by Lyndon Hardy
The flying rocks wrenched out of their natural trajectories; like sunlight focused with a glass, they converged simultaneously on the ledge. The catapult exploded in a mass of ragged timber, splinters, and dust. The bombarding rock shattered into an avalanche of gravel against the cliff face and cascaded to the plain. The hills rocked with the violence of the impact and the shock threw Alodar nearly to his knees. Where once there had been form was now a shattered ruin of timber and flesh.
The scene was quiet, attacker and defender alike shaken by the force of the blow. Alodar looked back at the enemy camp and noticed only a few wisps of smoke where the fire had raged but moments before. Of course, the perfect source, he thought.
As the last rays of the sun faded, the detachment of artillery slowly returned to the besieging circle and both sides made ready for the cessation of action for the day. As elsewhere, the stunned silence continued for several minutes more up on the high keep. Finally the sergeant turned for the archway.
"In two days, for certain," he muttered.
"A waste of time, if you ask me, Alodar," Morwin said irritably as they stumbled along the passageway that evening. "How are we, in a single night, going to find something that has eluded the occupants of this fortress for probably three hundred years? And with a single torch yet? Why, I can barely make you out two feet before me, let alone some secret mark along these clammy walls. And you know Periac is probably pacing his quarters right now, wanting a full report on what happened today with the air gondola. Let's be done with this, I say."
"Not just yet, Morwin," Alodar said. "I admit it seems hopeless, but what are we to do? Just follow through our prescribed tasks until the inevitable happens?"
"Oh, by the taws, Alodar, I relish this entrapment as little as you. But I would rather save my strength for something useful tomorrow, rather than burning off my evening gruel sloshing through puddles in the dark, three full flights beneath the ground."
"But look, Morwin, there must be something to aid us here. Some clue to help us break the siege. Think about it. Why are these passages and chambers under the walls even here? The whole castle is laid out with such an economy of design, not a wasted stone anywhere. The perfect fortress, the men-at-arms say. The flanking towers project out just the right amount to cover walls of optimum height. Crenelations and loopholes are cut to maximize both protection and density of fire. The central keep is pocked with bartizans of all sizes for observation of missile launching. With all of that care, why honeycomb the thing with these subterranean caverns unless they too somehow play in the defense?"
"Well then, for what do the records of the builders say all of this is to be used? We use the chamber under the northeast tower on the first level as an area of discipline. Perhaps this place was intended to be a grand dungeon?"
"With this layout, hardly. There aren't any small cells, just long corridors connecting large chambers, and no gates to impede one's access. And as to the builders, would that we could ask them. The sagas say only that when the scions of Procolon first pushed into these desolate western lands they found the Iron Fist open and unoccupied. The portcullis was up and the oaken doors of the gatehouse full ajar. Inside was nary a trace of man or beast or any sign that any had ever been here. Just mute stone in a silent wasteland. Vendora's forefathers used their luck well, granted. They garrisoned the place, and ever since it has protected Procolon's western flank with its grip of iron against the likes of a Bandor gone wild. But no one living knows more of this castle's secrets than even you or… Hold, I think we are under the Keep again."
Alodar thrust his torch forward, staring into the blackness ahead. He could see the walls receding from him on both sides into the gloom but could discern no other detail of their surroundings. He began to move cautiously to the left, one hand on moist stone, the other still advancing the torch in front.
"Look," he exclaimed, "a wall cresset, and with oil still in it." He touched his torch to the small pool in the lip of the rock and it sprang to life. He and Morwin again looked about them, now able to see to the opposite wall of the chamber.
"Cressets all around, Alodar," Morwin said. "At least here we will be able to see what we are stumbling over."
Alodar quickly circled the chamber, lighting the wall flames as he did so. When he was done, he moved towards the center to survey what the flickering light revealed. The chamber was large and circular, though not as huge as the massive keep which towered above it. The walls were smooth and damp, pieced with precision from many small stones and pierced by four dark archways evenly spaced around the periphery. The stone floor sloped downwards from all directions; in the very center stood a pool of dark water fed by the drippings from the walls. As he approached, Alodar thrust the handle of his torch into the still surface.
