The Image of an arid landscape under a hot sun, so dry that it seemed incapable of sustaining any kind of life, so hard-baked that the ground was split by a crack as deep as a chasm and wide enough to swallow men and horses.
Master Barsonage flashed his signal, a strip of blue silk which he waved from a place high among the rocks so that it could be seen over the heads of the charging troops. At once, the two Masters who had shaped the mirrors began their translation.
With a noise like a cataclysm and a violent heave that seemed to crack the bedrock of the valley, a chasm appeared under the hooves of the horses. The ground shook; tremors ran into the distance, pulling loose rock from the ramparts, knocking men and horses off their legs. The sound shocked the valley, stunned the air. Dust sifted from the cleft as if the sky itself had shattered.
Riders slammed headlong into the rent snow and dirt, toppled from the edge; horses dropped screaming with their legs shattered. And more of the charge plunged into the cleft until the Cadwals had time to halt, rear back. Even then, dozens of soldiers were forced over the lip by the uncontrolled press behind them. A few horsemen tried to leap the chasm: a few of those succeeded. The rest were swallowed by the riven ground.
The Cadwals who had already ridden into the valley were cut off from the support of their army.
Instantly, Castellan Norge gave up the appearance of retreat and rallied his forces. His riders parted to let foot soldiers in among their enemies. Three thousand of King Joyse’s men turned on scarcely a third that many Cadwals.
Outnumbered, trapped in confusion, with no escape possible except by a wild and unlikely leap across the chasm, High King Festten’s soldiers fell without doing much damage.
As if nothing unpropitious had happened, the catapults threw again.
Scattershot this time, for variety; hundreds of fist-sized stones launched into the valley with the force of crossbows.
Smaller stones were more effective than boulders. They were harder to see coming, harder to dodge. And most of the King’s army had involuntarily turned to watch the fighting – and the Imagery – at the valley foot. Alends and Mordants died because they weren’t watching the sky.
Master Barsonage saw a sudden pocket of carnage appear among the troops as he scrambled down the rocks. Another – another – he couldn’t look anymore. Reaching the young Master who held the mirror, he panted, ‘Hold the translation. As we agreed. If you stop and he’ – the Imager at the other mirror – ‘does not, our own chasm will engulf us.’
The young Master nodded without lifting his head from his fixed concentration.
Thank the stars he was young. He would have stamina. The man at the other glass, however—
Urgently, Master Barsonage scrubbed the chilled sweat out of his eyebrows.
They were in a gap like a room hidden among the rocks – a gap in which three or four men could have hacked at each other, as long as they didn’t swing their swords too widely – with packed snow underfoot, ragged black boulders for concealment. The mirror was set between two rocks facing the opposite wall; another opening allowed the mediator to see across the valley. He and his companions were a good ten feet above the valley floor, however, and had more rock curving outward to protect them from above.
‘Now the true danger begins, as you were warned,’ he muttered, more to himself than to his companions – the young Imager and Master Harpool. ‘The High King will turn his attack against us. And we dare not release the chasm, or enough Cadwals will sweep inward to slaughter us, regardless of how we are defended. As matters stand, we can only be attacked over the rocks.’ Stroking his glass, the flat mirror with the Image of Orison’s ballroom, he added, ‘I hope Artagel received the King’s message.’
‘I saw him pick up the parchment,’ muttered Master Harpool, not for the first time.
Master Barsonage ignored Harpool. He wasn’t talking because he wanted answers – or even reassurance. He was talking so that he wouldn’t dither.
He didn’t like danger. Philosophically, he didn’t approve of it. Imagery was for research and experiment, for understanding and knowledge, not for bloodshed. For that very reason, however, he approved passionately of the creation of the Congery. And the conflicts inherent in his own position had made him an indecisive mediator – a man, as someone had once observed, who couldn’t keep his feet out of the shit on either side because he couldn’t get the fencepost out of his ass.
Well, he had made decisions at last. He had brought the Congery here, into this mess, because he believed that was the right thing to do. But he still needed to keep talking.
