The Towers Of the Sunset (48 page)

MEGAERA SAYS NOTHING, but she doesn’t have to.

Creslin can sense her churning feelings and disapproval, and has since long before his small fleet returned to
Land’s End. They sit at opposite sides of the table.

Lydya glances from Megaera’s drawn face to Creslin’s impassive one and back again. Hyel enters and sits down, followed by Shierra.

Creslin looks pointedly from Hyel to Shierra, who flushes before laying the ornate scroll on the table.

“The Suthyan brig that arrived yesterday carried an ultimatum, signed by both the emperor of Hamor, the Council of Nordla, and the Wizard’s Council. We either return the ships and what we took or we face war with all three.
Fairhaven also wants indemnification for the destruction you caused.”

“What destruction?” Lydya’s voice is strained.

“One of the storms pulverized the wizards’ brand-new keep in Lydiar,” Shierra explains.

“You can’t keep doing this…” Hyel admonishes.

Megaera merely raises her eyebrows. “He will, at least until he’s totally blind.”

“It passed.”

“This time. How long can you push the limits? Anyone else would be dead.”… and I don’t want to die because you…

“Important as that may be, Megaera,” interjects Shierra, “we still have this ultimatum.”

Hyel frowns, clears his throat, waiting until the room quiets. “Do we have a choice?”

“Of course we do. There’s always a choice.” Lydya shifts her weight in the wooden chair.

“Why are they doing this now?” asks Creslin.

“Best-beloved, you must be joking. You destroy their keep, ransack their port, steal ships from three nations, and…” She shakes her head.

“No, that’s not what I meant. Why did they even bother with an ultimatum? They certainly haven’t played this sort of official-message game before.”

“They’re desperate,” offers Hyel. “That’s all I can think of.”

“How about scared?” Shierra snaps. “First Creslin sinks that Hamorian fleet. Then he develops an army, beefed up by the last of the Westwind guards, that’s clearly superior to anything its size. Now, by seizing half a dozen ships, he has the beginning of a fleet. And because he can sink any other ship on the sea, who can refuse to trade with Reduce ships? The only way they can hope to stop you-” her eyes turns to the silver-haired regent “-is to destroy Reduce.”

“But we’re scarcely that kind of threat,” observes Klerris mildly.

Megaera snorts.

Klerris raises his eyebrows. After a moment, he asks, “You feel that Reduce is that much of a threat? With all of perhaps a thousand souls on this huge and empty island? With little gold to speak of?”

“That’s scarcely the question, Klerris, and you know it. It isn’t what we are that counts. It’s what the White Wizards persuade people that we are that matters. My best-beloved here has managed to whip half the world into fearing mighty Black Reduce. Yet they know in their minds that we aren’t that strong. It becomes an easy decision to send aid to Fairhaven, especially now that the Whites have helped rebuild Montgren and are helping build dams in Kyphros, and are paying premium prices for Hydlen grain. Especially now that Ryessa has regarrisoned the ruins of Westwind. Do you want both a strong Sarronnyn, believing in the Legend, Heaven forbid, and fearing that destructive Black Wizard Creslin?” The redhead shrugs theatrically.

“There’s more to it than that,” observes Shierra.

“There’s a great deal more.” Creslin’s voice is low, strained. “The ultimatum is to persuade Hamor and Nordla of how unreasonable we are, and to picture Recluce as a danger to the world.”

“That’s probably right,” affirms Shierra. “And what do we do?”

“We send back our polite document stating that Recluce and all of eastern Candar has been the victim of assorted wizardly depredations, such as assassinations, conquest, and trade restrictions.” Creslin adds after a pause, “Not that it will help right now.”

“Now?”

“I see what he means.” Shierra squares to face Megaera. “They’ve already decided what they’ll do. This is but a justification. Any response of ours will be viewed as unreasonable. If we survive, however, Hamor and Nordla could always claim that they were misled by Fairhaven and use our document, which they will doubtless claim was withheld from them, to justify whatever they may later do-hopefully, trade with us.”

“So we send the response just to Fairhaven?” Megaera asks.

“Hardly,” Creslin replies. “We send it to each. They can certainly still claim they were misled. Truth isn’t necessary for politicians.”

… nor for you, best-beloved…

Both the sadness and the anguish cut Creslin like a blade.

“But can we afford a war?” asks Lydya, her face pale.

“No,” Hyel says bluntly.

Megaera nods.

“That’s not the question.” Shierra glances from Hyel to Megaera. “Do we have any choice?”

“No.”

“No.”

All six look again at the heavy scroll before Shierra.

Outside, the rain begins to fall… again.

“NOW THAT EVERYONE has finally agreed, what strategy would you suggest, cynical one?” Hartor fingers the amulet he wears, looking toward the clear, blue-green fall sky outside the white tower. “Keeping in mind that you will be taking personal charge of it.”

