"I know," she whispered. "I know."
HAOMANE'S ALLIES ARRIVED EARLY.
Something had happened. The scouting-packs of Were yearlings who were to report on their movements had failed. If not for Calandor's warning, Beshtanag would have been caught unready. As it was, Lilias had closed the last breach in the wall in haste, sealing Beshtanag against invasion, and themselves within it.
Her Ward Commander Gergon brought her bits of gossip, gleaned by soldiers shouting back and forth over the granite expanse of the wall. A siege, after all, was a tiresome thing and some few had friends and cousins on the other side.
It seemed that, against all odds, Martinek, the Southeastern Regent of Pelmar, had taken to Aracus Altorus, the would-be King of the West. The last scion of House Altorus had accorded him the utmost of respect, convincing even the Host of the Ellylon to bend their stiff necks to Pelmaran authority. Deep in their cups, they had established a rapport; so much so that Martinek had allowed himself to be swayed by tales of the Borderguard of Curonan, its small, efficient units able to mobilize and maneuver more swiftly than a full-sized army.
Regent Martinek had taken Altorus' advice, and his fellow Regents had followed suit. Instead of advancing in a united front, they had restructured their troops into winding columns. No need, then, to forge a broad path through the forest. Unchallenged, Haomane's Allies made good time through the dense terrain. The troops of Aracus Altorus were the first to arrive, sizing up the granite wall that surrounded Beshtanag with cool, measuring glances, retreating out of bowshot to set up an encampment that sprawled through the unguarded forest.
Within the space of a day, the others had arrived.
Pelmaran forces from three of the five sitting Regents, a contingent of Vedasian knights, capable Midlanders—and, oh, worst of all was the Host of the Ellylon, the Rivenlost with their piercing beauty and their keen swords. Back and forth they rode, pacing the circumference of the granite wall, needing neither sleep nor nourishment to sustain them in their quest.
Only one thing did they require: The Lady Cerelinde.
"I don't like this, Gergon." On her balcony, Lilias regarded the enemy encampment and shivered in the summer's warmth. "There are so many of them."
"We can hold." Her Ward Commander's face was grim. "As long as you hold the wall, my lady. Our stores will last another seven days, if need be."
"Seven days," she echoed. What a paltry amount!
Gergon glanced at her. "The Banewreaker's army should be here in less. They are coming, my lady, are they not?"
"Yes." She made her voice firmer. "Yes. They will be here."
At the base of the mountain, a distant figure stepped forth, clad in shining armor. He was the herald of the Rivenlost and he bore a staff from which flew the standards of both Ingolin the Wise and Elterrion the Bold—the argent scroll and the Crown-and-Souma. As he did three times a day, he lifted an Ellylon horn to his lips and blew, the silvery tone echoing from the sides of Beshtanag Mountain. His voice rang forth, clear and carrying. "Sorceress! Surrender the Lady Cerelinde, and your people will be spared!"
"Ellyl arsehole," Gergon muttered, adding, "your pardon, my lady."
Midway down the mountain, a line of kneeling archers loosed their bows, sending a shower of arrows aloft. Sharp shouts came from sentries posted in the trees, and those of Haomane's Allies in reach crouched low, raising their shields above their heads. Arrows arced above the granite wall and fell, clattered uselessly onto warding shields and the loose scree. The Ellyl herald stood contemptuous, watching them fall, before turning to retreat untouched.
"Too far, too high." Gergon shook his head. "Sorry, my lady."
Lilias sighed. "Tell them not to waste their arrows."
"As you wish." He paused. "If it came to it, my lady, there is one weapon they could not withstand."
"No!" Her reply was sharp. "Not Calandor."
"It seems a folly—"
"Hear me, Ward Commander." Lilias fixed him with a steely stare.
"This is Shapers' business, and dragonkind is all but vanished because of it. Calandor will not give battle. Put it out of your thoughts."
"My lady." Gergon bowed, unhappy with her answer. "As you order. I will report again at sundown."
It was a relief to have him gone. Lilias watched a pair of ravens circling in the drafts, hoping they made ready to bear word to Darkhaven on urgent wings. While the wall stood, Beshtanag was safe; but there were so many arrayed against them. She touched the Soumanië at her brow, feeling the Shaping force of it pulsing faintly in her veins, in the stone beneath her feet. Faint, so faint! She was spread too thin. It had taken a great effort to raise the wall, and more to sustain it. Always, it took more effort to create than to destroy. The old linkages were stretched and weak—those incorporating the collars of her pretty ones, binding them to her service; those that bound Beshtanag itself, binding the blood and flesh of her people to loyalty. Even the binding that stretched the great Chain of Being to its limits felt thin and tenuous, and Lilias felt old.