I know he isn’t and I know why…!
Aldric swallowed an outburst that would have raised too many awkward questions, like How do you know? and Why were you spying? and Who did you tell? Instead he gave the man a crooked grin that might have meant anything. From an armoured kailin in a crest-coat, it was enough to bring both guards to attention before the quiet one saluted and opened one door. Neither said a word about his sword.
The chamber had an imposing chair at the head of the room for the king, seats along each wall for high-clan kailinin-eir, and lines of camp-stools for everyone else. Aldric made for one of those, but a retainer in the king’s colours directed him to one of the seats instead, while the gathered military and political figureheads in Alba gave a courteous bow to the newcomer in their midst.
Then both doors opened wide and Dewan ar Korentin came in, looking much as Aldric had seen him less than fifteen minutes past although his sword, still cradled in one hand, was back in its scabbard. The Vreijek took up position at the right of Rynert’s great chair, grounded the weapon with a precise clank, and a metallic rustling of armour filled the room as all present offered their Obeisance. Despite private reservations, Aldric did it too. Rynert came in past all those lowered heads and took his seat, nodded in acknowledgement as his council resumed their places, then smiled to end the formality.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have just received two communications of great interest to us all. First,” Dewan put a slip of paper into his hand, “news from abroad. Two days ago, in the Pleasure Palace at Kalitzim, Emperor Droek joined his ancestors.” There were no actual cheers, but audible relief and satisfaction ran through the assembled councillors. “This sudden demise means the Grand Warlord and his new Emperor have other matters to concern them, and no time to cause trouble here before the situation in the North has been resolved.”
Rynert glanced at the message again. “Droek was found dead in bed. Whose bed, isn’t mentioned.” That did provoke a little burst of laughter, the mirth of men freed from the threat of invasion.
Just one man didn’t laugh. Aldric Talvalin was remembering a grey-clad taulath neither long ago nor far away, and the sound of money changing hands. He wondered if it was Rynert’s first venture into political murder and thought not. Four years ago an accident had removed Prince Taroen from the succession and made way for a younger brother not raised as the Grand Warlord’s tame signer of decrees. Now that brother was the Emperor, and even harder for Etzel to control.
It was pragmatic, it diverted the Imperial threat, and it spat on the honourable traditions Aldric was trying so hard to maintain. Even Skawmour the pirate had ridiculed Rynert for it. As he stared at the King, he found it very hard to keep open contempt from his face.
“My second communication is more local,” Rynert continued, “and arrived less than an hour ago. Lord Santon is in the North at the head of six thousand men, and the fortress of Dunrath is under close siege. So I intend—”
His intention went unheard, because a tall, lean figure rose from the rearmost row of the low-clan seats and strode towards him with a javelin in one hand. There were shouts of dismay and warning, several councillors sprang up with taipanin drawn and Dewan stepped forward, sword chest-high and halfway from its scabbard.
Aldric too was on his feet, poised to let Isileth Widowmaker drop towards his hand, but Gemmel Errekren stopped well out of danger, gazed at the king with cold emerald eyes then made a sketchy bow that held the merest token of respect. Rynert ignored his lack of manners more from consideration of Gemmel’s age than any fear of his powers. The King of Alba was afraid of nothing he had yet met in his life.
“Have someone say a funeral service for those six thousand men, Lord King,” said Gemmel. “They’ll be dead before the sun sets.”
Now silence became an almost physical presence, stifling and heavy. The hard, bright clack as Dewan sheathed his sword was loud enough to make men jump, but was a measure of Gemmel’s imposing presence and the King’s quiet authority that not one looked away from them to identify the sound.
“Explain.”
“I wanted Lord Santon to wait, and I wanted him told why. But you chose not to tell him, for fear of offending a lord who shunned the Art Magic, though I warned you the sorcerer he faced would use it as readily as kailinin use their swords.”
Gemmel gestured at the javelin and its outline shivered like a reflection in windblown water, transforming from a simple spear to Ykraith the Dragonwand. He rested its tail-spike on the floor and stared past the dragonhead at Rynert.
