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twenty-seven
With unaccustomed
forbearance Mero remained silent, riding in the rear while the spunkies created
the now familiar fog-free tunnel and guided the four armigers down the sharp
switchbacks toward the great valley of the River Malle.
As the falcon flew (if one
had dared the murky sky), the distance from Red-fern to the capital was less
than thirty leagues along this shortcut trail. But the terrain was so steep,
descending a perilous escarpment, that most who traveled between the castle and
After seven hours the boys
finally arrived in the lowlands, having met only a goatherd with a single goat,
some gaunt-faced children gathering fagots, and a pair of old women carrying a
basket of some wild edibles they'd gathered off the mountainside. All of these
persons plunged away from the trail with squeals of terror, thinking they had
encountered phantoms, when the troop loomed up behind them in the fog, eerily
lighted on its way by the spunkies.
A thin drizzle had begun by
the time the narrow track turned into a semblance of a road and the armigers
entered the first Didionite village. It might have been a fairly prosperous
place once, but the famine had reduced it to a squalid ruin. Most of the
roadside cottages had been sacked and burnt. If folk still lived thereabouts,
they were silent and secretive for fear of raiders. The village inn, built
sturdily of local stone, still had its roof, although the door and the shutters
for the upstairs windows were gone.
Snudge
dismounted, handed his reins to Belamil, and went to the inn entrance to
inspect the interior with his windsight. "Nobody there," he announced.
"It's dry, there are scraps of wood about from broken-down walls and such,
and the hearth seems undamaged."
"How
can you tell?" Mero inquired innocently. "It's almost pitch black
inside."
"I've got eyes like a
cat! We could do worse than stop here to rest and eat. If the chimney's not
clogged, we could even chance a fire. No reason why the horses can't come in,
too, out of the wet."
"But
not the willy-wisps!" said Saundar with a shudder.
Mero was the only one who
laughed, but he clamped his jaws almost at once, remembering the rumor about
Sir Ruabon—and the cries of the sacrificed live-stock outside Castle Redfern.
"I'll
tell the Small Lights to remain without," Snudge reassured the others.
"How do you talk to them?" Mero asked. "They don't speak our
language. All they do is squeak and chitter."
"When I whisper, they
understand," Snudge lied. "But I suggest you don't start giving them
orders. They only answer to me because their leader Shanakin commanded them to
obey." And warned them not to drain our blood on the way to
Snudge produced a tarnstick,
which miraculously lit in spite of the pervasive damp, with only a small assist
from his talent. Tinder and twigs blazed and smoke went properly up the inn's
chimney. Snudge and Saundar broke up wood for fuel, while Belamil used a bunch
of dead weedstalks to sweep the area in front of the fireplace. Mero meekly
filled the horses' nosebags and gave them water from a leather bucket.
They roasted fat sausages,
spread toasted chunks of bread with soft cheese, and finished off with
honeycakes made of oats, raisins, and filberts. A skin of ale, passed from hand
to hand throughout the meal, almost made them forget how cold and clammy they
felt. The horses munched their grain, stamped and whiffled, and filled the
derelict tavern with the pungent scent of their droppings. It was all rather
cozy until Snudge took out the map parchment and spread it on the hearthstone,
preparing to describe the next phase of the mission. The others gathered close.
"I
think we're right here, in a hamlet called Brayshaw. From now on, we travel as
fast as possible so as to reach the River Malle by eventide. About ten leagues
from here there'll be another village, Hoolton, that's larger and very likely
inhabited—but most of the people will probably be locked safely inside their
houses because of the fog. We'll gallop right on through, and if anyone peeks
out and spies us, they'll be too frightened by the ghost riders to do anything
about it."
The others chuckled.
"We keep going to this
T-junction with the highway, where there's a sizable place called Bardsea, and
turn left. Fortunately for us, most of the town lies off the main road, down by
the shore where there's a harbor. The
Belamil drawled, "No
more spectres enveloped in glowing vapors, scaring the wits out of the simple
peasantry?"
