Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  While the baby burbled and sucked on the pearls, Mearn’s lady backed up her assertion: besides Parrien’s fleet, harrying the coast with the ferocity of a wolf pack, Sevrand commanded the garrison at the Sea Gate, and the sentinel turrets flanking the harbour mouth. Field divisions under Keldmar secured the outlying farm-steads for the crofters, who cured the winter’s meat in the smoke-houses and gathered the last cutting of hay.

  Fianzia asked Fionn Areth to verify fact: that the captains at large stood with the front ranks, backing Bransian’s staunchest veterans. Through Talvish, the grass-lander knew the details of Vhandon’s latest strike forays. He was urged to describe the rings of set traps, engineered to bloody the enemy advance.

  Since clan custom required a father’s presence at birth, Mearn was the brother kept closest. ‘My husband has charge of the outermost walls.’ A steady hand laid on her swollen stomach, Fianzia finished her reassurances.

  ‘Why doesn’t she mention the trebuchets, or the placement of the new ballista?’ Fionn Areth demanded of Jeynsa at a spiked whisper.

  ‘Because every citizen born under s’Brydion rule has studied the engines of war. Didn’t you notice the crews at their drill? They’re craftsfolk.’ Jeynsa swiped off the flies that bothered the harness horse under her charge, then added, ‘Defence of these homes will not be left to chance. Every one of these wives knows her archery. The young here learn sword-play as school-children.’

  Yet arrows and stone-shot and skilled handling of weapons could not stop an avatar wielding raw light.

  Fionn Areth cringed, gut-sick to recall the legitimate claims: accounts sworn by townsmen elsewhere, that insisted clan mothers in the wilds of Deshir raised their children to wage bloody war. Daring, impatient, he pressed for the truth, if only to silence his conscience. ‘If Tal Quorin’s slaughter was not a mistake, s’Ilessid justice will make a clean end to the lie that puts steel in the hands of the innocent.’

  Jeynsa did not strike him. She stared him down, until the unquiet shadow that darkened her eyes hackled him to clamped teeth.

  Then she said, ‘I’d have you witness the head-hunters’ league at their work. Before being spread-eagled for rapine, then butchered with my scalp cut as trophy fringe on a saddle-cloth, I will teach my daughters to use a sharp knife. Or my sons, that your false avatar’s mercy would see cuffed in irons and branded for slavery.’

  ‘Only the criminal condemned row the galleys,’ Fionn Areth retorted. ‘Do you clansfolk not also slaughter for lies? How many of these people have been told they’ll raise arms for a turncoat spy’s act of treason?’

  Jeynsa’s smile was savage. ‘Listen and learn.’

  For a ruddy laundress now broached the issue headlong. ‘Has anyone in Alestron borne recent witness to the s’Ilessid’s rogue powers of Light?’

  ‘Since Vastmark? Mearn has, when he served the duke’s wiles as ambassador sent to Avenor.’ Fianzia delivered the harsh assessment, unflinching. ‘He would urge you, each one, to value your lives before your possessions.’

  The impact of her quiet statement turned heads, that her husband was not stationed above the Mathiell Gate, beyond risk of the front line of fire. As nothing else could, the poise of Mearn’s lady defined the steely integrity upholding the s’Brydion defence.

  Tensioned quiet remained, torn by a wail as an aunt reached to rescue the pearls from the infant, who stuffed the whole string in his drooling mouth. No untouched observer, the lady tousled the babe’s curls, then graciously left him the gift of her mangled jewellery. ‘Keep your nephew and all of your kinsfolk safe,’ she said, and smiled, and retired to the driver’s seat on the wagon. ‘As you will, give your names to the quartermaster at the gate-house garrison.’

  ‘Never! Not while your husband’s at risk,’ the smith’s raw-boned relative declared. ‘Should our courage be any less than your own?’

  Mearn’s lady inclined her head. She gathered the reins of the team in firm hands, while her oddly rankled young escort clambered aboard to ride on.

  Stop after stop, Fianzia heard questions and spoke, and consoled countless fretful children. Her rounds did not finish until the last hamper was emptied. By then, the late shadows bled the warmth and colour out of the teeming streets.

