‘Well and good, then,’ Minaz said. ‘What will you offer us in return?’
‘We hold over seventy of their men, mostly Gel da’ Thae spearmen. Some are wounded, but most can still fight. No doubt you’ll need them to help defend your walls.’
Grallezar caught her breath in a sharp gasp. Minaz stared at his counterpart and blinked hard, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, but he composed himself in a matter of heartbeats.
‘I shall tell the rakzanir of your most generous offer,’ Minaz said. ‘But be not surprised if they have no answer but mockery.’ He barked out a few words in the Horsekin tongue to the bard, then turned and stalked off towards the fortress. The bard trotted after him. Together they slipped through the little door, which shut behind them with a clank and jingle.
‘So much for that,’ Salamander remarked.
‘Indeed,’ Indar said. ‘I had a great deal more to say, about Alshandra’s wishes for her priestesses and the like, but apparently they’d heard quite enough.’
Grallezar merely set her lips tight together and growled. They all trooped back to the Deverry lines, where the two princes, Gwerbret Ridvar, and Envoy Kov were waiting for them. When Indar told the commanders what had happened, Ridvar glowered, Daralanteriel swore under his breath, but Voran laughed.
‘I’m not surprised in the least,’ he said. ‘Well, we need to do one of two things. Either convince them that our offer is the best they’re going to get, or find some way to sweeten it.’
‘Just so,’ Indar glanced at Salamander. ‘Tell me if I’m wrong, but it seemed to me that they felt they had good reason to reject it. I’m not sure if it was confidence or arrogance they displayed.’
‘They may expect a relieving force,’ Voran said before Salamander could answer. ‘Braemel went over to their side not all that long ago. They may be thinking that the city will be sending them troops now that it has.’
‘No doubt it will, your highness,’ Salamander said, ‘but that’s not the reason they’re so confident. They’re expecting Alshandra to win the battle for them.’
‘Ah.’ Voran blinked rapidly several times. ‘You may well be right, Goodman Evan. I tend to forget such things. Or there might be some other reason, one we don’t understand.’
Everyone looked at Grallezar, who shrugged. ‘My lords,’ she said, ‘had you told me of the terms you were offering before we did go forth, I could have saved us all much trouble. Among the Horsekin, a man who surrenders is no longer a man. Upon their return any hale and whole prisoners would be put to death on the long spear. Of what use would they be to their commanders? The grievously wounded would be forgiven, but again, of what use would they be?’
‘Lady Grallezar, I apologize from the bottom of my heart,’ Voran said. ‘From now on, you shall be part of every council we hold.’ He glanced at the others. ‘I fear me we’ve started our haggling with a grave mistake.’
‘I have to agree,’ Daralanteriel said. ‘My thanks, good heralds, and to you too, Ebañy.’ Suddenly he grinned. ‘You can take off that ridiculous wolf pelt, but if Danalaurel can bear to part with it, you’d best keep it handy in your tent.’
‘My thanks, your highness,’ said Salamander. ‘The thing itches like a plague of black flies.’
As soon as the heralds finished their report, Kov hurried back to the dwarven encampment. He gathered Warleader Brel and Weaponmaster Larn and led them out into the litter of the cleared land, where they could talk without being overheard. Here so near to the fortress only dead leaves, scraps of bark, and slivers lay on heaps of dead bracken or gathered, wind-blown, around a few stumps too large to pull. Most likely the servants in Zakh Gral had collected all the useful firewood long before. Kov kicked a few wood scraps out of his way and surprised a nest of spiders. Larn swore and jumped back.
‘They don’t look poisonous,’ Brel said.
‘The poisonous ones never do,’ Larn said. ‘How do you know if they are or not?’
‘Stop it!’ Kov snapped. ‘Do you want to hear what the heralds said or not?
They both scowled, but they did listen while Kov told them about the princes’ conference with the heralds.
‘The lords want to hold the siege a while longer,’ Kov finished up. ‘That’s the upshot.’
‘There’s no use in sitting around out here eating every scrap of food we brought with us,’ Brel said. ‘Why are we waiting?’
‘In hopes of getting the women safely out,’ Kov said. Brel snorted. ‘They wanted to be there. They can take their chances with the men.’
