Kenlahar’s joy at being alive, the impact of the sudden worship, was beginning to wear off. Uneasily, he asked, “Why has he called the Tribes together?” Ohmaar seemed surprised at the Question. “Why, to hear your wishes, Ken-Lahar, and to follow them!”
The truth was not quite as simple as Ohmaar’s explanation. The outlaw had assumed that Kenlahar’s “wishes” would be to attack Kernback. After all, had not the Queen chased him all the way into the Mountains of Sanctuary, would she not have had him killed if he had been caught? More importantly, that is what the outlaws had been waiting for, for many, many years. All they had needed as a champion, and now they thought they had one. All his protests, all his denials, would not change their minds. For did he not bear the Star Axe? they had asked.
The chieftains of the Seven Tribes had met for a while, and then had left to muster their men for battle. They never asked Kenlahar for what he wished. He found himself in the role of a leader who did not lead. A spiritual leader of the army of the Star Axe. He did now know what they would do if he protested strongly, and he never did test his power. He had come to find help for the House of Lahar and he had succeeded beyond any of his old fantasies. If it meant that he had to conquer Kernback first, then he would so. But he sensed that even this conflict was not the true conflict, and the unsuspecting men of both armies would soon be embroiled in the larger war with Toraq, the Sorcerer King. Through all of this he had not yet found the secret of the Star Axe!
Kenlahar loosened the tight and itching collar of the heavy ceremonial robe of a chieftain he felt obligated to wear. The weight of the robe pulled at his neck and was heavy on his shoulders. Even the cold mountain air could not penetrate the thick cloth. The crisp air, and the miles of snow, was belied by the clear blue skies and warm sun. In the tent, only an occasional waft of cool air told Kenlahar what the weather was really like.
The tent was stifling and crowded. The staff of his hastily assembled army was coming and going constantly. That the meetings were held in his tent at Misty Vales was more show than anything else, and Kenlahar was bored. He could hear the laughter of the common soldier in the other tents, which spotted the mountainside wherever level ground could be found or imagined.
He sat out of the way of the bustle as the tribes arrived one by one to add their footprints to the muddy snow. As the days passed, Kenlahar even managed to dissolve much of the embarrassing homage. One or two of the military men would even talk back to him! He knew nothing of war, and by all rights they should have told him to mind his own business, he thought. But he was the Axe-bearer. Thank Lahar for Whistler and Ohmaar, he said half aloud.
Several of the soldiers looked up from their tables of maps and looked at him curiously. But then the man who held the Star Axe was not supposed to be like other men, Kenlahar thought ironically. Whistler was the only one who was completely honest to Kenlahar; the only one who he could trust to give him the bad news as well as the good. As if the leader could read these thoughts, he appeared at his shoulder. “Kenlahar?” he said. “Did you ask for me?”
Kenlahar remembered that he had mentioned Whistler’s name aloud a few minutes before, and took his chance to ask, “Have you heard from Sar Devern yet?” He was becoming worried. Sar Devern had set out for Kernback over a week ago to plead for a parley.
Sar Devern had turned out to be the first person Kenlahar had met since he had left the House of Lahar, who he felt was loyal to him; not to the symbolic person he seemed to represent to all the others, either as a healer or as Axe-bearer.
With the help of the blood of the Cormat, the wounded—from the slightly hurt Kenlahar, to the mortally wounded Whistler—had recovered with miraculous speed. Sar Devern had been humiliated by the betrayal that had led to Whistler’s ambush! Kenlahar believed him when he said that he had not known it was a trick. The old soldier had vowed to Kenlahar that he would not return to serve in an army where the officers were forced to lie and betray. He pledged his fealty to Kenlahar, though he said he could not yet join the army of the Star Axe.
“I have long known how the Queen has treated the people of Kernback,” he said. “But my family has served the nobility of Kernback for many generations. Herald’s Manor was a gift to my father from the Queen’s father for saving his life. But never before have I been asked to betray my honor. I will serve you Kenlahar, but I cannot raise a weapon against the throne.”