"No," Snudge
agreed, with a thin smile. "I'll command the Small Lights to stop creating
the uncanny tunnel and just carry on leading us through the fog, glowing dimly
and floating an ell or so in front of each courser, down close to the surface
of the road."
Mero was incredulous.
"The horses will never follow spunkies!"
"Yes they will. Prince
Conrig told me it would work, after being reassured of it by Princess Ullanoth.
I tried it out successfully on my trip down the mountain to Castle Redfern,
riding a mule. Of course, mules are often smarter than horses, but just keep
spurring your beast on, and after a while he'll get the idea and trot after the
guiding Lights like a sheep."
"I hope you're
right," the redhead growled. "What happens if we meet
Didionites?"
"It probably won't
happen too often. If it does, the Lights will go dim and squeak a warning well
ahead of time. Rein up, get off the highway, and wait in the fog till the enemy
riders pass. The Lights will extinguish themselves without being told."
"Is that why we haven't
seen the others?" Saundar inquired thoughtfully. "The creatures
generating all this magical fog?"
"Yes," Snudge
said. "They shine only when they want to."
"The
rest of the time," Belamil said with grisly relish, "they lurk. And
not timidly, either, like the spunkies down south in Cathra! There are
thousands and thousands of them up here in the north country, infesting the
swamps, waiting for unwary prey. My granny told me so."
"The
devil take your granny," Mero grumbled.
Snudge continued. "We should
reach the river by dusk—or what would be dusk if there was no fog. We'll send
our weird little friends away then, ignite torches, and proceed to the bridge
as though we were a legitimate troop of dispatch riders. If the guards at
Mallmouth accept our pose, we'll ride into the city like we own the place, find
a spot to hide the horses, and get on with our job.
"What happens if the
guards at the bridge gate don't want to admit us?" Mero asked.
"We get righteously
huffy, wheel smartly about, and warn them we'll be back in the morning to make
big trouble. Don't worry. I have another way of getting us inside the city if
it becomes necessary."
"How?"
Mero persisted.
"Ask me after we're
turned away—but be sure your shoulders are well limbered up for rowing against
a tidal current." He flipped the map, revealing a diagram of the bridge
fortifications on its reverse side. "Now, take a careful look at this,
lads. I've been told the
The others studied the
drawing in silence. The bridge was over five hundred feet long. The four fixed
spans closest to the city shore were supported by three massive stone piers
rising from the riverbed. Only small boats could pass beneath the arches.
Taking the place of a fourth pier was a fortified tower, also with its
foundations in the water. It contained the bridge gate, which consisted of two
heavy iron portcullises at either end of the central passage. Within the tower
was also the machinery that lifted a movable span linking the bridge to the
opposite shore, where there was a small guardpost and a tollbooth.
Saundar poked the parchment
with a finger. "This final section of the bridge lifts to let tall ships
through. And look: when the leaf is up, the city's neatly isolated from
invaders like us coming from the south."
"Right,"
said Snudge. "The next bridge over the river is nearly sixty leagues
upstream, at Mallthorpe. Between there and Mallmouth, the people must use
ferryboats to cross."
Belamil was frowning at the
diagram. "But how does the movable span lift? There are no chains coming
from the tower to the end of the leaf, so it can't be a regular drawbridge. And
the leaf is so long!"
Snudge nodded. "Nearly
ninety feet. It's called a bascule, and it lifts like a kind of gigantic
one-sided see-saw. Look here at this smaller sketch. There's a counterweight
inside a great vault attached to the southern side of the tower, along with a
pivot—something like a huge cart-axle—that enables the bridge-leaf to move up
and down."
"I see it now."
Belamil almost had his nose to the parchment. "And once we disable the
counterweight machinery, the bridge gets stuck in the down position."
The counterweight was only partly
made of caged granite blocks. On its upper side was a large iron chamber that
was pumped full of water or drained dry when it was time to raise or lower the
bascule. It took two dozen men to operate the pumps.
