The Doomfarers of Coramonde (39 page)

The snowy old
head dipped once in acknowledgment. Hightower stood, topping them by a head and
taking his sword easily in one hand; he stepped with the sureness of
familiarity to a nearby window, breathing deeply in the afternoon air.

“I hope that it
isn’t too warm for you here my young lords, but my bones ache at times
nowadays.” He spoke to them as across a wide reach of years or miles. His face
worked for long seconds, but what emotions interplayed there they couldn’t
tell. Without turning to them, he resumed.

“Sordo, son of
my son, what will you do? How fares the household? Is your mother well? She
always held my heart, a fair little maid forced before it was her time to
answer the obligations and duties of housemistress to this pile of masonry.”

Sordo swallowed
once before lying. “She’s well, Grandfather, quite well and safe.” He glanced
nervously to the Prince, then said, “I’m going to posture the castle against
renewed siege, and I think it’s best you go back to Freegate along with
Mother.”

Hightower’s
control threatened to break. His body shook, yet he didn’t allow it to enter
his voice. “Now you are Lord of the Hightower. I shall do as you say, but I
would rather… nay, if things were different I, too, should want an old blind
man out from underfoot.

“The two
decades I spent here haven’t been idle. I have thought much and meditated on
the things I have learned. Occasionally, visitors have brought me news of
interest. Yet, it won’t be difficult to leave, I suppose; darkness is the same
everywhere and I carry my imprisonment with me wheresoever I go.”

He sniffed the
air again. “There is a storm approaching. It will not break this afternoon or
tonight, nor even tomorrow. Yet soon, I think, there will be torrents and
thunder crashes.”

Few in the
Hightower knew sleep during the next twelve hours save as a memory.

Chains of men
ferried weapons to the walls, bushels of arrows, racks of javelins and spears
and other missiles for the repulsion of assaults. Volatile caldrons of
vile-smelling, oily fluid were set over channels leading to spouts set in the
walls.

The main donjon
was readied, its storerooms filled to overflowing with food and its cistern
checked against an emergency withdrawal, should the outerworks be taken.

Sordo fitted
himself naturally to the task of bracing his garrison; it was the labor he’d
been groomed for since boyhood. The third generation was preparing to stiffen the
Hightower against one more assault on its dangerous walls.

All
warfare is based on deception.

SUN TZU WU,
“Art of War”

IT was decided that the garrison
would be augmented with infantry brought from Freegate. Springbuck also detached
two troops of dragoons to stay behind with those organizing irregular action
against the approaching army.

The Prince
wanted to stay and command the defense, but had met opposition from his
companions, including Reacher. He maintained his stand until, unforeseen, Lady
Hightower came to him. “I’m informed that my Lord the
Ku-Mor-Mai
offered
to lend his good arm to the protection of our home. Though we thank him, surely
he sees that he must remain at liberty and not be detained here? My son will
bring us and the Hightower through this trial, as his sire and grandsire have
in the past.”

Without waiting
for a reply she went, ending her confinement to the sickbed she’d occupied
since receiving the ministrations of Andre deCourteney, and commenced to help
in the affairs of the castle. She’d settled the matter completely. Springbuck
couldn’t go against the wishes of that great and gallant Lady.

Still, they
were left with the quandary of a retreat in a perilous situation. An immense
force had been mustered and sent out from Earthfast with the double mission of
suppressing outlaw activity and breaking the Hightower.

Now that
Yardiff Bey knew of the presence of the allied expedition, it was logical to
assume that his commander in the field, Novanwyn, would dispatch a strong
element to block and hold the Western Tangent where it entered the Keel of
Heaven, to preclude their escape back to Freegate. He could eliminate them and
the castle at leisure, since further relief would thus be cut off. The poser
was that, though the allies felt that they could cut their way back to the Free
City if the odds were fairly well matched, a larger enemy force might be too
much for them to deal with. But taking more men along with them against that
contingency would both leave the Hightower undermanned and slow them down.

The wrangling
was going nowhere when Gil spoke up.