  The wagon team climbed uphill towards home. Fionn Areth and Jeynsa sat elbow to elbow on the dropped tail-board, backs nestled against the stacked basketry, while the flies buzzed over the lees in the wine jugs. Barking dogs, the screams of scavenging gulls, and the horn-call that foreran the watch change carried through the grind of the wheels. Day fled, while the shingle roofs dropped away in stepped tiers to the patchwork of fields, far beneath.

  Against the cries of a street vendor hawking two penny charms for young lovers, the goatherd laced into contention again. ‘You don’t believe that your crown prince is blameless.’

  ‘Did you see nothing in front of your eyes?’ Jeynsa shoved erect, cold fire in her jade eyes. ‘Do you think those families don’t deserve to survive? Or that the indulgence of one man’s sensibilities should be gratified at their expense? Why not ask Fianzia what kind of legacy she would leave to her unborn child? Life’s owed, for a life.’

  Certainly, there, history spoke in support: the s’Brydion withdrawal from Lysaer’s campaign had salvaged the Master of Shadow’s entrenched fight in Vastmark. Because of Mearn’s warning, rushed out of Avenor, Tysan’s clansmen had sent the timely message that enabled Dakar to unmask the Koriani snare laid to trap Arithon at Riverton.

  ‘I don’t call my liege to account for the sake of position, or lineage,’ said Jeynsa s’Valerient with unblinking candour. ‘I came because I believe in defending the lives of civilians. One might ask, Fionn Areth: what besides rancour draws you?’

  ‘Truth,’ the mulish Araethurian insisted. ‘Since I lost a misplayed challenge at arms, I was promised the chance to determine whether your prince is a criminal killer. He’s already been condemned, by Alliance decree.’ Passion flamed, in blind disregard. ‘At heart, do you know? Is your Teir’s’Ffalenn the minion of evil declared by Lysaer as Spinner of Darkness?’

  To which sweeping mouthful, Fianzia interjected, ‘Rathain’s prince is a man. Human enough to rue his mistakes and to challenge his outworn assumptions. That’s what Mearn said, when I put the question. Grandame Dawr’s tart wisdom agrees. If Liesse held the influence to batter her duke off his bone-headed complacency, I would not be lending false comfort to matrons! Alone, without loyalty to my marriage, I’d give birth at old Tirans, secure in the wilds of Atwood!’

  The pinnacle towers of the citadel were bathed in the fading light of the afterglow, while twilight deepened over the outlying fields. To the captains at arms who safeguarded the ground before the remorseless advance, the swish of the crofters’ scythes through the hayfields kept time to the tramp of the Alliance troops who marched in to the boom of the drums. The enemy established their lines beyond bowshot. They raised the banners of East Halla’s towns, and other, far-northern garrisons, inbound from the sea routes past Vaststrait.

  Alestron’s farm-hands set their sweating backs to their work. Strove to turn a blind eye, even while harried by the intermittent whine of an arrow, or the punching crack of loosed crossbolts as hostile archers tested their range. The grain shocks were gathered and tied. Fodder was roped onto carts under torch-light, while across the plain, more fires lit the enemy, swarming to close for the siege.

  ‘They’ll have us bottled within a few days,’ observed the grizzled scout, arrived overdue with fresh blood on his hands to recite his dismal report. ‘Time to leave them a singeing wee present and run, if you’ll hear my considered opinion.’

  Keldmar laughed. ‘Soon enough, laddie! Get along. Clean your knives. Rest and grab a hot meal.’ To Vhandon, who leaned with his back to a sheep-gate, taciturn as weathered teak, he mused, ‘Damn well not soon enough to sow havoc!’

  The craggy field-captain never minced words. ‘You’ve planned your parting gift for these invade
rs?’

  ‘Haven’t we just!’ Keldmar’s raffish stubble split with delight. ‘The cook’s cobbled up a spiked broth to be left on the hobs in the farm-wives’ kitchens. Tastes like your granny’s savoury soup. Goes down slick as butter besides. Too late, the Light’s dupes’ll be gushing like gossips, but from the duff end, doubled at the latrines.’

  ‘Ath wept!’ Vhandon had always been sharp on his feet. ‘He used unboiled swamp water?’

  Keldmar’s smile turned evil. ‘Dysentery’s no damned fun in the field. Make a few whimpering pansies bolt for home, once their bung-holes chap raw and start bleeding. And anyway, bowmen cramped up with the squirts will have a rough time taking aim.’ His sideward squint narrowed. ‘Are you frisky, tonight? I’ve an errand needs running inside enemy lines.’

