The flag rose and fluttered there as if he had brought it straight from the Masters’ augury.
“Here we stand.”
Terisa had the impression that King Joyse wasn’t shouting. Yet his voice carried as if it could reach every corner of the valley.
“Let them come against us if they dare.”
No one cheered. No one got the chance.
Without warning, the beat of a war drum throbbed in the air. The sound came from far away, down below the foot of the valley; yet like the King’s voice it carried, a flat, fatal pulse so visceral that Terisa seemed to hear it with her throat and chest rather than her ears.
And from below the foot of the valley the darkness gathered into motion.
FORTY-EIGHT: THE CONGERY AT WORK
The beat of the drums didn’t waver. It continued to labor up the valley like the march of doom.
During the night, the sky had blown clear. Now as the sun rose, the heavens modulated from pearl to an ineffable purple-blue, transforming to vastness the mere scrap of King Joyse’s pennon. Although the valley remained in a clenched gloom, enshadowed by its walls, the effect of clear daylight around the ramparts was to make the catapults look smaller, less imposing. According to the sun, those siege engines were only sticks of wood lashed together, as capable as toys of throwing a few rocks at irregular intervals. And the snow gave the ramparts themselves an aspect of enchantment and play.
Terisa didn’t believe it. King Joyse’s men were vulnerable to toys which threw rocks.
King Joyse obviously didn’t believe it, either. After he had set his standard and cast his defiance, he called together Castellan Norge, his captains, and Prince Kragen, as well as all the Masters who weren’t already deployed. Terisa, Geraden, and the lady Elega joined him in time to hear him say, “We are readier to meet the High King than he thinks – thanks to the forces of the Alend Monarch, and to the dedication of the Congery. Nevertheless he has sprung his trap well. We must find a reply to those catapults. Men who must dodge danger from the sky will not fight well on the ground.”
“The best thing,” Norge observed, “would be to circle around behind them. But we can’t do that. I’m willing to wager Festten has the defile sealed.”
“Find out,” commanded the King.
With a nod, Castellan Norge sent one of his captains to lead a scouting party.
“Do you have any ideas, my lord Prince?” King Joyse asked.
Prince Kragen squinted up at the walls. Slowly, he said, “There are regions of Alend – especially among the Lieges – where the villagers cannot get to market without scaling cliffs as bad as these. I have men who are good with ropes and rock.”
“My lord Prince,” one of the captains objected, “Cadwal isn’t going to leave those catapults unprotected. Anybody who climbs those walls is going to be defenseless on the way up – and outnumbered at the top.”
“We must make the attempt in any, case,” King Joyse pronounced. He wasn’t looking at Prince Kragen or the captains. He was looking at the gathered Masters. “Any harm we can do to those catapults will be worth the cost.”
Several of the Masters shuffled their feet. Some of them studied the ground. In their robes and chasubles, they seemed decidedly unadventuresome. Without the mediator to lead – or goad – them, they had the air of men who would have preferred to be at home doing research.
After a moment, however, Master Vixix cleared his throat. “My lord King.” He rubbed a nervous hand through his thatch of hair. “I have a small glass I shaped as an Apt. It shows little more than a puddle of dank water. But when I translated a bit of that water – purely as an experiment – it ate a hole in my worktable.
“I carry it to defend myself.”
King Joyse nodded sharply. “Very good, Master Vixix. Can you climb?”
The Master shrugged, showing as much discomfort as his bland features allowed. “I fear not, my lord King.”
“He can be carried,” said Prince Kragen.
Vixix faltered for a moment. Then he took a deep breath. After all, he was old enough to remember Joyse’s years of glory.
“I will do whatever I can, my lord King.”
“Very good,” King Joyse repeated, and turned his attention to the other Masters.
Eventually, three more Imagers admitted that they carried personal mirrors which might be useful against a catapult – or a catapult’s defenders. With Master Vixix, they were hustled away by one of Prince Kragen’s captains.
Geraden met Terisa’s gaze and shrugged ruefully.
Elega studied the lower end of the valley as if she expected some kind of alteration to take place when the sun rose high enough, changing the churned and clotted snow until it became a setting for wonders.
The mass of the Cadwal army below the valley was plainly visible now: sunlight blocked from the valley itself caught the standards and armor of High King Festten’s forces and made them shine. Twenty thousand men? Terisa wondered. They looked like more than that – more than enough to crush King Joyse’s mere twelve thousand. Of course, the High King had had plenty of time to bring up reinforcements during the siege of Orison—
When were the catapults going to start?
Was she going to spend the entire battle trying to run away from falling rocks?
Abruptly, the war drums ceased.
The absence of the beat snatched at everyone’s attention.
After the silence came the hoarse, bleating call of a sackbut.
A rider left the massed front of the Cadwal army. His armor burned with sunlight as if he were clad in gold.
At the end of his spear, he displayed a flag of truce.
“An emissary,” observed King Joyse. “The High King wants to speak to us. He means to offer us an opportunity to surrender.”
Growling through his moustache, Prince Kragen asked, “Why does he bother?”
“He hopes to see some evidence that we are frightened.”
“Will you meet him?”
“We will, my lord Prince,” the King said; his tone didn’t encourage discussion. “It may surprise you to hear this, but in all my years of warfare and contest, I have never had a chance to laugh in High King Festten’s face.”
Elega’s eyes shone at her father as if she were delighted.
The Cadwal emissary was stopped and held at Mordant’s front line, and a horseman brought to the King the message that High King Festten did indeed wish to speak to him and Prince Kragen. In reply, Joyse sent back word that he and Kragen were willing to meet Festten midway between the two armies as soon as the High King wished.
Mounted on sturdy chargers which had been trained for combat, King Joyse and Prince Kragen rode down the valley, accompanied only by Castellan Norge. Before them stretched the Cadwal army, as unbreachable as a cliff. And above them on the ramparts, the catapults watched and waited, apparently oblivious to several hundred men with ropes and four Masters who were already attempting to scale the walls at a number of different points.
At the front of their army, the King and the Prince waited until they saw High King Festten emerge from his own forces.
“Watch for treachery,” Norge warned, stifling a yawn.
“Treachery?” King Joyse chuckled grimly. “The High King only betrays those he fears. At the moment, I feel quite certain he does not fear us. That is his weakness.” At once, he amended, “One of his weaknesses.”
“My lord King,” Prince Kragen said like a salute, “I admire your confidence.”
King Joyse gave his ally a fierce grin. “You justify it, my lord Prince.”
When they saw the High King leave his guards behind, they rode out alone to meet him, crossing clean, white snow unmarked except by the emissary’s passage.