Conqueror’s Moon (39 page)

“God’s Breath!” Beorbrook exclaimed. “They’re spunkies!”

One of Ramscrest’s knights, an ox-like young stalwart named Ruabon Lifton, gave a loud, uneasy guffaw. “Swive a swan, lads! It’s the silly little bogles our mums and nursemaids used to threaten us with when we were naughty children! Remember how they said spunkies’d carry us off and drain our blood if we stayed too long outside in the evening? And now the same willy-wisps will light our way to camp. Spunkies as guides! What a great joke!”

The tiny sparks flared and a tinkling hiss, oddly menacing, filled the frigid air.

“They prefer to be called Small Lights,” Snudge announced. “The other name they consider offensive.”

Ruabon went off into gales of near-hysterical mirth, joined by a few of his companions. “Do they! Well, futter me if I give a damn, though they’re well-met in this fog, for all that.”

Even Conrig was smiling as he turned to Vanguard and Ramscrest. “What do you think, my lords? Will the Virago and our other wary friends be satisfied with the benign aspect of our guides?”

“I can’t think why not,” Tanaby said.

“It’s incredible!” the earl marshal exclaimed. “They can dissolve the bloody fog!”

“That’s because they made it, my lord,” said Snudge.

“You can talk to them?” Tanaby Vanguard said, amazed.

“To their leader only, lord Duke, who awaits you at the summit meadow, where you may speak to him, too, if you wish. May I suggest that you now mount up and follow me? The trail from here on is very steep but not as narrow as previously, and your horses should not be distressed with their eyes uncovered, moving inside the lighted tunnel. They won’t be able to see much outside of it.” He wheeled about. “Follow me when you’re ready.”

Ramscrest asked the prince, “Who the hell is this armiger of yours? A wizard in disguise?”

“Only a brave and intelligent young man,” Conrig replied easily, “whom I value highly. Fall in close behind me, Munlow, and I’ll tell you something about him as we go.”

==========

It was very late when the entire army finally gathered safely on the summit, not that the time could be ascertained with any accuracy, save by the empty bellies and sore muscles of the men. The spunkies arranged themselves in a low dome above the campsite, obliterating the groundmist beneath and providing dim illumination to the area. Snudge had been given assurance that the glow of the uncanny creatures would be imperceptible to an enemy windwatcher because of the thick layer of fog remaining overhead.

The high meadow had proved to be strewn with large rocks, but was mercifully free of boggy ground. Because of the dampness of the air, the scouts had thus far been unable to light any fires. Stergos and Doman ordered the men to whack down more brush and dead bracken with their blades and axes, making twenty or so sodden heaps scattered about the site. Then the two alchymists gingerly broke apart several tarnblaze bombshells, distributed the contents, and ignited chymicals and wet fuel with their talent. While the army huddled near the fires, volunteers cooked up cauldrons of hot oatmeal porridge, which was served with ample quantities of cold meat and mead. Nobles and thanes received identical meals, including a tot of spirits as a nightcap.

There was insufficient burnable material to keep fires going long for warmth, so the warriors made do as best they could laying out their saddles as pillows, improvising groundcloths from their leather cloaks, and donning all the clothing they had brought with them. The lighter-clad seagoing warriors took the spots nearest to the fires and commandeered the smelly load-pads of the sumpter beasts for mattresses and coverings. A single small tent was set up to shelter the non-combatant Brothers of Zeth, who were unused to sleeping rough, but everyone else—including the prince—was resigned to a cold night in the open.

Before the army retired, Conrig gave a brief speech.

“We’ve successfully covered the worst terrain in our journey without losing a man. Well done!” There were perfunctory cheers. “Redfern Castle, a small Didionite fortress, lies about five-and-twenty leagues away downhill. Tomorrow, we’ll set out as soon as the track can be seen, guided by our uncanny allies, the Small Lights. They have assured me that no other outposts of enemy warriors are emplaced between the pass and the castle. A force of fifty knights led by Lords Cloudfell and Catclaw will descend first, hooves muffled, and array themselves out of sight in the fog, near the castle’s drawbridge. Another magical ally of ours, who is already hidden inside the castle, will lower the bridge and open the gate for our attacking force. This ally is already known to some of you: she is Ullanoth, Conjure-Princess of Moss, a great friend of Cathra, whose help will enable us to conquer Didion.”

