by DAVID B. COE
Just when Yaella had decided that war was far better suited to the Eandi than to the people of her own race, the sorcerers fighting to defend the castle proved her wrong. Peering into the archway of the gate to see how the men within Mertesse’s ram were fairing, she saw a group of bowmen standing on the far side of the portcullis, all of them with arrows nocked. The men within the ram shouted a warning and began to scramble for safety. But the soldiers of Kentigern did not draw back their bows. Instead, another man stepped into view. A Qirsi. He was tall and bearded and he wore his white hair tied back. Seeing him, Yaella could not look away from his eyes, which were as yellow as the eyes of a cat.
An instant later the man vanished within a swirl of dense mist, no doubt of his own making.
Hearing the commotion from his men, Rouel had hurried to the minister’s side, and now he called for his own bowmen to strike at the Eibitharians. Before they could, however, the Qirsi raised a fearsome wind that whipped through the gateway with a high keening sound, like the cry of some dying wild creature. Still the mist poured forth, carried by the gale. Yaella could see nothing of the sorcerer or even of Rouel’s ram. But she did hear a ringing sound over the wind, like of two swords meeting, and for an instant she feared that Kentigern’s men would step from the mist and cut down all of them. Then another noise reached her, like the rending of wood, and she knew what had happened. She knew as well who it was she had seen before the mist swallowed him.
In another moment, the wind began to diminish, dying away as if it were a retreating storm and carrying with it the last strands of white mist.
The Qirsi was gone, of course, as were the soldiers of Kentigern. Yaella saw nothing to indicate that any of the bowmen had let fly even a single arrow. None of Rouel’s men had been wounded or killed. But seeing the wreckage of his ram, the duke’s body sagged as if his entire army had been wiped away by Kentigern’s assault. The steel chains by which the thick tree trunk hung from the ram’s roof beam had been snapped, and what remained of the roof itself had shattered like glass.
“It was Fotir,” Yaella murmured. She hadn’t intended to speak aloud, and when Rouel looked at her, his expression sour, she felt the blood rush to her cheeks.
“You know this?” he asked.
Of course she did. Who else among the Qirsi of Kentigern and Curgh could have raised such a tempest and still had power enough to destroy the ram? Besides, she had heard others speak of the man’s eyes, and she knew what she had seen.
“Yes, my lord.”
“And why does it matter who it was?”
She faltered, lowering her gaze and shaking her head. “It doesn’t, my lord. My apologies.”
Rouel shook his head as well, spitting a curse. “We can’t even have the men retrieve the wood. They’d be slaughtered by Aindreas’s archers before they had the chance to carry anything out.”
“Perhaps with the snail, my lord. They’d be protected, and we wouldn’t have to build a new ram from the wheels up.”
His face brightened. “Yes, the snail! A fine idea, First Minister! Thank you.”
He turned and called to one of his runners, ordering the man to have the snail brought to the inner gate. Then he faced Yaella again, opening his mouth to say more.
It happened so swiftly that the minister didn’t truly understand until it was too late. One moment the duke stood before her, smiling once more, and the next he was falling backward like a felled tree, a crossbow bolt buried nearly to its quills in his brow.
For several moments, Yaella could do nothing more than stare at him, watching blood flow from the wound and over his face. Soldiers called frantically for a healer, but Rouel was far beyond a healer’s touch. He was with Bian already.
She felt her chest tightening and realized with great surprise that she was crying, although she couldn’t imagine why. She had betrayed him long ago, ever since the day she pledged herself to the service of the Weaver. It didn’t matter that her betrayal had yet to take her from his side, or even force her to deceive him in any meaningful way. She hadn’t truly served him for years.
But seeing him dead was another thing entirely. She and Shurik had convinced him to wage this war, at the Weaver’s behest it was true, but that hardly mattered. She had killed him; she might as well have been the one holding the crossbow. Still, even that didn’t explain her tears. If she was to blame for the duke’s death, wasn’t she responsible as well for the life of every dead soldier in the castle and the Tarbin road? Was it possible that she actually cared for Rouel, that she would mourn him as she would a friend?
“First Minister?”
She looked up into the face of a soldier, a boy really. He couldn’t have been more than a few years past his Fating.
“What should we do?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Do we continue with the siege?”
“I’m not—” She clamped her mouth shut and swallowed, fighting back a wave of nausea. She had no desire to lead an army, nor was she capable of doing so with any hope of success. But she was still first minister of Mertesse and the highest remaining authority of the house in Kentigern. “Get me the master armsman,” she said, her voice fluttering like the wings of a moth. “Tell him what’s happened and that I request his aid in commanding the army.”
“Yes, First Minister.”
The boy ran off, and another soldier stepped forward, as if awaiting her next command.
One of the healers knelt beside the duke’s body—she hadn’t even seen him come. He looked up at her and shook his head, his expression bleak.
Yaella turned away, searching around her for anything else at which to stare. Her gaze came to rest at last on the ruined ram at the far end of the gate.
“The duke called for the snail,” she said, facing the soldier again.
“Yes, First Minister. I believe they’re bringing it now.”
“Go make certain. And tell them to hurry.”
