“If only Mocker were here,” Nepanthe mused. Her eyes were sad as she gazed at Valther. “He might be able to reach Valt.”
“Time is the cure,” Turran told her. “It worked for me. So I keep hoping.”
IV) Auszura Littoral
With Elana’s jewel guiding them, they slipped through their enemies to Sieveking. But the transport wasn’t yet there. When Dingolfing did arrive it was in no condition to sail to the Auszura Littoral. The ship had encounteredheavy weather shortly after leaving Portsmouth, then had met a Trolledyngjan reever off Cape Blood. Her captain, Miles Norwine, said rigging repairs might take a week. Heavy damage, where the Trolledyngjan had rammed, would have to wait for the yards at Itaskia.
“It seems,” said Elana, standing on the quay with Turran and Nepanthe, “that somewhere in the house of the gods, probably in the Jakes, there’s a little pervert who gets his pleasure making me miserable.”
Turran chuckled. “Know what? I’ll bet the head man over there’s been thinking the same thing.” He indicated tents crowning a hill overlooking the estate.
Later, a messenger brought the news that Bragi had crossed the Porthune.
“The renegades,” said Turran, “might try their luck when they find out. I’d better get something ready.”
That night he and the men laid an ambush at the edge of the estate. Elana, with Dahl Haas under her wing, went to observe.
Sure enough, near midnight, men came sneaking through the brush. Turran sprang his trap. The surprise was complete. In minutes a dozen had been slaughtered and the rest sent whooping up the hillside.
Dahl, half-wild, used his dagger to finish a casualty who came staggering toward Elana, then, realizing what he had done, heaved his supper and began crying. Elana was trying to calm him when his father appeared. “What happened?” Uthe asked. Elana explained.
Uthe put his arm around his son. “You did well,” he said. “It’s always hardest the first time. Lot of men do their conscience-racking first, get themselves killed hesitating.”
Dahl nodded, but reassurances did little good. The experience was too intensely personal.
Captain Norwine got his rigging repaired and a patch on his hull. He was willing to risk the trip. Elana put it to a vote. It went in favor.
Dingolfing put out and beat round Cape Blood, sailed south past the Silverbind Estuary, Portsmouth, and the Octylyan Protectorate without mishap. Norwine huggedthe coast like a babe his mother. He was prepared to go aground if trouble developed. They weathered a minor storm off the Porthune, spending two nervous days at the pumps and buckets, but came through with no damage other than to landlubbers’ stomachs.
“Sail ho!” a lookout cried just north of Sacuescu. Norwine put his helm over and ran for shallow water. Turran and the shipboard Marines prepared for a fight. But the vessel proved to be the Rifkin, out of Portsmouth. The fat caravel dipped her merchant’s colors to Dingolfing’s naval ensign.
Norwine kept everyone at stations once they passed Sacuescu. They were near the Red Isles where, despite regular patrols by the Itaskian Navy, pirates lurked. But their luck held. They made the fishing port of Tineo, midway between Sacuescu and Dunno Scuttari, without incident.
From Tineo it was a twelve-mile walk to the Minister’s villa, which occupied a headland with a spectacular view of the sea. The staff expected them. They seemed accustomed to hiding friends of the Minister.
The Auszura Littoral was all Turran had promised, and utterly peaceful. So peaceful that, after a few months, it began to grate. There was nothing to do but wait for rumors from Kavelin, which were unreliable by the time they filtered through to Tineo.
Rolf began wandering, sometimes accompanied by Uthe, to Sacuescu and Dunno Scuttari. Elana didn’t weather his absences well. He was her last touchstone, almost her conscience. His absences grew more frequent and extended. She found herself thrown more and more into the company of Nepanthe, Turran, and Valther.
Nepanthe, after Rolf, had been her best friend for years, but her constant company was wearing. Nepanthe was a worrier.
Turran remained a perfect gentleman, ever attentive and willing to entertain. She began to fear what might happen. She tried to stay near Gerda, whose basilisk eye could still the passion of a cat in heat.
Then Rolf and Uthe disappeared. She thought it another of their jaunts till she discovered their weapons missing.
“Gerda, where’ve they gone?” she demanded. Like certain gods, the woman saw the sparrows fall.
