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The next morning Avender searched the sky from his window as soon as he woke, but the only birds he saw were the waterfowl in Backford Pool and some pigeons patrolling the wall. Five days had passed since the Shaper had left; if the bear didn’t hurry, the war would start without him.
Ossdonc, however, had arrived with his army during the night and camped in the rough hills north of the watch tower. Avender went out through Nurren’s tunnel before breakfast to have a look at them.
“Big fellow, ain’t he?”
One of the soldiers on duty pointed his chin at the Wizard swaggering enormously across the field.
“Yeah, but he makes a big target,” said a second. “If we had a catapult we could end all this right now.”
“Not on my watch. I wouldn’t want to get him mad. And there’s his beasties to worry about, too.”
Avender had heard the Wizards were huge, but his first sight of Ossdonc strutting among his soldiers made him think twice about how confident everyone in Backford was about the coming battle. The Black Wizard looked twice as tall as Redburr, and broader too. Avender didn’t see how the Dwarves, or anyone else for that matter, stood a chance against him.
The manders were even worse. Two of them lay chained in a small hollow out of sight and smell of the army’s horses, the ground smoldering around them. Their tails flicked lazily back and forth across the burnt grass like waves on a beach. Black claws furrowed the earth.
“Gribbs told me the baron got a special sword from the Dwarves last night,” said the first soldier. “And arrows, too. He’ll take care of ‘em, Wizards and beasties both.”
Although he studied the camp closely, Avender found no sign of Reiffen among the thousands of soldiers and sissit milling about their master on the plain. Only Ossdonc was large enough to stand out at that distance.
Returning to the castle, he discovered Duke Arrand had arrived, with two hundred pikemen from Rowanon. Boys pelted out from the stables as the duke passed through the gate, accompanied by two of his captains.
“Hello, lads,” he called. “Ready to pluck a few nomads’ feathers, are you? That’s the spirit. Fine, fighting lads, all of you.”
Despite his long march, the duke’s golden hair hung in glossy curls around his broad shoulders; his armor shone like something out of a song. On his shield two fierce wolves stood with paws together, but they were less menacing than the man who bore them. Even taller and broader than Avender, he looked the part of a hero far better as well.
Avender stood to one side as Lady Breeanna, tugging at her trailing veil, hurried out through the press of maids and pages at the castle door. The duke, with the assistance of two stable boys and a portable stair, dismounted. Plumed helm cradled in the crook of his arm, he advanced to greet the baroness. His mail shirt jingled like a bag of coins without the bag.
“Duke Arrand!” she exclaimed. “We are so delighted you have come! And so quickly!”
“I led my men out of Rowanon Keep the moment I received your husband’s call,” he replied, bowing deeply.
“But where are they?” The baroness peered past the duke and his captains at the empty gate behind them.
“In the village, milady. No need for them to tire themselves trudging up one last hill when the battle will be fought below. I only came up myself when I heard the baron had called a council of war. And to pay my respects to your ladyship, of course.”
Gallantly, the duke offered the baroness his mailed arm and escorted her into the keep. Avender followed. The council of war had already assembled in the great hall, where shafts of sunlight illuminated little more than themselves as they slanted across the chamber from the high, narrow windows. Advancing to the long table, Lady Breeanna introduced the duke to the Dwarves.
Avender found himself an inconspicuous spot near the cellar door and leaned against the cold stone.
“Findle was just telling us about the manders, Duke,” said Sir Worrel when the introductions were complete. “We’re told he’s hunted them more than any other Bryddin.”
“A hunter, eh?” The duke’s mustache wagged as he studied the smallest Dwarf. Accepting a cup of ale from a footman, he asked, “Can they swim? That’s the main thing, when defending Backford. The river is always the key.”
Findle shook his head, his neck and shoulders hardly moving. “Manders don’t swim. But they can walk across the river bottom if they want to.”
Duke Arrand rubbed his chin with one large hand; the Backford officers exchanged concerned glances. “That is not good,” he said. “Still, there must be some way to deal with them. Everything has its weakness.”
“I hadn’t finished.” Findle remained silent until he was certain he had everyone’s attention. “If these manders are anything like the smaller sort, they’ll stay well clear of the water. Nothing drains them faster. What they like is heat, which is why the Wizard has them basking. That way they’ll be at full strength tonight. Which is when the attack will come, if you ask me.”
“But how do we slay them?” inquired Sir Worrel. “Will it require the weapons you gave us?”
“Stone and steel will cut a mander,” answered Nurren. “If your arm’s strong enough.”
“Take our advice,” said Garven, “and let us handle the manders. You worry about the sissit and the soldiers.”
“And who will take care of the Wizard?” asked the duke.
“We will.” Findle slapped the pommel of his sword. “After we’re finished with his beasts.”
Duke Arrand regarded the smallest Dwarf with surprise and admiration. “You are like no Bryddin I have ever met, sir. You sound as martial as I.”
Findle bowed. “Thank you, Duke. Usually I only hunt manders, and the occasional rockworm. Or giant spider. But I’ll hunt anything that threatens Bryddlough, and that includes Wizards. They broke Finlis, you know.”
“Yes, they did. And many others, on the Rimwich field. I look forward to standing beside you on Backford Bridge, friend Findle. Together we shall slay a host of enemies.”
“We shall certainly be facing a host,” said one of the baron’s lieutenants. “I’ve never seen so many sissit, or Keeadini. If the Wasters force the crossing while we’re fighting the Wizard and his army on the bridge, they might well carry the day.”
The duke folded his arms on his broad chest, obscuring the jaws of the rampant wolves. “A hundred Keeadini are not the equal of one Banking knight, sir. Let them come.”
“We may not have to face the tribesmen at all, if we defeat the Wizard first.” Sir Worrel turned to a sergeant at the wall. “Gribbs. Fetch the scout.”