“Suppose we
could convince Bey and Novanwyn that we have a bigger army here than we really
do? That we’re going to stand and that they have a chance to wipe us out, but
only if they commit all their muscle?”

Bonesteel
thought for a moment, then nodded. “Then Bey would, I think, try to deal us a
deathblow. I know old Novanwyn would consider it a fine idea; it fits with his
heady notions of audacity and resolve. But how to accomplish this? It may be
that Yardiff Bey has seen our strength already through Ibn-al-Yed’s dead eyes.”
The creature that had been Ibn-al-Yed had died the preceding evening, not of
its wounds or for any reason they could see other than that it was bereft of
the will of its master.

“I’ve been
talking with Andre here,” Gil replied, “and I think I can tell you. Now here’s
Bey, with this aircraft he’s so fond of, and he knows that he can use it to
scout us, yes? Think about it. Tomorrow, when times and distances are about
right—if the reports about his troop movements are true—and our men are active
and his are near, I bet he’ll make a firsthand decision on how to commit his
men. If he has any brains at all, he’ll make a flyby and check us out. What I
propose here is that we scam our friend Bey.”

With the
exception of Andre they had all become lost. He elucidated.

“Our boy is
clever, right? But he has introduced a new concept in warfare into this world,
and I don’t think that even he has tumbled onto all the angles. He hasn’t
twigged that forward air observers can be conned, but, folks, we’re going to
teach him. Oh, my, yes. I just hope he’s never heard of Quaker guns.”

“No, no, no!”
Gil MacDonald grated in exasperation. “We can’t put mockups out in the open.
Look, and get this for once and for all; we’ve got to make him believe we’re
trying to
hide
the troops and siege engines, not parade ’em.

“Pay attention!
Real siege machinery and so forth inside the walls. Fakes and such down there
among the tall trees in that meadow and the soldier simulacra—is that the right
word, Andre?—among the trees there, there and all through there. A real trooper
every few yards or so later, to scuttle around when the aircraft shows—if it
shows—and one string of picketed horses to get spooked and set loose down by
the tree line at the rim of the forest. Got all that?”

The officer in
charge of the work detail wasn’t really sure he did, but nodded and went back
to his men. They were still mystified as to why they’d been pulled from siege
preparations to do this pointless labor. They were tying bright strips of cloth
from torn uniforms around man-high crosses, roughly made from branches and
jammed at intervals in the earth near unused cooking fires. Their comrades in
the next stand of woods knew no more than they, so they just marked it up as
another unexplained whim of Command.

Storm clouds
rolled in, hiding the sun, as Andre set himself to cast his glamour. Without
Gabrielle to aid him, he found the task desperately taxing, the more so since
he must concentrate on precision and at the same time hide his spell from
Yardiff Bey. Still, if Bey were both flying his demon ship and assessing the
numbers at the Hightower, he’d probably miss the traces of Andre’s thaumaturgy.

Alone atop the
central donjon, Andre spread his arms and summoned a servant of malignant
power. By order of the allied leaders, all men were under shelter and cautioned
against interfering or even watching the incantation. Scant enough warning had
been required.

The magician
reached outward, flexing his arms and calling in a forbidden language. Moisture
ran down his pudgy face and collected on his shaggy chest and potbelly. His
back was soaked and his brow furrowed by the awful effort, as the being began
to take shape, a sparkling nimbus of light.

He would have
preferred to do this in a proper sanctum, but he must be outside to watch his
vassal’s every move. The being fought his will, its aura flaming angrily; but
he ended its obstinacy with words of enforcement and made it agree to do his
bidding precisely. With a snarl it sped away, eager to be done with its
servitude and back to its own plane.

As it flew, the
rude simulacra began to waver and re-form into brightly attired soldiers who
stood, squatted or lay patiently. And that, in truth, was their only function.

Of all his
pleasures, Yardiff Bey most cherished flying his unique sky craft,
Cloud
Ruler,
through the high airs. Then he felt master indeed of the wide world
unfolded beneath him, removed from the sordid doings and goings of common men.
He’d contrived, fought and suffered to achieve its construction, paying a dear
price; his hand went to the ocular where his left eye had once been.

