At the agreed spot – a long bowshot from both armies – the three men came together. No one offered to dismount; and High King Festten kept some distance between himself and his enemies, as if he expected them to do something desperate. The stamping of the horses raised gusts of dry snow around the riders.
He was a short man – too short, really, for all the power he wielded. He compensated for his shortness, however, by wearing a golden helmet topped with a long spike and an elaborate plume. Between the cheek plates of his helmet, his eyes were stark, as if he had outlined them with kohl to give them force. His beard as it curled against the gold breastplate of his armor was dark and lustrous, probably dyed; only the lines and wrinkles hidden under his whiskers betrayed that he was older than King Joyse – and dedicated to his pleasures.
Ignoring Prince Kragen, he said, “Well, Joyse,” as if he and the King were intimately familiar, despite the fact that they had never met, “after years of success you have come to a sorry end.”
“Do you think so?” King Joyse smiled a smile which held no innocence at all. “I am rather pleased with myself. At last I have a chance to deal with all my enemies at once. It was only with the greatest reluctance that I allowed the Alend Contender to persuade me to offer you this one last chance for surrender.”
If this remark surprised Prince Kragen, he didn’t show it.
“ ‘Surrender’?” spat the High King. Clearly, King Joyse had caught him off balance. “You wish me to surrender?”
King Joyse shrugged as if only his sense of humor kept him from losing interest in the conversation altogether. “Why not? You cannot win this war. The best you can hope for is the chance to save your life by throwing yourself on my mercy.
“You may be unaware,” he went on before High King Festten could sputter a retort, “that your Master Eremis has offered me an alliance against you – which I have accepted.”
“That is a lie!” the High King shouted, momentarily apoplectic. Quickly, however, he regained control of himself. In a colder voice, a tone unacquainted with pity, he said, “Master Eremis is mendacious, of course. But I have not trusted him blindly. Gart is with him. And he knows that I have commanded Gart to gut him at the slightest hint of treachery. Also he is aware that I no longer need him. I can crush you now” – he knotted his fist in the air – “without Imagery.
“You have no alliance with him. And the strength of Alend is as paltry as your own.
“No, Joyse, it is you who must surrender. And you must surrender now, or the chance will be lost. You have thwarted me for years, denied me for decades. The rule which is my right you have cut apart and dissipated and limited. You have opposed my will, killed my strength – you have denied me Imagery. There is no day of my life which you have not made less. If you do not capitulate to me here, I will exterminate you and all you have ever loved as easily as I exterminate rats!”
At that, King Joyse looked over at Prince Kragen. Mock-seriously, he said, “Come, my lord Prince. This discussion is pointless. The High King insists on jesting with us. In all the world, no one has ever succeeded at exterminating rats.”
Casually, he turned his horse away.
His dark eyes gleaming, Prince Kragen did the same.
Together they rode back to their troops. The High King was left so furious that he seemed to froth at the mouth.
That was Joyse’s way of laughing in his face.
Behind them, the sackbut blared again – and again. With a palpable thud, the war drums resumed their labor.
Around the valley rim, all the catapults began to cock their arms.
“Now,” said King Joyse to the Prince and Castellan Norge, “if Master Barsonage is ready, we are ready. I do not doubt that High King Festten and Master Eremis have a number of unpleasant surprises in store for us. For the present, however, we will stand or fall according to our success against those engines.”
Prince Kragen considered what could be seen of the men climbing the walls. Quite a few of them were out of sight, concealed among the complex rocks. That was a good sign: perhaps the men would also be hard to spot from above.
Grimly, the Prince reported, “Each catapult will be able to throw at least twice before it is threatened.”
King Joyse nodded. “Castellan, only the front lines are required for battle – say three thousand men. Unless Master Barsonage miscalculates. Instruct the rest of the men to watch the catapults and protect themselves as best they can.
“Oh, and ready the physicians,” he added before Norge could ride off. “Provide horses for litters. Tell them we will use Esmerel as our infirmary. It is unpleasant, but we have no other shelter to offer the injured.”
“Yes, my lord King.” Castellan Norge spurred away.
The King and Prince Kragen returned to the pennon, where Terisa, Geraden, and Elega waited, fretting.
The massed front of the Cadwal army was in motion, marching to the insistence of the war drums.
As that army approached the foot of the valley, it took on its attacking formation: a core of horsemen like the shaft and point of an arrow; flanks of foot soldiers on both sides to provide the cutting edges of the arrowhead.
The pulse of the drums quickened slightly. The army increased its pace. All the catapults were cocked; now they took on their loads. Apparently, High King Festten wanted to time his charge so that it coincided with the first throw of the engines.
King Joyse remained on his mount to improve his view down the valley. From horseback, he looked tall and sure, capable of anything. “Sound my call,” he said to his standard-bearer, who stood guard at the pennon.
Putting his trumpet to his lips, the standard-bearer raised a blast like a shout into the morning.
The sackbut bleated in response: three hoarse bursts.
With their spears set, the Cadwal horsemen kicked their chargers into a controlled canter, an attacking stride.
The King’s forces braced themselves to receive the assault. Castellan Norge had gone to join them, so that his orders wouldn’t need to be relayed down the length of the valley.
“Now,” King Joyse commented to no one in particular, “we shall see if Master Barsonage is as good as his word.”
Terisa’s chest hurt as if she were holding her breath. Involuntarily, she clasped Geraden’s hand, gripped it hard. He tried to murmur something reassuring, but she didn’t hear him; she was focused on the drums and the horses, the coming thunder of hooves.
Over the heads of Mordant’s defenders, she saw the Cadwal horse charge into the valley.
At that moment, all the catapults threw.
The brutal sound they made as their arms hit the stops caught at her, jerked her head up.
Boulders this time: nine of them, imponderably graceful as they arced against the sky’s blue; stones as big as ponies, just to show what the engines could do.
A chaotic yell went up from the army – shouts of warning, cries of fear, urgent commands. Cadwal responded with a battle howl. The shock as the forces came together resounded from the walls, broke into bloodshed against the ramparts. Only the boulders seemed to make no sound as they hit the snow, scattering men in all directions, splashing white into the air – white streaked with red where the soldiers of Alend and the guards of Orison didn’t dodge well enough.
At once, the cocking of the catapults began again.
The King’s lines bent under the weight of the Cadwal charge. Men and horses recoiled, retreated, as if they could see Festten’s full strength coming at them and knew they had no hope. Spears thrust forward and either hit or failed. Swords flailed against each other, against shields, against armor; a metal clamor among the cries and whinnies of the beasts. Mounts reared, blundered, trampled. Bodies were buried in the snow, marking their own graves with their blood. The Cadwal battle howl took on a note of triumph.