by Don McQuinn
He nodded, searched her features. “I haven’t been able to speak of it.” He closed his eyes, gathering himself. “To be an enemy, to know others plan your destruction, is a hard, cruel knowledge. It’s no easier planning—or committing—the destruction of others. Good men die for bad, and that’s a sickening fact. But betrayal by a friend… I loved him. He was with me when we rescued you. He played with Coldar, Neela; stood beside you and laughed with you while I changed the boy’s diaper and tried not to be sick. And Jaleeta. I trusted her with you. Alone with Coldar. What if she’d…?” He closed down on the sentence, left it.
“Deceit needs trust. Only those who won’t trust can’t be betrayed. Or be human. Never mind all that. I don’t love Murdat, or the powerful ruler who allowed himself to be blind to an evil woman and a misled man. I love Gan. But I worry about our son.”
Gan glowered. “What?”
“Do you want to continue as Murdat, or can we go back to our people? If we stay here, is Coldar to inherit your role? Will we step aside, let the people choose a chief, as the Dogs do?”
“I haven’t thought about those things. Not lately. You’re right, though. Once we’ve finished with Windband and the Skan, I’ll have to call in the Barons, tell them Coldar’s no princeling. The Three Territories will have a chosen ruler.” He reached to her long, blond hair, repeatedly coiling it in his fist, letting it tumble free. “I stay here. My mother said there will always be two paths for me, but my goal must always be glory for the tribe.”
Neela’s chin rose. “Not that again. I’ll not live that woman’s dreams. I have my own. I expect you to have yours. Tell me what you want; I’ll be beside you. I won’t walk in her shadow. I won’t.”
“It’s not that. The prophecy…”
“No!” Neela put her hands on his knees, pushed her face almost into contact with his. “Speak for yourself. Has betrayal drained your heart for high office? Fine. We’ll leave now, go home. Would you rather die? Give me time to entrust our son to Sylah; I’ll fall beside you. But live or die, it must be with you. Not with prophecies, not with self-pity.”
Roughly, Gan stood up. Neela staggered, but she rose with him, not retreating a finger’s width. He bellowed, “I won’t be pitied. That’s enough.”
“Is it? Is it enough? What’s enough? And who says it?”
The answer came slowly, burning with a volcanic anger. “I say it. No one takes what is mine. No one. I’m not beaten. Let no one pity me.”
“Not even you?” She reached to put her hands behind his head, kissed him, lingering. For a few heartbeats he was stony with anger. Slowly, as if conceding unwillingly, his arms rose, embraced her, pulled her to him. When she bent back to peer up at him, head tilted to the side, her expression was mischievous, daring. “Not even Gan?”
A reluctant smile spread across his features, surfacing like something thought lost. He returned her kiss, far more passionately. He released her abruptly. Solemn, but without the previous apathy, he said, “There’s been one benefit to all this, if it can be called that. There was a thing in my head like a dream. More than once. About the ocean. Dark. A voice. Not words. It hasn’t bothered me since the Skan raid. It must mean something. What?”
“I’m no fake Seer, telling hands. I only interpret my husband.”
He strode toward the door. The dogs lumbered after him, waiting expectantly while he turned to face her again. He said, “What Sylah said is all true, you know.”
Neela colored. “A little. Perhaps.”
“Entirely. Not a little.”
She tossed her head. Golden hair swirled like poured honey. Defiant, she straightened. “No matter. No one criticizes my husband. Church nor anyone else.”
The young, too-wise face softened. The warrior who was Murdat revealed himself as simply a man entranced by the woman he loved. Softly, admiring, he said, “Not even you?”
Her color flamed brighter. She said nothing, stood tall and proud. His laughter rang in the stone room, echoed, called up memory and promise. He said, “We’ll win. I must. Just to see what a man the son of such a woman will be.”
His free, challenging laugh rolled down the long hall with him. He never saw Neela’s glad tears of relief, never knew they quickly broke on concern and fear.
Chapter 20
The banners flew bravely and the war drums rumbled super threat whenever a column of Wolves marched out of Ola. On their return, the men were met with spring flowers and the proud blare of trumps and horns. Still, for almost a moon their war had been a gritty series of cut throat ambushes and running fights. There were innumerable variables; circumstances of engagement, time of day, terrain, weather. There was one constant; there were fewer Wolves after every engagement.
