by Chris Bunch
“I’ll be truthful. There is a chance of betrayal, but a very slight one. As for you being able to escape, I’ll give you all the sorcerous guards I can provide.”
“How am I to enter the citadel? Can you change me into a bird? Or, considering the nature of that place, a bat might be more appropriate.”
“Of course not.” He took me by the arm, and led me to a window and opened its shutter. The winter wind howled around us, but neither of us paid mind, as we stared up at the brooding mass not many miles distant As Tenedos pointed, I’d already guessed his idea. It was not utterly impossible, just highly so.
Tenedos closed the shutters.
“I shall not press you for an answer, Damastes, my friend, and you now know how highly I prize that title, for you are the only one who is acceptable to my partner-to-be. You don’t even have to tell me no. If I don’t hear from you within a day or so, well, then, we’ll find another way to winkle Chardin Sher out.”
I only half-heard him. I opened the shutters, and looked up once more at the fortress. I was reminded what I’d been taught from when I was a child, that a leader’s duty is to lead from the front, and then I remembered a proverb I’d heard somewhere, that duty is hard as iron, but death is light as a feather.
Easy words, hard meaning. My mind turned to Marán, and I thought wistfully of her. I desperately wanted to say no to this absurd idea, but could not. Nor could I agree to it. I wondered if our child had been born whole if I’d cling to life so desperately, something a soldier must not do.
I banged the shutters to, and turned to the seer.
“You needn’t wait for a reply. I’ll go.”
A slow smile moved across his face.
“Do you know, Damastes, I never doubted that you would say yes? That’s why it took me two full days to find the courage to ask you.”
• • •
The way in was, of course, up that lightning-cut crack in the walls. Once atop the walls, all that would be necessary was to evade the sentries on the battlements, make my way down the wall, across unknown obstacles, perform Tenedos’s task, and then somehow be able to escape with my head more or less attached to where it was most comfortable.
On the way I also planned to end war, disease, and famine with my free hand.
I decided I’d need three other fools to accompany me.
The first was Lance Karjan. I told him what the chances were, and he shrugged. “Sir, how many times since we met have we been dead an’ gone already? I’m gettin’ used t’ the idea by now. ‘Sides, if we get away wi’ it, which we ain’t gonna, it’ll be a tale that’ll buy me drink for the rest of my life.”
“If you’re going,” I said, “you’ll have to go as a lance-major. Bigger death benefits.” Karjan growled, then grinned. “You’ll take any ‘vantage, won’t you, sir?”
“I will.” He saluted. One.
I couldn’t simply tell my dominas I needed two more men, because I knew I’d be swamped with volunteers. While I considered how to do it, Karjan returned. Behind him was the bulk of Svalbard, that great silent brawler who I now was pleased to see wore the slashes of a lance-major.
“He’s goin', too,” Karjan told me.
“Lance Karjan told you what I’m going to attempt?”
“He did. Sir.”
“You’re aware there are no chances of surviving?”
“Don’t believe that. Sir.”
We stared at each other in silence. I was the first to break, knowing how useless it would be to say more.
“Very well. Leave your troop and move up here to my headquarters.”
“Thank you. Sir.” And the man was gone.
Two.
The third was Domina Bikaner, who insisted he by the gods had the right to go, being who he was and how long we’d soldiered together. I told him absolutely no. The Lancers needed him. He began to argue, and I had to order him to shut up and get out. I was considering who I should ask to finish the suicide team when General Yonge entered my tent without bothering to knock.
“I understand, my friend, that you are planning something completely foolish.”
“That’s about the best way to put it. How did you hear about it?”
“Never ask that of a man who was his village’s best chicken thief before he could walk more than five paces without falling. I want to know why you did not call on me?”
“Because you are a gods-damned general.”
Yonge spat on my tent floor, and lifted off his sash. His knife was suddenly in his hand, and the sash was cut in two pieces. He cast it down and ground his heel across it.
“Now I am just Yonge of the Hills.”
