Warautumn (29 page)

“He could’ve won with the sword he had.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it would have driven him mad. Would you want to risk that? And if it had driven Avall mad, rest assured it would’ve made short work of me. Stronger, I may be, as a soldier, but he’s got more raw willpower than I have.”

“Geenshit.”

Vorinn shook his head. “It’s true. Back when we were children—or Avall was; I was well into my teens; seventeen I think—I happened on him in the forges. Eddyn was taunting him and picked up a bar of iron, stuck it in a brazier, and dared him to hold on to it as long as he could. Well, he took that dare and grabbed hold—and kept it, even when the other end of the bar had started to glow. He was sweating all over by then, but he still held on. He’d probably have suffered damage if Tyrill hadn’t caught them at it and made them stop, and even then, Avall got mad at her, not at Eddyn.”

Tryffon shrugged. “Pain isn’t hard to endure if you ease into it gradually.”

Vorinn frowned at him. “Maybe so. But you want to know something else? I went down there later that day when no one was around but someone I knew from War that I knew wouldn’t tell on me. He’d seen what Avall had done, and I got him to stoke up the same fire exactly as hot as the earlier fire had been, and then I took the same rod of iron and tried to
repeat what Avall had done. And I couldn’t. And that’s why I know Avall has more will than I’ve got.”

Tryffon mirrored Vorinn’s frown. “I’ve never heard that story.”

“Ask Tyrill.”

“She only saw half of it. And she may be dead by now.”

“And the fellow who saw me fail died in the war, so I guess I’ve no way to prove it. But surely we’ve got better things to do than sit around doubting each other’s veracity.”

Tryffon didn’t reply.

“So, back to waiting,” Vorinn sighed. “I’ll concede that I’m playing with the nerves of my army in the sense that they don’t know when they’ll be called to fight, any more than they know whether—should that occur—they’ll find themselves fighting among the staked-out bodies of their kin, or be watching that kin being butchered.

“But on the other hand, Zeff’s playing with nerves, too—because there’s no way he could know we have neither the false sword nor the real regalia. He probably suspects as much by now, but he doesn’t
know
. And that has to be driving him crazy. Look at his method of defense. It’s designed precisely to prevent attack from anything that’s not very, very selective. Which means he assumes we
do
have it. On the other hand, he’s completely disrupted the functions of the hold, except that he can’t afford to do that for very long. Our soldiers only have to be soldiers. His have to be ready for as much violence as ours are ready for—and do everything else a hold requires along with it. And he’s bound to be digging like mad.”

Tryffon drained his mug. “He
will
reach the mines, you know.”

“More waiting,” Vorinn conceded, “and that’s a fact. The longer we wait, the more likely he is to reach them—and that does concern me.”

“What happens then?”

Vorinn took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I’ll know when I get there. By that time, it will be a choice of evils.”

“Or you could simply pack up, return to Tir-Eron, and try to set things right there.”

“And face possibly the same tactics there as here? Never mind that I’d be leaving an enemy at my back with nothing to restrain it but fear of attack from Avall.”

“Which would mean even odds of Zeff seeing our desertion as cowardice or arrogance.”

“Which would still keep him guessing.”

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 nearest 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.”