“Another scout?” asked the baroness as the grizzled soldier ducked out the door.
“The last to arrive, milady,” replied the captain. “His mother married a farmer from Countinghill but, since she is Keeadini, the tribes allow him to come and go.”
Sergeant Gribbs returned with a small, sun-worn man, who looked more Keeadini than Banking despite his farmer’s shirt and trousers. His soft, wissundskin moccasins slipped silently across the floor.
“Tell us what you learned in the Keeadini camp, Osee.” Sir Worrel gestured toward the officers around him. “Not all here have heard your report.”
Osee bowed to his baron and the duke. “The tribes ain’t made up their minds yet, your lordships. Wizard’s bribes are enough to bring ‘em here, but they won’t join Him till He’s crossed the Tumbling. Some of the young hotheads are on His side already, but the rest want proof that this time’ll be different. They’ll answer His call soon enough if He takes the town. No one wants to miss the sack of Malmoret.”
“Sack of Malmoret! What nonsense is this?”
Osee blinked before the duke’s sharp tone and glanced toward the baron, who nodded for him to continue. “It’s what my mother’s people told me, Sir Duke. The tribes think they’ll have a free ride all the way to Far Mouthing if the Wizard beats your lordships here. It’s not the fighting they’re looking forward to, it’s what they can loot and steal.”
“So, if we defeat the Wizard, we have nothing to fear from the Keeadini?”
The scout nodded.
“Hold them a week,” said Sir Worrel, “and the Wizard’s army, as well as the tribes, will be forced to leave. What food they carry will have run out by then. The wissund are on the Easting, too far away to hunt.”
From the nodded agreement around the room, Avender could tell the captain had voiced the general understanding.
The scout was dismissed, the final placement of the Banking troops determined, and the council drew to a close. All agreed the best course was to wait at Watch Hill and the river for the Wizard to make his next move. Time was on their side. Defeat Ossdonc and the other threats would melt away.
The rest of the day dragged. Afternoon shimmered into evening; a still summer night settled across lake and town. The thickening moon rose, bright enough to wash away the neighboring stars. Having been instructed by Lady Backford that he wasn’t yet ready for the fight, Avender prowled the castle walls.
On the high cliff of the battlement, he felt as if he were back home on the Neck. Except for the sentries pacing their posts, the scene felt very much the same. Behind him the shoulders of the Blue Mountains rose almost as close to Castle Backford as the Low Bavadars were to the Manor; before him Backford Pool stretched off into the darkness like Valing Lake. The torches and campfires in the meadow between gleamed like Eastbay in the evening. But the stars to the east stretched away into the night in ways they couldn’t in Valing, where mountains cupped the lake on either side. And there was no pulse and throb of crashing water either.
“You wouldn’t have a plug o’ tobacco on you, would you?”
Avender recognized Sergeant Gribbs as he came up and leaned on his long spear.
“No? How ‘bout a flask?”
“Sorry.”
The older man sighed. “Only a pup would come out here without a chew or sip, Hero o’ the Stoneways or no. Here, have some o’ mine.”
Grinning crookedly, the sergeant offered Avender a tug on the flask he pulled from inside his mail shirt. Avender blinked at the fiery taste, and coughed behind his hand.
“Fine stuff, eh?” The sergeant winked in the moonlight. “My brother’s recipe. He makes it south o’ here, at his farm. My name’s Gribbs. Sergeant Gribbs, if that sort of thing matters to you. We only keep up the spit an’ polish for the baroness, you know. A rougher lot, we were, before she came. Another pull?”
Avender shook his head. The stars were already sharper than before. Gribbs rolled his head back for a second swig, then thrust the flask beneath his shirt. Patting the bulge in his jingling chainmail, he said, “The baron gave me this himself. He knew I’d like it better than a medal.”
“You must have done something very brave.” Avender tried to pick out the line of the dike below Watch Hill, but only the end of the lights jeweling the meadow marked Banking’s first line of defense.
“Oh, it wasn’t nothin’. Just a little matter o’ stolen sheep. You’ll probably get one in the next few days yourself. Baron’s handy with presents, he is. To a fault, some say. But I say there’s no fault in him at all. I’d follow him to Ussene itself, if he asked.”
Avender remembered the look on Keln’s face when he realized the baron had brought the lancers out to rescue them on the Waste, and the love in the baroness’s eyes at the sight of her husband’s safe return. An odd, silent baron, but a definite leader of men.
A flicker, as if from a fresh star, gleamed from the top of Watch Hill. It brightened and grew larger before Avender realized the light was a signal from the tower. Sergeant Gribbs straightened.
“Something’s up,” he said, peering into the darkness. “Can’t tell what, though.”
Avender wondered if there was a system, with different beacons to signal different sorts of danger. Dropping his eyes to the meadow, he searched the fires for any sign of activity. Beside him, Gribbs gripped the stone and leaned forward. A bat swept across the sky, its darting flight more remembered than seen.
“Here.” The Sergeant nudged Avender toward the stair. “Run on down to the lieutenant and tell him what’s up, lad. I know you’re a hero an’ all, but your young legs’ll do it faster’n mine. Better I stay up here on the wall in case there’s another signal. Go on. I’ll give you another sip o’ my nighttime when you come back.”
Avender set off quickly. On the rest of the wall other soldiers had also stopped their pacing and turned to the tower. But Avender was the first to reach the small alcove just inside the gate.
“A beacon, lieutenant,” he reported to the officer on duty. “From the watch tower.”
The officer’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of beacon?”
“A bright, steady light.”
The officer tugged at his lip. “I guess it’s come, then. About time, too. Let’s tell the baron.”
Without seeming to hurry, but still walking quickly, the lieutenant led Avender into the castle, up the stairs, and back to the apartment of the baron and baroness. The page dozing in front of their door scrambled to his feet as Avender and the officer arrived. At the lieutenant’s urging, the boy turned and knocked loudly. The second rap was quickly answered.
