Then d’ Lyes shouted, “Poison!”
Erik blinked in astonishment; then he shouted in the dialect of the invaders, “Poison! Poison! Withdraw! Withdraw!”
The cry was echoed up and down the line as men from both sides fell back. Erik wasted no time. He signaled up and down the line, crying, “Retreat! Retreat!”
The command echoed up and down the line, and the Kingdom Army withdrew from the barricade. Robert d’ Lyes hurried to where Erik sat and said, “They won’t be fooled for long. When those men who are vomiting recover, they’ll be back.”
“What was that you did?”
“It’s a useful little spell designed to kill mice, rats, and other vermin in barns. If you breathe the smoke, you get very sick to your stomach for about an hour, but after that you’re fine.”
Erik was impressed. “Thank you for thinking of it.”
“You’re welcome. It might be more useful if I could figure a way to make it more toxic, so the enemy would really be poisoned.”
“Only if you can also figure out how to keep it on the correct side of the battlefield.”
“Yes,” said the magician, “I see the problem. Now what do we do?”
“Run like hell,” said Erik.
“Very well,” said d’ Lyes, and he started running as fast as he could to where his horse was tied.
Erik gave the order and watched with relief as the men too wounded to walk were carried to the last of the baggage wagons. Others hurried to mount waiting horses. The archers in the rocks climbed down as fast as they could, and mounted also or joined the general withdrawal, depending on which units they served.
Erik saw the enemy fleeing to the west, many of them rolling on the ground, clutching their stomachs, in what they thought were death throes. A few of his own men, also incapacitated by the smoke, were also helped to safety by their comrades.
Erik counted the minutes, and after ten had come and gone, he said, “Fall back!”
The light cavalry, spears at the ready, were scheduled to be the last units to withdraw before the horse archers. Erik passed them and saw tired, bloody men, but men with a look in their eyes that made his chest swell with pride. He saluted them, then cantered his horse toward town.
As he rode away, he saw firelight on the ridges, as the engineers torched their catapults and mangonels. The machines, too big and difficult to move without dismantling, were destroyed to deny them to the enemy.
Reaching Ravensburg, he saw men with torches at the ready. He glanced around his boyhood home as the baggage wagons rolled through the center of town, taking the wounded and the supplies to the next defensive position. Erik dismounted and loosened his horse’s girth, giving the animal a bit of rest. He led the horse to a trough and let him drink a little. Erik watched, waiting for the signal from his rearmost scout that the chase was on, when he would have to burn his boyhood town.
But time passed and no enemy approached. Erik considered they might be leery of approaching the place where d’ Lyes had “poisoned” them until they realized it was a ruse. That extra hour would gain them a precious advantage. When he judged they would safely be through, he shouted, “Order the archers and lancers to retire!”
A messenger rode off to the west, carrying word to the last of the Kingdom’s scouts to withdraw, and Erik rode toward the Inn of the Pintail. He reached it as a soldier stood ready to ignite hay piled against the fence and outer wall. Erik said, “Give that to me,” indicating the torch.
The soldier did as ordered, and Erik threw the torch into the hay. “No one’s going to burn my home but me,” he said. Then he turned and shouted, “Burn it!”
Everywhere soldiers rode or ran through the town, tossing hundreds of torches. Erik couldn’t bring himself to watch the fire destroy the inn, so he put heels to his horse’s barrel and rode back to the center of town. Flames were rising quickly on all sides as the first elements of the light cavalry rode through. He knew the horse archers would be the last out, and was determined to ride with them.
The horse archers came fast, in a maneuver created by Calis, one he said originated with riders in Novindus, the Jeshandi. Half the squad would ride, while the other half would cover and fire, then the squad that had ridden would stop and offer cover fire to the group that had just been firing. It required precision and practice, but Calis had drilled these horse archers to perfection, so their withdrawal was nearly flawless. A few enemy arrows sped after them, as the fires announced to the invaders that the Kingdom was withdrawing, but most were fired blindly, arched high from behind the cover of boulders, and fell harmlessly to the ground.
