Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  Now, every league of advantage was precious, covered by moonless darkness. Elaira rode with no word of complaint. Here, where the trade-route skirted the coast, the lights of southbound galleys could be seen, riding the sheltered waters towards Whitehold. They passed encampments of tents more than once. The smell of manure meant troops of light horse, and ox-drawn supply trains. Elaira stroked the soaked neck of her mare, sorry for the hard usage, but too well aware of the risk to Sidir. A slacker’s mistake would doom his survival. Though she ached, and her knees stung with saddle sores, she asked for no respite. Already, the stars in the east sky were paling. Dangerously soon, the first blush of rose brightened the low-lying cloud-banks.

  By then, the horses were stumbling and spent. Sidir opted for mercy. He dismounted before letting them founder. The animals were stripped of their tack and set free, with the gear and the Sunwheel surcoats left sunk under rocks in a trout pool. The cerecloth, they kept, since the weather would turn, bringing the chill rain of autumn.

  Since no rest was prudent within sight of the coast, Sidir stuffed the dispatches under his shirt and plunged westward into the undergrowth.

  By noon, he found them a bed in a thicket, piled under the yellow drifts of shed ash leaves. Elaira fell asleep where she sat, sunk into dreamless exhaustion. She did not awaken through the afternoon. Sidir snatched the interval before she aroused to thumb through his stolen dispatches. Their content painted the picture he feared: of troops on the march from all points north, with conscript gangs sent out scouring for able young men to answer the Light’s call to muster.

  ‘Shipsport and Tharidor have served summons on the outlying villages,’ Sidir disclosed, as the shadows lengthened towards sundown. His penetrating glance met Elaira’s frown and prompted more irritable commentary. ‘Sieges don’t need every hand trained to fight. The officers will take farm-steaders for digging ditches and hard labour. They’ll work every hand they can find to speed the construction of rams and assault engines. Grief will scarcely stop there. Women will be forced to serve with the cooks, and daughters for laundresses and camp-followers.’

  His dire prediction encompassed the worst. The roadway would stay relentlessly jammed with the tramp of armed enemies. Rapacious horsemen also would sweep the hills, stripping the country-side of game and fodder.

  ‘Then let me lay wardings,’ Elaira insisted, a hand on Sidir’s wrist as he bridled. ‘I know other ways. Means that lie outside of Koriani doctrine. A hedge witch once taught me her bundle of skills as repayment for curing her grandchild.’ When the clansman’s tension failed to unwind, she was moved to rare anger. ‘Then what would you do? You are not in hale shape! Or haven’t you noticed you’re sweating a fever, with leaking sores that have festered? We’ll handle this here and keep you on your feet. Or else, of course, we’ll move on as you wish, until you keel over from sepsis. Make your choice, stubborn man. Lie down for this, now, or wait like a fool, until you’re raving and prostrate.’

  Sidir’s glower melted into a flush, followed up by his soft laughter. ‘Did I say you’re well matched for my prince’s hot temper?’ Reliably steady, he shrugged, contrite, and stripped off his shirt and breeches.

  Elaira made a small, smokeless blaze and mixed her concoction of simples. Though the remedies stung without use of her spells, her charge endured the full course of her treatment. By twilight, the deep-set infections were lanced. She wrapped up the scabbed flesh at ankles and wrists using salves that would draw down the swelling.

  ‘I could not sleep, before,’ Sidir confessed, his piercing glance fixed on Elaira’s deft hands as she secured the last dressing. ‘The pain was the goad that kept me alert. Now I fear I’ll nod off standing watch.’

  ‘Leave that part to me for tonight.’ The enchantress arose, dusting leaves from her lap. She would fetch four rounded stones from the streamlet that wound through the gulch where they sheltered. Given rock that was willing, she could bind an entrainment that would turn away venturesome foragers. Darkness always lent force to such spells. Even dogs should move past without scenting their campsite.

  By nightfall, the Companion was deeply asleep, likely his first sound rest since the harrowing choice to fare south in captivity. The wood kept its peace. Ripe with the tang of on-coming frost, alive with the rustles of field-mice, the thicket his instincts had chosen provided the semblance of a secure shelter.

  For Elaira, the seclusion permitted the chance for another tranced scrying. Sidir did not rouse when she retired to the mossy bank of the stream. Afraid for Jeynsa, and anxiously fretting the hazards of the open road, the enchantress engaged her disciplined skill to open her inner awareness. Her mind settled, then stilled. The reactive nature of water enveloped her. She let herself flow with the grace of the element, poised between thought and intent.

