by J. V. Jones
Camlee. Gateway to the south. Kylock had redrawn his boundaries, and might do it yet again.
Tavalisk spread his chubby fingers out upon the desk. “When will Kylock’s forces arrive in Camlee?”
“My news is late, Your Eminence. It is possible they are only a week away now.”
“And what numbers have been sent?”
“Conservative estimates say six thousand, Your Eminence, but eyewitnesses have reported close to nine. All the villages en route have been pillaged then burned. The army is like a plague of locusts, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.”
A tiny wheezing sound escaped from the archbishop’s lips. “Is Kylock leading them himself?”
“No. Maybor’s firstborn, Kedrac, is in command. He led the kingdoms’ forces to victory in Halcus. He battles in Kylock’s image.”
“What about Tyren and his branded cohorts? Are they on their way to knife their neighbors in the side?”
“There is a battalion of knights in the army, Your Eminence. But Tyren himself is still in Bren. Since Highwall has been routed, he has set up camp outside the city and is currently in negotiations with Kylock.”
“If I know Tyren he’ll be after first spoils. He was granted them in Helch, and he’s probably hoping to secure them in Highwall after spring thaw.” The archbishop drew sweaty circles on the surface of his desk—then wiped them out. “Tyren is just a greedy little pawn. Baralis and Kylock are using him as surely as they use the boot leather on their feet.”
“First spoils in Highwall would be quite a prize, Your Eminence. Tyren is more a knight than a pawn.”
“Knights! Pawns! Spare me the chess metaphors, Gamil. You’re a servant, not a wandering minstrel.” Tavalisk drummed on the desk. He was beginning to feel a little hysterical. “I need facts. Facts. Have any of our supplies reached Camlee yet? How are the city’s armaments? How long could they hold out for?”
“Some of our supplies have reached the city, Your Eminence: food, armaments and the like. No manpower has been sent, though. No one thought the attack would come quite so soon.” Gamil fingered the fastenings on his tunic. “As for the city itself, it will be caught almost entirely off guard. They’ve had no time to prepare, their battlements are run-down, and their army consists mainly of conscripts. I would say they can hold out a month at the most.”
Tavalisk slumped back in his chair. Kylock was going to get away with it. He was going to steal Camlee from under their very noses. There was literally no way to stop him. The south would send mercenaries and supplies, but they wouldn’t risk sending their armies. The southern cities were notoriously self-serving, and they’d rather hold out and save their own necks than band together and save everyone else’s. Besides, Camlee was in a peculiar position: southerners regarded it as the north, and northerners swore it was in the south.
Kylock had chosen both time and destination well.
Tavalisk had hoped that a show of southern solidarity might have put him off, but now he realized the new king would have seen it for what it was: a show. Solidarity was one thing. Force was quite another.
From his own point of view his hands were tied. The good people of Rorn loved him—today—but if he as much as hinted that he wanted to embroil the city in a disabling foreign war, he’d be kicked out of office before he could say the words: We might be next. The other southern leaders would be in the exact same predicament.
Gamil mustered a polite cough. “What instructions does Your Eminence have?”
Instructions? Tavalisk felt an unfamiliar vacuum in his thoughts. He had no instructions. For seventeen years he had been archbishop of Rorn, and not once in all that time had ideas failed him. He schemed as naturally as others breathed. There was always a plot, a maneuver, a tricky little bluff. But now there was nothing. He couldn’t come up with any way to prevent Kylock from getting his claws into Camlee.
He, the chosen one, had no strategies left.
The sun disappeared behind a cloud and a gray shadow passed over the room. Tavalisk shuddered. Was this the beginning of the end?
Something sharp jabbed against his throat.
“Get up.”
Another jab, followed by a kick, then something warm landed on his cheek. Tawl opened his eyes in time to see Skaythe wiping the spittle from his lips.
“Get up, you bastard.”
