Children of Enchantment (43 page)

He thought of old Garrick. another death at Amanander’s hand. So many dead, so many who should not have suffered. Garrick
had retired from military duty; he should have grown old by the hearths of Ahga, watching the next generation of soldiers
come to manhood. And Jesselyn, a sister he would never know. And Brea, Alexander’s beloved. Not dead, perhaps, but scarred
in mind and body. And Abelard. Who could imagine what had happened to him? At the thought of his father, the motto of the
Ridenaus ran unbidden through his mind:
Faith shall finish what hope begins.

He felt around his neck for the leather thong on which he kept Annandale’s ring. The pearl was warm from his body, smooth
and silky to his touch. Almost without thinking, he began to walk.

His footsteps led him through the camp to the very perimeter of the defenses, where the sentries gathered around a watch fire.

“Can’t sleep, either?” asked one at his approach.

Momentarily, Roderic was taken aback, and then he realized that there were more men gathered in the fire’s glow than was necessary.
They thought him one of their own, he realized, and he replied with a nod and a grunt, and squatted down just within the perimeter
of light.

“Me neither,” came the reply, out of the dark, and Roderic looked up into the hardened face of a man at least thirty years
his senior.

They ranged in age from grizzled veterans to men no older than he, and Roderic lifted his head and gazed once more in the
direction of the fortress.

“Yes,” said another, seeing which way Roderic stared, “you can’t help looking at it, can you?”

“What’s there, I wonder?” asked another, a boy with a voice so young Roderic thought it might at first be another girl, like
Deirdre, snuck into the ranks.

“The Prince’s lady, for one,” answered the first man who had spoken, and Roderic knew from the way he leaned upon his spear
that he was the sentry on duty.

“And what else? That’s what I’d like to know. What else is waiting there? What do we go walking into tomorrow?”

“Aye,” a heavily accented voice spoke from the shadows, and Roderic realized that it was one of the Settle Islanders. “It’s
not the dying I mind. But I would dearly like to know what it is I’m dying for.”

“You’ve never seen the Prince’s lady?” The sentry leaned forward upon his spear, and the flames made patterns which danced
across his face. “Believe me, she’s worth fighting for, and dying for, if we must.”

“What woman’s worth all this fuss and bother?” spat the Islander.

“And why?” asked the boy.

Roderic turned to answer, but before he could speak, the sentry answered. “Because, boy. It’s what we’re sworn to do—each
of us, all of us. My father died for the Ridenau Kings, and I’m certain I’ll die for them, too—“

“No,” interrupted Roderic. “It isn’t about dying.” He spoke slowly as all the faces turned to him. “We fight so that others
don’t have to—so that children may grow up, grow old in peace. We fight, not just for the Prince’s lady and the Prince, but
for all of us, so that someday our children or our children’s children won’t have to.” Suddenly he understood the Ridenau
motto better than he ever had before. “We fight for the law, for the law is greater than one man’s desires. The one who holds
the lady—Amanander—doesn’t care about anything but himself.” The men had fallen silent, listening, and Roderic gazed at each
man’s face in turn. “We believe in something more than ourselves, and we have hope we will live to see a better day. That
is why we fight, and that is why we die.”

The men stared back at him. Roderic got to his feet. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen. Good night.” There was a low murmur around
the fire in response, and Roderic paused to look over his shoulder. The other men were talking excitedly amongst themselves,
but the sentry met his gaze. The old soldier pulled himself straighter and offered a quiet salute. Roderic bowed in acknowledgment
and turned away, fading into the blackness before the others could react.

As dawn flooded over the forest, Roderic gave the orders for the siege engines to advance. Stealthily, through the cover of
the trees, the great towers moved, and from his perch on his horse, Roderic watched the troops fall into line and begin the
grim march toward the walls of Minnis. In the growing light, he saw the siege towers draw closer, and squad by squad, the
soldiers took their places.

Roderic raised his gloved hand, and the herald nodded, paused, then blew three notes upon his horn. With a roar like the surging
ocean, the tide of men swept forward. The battle had begun.

Ten thousand men converged upon the walls of Minnis, but still the walls held. Inch by inch, Roderic rode forward, pressing
through the men, until at last he, too, stood outside the walls. The ground was covered with corpses, three or four bodies
thick, and above him, the sounds of the raging battle were a dull throbbing roar.