“Lord King, Aldric Talvalin put himself at some considerable risk to fetch this spellstave. I wouldn’t have asked him to do that for some mere trinket. It’s your best defence against Kalarr cu Ruruc.” The name sent a nervous mutter round the room and told Aldric what he already suspected: Endwar Santon wasn’t the only high-clan lord unaware of who really held Dunrath. “It’s a defence you denied Lord Santon. Read your Books of Years, Rynert of Alba. Kalarr holds a grudge against this land and all the people in it, a grudge centuries old and grown more bitter over time.”
“What can we do, pestreyr-an?” asked old Lord Dacurre, and Aldric smiled a grim inward smile at the suddenly respectful way he spoke.
“March north at once. I’ll be with you, to ward whatever spells the sorcerers in Dunrath might use.”
“And Endwar Santon? Can you do nothing for him? My second daughter is his wife…”
“His widow,” corrected Gemmel brutally. “Lord Dacurre, spells have a limited reach. This,” he nodded at the Dragonwand, “augments my power to strike or shield, but even that will dwindle as I tire. And tire I will, because magic’s no easy matter whatever the stories say. Lord Santon and his army are already far beyond my help.”
*
Kalarr’s storm broke.
The rings of energy above the citadel contracted, swirling like visions from a drug-dream given shape and substance. Then they exploded outwards as needles of blazing white light, slashing through battle armour like so much sodden paper, punching men to the ground with the shock of their impact or striking them dead on their feet.
One flashed over Santon’s shoulder, struck Dyran Haskol full in the chest and enveloped him in a cloud of misty radiance. The young man spun half round on sagging knees then fell flat, and when Santon turned over the already-rigid body he gasped in horror as three frozen fingers broke off like twigs. Dyran had the face of a corpse six weeks dead, nose shrivelled into suppurating pits and tight-stretched leathery skin the colour of lead. His gaping, rag-lipped mouth bared gums and teeth, and the frightened eyes were little more than blobs of dirty ice.
Death had been quick, but neither clean nor painless.
The air blurred and flickered as bolts of sorcerous power scythed through Lord Santon’s host and cut men down like ripe wheat. There was hardly any sound, just a thin, protracted hissing while the bright streaks of energy descended and the crackle when they struck home. The arluth’s mind babbled that all this was wrong, that slaughtering a legion should be noisier, more difficult, not mere erasure like wiping chalk-marks from a slate.
Then it was over. Dunrath was once more grey stone slashed and crowned by scarlet banners. The drifts of hoarfrost had vanished from its walls and a gentle breeze scoured away the last remnants of mist.
The army was also gone, reduced to a litter of twisted, discoloured corpses. There, in a pair of dense wedges, lay two thousand regular troops who had died in their places to a man. Straggled farther away were others who had broken near the end, and almost out of sight lay the levied vassals who were the first to run. Of the six thousand laying siege to Dunrath, only Lord Santon remained.
He stood up straight and waited for a final blast of magic to strike him down, but none came. Even when a blizzard of the things straddled his position on the ridge and smashed his officers to frozen meat, he stood unharmed. Santon realised his survival was neither accident nor mercy, and a great voice booming from the sombre
fortress confirmed it.
“Commander!” it blared, “go back to your King and tell him what awaits those who oppose me. Thank him for these reinforcements. Once you tell him all these things, commander, you have my leave to die.”
*
“That was quite a performance,” said Aldric as he poured himself a strong drink. “I mean,” he was babbling, and aware of the nervousness that made him do it, “if you’d been in a play you’d have got a standing ovation for the sheer intensity of your opening speech.”
Gemmel didn’t respond until his pipe was lit, then stared at his foster-son through a veil of fragrant smoke. “Intensity? Yes, knowing one’s words are true does give their delivery a certain weight.”
“You’re certain Santon’s dead?” Aldric hadn’t liked the saturnine lord, but respected him as a proud, honourable, worthy gentleman of a kind growing rare. And from the sound of it, rarer still.
“As good as. We’ll find out soon enough. Forget other people for the moment, Aldric. You heard me describe what the Dragonwand can do, and I presume you’ve been talking to King Rynert for the past half-hour.”