Still, Sar Devern had been looked on with undisguised suspicion and hate by the mountain folk. They would not even allow the soldier to wander free and unhindered until Kenlahar demanded it. Indeed, Sar Devern would have been executed if it had not been for Kenlahar’s patronage. But the soldier became an invaluable ally to the lonely Axe-bearer, who learned to trust him completely. Kenlahar was surprised to find in the young soldier the same horror of war he felt as a healer.
So the two of them had hatched a desperate plan to avoid the cataclysmic battle that was shaping. Late one night, they had walked beyond the furthest sentries—Kenlahar escorting Sar Devern unchallenged by the guards—and the two men had clasped hands. Then Sar Devern had slipped off into the night. Kenlahar had known it would not be easy for the renegade noble to make it through the hostile foothills, and the equally hostile manor estates, but Sar Devern had insisted on trying and Kenlahar had given in. The Axe-bearer would sacrifice much to avoid war. And if anyone could make the journey it would be Sar Devern.
“Has he returned?” Kenlahar asked again.
“No, sire. No one has seen him,” Whistler answered darkly. “Perhaps he has not returned because he chooses not to.”
“No, he will come back if he can.” Kenlahar was sure of his assessment; more sure than he was of the loyalty of much of the gathering host of men. For weeks now the foothills had been filling with the families of men who had heard of the rebellion and rushed to join it. When Kenlahar saw the hordes of people, all of them so disenchanted with the Queen that they wished to overthrow her regime, he realized that they might succeed. Indeed, it seemed that only the nobles and the townspeople—who had little choice—and the well paid, pampered professional soldiers of her Guard, remained loyal to the Queen.
Representatives of all the Five Peoples of old were assembling in the Sanctuary Mountains. From the Exiles, those legendary followers of Lahar, came the Axe-bearer; Kenlahar was still amazed by the irony of his old home being a legend to all others. From the Borderlands came the farmers and craftsmen. From the manors and estates of Kernback came servants and slaves, eager to join the crusade. From the coasts of the far north came the Mariners, those proud and aloof descendants of the Starborn. Kenlahar even saw some of the People of the Cormat, who he had learned trafficked more with the Outside than the Elders had ever suspected. Since the Seven Tribes no longer counted themselves as subjects to Kernback, to the Five Peoples had been added another.
Over these last few weeks Kenlahar had watched the massive buildup of men and arms with more and more uncertainty. Despite all his attempts to avoid bloodshed, the time was coming when he would have to choose to use his rightful legacy as the bearer of Alcress—if he ever discovered its secret—or deny his heritage for the sake of his Atima. The dissonance this created between his ideals and the needs of his followers was making him moody and preoccupied as the time set for the march to Kernback neared. If only Sar Devern would return!
Ohmaar entered the tent, still discussing the details of the march with his aids. To the gruff, plain speaking mountain man had fallen the chore of ordering the armies. Kenlahar had come to feel better about Ohmaar, but could not quite forget how Ohmaar had once treated him. Kenlahar knew that he could trust Ohmaar in the same way he had once trusted the poor Lashitu—as bearer of Alcress, and only as the bearer of Alcress. At the moment, the mountain man seemed frustrated.
“Where are they all coming from!” Ohmaar exclaimed. “I wonder who is left to harvest the food and tend the manors? We would be better off without all this rabble. The Seven Tribes are all we need—
with your help and the Star Axe.”
“I do not know if I will be able to help you, Ohmaar. I do not know how to use Alcress.”
Ohmaar did not seem at all concerned. “It would not have been given you if you could not use it,” he said in a tone that brooked no questioning. When Kenlahar asked for news of Sar Devern the old surly look momentarily passed over Ohmaar’s face. “What was the purpose of his journey?” But Kenlahar turned away without answering. He did not see the sullen look his commander gave him. “We march tomorrow if you will give the order,” Ohmaar announced.
Kenlahar almost laughed at this apt definition of his powers. He gave the expected command, for he saw that he could not postpone the inevitable any longer. “See to it that the women and children do not suffer the revenge of the Queen. Leave as much food behind as you can.” “They will eat as much as they ever ate under the Queen,” Ohmaar said.
