Stretched out on the dune with Thomas, and on the dunes immediately to east and west, were the two hundred men and women of his attacking force, resting now in silence from the hard march that had brought them out here from the mountains. Olanthe lay at his left side, and on his right was Mewick, face darkened with earth for the night attack until it looked like the visage of some carven demon of melancholy.
Beyond Mewick, Loford lay, the faint wheeze of his breathing carrying in the stillness to Thomas’s ears. Olanthe’s hair blew in the night breeze, touching Thomas on the cheek. She was leaning toward him to whisper, and stretching out an arm to point. There, she was showing him, in the Oasis’ central area, lay the defensive compound of the enemy. That was where the bulk of them must be taken by surprise tonight and slaughtered. Two corners of its high palisade were marked now by the distant sparks of torches. Olanthe had explained earlier that the gate of it usually stood open, though of course there would be a guard.
Thomas knew there were a score of birds over the Oasis now, invisible to human or reptilian eyes. They were marking for him the positions of the enemy patrols, and once the attack began it would be the birds’ job to prevent the escape of a single foe, on wing or foot. For the Castle to learn of this attack tonight, or even tomorrow, would probably mean disaster; the Free Folk meant to rest in the Oasis for a day and a night before beginning the march that would take them straight into the decisive battle for the Elephant. Tonight’s fight could be decisive only if the Free Folk lost.
“Pass the word again,” Thomas whispered now, repeating the message both to left and right. “No burning.” Any great fire would surely be seen by the watch on the battlements of the distant Castle; then morning would surely bring reptiles, to investigate; and after reptiles would come the cavalry in force. Ekuman would need no Elephant to win a battle fought by day and in the open.
Loford was crawling toward Thomas now. A few moments ago the Big One had gone back down the dune, and now was coming up again, between Thomas and Mewick. The wizard moved, Thomas thought, with all the stealth of a foundered plow-beast; but even he could not make a great deal of noise in soft sand, so this time it did not matter.
“I have been trying this and that,” Loford rumbled softly, collapsing with a grunt to lie beside him at full length. “But things are just not favorable for magic. Too many swords are out, I suppose.”
“Not even an elemental?” Thomas wanted all the help that he could get, and he knew that Loford had a knack for elementals.
Loford shook his head. “I might draw up a good one from the desert. But not at night. The desert is day. Sun, and heat, and a withering wind throwing a blast of sand—aye, I might fetch up something to please you! But not at night.” The wizard sounded guilty and defensive.
Thomas hit his shoulder gently. “I wasn’t really counting on your powers tonight. We made need that sand-elemental more, to screen us when we’re crossing the desert toward the Castle day after tomorrow. In case the Thunderstone doesn’t draw enough rain for us to hide in.”
“I am thinking about that march; tossing the Stone ahead of us to keep drawing rain, and dodging thunderbolts. It should be as adventurous as some battles. And you want an elemental to keep us company too. Ho!”
“Sh!” hissed Mewick.
In a very low whisper Thomas added: “And I am thinking that we will fight no more swamp-battles. One way or the other.”
The shadow of a bird came drifting down in ghostly silence to stand just below Thomas on the dune. Wings proudly spread, it reported on just how many enemy patrols were out, and where. Thomas hurriedly made decisions, and passed orders to his squad leaders down the line. One squad he detailed to positions along the western rim of the Oasis, to be ready to intercept any of the enemy who might try to flee toward the Castle.
“And we are ready in the air, Thomas,” the bird assured him. “If the reptiles dare to arise, not one of them will escape.”
Orders acknowledged, the long rank of human figures began to break up, drifting away in silent clusters, half-visible under the Moon. “Go now,” said Thomas to the bird, “and bring me word as soon as our squads are in position of the far side of the Oasis.” The separate attacks on enemy patrols must be made as nearly simultaneous as possible, and at the same time the entrance to the inner compound should be seized.
With a sweep of wings the courier drifted up and away. Now, if anything had been forgotten, it was too late to mend. Thomas thought to himself that being a leader gave one advantage anyway: there was no time for a man to worry much about his own skin.
