by Bill Fawcett
•
Eleven mornings later they entered the valley containing the castle. A day after that they saw the Cragsclaw Pass. This was the narrow connection between two fertile mountain valleys. It was still a long day’s march away, and with the sun rising behind it Talwe could see the reason for its name. Surrounded by rock on all sides, so that the castle seemed utterly invincible, it stood inside the entrance to the pass. Above it, almost as if by design, a long, curved rock rose high above the fortress, pointing across the top like an extended claw. From here the rock looked like a guardian; from above, high in the mountains, it would seem about to attack. To the mrem of Ar, Sleisher explained to the highlanders, “crag” meant throat in their most ancient tongue. And this claw was poised to kill.
Talwe wondered, would this hold true in the end?
The day was cold, but not unpleasant. During the march the weather had broken somewhat, as if in answer to the prayers of Talwe’s suffering warriors. For weeks now they had lived outside in the winter, something they had never done before and they did not care to do again. The cold was bad enough, especially since their clothing was not thick enough, but worse was the need for food rationing. With winter, and with Talwe’s growing reputation, the caravans had stopped running, and food was extremely scarce. Occasionally the warriors chanced on a lone bunda, but the herds themselves were now hidden deep in the forests to the east and northwest. There they would graze as they could, like all village mrem, waiting for the return of the spring.
All that day they marched over snow-covered ground, stopping only for a short rest at sun’s height. As the sun began to disappear behind them, Cragsclaw loomed before them. Frightening it looked, and yet somehow comforting, and with the fear of the cold night in their hearts the mrem pushed forward. Keth Sleisher sighed openly at the sight of his home, and when he sighed, Talwe smiled.
Despite his efforts to feel nothing, he had to accept that he liked the young noble, liked him for all the things that he would have despised only a few months ago. Keth was eager, ambitious, and swaggering, but he was never mindful only of himself. His first concern had been for the guardsmrem they still held prisoner. And he had kept his honor, never showing despair even as he worried over the fate of his father. As he looked on him now, Talwe longed to untie him and release him.
But he couldn’t. For one thing, Talwe was not quite sure of the noble, admire him though he might. This close to Cragsclaw, Keth Sleisher might find some way to deceive him.
As much as he disliked it, keeping him tied so he could walk but could not escape seemed the only sensible thing to do.
Paralan stepped toward him. “I have news, Talwe,” he said.
Without stopping, Talwe asked, “About what?”
“Rhesa.”
Talwe closed his eyes. He paled visibly and his tail sagged. “What is your news?” he whispered.
“She seems better,” came the answer. “She spoke for a moment, but we could not understand her. Her fever seems to have eased slightly.”
The darkfur felt a smile cross his face. “That is good news, Paralan,” he said softly. “Come to me when you have more.”
Paralan hesitated, then said, “I would rather rejoin the mrem,” he said. “Rhesa is in capable hands now, and I might be needed with those who walk first.”
This made some sense, of course. If Rhesa was improving, Paralan’s calming abilities were needed only occasionally, and he could always return to the wagon she rode on. For some reason, though, Talwe found himself displeased with the idea. Maybe it was a concern for Rhesa, or maybe it was a concern for himself. After all, Paralan had taken almost total charge of the warriors over the past few weeks; in some ways, Talwe was worried about being able to reassert his control. Having Paralan back among them might hurt rather than help.
“Stay with her a while more,” he said at last. “When you are needed, I will call for you.”
Nodding, Paralan turned. As Talwe watched, the highlander walked slowly back toward the wagons. Talwe knew that he must return him soon to command, for if he didn’t Paralan himself could cause the mrem to revolt. But not yet, he temporized. Not just yet.
When they stopped, the night was dark. Tomorrow would take them into Cragsclaw, but tonight the mrem were weary and could march no further. Nor was it likely to be safe to approach the castle both in the dark and at the head of so many well-armed mrem. Scouts from the fortress had seen them and been allowed to escape with the news. The problem was that there was no way for Lord Sleisher to know they were not simply more clansmrem coming to aid Crethok. They would camp, posting guards to ensure the older Sleisher didn’t decide to sortie out and attack them by mistake.
