Master and Fool (51 page)

The two men
clasped hands. "Well met, friend," said Besik. "What do you
think of this?" He indicated the south gate, which was slowly being drawn
open.

Maybor liked
Besik. The man didn't mince words, he was bad tempered but even-handed, and he
always listened carefully to advice. "Perhaps the blackhelms are bored
with--"

"Let's play
it safe," said Maybor. "Cover both flanks with foot archers and send
out two parties of heavily armed horsemen, one to the eastern plains and one to
the base of the foothills."

Besik looked at
him sharply. "There's been no word from reconnaissance."

"Men with
slit throats make bad messengers." Besik nodded. "Very well. Caution
it is."

Maybor mounted his
horse. He felt more alive than he had in months. Finally to be doing something
physical, to be taking action instead of planning, to fight instead of
strategize. Patience was needed in a siege, and that was one quality that he
had never been endowed with. He hated sieges. A good and bloody battle was long
overdue. It frustrated him to think that Melli was less than a league away from
where he stood, yet he was powerless to help her. They'd tried things, of
course: blasting the northern wall, poisoning the lake, sending divers to
access tunnels under the water level. But nothing had seemed to work: the
trebuchet had been set alight, the poison dissipated too quickly because of the
sheer size of the lake, and the divers had never returned to shore.

But now, today,
there was a real battle to be met. The portcullis over the south gate was fully
raised and a legion of mounted blackhelms rode out of the city of Bren.

The ground shook
with their thunder. Their horses were dark, their colors were midnight blue,
and their helmets were blackened steel. Maybor watched them for a moment.

Kylock had sent
out Bren's best: the duke's guard, personally trained and handpicked by the now
deceased duke. Banners waving, weapons glinting, they were a beauty to behold.
And then the Wall's bowmen took aim. Their mighty four-sided arrowheads were
enough to stop a horse. The quarrels pierced breastplates, helmets, even
shields. Maybor clearly heard the release cry, he heard the soft thus of the
bows and the air-skimming swish of the bolts.

The quarrels
slammed into the blackhehns. Horses reared, squealing in terror; men fell and
were crushed beneath their hooves. From his position on the rise, Maybor saw
everything clearly. The first line of blackhelms fell like flies. Still they
kept coming, spilling out of the gate by the hundreds. The crossbowmen cocked
their bows. Moments later they released. The second line of blackhelms fell as
easily as the first.

Watching them
fall, a dark warning sounded in Maybor's brain. Something wasn't right. Behind
the second line of blackhelms were badly equipped, poorly armed mercenaries.
Not for them the midnight blue and horses that shone like steel. The blackhehns
weren't out in force-there were only two lines to fool the eye. Kylock was
holding the elite troops back, saving them-but for what?

Even as Maybor
urged his horse forward, Besik gave the order to charge. The Highwall cavalry
began to advance. Clad in silver and maroon, they rode down the hillside to
join the battle. The crossbowmen in the trenches shifted their positions to the
flank and were backed up by mounted archers. A massive half-circle of Highwall
forces began to come together around the south gate. Maybor was worried Something
was wrong. He had to make it to Besik.

The sun appeared
over the eastern horizon. It sent pale rays slanting across the battlefield and
onto the mountains. The shadows of troops and horses were grotesquely long.

Besik rode down
the rise, shouting orders to the foot soldiers. The cavalry of Bren and
Highwall met. The maroon and silver began cutting a swath into the enemies
lines. Bren's mercenaries were no match for the Wall. Half of the blackhelms
were down, and those who'd survived the crossbow fire could be seen making
their way back to the gate. Maybor raised his hand to shield his eye from the
sun. He was halfway down the hillside, on his way to confer with Besik, but as
he caught a glimpse of the courtyard that lay beyond the gate, he stopped in
his tracks. He shifted his position back a few feet and to the left.
Blackhelms, thousands of them, were waiting behind the gate.

Waiting for what?
Maybor kicked his horse into a gallop. Kylock had lured Highwall into a battle,
forced them to train their best resources upon the gate, and fooled them into
thinking they'd be doing battle with the duke's guard, when in reality they
were fighting untrained, badly equipped mercenaries. Now it seemed that Kylock
had every intention of bringing out the duke's guard, but not until ...

