Glasswrights' Progress (34 page)

In the winter, though, it was strangely beautiful. There were forests in the south, certainly, even forests that Hal had ridden through during the past two winters, when he'd been allowed to set his own royal schedule, to make his own decisions. But the trees in the south did not seem to grow as tall; their branches did not spread as wide. In fact, Hal thought as he glanced at the forest surrounding him, these northern trees were an entirely different species, or at least they housed different species.

Giant nests sat in the trees, abandoned by birds who had clearly chosen to flee the winter's cold. The nests were great, rickety affairs, pulled together of twigs and leaves, looking like children's playthings as they huddled in the crooks of branches. Here and there, Hal fancied that he could make out the glassy swell of an egg, abandoned months ago by some haphazard parent.

There! That nest had a
cluster
of eggs left in it, smooth surfaces glinting in the morning sunlight. Hal reined in his horse and reached for the spyglass that was tucked into his saddlebags. What sort of bird would go to the trouble of making a nest – and such a large one! – only to lay eggs and abandon them?

“Your Majesty? Is something wrong?” Lamantarino pulled up beside the king, following the royal glance toward the trees. The old man's voice creaked as much as his saddle leather. Hal was pleased to see his father's friend; the ancient advisor had been feeling ill the day before and had pleaded exhaustion before he stumbled to his tent at the edge of the Morenian camp.

“Nay, Lamantarino. Nothing wrong. I'm just curious.”

“Curious? About what, Your Majesty?”

“See that tree there? And the nest at the crook of the branches?” Lamantarino turned stiffly in his saddle. The ancient man had to squint to make out the nest that Hal indicated, and he jutted his head forward on his thin neck, looking for all the world as if he belonged in a nest of his own. “There are eggs in it.”

“Eggs? It's the middle of winter, Your Majesty!” Lamantarino answered with a tone reserved for annoying children. The old man's head shook with palsy and blooming exasperation as he gathered up his reins. His voice was peevish as he exclaimed, “You shouldn't play with an old man's failing sight, Your Majesty. Just you remember, your father would be as old as I – older, by a year.”

“No, Lamantarino! Here, look through my glass. You'll see what I mean!”

Hal leaned forward in his saddle, stretching to pass the old man his spyglass. The distance was too great, though, and Hal had to dig his heels into his stallion's sides. The horse hesitated a split second before responding, a hesitation that saved Hal's life.

Afterward, he could not have said what happened first. There was a noise, louder than any thunder. There was a flash of fire, brighter than the noon-day sun. There was a wave of heat, hotter than any pyre. And there were horses screaming in agony and men bellowing in terror. The entire forest came alive with flames and fleeing men, chaos exploding beneath the trees.

Lamantarino cried out as the fire burst forth, and for one horrendous moment, Hal thought that the ancient man was the source of the conflagration. He saw the old advisor's hair kindle about his head, blazing into stinking orange flame, fire that spread down the old man's arms, devouring his moldering robes, crackling across his fingers. Hal screamed Lamantarino's name and pounded his heels into his stallion's sides, desperate to reach the burning man, frantic to save the councillor who had first stood by his side.

Hal's stallion, though, was maddened by the fire, terrified by the smoke. The beast reared up on its hind legs, pawing the air as if it intended to shred the curtain of fire that surrounded it. The fire and smoke enraged the beast, and the horse took off down the forest path, ignoring Hal's shouted commands, ignoring the king's bootless attempts to saw back on the reins. Hal had only the vaguest impression of his army surrounding him, of other pockets of flame and stench, of men fighting with their beasts and of footsoldiers rioting as they pounded down the forest path. Then, there was a huge pit that stretched the width of the trails, a mouth yawning as if it would swallow up the entire southern army.

Hal's steed was rushing forward too quickly; the king had no hope of reining in the beast before it reached that jagged maw. Instead, he hunched low over his stallion's mane, tucking in his elbows and cinching in his knees. He felt his horse's muscles tighten beneath his saddle, sensed the pounding desperation as the beast leaped toward safety.

