Bardow fell to his knees, all vigour spent, even as his enemy staggered back against the wall, bloody mouth making ghastly wet sounds. But the eyes remained fixed on Bardow who sprawled over on his side. From within the dreadful twin grasp of malign sorcery Bardow stared at floor level across at the shaman, now slumped against the wall, with his head tilted to one side and blood darkening his neck, and refusing to die. The eyes burned with hate, the lips silently mouthed and snarled, and to Bardow it seemed as if the Mogaun was feeding on his own agony.
And he despaired, knowing that all his strength and skill had not been enough, knowing that his death was upon him. As his sight began to fail, he wished he had hoped less...
Running footsteps clattered somewhere in the house, doors banged, voices spoke and wept. The footsteps came nearer and he was vaguely aware of newcomers in the room. Someone spoke his name, then uttered a curse. There was the hiss of a drawn blade followed by the sound of a sword striking flesh. And again. Suddenly the crushing pressure was gone and a blurry realness crept back into his vision. Someone had opened the shutters and natural light filled the room. He could just make out a figure standing over the shaman's still form, one hand lifting up something by long strands...the head, he realised.
Someone else crouched close by and stared worriedly at him.
"Archmage - do you hear me? The Mogaun scum is dead. Do you understand?"
The man was broad-shouldered, with cuts and bruises on his unlovely face and a fresh gash on one side of his smooth, hairless scalp. Recognition cut through the exhaustion.
"The Mother must surely have a sense of humour," Bardow said hoarsely, "to make you my rescuer, ser Korren."
Dow Korren, chief negotiator for the Northern Cabal, gave an ironic smile. "I and my associates were waylaid during our return journey, Archmage, which we did not find the least bit amusing. Still, it is good to find you well."
"I'm a breathing ruin, as you can clearly see. Help me up, if you will." As Dow Korren lifted him into a seated position, he went on. "I'm a cup drained to the dregs, a log charred near the core, a river baked to the merest trickle..." He paused, suddenly aware of how he must sound. He sighed, rubbed at his eyes with trembling then focussed on the other man in the room and was pleased to see who it was. "Leave that cursed thing be, Guldamar, and come over and speak to me of the fight."
The young mage had placed the shaman's severed head on the trestle and was squatting before it, frowning as he contemplated the grisly object.
"The last I saw of the fighting was Yarram leading some of his men in pursuit of a few Mogaun still on horseback and trying to escape. Terzis was helping a few of Yarram's captains to protect a captured Mogaun chieftain from a mob bent on revenge." With the point of the sword he still held, he scraped at the black, flaking symbols on the floor. Then raised it to indicate the blood-spattered head. "Something is amiss here."
"Explain," Bardow said, suddenly uneasy.
Guldamar shook his head. "Some kind of presence yet remains in the room, and the head is part of it. I think."
"Then we chop it up and feed the pieces to the greenwings," Dow Korren growled, pulling a long dagger from his waist.
"No, wait," Bardow said, forcing himself shakily to his feet. He staggered with the effort but Korren lent a supporting arm. "There is only one certain way of purging whatever lingers in this place - fire."
"We burn the body?" said Korren.
"This room," Bardow said. "The entire house."
"We would have to get everyone out," Korren said.
Guldamar got to his feet and resheathed his blade. "Then we should begin."
Bardow nodded, glanced around the room then paused in wonder at what he saw through the open shutters.
The window faced south and from this height offered a view across clustered roofs to the Keep and the battlements along the nearby cliff edge. There was fighting up there, knots of men struggling and charging, with the thick of it taking place on a wide stone bridge which joined the battlements to the keep. Heaving throngs of warriors from both sides were locked in deadly combat, and at its centre flew a banner, a great blue flag bearing the image of the Fathertree. Instinctively, Bardow knew that Tauric was near that banner and he felt a surge of conflicting emotions, a deep-seated joy at the proud flaunting of their long-oppressed emblem, and a biting anxiety over the boy's safety.
"Our comrades need our help," Guldamar said urgently. "Come, we shall clear out this foul place and put it to the torch."
