Warautumn

by Tom Deitz

  Tryffon rose. “I’m going to bed, lad, but think about all this. And think about all the people out there and what this is doing to them.”

  “What about the people in the hold?”

  “Most of whom are outside it right now? There are more folk in your army than there are in the hold. At some point you have to consider greatest good for the greatest number. I—”

  Tryffon broke off, cocking his head. “Something’s happening.” He reached for his sword and strode toward the entrance flap.

  Vorinn moved as quickly; his hand, too, was on his sword, and he was in the lead as they burst into the Council Tent’s vestibule—exactly in time to see Veen come running up with Ravian in tow. “Activity beyond the wall,” she panted. “We can’t tell what for sure, but it looks like they may be removing the prisoners.”

  Tryffon gaped incredulously. “Now? In the dark? He must know we’ll attack as soon as—”

  “That has to be what he wants to happen,” Vorinn broke in. Then, to Veen: “Sound the alert, and start lighting torches along our palisade.” He paused to snatch up his helm and shield, having never removed the rest of his armor. A moment later, he was striding through the camp toward the palisade. The air was thick with smoke, and heavy with moisture from a brief afternoon shower that had quelled the dust but not yet laid a layer of mud on everything. But other things thickened the air as well: the low buzz of excited voices, the thumps of rapid footsteps, and now and then a shout. There was also an unseen energy born of expectation, fear, and relief. And—soon enough—runners: toward the front and away from it.

  Abruptly, a young woman in Watchers’ tabard skidded to a halt before the Regent’s party. Her face was damp with what Vorinn realized was a return of the earlier rain. It wasn’t heavy—yet—but it could become a problem. “They’re moving the hostages, sir—the ones closest to the hold: They’re unstaking them and leading them away.”

  “And those closer to us?”

  “Not yet. Not when I left, at any rate.”

  “Follow me and continue your report,” Vorinn ordered, striding off again, noting as he did how more and more torches were starting to flare atop his own palisade. “Were they freeing them quickly or slowly?”

  “… Methodically, I would say.”

  “Were they being harmed?”

  “Not that I could see. Though of course they were weak and staggering, not having moved in days. Their circulation—”

  “I know,” Vorinn snapped. “Trust me.”

  They had reached their palisade by then, the central part of which had acquired a second, higher level in recent days, along with a walk half a span wide behind it. Every fifteen spans, a flight of stairs rose to that second level. Vorinn scaled the nearest two at a time, and was pleased to note that his arrival at the top was greeted at once by one of the other Watchers handing him a pair of distance lenses.

  The overcast made it difficult to see, and it was starting to rain harder. But if Zeff hadn’t moved hostages to keep them dry earlier in the day, he was unlikely to be doing so now. Had he therefore chosen this particular time to act, with the weather simply a fortuitous coincidence? Zeff had weather-witches, which the Royal Army didn’t, a fact Vorinn tended to forget. Perhaps it was time to reconsider that, too. Weather-witches were part of Priest-Clan; their loyalty was therefore suspect. But surely, with all Eron to choose from, one or two could be found who supported the Kingdom over the rebellious few.

  But that was for later. For now …

  He raised the lenses, found them fogged with moisture, wiped them on his surcoat, and raised them again. Behind him, he heard his squire of the night trot up with his cloak and the rest of his war gear. He let the lad settle the cloak across his shoulders and flipped the hood up absently.

  By then he had seen—

  Something. He was not at first certain what, in fact, he beheld.

  It began as a creeping darkness around the foot of the hold: a darkness that was easy to distinguish against the structure’s white stone, but hard to tell from the ground in the absence of light from the moons.

  But then the flash of torchlight caught a rippling, reflective surface.

  “Water,” he said aloud, without knowing it.

  “What?” from Tryffon, who was fumbling with a second pair of lenses.

  “Water—water’s leaking out from somewhere.”

  “From under the hold, you mean?”

  “Can you think of anywhere else? The question is: Is it by accident or design? And in either case, where is it coming from? Could it be from a ruptured cistern?”

