Fortress of Eagles

by C. J. Cherryh

  He considered that, too, and nodded slightly. “It may be. I feel things out of balance, Uwen, but steadier than they were.”

  Uwen gazed at him as Uwen would when he was considering a difficult point.

  “Lad,” Uwen said, “is there wizards afoot?”

  It was a third good question. “Always,” he said. “Always, for me, there might be wizards.”

  C H A P T E R 4

  The banners flew, in the hands of men who had chosen to bear them, in the land they protected. Far away a curl of smoke reported some black-smith’s fire, some sign of work across the land: it was an odd time for cooking fires.

  Just after noon they reached Maudbrook, which would have been their stop tonight, had they kept the wagons with them, and where Emuin would camp, likely tomorrow night. The thick planks thundered beneath them as they passed easily over Maudbrook Bridge…not a bridge for the wagons: the wagons when they came would use the ford and cross far more slowly.

  It was a succession of hills after that, sheep-grazed, tree-crowned, rocky and rough. The streams were a brisk jog across, the brushy sides of the road offered no surprises more than a flight of startled birds and the occasional fox or scuttling hare, invisible but for a whisk of gray. Deer stared from the far distance, alarmed at such haste, but unsure what they ought to do.

  They reached the next bridge, a wood-and-stone one, had a cold supper sitting on the margin beside it, with fresh water to drink if they walked down a little. The fires of a village in the distance this time were more

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  numerous, evening fires, chimneys sending up advisement of other folk at supper.

  It was Ardenbrook, so they all agreed, and this streamside would have been their second camp in Amefel, with yet another night on the road to spend and another day’s travel before them, if not more, asking nothing of the villages. They had in one day’s riding made up two days as the oxcarts measured time, even pressing hard; and the men might rightfully look to sit and have their supper, such as it was, with a warm fire for the night. A full two days closer to Henas’amef than anyone in the town could expect, they had gained time on the king’s messenger. Tristen saw the weary horses, saw the looks of men who hoped that they might have had the order to make camp.

  “We go on,” he said, and said it louder, so all the men could hear, not only Anwyll. “We go on. We will camp in sight of the town, if then. It is needful.”

  There was no muttering, only looks, fearful looks and weary looks, and he had no complaint from Captain Anwyll, either, only a shake of the head as if he thought better, knew better, had intended better, and was dissatisfied.

  The horses, too, laid back their ears, puffing against the girths, unwilling, now, to be taken another distance on the road. Petelly was the horse for this last, hard effort; and he sighed and hung his head and stood on three feet, weary and uncooperative.

  But back to the road again it was, with the sun lowering in the sky. They struck a steady pace, went on until the sun was a recent memory on the horizon.

  Then, in that last wan light, the landmarks were all familiar ones, and the men’s spirits began to rise again as a sergeant pointed out a stone outcrop,

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  another saying he knew the lightning-blasted tree at the bottom of the hill, and that there was a sheepfold in the hills yonder, and they were not, after all, that far from the capital.

  Petelly suddenly knew where he was, Tristen became sure of it. At a time when the other horses, out of Guelen stables, had become weary, sullen, and inclined to go slower and slower, Petelly suddenly put his ears up and redoubled his pace, nostrils wide, knowing there was a stable, and grain. Gia and Gery, likewise stabled in the citadel this summer, seemed to take the notion from Petelly, and they picked up speed. The other horses, horselike, took their pace from them until the whole company was moving far, far faster than would have been likely after a long day’s effort.

  There was a twisted tree remembered from the summer’s end, the milestones beneath a knob of a hill.

  And over a steep roll of the land they first caught sight of another shadowy height, the ancient citadel, under a dim sky, itself under a smudge of evening fires. Purer lights gleamed from the crest of that hill, lights which would be the tall, unshuttered windows above the inner walls of the citadel. The defensive walls obscured the rest, but not the few lights outside the walls, the scattered gleam of some lantern in the stables.

  The bare branches of the orchards that stood on this approach screened them from view. They had come from the east, but had swung southerly, the East Gate of the town being all but unused and what men named the East Road passing to the south, joining the South Road before the walls.