The stallion's back legs caught below the edge of the pit, and the huge animal strained to pull its hind-quarters up the crumbling slope. Hal leaned forward, as if by strength of will alone he could drive the animal out of the gaping hole. The stallion threw back its head and screamed as the earth slid from beneath its hooves, but then it found the strength to make one more lunge, and Hal was free of the pit.

It took a full minute for the king to master his stallion, and even then, Hal had to dismount to return to the edge of the hole. Chaos reined on the other side. Smoke billowed up in great choking clouds, and fire chewed away at tree branches, gnawing on trunks. Hal gaped at the insanity, desperate to find Lamantarino, refusing to accept that a flame-licked pile of blackened flesh could be all that remained of a loyal fighting man and his mount.

Horses crashed into the woods on either side of the path, screaming their terror, risking their narrow legs as they plunged away into the forest. Men bellowed their pain. Officers shouted orders above the noise.

One sound, though, penetrated all of that maelstrom. Hal heard it almost beneath his feet, rising from the pit as if from the den of all the Thousand Gods. “Maaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh! Maaaaaahhhhhhh!”

Hal edged up to the gaping hole in the path. The giant blacksmith lay on the ground, his right leg bent at an unnatural angle under his body.

Hal's heart clenched in his chest, and he turned to order his soldiers to help the poor, mute unfortunate. Before he could bark a command, though, he managed to make out the smith's hands, could see that the man had burst his bonds and torn himself free from his restraints just as Hal had feared that he might the day before. Now, the smith tugged on two long pieces of rope, raising them over his head and waving them about with pitiful squawks.

Hal followed those lines with his eyes, tracing them through the smith's convulsing hands, along the edges of the pit. He saw that the ropes snaked up nearby tree trunks; they fed over a complex system of pulleys. One rope twisted into the remnant of a bird's nest, the charred strands looping across to another tree that now smoldered as if it were trapped in the wreckage of the castle behind them.

And Hal understood.

The pit had been a trap, a trap that the smith must have known about. Once he'd been forced to march north with Hal's forces, once he'd realized that his wordless pleading would gain him nothing with the southern army, he must have decided to employ the hidden engines against the Morenians.

It was all so simple, the northern army's plot. How difficult could it have been for the enemy army to disguise a pit across the path? A loose framework of sticks and some scattered earth, a few dried leaves.… The smith had tumbled into the pit and burst his bonds, catching at the engines' rope triggers. Those ropes had connected to the nests, to the strange eggs. And when the glassy eggs were crashed against each other, they had set loose their fire.

Set loose their fire. Give way to ire. Lamantarino's pyre.

As the chaos began to die down, Hal could smell camphor and pine pitch, alcohol and some sharp, acidic reek that he could not name. And meat. The sickening, oily stench of burnt meat and leather and hair.

The Morenian army had fallen into the trap, like children falling into bed at the end of a long day. Hal looked across the pit at the chaos that had been his army. He could just make out the charred remains that had been Lamantarino, that had been his father's trusted companion. Hal had betrayed that old man; the old councillor had died thinking that his young king played a trick on him, mocked him for his age and his failing vision.

“Maaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” The smith was still bellowing from the pit, still brandishing the ends of the ropes, tugging as if he were ringing the Pilgrims' Bell back home. Hal looked at his men across the gaping hole, at the officers who were barking orders, mustering men, trying to create order out of the burning, stinking chaos. “Maaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!”

The smith had done this. Begun this. Won this.

Hal whirled away from the edge of the hole, striding down the path to the cluster of his men who had already managed to work their way through the charred and treacherous forest, who had wound around behind him onto the undamaged stretch of the road traveling north. Impossibly, Duke Puladarati stood at the front of the group, and the leonine councillor stepped forward immediately. “It's not as bad as it looks, Your Majesty. We'll be able to muster a full company on this side of the pit, and there are men who must have been at the back of our group, beyond the range of that demons' fire.”

“A bow.”

“Your Majesty?”

“I want a bow. A bow and an arrow.”

