The Black wing

Chapter 12

Sir Tate Sekforde squeezed the shears. Snip! The last straggle of his pale mustache drifted to the rush-covered floor. Still peering closely into the polished brass plaque, the Knight of the Crown smoothed his whiskers against his upper lip. His mustache had grown back thicker, even a shade darker, in the year since the fire that had singed it from his face. He frowned at his yellow-tinged image in the plaque as three fingers traced the faint scars on his left cheek, white against his tanned skin. Tate hoped the nose of the woman who had forever marked him thus looked as bad. If she was even still alive…

It was Misham, the fifth day of the week, the one he had chosen for his holy day. It meant that as a candidate for the Order of the Sword, Tate could not do battle, earn profit, or speak harshly to anyone this day. He must also spend at least

three hours in silent meditation and prayer to Kiri-Jolith, the patron god of the Order of the Sword. Lore said Kiri-Jolith was twin brother to Habbakuk, who was the patron of Tate's current Order of the Crown. When, as Tate hoped, he became a Knight of the Sword, the meditation to his new patron would grant him clerical spells. Until then, Tate secretly felt that it served primarily to slow down progress on his task of rebuilding Lamesh Castle. Four hundred fifty miles away in his tower in Solamnia, the High Clerist of the knights, who would decide whether Tate was fit to wear the sign of the sword, might never see him violate the rule, but the god Kiri-Jolith would know. And so every seven days, Tate complied.

As ranking knight of Lamesh Castle, Tate stood alone, the last to rise in the modest barracks he shared with his men. Not one to stand on formality, he nevertheless donned the off-duty attire of a man of his social standing-green- and yellow-checked tunic, green hose, and soft-soled, rawhide shoes. Last, he draped a black silk baldric, made by his lady mother, from right shoulder to left hip to carry the sword he never went without, holy day or not.

Thoughts of his family threatened to sour Tate's already somber mood, so he strode from the barracks and into the inner courtyard. The knight headed for the bake house located farther to the west along the north wall. Though the day was supposed to be spent in fasting, Tate believed that even the god Kiri-Jolith could not expect him to pray with any fervor on an empty stomach.

Abel, the baker Tate had brought with him from Solamnia, was a stout man who looked like he enjoyed his own pastries too well. He was doing his part to support the rebuilding of the castle into a Solamnic outpost. His ovens ran day and night, making a variety of baked goods that fed the workmen inside the castle, but were also sold to the people who were resettling the village beyond the castle walls.

The knight stepped into the man's domain just as Abel was using a long wooden paddle to retrieve a dark, round loaf from the stone oven. "What'll it be this morning, Sir Tate?" the baker asked, his chubby face flushed from the heat

of the oven. "I've got a nice, big loaf of rye here."

"No thanks, Abel. Just a sticky bun, if you please." Tate winked conspiratorially. "I'm supposed to be fasting today, you know."

The baker retrieved a bun from a bowl on the table and handed it to Tate. "So it's Misham, again, eh?" Shaking his head, he poured water from a pitcher onto a mound of coarse-ground flour in a wooden bowl and began to stir so vigorously the meal spewed onto the table. "You work me so hard out here in the boondocks, I can scarcely keep track of the days."

Tate smiled, knowing the crusty baker would have it no other way. "And well I appreciate your sacrifice, Abel. Are you getting the flour as quickly as you need it?"

Abel snorted. "Barely. That fool in the granary-what's his name, Dol? short for Dolt, no doubt-he's as slow as molasses in the month of Newkolt."

"Now, Abel, he's doing the best he can. Especially when you consider he knew nothing about milling grain before we recruited him to operate the grindstone."

"Still doesn't, if you ask me." The baker let a handful of flour sift through his fingers. "Look at how coarse this is. Chunks as big as your head-"

Tate clapped the baker on the back to curb the man's favorite tirade. "I'll speak to him about it tomorrow, Abel," the knight promised. "Thanks for the bun," he added as he stepped back into the coolness of the courtyard, chuckling.

