"Come, Brother Oralro, give me the drawing," Folweel wheedled. "You know we have much to plan, and so little time, and I need to, er, study the witch."
"I'll not," the burly Second Priest huffed. "Upon my honor and oath, I'll keep it safe and untouched until tomorrow noon."
"'Twill be too late, then!"
"Too late for what? Do you intend some breach of honor, sir? I swore to keep the picture in surety against any such same connivance toward Yotha House."
"But there have been magical attempts already," Folweel tried. "The last just an hour ago."
"Aye, and I felt that." Oralro sneered. "That was practice work by our own under-priests, and quite poorly they did it too. Really, Brother Folweel, after all these years of instructing our novices in basics of magecraft, did you think I wouldn't know the feel of the spirit of every mage in the house?"
Folweel sighed in frustration. "Well, then you deal with them! Make them practice properly in strategy for tomorrow, for I've work enough to do with the tools."
"That I'd planned to do, Brother, once I finished meditation." Oralro hesitated. "If you truly need to raise extra defenses against the witch tonight, why not simply use your memory of her as focus?"
"That I could do in any case," Folweel fumed. "I was hoping for something more concrete."
"Hm, well, it would not help you," Oralro admitted. "She's within Deese House, and the place is most thoroughly warded."
"Ah?" Folweel perked up, wondering if Oralro truly had discovered the legendary—and never proved—technique of scrying. "And how would you know that, Brother Oralro?"
"Umm . . ." The burly Second Priest looked actually embarrassed. "Because I've already tried to, er, chastise her. The attempt failed. There is effective counterspelling."
"Oh." Folweel sighed. If Oralro couldn't get through Deese House's shields, he certainly couldn't. "So that drawing is useless to us."
"Er, yes. And upon my honor and sworn word, I may yield it up to no man."
Easy honor, that! Folweel fumed, stamping off to see to the distillery.
Cloaked and hooded to anonymity, Gynallea stepped through the doorway of Deese's temple—and stopped to stare at what was there revealed.
The floor before her was carved with deep, narrow ditches in concentric rings, each labelled in strange letters or perhaps numbers. In their center the forge blazed, heated to eye-searing glare by a mammoth bellows. The bellows was powered by no human hand but a complex arrangement of gears, which ran from a thick leather belt, which was turned by a whirling axle set high in the wall. Above the blazing forge hung and swayed an enormous blackened bucket of unidentifiable stone, swaying like a pendant on its thick black chains, clearly just hauled up from the roaring furnace. Its controlling chains hung also from heavy gears upon an axle running across the ceiling, and the half-naked Deese wizards hauling thereon looked like toiling trolls in the flaring light. One of them—Omis?—shouted a command, and the priests ran to pull on other chains. The rest of the crowd jumped back beyond the third ditch ring, watching tensely and wiping sweat from their faces. The huge bucket swung forward, halting just above what appeared to be a block of clay with holes in the top and a complex clay funnel with many spouts leading to the holes. As Gynallea watched, fascinated, the wizard in charge shouted another order. The others pulled on the chains, and the spouted bucket tilted slowly toward the waiting funnel.
Its contents glowed. Creamy white and shining like the sun at summer's noon, exhaling a blast of intolerable heat, the nameless fluid poured like milk from a pitcher. It spilled, gods' milk surely, into the clay funnel and down, down the series of spouts, into the waiting holes. The holes filled to the brim, gleaming yellow, then orange and now Gynallea could see that they contained cores of clay, originally white, now dark by comparison. The last of the gleaming gods' milk filled the holes and covered the tops of the cores, and Omis shouted again. The emptied bucket, its pulled chains rattling, swung upright and away from the furnace. The filled holes in the clay block shone like suns in the shadow of the forge's walls.
"Ease off the fire," Omis commanded, pulling a lever by the wall. The gears of the bellows promptly disconnected, and the roar of air died away, leaving only the higher-toned wind sound of the flames. "Deese be praised: a good, clean pour!"
The other wizards cheered.
"Sorcery," Gynallea whispered. "No magic greater than this."
At that point one of the wizards noticed her and came forward wiping sweat and soot off his brow. It was Sulun, she saw.
"Lady Gynallea!" he marveled. "What on earth do you here? Won't it prejudice the case, you being the judge's wife come visiting us?"
"Oh, pish," snorted Gynallea. "I came secretly, and no one saw me. Besides, I've noted that Yotha's priests place little regard on the doings of women . . . hmm, save when it serves them. Shall we go someplace cooler to talk? I swear, 'tis like the worst of summer in here."
