by Bill Fawcett
Nearly a thousand brightly caped highlanders poured from exits in the camp’s wall. Obviously prepared, they spread into a thick line that even from the walls was twice as imposing as the approaching defenders. Then, on the signal of two blares on a shepherd’s horn, a second force poured out from the trees of the mountain to Lord Sleisher’s left. Hundreds more clansmrem hurled themselves down the slope, screaming challenges. These were led by a tall figure wearing a green cape. Talwe recognized Arklier. This meant Crethok was likely in command of the center.
Then the first mass charged into Lord Sleisher’s line just as he tried to adjust it to face the threat on his flank. Talwe started as he saw a white figure in polished armor lead a few hundred mrem to meet the plunging highlanders on the left. It was Sruss, and to the bandit chief, it seemed she was leading her mrem to certain death. Then the three dark masses merged.
Sleisher had extended his line as far as he could, but the highlanders continued to encircle his smaller force. Talwe’s tail twitched in frustration. Crethok’s left pulled back and then swarmed forward to attack once more. As the warriors were slain, Sruss too was forced to pull in closer to Lord Sleisher in the center or risk being cut off from the main body. With his right and left forced back, Sleisher and the center found themselves in the front of an arch. When the highlander center finally rallied and struck a second time the thin line of Cragsclaw’s spearmrem fell back almost at once. Worse yet, Arklier’s force was wrapping itself around the few mrem Sruss led against them and would soon cut off all retreat.
Talwe looked at Mithmid and said, “They are lost.” Then he leaped from the wall down into the fortress, shouting the orders for his mrem to assemble. Mrem hurried out of their quarters, and from all parts of Cragsclaw. Frantically Talwe commanded them to take their positions. In less than a hundred heartbeats, hundreds were following him through the gates.
The frozen ground was hard under Talwe’s feet as he ran toward the clansmrem on Sleisher’s left. Behind him streamed every mrem who could carry a weapon except a handful of archers he had had to stop and order back onto the wall over the gate. The former bandit knew the ClanSon had seen his approach, that his only hope was in speed. So he shouted till every shout meant pain, encouraging his mrem to even greater speed.
Then a clansmrem stood before him. He was small, but with wide shoulders and a thick body. His sword was nearly as long as he was tall. The highlander swung first, hoping to slice through Talwe before he could slow down.
The bandit didn’t try. Diving forward, he rolled under the massive blade, feeling the blade slash through the last hairs on his tail. Then he came up inside the long weapon’s reach. He didn’t bother with his sword; instead he extended his sharpened claws and buried them in the clansmrem’s throat.
The impact of Talwe’s mrem threw Arklier’s highlanders back. Now both forces stood, weaving and trading blows. An occasional arrow from the wall behind aided the defenders. The green-cloaked ClanSon gestured wildly, calling for more mrem from the center. Distantly he could see Crethok refuse the request, ending with an obscene gesture of his rear and tail. For several heartbeats Arklier stood stunned. Then he began calling the clansmrem to end their charge and to form around him. Soon his warriors had fallen into a circle around their leader. Talwe bellowed for his own mrem to pull back. There was no use taking losses with nothing to be gained.
Talwe fell back and surveyed the battlefield. To his right, Sleisher was in full retreat. His mrem were fighting their way back toward the gates, but despite the overwhelming strength of their foe, the Lord of Cragsclaw never let them turn and run. Screaming, wading into melees whenever his mrem seemed likely to break, the aged Lord had never seemed mightier.
The original force fell back until they had escaped the trap through the opening Talwe had forced. Crethok raged, leading a group of his clansmrem into the center of Sleisher’s diminished line. The line held, and after a few furious exchanges the highlanders fell back. As they did so, the noble ordered his mrem to counterattack.
Beyond the center, the Dancer fought on. She drew back her flank to keep pace with the center, then counterattacked herself with a flurry of arrows and a charge of swordsmrem. For a few moments the force of that charge forced the highlanders back. It appeared that there was even a chance the clansmrem might break and run for their camp.
