by Jack Lovejoy
“I’ll take only fifty or so of your, uh, bambarongs I believe they’re called,” Mithmid continued. “With a wizard riding on each one—”
“Two on each,” decided Changavar, “and if they fall off we can’t stop for ‘em. She-mrem are best at this kind of thing. They’ll jockey you there as fast as you want. Meanwhile, there’s fighting to do.”
“That’s what we came for,” added Severakh, and the two old soldiers strode off and started issuing commands for battle.
Mithmid sighed at the obtuseness of the military mind, but had to be satisfied with whatever logistics it determined. There was no time to contest anything. While Changavar told the she-mrem who would guide and defend the sortie, he himself selected fifty wizards to accompany it, a selection that necessarily had to be a compromise. The youngest would be the surest riders, but they lacked the mind power of the eldest. All had accompanied him in the sortie against Dragonneck Gorge, and knew what had to be done. He felt like a schoolmaster lecturing children as he explained the enterprise to the Yozgat she-mrem:
“It’s only a small river gate, so you’ll have to get your, uh, bambarongs to duck down. They’re too tall to get through it otherwise. There are patches of quicksand on the riverbed, but scouts will point them out to you. Questions?”
The little she-mrem merely sneered at him. They too were warriors and blamed him for depriving them of the chance to gain trophies of honor. But obedience to the Prince Warrior in battle was the most sacred of all Yozgat traditions, and they led their bambarongs toward the west river gate, with a pair of wizards clinging gingerly to the back of each, including Mithmid himself.
He had been tempted to suggest means of alleviating pressure on the walls while they were gone, but decided he had been sneered at enough for one day. Glancing back, he expected to see the warrior kings conferring on battle plans, but was curious to see old Severakh in conference with Sruss, while young Branwe stood by with the tearful old she-mrem. Another sortie was supposed to cover the outburst from the west river gate. He wondered what they could be discussing so earnestly. Severakh looked as disgruntled as had the little Yozgat prince a few minutes ago.
“A warrior’s first duty in battle is obedience to orders, my lady,” he was explaining in a controlled voice. Once more in his proper element, the old soldier, like Changavar, wanted to assert his authority. The interference of she-mrem—though it be the legendary Sruss herself—annoyed him. “Branwe has indeed shown valor and initiative. I won’t deny that. But either he’s a warrior or he’s not. This is no time for individual exploits. He’s as fine a young swordsmrem as I’ve ever drilled—”
“Yes, but what sword does he wield?” asked Sruss. “And what will become of all your sorties and strategy if the Evil One gains control of what you journeyed so far to get? Srana is a mere she-kit, not a wizard. And she’s now pitted alone against the most cunning and evil sorcerer in the world.”
“Very well, my lady.” Severakh yielded at last. “You may be right after all. But he’ll be on his own. Little Changavar is already gnashing his teeth with impatience. I can’t delay his first sortie much longer.” He bowed and started to turn away, then hesitated. “Good luck, lad. Be sure to watch for the red flag. May the All-Mother guide and protect you.”
“Amen to that,” said Mamre, although she knew nothing about red flags. “I just got my dear boy back, and now I must lose him again.”
She wanted maternally to groom him, but Branwe released himself, bowed courteously to Sruss, and hurried toward the big sumpter bambarong he had unloaded for his own use. The Yozgat warriors, all riding triple and eager for battle, had no interest in a lone rider at the tail of their column.
Severakh gave the signal, and a deadly rain of fire-spears and catapult missiles swept the riverbank opposite the Southland Gate. The drawbridge was lowered with a wild clangor of chains, the grinding and creaking gates were heaved open, and hundreds of bambarongs charged out into the dust-hazy sunlight. This was battle. There was no random leaping and gliding now. The huge creatures leapt from the same point, glided over the heads of the swarming hordes of attackers, right through the advancing giant army towers and siege machines, and landed in a concentrated mass, a hundred yards behind the enemy vanguard.