Sulun gladly led her into the side dining room. A common fire twinkled on the hearth, and the air seemed wonderfully cool. Sulun fetched cups and a jug of good ale from the sideboard. "What in all the hells was that sorcery you were performing out there?" Gynallea asked, accepting her cup. "I never saw the like."
"Metal-casting," said Sulun, pouring for them both. "Omis had set up to melt iron down to pure liquid—which, I admit, I'd thought couldn't be done. He'd intended to cast a statue of Deese for the Ashkell House shrine, but then all this business came up, and now we have to cast quickly some tubes, for, hmm, firepowder and burning-mineral displays. We need them by noon tomorrow, of course. Everyone who isn't here is off making firepowder—save for Eloti and Arizun, who need their sleep, and Zeren, of course, who's busy guarding them. I swear, I don't know when I'll rest."
"Hmm, firepowder workings," Gynallea considered. "No magic in that?"
"No, m'lady: pure chemistry and mechanics. Wotheng did warn us to put on a good show." Sulun mopped his forehead again. "I don't know how much this will frighten Yotha's wizards, but it should distract their ill-wishing enough to let it fail."
"Aye, good tactics. And take care that you not be distracted by their tricks. You can be sure, they'll use the Yotha fire; prepare for it."
"That we've done. Also, we'll have the advantage of standing under our own walls, which are already well-wished. I suspect Wotheng thought of that when he set the conditions of the . . . wizards' duel."
Gynallea studied her cup, fiddled with it, took a deep breath. "I must confess, friend Sulun, somewhat has been kept hidden from you."
Sulun raised an eyebrow and scratched his beard. "I know that none of you warned us sufficiently when first we came here, about the sheer power and threat of Yotha's wizards."
"Well, dear, we did want you to settle here and make us rich with your skills." Gynallea gave him something nearer her usual smile. "'Twouldn't do to scare away potential wealth-makers by saying much about local troubles, now would it?"
Sulun laughed. "I'm happy you thought so highly of us, and I must confess I've never seen better patrons than we've found at Ashkell House."
"'T'as been mutually rewarding." Gynallea's smile slipped away. "But we didn't warn you of the possible trouble with the neighbors, either."
Sulun rolled his cup in his hands, though it wanted no warming. "Wotheng told me he needed to appear strong if he was to become noticeably rich. Without numbers for armies, he must need to look well protected by wizardry."
"Ay, dear," Gynallea sighed. "That was another reason we tolerated Yotha for so long, besides the difficulty in ousting him."
"I see."
"Not entirely, friend Sulun, and neither do I." She set down her cup. "I confess, I don't know why he rushed both of you to this wizards' duel. Had he simply decided against Yotha on the evidence given, Yotha would have continued to dwindle away—oh, sniping here and there, perhaps, but doomed nonetheless. This way, he may rid himself quickly of Yotha, but he also risks losing you. He's kept his counsel tight upon that, even with me. Have you any idea why he'd take such chances?"
"No . . ." Sulun pondered long. "All I can think is that he needs this settled fast, for some reason. Perhaps he fears Yotha's continued troublemaking, or he may have cause to worry strongly about his greedy neighbors. Perhaps he fears such continued squabbling would tempt them, make us appear weak and divided. He warned me to make our 'magic' look fearful enough to discourage such hopes. That's one thing that made us decide to cast and use those fire tubes. It's also why I made such a show of testing the bombard before all the workmen. By all means, let people carry tales outside the vale of our marvelous sorcerous powers. If it helps keep Wotheng—and us—safe, then I'll be happy to add to such."
"Bombard?" Gynallea asked, an odd faraway look in her eyes.
"That large fire tube mounted on the wall." Sulun took a long pull of his cup. "The one we used to, hah! plow the north field. The workmen took to calling it a 'storm tube,' and the name spread."
"The storm tube," Gynallea murmured, gazing off into the darkness. "Yes . . . Hmm. Friend Sulun, I think you'd best use that, too, to make a most spectacular display tomorrow. You must look as fearsome as you can . . . and I doubt not that the north field could use some more plowing."
"North field? But the duel is to take place before the east gate."
"Well, then," Gynallea said with a shrug, "move the storm tube as close to the east gate as you may. Indeed, I'd suggest setting it to plow the ground between your folk and Yotha's. That will distract them, you may be sure."
"Distract!" Sulun gulped. "Oh, indeed it will! Have you seen how it tears up the ground? I'd not want to risk it so close to our folk, not ever."
"You'll have a good fifty paces, at least, between you and them."
"Still too close!"
