The Steward and the Sorcerer by James Peart (small books to read .TXT) 📗

Brandishing the weapon Daaynan had given her she rushed at the man from behind, not faltering when he turned to detect the source of the noise- the knowledge that she held the Druid’s life in her hands ringing in her ears- and plunged the blade deep into the small of his back.  Reaching around with her free hand she prevented him from screaming out in pain by cupping his mouth, at the same time pushing the blade in further, burying it to the hilt. She felt dizzy when she released him and she looked down at her stomach to discover that she had been impaled on the man’s pike, the long shaft run completely through her, exiting from her upper back, slick lines of blood dropping from the pike onto her cheek and neck and along her arm.  He had acted faster than she had allowed for, she thought numbly, unable to feel pain in the shock of what had been done to her.  Blood was pouring from her now in thick jets, draining the strength from her body, soaking the earth where she stood.  She turned to find Daaynan and collapsed to her knees.  The citizen was lying on the forest bed in a lifeless heap, somewhere to her left.  In the next moment the Druid was beside her, shaking his head over and over, holding her head to his chest, her face creased against the fabric of his broad-cloak smelling of earth and herbs, her eyes blinking rapidly, swimming in and out of focus.

“I...want to finish what I was telling you,” she said, blood that was almost black running from her mouth.

“Don’t speak,” Daaynan told her, “save what little you have left.”  His face was a mask of veiled emotions, each one vying with the next yet none able to give full expression.

“No, I must...I told you the Englishmen...would follow you wherever you led...I would follow you too...into death...and perhaps beyond that.  I love you, old friend...” she gasped, beginning to choke.  “I wanted to build a life with you...have children and grow old.  I always have.”  Mereka closed her eyes a final time.  Daaynan held her until she grew still, and gently placed her down, something changing in his expression that veiled his true countenance.  It was tender and caring, passion and rage all at once, a capriciousness that reached out with an unsteady expression, seeking to change all before him.  He rose to his feet, more forbidding now than he had ever looked, the dark folds of his cloak bound tightly against his tall form, his eyes bearing a frightening regard from beneath the shade provided by his hood.

“Steward,” he whispered.  “I am coming for you.”

32.

Half a mile east from Cornerstone Pass the bulk of the Northern Army that was stationed in Brinemore stood at the gates of the citadel and warded off swarms of invading citizens that numbered easily four times their size.  The battle between the soldiers and the citizenry raged on throughout the remainder of the night and into the morning without respite. They surged back and forth along the edge of the Trenholm that travelled along the old city wall, each side seeking dominance over the other.  On occasion it appeared the attacking party had gained the upper hand they needed to burst through the citadel gates but each time the Northern Army fought back with such intensity and aggressiveness that the progress the others had made vanished and they were back to where they had started.  The difficulties the Exile Legionnaires were facing with the enemy at the Pass were similar to the ones the defenders faced here.  Despite being well versed in warfare and battle tactics they were being overwhelmed by force of sheer numbers.  The faces of the citizens looked ashen and withdrawn but wave after wave of them swept against the Northern Army, wearing them down over time.  Unlike the Exiles, they didn’t enjoy the use of an incline with which to push back the citizens.

This morning the Naveen King Iridis stood at the rear of the citizen guard, waiting for the moment to present itself when he could walk safely up to one of the soldiers and place his hand on him.  So far, that opportunity had not arrived.  Every time it seemed one of his citizens had captured a soldier the enemy rallied around their brother-in-arms and fought them off.  Then they fell back against the gates and renewed their defence.  It was as if they knew what he was about, he reflected.  He could see their Commander- a military adviser of some description who under ordinary circumstances would not be likely to join the fray of battle- issuing instructions to the men under his command who surrounded those that had been captured.  At times, whole divisions of the enemy would fall away, leaving the defence of the citadel to the gates.  When Iridis’ men charged forward at this unexpected opening, a fresh wave of thousands of soldiers came at them from the side, spilling out from behind the eastern wall of the citadel, hacking and cutting their way through the attacking party, slaughtering every last man and woman.  It made no ultimate difference, he thought, smiling.  Their numbers were vastly superior to the army’s.  It was true that they were made up of men and women, many of them young and inexperienced, yet he could make them do what he liked, have them act in ways that outstripped their ordinary understanding of battle.  They fought with the crude weapons he had made them fashion, with swords and pikes, with their hands, if necessary with their nails and teeth.  And all of it would be rendered unnecessary when he touched one of the soldiers and the great Northern Army was his.

Iridis thought about how they could have known of his plan to subvert the soldiery.  Whoever had told them had of necessity known of his ability to control more than one mind at