Stormed Fortress

by Janny Wurts

  ‘Was this necessary?’ Kyrialt snapped, on edge for the affront to his liege’s dignity.

  Davien glanced sidewards. ‘Would I trifle? Your prince can assimilate what he’s learned with less trauma through his initiate use of the dream-state.’

  Rather than test the Sorcerer’s censure, Kyrialt retrieved the dropped awl. He scooped up the lacing and unfinished strap leather, in haste to keep pace with a creature whose reputation frightened him beyond sense. ‘If you knew that his Grace would suffer this way, why did you come here to bedevil him?’

  ‘Is your loyalty true enough to find out?’ Davien turned his back and strode directly toward the scout’s tent appointed to Arithon. As the flustered liegeman stayed in flanking step, the Sorcerer said quickly, ‘Don’t try to speak here! Not if you don’t like unwarranted notice, since I won’t respond to anyone’s bothersome questions.’

  They passed the s’Taleyn lodge tent, where no sharp-eyed scout raised the alarm. Bore on across the central encampment, where two younger women scraping raw hides failed to look up, as Davien’s moving shadow flicked over them. No laughing children broke off from their play. The elderly man who heated pine resin for torches said nothing. Another, who split grouse feathers to fletch damaged arrows, kept on telling jokes to a neighbour, as though no untoward apparition circled the cookfire or passed in front of him.

  Kyrialt followed. Jaw clenched, he bore uncivil witness as his father’s security was invaded with high-handed effrontery.

  Davien paid no mind. Whatever dire warding allowed him to pass, even the seer-gifted hunters who read flux lines did not notice his passage. Unerring, the Sorcerer ducked into the guest tent, with the clan liegeman stalking behind.

  The door flap slapped shut, leaving gloom. If Kyrialt bristled, thrown back on scout’s instincts, the darkness afforded the Sorcerer no inconvenience.

  Davien flipped back his mantle and laid Arithon down on the pine-stuffed pallet. ‘Your Grace,’ he pronounced, as respectful, his touch straightened out tumbled limbs and arranged the pillow. ‘I will not leave your side until you can rest without reliving the carnage through nightmares.’ Though his unconscious charge seemed unfit to be listening, Davien finished off with a tart remonstrance. ‘One thing further, I don’t fancy repeating myself.’

  He unpinned his rich mantle, that once had been gifted and left, overlooked in the leave-taking from Feylind’s brig. The jet cloth tumbled over the motionless prince. Davien smoothed the fine wool, with its pearl satin lining and exceptional silver embroidery. Then he dragged up a hassock and perched with intent to honour his promise.

  The liegeman who witnessed was left at a loss. Aware of the Sorcerer’s black eyes upon him, bright with irony and obtuse humour, Kyrialt set Arithon’s unfinished handiwork down on the empty trestle. If every protective line of his carriage screamed to stay standing at sword’s reach, he had the courage not to act foolishly. Kyrialt dragged out the pine bench. He sat. Leashed his riled nerves through a quiet that pricked like a knife’s point.

  Davien chose to relent in due course. ‘I will say what should be put in words only once, to spare Arithon’s need to explain himself. He thought to leave for Alestron in ten days. My lesson has shown him, by graphic example, that he is ill prepared to support the experience.’

  Kyrialt released a pent breath. ‘What occurred in the King’s Glade has laid him wide open. Our healer can’t help. She says he’s not ailing. Yet at times, his Grace can’t bear the sound of his own voice. He won’t touch the strings of his lyranthe.’

  ‘That acute state of sensitivity will pass.’ Davien folded his artisan’s hands. Under spilled light from a tear in the canvas, his sculpted knuckles wore the spark of a trefoil ring, silver inset with citrine. ‘You must understand. To break Desh-thiere’s curse, your liege extended himself to the verge of dissolution. He carried the scourge of the geas, self-contained, and went far enough to surrender himself to the mysteries. Throughout, he had to stay in command. Fully conscious, he held what could never be balanced, until the interlocked layers of his aura refined and all but sheared away. He did not die, because he willed to live, free. The healing he asked for respun his whole pattern, set under exalted influence. The gift of the Athlien Paravians will not fail him. He is still himself. Yet he needs to discover his natural balance. He battled the Mistwraith’s drive for so long, he can scarcely recognize his own spirit. Despite what he presumed, now he knows: he is not ready to withstand what awaits on the field at Alestron.’

