Fannon hobbled along the wall, favoring his right side. The wound to his back was almost healed, but he was still unable to walk without aid. Father Tully supported the Swordmaster as they came to where the others waited.
Arutha gave the Swordmaster a smile and gently took him by the other arm, helping Tully hold him. Gardan, Amos Trask, Martin Longbow, and a group of soldiers stood nearby.
“What’s this?” asked Fannon, his display of gruff anger a welcome sight to those on the wall. “Have you so little wits among you that you must haul me from my rest to take charge?”
Arutha pointed out to sea. On the horizon dozens of small flecks could be seen against the blue of sea and sky, flashes of brilliant white glinting as the morning sun was caught and reflected back to them. “The fleet from Carse and Tulan approaches the south beaches.”
He indicated the Tsurani camp in the distance, bustling with activity. “Today we’ll drive them out. By this time tomorrow we’ll clear this entire area of the aliens. We’ll harry them eastward, allowing them no respite. It will be a long time before they’ll come in strength again.”
Quietly Fannon said, “I trust you are right, Arutha.” He stood without speaking for a time, then said, “I have heard reports of your command, Arutha. You’ve done well. You are a credit to your father, and to Crydee.”
Finding himself moved by the Swordmaster’s praise, Arutha tried to make light, but Fannon interrupted. “No, you have done all that was needed, and more. You were right. With these people we must not be cautious. We must carry the struggle to them.” He sighed. “I am an old man, Arutha. It is time I retired and left warfare to the young.”
Tully made a derisive noise. “You’re not old. I was already a priest when you were still in swaddling.”
Fannon laughed with the others at the obvious untruth of the statement, and Arutha said, “You must know, if I’ve done well, it is because of your teachings.”
Tully gripped Fannon’s elbow. “You may not be an old man, but you are a sick one. Back to the keep with you. You’ve had enough gadding about. You can begin walking regularly tomorrow. In a few weeks you’ll be charging about, shouting orders at everyone like your old self.”
Fannon managed a slight smile and allowed Tully to lead him back down the stairs. When he was gone, Gardan said, “The Swordmaster’s right, Highness. You’ve done your father proud.”
Arutha watched the approaching ships, his angular features fixed in an expression of quiet reflection. Softly he said, “If I have done well, it is because I have had the aid of good men, many no longer with us.” He took a deep breath, then continued, “You have played a great part in our withstanding this siege, Gardan, and you, Martin.”
Both men smiled and voiced their thanks. “And you, pirate.” Arutha grinned. “You’ve also played a great part. We are deeply in your debt.”
Amos Trask tried to look modest and failed. “Well, Highness, I was merely protecting my own skin as well as everyone else’s.” He then returned Arutha’s grin. “It was a rousing good fight.”
Arutha looked toward the sea once more. “Let us hope we can soon be done with rousing good fights.” He left the walls and started down the stairs. “Give orders to prepare for the attack.”
Carline stood atop the south tower of the keep, her arm around Roland’s waist. The Squire was pale from his wound, but otherwise in hale spirits. “We’ll be done with the siege, now the fleet’s arrived,” he said, clinging tightly to the Princess.
“It has been a nightmare.”
He smiled down at her, gazing into her blue eyes. “Not entirely. There has been some compensation.”
Softly she said, “You are a rogue,” then kissed him. When they separated, she said, “I wonder if your foolish bravery was nothing more than a ploy to gain my sympathies.”
Feigning a wince, he said, “Lady, I am wounded.”
She clung to him. “I was so worried about you, not knowing if you lay dead in the tunnel. I . . .” Her voice dropped off as her gaze strayed to the north tower of the keep, opposite the one upon which they stood. She could see the window upon the second floor, the window to Pug’s room. The funny little metal chimney, which would constantly belch smoke when he was at his studies, was now only a mute reminder of just how empty the tower stood.
Roland followed her gaze. “I know,” he said. “I miss him, too. And Tomas as well.”
