by Brian Daley
The caravaners had been taken through a tunnel under the Demon’s Breastwork. What had been a passageway ages ago was now known as the Gauntlet of Ibn-al-Yed, because Yardiff Bey’s mask-slave had converted it into a death trap. The travelers had been blindfolded and taken through the Gauntlet by two guides, each of whom knew only half the way. Guidance must be heeded exactly; the passageway was filled with lethal pitfalls, snares and other deadly tricks. Each guide had gone blindfolded in that part of the tunnel that wasn’t his to know. Once the caravan was through, the guides had gone back the way they’d come, to the fortress called Condor’s Roost, beyond the mountains.
Hightower maintained, “Going straightway under those cliffs saved them a week and more. Can we not do the same, guides or no?”
Gabrielle, unperspiring, fanned herself slowly. “The traps were engineered by Ibn-al-Yed. What that son of the Scorpion has worked, I can unwork.”
“Failure would earn us graves under the mountains,” reminded the Warlord.
“Time’s unsparing,” Springbuck argued. “The days of the Trailingsword are half spent. A shortcut is worth any dare.”
The Ku-Mor-Mai never ceased to marvel at how problems could come up, and amaze him, in retrospect, because he hadn’t foreseen them.
His most immediate difficulty was keeping his prisoners alive. His soldiers had met the Yalloroon and heard their sad story. Now, they wanted nothing more than to rip into some Southwastelanders in retribution; some even cried “Havoc!” in defiance of Springbuck’s command. It took shouted explanations, and more than one man stretched out by the flat of Hightower’s sword, to quell the uproar. To forestall mass murder, Springbuck disarmed and released all the desert men except the caravan leader, appropriating their horses, but leaving them their dromedaries and camels. That word of his landing would go abroad mattered little; before southern troops could come down on his track, he intended to be beyond pursuit, closing up this Gauntlet behind him.
They were up at first light. Rows of horsemen moved through the dawn, honed lanceheads playing reflective games with the intense southern sunlight. Bits jingled and snorting horses registered impatience with tosses of their heads and quick digs of their flashing hooves. The men of Matloo, under Drakemirth, had spent part of the night fitting their dray-wheels with extenders, broadening them, to make travel over the sandy stretches easier.
The Yalloroon had used all their available silks to make coverings for their deliverers’ armor and sweating horses. Springbuck wondered how taxing the climate would be under combat. Worse than Coramonde in its hottest months, he knew. His best scouts, prowler-cavalrymen, led the army through winding ravines. The way was worn with the use it had seen since the war’s outset; the prowlers would have found it even without the southerner to show them. Faster than a caravan, they arrived by late afternoon.
The army came to what seemed a cul-de-sac, but its end, hidden to the side, was the mouth of Ibn-al-Yed’s Gauntlet. Gabrielle made them all draw back and went alone into the darkness. The Ku-Mor-Mai and his Warlord both had reasons for objections, but suppressed them.
An hour passed, while the sun sank lower and occasional bursts of the sorceress’s magic lit the end of the ravine. One by one she felt out the snares and traps, extending her perception and control over them. She systematically took over the Gauntlet, bringing all its perils under her own command, holding them in abeyance with spells and words of Enforcement.
Afterward, she walked back to them, the strain bracketing her eyes. “The way is safe, and I will hold it so. Yet, do not linger; Ibn-al-Yed’s devices are many.” Hightower gave orders; torches and lamps were kindled, and Gabrielle’s horse brought. The Warlord lifted her up, his big hands encircling her waist.
Springbuck detailed Balagon and his One Hundred to insure that no one stopped or faltered. Brodur-Scabbardless was given charge over the rearguard. Total silence, except for relaying instructions, was the inflexible rule. With Springbuck on one side and Hightower on the other, the sorceress entered the Gauntlet.
The passageway was cool and dank after the desert, but filled with a sickening stench. They’d expected to see bats or crawling things, but no living creature would dwell in the Gauntlet. Hoofbeats echoed hollowly on rock, and red torchlight wavered across it. “I like not this burrow,” whispered Hightower against his own orders.
