by Joseph Lallo
Many on both sides were wounded, but most of the dead belonged to Tanjung this time. Over by the stables, he saw Lucius checking to see if a man was alive. He must have been, because a moment later he carried the man away. Here and there, Tanjuners were being given the grace. It was too good for them, but he dare not let them wander off to the God alone knew where. Far better they be safely dead.
“Why don’t you go in and see Isolde? I’ll take over out here,” Gylaren said kindly.
“Thanks Gy, I’ll do that,” he said.
He quickly entered the citadel, and made his way to the great hall. The place was a mess in many ways. Wounded men lay in rows on the floor with woman from the town tending them. It was almost as if he’d been magically transported back in time to Athione. The scene was that similar to what he’d found in the great hall there. Some of the injured were well enough to greet him with a small cheer, but many just stared at him, mutely demanding to know why he hadn’t protected them. He couldn’t meet their accusing eyes for more than a moment, before his shame forced him to look away. There was furniture piled close to the doors—used to hold them shut no doubt. Blood and scraps of cloth used for bandaging littered the floor.
An old woman hurried toward him, intending to pass by, but he stopped her with a raised hand. “Where is Lady Isolde?”
“And who are you to be asking?”
He sighed. There was nothing like a woman to bring a man down to earth with a bump. “I’m her consort.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Sorry m’lord! I didn’t know yer in the dark! She’s in the woman’s quarter, tending more of the injured.”
“Thank you,” he said, bowed, and hurried his steps to the women’s quarter.
Evidence of the struggle lay strewn all along the corridors. Smears of blood on stone spoke of someone dragged to safety, various pieces of furniture piled at intersections to provide cover for archers. The entire place stank of death, and would for some time to come. The fighting had been desperately brutal. Bodies lay discarded like a child’s dolls everywhere he looked. He might know some of them if he checked. He didn’t want to. Clothing told the tale of town’s folk and servants fighting side by side, and many armoured forms lay with them. The helms they wore proved many were Tanjuners, but not near enough to match Elvissan dead in number.
There was no one to direct him when he reached the women’s quarter. The door was open and unguarded. He began searching rooms for his family. He found Lysara in her own room, but Isolde was not with her. Fear for his wife clutched at his heart.
“Oh, father! It was so awful. Corlath is gone and Donalt—” Lysara wailed, throwing herself into his arms, as if a child again.
He caught her, and spun her around, supporting her weight easily. She hugged him despite his disgustingly smelly and bloody armour, and clung around his neck, her feet dangling above the floor. He hugged her back, revelling in the smell of her hair, and the knowledge that she lived, but then what she’d said registered upon his tired brain.
“Not Donalt too,” he pleaded.
Lysara let go and stepped back a little. “No, but badly wounded. We thought he’d die, but he was still giving orders a little while ago. You would have been so proud of him, father. He rode out with half the men and ambushed the Tanjuners in the forest, and then he did it again at the bridge. He saved us all. The men fought like dragons to get him to safety when he fell in the courtyard.”
His pride in his son was beyond words. He couldn’t have spoken in any case. The relief at hearing Donalt was safe brought tears to his eyes, and a lump in his throat threatened to choke him.
Lysara showed him into her bedchamber.
There was a ghost in the bed. It was his youngest boy, and he looked dead. His breath froze at the thought, and he stared hard at the pale form for an age. Don shifted a little in his sleep, and Purcell felt his knees suddenly go weak. He staggered to a chair and slumped into it, tears leaking from his eyes. He sucked in a breath, finally able to breathe again.
Oh God, hear my plea. Don’t take him from us. If you have need, take me in his stead.
“I’ll…” he had to clear his throat, but his voice was stronger after. “I’ll fetch Lucius up here. He’s no Julia, but he should be able to help.”
“Who is Julia?” Lysara frowned at the strange sounding name. “Never mind, you can tell me later.”
“How is your mother?” he said, dreading the answer.
“It was bad at first. She cried and cried. I didn’t think she would ever stop—”
He could easily imagine the terrible grief she felt. Isolde was a strong woman, she’d had to be to put up with him and two strapping boys all these years, but the loss of a child was enough to break anyone’s spirit. It had nearly broken him that night at Athione.
“When the hall began filling with wounded, she came alive again. You should have seen her, father. It was as if she saw Corlath in each one she helped to save. She’s asleep in her room now.”
Thank the God! I couldn’t live without you my heart.
* * *
50 ~ Victory
Lucius tried to see the wound the way Julia did, but he was having difficulty envisioning what she described. He thought that he might have glimpsed it once or twice, but it was probably his imagination. Although Julia didn’t have as much experience with magic as he did, her control over this aspect was way beyond his. Healing seemed to be her primary talent, though that might change as she learned more about what she could do. It could be her sex, or maybe people were just different where she came from. Whatever the case, he was wasting his time trying to learn her method. It just didn’t work.
Sighing, he gave up and brought out his needle and thread.
He’d found the Tanjuner bleeding to death near the shattered gate, and instead of killing him, had decided to use him to send a message to the Dark Brothers, or rather, to their owner. Emperor Vexin held the leash currently, or should.
