by Jack Lovejoy
This new blockage was far beyond their reach. There were more enemies now, many more towers and machines, which for weeks now—while he himself was slogging his way upriver, after his barge had been stranded—could have been trundled right up to the city walls. It seemed that the assault had been delayed until the Evil One himself took command, when all preparations were complete, and victory a dead certainty. All the combined powers of The Three would have to be diverted from the battle itself just to neutralize him—if they could even do that.
“We need a miracle.” Mithmid lowered his voice so Sruss alone could hear him. They sat on a bench together in her garden the following morning. What had changed most in the city since his departure was its morale. The White Dancers went through the motions of their daily exercises without their usual verve and dedication—with Sruss herself looking on! “You haven’t heard anything more from Srana? No, neither have I. But I never expected the people to become so demoralized.”
“Blame Rhenowla for that,” said Sruss. “She has used the intervening months to renew her hold on young Tristwyn. Not directly, but through the Crockercups, who work insidiously to renew their own power and luxury by leading him back to his old dissipations. They know I’m their enemy. They also know that the worst thing which could befall them is the reign of a strong and just king.”
“But why would the king close the Temple of the All-Mother, especially at a time like this?”
“He hasn’t. Nor is it ever done officially. The Crockercups—no doubt at the behest of Rhenowla—merely interrupt every ceremony, barring the Dancers from even entering the temple.”
“Can’t someone help you?” asked Mithmid. “The king?
The League of Ar?”
Sruss shook her head. “I dare not ask. The Silent Ones are more insidious than ever, spreading rumors, misleading the people with false accusations. Rhenowla is behind it all, of course. She seeks only a provocation, something she can use to discredit the Dancers.” She lowered her voice. “I fear for their very lives.”
Mithmid looked at her aghast, as if he could not believe what he had just heard.
“It’s true,” she assured him. “Recall her campaign to discredit The Three. It failed because even the most ignorant and superstitious realized that you are needed for the defense of the city. Not so with the White-Dancers. For weeks now the Silent Ones have been spreading rumors that they care nothing for the safety of Ar, hinting darkly that they may be working in collusion with the enemy, or have already sold the gates. You have heard of the god Narlock?”
Mithmid’s jaw dropped. “The ancient war god? But no temple of Narlock has existed for centuries, only old superstitions. His cruel rites were suppressed when Ar was hardly more than a market village.”
“But never forgotten,” Sruss added. “Rhenowla has uncovered an engraved oracle, and the H’satie are showing it everywhere. In time of utmost need, when Ar seems doomed, the city can be saved only by sacrificing the Chosen.”
“The White Dancers?”
She nodded. “That is exactly the interpretation Rhenowla is spreading among the people. Few believed it at first, but now more and more seem to every day. Especially since the Dancers have not participated in a single ceremony for weeks now. The people do not know the reason, only the fact.”
“You don’t have to tell me anymore.” He sighed. “Narlock was the first god worshipped in Ar. The city is being punished for turning to foreign gods and ways. And so on and so forth. It’s really you that Rhenowla is trying to punish—if she has to destroy the city to do so, and herself along with it.
Something that now seems inevitable, no matter what she does. Unless,” a new thought struck him. “She’s in collusion with the Eastern Lords herself. They might make her absolute ruler here, in return for services rendered. Is that what’s behind her attacks on you?”
“For power, Rhenowla would do anything. Nor do I doubt she would ally herself with the very Eastern Lords to get it, if that were the only way. But I have no evidence of this.”
They were silent and thoughtful for the next several minutes, each with his or her own peculiar cares. Sruss watched the dispirited exercises of the White Dancers with a heavy heart. Mithmid kept one ear cocked for the call to the ramparts, to the last doomed stand of the enemy. The great towers and siege engines were at this very moment trundling across the plains beyond the dry riverbed, converging at last upon the city, evidence that the Evil One was now utterly certain of victory.
“If Ar falls,” he said; although both understood that there was no longer any “if” about it, “we must at all costs save the Dancers. Only through their moral authority, through their preservation of the culture and history of our nation, can the mrem remain united, or even hope to survive. The magic of The Three may not be powerful enough to save Ar, but the enemy will know they were in a fight. Our defensive strategy now must be aimed at opening some means for the Dancers to escape. Perhaps in the confusion of battle, concealment magic may get them away unseen. Perhaps King Ortakh can once more rally his berserkers, and cut an opening through the enemy hordes, who may in any case be greedier for plunder than captives.”
“And Rhenowla?” Sruss turned to him. “Don’t forget that the Dancers’ most virulent enemy is inside the city, not outside. While we seek opportunities, so will she. The people themselves, in their fear and anguish, will also seek someone to blame for their miseries. The traditional sanctity of the White Dancers may actually be turned against them, when all traditions fail, when the very priests of the city, perhaps young Tristwyn himself, demand that the ancient oracle be fulfilled, and the Chosen sacrificed to Narlock.”
“She won’t get away with it,” cried Mithmid. “We won’t let her. A public worship of the All-Mother, the more public the better; spread the word through the city. Let the Crockercups again try to bar the White Dancers from the temple, and the people will then know who’s really abetting the enemy. So public a confrontation must surely disconcert the whispering campaign of the Silent Ones, perhaps long enough for us to get the Dancers safely out of the city. Can you spread the word in time?”
