Valkounin the Strong stood before a downcast Princess Petrine (who because of the all-pervading grayness looked more drawn than ever) and voiced what most who had assembled in the audience chamber of the castle already knew but preferred not to articulate.
'As of yesterday week, Gierash, Stenyau-by-the-Drover, the kingdoms of Roun and Rouel, Parbafan, and Grand Tecrelle have all made obeisance to the Horde.' Valkounin ignored the despondent murmur that greeted his pronouncement. 'We can count on no help from any of them.'
'Even Grand Tecrelle!' someone muttered in disbelief. 'They had the finest light cavalry in the far eastern Gowdlands.'
Valkounin glanced back at the speaker. 'Who can blame them for submitting? Not I. Of what use are cavalry against sorcery, lancers against incantations?' He gestured skyward, to where the formerly magnificent frescoes that adorned the high, vaulted ceiling now looked down on the assembly out of gray-gormed eyes that seemed to weep silently for their lost splendor.
'A sword cannot banish a spell. The most accurate archer cannot transfix a hex. Without necromantic help of the first order, we are lost.' Turning slowly, he scanned as many faces as he could. Some were known personally to him: others were strangers who had fled to Malostranka in search of sanctuary, or allies—or hope. The first was temporary, the second useless, and the third—the third was scarcely present.
'If only Susnam Evyndd—' a captain of fallen Partiria began. Valkounin cut him off.
'Susnam Evyndd is dead! Stunned where he stood trying to defend Kyll-Bar-Bennid. He was the greatest wizard of the Gowdlands. All students and practitioners of the arcane arts acknowledged this. Yet now he is dead, as dead as any ordinary pikeman who fought to hold back the Horde at the terminus of the Salmisti Bridge. Understanding this, the lesser wizards have fled to more congenial climes or temporalities. Still, we must find sorceral help, somewhere….' His deep voice trailed away, into a silence devoid of suggestions.
Petrine was as beautiful as any princess could be expected to be, but she was also wise beyond her years. That, and her sharp tongue, had kept her unwed for far longer than was usual for marriageable royalty. Now she found herself, unintentionally and quite by accident of circumstance, in charge of the last pocket of resistance holding out against the cursed invaders in all the imposing length and breadth of the Gowdlands. It was a task she had not sought, but found herself unable to abandon. Besides, she no longer had any choice in the matter. The Khaxan Mundurucu knew who led the defense of fortress Malostranka, and everyone knew what they did to those who resisted their dominion. Better, she had long ago decided, to die fighting than squirming.
For the sake of those who had gathered together in this last outpost of goodness and civilization, she did her best to mask her emotions. It would have been a great help, she knew, if even a very inexperienced and inconsequential wizard had been present to stand at her side and offer sage advice. But there were none. The place reserved for one trained in such arts was as vacant as the stone that waited to uplift such a brave figure. Valkounin was right about the wizards of the Gowdlands: they were fled, all of them. The demise of Susnam Evyndd had cowed them into uselessness.
'At least,' she ventured, for lack for anything more positive to offer, 'we are able to give the learned Evyndd a farewell befitting his courage and skill—inadequate as they may have proven to be.'
'Yes, majesty.' Welworthen, her personal adviser, squinted through the gray air at the gray sky visible through a gray side window. 'The burial party should be soon finished with their work.'
'Good,' grunted Valkounin, who from the time the intention had been declared had disapproved of the dangerous and, to him, entirely unnecessary distraction. 'The sooner they dispose of the remains and get back here, the better. We can use every hand that can raise a sword.'
Far from the inaccessible canyon that protected the ramparts of the besieged fortress Malostranka, farther still from the ravaging host that was the Horde, deep within the ancient forest of Fasna Wyzel, a small troop of heavily armed men and women was wending its way toward a river. No homes graced its sparkling shores, no neat gardens were set carefully back from its steeply sloping banks. The depths of the Fasna Wyzel were a place of mystery, of robust rumors and ancient tales twice told. People went in, and sometimes came out, but on no account did they linger. The forest was too dark, too dense, too full of hollows and hedges where eyes peeped out at intrepid passers-by and teeth flashed when the sun fell the wrong way.
