The survivors, to Ragnarson’s dismay, suffered an attack of rationality. When they selected a new com-mander they chose the man he believed most dangerous, Sir Andvbur Kimberlin.
Kimberlin opted for Fabian tactics. He took up a defensive position at the site of his previous year’s battle. His patrols tried to lure Ragnarson into attack. Bragi ignored them.
Though Kimberlin’s force, at eight thousand, was the largest Ragnarson had yet faced, he was more concerned with the sorcery-rich army the Captal would bring out of Maisak.
Bragi waited, skirmished, fortified, scouted, hus-banded his resources. He constantly reminded his officers of the need to stand firm here. To, if necessary, endure the heaviest casualties. The enemy would be stopped at Baxendala, or not at all. The west depended on them. There would be no stopping Shinsan if this stand failed.
II) The waiting
Ragnarson stood on the parapet of Karak Strabger’s lone tower and surveyed the power that was, for the moment, his. He had twenty-five thousand Kaveliners, plus the men he had brought south. In the west, on the horizons and beyond, great clouds of dust hung in the spring haze. Surprising allies were hurrying to join him.
One cloud, on the caravan route, marked Shanight of Anstokin with the regiments raised to invade Volstokin. North of him came Jostrand of Volstokin and three thousand puzzled veterans of Lake Berberich and Vodicka’s defeat. In Heidershied, rushing in forty-mile marches, was Prince Raithel of Altea, a hard-driving old warrior who had won glory and honor during the wars. Ragnarson hoped Raithel would arrive in time. His ten thousand were the best soldiers in the Lesser Kingdoms. He had heard there were troops on the move in Tamerice and Ruderin and kingdoms farther away.
This curdling of the Lesser Kingdoms into a one-faced force with chin thrust belligerently eastward had begun the night of the red demon.
The sudden power and responsibility awed Ragnarson. Princes and kings were coming to be commanded by a man who had been but a farmer a year ago...
There were others who awed him more than Shanight, Jostrand, or Raithel.
Beside the sugarloaf, above Baxendala, stood a dozen tents set off by ropes. One housed his old friend Count Visigodred of Mendalayas, another Haroun’s dread (acquaintance, Zindahjira. The denizens of the others he knew only by repute: Keirle the Ancient; Barco Crecelius of Hellin Daimiel; Stojan Dusan from Prost Kamenets; Gromachi, the Egg of God; The Hermit of Ormrebotn; Boershig Abresch from Songer in Ringerike; Klages Dunivin; Serkes Holdgraver of the Fortress of Frozen Fire; and the Thing With Many Eyes, from the shadoweddeeps of the Temple of Jiankoplos in Simballawein.
One tent stood alone, as if the others had crowded away. Before it stood a battered Imperial standard. Within lurked the man whose capital-hopping had started so many armies toward Baxendala, whose name frightened children into good behavior and made grown men glance over their shoulders. Varthlokkur.
His appearance guaranteed the gravity of the conflict. The high and the mighty, from Simballawein to Iwa Skolovda, would hold all else in abeyance till they knew what was afoot.
Even the Greyfells party, Ragnarson had heard, had joined the truce.
Ragnarson had mixed feelings about Varthlokkur’s presence. The man could, without a doubt, be an asset. But what about old grudges? Varthlokkur owed himself and Mocker.
But Mocker, who had most to fear, was in and out of the wizard’s tent constantly, when not hiding from soldiers he had bilked with crooked dice.
Ragnarson smiled weakly. Mocker was incorrigible. A middle-aged adolescent.
He spied signal smoke up the Gap. Heliograph operators bustled about him. He returned to the war room he had set up in the castle’s great hall.
While awaiting the report, he asked Kildragon, “How’s Rolf?” Preshka had insisted on coming east.
“The same. He’ll never heal if he won’t take time out.” “And the evacuation?” He had been trying to get civilians to leave the area.
“About hit the limit. The rest mean to stay no matter what.”
“Guess we’ve done what we could. Can’t force people... Colonel Kiriakos?”
He had surveyed the man’s work from the parapet. He and Phiambolos were working hard to complicate Shinsan’s attack.
