Stormed Fortress (9 page)

Late Summer 5671

Three Riders

A fast galley from Jaelot docks at Varens, with the Light
'
s avatar rushed ahead down the trade town to Tirans bearing the shocking news: that the Spinner of Darkness has dared to strike at Etarra
'
s high council by sorcery, and that the s
'
Brydion duke at Alestron has betrayed the Alliance in liaison with Shadow; therefore, the citadel and its corrupt defenders must be destroyed for rightful cause and by force of arms . .
.

Galled from exhaustive days in the saddle, the Mad Prophet spurs through the town gates of Darkling amid the Skyshiel pass, only to find the spectacular demise of the Light
'
s cult-tainted priest has ignited the troop muster ahead of him, with no horse, no cart, and no transport available to hasten his urgency to reach the Eltair Coast. . .

Beset while reforging Scarpdale
'
s torn grimward, Asandir kneels beside his dying stallion, torn for his dread choice: to consign the burden of his unfinished mission back into Sethvir
'
s taxed hands, and not leave the beloved horse
'
s left shade to be subsumed by ravaging chaos; in mourning, he voices the Name for Isfarenn, binding the freed spirit under secure ward for return to Athera
'
s continuum . . .

Late Summer 5671

II. Recoil

On the day that event struck the anvil of fate, the ambassadorial courier
from Varens rode into the trade town of Tirans. He came in the company of four mounted men and passed under the northern gate of the teeming, walled rise that guarded the industrious hub of East Halla
'
s peninsula. Amid summer haze, the carnelian brick watchtowers arose, sturdy and square, gold-rimmed against an egg-shell sky. Beneath, the dust stirred up by labouring caravans spread a choking, alkali cloud.

The lumbering farm wagons emptied since dawn crowded past eight-in-hand ox teams, hauling inbound drays from the coast. Wedged in the crush, the sweating courier glanced sidelong at the rider clad in sweat rag and hat and anonymous leathers beside him.
'
You were mad to come here without a state retinue.
'

The shaded face turned. Fair-skinned, handsome features wore the same grime that coated all summer travellers. A haggard expression bespoke the rigors of three harried days in the saddle. Yet the glint in those wide-opened eyes stayed as steel, struck off azure ice.
'
So we
'
ll see.
'

Turned forward again, Lysaer
s
'
Ilessid
never acknowledged the anxious men-at-arms paired at his back. His magisterial manner also refused to draw rein for the tender young talent who straggled behind: today
'
s royal page was the gawky get of a Korias crofter. He still showed his plough-boy
'
s fist on the reins, more at ease with a scythe than a weapon. If the Light
'
s Lord Commander might have bade to correct the appalling lapse in formal panoply, Sulfin Evend was at large to muster the southcoast. His absence left the daunted dismay of his overruled, second-string officers.

The Blessed Prince remained unfazed. He surveyed the jostling backs of the draught teams, then the craft quarter shop-fronts with their gaudy signs. Adroit, he avoided the flower seller
'
s child, darting to hawk posies to the silk-clad matrons in their parked carriages. Tirans
'
three-storied mansions framed the scene with established elegance, from door-sills agleam with new paint, to the carvings on marble cornices. A balladeer
'
s notes braved the hubbub. The civilized populace adorned their dwellings with statuary, while the potted ivy and gardenia trailing from the upper galleries trumpeted nonchalant affluence.

Against the courier
'
s outspoken concern, Lysaer observed,
'
After all, we
'
re not visiting a den of barbarians.
'

His informants
'
reports had not been remiss: unlike the seaports, this town
'
s ruling council had yet to embrace the cause of Avenor
'
s Alliance. If the merchants and well-set craftsmen were aligned with the leanings of trade, Tirans supported no head-hunters
'
league. Her standing garrison did not chafe to impinge on the designate bounds of the free wilds. The canny mayor reigned without jostling to upset traditional diplomacy. Here, at the core of East Halla
'
s prosperity, a frail-but-established truce had held sway since the downfall of Melhalla
'
s crown. Charter law still kept tenuous influence.

Atwood
'
s clans were too powerfully placed, allied as they were in tight interest with the warmongering s
'
Brydion dukes. Which stew of old order and defiant town enterprise primed the stage for an uncivil welcome.

The men-at-arms and the page trailed Lysaer
'
s horse with closed mouths and inflexible orders. The Light
'
s avatar had declared war against Shadow. Independent or not, Tirans
'
citizens soon would be commanded to muster. No town-born adult might resist that decision, not if he expected to thrive.

Therefore, the five riders on their lathered mounts breasted the moil at the main cross-road. They parted ways with the laden carts serving the craft quarter market, joining the smart, lighter vehicles and lackeys bound on genteel business uptown. As the press slackened, the Varens courier slapped the dust from his blazoned jacket. He assayed a sly glance. The expression under Lysaer
'
s felt hat appeared reasonable enough to try a last appeal. The mayor
'
s played fir
e with politics for more years th
an I
'
ve been alive. Blessed Light, Lord, you cannot expect your grand cause to be served by a routine man bearing dispatches!
'

'
I expect you to deliver my sealed writ, nothing more.
'
Lysaer tipped a nod to acknowledge his two armsmen, then gave an encouraging smile to ease the fresh nerves of his page-boy.
'
That inn, the Flocked Starling, should do very well. My company stops there for a bath and a meal, followed up by a change of clothing.
'

While the Varens man gaped like a trout, the Light
'
s foolishly sparse retinue reined over to the curb and dismounted. The page took smooth charge of his master
'
s hot horse. Foamed bits and grimed reins brought no disdainful comment, raised as he was at the ploughshare. His birth-born talent was as matter-of-fact.
'
I sense nothing amiss, here,
'
he said after a moment.
'
No untoward workings or sorceries.
'

Lysaer clapped the boy
'
s shoulder.
'
Well done. Carry on.
'

The yokel ducked, hiding his blush. He had never known privilege, unlike the silent, paired veterans behind, who once had served as honour guard for Avenor
'
s lost prince. Now, Ranne and Fennick
'
s taciturn competence headed the avatar
'
s personal train. Their appointment had been Sulfin Evend
'
s replacement, after the late, vile strike by cult sorcery destroyed his three elite captains.

