The Doomfarers of Coramonde by Brian Daley

silk that left much pale throat
and bosom exposed, she wore a girdle of red leather sewn with pearls caught
tightly around her waist, and her fingers blazed with rings. She met the
Prince’s gaze squarely, looking him up and down, smiling a cryptic smile, and
he knew that this could be no one but Andre’s sister, the celebrated sorceress
Gabrielle deCourteney, though she’d never been to his father’s Court.
    Van Duyn ahemmed, and Springbuck realized that he’d been staring.
    “You have no
doubt heard of my esteemed colleague, Andre deCourteney and, of course, his
sister, Gabrielle,” Van Duyn introduced them. But his hand reached out to
squeeze the woman’s gently and received answering pressure, eloquent that she
was far more to the scholar than merely his associate’s sister. He finished,
“And I am Van Duyn. You are—?”
    “How far away
are the troops?” Springbuck asked, ignoring the invitation to introduce
himself. For now, he preferred the anonymity of his mask.
    Andre
deCourteney shrugged. “We have the word of—informants—that they will be here
momentarily.”
    “I would not
much care to defend this relic against regular soldiery,” said the Prince.
    “Nor do we,”
Andre confessed, “but we hope that it will not come to that. The truth of the
matter is that we must come at bay for a little time; we have weightier
problems than a few soldiers.” His speech was cultured and well modulated, in
contrast to his unpolished appearance.
    “Few!” snorted
the Prince, “What if they send more than a few? What if they use their heads
and send infantry, cavalry, knights and archers and siege artificers to pull
this stone artifact down around your ears? And if you’re really ill-fortuned
and they have magicians of their own with them, Yardiff Bey’s underlings?
They’d make very short work of you indeed, is what would happen.”
    “That would
seem to be the promised scenario,” Andre conceded mildly.
    A shout broke
their conversation. They went to the open gate and saw a long column of mounted
men wending their way from the edge of the forest into Erub. A smaller
contingent had broken off and was steering for the castle.
    “Time to close
up shop,” said Van Duyn. Springbuck, standing near, put his shoulder to the
gate and heaved, but couldn’t budge it. Then portly Andre was next to him, and
the balky gate moved smartly at the wizard’s push. Springbuck noted to himself
that there must be muscle to spare under all that avoirdupois.
    “What about the
portcullis and drawbridge?” the Prince asked as two men lifted a thick beam of
wood braced with iron across the gates.
    “Rusted into
place,” replied Van Duyn, “but for now I suggest that we repair to the rampart.
Heralds are due, I think.”
    Springbuck
followed the outlander and the deCourteneys up the stone steps, arriving just
as a truce-flag bearer and a herald rode up before the castle to parley.
Another group sat their horses in the meadow out of bowshot.
    “Fetch me my
rifle,” Van Duyn instructed a youngster who had been on watch there, and
Springbuck puzzled over just what thing that might be.
    The two
soldiers wore long mail hauberks and steel caps and had triangular shields
slung beside them. The truce flag was a white rectangle of cloth on a lance
decked with heron feathers.
    “Now heed us,
the castle,” roared the herald. “For crimes both treasonous and seditious, all
who are within merit the death penalty. Clemency will be shown only to those
who quit these premises and surrender to the duly authorized representatives of
His Grace, Strongblade, by right of ascension imminent the Protector Suzerain
of this place.”
    “Strongblade,”
the Prince repeated to himself, hand hard and resolute on Bar. Bey hadn’t lost
any time having his puppet proclaimed rightful Heir.
    Now Gabrielle
had passed her brother a scabbarded sword of ancient design and Van Duyn held
the exotic implement he’d sent for, a “rifle.” It was a