Kiriakos was the sort who, finding a pot of gold, would worry about getting a hernia hauling it away. “Too slow. I won’t get done if you don’t give me more men.” His projects were straining the army already. Trenches, traps, fortifications, cheveaux-de-fris, a pontoon across the marsh a few miles west, and finding raw materials, were devouring hundreds of thousands of man-hours each day. But Kiriakos was a bureaucrat born. There was no project that couldn’t be done bigger and better if only he were given more money and men...
Am I getting old? Ragnarson wondered. What happened to my penchant for motion? His cavalry commanders had been asking too. Shinsan’s was an army mainly infantry in orientation, with little missile weap-onry. But Sir Andvbur was out there... All he could say was that he felt right fighting positionally.
A Sedlmayrese sergeant came from the tower, drew Bragi aside. “Captain Altenkirk,” he whispered, “says he’s taken prisoners. The men called Turran and Valther, and a woman. The Captain thinks she’s the one you saw at Maisak.”
Ragnarson frowned. A windy message for heliograph, susceptible of error. But justified if true. They had captured Mist? How?
“Thank you. Send ‘Well done.’ And keep it quiet.” He retreated to a corner to think. So many possibili-ties... But he would know the truth when Altenkirk came in.
He would have to take precautions. He headed for the wizards’ compound.
III) Prisoners
Altenkirk had taken no chances. He brought his prisoners in gagged, bound, and blindfolded, unable to twitch, inside the large wicker baskets farmers filled with grain and hung from their rafters to beat the rats and mice. Each was litter-borne by prisoners from Kimberlin’s army and surrounded by Marena Dimura ready to destroy baskets and bearers in an instant. Each litter was piled with oil-soaked faggots. Horsemen with torches rode nearby.
In other circumstances Ragnarson would have beenamused. “Think you took enough precautions?” he asked.
“I should’ve killed them,” Altenkirk replied. “It’s got to be a trick...”
“Maybe. Let’s let the witchmen have them.”
The baskets were grounded before the sorcerers. Soldiers who could do so absented themselves. Zindah-jira, the Egg of God, and the Thing With Many Eyes failed customary standards of what was human.
“What’s the smell?” Ragnarson asked Visigodred, near whom he had positioned himself for his nerve’s sake.
“The Thing’s project. You’ll see.”
“Uhn.” They had to make everything a mystery. He nodded to Altenkirk. “Turran first.”
Altenkirk cautiously pried the lid off a basket. Sorcerers tensed like foxes waiting at a rabbit hole.
But Turran had been confined so long that he needed help getting out. Ragnarson went to the man, removed his gag. He beckoned Visigodred.
To Turran, “I’m sorry. Altenkirk’s a cautious man.”
“Understand.”
“Water,” Visigodred said, offering a cup. Turran drained it. While Bragi and a soldier supported Turran, Visigodred rubbed his legs. To Altenkirk the wizard said, “Let the others out. They’ll cause no trouble.”
There was a stir just before Mist came forth. Ragnarson turned. His eyes met the Queen’s. So. She had ignored his advice again, had come to join the final battle. With perfect timing, he thought. Her eyes, on Mist, were hard and jealous.
“All I need,” he mumbled, “is for Elana to turn up now.”
A long draught of wine gave Turran a little life. He asked for a physician, to examine his brother, then admonished, “I thought we were on the same side.” And, after a pause, “She’s come over.”
Hum and buzz. Sorcerers’ heads nodded together. Visigodred, who had a relationship with Mist that seemed alm
ost fatherly, fussed round the woman like a hen.
“Did you ever see such a mantrap?” Ragnarson mumbled to Preshka, who, despite continued ill health, had come to investigate the commotion.
“It’s obscene. No woman ought to look like that.” Turran gained more life. “They’ll be here soon. They started bringing troops through last week.”
“Uhn?” Ragnarson’s suspicions hadn’t died com-pletely. “Let’s hear about it.”
“We couldn’t use the back stairs,” he said, after recounting the confrontation in the Captal’s library, “so we picked up Brad Red Hand and tried the hallways...” “You joined forces?”