  Tryffon shook his head. “Not likely. They’re mostly on the back side of the hold, for one thing, and the way they’re situated, they’d either dump into the Ri or fill up the basements long before there’d be enough to run out here.”

  Vorinn felt a bolt of dread stab his heart. He turned to face Tryffon, his eyes cold and grim, his mouth a hard, thin line. “That means the river, then. The Ri-Megon flows through mostly natural channels below the hold, correct? Channels which are also below the entrance to the mines? But there’s still no reason they couldn’t dam it up from inside—in fact, it would be fairly easy, especially if they’ve got a surplus of rubble from the mine explosion, never mind the water gates they use to regulate runoff.”

  “But why?” Tryffon protested. Then: “Oh, Eight, boy! I’ll bet you’re right. They know that the prisoners are the only reason we’ve not brought the attack to them, but they also know they can’t leave them outside indefinitely, so they’ve had to come up with an alternative. And since the hold is built in a low place in the vale, instead of surrounding it with prisoners, they’re going to surround it with water!”

  Vorinn slapped the fence—hard. “So much for waiting.”

  Tryffon laid a hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing we can do—now. If we press the attack, they’ll leave the people there to drown, knowing that there are others still to hand that they can put up on the galleries to ward off trebuchet attack.”

  “Meanwhile, they move the hostages a few at a time as the water rises, and then they evacuate themselves via the raised platforms behind the palisade.”

  “And let the water do the rest. Wily bastards.”

  Vorinn lowered the lenses again. “How high do you think—?”

  Tryffon shrugged. “Based on the lay of the vale, I’d say that the water could easily rise to more than a span deep along most of the length of the place. Deeper to the north, maybe; not so much at the south, but there are actual walls down there—walled and terraced gardens, more properly: built for decoration, but they can still flood behind them, making them easy to defend. Never mind that we couldn’t get the towers in there to them.”

  Vorinn braced himself against the rail. “Oh, Eight, Uncle—the towers.”

  “What about them?”

  “What’s to say the water won’t rise up to them? Up to where our forces are? ‘Water knows neither friend nor foe, merely its own level’—isn’t that the proverb?” A pause, then: “Dammit, much as I hate to say it, I guess I’d best give the order. Tell the soldiers to stand to alert, but start packing their gear from the first ranks back. Tell them to wait until the water is three spans away—which will probably be a while, if it even rises that high—but if it does, tell them to back up a span at a time as the water advances and to stop as soon as it stops. Get folks moving the towers as well—I know it’ll be uphill in the rain, but use the horses, and start at the north end because the ones there will be at risk soonest. And finally … tell the archers that as soon as the last hostages are moving inside, to fire that wall. It’ll help morale to see it burning, and if we have to fight through there, I want no hidden obstructions.”

  Tryffon dipped his head toward the two heralds who stood nearest. “You heard the orders. Have them sent.” The heralds left at a run, one north, one south. Barely ten breaths later the first fruit of that command began to manifest, as Vorinn saw the vanguard of the n
earest band of troops rise as one to join their fellows, who were already standing. Torches flamed off shields, swords, and helmets, as ground rugs were gathered, rolled neatly, and stored in anticipation of evacuation.

  And still the water continued to rise. It was hard to tell how deep it was at the base of the hold—maybe half a span—but it already stretched a third of the way across what had been the open land between the hold and the palisade. And that in only a quarter hand.

  “It has to be the river,” Vorinn spat. “It has to be.”

  Tryffon nodded gravely. “Which means they’ve already flooded the lower levels of the hold. Including, I’m sorry to say, the forges.”

  Vorinn caught his breath. “The forges—”

  “Aye,” Tryffon replied, even more grimly. “And if they’re willing to abandon the forges—Well, I don’t have to tell you what else is on that level.”

  Vorinn felt his blood run cold for the second time in a dozen breaths. “Oh, Eight, Uncle, you’re right. That’s also the primary access level to the mines. If water starts flooding in there, it’ll fill the mines in no time.”

