One for the Morning Glory (17 page)

There was the sound of dragging, scuffling feet, and a flurry of shrieks, still being forced through the huge fist.

The Count continued on his way to where his horse was saddled. He had no love for traitors. He had been more than willing to accept the scandal when Calliope had approached him about it, so that the traitors among the nobles might be sniffed out.

But he felt just a little sorry he had been part of this.

The next day, after the hangings, the Council of War convened in earnest. Despite the success of his plans thus far, Cedric remained deeply worried, for he knew from a diligent study of stories and tales that tyrants, conquerors, and such generally did fairly well before being overthrown, and sometimes did well for a long time, so merely being well-prepared and having right on their side was going to be far from enough. Indeed, he was also aware of the tendency, noted in all books of lore, for the good side to win out by some lucky chance at the last moment, and for the bad side to have all the luck till then. He was not sure it was even possible to prepare against a side which might well have all the luck, but consoled himself with the thought that he was only called upon to try—success was a matter for the gods to decide.

The others in the room were as grim and as bleak as Cedric, for they well understood that the slaughter of Waldo's agents was as likely to provoke Waldo as anything else, and the sheer numbers of spies and traitors had made Waldo seem more frightening. Moreover, word was from the western shore of Iron Lake that streams were breaking free early this year, so it might well be that the attack from Overhill would move soon.

The meeting began in the dull way that meetings usually do, with Boniface and Cedric running over the lists of who was to do what, how soon it was to be done, and so forth—things on the order of "Check this armory in the East, remove all the good escree blades and bring them to the city, send all the bad ones into the village to be reforged. Send word ahead so that the city may release that many blades to go up the Long and Winding Road to the frontier where they are needed," and "Find a hundred big farm boys—preferably with no ambition for glory—train them, and set them to guard that granary."

For all the color of the swirl of cloaks around the table, and the sunlight dancing upon it from the window, the room was cold, and people seemed to huddle together, and to speak as little as possible.

This meant an uncharacteristically quick meeting. They had almost reached the end of the business—the matter of training recruits part-time so that spring planting might go forward was just being discussed in a very reasonable way by some very reasonable minor nobles—when there was a commotion outside. Cedric's heart sank, for he had spent the better part of the winter reading old tales whenever he could, to assist in his getting ready, and he knew this to be the worst sort of omen in this sort of tale.

A moment later the doors opened, and a man came in. He had been tall once, but now he was stooped with age; handsome once, but sun and wind had played on his skin a long time. He was dressed from head to toe in the soft hide of zwieback and gazebo, and a bushy beard fell almost to his waist. His blue eyes seemed locked in a permanent squint.

There was a great rattle as he came in, for on his chest he wore crossed swashes of pismires, and on his back he carried a festoon and a great double-bladed ax. There was an answering rattle from the corner, for at the sight of so much armament headed directly for the throne, the Twisted Man had stood up and flung back part of his cloak, exposing many weapons—and something more fearsome, for those who saw quickly looked away and never told anyone what they had seen of his body.

The man dressed in hides bounded up the aisle and knelt, and it was only then that they saw the many stains of blood on his zwieback leggings and gazebo shirt.

Cedric rose and said, "Majesty and Highness, permit me to present Euripides—our chief of scouts."

The scout bowed low, and then drew a deep breath, and then said, "All my news is bad. I was a month escaping from Overhill, with all of them hunting me, and carved the skis on which I came myself, and have found a high pass I have named in my own honor. And what I saw there was a mighty army by day, and mightier by night for it is more than half goblins—and things worse than goblins—for those men of Overhill who would not fight for Waldo and could not flee him are dead, but they stand in his ranks, and men who once stood against him return from their graves as his minions."

The room seemed to shudder. Those who had fought vampires or goblins felt their hearts sink, for they knew that though a man was more than a match for one, numbers would tell. Moreover, those who had been in battle knew too well what it would mean to face an army strong by day and stronger by night.

"The news is grave, indeed, and yet I am bound to thank you for it," Cedric said, and took out one of the medals that he always carried for such occasions, to bestow it upon the scout.