"Then set it to strike to one side, far enough to be safe. Or . . . aim it closer to Yotha's priests. Measure the ground yourself." Gynallea shrugged again and got to her feet. "But use it, Sulun. Set the storm tube on the east wall and use it, where its use may best be seen. I do not doubt this is important, and may be what decides the victory."
"Well, if you truly believe I should . . ."
"I do most firmly believe it. And now I should go, lest the servants at home make too free with the wine cellar. Take care, friend wizard."
Sulun rose to show her out, and stood pondering a long time as he watched her ride away into the dark. Her advice had always been good, and he'd be foolish not to take it now, with so much at stake. But what, indeed, did Wotheng intend?"
The sun climbed through a rare, cloudless autumn day, gilding the sparse-grown ground and the vast procession on the road. Lord Wotheng and Lady Gynallea led the horde, wearing their best robes and jewelry, in a freshly painted cart garlanded with fir branches. Their guard surrounded them, sporting fine, sharp new swords and polished shields, dressed in their new winter livery of bronze red and dark forest green. Behind them, on horses or mules or in cloth-covered wagons, rode the priesthood of Yotha; they rang chimes and chanted endlessly, and the clear sun glittered on the embroidery of their red, orange, and yellow robes. Several paces behind the priests, giving them a wide berth, came what seemed to be half the population of the vale. Losh and Irga shared a borrowed horse, and chatted as merrily as if they were going to market. Nima rode a cart with her husband and their other children, and studiously ignored Losh and his lady-love. Pado, several lengths back, rode a wagon with the other women and children of her family, glaring occasionally at Losh, otherwise keeping her eyes primly lowered. The brewer and vintner talked business as they rode, side by side, on two wagons loaded with barrels of their respective wares. Behind them came Tygg the baker, whistling merrily, his assorted goods and apprentices piled into a new wagon he'd bought just the day before. Eloti's students clung together in a raucous assemblage, those on foot clinging to the stirrups of those fortunate enough to have mounts. Other factions gathered, walked or rode together awhile, fragmented, and re-formed. Here and there a gaggle of farmer's children rode in file on plow horses, and not a few on the backs of oxen. Stuffed like sausages into wagons or carts, riding any available beast, even on foot, the horde plodded down the road to the valley before the gates of Deese House.
"Kula," Sulun groaned, watching from the window, "it's like All Gods' Day back in Sabis." He shivered, wondering how the sacrificial goats had felt on those days. At least those beasts had no idea, until perhaps the last instant, of what was to happen to them. He cast another look around the great workshop/temple/front room. "Are we ready?" he asked.
Zeren promptly stopped fencing with shadows on the wall, sheathed his sword, and took his planned space in the marching formation. Arizun and Eloti, already dropping into meditative state, silently nodded. Omis, Doshi, and Yanados hefted their heavy covered baskets and stepped awkwardly into line. Ziya looked around quickly, grabbed a tinder box off the shelf, and ran for the wall. Tamira, huddled in a corner with the two youngest, watched them silently with wide eyes.
"Now, just as we practiced it," said Sulun, feeling absurdly like a temple dancing master. "Wait until we hear Wotheng's summons."
The others murmured tense agreement.
Sulun rechecked the baskets for the dozenth time, knowing his worry was only what Zeren called "combat nerves," still fearful that they'd left out some small tool that would prove vital in the coming trial. And it would be my fault, he gnawed at himself, if our distractions fail and Eloti or Arizun loses concentration just when we need it most. . . .
But everything was in the baskets, even spare tools and tinderboxes, everything they'd need. Sulun chewed his lip and glanced out the door at Ziya, industriously climbing to the top of the wall and scampering along it to where the loaded bombard stood. With the spare elegance of an expert, she slid the oiled cloth covering from the bombard, so smoothly that none of the approaching crowd could have seen it done. Yes, the child was very good at her task; she'd do as instructed. Pray Gynallea was correct—but then, she usually was.
Gods, from the noise outside the crowd must be close, huge, and hungry!
The procession wound up the road between the two hills, officials somber and formal, audience gazing about them with wonder and some trepidation. The combat was supposed to take place before the gates of Deese House, and that was a good way up the hill ahead. The two low hills to either side of this narrow valley would provide an excellent view at a safe distance, and the more cautious in the crowd peeled off right and left to settle there. Others, bolder, followed the Lord Wotheng's party and the priests of Yotha into the valley proper and up the rising road. As the wall of Deese House drew near though, more and more folk thought it wise to spread out to either side of the road and take positions on the sidelines. For the last hundred paces and more, up to the gates of Deese, Lord Wotheng and the Yotha priests proceeded alone.
