The Sorcery Within

XXXV

SHORTLY AFTER DAWN,the horns sounded at Xurosh.

Elenya watched the sentries suddenly burst into activity. No one took the time to wonder what the Shol slave girl was doing on the battlements. They were preoccupied by the sight beyond the walls.

A band of Zyraii had rounded the last bend and were waiting in the roadway, calmly regarding the fortress.

As the echoes of the horn faded, bodies came pouring out of the barracks, both in the southern keep and the northern fortress. The commander of the garrison appeared from the brothel doorway. And a strange thing happened.

The commander was walking very slowly, barely able to get each foot in front of the other in time to stay upright. His arms, busy putting on a leather armor vest, stiffened and would not complete their chore. Eight paces from the building, he stopped altogether. A pair of prostitutes watched from the doorway, terror on their faces.

"Sorcery!" screamed voices from the bridge. In the barracks, over a dozen men could not rise from their beds, though they breathed and some had opened their eyes. Many of those who did rouse were afflicted like the commander, moving strictly in slow motion – able to speak, fully awake, but without control over their own bodies.

Elenya sighed in relief. It had been an uncertain thing, determining how much the well would dilute the poison. If too strong, the men would have been instantly stricken, and blame would have fallen on the water they had just consumed. Too weak, and the Mother's Breath would have made the soldiers sluggish, but far from incapacitated. The proper range had been achieved – the tainted water had its effect hours after the drinking, and, though it hadn't frozen all of the victims, it had rendered a large number useless. Given time, the heat of the day, and freedom from suspicion of the well water, most of the fortress would succumb.

"What are you doing up here?"

Elenya jumped. The vice-commander of the garrison was standing behind her, obviously displeased. She almost slipped into a martial stance before she controlled her surprise and remembered to look frightened, as a slave girl would. The question had been rhetorical. The man rushed past her with hardly a second glance, joining his lookouts farther down the battlements.

She sighed in relief, and decided to return to the inn. There was no sense in directing more attention to herself.

The vice-commander's name was Falol, she had learned. He was a great, hulking mercenary from Calinin South, a career soldier with a sharp mind. He had always maintained a clear head even in the tavern, with several ales in him. Elenya didn't like it that he was still unaffected. Falol seemed more, not less, capable than the commander. She stalled at the top of the stone steps that led to the courtyard. She was just able to hear Falol talking with his subordinates.

"What are they doing, just sitting there like that?" one of the sentries said. "What are they trying to prove?"

"It's a small party. We could easily take them," said another.

"We will stay in the fortress," Falol said emphatically. "As far as I'm concerned, they can sit there until their scrotums wilt."

"But why are they showing themselves?"

Falol turned back toward the inner community. "Where the devil is Yllam? I sent for – "

Elenya sensed someone coming up the stairs at her back. It was an elderly man in a full-length azure cape, long white hair to his waist behind, long grey beard to the same level in front. As he brushed past her, she momentarily caught the lunaticlike brightness of his pupils.

A sorcerer! God's unholy names! None of her espionage had uncovered him. Xurosh had a mage. Curse the five spheres of heaven!

The sorcerer looked out at the T'lil and grunted.

"Well?" Falol demanded. "What's their scheme? What is this affliction that has taken the commander and the others?"

Yllam seemed unperturbed, unintimidated. "I cannot read minds, Vice-Commander. For all I know the desert men are out getting some sun. I can detect no spells."

"What is the cause, if not magic?"

"I did not say that sorcery was not involved, merely that none is being cast now. I will have to examine the stricken. Perhaps the answer will become clear."

Elenya scampered down the stairs, cursing the Zyraii God and the deities of a dozen other nations.

Yllam leaned over the prostrate form of the commander, which had been taken to the officer's private suite at the main inn. The paralyzed man lay where the two soldiers had deposited him, barely shifting his limbs at all.

The commander uttered something. It came out so slow and distorted that Yllam could only guess the meaning.