  Tryffon nodded again. “We should know soon enough. When it reaches that level, the water out here should slow its advance—for a while.”

  “But that means—He can’t! He’s not that stupid.”

  “No, but he might be that mad. Regardless, there’s only one rational reason why Zeff would seal off the very reason he wanted this place to start with, and that’s—”

  “That he’d found more gems!” Vorinn finished for him. “Damn, oh damn, oh damn.”

  “It could mean that,” Tryffon conceded. “Or it could mean that he’s given up on finding any and returned to his former plan. For that matter, he could have found gems anytime after Avall left, and only now figured out how to use them.”

  Vorinn raised a brow. “In any case, I suppose the balance of power has shifted again—and not in our favor, now that we get to wonder what, exactly, Zeff is up to.”

  “Maybe so,” Tryffon agreed. “But remember, lad, from their point of view this still gives them no more than parity—assuming they haven’t found enough gems to give every mother’s son of them one of his very own.”

  Vorinn scowled thoughtfully. “You really think that? Even I’m not crazy enough to believe that someone as power-mad as Zeff would ever share that much power. It would only take one person to disagree with him, and we’d see that hold come down.”

  “Which is also—probably—a good reason to suppose that they don’t have gem-powered weapons yet. And even if they did, we’d surely have seen the effects of them being tested.”

  Vorinn scratched his chin. “I don’t suppose we could dam the river upstream.”

  Tryffon shook his head. “Far upstream, maybe; closer in, the channel is so steep it would be all but impossible to reach it. And by the time we could manage anything useful, Zeff would already have his moat. Oh, it might drain off slowly, but would it be slowly enough? Still, I suppose it’s something we should consider.”

  Vorinn chuckled grimly and slapped Tryffon on the back.

  “What’s funny?” the old Chief inquired.

  Vorinn gestured to the rising water. “That. If nothing else, it gives us a time frame for action.”

  “How so?”

  “If we wait long enough, we can ice-skate over!”

  “We’d better not be waiting that long,” Tryffon rumbled. “There’s always a chance Priest will gain enough control of Tir-Eron they can afford to put an army at our back.”

  “They can’t,” Vorinn countered with conviction. “They won’t. I won’t let them. Before that happens, I’ll go find Avall myself.”

  “And how will you do that, boy?”

  “I may not be able to track him,” Vorinn replied with a grin. “But I’ll bet I know some birkits that can.”

  “I’ll believe anything now,” Tryffon sighed—and fell silent. And for the next two hands they watched the water rising … rising … rising …

  CHAPTER XXII:

  HEALING

  (SOUTHWEST OF ERON–HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXXV–EVENING)

  Avall lay propped up on his elbow, staring down at Strynn, who had drifted into a heavy slumber after the evening meal. Should he wake her? he wondered. She obviously needed rest, else she wouldn’t be sleeping now—not with so much going on. But he, in turn, needed her—needed to see how she really was, if nothing else.

  Besides pregnant.

  —With his children, now, not those sired by another man. Which made him wonder about Averryn. He barely knew Eddyn’s son—and would not have known him well in any case, since children were traditionally raised by their one-parents. But Averryn had been in Tir-Eron during the massacre on Mask Night, and he had heard nothing about the boy since. Not about Averryn—and not about his own mother.

  That last shocked him. Had he grown as cold-hearted as all that? To forget people so closely tied to his blood, simply because they were not part of his day-to-day routine? As he sometimes tended to forget Strynn when in the presence of those he had known longer and more comfortably, if not more intimately? Would it be this way every time they were apart? A period of fumbling uncertainty as they became reacquainted with each other? He didn’t require that with Merryn, nor with Rann—or even Lykkon. Why should it be so with his wife?

  Should he therefore wake her and ask her—gently—to spend some time with him. Or would that, too, be viewed as selfishness?

