Summerblood (48 page)

One mystery solved, she acknowledged, as she tucked it away with a shudder. And one created. She had a means to do some damage, that was a fact.

But who was that nameless person who had given her such an outlandish weapon? And was it worth her trouble to try to find out?

One thing was certain, she concluded, as she collected her newfound treasures, and—with extravagant care, and a fair bit of pain besides—made her way back to the hedge arcade: She had a new ally. And a new way to exact revenge.

She had only to learn how to use it.

But
that
, so far as she could tell, was not much harder than breathing.

When the first rays of morning sunlight struck the golden ball above the Gemcraft standard waving from the topmost tower of that captive hold, Eron moved.

Ahfinn saw it first, having been unable to sleep the entire night before. Not been
allowed
to sleep, rather. Zeff had kept him awake with one demand or another, initially to midnight, which had proven the first of three false alarms, and finally right up until a hand before dawn. Some of it was legitimate work, granted, for word had come of a potential breakthrough in the diggings, which Ahfinn had been dispatched to investigate. But most was simply fetch-and-run, bringing this or that supply or diversion to his Chief. Which was fine, in moderation; it was what he'd expected when Zeff had taken him on as secretary. But not when the main function of those errands seemed to be placating a Chief's personal anxieties. Something had happened to Zeff a few nights ago, of that Ahfinn was certain. He didn't know what, exactly, save that it had involved Avall, the armor, and the gem. But things had been different thereafter.

Or maybe it was simply the presence of Kylin, whose music
Zeff was requesting with increasing frequency. Whether that was good, in that it served to soothe his Chief's ever more volatile temper; or bad, as a potential reminder of a life Zeff was supposed to have left behind, Ahfinn had no idea.

In any case, Zeff was proving increasingly difficult—which was why Ahfinn was strolling the third arcade from the top so very, very early in the morning. Trying to work off the frustration that was preventing him from getting much-needed sleep, now that he was finally off duty.

He saw it first as a line of darkness a fair way back in the woods. Initially he thought it was simply morning light on shadows—until those shadows moved. And as they moved, they solidified, slowly joining into a fragmentary line just behind the nearer trees. Larger shapes moved behind them, indistinguishable from trees at first, then growing clearer as they approached the ridge that topped the slope above Megon Vale. He paused there, entranced, though he knew that even now he should be spreading the alarm. And he would—in just a moment. The longer he waited, the more he would have to report. It would take only a breath.

And that was exactly how long it took for those fragments of darkness to advance another half dozen paces, which put them full into the light at the top of the ridge, where, in one smooth movement that filled Ahfinn with awe, they joined abruptly into what looked to him like a continuous line of black metal rolling like an impossibly enormous serpent out of the forest.
Shields
, logic told him. Tall as a man and half as wide, and linked at the edges by some type of quick-release joints he couldn't make out in the dim light. Their wielder's feet were invisible in the thin mist that still hugged the heights.

And then they moved again, and Ahfinn saw and was amazed. The vanguard of Eron's army stretched as far as he could see to north and south. Easily far enough to encircle the entire accessible side of the hold with an unbroken line of man-high metal. Easily a thousand men, he reckoned. And that was only the beginning.

“Attack!” he yelled—finally.

As a dozen other throats yelled the same from high above him.

From his place behind the center of the line, Rann watched the shield wall advance. Though armed with swords and crossbows to a man, and followed a pace back by archers only slightly less well-shielded, the vanguard of their force was mostly for effect. It was a symbol, if one would call it by its true name: a physical manifestation of the fact that Eron intended to keep the whole of the Ninth Face exactly where it was. The Priests might destroy the hold. But they'd do it with themselves inside.

There was no movement within either hold or palisade that he could see, save an odd bit of excited dashing about on the arcades, as lookouts began to earn their keep and alert the force within.

And still the shield wall advanced. Slowly, oh so slowly. A pace every dozen breaths. Walk and rest, walk and rest. Only when they'd traversed a dozen paces did the first siege weapons show. There was a staggered line of them, but Zeff wouldn't know that at first. No, what the Ninth Face Chief would see initially would be a dozen siege towers advance, alternating with the same number of trebuchets. That many more waited half a shot back in the woods, sheathed, like those to the forefront, in thin sheets of metal to ward off fire.

As to their purpose—the towers gave them height, but even so they came nowhere near even the lower arcades. Still, they'd allow the archers who manned them from platforms at various levels to shoot farther into the arcades than otherwise, and farther into the roofs as well. Frankly, as Vorinn had told him, the towers were for intimidation, along with the shield wall—a way of saying to Zeff, “We know you're there. Get out if you can. We can circle you as deeply as we like. Endlessly.”

Meanwhile the trebuchets would bring the hold down on
their heads a little at a time. Rann hoped it wouldn't come to that. He hadn't forgotten, nor could he forget for even a moment, that close to a thousand innocent Eronese citizens, most of them High Clan, were prisoners within. How many Ninth Face accompanied them, he wasn't certain, though Vorinn was laying odds it was at least half that many. In this regard, the coup back in Tir-Eron was an advantage, because later reports had indicated that the Ninth Face was also active there. And battle on two fronts, even if it was not yet physical combat, was never easy.

In any case, Rann had more concerns than the civilians within. Avall was in there, too, along—apparently—with Rrath and Kylin. And damn the little harper for a thrice-cursed fool! What had possessed him to pull the trick he had, Rann had no idea. He probably had a good reason—likely, it was part of some stupid plot to rescue Avall. But Rann was tired of wellintentioned heroes.

As for battle, he was armed for it and primed for it, but he did not truly expect it to come. At least not today.