At sixty paces out, Wotheng halted, turned, and gestured imperiously to the Yotha priesthood behind him. Everyone caught his meaning: wait here. Yotha's priests did so, halting where they were but continuing to chant and ring their hand chimes. Wotheng rode almost to the bronze-sheathed gates and signalled briefly to one of his men-at-arms. The guardsman lifted and dropped the iron rings that served as door knockers and handles, once, twice, three times.
"Let the challengers come forth!" Wotheng bellowed in a voice that could be heard to the near hilltops. Then he turned his cart, his guards neatly circling with him, and rode back to a point midway between Yotha's assembled priests and the still visible char-mark some ten strides before the gates. There he reined in and waited.
The bronze and oak doors swung open with barely a creak, pushed by two matched Deese priests, and the small procession marched out. In their forefront paced Eloti and Arizun, empty hands formally clasped, eyes deep and distant. After them, including the two who closed the doors behind the procession and resumed their place at the end of the double line, came no more than half a dozen priests of Deese.
The crowd compared the sizes of the two wizard armies, and muttered loudly.
"Gods, is that all they have?" Patrobe chuckled at Folweel's elbow. "And led by that woman and a boy? Oh, much cry and little wool!"
"Take care," Folweel shushed him. "We know not what level of sorcery they've attained."
The wizard priests of Deese advanced until they stood directly over the charred spot on the ground and stopped there, all together, with no signal given, neatly as a trained company of soldiers in some high king's guard.
The audience murmured, impressed. Wotheng raised a respectful eyebrow, then stood up in his cart and solemnly rang his judicial bell.
"Challenge has been given and accepted," he announced, in his trumpeting public-gathering voice that echoed so well from the hills. "Combatants shall not approach each other any closer than this, nor shall they depart their ground save in surrender. You shall employ no weapons save those of your wizardry, neither shall you harm any present save each other's combatants. You shall have this quarter of the hour to prepare your ground. Combat shall commence at next ringing of the bell, and shall end only when one or the other party is clearly defeated. On your lives and your honors, do you understand these terms?"
"Aye!" shouted the priests of Yotha, a trifle raggedly.
The priests of Deese only nodded their heads silently, in concert.
The crowd glanced at the Deese wizards with a touch of awe; such tight precision and utter silence were a bit unnerving.
Wotheng sat back down and steered his team to the sidelines, a good seventy paces to the south. The crowd carefully made way for him. There he turned his cart to face the field, and settled back to wait. His guards dutifully spread out along the edge of the assembly, forming a broad circle around the opposing teams of wizards. In the throng, the assorted vendors opened their wagons and set about peddling their goods. Gamblers scampered through the press, offering various odds.
Among the priests of Yotha, half a dozen of the under-priests put away their chimes, hurried to their cartload of supplies, and hauled out several kegs and baskets. The remaining under-priests continued to chant hypnotically and strike their chimes, but the senior priests put their chimes away and two of them—Oralro and Folweel—drew out meditation gems as well. The two remaining priests, Patrobe and Jimantam, directed the mobile under-priests in drawing large circles of fire fluid around the group and neatly arranging piles of covered baskets close to the circle's center.
Oralro glanced once around his knot of chanting under-priests, making certain they were well into the proper meditative level, feeling the growing wave front of their mage power. Yes, they were responding well and obediently, their power ready to be tapped and channeled where he chose to focus it. He'd need that much power, and a good tight focus, to punch through the blanketing defensive spell the Deese wizards had already placed on their house and land.
A remarkably tight and precise spell that, given the size of the area it covered, he could feel exactly where its near border lay, almost exactly between the two groups. How symbolic. Had Wotheng, in his obvious favoritism toward the Deese wizards chosen the ground of the duel for just that reason? Well, no matter; Oralro knew that with enough power and focus he could punch through it.
The real problem would be maintaining a second focus. Complex business for one mage; yet Folweel had skill and power sufficient to handle the second task, leaving himself free to concentrate on the first. Already he could feel the high priest's characteristic field widening, pulling in selected others from the pool of under-priests.
Oralro frowned as he noted which ones Folweel was taking: three of his strongest and best trained. Ah well, perhaps he was right; they'd need a good strong defense against the Deese wizards, who—already having a preset shield—were free to concentrate on attack. Then again, the Deese wizards were fewer in number if not in power; just one of them sufficiently distracted—or otherwise removed from the reservoir—could make a significant difference. Oralro chuckled silently as he thought of some of the "distractions" Brother Folweel had planned. Reassured, he peered into the meditation gem and concentrated on drawing his power net tighter.
