How Firm a Foundation (99 page)

“Yes, Sir.” Maigowhyn tried hard not to smile, and the colonel shook his head at him.

“You’re a wicked young man, Brahndyn. I foresee
a great future for you.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You’re welcome.” Tahlyvyr started to wave the lieutenant on his way, then paused. “Oh, and while you’re at it, remind him that the King and Mother Church would really like to have the Prince and Princess back alive. Tell him I don’t want any shooting unless he’s positive he knows what he shooting
at
.”

*   *   *

Full night had fallen long since, and
the moon was sliding steadily up the eastern sky as Tobys Raimair picked his cautious way down the steep hillside to the brink of the river. The rumbling, rushing, pulsing sound as it poured smoothly over the lip of the waterfall to the basin forty feet below was loud in the darkness. In fact, it was a lot louder than Raimair liked. He would have preferred to be able to hear something besides moving
water.

Oh, don’t be an old woman, Tobys!
he told himself.
It’s worked exactly the way the
seijin
said it would so far, so don’t go borrowing trouble at this point!

He snorted quietly, then turned in the saddle to wave to the others before he started his horse down the rough footpath beside the river. If
Seijin
Merlin’s description was as accurate as everything else he’d told them, their ride
should be waiting for them at the end of the steep switchbacks.

*   *   *

“By God!” Lieutenant Praiskhat Wyllyms blurted. “By God, the Colonel was right, Father!”

“Yes, it would appear he was, my son,” Father Dahnyvyn Schahl agreed. “We shouldn’t take God’s name in vain, however,” he continued in a gently scolding tone.

“Yes, Father. I’m sorry, Father,” Wyllyms said quickly, and Schahl hid
a smile at the lieutenant’s well-trained response. He’d often found the kindly tutor’s role most effective in controlling younger men. Especially younger men who weren’t particularly smart, which described young Wyllyms quite well.

But then the temptation to smile disappeared. To be honest, he’d been almost certain Colonel Tahlyvyr was sending Wyllyms off on a wild wyvern chase. Still, there’d
been the possibility he wasn’t, and the sad truth was that Schahl was in no position to influence whatever happened when the colonel’s dragoons caught up with the fugitives in the middle of the woods. He could only be in one place at a time, when all was said, and there was no telling which of the pursuers would actually bring their quarry to bay in the end. It would have been nice if Bishop Mytchail
had authorized him to tell the colonel what was really going on, although there was clearly a potential downside to such a revelation. Tahlyvyr was likely to balk at simply cutting the throats of a twenty-year-old girl and an eleven-year-old boy, no matter who told him to do it. And explaining why Irys and Daivyn Daykyn had to die would have been getting into waters it was best to keep laymen
well out of. For that matter, Schahl rather doubted Bishop Mytchail had told
him
everything.

Under the circumstances, he’d decided it made sense to attach himself to Wyllyms. However unlikely, it was still
possible
Wyllyms would encounter their prey, and the inquisitor felt confident of his ability to manipulate Wyllyms into doing what he wanted, especially given his status as Bishop Mytchail’s
special representative. That was how he’d planned on explaining his thinking to the bishop afterward, at any rate. No need to mention the fact that he rode like a sack of potatoes and that his buttocks felt scraped raw and treated with salt.

And now it looked like he’d rolled treble sixes, after all.

“What do you intend to do, my son?” he asked.

“I’m going to let them get most of the way down,
then catch them on the trail, Father,” the lieutenant explained. “We’ve got the matches shielded as well as we can, so I don’t
think
anyone’s going to see them as long as we stay well back in the trees, but I’d just as soon keep them from getting too close before we move. And it’s so damned dark—pardon my language, please—down here in the valley that nobody’d be doing any accurate shooting. But
if I catch them spread out on the trail in the moonlight, they won’t have any choice but to surrender.”

“I think, perhaps, it might be better to let them get all the way to the base of the fall before you pounce, my son,” Schahl said.