The thanes, who had not known the identity of the mysterious “magical ally” assisting Conrig’s cause, although they were aware that the person had recruited the spunkies, greeted this information with ambiguous murmurs.

Conrig continued. “Redfern will fall into our hands like an overripe fruit. And we need not worry that its windvoices will warn Holt Mallburn of our invasion— for the same powerful princess who opens the castle gates to us will already have silenced those voices. Once we have secured Castle Redfern, we’ll rest for a day before moving on as swiftly as possible to Holt Mallburn. That’s all I wish to say to you men tonight. But before we sleep I will introduce you to the being responsible for bringing us safely to this place—who also caused the magical fog that has shielded us from the windsight of our foe.”

Conrig paused, looking up. From the fuzzy glowing dome above came a whirling ball of several dozen golden sparks, looking like a swarm of incandescent bees. The ball hovered before the prince, who inclined his head politely, whereupon the golden bits of radiance were extinguished, leaving a single blue-white Small Light floating alone.

“I am Shanakin,” said a distinct high-pitched voice. Conrig felt the flesh at the back of his neck crawl, remembering what Snudge had told him about these creatures. He wondered whether anyone else had experienced a similar touch of grue, and cursed Ullanoth for not telling him the truth about the spunkies— whatever it might be.

“My people are not friends of humankind,” Shanakin said. “For the sake of the Conjure-Princess only are we here, serving you. Remember that and have respect! We are Small Lights, but we have our ways—as many humans know to their everlasting sorrow.”

The ball of sparkling attendants reappeared, hiding their tiny ruler, and all of them wafted up into the formless glowing dome.

The men remained still as statues for a moment, then relaxed and began to laugh nervously and whisper among themselves.

“Go to your beds now,” Conrig told them. “All will be well.” He turned to the collection of nobles and the two alchymists standing behind him at the central fire. “Lady Zea, my lords, you should also retire… Vra-Doman, I have brief need of the tent you and my brother will occupy tonight. Please remain here for a few minutes while I confer in it with Vra-Stergos.”

“Certainly, Your Grace,” said the long-faced magicker, heaving a put-upon sigh. “I’ll just say my night prayers—if I can recall them after that unsettling exhibition. Spunkies! Saint Zeth preserve us!”

Conrig took his brother’s arm and guided him to the small canvas pavilion, on the way passing Snudge and the other armigers. “You there, Deveron! Come with me and the doctor. I have an errand for you.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

There was scarcely room inside the tent for the two bedrolls already laid out. Conrig sat on one and gestured for Stergos to take the other. Snudge crouched between them at the closed doorflap. “Scry the area to be sure that no one comes near,” the prince ordered, and the boy nodded. Then Conrig told Stergos, “Please attempt to bespeak Princess Ullanoth.”

The alchymist closed his eyes and remained motionless for many minutes. Then he whispered, “She is silent. It was to be expected. The woman is doubtless totally prostrate with the effort of empowering her third Great Stone.”

Snudge gasped at the appalling news. “Prostrate? Not even able to windspeak us?”

“It’s what we feared might happen,” said the prince grimly. He explained to the boy how the Conjure-Princess had used her Weathermaker to foil the onset of the deadly cold, even though she was already weakened by bringing the Loophole stone to life. “So it’s obvious we can expect no help from her silencing the windvoices at Redfern Castle or opening its gates to our troops. We must devise an alternative plan.”

“You want me to do it,” Snudge said, without surprise.

“Your talent for hiding was good enough to deceive Vra-Kilian’s novices and the Royal Guard at Cala Palace. It’s unlikely that powerful adepts will be stationed at a minor fort such as Redfern… Of course, the enemy windvoices cannot merely be captured and bound.”

Stergos gave an involuntary cry of dismay. “Con—he’s only a boy!”

Snudge’s voice was remote. “I understand, Your Grace. They must be absolutely prevented from using their talent.”

The prince said, “You are a man, Deveron, not a child, as both of us know, and must do a man’s hard duty. The windvoices are not warriors, but neither are they innocent bystanders in this war. They must be silenced.”

Snudge said nothing.

“Do you think you can get inside the castle?” Stergos asked anxiously.

“I’ve just thought of a scheme that might work, my lord. And with luck, hardly any of our people need know that it was not Princess Ullanoth who quelled the windvoices and opened the castle gate.” He hesitated. “Will she have recovered by the time we reach Holt Mallburn?”

