before I understood enough to choose intelligently.
"Consider a world without magic."
The Old Man closed his eyes, leaned back, imagined. He remained motionless and silent so long it seemed he had fallen asleep. A man less patient than Varthlokkur would have grown irritated. But, then, Varthlokkur had a concept of time unlike that of shorter-lived men.
"It wouldn't be a pleasant world," the Old Man finally replied. "There'd be no room for us. Sorcery would be a bad joke. Dragons and such would be the hardware of children's stories. Gods would be degraded till they had the substance of smoke. An unpleasant world, I'd say. I'd have to support magic, too. Are you tired?"
"In many ways, of many things, and life most of all. But I'm going to wait for her."
"Rest, then. Tomorrow we'll start rejuvenating Fangdred. And then we'll begin getting ready for this future contest."
Actually, Varthlokkur didn't much care about the coming struggle. He thought of it only as the price of finding his woman. "Where should I establish myself?"
"The Wind Tower would suit you best. You'll find the mirror especially useful. I'll show you how to get there."
Even the sparrow finds a home.
EIGHT: Her Strongholds Unvanquishable
The vanguard of the allied army, hurrying ahead of the main force, reached the Candareen days earlier than Turran expected. He had to lock his gate long before he wanted. Luxos and Ridyeh were still away, snuffling along Haroun's backtrail.
As expected, bin Yousif commanded the expedition. And, as Grimnason, Turran's leading mercenary officer, predicted, the man persisted in the unexpected.
Redbeard and Turran crouched in moonlight atop the tall tower over Ravenkrak's gate, watching the camp at the foot of the Candareen. "There!" said the mercenary, indicating a flash of silver on the slope.
"You win." Turran paid out a handful of silver. "I would've bet anything his men would be too tired and his numbers too few."
"That's why he's coming. He knows how people think."
Turran turned to peer over the rear of the parapet into an apparently deserted courtyard. Half the garrison were hidden down there, waiting. He signaled them to be ready.
Bin Yousif s commandos reached the foot of the wall.
"They could've made it," Turran observed. "They're good. Wish I'd hired him first. No offense. You've proven just as able."
Arrows with light lines attached arced over the battlements.
"Metal arrows," said Grimnason. "They'll hook one in the crenellations, then send up their lightest man."
So they did. A climber quickly reached the battlements, pulled up a heavier rope, made it fast, turned to watch the castle.
"Haroun himself!" Turran growled softly. "We've got him this time." He glanced at the camp down the mountain. Its fires burned bright, supporting the appearance of the attackers waiting there for the rest of their army. But here and there on the mountain, moonlight glinted off metal. Those flashes would have remained undetected had it not been for Redbeard's insistent warnings.
One by one, twelve men clambered onto the battlements. They whispered, then spread out. Four followed Haroun down to the courtyard, to the base of the tower, to the tunnel leading through the wall. The others divided equally between the two gatehouses. Haroun's four tried to raise the inner of the two stone blocks sealing the tunnel.
Raiders left the gatehouses.
"We should've left somebody down there," Turran whispered. "They're bound to suspect something."
"But it's too late," Grimnason replied, chuckling. "They're already in the trap." He leaned over the parapet, signaled soldiers hidden among the rocks outside the gate.
A moment later, from below, "Stop! Drop your weapons!"
A bugle sounded two notes. Soldiers rushed into the courtyard and to the wall.
There was an uproar at the gate. Men screamed. Crossbows twangled. Steel rang on steel. Haroun and four of his men broke out, raced downslope. Bin Yousif shouted, "Back! Trap! Get
"Consider a world without magic."
The Old Man closed his eyes, leaned back, imagined. He remained motionless and silent so long it seemed he had fallen asleep. A man less patient than Varthlokkur would have grown irritated. But, then, Varthlokkur had a concept of time unlike that of shorter-lived men.
"It wouldn't be a pleasant world," the Old Man finally replied. "There'd be no room for us. Sorcery would be a bad joke. Dragons and such would be the hardware of children's stories. Gods would be degraded till they had the substance of smoke. An unpleasant world, I'd say. I'd have to support magic, too. Are you tired?"
"In many ways, of many things, and life most of all. But I'm going to wait for her."
"Rest, then. Tomorrow we'll start rejuvenating Fangdred. And then we'll begin getting ready for this future contest."
Actually, Varthlokkur didn't much care about the coming struggle. He thought of it only as the price of finding his woman. "Where should I establish myself?"
"The Wind Tower would suit you best. You'll find the mirror especially useful. I'll show you how to get there."
Even the sparrow finds a home.
EIGHT: Her Strongholds Unvanquishable
The vanguard of the allied army, hurrying ahead of the main force, reached the Candareen days earlier than Turran expected. He had to lock his gate long before he wanted. Luxos and Ridyeh were still away, snuffling along Haroun's backtrail.
As expected, bin Yousif commanded the expedition. And, as Grimnason, Turran's leading mercenary officer, predicted, the man persisted in the unexpected.
Redbeard and Turran crouched in moonlight atop the tall tower over Ravenkrak's gate, watching the camp at the foot of the Candareen. "There!" said the mercenary, indicating a flash of silver on the slope.
"You win." Turran paid out a handful of silver. "I would've bet anything his men would be too tired and his numbers too few."
"That's why he's coming. He knows how people think."
Turran turned to peer over the rear of the parapet into an apparently deserted courtyard. Half the garrison were hidden down there, waiting. He signaled them to be ready.
Bin Yousif s commandos reached the foot of the wall.
"They could've made it," Turran observed. "They're good. Wish I'd hired him first. No offense. You've proven just as able."
Arrows with light lines attached arced over the battlements.
"Metal arrows," said Grimnason. "They'll hook one in the crenellations, then send up their lightest man."
So they did. A climber quickly reached the battlements, pulled up a heavier rope, made it fast, turned to watch the castle.
"Haroun himself!" Turran growled softly. "We've got him this time." He glanced at the camp down the mountain. Its fires burned bright, supporting the appearance of the attackers waiting there for the rest of their army. But here and there on the mountain, moonlight glinted off metal. Those flashes would have remained undetected had it not been for Redbeard's insistent warnings.
One by one, twelve men clambered onto the battlements. They whispered, then spread out. Four followed Haroun down to the courtyard, to the base of the tower, to the tunnel leading through the wall. The others divided equally between the two gatehouses. Haroun's four tried to raise the inner of the two stone blocks sealing the tunnel.
Raiders left the gatehouses.
"We should've left somebody down there," Turran whispered. "They're bound to suspect something."
"But it's too late," Grimnason replied, chuckling. "They're already in the trap." He leaned over the parapet, signaled soldiers hidden among the rocks outside the gate.
A moment later, from below, "Stop! Drop your weapons!"
A bugle sounded two notes. Soldiers rushed into the courtyard and to the wall.
There was an uproar at the gate. Men screamed. Crossbows twangled. Steel rang on steel. Haroun and four of his men broke out, raced downslope. Bin Yousif shouted, "Back! Trap! Get
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