The walls of Karis’s apartments were covered with sketches on paper. On the north wall were delicately drawn landscapes, showing the highlights of the land to the north of Corduin; the hills and valleys, the level ground close enough to the city walls for the Daroth to deploy catapults. On the west wall were sketches of the city’s fortifications, the numbers of men needed to man the ramparts, the logistics of supplying them with food. On the south wall a huge map of Corduin itself, which Karis had marked with symbols denoting buildings to be used as hospitals or supply depots.
She was sitting on the couch studying the reports submitted by Pooris, concerning the manufacture of crossbows and bolts. With luck, they should have almost 800 weapons and more than 10,000 bolts by the first day of spring. A servant tapped on the door and entered, bowing. “There is a man wishing to speak with you, my lady,” he said. “He claims to be a friend.”
“He has a name, this friend?”
“Necklen, my lady.”
“Send him in.” Karis rose, and hid her sense of shock as the wiry soldier entered. Skeletally thin, his eyes sunken, Necklen looked twenty years older than when she had last seen him. A blood-soaked bandage covered the stump where his left hand had been. “Come in and sit down, my friend,” she said, then ordered the servant to bring food and wine.
Necklen slumped to a chair and closed his eyes. “It has been a murderous ride,” he said, his voice slurred with weariness. His head sank back and his breathing deepened. When the servant returned with bread, butter, cheese and smoked meat, Karis told him to fetch the surgeon. Moving alongside the silver-bearded warrior, she touched his neck, feeling for a pulse. His blue eyes opened and he gave a weak smile. “I am not dead, Karis. Though by rights I should be.” With a groan he sat up. Karis brought him a goblet of red wine, which he drained. He reached for the bread with his left arm, then stared bemused at the stump. “Damn, but I can still feel my fingers. Strange, isn’t it?” Karis cut him two thick slices, which she buttered. Then she sliced a thick chunk of cheese. Necklen ate slowly, then leaned back once more. “I was at Prentuis. I tell you, no-one should have witnessed the slaughter I saw there. We rode out against the Daroth. Giriak led the charge, but our swords were like willow sticks against them. I slashed my sword across the neck of one: it bounced off! Didn’t even gash the skin. He struck my shield with a return blow which clove the shield in two and tore off my hand. Within moments we were ruined, cut down in our hundreds. I saw a Daroth with maybe ten arrows jutting from him, but still fighting, unaffected. You want to know about Giriak?”
She did not, but she nodded anyway.
“He died bravely. Killed one of them, lanced him through the body at full gallop. Then he was cut down. You would not believe how short a battle it was, Karis. Within a few minutes we were cut to pieces and fleeing for the city. Thousands died on that plain. I was with the few hundred that made it through the gates; we thought we might be safe behind those walls.” Necklen shook his head. “They brought up huge catapults which they used with stunning accuracy, hitting the same section of wall again and again. They smashed two broad holes in the north wall, then surged through. They know no weariness, Karis: they killed and killed from midday to midnight. Men, women, babes. Shemak’s Balls, it was terrifying! I hid in a loft. Me and three women. You could hear the screams outside for hours. We escaped through the sewers. I was almost delirious with pain. The surgeons had covered the stump with hot pitch, and the agony was indescribable. The women half carried me. But we made it to the outskirts and fled south-west towards the coast.” His voice tailed away.
“You need to rest,” Karis said. “We will talk more in the morning.” Helping him up, she led him to her bed, undressed him and covered him with thick blankets.
“Satin sheets,” he said, with a smile. “How good . . . they feel.”
He was sleeping when the surgeon arrived. The man felt for Necklen’s pulse and the warrior did not stir. “Exhaustion,” said the surgeon, “but his heart is strong.” Carefully he unwrapped the bandage and examined the blackened stump. “No gangrene. The wound is clean,” he announced, applying a fresh bandage. “He needs red meat and wine to fortify his blood and hot oats to clean his system. Honey is also good for strength.”
Karis thanked the man and offered payment. He shook his head. “I am in the Duke’s employ,” he said. “He pays me well.”
