Shapers of Darkness (60 page)

“Your castle is falling, Tebeo!” came a voice from the north gate, echoing across the courtyard. “Surrender now, and I’ll spare the lives of your warriors. Fight on and you doom them as well as yourself.”

“I’ll die before I surrender to you, Numar! And the men of Dantrielle will gladly give their lives rather than give in to Solkaran tyranny!” The duke stared across at the regent, his expression belying his brave words. “Do we have any hope of stopping them, armsmaster?” he asked, his voice low.

“Only if our men can retake the west wall, my lord.”

“Damn. And we can do nothing to help them?”

“No, my lord. Not without ceding the wards to the regent and his men.”

“Then, perhaps I should surrender.”

“No, my lord!” Evanthya said, before Gabrys could speak. “You can’t!”

“I don’t want to either, First Minister, but if it means saving the lives of my men—”

“You don’t know that he’ll keep his word! Think of the things he’s done already! Do you really believe this is a man capable of showing mercy to any who have stood against him?”

“No, I don’t. But he has other battles to wage, and he needs soldiers. He can’t afford to kill my men if he doesn’t have to.” Tebeo looked at Gabrys, who was listening intently to their exchange. “Isn’t that so, armsmaster?”

“It is, my lord. But still, I agree with the first minister. You shouldn’t surrender. Not yet, not while we still have some hope of defeating him.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to end this folly and spare my army?”

“I can’t speak for all of the men, my lord. I’ve no doubt that there are some out there—a few—who at this moment would trade your life for theirs. But as a warrior, I can tell you that I would rather die for a cause, even a futile one, than live knowing that my friends and my duke had died for nothing.”

Tebeo nodded. “All right. Then what in Ean’s name do we do now?”

Gabrys surveyed the ward, shaking his head slowly. Once more Numar was shouting orders from the shelter of the barbican, marshaling his men, who now moved about the courtyard with relative freedom. “We need to divert our archers from the ramparts,” he said at last. “Some of them at least. We need to counter their advantage.”

“Won’t your captains on the wall realize that?”

“Their orders are to hold the walls at all cost. They’ve already lost one. They won’t spare a single man if it means endangering the others.”

“Unless we tell them to.”

“Yes, my lord. But I’m not certain that we should. If we lose the walls, none of the rest matters.”

“I can help, my lord.”

Both men turned to Evanthya.

“What do you suggest, First Minister?”

“A mist, my lord. It wouldn’t have helped before, when we were just fighting hand-to-hand. It might have made matters worse. But now, with the archers above us, it may be our only hope.”

“Can you make it hover above us?” Gabrys asked. “So that we can see who we’re fighting here on the ground?”

“I believe so.”

He looked at Tebeo. “In that case I think it a fine idea.”

“Agreed,” the duke said. “Weave your mist, Evanthya. Quickly.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The minister closed her eyes, reaching for her magic. She was weary from her battles, but no more so than the men who would be raising their swords beneath the mist she was conjuring. She ignored her fatigue, losing herself in the flow of power.

Opening her eyes once more, she saw tendrils of pale grey fog rising from the grass before her like thin, ghostly limbs. The mist gathered slowly at first, but then began to build, until it blanketed the ward.

Almost immediately, a wind rose from the north, threatening to sweep away all she had done. Pronjed jal Drenthe, Numar’s archminister.

“What’s happening?” the duke demanded.

But already Evanthya had summoned a wind of her own, at the same time drawing forth even more mist. Pronjed’s gale strengthened, but she matched it. He was stronger than she; probably she would fail before he did. She didn’t care. At last she was fighting a battle with a weapon she had mastered, on terrain that felt familiar, even comfortable.

“Evanthya?”

“It’s the archminister, my lord. He has mists and winds as well.”

“Can you defeat him?”

“I don’t have to, my lord. The question is, can he defeat me. I intend to do all I can to resist him.”

“How long can you keep the mist above us?”

“I don’t know.” Power was flowing through her body like melting snow pouring off the Caerissan Steppe, cool and strong. It wouldn’t last forever—every Qirsi had his or her limits—but at that moment she felt as though she could keep fighting Pronjed until the first cool breezes of the harvest returned to the Great Forest. “Go and fight them, my lord. I’ll hold the mist as long as I must.”