  The moment did not unfold without incident: wild as wind, subtle as the scent of a flower, a welcome arose and embraced her. Touched by a tenderness beyond all words, she immersed in sweet silence until her breath caught with ecstatic delight. At long last! The enchantress encountered the presence that answered her aching heart.

  ‘Elaira, beloved,’ Prince Arithon sent.

  A flood of sensation enlivened his words: of fire-light, and camaraderie, and air that smelled of goose grease, tanned leather, and tallow smoke. He sat in the comfort of a clan lodge tent, where the warm, southern wind wafted the tang of pine resin. Struck through by a sweet bolt of joy in reunion, Elaira soaked in the details: the Teir s’Ffalenn was at large within the free wilds of Alland. His guarded chagrin meant he would be a guest of the hard-bitten High Earl, Lord Erlien s’Taleyn. That powerful, combatively capricious man served as caithdein to the Kingdom of Shand …

  The roisterous gathering called in for his counsel included two Selkwood chieftains, a clan grandame whose talent was healing, and an aggressive company of scouts. The captain of Selkwood’s war band presided, a slit-eyed panther hunched over a trestle, buried layers deep in maps. The discussion at hand was raid tactics, and the nascent fire riding the air meant divisive contention. The High Earl watched the sparring like a satisfied bear, chaos being his element. His avid glance gleamed, eager to see how his visiting royalty would field the heckling debate.

  Arithon perched to one side on a hassock, deceptively calm, while the argument flurried about him. He had changed his borrowed leathers for the grey robe and sash given by Sanpashir’s tribesman. His hands were laced over his drawn-up knees, the nonchalant pose in striking contrast to the edgy young liegeman who stood at his back. Kyrialt carried both targe and sword, tense enough to pounce on all comers.

  ‘It’s the mouse fallen into a den of stirred adders,’ Arithon agreed, sharing Elaira’s dismayed assessment. ‘Already, fangs have been sunk deep in fur. They’re only stumped now out of contrary irony and an embarrassing conflict of honour.’

  The enchantress grinned, secure as observer, couched in her distant glen. ‘They’ve forgotten the range of your initiate talents? Don’t say they believe the stacked odds set by numbers makes their brash challenge unsporting?’

  ‘Well, Erlien’s not fooled.’ That statement came through with flint-edged delight as Selkwood’s bearded war-captain banged a cantankerous fist on the planks, then assailed his lord nose to nose across the crimped maps.

  ‘Dharkaron’s black bollocks, we’re not equipped! The southcoast is swarming with Sunwheel galleys. Give their hazed troops any reason to land, we’ll see Alland’s trees put to the torch with intent to smoke out our families like vermin.’

  Still seated, the High Earl bit back. ‘Then you might want to save your bristles and fight for trouncing Light-rabid fanatics!’

  ‘They’ll attack our north flank out of Atchaz, as well!’ the hatchet-faced veteran snarled, embittered. ‘We’ll be overrun. Struck down in cold blood, and for what? By the point on Dharkaron Avenger’s Black Spear! What brazen hope can be salvaged? If we’re lucky, our seasoned ranks will be pressed to defend us at hundreds to one!’


  Erlien rose to his towering height. His icy blue eyes raked the company. ‘Yes. And we’re scrapping to see how much of our war band should rush to the slaughter at first engagement?’

  ‘Best to die free, if the compact’s to fall,’ a grizzled chieftain yelled from the side-lines. ‘Pack up our children. March them north with all speed. Those who are fit to survive the journey must plead for the Fellowship’s refuge with the spellbinder on guardwatch at Methisle.’

  Shand’s caithdein smiled, now primed to provoke. ‘But the Prince of Rathain insists there’s a recourse. He’s given us his promise to lend help for the numbers we can keep living.’

  The eldest veteran shoved through the press, a rumpled cock in a brigandine stitched out of boiled leather and elk bone. ‘Royal or not, he brings us a flawed trust!’

  A second dissenter expounded, ‘I, too, bore witness the last time his Grace visited Alland from Merior. We heard him describe the geas that binds him. The curse of Desh-thiere is not revoked! His Grace’s own word once warned us to beware! The Mistwraith’s foul working undermines his intent. It can sap his free will, even claim him. If he fights at our side, he might turn, or go mad. We can’t sanction that danger. Only a fool would rely on his sword-arm among us!’

