by Jack Lovejoy
There had been a ruckus in the direction of the Watersmeet Gate, drowned by the garrison bugle, just as he came on duty. What it was all about, he still did not know, nor could anyone tell him. The cook had been on duty here all night, as had the alternate turnkey. Maybe somebody would know more about it now. It was probably just another festival brawl. The Blue Dragon was near the gate, and there had already been one brawl there, only hours ago.
He became cautious as he neared the top of the stairs.
There was always the chance of some duty officer snooping around at this hour; remote, but possible. And any possibility, no matter how remote, of being hauled before Severakh was to be avoided at all cost. The military authority of the fierce old soldier may have been curtailed by the new governor, but he exercised what remained to him more vigorously than ever.
He heard voices and stopped. He prided himself on his acute hearing, especially for officers trying to nab him at derelictions of duty, but now he was not sure he could trust his own ears. Severakh? Here, at this hour? What really made him question his hearing was that somebody actually seemed to be arguing with the gruff old drillmaster. He tiptoed to the end of the corridor and peeked stealthily around the corner.
The tray at once began to tremble in his hands. It had been no audio illusion. There stood Severakh in the flesh, looking surlier than he had ever seen him (which was very surly indeed). The mrem arguing with him was the new governor: a sleek, beautifully groomed youth, garbed in the latest fashion of magenta silk, a cultured noble, accustomed to having mrem agree with him. He hardly bothered to disguise his snobbish distaste for the old soldier.
Cajhet also spotted his familiar nemesis, the watch officer.
In fact, the entire staff was present, embarrassed by the argument between their superiors. He stealthily backed out of sight. Whatever they were arguing about, this was no place for him. There were plenty of corners in the old cisterns—sprawling endlessly, at varied levels—to secrete a tray until the coast was clear. Apprehensive about rescue attempts, he had explored the dank caverns until certain there was no way anybody could sneak up on him while on watch. All six possible entrances had been sealed; the two with doors were stoutly bolted on the inside.
The tray had stopped trembling in his hands by the time he returned to the lower dungeon, and he tried to assume his old swagger. But his prisoners were cunning rogues; they sensed that something was amiss. Every one of them was up from his bunk and watching him shrewdly through the bars when he returned from hiding his tray.
“What’s wrong, Cajhet?’ taunted the hookpurse Branwe had witnessed against yesterday afternoon. “Nobody at home in the kitchen?”
“You’ll be at home right here, and for a long time to come, Fefo,” said Cajhet. He tried to compose himself by rattling his collection of extracted claws; but that only directed his attention to the sets of unextracted claws wrapped menacingly around the bars of every cell in the dungeon.
This made him unusually thoughtful, and he glanced every few seconds toward the stone staircase that wound down out of the upper levels of the fortress. The prisoners’ taunts grew bolder in proportion to his growing uneasiness. Ordinarily a weak, foolish, self-indulgent rascal, his only keen sense was that of survival, and something told him that his immediate comfort and well-being were somehow threatened. Though he pricked his ears, he knew he was far too deep underground to catch a single word of the argument continuing upstairs in the fortress at that very moment.
•
“I requested special patrols,” Severakh insisted, “if nothing more, to protect villagers coming here for the festivals from bandits. But these were denied me. I trebled the number of sentinels on the walls, only to find my orders countermanded. And now I’m expected to defend an untenable position, with inadequate resources, and my hands tied?”
The elegant young governor sighed with boredom. “I’ve explained twice to you already why a sally would be inopportune. You’ve done a commendable job in getting so many villagers and townsfolk safely into the fortress. The way you withdrew the garrison under attack was masterful. I’m especially pleased that you’ve preserved the White Dancers from harm. But I must remind you again, Severakh, that I am governor of Kazerclawm, appointed by the king, and responsible to the king alone.”
“Yes, my lord. But surely you must see—”
“I see that I’m wasting my time, if that’s what you mean.
Enough! I’m already late for breakfast. My guests will think me discourteous. Have my personal effects removed to my quarters, please. There are thousands of village menials and common soldiers at large in the fortress, and some of my belongings are priceless.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Severakh with the stoical obedience of an old soldier. “I’ll do everything that must be done.”
The young governor looked doubtfully at him for a moment, then turned and strode off in the direction of his private quarters, secluded to himself and his courtiers by a cordon of picked guards. The gray morning light made the hall somehow appear dingier than it had under torchlight; the very paintings, statuary, and fine furniture carried here from the palace now seemed tawdry.
Severakh knew they were in fact priceless, although his first impulse was to have the whole lot chucked from the battlements. Half the garrison, already undermanned, had been diverted from the defense of the city to saving the personal belongings of the governor and his courtiers. These belongings were the true reason, he was sure, behind the governor’s refusal to attempt a breakout while there was still a chance. For then not only these darling works of art, but five great chests of treasure, hauled here by soldiers needed to defend the walls, would have to be left behind.
“All right, mrem,” he ordered, “let’s get this stuff to the governor’s quarters. On the double! We haven’t a moment to lose,” he added to himself.