“What is it?” The baroness’s voice boomed through the heavy door. “I told Marietta not to bother me about any of the cows till morning!”
“It’s not Marietta, milady!” The lieutenant raised his voice to be heard through the thick oak. “I must inform the baron the beacon has been lit on Watch Hill.”
“The beacon! Oh dear! Did you hear that, baron? He says the beacon’s been lit! Yes, yes, I know. Look to yourself, sir. I need nothing. Your slippers are on your side of the bed, where you left them. I shall dress as soon as you’re gone. There’s a bit of duck I can have ready in an instant before you go, if you’d like.”
The lieutenant and the page fastened their eyes to unimportant spots on the wall. Avender followed their lead.
“You may open the door now, Murrow. Sir Benerel, please enter.”
The baroness’s bedchamber was larger than Avender’s, but only slightly better furnished. Thin summer curtains draped the bed, and a pier glass in a gilt frame ran from floor to ceiling along one wall. Beside the bed the baron was just buckling his sword to his side. Lady Breeanna pushed her head out between the pale curtains, her hair half in and half out of her nightcap.
“Is there any other news?” she asked breathlessly.
“No, milady.” Lieutenant Benerel bowed in her direction, but kept his eyes on the baron. “I expect a messenger shortly. I thought it best to inform the baron at once.”
“Of course. You are a marvel, Lieutenant. I wish I had you on my staff.”
“Thank you, milady.”
The baron crossed the room, buttoning the top of his tunic. Two soldiers joined him when he reached the main hall. Avender thought about trying to go off with them, but only three horses were waiting in the courtyard outside. Chains rattled at the castle gate, followed by the hollow clop of hooves echoing in the night. Avender hurried back onto the battlement just in time to see the baron and his officers round the first turn in the road and hasten toward town in the moonlight. The sound of their galloping dimmed as they passed between the wooden houses; the night went quiet again.
From the top of the wall Avender had an excellent view of the bridge and beyond. Though it was dark, the criss-crossing of torches through the meadow and town was easy to follow.
Nothing happened for a long while. Sergeant Gribbs went off to check on his squad along the wall, leaving Avender alone. Again Avender wondered what had happened to Redburr, and had to remind himself that, if the war with the Wizards had truly come, the Shaper would be wanted everywhere at once. His presence at Castle Backford would be comforting, and worth even a few Bryddin in the fighting, but he might be needed more in other places. King Brannis would have to make a stand somewhere if Ossdonc’s army broke in through the back door of his kingdom. And Avender, unlike Keln and the rest of Backford, wasn’t so certain the castle would hold. Even with Dwarves to help them.
A line of fire appeared in the narrow road below Watch Hill. Avender found himself wishing he was down there with the soldiers at the dike. Then he would at least have the expectation of bloodying his sword rather than watching anxiously from the walls of the castle.
More marching lights filled the darkness beyond the edge of the hill. Fresh torches approached the wall from the meadow as well, massing behind the strip of darkness that marked the earthen wall. Slowly the farther gleam approached the nearer. Small lights like grounded stars arced across the wall to start fires in the meadow. Silent as a puff of wind rolling across the lake, the torches of the enemy surged forward.
Avender stared transfixed as the fight raged in the darkness. From a distance, the battle at the edge of the hill looked like a pair of flames licking at one another from opposite sides of a log. Small sparks pierced the gap, leaping the blackness between. Others were thrown back upon themselves, curling like paper in a flame. The clash of metal drifted faintly atop the shouts of besiegers and besieged. The night brightened, as if the sky reflected the ferment below.
More lights flickered on in the town; the distant clamor took on a new tone. The shouting hoarsened and no longer seemed eager; groans and pain crept in beneath the din. Avender remembered the look on the man he had killed in the hills, but surprised himself by still wishing he was in the middle of the battle. He felt useless standing on the castle wall. If he was going to have to fight, better to get on with it. Waiting was even worse.
The knot of flame thickened on both sides of the far-off fight. Gradually the shouting died until only the clash and groans remained. A flock of birds rose up in a mass against the speckled sheet of stars; for a moment the honking of geese was louder than the battle. The waterfowl streamed across the lake, taking their tumult with them. The sounds of swordplay resumed.
The enemy line parted. Several large, dark shapes passed through. Even at that distance Avender made out Ossdonc’s giant figure against the torchlight. With him were his manders, their tails lashing the night. Avender leaned anxiously over the parapet, his hands gripping the rough stone as he remembered his own terrible encounter with a mander seven years before. Eyes and tongue like fire, teeth as sharp as knives. Redburr and Nolo had not been enough to destroy it, and Redburr had been in a blind, killing rage. What could simple Banking men be expected to achieve? Were the Dwarves out fighting with them?
Apparently not. The line of fire at the wall held briefly as the manders snarled and surged at the ends of what appeared to be leashes. Then Ossdonc released them. The creatures slithered forward like snakes across a furrowed field. Lights went out wherever they passed. Behind them, Ossdonc strode to the top of the wall, his tall shape silhouetted against the torchlight. Someone attacked him: the Wizard swept the man aside without even drawing his sword. Avender wondered if Keln was out there and whether he was safe.
He reached for his own weapon. Perhaps he should go down to the town and join the fighting, despite her ladyship’s orders. Sergeant Gribbs, back from his rounds, wagged his head.
“No need for that, lad. There’ll be plenty left for us tomorrow. The baron still has a trick or two up his sleeve.”
“Where are the Dwarves?”
“Guarding the bridge. That’s where the real fight will be.”
The Backford line fell back. Thin lines of torches streamed across the plain, coming together at the bridge like a second, red-gold river. Behind them another wave of torchlight flooded forward. The lines at the bridge thickened quickly as they jammed together, a glowing eddy pressed against the river. Stragglers were swept away by the yellow tide behind them. Ossdonc and the manders remained at the wall, dark pools in the swelling flood that pressed wide around them.