The man nodded once and ran toward the outer gate.
Rouel hadn’t truly been her duke for years. But he had paid her and trusted her. More than anything, he had wanted to conquer this castle, and in this one instance, his ambitions and those of the Weaver were the same. She could be true to both of them.
“You intend to continue this war?” the healer asked her, still on his knees.
“I do. It’s what the duke would have wanted.”
“We’ve already lost hundreds of men. And now the duke as well. What if this castle can’t be taken?”
“It can,” she said, believing it true.
The master armsman would know what to do. Together they could do this, in spite of her doubts. Abruptly she wanted nothing more than to avenge Rouel’s death. Perhaps it was the one way she had left to make up for her betrayal. Whatever the reason, she had no intention of retreating now.
The healer stood, making no effort to mask his disapproval. You’re Qirsi, his expression seemed to say. You should know better. “What shall I do with the duke?”
She looked down at Rouel’s body one last time, fighting an urge to avert her gaze. “Have two of the men carry him to the outer gate. We’ll give him a proper funeral when the castle is ours. In the meantime,” she went on, not bothering to face the Qirsi again, “return to your healing. We need all the soldiers you can manage to save.
Rumors of Rouel of Mertesse’s death spread through the castle like the black smoke that poured from a dozen fires in the outer ward. Fotir and his duke first heard the whisperings around midday, but they did not learn for certain that it was true until just before dark. By then it was clear that the death of the Aneiran duke had done nothing to dissuade his army. If anything, it made them fight harder. This had become more than a siege; it was a war of vengeance.
Another one, Fotir thought, rubbing a hand across his face.
He had hoped that by destroying Mertesse’s ram, he would force the Aneirans to abandon their assault on the south gate. But as with Rouel’s death
, it seemed only to spur them to redouble their efforts. Within just a few hours the attackers had retrieved the remains of the engine using their snail, and by the following morning they had repaired it enough to begin pounding at the portcullis once more. Javan sent Fotir and the bowmen back to the gate so that the minister could try to disable it again, but this time the Aneiran archers were ready for them. The Qirsi couldn’t get close enough to use his magic, and eventually he and his men were forced to retreat to the towers. The last portcullis gave way a short time later.
With nothing keeping them from the inner ward, the men of Mertesse swarmed into the keep and turned their weapons on the inner towers, where Kentigern’s defenders and the small number of Curgh soldiers who had survived the fighting thus far now found themselves trapped. As long as they still held the ward, Javan and his men had been able to move freely from tower to tower. But with Mertesse controlling the walls and winning the ward, that now changed. Each group of men was forced to defend itself, with no hope of relief or aid. Kentigern’s captain still managed to get messages to Javan—his knowledge of the castle was truly impressive. But Mertesse still had the larger force, and with the fall of the south gate that advantage began to grow again.
Once the siege gave way to close combat, Fotir and the other Qirsi became simple soldiers, like everyone else. He and the other shapers could still shatter blades and, if they were lucky, arrows as well. But there were no more ladders and siege engines to destroy, and their mists and winds were of little use.
The first minister stayed near his duke and the MarCullet boy. Javan still fought like a man half his age, his sword bloody now but still whistling as it slashed at Aneiran soldiers. Xaver had recovered from his first kill and was fighting well, though he hadn’t the strength of the older swordsmen. But all of them were terribly weary. They had been fighting for nearly two days without rest. As another night approached and the tower grew dark, Fotir wondered if any of them would be alive come morning.
Fortunately, Mertesse’s army must have been just as tired. As darkness fell, the fighting slackened, allowing Javan to rest his men in turns while still keeping watch for new attacks. Small groups of Aneirans harassed the defenders throughout the night, as if to make clear that this lull in the battle in no way signaled an end to the siege, but the fighting did not begin again in earnest until daybreak.
Fotir had just awakened when the new assault began, and though he was grateful for a few hours sleep, he was far from rested. All of the men still looked tired, even the duke. It didn’t help that they had eaten little since the gate fell the morning before, or that their store of water was running low.
As the shouts of the Aneirans drew nearer and they began to pound at the door to the tower, Kentigern’s bowmen took their places at the arrow loops located at intervals along the winding stairway. Unlike the gates, the tower doors were tall enough only for a man to pass through. The ram, which had been so effective against the portcullises, would have hit too high on the tower wall to be effective against the doorways. Instead, the Aneirans had to hammer at these doors with their hands, shoulders, and feet, and though the doors were not as strong as the gates, they were sturdy enough to hold for a time.
“Loose your arrows at will,” Javan called to the bowmen. “As soon as they’re close enough you can begin.”
“We’ve less than a hundred arrows left among us, my lord,” one of the archers called down to him.
“Demons and fire!” the duke said under his breath. “What about the crossbows?” he asked, closing his eyes, as if he expected to be pained by their answer.
“We have about the same number of bolts, my lord.”
The first minister felt as if a demon’s hand were squeezing his heart. The bolts would last longer than the arrows, simply because they couldn’t be loosed nearly as quickly. But two hundred arrows and quarrels wouldn’t hold off the Aneirans for long.