“No choice. O Shing’s people would’ve killed us all. Enemy of my enemy, you know. We picked up Brad and went through the halls to the stairs Derran had used to reach the old man’s floor. But it opened in a hall already occupied by O Shing’s men. We had to fight through. Valther picked up his wound there. Derran was killed. Kerth, the Captal, and the little girl were captured. Brad tore a muscle in his left arm. We got through, but we couldn’t save anybody but ourselves.”
“And Mist? She couldn’t use a spell or two?” “Colonel, there were six men in that room. Three were Tervola. You know what that means? We tried. We killed the soldiers. She barely handled the sorcerers. But when it settled out, we couldn’t carry the wounded. I was lucky to get Valther out. And the child wouldn’t leave the old man. If there was anything that could’ve been done...”
“I wasn’t criticizing.” He had had to leave people behind too. He knew the spear thrusts of guilt that drove to the heart of one’s being.
“We hoped to reach the main gate or the Captal’s creatures, but the fight gave O Shing’s men time to cut us off. The only escape was the caverns. It may’ve been my memory or their sorcery, but for a long time we couldn’t find a way out. Every passage we took led back to Maisak. Each time we returned something more grim had happened. They tortured Kerth till he told all he knew about Haroun. They enchanted the Captal and girl into being cooperative. They’ve done the same to the rebel captains. We kept stealing food and trying to find a way out. When they started bringing troops through, I knew I couldn’t put off leaving my body anymore. It’d become imperative that I get Mist to you.”
“And Brad?”
“They detected the sorcery. Came hunting. His bad shoulder betrayed him. They got him before Mist could drive them off.”
“And Mist? Is she a refugee? Does she want help to regain her throne? I won’t help her. There’s no way I’ll do anything to benefit the Dread Empire. I will help destroy it. It’s like a poisonous snake. Any good it does is incidental to its deadliness.”
“I think,” Turran said softly, “that’s she’s run out of ambition. O Shing’s successes have crushed her.” He nodded her way. She was fussing over Valther. “There’s her subliminatory device.”
“Ah?”
“I don’t know how long it’ll last. Long enough for us to benefit, though.”
“I can’t ask much more.” With great reluctance, Ragnarson took his eyes off Mist, studied the assembled sorcerers. Each indicated he believed Turran. Only Varthlokkur expressed reservations, and those weren’t related to Mist’s turn of coat.
“Power won’t affect this battle’s outcome,” he said. “The divinations are shadowy, but they suggest its result will depend on the courage and stamina of soldiers, not on any efforts of my ilk.” He seemed mildly puzzled.
Varthlokkur knew his business. He was probably right. But Ragnarson was puzzled too. He could not see how, with so much thaumaturgic might moving toward collision, massive destruction could be avoided. “See if you can get this straightened out,” he told Preshka, then went to welcome the Queen to Baxendala.
IV) The enemy arrives
Sir Andvbur’s rebels came down the canyon like leaves driven by an autumn wind, without organization, whipping this way and that, mixing units inseparably. Before and among them fled bands of Ragnarson’shorsemen and Marena Dimura. Signal smokes rose rapidly nearer, climbing toward a cloud of darkness driving down from Maisak like the grasping hand of doom. Sir Andvbur’s people pelted against Ragnarson’s defenses in such disorder that his own men became mildly infected. He had a brisk afternoon’s work keeping order. Night fell without the true enemy appearing. But his campfires, as they sprang into being, were disturbing in their numbers. Ragnarson got little sleep. He stayed up studying a blizzard of conflicting reports.
By morning it had sorted itself out. The Captal and his Kaveliners had moved to Ragnarson’s extreme right, beyond the marsh, where Blackfang and Kildragon held the narrows. Sir Andvbur’s thousands had taken positions against the flank of Seidentop, facing the mercenary regiments from High Crag. Shinsan held the center, facing Prince Raithel’s Altean veterans.
A quarter-mile behind the front line, which was sixteen thousand strong, Ragnarson had drawn up a more numerous but potentially weaker second line. Volstokin he had anchored against Seidentop, in touch with the fortifications and heavy weapons Colonel Phiambolos had installed there. In the center were the Kaveliners, his hand-picked veterans scattered among them as cadre. On the right, their backs against Baxendala, lay Anstokin’s army. They maintained close contact with the ramparts and trenches Tuchol Kiriakos had constructed between level ground and Karak Strabger’s wall. The main engagement Ragnarson meant to be infantry against infantry, the lines holding while heavy engines on the flanks and bowmen behind the lines decimated the enemy. Only two thousand horsemen, the best, did he allow to retain their animals. These he stationed west of Baxendala, out of view behind the slope running to Seidentop.
