“How many, and how long will it take?” Queen Willa asked General Spyra and his two advisers.
They were back in the council chamber. They had taken a break after Pael’s interruption, but had now resumed the war council in earnest.
A pair of Targon’s High Magi, one that specialized in defense and fortification, the other, whose area of expertise was magic as a weapon, had come and taken the Master Wizard’s place. The Queen had excused Targon and Hyden Hawk to “pursue other avenues,” as she had put it. The pixie, Starkle, and Andra, the dwarfess, had been excused as well, but King Jarrek was still present, as were Parooka, the Mayor of Xwarda City, and his man, Commander Strate, head of the City Guard.
“Maybe three thousand men between High Port, Old Port, and Jenkanta,” one of General Spyra’s subordinates answered timidly. “They are gathering in Jenkanta as we speak. There, they will await new orders. It will take two days at the most, if we send a bird,” he paused and glanced awkwardly at the High Magi. He knew a messenger bird wasn’t necessary, but didn’t even try to understand how else a message could be delivered. “…Immediately,” He finished.
“What of the people, Highness?” Mayor Parooka asked quickly, before anyone else might get the floor. “If we use the tunnel to bring in more troops from Jenkanta, then how will we evacuate the city?”
“And who will protect the citizens once they are in the hills?” Commander Strate added.
“Who said we would evacuate? I need those men!” General Spyra’s voice was sharp. His narrowed eyes darted from the Queen, to the Mayor, and back. He had risen from his seat as he had spoken, and was now leaning down with both fists on the tabletop. He was an intimidating sight, just as he intended to be.
“Sit,” Queen Willa commanded softly, but firmly, to the General.
Grudgingly, he complied.
“If what Pael says is true, that these soldiers of his won’t fall from normal battle wounds, then I don’t see how the extra men will help you, General.”
Willa took a long, sorrowful breath before continuing.
“I have a duty to the people. I have to protect them no matter what the cost. But I have a duty to stay and guard the Wardstone as well.”
She paused long enough that the General felt he could speak. He ran his hand back over his sweat slicked head, as if there were still hair there. His hand ended up squeezing at his fleshy chin.
“How do we fight such an enemy?” He looked at the two magi as if they were his corporals. “Tell me!” he ordered.
Master Amill, the Mage who studied defenses, looked at the Queen askance. He was showing the proper respect for his not so elevated station. She smiled at his manners, and nodded for him to respond. The look she gave the Mayor, and the General, showed that they might try to remember their etiquette as the Mage had.
“General Spyra,” Amill stood. “Can a man with one leg walk? Even a dead man would have a time of it. Can a man wield a weapon when his muscles and sinews are burnt and stiff? If his arm is no longer attached, can he strike at you? There’s only one way to completely incapacitate the necromatized, besides burning them to ash. That is to separate the head from its body. However, there are many ways to defend against them, or render them ineffective. The most obvious way, is to burn them, but that is an offensive stratagem. I’ll let my colleague tell you more.”
Master Amill indicated with his hand the other Mage. Master Sholt seemed surprised to be called upon so soon, but he stood, and cleared his voice. He took a sip of wine from the goblet on the table before him, and took a few seconds to gather his wits.
“Fire is the most potent form of attack that comes to mind.”
His confidence grew as he spoke to the most powerful people in his bookish little world.
“But the fire must be sustained long enough for the heat to deteriorate, or cook if you will, the meat, of the corpses. The eyes of the undead are not how it sees, so blinding, or burning the face is pointless. Also, there is a theory about…”
And so it went well into the night. Ultimately, Queen Willa ordered that the people would be evacuated into a tunnel, which led from a mock cathedral behind the palace, out under all of the city walls, into the foothills near Jenkanta. The tunnel was nearly two miles long, and wide enough for two wagons to pass each other. The dwarves had dug the passage ages ago. No one was certain why, but it was there, and they were going to use it.
The Blacksword soldiers from Jenkanta and the port cities were massing at the far end, to guard it from Pael’s soldiers. There were several collapsible sections, so if Pael’s undead came after them, from the palace end, the way could be blocked off. Willa’s intent though, was to pack the people into the passage, and use it as a shelter. Only in the event that Xwarda was about to fall, would she give the order for the Jenkanta guards to open the other end of the gate and let the people chance a run through the hills to Jenkanta. If it came to that, Willa knew that her people would be alone in their struggle to survive. The best she could do, if Xwarda fell, was guarantee that they weren’t being pursued when they started out of the passage.
While General Spyra and the Magi made their defensive and offensive battle plans, the Mayor, the Queen, and the Commander of the City Guard made the plans to evacuate the city.