The air was mild and cool, but Sulun and Vari were sweating heavily as they finished drawing the last of their three concentric rings around their base zone: the outer ring of water, the second of powdered sulfur, the inner one of firepowder. How many minutes past? How many to go? Now to set the loaded fire tubes in the holes they'd carefully dug the night before, put in the fuses, and make sure they had enough air for proper burning. A quick glance to the walls showed Ziya crouched behind the bombard, ready and waiting. He hoped that the secondary protective spells they'd set last night on both Ziya and the bombard would escape the Yotha priests' notice. What next? Oh, yes: place the buckets of water around the others, ready to use in case any of that damned fire fluid made it through the shield and hit too close to people. Now to set up the small brazier, fill it with waiting coals and pour in the lighted ones, make sure the new coals caught well and the tapers were ready to hand; it wouldn't do to be without fire when they needed it. Now to take the old bellows, make certain it was still full of water and not leaking, prop it at just the right angle to shoot the ink-dyed water into Yotha's circle—a clever idea from Omis, that—and set the handles so that a quick stamp from a hurried foot would fire it.
Fire . . . Sulun wiped his face and shivered, feeling the horrible weight of his responsibility. Eloti and the others—see, they'd joined hands now; one could almost feel the power flowing from them like heat from the forge—would do nothing but maintain shields, constantly well-wishing themselves and their ground. All the physical defense—and all the attacks—would come only from Vari and himself.
Attacks? Sulun looked around again at his preparations. Attack is not of my nature! I'll put on a good show, startle and distract Yotha's wizards, throw enough harmless stuff into their circle to make them look foolish, make it clear they've lost. . . . But truly attack? Throw firepowder, as Zeren urged me? I don't think I can do it.
He rubbed his back, glanced at Omis, mentally reviewed the signals they'd designed, and finally went to stand beside Vari near the brazier. The shadows were so short, there couldn't be much time left now.
There wasn't. Wotheng glanced at the small hourglass set beside him on the cart, stood up, and rang his bell again. "The hour has come," he bellowed to the suddenly hushed throng. "Let the combat begin."
On his word, the under-priests sparked their tinderboxes and lit their circle of fire fluid. The crowd roared as the flames sprang up and formed a ring of yellow-tipped blue fire around Yotha's priesthood.
Must be hot inside it, Sulun thought inanely as he lit a taper at the brazier, took it to the innermost ring, and set off the firepowder. Again the assembly howled, seeing the snapping circle of orange-red flames run, sparking fiercely, around the priesthood of Deese.
For the next few moments nothing seemed to happen, although everyone could feel the tension. Invisible waves of will, arms of power, grappled and wrestled with each other, making no headway.
Folweel, concentrating on maintaining his net against attack, waited and waited and finally wondered why no attack came. Long moments passed, and there was no pressure of any kind on even the edges of his field. What were those Deese wizards doing? He withdrew enough of his attention to focus on the enemy. They didn't seem to be doing much of anything. Oralro, however, was clearly sweating and straining with effort. So were the obedient under-priests in his power net. Aha! So the Deese wizards were concentrating all their strength on defense! Well, he had other means to get through that, other ways to attack, and even that pompous ass Wotheng couldn't properly call them ordinary weapons. He gestured briefly to Patrobe, then sank back into concentration. Best not leave the net weakened too long by his absence.
Patrobe nodded acknowledgment and signalled to his contingent. The half-dozen under-priests obediently reached into the waiting baskets and drew out thin-walled jugs sealed with trailing rags. They briefly upended the jugs and let the contents soak the rags, then righted them, lit the trailing rag ends, paused for a short prayer, and threw the jugs toward the center of Deese's circle.
Eloti's shield held well; the jugs all hit far from center, damaging nothing, and half their wick fires were smothered out on impact. Most of them broke, however, spreading sharp-smelling fire fluid on the ground. Two of them succeeded in catching fire, and the crowd gasped upon seeing the pools of Yotha's flames spring up, even in harmless patches. Sulun and Vari grabbed buckets, ran to the fires, and doused them quickly.
"No more water than we need," Vari panted in warning. "There'll be more, and we can't go back to the stream until this is over."
Sulun nodded quickly, smothered the last fire as economically as possible, and headed back to his post by the brazier.
On the way, he came across a full and intact jug. An imp of perversity nibbled. He picked up the jug, relit the rag taper, and threw it back.
The crowd whooped.