After he had gone, Karis sat down once more with her notes. But she could not concentrate. Karis had never been a sentimental woman, but she was touched by the arrival of Necklen. The little man, maimed and hurting, had made a journey of almost 600 miles with no other purpose than to reach Karis. He would have been safe in the port city of Loretheli, screened as it was by high mountains. Instead he had come to her. Necklen had never been one of her lovers, but she had always considered him a friend she could trust—the kind of man she wished her father had been. Karis put aside her notes and walked to the window. The moon was high in the cloudless night sky, and the snow in the Ducal gardens shone with an eldritch light. The city beyond was silent and serene.
The door opened and a cool draught touched her back. Karis turned to see Vint striding across the room. “I hear you have a man in your bed, my dove,” he said. His voice was light, but the smoke-grey eyes showed no humour.
“An old friend,” she told him. “He was at the fall of Prentuis.”
Vint unhooked his black sable cloak and draped it over a chair. “Was it as bad as we feared?” he asked.
“Every bit as bad. The Daroth breached the walls within a single day, and butchered the inhabitants.”
Rubbing his hand over his trident beard, he turned away and poured himself a goblet of wine. “I have seen those walls. Corduin’s are no stronger, Karis.”
“There is less level ground here,” she said. “But I will worry about catapults and siege-engines when the snow begins to thaw. Until then there are enough problems to consider. Have you rearranged your duel with Tarantio?”
He shook his head. “I took your advice and went to the tavern. The story was as Tarantio told it. I have offered him my apology, which he accepted. Fairly gracefully, I might add.”
“I am glad. I need you both alive.”
Vint grinned. “It touches my heart that you care so greatly for me.”
“Do not be too overcome,” she warned him. “If you are to die, then I would prefer it to be in a useful manner.”
He stepped in close and made to stroke her hair. “Not tonight, Vint,” she told him. “Tonight I must make plans.”
He spread his hands. “As you wish. Is there any way in which I can help?”
“I don’t think so.”
Vint gathered up his cloak, then strolled through to the back bedroom. He returned within moments, looking embarrassed. “I see what you mean by old friend,” he said.
“That he is. Good night, Vint.”
After he had gone she returned to the bedside, where Necklen was sleeping deeply. Tenderly she stroked his hair. “I am glad you are here,” she whispered.
Ozhobar was a huge man with sandy hair and a chin beard that straggled like an old brush. He gazed at the sketch Karis offered him, then leaned forward, reaching into a pottery jar and drawing out a thick oatcake biscuit which he devoured swiftly.
“Can you make such a catapult?” Karis asked him.
“All things are possible,” he said.
“I did not ask what was possible. Can you do it?”
“There is no indication here as to what the arm is constructed from, nor the weight of the stones. You say the range is around two hundred paces?”
“That is what Necklen tells me, and he is reliable. And it does not throw stones, Master Weapon Maker. It hurls balls of lead.”
“Hmmm,” said Ozhobar. “That is how they maintain accuracy. The weight of each ball is identical.”
“Can you make it?” she repeated, her irritation growing as Ozhobar ate two more oatcakes, brushing the crumbs from his beard.<
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“I think we can do a little better than that. I take it the purpose will be to destroy the Daroth catapults?”
“That is my plan.”
“We do not have the means to make lead balls of the size your man describes. I would suggest a small refinement. Pottery.”
“Pottery?” she repeated. “Glazed or unglazed?”
“Sarcasm does not become women,” he said. “In order for the catapult to be accurately used, it will be necessary to place it where the men operating it can see the enemy. That leaves three choices. The first places the weapon outside the city. This is not—one would imagine—to be desired, for the Daroth could charge forward and capture or destroy it. The second is to place it on the walls. The parapets are around twelve feet wide, therefore the machine would have to be small, hence restricting the range. The third choice would be to strip the roof from the barracks building by the north gate, and set our catapult upon a platform there.”
Karis nodded. “That sounds a good plan. But it does not explain your use of pottery.”