I swore at him, and he swore back at me. I told him he was being insolent, and he told me I had best watch my tongue, for a Kaiti would not allow anyone, not even a general, to talk like that. Especially if he was Numantian.
“You know I could call for the provosts, or tell Tenedos, and you’d be held in irons until I returned?”
“Do you think I would still be here by the time they arrived? Listen, you ox of a Cimabuan. I came to study honor, did I not?”
“Honor is not foolishness, dammit!”
“What idiot said that?”
My grin took me by surprise.
“As for that wizard, pah!” Yonge went on. “Do you think I obey him because I’m afraid? I do what I want when I want. For a while it amused me to lead soldiers, to try to teach poor lumbering farm boys how to move as if they were men of the crags. Now it amuses me to do something else.
“Now I plan to climb that fortress to see what is inside. Would you care to accompany me, Cimabuan?”
“How do you know I’m planning to climb it?”
“Because not even you are foolish enough to try tunneling.”
Tenedos would be livid, but:
Three.
• • •
Two generals and two lance-majors stood in sheeting rain at the foot of the nearly vertical wall of Chardin Sher’s last stronghold. Ten feet above us, the crack lightning had smashed into the fortress began.
The storm had raged, on and off, since noon of that day, alternating with periods of calm. It was partially regulated by thirty of Tenedos’s magicians, working from a post just behind our front lines. In my pack I carried a small, dark lantern, which I could use to signal the sages. One flash meant lift the storm, two meant bring it down. Three flashes would be sent when — or if — we reached the top of the wall. “I doubt if this will work exactly,” Tenedos had said. “But it’s worth the effort.” Also in the pack were gloves, sock-like covers to muffle my nailed boots if we succeeded in climbing to the ramparts, a flask of tea, three sealed oilskin pouches of spiced chicken, plus some jerked beef and hard candies to suck. The most important item was a quart flask full of the potion that would set off the spell. Beside it was a fat stick of reddish chalk-looking material. I’d spent four hours drawing and redrawing the figure I was to create inside the courtyard, with Tenedos hovering over me and correcting my mistakes, although both the figure and the symbols that were to accompany it made no sense to me. I asked Tenedos if the rain wouldn’t wash the chalk off the stones, and he told me it had a spell cast to prevent that from happening.
I also had a belt pouch with a small hammer and soft iron spikes to hammer into cracks in the wall for climbing aids. Over my shoulder was a fat coil of rope.
I wore dark clothing, fingerless gloves, and a stocking cap. The other three were dressed the same, and had similar gear in their packs.
Each of us carried but three weapons: a dagger and two four-inch pigs of lead. I carried the dagger Yonge had given me for a wedding present, after I’d gotten Tenedos to put a darkening spell on its silver.
We looked up and up, and our way seemed endless. But it was growing no shorter by the looking, and so Svalbard bent, Yonge stepped into his cupped hands, and the big man cast Yonge upward. He caught the edge of the crack, and shinnied up a few feet Yonge pushed an iron peg in, then dr
opped a rope for the rest of us to use to start the climb.
Then it began. Yonge in the lead, I behind him, then Karjan and Svalbard, all roped together. We used our hands and the sides of our feet, forced into the crack to move up a step, then another, then another. It was monotonous, wet, and muscle tearing. I thought of signaling for the magicians to try to lighten the storm, but I’d rather be wet than heard.
We went on and on, ever more slowly. Once Yonge slipped, his hands scrabbling on the slippery stone, and his boots crashed down on my shoulders, almost knocking me loose. Then he had a grip, and we were climbing once more.
The way became easier as we went higher, and the crack widened. I’d hoped that we’d be able to move completely inside it, but we weren’t lucky, because the wall had been built in layers, and the lightning had only broken the outermost. It was still almost three feet deep, and so we were somewhat sheltered from the weather.