So they left the mountains before Sar Devern had returned. Kenlahar glumly rode at the head of the army where all could see him and be inspired. He had laughed when Ohmaar had asked him to do this. Still, his men seemed in good spirits, sure that they could not lose with the Axe-bearer leading them. They marched unhindered.
Apparently the Queen had chosen to retreat behind the White Walls of Kernback. Since the time of Lahar, the massive battlements and steep cliffs had never been surmounted. The White Walls seemed to wink at them with flashes of light as the host of rebels approached, and Kenlahar could see the lances of the Queen’s guard glinting far above. The huge ramps that led to the twin gates had been removed. The gates were unreachable even with tall ladders. Only the source of the Shallowspill flowed from the walls, and down the cliffs, falling to the Chalk Plains with a misty roar. As they neared the city, even the water began to sputter to a stop. Soon the walls gleamed wetly, but no water fell over their surface.
The rebel army camped below the twin hills, ready for a long siege. Kenlahar soon learned that with its own source of water, and the tons of grain that Queen’s Guard had stockpiled by years of taxation—at such a cost to the farmers of the estates—that Kernback could hold out for many months. Kenlahar was the only one who seemed worried by this prospect. By the time the city fell, the Qreq could have long ago crushed the House of Lahar.
Ohmaar advised him to blockade the city. It would reduce the casualties, he explained. But Kenlahar saw the long, empty months stretching in front of them. He envisioned the House of Lahar under assault, conquered only days before he finally arrived with help. “No one has been able to maintain a blockade for this long in the last few generations,” Ohmaar continued. “But Kernback traditionally can withstand a siege for no longer than half a year without help. Help has always arrived in time before now. But there is no one to rescue the Queen this time!”
Half a year! Kenlahar heard with dismay. Then when he heard the estimate Ohmaar gave of the deadly toll famine and pestilence would take of the common people of Kernback, he abandoned his reluctance to attack. He knew that the nobles and the soldiery, the ones he wished to reach, would be the last to starve. He saw that the men of his army were eager to attack. He was still tempted to follow Ohmaar’s advice, but again he remembered the desperate plight of the Island Laharhann. He told Ohmaar that he wanted a frontal assault. “We can starve them if that fails,” he said.
From beside him, the Whistler, who had become a sort of unofficial advisor, smiled, “If I know the Queen’s Guard, they are the ones who will attack first.”
“What do you mean?” Kenlahar asked. He had thought that the Queen’s Guard would stay behind their walls.
“Their greatest weapon is their cavalry. The armored nobles have never lost a battle,” Ohmaar explained.
“They do not fear us,” Whistler added, grimly. “But this time we shall not run from their charge. This time they will learn not to take us lightly!”
Kenlahar followed Ohmaar on a tour of the fringes of the camp. Rows of sharpened stakes, planted at an angle, surrounded the army. The men were busy creating what seemed to Kenlahar almost a re-creation of the Tream. The broken and swampy terrain was being mimicked by deep ditches and hidden troughs full of water. “The kings and queens of Kernback have always relied on their horsemen to maintain their vast territories,” Ohmaar said. “No infantry has ever stood against them. I do not intend to have us break and run this time!” He smiled briefly. “At least, not until we are ready.”
Kenlahar looked at him questioningly, but the commander did not seem to notice. When Ohmaar had first shown up in the mountain camp in his greasy buckskins, Kenlahar had not realized the respect the other soldiers felt for insignificant looking man. As they walked from tent to tent, the men hastily rose to their feet at their entrance—bowing to the Axe-bearer, receiving curt instructions from Ohmaar.
By the next morning the defenses were constructed, the men lined up on the Chalk Plains in ordered columns, waiting in eerie silence for the Queen’s Guard to emerge. From the huge gates, long wooden ramps were lowered. The nobles rode down the flimsy ramps, swaying and clattering noisily. Their bearing was arrogant, confident that they would disperse this rabble with a single charge of their lances.
