The Sword and the Flame

Teams of horses positioned the catapults—one below each facing tower on either side of the gatehouse just out of reach of the most determined bowman. Once in position, the horses were unhitched and led back to camp, and the war machines securely anchored to the ground with ropes and stakes. At Ronsard’s signal two riders came galloping from the campground with flaming torches, and the firestorming of Ameron Castle began.

  The first bale was loaded into the sling, the catapult set, and the torch applied. Instantly the bale of pine needles burst into flame and the catapult released. Fwshh! The fireball soared through the air, describing a perfect arc toward the wall. In almost the same instant a second fire-ball swooped in from the opposite side.

  The first missile cleared the wall and battlements and fell into the ward yard. The second missile fell short, striking the upper section of the stone wall and sliding back to earth at the foot of the wall.

  “Take over, Sir Drake,” commanded Ronsard. “And keep them coming.” He dashed off to help realign the second catapult; it took a few minutes to shift the counterweight and lengthen the throw pole, but before the alarm had spread very far through the castle, the second catapult was hurling fire through the skies with deadly accuracy.

  “There,” remarked Ronsard proudly, watching a fireball burn through the air to fall well inside the inner ward yard. “This should keep them busy most of the night.”

  Archers took to the walls and sent arrow after arrow streaking toward the dimly outlined men tending the catapults. But Ronsard had correctly estimated the distance, and arrows fell spent to the ground, short of the mark. This brought cries of outrage and frustration from those on the battlements, and jeers in reply from those on the ground, as missile after missile lit the night sky with roaring flames.

  Lord Ameronis was summoned from his bedchamber as soon as the first flames appeared in the ward yard—a fireball had fallen on the stable roof and burst, scattering flames among the straw and fodder below. Frightened horses screamed and bucked as squires and footmen braved the flames in an effort to bring the horses to safety, thus turning the entire inner ward yard into a sea of churning chaos. Another fire burned near the kitchens.

  Ameronis stood with his fists on his hips, barking orders to those around him, all the while seething with rage at the attack under way. Up to now, the ambitious noble had considered the contest something of a game where the spoils went to the winner. Now he saw that the king’s forces were in dead earnest, and his demeanor changed abruptly.

  “More buckets!” he bellowed. “Bring more buckets!” He stood in the midst of the riotous confusion, shouting above the noise as men darted everywhere in an attempt to save the stables.

  The fire was not large; it had been caught in time and was soon under control. Ameronis left the inner ward yard and mounted the battlements, bristling with anger. “Any luck with the archers?” he asked his commander, Sir Bolen.

  The young knight turned, his face ruddy in the torchlight and the lights of several small fires in the outer ward. “No, sir; the enemy is too far removed.”

  “Any damage?”

  “None in the outer ward. The fireballs seem intended mostly to harass us. There is no real hurt. The fires are easily extinguished.”

  “Not so easily!” snorted Ameronis. “If you had been with me in the inner ward yard just now, you would have seen the ‘harassment’ these missiles can do.” He glared out between the merlons at the torchlight glimmering on the field; this marked the position of the catapults. Just then a fireball smashed into the gatehouse turret and rolled down its pitched roof onto the wall. A dozen warriors threw down their weapons and dodged away.

  “I could send a contingent out to put a stop to this,” suggested the young commander. In the dancing firelight his eyes glittered with the excitement of a man ready to brave any danger in order to distinguish himself and win favor in the eyes of his superior.

  “What? And open the gates to them? That is just what they want us to do!” shouted Ameronis. “Use your head, man! No! You will do no such thing! We will weather the attack as best as we can and wait until morning.”

  “I am sorry, sir,” muttered the young knight. “I only thought—”

  “Wait!” said Ameronis, glancing up and down along the battlements. “Who is standing watch on the other walls?”