The weary, decimated packs could afford no set-piece battles. They struck without warning, fled without regret, then struck from cover again to destroy pursuit. Windband understood these tactics. They were their own. But this was forest, where horse-mounted mobility frequently counted for nothing, and occasionally was a drawback. The tough Wolf foot soldiers considered horses transportation, and fighting a job for men standing upright. They prowled the forest like their namesakes, finding cover and advantage where cavalry saw obstacle and diminished capacity.
Bloodied constantly, dying in steady dribs and drabs, Windband’s savagery exploded. Word of their cruelty was wildfire, racing ahead of them. Real fire marked their advance. No habitation stood where they passed.
Columns of smoke warned the company at Leclerc’s farm. Gan’s arrival was stark commentary on the situation. He rode in with the Jalail pack, his own tattered red-and-yellow pennant lolling in the faint breeze. Molelike, Leclerc emerged from his underground shelter. He shaded his eyes with one hand, squinting. At the sight of Gan, he grunted understanding. “Time to leave, is it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You can’t buy me a few days? There are some things I’m not sure about.”
Gan’s laughter was jagged. “There are a few questions in my own mind just now. Is it something in the air, do you think?”
“Smoke, maybe.” Leclerc’s own smile was perfunctory. “Almost everything’s inside Ola’s walls already. How much time do we have?”
“Sundown. No more.”
Leclerc whistled. Losing no more time, he ordered all equipment loaded into wagons. Lastly, he supervised the transfer of several large bundles from his personal workshop. When Kate playfully threatened to peek, he was firm in his refusal. Intuitively, she said, “This has something to do with that silver, doesn’t it?”
His eyes flew wide; he said nothing, but turned a suspicious frown on his best metalworker. The man gestured wildly, proclaiming innocence and utter secrecy. Leclerc continued to glare, but when he looked to Kate, it was more a mix of exasperation and appreciation. Still, he made no comment.
In the evening, Gan stood with Conway on the city wall above Sunrise Gate. A melancholy vista stretched before them. The flame and smoke of burning buildings was haunting contrast to the burgeoning myriad greens of spring. Fallow fields sprouted malevolent rows of angled posts, sharpened ends aimed to disembowel any horse ridden into them. At the edge of the distant forest, horsemen flirted in and out of the trees.
Far away southwest, a drum sounded, heavy and slow, threatening. Conway jerked around, faced it. “Blizzard,” he said, and when that beat stopped, he pointed more toward due south. On cue, another drum thundered a different rhythm from there. Conway explained, “They’ll work all the way around to the northwest, one drum at a time. They’re telling us we’re surrounded.”
“You trained these Blizzardmen, I understand. It’s hard to imagine you living with those people. Fate leads us into some strange corners, my friend. None of us truly knows himself, does he?” It was more statement than question. “How well will this Blizzard unit fight on foot, against walls and good defense?”
“Like demons. They believe if they die fighting for Moonpriest, they go straight to a perfect
world on the moon. They’re supposed to be reborn with him later, and live forever. They don’t like pain any more than anyone else, but they don’t fear death.”
“I hope they come soon. If they coordinate their attack with the Skan, I don’t think we can handle it.” The second drum fell silent. A third came to life. Gan frowned, turned away.
A Wolf called from inside the wall. As Gan returned his salute, the young man shouted up, “Leclerc says you’re needed at the castle, Murdat.”
Gan ran down the stairs. Conway sprinted to catch up. Leaping into the saddle, Gan said, “Maybe it’s sharkers.” They galloped to find out.
Leclerc waited just inside the great hall, with Sylah and Lanta a few paces beyond. A few candles in a pyramidal frame provided the only light. Conway’s eyes were still adjusting to the change when a figure materialized from the greater darkness to take position next to Leclerc.
The man was Nion, dressed in unusual finery. His jacket was bright red. Silk, Conway was sure, with silver buttons. Low-cut shoes, black with white wingtips and balloon trousers, striped indigo blue and white. He wore a flat leather cap with a small bill; it sat at a jaunty angle, trailing a fan of three long black-and-white feathers down the back. There was also a two handed sword, the lacquered scabbard magnificent with an inlaid dragon of colored glass chips.