Now he leaned
forward in his luxurious chair inboard
Cloud Ruler
and uttered a low
oath, peering into the ground-glass optical device before him. His mind was
only partially occupied with his reconnaissance, since he must keep under his
control the fire elemental trapped in the bowels of his ship. He perceived
faint traces of magic smelling of the hated Andre deCourteney, but so slight
were these that he attributed them to minor protective spells and the like. He
didn’t consider deCourteney a magician of any note.

The demon ship
circled lower on red flames while he stared down through his magnifying disk.
Bivouacked around the castle were more fighting men than he’d thought possible
for his enemies to field altogether. Many more besides were within the walls of
the Hightower. Here and there some of them ran for cover, but most were frozen
in fear. Good.

 He’d have
liked to put trees and castle to the torch with his ship, but disliked bringing
it low or otherwise endangering the product of his long labors.

Then he was
gasping in outrage as a boulder half the size of a horse zipped up from the
Hightower. The Keep’s biggest stone gun, modified by artisans working under
Gil’s direction, had barely missed bringing down the Hand of Shardishku-Salamá.

“Chowderheads!”
roared the American as the crew reset the long throwing arm of the stone gun.
“Don’t hit him, dammit! We want to send him on his way, not bring him down. One
more now, lower this time so he thinks he’s getting above our range. We don’t
want him to risk another pass.”

They needn’t
have bothered. Yardiff Bey was causing the fire elemental to lift
Cloud
Ruler
higher and bring it around on a course for the approaching force from
Earthfast. He’d never heard the term beachhead, but he’d long since mastered
the concept and didn’t intend to see Freegate establish one in Coramonde.

He was
disgusted with his commanders’ apparent inability to flush out bothersome
peasants. Herdsmen who knew every inch of the wilderness and hunters who’d
stalked the lion and the deer were tormenting regulars, fleeing for sanctuary
to treacherous bog and trackless mountain. Yardiff Bey had contrived through
agents to have Lady Hightower kidnapped to force Bulf to fight, and still his
field commander had been beaten.

But here, at
last, was an open battle to fight. He’d rush up his second great corps and
crush these insects as soon as possible.

The return to
Freegate began ill.

The bulk of the
foot soldiers of Coramonde under Bonesteel were undismayed at the prospect of
fortifying the Hightower. Almost every member of the allied leadership
volunteered to be part of the garrison; but Springbuck overruled all but one,
Bonesteel’s second-in-command, a tough old veteran who had experience in siege,
useful to Sordo.

Though they
were to travel light, Gil made sure they took certain things captured with
Ibn-al-Yed’s tent: writing implements, scrolls, seals, maps and order-of-battle
listings. To Gil’s great unease, he found that a large part of the forces
mentioned in the latter couldn’t be accounted for. They definitely hadn’t been
at the battle outside the Hightower. Captives of that engagement were either
unwilling or unable to explain this.

With them, too,
they took Lord Hightower. “There’s much he’s seen and heard,” Andre said of his
old friend. “Much he’s pondered that may help us before this struggle is over.
More, he’d be of little use here.”

Gil, looking at
the former Duke, couldn’t help but think of the majestic gods of William Blake.

Though they’d
planned to take Lady Hightower with them, they didn’t. In her own gracious way
she forbade it and they couldn’t make her leave the Hightower.

Bonesteel gave
her and his nephew each a strong hug. He was torn, and would have liked to stay
and watch over them, but knew that he’d be needed badly elsewhere.

They left at
midnight, taking extremely light rations and leaving most of their supplies.
All were mounted, their horses fairly fresh; many had been able to rest briefly
in the hours between Yardiff Bey’s departure and the call to mount.

They pushed as
much as they dared on a journey of such length. Few were their stops; they
alternated riding with walking and leading their horses. Hightower had ridden
grimly on a mount lead by Andre and, over his protests, was borne on a litter
on the shoulders of the strongest when the rest walked. They took main trails
to the Tangent. They didn’t think that any troops of Earthfast were in the area
yet, and the need for haste was great.