TWOLAS - 08 - Stormed Fortress

  'You will burn them out!' exclaimed the war-captain from Tirans. 'Rout the enemy with fire until the citadel boils to magma!'

  'I support no such cruelty!' Lysaer pealed back. His cool purpose was unassailable, a chiselled display that cowed those men closest, and pressed the faint-hearted to unwitting retreat. Justice enforced the gap between the aroused dedicates and their hailed idol.

  'The enemy captain of Alestron's field defences was the man who delivered the honourless order to fire. His archers enacted this uncivilized death. The farm-hands they defended condoned the crime. These are the guilty. I shall not tear down walls! Or destroy innocent town citizens over an action they did not commit!'

  The crestfallen officer flushed. Around him, his fellows shifted, abashed, as though the ground trembled beneath them.

  Against that crushed pause, where none dared opinion, the Mayor of Kalesh cleared his throat and clapped the shoulder of Lysaer's white surcoat. 'My Blessed Lord! That's ingenious strategy! Of course, if you raze the field troops alone, those trapped inside the citadel will mew themselves up. They'll crowd in panic and stress their own garrison, while we set our leisurely course for a siege.' His shark's smile widened. 'We can watch in comfort as the s'Brydion fortress becomes overburdened, then starved to submission.'

  Lysaer s'Ilessid's smile curdled with frosty politeness. 'Quite, as you say' He sucked a sharp breath. 'Except, for civility, I will deliver their barbaric duke his due warning.'

  His poised fist stirred. Lean fingers snapped, once. Out of clear air rose a pillar of light. The beacon pierced like a needle towards heaven, dazzling unshielded sight. The self-proclaimed avatar shone for the masses. He became as the blade of the unsheathed sword, crowned in white fire and diamonds.

  'Mercy!' gasped Vhandon, forgetting the young scout, who shared equal danger beside him.

  How could any man bear to witness such splendour? How not to become bedazzled by triumph? Could any mortal mind fail to be stirred by the clarion cry to honour the moral high ground?

  'Mercy alive!' Vhandon wept, torn in pieces, and all but seduced by the lure of sheer fascination. Such glory could not do other than blaze. Every last blinded follower would marry their efforts to what seemed a lofty ideal. Those who cheered with their dazed eyesight sealed would hurl themselves into a life-and-death struggle. By sheer mass and numbers, they would kill every standing troop caught in their path.

  Vhandon ached for hope's loss. He was alone, clenched fast in the breach. His hand was not other than human. No field-captain possessed a sorcerer's wisdom. To denounce the false avatar in the enemy camp could only bring swift self-destruction. The horrific thought chilled him: that he was informed. Had he not held an intimate association with Arithon, he would not have escaped the insanity. Would not have grasped what these followers never had grace to perceive: that this war had been seeded by Desh-thiere's curse. If not for the memory of a clearer music, called forth from a Paravian-made sword, Vhandon realized he could have been swept off his feet. Too easily, ignorance swayed decent men to cast their lot with the Light's mustered soldiers.

  Yet he had heard. His vision saw past ennobled passion as the bridled white stallion arrived, and its-blond rider accepted the reins. Lysaer received the dazzled salutes of his officers, then strode forward to mount.

  Which left ten s'Brydion liegemen still masked under cover inside the enemy's camp. They could send no word, before the forces unleashed. Make no move, lest they risk their companions. Alone, they held out on the rags of torn will. For they knew, beyond doubt: their duke's brash defiance was futile.

  Such rage masked under self-righteous nobility would spark the irrevocable fire and not rest until the citadel was reduced to ashes.

  Autumn 5671

  Strike

  The first blow unleashed by the white rider exploded, an eruption of light that burst like a scream from the eye of a malevolent sunrise. The conflagration roared forth as a wave, storming across the hedged pastures, and breaking the outlying farmsteads under a blast of annihilating heat. The flash-point lasted but a fleeting instant. Yet amid the booming report of shocked air, the fields and hayricks surrounding the s'Brydion citadel were engulfed by scouring flame. The scourge destroyed everything: devoured all in its path without any breath of resistance.

  No hamlet escaped the sweeping assault. No farm-wife or miller or child was spared, no matter that they were innocents. The thatch and timber over their heads became torched at one hammering stroke. Chimney stones were reduced to slag, tumbled over the carbon scorched earth, where all life was stripped of animal industry and autumn-rich foliage.