She sighed. “That seems such a long time ago, Roland. I was a girl then, a girl with a girl’s notion of what life and love were about.” Softly she said, “Some love comes like a wind off the sea, while others grow slowly from the seeds of friendship and kindness. Someone once told me that.”
“Father Tully. He was right.” He squeezed her waist. “Either way, as long as you feel, you live.”
She watched as the soldiers of the garrison prepared for the coming sortie. “Will this end it?”
“No, they will come again. This war is fated to last a long time.”
They stood together, taking comfort in the simple fact of each other’s existence.
Kasumi of the Shinzawai, Force Leader of the Armies of the Kanazawai Clan, of the Blue Wheel Party, watched the enemy upon the castle wall.
He could barely make out the figures walking along the battlements, but he knew them well. He could not put names to any, but they were each as familiar to him as his own men. The slender youth who commanded, who fought like a demon, who brought order to the fray when needed, he was there. The black giant would not be too far from his side, the one who stood like a bulwark against every attack upon the walls. And the green-clad one, who could race through the woods like an apparition, taunting Kasumi’s men by the freedom with which he passed their lines, he would be there as well. No doubt the broad-shouldered one was nearby, the laughing man with the curved sword and maniacal grin. Kasumi quietly saluted them all as valiant foemen, even if only barbarians.
Chingari of the Omechkel, the Senior Strike Leader, came to stand at Kasumi’s side. “Force Leader, the barbarian fleet is nearing. They will land their men within the hour.”
Kasumi regarded the scroll he held in his hand. It had been read a dozen times since arriving at dawn. He glanced at it one more time, again studying the chop at the bottom, the crest of his father, Kamatsu, Lord of the Shinzawai. Silently accepting his personal fate, Kasumi said, “Order for march. Break camp at once and begin assembling the warriors. We are commanded to return to Kelewan. Send the trailbreakers ahead.”
Chingari’s voice betrayed his bitterness. “Now the tunnel is destroyed, do we quit so meekly?”
“There is no shame, Chingari. Our clan has withdrawn itself from the Alliance for War, as have the other clans of the Blue Wheel Party. The War Party is once more alone in the conduct of this invasion.”
With a sigh Chingari said, “Again politics interferes with conquest. It would have been a glorious victory to take such a fine castle.”
Kasumi laughed. “True.” He watched the activities of the castle. “They are the best we have ever faced. We already learn much from them. Castle walls slanted outward at the plinth, preventing sappers from collapsing them, this is a new and clever thing. And those beasts they ride. Ayee, how they move, like Thün racing across the tundras of home. I will somehow gain some of those animals. Yes, these people are more than simple barbarians.”
After a moment’s more reflection, he said, “Have our scouts and trailbreakers keep alert for signs of the forest devils.”
Chingari spat. “The foul ones move in great number northward once more. They’re as much a dagger in our side as the barbarians.”
Kasumi said, “When this world is conquered, we shall have to see to these creatures. The barbarians make strong slaves. Some may even prove valuable enough to make free vassals who will swear loyalty to our houses, but those foul ones, they must be obliterated.” Kasumi fell silent for a while. Then he said, “Let the barbarians think we flee in terror from their fleet. This place is now a mat
ter for the clans remaining in the War Party. Let Tasio of the Minwanabi worry about a garrison at his rear should he move eastward. Until the Kanazawai once more realign themselves in the High Council, we are done with this war. Order the march.”
Chingari saluted his commander and left, and Kasumi considered the implications of the message from his father. He knew the withdrawal of all the forces of the Blue Wheel Party would prove a major setback for the Warlord and his party. The repercussions of such a move would be felt throughout the Empire for some years to come. There would be no smashing victories for the Warlord now, for with the departure of those forces loyal to the Kanazawai lords and the other clans of the Blue Wheel, other clans would reconsider before joining in an all-out push. No, thought Kasumi, it was a bold but dangerous move by his father and the other lords. This war would now be prolonged. The Warlord was robbed of a spectacular conquest; he was now overextended with too few men holding too much land. Without new allies he would remain unable to press forward with the war. His choices were now down to two: withdraw from Midkemia and risk humiliation before the High Council, or sit and wait, hoping for another shift in politics at home.
