“How many?”
“Many, many. Twice times us, maybe.”
“Not good. Shoptaw, that’s not good.” He thought of the caves, whose mouths he had for years been trying to locate and seal. Ragnarson had a knack for discovering his enemies’ weak points. He would know about the caves.
“Shoptaw, old friend, you know what this means?”
“War here.” The winged man shuddered. “We fight. Win again. As always.”
Carolan hadn’t missed their uncertainty. “You’d better tell Aunt Mist.”
“Uhn.” The Captal didn’t like it, though. She would want to bring in her own people. There were more Shinsaners in Maisak now than he liked, a half-dozen grimly silent veterans who were training his troops and keeping their eyes on him.
IV)... And the thing they fear comes upon them
The first troops came through next day, immediately behind Mist and several masked Tervola. She had said she was bringing six hundred. The stream seemed endless to a man who had often heard what terrible soldiers they were. Yet she was honest. He counted exactly six hundred, most of whom left the fortress immediately. Mist was considerate of his sensibilities.
And before long Ragnarson encountered the Captal’s little ambushers.
The Captal followed the reports in quiet sorrow, standing rod-stiff in the darkness atop Maisak’s wall. It was murder, pure and simple. The little people couldn’t cope with the hairy men. He could console himself only
‘beenwith the knowledge that none of them had conscripted. They had asked for weapons.
There was a fierce, bloodthirsty determination in the enemy’s approach that startled and frightened him. It didn’t seem characteristic of the Ragnarson who had swept the lowlands. Then he learned what had been done to Ragnarson’s scouts.
He was enraged. His first impulse was to confront Mist and her generals... But no, with their power they would simply push him aside and take over. He did order his small friends to cease disputing the pass. In a small way, in lessened readiness and increased casualties, Shinsan would pay for its barbarity.
Ragnarson didn’t come whooping in as expected, as past performance suggested he would.
Many of the Captal’s friends, and a startling number of Mist’s troops, died before the Tervola felt ready to commit Carolan’s men.
Mist visited his station on the wall, from which he watched Shinsaners being harassed by bowmen. “We’re ready.” She had sensed his new coldness and was curious. He had already told her he wouldn’t discuss it till the fighting ended.
“You’re positive she’ll be safe?”
“Drake, Drake, I love her too. I wouldn’t let her go if there was a ghost of a chance she’d get hurt.”
“I know. I worry like a grandmother. But I can’t help feeling this man’s more dangerous than you think. He knew what he was up against when he came here. Why’d he keep coming?”
“I don’t know, Drake. Maybe he’s not as smart as you think.”
“Maybe. If Carolan gets hurt...”
Mist wheeled and’went below. Soon she and Carolan, leading Kaveliner recruits, departed Maisak’s narrow gate.
When the swift-sped arrows dropped from the darkness, he said only, “I knew it. I knew it,” and plunged down steps to ground level.
In moments he was beside Carolan. “Baby, baby, are you all right?”
Subsequent events seemed anti-climactic. He bickered with Mist, dispiritedly.
“Sometimes, Drake,” she once murmured, “I wish I could give it all up.”
V) What does a man profit?
Winter came early, and with a vengeance. The Captal had never seen its like. In normal times it would have been cause for distress. But there were no late caravans to be shepherded through the Gap. Hardly a traveler had crossed all summer.
The Captal welcomed the weather. He would have no trouble with Ragnarson before spring.
Mist damned it. She foresaw them facing a united Ravelin next summer.
The Captal kept his winged creatures watching the lowlands. Ragnarson seemed unable to avoid success-yet each redounded to the Captal’s benefit. Ever more Nordmen turned to his standard. Because of his power, he thought. Because he was the one enemy Ragnarson hadn’t been able to reduce.
He realized these new allies would abandon him the instant the loyalists collapsed, but that was a problem he could solve in its time. For the” present he had to concentrate on old enemies.
