Shapers of Darkness (38 page)

The duke swung himself out of bed, struggling briefly with another wave of dizziness.

“Tebeo—”

He raised a hand, silencing his wife. “This is no time for me to be resting, Pelgia, no matter what the healer says. My place is on the walls with my men.”

She looked like she might argue, but instead she merely nodded, seeming to sense that she would never convince him otherwise.

Bausef and the soldier started down the corridor toward the nearest of the tower stairways. Tebeo followed, though he walked slowly. The pain in his side was much greater now that he was out of bed and moving. The armsmaster glanced back and slowed, but the duke waved him on.

“I’ll be along, armsmaster. Go up to the ramparts. There’s no sense in both of us going at my pace.”

Bausef nodded once before sprinting on.

By the time Tebeo finally reached the top of the stairway, the castle had been hit twice more, and the cries from his men had begun to sound desperate. Stepping into the warm night air, Tebeo immediately saw why. Numar and his men were bombarding the castle with huge stones that had been covered with pitch and set aflame. Judging from the blackened ruins of the ramparts along the north wall, it seemed that their aim had been remarkably true. Several men lay on the stone walkway, some with their skin and clothes burned, others with mangled limbs.

Bausef strode to where Tebeo stood.

“Report.”

“They’re beyond the range of our archers, my lord. There
appear to be only the two machines, though right now those two are more than enough.”

“How many have we lost.”

“Eleven dead, my lord. Fourteen others hurt.”

“Damn!”

“Look to the skies!” came a shouted warning.

Facing northward, Tebeo saw a bright ball of fire arc into the night, trailing a plume of black smoke. He thought at first that it would strike the top of the wall just beyond the next tower, but as the flaming stone reached its zenith and began to curve downward toward the castle, he realized with much relief that it would fall just short. Still, as it approached the wall, he reached out to brace himself against the stone. An instant later the fiery stone hit, sending a fountain of flame over the wall and making the fortress tremble.

Bausef stared grimly at the small fires burning themselves out on the face of the castle. “We were fortunate that time.”

“Is there anything we can do to stop them?”

“Not without aid, my lord. We need Orvinti or Kett or Tounstrel. Anyone. With Rassor guarding Numar’s flanks, we have no chance of reaching those siege machines. It would take so many men to fight our way through that we’d have to compromise the safety of the castle.”

“What about the first minister? Might she be able to help us?”

“What magics does she possess?”

“I don’t know all of them.” A lie. But Tebeo knew that many Qirsi did not willingly reveal their powers to others, and he felt that as a courtesy to Evanthya he shouldn’t tell the master of arms more than was necessary. “But I do know that she has mists and winds.”

“That might be of some use—”

“Look to the skies!” from farther down the wall.

Yet another burning orb leaped into the sky, like some terrible weapon of the goddess of fire, thrown by Eilidh herself. Watching its path, anxiously, the duke quickly realized that this one would not fall short.

Bausef seemed to sense this as well. Before Tebeo could say anything, he shouted to his men, “Off the north wall!”
Without even waiting to see if they followed his command, the armsmaster began to usher the duke back toward the tower stairway. Tebeo followed, though he kept one eye on that arcing flame, marking its progress toward his castle.

Once safely inside the tower entrance, both men turned to watch. “Hold on,” Bausef said, eyeing the bright flame and bracing himself against the stone. “This one’s going to do some damage.”

Indeed. It landed directly on top of the wall, shattering the merlons where it hit, shaking the castle to its foundations, and sending fiery fragments of stone in every direction. Several of the men who had fled only as far as the end of the battlement were struck by pieces. One man’s surcoat was aflame. The stone itself, largely intact, remained in its own crater on the wall, still burning and effectively cutting one end of the battlement off from the other. Tebeo heard cheering in the distance. Numar’s men.

“Demons and fire,” Bausef muttered.

“This can’t continue. Summon the first minister.”

The master of arms nodded, still staring at the damage. “Yes, my lord. Right away.”

Within just a few moments, Evanthya stood before him, her white hair hanging loose to her shoulders and dancing in the wind.