“Talking isn’t how I’d put it. There are things I didn’t want him to think about, me using magic for one, but he twists words until answering one question leaves you open for three more. Rynert’s worse than ar Korentin at that lawyer’s crooked questioning style, and before Heaven Dewan’s bad enough.”
Gemmel shrugged. “It’s all in the degree of practice.”
“They’ve both had far too much, and most of it on me.”
“If you’ve quite finished…?”
“Yes. Yes, I have. Say your piece.”
“Thank you. It’s best you know I overstated Ykraith’s power of protection.”
“What?”
“It’s a weapon, an offensive weapon. Like a sword, with block and ward subordinate to cut and thrust. Defence against cu Ruruc comes from my own abilities, and from this.” Gemmel set a small box on the table, opened the lid, and the aura of the Echainon stone spilled out so intensely blue that it seemed the light would leave a stain.
“What about Duergar?”
“Duergar doesn’t concern me.” There was contempt in Gemmel’s voice. “He’s a necromancer, bringing life to dead things like that bronze monstrosity in Erdhaven. Battlefield sorcery is beyond him.”
“Then why lie about the Dragonwand?”
“Because of the military mind. Once those clan-lords knew it was a weapon, they’d insist on using it their way, and that would lead to chaos.”
“So why not say—”
“What could I say? ‘Regrettably, lord king, my personal strategy will leave your army unshielded for a while. Bad luck.’ Rynert would lock me up and throw away the key.”
“Personal strategy? I have a feeling that includes me.”
“Of course it does. You’re an oath-sworn venjens-eijo. You have to kill Duergar Vathach. I can’t do it for you otherwise all other oaths, lands and loyalties are void. You’ll never be a clan-lord, perhaps not even a kailin again. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Then we understand one another. While you deal with the necromancer, I’ll prevent Kalarr from turning you to a smear of crisped fat—”
Aldric’s mouth quirked the way it had done when he encountered Kyrin’s pickled fish. “Thank you. Though not for the description.”
“It concentrated your mind. I can’t protect you and Rynert both at once, and he isn’t my fosterling. I’ll lay what warding-charms I can until we go—”
“Go? Where? Why?”
“Use your brains. Where else but Dunrath, why else but after Duergar?”
“And if things go wrong, what will you say to Rynert?”
“I’ll tell him that his men went beyond the limits of my guard-spell, or… Or something.” Gemmel made a dismissive gesture with the stem of his pipe. “There are any number of plausible excuses. But if things go really wrong, excuses will be the least of our problems. We may not be alive to worry about them.”
“Sometimes, altrou-ain, you say the most reassuring things. Like Ymareth. Now there was another…” He sat bolt upright in his chair. “Oh, Blazing Light of Heaven!”
“What’s the matter? Are you ill, or is it something else?” Gemmel’s right hand was already moving in the patterns of a spell-ward, and Aldric waved it to stillness.
“No… No, I’m all right,” he said. “Just stupid.”
“Don’t take names to yourself without reason.”
“I’ve reason enough. You’d think I’d remember anything a full-grown firedrake told me, wouldn’t you? Well, I didn’t. Haven’t. Not until now. I’ve had other things on my mind.” Gemmel said nothing. “If you hold anything of Kalarr’s, pretend to destroy it and await events. Ymareth’s words. I don’t know what it meant, and—”
“You forgot that? The Lord and the Lady guard us from lovelorn idiots! Yes, stupid is right! Damnably, brainlessly stupid!” Gemmel raised both fists as if to pound them on the table then relaxed again and flicked his fingers as if shaking water or something far more dangerous from their tips. He even produced a shrug and a crooked smile. “But not fatally stupid, because you remembered it in time.”
“What did the firedrake mean, altrou?” asked Aldric now the storm had passed. “All we have is the wristband, and destroying it is the last thing we should do.”
“Take it away, and we take away Kalarr’s fear of Duergar’s hold over him. Their alliance will fall apart. And,” Gemmel raised one finger for emphasis, “if we do this well enough, he’ll think I’ve also destroyed the Echainon stone. It’s the kind of mistake a petty wizard would make, a wizard he can ignore as unimportant. It might encourage him to make a mistake of his own, like leaving the security of his fortress—”
“My fortress.”