‘What I would most like to do at this moment,’ he continued for no one’s benefit except his own, ‘is design a new couch. I am not altogether satisfied with the backrest of my last attempt.’
‘Oh, shut up, Barsonage,’ said Master Harpool; but he obviously didn’t expect the mediator to heed him.
The valley had become strangely quiet. The sackbut had called back the Cadwal troops; the wardrums were still. Undoubtedly, High King Festten was conferring with his captains. In the meantime, Castellan Norge had sent half a thousand foot soldiers to pitch the High King’s dead into the chasm; get the bodies out of the way. Weapons were collected; uninjured horses were appropriated; wounded men were unceremoniously clubbed senseless and taken to the infirmary. Everything else had to go.
‘If you were the High King, Master Harpool,’ Master Barsonage asked pointlessly, ‘how much time would you require to get five hundred men into the rocks above us?’
The two Imagers were old friends. ‘Oh, shut up, Barsonage,’ Harpool repeated.
Most of the catapults were ready to throw again.
Master Barsonage had a painfully clear view of the engine nearest to him across the valley – a painfully clear view of Prince Kragen’s men as they were stripped from the wall by a shower of rocks. As far as he could see, none of them survived the fall.
In contrast, the next catapult – cocked ready to throw – abruptly twisted itself into a wreck and collapsed, as if some of its crucial lashings had been cut or burned away so that it was destroyed by its own force.
Consumed by vexation, the Cadwals around the wrecked engine hurled a number of bodies off the rampart. Master Barsonage distinctly saw a chasuble flutter to the valley floor.
‘Vivix,’ he muttered. ‘May the stars have mercy on you, Master Eremis, for I will not – if I ever get the chance.’
He did his best to tally the next throw, but he wasn’t sure of the results: he thought he saw seven boulders thud into the army. One of them smashed a squad of injured Cadwals on its way to the infirmary (no great loss), killing at least one physician (a serious blow).
Seven. Had some of Prince Kragen’s climbers succeeded? They must have.
‘The difficulty of backrests,’ he said through his teeth, ‘is that they must suit such a variety of backs.’
The young Master at the mirror was beginning to breathe like a poorly trained runner. Sweat trickled from his beardless chin to the ground at his feet, where it grew slowly into ice. Shaded from the sun, the air in the gap was cold. One of his hands was clenched too tightly on the frame; the other rubbed the mimosa wood too hard, threatening the focus of the Image.
Master Barsonage was absolutely sure that he heard boots and armor among the rocks above him.
The chasm was vital now, vital. The Masters were prepared to release it, if necessary; close it. If, for instance, the Cadwals threw a bridge across the cleft, the chasm could be erased and then replaced, destroying the bridge. Nevertheless for the sake of the mirrors themselves the translation had to remain steady. If the chasm wavered or failed, nothing could stop the Cadwals from shattering the mirrors – or killing the Imagers.
In theory, at least, King Joyse’s men – and the Masters – were ready for any attack which came at them over the rocks.
‘Gently,’ the mediator breathed into the young Imager’s ear, ‘gently. You are a Master, a Master. Tran
slation has become a simple matter for you, an easy matter. You do not require such effort. Only relax. Hold the translation in your mind. Let your arms rest.’
The young Master didn’t nod or speak. His eyes were shut in strain. Nevertheless he managed to soften his grip, ease his rubbing; some of the exertion left his shoulders.
‘Good,’ Master Barsonage whispered. ‘You are doing well. Very well indeed.’
He was sure he heard boots and armor in the rocks—
He was right. From a hiding place twenty yards away, one of Norge’s bowmen loosed a shaft, and a Cadwal with an arrow in his throat dove headfirst down the wall, gurgling audibly as he fell.
Past the young Master’s shoulder, Barsonage saw soldiers of all kinds clambering toward the opposite mirror.
‘Be ready, Harpool,’ he breathed. ‘Cover yourself with your glass. Remember that a mirror open for translation cannot be broken from the front.’