"I would gladly aid you," Dow Korren said. "But my colleagues were imprisoned in the lower town - I must discover their whereabouts and release those who yet live."
With a hand still resting on Dow Korren's shoulder Bardow turned from the window. "You shall have help in your search - I shall see to it." He grimaced at the acrid odour of the room. "For now, let us begone from here."
* * *
To Tauric it seemed that he was clamped in a vice of bodies. Gathered all around him in a tight phalanx were the men who called themselves the White Companions, a dozen or so young men Kodel had selected from the hundreds who volunteered before they left Oumetra. On Tauric's left was tall Aygil, the muscles of his arms bulging as he strove to hold the great banner aloft, while on his right, ever-vigilant, was Kodel's nameless deputy, the Armourer.
It was frustrating. From the moment he and the others had climbed the scaling ladders up onto the cliff battlements, he had been surrounded and protected and never given the chance to swing his sword in anger. And now the Hunters Children, who in their scores surrounded the White Companions, were driving forward along the bridge, forcing the mercenaries back towards the Keep. Men were fighting and dying for him, Tauric knew, and he felt a helpless fury as he saw one of the Hunters Children take a spear thrust in the shoulder which sent him toppling over the bridge's low parapet.
A hand gripped his shoulder and the Armourer spoke above the battle's din.
"You are already in enough danger," he said. "And still you accomplish much. See how they fight for you."
Tauric nodded yet could not shake off the sense of frustration. He remembered something that Kodel had said to him in Oumetra just days ago -
An emperor cannot be a mere symbol. To his subjects he is more than a mortal man wearing a crown, so he has a duty to do and to be more
.
He was about to say as much to the Armourer when a shout went up from the enemy troops. One of their number had clambered onto the shoulders of the second rank only yards away, and with a dagger in either hand he launched himself over the heads of attackers and defenders alike, straight towards Tauric.
Closed in on all sides, Tauric struggled to draw his sword. But the Armourer was swifter by far and with a savage accuracy brought his own blade round in a silver blur for the mercenary to impale himself as he came down. The dying man crashed into Tauric who reeled backwards, involuntarily grabbing Aygil the standard bearer and dragging him down too.
At this, the enemy let out a mass roar of triumph and retaliated in furious onslaught. Cries of 'He is fallen!' made the Hunters Children at the front falter and glance back. The mercenaries seized the moment and made a disciplined rush in the direction of the wavering banner, even as some of the White Companions hauled a dazed Tauric from beneath the bleeding corpse of his assailant.
Then the enemy broke through, some four or five brawny soldiers wielding swords and maces and easily beating aside the few White Companions who stood against them. Without hesitation the Armourer shoved Tauric towards a knot of Hunters Children already moving to his aid, then lunged at the nearest mercenary and felled him with a single blow.
Recovering his senses, Tauric saw Aygil struggling to lift the great blue banner, its pole snapped in half from the crush of bodies moments before. Kodel's words came back to him once more -
An emperor cannot be a mere symbol
- and he snatched the broken banner from a surprised Aygil and with a sudden surge of strength held it above his head. He cried out, "In the name of the Fathertree!", and led a charge past the Armourer's melee and towards the open entrance of the Keep.
Someone bellowed orders and panicking defenders leaped to close the gates, but too late - Tauric and his followers rushed up to the heavy wooden doors and shoved them wide open. Inside was a high oval room with rich tapestries and drapes on the walls, heavy hide rugs scattered across the floor, and a fire burning in a massive hearth. Along the wall a stairway curved up to the rooftop battlements, and several teardrop-shaped lanterns hung from two tall wooden lampoles.
The few defenders near the doors retreated to the fire where a larger group of mercenaries waited. Although armed and ready, they made no move to attack and instead glared at Tauric and his metal arm and the banner which he had balanced on one shoulder so that the flag hung about him like a cloak. Tauric thought he saw fear in the eyes of some of them and felt a certain a satisfaction.