His eyes met Olanthe’s in the moonlight, and they looked at each other for a time. Neither felt need to speak.
The bird was back before he had really started to expect it. “They are ready on the far side, Thomas. And along the western edge.”
“So. Then we are ready too.” He drew a deep breath and looked at the remnant of his force that was still near enough for him to see. “And we attack.”
With a wave of his arm he motioned forward the dozen who were to accompany him closely into the fight, to try to seize the inner compound’s gate. Another squad of the same size, led by Mewick, would be following closely, hoping to be able to rush through the gate and kill sleeping invaders in their barracks.
The outer boundary of the Oasis was marked by a ditch that, according to Olanthe, served to keep the desert from drifting in. Crossing it now, she whispered to Thomas: “Nearly dry. We must use the Stone for rain while we are here.”
Once past this outer ditch, Thomas led his squad between rows of knee-high plants toward the Oasis’ center. He motioned his people to spread out, and at first set the pace across the level ground at a crouching run. When they had covered a few hundred meters he slowed to a walk, and a little while later dropped down to crawl between the rows of plants. There would be a patrol of eight foot-soldiers not far ahead. Thomas’s and Mewick’s squads were supposed to sneak past this patrol, leaving it to be ambushed by other Free Folk a little farther on.
Thomas saw the patrol, walking in slow single file on a course at right angles to his own. The moon turned the bronze helms into ghosts’ heads. He stopped crawling, and around him his squad melted into the soil and the night.
The enemy passed. Then their leader took an unexpected turn. Raising his head a few centimeters, Thomas saw them now heading straight for where Mewick’s squad had gone to earth. Only let it be silent, Thomas thought, when an encounter appeared inevitable.
The soldiers’ leader stopped, making a startled, turning movement. Around him and his men, Mewick’s people rose up like dark and silent demons. They had the advantages of numbers, twelve to eight, and of surprise, and it was no wonder that they cut down the Castle-men without loss to themselves. Still, silence had been too much to expect, and a pair of screams went drifting in the night.
Thomas stood up tensely, looking toward the center of the Oasis, now less than half a kilometer distant. Olanthe’s hand was on his arm. “That may not alarm the central compound,” she said softly. “They may think only that some fugitives are being chased through the fields, or that birds are harassing a patrol. That sometimes happens.”
“There may be noise from the other patrols at any moment. We’d better hurry.” Thomas waved his own squad forward. He motioned Mewick to follow closely, and got an acknowledging wave.
Thomas’s short-sword rode in a scabbard strapped against his leg. He saw Olanthe loosening a long knife in its sheath at her hip as they walked.
Now the Oasis’ central area grew close enough for details to be visible. There was the barrier of sharpened stakes, forming a prison compound where the Oasis-folk were penned at night. Thomas could see clay silos, barns, and storage bins. And, straight ahead, the invaders’ defensive palisade, wherein the torches still burned. The gate was open. No trees were to be seen; Olanthe had said they had all gone to make the stockade. No humans or reptiles were in sight.
“Let the two of us go fi
rst,” Thomas whispered when his squad had gathered round him. Then he took Olanthe by the hand and walked with her along the dark path that led almost straight from where they were to the open gate of the palisade. Now he could see the arm and part of the uniform of a soldier who seemed to be lounging just inside the gate. The hope was that the first few soldiers who saw Thomas and Olanthe would take them for nothing more dangerous than a young couple trying to sneak in after curfew.
On the right side of the path ran the barricade enclosing the houses of the farm folk, and on the left side were tall storage bins. From behind one of these a soldier stepped out suddenly to bar their way.
He showed a pleased grin at their starts of surprise. “Looking for a hole under the fence somewhere? I hope your frolicking half the night was worth it, because—” He peered more closely at Olanthe’s hand. “What’ve you got there?”
