Alemar gathered his rage about him in a pulsating, almost tangible shroud. "Come in," he told the others.
Two of the soldiers were armed only with knives, including the one holding the rope, and all of them drooped, battle-worn. Only one, at the rear, wore enough armor to pose a problem. Alemar feinted and jabbed his point into the lead man's gut. As the man groaned and bent forward, clutching his wound, Alemar kicked him into the armored man. With two swift thrusts he mortally wounded the two knife men. He danced back, letting them fall.
Only the armored man was left. He gawked at the swift disposal of his comrades, but the blossoming conflagration seemed to worry him even more. In another few moments it would not be possible to cross the room. He charged forward, swinging his broadsword.
Alemar ducked and leaped sideways, narrowly avoiding the steel. The fire and the tangle of dying men on the floor left little room to dodge. The prince jabbed, but the point hit the mesh of his attacker's hauberk and bounced away ineffectually. Fortunately the man's haste made him clumsy. Alemar stepped into the next swing and grabbed the blade with his gauntlet, immobilizing it. The gauntlet's ward saved his palm. He kicked the man's knee. It gave way.
The man screamed and fell to the floor. Alemar bounded through the bodies of the wounded men at the threshold. One of them, snarling in pain, tried to grab his ankle, but he was too fast. Back in the room the heat reached an amphora of oil. It ignited with a sinister hiss.
A man with the broken knee howled as he caught fire. The other who could still move crawled frantically after the prince, leaving bloodstains as he went.
Alemar whispered a plea once more for the rythni on the balustrade and sped down the stone steps, his jacket hot against his shoulders, the cloth reeking with smoke. He coughed, unable to clear the sooty pungency from his breath.
He heard the sound of footsteps coming to meet him.
Around the curve of the wall came another guard, so worried about what was behind him that he was oblivious to the situation above. He turned just in time to see his death arriving.
Alemar pushed the body aside and continued on. At the bottom of the stairs he emerged into a corridor. To right and left he heard muffled sounds of clashing metal and screaming men. A tendril of smoke, from still another fire, undulated against the high ceiling.
Two of Puriel's soldiers, fleeing for their lives, rounded a corner and bore down on him. They spotted him and halted in their tracks.
He lifted his gauntlet, showing them a blazing jewel on the middle knuckle. Their expressions changed as they recognized him. One man stepped back, eyes wide. The other advanced, smiling.
"He's alone," he told his companion.
Alemar charged, his thrust bursting out the closest man's back. He abandoned the weapon without breaking stride, and took out the second man with a straight punch to the face with his gauntlet fist. It was not so much that he was as fast as Elenya, but that, once moving, he could not be deflected. He returned to the first victim, set his boot against the man's chest, and freed his sword on the third pull.
Footsteps.
He whirled. Three more men rounded the corner, stopped, and stared at the dead men.
"Well met, m'lord," one of them said. It was Tregay and two villagers.
Alemar inclined his head in solemn acknowledgment. "My sister?" he rasped.
"The audience chamber. That's where most of the garrison made their stand. We've won, my prince. They've surrendered. We've only to ferret out pockets of resistance."
"Carry on, then," he said gruffly. "Don't bother with the wizard's tower." As they passed him, he set out in the direction from which they had come.
He found the first body lying in an archway, blood congealing on its neck. He soon encountered more, both castle troops and villagers, often in contorted poses, some of them still managing a few final ragged breaths. With the heightened senses provided by the gauntlet, he saw their auras flicker and fade out of existence. The tragedy of their deaths made no inroad into the hard, frozen place inside him.
Hiephora had been right to flee.
He entered a foyer where the fighting had been especially intense. Blood pooled under five bodies. One man was still alive. As Alemar drew nearer, he saw that it was Iregg. The rebel's jerkin was crimson across the entire front, and his aura was faint. He held up a mangled hand, opening his mouth. He produced no words, but the entreaty was plain.
"I can't help you," Alemar said.
The tremulous quiver of hope disappeared from Iregg's eyes. He lowered his hand. Alemar winced as if pierced by a lance. "I'm sorry."
The prince heard a noise to his left, and spun. A soldier jumped out of a doorway, battle ax high. Alemar ducked the swipe, but was bowled over by the man's charge. They tumbled. Chain mail pressed against the prince's face. They both rolled free and reached their feet at the same time. The attacker had lost his ax. Alemar had lost his sword.
The man was fully armored. Perhaps he thought himself invulnerable to an unarmed opponent, since he waited, as if he expected Alemar to try to pick up his weapon. Instead, the prince stepped in and punched. The gauntlet augmented his power, driving the mesh of chain mail into the soldier's sternum. The latter wheezed, red flecks flying from his lips. Alemar pounded again, and a third time. Ribs splintered with both blows.
He hit the man in the face, bending in the chin guards of his helmet, splitting lips, knocking teeth loose. The man choked. He had died with the first terrible blow. Now at last he wobbled, and, no longer supported by the pounding, slammed heavily to the flagstones.
Alemar stared at the gore on his gauntlet, transfixed. He turned back to Iregg. His comrade had lost consciousness. His aura waned. Alemar bent down, cradled Iregg's limp, broken hand inside his.
The prince could not help himself. Though certain that he would fail, he nevertheless tried to summon his healing power. A dull throb, a shadow of former vigor, thrummed along his bones, but nothing flowed out.
Impotent, he waited until the end. It came swiftly.
His muscles had grown painfully stiff; it was a struggle to straighten up. He retrieved his sword and walked on.
He met no more enemies. Instead, allies grew thick about him. They hailed him raucously, but he acknowledged them only with a raised hand. They directed him to Puriel's great audience chamber.
The shattered table, scattered braziers, dropped weapons, and fallen men gave evidence of the viciousness of the fight here. Elenya stood at the hearth. She issued orders to three of her lieutenants and the men hurried away.
One could hardly tell that Elenya's tunic had once been white. Alemar stared at her matted, crusted hair.
"None of it's mine," she said, gesturing at the blood. "Except this." She displayed a superficial slice along her forearm.
"Puriel?" Alemar asked.
"Not found. He wasn't in his chambers." She frowned at the sight of his red gauntlet and drawn sword. Without realizing it, she slipped into mindspeech. "What happened?"
"I was just up in the wizard's tower."
She nodded slowly. "I'm told it's burning."
He did not answer with words, merely sent an image of the four rythni losing their wings, the death of the pigeons, and the abandonment of the little people on the balustrade.
She wiped some of the gore off her cheek. "Not much you can do for them now," she said gently. "There are people in the courtyard who need your help."
He raised his sword. The blood on it had dried and would harm the metal if it he left the blade uncleaned. He shoved it back in the scabbard without wiping it. "I pity them," he said, and stalked out between the shattered doors.
Omril knelt at the lake's edge, cupping water in his palms and running it over his face until his fine vest was soaked. He stared morosely across the water. His tower, tiny in the distance, burned like a commoner's candle. His scrolls, his talismans, his birds-all gone.