by Tom Deitz
In any case, Rann had more concerns than the civilians within. Avall was in there, too, along—apparently—with Rrath and Kylin. And damn the little harper for a thrice-cursed fool! What had possessed him to pull the trick he had, Rann had no idea. He probably had a good reason—likely, it was part of some stupid plot to rescue Avall. But Rann was tired of wellintentioned heroes.
As for battle, he was armed for it and primed for it, but he did not truly expect it to come. At least not today.
Zeff watched impassively from behind a shield wall of his own, though he doubted they were necessary, there on the arcade. An archer could target him, perhaps, but there was plenty of time to see the arrow in flight, plenty of time to raise shields to meet it. Plenty of time, in fact, to duck behind the rail of this, the highest arcade, and let them pass harmlessly above him. However high those siege towers were, even Gem-Hold's lowest arcades were over two times higher.
Not that they weren't marvels of engineering. Nine spans high, more or less, and a third that square at the base, for stability; they were in effect mobile houses, elegantly built, braced for lightness, and faced with metal to ward off fire. There were five fighting platforms within them, but only the bottom two would likely be needed, and that only to engage the soldiers out at the palisade. Even the top one was mostly for show.
And it was, Zeff conceded, an impressive display, especially with all that Warcraft crimson mingled with Argen maroon contrasting so nicely with the black-painted shields and the incredible green of the midsummer grass. A hand after they'd begun easing over the surrounding ridgeline, the first of what had proven to be three shield walls stopped moving. It had covered half the distance between the ridge and the palisade, and just enough more that the siege engines sat on level ground, their man-high wheels gleaming in the sun. And behind that first shield wall, there was not a span of ground that was not defended by a well-armed man or woman. They had him ten to one, he suspected. But he had some things they didn't.
For maybe half a hand, they simply stood there, unmoving. Playing for an effect Zeff acknowledged they'd probably be having—if they faced any force but his own. His men, however, had long since been warned. And only a few were even being allowed out here. The rest were manning the palisade or securing the hold, putting everyone not under his direct command under lock and key.
And still he waited, still and silent, aware at some level that the entire hold and vale seemed to be holding its breath, fearing perhaps that the next breath either took would be rank with the stench of war.
A hand after the shield wall halted, something changed.
Not much, but Zeff noticed it. There was movement at the center of the ridgeline, directly behind the central tower— which bore the Royal Standard of Eron. By squinting, he could make out roughly a dozen figures on identical white horses riding toward that tower. Closer they came, with one in the front, two behind, three more behind them, then four more, in a wedge. The ranks made way for them, then melted back in place.
Soon enough, they reached the tower, where they dismounted one by one and disappeared within. Zeff lost sight of them briefly, then caught a flurry of movement on the platform immediately below the top. An adjustment of the distance lens Ahfinn had finally found and passed him clarified the motion into the same group he'd seen earlier: one man standing in the forefront, with two flanking him behind. The one on the left he identified easily enough, by his bulk, his age, his blood-red cloak and surcoat, and his beard, as Tryffon, Craft-Chief of War. The man to the right looked like a younger, leaner, cleanshaven version of the other—and not unlike Avall's consort, Strynn, from which Zeff divined that he was Tryffon's brother's-son, Vorinn, though Zeff had never met him. He carried a distance lens, Zeff noted—which did not surprise him.
The man in the middle wore a surcoat of Eemon midnightblue quartered with Stonecraft black and gray, beneath a cloak of Warcraft crimson slashed with Argen maroon. Mail showed on his arms and legs, and one of those men two ranks behind him carried a helm. Black hair flowed close upon his shoulders, and gold rings flashed at his ears. He was a handsome young man, and neatly built.
But he was not King of the Eronese.
“Rann syn Eemon-arr,” Ahfinn informed him quietly. “It would appear they've made him Regent.”
“They'd have done better to elect Tryffon,” Zeff snorted. “Such as he is, I'd assume he's a figurehead.”
