Deprived of reinforcements, the tide of the attack inside the camp turned. Outside, attackers, disoriented and trapped by the rings of fire, fell to a rain of arrows as more of Rymark’s soldiers gained the parapet.
Even after the last scream died away, Toria remained atop the tower with Fess and Timbriend as she completed her count. Then they descended the ladder, with Fess leading, his face and clothes covered in spatters of blood.
Rymark issued orders, and the gates were opened. “See to the wounded,” he ordered a captain, “and organize a detail to bury the dead.” His dark brows hooded his eyes in the firelight, promising retribution. “Have the men separate the attackers from ours and count the bodies.”
Wag, covered with blood and panting, came trotting up to her. She put her hands on him. Well done, Wag.
Thank you, Mistress. His tongue lolled to one side, but thankfully, he didn’t lick her. The forest men outside the second fire got away. An undercurrent of sorrow accompanied this.
How many escaped? Within his mind rose the image of a great pack, easily fifty or more. She rose, slipping her gloves back on. “Thank you, Wag.”
Rymark and Ellias, still tightly ringed by their personal guard stood waiting for her. Toria bowed her respect. “The rings of fire were well conceived,” she said. “What made you think to do it?”
He nodded in acknowledgment. “The art of war is to adapt, Lady Deel. When Lord Fess put forth his idea to ring the forest twice to keep people from entering, it occurred to me to use something similar for our defense. We put oil-soaked wood in two perimeters outside the camp, far enough away to keep from endangering ourselves.”
Toria nodded. “But within bowshot.”
“Well, Timbriend?” Ellias asked.
Her face held the pallor of death, but she bore no sign of injury. Her hands shook as she pulled a charcoal writing stick and parchment from her cloak. Rymark closed the distance, his expression thunderous. “What possessed you to ascend the tower during the attack? My men could have counted for you.”
She shook her head. “It had to be accurate. Even so, I have no estimate for how many escaped.”
“At least fifty,” Toria said. She didn’t attempt to explain her insight.
Timbriend sighed. “I’ll have to revise my calculations.”
She looked at Ellias. “The numbers are wrong. There shouldn’t have been so many. I need to get to my tent.” Timbriend took a step, but the trembling in her hands shifted to her legs, betraying her. When she pitched forward, Fess caught her and helped her find her balance, and Rymark ordered two of his men to help her away.
“What did she mean there were too many?” Toria said to Ellias before he could leave.
Ellias, big enough to match his guards, grew somber. “Timbriend is one of the brightest minds in Moorclaire. She has only to show mastery of the tenth part of the mathematicum to be considered a master.”
“The tenth part of the mathematicum?” Fess asked. “What is that?”
Toria bit her lip in frustration, not wanting to divert Ellias from her question. “A student wishing to attain master must explore a new field for the applications of the mathematicum.”
“Exactly,” Ellias said. “Timbriend chose to apply the mathematicum to the exercise of warfare in a new way. Even I have a difficult time understanding much of what she attempts.”
“What did she mean, there were too many?” Toria pressed.
The king’s lungs filled like a bellows before he answered. “The answer is at once both obvious and unknown. She meant the number of attackers sent against us shouldn’t have been possible, but I’m afraid we will have to leave deeper interpretations for dawn.” Rejoining his guards, he left.
Chapter 27
Toria came to with a start, jolting upright on her cot before she realized quiet still filled the camp.
“We’ve been summoned,” Fess said.
The lamp in his hand brought tears to her eyes, and she scrubbed at them in an effort to see. “How long have I been asleep?”
“They’ve only changed the guard once, so no more than four hours. Here.”
She nodded, bit a piece of the chiccor root he offered, and stood, still fully clothed and booted. Wag lifted his head, blinking. “Stay here,” she commanded.
They emerged from their tent into the cool of morning, but it wasn’t the weather that made her shiver. Bodies still littered the ground, and members of Ellias’s retinue moved to each, looking for whatever information they might use. She could have told them what they would find, of course. Bas-solas had taught her. Those who had come from the forest would show horrible bruising, the effect of mindlessly pushing their muscles past the breaking point. Instead, she searched the faces of the dead, looking for those she might know.
They passed through a cluster of guards and into Rymark’s tent, where the kings of Owmead and Moorclaire waited for them along with Timbriend, all of them a study in fatigue. Dark circles wreathed their eyes, and Rymark’s rod-straight posture had left him, his back curved beneath the burden of command.
“Where’s Prince Maenelic?” Toria asked.
Ellias shook his head. When he spoke his voice rumbled with anger. “The prince was outside the gates seeing to my men when the attack came. He took a couple of nasty strokes during the fight. The healers are seeing to him.”
“I’ll send my personal surgeon,” Rymark said. “The prince has been instrumental in the cooperation of Aille’s forces.” He turned to her. “When I returned to my tent, I used my scrying stone to call the other monarchs and warn them.” He nodded to Toria and Fess. “Doubtless you noticed that the attackers focused their assault on Ellias and me. I thought it best to warn the rest, though none of them were attacked.”
He went on. “Cesla knows what Ellias and I look