‘Most of them are slaves.’
‘Oh. Well, then, that’s different. Do you think there’s any chance the stinking Horsekin will let them go?’
‘No, I don’t. We’ve already insulted them, and besides, if they figure out that we won’t attack the fortress while the women are inside, why would they let them go?’
Larn nodded agreement, then kicked the debris lying around his feet. When no more spiders appeared, he squatted down to pat the earth with both hands.
‘What by the slavering trolls of Hell are you doing?’ Brel said.
‘Seeing how damp the ground is.’ Larn got up and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘Not very. It can’t have rained here recently.’
All three of them looked up at the spotless blue sky.
‘When we fire the place,’ Larn went on, ‘it’s going to be raining sparks. What we need is a short storm, just enough to water down this stuff here, but not enough to soak the walls.’
‘By all means, ask the gods to send us what you need,’ Brel said, grinning. ‘They can fight it out with Alshandra.’
‘Too bad we don’t have a sorcerer or two handy,’ Larn said.
All three of them laughed, but Kov found himself remembering the day he’d taken his staff to Dallandra to ask about runes. His realization that his staff would have crumbled away without some sort of spell upon it combined in his mind with all the old mountain folktales about the Westfolk and their skill with magic.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Brel said to him. ‘You look like you bit into a peach and found a wasp there ahead of you.’
‘Just an unpleasant thought or two,’ Kov said. ‘They’re easy to have out here.’
‘Now that’s very true.’ Larn had turned away to look over the stretch of debris. ‘I suppose we could get every man in the army to pick up an armful of this tree dung.’
‘And how long would it take to clear a wide enough area?’ Brel said. ‘We’d have to clean it up well past the encampment, wouldn’t we?’
‘Depends on the wind. If there was a wind blowing towards the camp, we couldn’t get rid of enough of this rubbish in a month.’
All three of them took a few steps towards Zakh Gral. Up on the stone towers pennants fluttered. A huge banner displaying the gold bow and arrows of the goddess hung down the side of the wooden tower and occasionally flapped in the rising breeze. The wind was coming straight up from the south, as indeed it had been ever since the army had arrived, blowing right over the fortress on its way upriver to the army’s encampment.
‘One more idea,’ Brel said. ‘Tell me something, Weaponmaster. Suppose we were on the other side of the river—the whole army, I mean. Could you deliver a load of fire to the fortress from there? I know the canyon’s wide, but—’
Larn interrupted with a long peal of mocking laughter.
‘Oh never mind!’ Brel snarled. ‘I suppose we could try to send sappers and miners along the river. That sandstone crumbles easily.’
‘Not when you’re trying to swing a pick from a boat,’ Larn said. ‘The water comes right up to the canyon walls. It’s fire or nothing, Warleader.’
Kov’s odd feeling was growing in his mind, turning into an idea, an utterly improbable idea, an idea he found too stupid to voice, but an idea all the same. He brooded over it all afternoon until it became so insistent that he gave in and went to find Salamander.
The gerthddyn was sit
ting in front of his tent with Lord Gerran and Gerran’s young page. Kov joined them, and for a while merely listened to their conversation, which centred around the care and breeding of horses—a common topic among Deverry men, or so he’d noticed. Finally Salamander turned to him.
‘Is somewhat on your mind, Envoy? You looked troubled.’
‘Well, there is, truly. We Mountain Folk have been thinking about this siege, you see. We have somewhat with us that could burn down the fortress, but if the wind carries the sparks, we could roast our own army along with it.’
‘Burn those walls?’ Gerran leaned forward. ‘You’ve gone mad. Those logs won’t catch like tinder. You’d have to build a roaring blaze next to them, and the Horsekin would be loosing arrows on you the whole time and throwing rocks, too, most likely.’
‘True enough.’ Kov allowed himself a grin. ‘We’ve considered that little difficulty, my lord. What if we had a kind of tinder with us that stuck where it landed? Like pitch, say, but better.’
Gerran started to speak, then motioned for him to go on.