The knight chided himself; he should have known better than to ask the persnickety Abel such a question. In truth, Tate didn't mind dealing with complaints. He spent many a day resolving conflicts between the craftsmen who were working to repair and rebuild the ruined castle. The majority of the debates were sparked when a local craftsman ques shy;tioned the opinion of one of the skilled artisans he'd brought from the more civilized region of Solamnia. He needed all of his diplomatic skills to solve those conflicts without obvious bias, which could cost him the craftsman. Tate needed every available hand to prepare the castle for the coming winter.

Before entering the temple to Kiri-Jolith for his three hours of prayer, Tate climbed the steps of the northeast tower and paced the walkway on the walls. The day was unusually warm for late autumn, the sky as blue as a sapphire. He wanted to enjoy a few moments of the last good weather they would have before winter turned the landscape bleak.

How far we have come in eight-odd months, he thought, surveying with pride the scene in the courtyard below. When Tate's party of thirty or more had arrived to reestablish the abandoned stronghold south of Kern for the forces of Good, the castle had been in ruins, looted and laid to waste by cen shy;turies of roving monsters and mercenaries.

Tate had stumbled upon the architect's original renderings of the castle, stuffed behind a loose stone in a wall of the great room. He was using the faded and torn plans to restore as much of Lamesh as possible to its original condition, though he was forced to use more wood and less stone, due to availability. The entire western cliff face had been in advanced decay and needed immediate shoring. The only significant alteration to the design was the conversion of a portion of the original lord knighf s personal apartments into a temple to Kiri-Jolith.

Within the castle walls, work was moving according to schedule. Tate's master architect, a man named Raymond of Winterholm, who had accompanied Tate from Solamnia, was an excellent planner. Normally, temporary structures would have been erected to house workers and key personnel while construction occurred. In laying out the castle, Winterholm wisely positioned the main wooden buildings near the walls that needed the least work, so they were permanent struc shy;tures from the beginning. Most of the key workmen currently lived inside the castle. Once it was finished, they would either return to Solamnia or build houses of their own in the adjoining village. Ultimately, only those folk crucial to the castle's defense would live within.

Turning, Tate looked down upon the town, which was quickly growing beyond the walls on the eastern side of Lamesh Castle. Crumbling sections of the old town wall cast a wide circle, suggesting that Lamesh had been a sizable vil shy;lage in its heyday before the Cataclysm. People were return shy;ing to the village more quickly than even Tate had expected. The simple presence of the knights in this wild territory promised order and authority. Since ogres and other crea shy;tures inhabited the mountains in greater numbers these days, many people chose to relocate within the protective shadow of the castle.

As the village awakened that morning, boys carted water with buckets on yokes, girls hunted eggs in corners where range hens had laid them, mothers issued orders to all. The support beams of new houses were a common sight these days. The first tavern had already sprung up to meet the needs of the many craftsmen who'd come from all corners to find work. Behind old, rebuilt homes, women gathered honey and tended herb gardens, drying their produce for winter use. Goats bleated; roosters crowed; dogs barked; cows lowed to be milked. The plaintive wail of bagpipes floated up from unseen lips. Tate felt something akin to a father's pride for this village.

Beyond the ruined walls of the town, a man led a horse and plow through a field where corn had just been har shy;vested. More than half of the crops were already in, filling the granary and storehouses. Hayricks and corn shocks dotted the rolling landscape. Sheep grazed on a nearby hillside, their dirty white coats grown out since spring shearing. Lina the weaver had already turned it to fabric, enough so that they wouldn't have to buy more during the cold months. Tate's plan for a self-sufficient community was becoming a reality even more quickly than he'd hoped. Still, there was much to be done before the first snowfall.

The Knight of the Crown dreaded the approaching winter, and not only from the standpoint of preparations; Sir Tate Sekforde hated the cold. It seemed to bury itself in his bones on the first frigid day and stay until buds returned to the trees. Winter would undoubtedly seem even colder without the centuries-old conveniences of the family castle back in Solamnia. Tate could just see his stuffy younger brother Rupport, feet propped on a hassock before a roaring fire in the family's private apartments, thick tapestries covering the cold stone walls of Castle DeHodge.

