He had seen the King’s squadron assault the eastern sea walls as the main body of the fleet attacked the mole forts and the boom which protected Abrusio’s widest harbour. But now he could see nothing, not even with his cantrips, for the entire enclosed trio of bays which formed the seaward side of the city was obscured by thundering smoke clouds. Three miles of shell-torn water from which a steady roar issued, as though some titanic, agonizing labour of birth were going on deep in that fog of war.
His familiar was dying somewhere aboard the King’s flagship. He had worn it out with his errands and only a flicker of life remained within its breast, a last spark of the Dweomer he had created it with. He could feel the ebbing of its loyal, savage mind, and with it was fading his own strength. No light thing, the death of a familiar. It was like losing a child whose umbilical had never been cut. Golophin felt as old and frail as a brittle leaf, and the Dweomer had sunk in him to a dull glow. It would be a long time ere he was ready to perform miracles again.
And yet he chafed at being here, on the summit of Admiral’s Tower, while the young man who was his lord and his friend fought for his birthright and the life of the city they both loved. The bastard traitors and Knights had ripped the bowels out of raucous Lower Abrusio. It would never be the same again, not in what remained of this old man’s lifetime anyway.
General Mercado joined him, leaving the aides and staff officers and couriers who were clustered about the map-littered table on the other side of the tower.
“He is over the walls,” the general said, one side of his face crannied with worry, the other silver perfection.
“Well, that is something. And the attack on the boom?”
“Too soon to say.” An especially severe series of broadsides from the harbour tumult meant he had to raise his voice to be heard. “We’ve lost at least four great ships and there’s no chance for the crews in that maelstrom. And those who make it ashore are being killed out of hand by the lackeys of the Carreras. At least two thousand men already.”
“What of your land assault?”
“Slow progress there. They’ve thrown up breastworks along their front and my men are having to charge them across the wasteground. There will be no sudden breakthrough, not in this half of the city. We are merely pinning down his troops.”
“So the main effort will be with Abeleyn?”
“Yes. His is the only assault which is presently getting anywhere. But with scarcely four thousand men the Presbyter cannot hold on to all his lines indefinitely. He will crack in the end. It only remains to be seen how much blood we must spill before he does.”
“Great God, General, this will ruin the kingdom.”
Golophin felt faint, worn, useless. The burly soldier steadied him with a hand on his thin arm.
“You should be resting, Golophin. We cannot spare men such as you, either now or in the future.”
The old wizard smiled wanly. “My life is not of such great account, not any more. We are each of us expendable, save one. Nothing must happen to the King, Albio, or this is all for nothing. The King must be made to realize that.”
“I’m sure he will be prudent. He is no fool, despite his youth.”
“He is not such a youth any more, either.”
T HE enemy lines had broken, and those who could were retreating westwards, having spiked their guns and fired their magazines. The Carrera retainers led the rout, whilst the Knights Militant brought up the rear, fighting stubbornly the whole way. Abeleyn’s men took heavy casualties as they followed up the retreat and stumbled into bitter hand-to-hand conflict with the Knights, who were well-trained and superbly armoured. It was only when the King halted the advance and reformed what men he could that the Knights were thrown back in disorder. Abeleyn’s arquebusiers and sword-and-buckler men had become disorganized and intermingled. He separated them and led the advance with quick-firing ranks of arquebusiers alone, which cut down the stolid Knights Militant and sowed panic in the enemy forces. The streets were streaming with men, some intent on saving their own lives, others intent on cutting them down. It had become a running battle, one-sided and fast- moving.
A gasping courier found Abeleyn near the foot of Abrusio Hill, directing the pursuit of the fleeing traitors in person and jogging along with his advancing forces as he snapped out orders right and left. The courier had to tug at the King’s arm before Abeleyn could be halted.
“What? What is it, damn it?”
“I am sent from General Rovero, sire,” the man panted. “He presents his compliments—”
“Damn his compliments! What has he to say?”
“The fleet has broken the boom, sire. They’re sailing into the Great Harbour and beginning to bombard the Upper City. They’ll be landing their marines in minutes. Sire, the general and Golophin beg that you do not expose yourself unnecessarily.”
“My thanks for their advice. Now run to the waterfront and hurry along those landing parties. I want the palace surrounded before the traitors can escape. Go!”
“Yes, your majesty.” And Abeleyn had disappeared into the midst of his jubilant, advancing troops.
“I T is over,” said Quirion.
Sastro’s face was as pale as snow. “What do you mean, ‘over’?”
They could hear the crackling of arquebus volleys as they stood in the high chambers of the palace’s topmost tower. It and the thunder of heavy guns mingled with the crash and rumble of lacerated masonry. Shells were falling closer. Men’s voices could be made out in individual screams rather than the far-off roar of battle which had been what they had heard from this eminence so far. A curtain of battle din was inexorably advancing towards them.
“Our lines are broken, Lord Carrera, and our forces—even my Knights—are in full retreat. The enemy ships have broken the boom and are in the Great Harbour trying the range for the palace. In a few minutes the bombardment of this very edifice will commence. We are defeated.”
“But how is that possible? Only this morning we were ready to discuss terms with an exhausted enemy.”
“You were ready. I never believed it would happen. Abeleyn is in the city as we speak, advancing on the palace. His men fight like fiends when he is at their head, and ours become discouraged. It may be we can draw together what troops of ours remain and make a stand here, perhaps sue for some terms other than those of unconditional surrender. I do not know. Your retainers are in utter rout, and even my people are much broken up. I have my senior officers in the streets trying to rally them, but I do not hold out much hope.”
“Then we must escape,” Sastro said in a strangled voice, his dreams and ambitions crumbling away before his eyes. But his life—it must be possible to survive. It was unthinkable that he would not.
“The palace is surrounded. There is no hope of escape, and especially not for you.” Here a note of some subtle satisfaction crept into Quirion’s voice. “If you are caught they will execute you out of hand for high treason. Myself and my men I believe they may let depart in peace—we are not Hebrionese, after all—but you and your men are traitors and will pay the ultimate penalty. I suggest, Lord Carrera, that to avoid public humiliation at the hands of Abeleyn’s soldiery, you use this—” And here Quirion held out a long, wicked-looking knife.
“Suicide?” Sastro squawked. “Is that the only end for me? Take my own life?”
“It would be a kinder end than the one Abeleyn will permit you.”
“And you—you will tamely submit to the dictates of a heretic king? What will the Pontiff think of that, Presbyter?”
“The Pontiff will not be pleased, naturally, but better that I bring him a thousand Knights out of this debacle than nothing. There is the future to think of. My men must live to fight again for the Church.”
“The future,” Sastro said bitterly. Tears were brimming in his eyes. “You must help me get away, Quirion. I am to be King of Hebrion. I am the only alternative to Abeleyn.”
“You bought your nomination with your men’s bodies,” Quirion said harshly. “There are others whose blood is better. Make a good end of it, Lord Carrera. Show them that you died a man.”
Sastro was weeping openly. “I cannot! How can I die, I, Sastro di Carrera? It cannot be. There must be something you can do.” He clutched at Quirion’s armoured shoulders as if he were a drowning man reaching for his rescuer. A spasm of disgust crossed the Presbyter’s face.
