David Drake - Master of the Cauldron

Another Councillor came through the arch. This time it was the woman who'd spoken when age prevented her chief from addressing the Assembly.

"They're honoring the people who saved the city?" Cashel said. "I've seen statues in Valles and other places too, but those're mostly bronze. The ones I've seen."

Instead of an athame this Councillor held a flight feather from the wing of some great bird. She beat time with it, and at every stroke it changed color: from purple to orange, and back again with the next stroke. Each step she cried, "Misauda!"

"It's not for honor's sake, Cashel," Mab said. "I'm afraid most of the citizens couldn't tell you the names of the Heroes, even though their images walk the parapet every night. But if the people of Ronn have forgotten the Heroes, their enemies have not. Every time the Made Men marched against the city, one Hero or the next drove them back with slaughter that left the bare ground red. Even a hundred and fifty years haven't been enough to erase the terror of Valeri sweeping almost to the heart of the King's power."

Two figures of light stepped through the archway, seemingly arm in arm. Cashel could see that the elbow of the figure on the inside actually passed through the jamb of dark crystal. They were taller than real men though perhaps not quite as tall as the image of Valeri had been. One had fair hair and the other was a dark brunette, but apart from that they were as like as the two eyes of an owl.

"Minon and Menon," Mab said as the phantasms of light walked past. "Few cities have had a champion as great as either of them, and in Ronn they were both together till the day Minon carried his brother down to the cavern and the sleep they now share."

One of the images carried a broad-bladed halberd. The other wore a long straight sword and carried a shield broad enough to cover two: the blazon on its face was a double-headed eagle. They were turned toward one another, and their smiling lips moved as though they were talking.

"The King created the Made Men," Mab said, "and he rules them-to a point. But not all his threats and promises have been enough to convince his creatures to attack again while the Heroes walk the parapet of Ronn."

"But they aren't real," Cashel said, nodding as the twins passed on at the pace of the wizard walking beside their images. "They can't defend the city."

"They're semblances," Mab said, "but their semblance alone is enough to protect Ronn so long as memory of real slaughter remains; as it does."

Two Councillors, a young woman and a boy of scarcely Cashel's age, came through the doorway. They chanted; the boy's voice was nervously high and loud enough that Cashel heard the wordsabaoth. As they beat the air together with their athames and a lanky, raw-boned figure appeared. It was so tall that it had to duck to clear the high arch.

"That's Virdin," said Mab, "as he was when he was a youth. No minion of the King norall the minions of the King could stand against him during the long life before he went to the cavern."

Cashel had noticed without giving particular thought to the matter that the citizens of Ronn kept some distance from the parapet. The wizards and the figures they controlled passed outside of them. It was with surprise, then, that he saw a group of stooping men come up an outside staircase and place themselves directly in the path the image of Virdin must take. Two carried between them what looked like a large oval mirror.

"Mab?" said Cashel, bracing his legs for better support and spreading his hands into a fighting grip on his quarterstaff. "What're those fellows doing? There, by the-"

"Citizens of Ronn!" Mab shouted. "The Made Men are attacking!"

At the sound of her cry, four of the newcomers drew curved swords. They were pale as soured milk and the pupils of their eyes were empty.

The other two turned, holding the mirror between them. Face on, Cashel saw a hideously misshapen man reflected in the mirror's surface. Beyond him was a sea of creatures like the few who'd climbed the walls, man-like but not men.

"Citizens of Ronn!" Mab said. "The Made Men are here and they bring their wizard-King with them! Rally for your lives!"

The figure on the mirror's surface raised an athame of human rib; his albino creatures scuttled toward Cashel with their swords raised.

At least I'm warmed up, Cashel thought, but the truth was it never took him long to get moving in a fight. With the smile that thought brought to his lips, he stepped into the Made Men with his staff spinning.

Four swordsmen who knew what they were doing-any four veterans in the Royal Army, say-could've cut him to collops in their initial rush. Two who were really skilled could do the same, men like Chalcus or like Garric when his warrior ancestor was in charge. But these Made Men-well, they were willing to fight which put them one up on the Sons of the Heroes, but there wasn't much to choose between those boys and these fungus-white creatures for skill.

Curved swords lent themselves to wide, flashy flourishes, which the Made Men did a lot of. Cashel chose, feinted toward the pair in the middle, and brought the quarterstaff out of its spin in a thrust at the creature on the left end. The iron butt-cap crushed the Made Man's forehead.

Instead of flying backward from the force of the blow, the Made Man spasmed to the side. Its sword, held in a literal deathgrip, clinked and sparked on the plaza.

The two young Councillors lost the rhythm of their chant and cried out in surprise,. The male threw himself in front of his partner, holding his long ivory wand as a club. The image of Virdin stepped halfway through the mirror, then faded like a lump of salt dropped into water.

The Made Man beside Cashel's first victim had flinched away from the feint. Though still off-balance, it slashed sidewise at Cashel. He stepped back, recovering his quarterstaff in a widdershins arc. The blood-smeared butt-cap rapped the back of the Made Man's head.

Though not as spectacular as the first stroke, this was equally effective. The creature sprawled with its skull dished in, across the path of its two fellows as they rushed Cashel together. They fell.

Cashel put his left foot on the sword-hand of the nearer of the pair that'd tripped, pinning it hopelessly against the hard surface. While the one his weight held mewed and squirmed like a broken-backed snake, Cashel stabbed like he was flounder gigging, breaking the neck of the further Made Man. A moment later Cashel's fourth judicious strokedid break the back of the creature he stood on.

He paused to suck air through his open mouth, wheezing like a foundered horse. While the fight lasted-all the few seconds that the fight lasted-he'd seen nothing but the four swordsmen coming at him, moving in discrete intervals of time. Now everything expanded back to normal and speeded up again.

Age had so wizened the man in the mirror that even standing he was doubled over like a frog. He pointed his curved athame at Mab as his lips twisted over words of power. No sound passed the surface of the mirror, but spears of red and blue wizardlight stabbed out To meet the shield Mab's hands wove in the air before her. The bolts blasted upward, spreading and fading to a dim pastel fog above which the stars faded.

Cashel sized up the situation. He spun his quarterstaff before him, then stepped onto the quivering body of one of the creatures he'd slain.

The surviving Made Men dropped the mirror and tried to draw their swords. Cashel crushed the chest of the nearer, flinging its body over the parapet.

"Remiel!" Mab shouted. "Nemiel!"

The mirror fell flat to the ground. All but a sliver of Cashel's mind was focused on his staff and the way the remaining Made Man was trying to duck. That small part expected the mirror to shatter when it hit. Instead the plate bounced upright. For an instant the King at its heart looked squarely at Cashel rather than at Mab. The King's eyes were glowing blacknesses brighter than the hottest forge, and his athame pointed.