Hawk-nosed Ranne never showed second thoughts. His whistle rousted the Flocked Starling
'
s grooms, while his more personable, ruddy companion unbuckled their scant baggage and stayed to attend the unsaddling.

'
Don
'
t want your stashed coin rifled out of your gear?
'
Ranne needled his comrade-in-arms.

'
Sweet life, I don
'
t!
'
Fennick
'
s quick glance appraised the poleaxed rider from Varens, caught still astride in the bustling street.
'
Don
'
t rush the occasion to sour my fun, or are you too gutless to try a hen
'
s wager?
'

Ranne tipped back his helm, while the master self-named as the Light
'
s Blessed Prince continued discussion with the stalled courier. Then he shrugged and declared the importunate odds: "That we
'
re going to have Tirans declared for the Light before the hour of sundown?
'

'
Midnight,
'
corrected Lysaer, who had overheard through the clatter of hooves as the brow-beaten rider spurred off on his errand.
'
Well have Tirans after sundown, because her stiff-necked Lord Mayor has too much experience to bow to my overture.
'

Which feint of sly statecraft left the Varens courier shamed scarlet under the lion
'
s share of embarrassment. Alone on the carpet before the high council-men ensconced on the governor
'
s dais, he was left standing in his dusty clothes, redolent of horse and greased leather. He did not have an ambassador
'
s grace to disarm the pitched tension before him. The attendant High Magistrate looked furious in his lace. Worse, the suffused ire on the Lord Mayor
'
s face suggested the Light
'
s dispatch sparked a diplomatic explosion.

Packed in volatile ranks on the floor, and parboiled by sun through the windows, the guild ministers steamed in their lappet hats. Their whispered distress stretched the pause, dropped since the moment the finicky secretary had knifed through the Sunwheel seal.

'
What appeal is presented?
'
a guild spokesman ventured across the stuffy atmosphere.
'
How daring a claim does this royal presume to impose on our free city of Tirans?
'

For answer, the Lord Mayor raised acid-sharp eyes, and instead accosted the courier.
'
You know what this says?
'
Rings sparked to the pitiless snap of a finger against the unreeled parchment.

The tired rider sweated, trapped by the authority lidded under the vaulted ceiling.
'
I
'
m a Varens man, your Worthiness. Routine messenger, only. Not my place to know, far less to opinionate on what
'
s written and sent by my betters.
'
Which statement admitted no more than the service badge sewn on his jacket.

But the vulture wearing the seneschal
'
s robe lashed back in jaundiced suspicion.
'
You
could be the Light
'
s dedicate, come under plain clothes.
'

'
No.
'
The questioned man shifted, to the chink of rowelled spurs.
'
I
'
m a hired rider, paid by the route. The scrolls in my dispatch pouch bide under seal. The state contents are never my business.
'

Nor had the wax been breached beforetime, a fact witnessed by everyone present. First to crack, the town
'
s acrimonious advisor slapped off his velvet hat.

'
We
'
re wasting our strategy grilling the messenger! What does the Exalted Prince have the gall to demand?
'

The Lord Mayor
'
s cheek twitched.
'
That by sundown today, we are to be flying the Sunwheel banner from the most prominent pole on our watchtower.
'

'
Ultimatum?
'
The Minister of the Treasury bristled.
'
Sheer arrogance!
'

'
A plea of insanity, more apt to spark war than move us to grant an alliance.
'
The advisor sniffed.
'
Beneath our grace to respond, I suggest.
'

'
Ignore this? Are you mad?
'
The dimpled treasurer stabbed out a finger.
'
This showman has tied the port towns in silk wraps! They embrace errant creed for a menial bargain that secures their defence against piracy!
'

'
Then let
'
s hear the last line of that writ!
'
The armed veteran wearing the garrison
'
s blazon banged the table with his unsheathed dagger.
'
We hoist the Light
'
s flag, or else what is threatened?
'

'
Or nothing,
'
responded the Lord Mayor, fixed by icy thought in his upright chair. His frown stayed perplexed.
'
No ultimatum has been presented. We have no other statement. Just the one sentence, which also poses us an impertinent impasse.
'
The pause lagged again, while his fish-eyed glare raked over his disgruntled council-men.
'
The rank challenge lies here: the questionable banner we
'
ve been asked to raise has, thanklessly, not been provided.
'

The miserable courier cleared his dry throat.
'
Your pardon, Lordships. And no fault, by Varens. But on my ride in, I was also charged to leave a wrapped bundle, addressed to the day
'
s standing gate captain.
'
Set at risk by the more volatile jab, that the Light
'
s avatar was in fact present in Tirans, unannounced with a retinue of three, the rider settled for malice.
'
I don
'
t broach state seals. But a hare-brained fool knows that packet held cloth, set under the Sunwheel blazon.
'