I was reaching for a hold when a bird squawked, and bolted from its nest into my face. I jerked back, and came off, falling the few feet to the end of my rope. Fortunately Yonge had heard the bird’s alarm, and had time to brace himself. I swung back and forth like a pendulum, feeling the rope throttle the life from me, then Karjan pulled me in to safety. I took a moment to let my heart reenter my breast, and we climbed on.
I’d hoped the night would be endless, but it wasn’t, and we were still climbing when I realized I could see Yonge’s boots above me. I cursed, having feared this would happen, and that day would break and we would still be on the wall.
There was nothing to do but move as far inside the crack as we could and wait. I was afraid to keep going, for fear of being heard or, more likely, seen by anyone looking over the parapet.
The magicians saw our plight, and attempted to make it easier by calling up spells and stopping the storm. I clawed out the lantern, blew its wick to life and over and over again, blinked twice … twice … twice. Better to be wet and miserable than dry and dead. I guess they saw my feeble signal, for the rain started again.
That ended another worry — when it had been clear I saw white dots far across the fields staring up, and knew we’d been seen by our fellow soldiers. I cursed, but there was nothing that could have been done. Warn the soldiers not to look at the wall and assume no Kallian would hear the warning, sorcerously or otherwise? Make the officers order their officers not to look at the fortress? I just hoped not many of the fools would point and draw Mikael Yanthlus’s attention.
We drank our tea, chewed our rations, shivered, and stretched our muscles whenever we could. Karjan muttered something about why did following me always mean going straight up. I refrained from reminding him about his volunteering. Yonge grinned and whispered that this crevice was like a vacation home to him; sometime Karjan would have to take leave to Yonge’s mountains and see what real climbing was like. That was the best — and only — jest of that rain-soaked day.
Eventually the light died, and we crept out, onto the face of the wall, our bodies creaking at being forced once more into exertion, and climbed on. The crack widened, and we climbed with our backs against one wall and used our feet to “walk” us up on the other. It was excruciatingly painful, tearing at the muscles of my thighs, but I was afraid the crack would open up farther, and then we’d have to use our pegs and ropes.
But it did not. I was moving numbly, one foot, then the other, then push the back up and I banged my head against Yonge’s boots. I was about to mutter an oath and wonder why he’d stopped climbing, then I realized:
We’d reached the top of the wall.
I unroped, slipped inside of him, and scrabbled up. I listened, but heard no sound of a sentry. I reached into my pack, took out the dark lantern, and sent three flashes into the night.
I reached up, felt the welcome smoothness of worked stone, and lifted myself out of the crack and through a crenel and was on my hands and knees on a rampart of Chardin Sher’s fortress. I looked for sentries, and thought I saw movement, but it was distant on a far wall. Chardin Sher wasn’t a fool and leaving his fortress unguarded — there was little point in having the ramparts lined with soldiery, for any attack would be heard long before it reached this point, and with the storm blowing hard all that would be accomplished was to wear out good men. It took some care to spot the few guards since the ramparts were lined with obscene statues of demons, leering defiance at the world beyond.
I hissed, and my three men came up. I guessed the hour close to midnight. There were no maps of the inside of the fortress, and Tenedos had been afraid of alerting Chardin Sher’s magicians if he tried to peep inside.
I saw our goal, though, and the path seemed fairly straightforward. Impossible, but straightforward, and I knew there was no impossibility for the four loons who’d managed to reach as far as we had. I whispered a question, and found that all three of my men could swim, so my scheme had possibilities.
The stronghold had been built with a concentric series of walls, so if one line of defense fell, the garrison could fall back to another, and then another.
It looked to me as if we could reach our objective with only one more wall to climb, and so we crept along the top of the rampart to the point I’d indicated. We knotted a rope at three-foot intervals, tied it off to one of the statues, and went down the rope, walking backward, with the rope coming down over one shoulder, then up between our legs and across one thigh.
