Lois McMaster Bujold Chalion 2 Paladin of Souls

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A few moments later, across the rooftops of the castle's inner courts, a plume
of smoke billowed into the air.
"Fire in the stable," said Illvin, his laconic voice at odds with his sudden
lunge forward. "Foix, I want you, please." He sped away down the stairs, long
legs taking them three at a time.
Now it begins in earnest
, thought Ista, her stomach clenching.
Liss's eyes were huge. "Royina, may I go with them?" she gasped.
"Yes, go," Ista released her. She bolted away. Every competent hand would be
needed . . .
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And then there is me.
She took herself down off the wall, at least.
Arhys, running past her, called, "Lady, will you look to Cattilara?"
"Of course." A task of sorts. Or maybe Arhys, a prudent commander, merely
wanted to get all the useless deadwood stored in one safe place.
Ista found Cattilara's ladies in hysterics; when she had finished with them,
their noise was at least muted to well-suppressed hysterics. Cattilara lay
unchanged, except for an already visible shrinking of the soft flesh of her
face, tightening across her bones. The demon light was knotted tensely within
her, making no attempt yet to fight for ascendance. Ista blew out her breath
in unease, but made sure that the soul-fire continued to pour out toward Arhys
without impediment.
* * *
THROUGH THE ENDLESS AFTERNOON, ISTA MADE FREQUENT FORAYS from the marchess's
chambers to check the effect of the various ripples of sorcery light that
scraped through her perceptions. Only that first great assault on the water
supply seemed fully coordinated. After that the attack broke into a disorder
mirrored by its effects. People fell and broke bones. The horses saved from
the burning stable block, let loose in the star court, knocked down a gallery
in their squealing and plunging. A wasp nest fell with it, and three men died
screaming, choking, and convulsing from the stings;
more men were knocked about and injured by the sting-maddened horses.
Other, smaller fires started in other courts. The little remaining water
dwindled rapidly. Most of the stored meat, no matter how preserved, was found
to be starting to rot and stink; bread and fruit grew green mold that seemed
to spread even as one watched. Weevil larvae burgeoned in the flour supply.
Leather straps and fiber ropes rotted and came apart in people's hands.
Pottery cracked. Boards broke.
Mail and swords began to rust with the speed of a maiden's blush.
Any men with histories of tertiary fever began violent relapses; Cattilara's
pleasant dining hall was soon filled with men on pallets, moaning, burning,
shivering, and hallucinating. Dy Cabon was pressed into service to help tend
the sick and, unbelievably soon, the dying. By evening, the faces of the
soldiers and servants that Ista passed had gone beyond edgy and frightened to
a pale, deadened, bewildered shock.
At sunset, Ista climbed the north tower, the highest, to take stock. Liss,
stinking with smoke and limping from being stepped on by frantic hooves,
mounted slowly after her. A man in a gray-and-gold tabard clumped up behind to
drop an armload of stones onto a growing pile by the battlement, exchange
uneasy grunts with two comrades whose unstrung warped bows were flung aside
into a corner, then turn and clump back down the winding stairs.
In the level light of the westering sun, the unpeopled countryside appeared
weirdly beautiful and serene.
In the grove of walnut trees, the Jokonans' well-ordered camp seemed to be
enjoying a feast; the only smokes were thin aromatic trails rising from
cooking fires. Little clusters of horsemen rode about, patrolling, delivering
messages out for an evening jaunt, for all Ista could tell. All abroad wore
sea-green tabards.
The town, behind its walls in the valley, also sent up plumes of smoke, but
ugly and black. With better access to water than the castle crowning the hill,
the townsmen had kept most of their blazes from spreading out of control, so
far. But the few tiny figures Ista could see moving fearfully through its
streets and alleys were stiff with fatigue. The men behind its walls crouched,
or sat barely moving, or lay as if in exhausted naps. Or dead.
Leaden boot steps scuffed on the stone stairs, and Ista looked around to see
Lord Illvin emerge onto the tower platform carrying a small, greasy cloth
sack. Even the flushed light of sunset failed to make his face look anything
but filthy and pale. Soot and sweat had melted together, to be rubbed in odd
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streaks by whatever swipe of his hand had dashed the grime from his eyes. He
had abandoned chain mail and scorched tabard hours ago, and his plain linen
shirt, dotted with small black spark holes, was half stuck to his torso.
"Ah," he said in a voice that sounded as though it came from the bottom of a
mine shaft. "There you are."
She nodded greetings; he came to her shoulder, and together they stared down
into the disaster of
Porifors, behind its deceptively blank and solid outer walls.
The whole stable block was burned-out. Blackened timbers were strewn across
it, and messes of broken roof tiles spilled over them like blood. Temporarily,
no other smoke was rising, but one corner of the kitchen block was also
blackened and fallen in. The star court was a mess one gallery knocked down,
the fountain empty and choked with filth. Horses were tethered along one side;
their backs looked odd and lozenge-shaped from this high angle of view. What
people who could be seen scuttled about bent and anxious.
"Have you seen Learned dy Cabon lately?" Ista asked Illvin.
He nodded. "Still holding up in the sickrooms. We have pallets strewn through
three chambers now. Half a dozen fellows just came down with dysentery. With
no wash water left, it won't even take demons to spread that all over the
fortress. Bastard's hell. At this rate, Sordso will be able to take Porifors
by assault tomorrow with six ponies, a rope ladder, and a Quadrene temple
children's choir." His teeth gritted, white against his blackened face. "Oh." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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