The way wound on, partly through natural chambers in the mountain, but more often tunneled. Horses snorted and were nervous, hating it here. The Gauntlet seemed to go on endlessly. But at last, a breath of air reached them, wriggling the torch flames. Gabrielle, reining in, halted them. “This is more than midway,” she declared. “I will stay here and put forth my influence in both directions. Make all haste.”
Hightower took the van. Springbuck, loathing it, knew he must stay in the Gauntlet until all his troops were through. The ranks moved on, horses sometimes tossing their heads and fighting the bit. Men’s eyes, in the shadows of their helmets, darted constantly. The son of Surehand peered continuously for Brodur, but knew the rearguard would be a long time coming. In the damp coolness, he sweated worse than he had on the desert. The mass of the mountains hovered over him.
The clans of Teebra clopped past. He was distracting himself by trying to recall where they were in the order of march when Gabrielle screamed. Her cry, as if she’d been injured or more, bounced back and forth in the passageway. Frightened horses fought their riders, and men yelled in alarm. Springbuck roared for silence. The sorceress swayed, a hand to her forehead, then slumped sideways. The Ku-Mor-Mai caught her, hearing the rock around him grinding against itself.
In a moment she came to, her breathing unsteady. Her hand gripped weakly at him. “Springbuck, some calamity is come. There was a great disturbance in the magic of the deCourteneys, and now an abyss. I fear my mother is slain!”
Springbuck ignored everything but immediate danger. He shook her. “Can you maintain the Gauntlet?”
“I—I think it so. But there is…” Her voice trailed away; he felt convulsions threaten her. He commanded the march to continue, full speed. His every nerve shrieked; his entire army was in danger of being cut in two, or entombed. Gabrielle reasserted herself to gasp, “My energies are failing, they flow away. Andre! Andre throws the whole of our magic at some enemy, more than he has ever used before. I can barely withhold any.”
Springbuck’s flesh crawled as he heard the ponderous shifting of stone. There was a crash, splintering wood, the death cries of men and horses. Fireheel half-reared under him, the whites of the stallion’s eyes showing.
The Ku-Mor-Mai called for all to be silent, hold ranks, but the terrors of cave-in were there. Men and their mounts bolted forward while Gabrielle’s face showed the contortions of effort, holding back the mantraps. Springbuck pulled her back out of the way, sheltering her and her horse with himself and Fireheel. He swept out Bar; it caught the light of passing torches and even in stampede, men were wise enough to give it wide berth.
The sorceress’ features were crosshatched with pain. “Can you hold, Gabrielle? Can you hold?”
Her lower lip was bleeding, where she’d bitten it in the throes of her struggle. She nodded weakly. “For the moment.” He took hold of the hilt of her brother’s sword, hanging from her saddle, where Calundronius was kept, thinking the gemstone might help. “No!” She batted at his hand feebly. “It would only dissipate all magic in here, mine included.”
One man blundered into him, and Springbuck seized him and held Bar at his belly, demanding to know what had happened.
“I had been near a wain bearing barrels of water, but when I looked, it was there no longer; the stone had dropped away beneath it, and it had fallen into the breach. We never heard it hit, nor could we see any bottom to the gulf. The gap was from wall to wall, too long for any horse to hurdle.”
Springbuck, numb, let him go; the rest had escaped already. Gabrielle’s face, usually pale, was bloodless now, her hair clinging in damp scarlet ringlets to
her sweating cheeks and brow. Her eyes were screwed shut in effort, lip again clenched in her teeth.
He started back, to see if there was some way to bridge the pitfall. Fireheel was unruly, unwilling. Gabrielle’s eyes snapped open. “Springbuck, no! There is no way back.”
He stopped. Hightower appeared, torch held aloft. Seeing the sorceress, he called her name. Her gaze went to him; the Gauntlet’s hidden machinery could be heard.
Fireheel reacted. The gray’s gathered muscles uncoiled; tons of stone crashed down where he’d been. Gabrielle, attuned to Ibn-al-Yed’s ancient devices, flung her hand out, crying “Hold!”
