Now the eagles were peeling away, and it was the turn of the wolves. The old wolf lifted up his head and gave a savage cry. From out of the trees, howling with blood-lust, the first lines of wolves fell on their enemy. The great jaws ripped into the Zars, rending bloody holes in the column, but the long swords were fast and deadly, and not one of the beasts rose up to attack again.
And so the battle raged. Now the eagles returned to the attack, and now the wolves: but always the marching lines reformed from behind, and the shining white-and-gold soldiers marched steadily onwards to the music of the band, tramping over the bodies of eagles and wolves, and the bodies of their dead and wounded comrades alike.
Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
‘Kill, kill, kill, kill! Kill, kill, kill!’
They never even stopped singing.
Bowman watched them with horror and fascination.
‘They’re marching to Aramanth,’ he said. And turning to Kestrel, with fierce urgency, ‘Do you have the voice?’
‘Yes. I have it here.’
‘We must go! We must get to Aramanth before them!’
He was ready to go there and then, to try to outrun the tireless Zars all the way home, but Kestrel held his arm.
‘Look! There’s Mumpo!’
In the midst of the battle, radiant with returned youth, his white-and-gold uniform spattered with blood, Mumpo marched with the Zars, smiling at the carnage on all sides.
‘Go!’ cried Bowman. ‘We must go!’
‘We can’t leave him,’ said Kestrel.
As he marched past, she dashed into the fray and caught hold of his arm, and dragged him out to the side. Half hypnotised by the music and the marching, he didn’t at first realise what was happening.
‘Kess! Look at all my friends, Kess!’
Kestrel and Bowman took him between them, and ran with him deeper into the trees. As they ran, a detachment of Zars broke away from the column in pursuit.
They ran until they were exhausted. Then Kestrel rounded on Mumpo.
‘Listen to me, Mumpo. The Zars aren’t your friends, they’re your enemies. We’re your friends. Either you go with them, or you go with us.’
Mumpo stared at her in confusion.
‘Why can’t we all go together?’
‘Can’t you see – ’ In her frustration, she almost shook him.
‘It’s all right, Kess,’ said Bowman. He took Mumpo’s hands in his, and spoke to him softly.
‘I know what it feels like, Mumpo. I felt it too. It feels like you’re not alone and afraid any more. Like no one can ever hurt you again.’
‘Yes, that’s right, Bo.’
‘We can’t give you that feeling. But we’ve stood by you, and you’ve stood by us. Don’t leave us now.’
Mumpo looked into Bowman’s gentle eyes and slowly the dream of glory faded.
‘Am I to be alone and afraid again, Bo?’
‘Yes, Mumpo. I wish I could tell you we’ll keep you safe, but I can’t. We’re not as strong as they are.’
Kestrel watched her brother speaking, and she marvelled at him. He sounded older, sadder, surer. Mumpo too, she saw it now, had been changed by all that had happened to him. He was confused, but he was no longer foolish.
‘You were my first friends,’ he said simply. ‘I’ll never leave you.’
The twins took him in their arms, both together, and there was just time for a hug of comradeship, before they saw the glint of white uniforms approaching through the trees. The Zars had not just followed them, as they very soon saw: they had encircled them. A dozen and more now closed in on the spot where they stood.
‘Climb!’ said Kestrel.
She jumped up into the spreading branches of the tree above, and started to climb. Bowman and Mumpo followed her. They climbed up and up, until they came out on to the topmost branches. From here they could see the Great Way, and the still-raging battle. The eagles were fewer now, and the wolves almost all exhausted. On a high rock, the grizzled father wolf stood, his long baying howl sending the last lines of wolves into the attack.
From their high tree, the children watched helplessly as the wolves made their charge. The few remaining wolves stood tall and proud among the trees, waiting their turn, and when the order came, they knew they too would meet their death at the edge of those merciless swords. But in they went, crying their deep-throated war-cries, to bring down as many Zars as they could before falling themselves. Against any natural enemy, the power and the savagery of the wolves would have been devastating. But the Zars were numberless, and however many were brought down, there were always more.
‘Stop!’ cried Kestrel from the high branch, in pity and horror. ‘Stop! It’s no good!’
But if the old wolf heard her, he paid her no heed. He shook his shaggy mane, and called once more, and the very last line of wolves threw themselves into the battle. As he watched them fall, one after the other, the pride of the mountains laid low, he stilled his aching heart.
We face the ancient enemy at last. What can we do but die?
Then he lifted his old head high, and howled his own war-cry, his death-cry, and gathering all the power remaining in him, he hurled himself into the fray. One down, his killer teeth ripping, tossing; two down, turn on a third, and for a second he saw the bright gleam before the blade passed through his shoulder and into his bursting heart.
And still the Zars marched singing onwards. Behind them they left a grisly litter of corpses, above them the great eagles still swooped and struck, but the column swung gaily along, unbroken, the only sign of their losses the blood that spattered their billowing white cloaks.
Meanwhile, below the children, their pursuers surrounded the base of the tree. Laughing like young people at play, they threw off their caps and their cloaks and began to climb.