“The master of arms has explained to you?” Tebeo asked.

“Yes, my lord. But as I’ve told him, I’m not certain that I can be of much use to you.”

“Why is that?”

“Pronjed, my lord. Numar’s archminister. He has mists and winds as well, and will be able to counter anything I do. If I raise a mist to conceal our men, he’ll conjure a wind to sweep it away. And if I call forth a wind to aid our archers or hinder theirs, he’ll do just the opposite.”

“And none of your other powers can help us?”

“I’m afraid not, my lord. Mine are not the magics of a warrior.”

Tebeo actually smiled. It seemed they had this in common.

“I fear, my lord, that the first minister might actually do more harm than good.”

“What do you mean?”

“If she raises a mist, and the archminister can indeed defeat it, then we’ve done nothing except draw Numar’s attention to whatever it is we decide to do.”

“Look to the skies!”

Another flaming boulder flew up from the north, followed almost instantly by a second. Their conversation stopped and all three of them watched the fires carve their way through the darkness and down toward the castle. Dantrielle’s soldiers scrambled to get out of their path, shouting warnings to one another, struggling to carry the wounded from the last impact out of harm’s way.

The first of the stones struck the top of the wall, much as the last one had, while the second fell just short, hitting the face of the wall just below the battlements. The entire fortress bucked and shuddered as if it were alive. Flames and shards of stone careened everywhere, clattering off the tower walls and making Evanthya and Tebeo flinch.

Again, the duke heard shouts and taunts from Numar’s soldiers.

“We need a plan. Quickly, armsmaster. They’re destroying the castle, and it won’t be long before one of those missiles finds flesh rather than mere stone.”

“As I said, my lord, fighting our way through to the hurling arms is out of the question. But it may be that a small complement of archers can go out through another of the sally ports and get close enough to strike at them.”

“Yes, good.”

Bausef seemed to hesitate. “I said it may be possible, my lord. I’m not certain that I think it a good idea. We’ll be placing these men in great danger, and there’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to disable the hurling arms.”

“Some of them could light their arrows,” Evanthya said. “While some try for the soldiers operating the machines, others can try to burn the arms themselves.”

“That might work.” Still the master of arms did not appear convinced. “I know that it’s difficult to watch them harm Castle Dantrielle, my lord. But over the course of its history, this fortress has withstood assaults far worse than this. We may be
better off just weathering their attacks. This siege won’t be won or lost tonight, and it may be that help is on the way.”

“So you think we should do nothing?”

Bausef looked away, perhaps hearing a goad in the question, though Tebeo had intended none. “I’m just telling you that if you’re worried about the lives of your men, it may be more of a risk to send them out of the castle than it is to keep them here, even knowing that these attacks will continue.”

Tebeo turned to Evanthya. “First Minister?”

“I’ve nothing to add to what the armsmaster has said, my lord.”

The duke stepped out of the tower and gazed northward. The Solkarans were singing now, and he could see two clusters of torchlight, no doubt men working to put the next boulders in the palms of the hurling arms.

As much as he disliked the thought of placing his men in peril, he could not help feeling that there were other costs to this night’s assault aside from the injuries and the damage to his castle. Numar’s men sang and laughed with the confidence of a victorious army, while his men looked defeated and exhausted. He needed to do something.

“Choose your finest archers, armsmaster, as many as you think appropriate, and send them out. Tell them to loose three rounds of arrows, no more. Even if they do no damage to the machines, they’re to return here after that.”

“Yes, my lord.” Nothing in his voice. Nothing at all.

Tebeo’s side ached, a reminder of his shortcomings as a commander.

Whether or not Bausef approved of Tebeo’s orders, he moved swiftly to carry them out. The archers left the castle within the hour, using a sally port on the west side of the castle, where the waters of the Black Sand River would mask any noise they made approaching the Solkarans’ position.

Bausef had gone with them, leaving Tebeo and Evanthya to watch from the battlements as the battle unfolded. Several more of Numar’s flaming missiles had struck the castle, two of them reaching the top of the wall and one of them soaring over the wall to land in the ward below. As of yet, no more of his men had been killed, and as Tebeo inspected the damage,
he saw that the master of arms was right. The black scars the assault left on his fortress might have been ugly, but they weren’t deep. It was too late to call the men back. Tebeo felt his stomach tightening.