“A well-defended one,” Istahnn mused from Zeff's other side. “I—”
“Shush,” Zeff hissed. “He's getting ready to speak.”
And so he was. Rann had raised a gold-foiled speaking-horn to his lips, and even at half a shot's remove, his voice carried clear across Megon Vale.
“Zeff of no known clan, who calls himself Chief-Commander of the traitorous heretics named by his own tongue the Ninth Face, hear the words of Rann syn Eemonarr, appointed Viceroy of the North and Regent by acclamation of the Kingdom of Eron and High Commander of the most true and loyal army of Eron, in the name of Avall syn Argen-a, High King of that same land.” A pause to let the echoes settle, then: “Be it known that you have been declared by your actions guilty of an act of treason, and guilty by your words of performing that same act in clear premeditation, for which you have been duly proclaimed by the Council of Chiefs acting in concert to be a traitor, subject to you making your own defense before His Majesty and His Majesty's Throne in Tir-Eron. Be it known that we hold those under your command guiltless until their acts prove otherwise, and that any who throw down their weapons and leave that hold of their own free choice will be taken into our ranks and treated like our own.
“But know you that if you do not yourself surrender yourself and your force to us, and this hold to its rightful Warden, we will bring it down around you. Destroy it yourself, you may—as you have threatened. But destruction means very little to the dead.”
There was no mention of Avall, Zeff noted. Which he thought strange. But perhaps that meant that this Rann, though he was in fact Avall's bond-brother, was more pragmatic than he thought. For now, anyway. In any case, Rann had raised the speaking-horn again.
“I will give you until noon to consider,” he said. “In the meantime, five thousand loyal warriors of Eron will sit and wait. And be warned, Zeff of the Ninth Face, not all the warriors at our command have yet come to this field.”
Which was probably true, Zeff conceded. But possibly also a feint. Two men left in camp would support Rann's claim. But he doubted Rann was that subtle.
In the meantime, Zeff had raised his own speaking-horn. “I will provide an answer at noon, if that be amenable to you,” Zeff called smoothly. “In the meantime, enjoy your rest. It may be the last you have for quite a while.”
And with that, he withdrew. But only far enough to hand Ahfinn a certain key, and to whisper in his ear, “You know what to do.”
Time had slowed to a crawl. So it seemed to Rann, who'd never been patient at the best of times. How it must be to those further down the chain of command—many of whom probably had little idea what was going on, or why they weren't even now shooting bows, climbing ladders, swinging swords, and killing men—he didn't want to ponder.
It was enough simply pondering what Zeff was doing. He had at least one gem. That was a fact. A mad gem— which Rann assumed he knew by now, to his caution if not his detriment. But he might have others as well, though why he wouldn't have used them heretofore, Rann had no idea. There was also some chance he might also have known, or found, some means of curing Avall's gem of its madness.
Finally, he had Avall, and that was not an advantage to be dismissed. Not when the nominal commander of the opposing force was Avall's bond-brother, and the commander-in-fact his brother-in-law.
Time passed. Rann remained where he was, watching, trying not to appear nervous. Talking occasionally to Lykkon, Riff, or Veen. Sharing a midmorning drink with them, and another at a hand before noon.
As the sun neared the center of the sky, he put on his helm,
squared his shoulders, and stepped as close to the rail of the platform as its construction allowed. As an afterthought, he unsheathed the sword he'd brought with him. The Sword of Air, as it happened. Not that he would ever use it in anger as Gynn, unfortunately, had—to his shame and possible doom. Still, it was a symbol, and this was a day for symbols. By his command Veen carried the Crown of Oak, and Lykkon the Cloak of Colors. Tryffon bore the Sword of War, which was his alone to display before battle, in token that the King acted by the consent of the Council of Chiefs.
Half a finger.
A quarter.
A dozen breaths before noon, Rann motioned to Bingg to bring him the speaking-horn. He had just raised it to his lips, when a commotion erupted on the lowest arcade. He paused, waiting. An instant later, Zeff appeared, clad now in the captured regalia.
