The Tor did his best to estimate the damage the catapults had done. As a younger man, he had fought his share of battles. He was accustomed to carnage. But King Joyse possessed a quality he himself had always lacked. Perhaps it was an instinct for risk. In his bones, he counted loss instead of gain. That, really, was why he had given Joyse only two hundred men, all those long years ago, when Joyse was hardly more than a boy, and Mordant was nothing more than a battlefield. Not cowardice. And certainly not deafness to Joyse’s bright, hopeful promises. No, he had simply given his future King as many men as he could bear to lose.
The lord fell into reverie, thinking about loss. Friends of many years ago, valiant fighters, precious villagers and farmers and merchants who didn’t deserve to be slaughtered. The old Armigite, who hadn’t earned a foppish son. And now the Tor’s own firstborn. His tough, good comrade, the Perdon. The tormented Castellan, sick and honorable Lebbick. Too many, all of them: the cost was too high.
He shook his head. As if his pain were an anchor, a gift from the High King’s Monomach, he used it to steady himself so that he could watch what happened in the valley.
Why was the High King massing his men? An interesting question. Well, obviously he intended to attack something. Someone.
I need a mount.
The Tor looked around for Ribuld.
There, he was coming. He had two horses, his own roan and the Tor’s familiar bay. Now all the lord had to do was surmount his hurt one last time—
Distinctly, he heard King Joyse speak.
In that carrying voice which required obedience, the King snapped, “Reinforcements. Where in all this rout is Norge? The Masters must be reinforced.”
Frantic with pain, the Tor lunged at the bay and struggled into the saddle.
He could have fainted then; but he was desperate, and his desperation held the darkness back. He was already moving, already kicking the bay into a gallop, when the rumble began.
The sound was a distant, throaty growl, as if by translating their chasm the Masters had given the earth a mouth with which to utter its distress.
But this wasn’t the earth protesting, oh, no, the Tor saw that almost immediately as he goaded his horse faster, away from people who wanted to stop him; out of the center of the valley to the less occupied ground closer to the wall. This rumble had another meaning entirely.
As if someone had opened a window in the empty air, rock began to thunder downward. Across the gap between worlds, an avalanche rushed roaring into the chasm.
Broken rock in tons; hundreds and thousands of tons; enough rock to build a castle, a mountain; all slamming down out of the sky directly above the chasm, all howling torrentially into the Masters’ crevice.
Enough rock to fill the rift. Plug it. Make it passable.
And behind the translated collapse of the mountainside came High King Festten’s men, pressing forward to breach the valley as soon as the rockfall ended.
The avalanche moved along the chasm, distributing rubble as evenly as possible.
Then, while the whole valley watched in shock, the plunge of stone began to thin. Quickly, too quickly, the tons of rock became dirt and pebbles; the dirt and pebbles changed to dust; the dust billowed everywhere, as light and swirling as snow.
Raising their battle howl, High King Festten’s men charged.
The crevice wasn’t perfectly filled: in some places, the rock piled too high; in others, the dirt sank too low. Nevertheless at least a third of the chasm could be crossed now. Cadwal’s troops rushed forward while Castellan Norge and Prince Kragen were still straining to rally their forces.
Within the valley, Festten’s men split into two groups, curving around the inside of the chasm to attack the Masters hidden in the ends of the walls.
The Tor saw the Cadwals come as he rode, lashing his horse for more speed than it could give him. He had forgotten his pain: he had forgotten loss. He only knew that he was too late to help break the first shock of the assault. Norge had hundreds of archers and bowmen hidden around the Masters. And the Masters had mirrors. That would have to be enough, until help could come.
It wasn’t enough; it was never going to be enough. Already there were a thousand Cadwals in the valley, two thousand. More came as fast as they could cross the chasm.
Forgetting all the things he couldn’t do, the Tor unsheathed his longsword.
In the rocks ahead, he saw Master Barsonage. The mediator had climbed to his signaling-place above the mirrors. He looked small and doomed there, his chasuble fluttering. As if he had lost his mind, he yelled through the Cadwal battle howl, waved a blue cloth wildly at the opposite wall.
The Tor didn’t understand what happened next until it was over; but somehow, by luck or inspiration, Master Barsonage achieved his aim.
Both Masters ceased their translation at the same moment.
The chasm blinked out of existence.
Now there was solid ground where the avalanche had fallen. Stone and soil occupied the space which the rockfall had filled.
In the convulsion, the Tor’s horse stumbled, nearly lost its footing. With a spasm like an eruption, the closed earth spat the entire rockfall straight into the air.
Without transition, the battle howl changed to screams and chaos. Hundreds of Cadwals died in the blast while they tried to cross the vanished chasm; hundreds more were crushed by the rejected rock as it plunged back to the ground, blocking the valley from wall to wall. Granite thunder and groaning swallowed the sound of war drums.
Unfortunately, the High King still had as many as two thousand men inside the valley – men still charging to kill the Masters, shatter the mirrors. And King Joyse’s reinforcements were still too far away.
The Castellan’s archers recovered their wits enough to begin shooting. But their arrows were too few, and the Cadwals were well armored. Men with swords swarmed up into the rocks, fighting to reach the Masters.
Master Barsonage had scuttled downward, vanished into a gap the Tor couldn’t see. That movement told the Cadwals exactly where their target was. Spared the necessity of searching, they surged ahead.
With Ribuld beside him, the Tor crashed against the rear of the Cadwal force.
His sword was heavy: his whole body was heavy, weighted with pain and bereavement. He hacked at the Cadwals from side to side, once on the left, once on the right, back and forth; and each blow seemed to shear helmets and heads, breastplates and leather. His horse plunged, stumbled, scrambled forward – somehow he kept his balance. His sword was his balance, his life: up and down, side to side, hacking with all its strength, while his belly filled up with blood.
Above him, the Cadwals who reached the Masters’ position seemed to be disappearing.
In their gap among the rocks, the Imagers concentrated grimly, working their translations against impossible odds.
That is to say, Master Barsonage concentrated grimly, grinding his courage into focus with such urgency that sweat stood on his skin and a dangerous flush darkened his face. For all the distress Master Harpool showed, he might as well have been performing translations in his sleep. Standing mostly behind his glass, with his eyes closed and an old man’s mumble on his lips, he kept his mirror open and simply let everything that came near it fall into the Image – trusting, no doubt, that the haste and frenzy of the Cadwals would spare him from a direct attack on his person.
The young Master wasn’t doing anything at all. He had slumped to the snow-packed floor; his glass leaned over him, useless. Something in him, some essential fortitude or will, had snapped. He had kept his translation open for the chasm until Master Barsonage had called for him to let it go; then his eyes had rolled back in his head, and he had crumbled.
The mirrors were vitaclass="underline" the Congery had nothing else to contribute to Mordant’s defense. Ignoring the young Imager, Master Barsonage forced himself to translate and translate, on and on, when every nerve in his body wailed to flinch away from the swords and blows and curses coming at him.