  “We’re just a wee bit behind the gate-closing,” Uwen said, which it was, clearly. And after a moment more: “Will ye go ahead in, m’lord? Or camp?”

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  “Go in,” Tristen said, with hardly a thought in it. They were here. They had come closer than he had planned. Now the stone rolled entirely, solidly, fate-guided back to its place.

  “I’d take just the banners on, m’lord, and ye hold back with the troop till we have the gates open. Ye might sit and have a sip and stay warm the while an’ come in like a lord.”

  Henas’amef was a more cautious, a more wary town than Guelemara. The gates had used to shut at the first dimming of the light, and still did, as seemed. The king’s messenger had delivered word of his arrival, surely; but even so, riding up out of the night, a hundred men were an unsettling sight. Couriers would have to run back and forth between the town gate and the citadel informing the viceroy, who would have to send down to open the gates, and all the while this was going on, the town would be in doubt and their own company would have to stand outside on horses that would see no reason not to go aside to the stables outside the wall, stables which Petelly in particular well knew were at hand. It was in all points, on an ordinary day, more sensible to camp until daylight.

  But he burned to be inside the walls, to have uncertainties settled, no matter the inconveniences to all concerned. And he sought a quieter course, one which a slight persuasion might affect.

  “You and I and the banners,” he said to Uwen.

  “Your Grace.” Captain Anwyll had maintained a glum silence for the last bitter hour, but now he protested. “In His Majesty’s name, I counsel you, no. Never entertain such a notion. Make camp, wait here. His Majesty would never approve Your Grace riding up alone. The town is known for rebellion.”

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  “Uwen, I say. The two of us and the banner-bearers.”

  Uwen said, soft-voiced: “I’ll do what ye wish, m’lord, but the captain’s givin’ good advice.”

  “I say we go ask them to open the gates.”

  “If there ain’t no untoward event of His Majesty’s message to the viceroy, aye, then maybe us two were enough. But that ain’t sayin’ what else could go amiss, m’lord, in the dark and wi’ rumors loose, as may be. The town’s a chancy ride i’ the dark. Listen to the captain.”

  “You and I and the banners,” he said, making up his mind.

  “If they open to us straightway, we’ll be inside, and the gates will be open. Then, Captain, or if not, you’ll come. I wish no commotion of the town, and I prefer they not see all of us.”

  “I fear there will be a commotion, at this hour,” Anwyll said.

  “Or worse. Follow Lewen’s-son’s advice, if not mine: let him go, him and the banners, no more. Or send me. It is not cowardice that urges caution, Your Grace, it is reasonable concern for your safety.”

  “When you see a light from the open gates, Captain, or if you see us riding back, come in quickly.”

  “Your Grace,—”

  “Come in quickly, I say.”

  “As Your Grace wishes,” Anwyll said glumly.

  And, having been reined back, Petelly had it in his head at th
e moment that he was going to the stables whatever the outcome of the discussion. Tristen spent not another word on argument with the captain or the horse, but climbed down off Petelly’s back, put up the coif, put on his helm. “Bring him with you as you can,” he said, and entrusted Petelly to a guardsman to bring along. He unslung his shield from his back and stripped

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  off the weather-cover, which was plain black. So was the shield face black, but with the pale Star and Tower of Ynefel, the sign of wizardry, the scandal of the Quinaltine. There had been no time to change it.

  Meanwhile all around him, at Anwyll’s order, a hundred men quietly settled their equipment in order, changed to their war-trained horses, and armed themselves to follow him in due course.

  A last test of Gery’s cinch, a judicious tightening, by his own bare hand, trusting not even Uwen’s offer to settle his equipment. Then he put on the right-hand gauntlet, set his hand in the shield grip and his foot in the stirrup, still judging the girth as it took his armored weight. Gery had not swelled against the girth, rather took him up in good order, but with a little shiver and a pricking-up of the ears at this breaking-forth of warlike equipment.

