by Joseph Lallo
“I rebelled against the training at first,” Lucius wet on. “I wanted to be an artisan like my father, not a sorcerer. In the Protectorate, all boys with a glimmer of the gift are sent to Castle Black for training. There are no exceptions. Escape is impossible, unless you think dying is a form of escape, and some children do, I assure you.”
His face was devoid of emotion as he spoke, and his eyes were distant. He didn’t seem to notice that his hands were twisting his shirt into a knot.
“The training often turns a boy into the image of his trainers, and the strongest of them are chosen to watch the rest of us. We work together, but we never know who those guardians are. Even my best friend might be one. The safest thing was to never trust anyone wearing black robes. After I finished my training, I went home to my family, but they were gone. I never found them.” He fell silent, and pulled his shirt back on before retaking his seat.
“A sad tale, but irrelevant,” Keverin said coldly.
Julia flinched at his callousness. Did nothing move him?
“Irrelevant?” Lucius said. “I suppose so. What then is relevant?”
“Your knowledge of the Protectorate’s plans. Your trustworthiness—things of this nature.”
“As I said earlier, you won’t believe anything I say, so why should I waste my breath?”
“This is pointless,” she said, crossly. “Let him tell us what he knows, and then have him verify it with a mirror.”
There were no dissenting voices, and Lucius inclined his head to her in thanks. “The plan called for General Navarien to take Athione, and then link up with Third Legion coming through Camorin. A garrison would have been left here to hold the pass open, while we laid siege to each castle in turn on our way to your capital. The entire kingdom would have been ours within the season.”
“Astonishing overconfidence,” Gylaren muttered.
Lucius smiled. “Do you think so? If not for Darius and Julia, I would probably be nearing Devarr by now.” He shrugged and then continued. “With the spearhead a failure, I would expect one of two things to happen now. One, another legion is sent against us to take Athione as originally planned. Two, Third Legion proceeds on its own and tries to complete what I failed to do.”
“Which do you favour as the likely course?” Keverin said.
“The second. It took five years to assemble enough men and supplies for my campaign. I doubt another could be ready soon. It wouldn’t take five years, but I would guess at a year or two.”
“What do you think, Gy?”
Gylaren nodded. “Sounds reasonable, but if we’re wrong we could lose Athione. We can’t throw away access to the pass. If we lose the western marches, we lose the kingdom.”
“Everything in life is a risk, Gy,” Purcell said. “But you’re right. I’ll need to see a legion approaching, before I’ll agree to march north.”
“I’ll need a mirror,” Lucius said.
Keverin went to fetch one from another room. He returned a few moments later, and placed a plain wooden-framed mirror on the desk.
Using her mage-sight, Julia watched Lucius manipulate the glass. Mist formed, replacing its reflection. He was twisting the nature of reality within the confines of the mirror’s frame. It made her feel queasy to watch, but she was determined to learn how to do it. She concentrated upon the mirror, puzzling out the patterns she found in the scrying spell.
The matrix was a chaotic thing, but she knew that the pattern she needed would be there, waiting for her. Mathius said her patterns weren’t important, but she’d found them key to understanding any spell. Book learning might work for him, but it never really had for her. Not really. She always had the most success when he demonstrated a spell, and let her study it in real time. Once she’d memorised a new pattern, and understood how it worked, she could usually duplicate it to cast a spell. It worked for her, well, half the time anyway. It still took practise to make the spells work consistently. Her methods frustrated Mathius, because her gestures and patterns never worked for him, and he swore they shouldn’t work for her either. But they did.
She traced the threads of Lucius’ magic, as he spun them into a chaotic spell matrix. There was no elegance or beauty to it, no symmetry at all. Just chaos. How the heck did this mess make a window in reality? She frowned as she realised that’s exactly what it was. The mirror would become a window, and it would open to show them another place. A far distant place. With that understanding, her perception of the chaos shifted, and she saw a pattern form deep within the matrix. She could see it now, and it wasn’t ugly. It was just so complex that she’d mistaken it for chaos.