  Smoke drifted, stinking, where moments before, crofters had scythed the last cutting of straw and raked the cured stalks into windrows. The drays and ox teams were immolated also, bone and carcasses scattered to ash; undone alongside them, the steadfast, armed guard of Keldmar's veteran troops. No man in the open lived to report. Lumped metal remained of wrought weapons and wheel rims, glowing dull cherry upon the sere ground.

  Inside the burst barns, where the bulwarks of revetted stone had been melted, the shrieks of a handful of light-scalded sentries shattered the morning quiet. They were the misfortunate few, roasted to agony until death could relieve their wracked suffering.

  Vhandon and his picked company of scouts witnessed the horrific flare of the assault while set on the run. Half a league to the north, miserably huddled in a marshy covert that verged the enemy camp, they had never dispatched the warning to spare their commander. In flight for their lives, they had hoped to swing wide and cross the far side of the lines.

  As the rumbling report shook the earth, and pummelled wind through the frost-killed hummocks, Vhandon needed force to restrain his young men.

  'Hold fast where we stand!' While an unhinged scout surged to avenge his dead family, Vhandon tripped the man's rush, then clouted his nape and dropped him sprawling. 'D'you think you're the only one that's bereaved?' A stiff swallow, to jam back the upsurge of grief none could afford at the battle-front. Vhandon snapped, emptied, 'I just lost a son! His wife bore my grandchildren, four of them, gone! By Ath, you'll keep courage, if I can!'

  He helped the weeping man to his feet. 'Steady on. Bear this! Believe what I know of the wars fought before! None of us can outface Lysaer's powers. Nor can we salvage what's wrecked, or snatch back one life delivered to Daelion's judgement!'

  'If the field troop's razed down, we're now cut off, here!' a rattled veteran argued, afraid. Parching gusts raked from the blast site in back-lash, hard enough to suck tears from dry eyes, and wilt the brush that provided inadequate cover.

  'Down!' Vhandon ordered. 'Smear your faces with mud!'

  But no skulking tactic allayed his dread: that no defence at arms might mount a counter-strike against the baleful fires of the s'Ilessid gift. With Keldmar's field troops lost, the cruel fact wrecked morale: that the citadel's lower walls lacked the shielding grace of the ancient Paravian craftwork. Every man nursed the horrific pain. Caught in hiding, they seethed to act before abject destruction should slaughter their fellows on guard at the trade gate.

  As a second fool moved to draw steel, Vhandon clamped a harsh fist. 'No! Stay your hand! You'd bring death upon us, and for what? A martyr's end here will serve nothing!'

  'Merciful Ath!' The man shook with rage. 'My wife and kinsfolk are still alive inside the lower citadel.' Over dry coughs, as another man vomited, he vented his raging despair. "This false avatar can destroy us all on a whim. I can't skulk here and suffer the ruin of all I hold dear in this life!'

  'You've forgotten!' Vhandon slashed back. By ice-water nerves, he would pull these men clear, wrestle their poisoned stew of emotions until they could be steered from lethal danger. 'Keldmar s'Brydion had the savagery to murder an accredited ambassador!' Feet braced, his callused fist locked in restraint, the field-captain crushed sapping distress; forced reason above shock and heartbreak. 'We can't measure the toll of destruction from here! Can't know the full
story, until we make our way beyond the direct line of fire.'

  While the screaming winds lashed the turned leaves from scrub maples, and whipped smoke hazed the pristine morning, the ranked sergeant among them responded. 'Our innermost walls were designed to stop drakefire. Surely the heart of the citadel stands secure!'

  Yet even if their duke's banner still flew, the experienced eye must acknowledge that their straits had gone from dire to desperate. Fellowship intervention might preserve Atwood's timber inside of East Halla's free wilds. But the shipworks at Kalesh and Adruin stayed supplied by the zeal of the Sunwheel Alliance. Their galleys would import cut lumber from elsewhere. Cordwainers and craftsmen pressed by the campaign would labour to erect siege engines. With Alestron stripped at one stroke of her field troops, the duke's superbly trained men-at-arms were left in no position to stop the advance.

