Glen Cook - Surrender to the will of the night

Brother Candle wondered if there might not be some substance to the bribery rumors.

The consuls were not pleased to receive fresh guests. But Sieur Casteren Grout grasped the precarious nature of his position. He put on a grand show of concern for his Duke’s well-being.

Tormond was, indeed, in terrible shape. Brother Candle insisted that he not be moved. He sent for Father Fornier. And more trustworthy soldiers lest Grout and Crebet suffer a further bout of stupidity.

Isabeth told Brother Candle, “We’ve exploited you mercilessly lately. And you’ve given your best. But I have one more request before you go back into the wilderness. The Arnhanders intend to storm the north gate tomorrow. The defenders there are mostly Seekers. It would hearten them if you were there with my brother.”

Khaurenese morale was poor. Those who thought they might not suffer if King Regard triumphed were vocal about negotiating a surrender. Those threatened by the Society and the Church took the opposing view, as did Queen Isabeth on behalf of Navaya, her husband, and her son.

Navayan strength had dwindled as Isabeth sent out streams of messengers, across Peter’s empire, to warn every garrison and proconsul that unrest could be expected.

It would be hard to cling to all of Peter’s gains, however faithful Count Alplicova and his peers remained. Alplicova himself she sent back to Oranja to gather the reins of state on her son’s behalf. And to make sure Little Peter would be safe from anyone with secret ambitions.

Brother Candle understood what Isabeth wanted. He and Tormond would be companion symbols of Khaurenese defiance. Harmless old men, cornerstones for the reconstruction of Khaurene’s self-confidence.

The woman was clever.

Father Fornier reanimated the Duke enough for the man to stand. With assistance. He and Brother Candle took places on the wall two dozen yards west of the northern gate, well protected by hoardings. The Perfect wore an uncharacteristic white robe. He drew cheers from the defenders, many of them familiar. Just ten feet away Madam Archimbault, her daughter, and her neighbors made up the all-female crew of a light ballista.

Where were Raulet and the men? The only men to be seen were nearly as old as Brother Candle.

Somewhere, every man who could move was being assembled for a counterattack. Given past performance, that might prove disastrous.

The Arnhanders began moving engines toward the city. That was not easy work. They had to advance up a slope, under fire. Literal fire, frequently. The Khaurenese engines flung burning missiles. The slope of the ground and height of the wall gave the defenders a range advantage.

The flaming missiles did little serious damage. The two siege towers had been covered with fresh hides. Some genius had faced the mantlets with water-soaked thatch, which made them heavy but, essentially, fireproof. Likewise, the tortoise bringing a ram up to pound the gate. Other little houses on wheels would shelter sappers who would try to burrow directly through the wall. Elsewhere, other sappers were, likely, starting tunnels.

King Regard had assembled a formidable array of artillery, all standard stuff, similar to the captured engine. He readied his weapons, protected them appropriately, then began dueling with the amateurs behind the hoardings atop the wall.

Regard made no effort to disguise himself. He wore gaudy armor and livery and traveled with heralds and standard-bearers. His party became a favored target.

Everyone who paid attention saw that there was something wrong with Regard. He was slow, suffered bouts of clumsiness, and dizzy spells. But he refused to be anywhere but up front, heartening his crusaders and directing artillery fires. He took savage pleasure in sniping at Khaurenese personally. He snatched crossbows from infantrymen and dashed forward to discharge the bolt. He was an excellent shot. The hoardings saved numerous lives.

Brother Candle could not help being amazed by the spirit of the ferocious Seeker women operating the nearer missile engines. Kedle told him, “We have the most to lose if they get inside.”

The woman had a talent for murder. Once she usurped command of her particular ballista every shaft it sped struck where it would have an effect. Her marksmanship silenced several enemy engines. She also slaughtered several men trying to advance to the nearer siege tower.

Her unexpected talent caused a stir along the wall. People came to see what she was doing right. She could not explain. Ammunition bearers made sure her crew never ran short. An old mechanic stood by in case her engine needed a repair.

The girl showed the Perfect a fierce grin, reminding him of Socia Rault. He forced an answering smile, then went to watch the deployment of a weapon similar to one used by warships in classical times.

The tortoise protecting the Arnhander ram snugged up to the gate. The men inside started a work chant.

An argument broke out behind the Perfect. He turned.

Soames Richeut had materialized. He was determined to remove Kedle from her post despite venomous abuse from every woman within range. Soames glared at them like he wanted to remember their faces.

Kedle would not leave. Her companions made it clear they would not let her be coerced.

Brother Candle wondered who was taking care of the children.

Soames yelped in pain when his mother-in-law barked him one with the butt of the shaft she was about to load into the ballista.

Brother Candle turned back to the crane swinging its long arm out above the Arnhander tortoise. A one-ton stone “dolphin” on a chain hung from the arm. The Perfect had no idea where that had come from. It looked more like a penis than a denizen of the deep. Whatever its name or provenance, it was effective when it struck.

The first drop cracked and shifted the massive timbers of the tortoise. It took the crane crew twenty minutes, under fire, to hoist the dolphin again. The second drop smashed through the timbers and injured several men. The third time the dolphin fell two yards farther out, made sure the tortoise could not be dragged away for repairs.

Direcian veterans issued through a sally port, butchered the ram crew, and set the tortoise afire.

The Arnhanders would have to clear the wreckage before they could bring another ram to the gate.

The crane operators began to shift it to attack the sappers chipping at the wall-though those men had to deal with hot sand, quicklime, and firebombs already.

Brother Candle kept up a conversation with the Duke, as though Tormond understood and was in charge. Tormond had been positioned in such wise that he could be seen by nearby defenders, all of whom conspired in the pretense.

In fact, there was no real command, insofar as Brother Candle could see. People just did what they thought needed doing, feeling around for what they could do best.

Soames Richeut went away for an hour, then returned to berate Kedle again. He was not kind. Nor were Kedle’s friends kind to him.

The Perfect lost patience with the bad husband. He went to admonish the man. Kedle’s crew shifted a hoarding so she could loose another deadly shaft.

Someone outside awaited that opportunity.

Richeut stepped in front of Kedle’s ballista to block her aim. The Arnhander bolt hit him in the right temple and passed on through his head. The marksman shouted, “Thirteen!” in an accent from the Pail.

In the calmest murder Brother Candle ever witnessed Kedle Richeut avenged her husband before his body stopped twitching. Almost before the celebrant outside finished congratulating himself.

A slowly building tumult developed amongst the Arnhanders. When Brother Candle dared look he saw gaudy King Regard being held erect by his heralds. Kedle’s shaft had transfixed him. He was alive but that would not last. The gut wound would kill him slowly. Only the absolute best sorcerer’s care would help now, unlikely in an army ruled by the Society.