‘The problem is the tents and suchlike. A chunk of burning bark hits a canvas roof—well, you lads can imagine the rest.’ Kov glanced at Salamander out of the corner of his eye. ‘It’s too bad there’s not some way to summon some rain, just enough to wet down all this clutter, like, that the Horsekin foresters left lying around when they cut down the trees. And to keep the tents damp, as well. We could do great things if only that were the case.’
Gerran’s lips suddenly formed an ‘O’, and he too looked at Salamander. The gerthddyn was studying the fingernails of his right hand with great concentration. He polished them on his shirt, then looked up.
‘What sort of great thing?’ Salamander said.
‘Well, suppose we set that wooden tower alight, just to start with, the one with the banner hanging from it.’
‘I’d love to see that one burn.’ Salamander heaved a wistful sigh. ‘That’s where they imprisoned me when I was spying out this place.’
‘Indeed? Well, we can do it from our distance. Do you think that might change the fortress commanders’ minds about another parley? Then the princes can come up with a decent offer to exchange for the women trapped inside.’
‘It might be powerfully persuasive,’ Salamander said. ‘To say naught of a great encouragement, inducement, or even a lure to reopen negotiations.’
‘I was wondering if the Wise One might have some thoughts on the matter,’ Kov said, ‘not that I’d be so rude as to trouble her with questions myself.’
‘You know, we actually have two Wise Women in camp,’ Salamander said. ‘The Exalted Mother Grallezar is said to have some knowledge of the weather herself. Together they might be able to um well, shall we say, predict when a rain like that might fall?’
‘It would certainly be grand if they could.’ Kov found it difficult to steady his voice.
Salamander smiled and got up, stretching his arms over his head with a lazy yawn. Young Clae looked back and forth between the men, his mouth slack with bewilderment. Gerran quirked an eyebrow in his direction.
‘My lord?’ Clae said. ‘Is this one of those things I’ll understand when I’m older?’
‘It is,’ Gerran said. ‘Don’t trouble your heart about it now.’
Salamander smiled vaguely at everyone, then strolled off, heading in the direction of the Westfolk camp. Kov rose and took his leave as well. As he walked back to his own tent, he felt as if two debating men shared his mind: the one smug that his idea had been sound after all; the other convinced that Salamander was only asking Dallandra about herbs to cure madness in dwarves.
The debate settled itself in the middle of the night when the rain started. Kov woke to the sound of water hammering on the canvas roof of his tent. He stuck his head outside to feel the cold drops on his face and ensure that the rain was real. Since his tent faced in the general direction of the fortress, he saw an even greater marvel and all unthinking, got up and ran out, stark naked, into the rain for a second look. Sure enough, over Zakh Gral the stars shone in the night sky. The edge of the rain cloud, as sharp as a knife cut, hung over the neutral ground twixt camp and walls.
That’ll give them something to chew on! Grinning to himself Kov hurried back inside to dry off. Although he tried to sleep, he lay listening to the dweomer rain until dawn, when it abruptly stopped. He started to drowse off, only to hear Larn shouting his name. The weaponmaster threw back the canvas door of the tent and stuck his head in.
‘Did you hear that rain?’
‘Oh yes,’ Kov said. ‘Did you see the cloud?’
Larn merely nodded, studying Kov’s face with narrow eyes. Kov smiled blandly back until at last the weaponmaster shrugged and looked away.
‘Might as well unload the carts,’ Larn said. ‘The walls are well within range, especially for our big girl.’
‘Think you can hit that wooden tower?’ Kov said. ‘The one with the huge banner on it. Salamander tells me that the banner commemorates some event that the Gel da’ Thae think is a holy miracle.’
‘Let’s see if we can send it up in miraculous flames, then. Good choice, Envoy! We want a single blaze, don’t we? It might take a couple of throws, but we’ll see what she can do.’
When the news went round that the Mountain Folk were at last going to unload their secret cargo, the princes and the gwerbret hurried to the baggage train to watch. A crowd of onlookers assembled, but Kov used his rank to shoo them away. Since the princes and the gwerbret, of course, were beyond shooing, Larn reluctantly agreed to let them stay. Kov did get them to stand well back, however, by stressing the dangers of this particular weapon.
‘You’ll see why I worry about your well-being, your highnesses,’ Kov said, ‘once we begin.’