But old Euripides remained kneeling, and now he sighed with a heartbreak so deep that there were those who claimed afterwards that the Twisted Man had shuddered. "My lord, that was prologue, for while I fought to find my way forth, the melt came early this year on the other side of the mountains, and they moved swiftly; often indeed I was in danger of being pinned between Waldo's scouts and the advance of his army. They have been on the move, my lord, for at least three weeks, and they are well-armed and ready."

Cedric grew pale, and nodded to Sir John Slitgizzard, who raced to the roof to sound the Invasion Bell, to let the city know that it would be war, this spring, in earnest, and to get every muster out. Then he turned back and reached to place the medal about Euripides's neck.

"My lord," Euripides said. "Do not. What I have told you thus far, I have told you only so that you will believe what I must say now."

The room held its breath.

"The fort in the Isought Gap is fallen, its armory there in Waldo's hands, and all the men made undead and brought into the Usurper's ranks. They are but scant days from here by easy marches, now. My warning has reached you too late, and I have failed you."

Before the early spring sun had quite set that evening, the quickest-moving of the refugees were already coming into the city. And because the goblins would have taken a fearful toll of crowds waiting outside the city for the dawn, King Boniface gave orders that the gates that faced west be kept open in the night, and a dozen reliable witches and two hundred guards got no sleep as they examined each traveler coming in.

About every ninth one burned and died at the touch of rosewood and garlic. Sometimes the enemy had been particularly clever, finding some family too shocked to notice, making a beloved grandmother or a small boy undead, and leaving the rest untouched. There were fights in the lines at the gates, and by dawn there were several seasoned soldiers sobbing in the infirmary. This one had cut down innocent people who had panicked at shadows behind them on the brink of safety, that one had pried the remains of an undead infant from its living mother's charred arms, all had found some hideous prank in the train of refugees.

Roderick himself, most reliable of troopers, had felt his gorge rise when he had discovered twin undead girls, not more than two years in age, clinging to the bottom of a tumulus, their hands and feet wedged into cracks on either side of the single axle. They had flown straight at him; he had barely struck them with the white-magicked wand in time, and as he had done so he had looked up to see the shocked eyes of the parents who had buried them by the roadside only hours before.

Gwyn told her granddaughter, who told a later chronicler of the Kingdom, that Roderick did not sleep until late on the following afternoon, though he was off duty at sunrise. According to the chronicle we have, he did not move or stir, and told her nothing of what he had seen, but sat in his accustomed chair, tears trailing down his nose, while Gwyn rubbed his neck and sang things she had heard Psyche singing to Amatus.

There is a claim that he finally rose from the chair, undressed, and went to bed after she thought to sing "One for the Morning Glory," the song that Psyche never sang until Amatus was already asleep, which Gwyn thought must be some good charm. The better scholars of the Kingdom always doubted it, for you can sing it yourself and you will see that it makes no difference.

As the sun rose, the refugees grew more numerous and more desperate. Now that witches need not be employed, it went faster, for guards need only insist that everything be opened or turned over in the sunlight, but there were so many of them that the wait still grew longer and longer, and the great horde of refugees waiting outside the town all looked fearfully over their shoulders at the horizon, for they feared to be caught outside the gates of the city.

The fear became more real with each passing hour, for although Waldo's main force was encamped while daylight prevented the great bulk of his troops from moving, his living human foragers were moving on as broad a front as they could, driving everyone before them. Isolated lords in their castles took in as many as they could, and awaited the night with dread, but most of the ordinary farmers, merchants, and workmen of the Kingdom preferred to take their chances in the city, behind Cedric's army.

Toward late afternoon, things changed drastically again, for now the numbers were almost beyond counting, but no one had saved any possessions. Thus almost no inspection was required, and the crowd began to flow swiftly into the city.

The delay had even done some good, for it had allowed at least some temporary shelter and some kitchens to be set up. The Hektarian Ambassador, daring Waldo to make anything of it, opened his gates and took in hundreds; not to be outdone, the Vulgarian Ambassador followed suit. Calliope quietly moved to an apartment in the palace and ordered her servants to take in as many as they could; inspired by her example, many of the city's nobility followed suit, so that the castle quickly came to resemble a gigantic dormitory for the nobility.

