“We are grateful,” Haimya said, “but I must ask a question. Why?”
“We did this?” Nis laughed. “It’s poor return for a gift to ask the giver why. But I’ll tell you, Lady Haimya. You and yours fought us fair, treated us well even when we wouldn’t turn our coats, and kept the desert cutthroats away from us. It does nothing against the kingpriest to show our thanks.”
“Then you surely have ours,” Pirvan said, and ushered Nis out. He closed the door without turning, and still without turning said to Haimya, “We shall have to think about the sell-swords, if we have to stand a siege. I would not turn them back to the friends of the kingpriest. Perhaps to a reliable sell-sword captain, since their own is dead, but-”
He broke off. At that moment, he had turned around and beheld Haimya. She lay on the bed, having removed not only all her armor but all she wore under it. She had propped her head on one hand, and almost, but not quite, beckoned with the other.
“The sell-swords can wait one night.”
“You cannot?”
“If I have to, you will be sorry.”
In the forests to the north, Sir Lewin’s party joined the march of a company of some two hundred sell-swords. The knight heard the tale that Belkuthas had sold itself to the elves, and that a high elven captain was commanding there. He also heard another tale, that a high elven lord was captive there, and that great favor would come to anyone who rescued him.
“It seems to me no one knows what is going on, and perhaps some are putting about tales to confuse us,” Sir Esthazas said. “May I beg caution?”
“A knight does not beg, nor does he ever forget caution when he does not know the way of honor,” Lewin said. “But in this case, we can hardly take the side of the elves. Not that I would oppose our rescuing the elven lord, if he is a prisoner of his own traitors, but even that will mean working with the sell-swords.”
“Even if they besiege Belkuthas?”
“As you yourself said, no one here seems to know what is going on. The place to learn the truth will be closer to Belkuthas. There, Istar’s tax soldiers will not thank us if we hold ourselves aloof from the fighting. The reputation of the knights for loyalty to Istar-that is the way of honor here.”
The younger knight looked ready to dispute the matter, but seemed reluctant, within the hearing of the sell-swords. Lewin decided he would leave Sir Esthazas to lead the men-at-arms and negotiate with the sell-swords himself.
In the forest outside the camp of Zephros’s men, now a thousand strong and only an hour’s march from Belkuthas, strange rumblings echoed among the trees, and acrid smells trickled into camp on the night winds. Sentries gripped sword hilts and spear shafts; sleeping men turned uneasily and dreamed of monsters rising from the earth.
Far below the ground, tunnels hewed through solid rock echoed to the stolid tread of dwarves moving purposefully, as always, and faster than usual.
In the keep of Belkuthas, a certain freshly scoured chamber echoed to happy cries.
Pirvan and Haimya slept entwined, but the knight awoke much sooner than he had expected, given that this was the first bed he’d seen in many weeks. He felt strange sensations, also not wholly expected.
Perhaps the years had not taken as much as he had feared? More likely, Haimya in his arms was even more inspiration than he had thought.
He kissed her and felt her stir, then roll over to return the kiss. Likewise the embrace-
The keep was shaking. Pirvan knew that passion for Haimya could shake him. Their embraces had shaken many a bed, but never had he felt a castle keep shaking in such a moment.
Earthquake. And the first rule in such an event was to get outside, so that you would not be buried under falling stone or timber when the tremors grew too violent for the building you were in.
They were only one story above the ground. A jump would be safe, and faster than the stairs. Now, if that window was wide enough-
The knight was crouched in the window, trying to fit his shoulders through, when he saw men run toward the citadel’s well house, then suddenly recoil. They recoiled before a dark flood pouring out of the well. It was touched with foam, and silvered here and there by Solinari.
The flood continued. Now it was more like a wave breaking on a rocky shore. The courtyard was ankle-deep in water, and the well was now the source of a fountain rising higher than Pirvan’s perch.
Suddenly, the fountain turned into an eruption of water, steam, sand, mud, bits of rock, and less identifiable debris. The roof of the well house soared into the sky like a pot lid flipped aloft by hot steam. A good part of the well house wall followed it.
A vertical pillar of water, foam, and wreckage towered high above Belkuthas. Then it arched away from the vertical, and Pirvan heard above the roaring a mighty splashing as the water struck the ground.
The heavier debris rained down all over the citadel. Pirvan heard thuds as stones struck the ground, screams of pain as they struck flesh, more screams of terror at the falling stones and the noise.
Pirvan himself would not have minded finding release in a scream. Cold knowledge sank into him: the citadel was under attack by magic. Magic directed at its water supply, and also at the courage of its defenders.
Without either, Belkuthas was weakened. Without both, it was-he would not say doomed-in grave peril.
He was still so cat-nerved that he jumped when an arm stole around his waist. He turned and saw Haimya, peering over his shoulder at the uproar in the courtyard. She wore only the dagger she had snatched from under the pillow.
Outside, Rynthala rode up, wearing a tunic thrown over a night robe. She also wore her bow and quiver. Pirvan suspected she would take them to the bedchamber on her wedding night. A man lacking the courage to face that prospect should be unlikely to woo her, let alone win her.
“Rynthala!” Pirvan called.
The heiress of Belkuthas looked up. “Sir Pirvan. You and Lady Haimya are well?”
“We’ll be better when we know what’s happening.”
“Gone!” somebody screamed. Then a tumult around the remains of the well house threw shouts into the night air. From them, Pirvan extracted the heart of the matter.
Something-he agreed with those who shouted “evil spells”-had flung all the water out of the well, then collapsed the well shaft. Some thirty or forty yards down lay solid rock. There was talk of somebody climbing down the well, to see for sure, and at least one sensible person had lit a torch. Nobody seemed eager to be the climber-nor did Pirvan doubt anyone’s courage for that.
“Rynthala!” he called. “Are there scouts out?”
“Why?”
“Because I think our enemies will want to follow the ruining of the well with an attack, before we can rally. A few scouts could give warning, perhaps delay them with archery.”
A new voice called out, “I would expect them to wait until thirst forced us to yield without a fight.” That was Krythis, who had just appeared, striding through the mud in barely more complete garb than Pirvan and Haimya.
Pirvan did not want to say that the kind of sell-swords coming would want loot and refugee women, which they would not have without storming Belkuthas.
The refugees would be sufficiently frightened already, without hearing that.
Instead, he said, “Who commands now?”
Krythis looked about to reply, when Rynthala bent down and whispered in her father’s ear. Slowly he nodded, then looked up at Pirvan.
“Could you take command? You are senior knight, and no one else has such rank or experience.”
“Very well. But you will rank second, along with Threehands. In the citadel, when I am not present, he obeys you. Outside the citadel, likewise, will you obey him?”