by Roland Green
Pirvan did not question a heroine’s gift. He flung himself on the two momentarily weapon-bound men, and cut both of them across the neck and face. The circle gaped wide. Pirvan burst into it, leaping over Sir Esthazas’s body to attack the men to either side of him.
Those men died with steel both in front and behind, as the rest of Pirvan’s fighters swarmed up the rubble and over the attackers upon it. Only when there was not an armed enemy on the inward side of the rubble did Pirvan have the time to look at who had given her life to hold the breach.
He wondered afterward that he was surprised to see Tulia. Only some dust and a trickle of blood from her mouth disfigured her face, otherwise as fair in death as in life.
The surprise passed. In its place came rage. If Pirvan had been surrounded by fifteen men, he would have cut them down without a thought. If he could have turned the rubble in the breach into molten lava and sent it pouring over the retreating attackers, he would have sung a victory song loud enough to drown their screams.
Then he became aware that someone was screaming—many people, judging from the noise. Not in this breach, though. Over toward, even beyond, the greater breach.
Pirvan turned and had his feet in motion before his eyes reported what they saw. All he could think of was that the enemy had forced the greater breach, and Belkuthas had only moments to live.
If so, he had hardly longer. He hoped Tulia had died for a better reason than to make that his duty. It would have been his, whether she lived or died.
Chapter 20
Tharash waited a long time for his shot, letting several merely adequate chances pass by.
Surviving this day hardly mattered. The elf considered himself a corpse with the use of its arms and legs. Indeed, the prospect of dying for nothing chilled him far more than the prospect of mere death ever had, let alone today.
But now his man was riding almost directly ahead. The back of the neck was a small target, but one Tharash knew he could hit at this range. It was also one where a long-point arrow, striking deep, killed so quickly that no healer’s simples or spells had any power.
Tharash waited until the man reined in to instruct his standard-bearer. The standard-bearer moved a trifle to the side. That improved the shot further. Now the banner would not flap into the path of the arrow. Not that there was much breeze, but when one had only a single shot—
Now.
Tharash’s body, mind, bow, and arrow ceased to be separate entities. They became four aspects of a single creation.
The arrow flew. Tharash saw it dwindle, as if it moved at the pace of a child’s crawl. He saw that it was flying true, but held down exaltation. In this moment he was as close to the Abyss as to a more rewarding future.
The arrow struck home.
Carolius Migmar dropped his reins and reeled in the saddle, then toppled from his horse.
The commander of the host was dead before he struck the ground.
Zephros was close enough to Carolius Migmar to see the arrow sprout from the back of his neck, so he knew why the commander fell out of sight.
He also knew that the arrow had come from the rear. He tried to turn his horse, to look back without facing his mount’s rump. He had a sense of ponderous doom impending, but knew he could hold his own panic at arm’s length by action.
Others could not, or perhaps did not even try.
“Treason!” someone howled.
“Migmar’s dead!”
“Shot from behind!”
“Kill the traitors!”
From what happened then, Zephros concluded that either every man thought his neighbor the traitor, or every man saw that the traitor was some twenty paces off, on the other side of the thickest part of the column.
The column writhed like a snake with a broken spine. Men pushed, shoved, cursed, punched, and with increasing frequency and fervor slashed and thrust at one another.
From the walls, arrows sleeted. Whether aimed so or not, they fell thickest among those crowded around Migmar, trying to at least carry his body to safety. They had just lifted him in their arms when half a dozen of them fell to a single flight of arrows. The dead commander dropped back to the ground, with more than a few of his men now keeping him company.
Ahead of Migmar, several hundred men were bolder than the rest, or else trusted their enemies more than their comrades. They surged forward, scrambling up the rubble, falling to arrows and broken legs but advancing nonetheless.
Zephros rode forward. If he put himself at the head of these men, he might die. That would at least solve the problem of being suspected of Migmar’s death. He might also lead the vanguard into Belkuthas—and whatever might happen there, he could say that on one day of his life he had really been a soldier.
He overtook the vanguard before they reached the rubble. A balding man turned and stared at Zephros. The captain glanced over at the pale, scarred face—and he remembered seeing that face on a day when it had not been scarred.
The man hefted a short spear.
“For Luferinus!” he shouted, and threw.
The spear took Zephros in the stomach. He was in the air long enough to remember that belly wounds took a long while to kill you. Then he struck the ground, except for his head, which struck a rock.
The rock saved Zephros from a long, painful death.
A good half of the men who climbed the rubble in the greater breach made it to the top and started down. Some of them were wounded, but they were either the bravest or the most insensate of the attackers. It would take a good deal to stop them.
They were halfway down the inner slope of the breach when that good deal appeared. Its name was Grimsoar One-Eye, and he rushed forward at the advancing besiegers, an axe in one hand and a dwarven hammer in the other.
Ignoring friendly arrows from the flanks, he waded into the nearest half dozen men. He split skulls and lopped limbs with the axe, crushed skulls and chests with the hammer, and let out war cries that were remarkably penetrating for ones coming from a man with weak lungs.
They certainly penetrated the minds of the attackers. They began to realize they could die. Would die, if they came within reach of this madman, wielding dwarven weapons with a giant’s strength.