"Be at peace, sir," the wizard said. "I will do all I can." He turned to the pair of men who had carried in the burden. "Wait outside. I don't wish to be disturbed."

They obeyed immediately. They had never seen Yllam angry and were sure they never wanted to.

Yllam looked into the commander's pupils, waving a candle flame toward and away in order to examine the speed and degree of dilation. He smelled the man's breath. He felt for temperature and a faint warning bell sounded in his memory. He rummaged through one of many pockets on the inside of his cape and produced a small mirror. He took sweat from the officer's forehead and wiped it on the glass.

He set the mirror on the small vanity table and dusted it with an orange powder. The powder sizzled on the glass. When it was done, the ash left a distinctive pattern. Yllam grunted, both in triumph and outrage.

"Mother's Breath!" he hissed.

At that moment, he heard a man's muffled cry of pain from outside the room, and the sound of at least one body striking the wall. The door burst inward. A burly man in Shol leather charged inside, a bloody dagger in hand. Behind him came a slender, dark-haired woman.

"Hass-tah!"the wizard shouted. The man's lunge was aborted. He fell as if tripped. Yllam began to wave his hands in a brief pattern.

"Elique naddath!"the female cried. The jewel between her breasts blazed with green splendor. Yllam felt the potency vanish from his lethal spell.

But the wizard's disadvantage was short-lived. He began twirling in a circle, his cape flaring wide. His attackers reeled back as if struck by a tornado-force gust of wind, their hair and clothing flapping wildly, though nothing else in the room was affected. They were forced to shut their eyes and hold up their arms against the pressure.

Yllam stopped. That would do it. Now that the initial surprise was over, he could sense that the woman was not his match in the arts. She would not be able to stop him a second time. He raised his arms.

A demonblade rammed into his throat. He staggered back, slamming his skull against the wall behind him, and sank to a sitting position.

A pregnant desert woman strode forward from the doorway and yanked the knife out of Yllam's throat. "Quickly!" she called to her companions in a male voice. "We've made a hell of a racket!" Through the open portal, Yllam saw the upper body of one of the guards, blood pooling underneath the head.

Yllam saw them pause just long enough to slit the commander's throat, and as they left, the great darkness claimed him.

A knock came loudly at the door of the Shol leather-maker. Inside, Shigmur, Elenya, and Lonal all felt their hearts jump, but the war-leader signalled calm, settled his veils once more over his head, and lay down on the bed.

"What is it?" Shigmur called in Azuraji.

"The garrison," came the reply. "Open the door."

Shigmur did so. A pair of enlisted men were waiting outside. "What is the problem?" Shigmur asked.

Their eyes darted about the room. They did not seem hostile, merely worried, young, and unhappy. They kept their tone respectful, but unequivocal.

"There has been treachery inside the inn. Four deaths. The vice-commander has ordered every guest to be confined to the cellars. You are to come with us."

"But my wife – "

"I am sorry, lord. There are to be no exceptions. The barbarians are outside the walls, and we do not have time to sort the innocent from the assassins. It is for your own protection."

"I must talk to the caravan master," Shigmur said.

"Talk to him in the cellar. He'll be there."

Shigmur frowned, feigning annoyance, and grumbled his assent. "May we take our possessions?"

"Only what you wear, m'lord. You'll have to leave your weapons here, and let us search you."

Shigmur pretended to be outraged, but did not resist. They were quick and respectful, but thorough. They found no weapons other than the unconcealed scimitar in his belt and seemed reassured. Elenya lifted her skirt, proving that she had absolutely nothing hidden. The guards looked hard at Lonal's veiled figure and made a decision concerning the bounds of military propriety, not suspecting that their choice had saved them from instant murder.

The dungeons of Xurosh were small, intended only to house the occasional miscreant or belligerent drunk. When the fortress had been built, no one had wanted to chip jail cells out of solid rock. Therefore, faced with the problem of incarcerating a sizable number of people, the cellars were the only convenient choice.