Then there were mutters, the mercenaries moved apart and a tall man stepped forward. He wore heavy leather armour, well-tailored in ochre and carmine, a close-fitting bronze helm, and on his right arm a spiderclaw. The gauntlet-sword was a thing of deadly beauty, overlapping strips of metal covering from the wrist down a long glove of some reptilian hide, its pebbled surface gleaming grey and silver in the firelight. The gauntlet's palm and fingers were fitted to the hilt of a broadsword with stitching and straps, making it all of a single piece.
The spiderclaw came up, levelled straight at Tauric, and golden light flashed along its edges.
"I am Crolas, governor of Sejeend," said the tall man. "Yield to me and lay down your weapons, and I will guarantee you all safe passage back to the south."
For a long moment there was only the sound of fighting from outside and the hiss and crack of logs burning in the hearth. Then Tauric spoke.
"I am Tauric tor-Galantai, heir to the throne of Besh-Darok, defender of life and land - " His voice shook but he had found the words and went on. "If you and your men lay down your arms now, much of what has happened here will be overlooked. Make term with us, Crolas, and join us in this fight."
Crolas regarded him levelly. "You speak well, for a stripling - "
"Thank you, my lord. I expect to be much improved come the day of my coronation."
At that, a crooked smile. "I fear you do not understand what stands against you, the sheer number and terrible powers of your chosen enemy. No, ser Tauric, I shall not surrender to you, for the sea does not make terms with a sinking ship." He turned to his men. "Take them."
But even as the words were out of his mouth, Tauric was dashing towards the stairway with the others hard on his heels. Crolas urged his guards after them and as swordfights broke out on the lower steps Tauric heard the mercenary chief call out his name. Slowing in his upward rush, he glanced down to see Crolas grinning and pointing to the head of the stairs.
More armed mercenaries were descending from the roof and edging down to meet Tauric and the vanguard of his outnumbered band. Fear and despair rose in him, threatening to overwhelm his reason.
Trapped
, he thought,
because of me
...
As the mercenaries came closer, Aygil spoke up. "We are here to die for you, lord. Let us face them!"
"Fight and live, Aygil!" he cried as the standard bearer and five others dashed past him and stood shoulder to shoulder. He watched as the first rank of mercenaries attacked, feeling angry and helpless. Then a movement to the side made him look round, and he gasped and jerked backwards as one of the tall lampoles came toppling towards the spot where he stood. The teardrop lamps swung wildly on their chains, one came loose and fell to the floor with a deep chiming sound, spraying burning oil onto nearby rugs.
The top of the lampole struck the stair with a loud wooden bang, bounced once and for a moment was still. Then the end began to judder slightly, making faint scraping sounds on the stone. Tauric looked past the edge of the stairs and was aghast to see Crolas, with acrobatic grace and balance, running up the improvised ladder.
In the time it took Tauric to ready his sword with his metal hand, Crolas leaped the last few feet and knocked it from his grip. There was no hesitation in the mercenary's actions, only swift and brutal efficiency. But as he swung the spiderclaw blade down in a glittering arc, Tauric's desperation lent him speed enough to move his artificial hand in time.
Sparks flew as metal struck metal with a harsh clang. Hate spurred his strength, he closed his gleaming fingers about the blade, twisted and snapped it in half. Crolas' features betrayed a mixture of surprise and fury, but still he moved to the attack and lunged at Tauric with the broken blade, landing an awful blow to his shoulder. The leather armour he wore took the worst of it, but the pain was stunning. Semi-conscious, he crashed to the steps.
He did not hear the fearful shouts of his followers as they rushed to form a ring about him. His every sense was swamped by a shadowy numbness which somehow held him below the surface of the world but kept him from sinking into black nothingness. Yet he was not alone - another presence was here, a fleeting immensity, a pervasive nullity...
...
oh, foolish son
...
Sensation burst upon him, heavy smells of green growth -
...
son of a foolish son
...
— tastes of earth and decay and roots, odours of forest and fen -
...
Your haste serves nothing, your death serves nothing. Knowledge serves, devotion serves, preparation serves. Listen now, and learn
...
New impressions flooded into him, making him victim (hands tied behind his back, ankles bound, mouth gagged, and a heavy sheet lay over him), then observer (a horse and cart, a darkened alley, a weakly moving form in the cart, half- concealed, a grubby floral dress, long pale girl hair)