Kral agreed, and they set off within a few minutes. But all that day, he watched and listened for signs of his people near the Black. And all that day, he heard none, saw no one. The Pictish wilderness seemed as empty as if it had never been inhabited in the first place.
Kral didn’t understand it.
But he knew he didn’t like it.
“HOW GOES THE battle?”
Usam sat before a fire while Mara wrapped strips of cloth around his wounded shoulder. Now that the attack had begun, he did not worry about the settlers seeing their fires. In fact, he encouraged the lighting of many of them, to let the Aquilonians know how outnumbered they were. Besides, the numerous fires helped dispel the chill that had gripped the land. Women and children had established camps near the settlements to tend to the warriors, who had to be free of worrying about food and shelter so they could devote their attention to battle. In these camps, they kept the fires burning day and night. Thousands of Picts—most of the population of his race—were huddled around these fires, or else near no doubt similar ones outside Thandara.
“Harder than the last,” he admitted to his wife. “Many of our warriors got inside the gate right at the first, as I told you. But they got the gates closed again, and those brave ones are no doubt dead, or else prisoners. We will wear them down, make no mistake. But I had hoped for another easy victory. I fear this sudden winter might portend the approach of the Ice Bear, and unless we can find that crown quickly, all our efforts might be for naught. The Aquilonians will find themselves—such of those as survive—holding sway over an empty, ice-choked wilderness.”
Mara clucked at him and pulled the bandages tight enough to make him wince. “I have never heard you so ready to admit defeat, husband.”
“Not defeat,” he corrected. “Just worry. We know the Ice Bear stirs, because the Teeth has been missing so long. We know this weather is unseasonable. I am not ready to lay down arms and die. I simply accept the fact that we need fast victories, here and at Thandara. And we need to hope that the crown has not made it farther afield than that.”
Mara held a cup of some pungent brew made from local leaves to his lips, and he drank, swallowing rapidly so as not to taste it more than necessary. “This will help you heal, Usam,” she said. “You are ready to continue the battle—at least, as ready as I can make you.”
Usam put a hand on her shoulder and used it to steady himself as he rose. He winced again. An Aquilonian arrow had pierced the shoulder. He had tugged it through, but the pain had been excruciating, and he’d lost a lot of blood. Now he raised his arm, lifting his hand high over his head, moving it in a slow circle. It hurt, but it functioned.
Pain, he could live with.
It was as nothing compared to the agony he meant to inflict on the settlers inside those walls.
“I wait for news from Thandara,” he said as he buckled on his girdle. “If it comes today, send for me at the wall.”
FAR TO THE north, the Vanir legend Grimnir wove his powerful magic. Tall as two of the biggest Picts ever born, big around as the trees that gave them shelter, Grimnir knew he was feared and hated, and he worked to encourage both. Grimnir the invincible, men called him. Grimnir the immortal. When they spoke his name, they did so in whispers, lest they call his yellow-eyed gaze upon themselves. He shook his head, the mad tangle of red hair threaded with silver, and roared his laughter at the oppressive skies.
Grimnir had reason to hate the Cimmerians. And while he often chose to express that hate by smashing Cimmerian heads with his great warhammer, he also knew the value of more wide-ranging assaults.
So he had called upon Ymir, god of the northern people, Aesir and Vanir alike, creator of the world and all its beings. Grimnir was said, according to those who saw him, to resemble the frost giant, with his feral eyes and frost-rimed beard and massive stature. And Ymir, working through him, had granted him his boon. A storm blew down from the farthest northern reaches, a storm the likes of which Cimmeria had never known. Steel, brittled by the severe cold, snapped like dry twigs. Rushing streams froze solid, resisting all efforts to melt them for drinking water. Fires were extinguished by wind and driving sleet. Ice blanketed all the land.
Vanirmen took advantage of the storm to stage raids into Cimmeria, which was what Grimnir had intended. If the storm affected regions south of Cimmeria, that was no concern of Grimnir’s. He only hoped to paralyze his enemy so that the Vanir could finally vanquish them once and for all.