  “No one . . . ,” replied the commander hesitantly. “When the alarm was sounded, they must have come to help—”

  “Send the tower watch back to their posts at once! Have them report to me immediately if they see anything amiss! Hurry! Who knows what these dogs of king’s men may be about!”

  “Did you find anything?” Theido lay on his stomach at the edge of the cliff and called down to the man dangling on a rope below him.

  “There is a narrow shingle along the water’s edge, sir. It runs all along the bank below the cliff. We have sent men to scout in both directions, but have found nothing yet.”

  “Continue,” said Theido, rising to his feet. Just then there came a voice from the battlements above.

  “Halt! Who is there?”

  Theido’s heart clenched in his chest.

  Half crouched, half standing, he remained rock-still, hoping that whoever was above him would not see him directly below, an easy target for even the poorest marksman.

  “Hey!” called the voice above. “Bring your torch over here! I think there is someone below.”

  Theido heard footsteps come running as a second guard joined the first with his torch. He held his breath, fully expecting an arrow to come singing to its mark at any second. One heartbeat . . . two . . . three. Then—“There’s nothing down there, maggot-brain,” said the second voice from the battlements. “You are seeing shadows and thinking them soldiers. Get to your post, and do not call me again unless you see some-thing more than a shadow on the rocks.”

  The first soldier grumbled and moved on to his place in the tower. Theido released his breath and drew back to the wall to wait. From either side of him at a distance of no more than twenty paces, he heard the soft footfall of his archers withdrawing and realized that as soon as the guard had discovered him, two arrows had been notched to their strings and those strings drawn taut. Had either guard so much as squeaked a warning, the man would have been dead before the words were out of his mouth.

  Theido drew his cloak over him and leaned back against the hard curtain. Random shouts still echoed from beyond the walls of the castle, but the initial frenzy that had greeted the first volley of fireballs had died away. To the east the sky held a lighter hue, tinting the sky iron-blue against the black. Hurry, whispered Theido to himself. Hurry! Dawn is coming, and we must soon be gone or be discovered. Hurry, there is so little time.

  45

  Stars dimmed in the east, and their numbers dwindled as the sky lightened to dawn. Ronsard and his force still manned the catapults, but the fireballs soared less frequently now. “We are running out of bales,” reported one of his men. “These are the last.”

  Ronsard cocked his eye skyward and said, “The others should have returned by now. Hold as long as you can. With any luck they will come before first light.”

  Hurry! thought Ronsard. Hurry, before they find out . . . For one fleeting heartbeat he wondered, What if they have already found out? He dismissed the thought instantly, telling himself, Somehow we would have known.

  The sandy-haired knight turned his eyes toward the ragged line of forest as it sloped down to meet the river. From here Theido and his party would return. But he saw no one. No figure hailed him from the trees, and no messenger came to tell him that all was well, that the raiding party had returned safely.

  “Come on,” whispered Ronsard. “It will be daylight soon!”

  The catapults flashed, hurling their flaming missiles to the castle walls, which could be plainly seen now, showing dull and imposing in the feeble light. But the interval between projectiles had stretched to several minutes, and though the enemy still lined the walls and scurried
to put out each new blaze, they did not shout and rail at the foe anymore, but merely watched with casual interest, as if bored by the long-running spectacle.

  There was a shout and a man came running up from the second machine, saying “Sir, the bales are gone, and we have nothing else to throw at them.” He waited for Ronsard’s leading.

  “We must continue a little longer. Send some men back to camp, and ready some more bales; have the others there help. We will need enough for both catapults. Meanwhile, we must keep the attention of those on the wall; have your men move to a new position while you are waiting for your ammunition.” He pointed across the field. “There—more toward the center.”

  The soldier hurried off to carry out his orders. Ronsard crossed his arms on his chest and frowned at the sky. “You should have been back long ago, Theido. Shall I send a search party after you?”

  He decided to wait a little longer and began pacing back and forth between the catapults, glancing now and again toward the fringe of for-est where he expected his comrade to emerge at any moment.