  ‘Never ask,’ Vhandon stated. ‘My troop’s at the ready.’

  They would be more than keen; Keldmar’s sibling had once loaned this war-captain to Arithon to clear a debt for mishandling. The veteran campaigner had been returned, but resharpened: depth now ran beneath that straight-thinking intelligence.

  Though Keldmar shared the s’Brydion penchant for armed force, he was not the brainless brawn he appeared, to blindside his opponents. As he realized the older man measured his mood, he looked away.

  ‘I want you to go in yourself,’ he declared. ‘Have the villagers’ hedge witch fashion some talismans to muddle Lysaer’s sighted priests. Then pick ten from your company and find out when the false avatar plans to arrive.’

  Vhandon took pause. Then he said, gently blunt, ‘Since my presence should not be required for that mission, what do you fear to expose?’

  Keldmar’s frown tightened. He was never easy with intimate questions. Vhandon was his elder by more than ten years; had been the mentor he had stretched to match in callow youth as example. Never Bransian’s prized field officer by accident, all but a part of the family, now Vhandon was given the role of a scout whose assignment ran beyond dangerous.

  ‘Why?’ Vhandon prompted, as silence extended, thick with the tang of banked cookfires, and the musty scent after hard frost. ‘What do you dread for me, or yourself?’

  ‘Avenger’s own death!’ Keldmar swore. ‘I’d not send you to a sure end as a suicide!’

  ‘No,’ Vhandon agreed. Tonight, against his natural grain, he let down his granite mask. ‘But both of us have too much seasoned experience. Survival may force me to return your answer by signal arrow, then stage my escape through the far side of the lines. If you want me shut safely out of this war, I deserve to know what you’re thinking.’

  Keldmar recoiled, then curbed his venomous retreat. ‘Ath, I can’t hide this! We’ve fought at each other’s shoulder for too long.’ How he hated to grapple the emotions he preferred to vent, picking blustering fights. ‘You realize Jeynsa’s decision must break Prince Arithon’s ultimatum. With his Grace gone, you freely gave your loyalty back to Alestron. But sitting here, I don’t know how to ask what you feel.’ Anguished, he clenched the fists crossed at his knee. ‘Are you fighting because Bransian gave no other choice? Or do you honestly think we can win this?’

  Before Vhandon’s response, Keldmar smashed on, ‘If the Master of Shadow returns to spare Jeynsa, how will you reconcile your split allegiance?’ Then, ‘No!’ he snapped, over stripped nerves and hurt, ‘No, don’t speak! I’ve granted you space to choose your own fate because I don’t want to hear how you’ll answer!’

  ‘I’ll tell you, anyway,’ Vhandon persisted. ‘Doubt packs more damage, kept secret.’ His stalwart manner ploughed on with an eloquent care that was new. ‘I don’t know what the future will bring us, or what fate may befall your brothers. But my birthright lies here. This is my home ground. I won’t be dusting my hands of our friendship, or bolting for Atwood.’ Through a tensioned breath, he regarded the sky, pricked by cold stars and a rising moon through the gathering sea-mist. His form was a statement of unshattered strength, from the trim of his officer’s surcoat, to the competent hang of his sword and his matched brace of knives.

  That self-possession lent Vhandon the vulnerable daring to hazard the rest. ‘There are depths to Prince Arithon few understand. I’ve lost my temper with him often enough. And bled from the heart every time I’ve encountered the mercy he shields behind satire. That hurt made me change. I had to drop every rigid concept I held over the meaning of honour. Though I don’t see your duke’s act of war the same way, I won’t disown my roots. If your citadel stands, it will be for right reasons. If it falls, what survives will be raised out of ruin, reforged with more flexible temper.’

  Though Keldmar’s casual posture was forced, and the grip on his knee now was shaking, Vhandon finished off with a love that exposed without flinching.

  ‘My commitment is made to serve Alestron. Lean on the fact I will stay here. Our needs have never been separate, my friend. Brought against his free will, his Grace of Rathain is going to be savaged by pressures no one can foresee. You will need a bridge. If your family name can survive this unscathed, you’ll have Talvish and me at your side to stand as liaison.’

  Keldmar pushed erect, too embarrassed to bare his own spirit. ‘You don’t need to go, personally,’ he allowed, cringing red. ‘Any ten trusted scouts are sufficient to handle this foray instead.’