Then, suddenly, from out of the ranks to the highlanders’ rear, straight through the center of the highlanders’ line, thunder bore down on Cragsclaw’s Lord. Three small, wheeled carts, each carrying two mrem, pulled swiftly behind two strangely sleek herd beasts. In the hands of the mrem were what seemed to Talwe almost awkwardly long spears, the leading one aiming straight for Sleisher’s red cape.
“Chariots!” screamed one of Talwe’s mrem. “Chariots from the east!” With those words, the three Cragsclavian leaders lost all control of their warriors.
Talwe screamed orders, but his mrem would not obey. They thought only to flee the strange weapons that rumbled toward them. Now Arklier saw his opportunity and led his clansmrem forward, slashing and tearing at the retreating guardsmrem and what remained of Sruss’ warriors. The darkfur waited as long as he could, then turned and raced for the gates. At his sides ran archers, and swordsmrem, and spearmrem, fear driving them on.
Suddenly Talwe’s heart filled with shame. Turning, he walked calmly back toward the advancing highlanders. A few mrem from the castle had been overtaken by clansmrem or held. Most had rallied to one spot and Talwe realized why. At the front of Cragsclaw’s last line, the White Dancer of the Wilds waved her sword above her head and called them to her. Spinning gracefully, the Dancer engaged with two warriors, and felled them both as Talwe rushed to her aid. Then there was a rumble and the mass of clansmrem surging toward the last defenders split apart. The chariots had turned and were making a second sweep across the battlefield.
The dark-furred mrem leaped forward, hoping to join Sruss in time to meet the carts. Suddenly he pulled up short and realized what had inspired the Dancer’s hopeless stand. At her feet lay a body clad in dark red.
By the time Talwe actually reached the white-furred mrem, the chariots were almost upon them. “Jump!” she cried, and the two of them rolled to one side. A long spear passed within inches of his back and Talwe wondered how they could fight these bizarre weapons. On his feet once more, Talwe watched the beasts strain against their traces and he remembered hunting bundor.
The chariots’ wheels threw up dirt as they skidded into a tight turn and raced back for another strike. Rushing to his left, the dark-furred bandit crouched among some fallen bodies and waited for the closest chariot to gain speed. When it straightened and started toward the Dancer, he turned and sped toward it from the side. As he came alongside he drew out his sword, and the mrem in the chariot were too startled to react. Worse yet his spear was too long and cumbersome to strike at the running mrem only a step away. Sword flashing, Talwe sought out the legs of the sleek, brown beast.
His blade sliced through the foreleg of the nearest beast. Blood spurted and soaked the bandit’s fur. The beast staggered and Talwe slashed again as it stumbled, this time cutting through a hind leg, and then, as the beast put its weight on that leg, it fell, screaming shrilly. The tongue of the chariot jammed into the ground and the cart flew into the air, spilling its riders. The driver screamed, and when it touched ground once more the full weight of the vehicle smashed into the mrem who had wielded the long spear.
The riders may have been out of reach, but the animals pulling them were not.
To Talwe’s right, the Dancer stood watching him. The highlanders had pulled back to allow room for the chariots, and a second chariot was nearly upon her. Blood flowed down her arm and stained the fur on her hand, but as he watched, Talwe saw her dodge a badly thrust long spear and swing her sword across the throat of a second beast. She jumped aside at precisely the right moment, as that cart rolled onto its si
de. Then she stumbled over Lord Sleisher’s body, barely avoiding being crushed by one of the massive wheels which was thrown free of the wreckage. Talwe could see that her strength was nearly gone. He ran to her.
The last of the chariots had taken a wider turn and had disappeared into the line of clansmrem who had halted to watch the drama. Now it broke toward Talwe and the Dancer, and again they saw the point of the long spear. Then suddenly Talwe saw a flash in the sky, and the left side herd beast screamed as it collapsed. This chariot also rolled over on its driver and when the wreck stopped it was less than three strides from where they stood.
With a quick slash Talwe slew the dazed spearmrem who still clung to the edge of the battered cart. Another slash and he freed the uninjured herd beast. It was simply too graceful to slay. This second pulling beast kicked and snorted as it ran in fear from the field.