That, and the efforts of the city to take everyone in, allowed the population to spend a few hours not thinking about what was approaching, and the hard work helped to make everyone cheerful and pleasant, so that Cedric made a mental note (there was no time for a diary entry) to write about how well they had all borne up, and Roderick, returning to guard, witnessed several moments of warm friendliness between people who ordinarily would not have gotten along, and thought that he must include them in
The Third Part of Prince Amatus.

They struggled to make the city accommodate twice its usual population, and they succeeded. They worked endlessly in those last hours to get in enough food from the East to feed everyone for a long siege. Every man who knew anything of smithing, and many who did not, labored at the forges, shaping iron for the battle to come, and wagons of powder rumbled through the streets endlessly.

And still they knew that none of this might be enough. The fort in the Isought Gap should have held Waldo for some weeks, allowing the army to come up; it had fallen in less than a day, and no one knew how or why—or no one in the city did, anyway. Militia and the lords around the south shore of Iron Lake should have been able to make a stand where the glacier sloped down to Bell Tower Beach and the passage was narrow, but no word came from there, and whether the Second Battle of Bell Tower Beach had been fought and lost, or they had died to a man in their beds before they even knew of Waldo's attack, was unknown.

"It's the lack of knowledge that brings the fear," the Duke said, pacing on the West Battue with Sir John Slitgizzard and the Prime Minister. "If Waldo is behind it, it is some trick, because he is treacherous and crafty, and some simple trick, because he is stingy and cheap. If we knew the trick . . ."

"Then we would only know what he used before," Cedric said, impatiently. "He is not so stupid as to use it repeatedly."

"But he would not seem quite so fearsome. And if the trick were low and evil enough—and perhaps if it were the sort of thing one would kick oneself for succumbing to—" The Duke persisted more than usual, for he felt useless in the city and longed to be about doing something.

"That would be some gain," Cedric said. "I will grant that. But truth to tell, Duke Wassant, I have a mission for you here that is vital—and only you and Sir John are to know of this." He sat down upon the parataxis, drew a deep breath, and said, "It is an old law that one may not contemplate the death of a living king; it is a foolish law for the King himself is forced to break it from time to time. King Boniface, may he live a century more, says he will not be driven from the city; which is to say, he will conquer here, or he will die in the blazing wreckage. Now, if the former should happen, there is no problem, but in the event of the latter, we must secure the lineage.

Therefore . . . lean in close, for I do not wish to speak such things aloud . . ."

The two men bent inward until they bumped heads in front of Cedric, and after a moment's adjustment, the Prime Minister barely breathed, "We must secure the lives of Amatus and of the Lady Calliope. Don't start at me, this is not the sort of tale in which a minor character marries a prince, and she is much more than she seems to be. It is possible that the Kingdom might be retaken by the raising of a rebellion, but only if the Prince or the Lady are available for the purpose . . . unless you would prefer to try to get someone to follow one of our republicans?

"Now, your Prince has a fierce and loyal heart, and he will want to stay and fight. Duke Wassant, you must keep the battle going to prevent his being trapped. You know as well as I what that might mean as a practical matter."

"If Boniface dies—"

"You will take over the defense here, for you will be my second-in-command. If Boniface dies it is unlikely I shall survive him. Fight on until your army is gone—or perhaps until you win, if fate should be kinder to you than to the Royal house."

"Sir John, your duty is simpler, and smaller, and there are those who will not approve of it. You must take the Prince and the Lady—by force if need be—and conduct them to the Far North. There you will meet Deacon Dick Thunder—no, no, honestly, you fellows jump every time I mention anything I am not supposed to know. I know your youth was wild and bad, Sir John, and should anyone ever step forward to mention that he knew you when you went by the name of Escree Jack and rode with Thunder and his men, there is a pardon waiting for you in my strongbox. You'd never have been a suitably bad friend for the Prince if you hadn't done a few such things, eh?"

"Er, the last I knew, though, sir, the Deacon was no great friend to the Royal house—"

"Ah, but he's less a friend to Waldo, and being a practical man of affairs he's no republican either. And besides, there are two caches of gold along your way, so that you can probably buy the services of himself and his men—"

"If he doesn't just take the money."