He snapped an icicle from his beard and put it into his mouth. He barely remembered his own childhood, but he remembered having done that, sucking on icicles, from his earliest days. He had been born of the cold, for the cold. Tasting it, he threw back his giant head and laughed again.
THE BLACK RIVER led ever north, forming the natural boundary between the Pictish wilderness and the Westermarck, flowing from a source near the Cimmerian border. Every night they camped on the west side of the river, the Pict side. Every day, they watched and listened for signs. Donial knew that with each passing day and no trace of the Picts, Kral grew more worried. Perhaps the tragedy that the loss of the Teeth of the Ice Bear was supposed to portend had already happened. Even Donial, who knew the region only slightly, was mystified and concerned by the quiet.
At night they built fires to chase away the bitter cold. Donial sat next to Tarawa on one of these nights, both huddled under their cloaks, both shivering in spite of the leaping flames.
“I . . . can’t believe how cold it is,” she complained. “I have never imagined such cold. How can people live here?”
“It is not usually like this,” Donial said. “In the summer it is pleasant enough, with warm days and cool nights. This seems unnatural to me. Do you think Shehkmi al Nasir could be behind it?”
“I would never put anything past him,” she said. “But I do not see his hand in this. What would it profit him?”
“If not he, then who?” Donial wondered. “Why would the weather be so strange?”
“I know not,” Tarawa said. The dancing firelight reflected in her wide brown eyes, liquid with fear. “I do not think of myself as a weak person, Donial. But I worry that this cold will kill me before we reach our goal.”
“I would not allow that,” Donial said.
Tarawa smiled at him. “You have dominion over the weather? Then bring back the sun.”
Donial shrugged. “Would that I could. If it were in my power, I would bring the sun out to warm you, and I would bring back the Picts to ease Kral’s mind.”
“And for yourself?” she asked. “For your sister? Anything?”
“Short of being able to bring back the dead, there is not much that we need,” he said. “We have a home. We have each other. Whenever we get back to Tarantia, we will have family business interests to attend to. I guess all we need is an end to this quest.”
“And yet, here you are,” Tarawa pointed out. “You have stayed with Kral voluntarily, when you could have gone home at any time to tend to your affairs.”
Another shrug. “Kral is our friend,” he said. He tried to see into the shadows beyond the circle of firelight, but they were absolute black, impenetrable. Half a year ago he’d have been terrified, sitting in the Pictish wilderness like this, knowing that those shadows might well be thick with Pictish warriors waiting for a chance to lop off his head to decorate the walls of their huts. Now, he had a completely different view of the Picts. And besides, there were none around but Kral, it seemed. “He helped us when we needed it. Are we to turn away when he needs us?”
“Some would.”
“True enough. Not you—you sitting here in the cold is proof of that.”
She pressed her shoulder against his—on the other side of many layers of fabric, at any rate—and tossed him a smile that felt like a blessing. “Does it mean we’re stupid?” she asked.
He laughed. “Gullible, perhaps. Shortsighted. But if I was stupid”—he ticked his head to where Alanya and Kral lay, on the other side of
the fire, at least two feet separating their slumbering forms—“I would be over there somewhere, instead of sitting with you.”
She was silent for a bit, as if considering his words. He began to wonder if she had fallen asleep. Finally, she spoke again. “You know what? I believe you are right about that, Donial. Perhaps we’re not stupid after all.”
“Perhaps not,” Donial said, pleased that the conversation was not over yet. He had wanted to guide it to a certain destination, but had been unable to find an easy way to do so. Instead, he just decided to say it. “Tarawa, that home, in Tarantia—I would love to take you there. To show you my city. Introduce you to my friends.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, sounding surprised that he had brought it up.
“Of course,” he said. “When this is all over, I don’t want to lose you. Anyway, where else would you go?”