Deirdre rode up, her gloved hands covered in blood, and Roderic realized it was with the blood of her men. She shook her head
and nodded at the walls. “It’s not going well—what’s he got up there?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Roderic replied. He looked up as a body thudded to the ground. Over the walls, the men
were pouring, flung right and left as though by a giant, and Roderic narrowed his eyes as a single line of black-garbed men
appeared at the apex. As he watched, he saw them wield their weapons so deftly, so efficiently, there was not one wasted stroke.
It seemed that they anticipated the moves their opponents would make, anticipated and met them, or dodged them completely.
Their blades whirred and flashed and glinted like knives in the morning light.

Roderic watched horrified. This was Amanander’s Magic. Somehow he had welded those men into a single unit, a single unit with
many arms, which functioned so efficiently there were hardly any injuries. It was inhuman, terrifying to watch that line of
slim, black shapes. They leaped off the walls, into the siege engines, nimbly hacking and slicing, avoiding blows with the
grace of dancers, cutting down five or six at a time. And even though more men rose to take the places of the fallen and the
slain, the black figures did not tire, did not slow. Surely it was hopeless, for all the reserves in Meriga could not cut
through such an enemy. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a black shape topple soundlessly from the walls, and
then another. A cheer arose, spreading across the battle line, and Roderic drew his own sword. “Bring up the reserves—concentrate
on that opening—come, we mustn’t lose this chance.”

“Come, men,” he cried, hoping his voice would carry, “to arms—to arms!” With Deirdre at his heels, he charged, leading the
regiment up the sloping ramp, leaping across the walls. The scene before his eyes stopped him short. The tide of the battle
seemed to turn, at least briefly, and now more and more of the King’s men were pouring over the walls. But the black fighters
rallied and had resumed their cold, elegant attack. He found himself before one. The man’s eyes were dull, the expression
on his face slack, but he moved with all the precision of a fighting machine. Roderic tried a double feint and felt the flick
of a blade nick his arm. Blood bloomed down his sleeve, and his arm felt as though a thousand needles had pricked him at once.
There was no time here for tricks. This was fighting reduced to its most efficient state. There was one chance, he realized:
speed. He thrust and parried, dodging the strokes of the sword with a dancer’s speed, and suddenly he saw his opening. He
rammed the sword straight into the fighter’s throat, and the man crumpled, soundlessly.

He summoned all his strength and met the next foe. Deirdre fought beside him. “It’s speed,” he bit out. “It’s possible to
go faster.”

“True,” she agreed, “but the men are tiring—even the reserves.”

A cold wind blasted his neck and he glanced up involuntarily. The sun was hidden by a cloud, and the dry, arid heat of the
day had given way to a damp, chilling wind which blew through the trees with a rush. Immediately, he realized that these were
no ordinary clouds, for they swirled, moving faster and faster. “More Magic!” he cried, pulling Deirdre down with him as,
with a mighty crack, a fork of lightning split the sky, toppling one of the towers at the corner of the wall.

The black-garbed soldiers jerked and shuddered, temporarily losing their synchrony, and another lightning bolt burst out of
the heavens, this one aimed right at the wooden gates. There was another thunderous crack as the wood splintered and caught
fire, the bluish flames eating through the dry wood like parchment.

A cheer went up from Roderic’s forces. “Mother goddess,” breathed Deirdre. Cautiously, she peered around. “Look there.” She
pointed down.

The men were pouring through the gates, overwhelming Amanander’s soldiers by sheer strength of numbers. “Let’s go,” he said.
Together Roderic and Deirdre fought their way through the last of the enemy to the courtyard. As the last of their men poured
through the shattered gates, Roderic saw a squat figure veiled in ragged black which could only be Nydia hovering just outside
the entrance. He pushed his way through the horde of fighting men—they outnumbered Amanander’s men severely now—and grasped
the black squat figure by the elbow. “Lady Nydia,” he breathed in disbelief. He wiped his brow and saw the dirt and blood
on his sleeve. “You came.”

“My daughter.” Her voice was so weak he could barely understand her over the din.