He could do nothing but stare out into the darkness, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of his soldiers and mark their advance on Numar’s men.

“Do you see anything, First Minister?” he asked, for perhaps fifth time.

She shook her head. Then, as if an afterthought, “No, my lord.”

They lapsed into silence again. The Solkarans were still singing.
Good
, he thought.
Let them have their songs. It’ll be that much easier to catch them unawares
.

Still they waited. Only now did Tebeo think to look up at the moons, to wonder how their light might affect Bausef’s plan. It was late in the waxing. Both moons were high overhead, white as bone, red as blood. But a thin haze of cloud now covered the sky, muting their glow somewhat and keeping them from casting much light on the ground. Perhaps the gods were with them.

“There!” the first minister called out, thrusting out an arm to point.

He saw it as well. Several small flames had appeared in the wood; they resembled candles from this distance. Almost immediately they angled skyward, flying toward the hurling arms. The singing stopped abruptly, to be replaced by cries of alarm and then screams of pain. The Solkarans lit more torches and began to converge on Tebeo’s archers. A second flurry of arrows flew, and now the duke could see flames on the hurling arms.
Never mind the third volley!
he wanted to shout.
Get away from there!

But Bausef was a soldier, and soldiers followed orders. The torches advanced, a third round of flaming darts lifted into the night and fell toward the siege machines.

And then the fighting began.

He could hear the ring of steel on steel, the war cries and death shrieks. He even thought he could hear Bausef shouting commands to his men. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the line of torches flowing like a bright river toward the fighting.

“It’ll be a slaughter,” Evanthya whispered.

The duke wanted to say something brave, he wanted to reassure her that Bausef would find a way free, that he would rally his men and lead them back to the castle. But there were so many torches, and already the sounds of the battle were starting to fade. The master of arms had spoken of taking only a few men. It wouldn’t be much for Numar’s army to kill them all.

The hurling arms were ablaze, but already dark shadows were appearing around them to douse the flames.

“Have men posted at all the sally ports,” he said, his voice barely carrying over the soft whistle of the wind. “Tell them to watch for survivors, but to be alert for Solkaran attacks.”

“Yes, my lord,” Evanthya said, her voice like the scrape of steel on stone. She started to leave, then halted. “I would have done the same thing, my lord.”

He nodded, still staring out at the torches. But he couldn’t find any words to reply.

After a time, he left the battlements, descending the tower stairs to the ward. His men were cleaning away rubble from the tower entrances at the base of the walls. Seeing him, they paused, grim-faced and silent. He sensed no hostility on their part, no reproof. Only a desire to follow his command, to draw strength from his courage. He feared that he had nothing to offer them.

He heard a dull thud as something struck the grass nearby. At the same time, he realized that Numar’s men had resumed their singing.

Two of his men walked to where the object had landed and bent to look at it, lowering their torches. Then, both of them jumped back, one of the men crying out like a frightened child. Tebeo hurried to where they stood, hearing another object hit the grass as he did. But already he knew what he would find. He had heard of attacking armies doing such things—in past sieges, it had proved quite effective in breaking the spirit of defending soldiers. Still, he had hoped that Numar was incapable of such cruelty, such ruthlessness. But the man was a Solkaran, and Tebeo should have known better. The duke’s stomach heaved and he willed himself not to be sick, even as he tasted bile.

“My lord,” one of the soldiers sobbed. “It’s . . . I know him.”

Tebeo knelt in the grass and stared down at the severed head of one of his men. He, too, recognized the soldier, though he had never learned the man’s name. Yet another head hit the grass behind him, and a moment later two more. There had been sixteen archers in all, and, of course, Bausef as well. And so eventually there would be seventeen of them in the courtyard of his castle, grisly reminders of the armsmaster’s warning.
It may be more of a risk to send them out of the castle than it is to keep them here
. The words echoed in the duke’s mind, like bells calling mourners to funeral rites.