You have no business envying Rupport, Tate scolded him shy;self. You gave up your claim as eldest son of your own accord. Truly, envy was not what Tate felt for the brother who'd been so ashamed of their father's common heritage that he'd taken their mother's maiden surname, DeHodge. Sir Rupport DeHodge. Even his name sounded pompous.

It was Tate's opinion that knights like Rupport had caused the decline of the order. Rupport had inherited his super shy;cilious nature from their mother, whose noble family's his shy;tory with the knighthood could be traced all the way back to Vinas Solamnus. Thirty years ago, the DeHodge family's for shy;tunes had declined beyond their ability to deny it. The Cata shy;clysm had caused less physical damage to their castle near the High Clerist's Tower than the social aftershocks to their finances. An only child, Cilia DeHodge had reluctantly agreed to an arranged marriage to a wealthy merchant from downriver at Jansburg, for whom she felt nothing but contempt.

Gedeon Sekforde was a kindly, street-smart man who loved his wife despite her many faults, not the least of which was the disdain for him she never bothered to hide. In exchange for restoring her family's lands with his merchant money, Cilia bore him two sons. While Cilia DeHodge Sek shy;forde pushed her sons toward the knighthood, Gedeon Sek shy;forde gave them the freedom to choose whatever occupation they wished. Though both embraced the knighthood, their reasons were very, very different. Rupport read his own intolerance and bigotry into the writings of the Measure and espoused them as his knightly goals.

Tate read the voluminous set of laws that defined the term honor and saw obedience to the spirit of the laws as the chief goal of the knighthood. It was Gedeon Sekforde who encour shy;aged Tate to read between the lines of the Measure when his elder son would question the accuracy of the younger7 s inter shy;pretations. When Gedeon died, Cilia and Rupport's unfeeling snobbishness, not an uncommon trait among mem shy;bers of the knighthood, became unbearable to Tate. To escape the prevailing attitudes in Solamnia and in hopes that the frontier would allow for freethinking, Tate formally renounced his claim to the family estates and signed on with Stippling's expedition.

Not a month out of Solamnia, however, the venerable Knight of the Rose's party had been ambushed by ogres and mercenaries in a pass through the northern Khalkists. Tate alone had survived. Burned, his leg injured, he had stumbled and crawled his way to the village of Styx. Giving himself just one day to rest, he bought a horse and headed straight shy;away for the High Clerist's Tower back in Solamnia to report the deaths. And to apply for entry into the next level of knighthood, the Order of the Sword. He knew just what quest he would be assigned: to complete Stippling's mission of establishing a Solamnic outpost at Lamesh.

On the return trip, the Knight of the Crown had had a lot of time to think. The clerical spells that only Knights of the Sword received through prayer would certainly be useful, especially if ever Tate were in a situation like the ambush again. What was more, his reasons for joining Stippling's troop had not changed; he had no wish to settle in Solamnia. The High Clerist and the Knightly Council had not been keen at first to agree to such a monumental quest by so young a knight. A number of particularly arrogant knights, mentors of Rupport's no doubt, had even questioned Tate's bravery, since he'd had the audacity to survive. Tate had wondered more than once if the staid old Council of Knights hadn't ulti shy;mately agreed to his request simply to brush him off, pre shy;suming that he would fail. In a land so remote that it didn't even bear a regional name, news of a Crown Knight's defeat would not tarnish the knighthood in Solamnia. Tate shook away the aggravating reflection. Unkind thoughts were not allowed on holy days either.

He remembered his sticky bun. Tate's mouth was open wide around the sugared tidbit when Sir Wolter Heding's voice boomed behind him.

"Ah, ah, ahhh!" the old knight scolded in singsong. "You weren't about to eat that, were you, lad?"

"I was thinking about it, yes."

Sir Wolter came to stand before him. He was a large man by anyone's standards, slightly corpulent, with a hooked nose and a strong jaw that was usually covered with stubble. "A candidate for Sword Knight eating on his holy day? Tsk, tsk, lad."