The duke turned to the MarCullet boy. “Look in the weapons chamber. See if there are any more there.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Javan faced Fotir as the boy hurried off. “He’s not likely to find more than a few dozen shafts. Do you have any ideas?”
“We still have a bit of lime and a few fire pots in one of the chambers near the top of the tower. But after that’s gone, we’ll have to rely on our blades.”
“If it comes to steel, we’re lost. There are just too many of them.”
“We don’t have to hold out forever, my lord,” one of the Curgh men said. “Just until the duke of Kentigern returns.”
The minister saw Javan’s jaw tighten and he thought he could guess what the duke was thinking.
“The smoke has been blowing north,” the Qirsi said, lowering his voice. “Aindreas may have turned back before the armies ever met.”
“Or he may have waited until Shonah and Hagan were dead.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say that might ease the fear he saw in Javan’s dark eyes. When Xaver called to the duke a moment later, Fotir was more than happy to look away.
“We found no more bolts, my lord,” the boy said as he stepped into view, his arms laden with arrows. “But there were at least two hundred arrows. This is only some of them.”
Javan smiled, though Fotir could see that it was forced. “Well done, Master MarCullet. Leave those here and get the rest. I’ll have them distributed among the bowmen.”
“Yes, my lord.”
It was something at least, though not much. Far less than an hour if the arrows were distributed among all of the bowmen in this tower, even if they were used sparingly.
“Take some men to help you with the fire pots,” the duke said, looking at the Qirsi again. “But keep yourself out of view. I don’t want a stray arrow to find you. We may have need of your magic before long.”
Fotir nodded and started toward the stairs, gesturing for several of Curgh’s swordsmen to follow him.
The pounding at the door continued, and one particularly heavy blow brought the sound of splintering wood and a cry of triumph from the Aneirans.
“Quickly, First Minister!” the duke shouted as Fotir and his men bounded up the stairs. “They’ll be in before long!”
Reaching the chamber, which was located directly above the doorway, Fotir let out a curse of his own. Most of the fire pots and containers of lime were gone. Three of Aindreas’s bowmen stood in the room, each stepping to the window in turn to take aim at the Aneirans as the other two nocked new arrows.
“What happened to the rest of the pots?” the Qirsi demanded.
“They needed them atop the tower, Minister, to guard the door leading to the walls.”
Of course. He could hardly be angry with them. If the men of Mertesse defeated either door, the tower would be lost.
“Should we hold the rest of them?”
“No. The duke wants them dropped on the men at the ward door.”
“The duke?” another of the men repeated. “Aindreas has returned?”
“Forgive me,” Fotir said, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “I meant my duke.”
The man frowned and turned away.
The Qirsi glanced back at the men who had followed him to the chamber and nodded once. Two of them stepped to where the pots sat on the floor and readied them. The other two walked with Fotir to the window.
Arrows, some of them still burning, jutted out of the wood shutters like quills from a hedgehog. Staring out at the ward, though taking care not to present too clear a target, Fotir saw men in black and gold massing at towers all around the castle. A few of the doors had already given way and the entrances were choked with soldiers locked in bloody combat. Two of the towers were ablaze, black smoke pouring from their arrow loops and twisting in the light wind as it rose into the sky. The castle would belong to the Aneirans by dusk if the course of the battle didn’t change soon. And Fotir had no idea how Javan and Kentigern’s captain could possibly turn the fighting their way.
“We’re ready,
First Minister,” said one of the Curgh men. “Should we start with the fire pots or the lime?”
It doesn’t matter. “Start with the lime. Maybe we can make them wary of approaching the door.”
The man nodded, and he and his companion lifted the pot of lime carefully, carried it to the window, and began pouring it on the soldiers below. Almost immediately screams floated up to the chamber.
“Stop pouring,” Fotir commanded. “Don’t use it all at once.”
An arrow soared into the room, narrowly missing the men and clattering off the stone wall before falling to the floor. Another followed and then several more, until they had no choice but to pull the shutters closed.
“They’ll be back at the door in no time,” one of Kentigern’s men said, as if chastising him.
Fotir knew he was right, but he couldn’t help glaring at the man.
“Light one of the fire pots,” the Qirsi said.
A Curgh soldier lit the pot using a flint and steel. Fotir took it from him and crouched by the window. Taking a breath, he pushed open one of the shutters and dropped the pot before ducking down again. Almost immediately four more arrows flew into the chamber, two of them flaming. The soldier from Kentigern grabbed the burning arrow and used it to light the remaining four pots.
“Might as well use them now,” he said. “They won’t do us any good once Mertesse has the tower.”
The minister opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. After a moment he gave a single nod.
More arrows whistled through the window, many of them marked with Kentigern’s colors. Now that the Aneirans controlled the wards, they were free to scavenge for arms. Still, Fotir and the soldiers didn’t bother closing the shutters again. As long as they stayed low and to the sides they were safe, and this way the Aneirans didn’t know when to expect the pots.
Within a few minutes they had dropped all of them and poured out what remained of the lime. The men of Mertesse continued to send arrows and bolts into the chamber, but Fotir and the other soldiers had forced them to break off their assault on the ward door, at least for a while.