  There was, however, no nonsense from Gery at this hour, none of Petelly’s breaking forward unbidden. None of their horses had called out in the evening quiet. The orchards—a hazard Cefwyn had forborne to cut down despite the threat of war inside the province—screened their approach toward the town gates despite the lack of leaves, and the dark east and clouded south had been constantly at their backs during the last of the sunlight, so they had never for any moment stood out against the sky. Unlike Guelemara, Henas’amef had few outbuildings, only the stables and a few barns and huts where herdsmen dwelt. Now the surrounds of the town were almost entirely dark, the stars brightening overhead.

  Banners unfurled, first the white Sihhë Star shining in the gloom of near night, then the Star and Tower. Third and centermost, the Eagle flew, black on deepest FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 295

  red, a banner more ominous and wholly dark in this twilight than the two Sihhë standards. One-handed, managing Gery with his knees and with his shield hand holding the reins, Tristen tightened the last two buckles on his side as they went.

  Then three other riders overtook them: Aran, of Tristen’s own four guards, came up, and two more guardsmen came with them.

  “To guard your backs, m’lord,” Aran said, when Tristen glanced at that arrival in displeasure. “By your leave, m’lord.”

  The well-ditched road ran beside the orchards on one hand and stone-fenced sheep-meadow on the other. Then plowed fields replaced pasture as their road, the East, joined the main South Road. Shortly after that, the West Road swept in beside a sheep wall to make it all one road.

  From there, they were on the last long straight approach toward the main gate of the town, the banners flying and snapping in the dark. They crossed the ring road, which went around the town walls and came racing up to the great South Gate, near Cevulirn’s camp of this summer, the site now a barren field.

  The horses fetched up, stamping and blowing in their impatience. “Ho the gatekeepers!” Lusin shouted out at the lofty town gate, all but obscured by the Tower banner as they confronted the gate and the likely scrutiny of the gate wardens.

  “Ho there, for His Grace of Amefel! Open the gate! Let His Lordship in!”

  “Aye!” came a thin-voiced shout back. “Aye!” But no opening of the gate ensued. Lusin rode by and thumped the wood hard with his shield. That drew an answer.

  “Just a moment, just a moment, there!”

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  No bell had rung yet to advise the higher town, but it might ring at any moment. Tristen expected it, as Gery stamped and blew in impatience. Came a sound of steps from inside, not at the bar of the sally port, which might signal the intent to open, but a heavy, panting thump of a heavy man running up the stairs inside the gatehouse. The thumping ascended all the way up to the stubby right-hand tower of the pair that supported the gate.

  “Who’s there?” The shout came down from the crest of the wall. Then, faintly: “Begging your pardon, who is His Grace of Amefel?”

  “Lord Tristen,” Uwen shouted up. “By the grace of His Majesty in Guelemara, Duke of Amefel, Lord Warden of Ynefel and Lord Marshal of Althalen! Ye’ve had the king’s messenger, man, have ye not? Have ye not?”

  “Aye. Aye, we have had a king’s messenger. But no word to us!”

  “Well, there is now, man! Bear a light, there, bear a light down and unbar the gate, in your own duke’s name!”

  Another thumping, as the man ran down the stairs.

  “The gods’ mercy,” Tristen heard then distinctly from the other side of the gate, at the very center, with a clatter this time right behind the barred gate, a whisper half-voiced. “Gods’

  mercy! Do we open?”

  “Aye, ye open!” Uwen roared out. “And be quick about it!

  His Grace has rid clear from Guelessar, he’s weary and he’s hungry and in his patience wi’ good men, he ain’t near angry yet, but I wouldn’t keep your lord standing out here like some tinker on the road. There ain’t anyone but His Grace to give ye yea and nay here and hereafter, man, don’t natter about it!

  Shame on ye! Open this gate!”

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  “We has to do it,” came a faint voice. “We has to do it. Run up to the hill quick and see what’s toward! It’s himself and the king’s men. We has to!”

  Something was wrong, Tristen was sure now, and Uwen had wisely laid the matter at the guards’ feet: open, open without question or face an angry new lord. He took a firmer purchase on his shield grip, made sure of his reins, not knowing what he might have to do to get the gate open, but open it must: matters otherwise could worsen, step by step.