“We make hollow balls and fill them with flammable material—rags drenched in lantern oil, for example. Lighter than lead, our range would therefore be increased. What I need to design is a method of ignition that would allow the men loading the machine to be safe. One wouldn’t want such a ball exploding on the barracks roof.”
“And you can do this?”
“I will think on it.” He reached into the jar and took another cake.
“They look good,” said Karis. “May I try one?”
“No, you may not,” he told her sternly. “They are mine.”
Swallowing her irritation, Karis thanked Ozhobar for his time and rose to leave. “Come back and see me in three days,” he said. “And send your man Necklen to me. I need to ask some more questions about the Daroth weapon. Oh yes . . . and we are running short of iron. I suggest you ask the Duke to requisition gates, old cooking pots, railings . . . you know the sort of thing.”
“I’ll see to it,” promised Karis.
Outside it was snowing once more, but the temperature had lifted. Children were playing in the street, throwing snowballs at one another. Their squealing laughter lifted Karis’s spirits as she strolled towards the practice field.
There were already forty men present, the largest and the strongest in Corduin. Forin and the officer Capel were putting them through a series of tests. Karis stood in the shadows and watched as they lifted rocks, or bent bars of iron. Forin was moving among them, issuing orders and directing events. She found herself strangely hesitant about seeing him again. He had been ever-present in her mind since the night in the tavern. But why? He was not an exceptional lover. Poor dead Giriak had been just as powerful. Yet something had moved within her at his touch, as if a rusted lock, long unused and almost forgotten, had given way, revealing . . . revealing what, she wondered.
This is nonsense, Karis, she admonished herself. The man means nothing to you. Put it down to the stress of the day. And, more importantly, cast it from your mind! She heard his laughter echoing across the field, the other men joining in. A donkey had strayed onto the field and taken a dislike to one of the contestants. It was chasing him, and nipping at his buttocks. Karis grinned—and regained her composure.
Stepping into view she strolled to a picket fence. Forin saw her and ambled across to where she stood. “Good morning, lady,” he said. His voice was even, his manner guarded. Karis was pleased that there was no wink, or leer; no forced intimacy.
“How goes it, Forin?”
“There are some powerful men here. All are anxious to win the pouch of silver. I’d like to try for it myself.”
“Get me fifty strong men and I’ll give you such a pouch.”
“What do you need them for?”
Karis climbed to the fence and sat back, looking down on the red-bearded giant. “At some point the Daroth will storm the walls. Nothing will stop that. I need men who can stand against them; they will be armed with heavy double-headed axes, with hafts and blades of steel. So it is not only strength I need. I want men with courage. You will lead them.”
“Is this a promotion or a punishment?” he asked. “Hand to hand against the Daroth? Not a thrilling prospect.”
“It is a promotion. You will be paid well.”
He stood silently for a moment. “Why did you leave the other night?”
“I had matters to attend to,” she said, keeping her voice cool.
“And I had served my purpose? Ah well, I have used many as you used me. I have no complaint. I will find you your fifty men.” He turned away and strolled back across the field.
Karis swore softly, then leapt from the fence and strode back towards the palace.
“How are you feeling today, Brune?” asked Tarantio.
“Better, thank you,” replied the golden-eyed young man. “I slept well.” His voice too had changed, becoming more gentle, almost melodious.
Tarantio sat down beside the bed. “I have been concerned about you, my friend.”
“You are a kind man, Tarantio, and I am in your debt.”
“It is not him,” said Dace.
“I know.”
The sun was high in a cold, clear sky, and the bedroom was bright and warm. The fire still burned in the hearth, and the pale golden figure lay back with his head on the pillow, his body relaxed. “Where is Brune?” asked Tarantio.
“He is here with me. He is not frightened, Tarantio. Not anymore. We are friends, he and I. I will take care of him.”
“Who are you?”
“Not an easy question to answer. I am the Oltor Prime, the last of my race. Does this mean anything to you?”
“The Oltor were destroyed by the Daroth,” said Tarantio. “Perhaps a thousand years ago.”
