Warautumn (39 page)

“You two?” he demanded, to distract himself.

“Behind you, if you don’t mind. We’re only going a dozen spans. Boot can manage that.”

Avall was too agitated to argue. If this was going to happen, he wanted it done and over. Yet when he felt Rann slip up behind him, and Merryn slide on farther back—in what had to be a very perilous seat indeed—it seemed too soon.

“Now or never,” Rann whispered in his ear. And before Avall could stop himself, he set heels to Boot’s sides and rode into the river. The middle channel was deepest, but still not deep enough to reach higher than Boot’s breast, which was a problem they had not considered.

“Fate help us now,” Avall muttered. “I can’t.”

And with that he slammed his sword hand into his forehead, tripping the blood trigger there, then clamped down with both hands as hard as he could on sword and shield alike, let go the reins, and—relying on balance alone—thrust both hands into the water, one to either side.

Willpower did the rest.

Wanting this done and over was enough, and “done and over” meant returning to Gem-Hold-Winter.

Avall tried to drag his hands back above the water, but the water knew him, and sang to him, and then it seized him and pulled him apart like waves eating up a sand sculpture at the seashore.

The last thing he saw was mountains above woodland above river. The last thing he heard was Vorinn splashing through the water behind them yelling, “Not without me! Not yet. No!”

“What just happened?” Ahfinn demanded of the tall soldier standing at his right, who was gazing, as was he, at the chaos that had just engulfed the dueling ground.
Empty
chaos, perhaps—for the focus of that duel had vanished. Yet even now the square was filling with eight men from two factions, all rushing forward in utter confusion to stare over the platform’s side into less than a span of water, where, it appeared, two other men had, not ten breaths earlier, vanished without a trace.

“It’s the same thing that happened the other time,” the soldier told Ahfinn sourly, reaching for his sword. “And curse them for it, too. Damned tricksters.”

“I’m not so certain,” Ahfinn retorted through a scowl. “Did you see Vorinn’s face when—?”

“All I saw was his blood on his hand,” the guard gritted. “All I
want
to see is his head.”

“Orders,” someone panted at Ahfinn’s other side. “Do you have orders?”

Ahfinn blinked at the man. And only then did he realize that he was now facing the impossible responsibility that Zeff
had laid on him that morning in Gem-Hold’s assembly hall, before most of the Ninth Face force in residence.

“I go to fight,”
Zeff had announced
. “I go to meet our foe in order to end this impasse. We could all fight here, and many could die, and still nothing would be accomplished. Or I can fight their champion. I have that in my possession which all but assures my victory. Our foes have nothing but pride. They sought to trick us with false goods, but we have seen through their deception, and any weapon they may have with them, be assured that we have better. I will be our champion because this has been my venture from the first, and because the law of our order demands that no man ask of another what he would not himself willingly undertake. I have always been a fighter. I will fight.”

Silence had followed—for a moment. Then, from a young woman:
“And if you lose?”

“There are better warriors in this hold, and better scholars, and better theologians. But there is not a better man to oversee all these things than Ahfinn. He will take my place. His orders will be my orders.”
A pause, then:
“Torai, you will retain command of all strategy and tactics, save that Ahfinn himself will ordain fight or flight. Ganaron, you oversee our hostages. Pyvv: supplies. And now,”
he had concluded.
“I go to prepare for this battle. I will see you all at dinner—where we will all laugh at how moot these orders have been.”

Moot indeed!
Ahfinn snorted as he pondered the unhappy present. The whole mess had begun to unwind when Vorinn had tricked Zeff out of the rest of the regalia. Not that Zeff had really had any choice once affairs had been set in motion. But he could have anticipated, could have established a contingency.

And now …

“Orders,” someone prompted.

“Secure the hold,” Ahfinn yelled back from pure reflex. Then, to a young man who had come rushing down the stairs, and who he knew to be one of the lookouts: “What’s Eron doing? Not those we can see, those we can’t!”

“Milling about like ants whose hill has been upset. But they’re armed. I saw swords everywhere—drawn, and those who wield them pressing forward.”

“Into the gap? Or have they come through it already?”

“They’re as … hesitant as we, it seems. I think what just happened surprised them as much as it did us. I—”

“They
are
gone, sir,” a young man panted, having just run up the pontoon bridge from the dueling square. Ahfinn recognized him as one of the seconds—the one with Zeff’s helm, in fact, which he still bore. Ahfinn snatched it impulsively but did not put it on. A ring of gems sparkled on the forehead. Zeff had set them there, trusting no one else, relying on smithcraft learned in his youth. The rest was Avall’s work—in replica. And still the most beautiful helm Ahfinn had ever seen.

“Someone give me a sword,” Ahfinn snapped. “And bring Zeff’s shield—the one he should have worn in that accursed duel. I’m no soldier, but it’s still my duty to lead. And if I die, that is my duty as well.”

Both shield and sword appeared, as if by magic. Ahfinn paused to sheathe the sword in his belt, then, with the shield in one hand and the helm in the other, strode onto the pontoon bridge. “Dammit! Secure the bloody
hold
!” he shouted, as he reached the center, turning around to face the arcade’s door. “And get this water rising; Tryffon’s bound to be scenting blood. Now find me a herald and prepare for attack. I’m going to try to parley, but I want a secure hold at my back. Move every archer we’ve got to this end. And get the hostages back on the galleries. No, never mind. We don’t have time for that.”

And with those orders still ringing in the air, he continued on, trying to match his steps to the bounce-and-jounce of the bridge, and not entirely succeeding. He met Zeff’s remaining seconds there, looking as confused and apprehensive as he felt. The Royalists clumped at the other end of the platform, near the causeway, looking no more certain of what had transpired than Ahfinn’s men.

