Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  Luhaine and Kharadmon were too far away, rushed offworld to reweave the mazing spellcraft that thwarted a deadly incursion of free wraiths. Asandir’s peril remained unresolved, obscured inside Scarpdale’s grimward. He would be beset: the drifters had lately weaned a black colt, spring’s get of the field Sorcerer’s trustworthy stallion, and surely sired to serve as successor.

  Traithe stood firm, while the raven dug uneasy claws into his threadbare mantle. The unsettled projection fuelled concern, that the Master of Shadow might wield too much influence. For best or worst, Arithon’s fate already held the indispensable linch-pin: the hope that fore-promised the Fellowship’s reunification, and also the adamant cipher that threatened the downfall of the Koriathain. Today’s repercussions could only inflame the Prime Matriarch’s grasping agenda. Selidie would redouble her efforts with even more wily diligence. Traithe ached, as he numbered the threads of entanglement: the ancient prophecy of Sanpashir’s Biedar, that predated mankind’s settlement on Athera, and never least, the precocious Masterbard’s talent, that opened the chance of redeeming the ravening spirits that languished upon Marak.

  The towering stakes riding just that one life smashed the frames of reliable augury.

  Brought to bear on the volatile crux at Alestron, none could guess how the balance of power might shift. Traithe surveyed the mismatched assembly lined up at the keep’s ill-made trestle: the eyes looking to him, both grim and exhilarated; old and young; expectant, and begging clear guidance. The Sorcerer felt unfit for the task of advising Melhalla’s council.

  Consumed as he was by foreboding, Traithe quieted his fretful raven. No Fellowship colleague could forsake his post, or shed the responsibility imposed by the dragons.

  To that end, a smaller disaster-in-waiting must be nipped off in the bud. Traithe measured the shining eyes of the clan heir, a fair-haired young talent who was the High Earl’s importunate issue. ‘You will dismiss that thought!’ he cracked in rebuke. ‘Make no mistake, son. You lack the strength to try Arithon’s path, or seek the Queen’s Grove here in Atwood. No plea you might raise could brave that dire peril, or raise the powers to unkey a grand portal. Never mistake altruistic intent for the tempered awareness born out of initiate training! Without such wisdom, you would meet your death, and bring no Paravian presence back to the realm to succour the need of your people!’

  As the cringing boy bowed his tow-head, the Sorcerer’s gruff manner eased. ‘Your caithdein needs you exactly as you are, young man. Even my Fellowship cannot solve the great mysteries, or force the old races out of withdrawal. We abide, man and woman, on our combined merits, though the future presents us with shadowed uncertainty.’

  ‘Should we fear, do you think?’ asked Melhalla’s caithdein. ‘Lysaer’s war host is mustered.’ The daily influx of additional troops ravaged the bounds of her territory. ‘If Arithon succeeds in weaning s’Brydion interests away from destruction, what will happen? Can we dare to lower Atwood’s defences and absorb the burden of Alestron’s refugees? At the ninth hour, how could our clan enclaves hope to sustain them, when we are hard-pressed ourselves? The old hatreds from outside are bound to prevail. What if the town garrisons unleash their armed might against us in concerted attack?’

  The old earl cut in, determined to keep the realm’s peace at his consort’s right hand. ‘Surely the false avatar’s combined horde could expand the siege and surround East Halla’s free wilds.’

  His point was not empty. The Alliance war host was massive enough to pose such a wide-ranging threat. All of the eastshore’s trade towns were involved, with too many ignorant factions aligned in support of Lysaer’s fanatical doctrine. Traithe sighed and sat down, harried by more than the pain that plagued his twisted leg. He had no long-term comfort to give. No sound planning to shape a solution. He could not back the promise, that another Sorcerer’s help could reach Atwood in time to avert disaster.

  The raven shifted clawed feet, too subdued for an aspect of the mysteries, enfleshed as a bird.

  ‘I grieve, as well, brother,’ Traithe sent without speaking.

  He stood alone, here, with the well-being of Melhalla’s clan presence left in his hands. He had no words to tell these proud people they were thrown at the mercy of whatever back-lash Arithon’s next actions might stir. With his Fellowship colleagues engaged beyond recourse, Traithe had no more than inadequate strength: such limited power as he could raise through the impairment of his crippled flesh.

  Surely worse, Asandir’s absence and Sethvir’s strapped resources left the unpredictable bent of Davien’s interests an open arena and total free rein.