A team of sappers, led by an engineer named Grosh, dragged two of the carts to a position facing the wooden tower, well over two hundred yards away. The crates came out, and the sappers began to dismantle the carts, held together by iron pins. The slab sides they laid flat to level out the ground. The long wooden tongues, made of squared-off beams, provided the frame to support a long narrow wooden box, which Grosh pinned into place with one end aiming at the wood tower.
Kov still found the machine something of a mystery, because no one had ever bothered to explain it to him. When the noble-born pestered him with questions, he could honestly say that he didn’t know the answers. What’s more, the sappers and engineers were deliberately crowding around the weapon to hide the details from their eager onlookers. From their distance, Kov and the others caught glimpses of Grosh fussing over the frame and slider box, banging in pins and pegs and tightening down twists of rope. The other sappers handed him components as he called for them.
‘Springs,’ Kov said suddenly. ‘He calls those twists of hair and suchlike torsion springs. I don’t know what that means, though.’
The sappers drew up a third cart. Grosh brought out Big Girl herself, as they called her, a horn and sinew bellybow powered by the twists of hair and sinews tightened into the corners of the frame. Grosh laid her gently onto the slider box with a soft caress, then tied her down. Normally, the curved metal belt at the end of her shaft would go around an archer’s belly to keep the weapon braced while he drew it. This belt, however, laced into the wooden frame.
‘It’s a splendid bow, your highnesses,’ Kov said. ‘Trouble is, she’s so powerful that not even a pair of Mountain Folk can draw her. So we came up with this little device. She’s strung with wire, and there’s a hook that attaches to somewhat or other, and then a handle turns to pull back the wire, and well, that’s really all I know.’
Larn hurried over to aim Big Girl at the tower. As he made his adjustments, everyone got a look at the bow itself, though not the full apparatus.
‘Ye gods,’ Ridvar whispered. ‘She’s beautiful.’
‘Isn’t she, your grace?’ Kov beamed at him.
‘The bolts she takes must be huge.’
‘They are, your grace, and most unusual as well.’ Kov considered just how much he could reveal without Grosh threatening to beat him into slime. ‘They’re hollow, and they hold a secret that I’m not at liberty to discuss. I assure you that soon you’ll understand.’
Dwarven woman had invented the secret contents in their perennial search to find something better than blue fungus in baskets to light the underground cities. This particular mixture—of bitumen, brimstone, rock oil, and tow for thickening—had proved entirely too illuminating. Experimenting with it had resulted in two deaths, in fact, before the warleaders commandeered it. So dangerous was it that they’d brought it to the war in sealed ceramic pots. Opening them to the air, Kov supposed, might result in disaster. He exerted himself, found enough courtesies, and got the commanders to move back another few feet.
‘All ready,’ Grosh said in Deverrian. ‘Time to load up the bolts! Someone light a candle, but get well back before you strike any sparks. This stuff could blow us all to the clouds and back again.’
Kov and the commanders spontaneously moved off a few more yards. It had taken Grosh weeks of work to figure out the way to deliver this lighting material gone wrong. The flaming fuse often died, blown out as the missile soared on its way, unless the mix was allowed to take the fire before launch. Unfortunately, it often took too well. Larn had lost his beard and all of his hair to an early attempt, and Big Girl had needed repairs as well, after a day when the mixture exploded too soon. Now the long wood bolts, tipped in iron, had holes on their underside to allow air into the mix as they flew and several fuses embedded on top of the black, sticky mixture inside. In practice, at least, this had all worked splendidly. Kov refused to even consider the thought that it would fail to work now. While the engineer and the weaponmaster squabbled over the best way to aim Big Girl, Kov turned to look at the fortresses. Gleaming helmets lined the top of the wall as the men wearing them watched their enemies at work.
At last Big Girl stood ready. As Larn turned the handle on the slider box, the inner shaft turned as well, groaning and creaking. Sweat ran down Larn’s face and soaked the collar of his shirt. With all his weight he leaned back, struggling to hold the handle steady. Grosh stepped forward and laid in a loaded bolt, lit it with a thin splint, then jumped back just as Larn let the handle go.
The Spirit Stone Page 42