“Excuse me, Father?” It was impossible to see the lieutenant’s expression in the dark, but Schahl heard the confusion in his voice. “The shadows are far darker
below the fall, Father,” Wyllyms pointed out respectfully after a moment, “and the moonlight isn’t getting to the bottom the way it is on the trail. That’d make any kind of accurate shooting even harder. And if we let them get off the trail, down here where the going is better, they might actually try to ride right through us. Frankly, with my men already dismounted to use their matchlocks, there’d
be a chance they’d get away with it, too.”

Schahl nodded gravely, revising his estimate of Wyllyms’ mental prowess upward … slightly.

“Those are excellent points, my son,” he said. “And I’m a simple priest, of course, not a soldier. Still, it seems to me that if we let them reach the bottom, they’ll have a sense of confidence at having passed the obstacle. That means the shock of suddenly discovering
we’re already down here waiting for them will hit even harder. I believe that’s more likely to paralyze their will to fight
or
flee. And if they do try to break past us, your men can catch them in a crossfire as they go. I think by far the most likely outcome, however, would be that they’d realize they couldn’t possibly escape back up that steep trail and, with an unknown number of troopers between
them and escape on the downriver side, they’d surrender. Assuming they’d be willing to surrender under
any
circumstances, at least.”

“I see,” Wyllyms said slowly. It was obvious to Schahl that the lieutenant’s instincts were at war with his advice. That was unfortunate. Still, Wyllyms had already demonstrated his deference to the cloth, and Schahl reached up and casually adjusted his priest’s
cap.

“As I say, my son, I’m no soldier, but I’m afraid I really must insist in this instance.” Wyllyms stiffened slightly, and Schahl patted him on the shoulder with a fatherly air. “There are elements of the situation of which you’re not aware, my son. Please, just trust me in this.”

“Of course, Father,” Wyllyms said after a moment, and began whispering orders to his sergeants.

Schahl stood
back, listening and nodding in approval while his right hand crept into the side pocket of his cassock and touched the smooth, curved wooden grip of the pistol Bishop Mytchail had provided.

*   *   *

Tobys Raimair reached the bottom of the trail and dismounted. The basin below the fall was much larger than he’d thought it was looking down into the darkness from above. It extended well away from
the rumbling smother of foam where the water crashed down into it, and he led his weary horse to the edge of the wind- and current-ruffled pool, enjoying the blowing mist and letting the beast drink but keeping one eye on it to make sure it didn’t drink too much. His other eye was on the trail, watching the others make their way down it—slowly and carefully, despite the moonlight—and he allowed
himself a sense of cautious optimism.

Still, something didn’t quite smell right. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but there was
something
.…

You really are an old woman tonight, aren’t you?
he asked himself sardonically.
You’ll find
something
to worry about, no matter what!

That might very well be true, but it didn’t do anything about that itch he couldn’t quite scratch. Perhaps it
was just that the Charisians didn’t seem to have reached the rendezvous point. Well,
Seijin
Merlin had warned them how far the boats had to come, so it was hardly surprising they hadn’t arrived yet. In fact, the truth was that even with Merlin being forced to lead off the pursuit, this entire operation had gone far more smoothly than Raimair would have believed possible after a lifetime in the
Army.
Something
always went wrong. That was the soldier’s wisdom, and it had never yet failed him.

He grinned, shaking his head, then looked up as Princess Irys reached the bottom with Daivyn before her. Earl Coris was right behind her. The rest of the men followed in single column, with Zhak Mahrys, Rahzhyr Wahltahrs, and Traivahr Zhadwail bringing up the rear.

“Go ahead and dismount, Your
Highness,” he said quietly as the princess reached him. “We should probably rest the horses again before we head on downriver. Besides, I’d like to let the moon get a little higher. It’s pretty rocky down here, and the horses’ll need all the moonlight we can get if they’re not going to break a leg.”

“Won’t that make us more visible?” Irys asked. It was a question, not an argument or a criticism,
Raimair observed, and nodded back to her.

“Aye, Your Highness, it will,” he agreed. “Still and all, I think we’re probably past them now, given the
seijin
’s diversion. And, truth be told, I think it’s a lot more likely a tired horse is going to put a foot wrong in bad light than that we’re suddenly going to be ambushed by a batch of Delferahkan dragoons.”

“Sounds sensible to me, Tobys,” Coris
agreed, dismounting as he reached the sergeant’s side. “And—”

“Stand where you are!”
a voice shouted suddenly out of the darkness. “Throw down your weapons!”