They began to try staying out of his reach. This left gaps in their line.
Into those gaps drove the next counterattack—Haimya, Eskaia, Hawkbrother, and Gerik, at the head of a few Gryphons and a number of dwarves.
The two women seemed sprung from the Abyss, nothing less. Those who did not give way before them soon wished they had, in the few moments allowed for wishing anything. Haimya was a more finished sword fighter than her husband, and carried a shield as well. Eskaia preferred sword and dagger, and enjoyed much of her father’s speed.
Hawkbrother’s leg was not healed enough for him to have his full swiftness, but he put down one man with a flung spear, charged into the gap with his scimitar, and widened the gap on either side until the blade ran red. Gerik followed close behind him, and the Gryphon found himself wishing Gerik would not follow too closely.
It would be an evil omen if, in the first battle he and his betrothed’s brother fought side by side, the brother was killed.
Gerik’s principal danger in this battle, therefore, proved to be not finding an opponent left alive long enough for him to kill. Hawkbrother saw to that, with some assistance from Threehands, as soon as the elder Gryphon joined the fight in the breach.
Meanwhile, the dwarves were busy, glad to at last be able to get to close quarters on their own terms. Dwarves on foot have certain advantages over opponents who do not think to look down. While the opponent is looking over the dwarf’s head, an axe that the dwarf may well have used to trim his beard that morning will chop off the human’s legs. When his skull is down within the dwarf’s reach, the axe will then crack it like an egg.
Soon after Threehands joined his brother, Pirvan came at a run with the survivors of the men he had led at the lesser breach. All were determined
to avenge Sir Esthazas and Tulia on the nearest enemies. They charged with a fervor that nearly trampled some of their friends into the rubble, and swept their enemies up the rubble like a storm tide carrying flotsam up a beach.
As the attackers retreated down the outer side of the breach, archery from the walls played on them again. They quickened their pace. The sight of them breaking into a run finished the work of turning confusion and fear among their comrades into panic.
Pirvan did not need to lead his men down the outside. He was able to stand—prudently close to cover from hostile archery—catch his breath, and watch man after man in the enemy column fight his way to the outside of it, then start to run.
Not all or even most of them dropped their weapons or threw away their armor. They were not giving up soldiering, but they were giving up the cause that had brought them to Belkuthas.
This being a very bad cause, Pirvan—despite his three minor wounds and breath that rasped like a dragon’s exhalations in his throat—was glad to see them going.
He had enough wind to call back a few eager fighters who wanted to chase the enemy all the way to the forest. He did not have enough for all of them, but he recognized the two who ignored his calls.
The kender would have gone their own way, no matter how much breath he used calling them back.
Imsaffor Whistletrot was the first to find Zephros’s body. He called to Elderdrake, who was contemplating the wake of the retreating attackers, a manor-broad expanse of trampled ground strewn with bodies, parts of bodies, and everything those bodies or their living comrades had been carrying when they advanced, but had dropped when they died or retreated.
Under other circumstances, the two kender would have found the debris a treasure trove for handling. Whistletrot, however, had never felt less like handling anything in his life. He wondered if that reluctance, in a kender, was a sign of impending old age.
Zephros lay facedown. The kender recognized his armor, but turned him over to be sure. They looked at the staring eyes and the ghastly spear wounds in belly and back, then looked away.
Whistletrot knew he had spent whole waking minutes constructing elaborate fantasies of how Zephros would look when he was dead. He had even imagined how he and his friend would feel when Edelthirb’s debt was paid in full.
Now Zephros looked neither happy nor sad, angry nor peaceful. He merely looked—absent was the word that came to Whistletrot’s mind, after considerable pondering.
Since Zephros was absent, he would never hurt kender or anyone else again.
Whistletrot realized that he was rather relieved not to be responsible for Zephros’s absence.
He turned back to the breach, thinking Sir Pirvan might be interested in hearing the news, and sincerely trying to think of a way of saying it quickly.
Before he could do that, however, the loudest clap of thunder yet rolled over the battlefield. Then, from clouds that had more black than gray, rain began to fall.
By the time Pirvan descended from the breach to organize a mounted scouting party, the rain was pouring down so hard he could barely see across the courtyard. He did not really mind the poor vision, however. On his way to the breach, he had passed Grimsoar One-Eye’s body, and would be as happy not to see it again until it had been decently laid out.
Except that the body was no longer there. At least it was not where Pirvan had seen it. The dead were lying where they fell, for now, as the healers worked on the wounded.
If it had been Grimsoar, and he had been picked up—
Pirvan ignored a commander’s need for dignity and sprinted for the healers’ quarters, armor and all.
He found Grimsoar on a pallet in a corner reserved for the mortally hurt. From the size of the roughly dressed wound in the big thief’s chest, Pirvan did not quarrel with the verdict. The wound must have gone into his good lung, and with one lung decayed and the other destroyed, there could be little hope for him.
“Hello,” Grimsoar said. At least Pirvan was able to translate the wheezes and gasps into that word.
The knight said nothing, merely gripping his old friend’s hand.
