Even Aldheorte Forest slept beneath a blanket of white, but if its ageless trees suffered beneath the freezing hand of the North, they did so in silence. In the heart of the woods Jao é-Tinukai‘i lay empty, misty with cold.
All the mortal lands lay trembling beneath Stormspike’s hand. The storms kept Rimmersgard and the Frostmarch an icy wasteland, and Hernystir suffered only a little less. Before the Hernystiri could truly reclaim the homes from which they had been driven by Skali of Kaldskryke, they had been forced back into the caves of the Grianspog. The spirit of the people the Sithi had loved, a spirit which had flamed high for a short time, sank back to a guttering flicker.
The storm hung low over Erkynland. Black winds bent and broke the trees and piled snow high on the houses; thunder growled like an angry beast up and down the length of the land. The storm’s malevolent heart, as it seemed, full of whirling sleet and jagged lightning, pulsed above Erchester and the Hayholt.
Utuk‘ku noted all this with calm satisfaction, but did not pause to savor the terror and hopelessness of the hated mortals. She had something to do, a task she had awaited since her son Drukhi’s pale, cold body had been set before her. Utuk’ku was old and subtle. The irony that it was her own great-great-grandchild who had led her to her revenge at last, that he was also a scion of the very family that had destroyed her happiness, was not lost on her. She almost smiled.
Her thoughts raced on, out along the whispery threads of being until they passed into the farther regions, the places only she of all the living could go. When she felt the presence of the thing she sought, she reached out for it, praying to forces that had been old in Venyha Do‘sae that it would give her what she needed to accomplish her final, long-awaited goal.
A flare of joy passed through her. The power was there, more than enough for her purposes; now all that remained was to master it and make it hers. The hour was approaching, and Utuk‘ku had no need to be patient any longer.
“My eyes are not good at the best of times,” Strangyeard complained. “And with this sunless day and the blowing snow, I cannot see anything! Sangfugol, tell me what is happening, please!”
“There’s nothing to see, yet.” They were perched on the side of one of Swertclif’s foothills, looking down on Erchester and the Hayholt. The tree beneath which the pair huddled and the low wall of stones they had made provided scant protection against the wind. Despite his hooded cloak and the two blankets he had wrapped around himself, the harper was shivering. “Our army is before the walls and the heralds have blown the trumpets. Isgrimnur or someone must be reading the Writ of Demand. I still don’t see any of the king’s soldiers ... no, there are some shapes moving on the battlements. I had begun to wonder if anyone was inside at all....”
“Who? Who is on the battlements?”
“Aedon’s mercy, Strangeyeard, I can’t tell. They are shapes, that’s all.”
“We should be closer,” the priest said fretfully. “This hillside is too distant in weather like this.”
The harper darted a glance at him. “You must be mad. I am a musician, you are a librarian. We are too close as it is—we should have stayed in Nabban. But here we are, and here we will stay. Closer, indeed!” He blew into his cupped palms.
A faint clamor of horns drifted over the wind. “What is it?” Strangyeard asked. “What is happening?”
“They have finished the Writ and I suppose they’ve gotten no answer. That is just like Josua, to give Elias a chance to surrender honorably when we know already he will do nothing of the sort.”
“The prince is ... determined to do the right thing,” Strangyeard replied. “Goodness, I hope he is well. It makes me sick to think of him and Camaris wandering lost in those caverns.”
“There is that Nabbanman,” Sangfugol said excitedly. “He does look rather like Josua—from here, anyway.” He turned suddenly toward the priest. “Did you really suggest I should mimic the prince?”
“You look much like him.”
Sangfugol stared at him with disgust and bitter amusement. “Mother of God, Strangyeard, do me no favors.” He huddled deeper into his blankets. “Imagine me riding around waving a sword. Ransomer save us all.”
“But we all must do what we can.”
“Yes—and what I can do is play my harp, or my lute, and sing. And if we win, I will most assuredly do that. And if we don‘t—well, I may do that anyway if I live, but it won’t be here. But what I cannot do is ride and fight and convince people that I am Josua.”