Lonal, Shigmur, and Elenya had laid claim to a corner near the door. A few dozen others shared whatever niche or cranny presented itself. A few, victims of the poison, remained eerily in the positions in which they had been placed. The cellars were full of barrels, casks, crates, and boxes. Hams, sausages, and strings of garlic hung from the rafters. The odor was full and appetizing. The air was genuinely cool. Aside from the locked door, in many ways the room was more pleasant than the guest quarters above.

This was a fine mess, Elenya thought. That Falol was too sharp. She cursed the need to have exposed their presence inside Xurosh by killing the sorcerer. Given much more time, the vice-commander might ferret out the truth. She supposed they were fortunate to have accomplished the murder without being caught in the act, but it was only half-luck. Falol had managed to thwart them even without knowing their exact identities.

Above, all of Xurosh might be stiffening to the effects of Mother's Breath. The army of T'lil that waited in the hills outside the walls would be able to swarm in and meet no resistance. They could take the fortress even if she, Lonal, or Shigmur failed to open the gate. But they would not move without the signal. With the gate closed, even a small contingent of alert guards might slaughter hundreds.

Of course, no signal could be sent when the three of them were locked in a cellar.

They didn't have much time. One way or another, the water would become suspect. Also, the poison lasted little more than a day and a night. Assuming the worst, by dusk of the following day, the entire garrison could be fully recovered. She had to do something.

She licked her dry lips…

Of course!

She leaned close to Shigmur and whispered in his ear. The big war-second grunted and strode to the doorway.

"Hey, out there!" he called.

"What do you want?" answered one of the sentries.

"How about some fresh water? The stuff in the barrels smells like oeikani dribble."

Some of the other prisoners murmured agreement. They had been content with the wines and ales, but good water was more than welcome. The guards, told to remember that their charges were technically still guests of the fort, found the request reasonable.

The water arrived a half hour later. The sentries made everyone stand back from the door. They briefly unlocked it, placed a large bucket within, and secured it once more. Elenya noted with satisfaction that both guards had droplets of liquid on the edges of their mustaches.

The dutiful slave, she filled a dipper and toted it to her master and mistress. Both tipped it to their lips, as did she. Then, at Shigmur's order, she served the entire assemblage. Some might not have bothered to drink had she not made it so easy for them, but as it was, only one declined, a Surudainese mason, who seemed to be completely satisfied to continue to get fantastically drunk on the keg of brandy he had discovered.

The hours dragged on.

The first hint of panic came from the loud wife of an Azuraji merchant, when she discovered that her husband was not simply ignoring her, but was as immobilized as those afflicted earlier in the day. She screamed and ran to the door to rouse the watch.

The guards did not respond.

A man near the door knelt down and peered through the crack at the bottom of the door. He saw the boots of their jailors. They did not move.

"It's got them, too," he moaned.

Fear spread. They had discovered that others in the room were as rigid as the merchant. They shouted and pounded the walls and the door. The merchant's wife wailed.

"Control yourselves!" Shigmur boomed. "They can't hear us all the way down here. They'll send someone soon."

"What if they don't?" someone asked.

"Then we break the door down. Let's wait and see."

In their condition, the group was ready for any assertion of authority. They squabbled, but eventually saw no harm in the idea. They returned to their places, some whispering nervously among themselves.

The lull lasted perhaps a quarter of an hour.

Someone noticed then that the merchant's wife had grown silent. She wasn't the only one. In fact, less than a third of the prisoners were active, and some of these found upon rising that they could no longer move with their normal speed. The man who had discovered that the guards were paralyzed checked Shigmur, who failed to respond. His wife and slave girl were also unnaturally quiescent. He and two other men decided that they had waited long enough. They began to kick the door.

Their blows were less powerful than they should have been. They tried prying the door with barrel staves. Eventually it began to weaken. Though well constructed, it hadn't been intended for abuse. It began to slope on its hinges. In the meantime, one of the three slowly sank to his knees. He was unable to rise. But others, encouraged by the success, had come forward to replace him.