Gyretis frowns. “Personal charge?”

“The strategy first,” snaps Hartor.

The thin wizard swallows before he speaks. “Make one fleet obvious. Call it the vengeance fleet. Put our best vessels there. Then scatter the others into smaller groups-squadrons, whatever they’re called-and have a White with each to conceal them.”

Hartor fingers the amulet. “So we dispatch the vengeance fleet-we’ll have to think of a better name than that-but more slowly, so that Creslin and his lady are focusing on it.”

“Exactly.”

“But how do you get anyone to attack Creslin personally?” ponders the High Wizard.

“Who says they have to?” Gyretis smiles. “If he has no troops left, does it matter?”

“It might work. I never liked the idea of going head to head with him.” Hartor nods. “If our troops are with the vengeance fleet-let’s call it the liberation fleet-and if he does manage to find and destroy the others…”

This time Gyretis nods. “We’ll still be able to help our allies recover.”

“I like that… helping them recover.” Hartor glances toward the tower window. “This part of the strategy stays here, in this room. We’ll let it be known that we’re taking the risks by spearheading the obvious and great liberation fleet.” A broad smile crosses his lips. “And you, of course, will show our faith in the success of this plan by accompanying one of the smaller fleets of our devoted allies.”

“Is that really necessary?” Gyretis swallows again.

“It is your plan, and I do believe that you should be there to ensure its success. Or do you wish to reconsider your strategy?”

“Only the advisability of my being away from Fairhaven.” Gyretis’s eyes flicker toward the window, then back to the cold smile of the High Wizard.

“Under the circumstances, it might be best if you were with the fleets.”

“Best for you?”

Fires dance at Hartor’s fingertips. “You lack the proper respect, dear Gyretis. We’ll discuss that respect after you return… or would you rather deal with it now?”

Gyretis stands. “I’d better see about transportation.” He includes his head. “By your leave?”

Hartor nods.

The thin wizard stops in the half-open door. “I take it that Ryedel will be advising you?”

“Of course. He does have, at least, the proper respect.”

CRESLIN LOOKS FROM the terrace southward, noting the heat waves on the horizon and pondering their origin, for while the morning promises that the day will be warm, the raw heat of summer has long since passed. Could it be the great White fleet that has so recently left Lydiar?

“What is it?” asks Megaera.

‘There’s something out there.“ He casts his thoughts to the south… and swallows as he recognizes the ships behind their visual shield. He tries to be careful, tries not to let his thoughts touch the shield before he withdraws.

“Ships. They’re armed. See if you can find any more of them farther south. Don’t let them sense you.” His mouth tight, he casts himself to the winds.

Another small fleet lies less than twenty kays north of
Land’s End, and a third, behind the same kind of shield, beats upwind yet a dozen kays farther south along the eastern shore.

“There are nine ships, including a three-masted one, coming in toward the western beaches, the ones that link up with the valley,” Megaera observes.

“They’re not quite close enough-”

“It won’t be long-”

They both hasten toward their rooms, and their blades.

How long it takes for them to dress and arm, Creslin does not know, but the nearest ships have scarcely moved from their position just below the horizon by the time the two regents are mounted and headed toward the keep.

“The horses make a difference,” observes Megaera.

“I suppose so. Was the big fleet just a decoy?”

“It seems too large for that.”

“Mop-up duty, perhaps. To turn whatever is left into a dutiful
province
of
White Wizards
.”

“How about scorching whatever’s left to make sure no one else gets similar ideas?”

“That sounds more like the wizards I met.”

Neither says more as their mounts carry them down the damp clay of the road to
Land’s End. As they turn onto the rough stones of the road to the keep, a fisherwoman steps to the side of the pavement and turns her scarfed head away from them.

The duty guard at the keep is a thin-faced girl unknown to Creslin.

“Keren, get Shierra, Hyel, and the two wizards. Then sound the duty alarm.”

“Yes, Regent Megaera.” The guard is gone even before Creslin’s boots have struck the sandy clay.

Hyel is pulling on a tunic as he stumbles into the room that has become their meeting place.

Shierra wears a faint smile, which fades as she sees Creslin’s face. “I thought you said that the great White fleet was days away.”

“It is,” answers Megaera.

“But there are four smaller fleets almost offshore.” Creslin steps up to the rough map of Reduce that Klerris has drawn on the inside white-plaster wall. “Here, here, here, and here.” He looks toward the two military commanders. “They could land later today, and they are probably planning to.”

“Can’t you just destroy them?” asks Hyel.

“Why?” asks Megaera.

Lydya appears in the doorway, followed by Klerris. Both appear composed, unlike the regents and Shierra and Hyel.

“But- ”

“That much destruction is dangerous,” offers Klerris in his customary mild tone, “even if it uses order as a basis.”