  Construction could start within range of the outside walls. Lysaer's ruthless gift could burn down the defensive board hoardings. Clearly, the first line of fortifications was useless.

  'Depend on this much!' Vhandon cracked with brute honesty. 'We'll see sappers mining our last unbreached wall before the full onset of winter.'

  Thrown back on resolve, he jammed on his helm. Talk will not save us! Nor can retreat serve a thing but add our hungry mouths to the strapped needs of our countrymen.' Grim as carved oak, Vhandon turned his back on the smoke-hazed wrack of the farm-steads. 'Stand firm with me! Use our loyalty wisely. Outside, as free agents, we can best serve our duke through covert raids and harassment.'

  * * *

  The blast that scorched Alestron's pastures and fields outstripped any word for destruction. Inside the s'Brydion citadel, the explosion enacted stunned shock, an inbreath before pandemonium: the painstaking lists with the garrison's scribes were no longer going to matter; detailed inventories of food stocks and barrels of preserved rations were thrown into eclipse by the staring shadow of crisis.

  Panic struck every man, woman, and child as the city's craft quarter was confronted by the stark scope of the wreckage. The false avatar's ultimatum had been served upon the ashes of competent troops, loyal officers, and by-standing innocents. The act shattered morale. Unless every member of the duke's family should be delivered to Lysaer's justice in chains, today's rain of fire and light would not end. Not before the Fatemaster's Wheel had turned, and the last life was reaped out of havoc. Hold fast to their own, and the folk of Alestron were foredoomed, with all ties to diplomacy forfeit.

  The crushing aftermath fell hardest of all on the defending companies posted at the outer walls. Mearn s'Brydion suffered the brunt, as their commander at arms.

  The cocky dandy in him was no longer recognizable. Ripped haggard, his neat surcoat singed by the cinders that swirled as the scorched air recoiled, he retched on his knees, gagged by the reek of singed meat. His equerry, his officers, and the fleet-footed boy who ran his messages were wrung just as wretched beside him. They all fought to breathe, as the poisonous pall of hot smoke rolled off the surrounding, raped acres.

  Mearn dared not languish. He choked down rank nausea and his cry of grief, for the death of a feckless brother. Though loss savaged his heart, and his sword-arm was burned, he straightened, then moved: grabbed the nearest of his shaken captains, and yanked him onto his feet. 'Jervald! Now! I need you to find Talvish! We have people to help. Whole families and tradesmen. They aren't safe until they're secured inside of the upper citadel!'

  Emergency gave them no time to organize. Every war-hardened veteran Mearn could haze must salvage the grit to respond. 'Halve the numbers who were standing watch on the walls! Draw lots for the duty. The rest will retire at once to the streets! Get the populace out! Brandish arms, threaten bodily harm if you must! Damn your eyes! Rouse yourselves!. To Dharkaron, the slackers who falter to stare! Surmount this, or die! Every second we crumble to terror hurts our chances of long-term survival!'

  Mearn kicked the prostrate weepers. He slapped men's slumped shoulders, then snatched up a dropped halberd to prod on the stunned, all the while shouting in vicious language to roust the numbed and immobile. 'You louses, get up' We cannot mend today's blast of destruction. All of our safety depends on swift action! You and you! Pick ten others. Commandeer every hand-cart and wagon! Seize any transport to shift the infirm.'

  For no grace was given: already the screaming and cries in the streets surged towards riot. Worse, Mearn tripped over a man on his knees. The fellow moaned with inconsolable pain. Both sticky hands were pressed to raw burns, his blistered face utterly ravaged.

  'Ath's pity,' Mearn gasped, jolted sick. Hapless men on the walls had been struck blind. Trusty sentries, caught wide-eyed in the breach, in the moment the light burst before them. Already, their scorched sockets and agonized torment gutted the nerves of their fellows.

  'Hold on, man! Bear up! We'll get you a healer.' Mearn's biting grip on the stricken man's shoulder was no less than brutally desperate. He must restore reason, no matter the cost. Or else terrified confusion was going to claim more than the slain caught outside the defences.