“Where do you think? Kavelin, of course. With help for himself. Who’ll be coming home someday, I’ll remind you, and be expecting everything as he left it.”
Why couldn’t Rolf stay put? Was he sublimating his love? Or just searching for the spear with his name?
Autumn leaves were falling on the Littoral. Would it be getting on winter in Kavelin?
The night Rolf left she sat up late with the Tear of Mimizan. Troubled, she used the thing more as a focus for her attention than as a means of checking Bragi’s well-being.
The jewel suddenly seized her attention. The light within was strong and growing stronger. Bragi was in trouble.
The light flashed suddenly, so brightly she was momentarily blinded. At the same instant there was a scream from another room.
“The children!” she gasped. She rushed toward the sound. It went on and on. Behind her, the ruby painted her bedroom shades of blood.
The screamer was Valther.
“She’s here!” the man kept saying. “She’s here. She’s loosed her magic...”
“Who?” Nepanthe asked repeatedly.
“Must be Mist,” Turran guessed. “Nothing else could’ve done this.”
“But why?”
“Who knows the ways of Shinsan?”
“The jewel,” Elana interjected. “Before he screamed, it flashed so bright it almost blinded me.”
Nepanthe’s eyes met hers. Neither woman voiced her fear.
“She’s in Kavelin, then,” said Turran. He remained thoughtful while. Nepanthe and Elana calmed Valther, who began asking, “What happened?” and “Where am I?”
“It grows too complex,” Turran mused aloud. “A three-sided war... Nepanthe, get a couple of horses ready. And weapons. I’ll look after Valther.”
“But...”
“Looks like we’re getting a second chance. Elana, the
Tear is the most valuable thing in the west right now. Guard it well. If Kavelin goes, get it to Varthlokkur.”
Things went so fast Elana had no time to protest. Before she exploded in frustration, the brothers had gone. Valther remained puzzled, but seemed determined to rectify his treason.
She and Nepanthe stood on a balcony and watched them ride toward the coast road. Turran hoped to overtake Rolf and Uthe.
A stir in the gardens caught her eye. She said nothing to Nepanthe, merely peered intently till she could make out a small old man nodding to himself. He had spoken to Bragi at the landgrant. Quick as a bolting rabbit, he scooted out a small side gate.
A moment later she gasped. The old man, astride a winged horse, rose toward the moon and sped eastward.
TEN: The Closing Circles
I) From the jaws of despair
Ragnarson collapsed onto a rock. He could scarcely remain awake. The Nordmen gave up their weapons meekly, though puzzledly. They couldn’t believe that they had been beaten by lesser men.
For Bragi, too, it seemed a dream. It had taken two man-breaking weeks, but he had slipped out of the destroying vise.
He had fled Maisak certain he would never escape the Gap. Enemies had lain before and behind him, and there had been no way to turn aside.
He had outrun the Captal, almost flying into the arms of the eastern barons, who were pursuing Sir Andvbur Kimberlin, then had made a way to the side, out of the inescapable trap of a box canyon. At least, his enemies had thought it inescapable.
While they had taken the measure of one another and he had goaded them into f
ighting, his men had cut stairs up the canyon wall. Abandoning everything but weapons, they had climbed out one by one. Meanwhile, with a few Trolledyngjans and Itaskians, Ragnarson had harassed the Captal’s surviving Shinsaners so they wouldn’t get the best of the barons.
The desultory, constricted, unimaginative combat between pretenders had taken four days to resolve itself. The barons had had numbers, the Captal sorcery and men fanatically devoted to his child-pretender.
Ragnarson felt that, this time, he had won a decisive victory. He had won time. The Captal couldn’t muster new forces before winter sealed the Gap. The succession might be determined by spring. And the eastern Nordmen had been crushed. For the moment he and Volstokin commanded the only major forces in Kavelin. If he moved swiftly, while winter prevented external interests from aiding favorites, he could fulfill his commission.
And he could return to Elana.
If Haroun would let him. What Haroun’s plans were he didn’t know.
He had sent his men up the stone stairs, over mountains, and into the Gap behind the barons. The animals and equipment he had abandoned had become bait. They had rushed to the plunder.
