the gate, cloaked in Yseult's power of changing — and carrying a battering ram between them. The trick seemed to be working; even when they neared the fortress walls, no arrows hit the shields under which they hid.
Then perhaps a hundred paces from the gate, his mother's concentration must have faltered. Kustennin heard a warning cry followed by a barrage of arrows that bounced off their shields. Perhaps they were too far away now for her to keep up the illusion blending them into the night. He felt a moment of panic. Could he do anything to help himself and his compatriots — and make sure Kurvenal lived to see Judual reach the age of choice? Kustennin often saw things others didn't see, heard things others didn't hear. He had never consciously admitted that it might have anything to do with the legendary "powers" ascribed to Yseult of Eriu, had not wanted to have such magic for himself. But now it might be a matter of whether he and his comrades survived through the night.
Unfortunately, he had never asked his mother about the techniques she used to control her powers. From what he'd picked up over the years, it seemed to be a matter of awareness and concentration. Concentration might be a problem with a heavy battering ram on one shoulder and a shield clutched over his head with his free hand, but he would have to try.
Kustennin imagined himself and the men around him invisible, conjuring up an image of nothingness while they marched through puddles and were barraged by arrows. Behind him, he heard a soldier cry out, and suddenly the battering ram grew heavier.
Someone had fallen. It wasn't working.
"Faster, men!" Kurvenal cried out ahead of them. "Once we are inside, we can fight rather than hide, and the rest will soon join us!"
Kustennin picked up the pace with the others, but he still had not given up on making their task safer with magic. Awareness and concentration. He had concentrated, but what about awareness?
The sweat of the men around him; the weight of the battering ram; the ache of his arm from holding up the shield; the mud soaking through his shoes; the sound of panting and rain and arrows hitting wood and metal and boiled leather.
And now, all of that melting into the night, becoming one with the dark.
From the walls, cries of confusion, fear even.
"What, by all the gods!"
"Where did they go?"
"Gods save us!"
"Shoot in the direction of the gate! They must still be heading there, whatever magic they might be using!"
Despite that reasonable advice, only a handful of arrows hit their shields before they halted a few paces in front of the gate. The whispered command came up the ranks to run at Kurvenal's whistle. Then they were barreling forward, putting everything they had into smashing the gate of the mainland fortress.
"There they are!" came a shout from the walls. Moments later, more arrows rained down on their shields, and there was another scream and another man fallen.
Kustennin could not simultaneously help batter the fortress gate and protect his fellow warriors. But leaving their ranks could be interpreted as an act of cowardice, typical for a youth who had not yet reached the age of choice, a young man unbled, without serious battle experience.
It didn't matter. He swung his shield to the right, loosened his hold on the battering ram, dropped to his knees and rolled a short distance away. Luckily, as he expected, the rest of the troops took up the slack, as they had before when comrades fell.
Free of the need to expend his energy on breaking down the fortress doors, Kustennin crouched underneath his shield and repeated his attempt at cloaking his comrades in illusion.
"They have disappeared again!"
"What is going on?"
"There are demons among us!"
Kustennin watched Kurvenal and the rest of their troop ram the thick wooden doors again and again. The panicked northern pirates ran along the ramparts, shooting in the direction of whatever they thought they heard rather than what
Then perhaps a hundred paces from the gate, his mother's concentration must have faltered. Kustennin heard a warning cry followed by a barrage of arrows that bounced off their shields. Perhaps they were too far away now for her to keep up the illusion blending them into the night. He felt a moment of panic. Could he do anything to help himself and his compatriots — and make sure Kurvenal lived to see Judual reach the age of choice? Kustennin often saw things others didn't see, heard things others didn't hear. He had never consciously admitted that it might have anything to do with the legendary "powers" ascribed to Yseult of Eriu, had not wanted to have such magic for himself. But now it might be a matter of whether he and his comrades survived through the night.
Unfortunately, he had never asked his mother about the techniques she used to control her powers. From what he'd picked up over the years, it seemed to be a matter of awareness and concentration. Concentration might be a problem with a heavy battering ram on one shoulder and a shield clutched over his head with his free hand, but he would have to try.
Kustennin imagined himself and the men around him invisible, conjuring up an image of nothingness while they marched through puddles and were barraged by arrows. Behind him, he heard a soldier cry out, and suddenly the battering ram grew heavier.
Someone had fallen. It wasn't working.
"Faster, men!" Kurvenal cried out ahead of them. "Once we are inside, we can fight rather than hide, and the rest will soon join us!"
Kustennin picked up the pace with the others, but he still had not given up on making their task safer with magic. Awareness and concentration. He had concentrated, but what about awareness?
The sweat of the men around him; the weight of the battering ram; the ache of his arm from holding up the shield; the mud soaking through his shoes; the sound of panting and rain and arrows hitting wood and metal and boiled leather.
And now, all of that melting into the night, becoming one with the dark.
From the walls, cries of confusion, fear even.
"What, by all the gods!"
"Where did they go?"
"Gods save us!"
"Shoot in the direction of the gate! They must still be heading there, whatever magic they might be using!"
Despite that reasonable advice, only a handful of arrows hit their shields before they halted a few paces in front of the gate. The whispered command came up the ranks to run at Kurvenal's whistle. Then they were barreling forward, putting everything they had into smashing the gate of the mainland fortress.
"There they are!" came a shout from the walls. Moments later, more arrows rained down on their shields, and there was another scream and another man fallen.
Kustennin could not simultaneously help batter the fortress gate and protect his fellow warriors. But leaving their ranks could be interpreted as an act of cowardice, typical for a youth who had not yet reached the age of choice, a young man unbled, without serious battle experience.
It didn't matter. He swung his shield to the right, loosened his hold on the battering ram, dropped to his knees and rolled a short distance away. Luckily, as he expected, the rest of the troops took up the slack, as they had before when comrades fell.
Free of the need to expend his energy on breaking down the fortress doors, Kustennin crouched underneath his shield and repeated his attempt at cloaking his comrades in illusion.
"They have disappeared again!"
"What is going on?"
"There are demons among us!"
Kustennin watched Kurvenal and the rest of their troop ram the thick wooden doors again and again. The panicked northern pirates ran along the ramparts, shooting in the direction of whatever they thought they heard rather than what
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