  Autumn 5671

  Storm

  When Duke Bransian confronted his frothing suspicion that Elaira was Koriathain, his outspoken impulse stung the ears of his wife straightaway. ‘Toss the chit out on her meddling arse and let the false avatar’s priests have their field-day.’

  Liesse glared back at her husband over his spurned bowl of oatmeal. Shortened days stopped the chickens from laying. The dwindling hoard of eggs cold-stored in the spring-house for baking meant meagre breakfasts, which always fanned the ducal temper. ‘That enchantress snuck in here straight under the pack, with their wall-eyed talent and snooping noses. Raging hot as they are to burn hedge talent, they’re not stupid. Tweak the tail of the Koriani Order, and they’ll earn a catfight even their simpering avatar can’t win.’

  ‘I’d risk that and grin.’ The s’Brydion lord stabbed his spoon upright in his cold mush, both wrists chapped by the bite of his bracers, and his carping mood unabated. ‘Except the confounded witch might stir up who knows what vexing mischief to slap us in retaliation.’ His next sober thought was to order the problem set into irons and placed under locked confinement. ‘That way, we’ll keep any spell -driven wiles under our thumb in surveillance.’

  ‘You’ve abandoned sense!’ Liesse shrieked. ‘Like the dumb ox pricked on by the thorn goad, you’d back your shambling butt straight into the shafts and haul the dung cart for your enemies!’

  The duke barked out orders. His summary dispatch for arrest became stalled, because the wife hiked up her skirts and moved first. She kicked over her carved chair with a bang. Aflutter in layers of lace petticoats, she placed herself in the doorway and stymied the burly captain just given the ducal command.

  ‘You catty-whomping bitch!’ Bransian thrashed to his feet. ‘Interfere further, I’ll skin you for the grease to quiet the squeal in the gate winch!’

  ‘And does your drum windlass make such a noise? Who’d hear it?’ his wife cried. ‘Not the Mathiell Gate sentries! With you reared up on both your hind legs, and braying like a smacked jackass, it’s a wonder that anyone else gets the chance for two words and a simple answer!’

  The match burgeoned to shouting, overheard two floors down by Dame Dawr’s ubiquitous servants. The dowager’s sent runner short-cut through the back corridors and applied astute influence, which double salvo arrived just in time.

  Talvish strode up in his polished appointments, touched Liesse aside, and leaned an armoured shoulder against the door-jamb under dispute. With lazy provocation, he said, ‘Did you realize this Koriathain is Prince Arithon’s woman?’

  Politically sensitive as an explosion, that name pocked a gap in the argument.

  ‘Imprison her,’ said Talvish, ‘or show her the least gesture of discourtesy, and I can promise, as I know his Grace, that we’ll have a round of vindictive offence to smoke our hides pink with embarrassment. Worse yet, the woman’s a power in her own right. She spent a year with Ath’s adepts, Sidir says. Earn her enmity, you might have to beg for relief that’s as wishful as a cold bath in Sithaer.’

  ‘Piss on Dharkaron Avenger himself! I don’t simper and scrape before threats.’ Duke Bransian jerked his chin at his captain, fist laid on his sword to back up his bluster. ‘The woman’s live trouble and damned lucky at that, to bide in a cell as my prisoner.’

  Except Mearn sauntered up to the doorway outside, slit
-eyed as a prowling tiger. He was roguishly clad in a red velvet doublet. The empty, right sleeve had been pinned, with his burned sword-arm done up in strapping. ‘Evidently I’m missing out on a fight?’

  He slipped like a marsh wisp past Talvish, side-stepped the impasse on-going between Liesse and the armoured officer, and confronted his brother’s cocked rage. ‘You fish-brained mule! Crap into a gale, whose arse wears the stink?’

  ‘He’s grieving,’ warned Liesse. ‘It’s Keldmar’s loss hurting. He strikes out because inside, he’s bleeding.’

  ‘Ath, who isn’t?’ Mearn sucked a fast breath. ‘I pity the man who can’t cry.’ He snatched for the duke’s chair, poked his brother, and snapped, ‘Sit! You’ve gone dumb and blind to current events! Dakar’s in recovery, and likely to block any effort you make to upset the Fellowship’s assets. We need allies, you idiot. These are Arithon’s people, here to help hold our gates if they want to live long enough to spare Jeynsa.’