"As you may have
guessed," Snudge said, "it strongly behooves us to launch the first
part of our attack when the bridge is down. I could get us across the water gap
in a small boat and into the tower while the bascule leaf was raised—but
there's no way just the four of us could pump out the counterweight chamber and
lower the bridge again."
"Deveron."
Saundar's intelligent brow was deeply furrowed. "I know we promised not to
question your plan—but this task seems less and less within the realm of
possibility, the more you tell us about it."
"I'll
say!" Mero chimed in.
"The task can be
achieved," Snudge insisted, "and by us. Four tarnblaze bombshells
exploded within the counterweight water-chamber will crack it badly and damage
the pump mechanism so that neither one can be fixed for days—even weeks. We
accomplish that task first, then jam open the two portcullises of the bridge
gate. They are raised and lowered with ordinary chains and windlasses located
on the upper floor of the tower."
"Sounds easy as
pie," Mero said in a scathing tone, licking honey off his big fingers.
"We'll just marshal up a thousand spunkies and order 'em to drink the
blood of every foeman inside the bridge tower."
"No," Snudge said equably. "My
plan is quite different, and it doesn't include magical mayhem."
"But
there will be some sort of magic at work, I presume!"
"There
will," Snudge agreed.
"Then tell us what
kind!" Mero demanded, jumping to his feet with hands clenched. "And
what about Princess Ullanoth? Is she going to help us with sorcery?"
Snudge shook his head.
"You'll hear details of the plan when I'm ready to tell them. Do you
intend to dispute my leadership, even after promising Prince Conrig you'd
follow without question? Or does the thought of magic frighten you?"
The big armiger's face went
dark with fury. "Are you calling me a coward—' He broke off, his jaw
dropping, as a high-pitched, wavering screech came from outside the inn.
"Futter me! What the hell was that?"
Belamil dashed to the open
doorway. "Nothing outside but fog. Our guiding spunkies seem to be gone."
"The murdering wee
wankers are probably killing someone," Mero growled. "We could be
next!"
Snudge said, "The Small
Lights aren't dangerous to human beings in day-time. Even at night, when
they're strongest, it takes large numbers of them to overcome a grown man or
woman. Of course a small child, in thick fog ..." He trailed off
uncomfortably.
"Perhaps the noise was
just a fox taking a hare, Saunder said, clearly believing nothing of the sort.
"I think it's time for
us to press on," Snudge decided. "Pack up. And collect some wood we
can use for torches. I have a pot of pitch we can dip them in later."
He folded the parchment and
put it into his belt-pouch, then went outside to call the missing spunkies back
from whatever mischief they had been up to.
Even with the mare named
Mist moving at a snail's pace, Ullanoth arrived at the great hill-park
surrounding Holt Mallburn palace in early afternoon. Its wrought-iron gates
were locked, but she rode boldly up to the sentinels on duty and addressed them
in cracked, querulous tones.
"How
does one get an audience with King Achardus?"
The armed men regarded her
with amused scorn. "These darksome days, one doesn't," said the
sergeant. "I'm surprised you don't know that, Gammer."
"I've come a
distance," she admitted, "all the way from Highcliff hoping to appeal
our baron's unjust sentencing to death of my grandson. Poor Nallo never burnt
those hayricks! They only blamed him because he's not quite right in the head.
I realize my appearance is not prepossessing, messire, but I'm not without
means. I hoped His Majesty would accept a nice token from me and look kindly on
my petition for clemency."
The sergeant's eyes shone
with greed. "You could give the petition and the token to me. I'll take it
in straightaway."
"Then
His Majesty is in residence?"
"Where
else would he be?" The man was getting impatient. "Well?"
Me
feigned concerned thought. "Oh, dear! I'd set my heart on seeing the king
myself. If you could but arrange it, messire, there'd be a lovely token for
you, too."
"King Achardus doesn't
see the commonalty. Give over your petition and coin, woman, and stop wasting
my time."
"I must go back to the
inn and fetch them," she said. "Expect my return in an hour or
so."
Me dug
her heels into the mare's ribs and cantered away into the fog before the guards
could restrain her. "Or better yet," she murmured to herself,
"expect me when you least expect me!"
