discovered that the entire affair had been only a terrible diversion. For it was then, when the tumult of battle and the groans of the dying had faded, that they heard the ominous creaking of wood and hemp from above.
All unnoticed in the tumult, the rest of the man's squad had heaved a three-hundred-pound block of masonry from their ammunition stores into the trebuchet's great sling. Far too late to take any action save an openmouthed gape, the troops below could only watch as the massive weapon ratcheted into position and heaved its monstrous payload.
End over end the missile tumbled, a child's block hurled in a divine tantrum. In a perfect arc, calculated by a skilled team of operators, it sailed over the roofs of Rahariem for more than two hundred yards…
And finally plummeted to crash, in a cloud of dust and timber and debris that blotted the moon and every star from the sky, upon the city's western gate.
Against such a massive assault-had it come from without-the thickest of the city's walls might have held fast. Against the gates themselves, from the direction opposite that which they were braced to hold, the boulder might as well have been punching through bread crust.
Wood and stone exploded. The walls of neighboring structures cracked beneath the shrapnel, or merely from the shuddering of the earth. Panicked citizens clogged the streets, fleeing the devastation raining from above. The guards-save those at the gate itself, who formed a trail of broken bodies in the tumbling masonry's wake- dived for cover, emerging only long minutes later when the dust began to settle and it was clear no further projectiles were inbound.
The first soldiers to reach the platform found the trebuchet's crew lying dead, scattered near the base of the engine. All had weapons in their hands and protruding from their bodies; they appeared to have murdered one another in a savage rampage of shared insanity. Strewn around were charts of the city and its surroundings, inked by the invaders when they'd first set up their defenses. Carefully indicating angles and distances, those charts ensured that the engine crews were practically incapable of missing any attacking forces-or, as they'd just proved, any targets within Rahariem itself. Physicians and alchemists examined the corpses, their food, their water, and found no signs of drug or poison that might explain their behavior. In the end, though it satisfied no one at all, the officers of the Royal Soldiers were forced to conclude that these men had gone mad for reasons unknown, and unleashed their terrible weapon upon the city before turning on themselves and their fellow Cephirans.
That the entire sequence of events might have been orchestrated purely so a band of insurgents could depart the city via the shattered gates, during the few precious moments when the soldiers were cowering against further attack, was a notion that wouldn't occur to anyone for quite some while. ON THE FLOOR OF THAT same broken house, Cerris lay shaking. The remains of everything he'd eaten that day pooled across the room, congealing into a harsh, pungent sludge, and still his stomach lurched, distending his jaw in dry heaves. His head pounded as though last night's dreams sought to batter their way free, and his entire body shivered beneath a sheen of feverish sweat.
Only once before had his body been so terribly ravaged by the casting of that ancient spell, on the day he'd arrived in Mecepheum-well disguised-to ensure the election of Duke Halmon to the regent's throne. Then, he'd scarcely escaped the Hall of Meeting before the illness overcame him, rendering him naught but a quivering, agonized wreck for a day and a half. That time, he'd extended his mystical influence over a score of men and women, a strain that he truly believed had come close to killing him. He wasn't remotely powerful enough a sorcerer to be fiddling with such magics, and well he knew it. Tonight, he'd needed to command only six, but forcing them to betray their nation, to slay their friends and even themselves, had taken more effort than he'd anticipated. This was only the fourth time he'd ever used the spell-and only the second time on more than a single individual-and he couldn't help but idly wonder if a fifth attempt would finish him off entirely.
And he hoped, to the extent he was capable of hoping for anything other than for the pounding and the nausea to stop, that he'd never need find out.
Cerris was never certain how long he lay there before he finally recovered the strength to raise his head and even consider lifting himself off the floor. The sun was high enough for its light to creep through the ill-fitting doors and shutters, to transform the room into something akin to a small kiln. The stench of slowly baking vomit made his eyes water, but Cerris appreciated the heat. The sweat he shed now felt somehow cleaner than the film it was washing away.
