In his woodman's cabin in the forest outside town, the blackrobed man shot upright in his chair
'You mucked it up, Illgram.' Central's toneless words were as hammer blows inside his head. 'Such a simple task, and you botched it. Hardingraud arrived in Gromarthen tonight.'
'What...'
'The Master is not happy, Illgram. Not happy at all.' The thoughts of the Voice of the Dar'khamorth carried no emotions, but the images he transferred with them colored his message with malicious satisfaction.
'I...'
Again, the undead mentalist cut him off. 'You have until sundown, Illgram. Should Hardingraud still live - you know what happens to bunglers.'
Illgram knew; he had killed enough of them. 'Yes,' he said, but Central had left him.
Failure! His mind couldn't grasp the idea. His prey had escaped! How? After all his careful preparations. What had gone wrong? Who had blundered? That castle's fall should have been his chance at glory. Now... He broke out in a cold sweat. Now it could mean his downfall. He gasped. His death?
He forced himself to think. It was hours till sunset; He had time to correct the error.
The bad weather of the last few days had blown over and the spring sun made the waters of the Yanthe sparkle. In the distance, Tinnurad lay like an unrecognizable smear in the river.
Ghyll stared at what had been his world, blinking against his tears. 'Gods,' he said and it sounded a plea.
He tied his horse to a tree and walked the path down to the river. Their boat was still there and Ghyll stepped on board, groping for the lines to raise the sail. Behind him, Olle took the tiller like he'd done the first time. Neither boy spoke as they sailed back.
At close range, the smear became a smoldering heap of rubbish in the water, strange and unrecognizable without landmarks.
He stepped into the blackened grass and looked around. Only then the realization hit him how complete the destruction was. The mighty old play tree at the water's edge, reduced to a charred stump of dead wood. The leafless trunks of the poplars flanked the gateway like the planted spears of dead soldiers. Home farm and stables, gone. The bronze gate...
With his hand on Olle's shoulder, Ghyll stared at the ruins of Tinnurad. There was no gate. There weren't any walls. All that remained of the castle were a corner of the tower, and stone cairns in an ashy wasteland. So much ash, Ghyll thought. It seemed like everything in the castle had turned into a fine gray powder. Everything and everyone... He saw something move and held his breath, but it was a breeze, playing with the dust.
'The guard's here.'
Ghyll looked at where Olle pointed. A cog ship rode at anchor on the other side of the island. Then he saw soldiers, and a large pavilion. He felt anger gripping his heart, as if the guards were intruders on his holy ground. Fuming, he marched towards them, with Olle on his heels, until a corporal of the Guard at Gromarthen stopped them with a barked 'Halt' and a raised hand.
'What are you boys doing here? This island is off limits.'
'I'm Squire Denhalf.' Ghyll felt his anger drain out of him. 'I ... lived here.'
The man turned red with embarrassment. 'Your pardon, Squire. I thought you were in Gromarthen.' He hesitated, searching for words. 'We're collecting the dead. It is better you shouldn't look.'
Ghyll looked up. 'These were my people, Corporal.'
'Yes, Squire, that's good and proper of you. Yet it is better you don't look.'
'I must, Corporal,' Ghyll said in desperation. 'I have to know.'
The man sighed. 'Then come with me. It's not a pleasant sight; they're terribly burned.'
Without a word, Ghyll followed him into the tent. Even from outside he had smelled the sickening stench of burnt flesh and inside, it was overwhelming. A row of eleven charred bodies, large, small, and, as the soldier had said, unrecognizable. Ghyll walked past them, hand to his mouth, his face ashen. 'Grogar the blacksmith,' he said of a body with one leg. Next to the smith lay a faceless guard. He wore no boots, as if he'd run from the guardhouse in his stockinged feet. At the end of the row, Ghyll stopped at a tiny body.
'Oh, Gods, I don't even remember his name, Hanaar's newborn. Lord Hanaar of Lilliaun, near Halwyrd. Have him buried there.' He turned around, sobbing. 'Are they all you found? Out of almost two hundred folk?'
The corporal nodded, he had no words to offer.
Ghyll staggered from the tent and fell to his knees. Unable to contain himself, he vomited into the dust. When his stomach was empty, he looked at Olle, still silent beside him.
'They're all dead.'
Like the corporal, his foster brother could only nod.
Ghyll came to his feet and looked around the island. The remains of the tower were the only bit left standing. He stared dully at the blackened wall, without recognition. Then, his pulse quickened and his eyes cleared.
'That wall...' he said.
'What?' Olle blinked at the sudden words. 'What about it?'
'That was Uncle Jadron's chamber! You see that relief in the wall, with the Halwyrd arms? There's a hole behind it. On my sixteenth birthday uncle called me to his study and showed me to open it. There was a metal box inside. Letters and paper, perhaps something about my family!'
He broke into a run, jumping broken walls and loose heaps of rubble. Underneath the bit of wall was a single, fallen beam, leaning sideways up against the wall. Without thinking, he climbed to the narrow ledge that had borne the first floor.
It was higher than he'd expected; high enough for a nasty fall if he missed his footing. His heart was in his throat as he made his way along the narrow edge, until after gut-wrenching minutes he arrived at the relief. With the tips of his fingers, he sought for the spot that gave way. Found it! He pressed, but nothing happened.
Dear Gods! He felt dizzy and pressed his body against the stones, still warm from Tinnurad's fall. If the heat had destroyed the mechanism... No! He pushed the panic away and reached for his knife. With the tip, he poked into the split between the tile and the rest of the wall. He heard a faint click. Again, he thumbed the hidden button. Success! Ghyll breathed a sigh of relief when the whole relief slid sideways. The sweat ran down his forehead into his eyes and without thinking, he wiped the drops away with the back of his hand.