A horn sounded above the din, the same clear horn Avender had heard when the baron had ridden out to rescue Sir Worrel’s troop on the plain. The rushing horde paused. A second note sounded, closer than the first; Avender noticed a troop of horsemen gathered in the meadow on the other side of the river, close to the hills. His eyes straining in the dark, he guessed the first horn had come from a similar troop by the lakeshore.
Like black clouds, the mounted troops poured toward the middle of the meadow. In the face of two wings of charging cavalry, and without the manders or the Wizard to force them on, the tide of sissit and northerners retreated. The lancers galloped across the enemy line, moonlight silvering their helms. The front of Ossdonc’s army collapsed, fallen beneath the spears of the Banking charge, or scrambling back across the bodies of their comrades. Hooves thundering, the two troops met in the middle of the plain, wheeled to the south, and rode back to the bridge.
“Ah,” said Gribbs. “They fell right into the trap.” Reaching into his shirt, he brought out his flask to celebrate the change of fortune.
The enemy’s withdrawal stopped at the back of the meadow, where the manders roared and whipped their tails. Ossdonc cuffed any who tried to flee back toward the open plain. It was some time before the chaos on the enemy side was calmed. Meanwhile, the last of the Banking soldiers crossed the bridge safely. The gate was shut behind them. New lights burst forth along the southern bank of the river as the baron’s troops took up fresh positions. Behind them the streets of the town were as thick and lively as market day at the end of summer.
Avender looked back at the plain. The northern army appeared too disorganized to mount any fresh attack that night and, as long as Ossdonc and his manders were about, it was unlikely there would be any counterattack from the town.
His eyes lingered on the field, spotted as it was with the gleam of fallen torches and the black shadows of the dead. Was Reiffen out there? Not among the dead, of course, but somewhere among the sprouting flames as the invading army built fresh fires against the dark.
The night passed sleeplessly, castle and town as busy as if it were broad day. When morning rose, Avender saw dogs from both sides of the river quarreling in the trampled grass; broken weapons and fallen bodies littered the ground. Plumes of smoke striped the morning air. Ussene’s army was drawn up at the other end of the meadow, out of bowshot from the river. Ossdonc had disappeared, presumably into the enormous black tent that covered the far end of the field like a crouching spider, the two manders lazing at the entrance like dogs.
Behind the tent a swarm of sissit had cut a wide gap in the dirt wall. They buzzed over what was left of the berm, shovels flying, and around the tower and hill above. Banking soldiers fired the occasional arrow among them from high on the watch tower’s stone walls, but, beyond their missiles’ reach, Keeadini scouts roamed unchecked. With the bridge the only place to cross the river in force, no one worried about attack from that direction. The real danger was through the meadow.
Knowing Lady Breeanna was too busy tending the wounded to stop him, Avender grabbed a loaf of bread and a dry sausage from the kitchen and headed down the hill. Though he hadn’t slept at all the night before, the dread and excitement of the approaching battle were more than enough to spark him through the day. Even his wound only bothered him when he paid attention to it. Today he would find out what a real fight was like, whether he wanted to or not.
It was a beautiful morning. The air was crisp, and butterflies hovered above the heather on either side of the road. At the bottom of the hill Avender found troopers and pikemen in the colors of Backford and Rowanon mingling on every porch and street. The inn overflowed with the wounded, their cries hushed as morning brought an end to the worst of their nightmares. Boys brought beer to the lounging soldiers, blood splashed across the men’s shields like rust.
Moving on to the river, he joined the defenders at the bridge. The baron was there and Duke Arrand, and Wysko with his stone-tipped arrows. Avender felt self-conscious as the only unarmored man at the wall, but now was not the time for him to start learning how to wear chain mail. The officers allowed him to pass: for once it was a good thing to be known as the Hero of the Stoneways. Defending the bridge was exactly the place they all expected him to be. But Avender felt like no great warrior as he looked out upon the ruined meadow from the top of the wall. The blow he had struck in the darkness underground had been a lucky one, to pierce the mander’s eye. He doubted very much he would be so lucky again.
The sweet morning passed. A hot afternoon simmered the lake and meadow by the time Ossdonc, dressed in night-black armor, finally emerged from his tent and whistled for his beasts. His companies of sissit and northerners assembled around him; his manders’ long tongues and tails flicked like snakes as they strained on their leashes. Avender settled nervously against the stone and looked for signs of Reiffen.
In long lines that stretched across the meadow, the Wizard led his army forward. The clank of their weapons broke like a wave across the trampled field. A flock of crows rose from the western trees and wheeled above the valley. Avender and the Banking men stared at the approaching host, their faces grim, their hands gripping the hafts of their spears. The horses tethered on the bridge behind them in hopes of a sortie pawed the ground, scenting the sissits’ stench.
Up close, in the strong light of day, the army of Ussene looked much more fearsome than it had during the night. Where before Avender had seen only their torches flickering on the plain, now he saw their faces. The sissit trudged, lumpy and pale, their armor seemingly borrowed from the grave, the humans even nastier because Avender could recognize the murder in their eyes. He wondered if they were just as scared as he.
Ossdonc raised a mailed fist. The rumble of steel and leather ceased as his army halted beyond bowshot from the farther shore. The Wizard approached. He wore a black breastplate and greaves, and a helmet with a black plume rising from the top. A long, black sword was belted at his side, and over his shoulder he carried an enormous log. In his other hand he restrained his manders, each the size of a low barn, on iron chains. They scuttled forward close to the ground, their thick tails waving, their scales as black as the Wizard’s armor. Their eyes and tongues were red, and the slaver that dripped from their jaws was gold. The ground smoked where their breath and spittle brushed the grass. Behind the Wizard, a man in black armor rode a black horse at the head of the army, his face hidden behind his helm.