"Thaf s 'Sir Lad/ to you." Tate's mouth was scowling, but his brown eyes were smiling as he handed over the sticky bun. To Tate's annoyance, his sponsor in the knighthood popped the bun into his own mouth.

"Ha! That'll be the day!" chortled Sir Wolter over the bun. "You may be lord knight of the castle because of your quest, but I still outrank you by-"

"Centuries," filled in Tate. "Yes, I know, you knew Vinas Solamnus."

"And don't you forget it," laughed Wolter, poking his young friend in the chest.

"Not for a moment, Wolter." Neither would Tate forget that Sir Wolter Heding was likely the reason the Knightly Council had finally agreed to let him undertake Stippling's assignment as his quest.

Sir Wolter had sponsored Tate as a squire. Since Tate's own father had not been a knight and Wolter had no children of his own, they formed an unusually tight bond. The elder knight had taught Tate everything he knew about knightly behavior and endeavor: horsemanship, weapons, archery, wrestling, hunting, fieldcraft, even teamwork. When Tate signed on with Stippling, Sir Wolter alone had understood his reasons for leaving Solamnia. When Tate returned after the ambush, Wolter had spoken up for the young man. The elder knight recounted an endless list of Tate's acts of courage, feats of strength, and skill.

In the end, the council had been swayed only when Wolter volunteered to accompany young Sekforde and act as wit shy;ness. The elder Knight of the Rose had long ago earned the right to sit hearthside and recount tales of bravery to children. He was the kind of knight Tate aspired to be, embracing the intent, not the letter, of the Oath and the Mea shy;sure. Sir Wolter's advice was infrequent but insightful, and always relayed in private, in respect to Tate's authority.

"Speaking of forgetting," Wolter said with bushy eye shy;brows raised, "I didn't see you at morning worship." Wolter eyed Tate's attire. "Hadn't you better get your dandified self down there and pay Kiri-Jolith his due?"

Tate colored, looking properly chastised. "I stopped for a brief moment to enjoy the good weather and lost track of time."

Wolter pushed him toward the steps. "I'll come and tell you when three hours have passed." He winked. "Just in case you get equally absorbed by your prayers." The old knight knew how difficult Tate found it to meditate for an entire day, especially with the castle in so much need of attention.

"Get you gone," Wolter said more kindly. "The meditation is as important to your quest as anything else. I'll keep an eye on things, don't you worry."

Tate clambered down the circular tower steps. He passed by the blacksmith's shop, forge always glowing to meet the constant demands of the craftsmen. He saluted the two sen shy;tries at the gate house, though he didn't know their names, or those of many of the younger knights.

The temple to Kiri-Jolith was defined more by function than decor. In reality it was a walled-off section of the first lord knight's once-sumptuous apartments. Long ago stripped of its riches, it now contained just six rows of hard wooden benches and a small altar, decorated only with the god's bison head symbol. The room was always cold and dark, lit by a single candle, which was meant to aid concentration.

The temple was empty now as well. Tate slipped inside and onto the wooden bench nearest the altar. He was glad for the privacy, since it allowed him to pray aloud and thus remain focused. Tate cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Kiri-Jolith, Sword of Justice, hear my call. Guide this humble knight in his quest for honor and justice. Help him to see grievous wrongs and right them. Let him never stray from the path of obedience. Keep his will and his sword arm strong in your service."

Tate chanted the lines over and over. He envied those knights who could simply meditate, free-form, for hours on end. He was not gifted with profound words or thoughts. Tate fancied himself a man of action.

The knight was reciting the prayer for the one hundred thirty-seventh time when shouts in the courtyard sliced through his already fragile concentration. One word alone was enough to draw his attention.

"Fire!"

Tate's heart skipped a beat. Fire in a castle could mean dis shy;aster. Certain Kiri-Jolith would understand the distraction, the knight jumped to his feet and was on his way to the door when a young squire, his thin face glowing from sweat, burst through it. He nearly knocked Tate down.

"Sir Tate!" cried the squire, his voice thin and reedy from inhaling smoke. "There's fire, sir! Sir Wolter sent me to get you." The youth collapsed on a bench, unable to draw a breath.