  Linked into rapport, Elaira stopped breathing. Restraint veiled her distress: for that harsh accusation held only truth. The Mistwraith’s curse might well awaken. If its raw drive subsumed Arithon’s nature, his allies would be caught without recourse. The anguish of that incontrovertible flaw had almost shattered his spirit during his challenging passage through Kewar. Now braced to absorb his shamed recoil, Elaira extended her tactful support.

  Yet Arithon did not flinch, even as Erlien’s shark smile widened. ‘By Ath, are we gone to the dogs like the town-born? Here, if I recall, we allow the condemned man to speak in defence before judgement!’

  No comment, from Arithon. He failed to bridle. More startling still, his green eyes stayed wide-lashed. Elaira, who touched his bared heart, sensed his flicker of masked amusement.

  If the High Earl suspected, he rose to the match, suave as honey spread over poison. ‘You may test his royal mettle. Push hard as you wish. The stakes are not small: his Grace has granted my son a crown prince’s oath and embraced him for Rathain as liegeman.’ A gesture towards Kyrialt forced affirmation. The young man looked peaked. He knew his father’s badgering ways: every circling feint would be closed without mercy upon the misfortunate victim.

  ‘If that signal honour does not bear enough weight,’ the High Earl ran on with relish, ‘Rathain’s prince has shared guest oath under my roof. Most who stand here saw him drain the cup that pledged amity! If, after all, his Grace dares to lie, as caithdein, under the law of this realm, I will be required to break him.’

  The war-captain ruffled up like a falcon just hooded and leashed to the block. The chieftain beside him pursed sour lips, while a scout towards the rear hawked behind his closed fist, ready to spit at the feet of the effete royal among them.

  The scarred tracker who tended the torch was first to try Erlien’s challenge. ‘We’ve got to sit through a nattering parley? Then have done! Let his Grace state his case on his merits.’

  Least restrained of them all, the healer-trained grandame grumbled a wither ing phrase in old dialect. ‘Who trusts a man who won’t carry a weapon?’

  A scout catcalled. ‘Daelion Fatemaster’s mark on my name! Should we follow a sniveller? There’s no butty born with two bollocks who shrinks at blooding cold steel on his enemies.’

  Lord Erlien turned, his hawk’s profile tinged ruddy by flame-light. ‘You do have a strategy,’ he invited the prince, seated still, his laced fingers artful as sculpture. ‘We’d like to hear out your plan of attack. You’ve already said you refuse to spin Darkness. Won’t sow fear through our enemy’s ranks by means of initiate talent. If the man is too proud, and the master too scrupulous, just how do you intend to participate?’

  Arithon stirred, set his feet on the ground, his unruffled humour intact. ‘I came to defend. Nor can I be badgered to raise Shadow, or cause injury for the least of your fatal offensives.’

  ‘Cringing daisy, I said so!’ the war-captain barked. ‘Speak fast, ere we slice you to mincemeat!’ His callused fists fended off the two chieftains who surged to draw knives for the insult.

  Savagely pleased by their bursting aggression, Lord Erlien towered over the diminutive prince on the hassock. ‘Don’t claim you’ll spare Selkwood with naught but that jewelled bauble of a lyranthe?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Arithon, unperturbed. ‘She’s no pretty toy, but a masterbard’s instrument.’ Against the explosive muscle and shouts, he gave no ground, except to arise empty-handed before them. ‘You can listen! Bear witness yourselves. See if my act of protection is binding. Or you can fight and send your strongest to die! Don’t ask me, then, to applaud for the pride of walking blind in your forefathers’ footsteps.’

  While the uproar redoubled, and more roughnecks ploughed forward, Kyrialt’s grip locked on his sword-hilt. Yet Lord Erlien’s voice arrested the rush to thrash Rathain’s prince for rank insolence. ‘You’d lay a singer’s warding on Selkwood?’ His surprise swept the gathering, while the crowding insurgents exclaimed with stung disbelief.

  ‘I’m proposing to try,’ Rathain’s crown prince appealed, then smiled with a grace to wrench heart-strings. ‘My theory can be tested tonight. If I fail, then I promise you’ll still have the time to fall back on armed force.’