From somewhere out in the fields came a yell of fear, agony weakened and purified by distance. The soldier saw Olanthe’s long knife, and his mouth was forming for an echoing yell as he started to draw his sword; he meant to step back, but Thomas’s blade was already between his ribs.
Thomas heard two dozen feet come shuffle-pounding speedily on the path behind him as he sprinted for the palisade gate. A pair of sentries came into view, alarmed—too late. They had time to yell, but no time more.
The gate taken, Thomas cast one look backward. Mewick’s squad was coming on the run, only a few meters down the path. Then he put Olanthe aside with one arm and turned and ran on into the compound, sprinting for the open doorway of the nearest barracks. On the right as he faced inward from the gate he saw stables along the palisade, and then the barracks, a long low timber building big enough for nearly a hundred men. On the left side of the compound were similar stables and barracks, and on the side opposite the gate another long low building that Thomas knew housed the officers and served as headquarters. All the center of the compound was bare sandy earth, pounded flat by marching feet. Before the headquarters building a flagpole held a limp banner of Ekuman’s black and bronze. And in the very center of the parade-ground, upon a sort of cruciform gibbet, there was a man bound living—a naked man with the wounds of whipping striped across his body, who raised his gray head now to stare at Thomas. Thomas had no time now for a close look at the victim; his running strides were carrying him on toward the barracks’ open door.
A man came stepping out of this doorway, half-naked and half-awake, buckling on a sword. He stumbled to a halt, eyes and mouth widening at the sight of Thomas, charging, huge, black all over for the night attack.
Thomas aimed for the middle of the body, drove his short sword in nearly to the hilt, shoved the dead man back into the barracks and went in after him. Right at his back his raiders poured after him through the narrow door, all bellowing now to raise up terror and panic. Before him, only a few of the enemy as yet had weapons in their hands. Thomas was no master swordsman, and he knew it. So he used the advantages he did have, his strength and size, for all that they were worth. With two hammering strokes he beat down his next opponent’s guard, and with the next stroke cut his arm off near the elbow.
In a moment the raiders controlled the door, and the weapon-rack that stood beside it, from which Thomas grabbed himself a shield; in a few moments more what was going on could no longer be called a fight. Castle-men were killed in their hammocks, stabbed crawling in corners, died while playing dead, were slaughtered like scrambling, squealing meat-beasts in a pen.
The killing was still unfinished when Thomas scrambled over the slippery floor back to the door again. By now more than a score of Free Folk were inside the compound, and in front of the other barracks a fierce fight raged. Mewick was there, thrusting with a long dagger, swinging a war-hatchet that looked like some peasants’ tool save for its swordlike basket-hilt.
Even with one barracks cleaned out, the Free Folk inside the stockade were still outnumbered. Yelling, Thomas led his own squad charging to Mewick’s aid.
The men in the second barracks had been given just a few more moments to rouse themselves than the men in the first barracks had enjoyed, and that made a great difference. These men were just starting to pour out and fight, but when Thomas charged they began retreating into the barracks again, probably not realizing in the confusion that the advantage of numbers was still theirs. Arrows began to come singing out of the slits in the barracks’ timber wall. The barracks was a solid structure, built right against the strong high palisade.
“Remember, no burning!” Thomas shouted. He could see two of his men down already with arrows in them. But welcome reinforcements were now charging in at the palisade’s gate, Free Folk who had evidently finished their ambush of one of the outer patrols.
Olanthe popped up from somewhere to stand at Thomas’s side. “Keep down!” he barked, gripping her protectively. He reached into her pack and took out the Thunderstone, and rolled it toward the barracks. The battered metal case bounced to a stop just at a corner of the low building.
It would take some little time for the storm to develop. Meanwhile, Thomas disposed some men to discourage those inside the barracks from sallying; that done, he turned the greater part of his attention to the headquarters building. He saw that Mewick had already led men onto the roof of it, where they were fighting with some bronze-helmets who had climbed up from inside. Others were trading spearthrusts and missiles at the doors and windows.