As enemy fire increased, Erik felt it was time to go, so he shouted, “That’s enough! Retreat!”
The horse archers turned as one, set heels to their horses, and galloped to the east. They rode furiously until they were sure no enemy followed close on their heels, then they slowed to a relatively relaxed canter, saving the horses as much as they could.
The usual travel time to Wolverton was three hours on a walking horse. Erik reached the town in less than one. The entire way he saw the baggage wagons lumbering down the road, and as he reached Wolverton, he saw them slowing, moving around a building on the edge of town. Jadow and another man from his company stood waving, and Erik rode up. “What is it?”
“Most of your cavalry and infantry went by about ten, fifteen minutes ago. We almost had a disaster when they tried to run over the wagons.”
“Are you overseeing traffic?”
Jadow grinned. “More. Got a few of those traps you asked for, enough so that after a couple of them go off, the enemy should slow down a bit.” They waited as the wagons rolled on. Again Erik rested his horse. He and Jadow were too concerned with the possibility of the enemy’s overtaking the last of the baggage train to engage in small talk. For another two hours the wagons rolled, until suddenly a company of riders could be seen, Erik’s rear guard. Jadow motioned toward the company of riders. “They the last?”
Erik nodded. “If you hang around, my advice is, the next rider you see coming down the road, kill him.”
Jadow motioned to where he had two horses tied to a broken-down fence and said, “Think I’d rather ride with you.” Jadow and his soldier got the two horses, mounted, and returned to Erik’s side. “Ride where I tell you, boys, and everything will be fine.”
Erik motioned for Jadow to lead and followed him into the small town of Wolverton. “What have you done?”
“Well,” said Jadow, “you asked for some nasty surprises, so we obliged. A couple of pits here, a few casks of oil there, some torches we just set burning in that building, some other little things. Nothing will be too damaging, but it should slow them as they start inspecting every building.”
Erik nodded his approval. “Very good.”
They rode through Wolverton. The town lay across the King’s Highway, but it was surrounded on the north and south by flat meadows and groves, providing an impossible defensive position. If Jadow’s surprises slowed the enemy a little, making them circle around the town instead of marching straight through, the extra minutes would save lives. Erik and Jadow came up behind the last wagon, slowly working its way along the King’s Highway. Erik turned to Jadow. “You and the horse archers guard this and the other stragglers. I have to ride ahead.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jadow with his customary smile and half-mocking salute.
Erik pushed his tired horse forward, passing the last of the baggage wagons and a few walking wounded who could find no room in the wagons. Twice he found men resting on the side of the road, and he ordered them to keep going, lest they fall too far behind and be killed by the enemy.
As sundown neared, he was forced to rest his horse. Here the road rose steeply, heading to the summit. He looked down the trail and was astonished to see the long line of men and wagons trudging along the highway. He had ridden past every wagon behind him, yet until this moment he had no concept of how many men were still on the road. Torches
were lit here and there, and soon a long, flaming line seemed to be creeping along the King’s Highway, coming his way, a stately procession.
Erik felt a quickening urgency that precluded his standing idle, so he dismounted and led his horse along. He passed a wagon at the side of the road, where men worked frantically to repair a broken spoke, and when he turned a bend in the road, he saw it: Darkmoor.
Athwart the highway rested the walled city of Darkmoor, and along the eastern side of the mountains ran Nightmare Ridge. There, Erik knew, the fate of the Kingdom and the world of Midkemia would be decided. The city was now ablaze with lanterns and torches along the wall, so from this distance it looked as if a celebration was in progress. Erik knew it was an illusion, for those lights meant the full weight of the Western Realm’s defenses would soon be in place.