He had promised the governor he would do everything that had to be done, and so he would. This was no mere razzia. He was too old a soldier not to recognize the vanguard of an invasion. Nothing could now save Kazerclawm; all the artworks and treasure of the governor and his courtiers would fall to the looters as surely as if it had been left back in the palace. But things could be replaced, not people. The attack had been shrewdly conceived and executed, despite the general low quality of the enemy troops; but there was now an unexplained absence of leadership, and the force of the attack was being dissipated in rapine and looting. Had the enemy commander simply lost control of his army? Whatever the reason, so favorable an opportunity for a breakout could not last—perhaps no more than a few hours. Delay meant certain doom.
The governor was irresponsible if he was just waiting for the enemy, to go away; naive if he thought they would negotiate. Why should they bargain for a part, when they had the power to seize the whole? Nor could the young King of Ar respond in time, if he responded at all. The only way out was to fight their way out; the only time was right now. Tomorrow would be too late.
“What have you got there, Ghenko?” he called to a junior officer.
“Prisoners, sir. They were caught trying to climb the wall.
Desert marauders, by the look of ‘em. Do you want to interrogate them, sir?”
One of the prisoners had been wounded slightly on the hand; the other had had his ragtag, evil-smelling garments—the plunder of caravans from many lands—ripped while trying to escape the claws of a sentry.
Severakh shook his head. “Not now. Just take them down to the dungeon. The rest of you mrem, over here. Now listen, and listen as if your lives depended on it.”
In fact, they did. Sated, burdened with loot, addled with rapine and drunkenness, scattered in small bands all over the city, the enemy could hardly respond with effect against a well-organized and determined breakout. Neither could they pursue in force, until discipline had been reestablished. By then it would be too late. So long as the breakout caught
them by surprise. Today. This morning. Now.
“I’ll command the rear guard myself,” he added. “Once past the ford of the Whitestone River you’ll be safe. Pass the word for volunteers. A hundred good mrem and true will discourage this vermin from pursuit. You’ve got thousands of mrem and kits to organize, and an hour in which to do it. You’ll travel light and fast, with three days’ food. Scouts, wagons for the sick and wounded ... you know what to do. I’ve trained you myself. Don’t disappoint me.”
“No, sir,” they cried.
Each knew what their fierce old commander was doing for them; each knew why he was sacrificing himself with the rear guard. “The queen mother never forgave insubordination toward her pet appointees, and it was she, not her son, the boy king of Ar, who had appointed the feckless young governor. Like all her appointees, his prime qualification for office was deference to her every whim. There were more volunteers than needed.
A veteran commander, Severakh wisely deployed whatever material he had at hand to best advantage. The mystique of the White Dancers transcended mere wealth or politics; certainly it transcended any military discipline he might have imposed on thousands of frightened civilians. Once instructed in what had to be done, the senior dancers, by gentler means achieved wonders of order and dispatch, freeing him to marshal his garrison into a flying column.
The smoke from unchecked fires dimmed the morning into a sullen twilight, as thousands of soldiers and refugees burst without warning from the fortress. The undisciplined rabble of guards skulking outside were caught by surprise, and fled. The first band of pursuers were quickly driven off by Severakh and his rear guard, and the host of refugees continued unharrassed to the Watersmeet Gate with almost the precision of a martial dance. Once more a rabble of guards were surprised and routed, and the refugees passed safely from the city and out onto the western road.
The ford of the Whitestone River lay a good nine miles away, upriver from the juncture with the Mraal, where it bent toward the great city of Ar, many grueling days’ march to the west. But once the ford was crossed, nothing less than an army would dare pursue them into the warrior domains beyond. That armies would soon come sweeping over those very domains, perhaps over the entire land, Severakh had no doubt. All he could do now was to ensure that no pursuit swept over the thousands of fleeing mrem before they reached safety, and he and his rear guard of volunteers took up their positions in the streets of the city.
The first assault was easily checked; the second only after a savage battle. Hundreds, eventually thousands, were now being rounded up in the streets, or roused from sodden slumbers, by their chiefs and captains. But they were not attacking superannuated caravan guards or benighted villagers now, and assault after assault was hurled back with grim casualties. The cries of the dying rent the smoky air, like a demon chorus to the clash of arms. Grudging every foot of ground, forestalling every attempt to outflank him, Severakh slowly fell back upon the Watersmeet Gate, leaving in his wake a trail of slaughter.
An hour passed, then another, and still the enemy hordes, though now swelled into a veritable army, could not pass him. Exhausted, bleeding from a dozen wounds, the old campaigner knew it could not go on much longer. He had already lost half his mrem and some of those still on their feet were wounded as grievously as himself. But he was expendable, and so were his troops, and every minute they held the enemy hordes at bay brought the refugees a minute closer to the Whitestone ford.
He took up his last stand inside the gate itself. Its tunnel-like arches would screen his surviving mrem from long-range missiles, and he had them erect a barricade from the lumber, carts, and wagons with which the citizens had tried futilely to erect a barricade of their own. This would not only shield them from missiles of shorter range, but shatter any concerted attack. He could do no more.