Zeff watched impassively from behind a shield wall of his own, though he doubted they were necessary, there on the arcade. An archer could target him, perhaps, but there was plenty of time to see the arrow in flight, plenty of time to raise shields to meet it. Plenty of time, in fact, to duck behind the rail of this, the highest arcade, and let them pass harmlessly above him. However high those siege towers were, even Gem-Hold's lowest arcades were over two times higher.

Not that they weren't marvels of engineering. Nine spans high, more or less, and a third that square at the base, for stability; they were in effect mobile houses, elegantly built, braced for lightness, and faced with metal to ward off fire. There were five fighting platforms within them, but only the bottom two would likely be needed, and that only to engage the soldiers out at the palisade. Even the top one was mostly for show.

And it was, Zeff conceded, an impressive display, especially with all that Warcraft crimson mingled with Argen maroon contrasting so nicely with the black-painted shields and the incredible green of the midsummer grass. A hand after they'd begun easing over the surrounding ridgeline, the first of what had proven to be three shield walls stopped moving. It had covered half the distance between the ridge and the palisade, and just enough more that the siege engines sat on level ground, their man-high wheels gleaming in the sun. And behind that first shield wall, there was not a span of ground that was not defended by a well-armed man or woman. They had him ten to one, he suspected. But he had some things they didn't.

For maybe half a hand, they simply stood there, unmoving. Playing for an effect Zeff acknowledged they'd probably be having—if they faced any force but his own. His men, however, had long since been warned. And only a few were even being allowed out here. The rest were manning the palisade or securing the hold, putting everyone not under his direct command under lock and key.

And still he waited, still and silent, aware at some level that the entire hold and vale seemed to be holding its breath, fearing perhaps that the next breath either took would be rank with the stench of war.

A hand after the shield wall halted, something changed.

Not much, but Zeff noticed it. There was movement at the center of the ridgeline, directly behind the central tower— which bore the Royal Standard of Eron. By squinting, he could make out roughly a dozen figures on identical white horses riding toward that tower. Closer they came, with one in the front, two behind, three more behind them, then four more, in a wedge. The ranks made way for them, then melted back in place.

Soon enough, they reached the tower, where they dismounted one by one and disappeared within. Zeff lost sight of them briefly, then caught a flurry of movement on the platform
immediately below the top. An adjustment of the distance lens Ahfinn had finally found and passed him clarified the motion into the same group he'd seen earlier: one man standing in the forefront, with two flanking him behind. The one on the left he identified easily enough, by his bulk, his age, his blood-red cloak and surcoat, and his beard, as Tryffon, Craft-Chief of War. The man to the right looked like a younger, leaner, cleanshaven version of the other—and not unlike Avall's consort, Strynn, from which Zeff divined that he was Tryffon's brother's-son, Vorinn, though Zeff had never met him. He carried a distance lens, Zeff noted—which did not surprise him.

The man in the middle wore a surcoat of Eemon midnightblue quartered with Stonecraft black and gray, beneath a cloak of Warcraft crimson slashed with Argen maroon. Mail showed on his arms and legs, and one of those men two ranks behind him carried a helm. Black hair flowed close upon his shoulders, and gold rings flashed at his ears. He was a handsome young man, and neatly built.

But he was
not
King of the Eronese.

“Rann syn Eemon-arr,” Ahfinn informed him quietly. “It would appear they've made him Regent.”

“They'd have done better to elect Tryffon,” Zeff snorted. “Such as he is, I'd assume he's a figurehead.”

“A well-defended one,” Istahnn mused from Zeff's other side. “I—”

“Shush,” Zeff hissed. “He's getting ready to speak.”

And so he was. Rann had raised a gold-foiled speaking-horn to his lips, and even at half a shot's remove, his voice carried clear across Megon Vale.

“Zeff of no known clan, who calls himself Chief-Commander of the traitorous heretics named by his own tongue the Ninth Face, hear the words of Rann syn Eemonarr, appointed Viceroy of the North and Regent by acclamation of the Kingdom of Eron and High Commander of the most true and loyal army of Eron, in the name of Avall syn Argen-a, High King of that same land.” A pause to let the
echoes settle, then: “Be it known that you have been declared by your actions guilty of an act of treason, and guilty by your words of performing that same act in clear premeditation, for which you have been duly proclaimed by the Council of Chiefs acting in concert to be a traitor, subject to you making your own defense before His Majesty and His Majesty's Throne in Tir-Eron. Be it known that we hold those under your command guiltless until their acts prove otherwise, and that any who throw down their weapons and leave that hold of their own free choice will be taken into our ranks and treated like our own.

“But know you that if you do not yourself surrender yourself and your force to us, and this hold to its rightful Warden, we will bring it down around you. Destroy it yourself, you may—as you have threatened. But destruction means very little to the dead.”

There was no mention of Avall, Zeff noted. Which he thought strange. But perhaps that meant that this Rann, though he was in fact Avall's bond-brother, was more pragmatic than he thought. For now, anyway. In any case, Rann had raised the speaking-horn again.

“I will give you until noon to consider,” he said. “In the meantime, five thousand loyal warriors of Eron will sit and wait. And be warned, Zeff of the Ninth Face, not all the warriors at our command have yet come to this field.”

Which was probably true, Zeff conceded. But possibly also a feint. Two men left in camp would support Rann's claim. But he doubted Rann was that subtle.

In the meantime, Zeff had raised his own speaking-horn. “I will provide an answer at noon, if that be amenable to you,” Zeff called smoothly. “In the meantime, enjoy your rest. It may be the last you have for quite a while.”