situation had not yet sunk in. Phenvel still thought of himself as ruler of Semma, and the other Semmans still had the habit of obeying him. The castle was still his.
So now Sterren stood on the ramparts, watching his soldiers herd the peasants out the gate.
Each one, whether man, woman, or child, did the same thing upon passing the gate. Each one looked north, at the warlock’s building site.
Vond’s project was progressing well. He had completed his crypts, or at least the shell, in that first day, and had built his hill up around them overnight. Now he was erecting white marble walls on that base. The ground shook each time a new section dropped into place, and the roar of stone grinding against stone was almost constant.
Vond’s first quarry, now closed, had yielded granite, so the marble, gleaming in the morning sun, was a surprise, and combined with the horrendous racket it was very hard to ignore.
The entertainment, for Sterren, was not that each face turned toward the palace, but in seeing what each one did next.
Some stopped and stood staring, open-mouthed, until proddings from behind forced them to move on. Others took a single glance and marched on, stolidly accepting this miraculous construction as just another event that was none of their business. A few looked, then looked away, clearly frightened, as if just looking at the palace might somehow get them in trouble. Some of the children laughed and applauded as huge stones fell into position, or pointed wonderingly at the tiny black-robed figure hanging unsupported above the high white walls.
The next thing that each peasant did, after looking at Vond’s latest handiwork, was to look at the ruined village, and the reactions to that were far more consistent. Sterren could see despair plainly in the expressions and slumped shoulders of virtually all the evictees.
He had already decided, by the time the first peasant passed the threshold into the mud-soaked, debris- strewn village market, that he would order his soldiers to help with the clean-up and rebuilding. They were supposed to be men of war, and it was the war that had made this mess, so cleaning it up fell within their duties as Sterren saw them.
The last peasant was stepping unwillingly out into the mud when the roar from the north stopped.
It took a moment for the echoes to die away and silence to descend, and by then everyone had noticed the change, and every face had turned toward the new palace. The little black shape no longer flew above the marble walls; instead, it was soaring gracefully toward them. Sterren heard a few whispers from the crowd below, but then silence fell again as they all stared at the approaching warlock.
Sterren, too, stared, wondering why Vond had stopped work at this particular moment. He hadn’t finished the wall he was working on. If he was coming to force King Phenvel to surrender, it struck Sterren as rather peculiar timing.
Then he realized that from his position high above the palace, Vond would have seen the people emerging from the castle. He might even have seen Sterren, on the battlements above, and recognized him.
And Sterren, after all, was warlord of Semma. The warlock might think that an attack was being organized, or a formal surrender, or some other operation involving him.
“Hai!” he called, waving an arm. “Vond! Over here!” He did not want the warlock to believe for even a moment that anything suspicious was going on. He could probably kill every peasant there, and Sterren, too, as easily as Sterren would stamp on an ant.
Vond waved and a moment later he settled down onto the wall beside Sterren. The peasants below stared up at the two of them. “Hello, Sterren,” he said, “What’s happening? I saw the crowd from over there.” He waved toward his palace, and Sterren saw a proud smile flash across his face. “Coming along nicely, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” Sterren agreed. Privately, he thought that the place looked somewhat forbidding; Vond had not bothered with much architectural detailing, but had used huge blank slabs of stone for most of his construction. He had not yet cut windows in them, either. The result, despite the white marble, looked more like a fortress than a palace.
Vond himself looked as human and ordinary as ever, just a smiling middle-aged man in black robes, and it was a bit hard to comprehend that he had singlehandedly erected most of that fortress in a day and a half.
“What’s this?” the warlock asked, waving at the market square. It was obvious to anyone that the ragged crowd milling below was no army readying for an attack.
“The king’s evicting them,” Sterren explained. “They took shelter in the castle during the siege and, now that the siege is over, they’re leaving.”
“Where are they going?” Vond asked, interested.
“Here,” Sterren said, waving. “They’re mostly from the village here. They’ll have to clean it up and rebuild, of course; I’ll be sending my men out to help. I suppose some of them come from the farms, too.” He couldn’t resist adding, “I don’t know if any of them are from the farms you’ve torn up for your palace.”
Vond glanced at him, startled, and then looked back down at the peasants.
“Oh,” he said, “but this can’t be all the people from all those farms and the entire village, too! What happened to the rest? Did the invaders kill them?”
Sterren shrugged. “Some of them, probably, but a lot must have fled every which way. You remember meeting some of those. These are just the ones who got to the castle before the gate was closed; nobody’s gone out to bring in the others yet.”
Vond stared down at the people for a moment longer, and a good many of them stared back at him.
“Hai,” he called suddenly, “I am the Great Vond, the new lord of Semma! You see my palace over there!”
Sterren started to protest, to grab the warlock’s sleeve, and then thought better of it. After all, the warlock was speaking Ethsharitic, which none of the peasants understood, a fact that Vond had clearly forgotten.
“I am going to want servants. Any of you who would be interested in working for me, you need only walk over to my palace and wait there! You need not decide immediately; come when you choose, and I will find places for you!” A mutter of puzzlement ran through the crowd. Nobody moved.
“I will show you, now, why I am the true ruler of Semma, and not the oaf who calls himself your king!”
Vond raised his arms, and the mud of the marketplace rippled. Stones and broken beams were thrown up, to hang in mid-air for an instant, and then fling themselves away, out of the village and into the distance. The mud itself separated into water and soil, and the water, too, was flung away.
In a moment, the marketplace was clean and dry, the dirt hard-packed beneath the peasants’ bare feet, pressed down almost into pavement by Vond’s warlockry.
Sterren, watching in fascination, thought that even the dirt from the peasants’ clothes and faces had gone into that smooth surface, leaving the crowd noticeably cleaner.
With a rush of wind, debris rolled up from one blocked street into a ball that hung in the air and then sailed away.
Then another street was cleared, and another, in similar fashion.
In twenty minutes, Vond had cleared out all the wreckage, leaving untouched the houses that still stood, and removing all trace of those that had been knocked down.
Unfortunately, that left only half a village, and most of that half was missing windows, doors, roofs, or even chunks of wall.
Vond eyed the results critically, then shrugged. “It’s a start,” he said. He raised a hand again.
Something, perhaps a motion in the corner of his eye, made Sterren turn and look at the castle. Faces were crowded in every window, watching this spectacle.
He turned back toward the village.
The wreckage that had been sent off over the rooftops was coming back now, as one huge, irregular mass that hung in the air like a cloud. It was shifting its shape like a cloud, too, though far faster than any natural formation. Wood, stone, and thatch were separating out into distinct portions; everything else was being dropped into a refuse heap in a handy field.
It occurred to Sterren for the first time that there were no natural clouds anywhere in sight, which, in light of what he had been told, hardly seemed normal for winter in Semma. He wondered if the warlock was controlling the weather, keeping the sky clear to make his working environment more pleasant.
