The Silver Mage - Katharine Kerr [67]
But of course, news of the Meradan came early that spring as well, some days before the equinox. The sprouting hay had dusted the first terrace with pale green, and she stood at the edge of the field, talking with Rhodorix, when one of the guardsmen called out in surprise.
“Runners coming up!” He was pointing to the road. “But only two of them.”
The royal runners, the messengers whose speed and stamina helped the mages keep the scattered princedoms together, generally traveled in groups of four. Hwilli felt her heart thud in her chest as the two men jogged, stumbling weary, across the second terrace.
“Go down and meet them!” Rhodorix designated men with a sweep of his arm. “Carry them up here, or they’ll never reach us alive.”
The men ran off to follow his orders. When they brought the messengers back, cradled on their joined arms, Hwilli realized that both runners were wounded. Old blood crusted one man’s face and neck; the other had wrapped a clumsy bandage around his thigh.
“Get them to Master Jantalaber!” It was her turn to give the orders. “I’ll come with you.”
The man with the wounded leg gasped out a few words, “Meradan. Tanbalapalim’s fallen,” before he fainted.
Hwilli wanted to scream aloud, but she concentrated only on the work ahead of her, saving the runners’ lives. The guardsmen carried them up to the infirmary and laid them onto plank beds. Jantalaber took over caring for the man with the head wound, whilst she cleaned, treated, and stitched the other runner’s slashed leg. It was a miracle, she thought to herself, that he’d not bled to death. Once he was bandaged, she helped him drink water for his thirst and a healing infusion for his wound.
She’d barely gotten him comfortable, and Jantalaber was still tending the second runner, when Prince Ranadar himself strode into the chamber. Behind him clustered frightened advisers like sheep behind a ram.
“Can he speak?” Ranadar said to her.
“Some, Your Highness,” Hwilli said.
The runner tried to sit up. She grabbed pillows and arranged them under his head and upper back. “Lie still,” she said. “The prince doesn’t expect you to bow to him.”
“Quite so,” Ranadar said. “When did Tanbalapalim fall?”
A few words at a time, the exhausted runner stammered out the tale. The Meradan had appeared at the first sign of melting snow, an army of them, several thousand, perhaps, including a large contingent of the Children of Aethyr. They had surrounded the walled city but sent no heralds. When Prince Salamondar tried to parley, the Meradan slaughtered his heralds and threw their heads back over the walls.
“Why didn’t his farseers warn me then?” Ranadar asked him. “We could have marched to break the siege.”
Or try to, Hwilli thought, with our few men.
“They tried, Your Highness. They said there was too much rain and snow.”
“Of course. Somehow one always hopes—” He let his voice trail off. “Ah well, go on!”
“They made some sort of ram, Your Highness, and they kept on battering, screaming, pounding . . .”
Eventually the Meradan had broken down the gates. They scaled the walls; they were reckless and fearless, apparently, because they’d gained entry to the outer city within a few days. From the walls, the heartsick defenders of the citadel had watched the Meradan loot, burn, and kill helpless civilians.
“We wanted to go down, Your Highness,” he whispered. “The priests wouldn’t let us. They said, ‘Guard the temple towers.’ They would have cursed us. They made us stay.”
“I see.” Ranadar’s voice had turned into a growl of rage. “Go on.”
The fortress held out longer, giving eight runners a chance to escape by a bolthole dug under one of the towers. Two of them had lived to reach the edge of the Meradani camp. The