He felt her shrug through the fabric. “I haven’t made any plans,” she said. “I suppose there are worse places than Tarantia.” She laughed lightly. “And worse people to be there with.”
“We’re in one of them right now,” Donial said. “And I guarantee you, Tarantia is not nearly this cold.”
“Then I’m for it,” Tarawa replied. “And the sooner we get there, the more I’ll like it.”
19
DEMONSTRATING THEIR UNEXPECTED flexibility, the Picts staged their next major assault on Tanasul well after darkness had fallen. The fighting had continued throughout the day, but around dusk they had fallen back, taking to the cover of the trees. Some of the soldiers had cheered, but Sharzen, functioning as acting governor of the settlement, had done his best to persuade them that it was only a temporary thing, that the Picts had certainly not given up. He had proclaimed himself acting governor, however, and there were others in the town who disputed his claim. One of those, an army captain named Sulish, sounded off after listening to Sharzen’s warning.
“Nonsense!” the man shouted. “They’ve realized that they cannot breach our defenses. Our soldiers are too skilled, our walls too solid, and the aid we’ve received from our neighbors has convinced them that we are not the easy target they expected. You cannot expect savages like them to continue to work toward a common goal when it is not easily met.”
Sharzen spun around to see who contradicted him. He was not surprised to find that it was Sulish, who had been eyeing him suspiciously since he had arrived in the settlement. “Obviously you know little of the Picts,” he countered. “They may be heartless savages, but they are nothing if not tenacious.”
“And I tell you they are a cowardly lot and easily frightened off.”
Sharzen shook his head sadly. “Have you ever met a Pict?” he asked. “I see by your armor that you are a soldier, but I am forced to wonder if you’ve fought the Picts, or you would know better.”
“I grant you,” Sulish said, “that one-on-one, they are formidable adversaries. But as a group, I think—”
“You are mistaken,” Sharzen insisted, cutting the other man off. “You had all better keep watch on those trees!” he called to the soldiers on the wall. “Because they will be back. You can count on that.”
Sulish had grumbled, but the guards had remained alert. Even so, by the time the attack came, many of them had been weary, distracted. Once again, the Picts dispensed with their usual battle cries. No one knew of their presence, it seemed, until their arrows felled the first soldiers.
The alarm was sounded. Sharzen, still inhabiting Pulliam’s old office, heedless of the bloody streaks on the floor, heaved a great sigh and dragged on his mail shirt, cuirass, and helm. He slid his arm inside the straps of a heavy shield and took up a short sword. So equipped, he stepped outside to see what the situation was.
At the walls, soldiers were fighting and dying, and not just from arrows. The Picts must have been building ladders, for the battlements swarmed with them. They emerged from the night’s shadows like ghosts, their body paint hiding them until they announced themselves with blood and iron.
Sharzen saw Sulish, running toward the wall. The soldier caught his eye for a moment but said nothing. That was fine with Sharzen. He knew who had been right, and so did the soldiers. Having accomplished that, he set about trying to find someplace safe to wait out the battle. There was always Pulliam’s office, but many seemed aware of how much time he had been spending there. If he stayed in the same place all the time, he might be accused of cowardice. But if he moved around, there would be times when no one would know where to find him.
He headed deeper into Tanasul, where the streets were clogged with refugees from Koronaka and other, smaller settlements. They huddled against walls, some trying to sleep. In the torchlight, women, children, and the infirm stared up at him with the haunted eyes of the displaced. From here, the sounds of combat came to them, echoing horribly off the buildings, made worse, possibly, by the fact that they could not tell who lived and who died. People from Koronaka who recognized him tried to speak to him, but Sharzen pushed rapidly through the throng, kneeing the seated or squatting out of his way.
But his search was for naught. Everywhere he went, more refugees blocked his way. If he escaped the crowds, then he found himself back at the walls. The Picts had seemingly attacked simultaneously on every side. Sharzen found himself jostled by armored soldiers heading for the thick of it. “Come, man,” one said, grabbing Sharzen’s arm as he tried to hurry by. “We need all hands at the wall.”