The region of Darkmoor was actually to the south and east of the city that bore its name. The original Castle Darkmoor had been built as the Kingdom’s westernmost defense long before the founding of Krondor. Over the years the town, then the city, of Darkmoor arose, until it, too, had been enclosed by a wall. After Wolverton, Erik had ridden through a relatively empty landscape, as most of the terrain close to the city was rocky and nonarable. Small trees and tough mountain grasses, low brush, and some flowers hugged the roadside. Farther back, trees grew deep in the valleys and gullies running down the west face. Most of the area around the city itself had been forested clear ages ago. Food and other perishables were hauled into Darkmoor from lower-lying farming hamlets.
On the highest peak to the north of the King’s Highway, rising like a guardian, was the original Darkmoor Keep. It was now a citadel, for it had originally been been built as a walled fort and the wall and moat around the castle had never been removed. Now the city sprawled out across the pass, and the King’s Highway ran through a massive oak gate, bound with iron and flanked by high turrets, each with crenellated, overhanging parapets. Erik judged that no one attempting to reach the gate would be able to do so without being exposed to bow fire, catapults, or hot water or oil from above.
The setting sun threw a red highlight on the castle, and Erik turned to the west. In the distance he saw the sun disappear in a haze of smoke, from the fires in Ravensburg and Wolverton.
Erik reached the gate of the city to discover that the street was packed with refugees from the west. He led his horse past frustrated soldiers trying to deal with the throng of humanity attempting to squeeze into the city.
Erik shouted, “Which way to the keep?”
A soldier looked over his shoulder and, seeing the crimson eagle on Erik’s tunic, and the badge of rank, said, “To the center of town, and then left on High Street, Captain!”
Erik led his horse through the throng, occasionally having to shove someone aside to get past knots of confused citizens and fatigued, short-tempered soldiers. The journey took him nearly an hour.
Eventually he reached the ancient drawbridge that crossed the moat separating the citadel from the rest of city. A squad of soldiers had blocked off the street for a hundred yards in all directions, so that those needing quick access to and from the Prince’s headquarters would not be impeded.
Erik approached the guard and pointed to the west. “Tell me, is that a clear passage to the western gate?”
The guard said, “It is. Runs along the wall and turns at that corner down there.”
Erik sighed. “I wish someone at the gate had mentioned that.” He started past the guard, who dropped a spear before Erik’s chest.
“Here, now. Where do you think you’re going?”
“To see the Prince and General Greylock,” said a very tired Erik.
“And suppose you show me some orders, then?”
Erik said, “Orders? From whom?”
“Your officer, assuming you’re not another deserter looking to tell the General some cock-and-bull story about being separated from your unit.”
Erik slowly reached up, took a grip on the spear shaft, and without apparent effort moved it back upright, despite the soldier’s attempts to keep it where he had it. As the man’s jaw tightened and his eyes widened, Erik said, “I am an officer. I know I look worse for wear, but I need to see the Prince.”
Other soldiers were approaching as they noticed the confrontation. Another shouted, “Hey, Sergeant!”
A sergeant in the uniform of Darkmoor, a black shield with a red raven on a branch on a tan tabard, ran over. “What’s this, then?”
The soldier said, “This fellow wants to see the Prince.”
The sergeant, a tough old boot used to instant obedience by his men, snapped, “And just who the hell might you be that the Prince would want to see you?”
Erik pushed aside the spear and stepped forward, locking eyes with the sergeant. “Erik von Darkmoor, Captain of the Prince’s Special Command!”
At the mention of his name, several of the soldiers stepped aside, while the others glanced at the sergeant. The old veteran grinned and said, “Looks like you’ve seen a bit of trouble, then, Captain.”
“You could say that. Now, step aside!”
The sergeant didn’t hesitate, moving briskly to one side. As Erik passed, he handed the reins to the sergeant, saying, “Get him some water and feed him. He’s all done in. Then send word where you’ve stabled him. He’s a good horse and I don’t want to lose him.”