“Besides,” adds Megaera, “why waste the ships?”

Creslin nods, understanding. “We just drive all of them onto the beach. That was how we got the Dawnstar.” He pauses, wondering why he had not thought of such a simple expedient. Then he reflects. “But… that’s going to be a mess. And what about the troops who survive? A lot of angry, armed men will be wandering around.”

“I’m sure that Shierra and Hyel can take care of that,” Megaera says.

Hyel straightens his tunic. “Maybe…”

“Do you have a better suggestion? There also might be more gold that way.” Megaera’s voice is reasonable. “And less loss of life.”

“The less loss of life, the better.” Lydya’s voice is cool, as if she were discussing crops.

“In any case, we can scatter the ships. That way,” Creslin explains, “the survivors will be strung out along the beaches.”

“They’re still not exactly going to welcome us. They’ve certainly been warned that we’re devils and that they should fight to the death.” Shierra looks at Creslin, her dark eyes probing. “How many ships are there?”

“Thirty, I’d guess. That doesn’t include the big fleet.”

“And how many soldiers on each?”

“It depends. At least two score, perhaps as many as five.”

“Possibly two thousand armed men-and we’re supposed to handle them with what? Three hundred? And that counts the Hamorians, and some refugees who have held a blade for perhaps a season.” Shierra’s voice is acid.

“Most of them won’t make it,” Creslin says coldly. “Just because the ships are grounded it doesn’t mean that the troops will survive. Most of them can’t swim.”

“Fine,” snaps Shierra. “You kill three quarters of them. That’s still five hundred. And that’s not even counting the biggest fleet.”

“You’ve beaten those odds all too many times,” Creslin says tiredly. He turns back to the map painted on the wall. “Here’s where the ships are-”

“One other thing,” Megaera interrupts. “If we take over the hidden fleets, there’s no need to worry about the large fleet.”

The others turn toward the redhead. Creslin lowers the hand with which he had begun to explain the locations of the fleets.

“Why not?”

“… absurd…”

“It’s simple enough,” Megaera explains. “All of the wizards’ ships, and those of their close Candarian allies, are there. The hidden fleets are ships from the Nordland Duchies, Brista, Hamor, Austra, and even Southwind. If they succeed, the White fleet will land and claim great honor. If they fail, the White Wizards will proclaim that we’re the terrors of the world and make suitable excuses. But they’ll still have their fleet.”

Shierra nods slowly. “Are you sure?”

“Not completely. But they always try to get someone else to do the fighting.”

“… men…”

Creslin and Hyel ignore Shierra’s low-voiced comment, while Klerris looks blandly at the map.

Creslin gestures toward the map again. “Here’s about where the northernmost ships will land. I think you ought to put all your forces here, except for the reserves that are necessary here at the keep. The others can’t march that fast over the sand anyway.”

“More here, I think,” Shierra says, stepping to the map. “Hyel will handle the reserves here, in case the White fleet changes its mind.”

Hyel’s mouth opens, then closes.

“Is there anything else you need to know?” Creslin asks.

“Don’t be too charitable toward those soldiers.” Shierra’s voice is flat. “I don’t care if they all drown.”

Lydya raises her eyebrows as the former Westwind senior guard walks toward the doorway. Hyel shrugs and follows her.

“When do we start?” asks Megaera.

“Now,” suggests Creslin. “We can bring the winds along gradually.”

“Ahem…”

They look toward Klerris.

“Perhaps the porch at the cot…”

Megaera grins for an instant, and Creslin nods. Klerris is offering what protection he can against chaos.

“We’d better hurry.”

Megaera nods.

Lydya has already left for the cot. The three hasten from the keep and through the sun-strewn morning. Creslin casts his thoughts toward the west and the high winds, trying to start the process while he walks.

Two wooden armchairs, with cushions, have been set out on the porch. On the table between the two is a clay pitcher of redberry and a plate on which hard biscuits, cheese, and sliced pearapples rest.

“You’d better eat something,” suggests Lydya.

“Do we have tune?”

“A little,” affirms Klerris.

Creslin finishes two biscuits and a pearapple, washing them down with a tumbler of redberry. Megaera has but a biscuit and half a tumbler of the juice.

Lydya’s eyes narrow fractionally as she looks at Megaera, who returns the look with a head shake.

… no…

“What?” Creslin asks, catching the redhead’s eye.

“Later. It’s not urgent. The ships are.” She shifts her weight on the cushion. “You work on the ones farthest to the south.”

Creslin nods, settling into the chair and sending his thoughts southward, tugging at the swirling forces that are the high winds. Then he swallows and reaches toward the farthest of the hidden fleets, seven narrow-beamed war schooners bearing the blue tower of the Bristan ensign.