They were silent for a time, listening to the wind.
“If we lose, I fear there will be nowhere else to run to, Sangfugol.”
“Perhaps.” The harper sat unspeaking a while longer, then said: “Finally!”
“What? Is something happening?”
“They are bringing forward the battering ram—save me, but it is a frightening thing. It has a great iron head on it that looks like a real ram, with curling horns and all. But it’s so big! Even with all those men, it is a miracle they can push it along.” He took a sharp breath. “The king’s men are firing arrows from the walls! There, someone is down. More than one. But the ram is still going forward.”
“May God keep them safe,” Strangyeard said quietly. “It is so cold up here, Sangfugol.”
“How can anyone shoot an arrow in this wind, let alone hit anything? Ah! Someone has fallen from the wall. That’s one of theirs gone, in any case.” The harper’s voice rose in excitment. “It is hard to see what is happening, but our men are close to the walls now. There, someone has put up a ladder. There are soldiers swarming up it.” A moment later he made a noise of surprise and horror.
“What do you see?” Strangyeard squinted his eye, trying to see through the swirling snows.
“Something was dropped on them.” The harper was shaken. “A big stone, I think. I am sure they are all dead.”
“May the Ransomer protect us,” Strangyeard said miserably. “It has begun in earnest. Now we can only wait for the ending, whatever that may be.”
Isgrimnur held his hands close to his face, trying to shield himself from the wind-flung snow. He was having great difficulty keeping track of what was happening, although the Hayholt’s walls were less than five hundred cubits up the hillside from where he watched. Hundreds of armored men floundered in the drifts before the wall, busy as insects. Hundreds more, even dimmer shapes from Isgrimnur’s vantage point, scurried about atop the Hayholt’s walls. The duke cursed quietly. Everything seemed so damnably distant!
Freosel climbed onto the wooden platform the engineers had built between the bottom of the hill and the empty, storm-raddled husk of Erchester. The Falshireman was visibly struggling against the wind. “Ram’s almost to the gates. The wind, it’ll be our friend today—hard on their bowmen, it be.”
“But we’re not able to shoot any better,” the duke snarled. “They’ve got free run of the walls and they’re pushing our scaling ladders off easy as you please.” He smacked his fist into his gloved hand. “The sun’s been up for hours and all we’ve done is wear a few trenches in the snow.”
The Falshireman looked at him quizzically. “Pardon, Sir Duke, but seems you think we should knock these walls down ‘fore sunset.”
“No, no. God knows the Hayholt is built strong. But I don’t know how much time we have.” He looked up into the murky sky. “That cursed star they all talk about is right overhead. I can almost feel it glaring. The prince and Camaris are gone. Miriamele’s gone.” He turned his gaze to the Hayholt, peering through the snow flurries. “And our men are going to freeze solid if we keep them out there too long. I wish we could knock the walls down by sunset—but I don’t hold much hope.”
Isorn pointed upward. The soldiers gathered around him looked up.
“There. On the walls.”
Beside the helmeted heads peering through the crenellations were more than a few whose heads were bare; their faces were ghostly, and their white hair blew in the strong wind.
&nb
sp; “White Foxes?” asked Sludig. He made the sign of the Tree.
“Indeed. And inside the Hayholt. Cursed things!” Isorn lifted his black-painted sword and waved it back and forth in challenge, but the distant figures on the walls did not seem to notice. “And curse Elias for whatever foul bargain he made.”
Sludig was staring. “I have not seen them before,” he cried above the tumult. “Merciful Aedon, they look like demons!”
“They are demons. And now the Hayholt is their nest.”
“But they are doing nothing that I can see.”
“Just as well,” Isorn replied. “Perhaps they are too few. But they are fearsome archers. I wonder why none of them seem to have bows.”
Sludig shook his head, mystified. He was unable to look away from the pale faces. “Preserve us,” he said hoarsely.