The jug landed and broke, just within Yotha's circle. The wick went out, but the contents splashed far enough to contact the sinking edge of the ringing fire, and catch. A blob of blue flame sprang up briefly, distorting the circle's shape. One of Patrobe's under-priests started toward it, then hesitated, unsure what to do without orders.
Not distraction enough, Sulun thought, hurrying to the nearest of the loaded fire tubes. He thrust his taper's flame against the end of the fuse, waited until it had caught well, then ducked aside and ran back to the brazier.
Nothing interfered with the fire tube's functioning. The powder ignited with a bang, shooting sparks and smoke out its muzzle—as well as a cloth-wrapped packet of sulfur. The cloth ignited also, and then the sulfur. The sizzling package erupted in mid-air on the downward arc of its trajectory, just outside Yotha's circle. Yotha's defenses still held good, but there was no way to completely avoid a widespread hail of burning sulfur, let alone its secondary effects. The ground in the forward third of the circle—and one unfortunate under-priest in Jimantam's unit—were pelted with fine grains of burning, stinking chemical. The under-priest yelped and danced and tore at his robes.
The watching assembly stood up and roared, not least with laughter.
Jimantam gestured furiously, and two more under-priests ran to their stricken fellow to help drag off his multipunctured robe and splash water on him. They coughed and gasped as the sulfur smoke rose around them, stinking to the heavens and obscuring sight.
Folweel heard the shouting, glanced up quickly, and saw what was happening. Wide-area weapon! He cursed silently. There was only so much that even the best protective well-wishing could do against anything that splattered over a wide range. Shift probabilities as he could, some of the nasty stuff was bound to hit a target. Damn!
Well, he could respond with something similar. Folweel signalled again to Patrobe, who likewise signalled to his division of under-priests, who lit and threw more jugs.
Again, the fire jugs failed to reach their mark. Again, Vari smothered fires, Sulun found another intact jug, lit it, and threw it. This one, unfortunately, landed outside Yotha's circle. It broke and burned there, making no difference and no distraction.
More sulfur? Sulun considered. No, save them. Wait, see what they do.
Oralro, sweating and panting, came up from meditative level far enough to reach out and tug Folweel's sleeve. "Their shields too strong," he whispered. "Can't get through. Join me and help!"
Folweel thought for a moment, making sure there was no pressure whatever of ill-wishing on his shields, and acquiesced. Nine hells, let Yotha protect his own and keep the Deese wizards from attacking, just a few minutes more. He tapped his entranced under-priests on the wrists and hissed to them, "Join the ill--wishing!" Then he dropped back to deeper meditative level, rejoined and refocused their mingled fields. Last, he carefully joined his power net to Oralro's field, felt them interlock, expand, engage the front of the Deese wizards' shield.
Oralro smiled for the first time, feeling that enemy shield give way. He focused tighter, took the power of the net, and pushed it hard, hard as he could. Degree by slow degree, the Deese field weakened.
Whatever Eloti and the others felt, they gave no sign. Sulun and Vari felt the change like a sudden change of wind, an almost audible snap of power in the air. They looked at each other, guessing what had happened.
As if in confirmation, the unlatched gates of Deese House swung open—and this time one of the hinges creaked.
The house has no defense! Sulun realized. He thought of what harm those Yotha priests could do to the building, its contents, his tools, if they chose—and a roused fury burned him like a hot coal.
He ran to the waiting bellows and fairly jumped on its upper handle.
The inky water shot out in a tight, hard stream, arching high into the air before turning downward. The top of the arch was well beyond the middle of the ground between the circles. The black rain fell in a good wide circle inside Yotha's boundary ring.
Some of it fell on the leading edge of the diminishing blue fire, and put it out. The rest drew a fat black arrow-head shape on the ground, pointing straight into the knot of hard-worked wizards. A little of it caught the priests themselves: Folweel across the chest and Oralro smack in the face.
Startled out of concentration, they yelped in dismay and brushed frantically at the murky stuff. They had no idea what it was, what it would do, and they couldn't get it off them. The force of their ill-wishing attack wavered and shrank.
Everyone in Eloti's circle felt the pressure slack away. It was temptation to shift to attack themselves, but Eloti said "No," aloud and signalled to Sulun and Vari.
"Fire tubes!" Sulun shouted, running to the nearest with a taper.
They lit and fired three in quick succession before Sulun thought to conserve what was left. Three booming, whistling packets of burning sulfur sailed through the air to land neatly inside Yotha's circle, bombarding the wizards with pepper grains of fire, smoke, and choking stink.
The crowd danced up and down, roaring with delight.
