Conqueror’s Moon (51 page)

“But can you be absolutely certain of this?” the prince asked, understanding well enough what the boy implied, yet not wanting to accept it.

“No.” Snudge spoke dully. “I can’t be certain.”

“And the Concealer sigil: will you swear to me on your heart and soul that it’s truly lost?”

Snudge did not immediately answer. He hated the moonstone because it had been the death of his two friends. He hated it even more because of what he had seen in the prince’s eyes when he asked about it. Concealer was truly a thing accursed, and he wanted nothing more to do with it.

And yet he had not thrown it into the river, as he had almost done after lifting the portcullis to Conrig and his army. The Salka would surely have found it in the water, he told himself with facile reasoning, and taken it to Conjure-King Beynor. So Snudge kept the stone, convincing himself it was necessary to do so until he had a safe way to dispose of it.

“Your Grace,” he said earnestly, “I swear to you by all that is sacred that the stone is truly lost to the sight of men—although mayhap the Beaconfolk, or the Salka who made it, or even Princess Ullanoth do know where it is. Sigils are evil things, just as the princess warned us. We’re well rid of it, believe me.”

Conrig’s dark eyes with their glint of talent bored into his, seeking the truth. But Snudge stood fast, and at last the prince turned away and spoke of the matter no more.

twenty-nine

Ullanoth awoke in the guest room as the bronze bell in Holt Mallburn’s highest tower tolled the first hour after midnight. She felt quite well, even jubilant, and ignored the pain of Subtle Loophole as she first scanned the vast palace with its mostly sleeping inhabitants, then observed the vanguard of Con-rig’s army, led by young Baron Pasacor Kimbolton, move silently across the fogbound span and prepare to fall upon the unsuspecting Town Guard barracks down by the riverside.

The prince himself waited with his other noble leaders inside the bridge tower, until they should receive the signal to charge into the city. Hovering unobtrusively near Conrig, having minor wounds tended by Vra-Stergos, was the wild-talented youth Deveron, disheveled and somber. She’d have to find out exactly what he’d been up to, although from the admiring remarks of the others, it was obvious that he and his companion armigers had been successful in taking the bridge.

She took time to comb her hair and attire herself in a sable-trimmed over-robe of wine-red velvet filched from the quarters of Princess Risalla, the youngest child of King Achardus. Then she bespoke Shanakin, ruler of the spunkies.

“The time has come. Are you ready?”

Waiting for you, lady.

“Do not enter the central gatehouse of the palace until I give the command.”

Impatient evil chitterings polluted the wind.

Moon Mother! she prayed. Let Shanakin be able to keep his subjects under control. If only there had been another way…

Conjuring her Concealer, she hurried down the dark and silent corridors.

Only a few household knights and men-at-arms seemed to be keeping watch within the central keep where the regal apartments were. Holt Mallburn was not as splendidly furnished as Cala Palace, but it was much more strongly fortified— and magnificent enough to prick her envy and bolster her resolve to restore Fenguard, once she deposed Beynor. She would live in Cathra with Conrig only during the dreary winter months, returning to her home in Moss when spring greened the marshes and the swans flew north…

She came at length into the massive gatehouse, which was set into curtain walls twenty ells thick. Most of the palace’s troops were quartered in huge towers flanking the gatehouse’s central passage. At this hour of the night, with Holt Mallburn secured and presumably impregnable, less than two dozen armed men were on duty.

“Shanakin!” she called. “Bring your Small Lights over the walls into the outer ward and attend me! All human beings within the gatehouse and its towers, excepting only those I keep close to me, now belong to you. Begin your feast!”

She became visible, conjured Interpenetrator, and strolled into the guardroom at the inner end of the gate passage. A middle-aged captain, seated at a table with two of his sergeants, leapt to his feet, exclaiming in astonishment.

“Lady! What are you doing here so late?” He scowled. “And who are you?”

“I am Ullanoth of Moss, the Conjure-Queen,” she replied. Why not style herself by her rightful title? “And I am here to claim Holt Mallburn for my own. Every warrior dwelling within this fortress will yield up his life to my sorcery this night… saving only those few who surrender themselves to me and agree to do my bidding.”

“Kill her!” roared the captain, drawing his sword and rushing at her. The others also sprang to the attack, but gave shouts of dismay when their blades and then their grasping hands passed through her slender body as though she were a ghost.