“So that’s how it’s done,” she said in wonder, as the pattern imprinted itself upon her memory. “I’ll need mirror, something I can carry around.”
“The hard part is finding the correct image, not operating the mirror, lady. It takes precise control of magic, and proper visualisation, which means good concentration,” Lucius said, sounding a bit miffed.
She grinned at Keverin and rolled her eyes. That gained her a brief smile. He had a nice smile; it was a shame that he didn’t use it more often.
The mirror changed to a view of a fortress seen from above, and Keverin leaned forward to study it. “That’s Malcor all right. Where’s the legion you mentioned?”
Lucius widened the view to include a large stretch of land. Malcor Town and the fortress itself were visible, including a hilly area to the north. The picture wavered slightly, and he drew more magic to steady it.
“Nothing,” Keverin said. “Where is it?”
“Still on the way I suspect. I can check the ports of Durena and Cantibria,” Lucius offered. “I won’t be able to find them if they’re still at sea.”
Julia frowned, wondering why. “What about General Navarien?”
He nodded and the picture changed to the view of a man standing at attention in a room somewhere. The general was reporting upon the battles leading to his retreat. She was impressed with his honesty; he left nothing out. He was scathing of the role a sorcerer named Belgard had played in his defeat, and praised Lucius for his actions. The picture faded, and Lucius mopped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand.
“They didn’t sound too concerned about your losses,” Keverin mused.
“They wouldn’t be,” Lucius said sourly. “They have five other legions like the one you faced. As you heard, Navarien will have his rebuilt by next year.”
She was just beginning to understand Deva’s long term dilemma. The Protectorate was too strong to ever be defeated completely. If they did somehow manage to stop the Hasians coming through the northern border, what would prevent Mortain from sending an army every year until one of them succeeded? Kev was right. Deva had to be united behind a strong king to stand a chance of holding out.
“We can’t march without evidence of a threat. We’ll be fighting Malcorans instead of Hasians,” Purcell said, voicing what everyone was thinking.
Keverin grimaced. “The instant Athlone sees my banner marching north, he’ll attack us.”
Gylaren nodded. “We could probably swing wide, and bypass Malcor entirely.”
“Catch the Hasians over the border you mean?” Keverin said. “Risky, Gy. If the clans see us, we’ll really be for it.”
“I don’t see that we have any choice. We need to catch them just right. We can’t hang about Malcor, and we can’t spend too long over the border either.”
“I could keep watch for you,” Lucius offered. “As soon as they dock at Cantibria or Durena, I should be able to find them. You could march to intercept them just as they cross the border.”
Keverin and the other lords exchanged glances, and nodded their agreement. It was the best they could do.
* * *
41 ~ Second Front
Rogan called to the gatekeeper just as true night fell over Athione. The first rain that they’d encountered on their journey was falling in sheets, and he had to yel
l to be heard over the drumming it made on the ground. He was soaked through, worried, and becoming increasingly upset with the stupidity of Athione’s gatekeeper.
“The God damn you, open the cursed gate!” he yelled again.
“It’s after sunset! Come back tomorrow!” the anonymous gatekeeper said.
“Open this gate before I climb over and kill you!”
“Ha! Just you try it, boy! You ain’t the only one with a sword!”
Before he could shout again, Arren did it for him. “If you don’t open it right now, I swear I’ll see you dead for obstructing a courier in time of war!”
“What war? We won, ain’t you heard?”
“By the God! We’re from Elvissa curse you! The fortress is under siege!” Arren shouted, furious with the idiot on the other side of the gate.
The right-hand gate groaned and swung open. Rogan urged his tired mount through the portal, and dismounted to find a group of guardsmen watching him, huddled beneath their cloaks.
The gatekeeper stepped forward. “Sorry about that, I—”
Arren threw himself forward with a roar and tackled the man to the ground punching and kicking. He was trying to strangle him!