Yet another squad of Free Folk came pouring into the compound now, and with them the first of the farmers to rise in arms—pitchforks and reaping-hooks, as predicted, and a raging joyous fury. Thomas ran to meet these, and led them to the headquarters building.
On the headquarters roof, guards and officers and orderlies in bronze helmets were holding off the Free Folk with pike and sword and mace, protecting one corner of the palisade. There one of their number was waving torches to drive off birds, while another tried to pull the protective net away from a reptile-roost; they meant to get a courier away to Ekuman.
The soldier waving torches went down, struck by a pitchfork hurled up from the ground. Thomas skipped quickly over the shingles to kick the flaming brands off the roof before they could set fire to it. The man struggling with the net at last succeeded in getting it out of the reptiles’ way—but not one of them ventured out of the doorway of the roost. The night belonged to the birds, and well the reptiles knew it.
Thunder grumbled overhead. Suddenly there was no one but Free Folk left standing on the roof, though others were still lying there. Blood slicked the shingles underfoot and trickled in the raingutters. Someone had taken up a captured pike and was starting to try to prod the reptiles out of their little house. Birds were landing at the doorway, their soft voices vibrant, urging those within who had eaten birds’ eggs not to be shy now, but come out and welcome their guests come to return the call.
Men down on the ground at the entrance to the headquarters building were calling for Thomas. He swung over the edge of the roof and dropped down to discover that some of Mewick’s squad thought they had nabbed the garrison commander. They shoved forward a gray-haired fellow with a thin ropy neck. They had caught him in a store-room, putting on a private soldier’s uniform.
Rain pattered down, then drummed. Lightning was marching closer. In one sudden white opening of the sky, Thomas looked up and saw Strijeef, old wound still bandaged on one wing, eyes mad and glaring, emerging from a reptile-roost. Leathery eggshell clung to the talons of his upraised foot. His beak and his feathers were stained with purplish blood.
“See to the other roost!” Thomas shouted up. Then he dragged the gray-haired prisoner to Olanthe, and some of the other Oasis-folk, to make absolutely sure of who he was. Olanthe was out in the center of the parade-ground, in range of arrows from the still-resisting barracks. A couple of farmers were standing by with captured shields, ready to deflect any shafts that came at those working to take the old man down from his scaffold. Olanthe was weeping, oblivious of arr
ows; Thomas realized that the man on the cross must be her father.
The victim was just being lowered when the Thunderstone got the lightning it was calling for. The bolt followed the corner of the barracks from eaves to ground, opening the structure like a great egg carefully topped at table. The rain, pouring now, prevented any fire from catching. Thomas ran to join his men entering the breach, but his leadership was not needed. His force swept in through the riven wall and completed the night’s work without further loss to themselves.
And so ended the battle for the Oasis. Olanthe’s father and the other wounded freedom fighters were carried out of the invaders’ compound to be cared for in the farmers’ homes. From the farmers’ compound, a prison no longer, voices began to rise, men and women and children singing in the gladness of their deliverance.
At a touch on his shoulder Thomas turned, to see Loford standing there, grinning hugely; on the upper part of the wizard’s big right arm a small wound was bleeding.
“How was the fighting?” Thomas asked.
“Oh, very good! Oh, excellent! I tell you I was once facing two of them—but I am come to remind you, this time the Thunderstone is yours to pick up.”
“That’s right.” Thomas, grinning, thinking how he would torment Loford by never asking him how he had got his glorious wound, trotted over to the shattered barracks and picked up the graven case from a puddle.
While he was there a bird came down to him, bringing the good report that not a single enemy had escaped the slaughter. Several members of the patrols ambushed in the fields had tried to get away, to reach the Castle, when they saw that the whole Oasis was under attack. All but one of these had been cut down by Thomas’s men left along the Oasis’ western boundary for the purpose. The one man who had got past them, mounted, had been dragged bloodily from his saddle while at full gallop, by three of the Silent People who had overtaken and fastened on him from above. And now even the terrified beast he had been riding was caught and being brought back to the stables.
Empire of the East Page 13
