Authors: R.A. Salvatore
Brynn offered him a grateful smile and patted his shoulder. “Aydrian’s misdeeds against the Touel’alfar are no business of any To-gai-ru except for me. I am a ranger, as surely as I am To-gai-ru. I could not ask my warriors to follow me across the mountains. I could not risk the welfare of To-gai in my defense of Lady Dasslerond, who was as my mother. I am going north to do battle with Aydrian because I must. To you I entrust the leadership of our people, and I have no doubt that you will perform magnificently. To you, I entrust the care of Runtly, who is precious to me.”
“And when you return?” Grenk asked.
“I will take back my pony, but that is all,” Brynn replied. “My abdication is complete. If ever I am needed by To-gai, I will be there, by your side, but if I return from Honce-the-Bear, my road will be …” She stopped and glanced over at Pagonel, who smiled and nodded.
“You are going to study with the Jhesta Tu,” Tanalk Grenk reasoned.
Brynn smiled and continued to look to the mystic. “If I am fortunate enough to live through the trials with Aydrian,” she admitted.
When she turned back to Tanalk Grenk, she was surprised to see that he didn’t appear ready to argue, nor was he puffing his chest with pride. “If I serve To-gai half as well as did Brynn Dharielle, then my name will be legend among our people,” he offered, and he bowed so low that it seemed as if his face would touch the ground, and when he came up, Brynn saw the hint of tears in his dark eyes.
“I would ride with you anywhere in all the world, against any enemy,” he said. “I would battle the dragon itself if you but asked. You cannot know …”
Brynn interrupted him by moving forward and wrapping him in a great hug.
“I could not go and do what I must, were it not for you,” she whispered to the man. “I leave To-gai in all confidence that she will be safe and well led.”
Tanalk Grenk nodded, and Brynn hugged him again. Then she gathered up Pagonel and walked off the plateau encampment, down to where Agradeleous waited.
The eagerness of the dragon had the woman more than a little concerned.
“He is worth killing,” Agradeleous explained to her.
“And you mean to do that?”
The dragon fell back and the eager sparkle in his reptilian eyes dimmed considerably. “Better for another, that task,” he said. “For me, I will fly about the beast’s kingdom, putting towns to the flame!”
“No,” Brynn replied, and she closed her eyes against the memories evoked by Agradeleous’ obvious hunger. She remembered well the carnage she had allowed the dragon to inflict upon the Behrenese settlers in To-gai, and knew that forevermore she would hear their terrified screams in her mind. Her fight in the north was not with Honce-the-Bear, however, but with Aydrian—specifically Aydrian.
She would not turn Agradeleous loose in such a manner ever again.
They spent the night in preparation, Pagonel and Brynn determining how they might best serve Prince Midalis, and then they were off with the dawn’s light, flying east to find the prince and his navy.
T
hree more catapults came online that day on the field outside of St.-Mere-Abelle, and Duke Kalas wasted no time in adding them to the bombardment. At any given moment throughout that morning, a trio of boulders were in the air, soaring out far and wide to smash down among the structures of the great abbey, or mostly, along the front wall near to the great gates.
Responding fire from the abbey’s artillery proved sporadic at best, and wholly ineffective. Nor could the monks reach out this far with their gemstones.
Every so often, Kalas’ artillerymen changed their tactics and loaded up with smoldering pitch and elevated the firing angle, and then with a great whoosh, they launched all fifteen of the massive catapults together, sending a wave of fire soaring over the abbey wall.
“Are you enjoying this as much as I?” Kalas asked De’Unnero as the two stood and watched the continuing bombardment.
“You would knock it all down if you could,” the monk replied.
Kalas didn’t even bother to reply, just stood there watching, a superior grin upon his face.
“Are you not just giving them more ammunition to throw back at us?” De’Unnero asked.
“That is why we throw the pitch over the wall, but launch the stones in short, so that most smash against the front wall and bounce down beyond their reach. Not that it would matter. When King Aydrian arrives and tells us to charge in, the monks will run out of time long before they will run out of stones to throw.”
“He will arrive soon?”
“Tomorrow, from what I have heard.”
“And what of the rumors from the southland?”
“By all reports, Abbot Olin was defeated and captured,” Duke Kalas answered. “By all reports, Prince Midalis played a hand in that defeat. I fear that King Aydrian perhaps reached too far and too fast.”
