There could be no escape, now, without victory. And that appeared to be slipping away -unless Necremnos came.
The first week ended. Except for the Queen's stronghold, the Fadem was his. Outside, the Argonese seemed content to wait, to starve him out. Their probes he beat back with heavy losses. Necremnos was moving, but slowly, willing to let Kavelin do the heavy dying.
The stalemate persisted, though Ragnarson didn't sit still. His engineers worked round the clock to tunnel into the Queen's tower. He battered its walls with captured engines. He tried sending Marena Dimura up its wall by night.
The sappers completed the tunnels the last day of the second week.
Ragnarson chose his assault teams carefully. Haaken and Reskird each led one, and he took the third. Ahring mounted a vicious diversion outside.
The bailey was a cylindrical tower with thick walls and little room inside. The easiest entry, once the single door had been sealed, was over the top-almost a hundred feet above the encircling street.
Unless one penetrated its basements. An obvious and antici-| pated tactic. The defenders would be waiting. It would be rough.
Bragi didn't doubt the outcome. His concern was keeping costs down.
His engineers tested to see if the basements had been flooded. They hadn't. Some other greeting waited.
Bragi expected fire.
It didn't materialize. Again, Argon's initial lack of readiness told.
It was a savage melee, fought through dim passages and narrow doors, Ragnarson's men advancing by sheer mass. The defenders remained stubborn despite the hopelessness of their situation.
It went floor by floor, hour by hour.
"Why the hell don't she give up?" Bragi asked Kildragon. "She's just wasting lives."
"Some people keep hoping."
"Marshall! We're at the top."
"Okay! Reskird, Haaken, this's it. Send for Varthlokkur."
The wizard appeared immediately. Ragnarson and his friends forced themselves into the Fadema's last redoubt.
She had but two soldiers left. Both were wounded, but remained feisty.
And the Tervola was there. Ethrian, bound and gagged, stood behind him.
"My Lord Chin," said Varthlokkur. "It's been a while."
Chin bowed slightly. "Welcome to Argon, old pupil. You learned well. Someday you'll have to teach me the secret of the Unborn."
"I have no taste for teaching. Is there anything you'd care to tell us, My Lord? So we can avoid the rough parts?"
"No. I think not." Chin glanced at an hourglass. He didn't seem worried.
Ragnarson grew wary. These people always had something up their sleeves....
He collected a fallen javelin, pretended to examine it. "Something's going to happen," he whispered to Reskird. "Start moving the men out."
Chin responded to the withdrawal with the slightest of frowns and a touch of nervousness.
"My Lord," said Ragnarson. "Could you tell me why you killed my people? My wife never did anything to you." Iron and pain tinged his voice.
Chin glanced at the hourglass, brought his sword to guard. "Nothing personal. You're in the way. But we'll correct that soon enough. The hour has come."
For an instant Ragnarson thought that the Tervola meant it was his moment to die. Then, when Varthlokkur gasped and staggered, he realized Chin had been warning his companions.
The Power had come alive. A portal had opened behind Chin and the Fadema.
The Tervola attacked. Haaken and Michael met him, prevented his blade from reaching the Marshall. The Fadema came at Bragi with a dagger identical to that he had taken off the leader of the assassins who had killed Elana. A trooper savaged her knife hand with a wild swing, kicking the dagger toward his commander. He tried to follow up. Bragi grabbed his arm, yanked him away from Chin's blade.
"Thanks." He slapped the dagger into the soldier's hand. It was rich booty, a spell-blade worth a fortune.
Chin hurled the two Argonese soldiers, the Fadema, and Ethrian into the portal's black maw, chanting a hasty spell. Varthlokkur responded with a warding spell.
Chin jumped for the portal. His magick roared through the chamber.
Bragi hurled the javelin, then dropped to the floor, rubbed his eyes. He couldn't see. His skin felt toasted.
He moaned.
"Easy," said Varthlokkur. "You'll be all right. I blocked most of it."
Ragnarson didn't believe him. "Did I get him?" he demanded. "Did I get him?" Chin's life almost seemed worth his eyes.
"I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't."
TWENTY-SEVEN: Mocker Returns
The brown man watched from the shadows. He shivered, sure Varthlokkur would notice him. But only one man glanced his way, a squat, hard looker he didn't recognize. The youth didn't react to his stare.
His breath hissed away. Relieved, he waited till they rounded a corner, then followed.
What were they up to? Bragi and Varthlokkur had no business being in Necremnos. And who was the Necremnen? Everyone seemed to know and fear him.
The brown man interrupted a street cleaner.
"Self, beg thousands pardon, sir. Am foolish foreigner, being ignorant of all things Necremnen. Am bestruckt by puzzlement. Am seeing man pass, moment gone, ordinary, with foreign companions, and people hide eyes from same. Am wondering who is same?"
"Huh?"
Necremnen was one of the languages of Mocker's childhood. He could reduce any tongue to unintelligibility.
He tried again.
"Him? That's the high and mighty Aristithorn, that is. Him what makes himself out to be a little toy god, out in his little toy castle.... Here now. Where're you going already?"
Mocker had heard enough. He had never met Aristithorn, but he knew the name. Bragi had mentioned it often enough.
So the big bastard was recruiting old accomplices into his schemes, eh?
He slid hurriedly through the crowds. But he had wasted too much time with the street cleaner. He had lost them.
He traced them to the waterfront. Again he was too late. Hedid learn that they had visited shipping firms and the master of the fishers' guild.
Boats. A lot of them. That had to be it.
Why would Bragi be in Necremnos trying to build a navy? It didn't make sense-unless he was on some adventure with Ravelin's army.
It seemed possible, with Argon a probable target, but reason failed him at that point. He could conceive of no cause for Ravelin to attack Argon. Nor could he figure how Bragi hoped to get away with it. Bragi had pulled off military miracles before, but this was unrealistic.
Mocker knew Argon. Ragnarson didn't. The brown man knew that the city boasted a population greater than that of Ravelin. The biggest force Ravelin could muster would simply vanish into the crowds....
But Bragi had Varthlokkur with him. That could make all the difference. It had for Ilkazar.
He might be guessing wrong. Bragi might need boats to ferry across the Roe.
He kept on the trail. This needed investigation.
It was time he started moving. He had been here for a month and a half accomplishing nothing. He had gambled away almost the entire fortune Lord Chin had provided him before transferring him here. He knew what he was supposed to do, but old habits, old thought patterns, died hard.
Chin would throw a fit next time they met. He should have been in Ravelin by now.
Hunger taunted him. He touched his purse. Empty again. It was a long walk to his room, where his final emergency reserve lay hidden. He considered stealing, didn't try. He wasn't as quick as he used to be. Age was creeping up. Soon he'd be able to commit robbery only by the blade. He hadn't lost his skill with a sword.
Cursing all the way, he trudged across town, retrieved his poke, bought a meal twice too big, downed it to the last drop of gravy. Overindulgenee was his weakness, be it in food, gambling, or drink.
He finally overtook Aristithorn three days later. Bragi and Varthlokkur were long gone. Their visit had caused little public comment.