Queen Willa insisted that the poor folk, the ones packed into the space between the outer wall and the secondary wall, would go into the tunnel first. Mayor Parooka argued that the merchants and the nobles of the city should go first, but Willa would not budge. Even as they worked out the details of food and water distribution, and relief stations for the evacuees, she had Commander Strate start the common folk in from the outer bailey.
Her reasoning was sound. She was sure that Pael’s undead army would be visible at dawn, exactly as he had promised. It would be better for the simple-minded people to be long into the tunnel, before the rumors of undying men, and dark-hearted wizards started coming down from the walls. The terror and chaos that would ensue, might turn riotous, and ruin any chance of moving troops through the city.
She told Mayor Parooka that it’s the duty of the noble born and the wealthy to take care of those that give them station, and coin, not the other way around. The Mayor could only nod in agreement, and hope to find a way to sneak the families of the men, that had already paid him bribes for protection, to the front of the procession.
Confident that her orders would be carried out, Queen Willa took her leave of the council, and made her way through the castle, down into its bowels, to the ancient temple of Doon.
It was only a small room in the depths of the palace’s main structure; hard to find if you didn’t know what you were looking for. The god of the underground was only worshiped these days by the few dwarves that lived on the surface, and a handful of others. Queen Willa wasn’t one of them, but she hoped to find Andra there, and she did.
The dwarfess was in the almost completely darkened chamber, sobbing, and huddled on one of the stone-worked pews. She was up near the altar, which was made entirely of carved jade, chased in gold and silver, and studded, here and there, with precious stones. It sparkled wildly under the scant flickering light of a three-pronged candelabra that rested atop it. It was the only illumination in the high-ceilinged room, and its light faded before reaching any of the walls, save for the one directly behind the altar. Andra’s sniffles and snorts reverberated up into the darkened heights, but stopped when the sound of Queen Willa’s footfalls came upon her.
“It’ll be all right, dear Andra,” Queen Willa said, stepping over Andra’s stumpy legs, so that she could sit beside her friend.
“Oh Willa, he’s out there! He’s outside the walls, with that elf, and all those dead men!”
She turned to the Queen and clung to her, burying her bearded face in the Queen’s bosom. Then she let out a sobbing wail of despair.
Queen Willa lovingly patted the dwarfess, and hugged her tightly.
“Come now. Dugak knows the tunnels as well as any alive. He will come back soon.”
Willa’s eyes were looking over Andra, and had settled on the shadowy shape of the horn that rested on top of the altar.
“But he doesn’t know to use the tunnels.” Andra looked up miserably at the Queen. “He and Vaegon don’t know about that horrible wizard yet.”
She sniffed, and with a child-like swipe of her forearm, wiped the mucus from her mouth and mustache, and tried to gather herself.
“If I blew the horn, would they come?” Willa asked absently.
Her eyes looked forward, but they were focused on another time and place, somewhere far beyond the walls of the darkened temple.
Andra followed the Queen’s eyes to the glittering altar.
“That is the promise that King Malachite made.” Her tone was hopeful, but her eyes betrayed her doubt.
“Would you really summon my people back to the light of day?”
“I may have no choice, but King Malachi is long dead by now.”
Queen Willa pulled herself back into the moment, and looked at Andra seriously.
“Would they keep a promise made a thousand or more years ago?”
“A promise made by a King should be kept by his successors. A dwarf’s word is his bond. A King’s promise, I think, should hold even more weight.”
“And the Hammer of Doon is as mighty a weapon as King Mikahl’s sword!” Willa added, with growing confidence.
She stood, eased back past Andra, and approached the altar.
The horn was lighter than she had expected it be. It was a plain curl of ram’s horn, save for the mouthpiece, which was crafted of silver. All around the curling body, there were runes etched into the rough surface. There was a leather thong fastened to it, so that it might be carried in the field. Willa pulled that over her head, letting the horn hang just below her breasts.
“If the need be great, and the times be dark, then sound the horn, and the might of Doon will come forth from the depths of the earth, and lend its strength to protect the Wardstone.”
Willa muttered the words of the promise spoken over a thousand years ago, just before the dwarves had gone to ground. At the moment, the need wasn’t so great, she decided. Pael could be bluffing or exaggerating his strengths. Just wearing the thing around her neck seemed to give her some strength. The confidence that Pael’s display had shaken from her earlier seemed to be returning. Nevertheless, when she and Andra left the temple of Doon, to try and get some rest, the horn remained looped around her neck.