For some reason, Master Harpool chose this moment to say, ‘You know, Barsonage, my wife begged me to stay at home. Said I was too old for such goings-on. If I fail to return, she promised to curse me—’ Without warning, his old eyes spilled tears.
‘Look out!’ yelled a guard. Arrows flew. Cadwals staggered down the rocks, spilling blood everywhere.
‘Cover yourself, you old fool!’ Master Barsonage cried in desperation.
He himself was set to protect the opening through which he watched the valley. The space behind the mirror, the space through which he and his companions had entered the room, was Master Harpool’s responsibility. Harpool turned toward it with an old man’s fumbling slowness, a teary husband’s confusion.
As if from nowhere, a brawny Cadwal appeared. He wore a helmet spiked like a less assertive version of the High King’s, a brass breastplate rubbed to resemble gold; the longsword in his hand looked heavy enough to behead cattle. ‘Here!’ he roared when he saw the Masters. ‘Found ‘em!’
So quickly that Master Barsonage had no chance to do anything except flinch, the Cadwal drove his sword straight at Master Harpool’s glass.
Master Harpool may have been old and grieved, but he understood translation: he had been doing it for decades. Somehow, he seemed to put himself in the right frame of mind without transition, achieve the right kind of concentration as simply as striking a flint.
The sword passed into the glass.
Carried forward by his own momentum, the Cadwal stumbled into the Image and vanished—
—into the ballroom of Orison, where (the mediator devoutly hoped) Artagel was ready to receive such gifts.
Another Cadwal came after the first. He fell into the mirror with an arrow in his back; already dead.
Master Barsonage was too busy watching Harpool: he missed the rope as it uncoiled across the opening he was supposed to guard. But he heard a grunt of effort from the man on the rope, turned in time.
The swing of the man’s descent brought him within reach. The mediator hugged his mirror, muttered his concentration ritual as well as he could. Unfortunately, he couldn’t think while the Cadwal released one hand from the rope, pulled out a knife. He didn’t have the right kind of nerves to face danger. For one stupid, necessary instant, he shut his eyes.
Another present for Artagel.
There he nearly made a mistake, nearly let his glass close. Luckily, the sudden pressure on the rope warned him. Artagel must have been ready, must have gotten the message Master Harpool sent. Someone in the ballroom had a grip on the rope, was hauling on it fiercely.
If Master Barsonage had stopped his translation, the rope would only have been cut. Or the mirror would have broken. But he kept the glass open—
Abruptly, the three men anchoring the rope in the rocks above were dragged off their perch. They fell screaming past the mediator’s vantage.
More arrows: more shouts. From somewhere out of sight came the clash of swords.
Then silence.
The attack was over. Temporarily. Some of the Cadwals were probably hidden among the rocks, marking the mirror’s position while they waited for reinforcements; others must have gone back to report. Barsonage risked a look out over the young Master’s shoulder and saw men still fighting around the opposite end of the chasm. The forces of Orison and Alend, however, seemed to be winning.
‘Harpool,’ Master Barsonage panted, ‘I told you to cover yourself. You stood beside your mirror begging them to cut you down.’
Master Harpool didn’t say anything. He had his eyes closed. Maybe he was taking a nap. More likely he didn’t want to witness his own peril.
From the distance of the pennon, of course, Terisa and Geraden, Elega and King Joyse and Prince Kragen couldn’t see the details; but they saw the threat to the mirrors approach, saw it beaten back. Terisa let out a sigh to ease her cramped lungs. ‘How long can they keep that up?’
‘A good question,’ replied King Joyse calmly. ‘All translation is arduous. The Masters are already weary. And as his frustration mounts, High King Festten will redouble his attacks.
‘As a defense, however, that chasm has already exhausted most of its usefulness. Its chief purpose now is to protect the Masters themselves – and to give us a period of time during which we can try to counter the catapults. When we must, we will muster a charge of our own. The Masters will close the chasm – and while we ride to engage Cadwal outside the valley, they will retreat to prepare another unexpected crevice somewhere else.