“No, but I know someone who can.” They paused and listened; the White Dancers froze in the middle of a figure. “There’s the trumpet. The attack has begun. You’ll be on the south rampart? I’ll send word to you the moment I’ve arranged the ceremony. The All-Mother guide and protect you.”
He repeated the blessing, and hurried from the garden. “Any news of the lad yet, my lady?” was the first question Mamre asked upon entering the garden soon afterwards. “Ah, poor, poor lad. I’ve kept a room special for him, just like in Kazerclawm. My husband says he needs the space for better things—you see, we’re more crowded here than at the old Blue Dragon—but I tell him there’s no better use for it than to give a home to my dear Branwe. He always was a good lad, my lady; and a hard worker. Ah, me. Such times as we live in ...”
She began a rambling account of how she was packed up to flee to yet another city, and how much trouble she had had selecting what to take and what to leave behind, and how her husband had abused her over a prized mirror she insisted on taking along. But Sruss tactfully interrupted, and explained the problem.
Mamre’s eyes narrowed. “You leave it to me, my lady. Why, the liskash! Desecrating a holy temple with their tricks! There’s some that drinks regular at the Dragon, highlanders and soldiers even, that would make the fur of these Crockercups stand on end, just to see ‘em. Oh, yes, my lady, I’ll spread the word for you all right. You can depend on me.”
She was as good as she said, and by midmorning it was known in every quarter of the city that the White Dancers would lead high worship at the Temple of the All-Mother. It was known even sooner to Rhenowla.
“My son is on the ramparts, where a true king belongs.”
She did not hover behind a curtain now, but sat brazenly on the very throne, as if
she believed that that was where she belonged. “His friends must act for him. Can I depend on you, my loyal subjects?”
Never in all the long history of Ar had so many dissipated, fawning, cowardly, self-serving rascals been gathered together in one place. The Crockercups exploited the king’s bounty, and cunningly encouraged his dissipations, but it was from the queen mother that they took their orders. She was their last best hope of saving their lives and their riches. The city itself was now clearly doomed; it might last the day, but certainly not another. It was more profitable to answer the summons of Rhenowla than the call to the ramparts.
“Arrangements have been made for emigrating to Hurakh Tam,” she said, and the Crockercups nodded their satisfaction. They all knew of the secret amassing of royal treasure for transshipment, of course, but were gratified at her confiding in them. “But I cannot leave the city with scores unsettled. I wish to travel only with friends, and the next few hours will determine who are my true friends, and who are not.”
Scores of heads nodded their understanding. Every Crockercup in the throne room had at one time or another done Rhenowla’s dirty work for her. This was the dirtiest job of all, but she had made clear the alternatives. Obsequiously they bowed their way from her presence.
The instant the last of them had disappeared, she clapped her hands, and a trio of rogues that made even the Crockercups seem wholesome appeared through the curtain behind which she herself was wont to eavesdrop. Retaliation upon the White Dancers was only an indirect means of punishing her most implacable enemy, an enemy too powerful and beloved to assail—until now. But anything might happen amidst the turmoil of a conquered city, and she beckoned the three rogues to draw closer, and exchanged whispers and purses with them.
Like an army of giants the towers advanced upon the southern walls. Harassed relentlessly by fire-spears and missiles, they were slowed, but not stopped. Every few minutes the closest or most threatening tower exploded into ashes and splinters; but these intervals grew longer and longer, the towers closer and more threatening, the vitality of The Three ever less potent. At either end of the wall, colossal booms now swung back and forth, plucking defenders from the ramparts and dropping them to their destruction in the dry riverbed below.
Another tower shattered, then another, but ten more were drawn forward by teams of uxen to replace them. And in the distance, a monstrous dragon could be seen moving ominously through the enemy hordes, which swarmed the plains without number, rapacious and greedy for plunder. On its back sat the Evil One himself; gloating sardonically at the internecine course of the battle. Soon The Three would exhaust themselves, expending their last reserves in a futile effort to save a doomed city. Then he could pluck them up as deftly as the colossal booms plucked other helpless defenders from atop the walls.
The besieged had not wasted the intervening months; they too had constructed machines. Until the Mraal ceased to flow, some weeks past, they had been able to boat a wealth of supplies and materiel into the city, and the kings of the League of Ar had drilled soldiers and civilians alike into a keen readiness. Ar had not been built in a day; it would not fall in a day. Although Mithmid could see already that it would not last much longer than that.
The bulk of the siege machines were concentrated atop the northern wall, and opposing towers had been erected inside the walls to increase firepower. Rocks and quick sands precluded assaults from east or west by anything but small commando teams, and these were easily repulsed. Since the major attack came from the south, it was there that Mithmid had again concentrated The Three. But he had not expected such suicidal fury in the attackers. It was as if everyone of them felt himself to be personally under the eyes of the Evil One.