He reined in brutally, and Fireheel’s hooves struck sparks from the tunnel floor, skidding to a halt. A long metal shaft shot from a concealed hole, its point digging deep into the rock wall opposite. It just missed him, blocking his way. He backed the horse, to see how he might get around or over it, and a second shaft sprang from the floor, burying its head in the ceiling. Now two poles, perpendicular, stood in his way.
Thinking he detected a pattern, he started to back again, afraid the next spike would spit him where he sat. Gabrielle wailed his name again. “Come forward, forward!” Breath failed her. He rushed up to the crossed shafts and two more, obliques, intersected where he’d have been without her warning.
Hightower rode up, greatsword in hand. It shone wetly in the dimness; he’d thought there was betrayal, and killed the luckless caravan leader. Putting all his weight behind it, he sheared one pole in half, the pieces falling away. Springbuck took his best swing with Bar, the sword called Never Blunted. He cleaved the second shaft. Behind him, the sides of the tunnel collapsed. Debris and fragments ricocheted.
Gabrielle exerted her will over the Gauntlet again; most of the powers of the deCourteneys had been exhausted in the last few minutes as, hundreds of miles away on the Isle of Keys, Andre launched a near-successful assault on the Hand of Salamá. Unknowingly, he had wrought disaster upon the army of Coramonde as well.
“I hold the Gauntlet,” she panted, “but it cannot be for long. Too many triggers have been sprung, trip wires broken, counterweights activated. The ultimate deadfall, the mountain itself, will crash down when I let go.”
“Release your hold on those behind us as we go,” Springbuck said, “and thus, conserve yourself.” Those who’d been caught on the other side of the first pitfall, if they’d been able to do so, must have gotten clear by now; she’d held out long enough for that. He sheathed Bar with a clash and leaned low to take up a dropped torch.
He and the Warlord slipped their shields onto their arms. Again, they took places at her sides.
They galloped off, taking with them their circle of light and the tattoo of hooves. As they went, Gabrielle loosened her hold on the traps they’d passed. Steel darts whizzed in clouds, ceilings and walls collapsed, floors dropped away, smoking acid showered down, and boiled into the pitfalls. Deadly fumes curled up, too late, in their wake, and impaling-stakes sprung. Burning fluid lapped across the rock floors, and poisoned arrows whistled. Ten thousand murders were aborted.
The three burst from the southern mouth of the Gauntlet. The Trailingsword hung brighter, nearer in the night. Gabrielle, at the end of her enormous strength, lolled and swayed. Lynchpins, keystones, counterweights and latches, freed from her will, brought down their last trap. The mountain collapsed with a rumble. Men and horses lost balance as the earth shook. Dust, gas, smoke belched from the tunnel’s mouth.
Springbuck, face blackened, dismounted to stare back at it. “Is the area secure?” he asked an officer offhandedly.
“Yes, Ku-Mor-Mai. We found no sentinels.” Indicating the Gauntlet, he explained. “They thought they needed none.”
“My Lord Hightower, what do you think they’ll do there, on the other side?”
The Warlord, looking up from tending Gabrielle, tugged his beard and thought. “There is old Drakemirth back there, and Balagon, and not least of all is Brodur-Scabbardless. They will take the long way, or perhaps even essay the shorter way through Amon’s Cauldron, but they will come, doubt it not. With them will come the far greater measure of our manpower.”
“How fares Gabrielle?”
“She is spent, yet she will recover.”
Springbuck stared at the Trailingsword, blurry to him. “Then, our route-sign beckons.”
A wide, mountain-flanked valley guarded the way south. Flat and scorched a lifeless yellow, it reminded the crouching Ku-Mor-Mai of nothing so much as a brass skillet. At its far end, just short of the pass that gave access toward Salamá, stood the fortress at which the caravan had gathered, among its rearing ochre escarps, salients and battlements, Condor’s Roost.
All told, Springbuck had less than two thousand souls in his separated element. Only five water wagons had come through the Gauntlet, and almost none of his lighter cavalry; he’d brought his heaviest chivalry through first, to resist any attack that might have sought to throw him back. There were none of the regular infantry he brought along on horseback, no pikemen, and too few archers. Still, it had seemed likely the collapse of the Gauntlet would draw investigation, and so he’d moved away from it. His scouts had left subtle signs for their counterparts with the rest of the army.