Kenlahar watched from the rear, with the Whistler beside him. He could hear the distant voice of Ohmaar repeating the instructions he had given the night before. “Aim for the horses! Dismount and finish them!” Then his voice was drowned by the sound of a thousand hoof- beats. The Queen’s Guard charged straight at the long lines of rebels. Kenlahar flinched long before the moment of impact. No one could stand against the force of such an attack! As he feared, the men on foot were driven back. Kenlahar saw that they were retreating over the cleverly concealed bridges spanning the traps. But they appeared to be in a rout.
The triumphant cavalry gathered again for one last, finishing blow. The rebels seemed to be milling nervously, uncertainly before them. Though the archers brought down many more horses this time, the nobles rode on fearlessly, secure in their invincibility. Then the very ground seemed to open up under them. The fastest and strongest mounts of Kernback went down in a pile of flailing legs. With a roar the infantry ran forward to finish them off. Kenlahar saw a Borderman open the visor of a noble’s helmet while he lay pinned under his horse, and drive in his knife ruthlessly in up to the hilt.
Other nobles, helpless without their horses, were trying to reach the gates, but the lighter armored men of the Star Axe quickly caught up with them. Few of the aristocracy of Kernback would survive that day! Only a very few still remained mounted. They formed a wedge that drove for the city, but one by one the men at the edge of the wedge were pulled from their saddles. It slowed pitifully just before the beckoning doors.
Kenlahar saw the red leather jerkin, silver iron rings flashing in the sun, of the Prince of Kernback, in the center of the nobles. He was laying about him with devastating circular sweeps, hanging over his stirrups, with one hand extending to the grip of his saddle.
Then they were near enough to the city for the archers of Kernback to become effective. The rebel army fell back before the hail of arrows. The last remnant of the once proud cavalry clattered up the ramp. The wooden structure was dropped to the plains below. The gates clanged shut. The first battle of the siege for Kernback had ended.
CHAPTER XIX
“The power of the nobles is destroyed forever!” Whistler shouted from beside Kenlahar. Once again the healer’s training and senses were stunned by the savagery of a battle between man and man. Now his army owned the Chalk Plains, and men moved freely below the walls, carefully out of range of the archers. The siege engines were pulled forward and lined at intervals along the cliffs. In the spaces between, men clustered, carrying ladders that were meant to be stacked one on top of the other. In theory these precarious structures would reach even the tops of the White Walls.
As the shielded engines were pushed forward and the first of the ladders were placed against the cliffs, Kenlahar turned away from the bloodshed. With the Whistler
attendant, he toured the tents of the wounded and immersed himself in the work of healing. No one questioned Kenlahar’s decision to stay away from the fighting. No one thought of doing so. Yet Kenlahar was aware of the incongruity. He told himself that he did not know the secret of the Star Axe. That he was preserving his Atima. But these explanations no longer seemed to be adequate. His old fears of cowardice were returning.
Reports from the battlefield told of the attackers being thrown back again and again. But eventually the heralds gave tidings of victory. One of the towers of the White Walls had fallen. From this foothold, other parts of the battlements were falling. And always leading the way, he learned, was Ohmaar.
Whistler interrupted him as he worked on the wounds of a young border farmer. His face was downcast and worried. “What has happened?” Kenlahar asked, fearing that the battle was lost, despite the excited murmurs of the soldiers. Before Whistler could answer, the body of Ohmaar was brought into the tent. The wound was fatal, Kenlahar saw immediately—beyond even his healing powers. The gash in Ohmaar’s neck was deep and jagged. Kenlahar poured what little of Cormat’s blood he still had onto the wound. But it was too late—Ohmaar never woke again.
Kenlahar rose from the bedside with his head hung in sadness. What good was his Atima if he could not save his friends? A sense of disgust with himself filled him and would not go away no matter how hard he tried to dismiss his cowardice. He had been hiding behind his role of healer too long! Because he had neither wished to kill or be killed he had stood back while many others killed for him and in his name. It was time to fight his own fight. “Call a halt to the attack,” he ordered.
“But, my lord, we have won it!” One of his attendants protested. Whistler was not in the tent when Kenlahar made his startling command. But there was no need to fetch him, for he came rushing back, ready to argue fervently. When he saw Kenlahar’s face and manner, his objection was muted.
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