Leaning on Sunder he rose, pleased to discover that his legs, though wobbly, were willing to support him. He'd be weak for some time, but this was the weakness of simple fatigue, no longer the sick helplessness it had been.
Again his stolen tabard served him, for so great was the throng of activity around the shattered gates that nobody noticed another soldier in their midst. Cerris lifted a chunk of rubble (a small one was all he could manage just yet), carried it through the open wall, and disappeared behind the growing heap of broken stone accumulating on the roadside. As there was no tree line this near Rahariem, he moved at a diagonal, struggling to keep the refuse pile between himself and casual observation until he'd passed some distance from the walls. He tried to maintain a steady jog, but his exhaustion-'Are you sure it's not your age?' the inner voice taunted-held him to a rapid walk. He prayed that his departure had attracted no attention; at his current pace, and with the trail of perspiration he was sure he'd dripped into the grass behind him, a toddler could probably run him to ground.
But at least, as he drew nearer the copse that marked the ambush point, he felt as though he were getting his second wind.
'Or your third, or your fourth…'
And he felt, as well, that he was likely to need it.
He sensed something wrong before he rounded the bend in the road, though he wasn't initially certain what. From ahead echoed the clash of steel, the shouts and grunts and screams of battle. That was to be expected. He'd known the caravan might pass at any time, that the ambush might launch before he arrived. But something about the sounds-he could not, just yet, put his finger on precisely what-was off, made his hackles rise and his fingers tighten about Sunder's haft.
And then, as he drew near, he found himself recalling the many battles and sieges of his life, and he knew. The calls from ahead were too measured, too disciplined, too clear. These were the shouts of trained soldiers, not the eager, passionate cries of a diverse resistance.
Cerris dropped to his belly, worming through the dirt and twigs until he could just poke his head beyond the copse's undergrowth. He grimaced, biting back a vicious oath at what he saw.
Four horse-drawn wagons lined the roadside, the tarps that had once covered their contents lying crumpled beside the wheels. But those tarps had apparently revealed no cargo, for the wagons now stood empty. Corpses littered the crimson-stained earth, and most were the bodies of men and women Cerris had known. The Cephiran soldiers were gathered in groups, battling the last pockets of opposition or moving to chase those who had fled. Even from his limited vantage point, the tired old warrior couldn't help but note that there were far more soldiers than should have been assigned to a supply caravan moving across Cephiran-controlled territory.
He knew, then, what-or rather who-had lain beneath those tarps. The whole damn caravan had been a trap.
He'd worry later how they'd known, who must answer for this treachery. Now, through a haze of sudden panic, Cerris scanned the wagons, the road, the ongoing skirmishes, and yes, even the corpses, for a head of auburn hair…
There! Amid a knot of Cephirans, a trio of insurgents struggled to survive. One was old Rannert, his short sword a bolt of steel lightning as it darted in and out, keeping the soldiers on the defensive, but even from a distance Cerris could see the old man tiring, his shoulders drooping, his arms beginning to quiver. Cerris couldn't recall the name of the second fellow, younger but wilder, whose wide slashes with a woodsman's axe would leave him open any minute to an enemy thrust.
With them, wielding a narrow blade longer than her arm, was the Lady Irrial. And if her stance, parries, ripostes were perhaps a touch stiff-the result of formal training without hint of genuine experience-then at least that training was comprehensive, and the baroness a fast learner. For the nonce, she held her own.
But for all their valor and all their efforts, they were merely three, facing an experienced band of thrice that number, with reinforcements close at hand. They would fight well-they might take several of the enemy with them-but they would lose. Of that, even a blind man could have little doubt.
His rudimentary disguise would not hold, not here, for these soldiers were a unit and knew one another by sight. Still, as Cerris rose and sprinted from the copse, his tabard bought him precious seconds before the enemy