*   *   *

Young Wyllyms had really done quite well, Schahl observed. It was a pity, in so many ways, that Bishop Mytchail’s instructions left him with no alternative.

“—down your weapons!” the lieutenant shouted, and Schahl heard his
two sergeants ordering their men to advance cautiously. The Corisandians were frozen, standing as if struck to stone by the totally unexpected ambush. They obviously had no idea how many men Wyllyms had. If they’d realized how understrength the lieutenant’s platoon actually was, they might have shown more fight. As it was, Wyllyms’ ambush was about to become a brilliant success.

And that, unfortunately,
could not be permitted.

The Schuelerite quietly drew the pistol from inside his cassock. He’d never used one of the Charisian-invented weapons before, but it wasn’t all that complicated, and he cocked it as he stepped up close behind the lieutenant.

“It worked, Father!” Wyllyms said exuberantly. “You were right—this is
perfect!
”

“I’m happy for you, my son,” Schahl said, and then pressed the
muzzle of the pistol against the back of the young man’s skull and pulled the trigger.

*   *   *

Tobys Raimair stood frozen by the shock of the sudden shout, cursing himself for not having listened to that inner instinct. He should have
listened!
And how had he missed spotting the damned slow matches? They were coming out into the open now, glowing like blink-lizards, but he’d never even seen
a thing before they did! He hadn’t paid even
that
much attention to his job, had he? Oh, no, not him! Instead, he’d let the girl and her brother walk straight into it, and now—

Then the gunshot roared in the darkness, and the blinding muzzle flash and echoing report jerked him out of his funk. He turned towards Irys, both arms reaching out, gathered her and her brother to his chest, and flung
all three of them not to the ground, but into the pool below the waterfall.

*   *   *

“They’ve shot the Lieutenant!”
Schahl bellowed, tossing the empty pistol into the river and grimacing distastefully at the blood and bits of brain matter which had blown back over his cassock. “They’ve shot the Lieutenant!” He drew a deep breath.
“Kill the heretics!”

*   *   *

“
Down!
Everybody down!” Phylyp
Ahzgood shouted as he heard the three-word command and knew—somehow he
knew
—it had come from an inquisitor’s throat. Worse, the troopers out there in the dark would know the same thing, and the bone-deep reflex of obedience to the voice of Mother Church would finish what confusion had begun.

A matchlock flashed, thundering in the darkness. Langhorne only knew where the ball had gone, but another
fired, and then another. Inaccurate at the best of times, it would take a special miracle for one of them to hit someone at this range under these conditions, but matchlocks weren’t the only weapons dragoons carried, and Coris knew what was coming.

Why God?
a voice demanded bitterly deep inside him.
Why did You let us come this far only to fail
now?

God didn’t reply. Or not immediately, at any
rate. But then—

“Take ’em, lads!” another voice shouted, and someone cried out in alarm, then screamed in anguish.

“Zhaksyn, make sure none of them get past us!” that same voice shouted—an extraordinarily young voice, Coris realized, but one which carried a hard ring of command.

Another matchlock fired, and then there was a different sound—a flintlock. A fresh muzzle flash stabbed the night,
and suddenly half a dozen flintlocks went off almost as one, firing from the hillsides, upslope from and on either side of the dragoons who’d been hidden in the woods.

“Bayonets!”
that voice yelled out of the darkness. “Up and in, boys!
Up and in!
” it shouted, and the night was abruptly ugly with the clash of metal, the terrible wet sounds of steel driving into human flesh, with screams and curses.

“Quarter!”
someone bawled suddenly. “Quarter! Sweet Langhorne!
Quarter!
”

And then, that abruptly, it was over.

Silence fell, broken only by the crash and surge of the waterfall and the whimpers of the wounded, and Coris stood very slowly in the fragile stillness. Other sounds began returning to the night, as if creeping cautiously back into it, and he heard rough, sharp voices ordering surrendered
men to their feet, herding them together, taking their weapons. It would, he decided, be prudent to remain where he was and avoid any … misunderstandings until that process was completed, and his eyes narrowed as someone stepped out of the darkness into the moonlight.