“What happened?” Ahfinn demanded. “Are they—?”

“Truly gone, as far as I can tell,” a Ninth Face warrior replied. “They hit the water, and then it was like seeing the shadows of two fish in there, and then blood was flowing, and we couldn’t see a thing, and then it was like the two of them … rippled, and they were gone as if they had never existed.”

“Sorcery!” one of the King’s men spat.

“If sorcery, it is yours!” Ahfinn shot back, turning to glare at Vorinn’s four allies. Sturdy men, they were. Grim men. Men in their prime. Men who, by the rules of the contest, had no swords. Unfortunately, by those same rules, neither did Ahfinn’s.

Steps slapped loud on the bridge behind him. A young man dashed up, flush-faced, but in a herald’s tabard. “You asked for—”

“Go find Tryffon syn Ferr—or whoever is Vorinn’s deputy. Demand to see Avall. If they deny you, tell them—tell them that a hostage dies every day until he shows himself.”

“Sir,” the herald challenged bravely, “once we have done that, there will be no reason for them not to level this hold.”

“While the water stands, their arrows can’t reach it, and there’s the same problem with the trebuchets they’ve always had. Now don’t argue. No, wait—Tell them that … what just happened was neither our wish nor our command. Tell them I will stand here undefended save by my own hand until I have reply; that I do this as a sign of good faith.”

“As you will, Lord,” the herald replied with a curt bow. He turned neatly and strode with cold dignity past Vorinn’s seconds, who, respecting the sanctity of the youth’s office, parted to give him passage.

Without a word, the Royalists turned and fell in behind the herald, not hurrying, though their backs faced enemy arrows unprotected.

Ahfinn found himself alone in the center of the platform, with all of a besieged hold behind him and an angry Kingdom on the verge of facing him down. This was a balance point, he realized: a crux of time, space, and history.

Time passed.

An eternity for Ahfinn, but no more than a hundred breaths in fact.

He heard the thunder of hooves before he saw them, and knew at once that it was not his herald returning.

It was Tryffon, Veen, and old Preedor, all sitting fully armed on horseback, with what looked like the entire Royal Army, some afoot, some mounted, pouring through the gap behind them onto the newly uncovered ground. And every third one of them, to guess, carried a scaling ladder—which could reach the battlements of the viewing plaza, now that the moat had been pulled back and no soldiers—or hostages—commanded the heights above them. The horses couldn’t get up to the plaza, granted, but in this kind of fighting, horses didn’t matter.

The hold was vulnerable, too, if only at the door behind him. The attackers would have to fight in rising water, but so would his own soldiers. And the controls that worked the locks that dammed the river were only two rooms behind the entrance to the arcade. And if the Royal Army got that far …

The Ninth Face might well be doomed.

More boots rang on the bridge behind him: many pairs, and heavy. Mail jingled; leather creaked; metal clanged against more metal. Ahfinn turned casually, trying to appear calm, and saw Ninth Face soldiers marching out of the single door and across the narrow bridge. Not an endless stream, but a steady one.

“We came to fight,” the first one announced. His fellows crowded up behind. “We’ve had enough sitting, the lads and I. We’ll die here, or not, but we’re not going back inside. The rest—it’s their say, but your orders. But we won’t leave you to die out here alone, and we can’t let you be captured.” Without another word, those knights fanned out to either side—maybe thirty of them, effectively filling the platform. Ahfinn, paused for a breath, then passed his shield to a soldier for as long as it took to don Zeff’s helm. That accomplished, he retrieved the
shield again, but remained where he was, waiting for the first man to come over the wall. A glance behind showed the door closing at last; a glance to where the water that surrounded the platform lapped against the wall showed that it might have risen a finger’s width. Or perhaps that darkness merely marked where it had splashed. Unfortunately, the locks could only be closed so fast, and the Ri-Megon would not be hurried.

Breath hissed loud in his helm, and sweat streamed into his eyes, but still Ahfinn remained where he was—waiting.

It occurred to him, then, that he wore Zeff’s shield and helmet and that both were very likely … magic. They would have blood, Zeff had said; blood would power them. The helm would enhance his will. The shield would absorb any force brought to bear against it. At least that was what Avall’s regalia had done. He had no idea whether Zeff’s versions would evince those same powers, for Zeff had never confided anything about his work with the new gems.

But Zeff was not Avall.

And he certainly was not the
smith
Avall had been.

Yet if Ahfinn had a fault, it was curiosity, and if he had two, the second was impatience. It was therefore no surprise that he found that he could wait no longer. A deep breath, and he slapped the helm hard enough to bring forth blood from the barb within it, which was also hard enough to send that blood to the gems in the war helm’s brow. At the same time, he squeezed the grip within the shield.

Power answered—but not enough; he knew that in an instant. It was weak and tentative, and eased into his body like warm syrup, not hot wine. Yet for all that, his shield arm suddenly felt stronger, and his vision had grown more acute, so that he found himself staring at the forces still crowding their way through the gap half a shot away, and could now hear their voices, as though a wall had lifted from between them.

Yet so intent was he on those odd new sensations that when the first scaling ladder slammed into the wall six spans from his feet, he started—for to him that impact had sounded like
thunder. Without thought, he dashed toward it, even as the more seasoned knights around him surged past him on either side, swords hissing from their scabbards, shields rising to cover knee to chin. He was awash in a sea of blue and white, and then, somehow, he had moved past it—exactly as the first head showed above the rampart. He hewed at it from reflex, but a sword stabbed upward beside it, narrowly missing his throat. He hewed again, and again the sword swung—but this time he met it with his shield.