  Spurred by necessity, Mearn handed the wounded man off to his comrades. Then he sprinted through the disarray on the battlements, yelling sharp orders to rally. 'You! Lieutenant! Get the injured together. Have one sighted man keep them calm. Send a sensible sergeant to commandeer someone skilled to treat them! You there, no snivelling! March your squad through the streets. Man, woman, and child, everybody moves out of here! I will have no stragglers. No one gets left behind! The least grandame and elder must not be overlooked in the crush! I want the craft quarter emptied by sundown, with no one's excuses for failure!'

  The task lying ahead was enough to crush dauntless spirits, beforetime: not only were the non-combatants unsafe. Now unbridled fear posed the s'Brydion clan holding a lethal liability. In dread for their lives, or the well-being of their children, what forthright citizen or threatened merchant might not sell out to appease Lysaer's ruthless ferocity?

  Then Talvish arrived, a rock in a storm, in the soot-blackened rags of his surcoat. A rash of blisters disfigured his cheek where the light's strike had glancingly brushed him. Though his fair hair was singed, and his jade eyes, struck numb by awareness that Vhandon had been caught outside with Keldmar's slaughtered held troop, he needed no part of Mearn's hoarse entreaties to grasp the huge scope of disaster.

  'I've got teams of men working through house to house.' Rasped raw, he coughed; swiped let blood from his brow, laid open by fragmented debris. 'Jeynsa and Fionn Areth were packed off straightaway. They suffered no harm!' he reassured, fast, before Mearn recoiled to worry. The ghost of a rueful shrug, as he added, "Though Daelion Fatemaster's judgement bear witness! The goatherding idiot wears a bruise on the jaw for the privilege. Nothing would make him stop yammering but my fist.'

  Mearn swallowed. He had no stomach left. Only the jagged ache of despair, which found no direction to lean for reassurance. 'You know the s'Ilessid will strike us again. How we can possibly move to secure the bone and marrow of our skilled tradesmen?'

  Talvish shook his head. He could offer nothing beyond the tact he had learned the hard way, serving Arithon. 'You were never the fool, Mearn,' he prodded, most gently. 'As the ambassador sent to Avenor, what do you think from experience?'

  And the brutalized, youngest s'Brydion brother shivered, as the pain stared him down. Wreathed in stinking smoke, he allowed, 'Lysaer will serve justice. You think we were spared to be offered reprieve? Then woe betide us when we turn a blind eye. For as I stand here, I already know. My brother Bransian will be crazed with rage. Family pride will not let him surrender.'

  'Best pray that you're wrong,' Talvish stated then, sorrow braced by war-hardened tenacity. 'But should you be right, I think we'll be given as much time as we need. If only to set the hook in the fish. Lysaer's a strategist. He'll hang back. Allow us to stew, until we're worn-out by our agony'

  Few could match Mearn for bravado. He nodded once; swiped back his soak
ed hair. Amid ugly shouts risen from the clogged streets, through the echoes slapped off the stone revetments, he clapped Talvish's back. 'You're cruel as Dharkaron's Chariot, my friend.' Reckless causes sparked off his penchant for gambling. 'We can't give way, now. Just spike the odds higher. Upset the presumption, that more mouths in the citadel will starve us to submission the faster.'

  Talvish rubbed his temples to ease his pounding head, then reset his helm with grim purpose. 'Nobody's fooled. But the trust of the populace has to be kept.'

  Mearn's hollowed face tightened. 'Well at least we won't be afflicted by troops gripped in the throes of vile practice!' Since Arithon had raised the grand chord at Etarra, the hideous threat posed by the Kralovir's meddling had been unequivocally routed.

  Yet on that reprieve, Talvish spoke no word of false platitude. Unlike the high-strung intelligence before him, he had witnessed Prince Arithon's personal torment, just after the Fellowship's charge was accepted. For the dread future, who but a Sorcerer dared measure the price of the miscast blame that now impelled Lysaer's Alliance to war?

  Alestron might yet bear the terrible cost of that shining victory.

  Yet a self-possessed man with Mearn's sensitive character, who had also just lost a brother, was no spirit to be forced to reckon with future intangibles.

  'Let us do what we can for your people.' Hard-set, dedicated to practical mercy, Talvish shouldered his captaincy. He was no sorcerer, no musician, no blood-born seer stung by the vista of far-sighted consequence. He accepted that he had naught else to give but the conviction of human resolve.

  Autumn 5671

  Consequence