“At least. Do not ask me how I came to be here, for I do not know. If I could leave I would. If I could surrender this body to Brune, I would. I have no purpose any longer.”
The figure rose from the bed and stood, naked, in the sunlight streaming through the window. He was thin and tall, his six-fingered hands long and delicate. His eyes were larger than human and semi-protruding, his nose small with the nostrils widely flared. “I stood in the forest on that last day,” he said sadly, “and I watched my people die. I surrendered myself to the land. And I died too.”
“Did you have no magic to use against the Daroth? Could you not fight?” asked Tarantio.
“We were not death dealers, my friend. We killed nothing. We were not a violent people, we had no understanding of its nature. We tried to befriend the Daroth, helping them through the Curtain, giving them land that was rich and green and full of magic. They dug into it for iron, tore at it for food and drowned the magic with their hatred. When we closed the Curtain on them, preventing more from joining them, they turned on us with fire and sword. They devoured our young ones, and slew the old. In despair we tried to run, to open the Curtain on another world. But the magic was gone, and before we could find new, virgin land they were upon us. I was not the Oltor Prime then. I was a young Singer, wed to a beautiful maiden.”
“What does this title mean? What is the Oltor Prime?”
“It is a difficult concept to verbalize in a tongue that is new to me. He—sometimes she—is the spiritual leader of the Oltor, possessing great power. When he died in the forest he turned and pointed at me. I felt his power course through my veins. But I surrendered it and died. Or so I thought. Somehow the magicker who tried to heal Brune brought me back. The ‘how’ is a mystery.”
“You say you surrendered your life. Did the Daroth not kill you?”
“Yes, they pierced my hearts with harsh swords, pinning me to the ground. Then they struck off my head.”
“I believe I know the answer,” said the voice of Duvodas, and Tarantio turned to see the Singer standing in the doorway. Dressed now in a tunic of green silk, his blond hair held in place by a gold circlet, Duvodas entered the room and bowed to the Oltor Prime. “Your
blood soaked into the earth: the blood of the Oltor Prime. It lay in the stones. The Eldarin found them and took them back to Eldarisa, and they lay in the Oltor Temple for generations. Forty years ago one of the humans—allowed into the city for a special meeting—stole one red stone. It was for this reason that no human was ever allowed to enter again. I have spoken to some of the people cured by Ardlin, and they claim he held a block of red coral over their wounds. Used carefully, the magic would have no ill-effect on the patients. However, Tarantio told me of Brune’s healing. It seems that Ardlin lied—he told them he had a magic orb to replace the injured eye, but there was no orb. What he cast was a spell of disguise—of changing! In his haste he made an error—and released the essence that had remained in the stone for generations. He released you, Lord of the Oltors.”
The Oltor Prime sighed. “And here I stand—without purpose, or reason for being. Locked in my hearts are the histories of my people, each one of them. What am I to do?”
“You could help us fight the Daroth,” said Tarantio.
“I cannot fight.”
“Even after they destroyed all your people?”
“Even so. I am a Healer. It is not what I do, Tarantio; it is what I am. If I saw a wounded Daroth, I would heal it without a moment’s hesitation. In that way I feed the land with magic. I create harmony.”
“I call that the coward’s way,” said Dace aloud. “Life is a struggle, from the agonies of birth to the railing against death. Devour or be devoured. The law of the wild.”
“This land was not wild until the Daroth came,” said the Oltor.
“Did the lion not hunt the deer, leaping upon it, tearing out its throat?”
“Yes, Dace, the lion did that, for that is the lion’s nature. But at no time did the deer develop fangs and claws and rend the lion.”
Dace was stunned by the use of his name. “You can see the difference in us? You can tell us apart?”
“I can. You were born in that terrible moment when a child, Tarantio, saw his father hanging from a beam. He could not face the sight, and in his terror he created a brother who could—a brother who could survive all the terrors the world could hurl at a child. You saved him, Dace. Saved him from madness and despair. Now he saves you.”