  Nothing so small as the sally port, but the main gate itself began to move, with the thump of pawl and ratchet. The gate swung, and in a moment’s confusion Gedd rode into the widening crack, the Eagle banner obscuring all view as he forced it wider still with his horse. Tawwys and Aran rode in with swords in hand, and in the same moment Uwen sent Gia side-passing smartly right against the other wing of the gate, shoving it wide for Lusin and Syllan and a great wall of obscuring black banners. Tristen sent Gery straight through the middle, leading the men behind him in with a rush.

  The banner-bearers had no shields, no swords; but the gate wardens, in the lanternlight from the open gatehouse door, scrambled well back, showing no inclination at all to move toward the three pikes leaning in the corner.

  “Your Lordship,” one of the gate-guards said, looking up at him as he held Gery at a restless halt. “Your Grace,” said the other guard, and they both fell to their knees. All battle was over. The gates were wide-open, and the light that splashed across the ground and across that open gate was a clear and ample signal to the guard troops under Anwyll’s command, out beyond the orchards.

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  But the guard who looked up at him in the lantern-light was a face that entrained a memory.

  “Is that Ness?” Tristen asked.

  The men both looked up at him, wide-eyed.

  “Yes, your lordship,” Ness said, wide-eyed and openmouthed besides—a good man, a fair man; he had known Ness in the summer.

  “Get up. Both of you. And answer me. Is the town willing for me to be here? Or not?”

  “Your lordship.” Both of them had scrambled up, muddy-kneed, bowing again. “Your Grace,” the other said. Both seemed entirely terrified.

  “Earl Edwyll has got the citadel,” Ness said in a rush. “The viceroy has got the garrison. Earl Edwyll put us back to wardin’

  the town gates, your lordship, against the king’s men come in, and here we are.”

  “In mortal trouble,” the other said, “saving Your Grace remember us.”

  “Edwyll is holding the Zeide gates?”

  “The South Gate. And the lord viceroy
is holding the stable-court and its gate. But all the gates up there on the hill is shut, Your Grace. We sent a man up to whichever is in charge, being on the earl’s orders, which was to shut the town gate again’

  any asking, and no regard to king’s men.”

  “But then us not knowing where the right is,” the second man said, “and not being properly the earl’s men, neither, as might be, here you was, m’lord, with the banners and all, and we flung up the bar soon as we could think on ’t. The whole town’s awake behind their doors, ain’t budged since afternoon except getting water and such, knowing all hell’s up on the hill.

  But they were saying it’d be three days till you’d arrived, m’lord, and there ain’t no water in the South Court FORTRESS OF EAGLES / 299

  ’cept the town give it him. And Lord Cuthan weren’t coming to anybody’s rescue, saying Earl Edwyll ain’t any aetheling more than any of the rest of them. But the viceroy ain’t asked him to help the Guelenmen.”

  “Hush,” Ness said. “Lord’s affairs ain’t out affairs and there ain’t no more aethelings.”

  “Well that we came ahead,” Uwen remarked in a low voice.

  Well that they had come, indeed, Tristen thought. The town gates were breached, and the guards here had surrendered in an instant. By all they could see and hear, too, there had been not a sound to alarm the town, nor any general sympathy shown the rebel earl except the gate wardens sending a messenger up the hill, which accounted for the third pike leaning against the wall. It was still within likelihood that they might apprehend the man Ness had sent if he risked a noisy chase up a cobbled hill, but only by exposing his men to death or capture in doing it, and only at risk of provoking the general commotion they were trying to avoid.

  Meanwhile the gate wardens alike looked uncertain as men might be who had opened their town gate on their own advice and now heard the low thunder of a hundred riders on the road coming toward them. The three banners above them, shadowy and transparent across the lanternlight from inside the gatehouse, were there by the king’s will, while the Amefin earl the guards had named had clearly chosen a declaration of rebellion against Cefwyn, imprisoning the king’s garrison on the hill and declaring his ownership of the place.