It was a stunning move on behalf of the Blue Wheel. But the risk was great. And the risk from the next series of moves in the Game of the Council would be even more dangerous. Silently he said: O my father, we are now firmly committed to the Great Game. We risk much: our family, our clan, our honor, and perhaps even the Empire itself.
Crumbling the scroll, he tossed it into a nearby brazier, and when it was totally consumed by flame, he put aside thoughts of risk and walked back toward his tent.
BOOK II
MILAMBER AND THE VALHERU
We were, fair queen,
Two lads that thought there was no more behind
But such a day to-morrow as to-day,
And to be boy eternal.
—SHAKESPEARE, The Winter’s Tale
19
SLAVE
The dying slave lay screaming.
The day was unmercifully hot. The other slaves went about their work, ignoring the sound as much as possible. Life in the work camp was cheap, and it did no good to dwell on the fate that awaited so many. The dying man had been bitten by a relli, a snakelike swamp creature. Its venom was slow-acting and painful; short of magic, there was no cure.
Suddenly there was silence. Pug looked over to see a Tsurani guard wipe off his sword. A hand fell on Pug’s shoulder. Laurie’s voice whispered in his ear, “Looks like our venerable overseer was disturbed by the sound of Toffston’s dying.”
Pug tied a coil of rope securely around his waist. “At least it ended quickly.” He turned to the tall blond singer from the Kingdom city of Tyr-Sog and said, “Keep a sharp eye out. This one’s old and may be rotten.” Without another word Pug scampered up the bole of the ngaggi tree, a firlike swamp tree the Tsurani harvested for wood and resins. With few metals, the Tsurani had become clever in finding substitutes. The wood of this tree could be worked like paper, then dried to an incredible hardness, useful in fashioning a hundred things. The resins were used to laminate woods and cure hides. Properly cured hides could produce a suit of leather armor as tough as Midkemian chainmail, and laminated wooden weapons were nearly the match of Midkemian steel.
Four years in the swamp camp had hardened Pug’s body. His sinewy muscles strained as he climbed the tree. His skin had been tanned deeply by the harsh sun of the Tsurani homeworld. His face was covered by a slave’s beard.
Pug reached the first large branches and looked down at his friend. Laurie stood knee-deep in the murky water, absently swatting at the insects that plagued them while they worked. Pug liked Laurie. The troubadour had no business being here, but then he’d had no business tagging along with a patrol in the hope of seeing Tsurani soldiers, either. He said he had wanted material for ballads that would make him famous throughout the Kingdom. He had seen more than he had hoped for. The patrol had ridden into a major Tsurani offensive, and Laurie had been captured. He had come to this camp over four months ago, and he and Pug had quickly become friends.
Pug continued his climb, keeping one eye always searching for the dangerous tree dwellers of Kelewan. Reaching the most likely place for a topping, Pug froze as he caught a glimpse of movement. He relaxed when he saw it was only a needier, a creature whose protection was its resemblance to a clump of ngaggi needles. It scurried away from the presence of the human and made the short jump to the branch of a neighboring tree. Pug made another survey and started tying his ropes. His job was to cut away the tops of the huge trees, making the fall less dangerous to those below.
Pug took several cuts at the bark, then felt the edge of his wooden ax bite into the softer pulp beneath. A faint pungent odor greeted his careful sniffing. Swearing, he called down to Laurie, “This one’s rotten. Tell the overseer.”