“Mithmid,” Sruss explained pointing to a figure on the wall. “He gave us time. Now let’s not waste it.” She pointed to a body that lay at her feet. “Help me carry Lord Sleisher home,” she finished in a quiet voice. Talwe looked around and found they were alone on the field. Everyone else had escaped back to the fortress while they had dueled with the chariots.
Crethok screeched and berated his clansmrem, but not one moved to threaten the bloodied couple as they dragged the body of the fallen lord toward the castle. Arklier actually halted a warrior who tried to stop them. When they reached the gate Talwe hesitated, then raised his sword in a salute. Many of the clansmrem replied, and he noticed wearily that Arklier was among those who did. Then, as if ordered, the highlanders turned and walked back to their camp. All this time Crethok could be heard, stalking behind the mass of clansmrem, bellowing threats and obscenities.
•
That night, amid chants and songs, the body of the Lord of Cragsclaw was carried from the great hall and through the gate that led east from the fortress. He was dressed in black robes and atop him was folded his bloodstained, red war cape. The broken blade of his sword also lay across his chest and gave testament to the cause of his death. The pale cream fur on his face gleamed brightly in the light of two moons, and for once the cold wind subsided, leaving only a soft, warming breeze from the south and east.
No soldier would accept an order to stay on the walls, even the former bandits. Out of the gate marched every defender of Cragsclaw. They were chanting words so old they had lost their meaning. Ten guards of honor carried their fallen Lord out of the fortress, across the bloodstained snow and laid him on a stone bier two hundred paces from the wall. For three hundred years the lords of Cragsclaw had lain here in death. It had been Talwe’s decision this one would as well. Mithmid had thought it a meaningless risk.
It is sung in Ar that a warrior fallen in battle should be burned. The fire, say the songs, frees the soul quickly, so that it may join its new body at once. The greater the light from the flames, the better the gods will know a true warrior has come to them. So it was that Mithmid of Ar, as representative of King Andelemarian, sang the last words of the death chant. Then Talwe touched a torch to the pile of oil-soaked wood his soldiers had stacked around the low stone pyre. From the walls of the fortress the people of Cragsclaw watched the flames. One hundred warriors walked slowly around the growing flames, weeping loudly as they sang of their fallen Lord’s victories.
By the gate a second hundred warriors formed into a tight square, in whose center was the body of Keth Sleisher. They marched forward and added it to the burning funeral pyre, just as the flames reached their lord’s body. From among the dark mass of soldiers a single voice sang. It sang of loss and hope, victory and the price of defeat. The song rose and fell, and the flames flowed with it. Hesitantly at first, then loudly, then the garrison took up the song. Finally all the warriors’ voices were raised as the song reached its end. As it finished, the north wind began to rise.
Then, from the top of the battlements, came the voice of the Dancer of the Wilds. Keening and frantic, it wailed high and long, singing no words but knowing only emotion. When the Cragsclavians heard it, they turned their heads to look.
What they saw was Sruss on a wooden platform stretched across the top of the castle’s highest tower. Torches lit the area until it was almost a second burning pyre. Her hair was shorter, but it was the purest white. And then she danced, danced with the rising wind itself. Her body moved with the sound of her voice, until Talwe thought he saw her meld with her mournful cry. She spun, and she whirled, and she crouched and she stretched, and her white fur caught the moonlight and glittered with her motions. And the long wail went forward, and the flames rose up higher, burning white rather than orange in the darkness. The subjects of Cragsclaw stopped their death-songs at the sight, murmuring to themselves the myth of the first White Dancer.