Rann felt a chill at that. It was fake; he knew it was. But it was still set with bloodwire to join the replica gems to the wielder's blood. Suppose Zeff had found new gems. Now would be the time for him to try them.
Or perhaps it was simply that the man likewise knew the power of display, and was appearing in the best he had. Even the replica regalia surpassed all equivalents in Argen in terms of beauty.
Zeff said nothing, merely marched to a point directly opposite where Rann stood, then reached to his side and unsheathed the sword that hung there. It glittered in the noonday light. And even as Rann steeled himself to address that far more impressive figure, Zeff raised that sword on high and drew it down, as though he would cleave the sky all the way to the land.
Rann's heart double-beat, for that was exactly the gesture Avall used to call the lightning. Beside him, he heard Lykkon gasp and Bingg gulp, even as a rush of alarm swept through the assembled host. They'd been at the Battle of Storms, many of them. How many of them, Rann wondered, could feel their deaths upon them now? How many would be dead a breath from now?
If the gem in that sword was real.
Nothing happened.
Not in the sky, at any rate.
What occurred on the arcade was another matter entirely.
Zeff's display had clearly been some sort of signal. For barely had he raised the sword again when a host of warriors appeared to his right, bearing what Rann first thought was the circular top of a gaming table, which they proceeded to heave over the side of the rail so that it hung there, fixed by hooks on its upper rim.
A white cloth covered it—one of the Ninth Face cloaks by the look of it. But as soon as the object was set in place, a pair of warriors slowly raised that fabric to reveal—
Avall.
Crucified.
So it looked at first to a speechless Rann, until inspection through Vorinn's distance lens showed that they'd clamped his arms in steel rings at his wrists, elbows, and armpits, his legs the same at ankles and knees. And contrived a platform he could stand on, so as not to suffer the slow suffocation that most commonly brought death to those thus displayed.
It was an Ixtian torture, Rann knew. And wished he had never heard of it, for he knew far too well how it could be manipulated to many unpleasant ends.
Avall was naked, too; they'd not granted him even that much dignity. But his face, when Rann saw it, was composed, if very, very grim. He wished he could see his bond-brother's eyes, but Avall had closed them.
And even as Rann stood there gaping, Zeff raised his own speaking-horn. “Here is my answer,” Zeff cried. “He is whole— for now. I will give you until dawn tomorrow to withdraw.”
In spite of himself, Rann knew he had to give some reply or appear a coward before the assembled army. Raising the horn to his mouth, he called out in turn, “And if we do not?”
Zeff's reply was to raise the sword again—and slash it down in the direction of the trebuchet six spans to the right of the tower in which Rann's party stood.
A blinding flash of light and fire enclosed the trebuchet. Wood splintered, metal squealed. Men screamed and shouted. The tower in which Rann stood rocked but remained up-right. Blood splattered his face and arms from a source he didn't want to contemplate. And when his eyes blinked back to normal, the machine was a shattered mass of wood and twisted metal. A dozen bodies surrounded it, not one of them moving, and only three of them even remotely intact.
As for Zeff, there was no sign of him.
Rann looked first at Vorinn, then at Tryffon. “Well, lads,” he breathed at last, still half in shock. “I guess it's time we did some talking.”
Tryffon merely nodded, though it was Vorinn who laid an arm across Rann's shoulders as they started toward the stairs. No one looked back at Gem-Hold-Winter.
No one dared.
CHAPTER XXXII:
SCHISM
(NORTHWESTERN ERON: NEAR MEGON VALE—
HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXIV—JUST PAST NOON)
The two-shot trek back to the Royal Pavilion was the longest ride Rann had ever taken. He could feel eyes on him every step of the way: eyes seeking him as he approached and boring down on his back as he departed. Already he was cursing himself. He was Regent, for Eight's sake—and that was what he should've let the army see. Not him turning tail as soon as he was faced with a decision of any consequence. A moment it would have taken—a dozen words to shout Zeff back to confront them, so that they, not he, would have last say. The proper words at the proper time, and it would be Zeff pondering ultimatums.