He waited, looking out over the tops of trees. All around, strange insects and birdlike creatures flew. In the four years he had been a slave on this world, he had not grown used to the appearance of these life-forms. They were not all that different from those on Midkemia, but it was the similarities as much as the differences that kept reminding him this was not his home. Bees should be yellow-and-black-striped, not bright red. Eagles shouldn’t have yellow bands on their wings, nor hawks purple. These creatures were not bees, eagles, or hawks, but the resemblance was striking. Pug found it easier to accept the stranger creatures of Kelewan than these. The six-legged needra, the domesticated beast of burden that looked like some sort of bovine with two extra stumpy legs, or the cho-ja, the insectoid creature who served the Tsurani and could speak their language: these he had come to find familiar. But each time he glimpsed a creature from the corner of his eye and turned, expecting it to be Midkemian only to find it was not, then the despair would strike.
Laurie’s voice brought him from his reverie. “The overseer comes.”
Pug swore. If the overseer had to get himself dirty by wading in the water, then he would be in a foul mood—which could mean beatings, or a reduction in the chronically meager food. He would already be angered by the delay in the cutting. A family of burrowers-—beaverlike six-legged creatures—had made themselves at home in the roots of the great trees. They would gnaw the tender roots, and the trees would sicken and die. The soft, pulpy wood would turn sour, then watery, and after a while the tree would collapse from within. Several burrower tunnels had been poisoned, but the damage had already been done to the trees.
A rough voice, swearing mightily while its owner splashed through the swamp, announced the arrival of the overseer, Nogamu. He himself was a slave, but he had attained the highest rank a slave could rise to, and while he could never hope to be free, he had many privileges and could order soldiers or freemen placed under his command. A young soldier came walking behind, a look of mild amusement on his face. He was clean-shaven in the manner of a Tsurani freeman, and as he looked up at Pug, the slave could get a good look at him. He had the high cheekbones and nearly black eyes that so many Tsurani possessed. His dark eyes caught sight of Pug, and he seemed to nod slightly. His blue armor was of a type unknown to Pug, but with the strange Tsurani military organization, that was not surprising.Even family, demesne, area, town, city, and province appeared to have its own army. How they all related one to another within the Empire was beyond Pug’s understanding.
The overseer stood at the base of the tree, his short robe held above the water. He growled like the bear he resembled and shouted up at Pug, “What’s this about another rotten tree?”
Pug spoke the Tsurani language better than any Midkemian in the camp, for he had been there longer than all but a few old Tsurani slaves. He shouted down, “It smells of rot. We should rerig another and leave this one alone, Slave Master.”
The overseer shook his fist. “You are all lazy. There is nothing wrong with this tree. It is fine. You only want to keep from working. Now cut it!”
Pug sighed. There was no arguing with
the Bear, as all the Midkemian slaves called Nogamu. He was obviously upset about something, and the slaves would pay the price. Pug started hacking through the upper section, and it soon fell to the ground. The smell of rot was thick, and Pug removed the ropes quickly. Just as the last length was coiled around his waist, a splitting sound came from directly in front of him. “It falls!” he shouted down to the slaves standing in the water below. Without hesitation they all ran. The cry of “falls” was never ignored.
The bole of the tree was splitting down the middle now that the top had been cut away. While this was not common, if a tree was far enough gone for the pulp to have lost its strength, any flaw in the bark could cause it to split under its own weight. The tree’s branches would pull the halves away from each other. Had Pug been tied to the bole, the ropes would have cut him in half before they snapped.
Pug gauged the direction of the fall, then as the half he stood upon started to move, he launched himself away from it. He hit the water flat, back first, trying to let the two feet of water break his fall as much as possible. The blow from the water was immediately followed by the harder impact with the ground. The bottom was mostly mud, so there was little damage done. The air in his lungs exploded from his mouth when he struck, and his senses reeled for a moment. He retained enough presence of mind to sit up and gasp a deep lungful of air.
Suddenly a heavy weight hit him across the stomach, knocking the wind from him and pushing his head back underwater. He struggled to move and found a large branch across his stomach. He could barely get his face out of the water to get air His lungs burned, and he breathed without control. Water came pouring down his windpipe, and he started to choke. Coughing and sputtering, he tried to keep calm but felt panic rise within him. He frantically pushed at the weight across him but couldn’t move it.
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