No fear of the latter now, mused an introspective Captain Slale. Green as it was once, the forest, like the rest of the world, had descended into gloomy grayness thanks to the all-encompassing Mundurucu hex. The birds that still sang in its trees, albeit fitfully and without enthusiasm, were tiny sad balls of dingy fluff. The other creatures who called the Fasna Wyzel home were little better off. Only the squirrels, charcoal to light gray of color before the application of the spell, could now revel in their natural griminess, and they chose not to do so. Since the coming of the Horde, the world was no longer a happy place, and the forest no exception.
Even the normally clear river, where the line of glum-faced soldiers turned off the main trail and headed upstream, had been reduced to a rush and gurgle of irritating drabness. No lights flashed from the small cataracts in its midst. Even the cheerful frogs had been mortified into silence by the persisting dearth of color.
In the absence of trail, Slale relied on the instructions he had received at Malostranka from the dejected minor wizard who had been one of those who had spirited the deceased Evyndd's body out of Kyll-Bar-Bennid ahead of the triumphant Horde. If these were correct, they should be very close now to their intended destination. Not that it mattered to him if they missed their goal. Nothing mattered anymore except killing as many of the enemy as possible. While serving in the defense of Kyll-Bar-Bennid, his own homeland had been overrun by the outriders of the Horde, the fine home that had been in his family for centuries had been burned to the ground, and his family, his wife and two sons…
He concentrated on finding a path through the trees. They grew close together here, so near the nourishing river. Moss hung from branches and sprouted like gray fur from the trunks of seasoned boles. Invigorated by the absence of normal light, monstrous mushrooms and toadstools and liverworts clambered wildly over fallen logs and old stumps. Except for the unquenchable rumble of the river, the forest was unnaturally silent, as if its inhabitants had been massively overdosed with some powerful tranquilizing agent. Slale wished for some such medicine himself. It might help him not to think so much. Thinking was dangerous, as it led inexorably to remembrance.
'There it is, sir.' A weary, perspiring sergeant-of-arms rose partway in his saddle and pointed. Slale could see the house, too, peeping through the trees. He was quietly relieved. They would, it seemed, be able to do what they had come for, deliver the contents of the silver box to the domicile that lay just ahead, and return by the secret way to Malostranka. He imagined the Princess Petrine would be pleased. He hoped so. Very little pleased her these days. Even as small and insignificant a success as this would be welcomed. In that respect, he supposed, the troop's long journey was not a waste, even if he continued personally to think otherwise.
The house in the forest was surprisingly large, and of unusual design. But that was to be expected. The rear half appeared to have been hewn from the solid rock of an immense pile of boulders, while the front rose as high as three stories beneath the many-gabled thatched roof. Mullioned windows of stained glass greatly diminished by grayness gazed out across river and woods. The forest had been cleared away in front, and a small yard filled with diverse flowers would normally have greeted visitors with a carpet of color. Now their manifold petals hung low, drowned by the all-encompassing grayness.
As they approached the entrance, a dog ran out to greet them. He was of medium size, a wirehaired male who was nothing less than an energetic mass of textbook muttness. There wasn't a straight hair on his body, his tail curled back up over his rear end, and the tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth was splotched with black. Dark, lively eyes gazed inquiringly up at the tired visitors, and his whole countenance bespoke a nature that was ever sunny and alert. It raised the spirits of several of the disillusioned soldiers just to look upon this four-legged bundle of homey cheer. As the troop continued toward the house, the dog uttered a few desultory warning barks, but his heart was clearly not in it. The soldiers sensed this, and smiled. They, too, had often spent long hours on guard, with nothing to show for their efforts.
'Easy there, boy. What's the matter—you hungry?' From the heights of his saddle it was too far for Slale to reach down and pet the animal. Instead, he smiled and spoke softly, and was rewarded with toothy grin and wagging tail. The captain did not feel sorry for the abandoned dog. The life it led was doubtless better than his own.
'Dessevia,' he ordered a soldier, 'as soon as we're inside, see if you can find this poor friendly mongrel something to eat.' It was the least they could do, he reflected, for a loyal animal whose master the visitors were bringing home in a box.