“Bankings!”
The Wizard’s voice boomed across the river with the vehemence of a storm. The circling crows scattered.
“It is I, Cuhurran, come to lead you once more. Lay down your arms and I shall spare your lives. Fight, and all will die, from your children to your dogs. Ask your fathers—they know no one has ever mastered me. This time will be no different. I have brought my own hounds to hunt you with, should you defy me.”
He ended with a gale of laughter. Despite himself, Avender looked away. The Wizard’s amusement felt like fists pummeling his shoulders. Around him one or two men dropped to their knees. Steadier hands helped them to their feet.
From the wall, Baron Backford answered Ossdonc’s challenge. His voice seemed thin at first beside the Wizard’s, but as he spoke it strengthened, until all along the riverbank heard him.
“Wizard! You are not wanted here. I rode with you of old in your wrongful wars, but I will make no such mistake again. Take your carrion back with you to the north. Between death and slavery you leave us no choice. Sow our fields with bones, we will not surrender. Our sons and daughters will fight you, and the earth we love as well. Return to your spells and spying. You get no passage here.”
As the baron finished, a bow twanged close beside him. Wysko had shot one of his heartstone shafts. His aim was true, but his strength not enough to drive the arrow home. The shaft quivered in Ossdonc’s neck, just above his black chest plate, barely piercing his skin.
Astonished, the Wizard looked down. For an instant he seemed not to know how to react. Then, with a roar of rage that scattered every bird still paddling on the lake, he pulled the arrow from his neck and cast it to the ground. Red blood, as red as any human’s, oozed from his wound.
Wysko fitted a second arrow to his bow; the Wizard took something from a pouch at his side. With one quick motion his arm whipped forward. Wysko tumbled back from the wall as the missile struck him in the face and landed heavily on his back on the bridge below. A crimson smear seeped out beneath his helm. Avender ducked behind the parapet; the Wizard threw several more stones. Two more men went down before the third was fast enough to angle his shield in front of him. The stone clanged hard enough to knock the man down, then arced into the river with a splash.
The archers on the wall fired a volley, but not a single arrow pierced its mark. A thin stream, blackening as it flowed, ran down Ossdonc’s chest, but all the shafts that reached him rattled harmlessly to the earth.
With another booming laugh, the Wizard loosed his manders. In response, the Dwarves appeared atop the wall. Like gigantic, armored rats the lizards struck swiftly, their adamantine claws scrabbling on the stone. Findle met one attack, Garven and Nurren the other. Thinking to catch them off guard, Ossdonc launched another round of missiles. Findle caught his in one quick hand, but the others exploded in bursts of dust as they smashed against the Dwarves’ hard hides.
The Dwarves swung their axes at the rearing beasts. The creatures bellowed as the blades struck home. Golden spittle sprayed across the wall; stone sizzled and wisps of black smoke rose toward the sky. The wall shuddered as the manders tore deep rents in the rock that blocked their way. Twice more the foul beasts tried to scale the barrier, and both times they were beaten back by the blows of the Dwarves. On the last attempt Findle buried his axe in his mander’s steaming nose. Rearing up on its short hind legs, the creature clawed the air. Quickly Findle seized a second axe and, hurling it over his head with both hands, sank the weapon deep in the creature’s chest.
Black blood sprayed the wall, bursting into flame. Tongues of fire danced around the Dwarf, who flickered like firestone in a red-hot hearth. Writhing, the mander fell back to the ground. Avender and the other archers fired at the creature’s dark belly, but their arrows had no more effect on the beast than they had on its master.
Ossdonc raised his club and stepped forward. The mander’s fire died. Avender shot for the Wizard’s eyes, but his arrows glanced away. Reaching the wall, the Wizard struck a great overhand blow with his log. Splinters of wood and shattered stone shot out in all directions. Several defenders tumbled backwards onto the bridge behind them. Baron Backford, who had remained safe behind the parapet while the Dwarves fought the manders, slashed with his stone sword as the Wizard lifted his massive club for another blow.
His weapon too unwieldy to quickly fend the baron’s blade, the Wizard braced himself for the cut. Behind him the black knight raised a hand. A bolt of fire shot from his fingers over Ossdonc’s shoulder. The baron cried out as the flame caught his sword mid-stroke. Flying from his hand, the heavy weapon fell to the ground beside the dying mander.
Ossdonc’s log descended. The baron crumpled, his back and legs crushed beneath the giant trunk. The wall trembled.
“Reiffen!” cried Avender with sudden insight. The knight in black showed no sign of recognition.
Findle leapt over the wall. Nurren followed, stumbling as he landed. Several soldiers carried the baron down to the safety of the bridge. Duke Arrand clanked forward to take his place. Avender had an easy shot at Ossdonc’s eye, but again his arrow seemed to sheer off at the last second and pass harmlessly by the Wizard’s ear.
At the bottom of the wall, Findle retrieved the baron’s sword. The remaining mander attacked before he could strike the Wizard, but the mander was no match for Findle and the long Inach blade. The Dwarf’s first swing severed the creature’s reaching claw; his second removed its head. Another gout of flame splashed against the stone. Findle charged out of the black fire, the white sword held high.
The Wizard swung the log like a scythe. Findle dodged nimbly and hacked at Ossdonc’s leg as Nurren attacked with his axe from the other side. The Wizard knocked Nurren’s blow away, but he was too slow to stop Findle. Only by twisting his leg at the last minute was he able to catch the Dwarf’s stroke on his greave. The sound of the blow rang out across the plain. Ossdonc howled in rage. Findle raised his sword for another strike. Behind the Wizard several sissit leapt forward, swinging a pair of heavy nets above their heads. Avender and the archers poured arrows into the attackers, but not before a net had settled over each Dwarf, tangling them so thoroughly they couldn’t move. Before the Bryddin could cut themselves free other soldiers rushed up to throw more, heavier chains across them. The Dwarves vanished beneath twin piles of iron and rope.
