Around the lakeshore terrace teemed tens of thousands of Crusaders and Delvers, the latter gathering in the shadows below buildings and trees as the sun descended toward full Lighten. Vast, tentlike shelters had been raised, casting much of the terrace into protective shade for the blind dwarves. Below Natac’s position he could see the massive blocks of his own warriors, gnomes and goblins waiting restively in the city’s streets. After their valiant stand on the terrace he knew that, when the enemy attacked, the big regiments would again be ready to fight.
On the flanks of the gnomes and goblins waited the remnants of his elven and giant forces, while directly below Natac’s balcony Gallupper and his small detachment of centaurs and horse-riders waited beside a trio of Karkald’s newest weapon. The mobile batteries were each mounted on a carriage between a pair of large wheels. From above they looked like huge crosses, with steel springs coiled back and small magazines full of silver shot waiting for the release of the trigger.
“Natac!” The shout was barked from the street with unmistakable urgency, and the warrior looked down to see a white dog racing toward the building.
“Ulfgang-up here!” he called, and was immediately seized with a sense of terrible apprehension. He tried to shake off the feeling, suggesting that he was only remembering when Ulf had brought him the news of Miradel’s death, but found that he was barely breathing as the dog leaped up the outer stairway, arriving on the high balcony after a half dozen long bounds.
Natac met him at the top of the stairs, kneeling. “What is it?” asked the man.
The dog’s brown eyes met his, and he saw the sadness there, an emotion that grew to despair as Ulf lifted his head to look at Tamarwind and Karkald. “It’s about Darann and Belynda,” he said. “They’ve gone!”
Tamarwind gasped and Karkald grunted a bitter, inarticulate sound. “I knew it!” the dwarf exclaimed. “Did they…?” He couldn’t seem to finish the question.
Ulfgang nodded, clearly understanding. “They went by magic into the enemy camp. They will try and kill Zystyl and Sir Christopher, and steal away with the Stone of Command.”
B elynda stared into the gaping, gory sockets that had once held Sir Christopher’s eyes. There was no movement there, no indication of vitality save for the blood that still seeped slowly onto the floor. At last he was dead.
The killing had taken a very long time. Zystyl had been content to let his whole army stand idle for the rest of the night, while he took his vengeance on his former ally. After taking the Stone of Command from the terrified knight, the arcane had ordered his prisoner secured between two massive pillars. With obvious relish the Unmirrored Dwarf had proceeded to demonstrate the full scope of his fiendish skill. No minute source of pain, no excruciating technique for inflicting agony, had been bypassed in slowly, gradually bringing the human warrior to a quivering, pain-racked end.
The sage-ambassador, her hands now confined behind her by a length of supple chain, had watched it all. Seeing the knight bleed, listening to him scream, beg, whimper through the hours, finally observing the gory, eyeless mess that he became, she had felt strangely detached from the scene, the experience. She knew that this had been her goal, her purpose in life for the past twenty-five years, and yet now she was untouched by the fulfillment of that objective. Her enemy’s agony had been like a living thing, some grotesque serpent writhing and dancing for her pleasure, a performance enacted with her as the only seeing member of the audience-and yet she could find no shred of satisfaction in the watching.
The sage-ambassador knew that it would be her turn next, and that knowledge was vaguely depressing, but not terrifying. She was too tired even for dread, too drained to grasp the horror she knew she should be feeling. For some reason she thought, instead, of Tamarwind, regretting the curt way she had sent him off the last time she had seen him. He deserved better, she knew, and she was sad that she hadn’t realized it sooner. Ironically, that regret was the strongest emotion she felt right now.
Her thoughts returned to the present, and to her immediate future. It was true at last: Sir Christopher was dead. That was the thing she had wanted, the goal that had risen before her, more important than anything else. She had watched him die, and his passing had been as brutal as any being could have imagined. Why, then, didn’t she feel something, anything, more than this ennui that so deadened her now? Surely horror, anger, frustration-some kind of powerful emotion-should be arising within her.
The room in the great pavilion was filled with Delvers, and she could see from the illumination in the halls beyond that Lighten had come, the sun descended to full brightness. The dwarves were restive, cramped and confined in here. Already the faceless helmets were turning toward her, with silent but ominous attention. Zystyl, meanwhile, stood over Christopher’s mangled corpse, pacing a slow circle around the remains of his victim. The arcane was fondling the Stone of Command, swinging it from its golden chain, obviously assessing its power and capabilities.
Suddenly she heard a commotion, shouts of alarm and cries of warning. Trumpets blared outside the pavilion, a brassy, rising sound that was unlike anything Belynda had heard from either the Nayvian army or their enemies. Weapons clashed as fighting erupted in many places, with some of the violent engagements right outside the main hall.
“We’re attacked! From the causeway!” Delvers shouted the warning, scrambling to gather weapons, to garrison the doors of the pavilion. Instinctively, Zystyl seemed to seize control of the situation-the arcane didn’t speak, but his flaring nostrils turned this way and that, his hands made curt gestures that were translated into actions by his rushing troops. Despite their blindness, the Unmirrored moved with discipline and precision, forming ranks across the numerous entrances to the makeshift shelter.
Only then did Belynda realize that the Delvers were turning their attention toward the lake, as if a new enemy approached from their rear. She recalled the sounds of alarm-“an attack from the causeway.” But an attack by what, by whom? Had the Crusaders turned on their allies? Belynda doubted that-it was not likely, not while Zystyl held the Stone of Command. But who was the new enemy?
The sage-ambassador felt a tug on her hands, which remained bound behind her. Perhaps she would die now-fortunate to be killed quickly at the onset of battle, spared the anguish she had just seen inflicted on the Knight Templar. She froze, waiting for the cut of a knife, the blow of some blunt weapon.
“This way! Quickly!”
The voice in her ear was no Delver. Instead, she recognized the sound of her companion-Darann had found her! Belynda’s arms came free as the dwarfwoman somehow unfastened the chain, allowing the freed prisoner to stumble back. Expecting an alarm, the sage-ambassador saw that the Unmirrored seemed fully occupied responding to their leader’s commands. Hand in hand, the two women darted away from Zystyl, picking their way past the blind, milling dwarves, making for the escape promised by a nearby doorway.
“W e’ve got to attack!” Karkald said, frenziedly speaking to Natac. “Fight our way into their pavilion, right now! It’s the only chance she’s got!”
“If you won’t lead the charge, I will!” Tamarwind added, his face twisted by anguish and fear.
“That’s enough of that!” Natac snapped. “Yes, we will charge-but let’s do it right!”
“Hurry!” cried the dwarf, leaping down the stairs. Natac followed him and quickly found Gallupper.
“Yes, Warrior Natac?” said the centaur, with a crisp salute.
“Your mobile batteries-I want you to wheel them to the edge of the terrace, and start shooting. Punch a hole in those Crusaders lined up over there. Rawknuckle!”