Rhesa slept soundly, and Sleisher relaxed with his home in his sight. Only Talwe seemed concerned. Small fires burned through the cold. One more march, one morning’s effort, and Talwe’s mrem would be inside the fortress. Sleisher had promised that they would be pardoned, even welcomed in the castle’s garrison, though most had said they wished to stay with Talwe. Finally Talwe, wearied by too many cold days’ walking, fell asleep.
•
Jremm woke in the night to a voice in his head. ‘The Council meets. You may attend,” was all it said, but Jremm knew that it carried the force of command.
Scratching his chest, he swung his feet to the floor and shook the sleep from his eyes. Rare was the night, lately, when he got as much sleep as he wanted, and he wondered how long it would be until exhaustion caused him to make some fatal error. Already he was weary, walking the days in a kind of thick fog no matter how important the task that accompanied him. The biggest problem of all was that he was having trouble thinking. He needed sleep to refresh him, but what sleep he had been allowed had been scarce and troubled.
Outside, he shrank from the cold. Jremm couldn’t remember a time when Ar had been so cold, when even the sun did little to melt the ice that was beginning to form all around the city. Winters in Ar were cool, but no more. The houses were thoroughly unprepared for cold of this kind, and already he had heard of deaths among the weak and poor.
He wondered, pityingly, at the plight of those who had no blankets to wrap themselves in. Surely they could not survive long.
He wondered, too, at the plight of Rennilan. He had not seen her in more than two months, but his mind went out to her always. Not even the beauty of Sorilia or Sruss had driven her from his mind, although the sheer mystery of Morian had come close. He would never forget the talk he and Morian had had outside the door of the Wizards’ Council, just as he would never forget the look in her eyes when she had found out she would be traveling with Sruss. Through information received later, he managed to piece together a good portion of Morian’s story, but even that did little to explain the female he had spoken with. She fascinated him, and he knew that he could love her.
After what she had been through, though, love was far from her mind. And there was nothing he could do to help with her revenge. Like all revenge, hers had to be entirely personal.
The Council-room was warm. As always, he was the last to arrive, and as always Gaelor glared at him over her stark black robes. Borlin waited patiently, his hands folded on his chest and his eyes closed fast, and Jremm wondered if he ever left his chair. But despite these consistencies, tonight felt different. Sthon drew his claws along his cheek, fully out of character, and Sorilia was atypically unkempt. Most importantly, Lanalia breathed deep and hard, her eyes a narrow slit and her brows harshly knit together. Jremm had never seen her anything but calm.
Berrilund entered, his gold robes hastily thrown on. Behind him marched a warrior, his face filthy under his helmet and his blood-spattered sword at his side. Berrilund motioned for Lanalia, who approached the warrior and raised her hand. When he raised his own and took hers, Jremm saw under his helmet. He thought the mrem had looked familiar, but now he knew for certain.
Reswen, he thought. The
one he’d taken for a criminal. The one who’d shown him Rennilan’s other side.
“Reswen has returned to Ar,” Berrilund announced. “He bears news that we would rather not hear. With your permission, I would let him speak.”
Everyone assented, and Reswen sat beside Lanalia.
“I know the importance of the Council,” he said, “and I know its secrecy as well. If the news were not vital, I would not have approached you in this way. Forgive me. I knew no other way of treating the crisis.”
“The Council has one mandate,” said Borlin. “The defense of Ar. Our forgiveness is neither necessary nor appropriate. If what you say will help us in our defense, we will owe you much.”
“Go ahead, Reswen,” Gaelor commanded. “Tell us what you know.” For a moment, Jremm thought that her tone betrayed a small note of fear.
“I have talked long with Mithmid,” the warrior began. “He waits in Cragsclaw fulfilling his duties to the best of his abilities.” Jremm smiled. He found this extremely easy to believe.