Memories and senses worked quickly to shape Tawl’s world. He was lying on a grassy bank, cold, wet, shivering. Lake Ormon lapped against his ankles, and a bloodied knife was pointed at his throat. He must have passed out after dragging himself from the water. But for how long? He glanced around. The sky was a fly’s wing darker than when he’d seen it last. Ten, perhaps twenty minutes, then. So that meant Jack and the knights would be about halfway down the path.
A subtle flexing of his muscles revealed that stalling was in order: it was going to take him some time to regain his strength and increase his body temperature. Weak and disorientated, Tawl fell back on his knighthood training, recalling techniques, both physical and mental, to ready his body for action. Rhythmically tensing the muscles in his lower body to encourage the blood flow, Tawl concentrated hard on his heart, overriding its natural pacing, forcing it to pump harder. All the while he took quick, deep breaths, filling his lungs with air. Tilting his hip a fraction, he felt for the weight of his knife.
“Come on. Draw it.” Skaythe aimed a kick at Tawl’s knife belt. “Get up and draw your blade.”
Tawl was instantly on guard. Skaythe was quick.
“I figure we’ll be evenly matched,” said Skaythe, backing away a fraction. “Me with my bad leg and shoulder and you”—he shrugged—“with your little chill.”
While he was speaking, Tawl was working to pump blood into his blue-tinged limbs. His heart rate had increased, but he still felt physically drained—he needed more time. Rising to a sitting position, he said, “I’m sorry about what happened to Blayze. I should have stopped at victory.”
“Yes, you should have.” Skaythe moved close and slapped him across his face. “Now, get up!”
Tawl had said the apology merely as a stall, but as he spoke the words he realized that he meant it. He had done some terrible things in his life and had many burdens to bear. Sometimes he made bad choices, sometimes he was given no choice at all. But today, in the green depths of Lake Ormon, he had finally made the right choice. He chose redemption. His path was clear now; his fate cut two ways. On one side was Melli and his oath to protect her, and on the other side was Valdis and his obligation to his brethren.
Saving Melli was for himself.
Saving the knighthood was for his family.
Nine years ago he had walked out on his sisters, abandoning them for all the glory that lay beyond Valdis’ gates. Only there was no glory, and its absence made his sisters’ deaths meaningless. He had deserted his family for a sham—that was his demon, it was what he had seen in the icy water. It was the monster with teeth that bit beyond the grave.
And the only way to stop them biting was to make the knighthood glorious once more. For Anna, for Sara, for the baby.
Tawl stood up. He had not chosen redemption to be waylaid so early in the game. His time was far from up, and he couldn’t allow one man’s vengeance to get in the way of his fate.
He drew his knife. His legs were weak, his muscles aching, his sense of balance slightly off kilter. Even as Tawl made a mental inventory of his physical state, his body took a fighter’s stance: legs apart, knees slightly bent, knife hand close to the waist, blade facing up.
“Skaythe,” he said, gently settling himself on the balls of his feet, “I would prefer not to kill a man this day. I offer you a choice: put down your weapon, accept my shame as an apology, and walk away from this fight. Or die here, by my hand, and I’ll send your soul straight to hell and your blood dripping into the lake.”
Skaythe brought his blade up. “How can I accept a choice from a man who failed to offer my brother one?” He lunged forward
, slashing diagonally with his knife.
Tawl was forced to jump back. The impact of landing nearly buckled his legs. He scored a wide half-circle with his knife, forcing Skaythe to stay put for a critical second while he righted himself. An instant later, Skaythe was upon him, edging him back toward the lake. Tawl felt water creeping around his ankles. Cursing his aching muscles, he tried to dodge Skaythe’s blade. The man was tenacious, though, and matched him feint for feint.
Noticing that he favored his left leg, Tawl sprang to Skaythe’s right, trying to throw him off balance. Skaythe was obviously used to compensating for his lameness, for he immediately shifted side-on, bringing his left foot behind him to support his weight. Tawl stepped farther back into the water. In his current condition there was no way he could beat Skaythe fair and square. The man was faster, stronger, and more alert. Alternative tactics were called for.