Rogan gaped. Of all the fool things to do! He leapt into battle as the other guards piled onto Arren. He grunted as a foot booted him in the belly, and aimed a fist at a shadowy grin. He connected and the grin went away. He was gouging and kicking like a mad man, and starting to enjoy the fight despite the rain, when it came to an abrupt end.
“Hold!” a voice roared out of the darkness. “What by the God is going on here?”
He climbed to his feet, and helped Arren up. He looked a little dazed. They stepped back as their playmates scrambled to their feet and snapped to attention.
“That one started it, Captain,” the gatekeeper said, pointing at Arren.
The newcomer looked disgusted with the squealer.
Rogan agreed with the sentiment. They could have settled it all later without a fuss, but now that an officer was involved, things could get messy.
“You’re all on report. If any of you have broken bones, you’d better hope The Lady is awake. If she doesn’t like your explanation, she’ll fry the lot of you.”
The guards, young and old alike, shuffled their feet in the puddles like boys. “No Captain, I mean yes Captain, I mean I ain’t broke nothing Captain,” they mumbled together.
“Get the horses stabled, and shut the cursed gate. Anyone could wander in with you lot guarding it!”
Rogan disagreed with that statement. They were so stupid, that they probably wouldn’t let a relief force inside, even with invaders scaling the walls!
The captain turned to regard Arren and him. They braced to attention under his cold stare. His eyes were flat and held no welcome. “My name is Marcus. I have the honour of being Athione’s senior captain, but you may consider me your executioner. Bear that in mind as you answer my questions, because if I find out that you tricked your way in to avoid a little rain, the God had better be looking out for you, because no one else will!”
Arren gulped, but Rogan had heard worse. Lord Purcell was a great believer in volume when he chewed someone out, or gave orders. He didn’t react.
“Names,” Marcus began.
“Scout Leader Rogan, Captain!”
“Scout Arren, Captain!”
“From?” Marcus said, this time addressing himself to Rogan. He was senior.
“Elvissa, Captain. M’lord Donalt sent us with letters for Lord Keverin, and m’lord Purcell. Tanjung regulars killed m’lord Corlath in a raid.”
“God’s teeth! Follow me. Talk to no one.”
They followed Marcus as he marched rapidly toward the citadel, and they didn’t stop to remove their sopping cloaks once inside. Their news was too urgent to worry about puddles. There was no one to take them anyway. The citadel was deserted. People should be moving around even this late, but the place seemed abandoned. Arren looked as puzzled as he felt. Where was everyone? They entered a tower, and quickly climbed its steps to exit upon the second floor of the citadel. Marcus navigated the maze, leading them along its secret paths, and stopped at a door. It was one among many they’d passed on the way.
“Wait here,” Marcus ordered, knocked, and entered the room. A moment later, the door opened again, and he beckoned them inside.
Rogan entered first, and Arren followed. The room was part of a lord’s private apartments. He was acutely uncomfortable intruding, especially as he was dripping water on the rugs. He stopped in front of the desk where a man sat waiting, and watching them in attentive silence. He’d never met Lord Keverin, but this had to be him. He handed the correct letter to Marcus, and stood at attention to wait. Arren matched him in silence.
Marcus handed the letter to his lord.
Keverin frowned at the envelope, and noted Elvissa’s sigil impressed in the waxen seal, holding it shut. “See to it that Gylaren and Purcell are informed, Marcus. Have Lady Julia escort Lucius to me.”
“Yes my lord,” Marcus said, inclining his head in a brief bow, before leaving upon his errand.
Keverin read his letter, and storm clouds appeared on his brow. He shook his head and dropped the letter on his desk with a sigh. “Bad news abounds these days. Your names?”
“Rogan m’lord.”
“Arren m’lord.”
Keverin nodded. “You saw the battle?”
“I did, m’lord,” Rogan said. “Arren wasn’t with me. I was ordered to follow m’lord Corlath in stealth, and report.”
“Describe what you saw.”