“He told me you know of his mindflight with Lorleen,” continued Reswen. When the Council-mrem nodded, he went on. “With her, he saw a vision: a vision of the liskash marching from the east. For a long time he did not tell me this, fearing that the news would demoralize Sleisher and me. He was probably right, at least about Sleisher. The old lord worries constantly about his son, and Cragsclaw’s safety.”
“He’s not well?” Sthon interrupted.
Reswen shook his head. “He’s well enough,” he answered. “He’s just not as sharp as he once was. He is old and the years have been hard.”
The mercenary removed his helmet now, and his head was clotted with blood. “Tend to him,” Gaelor said to Sorilia, but Reswen raised his hand.
“The blood is another’s,” he said. “The journey to Ar was not an easy one.”
He paused, then resumed. “Mithmid has told me of the march of the liskash, and since then we have evidence of more marches. From the west come the highlanders, under the command of Crethok, the son of Peorlias. Also in the west we have seen a dark-furred mrem leading an army of his own. Sleisher’s son Keth has tracked him for weeks, but the darkfur is far too cunning to be caught. We have no knowledge of his real intent, but he has too many mrem following him to be just another bandit.”
“We have some,” Berrilund cut in. “Sruss knows of him. She says he will fight Crethok, even if he does not fight for us.”
“Sruss!” Reswen exclaimed. “When have you seen Sruss?”
“Recently,” Lanalia answered. “But she is no longer here. She has gone with Sarkarien’s army to Cragsclaw. She knows of some of the fortress’s danger.”
Reswen sighed. “Then my news is doubly bad,” he said. “Sarkarien is dead. I found his body as I ran through the grasslands.”
“Dead?” pronounced Gaelor. “What of Sruss, the army?”
“I saw no others,” Reswen responded. “Only Sarkarien. He was not buried.”
“There must have been a need for haste,” Lanalia put in. “They would not have left him to the wilds if there hadn’t been.”
Borlin spoke. “Sarkarien’s body is not our problem,” he intoned, impatience obvious. All were now visibly concerned about Sruss’ fate as well, but avoided the topic. “It does not explain Reswen’s visit.”
“True,” said the warrior. “I will explain further. I come to ask the Council’s help at Cragsclaw. You have sent Mithmid, but that is not enough. He asked me to request you come there and assist him. War brews near Cragsclaw, and we know neither the strength nor the identity of the enemy that opposes us. If the liskash approach, as Mithmid believes, then their evil magic will come with them. Mithmid alone cannot fight all of it.”
“We have already sent another,” Berrilund interrupted. “Felior has found the darkfur and will help.”
Jremm stood up, nervous and anxious. “I don’t think we should count on Felior,” he said softly. Had Mithmid told only him? The wizard had been so upset he had kept losing contact, but surely he had told Borlin. He had been so exhausted from keeping contact. Now Jremm dreaded to give his news.
“Why not?” Sorilia asked.
He breathed deeply and announced, “Mithmid has destroyed her.”
If he had staged this scene, he could never have achieved a greater, more shocked response. Almost as one, the Council rose to their feet, staring first at the brickmaker and then to the blood-spattered mercenary with a combination of fear and disbelief.
Not familiar with the membership of the Council, Reswen stood, confused.
“Tell us what you know, Jremm,” Lanalia said at last.
Jremm’s voice was quiet. “He contacted me less than two hours ago,” he recounted. “I thought others knew. Mithmid was acting to protect the son of Lord Sleisher. No one had warned him Felior was among the bandits.” At this Jremm gave everyone at the table a hard glance. The blame for this disaster was not Mithmid’s alone, if at all.
“Go on,” Berrilund ordered, but his tone was soft.
“He says that he tried merely to break a spell, but she was stretched too far. He does all he can to heal her, but he has little hope. It was an accident.”
“Then Cragsclaw is lost,” Gaelor sounded tired, “unless another relief force is sent.”
“Perhaps Ar is lost as well,” Berrilund’s tone was level, too controlled. “Reswen, did you see any signs of unrest among the noble families?”