The water was his only advantage. Lake Ormon favored its own, and after what had happened earlier, Tawl knew he was counted amongst them. He had been down to its slow-pumping heart, had seen its secret green caverns. It was his territory now.
Tawl made Skaythe come in after him. Every step sideways was also a step back. Knee-deep now, Skaythe was forced to pay more attention to his footing; one slip of his right foot and the lake would have him. Tawl edged out into the water, sweeping his knife in defense while feeling for the lakebed with his toes.
The shelf was starting to slope sharply. Tawl sent out his foot, but could find no hardness to rest upon. He was standing a foot-length away from the point where the shelf became a drop. He moved to his right. Skaythe moved forward. Tawl deliberately let down his guard, leaving his torso open to an attack. Skaythe seized the opportunity, lunging at the unguarded flesh. Tawl felt a slicing sting in his chest—he ignored it. Again he moved to his right, forcing Skaythe to turn his back on the ledge. Their positions were reversed now.
Tawl gritted his teeth and sprang out of the water straight toward Skaythe. He hit him full in the chest. Skaythe’s knife was up, but Tawl’s momentum forced him to step back. Trying to steady himself with his strong left foot, he sent out his right behind him. The minute difference in length between his legs meant Skaythe was accustomed to judging distances with his left. His right leg was used to feeling no ground beneath it because it was the shorter of the two.
He stepped back, assuming the lakebed was just a fraction below his foot. The lake sucked him under. Tawl saw Skaythe trying to pivot his weight forward, but he had moved too quickly and tried to compensate too late.
Tawl took a step back toward the bank. Bringing his knife forward, he watched as Skaythe struggled to find a foothold on the shelf. He was panicking, gulping in water, flaying his arms around wildly. When he finally managed to balance himself, Tawl would slip in with his knife.
The lake would take a life today after all.
Tawl closed his eyes for a moment. He felt very weak. He wanted to sleep in soft blankets by a blazing fire and dream about his sisters till dawn. Despite his threat to Skaythe, he didn’t want to kill him: not here, not now, not like this. He had been given a gift today, and it was only fitting he gave one back.
Tawl dropped his knife. It splashed against the surface, flashed once in the dimming light, and was lost to the water’s keeping. Turning, Tawl began wading his way back to the bank. Skaythe could live to fight another day.
Just as he drew near the water’s edge, Tawl heard splashing behind him. He spun around. Skaythe was running forward, knife in hand, lips moving in silent fury.
Tawl had a fraction of a second to register disappointment, and then Skaythe stopped in his tracks. He staggered backward and plunged into the water, an arrow quivering in his heart.
The pain in Tawl’s chest suddenly reasserted itself. He felt dizzy and lightheaded. He needed to get to the shore. Forcing himself to keep wading, Tawl started to blank out: the world grew dark around the edges and the lake rose up to meet his face. And then Jack was there, pulling him out of the water, carrying him to the shore. The knights were waiting on the bank. Nabber came dashing forward; Borlin was putting away his bow. Everyone gathered around, touching, smiling, caring. Tawl wanted to say something, to explain what had happened, to tell them he was all right, but his heart was too heavy with love and pain to do anything more than give thanks.
Twenty-nine
Tyren leant forward. His leathers were so well beaten they didn’t make a noise. “I can help you take Camlee within a month.”
Baralis waited for the man to explain himself, but Tyren’s lips were pressed into a tantalizing line. The leader of the knighthood stroked his sleek beard, his eyes never leaving Baralis for an instant. Tyren was one of the few men Baralis had ever met who was not afraid of silences. He was willing to let them linger—no matter how strained or awkward—in order to compel his opponent into speaking.
Baralis took a thin breath. “How can you help us take Camlee?”
Tyren smiled. He moved his hand from his beard to his temple and smoothed back a lock of gleaming hair. “Let’s first talk about why rather than how.”
So the negotiation had started. Tyren had certainly taken his time. He had been in the city for weeks now, and had even gone so far as to set up camp outside the gates, but up until today there had been no whiff of deals. He had been playing a waiting game, and now Baralis realized what he was waiting for. Word had come today that the empire’s forces had finally reached Camlee.
