'Don't,' said Alish to Hearst, 'give them any bullshit and bluster. Take what we're offered. Remember, half a cup's better than nothing. And while you're about it, see if they've got my resting woman – you know the one. She seems to be lost.'
Til play the perfect diplomat,' said Hearst. 'Trust me. And, while I'm down there, I'll be sure to ask after your doxy.'
By now it was late afternoon. The drawbridge was lowered, and Morgan Hearst went downhill to the enemy. He returned toward nightfall with the enemy's terms, and the news that the enemy were now enjoying the company of Volaine Persaga Haveros, who had joined Comedo's forces in the autumn, and was now revealed to be not a Collosnon fugitive but a Collosnon spy. This man Haveros had been able to tell the enemy commander everything he needed to know about Castle Vaunting. The enemy's terms were blunt and simple: 'Our lord the Emperor Khmar requires the surrender of the ruling castle of Estar, together with all horse and weapons. Those in the castle must leave, taking with them only their clothes and their children. The ruby eye of the dragon Zenphos is to be delivered to the army of rightful inheritance. The prince of the castle is to be delivered up for execution. Any and all diviners, necromancers, sorcerers, witches, palmists, makers of spells and potions or other workers of magic are to be killed, and their heads presented to the commander of the battlefield. Long live the emperor!'
Prince Comedo, realising the enemy wanted him dead, screamed, and fled, wailing.
'What of my woman?' asked Alish.
'As far as anyone knows, she's dead,' said Hearst, easily.
And Alish thought:
– One more person lost to the wreckage of war. And vowed that, in his wars, there would be no such innocent victims.
A single candle kept night's besieging darkness at bay. Gathered at a table for a council of war were Phyphor, Garash, Miphon, Morgan Hearst, Elkor Alish and a tear-stained Prince Comedo.
'Today we find we have a common cause,' said Phyphor. T will name it. Survival.'
'The enemy wish to drink wizard-blood,' said Alish, 'but I haven't heard them asking for my head.'
'Your oath of honour binds you to your prince,' said Phyphor.
'That's right,' said Comedo, eagerly. 'Quite right.'
'True,' said Alish. 'But it's early days to talk of dying sword in hand. An enemy army of that size can't live off the land. They can't have more than a month's provisions at most. Their bellies will soon be making certain arguments. They'll soon decide they have to let my prince go free – and I'll go with him.'
He paused. And they heard shouts of alarm, cries, a clash of steel. Despite the speech he had just made, it was Alish who came to the obvious conclusion: 'By the hell!' he said, rising. 'The enemy are in the castle! Quick!'
'Impossible,' said Garash faintly.
But Alish was already gone, plunging recklessly down darkened stairways with Hearst close behind him. The wizards got to their feet. Compared to the Rovac warriors they were like sleepwalkers, like drugged men, unable to make that instant transition from talk to action.
Alish crashed down the stairs four at a time, eight at a time. Below, echoes hammered from the walls. The clash of steel woke iron voices from the castle rock. Vivid memories woke: the sheen of steel sweeping through the sun, blood on ice, a face demolished, falling.
Torches lit the fifth level of the gatehouse keep, where a portal opened onto the battlements. The enemy were storming the portal from the battlements. The fight was going against the defenders.
'Ahyak Rovac!' screamed Alish.
Weak words they made in translation, for they meant only 'here are the Rovac', but that battlecry was feared throughout half the world. Then Alish drew his sword. Ethlite graced his hand. Hearst joined him, his battle-sword Hast in hand, and they fought together, side by side.
It was night.
Prince Comedo had struggled to the top of the gatehouse keep, as far from the battle as possible. Wind and rain harassed him. He stamped his feet; he wore socks of the warmest wool and boots of the softest leather, but still his feet were cold.
Far, far below, in the darkness, the battle raged. The enemy had used big crossbows to shoot hundreds of grapples with ropes attached. The grapples had hooked onto the battlements, allowing the Collosnon to swarm across to attack the gatehouse keep.
The ropes had gone up in flames when the wizards had joined the battle, with Phyphor calling out the Words which had turned the flame trench into a seething inferno, shooting flames toward the sky – but by that time over a thousand Collosnon soldiers had been on the battlements. The reverberating energies of the flame trench now made the castle itself shudder and shake.
At first, Phyphor had blasted the battlements with white fire from his hand and his staff, but now Phyphor's power was exhausted, hundreds of Collosnon soldiers remained alive, and the battle raged on without benefit of magic.
The wind, bitterly cold, drove clouds across the sky. They glowed red with reflections from the flame trench; the heavens themselves were on fire. The land, in all directions, was dark as the grave and the gut of the worm. And the wind, clawing Comedo, ravaging the clouds, was like the wind the poet talks of in the Epic of Sothor:
The wind that teaches the children of death, The wind that teaches the hero of fear, The wind that sharpens the teeth of the mountains, The wind that carries the cry of the skeleton, The wind that is rasp under hammer, the claw – Comedo clutched the retaining wall as the wind threatened to tear him from his feet.
– So they are here. In the castle. They will conquer. Yes. The gates will fall. Yes. Tapestries torn. Yes. Blood on the floor. Yes.
– No!
Fists grip, jaw tightens, pulse throbs. A scream wells in his throat and bursts out: no no no no no! The wind laughs it away; the wind sings of millstones, breaking rock and grinding bones. Comedo screams again. They must not! They must not conquer! By the red hells of leprosy and rupture, they must not! Wind, night and darkness mock him, and enjoy.
Elkor Alish, the best swordsman of Rovac – and, according to some, Rovac's greatest war leader – raised a heavy hand to wipe his long black hair from his eyes. He was uncertain on his feet, exhausted after a night of battle, but he knew this was only the beginning. After a day and a night it would be much worse: he would be asleep on his feet, living a nightmare.
There was blood on his sword.
He mouthed the words: I have killed again.
The words meant nothing.
The dawn was as grey as steel. Rain hammered on wet stones. Water and blood. The dead. Dead men on the battlements. Dead Collosnon in the central courtyard, which they had gained by abseiling down from the battlements. Dead Collosnon by the courtyard entry to the gatehouse keep, now barred by a portcullis. Dead refugees, slaughtered by the Collosnon in the courtyard.
The surviving soldiers of the enemy were on the battlements, keeping their distance from archers who could shoot from the heights of the gatehouse keep. How many were left? Two hundred? Three? Enough, for certain.
Alish knew they would attack again.
And he knew which way the battle would go.
Dough-faced men watched the hammering rain. Men who had repelled repeated fanatic charges now faced the day with eyes as blank as drowning. They moved slowly, with effort, as if their limbs had been swollen with elephantitis. Miphon, helped by Blackwood, was tending to the wounded.
'A good battle,' said Gorn cheerfully; his shoulder had been heavily bruised, a blow driving links of his chain mail into his flesh.
'Yes,' said Alish. 'It was a good battle.'
'They will make a song for us,' said Gorn.
'We can hope as much,' said Alish.
