Arch Wizard

able to point fingers instead, and so unleash those dooms. The helm to let him see and hear far away, and pry into minds. Yon cone contains spells to sear and ravage the minds of others he touches with his own-if they're wizards, to try to enthrall them, and if they're simpler folk like you and me, to fry us into mind-slaves or walking mindless things.'

'So ye moved the helm, why?'

Isk smiled sweetly. 'Now, instead of the cone pouring its powers temporarily into the helm, it will unleash them right into the head of whoever stands in the circle. So if Malraun is in a great and excited hurry, and doesn't notice my little adjustment, he'll end up with his mind rocked and cooked for a bit, not smugly able to blast the brains of others. I think wizards in Falconfar are more than powerful enough.'

'While I think we should get the defecating greatfangs out of here!' Garfist growled, waving his hands in mimicry of a Stormar hedge-wizard casting a spell with many a florid flourish.

Giggling, she ran to take his hand. They hurried across the room together to the far stair down, staying well away from all glowing lines.

'The good wine, you glorking bastard,' Pelmard Lyrose snarled, backhanding the flagon into a clanging moot with the nearest tree. 'Golden firefalcon, to my lips, in my next ten breaths.'

He did not bother to add: Or you die. That was understood.

It was almost dawn, and he had a gloomy feeling that the fire-falcon, when he got it, would be the last wine he'd ever swallow.

Now he'd not have time to properly savor it, Falcon take the dolt. Sourly, knowing some of the knights were smirking at his haggard, reluctant face, he strode over to them, one after another, making certain there was no confusion over which archers would be placed where.

The firefalcon came-still in its flask, and sealed; Pelmard nodded approvingly at the knight's prudence, broke the seal, and drained it in a long, swallowing gasp and swig, ignoring the proffered flagon. Nodding curtly to the man and handing back the empty flask, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and drew on his war- gauntlet. His bodyguard thrust forward an unshuttered dark-lantern so its light fell upon Pelmard's gage, and he promptly waved it in the signal. Around him, with a muffled thunder of boots on turf, his little army set forth.

'Off to our deaths, all of us,' Pelmard mumbled under his breath, as he followed them, his bodyguard moving with him like a well-trained mount. 'Thank you, Father. Mother. Bitch of a sister.'

Boots and all they forded the river-amid splashings that Pelmard thought would rouse the town, but didn't seem to-and trudged up into the misty gloom.

Irontarl wasn't yet fully awake; all they met were a few sleepy cooks and stablemasters wandering about getting various cauldron-fires going, spitting thoughtfully into the darkness, hissing curses at their own sore backs or stiff limbs, and emptying their bladders over the piles of refuse alongside walls or behind buildings. The Lyrose knights moved among them like shadows in a hurry, using their daggers here and there, and ignoring those who ignored them.

Soon enough, he heard a clink-clink of sword tapped on sword from a nearby rooftop. It was answered by the same sound, several buildings over-and then by a sporadic chorus of many clinkings, each signaling that Lyrose archers had reached the rooftop they'd sought.

Well, that had been easy enough. Dawn was just about to break-or creep in across the Raurklor, shedding shadows, as it always did in Irontarl-and it seemed all his men were in place.

Some of the ground-mists were stealing away down to the river already, and if he peered hard at where he knew they were, he could almost make out the frowning walls of Hammerhold.

Pelmard allowed himself a shrug and a smile. 'Well, at least we'll be dying in style,' he murmured, too low-voiced for his bodyguard-Baernel, a veteran knight who would gladly die for Lord Magrandar Lyrose, who'd been assigned to guard Pelmard for that very reason-to hear.

He heard the creaking of the cart before he saw it. The first rumblewheels of the day had been sent forth from Hammerhand's castle in the fresh dawn, down to Irontarl to buy whatever they were shortest of, in the Hammerhold kitchens.

In the swiftly brightening light on the steep hillside, Pelmard could see the open cart was crowded with sleepy-eyed scullions and an even sleepier-looking pair of guards. Those two armsmen didn't even get up when the wagon halted-and were pinned to the wagon, right where they sat, when Lyrose bows started to twang.

Pelmard grinned at that-and at the more than dozen scullions who fell, wearing arrows, just after they'd jumped down from the wagon to head down to various shops.

A few survivors turned and ran back up the hill. Pelmard's archers felled two of those fleeing folk of Hammerhold, but the range was extreme; most of the shafts fell short.

As a bright morning unfurled and shutters began to roll up and night-gates squeal back from in front of doors all over Irontarl, the Hammerhold hostler whipped his horses frantically and got the cart rumbling in a hasty, bouncing half-circle, to try to make his escape. It almost turned over, but ended up thundering back up the hill, the driver desperately lying flat and the rumps of his kicking, rearing horses taking the arrows that had been meant for him.

Pelmard barked out his mirth as he watched, knowing he'd have nothing much to laugh at, all too soon.

About now, for instance, as a warhorn bellowed out from the walls of Hammerhold.

The castle looked even darker and taller than usual in the brightening morning. As he watched, mood darkening swiftly, its gates were flung wide and a small flood of men emerged.

Forty bowmen, perhaps a few more, on foot. Men in helms and leathers or even less, hastily mustered and sent forth. They came trudging down the hill, splitting up into groups of three and four.

'Closer, you fools,' Pelmard growled at them, willing them on into the reach of his waiting archers. 'Just a few strides closer.'

As if taunting him, the men of Hammerhold halted just out of bowshot, and waited.

By now folk in Irontarl had seen them, and the arrow-bristling bodies in the street, and some of the shop shutters were hastily slamming down again. There were shouts, and some scurrying back to homes.

That Hammerhold warhorn rang out again, and another forty-some bowmen came striding out. Helmed and armored, all of these, and fanning out on the hillside into trios and foursomes. Down they came, not hurrying, as Pelmard's heart sank.

He could see arms lift to point at this rooftop of Irontarl, and that one. Marking his own bowmen.

They slowed and readied their bows. More than two to his one, now-and glork if that warhorn wasn't blatting again, and now Hammerhand's spearmen were starting out of his gates.

Pelmard watched them in deepening despair, then turned on his heel to cast a look back behind him at Lyraunt Castle. Just one figure was visible, on the highest balcony. His sister Mrythra, watching him. Glork it, he could feel her malicious smile.

Turning away from that torment, he looked back at the Hammerhand forces, now streaming down the hillside. A hundred spearmen? Or more?

'Oh, shit' he said aloud, knowing just how swift and messy his doom was likely to be.

'This is my father's mistake,' he announced calmly, for Baernel's ears. 'Though my mother and my sister can be very persuasive, when they speak together. I wonder how Burrim Hammerhand got to them, to persuade my father to this folly? We dare not lose this many archers-or all Lyrose may well be swept away.'

He turned and looked at Baernel then, but saw only contempt in the man's eyes.

'Save your breath,' the knight snapped. 'I wear a gift of the wizard Malraun-crafted especially, to foil the blasting magic of your ring.'

Meeting that cold gaze, Pelmard felt his sudden urge to command the man to lead him back across the river onto Lyrose lands, to observe or outflank or undertake some such vital mission, dying away.

Something tapped his shoulder gently, and he looked away from Baernel's face to seek the source of that touch.

The knight's drawn sword was waiting, steady and deadly, its point aimed squarely at the gap under Pelmard's arm, where only leather protected him.

Pelmard Lyrose looked at it, then back up at its wielder.