“Stand still!” she commanded. “Listen!”

“No!” the wild-eyed captain cried, still brandishing his weapon. “Outside, men, and sound the tocsin!”

She stood in the guardhouse doorway with hands held high. “Fools! Listen, I say! If you cross the threshold, you’re dead men.”

The three of them hesitated, heads cocked, as a curious rustling sound, almost like the stirring of rats in a granary, began to fill the air. The noise swelled in intensity, becoming an unearthly hissing hum that almost drowned out the sounds of screaming.

“What’s happened?” quavered one of the sergeants, potbellied and having the hectic complexion of a heavy drinker.

“They’re dying.” Ullanoth spoke without emotion. “Your fellow-warriors. Those lying abed and those standing nightwatch. The warm red blood is draining from their helpless bodies.”

“No!” croaked the captain, approaching her and making another futile jab with his sword. “Follow me, men! We’ll walk right through the witch—” He uttered a startled curse as she stepped aside and gestured wordlessly at the great cloud of golden sparks now whirling outside in the passage like a swarm of infuriated hornets. They filled the broad corridor from one side to the other.

“God a‘ mercy!” The second sergeant, tall and thin, let his sword fall from his hand as he gaped in terror. “Spunkies! But I never saw so many…”

“As you know, they sup on blood,” she said. “They are my servants. Relatively harmless in small numbers—but I have summoned them from all over the island to feast tonight in Mallburn Town. Shall I invite them into the guardroom, or will you surrender to me and keep your lives?”

“What do you want?” the captain asked. His face sagged with despair.

“Place all of your weapons on the table, then come with me.”

They complied. She commanded the hovering, hissing Small Lights to vacate the passage. The creatures receded into the ward as Ullanoth and the men emerged. Two bodies in armor lay on their backs beneath a torch on a wall-bracket. The tortured faces within the open helmets resembled skulls wrapped in crinkled pale parchment.

“Swive me!” the lanky sergeant wailed, as he caught sight of the remains. “We’re goners!”

His big-bellied mate turned aside and vomited.

“I swear to you on my honor,” Ullanoth declared, “that if you obey me I’ll spare your lives.”

The captain asked, “What must we do?”

“Open the palace gates. All of them.”

“Even if you spare us, King Achardus will have us drawn and quartered—”

“Your king, all unknowing, is certain to die this night. He sealed his fate when he rejected Cathra’s Edict of Sovereignty and slaughtered the delegation presenting it. Now Conrig Wincantor, my ally, is advancing on Holt Mallburn with an army. Tomorrow you and whoever else survives will be subjects of his Sovereignty—like it or not.”

==========

Mallburn Town was on fire.

Conrig rode through the night, surrounded by his Heart Companions, leading the principal Cathran host up the broad boulevard called Malle Way. Squads of thanes guided by spunkies had already gone ahead into the sidestreets with crocks and bombshells of tarnblaze, setting buildings alight to sow panic amongst the enemy.

After the brief, decisive fight down by the riverside, no more Didionite troops came forth to oppose the invaders. Any townsfolk abroad in the streets, fleeing the flames, remained well hidden—or else had fallen prey to the bloodsuckers. Spreading scarlet billows warmed the air and began to melt the uncanny fog, so that the main body of the army no longer required guidance by the Small Lights as it approached Holt Mallburn Palace. Only now and then were indistinct yellow sparks visible on either side of the advancing cavalcade.

Duke Tanaby Vanguard and a second large force were en route to the Golden Precinct, further east, to engage the private guards who protected the dwellings of the wealthy merchants and guildsmen, while Viscount Skellhaven, his cousin Holmrangel, and their seagoing warriors were galloping toward the harbor, ready to torch the quay and seize whatever ships were in port.

It was all happening as Ullanoth had predicted.

Conrig smiled, recalling the jubilant face of his brother Stergos as the doctor relayed the windspoken message of Princess Ullanoth: The gates of the palace are wide open, and most of its garrison has fallen to my sorcery. I await your coming, my dearest prince—and so does King Achardus Mallburn.

By the time the Cathran host reached the Royal Park, the vapors had so thinned that the watchfires of the palace ramparts were clearly visible at the top of the wooded hill. Overhead, low clouds reflected hellish tints of blood-red and orange onto the scene below.