“I'm sorry, Your Majesty, I don't understand. Let's move down the path. I don't think that these trees are likely to catch fire, but there's no reason to take chances.”

“This isn't a chance, it's a certainty. Give me a bow.” Just let me go. He reaped; I'll sow.

Puladarati started to protest, but Hal glared at him and extended one gloved hand. The duke swallowed a comment, nodded gravely and turned to the soldiers that milled behind him. “You heard your king! Where's an archer!”

It took a moment for a man to scramble forward, a moment when the air was full of the cries of terrified horses, the stench of burning flesh. The archer who stepped to Puladarati's side bowed to Hal. “Y – Your Majesty.”

“Give me your bow.” Sow. Sow.

“If it please Your Majesty, I'll shoot at your command.”

“It pleases me to have your bow.”

The archer handed over the curve of yew wood, and then he ducked under the strap of his quiver, proffering the arrows to his liege. Hal took one and turned on his heel, striding back to the edge of the pit.

“Maaaaaaah!” The smith started his tirade again as Hal stepped into view. The crippled giant still held the ropes, still tugged at them as if he would ignite the firestorm all over again. “Maaaaaahhhh!”

Hal raised the bow, turning it for just an instant so that the smith would be certain
to recognize the weapon. Then he nocked the arrow to the string, taking care to sight down its
length. His hands shook like an old man's, like Lamantarino's. Lamantarino, destroyed so foolishly,
after a long life of faithful service. Roasted like a joint of meat, after serving Hal's father.
After serving Hal.

Joint of meat. Deadly heat. Despicable feat.

Hal brushed his fingers over the arrow's fletching and breathed a prayer to Bon, the
god of archers. “Ma –” the smith began, but his cry was cut short as he realized his
danger.

Only then did the giant drop the rope triggers. Only then did he fight to pull his broken leg beneath him, to scramble toward the far side of the pit. Only then did he catch his fingers on the earthen edge, try to hoist his weight upward.

Hal settled his own, far more meager weight on the balls of his feet, sighting down the arrow and waiting for the smith to turn around. The giant tried three times to heave himself out of the pit, but he failed repeatedly, unable to gain a solid purchase with his damaged leg. On the last attempt, he lost his footing on the crumbled earth that had slid back into the pit, and he slipped, sprawling on the filthy ground. He scrambled onto his back, trying to force his broken leg beneath him. Blood had soaked through his leather apron, and earth was smeared across his face as he supported himself against the pit's wall.

“Maaa –” he started to wail. And Hal let his arrow fly. It caught the smith in
the mouth, traveling past his teeth and into his skull, moving with enough force to throw the
smith's head against the earthen wall.

King Halaravilli did not wait for the corpse to collapse into the hole. Instead, he turned to Puladarati and handed back the bow. “Gather the men together. Let's count our wounded and regroup, on this side of the pit.” As Hal withdrew, the chittering voices rose up like flames, chewing away at the corners of his mind.

 

Rani swallowed hard and reminded herself to breathe deeply. Had she been this ill on the trip up the coast, on Bashi's ship? She could not remember back that far, could only vaguely recall that those sailors had told her that the ocean had been calm, that the sea had been smooth. By anyone's definition, though, the current waters were roiled; there were constant swells that rocked the boat from side to side, tossing it with enough force that Rani could only keep her balance by grabbing hold of one of the ropes strung along the side of the craft.

Looking out at the grey sprays of seawater, Rani could not help but think of the silvery dolphins she had seen with Bashi. Those leaping fish – they
were
fish, whatever Bashi had said about their birthing live young – might have been at home in these seething northern seas, might have found games to play in the wake of Rani's ship. But those fish had been destroyed by sharks.

A shiver ran down Rani's spine, and she thought again of the dozens of children huddled below decks, vulnerable to those bloody sharks' mouths if the ship were to founder. There were nearly one hundred and fifty members of the Little Army on her craft, and a companion boat tossed on the waters just visible to Rani's left, bearing another eight score soldiers.

None of this made any sense, she thought for the hundredth time. None of the Little Army's planning made any sense at all.