Lyndon Hardy - Master of the five Magics

In a moment, a trumpet sounded on the plain, and the disciplined circles of blue and silver dissolved into masses of fleeing men. Swords, shields, and fallen comrades were abandoned in the rush, as if they stung to the touch. From the distance, Alodar saw the confusion as they raced for the belfries, leaping from the wall into the open doors as the towers tore free and began to pull away.

As the belfries withdrew, a third shout, the loudest of all, coursed along the wall. "We are thin," Feston yelled waving his sword above his head in defiance, "but not so thin that we cannot stand against a mere three belfries. Thus be the fate of whomever tries the walls of Iron Fist."

As quickly as they had come, the surviving siegecraft rumbled back to the precise line of mangonels and trebuchets. The scaling crews, who had never got a chance to plant their ladders, scurried alongside, shields on their backs to protect against the renewed rain of arrows from the wait. All was quiet for a moment; but once the formation was reestablished, the throwing engines resumed their bombardment.

The missiles again filled the air, but Alodar felt the tension of the morning dissolve away; the downward crash of rock seemed less potent a threat than enemy towers at the very edge of the wall. He looked about him and reassembled his gear. Ducking for cover during the volleys, he made his way methodically back and forth along the three levels of the walkway, repairing injury from the abortive thrust as he found it. Morale was high with the first success of the entire siege. The sergeant's dire prediction of the day before was nowhere to be heard. The men babbled away about the tower's great crash, and Feston's feat grew larger with each retelling. As Alodar trudged along, the day fell into the routine of the many that had proceeded it. The exchange of stone and arrow continued, but the men laughed and sang, choosing to ignore that the ring grew still tighter, and that on the morrow many more than three belfries would come.

Alodar worked his craft in reverie, wearily unmindful of the passage of time. With the setting of the sun, he and Morwin returned their gear to the cart and fell into line for their daily meal. His stomach growled, his muscles ached, and his fatigued mind had had enough of siege. As the ladle was pouring its watery contents into Alodar's bowl, he saw again the red surcoat bounding across the courtyard.

"Father, have you heard?" Feston boomed. "Hero of the day. Vendora herself pinned the ribbon on my sleeve. Ah, would that every day might present such opportunity. Then there would be no doubt as to who is most worthy to be hero of the realm."

"Well done, my son," Festil replied, matching stride and pounding him firmly on the back as his group merged with Feston's. "Surely you distinguish yourself above all others here. If only the fair lady would choose now, there would be no other choice but you."

"Yes, a virtual demon of swiftness," one of the accompanying retinue broke in, "Seven men felled with but one mighty blade."

"Only seven?" Feston turned to stare at the praise-giver. "I distinctly remember nine."

"Oh, nine surely," the man quickly amended. "Nine men down and the tide of the attack turned. A tale for the sagas with no doubt."

The group marched for the northwest tower, cutting through the queue in which Alodar stood. The line parted in deference and reformed as a throng, lining the course of the men-at-arms. Alodar heard murmurs of admiration and girlish giggles as they passed through with purposeful tread and clink of mail.

"But you know, father, the competition runs keen for Vendora's hand." Feston laughed. "I was but the second man to challenge Bandor's vassals on the high wall. Some fool thaumaturge was there before me, somehow planning to stop the rush with but a single blade. I suppose to be fair, I should have given him his chance first."

"Yes, it would have served him right to take on such pretense as to be a man-at-arms," Festil replied. "These people have their uses, but they should also know the limits of proper behavior."

Alodar flung his half-filled bowl of swill to the ground, red flushing his cheeks, too fatigued to let the irritation pass by. "The defense of Iron Fist rests as heavily on our shoulders as it does upon you lofty lords," he blurted. "Without the thaumaturge, carpenter, and smith, these walls would have fallen long ago. Fault me not for picking up a sword when it was needed. It is far more than I have seen you do when the rubble was cleared or the horses fed."

The crowd fell abruptly silent, and Feston turned to see who accosted him. "Well, well, if it is not the budding hero?" he said. "And what would you have done with your great prowess at arms? Dispatched a dozen men to my nine or ten?"

"I claim no great skill at arms, my lord Feston," Alodar said slowly. "Thaumaturgy is my trade and I am here only by chance. I follow an itinerant master from settlement to outpost, earning what we can by applying our craft where it is needed. Had not the siege doors slammed shut, we would be long gone from this place and our paths never crossed. But we are here, all of us together, lord and man alike. And each of us, mason, carpenter, smith, tanner, and flockmaster, aids our common cause as best he can. I do not envy you your skill at arms, only question your judgment that its value far exceeds what I have to offer."

Feston advanced slowly back to stand directly in front of Alodar, eyes glaring down from his extra six inches of height, "Do I hear your right, most bold journeyman? Your trade of equal worth to a man-at arms? If so, then tell me quickly now how much training have you received at the hands of warmaster Cedric in his sparring yard in Ambrosia? How many lives has your blade cut short? How many battles for Procolon have you won? How many great deeds in the sagas relate to the smith or carpenter? How many times has your like been hero of the day? Yes, perhaps even hero of the realm?"

Feston's supporters broke into laughter at his ridicule, and Alodar breathed deeply to maintain what composure he had left. "No, my lord, the sagas are silent indeed on what you speak," he said at last. "But mark you, suppose that lowly Alodar be born to the table of mighty lord Festil, and Feston scion to doomed Alodun. What then of my chance to be a hero, with blade paid for with gold, with training in arms from the likes of this Cedric, with soft bed and groaning board always provided for? And what then of yours, forced to survive as but you could, grabbing at whatever trade gave you enough coin to feed your belly and keep out the cold?"

Feston eyed Alodar's lean form, tilted his head back and drowned out even his chorus with his booming laugh. "Sweetbalm, might the blackest demons aid the house of Festil, were the likes of you born to be heir. Know you that I am marshall of the west wall, hero of the day, and the mirrors know what else, because I deserve it so. The blood of glory runs in my veins, and I will burn my name into as many pages of legend as I am able. I and men like me will chart the destiny of Procolon with as firm a grip of iron as this castle has upon the plain. And for that stewardship the men of this land sing grateful praise."

Before Alodar could reply, someone in the background shouted, "Hail Feston, hero of the day and savior of Iron Fist." The crowd took up a rhythmic chant, drowning out any chance of Alodar's being heard. Feston turned slowly around in a small circle, arms folded across his chest, and attempted a stern smile to acknowledge the accolade. Alodar looked at the throng as well and saw adoration on every shouting face. He spotted the first archer he had attended raising his good arm and yelling hoarsely, unmindful of who had saved his life. Even Morwin could not resist the hypnotic tug of the rhythm and shouted with the rest.