The hole in the wall was deeper than he expected. He had to stand on his toes to put his arm far enough in to touch the end. It was not easy; balancing on the thin ledge like a tumbler, he groped around the hole. His fingers found something leathery and he pulled it towards him. It was a moneybag like stewards used, and it felt weighty.
'Here, catch,' he called down to Olle, whose anxious eyes had watched his every move. 'Take care! It's heavy.'
Again, he reached into the hole. Tilia let it be there! Yes! He sighed with relief. At the back was the bronze box he sought. Thank you, dear Goddess! For a moment, he hesitated, but to climb back with the box in his arms was impossible. After checking the fastenings, he dropped the thing in Olle's outstretched hands. Then, with his heart in his throat, he edged back to the blackened beam and the safety of the ground.
Once down, he sat on a pile of stones and wiped the sweat from his face. 'Damn!' He mustered a weak grin. 'I won't do that again.'
Olle gave him the case. He weighed the leather bag on his hand and looked at Ghyll. 'Is this what I think it is?'
Ghyll grimaced. 'Uncle Jadron's savings. He showed me where he hid it, just in case. I laughed at the idea of him dying.' The memory brought new tears, mingling with his sweat. In bitter fury, he rubbed his face, blew his nose in his fingers and then wiped them on his pants. He rose and looked around, heavy with sorrow. 'Goodbye, Uncle Jadron,' he said. 'Bye everyone. Thanks for all those years. I will do my best to be worthy of them.'
He turned and hurried to the boat, and the waiting horses.
When they arrived back in Gromarthen, they found the castle in an uproar. Ghyll beckoned a hurrying soldier. 'What's going on?'
The man wiped his forehead. 'We've beaten off an attack on a neighboring village. Better ask the lieutenant, Squire. He is in the forecourt.' He gave a sketchy salute and hurried away.
Lieutenant Davall stood in the midst of soldiers all showing the marks of battle. 'They were those black-clad warriors of yours,' he said, when they joined him. 'Thank the Gods, no firebirds. Around ten, they attacked Haspen, five miles upriver. Luck placed one of my patrols in the area, or else the bastards would have wiped out the village.'
'Dragonboats?' Ghyll said.
A guardsman with a sergeant's emblem on his chest nodded and winced. Tilia had been kind to him, Ghyll thought; the man's left eye was swollen and discolored, just below a sharp notch in his helmet. At least he still had a face.
'Yes, Squire, and I thank the Gods for it. I'll tell you this: we couldn't have handled more than one. There were sixteen warriors, against the ten men with me. Mainal's Beard! At first, I thought they were invincible, but after a while, we got it. Their heads is the weak spot; hit 'em between the eyes and down they goes. It took time, but we managed to overcome them and burn their bloody boat.' The sergeant clenched his fist. 'It cost me three men.'
'A drakenboat,' Ghyll said. In his mind, he saw them sailing by again, silent and sinister. 'But no Drakenlanders on board.'
The lieutenant shook his head. 'No. Sharp of you. We thought of our northern friends too, at first, but I went there myself and when we inspected the dead, we discovered something else. Those warriors weren't human.'
'What?' Ghyll and Olle cried as one voice.
Davall's eyes were bleak. 'Outwardly they looked like us,' he said. 'Even from up close they seemed clad in tight, black leather uniforms. Until we tried to undress one, and found the armor was in fact his skin. Underneath was nothing but stinking clay.'
'But... but...' Ghyll stared in amazement at the officer.
'Just so,' Davall said without a trace of a smile. 'They were makemen running and fighting like men. Don't ask me how; such magic doesn't come from any temple I know.'
Ghyll stared at the lieutenant, searching for words. 'Makemen – you mean someone created them? So that's how they ran in and out of the flames.'
'The burgrave will ask the temples,' Davall said. 'Perhaps they can tell us more. Me, I'm glad Haspen is safe.'
'I wonder why?' Ghyll said, lost in thought.
Davall looked at him in surprise.
'Why Haspen, I mean. Was there something special about it?'
The lieutenant shook his head. 'Nothing. Six cottages and an old well, and you have the whole village.'
'Are there any victims, apart from the soldiers?' Olle said.
The sergeant fingered his swollen eye. 'One villager,' he said. 'A young fellow, about your age. He was new in the community; his uncle had taken him in recently, after his parents died.'
Ghyll looked at Olle, but neither of them spoke. Then something else occurred to him. 'Why drakenboats?' He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and sighed. 'They aren't exactly inconspicuous.'
'Not only that,' said Davall. 'Where did they get them from?'
'Can't they have bought them from the Drakenlanders?' Olle suggested.
The lieutenant shook his head. 'Their boats are sacred to the Drakenlanders. The Nhael, I should say, Drakenlander is an insult. They see each boat as a temple to the Sea God. It is impossible they'd sell one to an outsider. No, whoever is behind all this must have stolen these vessels, and that means they are now at war with the islands. No Nhael will accept the theft of a drakenboat.'
He paused and then sighed. 'What a mess. Sergeant, your men did well today. You must visit the healer and have that eye of yours seen to. Let him earn his pay for once.'
'Can we help with anything?' Ghyll asked when the sergeant and his men had left.
Davall looked at him. 'Nice of you to offer, but things are under control. You two aren't looking very fit, either. Things were bad at Tinnurad?'
'The castle was destroyed,' Olle said hastily, when Ghyll's voice faltered. 'It's all gone.'
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Davall touched Ghyll's arm and left.
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