Baron Seriddan climbed heavily up the steps onto the platform, weighted by his armor. “What news?” Isgrimnur asked.
Seriddan took off his gloves and held his hands close to the brazier of coals. “Things go well, I suppose. Elias’ men are firing on the ram and it is slow going to keep it moving uphill, but it will be against the gate soon. Some of the siege towers are also being moved into place, and they seem to be concentrating their arrows on them. We are lucky there is such wind today, and that it is so hard for the king’s archers to see.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying,” the duke grumbled. “But I am going quietly mad here anyway. Curse Josua for leaving me this way.” He scowled, then made the sign of the Tree. “Forgive me. I did not mean that.”
Seriddan nodded. “I know. It is terrible not to know where he is.”
“That’s not all that’s bothering me. There are still too many unanswered questions.”
“What do you mean?”
“If all they need to do is stall us—if this flaming star truly signifies something will happen that helps Elias—then why didn’t they even try to parley? And you’d think that the king would want to see his brother at the very least, if only to shout at him and call him a traitor.”
“Perhaps Elias knows that Josua is not here.”
Isgrimnur flinched. “How could he know that? Josua only disappeared last night!”
“You know more of these matters than I do, Duke Isgrimnur. You have been fighting the king and his magical allies a long time.”
Isgrimnur walked to the front of the platform, staring at the Hayholt’s shadowy walls. “Maybe they do know. Maybe they lured Camaris in somehow—but, damn me, that wouldn’t mean Josua would come, too. They couldn’t have planned on that.”
“I cannot even guess,” said the baron. “I only came to tell you that I’d like to take some of my men around to the western wall. I think it is time we gave them another spot to worry about.”
“Go ahead. But that is another thing that troubles me: Elias doesn’t seem very worried at all. With the battering ram so close, I would have expected at least one sortie to prevent us from dragging it into place.”
“I cannot answer you.” Seriddan clapped him on the arm. “But if this is all that the High King has left to offer, we will have the gate down in a matter of days at the most.”
“We may not have days,” Isgrimnur replied, frowning.
“But we do what we can.” Seriddan clambered down and moved toward his horse. “Take heart, Duke Isgrimnur,” he called. “Things are going well.”
Isgrimnur looked around. “Jeremias!”
The boy pushed through a small knot of armored men at the back of the platform. “Yes, sire.”
“See if you can find me some wine, boy. My guts are colder than my toes.”
The squire hurried off toward the tents. Isgrimnur turned back to the windy, snow-smothered battlefield, glowering.
“God preserve us!” Sludig gaped in astonishment. “What are they doing?”
“Singing,” said Isorn. “I saw it before the walls of Naglimund. It went on a long time.” He stared at the two dozen Sithi, who had ridden forward and now stood calmly within bowshot of the walls, knee-deep in the drifting snows.
“What do you mean, singing?”
“It is how they fight—at least it is how they fight with their cousins, the Norns. If I understood better, I would explain it to you.”
“And these are the allies we’ve been waiting for?” Sludig’s voice rose in anger. “We battle for our lives—and they sing? Look! Our men are dying out there!”
“The Sithi can fight in other ways too, Sludig. You will see that, I think. And it worked for them at Naglimund, although I don’t know how. They brought the walls down.”
His companion snorted derisively. “I will put my faith in the ram and the siege-towers-and in men with strong arms.” He looked up at the sky. “It’s getting darker. But it cannot be much past midday.”
“The storm is growing thicker, perhaps.” Isorn restrained his horse, which was stepping nervously. “I do not like the looks of it, though. Do you see that cloud over the towers?”
Sludig stared, following Isorn’s pointing finger. He blinked. “Lightning! Is this the Sithi’s doing?” Indeed, almost the only thing that could be heard over the moaning wind was the strange, rhythmic rise and fall of the immortals’ voices.
