Castle Perilous

Keep — King’s Redoubt

Incarnadine strode around a railed arcade overlooking a high, expansive chamber, the entirety of which was occupied by an immense and astonishingly detailed simulacrum of Castle Perilous itself, showing the tumult of activity that now stormed about its southern perimeter. In scaled miniature the simulacrum displayed the new belfries that the besiegers had constructed, mammoth wooden towers whose tops rose above the thirty-story-high battlements of the inner curtain wall. From their perch atop the belfries Vorn’s archers now commanded the inner ward. With most of the parapets cleared of defenders, Vorn had brought up his siege engines to work at close range. A hail of boulders now pummeled the inner ward, flung from gargantuan versions of trebuchet, mangonel, and arbalest.

Incarnadine made the circuit of the arcade, gaining every possible angle. He could see no alternative but to counterattack immediately. If the belfries were not destroyed forthwith, the inner gatehouse would fall to enemy hands and the castle’s reduction become an inevitability. The keep was possessed of its own fortifications — ring walls, turrets, bulwarks, and other structures — but Vorn would hardly let these daunt him now. Once the portcullis of the gatehouse was raised, Vorn’s soldiers would come pouring through to the grassy expanses of the ward, there to prepare for the final assault on the keep. Although the keep’s immensity would prevent it from ever being completely taken — even Vorn could not muster enough invaders to penetrate its every recess and sanctum — its penetration would complete the fall of Castle Perilous. This, then, was the final battle.

Lines of soldiers protected by wheeled wooden barricades were hauling the last of the giant belfries into position. They were under light fire from the defenders, who had withdrawn to the flanking turrets of the inner wall. From there they could barely annoy the enemy, subjected as they were to a withering barrage of arrows from the belfry-mounted archers.

Incarnadine stopped pacing and watched. The simulacrum filled the three-story-high chamber, the parapets of the keep almost touching the domed ceiling. Even at this scale individual figures were minute. He raised his right arm and with one finger traced a simple pattern in the air. The murky area at the edges of the simulacrum quickly grew to overshroud the whole scene, then parted, revealing a much closer perspective. In silence, the battle raged on. Incarnadine flicked his wrist once, and the scene focused on a single belfry. It was a gigantic construction, barely able to hold up its own weight without substantial buttressing in the form of an elaborate trelliswork of timber fanning out and down like a pyramidal skirt from the tower’s midpoint. It had taken months to put together out of thousands of precut and partially assembled pieces. Vorn must have expected the tactic of undermining to fail, and had come prepared to take the castle by escalade if necessary. In fact, the battles in the mines, though they had cost Vorn dearly, might only have been a delaying tactic.

A figure approached, walking along the gallery. Incarnadine turned to look.

“My lord …”

“Captain Tyrene.”

The captain of the Guard saluted, bringing his right palm to his chest. “My lord, I have come to report that the south inner ward will soon be in enemy hands unless we attack with special forces now.” Tyrene turned to regard the simulacrum. “If my lord will forgive me. You likely knew this before I did, but I felt I had to report it to you in person.” Turning his dirt-streaked face to Incarnadine he added, “The situation is grave, my lord.”

Incarnadine nodded and leaned forward, gripping the iron rail with both hands. Light from the simulacrum sculpted his bearded face. In his dark red cloak and saffron-yellow undertunic, he stood a head taller than the Guardsman. His face was extraordinarily handsome and perennially young. The dark eyes were intelligent, thick-browed and serene. His hair was dark brown, coming down to a bit below the ear in slight waves. Around his neck he wore a simple gold medallion on a gold chain; he wore no other jewelry. The medallion bore the image of a strange winged animal with the head of a demon.

“Soon, my friend,” Incarnadine said. “When the belfries are completely manned and ready to be drawn up to the walls.”

“Then I will return to my men.” Tyrene made a motion to leave.

“No, stay awhile. I shall have orders to give you.”

“Very well, my lord.” Tyrene took off his metal-studded black leather helmet, brushed dust off his chain mail doublet, and leaned against the rail. He took a deep breath and sighed.