  Bransian snapped a signal for his officer to stand down. While Talvish looked on with glacial eyes, and Mearn held his ground like poised flame, the pause stretched. For a second, the rising sun through the casements streamed across the laid table and sparked stinging high lights off crystal and cutlery.

  ‘We won’t see attack till the dark of the moon,’ the duke stated at unpleasant length. He spun the oak seat. Kicked back the jut of his scabbard and perched, his regard tracking his younger brother as he folded his arms on the chair-back to brangle. ‘You actually have your eye trained on Sidir.’

  ‘I do, at that.’ Mearn’s sly grin emerged. ‘My men need his touch, setting spring traps.’

  No paltry asset, the skilled ingenuity that had made Rathain’s clansmen feared far and wide for their viciousness. Despite raging loss, the Duke of Alestron had not jettisoned reason for stubborn insanity. ‘You think you’ll wheedle that spellbinder’s assistance, and engage his talent as well? A gambler’s thrill, Mearn. This nest of vipers we’ve harboured for Arithon’s interests is dangerous! Nary a one owes their loyalty to me, or this town, which stresses my liver. I feel like the gaffed frog who doesn’t yet know that his legs will get fried up for dinner!’

  ‘Have the lot watched,’ Mearn agreed. ‘Who’s better than family? Though how anyone around here can get a damned thing past Dawr’s perked-up ears is a nuisance I’d give up the cards to eliminate.’

  ‘Old besom was born with two sleepless eyes set into the back of her head,’ agreed Bransian. ‘Got a nose long enough to stick crosswise into whatever’s been stowed behind a locked keyhole, besides.’

  He snapped up a cold piece of toast and bit down, which signalled to Liesse and the disgruntled officer that the air had cooled enough for intelligent discussion. The grandame’s usurping decision would stand, over Talvish’s reassignment. The troublesome goatherd and the s’Valerient daughter would stay curtailed by the blond captain’s aggressive attendance.

  ‘We’ve got a war, outside, poised to rip out our guts,’ Alestron’s lord groused through his beard. ‘Can’t afford trouble stirred up inside, fit to raise spellcraft against us.’ He waved Mearn off. ‘Let the weasel kiss the bared fangs of the serpent. Find out if yon pack of initiate talent can be tamed enough to recruit.’

  Mearn s’Brydion wasted no time. First breath, his low-voiced instruction to Talvish ordered Sidir’s blades and recurve returned. ‘Clan honour won’t let him strike at our backs. Not with the might of the towns set to flatten us.’ Belting down stairwells two steps at a stride, the pale swordsman’s longer legs an effortless match for his quickness, the duke’s youngest brother broached the stickier problem. ‘We’ve got to roust the Mad Prophet out of bed.’

  Talvish laughed. ‘You don’t. He’s already immersed his sore head in a hot tub. Suds up to the chin, and for the next hour, sweating out toxins, flat helpless.’ He added, serious, ‘You’ve got time to change clothes, well enough.’

  ‘Good.’ Mearn grinned back. ‘My singed surcoat’s waiting.’ Which was shrewd good sense: ball-room rags were pure genius to quell Bransian. But no forestborn scout with a Companion’s grim history would respect affectation, wrapped up in silk cuffs and braid trim.

  ‘I can’t stay to advise you,’ Talvish apologized. ‘Jeynsa’s shooting the butts into straw chaff with war points, and the nit-brained double’s too eager to brangle himself into mince. He’s already twitching to pick a ripe fight with yon fettlesome northern barbarian.’

  Mearn knew that chill tone. His keen glance flicked sidewards. ‘A warning?’

  Talvish nodded. ‘Walk softly with that one. He’s seen the rough side of Tal Quorin, the Havens, and Vastmark, and came through with a fist that once knocked Arithon onto his backside, cold senseless.’

  Mearn gave a near-soundless whistle. ‘By Dharkaron’s Black Chariot, did he so!’ Beyond jokes, the youngest brother s’Brydion was too canny to play-act, or press the martyr’s role, nursing an injury. With Talvish’s counsel still tumbling his thoughts, he presented himself at the shut door of Dakar’s bath chamber with a polite knock.

  A peeling curse arose in rebuff. ‘If you’re a man-servant with a razor, take off and stick it!’ Dakar added, ‘I’ll have no duke’s lackey with bloodthirsty fingers plying stropped steel at my windpipe!’