“I do not know, but it might be. I watched them at it before Naglimund for days, and still I could not tell you what they do. But Jiriki told me that his people work to counter certain magicks of the Norns.” Isorn winced as thunder crashed, echoing across the hillside and down through the deserted streets of Erchester behind the prince’s army. The lightning flashed again, seeming for a moment to freeze everything on and before the walls of the Hayholt—men, engines of war, flurrying snowflakes, even arrows in their flight—before the storm darkness returned. Another roar of thunder sounded. The wind howled even louder. “Perhaps that is why the Norns are not among the archers,” Isorn continued loudly. “Because they are preparing some trick, some spell—something we will not like much. Oh, I saw horrors at Naglimund, Sludig. I pray Jiriki’s people are strong enough to hold them back.”
“This is madness!” Sludig shouted. “I can see almost nothing!”
Another crash came, this one a little softer. It was not thunder. “Praise Usires! They have brought the ram against the gates,” Isorn called, excited. “See, Sludig, they have struck the first blow!” The black sword raised before him, he spurred his horse forward a few steps. With the sea-dragon helm on his head and his cloak whipping in the high wind, even Sludig could almost believe this was Camaris and not his liege-lord’s son. “We must find Hotvig’s riders and be ready to go in if they can breach the gate.”
Sludig looked in vain for a messenger among the milling foot soldiers. “We should tell your father,” he shouted.
“Go, then. I will wait. But hurry, man. Who would have thought we would be so close so soon?”
Sludig tried to say something, but it was lost in the noise of the storm. He turned his horse away and rode back down the hill toward Duke Isgrimnur’s watching place.
“The ram is against the gate,” Sangfugol said exultantly. “Look at it! It is big as three houses!”
“The gate is bigger.” Strangyeard was shivering. “Still, I am astonished that there should be so little resistance.”
“You saw Erchester. Everyone has fled. Elias and his pet wizard have made this place a wasteland.”
“But there seem to be men enough inside the walls to defend the castle. Why did they dig no trenches to slow the siege engines? Why did they lay up so few stones to push down on the scaling ladders?”
“The stones they had did their work,” Sangfugol replied, angry that Strangyeard did not share his excitement. “The men who wound up beneath them are as dead as you could wish.”
“Elysia, Mother of our Ransomer!” The priest was shocked. “Sangfugol, do not speak so of our fallen soldiers! I only meant it is strange the defenders seem so ill-prepared for a siege Elias must have known was coming for weeks, even months.”
“The king has gone mad,” the harper replied. “You’ve heard what those who fled Erkynland say. And there are few left to fight with him. This will be no different than prodding a bear out of its cave. The bear is fierce, but it is an animal for all that, and must lose out to the cleverness of men.”
“Cleverness?” The archivist did his best to shake the snow off his blanket. The wind slashed bitterly even through the low barrier of stones they had erected. “What have we done that is so clever? We have been led by the nose like oxen all along.”
Sangfugol waved his hand airily, although he too was trembling with cold. “Having Isorn and that Nabban fellow pose as Camaris and Josua—that was a clever idea, you must admit ... except for your little suggestion that I be the one to play. the prince. And going beneath the Hayholt’s walls by caverns and tunnels—that is something clever indeed! The king would not think of that in a thousand years.”
Strangyeard, who was rubbing his hands together furiously in an effort to keep them warm, suddenly stopped. “The king might not—but his allies must know of those tunnels.” His voice shook. “Surely the Norns must know.”
“That is why our fairy-folk have gone down after the prince and Camaris. I’ve seen them, Aditu’s brother and mother and the rest. They can take care of themselves, I have no doubt ... even if the Norns know about the tunnels and are waiting for them, as you seem to think.”
“That is not what I am thinking.” Strangyeard stood. Snow fell from him and was promptly snatched away by the wind. “Not what 1 am thinking at all. The Norns know all about the tunnels.” He stepped over the low wall of stones, knocking several loose.
“Hi! What are you doing?”
“I have to find Duke Isgrimnur. We are in more danger than we suspected.” He turned and waded downhill through the drifts, leaning into the wind, frail but determined.