Some fortune had offset the tragedy of the Gauntlet. A strong simoon had come up to swirl sand and dust, obscuring the telltale cloud the army raised. It had made riding hard, driving grit into mail-links, eyes, ears and clothes, but Springbuck had greeted it with grudging pleasure.
Gabrielle lay on a litter in one of the few baggage wagons they had. She’d regained her senses, but was exhausted by the siphoning of her energies. She’d also entered a depression brought on by her mother’s death, of which she refused to speak. Andre’s singular demand on the deCourteneys’ mystic bond had lapsed, and the sorceress was slowly recuperating. The simoon had died down a few hours before, and now, at late sunset, the air was eerily calm.
Condor’s Roost was an impressive feat of construction in inhospitable wastes. The late caravaner had said it possessed capacious cisterns, fed by both springlets in the mountains around it and the infrequent rainfall. Springbuck, beginning to appreciate how pivotal water was in the Southwastelands, considered the need of water the major reason to begin against the fortress now, rather than waiting. His scouts had found no other source of it, and men and horses were using what they had at an alarming rate. Too, there was the deadline proclaimed by the Trailingsword.
But as intimidating as Condor’s Roost was, it didn’t quite span the pass from side to side. The land to Springbuck’s left was fissured, textured from quirks of upheaval, defying fortification.
“An assault on those walls will cost us dearly,” predicted Hightower, himself a master of entrenchments. “We cannot mount the frontal assault that will carry that pile by storm at the outset.”
“Our scouts report no other way south,” Springbuck replied.
The Warlord’s brows knit. “And what will transpire, should the defenders duck out their back door and bring aid?”
“Disaster, maybe. It cannot be permitted.”
“More lightly described than delivered, Ku-Mor-Mai.”
Springbuck squinted, eyesight badly hampered by the distance, at those crevasses to the left.
“Bring me a man with the eagle’s gaze. There may be a way.”
A sharp-eyed archer from Rugor confirmed what Springbuck had thought. Those wrinkles in the earth’s mantle might hold a way past, if men went carefully and on foot. They could take the pass behind the fortress. Holding it would be another question entirely.
“It would be a desperate position to man,” Hightower said doubtfully, then shrugged off misgivings. “It can be accomplished though, I trow. Hah! Whosoever holds there will have a siege of his own to fight.”
“I concede that, my Lord, but I think some resupply could be done by traversing the back hills and ridge lines. What other way is there?”
The Warlord’s iron gloves slammed knuc
kle to knuckle in a decisive clang. “There is none,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Let the gods avenge themselves.
Roman legal maxim
THERE was the subdued rattle of manacles. Four field marshals of the Southwastelanders were ushered into the tent of their captor, the King of Freegate, Lord of the Just and Sudden Reach.
They were attired more as kings than conquered. Their armor, covered with the skins of the huge snakes and lizards of the deserts, shined with gems and gilt-work. They were Occhlon, a cruel race fit to prosecute the wars of Shardishku-Salamá, and they waited with elaborate indifference. After the victory of the Dream-drowse, Reacher had taken their force unprepared.
There was disdain in the captives’ manner for this rabble of mongrels who’d dared enter these sacrosanct lands. The Occhlon had ridden out against invaders, thousands of spears catching the sun, scorpion banners in rippling life. There had been a collision in arms lasting a day and part of the next before going the way of the invaders.
The field marshals studied their enemies covertly. None of them knew just which was this monarch of Freegate. No single figure had been identified as commander. Alert, impatient in the brittle way of jungle beasts, they anticipated humiliation. Subordinate officers and aides were coming and going, and men of the Horseblooded, those amazing riders.
There’d been a shock of recognition between Occhlon and Horseblooded. Born to the saddle, the two races had fought encounters of incredible savagery, with feats of horsemanship and daring approaching insanity.
Senior among the Occhlon prisoners was a burly general named Aranan. He quickly sorted out the functionaries and lower echelons, and scrutinized the remainder. He thought he knew who his opposite number must be, that tall one, whose thick mustachios spread across his face like wings. The northerner took reports and gave terse orders, his forehead furrowing often in thought.