  The sun burned nearer the horizon, flaming the sky bright red beneath the gray clouds. The outlines of the castle could be made out clearly now, and black smoke drifted on the rising wind from the numerous small fires they had set through the night. At least, thought Ronsard grimly, we have kept them busy this night, and none of our own have been hurt.

  When the men returned, carrying more bales of pine needles and branches, Ronsard ordered the troops to be changed. Fresh soldiers took over from those who had worked through the night, relieving them so they might go to their well-earned rest. The new contingent fell to with zeal, and the catapulting continued.

  Ronsard, increasingly anxious over his friend’s delay, placed command of the machines in a subordinate’s hands and returned to camp to form a search party. He had assembled the men, and they had armed themselves and were about to start off on the trail Theido had himself taken, when a voice hailed them from the forest. “Ho! Ronsard!”

  The knight spun on his heel and met the returning party coming toward them through the forest, their faces drawn with fatigue, but adopting a jaunty air for their comrades.

  “We were just setting off to look for you. You were due back long ago.”

  “I began to think we would never leave. The watch returned to the towers and wall, and we were trapped below the cliff. We had to wait until the guard changed before we could move.”

  “Well! Am I to guess the rest?”

  “We found it: the secret postern entrance. Ameronis is clever, and it took us all night, but we found it.”

  At this Ronsard and his search party broke out in cheers for their comrades, clapping them on the backs and shaking their hands. “Where is it? Tell me everything you know about it.”

  Theido dismissed his men to their rest, and he and Ronsard walked to the tent that had been raised for them as their command post and private chambers. Inside, they sat down on benches facing one another across a rough-hewn table. “At first it did not appear that we would find an entrance—secret or otherwise. The cliff below the west wall is smooth-faced and drops away at a sharp angle to the water. But below is a narrow shingle a man may walk along.” He paused and pointed to a jug. “I could use a drink of water.”

  Ronsard snatched the jug, poured, and handed Theido the cup. “Go on, go on. What did you find?”

  “That is much better,” Theido replied. “Now then . . . Yes, the river bends around the castle rock, and if you follow it far enough, you will find that the shore widens as it passes the rock. Here”—he traced with his fingers on the table before them—“and here the forest comes down to the water’s edge. I sent the men up along this lower bank as far as it went before it flattened out to the waterline again.

  “We found nothing at first. On the second sweep along the bank, one of the men found a cave well up on the cliff face—small, but large enough for a man to squeeze through. It was hidden by juniper scrub, so it was impossible to see from the northern approach. But from the opposite direction it could be spotted. They climbed up into the cave mouth and found that not more than half a dozen paces inside, the cave becomes a tunnel.”

  “No!”

  “Yes,” Theido affirmed. “The tunnel, though long and winding like a snake, leads to a portcullis of iron and a gate beyond.”

  “Right into the heart of Ameronis’s lair. Well done! Well done, indeed!” He beamed at his friend. “This was a night well spent.” Immediately the knight’s mind began making calculations, racing ahead to make plans for the campaign to follow. “Can we cut through the ironwork?”

  “Yes,” replied Theido with a yawn. “I did not see it myself, you understand, and my man did not have a torch while he was in the tunnel —all had to be explored in the dark—but at least he was able to reach the portcullis without difficulty. I think it can be cut through—given time. The iron is thick, and appears to be well made.”

  “Then we must begin at once.” He saw the look on Theido’s face and asked, “Can we reach the tunnel in daylight without being seen?”

  “No.” Theido shook his head wearily. “At least not by land. But there is a chance that if we go by water, hugging close to the riverbank below the walls, we can reach it without being seen from above.”

  “Swim?”

  “Too difficult. We could not carry the tools we would need.”

  “We have no boats.”

  “Rafts. We must construct two rafts of size enough to hold a dozen men each with equipment and weapons.”

