David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

He had made his decision to join the conspiracy impetuously. True, Renald had excluded him from his daily audiences, making Pillad feel that he was no longer welcome in the court. But his had not been a calculated choice, nor had it been rooted in hatred of the duke. Indeed, the minister wasn’t certain that he could articulate fully why he had cast his lot with the renegade Qirsi. He wanted to be closer to Uestem. He wanted gold. He was hurt by Renald’s distrust.

Until now, Pillad had not been driven by a desire to hurt the duke. But this encounter with Renald’s soldiers changed everything. He felt violated. He didn’t care that the duke’s suspicions were warranted. Renald had shamed him; the duke’s soldiers were shaming him still. They might have followed at a respectful distance, but no one who saw them would have doubted for even a moment that they were escorting the minister back to the castle.

Pillad had never thought of himself as a vengeful man, but he vowed now that he would strike back at Renald and his court. One way or another, he would see the duke dead. And the promise of that day would do more to compel his service to the movement than all the gold the Weaver could give him.

Dantrielle, Aneira

Rumors chased one another through the streets of Dantrielle like demons on the Night of Bian, whispering darkly to frightened peddlers, driving children back into the relative safety of their homes, leaving men and women to do little more than go about their lives in glum silence while casting wary glances at the great castle in whose shadow they dwelled. Many said that the Solkaran army already marched toward the city, a thousand strong, with swordsmen and archers in equal number. Others claimed that the host was closer to two thousand, for it included a horde of laborers who had been trained to build siege engines from the trees of the Great Forest. Still others were heard to say that all these men were led by the regent himself, Numar of Renbrere, who had labeled the duke and all his followers as traitors to the realm, and who had sworn that he would not rest until the city and castle had been reduced to rubble.

Tebeo had heard all of these tales, and though his scouts in the north had yet to bring word of the Solkaran army’s latest movements, he knew with the certainty of a man facing his own doom that every one of them was true. He had dispatched his fastest riders three days before, on the fifth morning of the waxing, sending one each to Bistari, Orvinti, Kett, Tounstrel, and Noltierre. All carried messages pleading with his fellow dukes to send their armies to his aid.

He had little hope that Silbron of Bistari would offer any reply at all; the young duke, Chago’s son, had already declared to Brall his intention to keep Bistari neutral in this struggle. Brall would have only just arrived back in Orvinti from his travels. Like Tebeo, he had spent a good deal of time away from his home, trying to convince the others to join their efforts. It would be a few days at least before he was ready to lead his army southward. But Tebeo hoped and expected that the others would respond swiftly and in force. If they didn’t, Dantrielle might not be able to endure the regent’s assault for more than half a turn.

Standing atop the tallest of Castle Dantrielle’s eight towers with Evanthya and his master of arms, Tebeo tried to banish such thoughts from his mind. “The castle of his fathers might not have been as grand as Castle Solkara, nor as powerfully fortified, but still it was not without its defenses. Situated within sight of the confluence of the Rassor and Black Sand rivers, the castle could not easily be attacked from the west or south, or even directly from the north. Any army that attempted to ford the rivers so close to the castle walls would be within range of Tebeo’s archers. Numar’s assault would have to come from the northeast, and since the castle stood at that end of the city, its red stone walls would bear the brunt of the attack, which was as it should be. These walls were as thick as any in the realm, and the three portcullises that blocked the outer gate had been fashioned centuries ago of iron and the Great Forest’s hardiest oak.

Tebeo tried to draw comfort from all of this, and from the banner that flew just above him bearing the red, black, and gold sigil of his house. The Flame in the Night, the fire that endured; a brilliant golden blaze burning above the red towers. The crest dated from the clan wars, when the castle had survived numerous sieges led by the rival families. But Dantrielle’s reputation had not been tested for hundreds of years, and neither had the castle walls.

While Tebeo was staring at the banner rising and falling in the wind, Bausef DarLesta, the duke’s master of arms, was saying something about the towers and the positioning of Dantrielle’s archers. Tebeo had long since lost the thread of whatever point he was trying to make.

“Forgive me, Bausef,” he said, interrupting, “but my mind must have wandered. I’m afraid you’ll have to begin again.”

The master or arms was a capable soldier and, according to some, the finest swordsman in the realm. Certainly he looked the part. He towered over both Evanthya and Tebeo, his long, sinewy limbs making his every movement seem effortless and balanced. Like so many of the men who served under him in Dantrielle’s army, he had shaved his head, and with his thick black beard and mustache, his face had a severe look, more like that of a brigand than a swordsman in a noble’s court.

He glanced at Evanthya now, frowning slightly at the duke’s admission.

“I was saying, my lord, that you should resist the temptation to place all our bowmen on the northern and eastern towers.”

“But isn’t that where the attack is most likely to come?”

“Yes, my lord,” Bausef said, sounding increasingly impatient. “But as I was just saying, it wouldn’t surprise me if the regent tried to surprise us by sending part of his force to the south or west. Even if he keeps the Solkaran army together, he may try to have Rassor’s men flank us.”

Tebeo nodded, seeing the logic in this. The duke considered himself an accomplished statesman, and, though not prone to immodesty, believed that his intellect was as keen as that of any duke in the realm. But he had never been a strategic thinker and had not had cause to train himself in military tactics. For the first time in his life, he found himself wishing that he had.

“Won’t he send Rassor’s army north, to the Tarbin?” he asked, hoping that he didn’t sound too foolish.

“Most of it, yes. But with Solkara menacing Dantrielle, the duke of Rassor has nothing to fear from us or our allies. He can afford to leave only a small contingent of men guarding his castle. Even a few hundred of his soldiers attacking the city walls might prove devastating to our defenses.”

“You’re right of course. Have two hundred archers positioned on the city walls overlooking the rivers. That should leave us enough to guard the castle, shouldn’t it?”

“More than enough. Very good, my lord.”

Tebeo turned and crossed the turret so that he could look down on the castle wards. The quartermaster was shouting commands to an army of laborers and soldiers who carried stores to the various towers. Other men gathered weapons-spare swords and shields, axes and pikes, quivers filled with newly made arrows and crossbow bolts. Dantrielle usually seemed a rather quiet castle, almost peaceful. For the last several days, though, it had teemed as if in frenzy, like a nest of ants uncovered by an inquisitive child.

“The provisioning goes well?” Tebeo asked.

This time it was Evanthya who answered. “Yes, my lord. We still have ample stores from the last harvest. The snows were hard, but the growing season was generous. We have food enough to feed the army and the city for two turns.”