Baralis crossed over to his desk and poured two cups of wine. They were sitting in a silk merchant’s house in the south side of the city. The good merchant himself was out—probably off spending the fifty golds that had bought the use of his home and his silence. Even though there was less need for secrecy now than when he and Tyren had first met, Baralis preferred to be discreet all the same. There was no need to involve Kylock in this particular negotiation.
Sitting back in his chair, Baralis said, “What exactly do you want, Tyren?”
Tyren slid his hand along his thigh. Finely manicured fingers rested upon a block of solid muscle. “I want first spoils in Highwall.”
Baralis had expected no less. “And?”
“Free rein in Camlee when it’s taken.” Tyren’s tone was carefully modulated. He always worked hard on his voice. “After a slow start, the conversions in Helch are going well. I want to move forward quickly while Valdis’ successes are still fresh. Of course, I’ll require the same latitude in Camlee that you so kindly allowed me in Helch.”
He meant he wanted to be free to persecute the people of Camlee without fear of repercussions from Kylock. Baralis brought his goblet up to his lips to hide a smile. Tyren was trying to steal religious power from Silbur and keep it for Valdis and himself. With religious power went taxes, property, Church land, and gold.
Tyren was being greedy.
Baralis decided it was time to make the man show his hand. “You ask a lot, my friend. What would you give in return?”
A calculated pause followed. Tyren liked to build tension, to create drama by speaking only when he was ready, and to force people to wait upon his every word. It was yet another use he had for silence.
After a moment he inclined his head. Dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair caught the light. “I have three thousand knights in Valdis. On my word they will move north toward Camlee.” Tyren made a small gesture with his hand. “They will not only bring extra manpower to the siege, but they will also provide access to the tunnels.”
“Tunnels?”
“Camlee is an old city built by an old king. There are ancient ways under the wall—passages that not even their generals know about—and one of my knights can supply you with their locations. His father was a stonemason in Camlee. He knows all the secrets of the guild.”
Baralis took a draught of his wine. He was going to give Tyren what he wanted. The empire’s forces could take Camlee on their own, but cold-weather sieges could be long and unpleasant affairs. Bren was vulnerable at the moment;
Annis could decide to cross the mountains in defiance of the snow. And if they did, they’d find a city seriously undermanned. The sooner Camlee was defeated the better.
Baralis turned his head, smiling softly into the shadows. The sooner Camlee fell, the sooner Rorn and Rorn’s archbishop would fall. Twenty years ago, Tavalisk had murdered a man, then taken credit for his work, and punishment was long overdue.
“I think we have an agreement, my friend,” said Baralis, raising his cup. Highwall’s coffers were nothing to him. Camlee’s people even less. Tyren could do whatever he wanted in both the north and south as long as he didn’t raise his sights above religion and gold.
Tyren was not a fool. He didn’t permit himself to look even a little smug. He stood and bowed. “I am well pleased, Baralis. I will send a messenger to Valdis today.”
Baralis opened the door to him. “It is always a pleasure, Tyren.”
The wind was blowing straight from the mountains and the sky looked ready for snow. Jack couldn’t get warm no matter what he tried. Cold air gusted beneath his cloak despite the fact he was sitting on the hem, and his toes were numb even though his boots were lined with wool. Riding a horse all day through banks of freezing fog was not a pleasant experience.
But it was a necessary one. Up before dawn every day, riding past dark each night. When Tawl wasn’t driving the men forward, Jack was. They had to get to Bren. Four days ago, when they had ridden through a mountain village west of Camlee, the villagers told them that the empire’s forces were about to lay siege to the city. The skin on Jack’s neck prickled when he heard the news. Kylock was moving fast. He wasn’t content to sit out the winter; he wanted another victory under his belt.
The knights had taken the news of the siege badly. Camlee was Valdis’ closest neighbor, and all the men in the party knew people in the city—some even had family there. They were anxious to discover if Tyren had sent any knights along with the siege force, but the route they were taking at the moment kept them away from villages and towns.