“Well?” asked the lord regent. “How do matters proceed? Are you nearly ready?”
“Yes,” came the muffled voice from the behind the black gauze. “Yes, my great master-our minions are now prepared to strike.”
Blayne Kerrigan felt almost at home in the camp of the force known as the Black Army. His host, the gray wizard Hoarst, was unfailingly pleasant, courteous, even solicitous. Blayne had been given the freedom of the valley, joining Hoarst and Captain Blackgaard for meals, even sharing the charms of a slender elf maid who, he learned, was one of several beautiful females who inhabited the gray wizard’s domicile.
Hoarst seemed not the least bit jealous, even encouraging the lass to go off alone with the young nobleman. From her, Blayne learned that it was only the albino woman, Sirene, who seemed to arouse any sense of possessiveness in the delightful, cultured magic-user. While his nights were busy enough, during the days Blayne was allowed to sleep late, and he was tutored for a few hours in the routes through the mountains. He observed the road that Blackgaard’s men were constructing, and realized it would provide a route for the High Clerist’s Tower to be assaulted from the north-an unprecedented flanking of those ancient walls.
Finally, Hoarst told Blayne that it was time for him to go on his important errand, and the young lord was all too willing to comply. He was provided with an old nag of a mare to ride, the horse that would take him down to Palanthas. The steed was by no means the best that he could have drawn from the well-equipped herds of the Black Army, but-as Hoarst had counseled-it was best for the young nobleman to enter the city in a nondescript fashion. He needed to look like a humble country squire coming to the city looking for work or apprenticeship.
The Gray Robe warned Blayne that the emperor had posted a reward for his capture. With a little bit of shaving and some hair dye, the knight had completely altered his appearance, darkening his skin and shortening his long black hair. He felt quite confident he would not be recognized, even if he should encounter someone who knew him in passing-a distinct possibility since he had lived in Palanthas for five years as an apprentice Knight of the Crown.
When he could see the spires of Palanthas rising before him, he guided his horse off the main road onto one of the farm tracks that curled along the ridges to the west of the city. From there he could see the Bay of Branchala winding off to the north and the lofty palace of the lord regent dominating the city from its foundation on a slope. Closer, against the city’s defense, he saw his objective: the gate in the west wall of the Old City.
Heart pounding, Blayne followed the road down from the ridge and toward the city gate on the west side of the Old City wall. That was where the man named Billings was posted, and where Blayne was eagerly headed. It was all he could do to let the nag shamble on at her leisurely pace when what he really wanted was to spur toward the gates and get on with his mission. But Hoarst had impressed on him the need for disguise and discretion, and he was determined not to let down the man who had saved him in the wilderness and who shared his desire to bring down the emperor of Solamnia.
How difficult would it be to meet up and recruit the Legion of Steel? Blayne had wondered about that for most of the long ride down from the mountain heights. The organization had been around for a long time, always existing on the shadowy fringes of the knighthood. They were traditionally loyal to the Oath and the Measure but sometimes had proved a nuisance to the men who attempted to rule. Working outside the rigid hierarchy of the orders of Rose, Sword, and Crown, the Knights of Steel could venture certain strategies and employ unconventional tactics that would have scandalized the more hidebound members of the Solamnics.
And what did he ultimately expect from the Black Army and its captain? The force was capable and well trained, certainly, but how could it hope to stand against the four huge armies under the emperor’s command? It counted some three thousand men-less than the number Blayne had standing with him at Vingaard. And the emperor had brushed those troops aside with only two of his four armies! But for now, Blayne was willing to place his trust in the two leaders in their mountain valley. Truthfully, the young lord was glad simply to have been given a role in their rebellion.
Attracting little attention, he and his old horse ambled through the open gate, joining a small trickle of farmers, merchants, and laborers who were entering or leaving the city past the indifferent supervision of a small company of guards. The men-at-arms were swordsmen, Blayne noticed, whereas he was seeking an archer. He dismounted and led the nag toward the public watering trough just inside the gate and looked around for the garrison’s bowmen.
He spotted a stone blockhouse inside the wall. The top was flat and high enough to provide a view-and field of fire-over the wall. Several men were up there, and they were carrying bows and wore quivers bristling with arrows. Lashing his horse to a post, he walked over and spoke to the lone guard sitting outside the door.
“I’m looking for Archer Billings,” he said. “Is he here?”
The guard looked him up and down for a second before sniffling noisily and running the back of his hand under his nose. He tilted his head toward the open door.
“Look in the back room,” he said. “He’s off duty right now.”
Blayne walked into what was obviously a barracks, passing through a room with a number of unoccupied bunks. Passing through another door, he found a room with many tables and chairs, most likely the mess hall. A dozen men sat around in there, listlessly pursuing games of cards or knucklebones, sharpening arrowheads, or carving away on small scraps of wood or, in one case, the ash haft of a new bow.
“Is Archer Billings here?” he repeated.
“I’m Billings,” said one man, unusual in that his black hair and swarthy complexion was much darker than all the other men in the company-but a plausible match for the disguise Blayne wore. It would be easy for someone to believe they might be countrymen. Billings had been sitting alone in one corner of the room, whittling what looked like a curling pipe out of a small piece of wood.
The bowman put his work in his pocket and squinted at Blayne. “You bring me a letter from the homestead?” he asked.
Blayne hoped his relief didn’t show, but that was exactly what Hoarst had told him Billings would say. He went through the reply he had been rehearsing on the long ride to the city. “No letter, but I have news from some old friends.”
The archer rose to his feet and stretched easily. He was a tall man, lanky and thin, and moved with catlike grace. “I’m off duty until sunrise. Let’s go have a beer, and you can tell me all about it.”
The other bowmen didn’t so much as glance up at them as the two men left. Blayne collected his horse and followed the tall archer as Billings led him a few blocks down a city street. They reached the door to a nondescript tavern-the nobleman couldn’t even read the faded sign over the door-and after Blayne had tethered his horse, they went inside. The front room was mostly empty, with just a few dockworkers drinking cheap ale at the bar. The archer simply nodded to the innkeeper and led his guest through a door and into an even darker room in the back.
“Welcome to Palanthas,” Billings said, gesturing to a chair beside the lone table. Blayne took a seat with his companion, and the innkeeper bustled in with a foaming pitcher and a couple of glasses.
“Thanks, Wally,” Billings said, pressing a coin into the man’s hand. “We’ll be all right for the time being.”
“You got it, Hawkeye,” said the innkeeper, bowing and retreating.
Blayne looked at his companion curiously.
“A nickname,” Billings explained. “I’m a pretty good shot with my longbow,” he added, filling their glasses from the pitcher. When he was done, he set the beer down and looked at Blayne long and hard.