. Finally, one of the officers realized that it would do no good for them to be slaughtered too, and ordered his men to withdraw before the Brenn soldiers and their unexpected allies could finish with the main camp and cross the river.
The Shee worked their way methodically through the camp, hampered by the clouds of smoke rising from the tents. They were followed closely by the city troops, who had vanquished the Lithmern in the rear and were looking for more. Bracor, well aware of the effect that the sudden appearance of the legendary Shee might have on even a well-trained veteran, had warned his men that “the Lady Isme’s countrymen” were coming to aid the city. The soldiers were, therefore, somewhat prepared for the Shee.
The Wyrds were another matter. They were clearly not human; they might well be the demons the Lithmern seemed to think them. On the other hand, they were equally clearly killing Lithmern. Even so, the Brenn troops were somewhat unnerved by the presence of the small, fierce, furry beings. By the time Bracor, Herre and Grathwol met in the middle of the Lithmern camp, more than one of the city soldiers was beginning to wonder, now that the heat of the battle was passing, just what kind of a war it was they were fighting.
* * * * *
The first round of fighting was over and the work of taking prisoners done when Maurin ran into Har. “What luck?” The young noble shouted when Maurin was within hailing distance.
“Fair,” replied Maurin as he rode up. “Which means I am not dead, so I cannot complain too loudly of my fortune. Yourself?”
“Two of them came at me with those staffs a bit ago; a Wyrd arrow got one or I wouldn’t be here,” Har answered grimly. “As it is, not a scratch. Where away?”
“Herre and Bracor have decided they want some Lithmern to question. I’m to pick out the ones that look most likely to know something.” Maurin frowned. “Most of the officers seem to have disappeared, and there is no trace at all of the sorcerers; I’d almost be willing to swear there were never any here.”
“I don’t know about sorcerers,” Har said. “I can find you an officer, though, if you hurry. I just passed some Shee with one tied to a horse; they were over that way.”
“Many thanks,” Maurin replied wearily, and with a wave he rode off in the direction Har had indicated.
Isme was alone in the tower room when Bracor returned to Styr Tel and found her. She stood looking out over the recent battlefield with her back to the door. Bracor waited until she turned.
“No, it does not disturb me to see them again,” Isme said before her husband could speak. She smiled. “Nor have I any desire to return to Eveleth. Does that content you?”
Bracor shook his head. “Sometimes I think you know my thoughts before I do.”
“After twenty-four years, how should I not?”
“And you will not be… uncomfortable, attending the feast tonight?”
“No. I am glad the
Shee have come, and the Wyrds as well,” Isme said. “Aside from the fact that they have sheltered my daughter and saved my city, it will be good to talk again to those who understand magic.”
Bracor looked up quickly. “You have missed it, then.”
“Magic? Of course I have missed it.”
“I—” Bracor stopped. “I wish you had told me.
“It has not been so hard as you seem to think,” Isme said gently. “I knew what to expect when I ran away with you. And it is not as if I have had no chance to practice.”
Bracor blinked, considerably startled.
“There are any number of small spells that are useful in running a household,” Isme said, smiling. “And there are reasons why the healers” houses in Brenn are regarded so highly; I am no Neira, but I have some skills.”
Bracor nodded, but he was watching Isme closely. After a moment, he looked away. “I have spoken with Herre. There seems to be no reason why you cannot visit Eveleth again, if you wish it,” he said carefully.
Isme shrugged. “I doubt that I would find Eveleth any more interesting than I did when I was young.”
“You are certain?” Bracor asked, relief undisguised in his voice.
“The life of a Ward-Keeper suited me far better than Eveleth, even before you fell down the steps into my garden,” his wife replied with a soft look in her slanted eyes. “I do not pine for Eveleth; and I have harbored no regrets.”
“I am glad you feel that way,” Bracor said quietly.
Isme smiled, and took his hand in hers.
The feast that night was long remembered. The siege had not been lengthy enough to seriously reduce the city’s provisions, and food was plentiful, but what made the feast truly unforgettable was the presence of the Wyrds and the Shee, creatures out of myth and legend, sitting at the same table as the nobles of Alkyra.
At the end of the dinner, the weary architects of the day’s victory retired to a large room on the third floor of Styr Tel to discuss the events of the day. Sounds of revelry drifted up to the open windows, in sharp contrast to the formality of the company assembled there.
At the head of the long table Bracor sat with the Lady Isme, both wearing the wine-red colors of the House Tel’anh. On their right were Herre, in the full purple robes of a Lord Advisor, and the Shee General and two of his aides, imposing in the black and silver uniform of Iniscara’s guards. Across from the Shee were the Alkyran Lords, Armin and Gahlon wearing the colors of their houses. Around the foot of the table sat Har, Maurin and Jordet, also in formal dress. Only Grathwol and Murn looked at all like their usual selves; the Wyrds had put away their bows and quivers for the meeting, but that was all.
“I think we may begin,” Bracor said when everyone was assembled. “First, I must thank you again for your aid. It was successful beyond expectation.”
“Beyond expectation, indeed,” muttered Armin with an uneasy look at the Shee.
Herre smiled politely. “And I thank you for your welcome,” he said formally. He paused. “I hope we might count on your assistance were we in similar straits, and the Queen agrees.”
A sudden silence fell, brittle as glass. The Shee commander had just proposed a formal alliance between Eveleth and Brenn, and all eyes turned to Bracor for his response to the unexpected proposal.
“I appreciate your offer,” Bracor said at last. “But I do not know if I can accept it, much as I would like to.” A murmur passed through the Shee, and Bracor raised a hand. “Let me explain.