‘At the moment, we are as effectively besieged as we ever were in Orison. If the High King trusted to that and held back, we would eventually be defeated. But he will not. He wants our blood – and he wants it today. That is another of his weaknesses.
‘As for the catapults—’
One party of Prince Kragen’s assault on the walls brought back a Master with an arrow in his shoulder. They hadn’t been able to find any way upward which wasn’t exposed to the defenders of their target; and after the Master with them was hit, they were forced to retreat. So there were still seven engines.
All seven of them were already cocked.
Another series of hard wooden thuds, like the sound of bones being broken: another hail of scattershot. This stone deluge did less harm than the last because the soldiers and guards were more careful. Nevertheless Terisa thought she saw as many as a hundred men go down.
At once, physicians ran with horses and litters to do what they could for the wounded. The procession of injuries toward Esmerel and the infirmary seemed to go on continuously. The dead were left where they lay.
If this onslaught continued, the army would be forced to protect itself by leaving the center of the valley, moving closer to the walls – too close for the catapults to hit. And then the King’s men would be vulnerable to rockfalls, avalanches—
‘The next move will be Eremis’,’ Elega said softly to Terisa and Geraden. ‘We have introduced Imagery to the conflict. He will attempt to counter it.’
‘How?’ asked Geraden anxiously.
The lady looked at him, a faint smile on her lips. Sunlight cost her much of her beauty, but couldn’t weaken the color of her eyes. ‘You know him better than I do. You understand Imagery better. What can he do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Geraden muttered. ‘I’m willing to bet he has a mirror he can see us in. In fact, if I were him – and if Gilbur and Vagel are as good as they think – I’d have two. One to watch with, one to use. But he has to be careful. Terisa has already shattered one glass for him. If he gives her the chance, she can do it again.’
Terisa had no idea whether or not this were true. It seemed irrelevant.
The gaze King Joyse sent toward her and Geraden was curiously bland, like a mask.
The air was warmer than it had been for several days, but it didn’t warm her. Clenching herself inside her robe, she shivered and ached. No matter how often she turned to Geraden, no matter how she clung to him, he couldn’t help her. Helplessness and watching made her frantic. He had the strongest feeling they
were in the wrong place. But what choice did they have? Where else could they be?
For some reason, the Cadwals were massing again outside the valley. The sackbut bleated raucously: the wardrums commenced their labor: horsemen cleared the way. Foot soldiers drew forward, as if High King Festten had decided to drive them into the chasm for their failures.
King Joyse studied them hard, his blue eyes straining to pierce their intentions. Abruptly, he put out a hand to the Prince. ‘Reinforcements,’ he snapped. ‘Where in all this rout is Norge? The Masters must be reinforced.’
Prince Kragen had apparently passed the point where he needed – or even expected – explanations from the King. Wheeling away, he headed for his horse, shouting to his captains as he ran.
When Terisa first heard the distant, throaty rumble, as if the earth were moving, she had no idea what was about to happen.
When the Tor woke up – gasping, as he always did these days, at the great, hot pain in his side – the rumble hadn’t started yet. Outside his tent, the valley was strangely quiet. That disconcerted him: he was expecting combat. The relative silence sounded like an omen of disaster, an indication that bloodshed and death had lost their meaning.
Opening his eyes, he saw from the hue of the canvas overhead that day had dawned. He was alone in the tent, except for Ribuld, who dozed against the tentpole with his head nodding on his knees. An experienced veteran, Ribuld could probably sleep on a battlefield, if he were left alone.
Silence outside: only a few shouts from time to time; the mortal sound of catapult arms against their stops. And a few daring or oblivious birds, following their calls among the rocks. The Tor knew all the birds of his Care. He would be able to identify each call, if he listened closely enough. For the sake of his sons, who had grown up in more peaceful times than he had, he had become avid at birding.
But there should have been a battle going on. Strange—
The Congery. Of course. Master Barsonage had promised to translate that crevice somewhere.
Must be quite a sight – clefts in the ground out of nowhere; the fate of Mordant depending on Imagery as well as swords.