"Damn, I wish it would start," Bragi murmured. It was an oft-expressed sentiment. Even action leading to defeat seemed preferable to waiting. Plans and contingency plans had been carried to their limits. There was nothing more to occupy a lonely mind- except bitter memories.
His emotional lows outnumbered highs, and had since his return from Argon. Without Elana he couldn't be positive. Nothing could jack his spirits, get his emotions blazing.
Too, his children, and Ragnar's wife, were still in Kavelin. He couldn't stop brooding about that. They were hostages to Fate....
Badalamen he found puzzling. On the Scarlotti the man had kept several threats looming. Here he seemed to be doing nothing-and the Brotherhood watched closely.
"He's not loafing," Ragnarson declared. "But what's he up to?"
Again he wondered about his children. He had had no news. Were they alive? Had they been captured? Would they be used against him?
His Kaveliner soldiers had had no news either. They were a glum, brooding lot.
Radeachar and Marco seldom brought pleasant tidings fromthe south, save that Reskird and High Crag remained unvanquished. Reskird couldn't be reached because of patrol-ling dragons.
Winter had been hard in the occupied kingdoms....
A roar jerked his attention to the wall a quarter-mile eastward. "What the... ?" A huge cloud of dust reached for the sun.
Another roar rose behind him. He spun, saw a section of wall collapsing, flinging into shallow snow.
"Miners!" he gasped. "Trumpets! Alert! Visigodred...."
The thin old wizard was in full career already. Bragi's shouts were drowned by a change in the song of the drums. More sections collapsed. Friendly horns screamed, "To arms!"
There were no civilians in Southtown. Its quickly busy streets contained only soldiers.
The maneuvering legions rushed toward the fortress.
Ragnarson's face turned grim. Badalamen had surprised him again. But what sane man would have sapped tunnels that long? How could he believe it would go undetected? How had he managed it?
Sections of wall kept crumbling.
"Too many breeches," Bragi muttered. More legions double-timed toward Southtown. A glow grew over Shinsan's camp. Bragi smiled. Sorcery. He had a surprise for Badalamen too.
The first legionnaires hit the rubbled gaps. Arrows flew. The world's best soldiers were in for a fight this time. They were about to meet the soul of Itaskia's army, bowmen who bragged that they could nail gnats on the wing at two hundred yards. In the streets they would face the Iwa Skolovdan pikes who had dismayed El Murid's riders during those wars, and a host of crazy killers from Ragnarson's Trolledyngjan homeland, overpowering in their fearlessness and barbarian strength. They were Tennys's praetorians, selected for size, skill, and berserker battle style.
Bragi smiled tightly. His defense was reacting calmly and well. Rooftop bowmen made deathtraps of the gaps in the wall.
Yet he was about to be cut off.
A sound like the moan of a world dying rose from the enemy camp. The glow became blinding. Bragi ran.
Something whined overhead. He glimpsed the Unborn whipping southward.
He saw little after that. The invaders forced a band of defenders back upon him. He escaped that pocket only to become trapped in a bigger one.
Badalamen's sappers hadn't ended their tunnels at the wall. They had driven on into deep basements.
"Treason," Ragnarson muttered. "Can't ever root it out." Somebody had done the surveying....
Southtown decayed into chaos. Ragnarson just couldn't reach his headquarters. His rage grew. He knew his absence meant defeat.
The southern skyline flared, darkened. Thunders rolled. Things rocketed into view and away again. The Tervola were putting on one hell of a show. Varthlokkur's surprise must have fizzled.
He encountered Ragnar near the Barbican, the final fortification defending the Great Bridge.
"Father! You all right?"
"I'll make it." He was an ambulatory blood clot. A lot was his. "What's happening?"
"Covering the evacuation."
"What? Bring in...."
"Too late. Southtown's lost. You're about the last we'll save. They ran two tunnels under the river. They've closed the bridge twice. We reopened it, and closed one tunnel."
"Drown the sons of bitches." He turned. Southtown was burning. Fighting was waning. A ragged band of Trolledyngjans hurried their way, grim of visage. They had been stunned by their enemies. No soldiers should be that good.
"Save what you can. Don't let them take the Barbican." He started for the city. Two soldiers helped. He had lost a lot of blood.
He paused at the bridge's center. The Silverbind was alive with warships, each loaded with Marines. "What now?"
It was the first thing Haaken explained. "They've launched a fleet from Portsmouth, across the Estuary."
"Damn. That bastard don't miss a shot."
Ragnarson quickly counterattacked through the underriver tunnels. Zindahjira and Visigodred spearheaded. Badalamen's assault on the Barbican petered out.
"Your spook-pushers are whipping theirs," observed Lord Hartteoben, recently appointed Itaskian Chief of Staff. "That Unborn.... It won't let the Tervola direct their legions."
"We've got to hurt them while we can," Ragnarson averred. His wounds were worse than he would admit. Willpower couldn't keep him going. He collapsed.
Blackfang took charge, stubbornly pursued prepared plans.
The woman wore black. He couldn't see her clearly. She seemed ill-defined, haloed.
"Death," he sighed as she bent. The Dark Lady bringing her fatal kiss.
Her lips moved. "Marshall?" It tumbled down a long, cold tunnel littered with the bones of heroes.
The equalizer, the great leveler, had turned her gaze his way at last. The last narrow escape lay behind him, not ahead....
She wiped his face with a cold, wet cloth.
He saw more clearly.
This was no Angel of Death. She wore the habit of a lay helper of the Sisters of Mercy. The halo came of window light teasing through wild golden hair.
She had to be the daughter of an Itaskian nobleman. No common woman had the resources to so faithfully maintain her youth, to dress richly even in nursing habit.
He guessed her to be thirty.... Then realized he was nude, and tendering a half-hearted male salute.
"The battle...." he babbled. "How long have I?"
"Four days." Her glance flicked downward, amused. "The fighting continues. Your Blackfang is too stubborn to lose." She bathed him, enjoying his embarrassment.
"The situation, woman, the situation," he demanded weakly.
She bubbled. "Admiral Stonecipher caught their fleet two days ago. They were seasick. He forced them onto the rocks at Cape Blood. The Coast Watch finished them. A historic victory, Father says. Greater than the Battle of the Isles."
"Ah." He smiled. "That'll warm Badalamen's heart." The fleet from Portsmouth had counted every seaworthy vessel captured along the western littoral. Tens of thousands of easterners must have drowned. "What about Southtown?"
She pushed him down. He was too weak to resist.
"The enemy who crossed over are cut off in Wharf Street South, west of the Bridge...."
"Crossed? To the city?" He tried to rise.
She pushed. "Father says it's still bloody in Southtown, but going our way. When Lord Harteobben attacked from the Fens...."
Bragi's head swam. He hadn't planned any operation from upriver.
"...and half the Tervola are dead. The Power went away for a while. It didn't save them." She made a sign against evil. "That thing.... The Unborn.... They say it melts their bones.... The Power is back. Really, I don't know who'll win. I just know I'm not getting much sleep. The wounded.... It's sickening. So many...."