"Where is it?" The youth couldn't get enough air to speak. Tate shook him impatiently. "Damn it, tell me!"

"Bake house," the squire managed to rasp.

The bake house … It was next to the granary. They'd had to rebuild a lot of it with wood. He thought of Abel-every shy;thing had looked fine just a few short hours ago. Tate bolted through the door and headed for the opposite corner of the courtyard, where black smoke choked the sun. The normal bustle of the castle had been replaced by near panic. As Tate approached the bake house, it came to him that he'd broken another of the laws of the holy day. He'd spoken harshly to the squire.

A good morning was suddenly turning very bad.

Abel, covered in flour and soot, ran to and fro in front of the small building, clutching at everyone who came near enough, begging them to fetch water. A few ran to the well, others with more level heads went to nearby shops or to the stables to find buckets. The stonemasons, working above the kitchen and very near the burning bakery, scrambled down from their scaffolding and joined the force; the blacksmith bolted from his forge; the sentries left their posts to help. Even a small fire could rage out of control and consume an entire building in the time it took to organize a fire brigade.

The well was more than a hundred paces away, too far to form a continuous water supply line to the fire. Dozens of workers ran back and forth, sloshing water from heavy wooden buckets all the way, to splash a few gallons onto the rapidly growing blaze.

Wolter dashed out of the knights' barracks, weaving and dodging his way through the sprinting water carriers. He had barely reached the scene before Tate grabbed him by the shoulders. "I thought you were keeping an eye on things!"

Sir Wolter's eyes already appeared red from smoke. "I couldn't be everywhere there was flame," the old knight said sadly, "and neither could you."

"Send word out to the village," Tate told him. "We need every man, woman, and child who can carry water, and every container that will hold it."

Wolter immediately collared half a dozen boys and dis shy;patched them with Tate's message, along with a warning to "run their hearts out, and pound down people's doors if nec shy;essary."

Meanwhile, Tate had captured the distraught baker and removed him a few score paces from the tumult. "Is anyone still inside?"

The baker shook his head vigorously. "No, sir, I don't think so. But all my implements are there, everything I need to do my job. It's all being destroyed." Abel's wide eyes turned back toward the smoking, half-timbered building, and he started to pull away.

Tate grabbed the man's arm and commanded his atten shy;tion. "How did it start?"

"It was Kaye, sir, the apprentice." Abel wrung his flour-covered hands uncontrollably. 'The boy's apron must have caught an ember when he crouched down to feed the fire. Suddenly it was burning and Kaye, why, sir, he nearly expired of a fit right there. Lucky for him young Idwoir was nearby, waiting for a biscuit. Idwoir ripped the apron off the boy and tried to get rid of it, but it fell to the floor.

"The reeds on the floor caught up next. Idwoir tried to douse them, but I guess he was too excited because he missed the flames. Before we could fetch more water, the whole place was filled with smoke so bad it choked a man just to be near it. Oh, I'm awfully sorry, Sir Tate. This is a catastrophe, thaf s what it is."

Tate was in no mood to soothe the man's nerves. "See if you can help by passing a bucket," he ordered, then turned back to the fire.

The blaze was intensifying rapidly. Tall flames were visi shy;ble through the windows, gyrating in the black billows. Yel shy;low smoke, so thick that it looked like raw wool, streamed upward through the thatched roof.

By now, villagers were arriving with leather and wooden buckets, cooking pots, ancient helmets with chin-strap han shy;dles, even crockery mugs and tin cups. Wolter and the other knights directed them into two long lines from the bakery to the well.

"Every able-bodied person available, and some not so able, is here," Wolter reported. "We've got to make sure we keep rotating the men at the front. It's hot as wizard fire, and no one can stand it long when they're up close enough to throw on water."

One line of people, containing mainly men and matrons, passed the heavy, sloshing buckets from the well to the fire. Empty containers traveled back to be refilled along the other line, passing through the hands of grandparents, children, young women, even some ailing residents who, Tate real shy;ized, must have left their sickbeds to take a place in line.

