“The Lady of Light greets you,” Ned said in a flawless contralto, “through her humble servants Sister Hope and Sister Faith.”
Will watched his brother, hands clasped at the buckle of his mortification belt, bow his head humbly. He followed suit. Ned straightened, interlocked his fingers, gazed around wide-eyed at the warriors, and exclaimed, “Glory! To see the power and right arm of the Light, her heroes assembled; it moves my poor heart. All the Little Sisters of Mortification shall pray for you, be assured of that!”
Politeness made Amarynth incline his head. Seeing him on the point of turning back to his companions and ordering the attack, Will pitched his voice high and quavery and spoke. “Sister, do you not recognise him? This is that mighty elven warrior-mage spoken of in Herethlion, and in all the cities of the south. It is Lord Amarynth Firehand himself! The Lady of Light has steered us to you, my great Lord. Her grace shines upon us.”
“Do not let it be said that Amarynth Firehand was ungracious to age.” The elf preened his blue surcoat. “Speak, aged one. What has the Lady of Light to say to Her holy knight before I enter into battle?”
Now that’s a Dark-damned good question! Will looked under his lashes at Ned. His brother’s eyes widened fractionally. No help there. Will drew an unobtrusive deep breath.
“We have travelled far,” he began, “and with great privation have we come to you, although great sustenance lies within our wagon. Not mortal food and wine, but spiritual food—the words of the Lady of Light, which feed beyond measure and satisfy beyond pleasure.”
“We thank you—”
“Do not thank me so soon.” Will held up his gloved hand. He put it down by his side again quickly, the stubby fingers being broad and unfeminine. “The Lady of Light tries you, my great Lord. She knows that you are great in Her service, a mighty warrior before Her chalcedony throne; and that you have slain your thousands and your tens of thousands…”
Very occasionally, Will thought, I have cause to thank Mother for leaving us in the care of a convent school.
“…and that you are a warrior and a mage unparalleled. Now, She tries your mercy.”
Ned Brandiman clapped his hands together, turned his eyes up to the blue midday sky, and exclaimed, “Glory, glory!” Two or three of the elves in the group by the tent echoed his words.
Amarynth Firehand knelt in the churned snow, bringing his dark features on a level with Will’s face. Will lowered paint-thickened lashes. The elf’s slender, steel-shod knees reflected the tents, fires, and weapons of the camp in curved miniature.
“Speak. What will the Light bid me? I will do it.”
Best in public, Will rejoiced. If there’s an ideal place for making theatrical gestures, it has to be in front of his command tent, under the eyes of half his army.
“You must send us up yonder hill. Sister Faith and myself must go, alone and with no armed guard, up into the fortress. There we must give the Light’s word to the poor sinners within. And you must give us time in which to perform this holy act.”
Silence.
Will Brandiman raised his eyes and stared the dark elf in the face. Black-lashed eyes narrowed momentarily, and the fine elven nostrils flared. A sick feeling churned in the halfling’s gut.
Amarynth declaimed, “Let Holy Sisters go unguarded into a nest of orcs? No! No, it cannot be! It shall not be said that I sent two most gallant ladies to their deaths. Never! If you may have no other of my army, then I myself, with my trusty blade, shall walk with you and defend you single-handed against a whole host of orcs.”
Relief robbed Will of words. Ned Brandiman cut in swiftly.
“You must let us go alone, my great Lord. It is your test. It is our test. Our faith must be great enough that we enter even into the citadels of evil to bring Light, and I am named for that Faith. I must live as I am named. Or else how are we better than those who grovel in Darkness? You cannot deny us, great elven Lord!”
Will, his hand fisting his robe, stared right into the face of the elven fighter-mage. “And I am named for Hope, my Lord; the holy Hope that we shall prevail against the Darkness in the souls of those poor transgressors. What does it matter if our bodies are violated, torn, dismembered, dissected—”
He heard Ned make a small noise of distress.
“—or even eaten, so long as we give our souls into the hands of the Light? We are called. You must let us go.”
Amarynth sprang to his feet. The midday sun seared back from his mirrorplate armour and the silver moons embroidered into his blue surcoat. He gestured with one armoured hand.
“You have—” Amarynth’s voice broke. “You have great courage. I will delay my assault on the walls! I could wish that the Lady had called me, as She has so clearly called you, no matter how hard the task. Willingly would I be scourged, whipped, burned, and broken, for Her sake. Oh, that She would cast me naked into the snow, humiliated before mine enemies, if that would mean I might serve Her! I would cast myself wounded, torn, and bleeding at Her feet—”
The elven warrior-mage broke off, choking. Men and dwarves rattled their swords against their shields in applause. Will murmured, “Remind me, sometime, to introduce you to my mother.”
“What saith thou, good nun?” Amarynth queried.
“I said, the Light is a mother to us all, and no mother will let her children come to lasting harm.” Will bared his teeth. It passed for a smile.
Wiping tears from his dark cheeks, the elf snapped his fingers. An aide ran into the command tent and emerged seconds later with a furled flag.
“Take this white ensign. It is an acknowledged sign of peace. It is all I can do. Yet know that you go with Amarynth Firehand’s blessing—and regrets.”
Two hands seized his shoulders. Will found himself smearily kissed, first on one shaven cheek and then on the other. He reached up and took the furled flag, bowed speechlessly, and tottered back towards the wagon. He heard Ned behind him adding felicitous farewells; then his brother was at his side, climbing up onto the front of the cart.
“Haai-yah!” Ned Brandiman whispered, cracking the reins against the mules’ flanks.
“They didn’t even bother to search the cart,” Will grumbled under his breath. “You’ve been hauling that load of scrolls around for nothing. Dark damn it, if I’d known it was going to be that easy…”
A silver clarion call echoed around the military camp, reverberating back from the high mountain walls. His brother shoved the reins into Will’s hands, stripping off his gloves and worrying at the fastenings of the white flag. He shot a glance ahead and upwards as he worked.
Nin-Edin’s outer bailey was a mess of snow, slush, dried blood, mud, trampled bodies, broken weapons, and cast-off dented armour. None of the siege army crossed it, except behind new and hastily thrown up earthworks from which stiffening orc limbs protruded. Nin-Edin’s inner walls glowered down—blackened with sorcerous fire, lined with silent watching orcs.
“That was the easy part,” Ned said.
Will brushed his robes, holding the reins single-handed, and checked the positions of poisoned darts, throwing-knives, short-sword, and small cases of the secret dwarven rock-blasting powder. The bitter wind brought tears to his eyes. He grinned fiercely.
“Sister, where’s your faith?”
8
Ashnak of the orc marines stood in the great hall of Nin-Edin’s keep.