“Yes, lady. Come.” Unthinking, he kept his grip on her arm, and Nydia allowed him to push a way through the press of bodies.

Finally Nydia gasped and halted, nearly doubling over in what looked like pain. “1—1 can go no further, Prince. The garden—“

She sank onto the steps which led into the hall, her black draperies blending with the shadows. He opened his mouth to protest,
and suddenly, Deirdre was there by his side, urging him on. “Come,” she said. “If we can find the bastard now, the day is
ours.”

Roderic ran across the polished surface of the hall, yanked the door into the gardens open and stopped short. Amanander sat
on a stone bench, his eyes closed in grim concentration, a deep line etched between his brows. Behind him stood Gartred. Peregrine
and Annandale were seated before him on the ground, their wrists bound with chains.

Amanander’s hands were twined in Annandale’s hair, and her eyes were closed, her face twisted in what could only be agony.

“No!” Roderic cried, gripping his sword. He ran across the grass, and in an instant, Amanander was on his feet, a dagger against
Annandale’s throat.

“Come closer and she dies.”

“What a stupid waste of her life, Amanander,” Roderic said. He lowered his sword by a fraction and took a single step.

“You don’t think I’d kill her?” Faster than Roderic thought anyone could move, Amanander grabbed Peregrine and sliced his
blade across her throat. Her eyes flew wide and he gave a little shove. Her head rolled off her shoulders into the grass,
and her body gave a violent twitch and fell to the ground with a quiver, blood fountaining from her neck.

Roderic stumbled to a halt, his mouth working in disbelief. He reached out with one hand, his breath a ragged gasp in his
throat.

“Now do you believe me, little brother?” Amanander pressed the bloodstained blade against Annandale’s throat.

“What do you want, Amanander?”

“You know what I want. I want what belongs to me.”

“There’s nothing that belongs to you. You’ve set your hand against us all.” Roderic edged forward.

“Throw that sword down, and you too, M’Callaster. Now, or I’ll kill her.”

Annandale shook her head. “No, Roderic, he’ll kill you—“

Amanander moved his arm back, and in that moment, another fork of lightning split the sky. It sizzled on the very tip of the
blade with its full force. Blue sparks arced in all directions, and the electrical surge traveled down the blade, into the
hilt, and into Amanander.

His body spasmed and jerked like a puppet on a string as the energy blasted through his body. His eyes popped open wide as
if in shock, and then, with one small gasp, he collapsed in a heap on top of Peregrine’s lifeless body, his blackened hand
still clutching the dagger.

Gartred stared wild-eyed at Roderic, gathered her skirts and ran.

“Let her go.” Roderic put a restraining hand on Deirdre’s arm. “She can’t go far.” He hesitated as his eyes found Annandale’s.
Awkwardly, he walked across the grass, tossing aside his bloodied sword. She looked up at him and gestured helplessly. The
chains which bound her to Peregrine made a hollow clang, and he realized she was unable to rise.

Silently, he dragged Amanander’s body off of Peregrine’s, and Deirdre came forward, automatically understanding what he needed.
He drew a deep breath as he gazed into her eyes. “Lady—” He began, then paused as Deirdre touched his arm with a ring of keys.

After a few false efforts, he unlocked the chains around her wrists. She rubbed her hands together, and awkwardly, he helped
her to her feet. She sank back down on the stone bench. He looked down at Peregrine’s lifeless body.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered. “If I hadn’t left you—“

She shook her head and made a little noise of protest.

“Lord Prince?” said Deirdre. “I’ve got men here to remove this body.”

Tenderly, he gathered Peregrine’s body in his arms. “Don’t move,” he said to Annandale. She nodded, and turned away as he
carried Peregrine’s remains into the hall and laid her down before a hearth.

“Go on,” said Deirdre gruffly. “I’ll see to what must be done.”

The hall was filling up with soldiers, crowding close, some laughing with relief, others quiet and grim. He nodded to Deirdre,
and walked outside in time to see Annandale gather up her skirts and run across the grass to a black shape huddled beneath
one of the ancient trees.

“Mother!”

Roderic ran to her side, just in time to see Nydia roll to one side, evading her daughter’s touch.

“Let me help you,” sobbed Annandale, reaching for her mother again.