Garven jumped down to save his brothers. Ossdonc swung his club again. A loud knock rang out above every other sound on the battlefield as the log caught Garven like a frog being swatted with an oar. Up into the air he shot, and out over the river. He landed with a hollow splash, like the stones Avender had thrown in Valing.
The Banking soldiers hushed. Nurren and Findle were dragged away, like bound flies reeled in by a spider. Their prizes secure, Ossdonc’s army rolled forward. Avender fired until his arrows were gone. “For Backford and the baron!” cried the duke. Behind him Sir Worrel led fresh troops up onto the rampart to replace those who had fallen.
Grimly, the Banking men held their posts. There was no time for fear or courage. Already the enemy were raising ladders against the wall. Sissit rushed forward, while human archers supported them from behind. For every ladder Avender and his fellows pushed away, two more took its place. Arrows rained around them, the shafts clattering on the stone. Avender ducked and pressed his shoulder against the wall, kicking at the ladders. He pushed another to the ground, then stabbed a sissit in the throat who had managed to reach the top of the wall.
For a while the Banking soldiers held their own. Duke Arrand charged back and forth across the parapet, always appearing where the fight was heaviest, his sword slashing in the sunlight. Blood smeared his cheek and stained his wrist. The sissit had their ladders in place, but could get no one onto the battlement. Avender stabbed at each pale, slack face as it appeared above the stone. The crunch and scrape of his blade sickened him. Once it was a man he killed, a soldier from Ussene. The fellow bellowed as he reached the top of the wall, but his ferocity turned to a grimace as Avender ran him through the shoulder with his sword. The soldier fell backward; Avender yanked his blade free with a snap of muscle and bone.
He was beginning to think they might hold the bridge after all, when Ossdonc, forgotten in the first crush of fighting, returned. Crushing his own unwary soldiers beneath his feet, the Wizard put aside his log, grabbed the parapet just above his head, and pulled. Duke Arrand and the soldiers around him hacked fiercely at the Wizard’s hands. Thin cuts and welts appeared across the fingers, but Ossdonc paid his injuries no mind. With a sudden crack, the front of the wall crashed down in rubble around the Wizard’s ears.
Another roar went up from the northern army. Arrows and slung stones answered from the town. Retrieving his log, Ossdonc swept part of the rampart clean. The duke and the soldiers scrambled away, some falling onto the broken stones below. Reaching among the sissit around him, Ossdonc lifted two up to the wall. Avender drew his sword and slew one before the awkward creature caught its balance. A soldier bearing the wolves of Arrand on his shield killed the other. Two more took their place, and then two more again. Despite his own strength, Avender was soon pushed back by the weight of the enemy facing him. He found himself panting with fatigue. Sissit and soldiers in the black leather of Ussene poured through the gap at the top of the battlement, climbing ladders now.
The wall shuddered as a section near Avender crumbled beneath the Wizard’s hands. Ossdonc’s wrathful face appeared on the other side, spots of blood speckling his cheeks and chin. Avender dodged back before he could be swept aside, and fell over the edge of the bridge.
The cold of the river stunned him. An old nightmare rose up as the current swept him away, but Skimmer wasn’t around to save him this time. Other bodies thrashed around him, the river thick as a spawning stream. A hand grabbed his arm, tugging him downward. The water churned as weighted men struggled to rid themselves of helms and mail. Avender tore himself free from the drowning man’s grasp and kicked to the surface.
The battle’s din seemed louder when his head broke through to air. He gasped for breath. Missiles ripped the water with a sound like tearing pillows. Beyond the bridge the river widened: the current had already carried him past the reach of stabbing spears. But he still needed to reach the other bank. Filling his lungs with air, he dove back deep beneath the water. His boots dragged him down, but he was a strong swimmer, with years of practice in Valing. The next time he returned to the surface he had crossed half the river’s width. The pock of arrows around him lessened.
Helping hands reached for him as he gained the far shore. Everyone recognized the Hero of the Stoneways, beaten and bedraggled though he was. Exhausted, he stood dripping on the bank and watched as the Wizard smashed the wall of Backford Bridge to pieces with his bare hands.
Soldiers retreated along the span, sissit and northern men harrying them from behind. At the end of the bridge Duke Arrand rallied those with only minor wounds and, more men joining them from the shore, turned to make a final stand before the town. In an ordered rank they met the first wave of charging sissit and slew them all. A second wave attacked, and a third. The row of defenders thinned.
Ossdonc threw down the last of the wall and advanced to the middle of the bridge. A look of joy suffused his face as he drew his black sword, reminding Avender of how Redburr had looked when battle lust had overwhelmed the Shaper.
The Wizard attacked. Behind him his army paused. Duke Arrand and the Banking soldiers raised their blades to fend off the black sword, but all their weapons were shattered at Ossdonc’s first sweeping swing. With one stroke the Wizard disarmed half a dozen; with the second he cut Duke Arrand and his comrades in half.
Ignoring the sudden panic started by the death of the duke, Avender attempted to push through the rows of men ranked by the river and return to the bridge. But the crowd was too thick. He slipped instead into the open doorway of the nearest shop, a chandler’s, from the smell of beeswax and tallow. Bursting through several doors he came to the backyard and an empty henhouse. One of the mountain crows cawed from the top of a cherry tree, unripe fruit dripping from its beak. Avender clambered over the fence at the back and found himself in another deserted yard. Breaking a window to unlock the back door, he hurried through the empty house to the street.
Wounded men leaned against the buildings in the crowded avenue beyond. The stink of blood and sweat was thick. Several soldiers loaded a stretcher onto the back of an empty cart. Avender recognized the baron’s face above the bloody sheet.