"Why, there is a well here, Morwin," he exclaimed. "See, the depth is much greater than the slope of the floor would indicate. I wonder how deep it is?"
Suddenly a flicker of light in one of the passageways caught his eye. As he and Morwin turned, they heard the clank of arms and the stomp of many feet echoing down towards them.
In a moment, several men-at-arms tromped into the chamber, torches held high and swords drawn. "Halt, who's there?" the first called out belligerently as his eyes adjusted to the increased light.
"Alodar, journeyman, and Morwin, apprentice, to master thaumaturge Periac, in the service of fair queen Vendora," Alodar quickly responded as half a dozen more poured into the room.
"Then you serve me in most unusual ways, journeyman," a woman's voice answered him in turn, soft and distinctive amid the growing din.
Alodar turned from the approaching men to the new speaker, and his eyes widened in surprise.
"Caution, my fair lady," growled the tall, white-haired man who now entered and stood beside her. "I remember this name, Alodar, and I doubt his interests would truly serve your crown."
Vendora the queen smiled at Alodar and then turned to her advisor, "And what great threat does this journeyman harbor, lord Festil?" she asked. She brushed back the tumble of her golden blond hair with deliberate casualness. Her blue eyes, that mirrored the morning sea, sparkled above a small upturned nose and lips of apple red. Her smile radiated the promise of delight, and Alodar felt his pulse suddenly quicken. She wore men's clothing, leggings, tunic, and cape, but they did not hide the thrust of her ample figure. With a dramatic sweep, she thrust back the cape and stood arms akimbo, left fist above a small dagger, awaiting Festil's reply.
"You were too young a princess to take notice, my fair lady," Festil said. "But many were the council meetings in which your father pounded the table with rage, the blood bloating the veins of his neck, his face flushed red. And all because one headstrong vassal dared to stand fast to his opinions when unanimity with royal persuasion was obviously what discretion demanded."
Festil stopped and then pointed his red-gloved fist at Alodar. His lips downturned with displeasure, pulling tight age-blotched skin across high-thrust cheeks on his narrow face. "No, my fair lady, this man's father put his interests before those of the crown. In the end, he refused to yield one time too often and received his just due. It was a matter of no lasting importance, but your sire demonstrated that he was indeed king. His lands confiscated and title revoked by royal decree, Alodun ended his days in common squalor, trying to enlist others in his effort to regain what was no longer rightfully his. I judge his son tracks you here seeking restitution, hoping the years would dim the memories of your father's faithful advisors. But I served your sire well, as I serve you now, and on his deathbed promised that I would ensure nothing be forgotten in matters of state."
Vendora dropped her arms to her sides and laughed. Her voice floated lightly like a wind-blown leaf, with no hint of the weight of the crown. "But if I were but a young princess, lord Festil," she said, "then the journeyman here could have been but a lad. How deep could such passion burn in a heart so young?"
She turned to Alodar, eyes widening, and he
felt the royal demand for a reply. For an instant he paused. Festil's words stung, and the memories boiled out of their hiding places, fresh as when they were new. He had been young, yes. Too young to aid, but old enough to feel the helplessness when he saw the faces of cruel laughter and the sneers over shoulders of hastily turned backs. He remembered the image of his father, eyes finally dim and spirit broken. Not a single vassal had pledged to convince a stubborn monarch to return what he had so capriciously taken away. The impulse to lash out with words of his own welled up within him, but he clenched his fist into a tight ball and swallowed painfully.
It was so futile a struggle then, he thought. Could it be any different now? Was not the decision to cease resistance to the forces which overwhelmed him a good one? Renounce the claim to be a noble of Procolon and follow instead wherever fate might lead him. Ignore the feeling of incompleteness, of nagging dissatisfaction with each niche in life that he might try. Travel on to the next and the next, sampling and testing until he found the one that he could embrace with relaxing acceptance.
