Stormed Fortress (24 page)

* * *

The second Alliance entourage was dispatched to confront the s
'
Brydion stronghold at daybreak, well after Vhandon
'
s picked squad had departed.

This pass, the approach to Alestron
'
s barred gate was attempted by the Alliance
'
s gaunt Lord Justiciar. That worthy proposed no amicable settlement. Clad in arrogance and finery, he bore the Light
'
s sealed arraignment against the recalcitrant duke and his blood family. No one spared time for his pompous town document, sent by a posturing upstart. Since his glittering cavalcade never asked leave, Bransian also declined every civil respect. No safe conduct was granted.

Lysaer
'
s polished state overture encountered, instead, Keldmar
'
s entrenched field troop, and one arrow, shot dead-centre through the cloth-of-gold blazon worn by its delegate.

The corpse was packed off at an indecorous gallop. Pounding after the caparisoned horse, the Light
'
s ceremonial escort took panicked flight, spurred
ragged by more hostile volleys released by Alestron
'
s crack marksmen. Sunwheel banners made irresistible targets, flushed into routing retreat. Cocky defenders leaped at the excuse to display their frustrated prowess. The exercise inspired Keldmar
'
s outlying companies to skilled contest and spirited wagers. No one else died. But the avatar
'
s stainless, white standard returned, sliced to fluttering rags in the hands of the rattled bearer.

The savaged procession reached friendly lines. Too hot to rein up, they belted in lathered disorder through the troop tents of the central encampment. If they dressed their torn ranks before they slowed down, nothing could mend their decorum. The murdered corpse of Lysaer
'
s titled emissary woke turmoil and rage in its wake. Camp-followers shouted. Wash women and cooks broke away from their wagons to scream with indignation. Dedicates and new recruits faltered at arms drill, then jumped as their sergeants barked to upbraid their strayed focus.

Through the tolling bells of alarm, and the outcries of furious priests, the officers bugled for order. The sharpened swords, and the honed sinew of men might be promised for war against Shadow. But not before the Light
'
s avatar chose to unsheathe the aimed spear of his vengeance.

Therefore, the horse with its blood-stained burden was passed through the innermost check-point. The mauled cavalcade crossed the gamut of garrison flags and filed past the officers
'
quarters. Now trailed by an irate mob of captains, they came to a stop at the white-and-gold canopy that fronted the Sunwheel pavilion.

The experienced strategist from new Tirans held charge of the Alliance command, ranked second beneath the Lord Sulfin Evend, still absent to levy troops on the southcoast. A blustery man not given to patience, he burst from the tent in a spatter of shaving soap to dress down the tumultuous intrusion. His balding servant chased after, in vain: the offered towel was hammered aside by the livid standard-bearer, who brandished his shredded banner and howled in shame for the injury.

'
By Dharkaron
'
s Spear, I haven
'
t gone blind!
'
The lather was swiped off with an immaculate bracer, while the displaced equerry winced.
'
We
'
re not here to mince words over etiquette! Nor is an enemy who won
'
t negotiate any cause for hysterics!
'

The field-captain advanced on the clustered horsemen. A hulking tyrant, he silenced their clamouring and issued brisk orders for the slaughtered envoy.
'
Bear our casualty inside. Then bring the women who work for the healers. I want the Lord Justiciar
'
s body laid out straightaway. He
'
ll be honoured in state with new robes and candles. Move to it! Clean him up before the Blessed Prince and his retinue arrive with the Mayor of Kalesh!
'

Two liveried servants left at a sprint, while the armed hotheads set hands to drawn swords, prepared to rally the ranks.

'
Stand down!
'
barked the captain.
'
No one
moves
without leave! Damn you, those horses are too hot to be standing. Where are the boys to attend them?
'

The chastised riders dismounted, while the idle grooms jumped to take charge of their blowing mounts.

Engulfed by that bottled-up swirl of banked rage were two onlooking bumpkin recruits. They still wore the sunburn of toil in the field, rough-clad in the stained boots and coarse cloth of crofters.

'
You there!
'
bawled the thick-set master of horse, too overburdened not to collar the available by-standers.
'
Hop to! We
'
ve got bridles to clean and soiled brass that needs polish!
'

The pair were shoved forward by one of the sergeants and heaped with armloads of stripped harness. The older one tugged his grey forelock and bent to unbuckle stained bits, while his freckled companion fetched a bucket and rag, and crouched over the task foisted on them.

'
We
'
re hooked, now,
'
the younger one fretted, as pandemonium continued to inflame the surrounding Alliance encampment.
'
We
'
ve got to reach Keldmar. Dharkaron
'
s black bollocks, he
'
s got to be warned the false avatar
'
s due on the front lines in an hour!
'

Vhandon buffed the rimed dirt from a curb chain and frowned.
'
Be still! Mind your tongue. Slouch your posture, and damned well stop acting desperate. We
'
ve got to wait for a safe opening to slip out.
'

The impatient scout with him snatched up the next head-stall.
'
What if the moment fails to present?
'

Vhandon shrugged, absorbed.
'
Then we do our best to create one. If we fail, there
'
s no gain in suicide. We bide on the hope that someone from our party finds his chance and wins through.
'

Climbing sun burned off the last wisp of sea-mist. The camp hummed, set in ominous order, with too many sentries left sharp at their posts in the atmosphere of agitation. The two covert observers cleaned bridles with lowered heads, while Tirans
'
abrasive captain at arms convened a council of war. He could not give the order to deploy the Light
'
s troops. But zeal could ensure the men were prepared to fight at a moment
'
s notice.