His thoughts slip inside the shield raised by the White Wizard to guard against mere vision. As they do, the wavering barrier disappears and a white fog washes over the ships, leaving his mind blind to anything except the burning whiteness.

With a grim smile, he touches the winds, whipping them toward the half dozen or so vessels. To force the ships onto the eastern beaches, he does not need to see them. Beside him, he can feel Megaera’s more gentle touch tapping his winds as she brings her forces against another shielded group.

Creslin tugs at the great winds, those on which he has not called since the destruction of the Hamorian fleet. Again they strike back, but this time, seated, he waits for the reaction to subside.

The too-familiar gray haze creeps across the late-morning sun, and twin towers of darkness loom in the skies, one somehow squatter than the other, and more elemental.

Creslin keeps his awareness well outside the white haze against which he flings the wind and sea that sweep the schooners inexorably shoreward, toward beaches suddenly surf-pounded, toward sands now as damp and hard as stone. By the time he withdraws, the shredded white haze is melting under the rain and only a handful of antlike figures struggle from the battered timbers and foaming waters.

Lydya presses a morsel of biscuit upon him, and a sip of redberry.

He glances over at the other chair. Sweat streams down Megaera’s face, running over unseeing eyes, and her tension flows toward him. He turns away and flings himself at the second fleet; six broadbeamed brigs.

This time a ray of flame probes at his thoughts, lances toward him, yanks at his holds on the winds. His defenses flare, deflect the fires, and he regains his grip on the winds. But the flames lance again. With those flames, for an instant, comes the image of a thin, tormented face surrounded by chaos and fires. The wizard’s face is all too human.

Creslin swallows and seizes his winds again. Flames lash against the clouds, angling the gales away from the ships, keeping the worst of the tempest from the white vessels.

Creslin slams the mid-winds toward the six ships.

The thin-faced Wizard’s image stands between the winds and the attacking fleet, and each time that Creslin turns his forces to begin hurling the ships onto the sodden sands, the flames flash toward him and twist the winds with the scouring heat of the desert-or the demons’ hell.

With a wrench, Creslin seizes the heart of his tallest storm, twisting the fires within and channeling them toward that ship from which the fires have flown. Lightning forks from the sky and toward the seas, narrowly missing the tall ship standing farthest seaward.

Flames lash back at him, flames stronger than any he has seen. He reaches for the strongest of the mighty high winds, wrestling them and their lightnings back down the path of flame.

Aaaeeeüi…

The White Wizard, the most powerful he has ever faced, is gone, and the white haze shreds. The winds blow unchecked.

Creslin is gasping, swallowing, as he sits in the chair.

Again Lydya offers him the redberry and he sips slowly, refusing to look at Megaera, feeling too strongly the strains and forces that rack her as she wrestles with the high winds. An edge of darkness pulls at him, but he resists, pushing it away… somehow.

Too soon he is back upon the winds, nudging, tugging, unleashing fire and ice, ice and fire, until another seven ships lie tossed across the rocky beaches well south of the Black Holding.

One tall ship remains, shuddering, trying to run for the high seas as the winds howl. But the whiteness holds tightly to the vessel, and the winds whip uselessly through bare masts.

Creslin seizes the heart of the winds, and as they howl, the mist and swirling vortex solidify into a funnel of blackness. That blackness strikes and then collapses across the storm-ripped sea where a ship had stood.

“… ooo…”

… hurts…

Creslin’s muscles clench under the impact of Megaera’s pain even as he realizes that off the shores of Reduce, only debris and bodies float. The great White fleet has already begun to turn and to run for the safety of the stormy
Northern
Ocean
.

Megaera is unconscious, and Lydya has stretched her out on a pallet brought from inside the cot.

“She’ll be all right,” the healer responds to Creslin’s look.

Creslin’s guts are in his throat, and he seizes the redberry, swallows it, then resettles himself.

“No!”

But the caution from the Black mage is lost as Creslin hurls himself across the skies toward the last great patch of whiteness. As his thoughts race northward, he regathers the storms and calls on all of the high winds, the great black-steel tides of the skies. Ignoring the flashing silver before his eyes, ignoring the fire that sears his limbs, ignoring the single image of the dying White Wizard-an image that he will hold forever-he turns the fury of the north upon the defenseless chips of wood on the sea below.

“Nooo…”

He disregards the plea, lashing the sea into a tempest from which none will emerge. Wielding the winds and the lightnings, he is the storm. Riding the black-steel tides of the high winds, he is the god of old Heaven…

… back… please… best-beloved…

Back?

… best-beloved…

He shudders, forcing himself out of the storm, out of the ordered focus of power, climbing span by span, cubit by cubit, southward through the clouds and ice rains.

His tattered thoughts find his body, and he rests in darkness. Finally he straightens in the chair and opens his eyes. But he sees nothing. He knows that Megaera is there, and two others. But there is only blackness.