The Phaerie spiraled down into what appeared to be an empty town. “Now remember,” D’arvan ordered his forces, reinforcing the message by mind-speech, “this time, we want as little violence and bloodshed as possible.”
He had an uneasy feeling that he was talking to himself.
D’arvan chose what he judged to be the most central spot, the roof of the Grand Arcade, and spoke to the Nexians, amplifying his voice by magic so that everyone would be able to hear. “Citizens of Nexis—you may leave your houses.—You are safe now. The Phaerie have driven the Wraiths away, and as long as we are here, they will trouble you no more. This is not a raid such as happened previously—we are simply taking over the rule of this city from the corrupt High Lord. We hope that Mortal and Phaerie will work together for the common good, and so long as you cooperate, no one will be hurt. With your goodwill, we can undo the damage inflicted by the Archmage, and make this city great once more.”
D’arvan finished his speech to a deathly silence. Then Hargorn, standing at Maya’s side, burst out into derisive laughter. “You expect them to believe that?” he hooted. It seemed that he was right. The streets remained dark and silent. No one came out to rejoice and proclaim D’arvan the savior of Nexis.
“There,” said Hellorin. “You were wrong—this proves it. We tried it your way—now we’ll give the Mortals the firm hand they need.” He turned to his assembled forces. “Very well—you all know the plan. Secure the Garrison and the Academy, institute patrols, fit collars to any troublemakers and we’ll transport them north. Meet any resistance with force. Go to it!”
“No!” D’arvan cried in horror. No one was listening. On the rooftop, he and Maya wept as they were forced to watch the subjugation of their city by flame and sword.
Eventually, the red sun rose through a heavy pall of smoke, illuminating the ravaged remains of the city. Groups of Phaerie were clearing out the last nests of resistors by the simple expedient of torching the buildings in which they hid.
“There.” Hellorin mounted his steed and turned to his son with a feral smile.
“Farewell, my son—I give you your city. Now that it has been conquered, it is yours to deal with as you please.” Without waiting for a reply, he spurred his horse skyward and headed back toward the north.
“That bastard,” Maya muttered thickly. “He meant to do this all the time.”
“And now we’ve got to deal with the wrack and ruin he’s left behind,” said D’arvan bitterly. “I’ve a good mind just to leave—head south, find Aurian.”
“No. No, D’arvan we can’t. Not now.” Maya’s face was set with grim determination. “If we run away from this, the Nexians will get Hellorin as overlord. We can’t do that to them. No, somehow we’ll have to stay here and try as best we can to put things right—preferably without getting torn to pieces along the way by the very folk we’re trying to protect.”
As the flames licked greedily at the walls and roof of Vannor’s old mansion, Parric turned his back on the conflagration, and walked away whistling, following the fleeing servants down the hill to the old river road. Almost as an afterthought, he flicked the burning stump of the torch away from him into the bushes. “Well, Pendral,” he said cheerfully, “I’d rather have had your head on a pole, but since you refused to come out . . .” He shrugged. “Ah well—in the end, I don’t suppose it makes a lot of difference, and at least I got to you before the Phaerie did.”
The streets of Nexis proved too much for his grimly cheerful mood. Parric darted from cover to cover, avoiding patrols of steel-eyed Phaerie and trying not to see the burnt-out shells of houses and the corpses that littered the streets. D’arvan’s promises hadn’t lasted very long, he thought bitterly.—At last he reached his goal—the Unicorn. In all conscience he knew he had better go and rescue Hebba out of the cellar...or the timid woman would be there until the sun turned cold. He was greatly surprised, therefore, to walk into the place and not only find it unscathed, but also to find Hebba sitting at one of the tables, making inroads into a large glass of brandy.
Having come all this way to rescue her, Parric was ablaze with indignation.
“Hey!” he said. “I thought I told you not to come out until you found—”
“Found someone I trusted, yes,” Hebba put in, “And there he is....”
Out of the back room, carrying another bottle of spirits, came Hargorn. Parric let out a whoop of delight. “I thought you were dead!” he cried.
“Not me.” Hargorn’s smile was thin and strained. “Though after what I’ve just witnessed, it would be a lot more restful.”
“Don’t you worry,” Parric told him. “We won’t let them get away with it. We’ve resisted tyrants before, you and me. Why, we can ...”
“No we can’t,” Hargorn said flatly. “The city is under Phaerie rule now, Parric—and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it. We have one choice—between D’arvan’s offer of cooperation and Hellorin’s brutality. Most Nexians don’t understand that yet—and I’m afraid we’re going to have to help convince them.”
Parric stared at him, aghast. “What? This time we support the tyrant?”
“Come on, Parric. D’arvan didn’t order the killing—you should know better.—That was Hellorin. D’arvan isn’t a tyrant really, and don’t forget that our Maya will be—I don’t know—queen, or something.” Hargorn shrugged. “Maybe you’ll feel better if you just call D’arvan a conqueror. But whatever you want to call him, it makes no difference—we no longer have a choice.”
31
The Watcher on the Wind
Grince awakened to find that he lay on an uneasy bed. Not sure at first whether he was half-asleep or imagining things, he laid his hand down flat on the floor of the cavern. No—it was no dream. There was motion in the stone: a faint vibration that was growing with every moment. Around him, some of the others were beginning to stir. In their corner, Schiannath and Iscalda were waking. Vannor, asleep on one of the stone benches that ran along the wall of the cavern, rolled over, muttering. “No, no. I won’t go back.” One last twist of his body sent him tumbling to the floor, where he sat up with a curse, half-dazed by his rough awakening.
Linnet uncurled herself, the tip of one great wing sweeping through the ashes that had spilled from the edge of the fire. She yawned delicately, and rubbed her bleary eyes with the back of one hand. “What’s happening?” Then her expression changed. “Yinze’s mercy! It’s an earthquake! Quick—get out of the cave!”
Grince didn’t know what an earthquake was, but he understood the panic in her voice. In a trice he was on his feet, and heading for the exit. Only when he fell over Wolf in the dim firelight did it occur to him that some of his companions were simply not waking up.
“Where’s Chiamh?” Iscalda shouted, adding to the confusion. “And Aurian?”
Grince realized that the two great cats were also missing, “I can’t wake him!” Vannor was shaking the unmoving body of the one they called Forral. “And he’s hurt—look at all this blood!” His voice was rising in panic.
“Here,” Schiannath ran across and put his hands under Forral’s arms. “You take his feet.”
Vannor tucked Forral’s feet clumsily under his arm and held them in place with his one hand. Together, staggering under the weight, they lifted the supine body out of the cave, while Grince and Iscalda did the same for the motionless form of the wolf. Linnet darted here and there, gathering weapons, blankets, and the leftover food. The ground was shaking and shuddering so hard now that it was difficult to stay on their feet.
Outside, the water in the pool had flooded its banks, and in the grove of pines the trees were thrashing wildly. Two went down with the agonizing groan of falling timber, dragging their stronger brethren down with them. By now, the entire mountain was shaking. A massive boulder came crashing down the steep side of the valley and buried itself deep in the turf not ten feet from where Grince was emerging from the cavern.