They were astonishingly agile, and seemed able to cling to the side of the broad trunk itself. Soon the leader, a sunny-faced boy who could not have been older than thirteen, had reached the higher branches, and was gazing up to where the children were perched.
‘Hallo!’ he called up to them in a friendly voice. ‘I’m coming to kill you!’
And as he began the next stage of his climb, he hummed the tune of the marching song under his breath.
‘Kill, kill, kill, kill! Kill, kill, kill!’
Behind him came a lovely ash-blonde girl, catching him up fast.
‘Leave one for me!’ she called to her comrade. ‘You know how I love killing!’
The children shuffled further out along their branch. That way, the Zars would have to come after them one at a time. Kestrel looked down. Too far to jump. Bowman looked up, knowing there was now only the one way of escape. He called, a long wordless cry, and they heard him, and came beating fast across the sky towards them, the great eagles.
The leading Zar was just one layer of branches below them now, and as they watched, he came climbing up to support himself on their branch.
‘Doesn’t take long, does it?’ he said, smiling. And drew his long sword.
‘Leave one for me!’ called the girl below. ‘I want the girl.’
‘I want the girl for myself,’ said the young Zar, stepping out on to their branch. ‘I’ve never killed a girl.’
A flash of darkness, a shuddering blow, and he was seized by the talons of a diving eagle, and ripped into the air. Before the children could quite absorb what had happened, there were three eagles hovering above them, and they knew what they had to do. Bowman raised his hands high.
‘Hands up!’
Mumpo copied Bowman’s gesture. An eagle dropped down, gently clasped his wrists in its great claws, and carried him up and away. Bowman followed. Kestrel hesitated, staring at the girl Zar coming along the branch towards her, her sword snicking the air. She raised her arms too, seeing the eagle approaching. The sword flashed, forcing the eagle to swerve, just as Kestrel sprang off the branch into nothingness. Her arms outreached, she fell, and the eagle fell with her, its wings hissin
g. Then she felt its sudden rushing closeness, and the swooping claws closed about her wrists, and she was falling no more.
The great wings beat strongly, carrying them over the marching ranks of Zars, and on down the Great Way. The wind on her face, the wide wings above shielding her from the sun, Kestrel allowed herself to feel hope. She looked back and down. The Zars seemed small and far away now; though the end of the marching column was still not in sight. Then she became aware that her eagle was straining to maintain its height. Ahead she could see Bowman’s eagle was already flying more slowly, and losing altitude. Big though the eagles were, the children were too heavy for them to carry far. What now? If they were put down, the Zars would overtake them soon enough.
She looked back to see how much of a lead they had, and there behind her, keeping pace with them, were three more eagles. As she watched, she saw them separate and glide silently into position.
It happened so quickly she had no time to be afraid. One moment she became aware that an eagle was passing beneath her. The next moment she felt the talons holding her wrists open wide, and she was dropping like a stone. And barely a moment later, the eagle below had banked, turned on its back, and its talons had locked on to her wrists. The great wings beat once, and she was in flight again, sailing up over the trees.
Twisting about, she was able to watch the entire manoeuvre take place with Mumpo. He lost control when he was let go, and thrashed his arms in the air, but the eagle waiting for him was still able to catch his wrists and swing him the right way round.
Bowman was already on to his second eagle, streaming through the air on her left. She turned and looked back, and there in the far distance she could see the column of the Zars, marching steadily down the Great Way, harried by the few eagles now left to fight the lost battle. Turning again, she saw ahead the jagged rift called Crack-in-the-land, and the high arches of the ruined bridge that was its only crossing. There were no more eagles to carry them when these three tired, and Aramanth was still far away. She knew they had only the one chance.
‘Bo!’ she called out. ‘We have to smash the bridge!’
Bowman too had been looking ahead, and he understood all that his sister was thinking. He tugged on his eagle’s legs, and the great bird, glad to rest, circled down to the ground.
They landed on the south side of the ravine, near the high pillars which marked the start of the bridge. Once they were safely on the ground, the eagles took off again, to return to the battle; as if it was understood that all must die before it was over.
Bowman started gathering up stones at a frantic pace.
‘We have to make an avalanche,’ he said. ‘We have to bring down the bridge.’
He rolled stones down the slope, following them to the very edge of the gorge to watch where they fell. When at last one of the stones rattled against the base of the most fragile supporting column far below, he marked the spot.
‘Mumpo, give me your sword!’ he cried.
Mumpo drew his sword from its scabbard, and Bowman drove it firmly into the ground.
‘All the stones we can find, here!’ he said; and started to form a pile of stones against the blade.
Mumpo meanwhile was unbuckling his sword-belt, and unbuttoning his gold buttons and peeling off his white jacket. Off came the high black boots and the white riding britches with the gold braid down the outside seam. Underneath were his old faded orange clothes. When all of the uniform of the Zars was off, he pulled the boots back on, because he had left his own shoes behind. Then he took the little pile of white bloodstained clothes, and threw them into the ravine.
‘That’s over now,’ he said.