“There, that should do it,” Lucius said as he finished sewing up the man’s arm.
“Why are you helping me? Your people will kill me as soon as they find me.”
“So you’re awake are you? No, no! Don’t thank me, it was my pleasure, I assure you.”
The Tanjuner growled a curse and tried to rise.
“Now you listen to me, War Leader,” he said and the man’s eyes widened in alarm. “Yes, I know what you are. I saved you for a reason. I’m going to give you a horse and supplies so that you can ride home with a message.”
The war leader stopped struggling to rise, and looked at him warily. “What message?”
“Tell your emperor not to send any more assassins after me. Tell him to heed me, or I swear that I’ll pay him a little visit. While you’re there, you might as well mention that the next army he sends into Deva, won’t survive long enough to be an inconvenience. Tell him to look to Athione. I’m sure he’ll know what I mean by the time you get there. Now get up and follow me.”
He led the fuming man through the courtyard, and into one of the stables. He quickly saddled a horse for him, and scouted about for some supplies. He found a water bag and a small travel pack, and tossed them to his new best friend, before leading him through the shattered gate.
The war leader mounted up, and glared coldly. “I am Methrym of House Malai. Remember it wizard. I want you to know the name of the man who kills you!”
“Very pretty speech,” Lucius said, and smirked. “You just remember what I told you to say. Now begone!”
Methrym galloped away into the darkness.
He watched the man ride out of sight, and frowned in thought. Julia wouldn’t like what he’d just done, but it was necessary in his opinion. Vexin would hardly give up his dreams of conquest just because of a little set back like losing an army, but the news of what had happened at Athione would reach him eventually. It might give him pause.
“Who was that?” Purcell said in a deceptively mi
ld tone.
Lucius smiled and went to join him. “That was a new friend of mine. One Methrym by name.”
Purcell scowled. “I know you must have a good reason, but why are you letting one of the enemy go instead of killing him?”
He wasn’t fooled by Purcell’s tone, but he appreciated his restraint. He’d been accepted as a friend only recently, and letting an enemy go could be construed as traitorous. He liked Purcell, but more than that, he liked his new life, and he didn’t want to lose his chance at happiness.
“I sent him back to Vexin with a message,” Lucius said as they walked back inside. “I told him that I’d take exception to any more assassins being sent, and that if we see another Tanjuner army on Devan soil, it would be destroyed.”
Purcell beamed. “Good idea! Shame it’s only a bluff.”
There were still a good many people moving about, collecting weapons from the fallen, and carrying the bodies away. Outside the wall, the Elvissans were taking good care of their own dead. Laying them out respectfully ready for burial when the sun rose. The Tanjuner corpses had been piled indiscriminately a few hundred yards away. They would be burned as was the custom in Tanjung, though not customarily in multiple heaps like this.
“I wasn’t bluffing about destroying Vexin’s army,” Lucius said with a shrug. “You’ve seen what Julia can do when she fears for her friends. They don’t know her as we do. They would certainly be surprised and defeated, but the assassins are another matter. I’m certainly not going to kill Vexin, but it can’t hurt to warn him. You never know, he might take heed.”
They paused looking around at the scene of battle. The gates were lying against the wall, and the remains of the barricades had been shoved aside. Bodies still lay where they’d fallen, but there were no Devan dead left among them.
“If they send another army, Elvissa will fall before Julia could possibly get here,” Purcell muttered. “Don barely held them off, and more than half of his men are dead. Gy will have to go back to Meilan eventually, and Marcus to Athione. I don’t think my boys could hold them off for long if Vexin gets serious.”
They headed inside.
“You have to find some way to motivate the other lords into levying troops. In the Protectorate, the lords pay to equip two thousand men for the legions. Deva needs something similar.”
Purcell laughed, but it was a frustrated sound. “I agree, but unlike the Protectorate, we don’t have a strong king to force the lords to do that. If we did, we could have a hundred thousand men under arms.”
Deva had always been a rich land, and although it had now fallen upon hard times, the lords could easily afford to contribute to its defence. Most of them had a castle or stronghold, but even those who didn’t could help with funds.
There were two ways to make someone do what you wanted, Lucius thought, as they climbed the tower steps. The first way was to offer something in return for the aid, and the second was to threaten dire consequences if they didn’t cooperate. The problem with the first option was that the lords were already rich. What could they possibly offer that would make them do their duty? If they tried the second way, Purcell would need a very big stick indeed to make the lords sit up and take notice. Civil war could result if it wasn’t handled right, and he would be even worse off.
Looking around, Lucius didn’t recognise where he was at first. Devan customs were still strange to him. “If I’m not completely lost, we’re in the women’s quarter. I don’t think I’m supposed to be in here.”
“Don’t panic man! A big strong wizard like you shouldn’t be scared of a few women,” Purcell said, and laughed.
It was all right for him to laugh as if it were nothing. He was already married! Men ruled the Protectorate, but it was surprising how many times he’d heard a fellow sorcerer say that he was adamantly opposed to this thing or that, only to see him energetically pursuing the opposite position the very next day. Women in the Protectorate might not rule the country, but they definitely ruled their consorts!