Though his couriers brought news consisting entirely of lists of towns and castles and provinces lost, he began to hope. In the free provinces several hitherto uncommit-ted Nordmen were turning rebel for each turning loyalist.
The edicts flowing from Vorgreberg had changed the root nature of the struggle. The issue, now, was a power struggle between Crown and nobility, one which would preserve or sweep away many ancient prerogatives. And it had become a class war. The underclasses, bought by Crown perfidy, strove to wrest privilege from their betters.
The Captal contacted Baron Thake Berlich in
Loncaric, a recidivist who had been captured by Ragnarson in the Gap and paroled by Fiana. The man’s response had been to raise stronger forces for the rematch. He had been one of the Krief’s commanders during the wars. He was the logical man to bring Ragnarson to heel. But he was a conservative of a stripe judged bizarre even by his own class.
Through Berlich, using the Baron’s interlocutors-whom he kept in careful ignorance of the messages they bore-he reached Sir Andvbur Kimberlin of Karadja, in Breidenbach. Kimberlin had publicly voiced displeasure with the Queen’s tepid social reforms. The Captal invited the knight to help him build a new society, hinting that while he controlled Carolan, he wasn’t long for this world and was looking for someone who understood, who could carry on after he was gone.
As winter lugubriously progressed toward a spring that was no spring at all in the Gap, the Captal grew less and less pessimistic. The rebel coalition, spanning the extremes of political dissatisfaction and opportunism, waxed strong, reaching into Vorgreberg itself.
That fell apart.
“Stupid, greedy pigs!” the old man grumbled for days. “We had it in our hands. But they had to try cutting us out.” Even Carolan stayed out of his way.
He decided there was no choice but to bring in eastern troops, to give the rebels backbone. And, to use a little wizardry.
News of the sudden shift at High Crag (where the ruling junta had for a decade discouraged mercenary involvement in actual warmaking), that had led to an offer of three veteran regiments to the Crown, again pushed the Captal toward despair. It was contagious. Mist became a sad, resigned woman. She returned to Shinsan to prepare a legion for transfer to Maisak when the snows melted.
The Captal, self-involved, overlooked her mood. Burla, Shoptaw, and Carolan understood Mist’s unhap-piness. The man she had lost, and his brother, had reappeared. In Ravelin. Working the other side again.
VI) Glitter of an enemy spear
Three men crouched beneath an ice overhang and, when not cursing the temperature, considered the fortress west of them.
“It’ll work,” promised the one with a single eye. “They can’t sense us.”
“The spells. The spells,” another grumbled. “If that Shinsaner bitch wasn’t in there, I’d believe in them.”
“Just think about the gold, Brad,” said the third. “More than... More than you’ve ever dreamed.”
“I believe in that less than Haroun’s spells. Maybe this’s his way of getting rid of us. We know too much.”
“A possibility,” Derran admitted. “And I haven’t overlooked it.”
“If there’s trouble, it’ll come at payoff time,” Kerth said.
“Uhm.”
“It’s dark enough,” said Brad.
“Give it a few more minutes,” said Derran. “Let ’em start thinking about bedtime. Some of those things can see like cats.” For the hundredth time he patted his purse. Inside, carefully protected, lay a
small bundle of plans of Maisak’s interior, obtained by bin Yousif from a winged man taken several months earlier.
“You’re sure there’ll be no sentries?” Brad asked.
Derran concealed his exasperation. “No. Why the hell would they be watching for someone in this?” He gestured at deep snow now invisible in darkness: “Probably someone at the gate, but that’s all that’s logical.” He checked the night, the few lights visible in the fortress. “Hell, you’re right, Brad. Let’s go.”
It took a half-hour to slog the short distance to the castle wall, then just minutes to set a grapnel and climb up. Five minutes later they had finished the two owl-faced creatures at the gate and prepared it for their retreat. If all went right, they would be well on their way before their visit caused an alarm.
Maisak was thick with smells and smokes, but in the outer works, in the winter chill, they encountered no other evidence of occupation.