The shed pile of harness was only half-cleaned, when Lysaer
s
'
Ilessid
arrived on his dappled charger. He reined in, a white cloud against storm amid the mounted guard wearing the silver-and-sable surcoats of Kalesh. From shining blond hair to immaculate appointments, to eyes glinting blue as cut sapphire, the avatar
'
s presence seared sight to witness. Men in his shadow were reduced to servants, but never so callously disregarded. Lysaer
'
s smile of welcome to his least groom made the bearded, blunt mayor in his gaudy wealth an overstuffed caricature.

Both men dismounted. For an instant, the attentive descent of trained staff obscured the immediate view.

Then the acting captain at arms shoved from the shaded pavilion. Massive and rumpled, he forced his way through. Man and horse, groom and equerry, the tableau before the staked standards and awnings crystallized to expectation.

Sunlight shone down on snowy silk and cold majesty as the dawn
'
s urgent news reached the Blessed Prince.

'
Ath above, show us mercy and sense!
'
murmured Vhandon, unwittingly stunned. No thought had prepared him as his lungs stopped with awe. He had never expected such beauty and strength, or the
impact
of Lysaer
s
'
Ilessid
'
s innate charisma.

Every retainer
'
s rapt face showed that grace. His brief smile to the least, insignificant page could have fuelled a torch by sheer caring.

Before
this,
the patient years spent unravelling Arithon
'
s reticent quiet became as a dream, scoured off by noon heat.

Then the moment passed. The pavilion
'
s flap was thrust open again. More ranking officers rushed out in a pack, dedaiming Keldmar
'
s brute ferocity. Lysaer asked them for calm. Against abashed silence, he demanded the recount of his Lord Justiciar
'
s murder.

There came no self-righteous cry to raise arms. No flourish of trumpets to strike in retaliation. Lysaer stood firm. Upright as the poised spear-shaft, he heard through his officers
'
riled account with focused attention. That stillness gripped him for one second more. Not a diamond stud on his gold-braided collar flashed in the flood of the morning.

Then he said,
'
Fetch the banner-bearer who carried the Light
'
s abused standard. I want a front-rank witness to corroborate.
'

'
But of course!
'
Flushed by self-conscious embarrassment, the subordinate captain from Tirans backed down. Movement ruffled the packed horsemen as he sent an equerry, bearing the summons. Liveried grooms crept on with their chores, apologetically gathering reins and pinning up dangling stirrup-irons. Inert in their midst, Kalesh
'
s flummoxed mayor watched the proceedings like dead wood.

'
Carry on,
'
murmured Lysaer. His wave dismissed the hovering escort. Sun burned through his jewels, as he raised taut fingers and raked back his sweat-damp blond hair. For that brief moment, he averted his face, a seamless pause, apparently made to ease his overwrought company. The wise leader with setbacks allowed his fraught men to vent their unconstrained reactions.

Yet the perfect, staged move granted Vhandon full view, as the impact touched Lysaer
'
s expression.

He looked tortured with pain. Sorrow transformed his face. Given his stance, he now had to act, regardless of personal preference.
He was no born killer.
Only a man, dedicated to courage, who carried a steadfast commitment. He commanded selflessly, and without stint. But never without thought:
and not without feeling the hideous cost for the retribution he must now carry forward.

Soul spoke, in that instant of scalding agony, torn down to honest revulsion. For Lysaer
'
s sworn covenant to stay unbroken, he would bear the weight of the service he had pledged all his resource to defend.

Then the distraught standard-bearer arrived. Lysaer straightened to meet him; reforged the facade that claimed to be avatar, and with the purity of his conviction, requested the spoken truth.

Hush fell over the officers gathered for council. Their advice was not asked. None ventured to speak, while the barbaric fate of the Light
'
s dead ambassador became repeated in full. Lysaer
s
'
Ilessid
did not interrupt. Every inch of him royal, he listened as though each stammered word was the last sound in the world.

Then, as fresh anger savaged the ranks, shouting for blood in redress, Lysaer raised his fist.

Silence descended.
'
Fetch another white stallion,
'
he bade.
'
Bridle and saddle him in full state panoply.
'

As his dismounted lancers crowded and begged for the chance to bear arms as his vanguard, Lysaer turned them down.
'
I have no need for protection! No call to risk you, or rely on your bravery. Not for this, the opening hour that the Light is called to scour this land of hypocrisy.
'

'
You will burn them out!
'
exclaimed the war-captain from Tirans.
'
Rout the enemy with fire until the citadel boils to magma!
'

'
I support no such cruelty!
'
Lysaer pealed back. His cool purpose was unassailable, a chiselled display that cowed those men closest, and pressed the faint-hearted to unwitting retreat. Justice enforced the gap between the aroused dedicates and their hailed idol.