Ragnarson’s captains, led by Blackfang, had struck savagely. In bitter fighting they had closed the canyon behind the Nordmen. Bragi and a small group had held the stairs against a repeat of his own escape.
There was no water in that canyon. Ragnarson’s animals had already devoured the sparse forage. The arrowstorm, once the mouth narrows had been secured, had been impenetrable. The Nordmen had had no choice.
There had been more to it, as there was to all stories: heroism of men pushing themselves beyond believed limits; inspired leadership by Blackfang, Ahring, Al-tenkirk, and Sir Andvbur; and unsuspected bits of character surfacing.
Ragnarson studied Sir Andvbur. His judgment of the young knight’s coolness and competence had proven out during Kimberlin’s operation around the headwaters of the Ebeler. Under him, the Wessons had shown well against the barons, particularly during disengagement and withdrawal.
But the first thing he had done, after getting his troops safely into the box canyon, had been to throw a tantrum.
“Both leaders think they can handle us later,” he had said.
“You sound bitter.”
“1 am. Colonel, you haven’t lived with their arrogance. Kavelin is the richest country in the Lesser Kingdoms, and that’s not just in wealth and resources. There’re fortunes in human potential here. But you find Wesson, Siluro, and Marena Dimura geniuses plowing, emptying chamberpots, and eating grubs in the forests. They’re not allowed anything else. Meantime, Nordmen morons are pushing Kavelin toward disaster. You think it’s historical pressure that has the lower classes rebelling? No. It’s because of the blind excesses of my class... Men like Eanred Tarlson could help make this kingdom decent for everybody. But they never get anywhere. Unless, like Tarlson, they obtain Royal favor. It’s frustrating. Infuriating.”
Ragnarson had made no comment at the time.
He hadn’t realized that Sir Andvbur had a Cause. He decided he had best keep an eye on the man.
Blackfang and Ahring took seats beside him. “We should get the hell out before Shinsan tries for a rematch,” said Haaken. “But there ain’t nobody here who could walk a mile.”
“Not much choice, then, is there? Why worry?”
Blackfang shrugged.
“What about the prisoners?” Ahring asked.
“Won’t have them long. We’re going to Vorgreberg.” He glanced up. The sky was nasty again. There had been cold rain off and on since his withdrawal from Maisak. It was getting on time to worry about wintering the army.
Two days later, as he returned to the march, the Marena Dimura brought him a young messenger.
“Wouldn’t be related to Eanred Tarlson, would you?” Bragi asked, as he broke Royal seals.
“My father, sir.”.
“You’re Gjerdruni, eh? Your father said you were at university.”
“I came home when the trouble started. I knew he’d need help. Especially if anything happened to him.”
“Eh?” But he had begun reading.
His orders were to hasten to Vorgreberg and assume the capital’s defense. Tarlson had been gravely wounded in a battle with Volstokin. The foreigners were withinthirty miles of the city.
“Tell her I’m on my way,” he said.
The boy rode off, never having dismounted. Ragnar-son wondered if he could get there in time. The rain would f complicate river crossings in the lowlands. And Tarlson’s injuries might cost the Queen the support he brought her by force of personality. He might lead his men to an enemy city. “Haaken! Ahring! Altenkirk! Sir Andvbur!”
II) Travels with the enemy
“Woe! Am foolest of fools,” Mocker mumbled over and over.”
The dungeon days had stretched into weeks, a parade of identical bores. Kirsten had forgotten him due to other pressures. Those he could judge only by his guards. Always sullen and vicious, they became worse whenever the Breitbarth fortunes waned. News arrived only when another subversive was imprisoned.
One day the turnkeys vanished. Every available man had been drafted to resist Volstokin’s perfidy.
After crushing resistance, Vodicka visited the dun-geons. Mocker tried to appear small in his corner. The Volstokiners were hunting someone. And he had had a premonition.
“This one,” he heard.
He looked up. A tall, lean, angular man with a wide scar down one cheek considered him with eyes of cold jade. Vodicka. Beside him Was another lean man, shorter, dusky, with high, prominent cheekbones and a huge, hawklike nose. He wore black. His eyes were like those of a snake.