“Lot of men here,” Kerth observed. “Wonder how they keep them fed?”
“Probably with transfers from Shinsan,” Derran replied. “That door there, with the brass hinges. That look like the one we want?”
“Fits the description.”
“Okay. Brad, you open. Kerth, cover.” He went in low and fast so Kerth could throw over him, but the precaution proved unnecessary. The corridor was empty.
“All right,” said Derran, “let’s see. Commissary down that way. Third room this way.”
In that room they found a half-dozen odd little people sleeping. “Look like rabbits,” Brad said, after they had been dispatched.
“Place’s supposed to be full of weirds,” Derran replied. “Kerth, find the panel. We’ll clean up.” Soon they were climbing a dusty circular stair in complete darkness.
The stair ended in a landing. There was a wall with peepholes. Beyond the wall lay an empty, poorly lighted corridor.
“Brad, you watch.” Derran felt for the mechanism that would allow access to the corridor. A small panel scraped aside. They awaited a reaction. Brad hastily assembled a crossbow.
“Go.” Derran tapped Kerth’s shoulder.
Daggers in hand, the man rushed the one door opening off the corridor. He paused beside it. Closed, he signaled. Derran joined him, pointed to the regular stair. Kerth checked it, signaled it was clear. Derran dropped to his stomach and peered beneath the door with his good eye. From his bundle of plans he took one of the Captal’s library, indicated the position of each person in the room.
A final problem. Was the door locked? Barred? Haroun’s captive had claimed there were no locked doors in Maisak, only hidden ones.
Derran stood, placed his back to the door, took its handle in his left hand, held his sword vertically in his right. Kerth readied his daggers, nodded.
Explosion. Derran slammed the door open. As hismomentum carried him out of the way, one of Kerth’s weapons took wing. Its pommel smacked the Shinsaner woman between the eyes.
Derran didn’t pause to appreciate the throw. It was what he had expected. Kerth had spent countless hours practicing.
The woman was the key. If she weren’t silenced, all was lost.
In passing he crossed blades with the old man, pushed through his guard, left him clutching his wound in amazement. He grabbed the woman, shoved a hand into her mouth, with his free hand tossed Kerth his dagger. Kerth took it on the fly and turned to two weird creatures who had thrown themselves in front of the little girl...
A wall opened up and men with swords stepped in. Ragnarson’s men.
FOURTEEN: The Roads to Baxendala
I) In by the back door
Though April was near, the snow remained deep and moist. The two men fought it gamely, but were compelled to take frequent rests.
“Must be getting old,” Turran grumbled, glancing up the long, steep slope yet to be climbed.
Valther said nothing, just made sure moisture hadn’t reached his sword. He seldom spoke even now.
“Almost there,” Turran said. “That bluff up there... That’s the one that looked like a man’s face.” The last time they had been in the Gap it had been summer and they had been hurrying to their fates in Escalon. Nothing looked familiar now.
Valther stared uphill, remaining statue-still till a bitter gust reached him. “Better camp,” he muttered.
“Uhm.” Turran had spotted a likely overhang. It would yield relief from the wind while they hunted a usable cave. Though those were reportedly numerous, they had become harder to find near Maisak.
“Think they’ve spotted us yet?” Turran asked after they made the overhang.
Valther shrugged. He didn’t care. He would feel nothing till they had come face to face with Mist.
“That looks like one,” said Turran, indicating a spot of darkness up the north slope. “Let’s go.”
Valther hoisted his pack and started off.
They had little firewood left. Turran used the minimum to heat their supper, then extinguished the blaze. They would wrap in their blankets and crowd one another for warmth. The mouth of the cave was small and inconveniently located anyway. The smoke didn’t want to leave.
During the night Turran shivered so hard that when he rose he had cramps.
Valther didn’t notice the chill.
For breakfast they had jerky warmed by their body heats, washed down with snow melted the same way.