  Ronsard stared across the table. “That will take a day at least, maybe two.”

  “We have no better choice that I can see. Scaling the walls without help from inside is our last resort. The foe is well equipped and certainly better positioned than we are, and we cannot wait for them to be weakened by the siege. No, the secret gate is the only way.”

  Ronsard fell silent as he turned the matter over in his head. Finally, he admitted that Theido was right and said, “In that case, I must not waste time sitting here. I will have the carpenters begin constructing the rafts at once.” He stood to leave. “You look weary to the bone. Sleep now; I will attend to the raft building and summon you if there is any need.” He moved to the entrance and held back the flap, hesitated, and said, “We will win, Theido.”

  Ronsard’s statement begged confirmation. Theido, always so certain before, so sure that the right would win out in the end, could not muster that same strength of conviction now. For once it seemed as if, despite all they might do, they would not prevail, that the evil that had poisoned the realm so swiftly had achieved its end already and they were powerless to turn aside its effects.

  Ronsard lingered, watching him. Theido rubbed his face with his hands and yawned. “It has been a long night,” he said. “I am tired.”

  For a moment the two held each other’s gaze, each trying to read the other, to plumb the depths and find there some hidden reserve of assurance or hope. At last Ronsard turned his face away, looking out into the camp but not seeing the men moving there, cooking their breakfasts before the fire, carrying firewood and water, looking after their weapons and the horses. The light shining on his face, his jaw flexed and set, Ronsard stepped outside, leaving Theido to his sleep.

  46

  Quentin stalked the high wall walks of the castle. Restless, unable to sleep, he paced the bartizans and battlements, his short cloak flying out behind him like wings, his unkempt hair streaming back from his head in wild disarray. To any who saw him, the king appeared as one gone mad, roaming the high places in the dead of night like those unhappy spirits who haunted the desolate places.

  The king himself was not aware of what he was doing. He only knew that he could not remain still any longer; he must move, walk, go, and keep going lest he fall under the weight of the darkness that had crept into his heart. He had wrestled with it often enough in the last days to know that he could not win against it. It held him in a death grip, and mea
nt to drag him down into the dust of oblivion.

  So, to hold the inevitable at bay yet a little longer, he prowled the walls by night, in the light of a pale half-moon, like an animal half-crazed with pain. Quentin felt the night press in upon him, enfolding him in its velvet embrace, smothering him. He stared out across the land eastward and saw the dark line of Pelgrin hedging the broad, flat plain. Beyond Pelgrin, farther east and north, lay Narramoor and the High Temple on its flat table of stone, overlooking the entire kingdom.

  Somewhere within that temple his son waited for him to come and rescue him, waited as he himself had waited as a boy for someone to carry him away from that place. And he had been rescued—by a dying knight who had placed in his hands a charge that he alone could fulfill. In those days it had been easy—easy to believe, easy to follow without asking for signs or assurances, or at least without requiring them at every turn.

  Now it was much harder. He was no longer the simple, trusting acolyte with neither home nor family, and nothing much to lose. He was the Dragon King, leader of his people, protector of the realm.

  Sadly, he had not been much of a protector of late. He had not been able to prevent Durwin’s death, nor his son’s kidnapping, nor any of the host of problems that so beset him. The god had removed his hand from him and had departed, leaving him alone and helpless.

  So be it. The god had moved away, had abandoned him as gods will. He could do nothing about that; he was only a man, after all. The business of the gods was for the gods; mortals could not influence or change affairs once the gods had spoken. And though Quentin had believed wonderful things, incredible things about the God Most High, and had trusted him with his life and the lives of those he loved, the god, like all gods, had ultimately disappointed him.

  Still, he had a choice. He could abandon his faith in the Most High and reclaim his life for himself, or he could continue believing, continue serving and trusting, even though there was good reason to cast off the belief that had so long bound him in blind trust to a god who lied when he claimed to care about his children.