“Brenn is not a free city, but part of Alkyra, subject to the Conclave of First Lords and the Regent of Alkyra. I cannot speak for the Regent or the Conclave, and I cannot make a compact outside of our land without their approval. To do so were treason. Yet such an alliance would indeed be of benefit to both our peoples. I do not know,” Bracor finished, a troubled look on his face. “I do not know.”
“The Conclave be hanged!” exploded Armin. “What help have they given us against the Lithmern?”
“Little enough, tis true,” Bracor replied. “But…”
“There can be no ‘buts’!” Armin said emphatically. “Will you let the Lithmern destroy your city and us with you while the Conclave considers?”
“Armin is right,” Gahlon said quietly. “And no matter what your arguments, the First Lords will not approve this alliance. And without it, Alkyra will fall.”
“What!” said several voices together. Isme leaned forward as the stir subsided. “Perhaps you could explain further, Lord Gahlon,” she said calmly. “I confess, I do not see why the nobles should not agree, nor why Alkyra must inevitably fall if they do not.”
“Forgive my bluntness,” said Gahlon. “But it is no less than the truth. Alkyra is disintegrating. In a few more years the Regent will be totally powerless, and the last thread holding the nobles together will vanish. The country will become a hundred free cities, each warring with the others to claim as much territory as possible, while twenty nobles try to establish their right to the throne by force of arms. Already the Conclave is little more than a watchdog to keep any of the nobles from growing more powerful than his neighbors.”
“But the Lithmern threaten us all!” Har burst out. “Surely they can see that!”
Gahlon shook his head gloomily. “I fear not. What they will see is that this compact provides Brenn with formidable allies, who could easily overcome any of them. I think they will even choose to believe that the Lithmern do not plan to invade, at least until the army is at their door. Then, of course, it will be too late.”
Bracor’s face was drawn. “It seems that either way I choose, we cannot win. If I do not accept this alliance, the Lithmern will overrun us when they return. Yet if I accept, it seems likely to throw all Alkyra into war out of fear that I am grown too powerful.”
Gahlon nodded. “That is the way of it.”
There was a silence. Then Isme spoke again. “Yet folly may be reasoned with; the Lithmern, never.”
“True.” Bracor turned to Herre in sudden decision. “I accept the alliance then; may Kirel’s spirit watch over us all.”
“I, too, have such a proposal to make,” said Grathwol. His eyes glinted in the candlelight. “I think you will not refuse, having accepted Lord Advisor Herre.”
“You are correct,” Bracor said. He rose and bowed to Herre and Grathwol in turn. “I am grateful for your support; I fear what Gahlon says is true, and, alone, Brenn could not hope to stand for long against the Lithmern.”
“Not quite alone; I also will support you, certainly,” Gahlon said.
“And I,” Armin added roughly.
Bracor nodded gravely to the two lords. “Are there no others who might be persuaded?”
Armin gave a bark of laughter. “Those close enough to fear the threat of Lithmern, perhaps. No more.”
“I will see what I can do,” Gahlon offered. “I think there are some who would join us. You will be too much involved here to travel, and there are Lords who trust me well enough to at least listen to what I will say.”
Armin looked skeptical, but Bracor’s anxious expression lightened. “Thank you again,” he said. “Now, let us work out more details of these alliances. How much of your strength can you commit?”
For the next hour the talk was of the compacts to be signed among the three Alkyran nobles, the Wyrwood, and Sheleran. Herre had been given sweeping powers by Queen Iniscara, and Grathwol was regarded as unofficial head of the loose alliance of Wyrd Glens, so both could speak with some assurance that their promises would be kept, and a framework for the alliance was quickly established.
The planning was interrupted by a knock at the door. One of the Shee soldiers entered and bowed politely. “Sirs, the Wizard Rialla has finished with the Lithmern prisoners and requests admittance.”
“Bring her in,” Bracor said. Rialla entered the room in a swirl of blue robes. The Crown of the Veldatha shone briefly on her forehead as she nodded and took a seat on Herre’s right.
“I
am sorry to have taken so long,” Rialla said. “There have been difficulties.”
“Indeed?” said Herre. “Of what sort?”
Rialla bit her lip. “The Lithmern officers are ensorcelled,” she answered. “The soldiers know nothing worthwhile, though they have confirmed some of our guesses. But the officers…” Her voice trailed off.
The Shee general on her left frowned heavily. “Come, come,” he said impatiently. “Surely your truthtrance can overcome any spells the Lithmern may have. Why, Illeana managed to free that young Lithmern from a Shadow-born with only the Ward-Keeper’s help, and you have three Veldatha to assist you!”
The Shee woman rounded on him, and it became evident that under her calm facade she was near to hysteria. “The spell that guards them destroys their minds, General!” she hissed. “Four times have we tried truth trance, and four men now lie below with no more wit than a drooling babe! Try your own hand at it if you will, but do not ask me to try again; I have no stomach for it!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
There was a moment of horrified silence. Rialla lowered her head and hid her face in her hands; the Shee general stared ahead unseeingly. Finally Bracor broke the silence.
“What information have you managed to obtain, then?” he asked as gently as he could.
Rialla straightened and took a deep breath. Pulling herself together, she replied, “Little enough. The common soldiers are our only source thus far, and they know nothing of the Shadow-born, only a few rumors that their King has enlisted the aid of some magicians of great power from far lands. They were told that they would attack Brenn, and that some would march northeast to meet the main army once the city had fallen.”
“Northeast!” exclaimed Murn. “But that is the middle of the Wyrwood!”
“Yes,” replied Rialla. “They have misunderstood, or been deliberately misled, so I can advise little trust in their claims.”
[Lyra 03] - Shadow Magic Page 15