Swarming down from their mounts, swarming over one foe after the other, charging, retreating, and swarming again with their uncanny battle empathy, the Yozgat males hacked and slashed and thrust with their great swords; the Yozgat females clawed from all sides at once, faded back, then swarmed over the next surprised enemy. No signals were given; none were needed. The ring of slaughtered enemies widened outward from the mass of waiting bambarongs like a pond ripple.
But the odds were overwhelming, and at last flying columns rallied against the Yozgat—only to find themselves converging on an empty space littered with corpses. Every Yozgat seemed to know at once the instant the battle turned against them, and if motivated by a single reflex, they all remounted, ran, leapt, glided, and repeated their swarming attack upon another quarter of the battlefield.
Nothing intimidated the doughty little warriors, not even the terrible contingents of liskash, so hideous in their reptilian sliminess that it was like attacking a nightmare. But attack the Yozgat did, plunging right down into the midst of the most hideous contingent of all. These liskash towered over eight feet high; gangling bipedal reptiles with huge round eyes and sloping foreheads, they wielded their monstrous battle-axes with a power and ferocity incredible to behold. No single opponent could have withstood one; but the Yozgat fought in swarms, and a score of cuts, hacks, stabs, and deadly slashes forestalled every swipe of a battle-axe, a swipe that futilely cut through empty air. Then once more the Yozgat were gone, leaving behind them a disconcerting carnage.
All the hordes besieging the southern wall—despite their massed array of booms, towers, and siege engines—were now disconcerted, their confusion more demoralizing than the relatively few casualties warranted. Leadership also bogged down, and while the attacks on the walls faltered, the catapult barrage raining down on the attackers continued to take a deadly toll. The numbers were too overwhelming for this condition to last, but every minute that it did brought the sortie upriver that much closer to the new dam. Mithmid and his fellow wizards were already out of sight.
Meanwhile Branwe sought an opening for a sortie of his own. Simply gliding off by himself would have left his mount too vulnerable whenever it landed; it was the mass landings of the whole troop of hundreds that threw the enemy into panic.
His chance did not come until, by some empathy or signal he did not catch, the Yozgat suddenly outflanked the enemy hordes and wheeled toward the dry riverbed. Pressure had grown intense upon the northern wall. Something had to be done to relieve it before it was overrun.
Branwe also wheeled around, but in a contrary direction.
He had caught only glimpses of Srana across the dust-hazy plain. She had not moved from the hilltop, but the dragon, whether feinting or because its evil rider sensed that he wielded the sovereign magic, had moved closer. Wielding only the Demon Sword, Branwe dared not approach too near himself, and running, leaping, and gliding he circled the stumps of a despoiled orchard, and halted in the ruins of an old farmstead.
A liskash sorcerer, the very embodiment of all that was hideous and evil, and a beautiful young she-mrem, a White Dancer; the duel was epical. And all Branwe could do for the moment was clutch the Demon Sword and watch for an opportunity.
•
Other eyes were even now watching for other opportunities. Sruss felt that something was wrong the moment she entered her garden with Mamre, who still dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. The entire troupe of White Dancers was dressed and ready for the supplication at the Temple of the All-Mother. Even if the Crockercups barred their entrance again, which was almost certain, the people would be less inclined to heed the insinuations of the Silent Ones. But whe
re were the guards assigned by the king? Her own watchmrem were missing.
“Removed by orders of the queen mother, my lady,” reported her factotum, the faithful Pepik. “The runner I sent to inform you never did?”
She shook her head.
“Then something stopped him in the streets. There’s dirty work afoot, my lady, Mark my words. Naming no names, somebody’s up to something.”
Sruss had heard a rumor that her daughter-in-law was preparing for flight, probably with all the palace treasure her servants could bear. It was unlikely, however, that Rhenowla would go anywhere without retribution, and there would be no better opportunity than when the entire city was in turmoil. Mercenary priests had already reconsecrated their temples to Narlock. It was important to forestall any public outcry for the sacrifice of the Chosen. But could Rhenowla have the temerity to attempt a more direct retribution, also disguised by the turmoil in the city? Guards were needed, many guards, and at once.