  ‘A stripling talent can shoulder this feat?’ The war-captain’s doubtful glance darted between his High Earl and the prince, whose fine build was eclipsed by Kyrialt’s strapping prowess.

  That able young liegeman refused to speak: not for a trained sorcerer whose unfathomable wiles blindsided his sire’s ferocity. Shocked quiet, but not mollified, the High Earl of Alland had to accept that brash dare at face value. His order reddened the ears of the sceptical tracker, and sent the man scurrying to fetch the heirloom lyranthe …

  ‘Stay with me, beloved.’ The plea crossed the empathic link of the scrying. Elaira sighed as the intimate contact cradled her like a caress.

  Such flooding tenderness melted her heart, but could not unstring her concern. ‘Could I do less? The High Earl who pads at your heels is not tame. If you fail to satisfy, his wolfish following will rip you down like staked carrion. At least I’ll know where to seek your remains. That’s assuming a dismembered corpse is left to require a memorial.’

  Arithon’s humour downplayed her fear. ‘If Erlien gnashes his teeth any harder, there won’t be a fang left intact for the ripe spree of slaughter.’

  ‘Well, Kyrialt’s worried,’ Elaira pointed out. ‘Somebody ought to be holding his sword-hand. That’s if you don’t want to drive him berserk before he can sire hale offspring.’

  ‘You’ve seen Glendien,’ Arithon quipped in response. ‘She’ll set him a clutch. That’s the price of mating young oak with a fire-brand.’

  ‘You say!’ Elaira felt her cheeks warm. ‘Clear your business in Alland. I’ll make you a blaze to torch down stars and moon.’

  ‘You have, love. Already. I’m branded, soul deep. If your meddling Prime Matriarch values her life, she’ll leap high and fast to dissolve every obstacle she’s raised between us.’ Which framed his bald warning: Elaira could sense the shocking, grim force behind his bed-rock sincerity. Whether the trial ahead brought him triumph, or the bitterest, agonized failure, Arithon Teir’s’Ffalenn desired her presence, spun through the weave of his heart’s hope.

  Just now, threat to Alland commanded priority. At one mind with her living awareness, as he had not dared to indulge since Etarra, he baited Lord Erlien’s mettlesome scouts and lured them into the deeps of Selkwood forest. Throughout, he was chaffed for his frivolous errand. Others berated his untoward character with slangs and ribald aggression.

  ‘If you wanted the evening to tomcat, why couldn’t you tell us you itched for a wench?’<
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  ‘No sweet pickings, there!’ someone else quipped. ‘Not since Kyrialt’s hussy got her licks in first and declared he’s got ice cubes for bollocks.’

  Arithon laughed. ‘This happened after her fingers got singed?’

  ‘Try harder,’ jabbed Kyrialt in his wife’s defence. ‘The lady’s equipped to pick her own fights. She’d hammer Dharkaron himself, just for sport. You lot would be spurned to bay at the moon and gnaw the shat bones of the hindmost.’

  Such boisterous by-play lasted until they reached the prince’s obscure destin ation. Broken out of the velvety murk of the pines, Arithon entered a clearing rinsed under starlight. Hush fell over the crowd at his heels. On stopped breath, their jeering stayed silenced. Ahead rose one of the moss-capped, carved stones the Ilitharis Paravian guardians had laid down to demark the sanctity of Alland’s free wilds.

  Elaira divined Arithon’s intent as he knelt to unwrap his fine instrument. ‘You plan to awaken the old centaur wardings and raise the arcane defences of Selkwood Forest?’

  ‘I will try,’ returned Arithon, while around him, the scouts recoiled in shock as they also guessed his brash strategy.

  ‘Blessed Ath, you’re not serious!’ Kyrialt gasped, afraid to speak over a whisper. ‘Your Grace, do you know what you dare? Is there language to chasten such arrogance?’

  For the brazen endeavour just claimed was no trifle. A crowned high king rightfully oath-bound to Shand, and attuned to the cardinal elements, would be loath to disturb the coils of quiescent Paravian enchantment. Such a mystical working must rival the reach and strengths of a Fellowship Sorcerer.

  The forces laid down here could ignite mortal flesh or burn out the mind with insanity.

  The bard spoke no word. He gave no apology. A slight figure merged with the stone’s looming shadow, he slipped the cover from his lyranthe. Silver strings flashed, needle-thin, as his deft fingers perfected the pitch.