Scaling ladders still leaned against the walls outside. It would not take the enemy long to send enough skirmishers over the top to attack his rear. His position was hopeless. But neither could the swiftest army now hope to overtake the refugees before they reached the ford. His sole objective had been a delaying action, and he had already delayed pursuit longer than he could have expected. Nothing remained now but to die with honor.
He wondered what had become of the elegant young governor and his courtiers. He regretted disobeying the orders of a superior, but only on principle. He regretted nothing else. He had done his duty as he saw it.
Through the sullen twilight, down a smoky street befouled with the dead and the dying, he could just discern the enemy captains marshaling their brigands and marauders for a mass onslaught. That could only mean that those sent swarming over the walls were now ready to attack him from the rear....
Cajhet was tired of sitting dutifully at his post. Where was the watch officer? He should have made his rounds hours ago. The villainous crew peering out at him through the bars up and down the cell-block made him nervous. The two desert marauders brought in earlier that morning had informed them that the city had fallen. What if the fortress should also fall? Thoughts of being turned over to his own prisoners made it hard to concentrate.
At last he could bear the suspense no longer. Assuming an air of nonchalance, and humming a tune, he strolled casually toward the staircase. The dirty laughter behind his back made him suspect that he did not appear quite so nonchalant as he supposed. The hookpurse Fefo taunted him brazenly, as if he no longer feared reprisals.
Once out of sight, Cajhet tiptoed stealthily round and round the winding staircase, his ears cocked for any ominous sound. What he heard was ominous indeed. What he saw, peeking warily into the hall at the top of the stairs, made his very fur stand on end.
Precious artworks scattered like so much trash, noble silks tossed wantonly about, paintings slashed, exquisite furniture used like camp stools; shouts, curses, drunken laughter and brawling; the anger of brigands squabbling over loot. It could mean only one thing—the fortress had fallen. What had become of its hundreds of defenders? Its thousands of refugees? More important, what would become of him, if he were turned over to his own prisoners?
An imminent possibility, for gangs of new prisoners—garrison troops, limping from wounds, some barely able to stand—were even now being marched in ranks into the fortress. Among them was a young female servant, about the loveliest he had ever seen, despite her shabby dress. He looked closer. It was Srana! The poor she-mrem had been taken captive. He wondered what had become of her old grandfather.
But not for long. The dungeons below ground were a vast congeries of cells, improvised originally to confine rioters, even prisoners of war; only the small central block was now in use. Prisoners of war, large numbers of them, were in fact about to be confined there, although not of the kind for which the dungeons were intended. Good thing he had come up into the fortress when he had. Even a few minutes later, and he himself would have been confined in one of those cells—if he were lucky.
He had been a dodger all his life; now was the time to dodge as he had never dodged before. Some of the apparel cast aside by the despoilers looked like the wardrobe of the governor himself. And one of the desert marauders had had both his shabby cloak and trousers ripped while trying to evade capture. Cajhet decided it was time to change clothes, and hastened back down the stairs.
“All right, my lad.” He swaggered up to a barred cell. “Off with ‘em. We treat our guests here like it was the Blue Dragon itself. Tailoring while you wait is our motto. Put these on while I get your own clothes repaired. The watch officer is going to inspect in a little while, and I can’t have you disgracing me. No tramps wanted. Off with ‘em, I say.”
The scarred and villainous old marauder stared at him in wonder. But he was too crafty an opportunist to pass up a chance to dress in silks; it had been years since he had stolen anything so fine. The exchange needed only moments, and Cajhet strolled away with the bundle of rags—but not toward the staircase.
> “I’ll be right back, lads. Then we’ll see about getting you some dinner. Now don’t go away.”
It was Cajhet who went away, silently but very fast, the moment he was out of sight. Lantern in hand, he scurried on tiptoes through the dank gloomy caverns of the old cistern, straight for the nearest of the two bolted doors. This exchange of clothes needed even less time than the last. The old villain had probably worn these smelly rags for years without changing them, but this was no time for sartorial fussiness. It was a time to blend inconspicuously into the environment—until he reached environs offering less risk of getting his throat cut.
Unbolting the door, he slipped into a circular pump-well; some of the chains and buckets of its primitive machinery were still intact.
“Whew!” He winced at the musty reek. “Something died down here. Let’s hope that’s not a bad omen.”
The metal rungs extending at intervals from the crusted stone wall were badly corroded, but held his weight. The old pump house was familiar to him. The circular trapdoor which sealed the well had something on top of it, and he had to butt it with his head and shoulders several times before it at last yielded. He emerged into sweeter smelling air, but immediately began to sneeze. Four spice kegs had been stacked atop the trapdoor, and one of them had broken open when he butted them aside. Wiping his eyes, he hurried toward the outer door. A wholesale contractor of fish sauce, condiments, general foodstuffs, and spices now used the old pump house as a warehouse. He was surprised the looters had not been here already.