But Rann didn't have the proper words—and never would.
He was fooling himself, he knew, as he dismounted beside the Royal Pavilion and let an unknown squire take his horse. There was no counterthreat he could level at Zeff. They had the army and siege machines, aye, but Zeff had called his bluff. Zeff had the King and the gem, and he had a sword that was close enough to being the real sword that a gem that was close to being the real gem was able to activate it. The rest—He didn't want to think about it.
Ignoring those who'd followed him inside, Rann doffed his helm and flopped down in his chair, then snared a bottle of wine from the table beside it and indulged himself in a long, reckless draught. He was no King, anyway, and certainly no commander. Let people see what he really was and to Cold with them, anyway!
He'd raised the wine for a second swig when Tryffon stopped him by the simple expedient of clamping an ironstrong hand around his wrist. Rann started to glare at him, then thought better of it. The only enemy here was himself. That was clear enough.
A pause to collect himself showed Vorinn, Lykkon, Veen, Tryffon, and Preedor with him—and that was all. The rest of his entourage waited without. This looked less like a council of war than personal confrontation. Disappointment, sympathy, toleration, and anger: All that was in their eyes, though no single emotion fixed in any one face for more than an instant.
Vorinn cleared his throat. “Two things, Lord Regent,” he said formally. “Two things you should know before you say anything.”
Rann lifted a brow and slowly disengaged Tryffon's hand, then set the bottle down. He folded his arms across his chest. “I'm listening.”
“First,” Vorinn began, “there was no way you could've prevailed back there, for the simple reason that what just happened was a pissing contest between two men—and Zeff left before you could reply. That implies arrogance. It also implies confidence—too much of the latter, I suspect.”
“You also did right not to order an attack then and there,” Tryffon added. “Zeff was trying to goad you into that—which shows how much he's underrated you. An attack would've cost you your army—maybe—if he was profligate with the use of that sword. But it would've cost Zeff as well: first, because such blatant disregard for life from someone who's supposed to respect it would dispel any notion about who the real aggressor is here, which could have very bad consequences in the long term, if word got back to the populace at large—which it would. Never mind the simple fact that we could still have got off most of the trebuchets before he could blast them, which would've given him problems of his own, both with damage control and increased potenti
al for uprising inside the hold.”
“Which ties back into what I was about to say,” Vorinn retorted, somewhat irritably. “About Zeff, I mean. You may have noticed and you may not, but I certainly did because I was watching Zeff through my distance lens every instant he was out there—his face, more than anything—what I could see under that helm, which wasn't much. But it wasn't hard to tell that he was almost as scared as you were. I have no way to prove it, but … I think he was scared of the sword. That tells me several things. First, we know that the sword he has isn't the real sword, and the gem he has—which has to be Avall's mad gem—isn't the gem that's designed to activate it. Still, it worked, which tells me in turn that he's tried the regalia at least once, so he now knows it's fake, and that he's had sufficient contact with Avall's gem that he knows what it can do. Given that he was facing an army larger than his, with Law on its side while he only had blackmail on his, he didn't have much to lose by trying what he did. But I don't think he had any idea what was going to happen until it occurred. I think he was playing for an effect he didn't expect, and then, when he got one, it scared him enough that he left, rather than tip his hand.”
Veen shook her head. “I don't quite understand.”
Vorinn shifted his gaze in her direction. “It's complicated, and I'll admit I'm making a lot of guesses and working in part from report, not things I've witnessed myself. But think: Everything I've heard about when Avall first tried the sword indicates that its effects aren't things one can easily hide. He tested it in the Citadel's war court, as I recall. And there were reports all over of strange flashes in the sky. We've seen nothing like that, and there's not been a moment since we got here when that place hasn't been watched by a dozen pairs of eyes.”
“What about before we got here?” Veen shot back. “Zeff had plenty of time to master it before we arrived.”