A high clarion
call sounded on the westerly wind. Maybor was now only a short distance from
Besik. The two men turned to the west at exactly the same instant. The
mountains were banked by a shallow range of foothills. Above the foothills, lit
brilliantly by a cruel morning sun, emerged the kingdoms' army. Formed into
tight, orderly columns, their armor flashed in the sunlight with all the
arrogance of a perfectly worded threat.

For half a second,
perhaps less, Maybor thrilled at the sight. The kingdoms: his homeland, his
troops, his country's colors of blue and gold. And then a deep weight fell upon
his heart. They hadn't come to save him. They'd come to destroy him. He was a
traitor in their eyes-backing his daughter instead of his king.

Instead of his
sons.

Maybor sucked in a
thin breath and closed his eyes. His sons. The pain in his old heart increased
with a dull and blinding ache. Kedrac would be leading the kingdoms' forces.
Son fighting father, father fighting son. Maybor shook his head slowly. His
hands crept down to feel the warmth of his horse's neck. He was so cold. How
had it come to this? He couldn't blame Kedrac; he was doing what any young
grasping nobleman would do: standing beside his king. He had chosen country
over family. And growing up with a father who had always put ambition first,
his decision was hardly surprising.

"There,
there, Lady," murmured Maybor to his horse. His hands shook as he smoothed
down her mane. There was a lump in his throat that wouldn't be swallowed and an
ache in his heart that he knew wouldn't go. Kedrac was so young, so ambitious,
who would condemn him for repeating his father's mistakes?

It had taken
Maybor a quarter of a century to learn the importance of his family. Not until
he lost Melliandra did he realize that his children were all he had. He cursed
himself for not being a better father. He should have cared for his children
more and hugged them harder and spoken words of love, not pride.

Maybor looked down
from the foothills to the Highwall camp. Besik was looking at him. The
commander of the Highwall forces trotted his horse over to Maybor's side.

"I will
understand if you go now," he said.

Maybor reached out
and grasped Besik's arm. He was a good man, born of a time when loyalty and
codes of honor were always respected on the field. "No, my lord,"
Maybor said, deliberately addressing him as a superior. "My place is here,
my loyalty is here. It is only my heart that is divided." Besik looked at
him carefully a moment. He nodded once. "I am glad you will fight at my
side."

Maybor bowed his
head. He was almost crushed by the weight upon his heart. With a great effort,
he raised up his chin. When he spoke his voice was strong and competent.

"Bren and the
kingdoms will work together to try and flank us. We need to send a battalion to
watch the two eastern gates. I expect they're probably being opened as we
speak. We need to recall the company that was sent to the foothills
earlierjudging from the size of the kingdoms' army, they won't stand a chance
without backup......"

Baralis lay in the
dark. Any light was a torture to him. The candles had long been snuffed, the
shutters were tightly drawn, even the fire was kept banked and shielded, lest
its flames cast their light into the room.

The temple had
fallen.

Larn was gone,
destroyed, its power broken by the baker's boy. The most ancient magic in the
Known Lands had passed from the world last night.

Baralis didn't
move. He didn't dare. Pain tore at his chest with every breath, spasms ripped
across his forehead with each thought. The storm he'd created, the mighty,
tideturning storm, had proven useless. And now he was left paying the price.

If only he'd known
they would choose to set themselves adrift! But who could have predicted such
madness? If he'd known he would have expended less energy against the ship and
saved his strength for the boat. Instead, he had weakened
The Fishy Few
to
the point where one more blow would have smashed it to pieces. The
mainmas
t
was set to fall, and yet the baker's boy had picked that moment to abandon
the ship, so Baralis had been forced to abandon it, too. His strength rapidly
depleting, he'd had to start a whole new attack upon the rowboat. He had just
enough power left to draw the one mighty wave that had been intended for
The
Fishy Few.
He did it, watched the wave crash against the boat, saw the boat
begin to break up, and spied Jack and the knight being dragged below the water.
He thought they were as good as dead!