The
princess turned into a narrow alley between tall, shuttered shops, a place she
had scouted out before approaching the
"Now
you must go back where you belong, Mist," she informed the dapple grey,
and commanded the moonstone named Beastbidder to find the mare's rightful home
and compel her to return there.
"Small
Lights?" she called on the wind. "Manakin?"
A swarm of golden sparks
with a single blue-white one among them winked into view. Yes, lady?
"I require you now to
travel with this mare to her home and keep her safe from human villains."
We
would rather suck the juices from the beast, lady. And the villains, too.
"Do as I say! All of
you leave me now. I intend to rest for some hours. Await my summons outside the
main gatehouse of
The mare pricked up her ears
as though listening. A moment later she trotted off downhill, in the direction
of the city center. The spunkies had vanished.
Ullanoth
replaced Beastbidder and readied Interpenetrator. It would make short work of
the iron fence around the park—to say nothing of the palace walls. Yes, she
would rest—but not before using the enhanced viewing powers of Subtle Loophole
to study everyone who interested her. Too much time had passed with-out her
being able to scrutinze the play-actors in her great drama and make certain
that all was well.
She intended to oversee
Achardus in his palace, her wicked little brother Beynor, King Olmigon of
Cathra, the fleet of Tarnian mercenaries, the distant Southern Continent where
the corsairs of Foraile and Stippen were gathering, Crown Prince Honigalus and
his armada, and Conrig and his invasion force.
It would be an uncomfortable
session that might lay her low for hours, but performing the difficult
oversight within Holt Mallburn itself would be deliciously satisfying. Before
undertaking the work she'd savor fine food and drink from the royal kitchen and
buttery, take a much-needed bath, and wash her hair. Snooping about hidden by
Concealer, she'd surely be able to find suitable fresh garments for herself in
the wardrobe of one of the Didionite princesses. It would never do to welcome
Conrig wearing the rags of Witch Walanoth. Later, when the ordeal of scrying
was over, she'd take her repose in one of the palace's elegant guest rooms.
How ironic it was that she
should come so harmlessly into the innermost stronghold of Didion! Invisible,
able to pass through the thickest wall or the most secure door, she could kill
Achardus Mallburn as easily as a rabbit, opening the veins of the giant
monarch's throat with his own purloined dagger. But she would not. Such a gross
deed was not fitting for a future Conjure-Queen, nor did she have any personal
animosity towards Didion's king. Vengeance belonged to Conrig Wincantor. All
Ullanoth intended to do was make that vengeance possible, with the help of her
friends.
Subtle Loophole showed
Achardus Mallburn, his Privy Council, Archwizard Ilingus, and Queen Siry
Boarsden wrangling over penalties to be imposed on the treacherous timberlords
of Firedrake Water, who had refused to send troops to join Prince Somarus's
defense force at
Beynor
lay unconscious in his bed, tended by Zimroth, Master Ridcanndal, and the Royal
Physician, who had been granted permission to penetrate the spells of
couverture generated by his two Fortress sigils. Her brother was in a sorry
state after using his Weathermaker to conjure a strong fair wind to speed the
Didionite armada and a strong foul one to delay the Tarnians. The doctor opined
that the Conjure-King might not recover for two days. Good! Beynor's antics
would not distract her during the battle for Holt Mallburn .. .
The sigil showed King
Olmigon of Cathra looking like a man at death's door, but nonetheless giving
crackling orders to his anxious windvoices. He was attempting to regroup the
divided Cathran navy into a single force, and complained bitterly about the
alchymists' inability to maintain reliable communication with ships on the
high seas. Vra-Sulkorig blamed malignant magic. King Olmigon himself voiced
suspicions that his admirals were determined to fight the Didionites in their
own fashion, without being distracted by royal meddling .. .
The Tarnian frigates were
shortening sail and putting out sea-anchors to counter the savage tempest now
assaulting them off the Stormy Isles. Viewing them with concern, Ullanoth hoped
she would not have to use her own Weather-maker to help them reach Cathra in
time .. .