“Avender!” Keln loomed out of the bloody crowd. “We thought all on the bridge had died. Help me take the baron back to the castle. You drive. I’ll ride in back with my lord.”
“I want to keep fighting.”
“You’ve lost your sword.” Keln scowled behind the blood that streaked his hands and face. “The fight at the bridge is over. We’ll have our chance to kill plenty in the keep. Now drive!”
Before Avender could point out there were more than enough dropped swords lying on the ground around them, the trooper pushed him forward. From the side of the cart he saw the baron’s eyelids flicker.
He jumped up to the seat. With a slap of the reins, horse and wagon started forward. The ancient animal trotted eagerly up the road, more than ready to leave the noise of the fight behind, but it turned reluctantly up the hill toward the castle a minute later.
Men skulked in the streets, heading south.
“Lice,” cursed Keln.
Avender agreed, but he saw the wisdom in the cowards’ flight as well. The way Ossdonc had smashed through both Dwarves and stone to take the bridge left little doubt the keep’s fate would be the same, now that the Dwarves were gone.
They drove up the hill, passing other wounded soldiers headed the same way. Looking back, it was easy to measure the progress of the fight. The Wizard loomed large on the main street, already near the spot where Avender had found Keln and the baron. Elsewhere the ragged lines of sissit were held back by the more disciplined Banking soldiers. But there was no stopping Ossdonc. Men poured through the streets before him like water from a burst dam.
At the top of the road Avender looked farther out across the river. The army of Ussene crowded over the bridge like ants swarming a comb of honey. Beyond them, waiting perhaps for the sight of the town in flames, the Keeadini sat astride their ponies.
“Where’s the baroness?” demanded Keln the moment they passed the castle gates.
“On the wall,” said the guard.
Keln turned to the nearest wide-eyed page. “Fetch your mistress. You there. Give us a hand.”
With the help of several guards, Keln and Avender carried the baron up the steps into the great hall. The only sign of life was the fluttering of his eyelids as they lifted him from the cart. Still in his armor, he was very heavy. They laid him on the very table he had hosted not two nights before. Blood, both fresh and dried, covered Avender’s hands.
A scream pierced the gallery above. The baroness, her veil trailing like a ghost, rushed down upon them. Marietta followed behind.
“My baron!” cried the stricken baroness.
Her husband’s eyes opened. Weakly, he raised his hand. She clutched his arm to her bosom. “My baron,” she sobbed, collapsing to her knees at his side.
The baron smiled for his lady and died.
Avender’s anger rose. Seeking fresh enemies, he seized a sword from the wall and returned to the courtyard. His fury burned at the thought that Reiffen was the cause of so much hurt, certain his old friend had been the one to burn the baron with a bolt of fire. Hurrying to the top of the wall, he watched the guards shut the castle gate after the last few stragglers. Two massive bolts planed from the trunks of trees slid home.
Plumes of fire lifted above the town, but the smell of smoke was smothered in the steaming fumes of oil boiling in vats on the wall. Guards levered stones into position. The road below was already spotted with bodies, the battle’s fever having reached the hill. Sissit and black clad soldiers waited halfway up the slope, beyond the range of the archers on the wall.
Ossdonc waded through the last of the town, sweeping his club before him. Buildings shattered and collapsed, timbers splintered. Twice the Wizard passed through the ruined buildings, leveling them to feed the hungry flames, before he started for the castle. His club over his shoulder like a harvester’s scythe, he climbed the road with giant strides. More soldiers crept behind him. At the castle gate he stopped, but this time he made no speech. Blood stained his boots and black armor. Smoke smeared his handsome face, but his teeth flashed whitely as he smiled like a greedy child. Only the keep was left to finish his very fine day.
Unshouldering his club, he swung it forward like a great ram. A shivering boom filled the courtyard. Above the gate, the soldiers tipped their oil. The end of Ossdonc’s club burned like a roaring hearth. Tongues of fire licked his giant legs. Paying the singeing heat no mind, he rammed his club against the gate in another blow. The great doors splintered, but didn’t give. The walls shuddered on either side. Burning oil trickled down the hill, setting the heath on fire.
On the third stroke the Wizard’s ram crashed through. The soldiers on the wall rained arrows and stones upon him, but they might as well have attacked a bear with gnats. Ossdonc thrust his head through the hole in the door and grinned like a drunkard in the stocks. Flexing legs thicker than the tree trunks barring the gate, he forced the heavy doors open with an explosion of stone and wood. Behind him his army shouted in triumph. Swords raised, they charged up through the dying flames.
Avender had seen what came of fighting the Wizard from above. The stair to the courtyard cut off, he turned and raced along the top of the parapet to the keep. Others joined him, some in fear and some with determination. Inside, they dashed through corridors gone dark with evening, following the path the baroness had taken not long before.
They came out in the gallery above the hall. The Wizard, enjoying his sport on the wall, had left the inner keep to those who had followed him up the hill. A few had already forced their way inside. Keln lay in a pool of blood by the door, his mistress facing their enemies with a broom while Marietta wept behind the table.
Avender raced to the baroness’s defense, the other men behind him. But the sissit and northerners struck first, three of them lunging forward with their swords. Lady Breeanna knocked them all flat with one thumping swing. She caught two more on the backstroke before Avender reached her side.
Sensing reinforcements, she rushed her attackers. “For Backford!” she cried, buffeting the villains before her. Avender had no choice but to charge as well. With the chainmailed guards soon joining them, they forced the sissit and northern men back through the door of the hall. Lady Breeanna would have chased them on into the courtyard had Avender not called her back.
“Baroness!” he cried. “Do not leave your baron. Your men and I will hold the door.”
Together, Avender and the castle guard slew many, but more enemies flooded in through the broken gate. Fires burned along the wall, the Wizard laughing as he smashed everything with his smoking club.