  Kyrialt frowned. ‘The Paravian warding set in the old wall, can you understand what it did to him? Ilitharis would not work in disharmony. What note could Arithon hear that was damaging?’

  Against waiting stillness, perhaps reluctant, Davien decided to answer. ‘He heard joy.’

  Unbidden, Kyrialt recalled the sheer force that had seized and turned the wild fires of Lysaer’s assault. Before a truth that demolished resistance, his naked intellect faltered. All of his presupposed thoughts lay in error! Wrenched into humility, he shivered. ‘I see that I lack the experience upon which to base understanding.’

  Profound silence answered, conclusion suspended. Where wisdom was lacking, courage remained. Kyrialt dared. He tested the Sorcerer, whose name walked hand in glove with contention, and whose ascetic, intelligent features showed nothing at all in deep shadow. ‘You’ve implied something other than time may be needed?’

  Davien’s smile was sudden and bright. ‘You are worthy enough not to make a mistake. Yes, there is more. The s’Ilessid still suffers. No recourse exists, yet. Desh-thiere’s geas still grips Lysaer in wilful blindness. All of his choices are clouded. That madness can’t help but turn for the worse if Arithon comes into close contact. The half-brother will strive to murder his nemesis. To survive unscathed, your Master of Shadow may require Dakar’s help, or Elaira’s assistance to shield him.’

  Now Kyrialt did use the striker to brighten the tallow dip, the trembling move in defiance of the Sorcerer’s piercing regard. ‘Then stop him,’ he pleaded. ‘Let his Grace never enter the s’Brydion citadel. As his sworn protector, for the honour due him by this realm, I will have the Teir’ s’Taleyn, Lord Erlien, take action to back your decision.’

  ‘You can all try, and fail.’ Davien seemed amused. ‘Be sure this prince will reject every effort to override his free will.’ An impatient gesture foreran the venom drilled through the last line. ‘Dharkaron Avenge! Did you actually think I arranged today’s scrying merely for petty cruelty?’

  Kyrialt’s anger was damning. ‘Could any survivor of Shand’s royal lineage have a sound reason to trust you?’

  ‘This is not Shand’s sovereign,’ Davien stated, precise. Irritation gave way to fury that cut, the more dangerous under distrust. ‘Tell me, what other means, fair or foul, could have deferred your liege’s unwise planned departure from Alland? I never came for the sake of his s’Ahelas ancestry! Don’t make that assumption again.’

  So began the long and uneasy vigil, which ended before dawn the next morning. Kyrialt did not recall that he drowsed at his post. Yet through the night, as the tallow dip burned, Davien arose, undetected. All that remained of his high-handed visit was the magnificent black cloak, draped over a prince who rested past reach of harsh dreams; and the shoulder-strap, meant to hang Alithiel’s scabbard, that was left neatly finished, spread out on the trestle table.

  A man in no hurry to fare northward by galley never lacked for excuses to stall on a midautumn passage. Avenor’s state flagship might boast a superb crew, with spars and bright-work kept trim. Yet the stiff winds and high seas off the Cildein could still overmatch an oared vessel’s flat keel and low free-board. Sulfin Evend, Lord Commander of the Alliance war host, also sailed escort for the unwieldy flotilla bound for the siege of Alestron.

  The two dozen hulls straggled in his warship’s wake flew the banners of seven towns’ registries. They wallowed, as well, packed belowdecks with gear, and jammed by the ranks of the disparate compan
ies culled to fight by the southcoast muster. The arguments thrashed between the ships’ pursers and their equally contrary captains made each day’s logged course a predicament. Two severe storms had furthered delays. Once, the fleet sheltered at Ishlir’s sea-walled harbour. A second, more maddening hold-over was spent pitching at anchor, tucked inside a cove above Durn. By then, the new recruits were green-faced. Oarsmen and deck-hands turned rank as caged bears from dull food and over-tight quarters.

  Worse than the trials of weather and supply, Parrien s’Brydion’s packs of armed warships roved the sea-ways like nipping wolves. Their furtive night raids and gadding strikes at the laggards were no use to keep fighting men in trim form. Land troops were unwieldy, crammed on a ship’s deck. Infantry weapons at sea carved blundering wounds and made accidents caused by slashed rigging. Two galleys were sunk, over one lost to Parrien. The archers evened the stakes, launching fire-arrows. Three of Alestron’s ships were set flying, aflame. Yet no paltry victory might satisfy injuries. Each surprise engagement resharpened short tempers, and unravelled the confidence of drilled training.