He looked into Vendora's eyes and spoke slowly. "As I have said, my fair lady, I am a journeyman thaumaturge. Not that my craft should matter. Since my father's death, I have been many things, goatherd, woodcutter, tavernhand. And it is true that I seek, but my presence here is not by plan of supplication. Rather I had hoped that these dungeons might finally yield something to aid us all."
"And what have you found?"
"Nothing, my lady, nothing yet," Alodar said turning his gaze from Vendora to answer the smaller woman similarly clad standing at her side. She too had her cowl thrown back revealing short auburn hair and eyes that danced darkly in the firelight. If she were by herself, men would turn to look, but next to Vendora her beauty would go unnoticed.
"Sweetbalm, of course nothing. Nothing as one with any sanity would expect," Festil exploded, brushing aside Alodar's presence with a wave of his hand. "May I state the case bluntly again, my fair lady? We will not extricate ourselves from this siege by following the whims of lady Aeriel here, no matter how good her intentions. This is a matter that can be settled only by arms, arms striking in unison to achieve the same objective. You must choose, and choose now before it is too late."
"My choice for life, merely to help us better fight a border skirmish. A weighty choice indeed, lord Festil," Vendora responded.
"It may well be your life, my fair lady. We are too undermanned to defend the walls properly. We must use every man and weapon we have with utmost efficiency. Yet we squander our time and resources in as many ways as we have lords within these walls. Andac launches a sally with no cover; Fendel crams all of his archers into the southwest tower, leaving the whole southwall unprotected; old Cranston detaches his men to the bidding of a mere craftsman with some mad gondola scheme. And why is this chaos so? Because each man strives to outdo the next in some feat of valor, some deed for the sagas, to make you swoon and choose him for your champion. Your beauty inspires great desire. Vendora, as perhaps no queen of Procolon did before, but thus far it has also created great turmoil in the realm as well."
Alodar watched as Vendora received Festil's words with a slight smile, again brushing back her hair. She glanced about the room, testing what was being said, her smile broadening as she caught the reaction of each man in turn.
"My fair lady," Festil continued, pounding one fist down upon the other, "we need your choice now, not after each brave man here has gone singly to his fate in a vain attempt to impress you. Name the man and the petty bickering among our young scions will cease. Name the man and all here will follow him as we are sworn to do. Name the man so that we may fight as an army, rather than a horde of errant lords, each intent upon his own private quest."
"And so, rather than many small uncoordinated thrusts," Aeriel cut in, "we will unite and make one large one that will prove equally ineffective. You deprecate the sagas, Festil, but in your heart you cling to them still. One last hurrah and men of stout heart and unity of purpose rout the enemy against overwhelming odds and secure the Iron Fist once again. A noble tale, but one that we cannot make so. Our salvation, I think, lies outside the traditions of our forefathers."
"Had we the wisdom of our forefathers, we would not face the difficulties we have here now," Festil boomed, his voice echoing off the walls. "Had our queen chosen the hero of the realm last solstice, he would have the kingdom in good order by now. The states to the south would not risk his displeasure, and all of the border fortresses would be fully manned. Had we the champion now, he would have persuaded her to remain where she belongs in the safety of the palaces of Ambrosia. He certainly would have had the sense not to send her venturing unto the very borders with only a small party of retainers, more for show than for protection, no matter what the babbling of some court sorcerer. The mines in the Fumus Mountains may indeed be surrendering the last of their wealth, and the royal revenues thereby decreased. But to risk seeking alchemical formulas hidden here, merely on the word of enfeebled Kelric, is the height of imprudence. Why, Bandor merely had to wait until the portcullis clanged down and he nigh had Procolon handed to him on a platter."
"Enough, Festil," Vendora interjected softly but with authority. "I grow weary of the same long-winded discourse between you and Aeriel whenever you get the opportunity. You have served my father well, and I value your council now. But I wonder how hard you would press were not your own son within these walls and vying with the rest for my favor. I will choose the hero of the realm when it suits me personally and not just the circumstances.