“Sergeant Ferris and I were scouting out wide. Way off the trail. M’lord Donalt sent us to watch his brother’s back.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t tell me, m’lord.”
Keverin’s expression turned scornful. “Come now, you’re an intelligent man. Make a guess.”
He hesitated, but he couldn’t see a way out of it. “M’lord Donalt thought the timing of the raids suspicious. With his father away, and so many of the men here, he felt Corlath should take more men in case of trouble. That way he could scout ahead in force.”
“A sensible precaution,” Keverin mused. “I take it Corlath didn’t follow his brother’s advice.”
“No m’lord. He didn’t want to weaken Elvissa more than he had to. He led his men toward the pass, hoping to close it quickly, but he moved too fast. His scouts didn’t have time to do their jobs.”
Keverin scowled, he didn’t like that.
Sergeant Ferris hadn’t been too happy about it either, he remembered. Nothing is so urgent that running to your death becomes the answer, Ferris had said that day, and he’d been right.
“Foolish to move so quickly,” Keverin said.
“He wanted to close the pass to prevent the enemy retreating through it, m’lord. They should have been too busy burning the fields and the farms to notice.”
“The people?”
“Most of the villagers ran away before they arrived, but not all could escape in time, m’lord.”
“Women and children?”
He grimaced, remembering what he’d seen amid the burned buildings. “Dead m’lord. They were regulars, not raiders looking for slaves.”
“You saw them?”
“Yes, m’lord. Corlath led his men into an ambush in the foothills. There were two forces waiting—”
“Two?” Keverin said, pouncing on the detail. “How did they attack? At the same moment, or staggered?”
He frowned, trying to remember. “Together, m’lord. It was exactly together. Why?”
“They attacked separately, but at exactly the same moment. They have mages with them I wager. It must be that.”
“I didn’t see any,” he said, suddenly even more worried about what was happening at home. “Corlath rallied his men as best he could, and then he tried to break out.”
“He failed,” Keverin sa
id.
“Yes, m’lord. He’s dead, they’re all dead.”
“This isn’t good,” Keverin said, tapping a finger upon the letter. “We succeeded in destroying the force sent against us, but another aided by Lord Malcor is on the way. How by the God can we be in two places at once?”
Rogan felt sick. A Lord Protector had turned traitor. A Lord Protector! It was unbelievable. What of Malcor’s honour? He felt his entire world teetering on the brink. If a Lord Protector could do this, nothing and no one was safe any longer.
The door opened to admit a tiny woman accompanied by a dark bearded man. Arren bowed to the lady, and Rogan hastily did the same, realising his lack of manners. Keverin introduced the newcomers as the Lady Julia, and the mage, Lucius. A short while later, Purcell arrived with Lord Gylaren in tow. Rogan presented the letters from Lord Donalt and Lady Isolde, relieved to be able to discharge his duty.
A mask of grief closed over Purcell’s face as he read of his eldest son’s death. The strong hands, that wielded a sword to such deadly effect, tightened on the letters crumpling them.
“May I?” Gylaren asked quietly.
“Of course,” Keverin said, and handed over his letter.
Purcell seemed to collect his wits then. “Report,” he said in a choked voice.
Rogan repeated his story almost word for word.
Lady Julia stood and placed a hand on Purcell’s shoulder in sympathy. She was so tiny that even sitting down, Purcell was taller than she was. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, tears shimmering in her eyes. “If I can help in any way…?”
“I—” Purcell started, but his voice broke, emotion clogging his throat. “I thank you, lady. I must return to Elvissa with all speed. Would you accompany me?”
“I will come,” she said.
Rogan frowned. Why did Purcell want a girl child to ride with them? She would slow them down.
“Don’t be a fool man!” Gylaren said. “What of Malcor and the invasion?”
Rogan started forward, angry at seeing his lord badgered at such a time.
“Rogan! Arren!” Keverin said sharply. “I’m sure you’d like to get dried off. Marcus will show you to barracks. Your comrades will have questions for you.”