The Continental ships were
gathered in the Stippenese port of Nis-Gata, their crews carousing ashore and
their captains showing no immediate intention of putting out to sea. Strange ..
.
Crown Prince Honigalus and
Fleet Admiral Galbus Peel were playing chess and chewing hard ship's biscuit
aboard the south-charging Casabarela Regnant. Peel was winning the game,
but the prince didn't seem to mind. During the brief time of her oversight,
neither man discussed the upcoming sea battle, except to say that it might take
place on the morrow if Beynor's driving gale remained constant...
Last of all (as she
thought), she focused the sigil on Conrig. Her breath quickened and her heart
leapt when she saw him again. Me wondered how she could ever have forgotten his
face. His uncovered wheat-colored hair sparkled with droplets of moisture as he
conferred with the leading nobles of the invasion force in the ward of
Yes,
she told herself. If I have it in me to love any man, I will love Conrig
Wincantor. Together we'll conquer and rule this island. And if anyone can help
him to aspire beyond the Sovereignty of High Blenholme and equal Bazekoy's
glory, I am that person!
But
what was the prince telling the Cathrans now?
She was first disbelieving,
then shocked to hear Conrig say—and the other leaders agree—that the opening of
the Mallmouth Bridge gate by a certain band of armiger infiltrators was more
crucial to the success of their attack than her own role admitting the army to
Holt Mallburn itself .. .
Trembling with anger, as
well as with the worsening pain and weakness caused by use of the Great Stone,
she aimed Subtle Loophole at the mysteriously important boys and found them
riding toward the
Why on earth had the prince
entrusted these ordinary lads with such a vital mission? How could they
possibly hope to open a fortified bridge guarded by dozens of armed men? Had
Conrig made some foolish miscalculation?
Ullanoth forced herself to
say the quartet more closely. A burly older boy with a truculent air, having a
fringe of brick-red hair straggling out from beneath his chain mail hood. A
stocky, well-muscled youth who was singing bawdy ballads in a fine tenor voice
to lighten the tedium of the ride through limbo. A tall clever-looking boy who
sometimes sang along with his companion. And the youngest of the party, slender
and broad-shouldered, with comely but forgettable facial features
Forgettable save for his
eyes, which the uncanny clarity of Subtle Loophole revealed were a vibrant blue
. . . and afire with the unmistakable gleam of a powerful wild talent.
"What do you mean—the
Continentals refuse to rendezvous with us off the Vigilants?" Honigalus
smashed his fist down on the chessboard, sending the pieces scattering in all
directions.
Fring
the wizard blinked at this unusual display of agitation from the normally
phlegmatic prince. He stood with folded arms thrust up the sleeves of his black
gown and assumed an irksome expression of long-suffering. "Royal Highness,
I don't presume to analyze wind-messages from our allies. I only report them.
May I continue?"
Regaining his self-control,
Honigalus sighed. "Proceed."
"A conference of
corsair captains has unanimously agreed to delay joining with our fleet until
after we have successfully engaged the Cathrans for the first time. Until then,
their fifteen frigates and thirteen corvettes will remain in Nis-Gata, a port
some seventy leagues south of the Vigilant Isles. They intend to send out a
squadron of fast cutters, forming a windvoice relay, to observe and report upon
the battle."
"Putting me to the
test, the slimy bungholers! Making absolutely certain Didion has the upper hand
before finally committing themselves."
"Apparently,
Highness."
"So much for Beynor of
Moss and his precious Treaty of Alliance. Damn—if only the pirates of Andradh
had agreed to join us! The Harriers are not nearly so lily-livered as their
neighbors to the east." Honigalus turned to Fleet Captain Peel, who had
remained seated at the chart table on the opposite side of she chessboard,
keeping his expression unreadable. "What do you think of this development,
Galbus?"
"The
Continentals are a wily lot. It'll do us no good to attempt to pressure them.
All we can do is acquit ourselves valorously against the foe, and pray that the
Continentals never learn that Cathra is expecting reinforcements from
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