Then all three of them worked as fast as they could, building their mound of stones. They laboured on as the light faded in the sky, until the pile was higher than their own heads. And all the time, the marching Zars were getting nearer. Every now and again, some of the stones broke free from the pile, and skittered down the slope into the gorge. Each time Bowman ran ahead to follow the stones’ fall. Each time he came back saying,
‘More! We need more!’
The sun turned red and began to set. Across the great ravine the vanguard of the Zars was near enough now for them to make out the baton-twirling band leader, high-stepping at the front. There was no way of knowing whether they had gathered enough stones to do what they wanted, but Bowman knew that now they had run out of time.
‘Let’s do it!’
All three of them positioned themselves against the high mound of stones, and braced themselves. The sounds of the band came floating through the sunset air towards them, and with it that ceaseless beat of marching feet.
Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
‘Now!’ said Bowman, and he pulled away the sword, and they all pushed. A part of the pile slithered and went crashing down into the ravine.
‘Push! Harder! We have to get it all moving at once!’
They pushed again, straining with all their might, and suddenly the pile gave way. With a slow rumble, it started to slide. The thousands of stones they had gathered poured down the slope, gathering speed, throwing up a cloud of dust and other fragments, until they leaped out into the emptiness of Crack-in-the-land. Down fell the spill of rubble, down and down in a ribbon of smoky debris, as the children watched and listened, holding their breath. The shadows in the gorge were too deep now to see where their avalanche fell, but after a longer time than they had thought possible, at last they heard it: the fusillade of cracks and rattles as the stones struck – what? The supporting columns? The sides of the gorge? Then there followed the sound of more falling fragments, but they had no way of knowing whether this was the avalanche they had triggered from above, or the breaking masonry of the tall slender arches. They watched the upper sections of the bridge, that same narrow parapet on which they had fought the old children, but nothing was moving. And on the far side of the gorge, the Zars were in view now, their white-and-gold uniforms glowing red in the low rays of the setting sun.
‘It didn’t work.’
This was Kestrel, gazing at the bridge.
‘We must go,’ she said. ‘We have to keep ahead of them.’
‘No,’ said Bowman, his voice steady and low. ‘They’ll overtake us long before we get to Aramanth.’
‘What else can we do?’
‘You go on, with Mumpo. I’ll stay here. Only one of them can cross the bridge at a time. I can hold them.’
Now the Zars had reached the edge of Crack-in-the-land. The band leader was marching on the spot, the golden baton still rising and falling; and behind her the band was formed up, still playing. Then even as Kestrel was finding words to tell her brother there had to be another way, the band leader caught her baton, pointed it forward, and stepped up smartly on to the parapet of the bridge. Behind her, while the band played along the lip of the gorge, came the Zars, in single file.
Bowman stooped and picked up the sword.
‘No!’ cried Kestrel.
He turned and gave her a curious smile, and spoke in a voice she had never heard him use before: quiet, but very strong.
‘Go on to Aramanth. There’s no other way.’
‘I can’t leave you.’
‘I’ve felt the power of the Morah. Don’t you see?’
He turned and ran towards the bridge. The band leader was already halfway across, high-stepping as calmly as if she was still on the Great Way itself, and behind her came the long line of smiling Zars. Bowman raised the sword high as he ran, and he shouted, a wordless howl of fury, unaware that as he cried out, the tears were streaming down his cheeks.
Kestrel started to run after him, calling with all her might.
‘Don’t go! Don’t go without me!’
Only Mumpo stayed staring at the slope, and so it was he who saw the first signs of what was about to happen.
‘The bridge!’ he called out. ‘It’s moving!’
Bowman had just reached the start of the stone parapet, when the central arch gave a
slow ripple, like a tree in a strong wind, and there came the sound of cracking masonry. Then, still slowly, the thin line that joined one side of the ravine to the other snapped like an over-stretched string, and the wall and the parapet shivered and started to fall. It fell first from the children’s end, unravelling faster and faster towards the middle, where the Zars were high-stepping across. Then the parapet on which they marched was curling down and away, and the band leader was falling, and the line of Zars was falling, out of the region of sunset light and into the well of darkness. They neither cried out nor made a sound. And behind them as they fell, their comrades marched on, to fall in their turn.
Bowman had come to a stop, staring in shock at the sight. Kestrel now joined him, and put her arms round him. Hugging each other, they watched as the Zars marched on, now in their column formation, eight abreast, over the edge of the gorge, to plunge to their doom. Line after line, to the beat of the band, over they went.
‘We stopped them, Bo. We’re safe.’
Bowman stared at the fallen bridge.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re not safe. But we’ve got time now.’
‘How can they cross Crack-in-the-land, with the bridge gone?’
‘Nothing can stop the Zars,’ said Bowman.
Mumpo came to join them, awed by the sight of the Zars marching so blithely to their deaths.
‘Don’t they mind dying?’ he said.
‘Don’t you remember how it felt, Mumpo?’ said Bowman. ‘So long as one Zar lives, they all live. They live through each other. They don’t care how many die, because there’s always more.’
The Wind Singer Page 21