Conway was surprised. He’d assumed no one would be allowed past the Skan fleet into the Inland Sea.
Bluntly, Gan said as much. “How did you pass our enemies?”
The man’s grin was infectious. “Boats gone.” His audience goggled. He laughed, continuing in tortured language to relate the story of Emso and Domel. On arrival at the Skan village, he was allowed to anchor in the harbor, but required to remain aboard his boat. One of the guards sent to stay on the boat and watch them had a great liking for a drink the Nion called sawa. The Nion winked. “Makes mouth go fast, head go slow, understand?”
The group understood. The Nion sobered slightly. “Man Lorso come my boat. No hand.” He held up his own. “Say witch take it. Black woman. You know?”
“My friend,” Gan said. “Not a witch.”
“She fly.”
“Not a witch. Why are you here?”
The Nion seemed to want to pursue the witchcraft thing, but let it drop. “Trade. You better friend than Skan, I think. You kill Windband, we trade. Fur, leather. Jade. You got black-rock-burn—coal, I think? We talk. If live, you.”
“We’ll live. And we’ve got something better than coal.”
The Nion looked to Sylah and Lanta, then back to Gan. He said, “My people hear much about Healers. We talk that, too. But no Healer go Skan. Young woman—Lorso wife—say kill all Church. Bad woman. Now I go.” He bowed, excusing himself. When Gan repeated the move, a glow of genuine appreciation touched the man’s cheeks. He smiled warmly.
Leclerc spoke almost dreamily. “Trade. With Ja… Nions.” He was suddenly alert, turned to Gan. “You’ll do it? Get involved in trade?”
“My greatest dream.”
Leclerc left abruptly. Conway smiled. “Now what’s he up to?”
“Something very powerful, I hope.” Nalatan’s voice pulled the attention of all to the door. He went on. “A scout just arrived. By boat, around the encirclement. The mountain passes are still closed. No help is coming from the Dog People. Windband’s main body is setting up camp.”
Sylah said, “We’re prepared, Gan. The abbey is a healing house. The right prayers have all been offered, supplies put by and blessed.”
He thanked her. Deep in thought, he headed back outside. As he mounted his horse, he looked to Nalatan and Conway. “The One in All is being good to us. He took Emso, but He let Emso eliminate the Skan. We’ve been given another chance.”
“A small one.” Conway swung up into the saddle, met Gan’s gaze.
Laughing, Gan grabbed Conway’s shoulder, shook it. “Would we know what to do with a large chance?”
“I’d like to try. Just once,” Conway shouted after Gan, falling in beside Nalatan. The warrior-monk’s smile was tight. “Wait till you see the campfires, Conway. Their smoke is like fog. They brought their wagons, the huge covered ones. They glow in the night like candles under cloth. Even with Leclerc’s lightning, I think our small chance is very small.”
They didn’t even reach the wall before the first leg-length catapult arrows snarled into the city and smashed against buildings. Both men rode hard to get close to the wall to defeat the angle of fire.
Darkness came with a rush. Wolves sallied through the gates, setting ambushes, attempting raids. Nomads launched similar efforts. Meanwhile, catapult bolts from both sides ripped through the night, their humming, whistling passage playing melody to the unceasing rhythms of Blizzard drums.
Conway surprised himself by falling asleep easily. He woke once to the sound of horrible screams, shakily realizing it wasn’t human misery. Wheels, he decided; the wallkiller, moving into range. Near dawn, an explosion roused him. This time the cries were all too human. One of Leclerc’s trip-wire mines claimed victims.
Dawn shouldered its way through the smoke of hundreds of fires. More and more, the light revealed what lay in store for Ola. Brushwood piled among the stakes lay ready for firing. Conway struck the wall of the castle in frustration when he saw the screens protecting the positioned wallkiller. Two large mats, thickly woven of branches and saplings, shielded the trebuchet. Several yards apart, suspended from thick hawsers, the mats were free to swing under impact. A catapult bolt striking the first mat would probably penetrate, but be wrenched off aim and drastically slowed. The second would duplicate the original effect. A bolt getting through would lack enough energy to do serious harm. The only part of the trebuchet visible was the sling arm at the vertical.
