The Silence of Medair

"Possibly. They at least know enough not to make their gates within reach of our adepts. Even if we had anticipated this move, used the warning brought to us, we could not have hoped to disrupt all of them. Not without covering the land with patrols able to bring down a gate as it formed. And they have protected themselves immediately against attacks from a distance. With what, I cannot say precisely, but likely the winds and mirrors, unless they have things we do not even know of. We will not be throwing sleep at them."

"The Cloaked South." The kaschen made an angry, exasperated noise. "It’s as if all the rules have changed! What are we to do against so many, when we’ve lost the advantage of our blood? When they have equal power?"

"If not more." The Das-kend stroked her daughter’s arm lightly. "We will fight. Have faith in our Kier, and those who serve her. The Ibis-lar have triumphed in the face of great odds before this."

The kaschen did not reply, but her look of doubt was answer enough. Medair, standing as far from the magic-sensitive pair as possible, felt sympathy stir through the lethargy which gripped her. This was the same as Mishannon. She had stood on Mishannon’s walls and stared out at an Ibisian army. It was the first battle of the war and their tactics and their strength had been unknown. Mishannon’s defenders had done what they could to prepare. They’d tried to guess how the Ibisians would do battle and had been wholly unprepared for what came next. A massed spell, cast by dozens of adepts. It had rolled over Mishannon as inexorably as the Conflagration. And that had been it. Battle over. Only a handful of Palladian defenders had been able to resist the sleep spell and they’d been immediately overwhelmed.

Now, the southern army was moving slowly forward. Towering over the leather-clad soldiers were what could only be giants, though giants had been gone from the world longer than dragons, were as much legends as…as Kersym Bleak and the Horn of Farak.

These figures wore armour of silver, with wicked horns projecting from glittering helms. They carried swords longer than Medair was tall. She could see no more detail from such a distance, and wondered what faces might hide beneath those helms. Would someone within the walls recognise a friend or relative, lost to the change?

The silver armour reflected incongruously roseate hues as they advanced beneath the strawberry dawn. She had counted no more than a hundred bright warriors scattered randomly among the thousands which marched towards the city, but a hundred of such proportions would count for a battalion of ordinary warriors.

New arrivals in the watchtower forced Medair to squeeze into the farthest corner. Holding her elbows in, she tried to avoid coming into contact with the short man who came nearest.

"Keridahl an Valese," the Das-kend said, inclining her head formally to a woman some years her junior, with neatly bound honey-blonde hair.

"Das-kend las Maret, isn’t it? Tell me, can you make out the device on the pennants they carry? We have come in hopes of gaining a better view."

"It is Estarion’s gryphon, Keridahl, though it seems he no longer cares for gold and blue." The Das-kend politely proffered the spyglass, and it was passed from hand to hand.

"Well-equipped, disciplined, protected by magic," was the Keridahl’s assessment. There was no voice of dissent. The army which came against them was obviously not lacking in preparation.

"What’s that they’re doing now?" asked a comely young man who stayed awkwardly close to the Keridahl’s side. "Changing direction?"

"Stopping."

The leading ranks had indeed drawn to a halt less than a quarter-mile distant.

"A formal declaration of war?" the Das-kend speculated, catching the Keridahl’s eye with a frown.

"Considering their opening moves, I would not trust to it," the Keridahl replied. The moment stretched, as the Keridahl plied the spyglass and frowned more, then handed it back to the Das-kend with the innate courtesy of her kind. The kaschen, at her mother’s side, struggled not to fidget.

"Inelkar."

Half the watchtower’s occupants jumped. Probably half the city did, as that word boomed and rumbled from the sky. Medair’s eyes jerked involuntarily up, almost expecting the sky to be black with thunder-clouds. A lone fluffy splotch bundled itself away behind the castle towers, as if in a hurry to disassociate itself from the voice which again made the very air tremble with its volume.

"Inelkar. Will you cower behind your walls? Do you fear to meet me?"