  By the hour Sulfin Evend’s force hailed into Adruin, the contrary current hissed to sea in full ebb. Crossing to Kalesh must wait until the slack-water past sundown to avoid being swept offshore. The galley-men refused to make the anchorage temporary, demanding their pay packets for hired transport to East Halla’s war straightaway. No passage, they claimed, should have taken so long. Choleric captains were determined to clear the Light’s brawling army out of their cabins and off their packed cargo decks.

  ‘Hit port, and the rankers will scarper like mice,’ grumped Sulfin Evend’s barrel-chested first officer, parked with ill grace at the flagship’s stern-rail. The tide surged in black eddies, beneath his bristled stance. ‘The troop sergeants are frothing. Makes for a bad mix. Set a sorry impression on Adruin’s town council, if the rushed landing won’t let us keep discipline.’ He scarcely dared to belabour the rest: that Avenor’s flag galley should demand a mooring. In the lull at slack-water, she should pull into the wharf with dignified ceremonial honours, and not wrestle their arrival by swearing and sweat, while the white rip raced through the estuary.

  Dark hair clipped short, his shaven jaw brooding, Sulfin Evend chose not to hear sense.

  Whorled chop swirled below, as the breathless rowers strained and backed oars. Under the harried eye of the master, the flagship’s mate bellowed, while crewmen, crammed into their white livery at speed, set fenders, and tossed off the docklines.

  Sulfin Evend’s spiked posture did not relent.

  The troop officer knew that vicious quiet too well. His shrug was resigned. ‘The town better have enough beer in the taps, and trollops prepared to appease twoscore’s worth of ships’ rowdy companies.’

  ‘Your problem,’ dismissed Sulfin Evend. His whipcord fitness was turned out for parade, the helm he shoved on with curt irritation buffed to a dazzling finish. His mail shirt chinked under a Sunwheel surcoat, agleam with gold thread and dress accoutrements. ‘I’ll be ashore without any pause for Adruin’s foppish amenities.’ He snapped to drive off the persistent equerry, who had chased him topside to fuss. ‘Damn the forsaken braid on my finery! I’m not dawdling through the welcome reception. Get the boatswain’s attention! Tell him to ready his crewmen to run down the gangway at once.’

  Wavelets slapped against the hull’s planking. Riffling current shuddered the keel as the galley’s bulk was warped in and turned to by the muscle of two dozen longshoremen. Sulfin Evend fumed like the hungry, jessed hawk, too long teased by the lure.

  Electrified tension also gripped the crew, as fishermen mending their nets at the harbour-side shouted the most recent news: the siege of Alestron had started in earnest. Before the return of the Light’s first commander, Keldmar s’Brydion and his field company had been burned alive by Lysaer’s retribution. Worse, a determined assault on the wall had ended in chaotic set-back.

  ‘Scorch all to Dharkaron!’ Sulfin Evend cursed under his breath.

  ‘Well, you had to expect this!’ the troop officer cracked, prodded to slit-eyed frustration. ‘All this time, spent dallying through the southern ports, fiddling with lists and dickering with roomsful of pinch-fisted merchants. Why, in the Light’s name? While the men ploughed the whores long enough to sow bastards, we could’ve saved a month’s fees for wharfage! What weasel-faced supplier couldn’t we have slapped into line with an Alliance writ of requisition?’

  ‘Are we the fools?’ Sulfin Evend shot back. ‘Or do we scrape, nose to dirt, for a delusional icon who’s become a magnet for rabid fanatics? Vainglorious tactics against the s’Brydion will only slaughter my troops like hazed game! Lysaer s’Ilessid won’t have my applause. Not for the making of martyrs.’

  ‘Well tread carefully, Lord,’ the captain replied, his sunburned brow creased with concern. ‘Fifty thousand armed zealots aren’t here to make peace. Fly in and accuse their idol of foolishness, the priests might be moved to cry blasphemy.’

  ‘Flip the lot straight to Sithaer! I don’t kiss their pink arses. Or bow to their simpering theology!’