"That will be enough," announced a commanding male voice.

They stopped. The Shol leather-maker, his wife, and his slave had suddenly come to life. The wife threw off the veils covering his head, and they saw that he was not a woman at all. Among the things he had hidden under his skirts was a scimitar. He handed his companions knives.

"Who are you?" asked one of the merchants.

"Our people own this land," Lonal answered.

"Zyraii!" The man blinked. "It was you! You've poisoned us!"

The mood of the group became ugly, but none were courageous enough to charge just yet. Lonal continued forcefully.

"Sit down and be silent! You will recover. You're not the ones we're interested in. We just want you out of the way. Resist us now and you'll be killed."

They looked at the sharp weapon in his hand. There had been no quaver in his voice. One by one, they complied. Elenya soon came forward, filled the dipper with water, and went to the Surudainese mason. Drunk as he was, he recognized the meaning of the dagger tip she put to his throat.

"Drink this," she said.

He drank. When he was done, she tied him securely to a crate.

Lonal noted with satisfaction that even those who had tried to break down the door were moving appreciably slower. "Now we wait," he told them.

Vice-Commander Falol was once again on the battlements, gazing at the intimidating cluster of Zyraii. The sun beat down mercilessly. Ordinarily at this hour, only those on posted patrols would be out under the open sky. Falol wiped off the sweat and drank another deep draft from his flask. The Zyraii, in their audacity, had erected awnings over the patch of road they occupied.

The Zyraii had every reason to seem confident. The vice-commander had only a quarter of his garrison left. Falol was worried. He could smell the treachery. He suspected the speed and accuracy of his mind were all that would allow him to exist another day.

The party of Zyraii outside the walls was not sufficient to threaten Xurosh's military strength, much less her structural invulnerability. The true enemy was inside the walls, had murdered their wizard and was slowly stealing their ability to fight.

Then the group outside the walls…were waiting.

"Lieutenant," Falol told the junior officer at his side. "Raise the main gate."

"Sir?"

"Raise the gate. But be sure the men who operate it are alert enough to drop it again at a moment's notice."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said, still mystified.

The gate was raised. Falol noted that activity in the Zyraii encampment instantly increased. Figures converged. Discussion was taking place. The vice-commander was patient.

Finally a single Zyraii on oeikani cantered toward the fortress. "Hold your fire," Falol commanded. The rider slowed as he reached the halfway point. He craned his neck toward the open entrance. He reined up and called out a word, probably a name.

Falol decided that the man was coming no closer. "Archers!" he shouted.

Only a dozen shafts flew out, far fewer than normal. The Zyraii, his caution high, spurred his animal out of the path of the volley, then turned and flew back toward his countrymen. Once his back was turned, the reserve volley was released.

Fatally struck, the oeikani stumbled and rolled, flinging its rider to a battering impact on the dry clay of the roadway. The man – stunned, unconscious, or dead – did not get to his feet.

"Keep firing," Falol called. He also ordered the gate dropped. Arrows thudded to a halt in the unresisting body of the Zyraii. The archers didn't stop until they could see the blood seeping out of the man's white robes.

Falol smiled grimly. That had shown the barbarians some bite.

So – the Zyraii were waiting for a signal. They expected an ally to open the gate and allow them to enter. He sipped more water, concentrating hard as the cool fluid flowed down his gullet. He would have to make sure the signal never came.

Who were the traitors? He had confined every civilian in the fortress. Naturally, those most suspect were the visitors staying at the inn. They would have been most able to approach and depart from Yllam's room without being caught. There was the Surudainese mason, several Azuraji merchants, the Shol leather-maker and his nubile slave…

A slave who had been on the battlements when the horns sounded, where she had no reason to be.

"Lieutenant!" he yelled.

His officer was crossing the courtyard below. "Sir?"

"Put the Shol leather-maker and his whores in the dungeon. I want tospeak to them."

The man, propelled by the savagery of his superior's voice, hurried to comply.