  “You shouldn’t worry,” came Merryn’s voice behind him: soft and low, but strong for all that. “She’s had very little rest for two eights—never mind being sick and pregnant. This is the rest of relief you’re seeing: She’s accomplished what she needs to accomplish, and for the next little while, she doesn’t care. It’s nothing to do with you.”

  Avall reached around to find his sister’s hand and draw her up beside him, even as she pulled him away; the better—he knew—not to awaken Strynn. “Eddyn told me a long time ago that I didn’t deserve her: that I would never be able to give her what she really needs. And I’m afraid—I’m so afraid, Merry, that he was right. And I’d hate for him to be right, I’d hate it.”

  “What did you tell him, then?” Merryn murmured back, as they eased away from the twilight camp.

  “I told him … I told him that nobody ever deserves anybody.”

  “Do you still believe that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s so easy to reduce everything to favors and revenge, and all that. Take Myx, for instance: he tended me when I suddenly jumped into his room in the tower, and his life promptly fell apart, but he gained power and prestige for it, and lost nothing except an ordinary life, in place of which he’s got an extraordinary one. But is he keeping score with me for that? Will he walk up to me one day and say, ‘we’re even,’ and disappear forever?”

  Merryn regarded him keenly. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That we’re all going to disappear on you?”

  He eyed her askance. “Most of you have, at one time or another.”

  “Most of us have had to. But we’ve all come back, haven’t we? Whether you believe it or not, even I was planning to come back after I’d hidden the regalia. I know Strynn would’ve come back. Rann would live in your skin if he could. Kylin risked his life to try to get you out of Gem-Hold; and, accomplished as he is, even Lykkon would like nothing more than to grow up to be you, as would Bingg.”

  Avall shook his head. “And what’s so special about me? I’m only good at one thing, and that’s making fancy things out of gold. Beyond that—I’d say I was good at choosing my friends, but that assumes I actually do that. Most of them just seem to wander into my life unsought. Beyond that—I don’t—”

  A finger at his lips hushed him. “Don’t say ‘deserve’ again, or you will deserve what I give you, and you won’t like it, either. Besides, you’re forgetting one thing you’re good at, Avall, and that’s the one thing Eddyn never had—nor a lot of people we know. You’re good at cari
ng.”

  “Aren’t people supposed to be?”

  A shrug. “So our ethics teachers would say—not that I’ve witnessed it much in practice. Then again, my feeling is that we care more than our elders do because we’re the first generation to reach adulthood after the plague, and the adults we saw around us were still so sore with grief they didn’t dare to care, because everyone they had cared about had died. They closed themselves off, and it’s up to us to reopen them.”

  Avall found a tree and leaned against it. “Where is everyone?” he demanded, choosing not to respond to his sister’s flirtation with philosophy.

  Merryn squinted into the surrounding gloom. “Bingg’s sitting watch with Rann and Kylin. Everyone else has gone in search of geens. Not to hunt them,” she added quickly. “Just to see if any are about. This is the time of day they like to forage, don’t forget: because this is when big prey animals venture into open spaces.”

  “And if they find any?”

  “Rann’s a span away from the Lightning Sword; that should be sufficient.” She paused, looking at the ground, suddenly shy as a girl. “Speaking of caring,” she murmured. “I actually came seeking you with a question that involves that very thing.”

  A brow quirked up. “And what would that be?”

  Merryn gnawed her lip. “Krynneth. I’ve been thinking about him ever since I heard how you healed Kylin on the island.”

  “You aren’t supposed to know about that!”

  Merryn lifted a brow in turn. “According to your story, he was mad when you jumped the lot of you here, but he’s clearly recovered now. I wondered how that happened, but wasn’t sure how Kylin would respond to direct queries, so I asked around. Took two tries, and then … well, I assume you know who knows and who doesn’t.”

  “I didn’t heal him,” Avall growled. “I just … helped him.”

  “Which is all I want you to do for Krynneth. It shouldn’t be that hard. As far as I can tell, they both simply shut down from shock. The only difference is that it happened to Kylin suddenly; with Krynneth, it happened over time.”