She sensed him smiling, though she didn’t dare look away from the mist, lest the archminister change the direction of his wind, or attempt some other trickery. “Thank you, Evanthya. The people of Dantrielle will remember what you do here long after you and I are gone.”

“Yes, my lord.”

A moment later the duke and the master of arms left the shelter of the tower, leading Dantrielle’s men back into battle, perhaps for the last time. Evanthya wanted desperately to watch the fighting, to make certain that Tebeo survived, but she kept her gaze fixed on her conjuring. And in the next instant, Pronjed did just what she feared he might. Releasing his wind abruptly, he allowed hers to blow the mist away. She reined in her gale as quickly as she could, still drawing mist from the earth. And the archminister called forth his wind
again, from a different direction. She met his gust with her own, only to find that he had switched his yet again. Around and around they went, Pronjed changing the direction of his gale almost continually, feinting in one direction and then turning it full force the opposite way, Evanthya struggling to counter whatever wind he summoned while at the same time maintaining her mist over the entire ward. Before long, the cloud she had created was swirling and seething, like some great storm called forth in anger by Morna herself. But always her mist held.

It seemed to Evanthya that their battle of winds and mist went on for an eternity. Soon she was sweating like an overworked horse. Her limbs shivered as if from cold, and her breath came in great gasps. Not long before, she had felt that her power had no bounds. Now she wondered from one moment to the next if her body would fail. Pronjed had to be growing weary as well, though she couldn’t sense any flagging of his magic. If anything, he was pushing her harder than before, his gale becoming something akin to a whirlwind, he changed directions so swiftly.

“How are you bearing up, First Minister?”

The duke. Evanthya could hear the concern in his voice and she could only imagine how she must have looked to him. Still, she didn’t so much as glance in his direction, so determined was she to keep watch on her mist.

“I’m doing my best, my lord. How goes the battle?”

“Poorly. We’ve had to fall back to the towers again.”

Her eyes flicked toward him, only for an instant, but that was enough. Like her, he was soaked with sweat. There were bloody gashes on both his arms, as well as on his temple and thigh. Still, he didn’t appear broken, not yet.

“You’re hurt,” she said, staring once more at the roiling cloud.

“Not as badly as some. As I say, we’ve fallen back to the towers, but we’re not ready to cede the ward to them. How much longer can you keep your mists above us?”

“I’m not certain, my lord. Not long, I fear. Pronjed is stronger than I am and he’s cunning.”

“You’ve done well, Evanthya,” he said, his voice so gentle
she could have wept. “I’m grateful to you. Give us what you can, and we’ll fight as long as we’re able.”

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered, feeling a tear on her face.

An instant later, she sensed that he was gone, back to the battle, no doubt. The minister wondered if she’d ever see him alive again.

Grief and rage welled up within her, and she tried to pour them into her magic, that she might overwhelm the archminister with one final surge of power. But she was too weary, and rather than bolstering her strength, her despair seemed to sap it. Perhaps sensing her weakness, Pronjed struck at her conjuring with what must have been all that remained of his power. The mist billowed, like smoke when it’s met by a sudden gust. And then it began to dissipate.

Desperate now, Evanthya tried to draw it forth once more, to answer this newest challenge. But she had nothing left. Within moments her mist was gone, and the archminister’s wind howled through the castle courtyard, uncontested, triumphant.

Panic gripped her. Eyeing the ramparts, she saw that the enemy now held two of the walls, and she saw as well that their archers were already nocking arrow to bow. It would be a slaughter, the last of this bloody siege.

Even as she continued to look up at the walls, she heard men crying “Look to the skies!” and watched as a flaming stone, the first to be thrown at the castle in some time, dropped toward the ramparts. It was only when she saw the men of Solkara and Rassor scrambling to get away that she realized where the stone would hit. Most of them did manage to escape the fiery impact, but several perished. Perhaps the gods were watching over Dantrielle and its people, Evanthya thought. How else to explain such a mishap?

Only when a second ball of flame arced into view and struck the other wall held by the regent’s men did she begin to understand that this was neither good fortune nor a divine act.