Sharzen tried to pull away, but then another soldier bumped into them. Neither of them was from Koronaka, and they did not recognize him, seeing only an armed and able man before them. “I am not a . . .” he began. But the other men moved on, not listening to his protests. Still, a seemingly constant stream followed in their wake. Sharzen glanced up at the nearest parapet, where Picts surged over the walls and engaged with the soldiers. Bodies dropped to the ground with disturbing regularity. At least some of them belong to the savages, Sharzen thought.
This did not bode well for his attempt at secure solitude, however. He now realized that staying in Pulliam’s office might have been the best choice after all. Getting back there would be difficult.
Staying alive on that wall would be difficult, too, though. He made his decision, and started back the way he had come. The same crowded streets met him, and this time he could not ignore the shouts of some of the women. “Give us arms, Sharzen, and let us join our men on the wall!” one called.
“You may yet be called upon,” he told her. “For now, stay with the children and the old ones. They need your comfort. The Picts are being routed,” he added as he pressed on. It might have been a lie, of course—he had no way to tell what the status of the battle was. But he kept repeating it as he went, trying to bring some solace to those who waited for word. “We’re whipping them!” he cried. “Even now the Picts realize their mistake in attacking us here!”
He knew he sounded like Sulish now, bringing false hope where there was none of the real kind to be had. But he addressed civilians, not soldiers. They seemed cheered by what he reported and made no move to impede his progress.
A short while later, he had reached the open square that Pulliam’s office faced onto. The door to the office was open, firelight flickered inside. He could not remember if he had closed the door or not, and he assumed that he would not have extinguished the lanterns before he left it. Even so, he kept his sword ready and listened closely before entering.
The place seemed empty. Sharzen breathed a sigh of relief and was about to sheathe his blade when a figure parted from the shadows at the back of the room. It was an old man, a Pict. His hair was as much silver as black, and there were bird feathers entwined in it. He wore a ragged fur cloak fastened at the collar with a copper chain. Beneath it, his shoulder had been crudely bandaged. At his waist were a girdle and a loincloth. Leather sandals were strapped around his ankles. In his hand he carried a war axe, its head chipped from stone but with an edge that gleamed in the fire. He stared at Sharzen through na
rrow, angry eyes.
“Where is the crown?” the old man rasped in accented Aquilonian.
“What crown?” Sharzen replied, not sure he had understood the man correctly. But now he noticed that the man had apparently been searching for something. A massive wooden chest in which Pulliam had kept some of his personal things had been emptied haphazardly onto the floor. “Think you that there is a king here in Tanasul?”
“No crown of any Aquilonian king means aught to me,” the Pict said. “The crown I seek belongs to the Picts, by right and by history. It was stolen from the Bear Clan, and we would have it back.”
The Bear Clan! That was the bunch Lupinius had destroyed. Sharzen searched his memory, but could not recall anything about a crown, though. “You are mistaken,” he said. “We have no such crown here.”
“You can think about your answer for a few more seconds,” the Pict said. “But then you will die, and it will be too late to change your story.”
Sharzen dropped to a fighter’s crouch, knees slightly bent to give himself better mobility. He raised sword and shield toward the half-naked savage, who now approached, swinging the big axe as if it weighed nothing. Even as he prepared himself to do battle, Sharzen could not ignore the irony that his own effort to find some other sanctuary had enabled this man to catch him unawares in the one place he really believed he was safe. . . .
USAM HAD CLIMBED one of the ladders along with a steady river of warriors. At the top, soldiers had tried to block their approach. But the Picts battled fiercely, and by the time Usam reached the parapet, it had been cleared of soldiers. Picts dropped from here to the ground and spread out to harass the Aquilonians. Usam followed suit, though the landing was hard on his old legs. A pair of soldiers had thought to capitalize on his first staggered steps, but he had shown them he was not slowed by a little pain. He’d screeched out a war cry and plowed into them with axe flying.
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