Then Mithmid realized that those eyes were in fact turned away from the battle, toward a hilltop miles to the east. His own eyes were no longer keen enough to discern what was gathered there. Multiple riders seemed to be mounted atop a veritable herd of weird two-legged creatures. Through his long years of questing after the Third Eye, he had heard many strange legends. He had an inkling of what he was seeing, but needed younger eyes to be sure.
King Ortakh of Maragadan answered his summons. “Yes, I see them clearly,” he said, “but can hardly believe my eyes. The Yozgat never leave their mountain valley, except to punish those who would infringe their independence.”
“Are they for us, or against us?” wondered Mithmid, still naive in military matters.
“The Yozgat have no allies, nor have ever needed them. Look, the Evil One himself gives you your answer. He hesitates. He has seen something that makes him unsure of himself. The very dragon he rides seems confused.”
Mithmid squinted, trying vainly to see better. “All I can make out is a figure in white, mounted on one of the strange creatures, holding forth some object for all to see. Who is it, do you suppose, and what is the object?”
Even Ortakh’s keen eyes had to squint at such a distance.
“The object appears to be a scepter, held forth by none other than a White Dancer. Yes, it must be the scepter that has made Khal so unsure.”
“Now I understand,” cried Mithmid, fairly dancing with excitement. “I know what the scepter is, and who is holding it. They are indeed allies.”
“Then they need our help. Here, Ingol, Finakh.” Ortakh summoned his captains, “Prepare for a sally! Summon the highlanders! All is not yet lost!”
Changavar gazed across the swarming plain to the walls of Ar, and was chagrined. The neighboring peoples of the Yozgat had to be chastised from time to time, and no walled village or even city-state had during his lifetime ever held out against the bambarongs. But these walls were colossal, as sheer as cliffs, towering—insurmountable. The bambarongs would enter the city through its gates, or not at all.
Nor had he ever beheld such vast hordes of enemies. It was some consolation that he had been right in at least that respect, and saw that those around him on the swelling hilltop realized it as well. Not even Yozgat valor and battle empathy could hope to prevail against such odds.
Only minutes ago he had noticed a score of Yozgat she-mrem dismount and hold up their fur cloaks as a screen. Srana had emerged from inside the circle dressed in the costume of a White Dancer. She had remounted her bambarong alone, where she now sat gazing down upon the swarming plains below.
This gesture had further chagrined him. She would not have brought the costume if she had trusted his assurances. But then he felt a tap on the shoulder, and Severakh, mounted behind him on his bambarong, pointed down to those very plains. He had noticed the dragon and its rider, of course, but now understood that this was the Evil One. Had Srana’s costume then only something to do with magic? It was more comforting to believe that.
Changavar felt another tap on the shoulder. This time Severakh pointed toward the city gate. The enemy forces were being driven back by a furious sortie of highlanders; although taken by surprise, such overwhelming numbers would soon rally. Changavar was now in his own element. The military situation was crystal clear, and he signaled the charge.
Running, leaping, gliding over the heads of the astonished enemy, the hundreds of bambarongs raced at incredible speed over the plains. A cheer rose from the beleaguered walls above; the Yozgat twirled their swords and fur cloaks in defiance, as they plunged triumphantly through the gate.
Branwe alone would have turned back, but he sat between two Yozgat warriors and had no control of their bambarong. He glanced behind him from the bridge. Srana had never moved. She still sat alone upon her bambarong, scepter in hand, at the crest of the hill, while down in the plains below the dragon and its rider stood facing her. Branwe had seen many duels in the garrison city of Kazerclawm, and this was how they always began, with the two opponents sizing each other up, each trying to gauge their respective strengths and weaknesses, searching for some advantage before beginning the actual combat.
Then they were lost fr
om sight, as Branwe was carried through the open portal and into the great city of Ar.
The Wall of Death
WHATEVER the outcome of the duel, Mithmid knew that for a time the Evil One would be neutralized. Enough time? The weird running, leaping, gliding creatures could only be the bambarongs he had heard of in travelers’ tales, and for once the tale did not exceed the reality. Even without evil magic to aid them, the hordes besieging Ar must soon overrun the walls. How soon? The great barrage damming back the Mraal was too many miles upstream to have been reached by any possible sortie against it—until now.
He reached the bottom of the stairs just as the city gates closed. Ortakh, as befitting a highland king, was the last mrem inside. And there was Severakh! Mithmid hurried toward him, disconcerted at first by the dwarfish size of the warriors climbing down from their strange mounts. He also noticed Sruss, standing beside a blowsy old she-mrem who was tearfully hugging young Branwe. But there was no time for that now, and he immediately summoned the rest of The Three, many of whom already looked weary and dispirited, down from the walls.
“More magic!” snorted Changavar, when Mithmid had explained his plan. “The Yozgat are warriors, not liskash. I didn’t lead my people here to be jockeys for a lot of scoundrelly old wizards.”
“No, no,” Mithmid assured him, overlooking the insult, “we need you in battle. Desperately, and at once. Only you can relieve the pressure on the walls long enough for us to reach the dam in time. Sorties and more sorties. You’re our only hope now, Changavar.”
The dwarfish warrior continued to snort and stomp up and back before the gate, but was clearly mollified.