In the doorway Avender stumbled back from a heavy blow. Another guard took his place, but there weren’t many of them left.
Someone tugged his arm from behind.
“Please, Sir Avender. Help me with the baroness.”
Avender looked at Marietta wildly, not understanding her question at all.
“Help you? Help you how?”
“The baroness is with child.” Tears wet Marietta’s cheeks as she spoke. “It’s not fitting she throw the babe’s life away with her own.”
“With child?” Avender was too weary and dismayed to understand.
“She should at least try to escape. Into the hills, perhaps. Please.”
“Escape?”
As Avender asked the question, his mind came back into focus. The baroness sobbed by the body of her baron, her broom discarded on the floor. At the doorway the next man who fell would be the last
“There is a way,” he said quickly. “Through the cellars. If you go now you can escape.”
“Please.” Marietta pleaded with sad, dark eyes. Avender sensed she was only just holding back from throwing herself on the body of her own lover. “You’ll have to bring her yourself. My lady won’t listen to me.”
“Go to the cellar stair.”
Without looking to see if the woman had obeyed, Avender darted toward the long table. “My lady.” He spoke as firmly and as kindly as he could. “You must come with me.”
Lady Breeanna looked up with tear-stained eyes, her face swollen with grief. “Excuse me, sir? Leave my baron?”
Avender knew he couldn’t force her. Nor could he carry her off. “Yes, my lady. For the sake of your child.”
“For the sake of my...” Anger swelled in the baroness’s eyes. “Sir, you presume greatly to speak to me of such a thing.”
“My lady, I presume greatly for Backford. And for your baron. It is what he would have me do.”
As gallantly as he could manage, knowing the defense at the door might break at any moment, Avender bowed and held out his arm toward the doorway under the stair. The baroness gazed at him strangely, a light of understanding lifting in her eyes. She looked back at her baron. Avender thought the moment was lost. Gently she kissed her dead husband’s hand.
“My baron,” she said softly, dabbing the corner of her eye with her torn veil.
She rose from her knees as Avender was about to despair. “Lead on, sir. If you think we can escape, for the sake of my baron’s heir, we must try.”
“Through the cellar, my lady.”
They ducked into the dark stair as the last man fell behind them. Marietta led the way down into the guttering darkness.
“There is no escape this way, Sir Avender.” Breeanna’s voice filled the chamber around them.
“There is, ma’am. Nurren showed me the back door.”
“We will only be captured in the hills. But I suppose it is worth the attempt.”
“We’ll flee to the Stoneways. Down the Backford Way, if we can find it.”
“I know the place.” The baroness stooped low to enter the tunnel entrance. “My baron showed me himself.”
“You know it?” For the first time real hope rose in Avender. He hadn’t been sure he could find the spot on his own despite the Dwarf’s directions.
“I do, Sir Avender. But it doesn’t matter, as we haven’t a key. Nor do we have a light to see in this filthy tunnel.”
“I have both.” Avender pulled the pouch out from inside his shirt and poured the lamp into his palm.
Lady Breeanna’s face shone in the sudden pale light. Real hope came into her eyes.
Heavy boots sounded behind them. Avender cupped the lamp in his hand. “Quickly,” he whispered. “Down the tunnel. If we’re lucky, they won’t see our light and will miss the hidden door.”
They emerged on the hill above the castle confident no one had followed them. Orange curtains flickered in the windows of the keep. Beside the river the town burned like a broken forge. Breeanna led the way as they scrambled up through the covering trees. Three hundred and eleven paces Nurren had said, but fewer for Avender’s long stride. Lady Breeanna’s was just as long. Avender wondered if he should have asked Marietta to do the counting.
Sooner than he expected, the wood broke around them to expose a scar in the side of the mountain. Breeanna led them up the steep scree to a short cliff. The sun had set behind the mountains, leaving all but Backford Pool in shadow. Avender held Uhle’s gift up before the wall. Slowly a pale line emerged, running across the stone like milk spilled in a narrow gutter.
The square closed, outlining the door. Avender moved his lamp across the rock.
“Where’s the lock?” he asked impatiently.
“Right there. Right where my baron showed it to me the last time.” Rubbing her damp eyes fiercely, the baroness pointed out a small hollow glowing in the rock.
Avender placed his lamp in the keyhole. From behind the stone came a sharp click. The door shivered and edged forward within its frame.
“Now what?” asked Avender.
“Push,” said Lady Breeanna. “That’s what Garven did.”
Avender pushed, his legs slipping on the uneven footing.
“Someone’s coming,” said Marietta, her face white.
Avender looked down the rocky slope. A squad of northern soldiers filed out of the trees.
“Help me, baroness!” he cried. “The stone’s too heavy.”
Lady Breeanna placed her broad shoulder against the rock. Marietta helped too. The stone lurched forward. A thin crevice opened in the cliff.
“More,” gasped Avender.
The stone slid forward another foot. Marietta slipped inside, followed by the baroness. There was no time for Avender to follow; the men below were only a lunge away. He rolled Uhle’s gift into the tunnel.
“Run!” he called, drawing his sword. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”
Countering the first attacker’s slash, Avender caught him a kick in the jaw that sent the soldier tumbling down the slope. The second ran his sword through Avender’s chest.
He gasped. The Dwarven door snapped closed. Loose rock sliding beneath his feet, Avender crashed into the man below. The sword twisted in his chest, slicing along the rib. He felt his body open. The other soldiers jumped out of the way as he tumbled down the slope. His slide stopped at the edge of the trees.
High above, an eagle soared. The sky domed blue through rock and leaves. Much closer than the bird, a man in black armor loomed. Ossdonc, thought Avender dimly. His blood pooled on the stones around him. No. He recognized the face, though it had changed over the years.
It was Reiffen.