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, feeling a little defensive. A little. “No woman is going to tell me what’s what. I’m not married, and I’m not going to be married. I like my life now that I have some freedom, and I’m not giving it up. I don’t like marriage!”
Purcell laughed. He was completely at his ease, but Lucius was becoming extremely uncomfortable. As they progressed, they were passing more and more women. The lord would incline his head respectfully to high born and low alike, and receive one in return. A serving girl, who would curtsy to her lord while elsewhere in the fortress, would become a completely different person here, switching from subservience to haughtiness as soon as she crossed the quarter’s threshold.
He followed Purcell’s lead, but he didn’t receive the same response as the lord. The woman in question would incline her head in like manner, but before and after that, she subjected him to intense scrutiny, as if she wanted to figure out what shelf to put him on. The last one had been the worst. He would swear that she catalogued his every fault!
Subject: male two yards tall, dark hair and beard. Occupation: wizard. Dirty boots, thread hanging from right sleeve. Status: unmarried!
Lucius snorted at the absurd thoughts running through his head, and received a grin from Purcell. Together they walked into a room. It was nicely appointed without being over done. The walls had good quality tapestries depicting the Elvissa Mountains if he were any judge. A large fireplace provided the only illumination. The logs crackled and popped quietly.
Purcell left him to enter another room.
Walking idly around the room, he stopped to scrutinise a painting. It was a simple family scene, painted in this very room. He studied the portrait of a younger Purcell and his family. Lady Isolde—he assumed it was her—was sitting on the arm of Purcell’s chair. A young boy and girl were sitting at their parent’s feet while the older son stood behind the chair with one hand on the back of it staring at him. The eyes of the staring figure seemed to follow his movements, as if judging his fitness to be in the room. Purcell’s eldest son had died only recently, but the portrait seemed to dispute that. It was so life like. He almost expected the boy to walk out from behind the chair, and demand to know his intentions.
“Janni painted that almost ten years ago.”
He turned to see who had spoken.
It was a girl—no a woman. She was the child in the painting, Purcell’s daughter Lysara. She had grown into a stunningly gorgeous woman. She was about his height, and wearing pale yellow gown. Her hair was golden fire, and her eyes sapphire pools that glowed in the firelight. When he’d first met Julia, he’d thought that he would never meet a more beautiful woman. He’d been wrong. Julia was lovely, but in a different way than Lysara. If Julia was the strength and fire of the sun, then Lysara was the quiet serenity of the moon at midnight.
“I told you to bring him in, not stare at him with your eyes falling out!” Purcell boomed from across the room.
Lysara blushed. “Sorry father. We were just looking at Janni’s painting.”
“Never mind that, my girl. Donalt is awake.”
Lysara hurried to her brother’s bedside.
At Purcell’s invitation, Lucius followed her inside. The man in the bed was very pale, but he managed a wan smile at his father’s reappearance.
“This is my son, Donalt,” Purcell said. “Can you heal him?”
“I’ll try, m’lord,” Lucius said.
“My thanks, Lucius,” Donalt said weakly.
Lysara moved out of the way to let him approach. He pulled the covers down to reveal the bandaging wrapped around Donalt’s middle. Using his dagger, he gently cut the bloodied bandages away to reveal a long livid wound. He winced, and wondered how the boy had survived this long. It was obviously infected.
“You’re a very lucky man. Any deeper and your stomach would likely be punctured,” he said. He pressed the flesh around the wound firmly, and sopped up t
he puss using the bandages.
Donalt grunted and paled further. “I’ll take your word for it, but I’m not feeling very lucky.”
Lucius invoked his mage-sight, but failed to see what Julia said she saw. Again. Resigning himself to failure, he used his magic to ease the boy’s pain. Donalt gasped in relief as the spell touched the wound and soothed it. Using a method of his own devising, he ensured the spell would continue to keep the pain at bay. It was a part of what a mage did when building a self-sustaining ward. In this case, the magic would continually enter the wound in the shape of his spell, easing pain and keeping further infection away.
He prodded the wound again. “Can you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“Good. If Julia were here you’d be healed in moments, but she’s at Malcor. You’ll have to heal the natural way, but I can keep the pain at bay, and bolster your strength. I’ll sew the wound closed. It will speed things.”
“Who is Julia?” Lysara said.
“I mentioned her to you earlier, Lysy,” Purcell said.
Lucius began closing the wound with needle and thread, listening to Purcell describe Julia’s battles at Athione. He was interested to hear that Mathius had handled the ward for both of them. If he survived the thing at Malcor, Mathius would be his equal one day. Donalt was flagging by the time he finished his work. He coated the wound liberally with the ointment he found beside the bed, and used another spell to help the boy sleep. With Purcell’s help, he applied new bandaging.
“There, that should do it,” he said in satisfaction. “He’ll be fine in a tenday or so with plenty of rest and food. Beef broth at first to fortify his blood, and fresh bandages each morning, mind.”