Like Major Spelt, Grostheim itself exuded an air of tension, as if the city existed solely to anticipate further attack. Folk met the long column of blue and red-coated soldiery with cheers, as if rescue were come, but Var saw hollowed eyes and thinned cheeks, as if sleep and food were both in short supply. No less could he help noticing the signs of damage, where roofs or whole buildings had burned down, the charred remains often as not inhabited by people who appeared to live under the canvas pitched there. Also, the place seemed more crowded than he remembered, the sunny afternoon more redolent of Bantar’s poorer quarters than this airy western clime. He inquired of Spelt just what had happened, but the older man was again become taciturn, waving a stained hand and suggesting Var wait until they gained the privacy of Wyme’s mansion, where a full account might be delivered.
After a few moments of silence, Var complied.
Wyme sat behind his ornate desk, a decanter at his elbow, a brandy glass clutched in his right hand. Sunlight fell slanting across his round face, and Var saw he sweated. The brandy rippled as Wyme’s hand shook; Var wondered if that was the product of fear or Talk’s presence. Perhaps for Wyme there was no difference-surely the Inquisitor was an ominous figure, settled like a black crow in an armchair, his eyes sharp, darting from Wyme’s face to the two officers as if he accused them all of some unadmitted sin.
“The troops are settled?”
Var nodded. “And Major Spelt has arranged for provender.”
He glanced at Spelt, seeking again to establish some communication between them, but Spelt’s gaze was shifting nervously from Wyme to Talle.
“Then do we begin.” The Inquisitor gestured at chairs as if it were his study, not the governor’s, they occupied. “Sit.”
“You’ll take brandy?” Wyme indicated the decanter.
Before Var had chance to reply, Spelt nodded and found himself a glass. He filled it close to the brim, brows raised in inquiry as he looked to Talle and Var.
Talle only shook his head, fingers drumming impatiently on the chair’s arm. Var said, “A measure, if you please.” Did Talle disapprove, then damn him-surely they could retain some degree of civility. He smiled his thanks as Spelt passed him the glass.
“Now that we all gathered, Governor,” Talk’s voice was soft, “do you advise us of the situation. Commence with events after Major Var’s departure.”
“Attacks. More attacks.” Wyme’s eyes shifted from the Inquisitor’s penetrating stare as if he sought some avenue of escape. “Refugees began to come to Grostheim, quitting their farms.”
“And you did not order them to return?” Talk’s voice was cold with disapproval. “How shall this land be settled if every farmer comes running into Grostheim at the first hint of trouble?”
“No. I … How could I?” Wyme shook his head helplessly, his cheeks glowing. Sweat ran into his eyes like tears and he produced a kerchief, dabbing at his face. “They were free folk.”
“And you were the governor.” Talle made the past tense sound permanent.
Wyme’s flush deepened. “Save I ordered Major Spelt to force them back at bayonet’s point, they’d not have gone.”
“As well I’m here.” Talle spoke softly, no louder than a murmur. “Things appear in a sorry state.”
Wyme swallowed; Spelt emptied his glass and rose to fill it.
“Patrols were sent out,” the governor declared hurriedly. “They found the signs of attack, but not the attackers. Only one man was left alive. The demons sent him back, that he bring a message.”
He broke off, filling his glass. Talle said, sharply, “They spoke to him?”
Wyme looked to Spelt for support, but the Militiaman only sat slumped, staring ahead. “They did, Inquisitor. They told him they planned to come against Grostheim; that this land is theirs.”
“They spoke our tongue?”
“Yes.”
“The man’s name?”
Wyme looked again to Spelt, who said, “Captain Danyael Corm, Inquisitor.”
“I’ll speak with him later.” Talle scratched his narrow nose, his expression thoughtful. Var was reminded of a carrion bird studying a carcass. “Go on.”
“They made good their promise.” Wyme’s eyes met Talk’s at last, almost defiant. “More holdings were destroyed and folk flooded into the city. Food grew scarce. I must find quarters for them all …”
“Or send them back.” Talk’s lips curved in a mocking smile. “At bayonet’s point, if necessary.”
Wyme flushed. “They’d have fought,” he protested. “God knows, but there’d have been rioting. And had they gone back, surely the demons would have slain them.”
“And where was Major Spelt all the while?” The Inquisitor’s bird-bright eyes swung to the officer. “Why was no punitive expedition mounted?”
Wyme appeared grateful that attention was focused on Spelt, who shrugged uncomfortably and said, “It was discussed, Inquisitor. But I’ve only so many men-and enough lost already. You must understand … It was the governor’s decision-” He avoided Wyme’s angry glance.”-that it were best we hold Grostheim secure against the threatened attack. These demons are not such creatures as I’ve ever fought. They come out of nowhere and disappear like shadows…. They’re savage beyond belief. Had I taken my full force out-or even sufficient men to scour the land-I should have left Grostheim undefended.”
“We believed ourselves alone in Salvation,” Wyme added desperately. “We’ve never had more than a garrison here-not enough men to fight a
He paused, topping his glass as if the memory required the fortification of alcohol. Var studied his face, and Spelt’s, and thought two very nervous men sat here. Doubtless both feared for their positions-nor did Talle’s interrogation reassure them-but there was more. He wondered what these demons were, that they induced such unease.
Talk grunted and gestured that Wyme continue.
“They came in the night, with fire.” Wyme shuddered at the recollection. “They burned those buildings outside the walls-the warehouses and the docks, all the boats there. Worse, they sent fire-arrows over the walls. In God’s name, it was chaos!”
“I sallied against them,” Spelt took up the narration as Wyme fell silent, “but I was beaten back. God knows, but it was all we could do to hold the walls.”
“What of your hexes?” Talle locked eyes with Wyme.
“Not strong enough. It requires one of your strength to fix those secure.”
He essayed a nervous smile that Talle ignored. “They breached the walls?” It was the first time Var had seen the Inquisitor disconcerted.
“They did,” Wyme said. “We held them off for seven days, but then they entered. God, it was terrible!”
“It was a hard fight.” Spelt looked to regain some measure of authority, of respect. “We fought them through the streets, and finally drove them back. But there were losses. …”
“Yes, yes.” Talle was unconcerned with the fallen. “And then?”
“They sieged us,” Spelt said.
“A month,” Wyme added. “Then they quit. Between the sun’s setting and the next day’s dawn, they were gone-praise God!” “And then?” Talle prompted.
“We set to repairing the damage as best we could.” Wyme dabbed anew at his face. “There’s not so much timber left in the vicinity, so we sent armed expeditions south to the Hope River.”
“South? Why south?”
“The demons would seem to inhabit the north and west,” Wyme explained. “The attacks began there, along the wilderness edge.”
“And did you find sign of them to the south?”
“None.” Wyme shook his head. “Indeed, I was able to persuade a good number of the refugees to return in that direstion.”
Had he hoped this news would please the Inquisitor, he was disappointed: Talle only nodded, his face expressionless, and asked, “And those with holdings to the west and north?”
