Dave Smeds - The Sorcery Within

She licked her dry lips…

Of course!

She leaned close to Shigmur and whispered in his ear. The big war-second grunted and strode to the doorway.

"Hey, out there!" he called.

"What do you want?" answered one of the sentries.

"How about some fresh water? The stuff in the barrels smells like oeikani dribble."

Some of the other prisoners murmured agreement. They had been content with the wines and ales, but good water was more than welcome. The guards, told to remember that their charges were technically still guests of the fort, found the request reasonable.

The water arrived a half hour later. The sentries made everyone stand back from the door. They briefly unlocked it, placed a large bucket within, and secured it once more. Elenya noted with satisfaction that both guards had droplets of liquid on the edges of their mustaches.

The dutiful slave, she filled a dipper and toted it to her master and mistress. Both tipped it to their lips, as did she. Then, at Shigmur's order, she served the entire assemblage. Some might not have bothered to drink had she not made it so easy for them, but as it was, only one declined, a Surudainese mason, who seemed to be completely satisfied to continue to get fantastically drunk on the keg of brandy he had discovered.

The hours dragged on.

The first hint of panic came from the loud wife of an Azuraji merchant, when she discovered that her husband was not simply ignoring her, but was as immobilized as those afflicted earlier in the day. She screamed and ran to the door to rouse the watch.

The guards did not respond.

A man near the door knelt down and peered through the crack at the bottom of the door. He saw the boots of their jailors. They did not move.

"It's got them, too," he moaned.

Fear spread. They had discovered that others in the room were as rigid as the merchant. They shouted and pounded the walls and the door. The merchant's wife wailed.

"Control yourselves!" Shigmur boomed. "They can't hear us all the way down here. They'll send someone soon."

"What if they don't?" someone asked.

"Then we break the door down. Let's wait and see."

In their condition, the group was ready for any assertion of authority. They squabbled, but eventually saw no harm in the idea. They returned to their places, some whispering nervously among themselves.

The lull lasted perhaps a quarter of an hour.

Someone noticed then that the merchant's wife had grown silent. She wasn't the only one. In fact, less than a third of the prisoners were active, and some of these found upon rising that they could no longer move with their normal speed. The man who had discovered that the guards were paralyzed checked Shigmur, who failed to respond. His wife and slave girl were also unnaturally quiescent. He and two other men decided that they had waited long enough. They began to kick the door.

Their blows were less powerful than they should have been. They tried prying the door with barrel staves. Eventually it began to weaken. Though well constructed, it hadn't been intended for abuse. It began to slope on its hinges. In the meantime, one of the three slowly sank to his knees. He was unable to rise. But others, encouraged by the success, had come forward to replace him.

"That will be enough," announced a commanding male voice.

They stopped. The Shol leather-maker, his wife, and his slave had suddenly come to life. The wife threw off the veils covering his head, and they saw that he was not a woman at all. Among the things he had hidden under his skirts was a scimitar. He handed his companions knives.

"Who are you?" asked one of the merchants.

"Our people own this land," Lonal answered.

"Zyraii!" The man blinked. "It was you! You've poisoned us!"

The mood of the group became ugly, but none were courageous enough to charge just yet. Lonal continued forcefully.

"Sit down and be silent! You will recover. You're not the ones we're interested in. We just want you out of the way. Resist us now and you'll be killed."

They looked at the sharp weapon in his hand. There had been no quaver in his voice. One by one, they complied. Elenya soon came forward, filled the dipper with water, and went to the Surudainese mason. Drunk as he was, he recognized the meaning of the dagger tip she put to his throat.

"Drink this," she said.

He drank. When he was done, she tied him securely to a crate.

Lonal noted with satisfaction that even those who had tried to break down the door were moving appreciably slower. "Now we wait," he told them.

Vice-Commander Falol was once again on the battlements, gazing at the intimidating cluster of Zyraii. The sun beat down mercilessly. Ordinarily at this hour, only those on posted patrols would be out under the open sky. Falol wiped off the sweat and drank another deep draft from his flask. The Zyraii, in their audacity, had erected awnings over the patch of road they occupied.

The Zyraii had every reason to seem confident. The vice-commander had only a quarter of his garrison left. Falol was worried. He could smell the treachery. He suspected the speed and accuracy of his mind were all that would allow him to exist another day.

The party of Zyraii outside the walls was not sufficient to threaten Xurosh's military strength, much less her structural invulnerability. The true enemy was inside the walls, had murdered their wizard and was slowly stealing their ability to fight.

Then the group outside the walls…were waiting.

"Lieutenant," Falol told the junior officer at his side. "Raise the main gate."

"Sir?"

"Raise the gate. But be sure the men who operate it are alert enough to drop it again at a moment's notice."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, still mystified.

The gate was raised. Falol noted that activity in the Zyraii encampment instantly increased. Figures converged. Discussion was taking place. The vice-commander was patient.

Finally a single Zyraii on oeikani cantered toward the fortress. "Hold your fire," Falol commanded. The rider slowed as he reached the halfway point. He craned his neck toward the open entrance. He reined up and called out a word, probably a name.

Falol decided that the man was coming no closer. "Archers!" he shouted.

Only a dozen shafts flew out, far fewer than normal. The Zyraii, his caution high, spurred his animal out of the path of the volley, then turned and flew back toward his countrymen. Once his back was turned, the reserve volley was released.

Fatally struck, the oeikani stumbled and rolled, flinging its rider to a battering impact on the dry clay of the roadway. The man – stunned, unconscious, or dead – did not get to his feet.

"Keep firing," Falol called. He also ordered the gate dropped. Arrows thudded to a halt in the unresisting body of the Zyraii. The archers didn't stop until they could see the blood seeping out of the man's white robes.

Falol smiled grimly. That had shown the barbarians some bite.

So – the Zyraii were waiting for a signal. They expected an ally to open the gate and allow them to enter. He sipped more water, concentrating hard as the cool fluid flowed down his gullet. He would have to make sure the signal never came.

Who were the traitors? He had confined every civilian in the fortress. Naturally, those most suspect were the visitors staying at the inn. They would have been most able to approach and depart from Yllam's room without being caught. There was the Surudainese mason, several Azuraji merchants, the Shol leather-maker and his nubile slave…

A slave who had been on the battlements when the horns sounded, where she had no reason to be.

"Lieutenant!" he yelled.

His officer was crossing the courtyard below. "Sir?"

"Put the Shol leather-maker and his whores in the dungeon. I want tospeak to them."