Flaming arrows now reached up from the Windband positions, savagely graceful. They curved, smoking, seeming to pause at their crest. Conway wondered when the world would rediscover words like apogee and perigee. Falling, the arrows feathers whistled softly. The flaming tow made a nervous ruffling. In moments, the brush around the anticavalry barriers was aflame. Conway originally suggested they be equipped with sacks of black powder. Seeing them burn up without ever being attacked made him glad he’d been overruled.
From the corner of his eye, he noted the trebuchet sling arm lowering. Gan’s shouted order to the catapults to engage the target was repeated down the wall. A half-dozen bolts slammed out of their weapons, buzzing like enraged hornets. Two penetrated the mats. Conway saw the first punch through, only to dribble down the backside of the second mat and fall harmlessly on the ground. The second was deflected wide. The other four were trapped. Gan ordered the archers to save their bolts.
By then the trebuchet arm was out of sight. The Wolves, never having seen such a weapon, hunkered down behind the wall, peeking, unwilling to miss the action. The load sling was suddenly there. The shattering bang when it stopped, flinging its missile, made everyone jump. Breasting the air with a peculiar moaning noise, the large boulder was short. The Wolves, easily gauging the trajectory, shouted derision even as it came toward them. Their scorn died in mid-celebration when the rock hit the ground, gouged a plug of turf as long as a man’s body, skipped back in the air, and slammed the city wall. The stone defenses seemed to buzz with the power of the blow.
Far behind Conway, a single loud explosion seemed to answer the strike of the boulder. He looked to see Tate on the castle roof. The barrel of the sniper rifle poked over the edge. She fired again. Conway had time to turn and see the puff of dust where the heavy spent-uranium slug hit the first of the two mats protecting the trebuchet. Seconds later, he heard a pained yell from the hidden wallkiller crew.
As soon as the barrier fires died out, Windband riders whipped a herd of cattle out of the forest, hundreds of head. Running, bawling, they streamed toward the walls. Some of the Wolves found it amusing. The more thoughtful watched glumly, as did Conway. The hapless animals, driven by incredibly skilled horsemen who off
ered almost no target whatsoever, stampeded across the front of Ola’s walls. Every trip wire was pulled, every charge exploded.
Men were sent out to butcher the injured cattle and retrieve the dead. A weapon was lost; the meat would be salvaged.
That afternoon, Leclerc led a procession of two-horse teams and carts out the castle’s east gate and into the city. A last wagon was larger. Coursing the city wall, Leclerc stopped at measured intervals, unhitching the carts, leaving one at each place. The large wagon off-loaded long spears at those locations.
Conway grinned down at his friend, who smiled, sent a thumbs-up, and hurried on.
The new wired spears were ready. The carts each held a generator a good three times the size of Leclerc’s initial effort. As Conway watched, Louis instructed the Galmontis pack. He repeated the demonstration using the copper plate on a pole. These spears, however, were for defending the wall. Each worked directly off a cart-mounted generator, and was attached by one long, waxed cloth insulated wire. The second wire was attached to a spike sunk in well-soaked earth.
Four men worked the machine’s opposed crank handles. The spearmen were equipped with massively thick leather mitts.
The first Wolf to approach the target was unimpressed. There was, after all, little excitement in probing a sheet of metal. With the power of the larger generator, the effect was awesome. A loud, brittle crack accompanied a darting tongue of blue fire. The copper plate bucked like a live thing. Acrid smoke boiled from the gaping black wound in its center. The spearman dropped the weapon, yelling at the top of his lungs. Jets of electricity leaped from spearhead to the ground until the handle operators stopped.
Leclerc brought the pack close, let them inspect the damage. The rest of the training session was conducted in an atmosphere of attentive respect.
The second night fell. No Wolf patrols prowled outside the wall. Windband’s catapults were quiet. There were the drums. Incessant. Promising.
In the shuffling, hovering darkness, preparations were made. Confidences, never before spoken aloud, some never before thought through to conclusions, were shared. Those warriors who slept at all twitched and muttered. Others lay awake, intrigued by living as only those aware of death’s hovering presence can know it.