More shouts from the ward, more men streaming in through the gates. Seeing the uniforms—green and blue, the colors of Orvinti—Evanthya’s heart leaped as she thought it never would again. Fetnalla had come, and with her Brall and his army. There were other uniforms as well. Grey and black for
Tounstrel, blue and silver for Kett, purple and black for Noltierre. In the end, they all had come, just as Tebeo had hoped, just as Brall and Vistaan and Ansis and Bertin the Younger had promised.

It didn’t take long for the battle to turn. Against the siege-weary soldiers of Dantrielle, Numar’s army held sway. But against the armies of Tebeo’s allies, unhurt, hungry for combat after their long marches, the regent’s men didn’t have a chance. Within what seemed like moments, the men of Solkara and Rassor had been overwhelmed. Many died, many more surrendered, and soon Numar and his archminister stood in the middle of the ward, disarmed, surrounded by hostile swordsmen, each held by two guards, their arms pinned at their sides.

Evanthya strode into the ward to join her duke, who appeared grim despite his sudden, unexpected victory. Pronjed, she was pleased to see, looked every bit as weary as she felt. His narrow, bony face was bathed with sweat, his skin even more pallid than usual. But his pale yellow eyes remained alert, darting about, as if seeking some path to freedom.

For his part, Numar showed no outward sign of being troubled by his defeat. With all that had happened in the past turn, Evanthya found it easy to forget how young the regent was. But standing beside even the younger dukes—Bertin and Vistaan—he seemed a mere lad, only a year or two past his Fating. He wore a sardonic smile on his lips and his brown eyes were fixed on Tebeo, as if he were daring the duke to strike him down.

“Congratulations, Tebeo,” the regent said, his head held high. “You and your fellow traitors have managed to win. Because of you, Aneira is weakened. Even now, our armies in the north fight for Kentigern. You’ve just doomed them to failure. A fine day’s work for all of you.”

“Kill him now, Tebeo.” Ansis drew his blade, stepping forward, so that he stood just before Numar. “Or better yet, let me do it.”

“No,” Tebeo said, his voice thick. “He’ll be imprisoned, along with his archminister and any of his captains who remain alive. The rest of his men are to be released—the wounded will be cared for.”

Numar clapped his hands, his smirk deepening as the sound echoed loudly off the walls. “How noble. Do you honestly believe that these little mercies remove the stain of your treason?”

Faster than she had ever seen him move—faster than she had thought possible—her duke swept his sword free and laid it against the regent’s face so that its tip was poised at the corner of Numar’s eye. The regent’s smile vanished, leaving him looking even younger, and deeply frightened.

“I’m not the one who brought this war to Dantrielle,” the duke said, his voice low and hard. “Nor am I the one who has weakened the realm by tying us to the emperor and his ambitions. All I’ve done today is put an end to the Solkara Supremacy, and if you ask me, that should have been done long ago. Now, I’ve said that I intend to imprison you—you’re a noble, the leader of one of Aneira’s great houses, and you deserve a certain amount of consideration. But if you dare to call me a traitor again, I’ll kill you where you stand. Do I make myself clear?”

The man swallowed. “Yes,” he whispered.

Tebeo lowered his blade. “Take them both to the prison tower. I want them in separate chambers.”

“My lord,” Evanthya said, before the soldiers could lead the two men away. “I recommend that the archminister’s watch be doubled and that his hands and ankles be bound with silk rather than irons.”

Tebeo frowned. “Explain, First Minister.”

“I don’t know what powers he possesses, but it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he’s a shaper, in which case he can shatter manacles and swords with a thought. He won’t be an easy man to hold no matter what we do. But his power will be less effective against silk, and the more men guarding him, the less chance he’ll have of disarming all of them.”

The duke nodded slowly. “Very well. See to it,” he said to one of the guards.

The man bowed. Then he and several other soldiers led the prisoners toward the prison tower.

“I still think he should be executed,” Ansis said, his light blue eyes fixed on the regent.

Bertin the Younger nodded. “I tend to agree. Not only does he deserve to die, but he’s too dangerous to keep alive.”

“I won’t make a martyr of him,” Tebeo said. “As a prisoner, he’s humiliated, diminished. He may be dangerous now, but every day he spends in my prison tower makes him less so.” He glanced about the ward, his brow furrowing once more. “I’m certain that Brall would agree with me. Where is he?”