"And Aeriel, I weary also of this tramping about in the gloom. This chamber holds for us no better clue than the ones above, I fear. A thick iron slab on the floor of the topmost, a featureless pillar floor to ceiling in the second, and this pool of water here, with nothing else to catch the eyes. Let this journeyman continue his search and report to us anything unusual that he may find. We should now return to our chambers and contemplate how we shall conduct ourselves tomorrow."
With these words, Vendora turned and marched back into the passageway. The two men-at-arms nearest scrambled to pass in front and light the way ahead. The rest dutifully filed out behind. In a moment, Alodar and Morwin were again alone, surrounded only by the musty smell and echoes from the retreating party.
Morwin looked about the chamber, awaiting what they should do next, but Alodar stood fixed, deep in thought.
"What, speechless? A rare day for one so glib," Morwin finally said mockingly. "What affects you thus?"
Alodar was silent for a few moments more, then replied. "Your remark betrays a boy's heart still beating in that lanky frame of yours, Morwin."
"And what kind beats in yours, most august journeyman?"
"Oh, enough. Let us be off and do the queen's bidding."
CHAPTER TWO
Craftsman at War
THE next morning Alodar awoke with a stab of pain. He grabbed his side and blinked up into the predawn light. He heard the familiar noise of the courtyard: treading feet, clinking mail, and the barking of orders as the castle sprang to life to begin another day of defense. He squinted up at the figure standing at his side, fully armed from steel-tipped boots nest to his now sore ribs to a head encased in mail.
"Up and present yourself, journeyman. You serve me and my men today. Their first barrage is but minutes away and I want you ready."
Alodar rose to sitting from the straw on the bailey floor, his head groggy from lack of sleep, and his heart heavy from the lack of success in his labors the night before.
"Come on, man, make your preparations. Wake your apprentice and get up on the high platform," the armed man persisted. "As soon as we ferret your master out of the keep, we will place him there as well. I fear we will have need of much healing today."
Alodar stood up and looked the man in the face. The features were familiar and the red surcoat confirmed his guess. "You are lord Feston, Festil's son," he said, "marshall of the west wall."
"Yes, t
oday I am that," Feston replied curtly, staring back from deep-set eyes. He had his father's narrow face and high cheeks, but his brow jutted forward with rough angles, giving him the appearance of a perpetual squint. Beneath shaggy brows like woolly caterpillars, a large nose hooked down over a wide gash of a mouth pulled into a grim line. "Now see to your task," he said as he turned and in great haste sprinted off in the direction of the keep. Nimbly jumping and sidestepping still sleeping forms, he rapidly covered the distance, his mail a-jingle with his erratic motion.
Alodar finally cleared his head and turned to wake Morwin. Together they dragged the two-wheeled cart, near which they had spent the night, to the base of the stone steps near the western gatehouse. From the large trunks lashed to the rough sideposts, they unpacked the crucibles, sacks of starch, slabs of wax, and other paraphernalia they would need for the day. Swinging the heavy loads across their backs, they slowly mounted the stairs to the high platforms jutting out from the wall above. As their heads poked through the opening in the first level, Alodar paused, deeply inhaling the aroma of a morning meal simmering above a small firepit.
"On to the top, thaumaturge. There is no work for you here," one of the men stirring the broth growled. Alodar shrugged his shoulders and resumed his upward tread. He and Morwin climbed on past a second level, which, like the first, supported archers who would fire through the narrow rows of loopholes encircling the castle. Then, panting from their exertion, they arrived at last at the top of the wall.
Alodar glanced down the line of merlons and crenels. They ran straight and true to the southwest tower some three hundred feet away and then continued on at right angles to the east for another six hundred. All along the length, knots of men were making ready for the day, stringing bows, nocking arrows, and watching the activities in the fields beyond. The tower to the southeast was the smallest of the four that marked the corners of the fortress, but it also soared into the sky, like a double-length lance, seemingly too tall for such a slender shaft.