“Can you set those buildings on fire, Master Mage?” he asks Terek.
“This grass is damp, ser.”
“The buildings?” hisses Sillek.
“Yes, ser, but I’d have to get closer, much closer. They’ve cut away all the grass-”
“Burned it, I think,” corrects Sillek. “You can see in the dark, can’t you? Mages are supposed to be able to do that.”
“In the dark? You want us to do this in the dark?”
“As I told Koric, I’m not a slave to an outmoded code of honor, Master Chief Wizard. That bastard Ildyrom disregarded honor and traditional boundaries when he seized the grasslands west of Clynya and built this fort to hold them. Honor says I should send my armsmen against a bunch of mongrel scum to have them killed? Frig honor. I intend to get the grasslands back without killing my men.”
Terek shifts his weight from one knee to the other in the high damp grass, all too aware he does not wear the hiplength boots that Sillek does.
“When it gets dark, Koric and a handful of the best will escort you and the two other wizards down as far as you need to go. I want everything in that fort to burn-everything.”
“But they’ll flee.”
“Of course.” Sillek smiles. “I’ve thought of that, too. Now, let’s get back and get ready.” He glances to the darkening western horizon, then back to the thin lines of smoke coming up from the wooden huts behind the earthen walls.
Terek shivers, but follows the lord as the two creep back through the grasses, hoping that the sentries in the fort can see nothing but grass waving in the evening breeze.
“ … all this sneaking …” Terek mumbles to himself.
“Do you want to ride up front in a charge to take that fort, Master Wizard?” asks Sillek, still easing through the damp grasses in a crouch, grasses that bend and then spray Terek with the rain that has coated them.
Terek wipes his forehead. “No, ser.”
“Then stop complaining. I’m a lot more interested in winning than in being a dead hero, and, from what I’ve seen, so are you.”
When they reach the low hill that shelters the Lornian forces, Sillek straightens and massages his back.
Koric waits and listens as Lord Sillek explains.
“ … won’t be too much longer before it’s dark enough for you to start, Koric.”
“Yes, ser.”
Sillek touches his arm and lowers his voice. “Who else can I trust to ensure these … wizards … do as they’re supposed to? I can’t spare a score of horse or the archers.”
“I understand, ser. I’ll do my duty.”
Both Sillek and Koric understand the words that Koric does not speak. But I don’t have to like it.
“I know,” Sillek says. “Just remember. It’s the results that count.” He studies the almost-dark sky and the stars that have appeared. “You’d better get started.”
Koric nods.
Sillek wipes what moisture he can from his leathers, and boots, before mounting and beginning his instructions to the horse troopers.
As the skies continue to clear, and the white firepoints of the stars blink across the grasslands, Koric leads the three wizards through the grass. Watch fires glimmer at the four corners of the fort, spilling light into the darkness.
Another group from Lornth circles behind the wizards, heading for the ford in the West Fork. The dozen men bear longbows and filled quivers.
Farther from the Jeranyi redoubt, sheltered by the slope of the land and the chest-high grass, Lord Sillek and his horse wait, then he nods, and, almost silently, the troopers begin their roundabout ride to the south side of the road that leads from the ford to the fort.
The grass bends and whispers, showering Hissl with droplets. He wipes his face and follows, at a crouch, Koric and the chief wizard.
“Keep down,” hisses Koric. “You mages get us discovered,and you’ll spend the next season in cold iron, if the Jeranyi don’t catch us, and do it first.”
Hissl takes a deep breath and wipes more water out of his eyes. Jissek just puffs along after Terek. Behind them follow a half squad of armed troopers, also creeping through the damp grass and darkness.
“Is this close enough?” asks Koric as he pauses and glances toward the watch fires that are little more than a hundred cubits away, their flames flickering in the light but steady wind out of the west that brings with it the smell of wood fires, probably from wood ferried downstream from the headwaters of the West Fork. Mixed with the wood smoke is the odor of cooking grease.
Hissl licks his lips, trying to ignore the growling in his guts.
“Close enough,” admits Terek, “even for Jissek.”
“You start when you’re ready,” orders Koric. “The others will watch for the fires.”
“The center building is mostly wood,” offers Hissl in a low voice.
“Thank you, Master Hissl,” responds Terek.
“Stop it, you two,” mumbles Jissek. “Let’s get on with it.”
“You also, Master Jissek,” hisses Terek. “I’ll do the first, then Hissl, and then you, Jissek. Take your time, and hit something.”
Whhsttt!
The first firebolt arcs out of the grass and drops into the fort-slamming into the side of a building where flames lick at the rough-dressed log wall.
Clang! Clang!
The Jeranyi warning bell echoes through the fort.
More fireballs arc out of the darkness and fall across the buildings within the earthen walls.
The bell clamors more, then falls silent as the sound of voices and muffled orders fill the once-still evening.
“ … mount up and fall in!”
“Archers! … Where are the frigging archers?”
“Fire! Water for the cook hall! Fire!”
Three additional fireballs, the first the largest, drop in succession into the fort.
“Aeeeeiiii!” A scream tells that at least one has struck more than wood.
The crackling of flames joins the chorus of orders and the whuffing and whinnying of hastily saddled mounts. The night air lightens with the growing flames from the buildings in the fort, with burning canvas, and the smell of smoke thickens as it drifts toward the wizards.
Another round of fireballs flares eastward. After his fourth firebolt, Jissek drops to his knees and holds his head. Terek snorts and flings another ball of fire toward the fort, and so does Hissl, who ignores the sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool night wind.
The flames continue to build, and the cool wind becomes warm, then hot, and the Jeranyi redoubt blazes with the light of a second sun.
Terek grunts as he lets go a last firebolt. “Can’t do much more here.”
“All right. Let’s move back. Keep low until we’re out of the light.”
As all three wizards stumble after the surefooted Koric, the fort’s gates open, and the Jeranyi horse ride quickly down the road toward the ford, in rough ranks, blades glittering in the light of dozens of fires.
The whirring of arrows, like soft-winged birds, is lost in the clatter and thump of hooves, in the low-voiced orders, and the crackling of the fire. The bodies slumping in saddles are not.
“Charge the river!” orders a strong tenor voice.
“The river!” adds a second, deeper voice.
The column straightens, and the Jeranyi forces gallop downhill, hooves thudding on the damp-packed clay of the road, before splashing through the water and heading into the darkness that leads to Jerans.
More soft-winged arrows fly out of the darkness into the backlighted horse troopers, and more bodies fall from saddles. Some few wounded riders are fortunate enough andstrong enough to hang on and keep riding into the safety of the western darkness.
Shortly, the road is empty, except for more than two dozen bodies and two riderless horses.
Behind the empty road, the pillar of fire that had been a Jeranyi outpost slowly subsides, consuming as it does all that can burn, and filling Clynya, kays downwind, and the barracks there, with the odor of smoke and burned meat.