  A string of flag-signals snapped at the masthead, the request to assemble a courier’s horse and swift escort already in motion. Sulfin Evend planned to ride post until the tide changed, then catch a fast boat on the flood. In scorching haste, he could close the last fifty leagues of his journey by sunrise.

  ‘Billet the troops, get them rested and fed,’ he belted off in last-minute instruction. While the gold-and-white galley nestled into her berth, and the gangway rumbled into position, he called over his shoulder, ‘The men can be marched to Alestron in stages. No need to rush them to the front lines unless I send word they are needed.’

  The veteran officer snapped off a salute. Wasted motion, since his senior commander already strode down to the dock. Sultry gold amid the drab press on the wharf, Sulfin Evend shoved shoreward with an urgency fit to clip the god-sent wings of the avatar himself.

  Autumn 5671

  Stand-off

  The afternoon following the ungainly rout at Alestron, the reek of char and corrupted, burned flesh lingered on, laced by the mineral taint of glazed slag and the tang of smelted metal. The pall spread on the sea-breeze, razed off the husks of slagged buildings and the tumble-down walls left by Lysaer’s first strike. The poisoned gusts riffled the lists of the bursars, who plied pen and ink upon makeshift trestles to tally the rout’s mounting toll of tactical embarrassments. The high temper of after-shock quickly sunk into gloom, then progressed to dour grumbling as reeling captains measured their damages. The loss lists crept upward: a laboured assessment attempted to catalogue which critical shortfalls demanded the Light’s requisition for resupply at short notice.

  Those ranking officers who nursed complaints were granted short shrift by their avatar. Their clamour for an audience chased a moving target, since the Blessed Prince still pursued his unswerving tour of inspection. Lysaer turned a deaf ear on disgruntled petitioners. Done with the strings of burned horses that languished in the care of the grooms on the picket lines, and moving apace towards the camp’s outer fringes, he snapped, ‘Did you think you would not become tested and tried?’

  When no one answered, he spun sharply about; faced down the whiners with scourging amazement. ‘Our cause is not changed by a minor defeat! We fight traitors who seek an evasion of reckoning behind walls defended by sorcery. They will be taught otherwise. But not by the weak! Do you mope at my heels like whipped dogs, cowed as the chase draws first blood?’

  The stout captain from Jaelot, who mourned a close cousin, exploded with indignant injury. ‘Blessed Lord, even your god-sent power –’

  ‘Is only as strong as the faith that stands in the breach!’ Lysaer’s blue eyes flashed in searing rebuke. ‘Have you come here to resign from your post?’

  The stonewalled officer blinked. ‘Light’s mercy! No.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. For I haven’t the time.’ The shamed man
and his shrinking companions received the Divine Prince’s relentless dismissal. ‘For anyone else who brings a faint heart, my seneschal would be the proper authority to strike unworthy names from the roster.’ Lysaer surged on his way, his profile keen as an axe.

  The tongue-lashed party stared after him, speechless, while late comers bearing legitimate grievances scrambled to assay the next bitter salvo.

  Lysaer paid their chorused objections no mind. Light glanced on blond hair, trimmed free of scorched ends, although no one had seen the avatar retire for sleep, far less pause for grooming. Throughout the disaster, and during the long night, he had stayed with his troops, making dispositions and speeding the orders to clear stunned inaction and debris. His voice restored calm, soothed nerves, and brought reason wherever confusion was thickest. While the wounded were shifted and salvaged tents were reset, his exalted person had worn the same grime as the meanest recruit.

  Every trace of shared suffering seemed vanished by afternoon. Of yesterday’s burns, no discomfort showed. Lysaer’s trim frame displayed no suggestion of bandages. His fresh surcoat and gold braid shone pristine as new snow, clothed over in icy composure. ‘I have no use for men who fall victim to hardship,’ he cracked through the tirades without breaking stride. ‘You’ll leave my ranks now if you fold under pressure. The Light’s work will be finished by more-steadfast hands, and by men who will not abandon this field before the hour of victory.’

  The balked officers choked back their seething excuses. Invalidated, disowned, they bristled to realize: their avatar crossed the perimeter set by his sentries. Now, his insolent daring approached the pavilions that housed the Order of the Koriathain.

  The collective cries of dismay raised Lysaer’s redoubled contempt. ‘Have you nothing better to do?’