With the bucket brigade operating at full speed, the fire seemed to be held in check. Tate marched up and down the lines, yelling encouragement. The roar of the flames mingling with the grunts and shouts of the fire fighters was nearly deafening. On returning again to the front of the bakery, Tate found Raymond of Winterholm, the master architect. The man's forehead was furrowed with anxiety, his face filmed with perspiration. The heat here was nearly unbearable.

"What's your opinion, Master Raymond?" Tate shouted over the din. "Are we beating it back?" The knight's heart hammered in his chest from the excitement and exertion.

"That's hard to say, Sir Tate," the architect bellowed back. "There's so much smoke we can't get a good look at the extent and direction of the fire. At the very least, we've slowed it down. And a good thing, too. Those support beams to the left of the bakery are reinforcing the new upper por shy;tions of the east wall, where the mortar isn't completely set. If we lose those beams, the battlements could crumble." Wincing, he ran a hand through his hair. "I don't want to think about how much more damage that would cause."

Tate clapped the man on the shoulder, trying to be reassur shy;ing though his own doubts were great.

A torrent of flame suddenly burst through the thick roof of the building. The column of yellow smoke that had been pouring upward ignited into a writhing pillar. And then, a vast portion of the roof broke away and tumbled downward. Spitting fire and smoke, the roof section broke off and crashed into the midst of the people below, who had charged forward with buckets of water.

Men, women, and children scattered from the sudden onslaught, dropping buckets as they ran; all but two, who were pinned beneath the searing mass. Their screams seemed to have no effect on those who scrambled for their lives, but in moments, knights converged on the scene.

One of them, armed with a long-handled military hook, plunged the weapon into a bundle of thatch. As he pulled aside the burning mass, Tate and another knight grabbed the two victims and dragged them out into the central courtyard, away from the heat and danger.

Both men appeared horribly burned. Their clothes were scorched, their faces blackened, much of their hair fried away. Remembering his own painful, narrow escape from burning death, the young knight thanked Habbakuk that both were unconscious.

Momentarily the barber, a dwarf with long braided locks, rushed up and began gingerly peeling the smoking clothes from the victims. Tate watched helplessly for several moments until Sir Wolter jolted him, saying "You'd best come back to the fire. We've a new problem."

The hole in the roof was acting like a chimney; the sudden rush of heat and flame through the opening drew a blasting draft into the house. The building had become a furnace.

"That's not the worst of it," the older knight added. "We can't possibly put it out, but we must keep it from spreading. There's new construction to the left of it and the granary to the right."

Once again Master Raymond was at Tate's elbow. "Sir, that new construction must be protected. If the supports burn away, anything could happen."

"But if we lose the grain," Tate responded, "we can't sus shy;tain the castle and village in the coming winter." Though he already knew and now feared the answer, Tate asked Sir Wolter, "How full is the granary?"

"Dol tells me if s about half full," Wolter replied. "Damnation!" Tate slammed his fist into his hand. "Thaf s not just our food for the winter, it's next year's seed. Take whomever can be spared from the bucket lines and start emptying the granary. I don't care where you put the grain- dump it on the ground if you have to, but get it out of there." Turning to Raymond, Tate barked, "Find the head groom and have him get all the horses out of the stables. We can't chance losing them, too."

"Of course," Raymond replied. "If the granary goes up, the stables will be next."

Tate cut him off. "I don't intend to lose either of them. Get some people on top of the granary and tear off its roof. Don't leave any kindling up there for a stray spark to ignite. Then use chains or ropes or whatever else you can find and hitch some plow horses to the granary. If it catches fire, pull it down and scatter the pieces so there's nothing for the flames to climb."

"What about the new wall?" the architect asked. Tate peered through the smoke at the scaffolding behind the kitchen. "We'll just have to hold the fire off as best we can." After Raymond ran off into the smoke, Tate rubbed his face in his hands. Great Huma's ghost, he didn't have all the answers, even if they expected him to.