“No,” the monk argued. “It was not Aydrian’s error, but Abbot Olin’s. He should have stepped more carefully—he had enough warriors at his disposal to hold strong against any opposition, had he kept his focus upon Jacintha and Behren alone.”
“Do you think they are afraid?” Duke Kalas asked, indicating the great abbey once more.
De’Unnero turned back to regard the ancient structure. “They are concerned, of course,” he replied. “But they know that you’ll not knock down their solid walls from out here. And they know that they can withstand a siege forever and ever—the abbey is fully self-supporting. The brothers understand that to take St.-Mere-Abelle,
you, or Aydrian, will have to charge those walls. The monastery has been attacked many times, good Duke. Never has it fallen.”
“Never has it faced the wrath of Aydrian, or the combined armies of Honce-the-Bear,” Kalas was quick to answer. He put on a sly look, and offered, “Nor, perhaps, the wrath of Marcalo De’Unnero.”
“St.-Mere-Abelle will fall,” De’Unnero agreed, but far from jubilant, his tone was somber. De’Unnero wanted the abbey taken, of course—this was the moment of his ascension. But it pained him nonetheless to know that to put things in the Church aright, he would have to bring down the formerly unconquerable fortress. There was some mystique about St.-Mere-Abelle that appealed to the warrior monk: unconquerable, indomitable, ageless.
“Do you think they have had enough shaking for the morning?” Kalas asked.
“Take care you do not pile your missiles too high before the walls,” the monk warned. “Else we’ll have to move them aside before we batter at the gates.”
Duke Kalas snorted and turned to look over his shoulder. “The artillery is to stand down!” he called to one of his nearby undercommanders, and the man saluted and ran off to relay the command.
“We will resume tomorrow morning,” Kalas explained to De’Unnero. “And every morning thereafter.”
He chuckled as he considered a black line of smoke rising from behind the abbey’s wall, the result, no doubt, of the last pitch barrage. “We will wear away their resolve,” he promised. “And then St.-Mere-Abelle will fall to Aydrian’s control.”
Marcalo De’Unnero eyed the man for a long time, but resisted the urge to correct him on that last part. St.-Mere-Abelle would fall, true, but control would cede to him, and not to Aydrian.
Later that day, a runner arrived with word that Prince Midalis had come ashore in the east yet again.
“St. Gwendolyn?” Duke Kalas asked hopefully, for he had left a sizable force in place, hidden within the abbey. “Then at last, the renegade found a fight.”
“Pireth Tulme,” the runner corrected. “And then Macomber Village.”
Duke Kalas looked at De’Unnero, and the monk merely shrugged. Once again, the prince had known exactly where to strike.
“Gather a force and retake the place,” said a disgusted Duke Kalas.
“Yes, my lord,” the runner replied, and Kalas waved him away.
“Pray that Aydrian arrives soon,” Kalas muttered to De’Unnero. “We are in sore need of a victory here, to ensure that the peasants do not start believing in the superiority of Prince Midalis. Though he wins no major victories!”
“He is gambling that he will need none,” the monk replied.
T
rumpets heralded the arrival of King Aydrian and his force of five thousand the next day. He wasted no time with formalities, or even in surveying the damage done so far to St.-Mere-Abelle, but went straight to the tent offered him as his audience hall, to meet with Father Abbot De’Unnero and Duke Kalas.
“You have heard of Olin’s failure?” Aydrian snapped as soon as the pair walked in. He noted, too, that De’Unnero’s eyes were not on him, but were on Sadye, and the monk seemed less than pleased to be looking upon her once more.
“Rumors have reached us, yes,” Duke Kalas replied.
“They are all true, I assure you,” said Aydrian. “Olin attacked my old companion, Brynn Dharielle, and her To-gai-ru kinfolk, and he was soundly thrashed. Of course, it helped Brynn’s cause that Prince Midalis happened to sail into Jacintha harbor in support of her war with Olin.”
“The prince has proven to be a thorn up and down the coast,” Duke Kalas agreed. “Always does he seem to be striking wherever we are not.”
“It’s the witch with her gemstones,” De’Unnero offered. “The witch you let walk out of Ursal.”