The small problem we faced at the bottom was that this section of the fortress was the defenders’ reservoir. We lowered ourselves into the water, far over our heads, and began swimming. It was harder than I’d imagined to swim with the weight of the pack and our clothes, but at least the other three had the buoyancy of their rope coils. We left mine dangling in the shadows. It would not only provide a fast retreat, but if it was discovered we’d hear the hue and cry and hopefully have time to devise another exit. The pouring rain mottled the water’s surface, so we were impossible to see from the walls around us.
The far side of the reservoir was slimy, sloping stone, halfway toward vertical, intended as a runoff so rain could refill the pool. We used our iron pegs, one in each hand, digging them between the stones, and moved steadily upward, four crabs hunting dinner along the shoreline. It should have been fairly easy, but we were tired from the day and two nights on the wall, and our muscles sorely stretched.
But we reached the top, and once more peered through crenellations to look for guards. The storm had lightened, unfortunately, and I could see dimly. This inner keep was better guarded than before, with one sentry on each of the ramparts visible. Very well. I’d hoped to be able to make this sortie without leaving a body to be discovered, but that would be impossible. We flattened close to the rampart, and waited.
The sentry paced toward us, huddled in his cloak, paying tittle attention to anything except his own misery. Blackness reared out of blackness, and he had not even a moment to cry out as an arm swept around his chest, Svalbard’s other great paw cupped his chin, and snapped his head sideways. His neck broke with an audible crack, and Svalbard let the body slip to the rampart, then stared down, his expression calm, as if nothing had happened.
I pulled the sentry’s helmet off and gave it to Karjan. Even in this darkness I could see his scowl, but he was the most logical choice. We pulled the body’s cloak off, gave it to Karjan, then slid the corpse over the parapet into the reservoir.
Karjan, with the Kallian’s spear and cloak, the too-small helmet forced over the top of his head, would pose as the sentry — so no one would see bare walls and give the alarm — as well as being our rear guard.
We pulled the muffling covers over our boots, saw steps not far away, and went down them, zigging back and forth, until we reached ground level.
Our way led through long stone corridors, and I lost direction twice, and had to retrace my steps. I heard voices several times, and we went by doors with light shining under them, but encountered no one. The Kallians were either asleep or achamber in f
ront of a blazing fire at this hour, and I blamed them not, feeling the darkness of the ancient building in my bones.
We went up steps and down a passageway. Ahead was a solid iron door, standing open, that led into the open.
I went through it, and the door slammed behind me with a clash of metal, and a bar dropped into place, sealing Yonge and Svalbard on the other side!
Elias Malebranche came out of the darkness.
“I felt you coming, Numantian,” he hissed. “I have a touch of the Talent, and my master’s sorcerer was kind enough to give me an amulet to help. I’d hoped to encounter you on the battlefield and slay you there, but you have come to me, instead. So we can settle our private business privately.”
His hand touched his waist, and the knife came out.
“Third time lucky, Damastes.”
I said nothing. Talk in battle is for buffoons and the overconfident. My own dagger was in my hand, and we circled each other. Malebranche was a far better knife-fighter than I, but I hoped his arrogance would help me. Not only had he spoken, but he had not given the alarm. He wanted the glory of killing me and ending our mission all to himself.
Players on a stage portray a knife fight as a series of lunges and thrusts for the vital areas. It’s most dramatic, but also completely unrealistic. A real knife fight either ends on the first thrust, when your opponent is surprised and, hopefully, his weapon is still sheathed; or else is an unbelievably gory affair, with the two battlers slashing away, trying to wound or cripple the other before attempting the killer stroke.
Malebranche’s knife flickered, and I wasn’t able to pull back in time. Pain burned the back of my forearm, but fortunately the Kallian hadn’t been able to sever the tendons of my hands, as he’d intended. He came in once more, and I kicked hard, my boot connecting with his lower leg, and he gasped, bent, and I cut him. I’d aimed for his neck but missed as he backrolled away, back to his feet.
“That is the end for you, Damastes. It is a pity you’ll not live to witness the coronation of Chardin Sher as king of Numantia. Perhaps I’ll take your widow to my bed, as recompense for the time you scarred me. Think of that, Damastes, as you go down into death.”