  ‘No, friend, they’re not.’ Vhandon surveyed the man who had grown in his shadow, since their earliest days wielding practice sticks. They had shared the joy. The same punishment, too, nursing the bruises and triumphs that raised them to mastery-at-arms. For all Keldmar’s juggernaut muscle and will, despite the courage that wedded his life to s’Brydion defence, he nursed a bitter uncertainty. Tonight, no sharpened sword or soft word could assuage the storm raging inside him.

  His blood heritage had been hounded by enemies for too long. Survival came at too high a cost for a blindfolded leap on another man’s faith.

  As darkness fell, marred by the fires and smoke of the enemy war host, the field-captain longest in active service held his peace. He knew not to try his titled commander with a comforting clasp on the shoulder. ‘I will go in myself,’ he insisted, flat calm. ‘But only to prove my conviction as truth to rely on, when I return.’

  The second Alliance entourage was dispatched to confront the s’Brydion stronghold at daybreak, well after Vhandon’s picked squad had departed.

  This pass, the approach to Alestron’s barred gate was attempted by the Alliance’s gaunt Lord Justiciar. That worthy proposed no amicable settlement. Clad in arrogance and finery, he bore the Light’s sealed arraignment against the recalcitrant duke and his blood family. No one spared time for his pompous town document, sent by a posturing upstart. Since his glittering cavalcade never asked leave, Bransian also declined every civil respect. No safe conduct was granted.

  Lysaer’s polished state overture encountered, instead, Keldmar’s entrenched field troop, and one arrow, shot dead-centre through the cloth-of-gold blazon worn by its delegate.

  The corpse was packed off at an indecorous gallop. Pounding after the caparisoned horse, the Light’s ceremonial escort took panicked flight, spurred ragged by more hostile volleys released by Alestron’s crack marksmen. Sunwheel banners made irresistible targets, flushed into routing retreat. Cocky defenders leaped at the excuse to display their frustrated prowess. The exercise inspired Keldmar’s outlying companies to skilled contest and spirited wagers. No one else died. But the avatar’s stainless, white standard returned, sliced to fluttering rags in the hands of the rattled bearer.

  The savaged procession reached friendly lines. Too hot to rein up, they belted in lathered disorder through the troop tents of the central encampment. If they dressed their torn ranks before they slowed down, nothing could mend their decorum. The murdered corpse of Lysaer’s titled emissary woke turmoil and rage in its wake. Camp-followers shouted. Wash women and cooks broke away from their wagons to scream with indignation. Dedicates and new recruits faltered at arms drill, then jumped as their sergeants ba
rked to upbraid their strayed focus.

  Through the tolling bells of alarm, and the outcries of furious priests, the officers bugled for order. The sharpened swords, and the honed sinew of men might be promised for war against Shadow. But not before the Light’s avatar chose to unsheathe the aimed spear of his vengeance.

  Therefore, the horse with its blood-stained burden was passed through the innermost check-point. The mauled cavalcade crossed the gamut of garrison flags and filed past the officers’ quarters. Now trailed by an irate mob of captains, they came to a stop at the white-and-gold canopy that fronted the Sunwheel pavilion.

  The experienced strategist from new Tirans held charge of the Alliance command, ranked second beneath the Lord Sulfin Evend, still absent to levy troops on the southcoast. A blustery man not given to patience, he burst from the tent in a spatter of shaving soap to dress down the tumultuous intrusion. His balding servant chased after, in vain: the offered towel was hammered aside by the livid standard-bearer, who brandished his shredded banner and howled in shame for the injury.

  ‘By Dharkaron’s Spear, I haven’t gone blind!’ The lather was swiped off with an immaculate bracer, while the displaced equerry winced. ‘We’re not here to mince words over etiquette! Nor is an enemy who won’t negotiate any cause for hysterics!’

  The field-captain advanced on the clustered horsemen. A hulking tyrant, he silenced their clamouring and issued brisk orders for the slaughtered envoy. ‘Bear our casualty inside. Then bring the women who work for the healers. I want the Lord Justiciar’s body laid out straightaway. He’ll be honoured in state with new robes and candles. Move to it! Clean him up before the Blessed Prince and his retinue arrive with the Mayor of Kalesh!’

  Two liveried servants left at a sprint, while the armed hotheads set hands to drawn swords, prepared to rally the ranks.