Afterward, Valther said, “Time to begin.”
“Is she here?” Turran asked.
Valther’s eyes glazed. For a moment he stared into distances unseen, then shrugged. “I don’t know. The aura’s there, but not strong.”
Turran was surprised his brother showed that much spirit. He seemed genuinely eager for the coming confrontation.
Turran was not. He saw no way they could best the mistress of Shinsan. Surprise was a tool that could be used against anyone, but how did one surprise a power so perceptive it could detect an enemy’s heartbeat a hundred miles away?
But the attempt had to be made. Even in full expectation of death. It was a matter of conscience. They had betrayed those who had trusted them. Just trying would help even the balance.
“Ready?”
Valther nodded.
From his purse Turran took a small jewel the Monitor had given him. He set it on the cave floor. They joined hands, stared into the talisman. Turran chanted in liturgical Escalonian, of which he understood not a word.
In a moment he felt little monkey-tugs at the fringes of his soul. There was a sudden, painless wrench, as of roots pulling away, then his awareness floated free.
The sensing was nothing like that of the body. He didnot “see” objects, yet knew the location and shape and function of everything about him.
Valther hadn’t shed his clay. He was too distracted by obsessions that Turran could now trace. Valther lay trapped in a sort of in-between, and would remain there till Turran freed him or pulled him back to the mundane plane.
Just as well, Turran reflected. Valther might have gone haring direct to Maisak, to see Mist, and so have given them away.
There was no sense of time on that level. Turran had to concentrate to make events follow one another in temporal parade. He saw why the Monitor had told him not to use the stone unless he had to. He could get lost on this side, and forget his body, which would perish of neglect.
This was how most ghosts had come into being, the Monitor had told him.
While Turran had had no training in this sorcery, the wizardries of his family had taught him discipline. He began his task.
He floated the slopes between their hiding place and the bluff which masked Maisak. He felt no cold, nor any pressure from the wind.
He discovered he could sense not only the realities obvious to corporeal senses, he could look around, beneath, and within things, and it was with this faculty that he searched for entrances to the caverns honeycomb-ing the mountains. Many came clear. Most had been sealed. Those that had not, he probed deeply. He found the one he was hunting. r />
Just in time. His attachment to his body was attenuating. His will and concentration were suffering moments of vagary.’
As he reentered his body, he learned another danger of the magic.
Feeling returned. All the aches and pains of a hard march, more intense for having gone unfelt for a time. And his senses suddenly seemed severely limited. What a temptation there was to withdraw...
He reached out and brought his brother back.
Turran’s eyes opened. Their hands parted.
Valther had less trouble recovering. “Did you find it?” he asked.
Turran nodded. “I don’t want to try that again.”
“Bad?”
“Just the coming back.”
“Let’s go.” Valther was ebullient.
Turran rose stiffly, got his gear together. “We’ll need the torches. It’s long...”
Valther shrugged, drew his sword, ran his thumb along its edge. He didn’t care about the in-betweens, just the destination.
“What I wouldn’t give for a bath,” Turran grumbled as he hoisted his pack. “I’ll lead.”
It was snowing again. That was their fault. The past several months they had used their weather magic to confine winter’s worst to the high country.
The cave mouth was a half-mile from their hiding place, naturally but cunningly hidden. He had a hard time locating it. It had to be dug out. It was barely large enough to accept a man’s body. He sent Valther in, pushed their packs through, slithered in himself.
“I’ve got a feeling,” he told Valther as they prepared the torches, “that we’d better hurry. My memory’s getting hazy.”
But speed was impossible. The subterranean journey was long and tortuous and in places they had to dig to enlarge passages for crawling. Once they climbed twenty feet up a vertical face. Another time they had to cross a pit whose Stygian deeps concealed a bottom unguessably far below. At a point where several caverns intersected they found skeletons still arrayed in war gear of Hammad al Nakir. Though they pushed hard, they couldn’t make the journey in one day. They paused for sleep, then continued.