Only Wotheng, watching the combat through slitted eyes, showed no great joy. "Not enough," he muttered to himself, barely catching even Gynallea's quick ear. "Hit harder. More."
Within Yotha's circle, Folweel and Oralro fought yattering chaos. They yelled for Jimantam to bring water, beat flames out of their robes, coughed and choked in the reeking smoke and tried to rally their under-priests to concentration again. Jimantam's troop of servitors ran among them with water, sloshing it wildly at anyone who seemed to need it, which added further distraction.
Only Patrobe and two of his crew, to one side of the circle, missed the onslaught of water and sulfur. Snarling a curse and an order, he ran to the nearest basket of fire fluid jugs and began lighting and throwing as fast as he could. Many of the jugs flew wild, wasting themselves on neutral ground; many others landed within the circle and went out, but enough landed and burned to keep Sulun and Vari busy.
Up on the wall Ziya watched, teeth bared and breath hissing through them. Fire wakened old memories, hurtful and dark: fire thrown at her house, her friends, her family. . . . Fire, from the bad people. Wicked people. The enemy. She clenched her hands on the bombard's carriage, furiously wishing that Sulun would send her the signal, let her strike at the enemy.
And not just beside them.
A coal of fury lit an idea.
He hadn't told her to leave the bombard aimed where it was. He hadn't told her not to change the setting.
Well-learned details of angle, trajectory, direction played through her head as she tugged the bombard sideways, just a trifle, just enough.
Folweel stripped off his sodden outer robe, grateful that the fire chemical hadn't burned through to the skin, and frantically dropped back to meditative level as fast as he could. There: yes, thank whatever gods, Oralro was doing the same. So were the obedient under-priests. If they could raise their defensive shields again, push back the Deese wizards' attack before it got any worse . . .
But he couldn't feel any attack.
It's all on the physical plane! he realized, with a sudden jab of hope. The Deese wizards were concentrating all their mage power on defense, come what might. That was their strategy: save magic for defense only, attack with physical means only.
They didn't have enough trained wizards for both attack and defense at once.
Folweel grabbed Oralro's sleeve. "Attack!" he hissed. "Beat down their shield and attack! Put everything into that!"
Oralro nodded, snapped out the orders to the reassembled net of under-priests, and concentrated. Folweel dropped into concentration with him. They joined and tightened focus, probed—found that suspected second shield.
Folweel almost laughed as he realized what the Deese priests were doing. They'd started with a preset, passive area defense. Under that, within their drawn circle, they now held a standing, active shield. Punch through that, and they'd have nothing. He signalled to Patrobe to keep on with the distractions, and pushed harder behind Oralro's attack.
Patrobe obligingly threw more fire jugs, and his under-priests did likewise.
Under that steady barrage, Sulun and Vari were kept -hopping. Enough fires sprang up to need constant attention with the diminishing water, enough to keep them too busy to use the remaining fire tubes. The best they could do was seize unbroken jugs in passing, light them, and throw them back. Hardly any landed within Yotha's circle.
"We're running out of water!" Vari gasped, smothering one fire with her empty bucket. "How much of that stuff do they have?"
"Don't know," Sulun panted, using the last of his bucket on another. Too much, he guessed. That, he realized was the flaw in his strategy; Yotha's priests simply had more of everything: long-range weapons, supplies, wizards, everything. Given time, they'd wear Eloti and the others down.
Gods, there: one of the jugs broke nearby, splashing the hem of Arizun's robe. Blue flames crawled up the cloth, perilously close to his leg.
Arizun didn't move, didn't notice. His concentration was total, far from immediate physical concerns.
None of the others in the mage circle noticed the fire, either.
Vari ran up to Arizun and beat out the flames with her bare hands.
Gods, we have to break their concentration! Sulun knew it was time to bring out the last reserve, the grand distraction. Once the Yotha wizards' attack was broken, and hopefully their defenses down, he could rain them with the last of the sulfur—win time to reload the tubes and rain them further, until they gave up and ran from the targeted circle. It had to be done now.
He waved up toward the walls and shouted the code phrase to Ziya, praying the child would hear it, not freeze, do as she'd vigorously sworn she would.
"Ziya!" he shouted. "Fire ready!"
Ziya heard. She smiled tightly, peered once more down the bombard's realigned barrel, and touched her lighted taper to the end of the fuse.
The fuse burned, sizzling, up toward the hole and the firepowder and torn metal waiting beyond it.