“God only knows. Tell us your plan for Redfern.”

The boy did, omitting only the way he intended to deal with the castle’s magickers, knowing the prince would say him nay. “I’ll have to work out some details. But I’m a harmless-looking young fellow, and if I can be certain of offering an irresistible bribe—”

“See Duke Tanaby tomorrow morning before you leave,” Conrig said. “Tell him I said to give you anything you want.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Snudge opened the tent flap. “I’ll try to get some sleep now, if I can… And to think I was bored nearly to death just this afternoon!” He disappeared.

The Doctor Arcanorum could no longer hold back his indignation. “Con, he’s only sixteen! He slew the spy Iscannon in self-defense, but you’ve just ordered him to kill unarmed men in cold blood.”

“Pray to Saint Zeth for him,” the prince said without emotion, climbing to his feet. “Pray also for Ullanoth. If she doesn’t recover promptly, we may be forced to call upon poor Snudge for even more crucial assistance. Just think about it, Gossy! The Emperor Bazekoy said that my hope for Sovereignty depends upon the help of a dying king. Is it any more preposterous for the key factor to be a wild-talented stable boy?… I bid you good night.”

With that, Conrig pushed out of the little tent and went towards the central fire to tell Vra-Doman that he could retire.

But he stopped short at the sight of Munlow Ramscrest. The stout count stood there in the golden murk, flanked by two of his knights, holding a large, sagging bundle in his powerful arms. Conrig realized that it was a body wrapped in a military cloak. “What’s happened?” he demanded.

“It’s Sir Ruabon, my youngest knight,” Ramscrest said, “a brave lad with an over-ready tongue. These two friends of his found him when they went to make water behind yonder crags. Uncover his face, my prince.”

For a moment, Conrig was frozen with apprehension. Then he lifted the flap of leather. The burly knight’s countenance was shrunken and stretched tight over his skull. He looked like a wasted invalid, nearly fleshless and as pale as clay.

Ramscrest said, “There is no mark on his body. Yet he’s little more than skin and bones.”

“God grant him peace.” The prince met the older man’s eyes. “We know who must have committed this savage deed. What would you have me do, Munlow?”

“Only we four know of this,” Ramscrest replied. “Poor Ruabon was a fool to insult the spunkies, yet did not deserve to die like this. But I can’t condemn our great enterprise to failure on his behalf… most especially since there is no way of taking vengeance on the wee shites who murdered him. The lad’s death is part of the fortunes of war. We’ll bury him quietly ‘neath a cairn and carry on. We can do naught else.” He fixed Conrig with an adamant eye. “However, Princess Ullanoth must admonish her uncanny minions to make certain this doesn’t happen again. Please see to it, Your Grace.”

“My brother Stergos will windspeak her in the morning and transmit my command. As for Ruabon Lifton, his family will share equally in the reward given to all by my Sovereignty. We’ll bring home his ashes when our army returns to Cathra victorious.”

Ramscrest only grunted.

“I have good news that you may spread among the men,” the prince added. “Within an hour or so, this cursed cold should be completely gone. Ullanoth is conjuring it away at this very moment. Nothing should impede us in our march to Redfern Castle.”

“More bloody magic!” the mountain lord growled. He bared his teeth in a snarl of frustration, then spat out an oath. “Why can’t we fight this war like honest warriors?”

“Because we’d lose,” the prince told him. “Come. I’ll help you bury Ruabon, and then we must try to sleep.”

twenty-two

Ullanoth dreamed of them. They were enormous: so bright, so terrible, so eager to engulf her suffering self. Her anguish fed them in some arcane fashion, and they drank of her for hours on end and then let her go, laughing at her relief, dancing off into the night sky, shrinking, vanishing. Leaving only stars above her and that marvelous freedom from excruciating pain.

Still dreaming, she lay on a flat rock at the water’s edge, dressed in a thin sendal shift, not daring to breathe, knowing that the respite couldn’t last, exposed as she was to the icy Boreal wind that swept in from the sea. She felt gooseflesh rise and her teeth begin to chatter, and fought not to inhale for that meant surrender. But a terrible shudder suddenly racked her, forcing her to fill her lungs with air so frigid that the tender membranes kindled with agony. As though this were some perverse signal, the rest of her body started to afflict her all over again: the pounding head, the aching muscles, the fierce gnawing in her belly.