  Mearn let himself in. ‘And good morrow to you, also.’ Without invitation, he minced past the puddles slicked over the white marble floor-tiles. His singed surcoat, in fact, had been torn up for rags, as flammable lint to tip fire-arrows. Now dressed in serviceable leathers and plain steel, with his poulticed arm free of the sling, he paused by the towel-rack and rested a nonchalant elbow on Liesse’s best folded linen. ‘I should send you a maid with lascivious hands and a drink?’

  Dakar glared. His affront lost its edge, muffled through clouding steam lifted off the hot water by the chill breeze through the arrow-slits. His round face was scarlet. Though his eyes were bloodshot as a cut of raw beef, his contempt sliced back without quarter. ‘You presume I’d loll back and pant in sweet dalliance, while Lysaer’s pack of minions hammers down your front gates? Think again.’

  Mearn licked his lips; smiled. ‘By the nitpicking pen of the Fatemaster’s judgement! Then you weren’t so far gone that you missed what we left out for welcome down in the trade precinct?’

  ‘Inside the closed homes, and behind the craft shops’ locked shutters?’ The Mad Prophet huffed, his greying head sunk to the ear-lobes, and his breath scattering strayed bubbles through his moustache. ‘I saw enough to show you a hedge witch’s way of striking a spark inside a clay fire-pot.’

  Mearn tapped the plain hilt of his weapon, left-handed. He said in testing overture, ‘I did not want this war.’

  ‘Neither did Elaira.’ Dakar’s bedraggled beard lifted clear of the soap scum. ‘Don’t comment. You’ll regret the effrontery, since she’s come through the doorway behind you.’

  Blindsided, Mearn spun like a flicked snake. The taunt was no feint: the enchantress stood, not a pace from his back. As slender as he, though a handspan shorter, she regarded him with eyes like dawn mist, and the braid of her deep auburn hair draped, unadorned, down her shoulder.

  ‘Are you the ambassador, come pleading for peace after last night’s appalling reception?’ Unsmiling, she added, as though her thought snatched the thread of intent from his mind, ‘The citadel may call on my skills as a healer. Payment will be met in straight trade for my upkeep, with no debt incurred by my order.’ Before Mearn could voice his nettled rejoinder, she cut in with commanding expediency. ‘Yes, you did see the banners of Koriani pavilions pitched by the enemy camp, past your walls. They are not in conflict. The sisters who’ve come are in charitable service, equipped to succour the wounded and assist with the dying.’

  ‘Never ours,’ Mearn snapped, cautious. He was thinking of blind men.

  ‘You’ve got sentries in agony, and case in point, your arm needs something more than a burn salve?’ Elaira laughed outright, unintimidated by the hackles of u
pset male authority. ‘Ath above, I won’t bite!’ Her tartness had vanished. ‘Come into the lair of the spider and sit. Sidir’s drawn his teeth also, since you gave your trust, and sent Talvish back with his weapons.’

  The tall Companion from Halwythwood was not hard to convince to contribute his skills to Mearn’s day-time forays. ‘Slavers and locusts that strip growing trees? I would see that sort of two-legged parasite across Fate’s Wheel without breeding.’

  Sidir asked for twine, sharpened stakes, flint strikers, and shaved birch, his spare requests clothed in glass-crisp forest accents. ‘I work alone,’ he declared with finality. ‘No one hangs over my shoulder.’

  Allowed his strict solitude, he applied his skilled knowledge from dawn to dusk without stint. Perhaps as a foil to thwart Fionn Areth, past doubt disdainful of living pent-up inside of stonewalls, he came and went with a reserve to confound even Talvish’s secretive nature. He would simply appear, when Mearn’s company moved out. Though his high-strung, tuned instincts made him start, in close quarters, his flickering glance absorbed everything. Sidir never needed to ask for directions. His scout’s footfall made not a sound. Once the squads crossed the bridge by the Wyntok Gate, he would melt away, unseen in their midst, as they fanned out and flitted like ghosts between the steep lanes and shut houses.

  Their tasks were done quickly, in silence. Sweating in the cold air, flinching from the sudden scramble of rats and the yowl of feral alley cats, they worked their way through the attics and crawled through the darkened root-cellars. Length and breadth across the lower precinct, they strung ropes and tackles, and used sharpened chain under muffling rags to saw through strategic support beams.