“No airs and graces, Aldric, not after what you almost forgot to tell me. All right, he might leave his stolen fortress to personally lead his forces against Rynert. Playing at being a great captain killed him last time, so vengeful victory the same way should be most enticing.”
“Well,” Aldric finished his drink and stood up, “let’s do it. Have you seen any crows in Kerys?”
“A few.”
“Not very imaginative, are they? Gulls would be much less obvious near a seaport. Come on, altrou.”
*
The regiments were forming up as Aldric and Gemmel walked through the streets of Kerys, well aware of the black bird keeping pace with them along the rooftops. Before they left the house Gemmel slipped away for a few moments, and though Aldric didn’t ask where he’d acquired the sapphire in his hand, he saw how well it fitted the recess in the ancient bronze wristband. A word from the enchanter gave it the inner light of the Echainon spellstone, and a cap of hammered copper completed its disguise.
Now they were looking for some deserted courtyard invisible to ordinary spies, but not from the changeling-crow that flapped and glided in their wake. Aldric stopped every few yards to glance about, always slowly enough for the crow to hide. Making his charade convincing was more difficult than he thought.
“Careful now,” Gemmel said softly. “Don’t make our spy suspect all this is for his benefit.”
“Or Cu Ruruc will wonder about deception?”
“More than just wonder. I’d rather not—” Gemmel grabbed Aldric’s arm and jerked him out of sight, deliberately not quite fast enough. Aldric could hear a quick beat of wings as they made for an old stable at the end of a narrow, sour-smelling alley. Its roof was open to the sky and something moved furtively between the broken rafters.
“This will do well enough,” said Gemmel. He looked around the hovel with every sign of satisfaction, then laid the wristband on a heap of rotting straw and surrounded it with complicated patterns drawn on the dank floor with a piece of wood. They were meaningless but seemed significant, like the nonsense-words he mumbled and the imposing gestures which accompanied them. Aldric almost smiled at this p
erformance of a fussy, inexperienced sorcerer faced for once with an important spell, while above their heads the changeling-crow strained to see.
Steam rose from the damp straw, sluggish at first then faster, becoming dense white smoke as the bronze of the band heated from dull red to vivid orange. As it reached an eye-hurting white it slumped out of shape and its metal ran like wax. For an instant the azure shimmer of the false spellstone threw harsh shadows across the stable, and then it died like a snuffed candle with only ash and spark-pitted cinders left behind.
“What was that?” demanded Gemmel. “Did you see a strange light?” The sudden concern in his voice was real or at least convincing, and Aldric played along.
“There was some flaw in the metal,” he said, “or muck in the straw. Nothing important, or you’d have known about it.”
“Yes. Yes, of course I would.” Now Gemmel sounded smug and complacent. A large black rat scuttled from its lair to escape the smoke and stench of burning, and he put its appearance to good use by levelling his hand and shouting, “A spy!”
This time the gesture wasn’t meaningless. A shockwave warped the dim daylight as it leapt from his fingertips, there was a crack like a monstrous whip and the rat burst apart, sending bones and entrails all over the stable. The speed and violence of Gemmel’s action made Aldric jump, but he still saw the crow’s frantic tumble out of sight and the clatter of wings as it fled.
“I think he’s convinced,” he said, forcing a laugh as he glanced towards the mess of rat. “What was that trick?”
“Trick? It was the High Accelerator. A lesser form.”
“Lesser?”
“There was no need to flatten the stable.”
“Could you have—? Why am I even asking, altrou, of course you could.”
“And could you stop asking questions for a while?” Gemmel’s hand was throbbing with the aftermath of channelled energy and the pain was doing nothing for his temper. Then he relented. “Yes I could, all too easily. The High Accelerator is fierce magic. It can push a man’s eyeballs through the back of his skull, or his skull out of his head. Hurling down a wall isn’t difficult. Satisfied?”
The Horse Lord (The Book of Years Series 1) Page 26