Shaella was sitting on her throne, in the empty Grand Petition Hall in Lakeside Castle. Hours had passed since the courtiers and petitioners of the day had been dismissed. Cole, her right hand, and the functional ruler of the castle and the city outside its walls, had reluctantly left her there at sunset.
He was worried for her. He knew she was strong, and far from a foolish girl anymore, so he left her to her statuesque silence, and retreated.
Shaella simply didn’t want to move. She was recuperating still, from her most recent use of the Spectral Orb. For two consecutive days and nights, she had been with Gerard in spirit and mind. She was exhausted.
Through the orb, she could feel him, but he was weak, and had been transformed somehow. He was alone, and seemingly lost in the darkness he was bound to. She spoke, and he seemed to hear her. Sometimes, he even mumbled a coherent response, but mostly, he rambled off strange phrases, or cried out in confused terror.
He was alive though, and that’s what mattered most to Shaella. She would not, could not, give up hope for him now. As soon as she rested, and regained enough strength to open the orb-way again, she would do so. At the moment though, her mind was numb. She didn’t even start when Pael appeared, suddenly and crisply, before her. In fact, she didn’t even seem to notice him there.
Pael looked at her, with a father’s eye of concern for a moment, but his attention shifted when he saw the object sitting across her lap. His Spectral Orb had been shrunk to the size of a cantaloupe, and mounted on an intricately carved wooden staff. He eased up to her curiously, and reached out to take it, but when his hand came close, the shaft flared a bright crimson arc, and bit into him sharply. Shaella jumped from her daze, and raised the staff to strike Pael.
Pael yelped in surprise and pain from the staff’s magical defense, and his head grew pink with his growing rage.
When Shaella realized who it was before her, she relaxed the staff, and made a quick apology before her father could unleash something horrible at her. As a sorceress, she was fairly powerful. She had memorized a wealth of spells, and was learning more each day. She could cast them effortlessly, and with supreme confidence, but compared to her father, she was a kitten to his saber cat. She dared not cross him. She knew that the bond they shared as father and daughter was, at best, as thin as a strand of spider’s web. His anger alone, would burn it through, before it could be checked. Especially if she provoked him.
“Father,” she said meekly, as he was trying to calm himself.
“I see you have warded MY orb well.” The stress on the word “my” wasn’t lost on Shaella, but Pael’s voice betrayed little animosity, and most of his anger had dissipated by then.
He stared at her, but the look softened. He had no further use for the orb, he decided. Xwarda’s vaults held much more powerful things, if one knew how to use them. Luckily for Pael, Shokin had that knowledge right there for him to take.
“Why are you here?” Shaella asked kindly, and then stood. “Can I have something brought for you? Food? Wine? Anything?”
He took her hand, and helped her down the three steps that formed the dais for the Lion’s throne. Her mind raced through the possibilities. His strange, suddenly fatherly manner, suggested that he wanted something. But what could Pael want that he couldn’t just take?
“No my dear, I need no refreshment.” He put a hand on each of her shoulders, and looked her in the eyes. “You have made me proud, Shaella.” He seemed as earnest as one could be, but Shaella wasn’t fooled by the act; at least not completely. “I wish to have you by my side when I take Xwarda on the morrow. I wish to share the victory with you, and I hope to make you as proud of me as I am of you.”
She would have thought that he just wanted her along to gain the advantage of intimidation and might that her dragon would bring, but she didn’t even have the collar on at the moment. It interfered with her use of the orb, allowing the dragon’s thoughts into hers and Gerard’s moments, so she had stopped wearing it. As it was, Pael could have just summoned the collar to himself, put it on, and taken control of the dragon. There was no question in her mind that Pael knew exactly where the collar was, but he hadn’t tried to take it.
She dared not believe in this sudden burst of fatherly tenderness. Her mother’s voice rang through her head, spewing a myriad curses at his lack of such an emotion, warning her not to be taken in by his act.
Shaella returned the loving gaze into Pael’s cold dark eyes, and searched them. Try as she might, she didn’t see, or sense any sign of deception or mockery. He seemed as sincere as one could be. She found that this moved her, and without a moment’s more thought on the matter, she agreed to join him in his conquest of Xwarda.
Starkle, the blue-skinned pixie man, woke Queen Willa just after the sun broke the horizon. In a hurried zigzagging flutter, flown at a respectable distance from the waking Queen’s bed, he spoke to her in his deep, excited voice.
“It is as he said, Highness, the necromancer didn’t lie. You have to see it for yourself. Hurry now.”
He had to zip out of the way of a thrown pillow.
“I am only the messenger!” he said indignantly after he had recovered.
“General Spyra, and the High Wizard, Targon, sent me. They await you at the Coast Road Gate. Hurry now, Majesty.”