“Weary, are you?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You have fought bravely and well against overwhelming odds.”

“Thank you, my lord. Though I fear …” Tyrene’s gaze fell to his feet and he sighed again. He shook his head, his expression pained and vexed. “It makes no sense.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Vorn going to all this trouble. What are his motives?” Tyrene’s eyes rose to the simulacrum as Incarnadine changed the perspective again, this time to a wider view of the outer ward. “It’s insanity. What’s more, it’s bad war making. Vorn could have chosen to besiege a lesser fortress, thereby establishing his presence in the Western lands. He could have collected his quitrents and gone his way to finish the campaign in the South. He must know we have no offensive might to bring to bear against him. Instead, he allies himself with weaklings, the very ones he could have squashed, and pours his life’s blood into sands of our impoverished Pale trying to take Castle Perilous.” Tyrene pounded the rail with a mailed fist. “It makes no sense!”

“He may succeed.”

Tyrene’s face fell. “Yes, my lord. And I accept full responsibility.”

“No.”

“At risk of contradicting you, my lord, I —”

“No,” Incarnadine said again, softly but firmly. “You will not berate yourself. You have done your very best and have inflicted grievous losses on the enemy. You have made him pay in blood.”

Tyrene protested with a quick shake of the head. “Were it not for special forces —”

“Tyrene.” Incarnadine’s smile was benevolently admonishing.

The captain’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, my lord. I will say no more.” He shuffled his feet and muttered, “Still, it makes no sense.”

“Don’t you think the castle a worthy prize for a conqueror?”

“Why … I suppose. But what good can it do Vorn? Surely the last thing he needs is another fortress.”

“Perhaps he means to steal our magic.”

Tyrene knitted his brow, nodding. “Yes, maybe that’s what drives him. But even he should know that only a Haplodite can tap the castle’s deepest source of power.”

“It may be he does not know. Or has been deliberately misled.”

“Aye, it could be. If so, it’sher doing.”

Incarnadine did not answer. He shifted his weight and placed his left foot on the lower crossbar of the rail. “Then, of course, there is always the attraction of booty.”

Tyrene laughed. “I have lived all my life in and about Castle Perilous and have yet to catch even a whiff of where the treasure room might be.”

“Again, he may not be aware of the peculiarities of this place.” Incarnadine mused for a moment, then said, “I think I would have trouble finding it myself. Haven’t been there in years. As I remember, it lies within one of the more stable areas, but its position may have drifted somewhat over time.”

With a sweep of his hand, Incarnadine changed the scene below to full perspective.

The line of gigantic belfries was moving slowly toward the curtain wall. The infantry marched in files behind, ready to mount the stairs inside the towers. When the belfries drew close enough to the wall, the invaders would pour out through the top, crossing to the wall walk by means of drawbridges let down from the tops of the towers.

“Then again,” Incarnadine said, “it may be Vorn has taken a fancy to our Pale and wants a summer residence.”

Tyrene regarded him gravely for a moment, then broke into sudden laughter. “A fine jest, my lord.” His mirth was disproportionate, being, as it was, an overdue release from the tensions of battle.

Incarnadine waited until Tyrene had wiped the tears from his eyes, then took his foot from the rail and straightened.

The infantry were marching in double-time, and had begun mounting the stairways inside the belfries.

“The time has come,” Incarnadine said.

“The sky dragons again, my lord?”

“I think not — this time.”

Incarnadine stood back from the rail and raised both arms. He closed his eyes and stood unmoving for a moment. Then, quickly and with great precision, he commenced tracing patterns in the air. Touching the tips of his index fingers together above his head, he parted them and brought them around and down in two semicircles to meet again at the bottom, thereby completing the Great Circle. He stepped back to examine his work, as if the figure were visible. Stepping forward again, he outlined a series of arcs linking points of the circumference, connecting the midpoints of these with lines to form a square within the circle.

He executed more lines, more figures within figures, his brow knitted, tiny beads of sweat springing to it like a sudden dew.

Watching, Tyrene stepped back warily.

Presently, Incarnadine’s spell figure, composed of faintly glowing red filaments, began to take form in the air.