“They won’t stop me in the streets, my lady,” Mamre shrewdly guessed the problem. “I’d like to see ‘em try. Anyways, they’d think I was just going home to the Dragon, which is two streets north, a jog to your left around the fountain, turn left again till you reach Hammersmith Lane, then right. I’ve gathered some stout lads there for you. Not too nice in their ways, mind you, but all ready to earn themselves a night’s free drinking—no matter what my husband says about it.” Her eyes narrowed. “He’s up to something himself, though he pretended it was just some business about saving our furniture in case we have to flee again. But he didn’t fool me, because this isn’t the first time lately he’s wanted me out of the way, the unnatural wretch! His own wife, too! But that’s no worry of yours, my lady. The lads I’ve gathered for you will guard your Dancers, though they may not be too nice about how they do it, and they’ll guard you too if need be. Shall I go fetch them?”
Sruss had no choice but to agree, and sent Mamre off with her blessing. She would only have discredited the White Dancers further by having soldiers withdrawn from the defense of the city to protect them, something Rhenowla no doubt knew very well. If the highest moral authority in the land could be saved only by the lowest ruffians, from the most infamous quarter of the Old City, then so be it.
And Srana? What hope had she against so powerful a sorcerer? Sruss dared not watch the duel out on the plains. Though one White Dancer perish, even the most beloved of all, the order itself must somehow be preserved. Nothing was more important than that: not herself, not Srana, not the very city of Ar. And yet, she could not resist thinking about the message of love and honor her beloved Srana had sent her through young Branwe, as comely a lad as she had ever seen, whose own feelings toward Srana spoke through his every word and expression. The All-Mother guide and protect them....
Hardly an hour had passed when her meditations were interrupted by a commotion at the gate. Pepik was not supposed to open it for anyone but Mamre, and the White Dancers fell back toward their tents in alarm, Sruss herself stared in astonishment.
Mamre was there all right, and behind her a troop of ruffians armed with clubs, chair legs, daggers, whatever weapons had been handy. But in their lead was a great strapping female, dragging, bouncing, and shaking a trio of surly rogues along before her. She ‘held one by the ear with her sharp powerful teeth, and the other two by the scruff of the neck. There were grins and ribald comments from the ruffians following her.
“Her name is Kizzlecosh.” Mamre trotted over to Sruss. “A lad as used to drink regular at the Dragon—the old Blue Dragon, that is, back in Kazerclawm days—sent her to me for protection. Against what, I can’t imagine. But she says she’s kept order in rough houses before, and I believe it. She came with my lad Branwe and the rest, on them big funny-looking critters. Pounced on them three villains there the moment she laid eyes on ‘em.”
“Bring her to me, please,” said Sruss.
Relinquishing her prisoners, after thoroughly intimidating them with threats, glowers, and an admonitory snapping of teeth, Kizzlecosh hurried across the garden. Her bow was clumsy and uncouth, but even she was deferential in the presence of the legendary Sruss.
“One look was all I needed, my lady. Spotted’ em skulking down the street, and knew they were up to no good. And they’ve all got a parcel too much money on ‘em. Mamre here told me you expect trouble today, and I expect that trio is part of it.”
“Have they said anything?”
“No, but I’ll get everything they know out of ‘em, if that’s what you want.” She bit the air with her sharp powerful teeth.
“We’ve no time now for interrogation,” said Sruss, who recognized at once a staunch ally in Kizzlecosh, despite her uncouth bulk, and quickly summarized the threat posed by the Crockercups to the White Dancers.
“Just point ‘em out to me, my lady.” Kizzlecosh drew her familiar cosh out of her belt and strapped it to her wrist. “I’ll crocker their cups for ‘em! And here’s some rough lads who’ll back me up. Give me the word, my lady, and it’s as good as done.”
And it was. The ranting of mercenary priests over a revival of Narlock petered out soon after word spread through the city about the magnificent supplication inside the Temple of the All-Mother, and the inspiring dances performed there by the White Dancers. Or perhaps the priests were more impressed with events that occurred beforehand outside the temple.