“Would you excuse yourself so that I may dress, sir?” Queen Willa snapped sharply. A little tiny pixie man was still a man, and she was still a lady, no matter how serious the emergency.
“Of, of course Highness, forgive me.” Starkle bowed in midair, then erratically zipped across the room, and out the slightly cracked door.
“Milly!” Willa yelled coolly. “I know your ear is glued to the door! Someone had to open it for that little blue gnat!”
A middle aged woman, blushing furiously, eased into the room. Willa was hurriedly swapping her night clothes for a heavy pullover gown.
“Why wasn’t it you who awakened me?” the Queen asked. “Find my hooded cloak while you answer. No, the darker one.”
Milly hid her face in one of Willa’s large closets.
“Who can say the ways of the fairy folk Highness. Surely not I.” she called from inside.
Willa found a black leather belt and buckled it around the velvety lavender gown she had chosen, and then took the cloak Milly offered.
“It’s not the ways of pixies that concern me, Milly,” Willa said, while bunching her hair into a ponytail. “Pixies can’t turn door knobs by themselves.”
Willa’s grin showed that she was just teasing her maid servant. Suddenly, her face turned serious, and she looked sternly into Milly’s eyes.
“I want you to gather a pillow sack full of your dearest things, and then report to Lady Andra. Do it just as soon as I leave, and tell her I said to take you to the tunnel herself.”
A half hour later, Queen Willa came up from the endless switchbacks of stairs, up to the wide roadway-like top of the outer wall. It took a few moments for her to catch her breath and gather her bearings, long enough for her to locate the General and Master Targon.
In her cloak, with the hood up, no one bothered to acknowledge her, much less direct her. This was fine with her. She didn’t want to distract the men. Looking around at them, she decided that she could have come up to the top completely naked, and not a one of them would have been able to peal their eyes away from what was holding their attention.
When she gained the side of her advisers, she was finally close enough to see for herself. Out and down from her vantage, standing boldly, within bow range, row upon row of soldiers stood in perfect formations. Thousands of men, among them huge ladder towers, and great battering rams, stood at the ready. Catapults, and wagon loads of head-size boulders for ammunition, were spread evenly just out of bow shot, in a row parallel to the wall.
“Look,” General Spyra pointed down, and then helped the Queen lean out past the arrow crenellations, to see what it was he was trying to show her.
Below them, and a bit to the right, directly in front of that particular set of gates, stood half a dozen soldiers at attention. They had so many arrows sticking out of them, that they resembled porcupines, yet none of them had fallen. In front of them, was a pyramid stack of three barrel kegs.
“What of the other gates?” Willa asked.
She felt as if she were sinking in sand, and had the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders.
“The same,” Spyra answered, with little or no emotion in his voice. “Around ten thousand men, who are unhindered by our arrows, and ready to set all of the outer gates on fire with those casks of oil.”
“Curse the gods of the heavens and earth,” Willa said to herself, fingering the horn that she had snatched from her bedside table as she left her room.
Just then, a small, mule drawn wagon, pulling a load of supplies up one of the long, slow sloping ramps that ran on the inside of the wall, broke free from its tethers. Men shouted, and screamed to make way, as the cart wobbled, and scraped against the wall on its unhindered way down the ramp. Men dove and leapt out of its way, as it gained careening speed, then smashed into the next mule cart, which was halfway up the slope. A man, and a mule were crushed to death, and a few men were injured from the tumbles they took, while trying to avoid a direct hit.
Queen Willa decided not to mock the gods anymore, and also decided that never in all of her life had she felt more helpless than she did just then.
“What is it that you and Hyden Hawk have come up with?” she asked Targon, with her last bit of hope hanging in the balance.
“There is a plan,” Targon answered, with a doubtful look on his face. “But it cannot even be started until he returns.”
“Returns?” She didn’t understand.
With an expectant wince at what her reaction would be, Targon explained.
“He has gone into the Tower.”
“Wha – What Tower?” Willa asked.
The sand she felt like she was sinking in was about to suck her under, because she knew the answer to her question before he spoke it.
At least ten would-be heroes had gone into Pratchert’s Tower in her lifetime. Not a single one of them had ever been heard from again. According to the records, over a hundred wizards, sorcerers, mages, and fools had tried to beat Dahg Mahn’s trials over the ages. None of them had succeeded.
She didn’t even think, before she took the Horn of Doon from inside her robe, and put it to her mouth. The loud blasting sound it made startled General Spyra, who almost tumbled over the edge of the wall. It was all Targon could do to wrestle him back to safety. The scene before her only served to confirm that, without a doubt, it was indeed a time of great need.