The two men stared hard at each other, and Aydrian was the first to blink. Perhaps De’Unnero was right here, he knew. Perhaps, in his supreme confidence, he had erred in allowing his mother to walk free. Was she now using her soul stone to scout out the regions along the coast where Midalis could safely strike? Had she gone so far to the south as to recognize the situation in Jacintha, and then guide Prince Midalis to the side of Brynn?
It seemed a bit of a stretch to Aydrian; there were great limitations to spirit-walking, after all. But still, something was obviously going on here.
“Behren and To-gai are no longer involved in our struggles,” Aydrian explained to the two men. “I have signed a treaty with both Brynn Dharielle and the representative of Jacintha.”
“If they hold to it,” Duke Kalas murmured.
“Brynn Dharielle’s word cannot be questioned,” Aydrian countered. “She has agreed that To-gai will not go to war with Honce-the-Bear, and so they shall not. As for Behren, by all reports, the people there are too busy battling with each other to turn their eyes to the north.”
“Then we need not fortify Entel, beyond a force that could repel Prince Midalis,” Kalas reasoned.
“Entel is secure,” Aydrian assured him. “Prince Midalis will not engage us fully at this time. His strategy is to strike where we are weakest and then to run away.”
“He is trying to erode support for you among the people,” De’Unnero reasoned. “He is trying to make sure that they understand his viability as their king.”
“And to counter that, we need a more substantial victory than the prince could ever hope to gain,” said Aydrian. He pointed straight out the door, across the fields to the distant gray-brown structure of St.-Mere-Abelle. “We need to overrun St.-Mere-Abelle, and soon,” he explained. “Once the abbey is ours, my armies will be free to fortify the coastline more completely. Where then will Prince Midalis strike?”
“The monastery is already isolated from him, my King,” Duke Kalas said, his shoulders going back, chest puffing out as he reported the good news. “St.-Mere-Abelle’s docks are in ruin and any ships coming in will be under constant barrage
from the cliffs, north and south. Our Palmaris warships huddle beneath the shadows of those batteries. Any attempt by Prince Midalis to come in will prove costly to him, I promise you.”
“We have softened the defenses of the abbey, as well,” De’Unnero added, and from the look Kalas shot him, Aydrian understood that the monk was speaking up to make sure that he was included in the dispensing of glory. “The brothers within have been awakened every morning by the thunder of boulders and the smell of burning pitch.”
Aydrian nodded, pleased by it all. He had little doubt that his army could overrun the abbey, especially with him there, neutralizing the magical response from the Abellicans and mounting more devastating attacks, as well. But he understood, too, that the defenses of St.-Mere-Abelle were as much underground as above, a network of tunnels and fortified subchambers. Aydrian believed that he could get through the gates easily enough—hadn’t he done just that against Palmaris? But he understood that the struggle to secure control of the monastery could be long and troublesome.
The young king had been stung quite a bit of late and wanted to proceed with all caution in this most important of all battles. Abbot Olin had failed him and Prince Midalis had surprised him repeatedly.
He could not let that happen again.
Late that day, while De’Unnero, Kalas, and the other commanders began their planning and preparation for the assault on the monastery, Aydrian retired to a darkened tent. He set up his Oracle mirror and sat across from it, staring into its depths, asking himself the many questions concerning the prince’s uncanny ability to strike just beyond his reach and to join in wherever he was most needed.
For a long time, nothing really sparked in Aydrian’s mind. He kept imagining his mother’s spirit, flying across the lands, gathering information for the prince. But how had she known to go to Brynn? And how had she contacted Brynn completely enough to coordinate any action, as surely seemed the case, since all reports had the To-gai-ru and the prince’s fleet arriving at precisely the right times to unhinge Jacintha.
A memory flashed in Aydrian’s mind, a recollection of his first real battle with Lady Dasslerond. She had used her magical emerald that day to distort the ground beneath them, to pull him back to the edge of Andur’Blough Inninness.
The emerald.
It all made sense, then. The scattered Touel’alfar were not in hiding, but had joined in the cause against him!
Aydrian’s eyes popped open. Could it be true?
The young king fished about immediately for his soul stone and soared out from his tent in spirit form. If he was correct, then surely he could find some evidence near the primary points of importance, St. Gwendolyn and Pireth Tulme.
Near St.-Mere-Abelle.
It took Aydrian a long time that night to locate the spy. He followed the sensations
of life offered by the stone, those same sensations that invited an out-of-body spirit to attempt possession of any living, reasoning being it passed near.