They
should
have
been dead. With his last breath of consciousness, Baralis had sped to Larn and
told the priests that the threat had been removed. He believed it had. For
twenty-four hours he believed it had. Then it was too late. He was too weak to
move let alone perform a drawing. The priests at Larn had been blind, sitting
targets.

Oh, the pain was
intolerable! Fueled by knowledge of his failure, it ate away at his soul. He
had made the worst mistake of his life. A mistake of such enormity that it
would haunt him for the rest of his days.

But it would not stop
him. No. He wouldn't let it. Larn was just one step in the dance, and the music
still played on. The baker's boy was just that -a boy. Naive, inexperienced,
unable to control his powers: he was a force, but not one that couldn't be
reckoned with. Baralis began to feel calmer. After all, things were still
moving in his favor. Right now, as he lay here in his bed, Kylock was directing
the armies of Bren and the kingdoms to victory. The Wall didn't stand a chance;
they were out-manned, outmaneuvered and out of luck. Annis would soon find
itself with neither neighbors nor friends, and come spring it would fall to the
empire. Kylock was the most brilliant military strategist of his generation. No
one could stop his advance.

The seers'
prophecies would be missed, but they wouldn't make a difference in the end. By
predicting the exact date of
the
winter storms, they had already
performed their greatest feat. Baralis relaxed beneath the heavy covers on his
bed. Yes, Lam was gone, but it had tilted the balance in their favor first.

As for Jack, well,
he would doubtless head back to Bren now. In fact, by letting out the rumor
that Maybor's daughter was alive, Baralis could ensure that he did. Jack and
the knight were both close with Melliandra; they would come to her rescue in an
instant. Not that Baralis had any intention of allowing them to get to Bren.
Skaythe should have recovered from his injury and be in Rorn by now: he could
track them north. He wasn't enough, though. He had already failed once, and
Baralis knew better than to rely solely upon him again.

Who else could he
get to deal with Jack and the knight? Baralis thought only for a moment. Tyren.
Tyren would do it. The head of the knights had men along the eastern coast and
an intelligence network that was second only to the archbishop of Rorn's. He
could arrange to have the two fugitives tracked and caught. It was perfect. The
knight was a wanted murderer, he had disgraced and disowned the knighthood-it
was Tyren's duty to see him brought to justice. And if the knight and his
companion happened to meet with a nasty accident along the way, then that would
be most unfortunate. "Crope," called Baralis.

"Yes,
master?" Crope had been sitting in the dark waiting patiently for his
master to stir.

"Is Tyren
amongst the kingdoms' army?"

"Yes, master.
He's brought a cohort of knights to the field."

"Good."
Baralis risked moving a little to face his servant. Pain raked down his side.
"As soon as he enters the city, send a message to him saying I will see
him tomorrow."

"Yes,
master." Crope sounded faintly distracted. His beloved wooden box was in
his lap. "You slept a long time, master. Said things in your sleep."

"What
things?"

Crape turned the
wooden box around in his hands. "About Larn. Said it was gone."

"Yes. Yes, the
temple there has been destroyed. What is it to you?" Baralis was getting
impatient. He needed to rest before his meeting tomorrow with Tyren.

Crope slipped the
little box back into his tunic.

"Nothing,
master. Nothing."

"Here, drink
this." Tawl offered Jack a cup of something hot.

Jack took it from
him. He had been awake only seconds and was still in a half-dazed state.
"What is is?"

"Rainwater
holk."

"Well, I see
the rain, but where--"

"I have my
ways." Tawl smiled. He looked terrible. He had two black eyes, a swollen
lip, a huge purple bruise on his left cheekbone, and a bloody gash on the
right.

"Do those
ways include food?"

Tawl held out
something vaguely fish-shaped "They do. Here, take it."

"No, thanks.
If that's a fish, it looks like it hasn't seen the sea in a long time."

"You could be
right. An old woman gave it to me. She's got a basketful of them." Tawl
swallowed the thing whole. "Hmm. I think I'll go back for more."