Grimsoar took a deep breath and managed to form words. “Serafina and I—we started a baby. Last month. Take care of it. Promise!”
“You don’t even need to ask. But don’t be sure you won’t be dancing at the babe’s name-day celebration.”
“Won’t—won’t dance unless—unless you’re there. So—be careful. Waste to give up being—good thief—for dead knight.”
Grimsoar did not speak after that, but when Pirvan rose to go the older man was still breathing. Also, a dwarf with a load of vials and bags hooked to a leather harness was making his way toward Grimsoar.
“Tarothin and Sirbones, they both have hands full,” the dwarf said with a dreadful accent as well as poor diction. “I come help you friend.”
Pirvan looked at the dwarf, who was short even for one of his race and not particularly clean, either. However, he had to be better than nothing, even if he spoke the common tongue like a gully dwarf.
“Just as long as you don’t make him worse—”
“How make worse? No help, he die. Help, maybe live.”
Which was, though ill-phrased, an exceedingly cogent reply.
Pirvan walked away, hoping the mounted scouts could be on their way before the battlefield turned to a marsh and all the gullies to streams. As far as he could tell, a good half of the attacking host had withdrawn from the field in good order. A scouting party with mired horses might tempt them to strike another blow.
For this and other reasons, Pirvan was leading the scouts himself.
Darin and Rynthala sat on one of the last bales of fodder, in the nearly empty stables. Nearly every horse left to Belkuthas was outside now, waiting for the scouts to mount.
Rynthala would be leading the scouts, along with Sir Pirvan. Darin would remain behind, as commander of Belkuthas along with Threehands. So the chance of battle might yet silence forever words that Rynthala wanted to say or hear said now.
“You are very quiet, Darin,” she said.
“I can be silent or speak, at your command.”
“You give much thought to others, in spite of your own burdens.”
Darin’s face twisted. “What are my burdens, compared to yours? I have long forgotten my blood kin. You have seen both your parents die before your eyes.”
“I have not had to endure any dishonor, among kin or comrades.”
“Not even Tharash?”
“I told you, I think he had intentions that were no dishonor to him. I think he carried them out today. He killed Carolius Migmar, or I’m an irda.”
“You are as fair as they were said to be,” Darin said. He ventured to stroke her hair. His touch was light, but held no shyness. “Fortunately you are not mythical or long-lost, as well.”
The moment stretched out, until delight turned to a pain that reminded Rynthala horribly of a bad toothache. Something had to be said, to end this moment and its pain. Darin, it seemed, was not going to say it. The burden therefore fell to her.
Rynthala coughed. “Darin. I do not know if there are any Solamnic customs that forbid—that forbid—”
Her stammering finally seemed to spur Darin into speaking. “That forbid our being wed?”
“Yes. Darin, could you bring yourself to take as your bride a—what I am?”
“I can very easily see my way to wedding the most splendid and lovable woman I have ever known.”
None of the kisses that followed were at all chaste, and the embrace only ended when several dwarves clearing up rubble started making rude remarks. Even then, Rynthala sat on Darin’s lap, her head on his shoulder, until the dwarves started singing.
It was a dwarven wedding song that Rynthala recognized. Her mother had once translated it for her, when she was telling her daughter about the ways of man and woman. It went into considerable detail about the wedding night, and Rynthala thought the dwarf who wrote the words must
have been either very lucky or extremely optimistic.
Perhaps that was not altogether unreasonable. Certainly she felt the same way now.
She hoped that her parents’ spirits were not far away and could have seen and heard her and Darin.
The forest was as dark and wet as an underground river or an Istarian sewer, except when lightning flared overhead. Then it became as bright as day—and the crash of thunder battled with the shrill neighing of uneasy horses.
It was Pirvan’s opinion that the scouts might have some trouble finding anything, and much trouble fighting it if they did. The people they sought, however, might well be sitting snug under their cloaks, behind bushes and trees, waiting to leap out and reverse the verdict of the day’s fighting.
They could not do this completely. Migmar’s host had departed Belkuthas in such haste that it had abandoned the siege engines, which the dwarves were busily reducing to firewood and scrap iron. Zephros’s men had even abandoned their camp, leaving everything they had not carried into battle.
Still, two-thirds of the enemy had withdrawn in order, not in rout. They would lick their wounds, move men to fill gaps in hard-pressed companies, then be ready to fight another day. Without having to play nurse to Zephros’s rabble, Migmar’s survivors might still be formidable.
Formidable enough, anyway, that Pirvan had lost his ardor for thrashing about in the wet, wild forest until he learned all about the enemy by encountering them again. He had to be sure they were not lurking close, ready to slip in by darkness and surprise the citadel—
A soft “Ho!” came from ahead. Hawkbrother cantered back—or at least his horse tried to canter on the impossible ground. The Gryphon motioned Pirvan forward.
Dismounting, Pirvan saw what had drawn Hawkbrother’s attention. Hoofprints, of large or heavy-laden horses, moving toward Belkuthas. More reinforcements for Migmar?
The thought of a force of heavy cavalry between him and the battered walls and weary defenders of Belkuthas chilled Pirvan more than the rain.