The army came to a halt. The park’s sentry post had been abandoned, but the tall wrought-iron gates were shut with six large padlocks. Conrig and the Companions rode aside as thanes from Parlian Beorbrook’s cohort used bombshells to topple the ornate supporting columns and bring the gratings down. As the twisted fragments were being dragged aside by horsemen, the earl marshal himself rode up to the prince, followed closely by his son Count Elktor and the alchymist Vra-Doman Carmorton.

“We’re finding no opposition to our march at all,” Beorbrook announced. “Aside from the Town Guardsmen Kimbolton cut down at the river, the city seems unpatrolled. It’s damned eerie.”

“There’ll be troops defending the Golden Precinct where the well-heeled trader-lords dwell,” Conrig said. “Vanguard and his lads will be a match for them. But I wish I knew what to expect at the palace.”

Conrig rode a short distance away from the Companions, motioning for Beorbrook, Elktor, and Vra-Doman to follow. In a low voice, he asked the earl marshal, “Have you had further windspeech from Princess Ullanoth?”

“Not yet. Your brother is engaged in other arcane business, bespeaking news of our advance to King Olmigon in Cala, so I thought you might wish Vra-Doman to query the princess again… or even call upon the resident wizards of Holt Mallburn, to see if Achardus might be of a mind to surrender.”

Conrig nodded. “Attempt Ullanoth first, Brother.”

The alchymist’s expression was fretful and his eyes darted nervously about. “Someone please hold my horse and help me to dismount. I’m not feeling at all well! There are extremely malign influences abroad on the wind tonight.”

Young Elktor assisted the adept, while Conrig and the earl marshal exchanged glances. “Our tiny collaborators,” the prince murmured. “I presume they must have helped Ullanoth subdue the palace garrison, but she gave no details.”

Beorbrook grimaced. “There’s wickedness in the air, all right. Even I feel it.”

Vra-Doman sank onto his heels, ignoring the puddles amidst the cobblestones, and drew the hood of his habit over his head. After some minutes had passed, he looked up at Conrig.

“The princess doesn’t respond, Your Grace. Shall I bespeak the Didionites?”

“Please.”

This effort took longer. When Vra-Doman finished, his face was blanched and his eyes glazed. “They—they refuse to yield to a force in league with—with the Beaconfolk.”

“God’s Breath!” Conrig exclaimed, astounded. “What the hell do they mean by that?” And what has she done?…

“I have bespoken one Ilingus Direwold, Archwizard of Didion,” Vra-Doman continued. “He speaks for King Achardus, who declares the following: ‘The atrocities committed by the Witch of Moss cry out to the God of the Heights and Depths for just retribution. I will never consign the people of Didion to a liege lord who avails himself of the depraved sorcery of the Coldlight Army. I pledge that I and my sons will oppose the Sovereignty of Blencathra with all our strength until the moment of our deaths in battle.’”

Even thickheaded Count Elktor was struck speechless.

The earl marshal murmured, “I wonder if the prospect of imminent defeat has caused the mind of Achardus to founder? Failing that, Your Grace, we may have come to a pretty pass, relying on Princess Ullanoth.”

“Damn the woman!” Conrig muttered. “And damn that hypocrite, Achardus, who was willing enough to use Beynor’s Beaconfolk magic!”

“Nevertheless,” Beorbrook warned, “sufficient numbers of your loyal subjects agree with Achardus’s opinion of the Lights, so that it would be unwise to publish his statement abroad. My son and I will keep silent, of course.”

Conrig inclined his head in agreement and turned to the alchymist. “Vra-Doman Carmorton, I charge you also to tell no one else of this. And I avouch to you, my friends, that if Ullanoth has indeed committed an atrocity, it was never done at my behest. She promised me she would never use Beaconfolk magic as a weapon.”

“Perhaps she did eschew the evil of the Great Lights,” Vra-Doman whispered, “but what about the Small?”

Conrig drew a breath. “Whatever else she’s done, Ullanoth has opened the stronghold of Holt Mallburn to my army. We must put all else aside and seize this moment. Later, after the conquest, I’ll decide what must be done about the princess.”

“There are those,” Beorbrook said, “who believe you are considering taking her to wife.”

“I would as soon wed one of the Beaconfolk.” The prince wheeled his horse about, drew his sword, and shouted to the assembled warriors, “Cathra! Follow me to the palace, and to victory!”