Far in the distance, Talwe saw Arklier. For a second the darkfur began to order a hasty return to the fortress but he looked at the clansmrem and stopped. The ClanSon’s arm was raised high, but there was no weapon in his hand. Instead, a torch blazed. Then those behind him began lighting more torches until the highlanders stood beneath a roof of fire. Then Talwe took the torch Mithmid had used, raised it, and then strode toward the ClanSon until they stood only a pace apart. Then he raised his torch, joining in their tribute. For a hundred heartbeats no one in the valley moved or spoke; the only sound was the crackle of the funeral fire. Then once more the voice of the Dancer wailed its mournful, wordless eulogy across the fire-lit valley. The flames grew fierce, burning white and even blue at their center. Then they returned to normal, orange and yellow and capering in the now-cold wind. Nothing remained of either Sleisher’s body. Arklier and every clansmrem smothered their torches into the earth at their feet. Only Talwe’s torch remained lit. The clansmrem followed the ClanSon back into the darkness. The warriors of Cragsclaw then too returned to the warmth of their walls.
A sharp, cold gust of wind extinguished the torches of the tower as the Dancer finished swaying in the center. Soon the night held only the waning coals of the pyre and a lone dark figure still holding aloft his single, flickering torch.
THEY LOWERED Jremm and Reswen over the gates of Ar at midnight, dressed as servants. Reswen carried no weapon save a small knife. If stopped they would claim to be fleeing the city, as many mrem did each night. He moved swiftly and silently over the field toward the nobles’ camp. Behind him, Jremm kept pace, praying to Ormin that he make no noise at all.
He wondered, as he walked, why Berrilund had sent him along. For most of these weeks he had been of almost no use, except perhaps for the information he had gained about Draldren or the assassins. Since that time so much had happened, most of it beyond any hope of his understanding, that the memory of the night he had seen Rennilan in Arbunda’s Rest was already beginning to fade. Even his memory of his lost love had blurred. All he remembered was her face.
Now, Berrilund had sent him to capture the king’s brother. What possible help he could offer Reswen was something else he couldn’t understand. But he had come, because he did not know how to refuse. Whatever lack of faith he had in himself was simply not shared by the co-leader of the Council.
The sounds of the camp were loud now. To their left someone screamed in agony and another voice laughed. He assured himself Berrilund felt he was worthy. This heartened him. It gave him strength. But it did absolutely nothing to calm his wild fears.
They walked straight toward the camp. Reswen crouched, and Jremm followed his lead. They came to a road, and the warrior briefly stopped. Then he picked up the young wizard and threw him to the other side. Jremm turned in the air, spun himself around, and landed noiselessly on the balls of his feet. His hands touched the ground as he let himself fall forward.
Clearing the road in one strong leap, Reswen joined him and smiled and nodded toward the camp. They were close now, so close that in the moonlight they could make out the guards and hear the crackle of the cook fires. Two guards blocked t
his road, two only; but both carried swords unsheathed and at the ready. Each time they turned their backs Reswen scurried forward, the faint sound of his footfalls far too soft to be heard. Jremm, too, closed the distance as silently as possible, but he feared that the world could hear the thunder in his heart.
Suddenly Reswen stopped. Perfectly still, he listened to the sounds around them. Then he dropped to his hands and knees and motioning Jremm to follow, he began to crawl. So silent and skilled was his advance that Jremm barely saw him in the darkness at all. No wonder he had once thought the mrem had been a thief.
A surge of power flashed through the wizard’s brain. Jremm shook his head, but it did not go away. Instead it forced him to turn to his right, and he felt his eyes focus on a tent straight ahead. It was larger than most and alternately striped red and yellow, the garish colors visible even in the firelight. Surprisingly no guard stood at the entrance. At once Jremm knew that Gerianan was there, and at once he knew too why Berrilund had made him come.
He was simply, importantly, a medium for the Council. Through him they would help the mercenary find the king’s brother. For a moment he resented it, detested the manipulation, but when his first fury calmed, he understood why there was no choice. He had learned, slinking through Ar, both secrecy and stealth, and both were needed if Reswen’s mission was to succeed. No one else on the Council was capable of approaching the camp undetected. Almost unbelievably, he was the only one among all those powerful magicians who could do it.
He hissed deep in his throat, and Reswen turned. When he pointed to the tent, near the south side of the camp, the warrior simply nodded and turned to crawl toward it. With a sickening letdown, the novice wizard realized he was now expendable. He could not stay here in the trampled field; the two guards would discover him easily on their next pass. There was nothing to do but follow Reswen. This he did until finally the tent stood but two strides away.