The general population was certainly impressed, for these events were the true origin of the adage: “As scarce as ears on a Crockercup.”
•
All that impressed Mithmid and the wizards of The Three at that moment was the task before them: to bring down in minutes something that had needed months to erect, by tens of thousands of laborers, working relentlessly day and night. The valley at its narrowest point was miles across; the colossal dam reached from wall to wall, impounding two major rivers into a vast artificial lake many leagues in extent.
“That’s what will do our work for us,” said Mithmid. The troop looked down from a weathered eminence, some two miles down the valley. “It won’t be an easy job, nor as quick as we’d like, but it can be done. Looks like most of the guards have deserted their posts. They’ve probably slipped away to Ar, in hopes of getting their share of the booty. That should make the job a bit easier for us.”
The little Yozgat she-mrem seated in front of him glanced back with her most contemptuous sneer, yet whether because she knew who would do the real fighting, or was merely commenting on the martial prowess of wizards, was not clear. What was clear was the distance they still had to travel to reach the spur that tied down the northern wing of the barrage. Only there could they get near enough to concentrate their mind force effectively, but it was also the bestguarded approach.
It was early afternoon, and cloud shadows drifted down the valley toward them. A haze of dust and smoke marked the location of Ar, although the city itself now lay hidden behind intervening ridges, silver-gray with vegetation.
“Let’s get going,” cried Mithmid, trying to sound authoritative.
He was ignored, and started to shout the order again, but then noticed that the Yozgat she-mrem, those guiding the convoy of wizards and those riding triple as escorts, were strapping sets of razor-sharp steel claws onto their wrists. Only when they were good and ready did they at last deign to obey him.
Running, leaping, gliding, down the wooded slope, across a corner of the grassy valley below, then up the steeper slopes beyond. The wizards clung grimly to their saddles; no one would stop for them if they tumbled off, certainly not the fierce little Yozgat females, who rejoiced that they had not been excluded from battle after all, and would let nothing delay them.
There were more defenders than Mithmid had realized, perhaps one of the reasons the Yozgat warrior guiding their bambarong out onto the mountain spur had sneered at him. He prudently decided to leave all military decisions to her, and concentrate on mag
ic. His fellow wizards seemed to feel the same way, although at the moment they concentrated exclusively on clinging to their saddles.
Even this did not avail them when the whole troop of bambarongs came to a flying halt, and a welter of startled wizards went tumbling, bouncing, rolling, and somersaulting to the ground. Shaken and disheveled, they found a path being cleared for them to the brink of the mountain spur, overlooking the dam and its vast impounded lake below, by the Yozgat she-mrem, who had reached the ground still faster.
Swarming, fading out of range, then swarming again with amazing battle empathy, their razor claws flashing electrically in the sunlight, the Yozgat quickly overwhelmed the defenders. The attack had been spotted from the far side of the valley, and hundreds of armed mrem could now be seen descending from the blockhouse that defended the southern approach to the barrage. But Mithmid had already assembled his wizards into a unified formation. He pointed his left hand, remultiplying their concentrated mind force through the fragments of the Khavala, like some primordial god directing thunderbolts down upon the enemies of heaven.
Several minutes passed. The reinforcements were already halfway across the valley. At last a crack opened athwart the entire summit of the barrage. It was neither very wide nor very deep, but reached below water level, and the trickle that pushed through began to eat away at the sides and bottom. It widened slowly at first; then faster and faster.
Mithmid continued to point, and his invisible lightning seared deeper and deeper into the blockage. The trickle forcing its way through was now driven by the hydrostatic pressure of many cubic miles of impounded water, and shot into the valley in a silvery jet.
The advancing reinforcements spotted it, and faltered. Then the jet widened into a veritable fountain, and they cried out and fled whence they had come. But it was too late for them. They had over a mile to run, and the waters now poured through the crumbling barrage like a vast and unstoppable tidal bore. The roar of the tremendous flood drowned their screams of terror....
