and the very young. Most wore clan or craft colors—probably Zeff’s idea, since it made them easy to identify. Nor was the move unexpected; Tryffon had suggested the possibility in yesterday’s Council.
What was different was the magnitude.
“Unfathered,” Tryffon breathed beside him, voicing Eron’s most virulent curse.
“Indeed,” Vorinn agreed.
“Regent,” Ravian murmured at his back, having rejoined them at the base of the tower. “Look at the ground.”
Vorinn did—and could not suppress a chill at what he saw.
The shroudings they had seen being put in place earlier had been removed there as well, so that the entire area between thepalisade and the hold was now revealed to be carpeted with what had to be most of the hold’s remaining population, staked out spread-eagled at intervals along the ground. Not dead or tortured, merely as a taunt. Most were grim-faced and stoic, but a few looked as though they would have cried out had they not been thoroughly gagged. “Eight damn them!” Vorinn spat.
“Damn them indeed,” Tryffon echoed. “That’s a pretty scene.”
“Not one they can maintain, however,” Vorinn replied at once. “That has to be virtually the entire complement of the hold. I’m sure the idea is to forestall attack, since any missiles we hurl will be bound to impact our own, and any attack on foot will probably be a signal to start cutting throats.”
Tryffon nodded sagely. “Which means there’s no one but Ninth Face folk to maintain the hold—which means they can’t soldier. It also means there’s no one to work the mines.”
“Or,” Veen spat, where she stood behind them, “that they no longer have to.”
Vorinn nodded grim agreement, then looked around at his assembled Council. “Tell everyone on the field to move back exactly one span, but that’s all. It won’t mean anything in strategic terms, but it
will
be a reply—which Zeff, if we’re lucky, will take as a sign of weakness. It’ll also puzzle the cold out of him. And that’s what we need right now: puzzlement and confusion.” He paused, gnawing his lip, then motioned to his squire to bring his own speaking horn, which he raised.
“Zeff the traitor,” he called. “You seem to have odd notions about the proper treatment of Gem-Hold personnel—a lapse in your upbringing which I am sure the Council of Chiefs will address in their good time. In the meantime, I will report what I have seen to His Majesty, Avall.”
And with that, he turned and started back down the siege tower’s stair.
“You won’t be able to maintain that deception much longer,” Tryffon grumbled, behind him.
“No,” Vorinn agreed. “But if things go as I hope, we won’t have to.”
“And if they don’t?”
“I’ll do what all soldiers do. I’ll fight as long as I can—and then I’ll either win or die trying.”
CHAPTER VI:
E XPLORING
(SOUTHWEST OF ERON–HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXV–DAWN)
For a moment—that cold, still moment before true awakening—Avall was utterly lost.
Not that he’d had any real home for quite a while—not for more than a few nights at a time, anyway. The dungeons at Gem-Hold certainly didn’t count, and for most of two eights before his incarceration there, home had been a camp tent, around which the landscape changed every sunrise. Before that, he’d divided his time between the royal suite in the Citadel in Tir-Eron and his own youthful quarters in Argen-Hall. And before
that
, it had been the war with Ixti, which meant camp tents again.
And prior to the war? Why, home then had been the Wild, and bedrooms had been ruined way stations, birkit dens, or the Ri-Eron itself—but it was wisest not to think about that timeless interval when he had floated beneath the ice, sustained only by the gem’s determination to keep him alive. Just as he preferred not to think about his earlier tenure in Gem-Hold-Winter, when he had
thought
that the only aberration in the life his culture had laid
What was different was the magnitude.
“Unfathered,” Tryffon breathed beside him, voicing Eron’s most virulent curse.
“Indeed,” Vorinn agreed.
“Regent,” Ravian murmured at his back, having rejoined them at the base of the tower. “Look at the ground.”
Vorinn did—and could not suppress a chill at what he saw.
The shroudings they had seen being put in place earlier had been removed there as well, so that the entire area between thepalisade and the hold was now revealed to be carpeted with what had to be most of the hold’s remaining population, staked out spread-eagled at intervals along the ground. Not dead or tortured, merely as a taunt. Most were grim-faced and stoic, but a few looked as though they would have cried out had they not been thoroughly gagged. “Eight damn them!” Vorinn spat.
“Damn them indeed,” Tryffon echoed. “That’s a pretty scene.”
“Not one they can maintain, however,” Vorinn replied at once. “That has to be virtually the entire complement of the hold. I’m sure the idea is to forestall attack, since any missiles we hurl will be bound to impact our own, and any attack on foot will probably be a signal to start cutting throats.”
Tryffon nodded sagely. “Which means there’s no one but Ninth Face folk to maintain the hold—which means they can’t soldier. It also means there’s no one to work the mines.”
“Or,” Veen spat, where she stood behind them, “that they no longer have to.”
Vorinn nodded grim agreement, then looked around at his assembled Council. “Tell everyone on the field to move back exactly one span, but that’s all. It won’t mean anything in strategic terms, but it
will
be a reply—which Zeff, if we’re lucky, will take as a sign of weakness. It’ll also puzzle the cold out of him. And that’s what we need right now: puzzlement and confusion.” He paused, gnawing his lip, then motioned to his squire to bring his own speaking horn, which he raised.
“Zeff the traitor,” he called. “You seem to have odd notions about the proper treatment of Gem-Hold personnel—a lapse in your upbringing which I am sure the Council of Chiefs will address in their good time. In the meantime, I will report what I have seen to His Majesty, Avall.”
And with that, he turned and started back down the siege tower’s stair.
“You won’t be able to maintain that deception much longer,” Tryffon grumbled, behind him.
“No,” Vorinn agreed. “But if things go as I hope, we won’t have to.”
“And if they don’t?”
“I’ll do what all soldiers do. I’ll fight as long as I can—and then I’ll either win or die trying.”
CHAPTER VI:
E XPLORING
(SOUTHWEST OF ERON–HIGH SUMMER: DAY LXXV–DAWN)
For a moment—that cold, still moment before true awakening—Avall was utterly lost.
Not that he’d had any real home for quite a while—not for more than a few nights at a time, anyway. The dungeons at Gem-Hold certainly didn’t count, and for most of two eights before his incarceration there, home had been a camp tent, around which the landscape changed every sunrise. Before that, he’d divided his time between the royal suite in the Citadel in Tir-Eron and his own youthful quarters in Argen-Hall. And before
that
, it had been the war with Ixti, which meant camp tents again.
And prior to the war? Why, home then had been the Wild, and bedrooms had been ruined way stations, birkit dens, or the Ri-Eron itself—but it was wisest not to think about that timeless interval when he had floated beneath the ice, sustained only by the gem’s determination to keep him alive. Just as he preferred not to think about his earlier tenure in Gem-Hold-Winter, when he had
thought
that the only aberration in the life his culture had laid
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