“Some had called in their liegemrem, others armed their freeholders,” he confirmed. “It seemed a reasonable precaution.”
“Perhaps,” the new head of the Council agreed, “if they knew what we did.” He paused, obviously hesitant to speak. “Gerianan has disappeared. If he has defied his brother and left the city....”
Everyone spoke at once.
•
They were over a hundred strong, perhaps even a hundred and a half. Crethok had with him slightly over five hundred clansmrem. Two hundred more were close by and he dispatched a messenger to bring them. The rest were with Arklier, making sure no force from the far side of the castle intruded. Until they were united they didn’t want to alert Cragsclaw or Lord Sleisher. Crethok knew he could defeat the grasslander by sheer force of numbers. Quickly he summoned in all his mrem, even the pickets who watched from the mountainside. Still, there was no use taking extra casualties. This bandit leader was said to be most cunning and they could not afford a defeat just before the siege began.
But an easy victory would help morale. Soon the last of the mrem below would have gone to sleep; then, the attack could begin. It would taste sweet to crush these others. To show everyone how powerful Crethok was.
Cragsclaw was in sight. By all scouting accounts, its garrison was weak. Most of Keth Sleisher’s warriors had strayed leaderless back into the fortress. Fear of the fortress’s lord more than the garrison was making them all cautious, but by now Lord Sleisher himself must know that his son had been killed.
Even so, these bandits traveled toward Cragsclaw. Perhaps they felt the castle was so weak even they could take it. The thought enraged the ClanSon. Cragsclaw was to be his triumph. He would defeat Lord Sleisher, the Ar-mrem who had defeated their fathers. Then even Arklier would kneel at his feet.
“Down there,” Crethok ordered. “Look down there now.”
At his side, Cwinyd licked the fur on his arms. “I don’t have time,” the magician informed the highlander in annoyed tones. “I am cleaning myself.”
The other laughed. “Why are you bothering?” he asked mockingly. “What possible good will cleaning yourself do now? Haven’t the Eastern Lords already....”
“What the Eastern Lords have said or done is absolutely none of your concern,” the magician cut in. “We have spoken, and all is settled. That is all you need to know.”
Crethok sneered. “You have changed, Cwinyd,�
�� he announced in a hiss. “Where once you were too powerful for me to approach, now I find you fearful still, but far from invincible. I’m not afraid anymore, Cwinyd. I don’t believe you can control me.”
His expression unchanged, Cwinyd answered. “Often beliefs are deceptive,” he replied. “You are right. I have changed. But the change has not been a loss of power. If I no longer control you, it is because I no longer try. I have, my conceited friend, far more important matters to attend to.”
He turned to the highlander. “Whatever crosses our path, down below us, is not one of them. If an enemy blocks our approach to Cragsclaw, do something about it. I no longer wish to do your work for you.”
With that, he turned and stepped away. Protest hung on Crethok’s lips, but the words went unsaid. Burning once more with fury and frustration, as he always did when talking to the magician, Crethok turned his attention back toward the resting camp below.
All that remained was to wait for the perfect hour, when only the guards remained awake in the camp. To judge from the cold, and from the distance the darkfur’s band had marched, that hour was very near. Crethok sat on a rock high above the grasslanders’ camp, wrapped himself in a blanket of soft black fur, and waited without a trace of impatience.
Not only the magician had changed.
“THERE IS BATTLE ahead,” the scout told her. “Two armies fight as they run along the mountain. Soon they will be near Cragsclaw and block our way.”
“Armies?” Sruss replied.
The scout nodded. “Yes, my lady,” he answered. “These armies aren’t huge, but they are too large to be just raiding forces. There look to be a few thousand mrem on the field. The much smaller force is fleeing to the fortress.”
For a moment Sruss merely thought. Like the rest of her army she was tired, and for the past three hours she had been looking forward to stopping and the few hours’ rest this would allow. They were still a two-hour march from Cragsclaw, and had marched through most of the night.