Stormed Fortress: Fifth Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny Wurts
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the sky, pricked by cold stars and a rising moon through the gathering sea-mist. His form was a statement of unshattered strength, from the trim of his officer’s surcoat, to the competent hang of his sword and his matched brace of knives.
That self-possession lent Vhandon the vulnerable daring to hazard the rest. ‘There are depths to Prince Arithon few understand. I’ve lost my temper with him often enough. And bled from the heart every time I’ve encountered the mercy he shields behind satire. That hurt made me change. I had to drop every rigid concept I held over the meaning of honour. Though I don’t see your duke’s act of war the same way, I won’t disown my roots. If your citadel stands, it will be for right reasons. If it falls, what survives will be raised out of ruin, reforged with more flexible temper.’
Though Keldmar’s casual posture was forced, and the grip on his knee now was shaking, Vhandon finished off with a love that exposed without flinching.
‘My commitment is made to serve Alestron. Lean on the fact I will stay here. Our needs have never been separate, my friend. Brought against his free will, his Grace of Rathain is going to be savaged by pressures no one can foresee. You will need a bridge. If your family name can survive this unscathed, you’ll have Talvish and me at your side to stand as liaison.’
Keldmar pushed erect, too embarrassed to bare his own spirit. ‘You don’t need to go, personally,’ he allowed, cringing red. ‘Any ten trusted scouts are sufficient to handle this foray instead.’
‘No, friend, they’re not.’ Vhandon surveyed the man who had grown in his shadow, since their earliest days wielding practice sticks. They had shared the joy. The same punishment, too, nursing the bruises and triumphs that raised them to mastery-at-arms. For all Keldmar’s juggernaut muscle and will, despite the courage that wedded his life to s’Brydion defence, he nursed a bitter uncertainty. Tonight, no sharpened sword or soft word could assuage the storm raging inside him.
His blood heritage had been hounded by enemies for too long. Survival came at too high a cost for a blindfolded leap on another man’s faith.
As darkness fell, marred by the fires and smoke of the enemy war host, the field-captain longest in active service held his peace. He knew not to try his titled commander with a comforting clasp on the shoulder. ‘I will go in myself,’ he insisted, flat calm. ‘But only to prove my conviction as truth to rely on, when I return.’
The second Alliance entourage was dispatched to confront the s’Brydion stronghold at daybreak, well after Vhandon’s picked squad had departed.
This pass, the approach to Alestron’s barred gate was attempted by the Alliance’s gaunt Lord Justiciar. That worthy proposed no amicable settlement. Clad in arrogance and finery, he bore the Light’s sealed arraignment against the recalcitrant duke and his blood family. No one spared time for his pompous town document, sent by a posturing upstart. Since his glittering cavalcade never asked leave, Bransian also declined every civil respect. No safe conduct was granted.
Lysaer’s polished state overture encountered, instead, Keldmar’s entrenched field troop, and one arrow, shot dead-centre through the cloth-of-gold blazon worn by its delegate.
The corpse was packed off at an indecorous gallop. Pounding after the caparisoned horse, the Light’s ceremonial escort took panicked flight, spurred ragged by more hostile volleys released by Alestron’s crack marksmen. Sunwheel banners made irresistible targets, flushed into routing retreat. Cocky defenders leaped at the excuse to display their frustrated prowess. The exercise inspired Keldmar’s outlying companies to skilled contest and spirited wagers. No one else died. But the avatar’s stainless, white standard returned, sliced to fluttering rags in the hands of the rattled bearer.
The savaged procession reached friendly lines. Too hot to rein up, they belted in lathered disorder through the troop tents of the central encampment. If they dressed their torn ranks before they slowed down, nothing could mend their decorum. The murdered corpse of Lysaer’s titled emissary woke turmoil and rage in its wake. Camp-followers shouted. Wash women and cooks broke away from their wagons to scream with indignation. Dedicates and new recruits faltered at arms drill, then jumped as their sergeants barked to upbraid their strayed focus.
Through the tolling bells of alarm, and the outcries of furious priests, the officers bugled for order. The sharpened swords, and the honed sinew of men might be promised for war against Shadow. But not before the Light’s avatar chose to unsheathe the aimed spear of his vengeance.
Therefore, the horse with its blood-stained burden was passed through the innermost check-point. The mauled cavalcade crossed the gamut of garrison flags and filed past the officers’ quarters. Now trailed by an irate mob of captains, they came to a stop at the white-and-gold canopy that fronted the Sunwheel pavilion.
The experienced strategist from new Tirans held charge of the Alliance command, ranked second beneath the Lord Sulfin Evend, still absent to levy troops on the southcoast. A blustery man not given to patience, he burst from the tent in a spatter of shaving soap to dress down the tumultuous intrusion. His balding servant chased after, in vain: the offered towel was hammered aside by the livid standard-bearer, who brandished his shredded banner and howled in shame for the injury.
‘By Dharkaron’s Spear, I haven’t gone blind!’ The lather was swiped off with an immaculate bracer, while the displaced equerry winced. ‘We’re not here to mince words over etiquette! Nor is an enemy who won’t negotiate any cause for hysterics!’
The field-captain advanced on the clustered horsemen. A hulking tyrant, he silenced their clamouring and issued brisk orders for the slaughtered envoy. ‘Bear our casualty inside. Then bring the women who work for the healers. I want the Lord Justiciar’s body laid out straightaway. He’ll be honoured in state with new robes and candles. Move to it! Clean him up before the Blessed Prince and his retinue arrive with the Mayor of Kalesh!’
Two liveried servants left at a sprint, while the armed hotheads set hands to drawn swords, prepared to rally the ranks.
‘Stand down!’ barked the captain. ‘No one moves without leave! Damn you, those horses are too hot to be standing. Where are the boys to attend them?’
The chastised riders dismounted, while the idle grooms jumped to take charge of their blowing mounts.
Engulfed by that bottled-up swirl of banked rage were two onlooking bumpkin recruits. They still wore the sunburn of toil in the field, rough-clad in the stained boots and coarse cloth of crofters.
‘You there!’ bawled the thick-set master of horse, too overburdened not to collar the available by-standers. ‘Hop to! We’ve got bridles to clean and soiled brass that needs polish!’
The pair were shoved forward by one of the sergeants and heaped with armloads of stripped harness. The older one tugged his grey forelock and bent to unbuckle stained bits, while his freckled companion fetched a bucket and rag, and crouched over the task foisted on them.
‘We’re hooked, now,’ the younger one fretted, as pandemonium continued to inflame the surrounding Alliance encampment. ‘We’ve got to reach Keldmar. Dharkaron’s black bollocks, he’s got to be warned the false avatar’s due on the front lines in an hour!’
Vhandon buffed the rimed dirt from a curb chain and frowned. ‘Be still! Mind your tongue. Slouch your posture, and damned well stop acting desperate. We’ve got to wait for a safe opening to slip out.’
The impatient scout with him snatched up the next head-stall. ‘What if the moment fails to present?’
Vhandon shrugged, absorbed. ‘Then we do our best to create one. If we fail, there’s no gain in suicide. We bide on the hope that someone from our party finds his chance and wins through.’
Climbing sun burned off the last wisp of sea-mist. The camp hummed, set in ominous order, with too many sentries left sharp at their posts in the atmosphere of agitation. The two covert observers cleaned bridles with lowered heads, while Tirans’ abrasive captain at arms convened a council of war. He could not give the order to deploy the