On the field below, Folweel felt the first flinching, the first ever-so-slight give in the Deese wizards' shield. They're tiring! he thought jubilantly, feeling Oralro's answering joy as he noted the change too. Just another few minutes of this and they'd have that last defense broken, no shield left between their furiously tight-focused ill-wishing and the target. It would probably strike that witch first. With this much power behind it, the attack might be enough to stop her heart right there. And yes, yes, their shield was definitely weakening.
Then something roared like thunder in the sky.
Folweel looked up just in time to see a cloud of smoke and sparks blossom high on the wall of Deese House, and realized it had come from the storm tube.
The watching crowd screamed together, seeing the earth shoot up like a monstrous fountain, stones and bodies and unidentifiable rags and pieces flying like leaves on the wind. Again voices wailed, seeing those unbelievable fragments fall back to earth amid a haze of smoke and dust. Then came a long, quavering, multiple groan as the smoke cleared, revealing the full sight of the damage in the unflinching sunlight.
In the center of Yotha's circle, where the knot of Yotha's priests had recently stood, lay a wide, shallow hole. Around it were scattered rags of stained cloth, bits of glass and stone, small clods of torn earth, unsightly pieces of flesh and bone, puddles and streaks of fire, fluid and blood. Further out lay torn and tumbled bodies, still bleeding but too obviously dead. A lone under-priest near the far edge of the circle staggered, blood-splashed and dazed, a few steps forward. He stumbled on a tattered body, stared at it, looked wildly around him, at the earth and bodies torn to rags and ruin by the flying stones—then he fled shrieking out of the charred circle and away. They could hear him howling all the way down the road.
Sulun rubbed his stunned ears until he could hear again and stared at the field before him in unthinking shock. Hole . . . his mind feebly registered. Bombard. On them, not beside them . . . Oh gods, so that's what it can do!
Vari sat down right where she was and covered her eyes; Sulun could hear her quietly cursing, and dimly marveled that she even knew such words. Omis took a half-step forward and stared stupidly at the fresh crater as if wondering how it had gotten there. Yanados swayed, grabbed at Doshi for support, and they both collapsed together. Arizun simply and quietly fainted. Eloti, eyes wide, spread her hands and staggered like a blind man. "Gone," she whispered. "What . . . ? How?"
Zeren took her by the shoulders and pulled her close. "Will of the gods," he growled, "and will of Wotheng." He turned to face the Ashkell lord's wagon and raised his sword hand in ironic salute.
Wotheng stood up in his cart and solemnly returned the gesture. Then he lifted and rang his bell. "The combat is ended," he announced, harsh-voiced. "The priests of Deese are found innocent of all charges."
"Yes," Zeren muttered, lowering his arm. "And I hope you're satisfied."
Gynallea, white to the lips, clutched her husbands arm. "Is this it?" she hissed at him. "Is this what you wanted?"
"Aye," Wotheng growled, looking abruptly older than his years. "I knew from first report what a weapon that could make; fierce enough to defend the Vale, scare off greedy neighbor lords, keep us and our descendants safe. I had to make Sulun use it, would he or no: show everyone what it could do, spread the word all over the northlands. Now, by the gods, we're safe."
"Safe! Safe? With that?"
"I confess . . ." Wotheng briefly chewed his lip. "I didn't know it would . . . do quite that."
The crowd, still moaning quietly in horror, melted back from the sight of the field. The motion grew into a current, slipped off the hills, out of the valley, off down the eastward road, safely away from Deese House and its hideous new landmark and its vast and terrible power. Slowly the crowd moved, cautiously, politely—but away.
Sulun looked about him, cold with stark comprehension. Yes, he'd won, and Yotha House was no more, and Deese House was safe. But Wotheng had used him, and now the vale folk feared him, and the souls of his family were forever stained with a darkness. He wondered what would become of Eloti's school now, of his hopes for spreading knowledge and enlightenment, of forming the core of a new civilization in Ashkell Vale. The family of Deese had won their survival, certainly, but at what cost?
And how did it happen?
He looked up at the wall, at the bombard. No, the muzzle was not pointed where he'd seen it last; now it was aimed straight at that damning hole in the field.
Beside it, straight and tall and smiling coldly in unshamed -triumph, stood Ziya. She caught Sulun's eye, waved a merry salute to him, then turned and—before all the gods—began reloading the bombard.
Gods, what has she become? Sulun wondered, shivering.
Ziya finished her task, lifted her lighted taper and waved again to Sulun.
"This is not the beginning I wanted," he said, to himself as much as her. Guessing she couldn't hear him, he shook his head. "Child, can't you understand? this was a bad beginning!"
If Ziya heard, she gave no sign. She cocked her head to one side and called down from the walls, as if asking for further orders.
"Fire ready," she said.