Tense minutes later, Wolter and Raymond were again back at Tate's side. "We're ready to topple the granary, but I hope we don't have to," the knight reported. "What with the heat and the smoke, getting the grain out is next to impossi shy;ble. If s going awfully slow because the men have to work in short shifts to keep from searing their lungs." "And the wall supports?"

Raymond's soot-streaked face looked worried. "The beams are scorching, and the ropes are smoking like a dwarf's pipe. If the bakery collapses soon, and I expect it will, we'll be a lot safer."

Strangely relieved by the news that the bakery was about to fall, Tate relaxed slightly. But cries of "Water! Water!" from the fire fighters cut short his brief respite.

Tate's heart nearly choked him when he saw bucket passers and fire fighters standing idle, shuffling their feet and looking quizzically back toward the well. A few empty buck shy;ets were still moving down the line, but no newly filled ones came forward.

At the well, the blacksmith and the farrier both dripped sweat. They stood panting, their hands on the rope that dis shy;appeared down the dark shaft. Tate stopped his headlong rush by crashing into the side of the well, clutching the rough stones to keep his balance. Before he could blurt out the obvi shy;ous question, the farrier answered it.

"We've drained it to the bottom, Sir Tate. If s just filling at a trickle now, not nearly as fast as we've been taking it out. And we've already drained the cisterns, too."

"How much water can we get?" Tate asked softly, almost a whisper. Everyone's eyes were on him.

The blacksmith arched his eyebrows momentarily as if to apologize. "We can get one bucket in the time it took us to get

ten or fifteen before."

Tate stood straight as a pike and glared at the sky, dark shy;ened with smoke and soot. "Gods' teeth!" he screamed. "Am I to be opposed by fate at every step?" He stared into the roaring sky, then turned to the men waiting by the horses. The words to command the destruction of all their hard work choked in his throat. Tate waved his arm.

"Pull down the granary," Wolter bellowed, correctly inter shy;preting the gesture.

Grooms tugged on bridles, chains lifted off the ground, then grew tight and strained. Slowly a chorus of "hiyaa" and "g'yon there" gave way to groaning timber and splintering lath. The granary building leaned at the top, then buckled at the bottom, and collapsed into a dust-obscured heap of rub shy;ble. Flames shot up and danced across its surface. As the horses continued dragging the massive timbers, they scat shy;tered the burning matter across the inner courtyard. Women and children swarmed around it to beat out the flames with brooms and blankets.

Unchecked, the fire now raced along the wall support beams above the kitchen. With no water to hold back the flames, the kitchen would soon be engulfed the same way the bakery had been.

The throng of people who had worked so hard to slay the wicked fire now watched it rage out of control. As a group, they backed across the courtyard toward the temple and the main gate, then stood and watched, eyes streaming with tears, as the kitchen was consumed. Above the kitchen, workers' scaffolding swayed in the heat. Ropes smoldered before snapping loose. Support beams, already charred, began to glow from within.

As the blaze in the kitchen reached its height, the first of the wall supports collapsed. The sound was like nothing Tate had ever heard before-like a whip crack, only as loud as an avalanche.

Uncured mortar, weakened further by the heat of the fire, could not hold up the massive stones. One stone slid out and crashed through the kitchen, casting up a shower of sparks to more than twice the height of the curtain wall. Several more stones followed, then the entire upper section of the wall poured down.

The castle shook under the blows, and people claimed later they were actually knocked off their feet by the shock. When the dust cleared, Tate didn't know whether to laugh or cry. A gaping hole forty feet wide and twenty feet deep made the wall look worse than it had four months ago, when the restoration had just started. But in collapsing, the stones had buried the kitchen, extinguishing the fire that had caused them to fall.

Wolter came to stand by his slack-jawed friend. The old knight's face was streaked with soot and sweat, gray hair hanging in his eyes. "We'll rebuild, Tate. We did it once, we can do it again."

Tate nodded numbly. In spite of his misery, Tate recalled a legend his father had told him often. It was about two ances shy;tral enemies who fought for hours only to ultimately kill each other with simultaneous deathblows. As a child, Tate had thought the story epitomized the ideals of honor and passion. Now, it just seemed a waste.