Dawn was a creeping thing, a dark tortoise dragging in from the east and never quite seeming to arrive. But gradual visibility came to the valley.
Ragnarson, the Queen, Turran, Mist, Varthlokkur, Colonels Phiambolos and Kiriakos, runners and helio-graph men crowded the top of Karak Strabger’s lonelytower. When O Shing’s camp became visible, Ragnar-son’s heart fell. He beckoned Mist.
Shinsan was in formation already. Mist peered into the morning haze. A small, sharp intake of breath. “Four legions,” she said throatily. “He’s brought four legions. The Eighth. On the right. His left. The Third. The Sixth. Oh. And I thought Chin mine body and soul.” The remaining legion stood in reserve behind Shinsan’s center. “The First. The Imperial Standard. The best of the best.”
Her knuckles whitened as she squeezed the stone of the battlements.
“The best,” she repeated. “And all four at full strength. He’s made a fool of me.”
Bragi wasn’t disappointed. He hadn’t expected good news. But he had hoped O Shing would make a smaller showing. “He’s here himself?”
She nodded, pointed. “There. Behind the First. You can see the tower. He wants to watch our destruction from a high place.”
Ragnarson turned. “Colonel Phiambolos, relay the word to Altenkirk.” The engineer departed for Seidentop, “Varthlokkur? You’ve seen enough?”
The wizard nodded. “We’ll begin. But I doubt we’ll do any good.” He departed. “Colonel Kiriakos?”
The Colonel clicked his heels and half bowed. “Gods be with you, sir.” He left to assume command of the castle and sugarloaf. “Turran?”
The man shrugged. “You’ve done all you could. It’s up to the Fates.”
“Your Majesty, everything’s ready.” She nodded coolly, regally. There was the slightest strain between them because, after her journey from Vorgreberg, he had spent the night in battle preparations. “Now we wait.” He glanced at O Shing’s tower, willing it to begin.
Though he concealed it, he didn’t think he had a chance. Not against four legions, nearly twenty-five thousand easterners. With so many O Shing might not commit his auxiliaries...
But he did. At some unseen signal Sir Andvbur threw his full weight against the mercenary regiments, all his people fighting afoot.
“That man,” said Turran, “needs hanging. He learns too fast.” r />
The mercenaries, though better fighters, were hard-pressed till Phiambolos’s engines found the range.
After an hour, Ragnarson asked Turran, “What’s he doing? It’s obvious that he can’t break through.”
“Maybe trying to weaken them for the legions. Or draw them out of line.”
Ragnarson glanced toward the mountains. The dark cloud from Maisak was fading. “They’ll let us have the sun in our eyes.” He had hoped they would overlook that.
Mist interjected, “He’s buying time to ready a sorcery.”
And Turran, “There goes a wagonload of the Thing’s poison.” In time Visigodred had admitted that the foul stench from the sorcerers’ enclave was caused by their distillation of a drink to be served weary troops on the fighting line. There was little if any magic involved, but the liquor would combine the encouraging effects of alcohol with a drug that staved off exhaustion. Little sorceries like that, Ragnarson thought, might be more important than the ground-shakers.
“Marshal,” said the Queen, “you have smoke across the marsh.”
Bragi turned. It was Haaken’s signal. He allowed himself a small grin. “Good. Runner.” A man presented himself. “Tell Sir Farace to cross the pontoon.”
A key adjunct to his plans, hastily developed during the night, after the enemy’s dispositions had become clear, was developing perfectly. Blackfang and Kildragon had laid a trap. The Captal had been lured in.
“The witchery begins,” said Mist. Arm spear-straight, she indicated a mote of pinkish light at the foot of O Shing’s tower. “The Gosik of Aubochonagain.” Aweand horror filled her voice. “In the flesh. The man’s mad! There’s no way to control it...”
“Kimberlin’s breaking off,” said Turran.