"Just take the money when someone is tickling his vanity? Just take the money when there is a Robin Hood motif in the air? Surely you recall his aesthetic sense—"

"You're right," Sir John admitted. "Silly of me."

Cedric was to remember that last conversation for a long time, and in his mind it grew more important as years went on, for he had grown terribly fond of the two friends of the Prince, and come to rely on them as his most energetic agents.

In this, he had violated his own precepts, for many, many times he had told Amatus not to grow too fond of any man he might have to send to his death, to learn to command men's loyalty while seeing them only as tools to be thrown away, for just such betrayal is the essence of statecraft. Yet, here he was, wishing that it might be someone else he would ask to do these hard things.

Sir John was not a reflective man, and so he did not perceive any of it; and since Duke Wassant was not to write any memoirs, we have only Cedric's word that the Duke saw something in his eyes.

As if reluctant to part company just yet, the three of them walked down the stairs together, remembering this, talking about that. They had almost reached the foot of the staircase before the shouts came, and they had to run all the way back up.

As they looked to the west, they saw the Long River and the Winding River join; beyond them lay fields of wheat and flan, and little villages, fading into green. In the distance a great black wave spread across the whole plain.

"They cannot be undead," the Duke breathed. "They are out in the daylight."

"Nor can they be all living men; Waldo could not feed so many," Cedric rejoined. "There is some silly secret behind this. I feel that in my bones. If we but knew what we had to do, one little deed would be enough."

King Boniface joined them then, Amatus directly behind him. "So," he said, "it comes now. I've read your orders, Cedric, and I agree with all of them in light of the circumstances; is there anything more in the way of preparation we can do?"

"Only what is already under way. We will be as ready as we can."

"It will be enough," Boniface said firmly, looking at the three men firmly, first at Sir John Slitgizzard, who drew himself up taller with pride, then to Duke Wassant, who inclined his head slightly in obedience, and finally to Amatus, who merely looked back.

Cedric realized the old King was trying to rally their spirits with a confidence that he might not—or might?—feel. And he also realized that he was the only person alive who knew King Boniface well enough to see that. It made him feel sad to have lived so long; he must justify it by service to the King, one more time, before this was all over.

There was great fear in the town, naturally, and more once the sun was fully down, for whatever the secret that allowed Waldo to travel with an army of such size, it also seemed to allow his goblins and undead to catch up with his forces just after dusk. "They may just take us by front assault," Boniface said sadly to Amatus.

"Father," Amatus said, "I am glad we have had so many years together."

As for whether that was premonition, or just something important for Amatus to say, no chronicler ventures an opinion. All do say, however, that Boniface threw his arms around his son and Amatus threw his arm around his father.

Just what the invaders were could not be told, for as they drew near a black lid of cloud had swept over the city, and it was so dark that every man on the walls was constantly, nervously checking to make sure that those at his side were his comrades, and dreading what must happen if he were to turn and find that they were not.

By sound alone they knew that Waldo's army flowed around the city as the tide flows around a sand castle whose careful constructor has delayed the inevitable by putting it on a hummock. First came the swift rushes of cavalry in the growing darkness, and the alarming realization for everyone in the city that they were riding as fast as, or faster than, ordinary horsemen might ride in broad daylight on level ground—so these could be neither ordinary horses nor ordinary horsemen.

The night resounded with the hollow booming of hooves, and with miserable shrieks of despair as whatever-they-were caught the last stragglers outside the city. The worst of it, by far, was that sometimes the shrieks would be followed by sobbing or pleading.

After the horsemen came the tramp of Waldo's infantry. It was not perfectly rhythmic, and there were stumbles and occasional crashes in it, but much of it was curiously voiceless, and many thought to themselves,
It is an army of the undead,
and shuddered deeply, and the rare occasion when a crash or a scraping sound from Waldo's side was followed by swearing or bickering almost raised their hearts, for it made the foe sound like living men.

And after the tramping came the squeak and boom of the little tumuluses, looted from thousands of farms or from refugees on the road, carrying supplies to the surrounding army. Still it remained dark, despite the best efforts of the dozen brilliant witches in the center of the castle courtyard; nothing, seemingly, could raise the blackness. The noises outside the walls might have been the making of camp, or the forming up of lines—it was impossible to say.