Inwardly, Mocker groaned. A shaghun.
“Hai!” He bounced up with a broad grin. “Great King arrives in nick to rescue faithful servant from mouldering death in dungeon of perfidious ally. Breitbarth is treacher, great lord. Was plotting treason from begin-ning...”
They ignored him.
Mocker sputtered, fumed, and told some of his tallest lies. Vodicka’s men put him in chains and led him away. No one explained why.
But he could guess. They knew him. He had done El Murid many small embarrassments. There was the time he had sweet-talked/kidnapped the man’s daughter. There was the time he had convinced an important general that he could reveal a short-cut through the Kapenrungs, and had led the man into an army-devouring ambush.
Still, daylight seen from chains was sweeter than dungeon darkness. And at least an illusion of a chance to escape existed.
He could have gotten away. Escape tricks were among his talents. But he saw a chance to lurk on the fringe of the enemy’s councils.
He got to see a lot of daylight-and moonlight, starlight, and weather-the next few months, while Volstokin’s drunken giant of an army lumbered about Ravelin’s western provinces. Vodicka wanted his prizes near him always, but never comfortable.
Mocker didn’t get along with his fellow prisoners. They were Nordmen, gentlemen who had barely paid their ransoms to Bragi’s agents when taken by Vodicka.
Ragnarson had won himself a low, black place in Vodicka’s heart. He had already plundered the best from Ahsens, Dolusich, Gaehle, Holtschlaw, and Heiderscheid provinces. Bragi’s leavings were not satisfying the levies, who had been called from their homes for a campaign that would last past harvest time.
Vodicka kept escalating his promises to keep his army from evaporating.
Mocker wished he could get out among the troops. The damage he could talk... But his guards, now, were men of Hammad al Nakir. They were deaf to words not approved by their shaghun. His chance to escape had passed him by. The looting improved in Echtenache and Rubbelke, though there a price in blood had to be paid. In Rubbelke, sixty miles west of Vorgreberg and fifteen north of the caravan route, a thousand Nordmen met Volstokin on the plains before Woerheide.
Vodicka insisted that his prisoners watch. His pride still stung from the difficulty he had h
ad forcing the Armstead ford.
Vodicka was more talented at diplomacy and intrigue than at war, but refused to admit his shortcomings.
Tons of flesh and steel surged together in long, thunderous waves amidst storms of dust and swirling autumn leaves. Swords like lightning flashed in the thunderheads of war; the earth received a rain of blood and broken blades and bodies.
Volstokin’s knights began to flee. Enraged, Vodicka prepared to sacrifice his infantry.
Mocker watched with delight and game-fan commen-tary. The Nordmen had no infantry of their own. Unhorsed, without the protection of footmen, they would be easy prey for Volstokin’s more mobile men-at-arms.
The shaghun asked Vodicka to hold the infantry. He would turn the tide.
Mocker had encountered many wizards. This one was no mountain-mover, but was superior for a survivor of El Murid’s early anti-sorcery program. If he were an example of what the Disciple had been developing behind the Sahel, the west was in for some wicked surprises.
He conjured bears from smoke, unnaturally huge monsters misty about the edges but fanged and clawed like creatures bred only to kill. The Nordmen recognized them harmless, but their mounts were impressed beyond control. They broke, many throwing their riders in their panic.
“Now your infantry,” said the shaghun.
“Woe,” Mocker mumbled, “am doomed. Am con-demned to hopelessest of hopeless plights. Will never see home of self again.” His fellow prisoners watched him curiously. They had never understood his presence. He had done nothing to enlighten them. But he had learned from them.
He knew who planned to betray whom, and when and how, and the most secret of their changing alliances. But Mocker suspected their scheming no longer mattered. Vodicka’s and Bragi’s armies were the real powers in Ravelin now.
Vodicka’s leadership remained indecisive. Twenty miles from Vorgreberg he went into camp. He seemed to be waiting for something.
What came was not what he wanted. From his seat outside Vodicka’s pavilion, Mocker listened to the King’s curses when he discovered that the Queen’s Own, though inferior in numbers, were upon him. While the surprise attack developed, Vodicka and the shaghun argued about why Tarlson was so confident.