The sergeant took the reins. As Erik walked away, he said without looking back, “Oh, and when my sergeant arrives, send him straight to me. You’ll have no trouble recognizing him. He’s a tall, Keshian-looking fellow, dark skin, and he’ll snatch your head right off your shoulders if you give him one half the trouble you just gave me.”
Erik crossed the drawbridge. He looked up at the lights shining in the many windows of the ancient castle. Founded by one of his ancestors, Castle Darkmoor was an alien place to Erik. As a boy he had dreamed of someday being summoned here by his father, to be recognized and given a place in the household. When those dreams died, they were replaced by curiosity. Then they faded altogether. Now the castle had the ominous look of a bad place to die, and as he walked through the gatehouse, entering the ancient castle bailey, Erik realized that the feeling came from the fact that not only was there an army on its way here that wanted him dead, inside was a woman who had vowed to see him dead: Mathilda von Darkmoor, his father’s widow and mother of the half brother he had killed.
With a deep sigh, Erik turned to a captain of the Guard and said, “Take me to Greylock. I’m Captain von Darkmoor.”
Without a word the captain saluted, turned smartly, and led Erik into his ancestral home.
24
Darkmoor
Calis studied the gem.
He was so engrossed in it he almost failed to notice the appearance of four figures in the great hall of the oracle. He glanced at the oracle’s attendants, and as they displayed no distress, he assumed there was no danger.
He looked at the new arrivals and saw his father, resplendent in his white-and-gold armor, standing beside Nakor, Sho Pi, and a man dressed in the raiment of a monk of Ishap. Calis forced himself away from studying the gem and, rose to greet them.
“Father,” he said, hugging Tomas. Then he shook hands with Nakor.
Nakor said, “This is Dominic. He is the Abbot at Sarth. I thought he would prove useful to have with us.”
Calis nodded.
Tomas asked, “You were engrossed in the gem when we arrived.”
Calis said, “I am seeing things in it, Father.”
Tomas said, “We need to talk.” He glanced at the others and said, “But first I must pay my respects.”
He crossed to the great, recumbent dragon, paused next to the gigantic head, and gently touched it. “Well met, old friend,” he said softly.
Then he turned to the senior of her companions and said, “Is she well?”
The old man bowed slightly and said, “She dreams, and in her dreams she relives a thousand lives, sharing them with the so
ul who will occupy that great body after her.” He motioned to a young boy, who came to stand before Tomas. “As I do with my replacement.”
Tomas nodded. “Most ancient of races, we have transported you from one doom to another.”
“There is risk,” said the old man, “but there is purpose. We know that much.”
Tomas nodded again and returned to Calis and the others.
Dominic looked past Tomas with wide eyes. “I never would have believed.”
Nakor laughed. “No matter what I see, I never imagine I’ve seen it all. The universe offers endless surprises.”
Calis said, “How is it you all managed to arrive together?”
“Long story,” said Nakor. He produced a Tsurani transportation globe and said, “Not many of these left. Should get some more.”
Calis smiled. “Unfortunately, the rift to Kelewan is on Stardock, and last I looked it’s now firmly in the hands of Kesh.”
“Not so firmly,” said Nakor with a grin.
“What do you mean?” asked Calis.
Nakor shrugged. “Pug asked me to think of something, so I did.”
“What?” asked Tomas.
“I’ll tell you when we survive this coming ordeal and the fate of Stardock has some meaning.”
Tomas said, “Calis, what did you mean about seeing things in the gem?”
Calis looked at his father in surprise, and asked, “Can’t you see them?”
Tomas turned his attention to the Lifestone, an artifact he knew in some ways more intimately than any living being on Midkemia. He let his mind relax and watched the cool green surface, and after a moment saw a pulsing light, faint and hard to apprehend if one tried too hard. After a moment he said, “I see no images.”
“Odd,” said Calis. “They were apparent to me the first few moments I looked at it.”
“What do you see?” asked Nakor.
Calis said, “I don’t know if I have words. But I think I’m seeing the true history of this world.”