by Джеффри Лорд
«Pack food and clothes for a journey upriver. I’m sending you back to Swebon.»
«Blade, don’t you-?»
«I’m not doing it just to save your life, you silly woman. Think! Somebody has to get back to Swebon, tell him about what’s happened, give him the secret of the strong bow. Who else does he know well enough to trust?»
«Ah. I understand.»
«Yes. You and the men I’m sending with you have to leave tonight. Even if we take the city, the Protector may still have it surrounded by dawn.»
Meera kissed him and went off with the others from the Twelve Serpents. Blade waited until they were out of sight, then led his own men off toward the guardhouse. They tried to move as silently as ghosts, eyes and ears probing the darkness and hands never far from sword hilts. They kept to the darkest alleys and the narrowest side streets, and more than once Blade had to stop and reorient himself to keep from getting lost.
They weren’t seen, let alone challenged, but the journey took so long Blade was half-expecting dawn to break in the east by the time they were in sight of the guardhouse. Blade crept up to the nearest of the bronze-barred windows and peered in. There were five men inside, including a Guard officer with his back to the window. As Blade tried to see what weapons the men had ready, he heard footsteps behind him and rose from his crouch.
A fat soldier was hurrying across the cobblestones, sweating, red-faced, and breathless. The Guard officer stepped toward the door to meet the man. Blade saw he was Cha-Chern. Then the fat soldier saw Blade lurking in the shadow of the guardhouse. He let out a scream that raised echoes, whirled, and ran.
Blade’s men leaped out of their hiding places as the soldier dashed away, but he was out of sight before they could move to cut him off. Blade covered ten feet in a single leap and met Cha-Chern at the door. The officer recognized Blade and his face went pale, but his sword was out and flickering toward Blade like a poisonous snake. Blade parried Cha-Chern’s first thrust with his dagger, then chopped down with his own sword. It was a brutal blow, like a butcher chopping meat, but there was no time or room for anything else. It caught Cha-Chern in the side of the neck and sent blood spraying. The Guardsman had the strength to thrust once more, his point nicking Blade’s ribs. Then he reeled forward, giving Blade a chance to swing from the side. Cha-Chern’s head lolled on his neck, he went down, and Blade leaped over the fallen man into the guardhouse. His men came boiling in after him.
It wasn’t a fight in the guardhouse, it was a massacre. The exchange of blows lasted more than thirty seconds only because Blade’s men didn’t have enough room to work faster. When the last scream died away, all four guards were dead and so was one of Blade’s men. Blade picked up a bloody ring of keys from the table by one window and handed it to a man.
«Start getting the doors open.»
«How much time do we have?»
«I don’t know. That messenger who ran off will be bringing more soldiers, I’m sure of that. Assume you won’t have any time at all.»
The man nodded and started trying keys in the lock on the first door. Blade and the two remaining survivors of his party started blocking off the two windows of the guardhouse. The building was built of stone with a slate roof, so there was no way it could be burned. Three men could easily hold the door against a strong force of attackers. The only thing Blade feared was crossbowmen firing through the windows.
They had one window blocked with the table and were lifting a bench into the other when Blade heard the tramp of feet and shouted orders. As they wedged the bench into place, three crossbow bolts slammed into it, nearly knocking it loose again. A moment later fists, swords, and spears started thumping and clanging on the locked and barred door. The solid planks hardly quivered. Against anything but a battering ram, the door could hold for quite a while.
Somebody out there must have had the same idea. Blade heard a voice giving orders to break into nearby houses and look for logs or heavy pieces of furniture. Several sets of feet hurried off, and several more arrived. Blade and his two comrades cleaned up the guardroom by dropping all the bodies down the freight shaft.
As the last body vanished, they heard a rumbling of wheels on the pavement outside. A moment later something started crackling below one window, and Blade smelled sharp, pungent smoke. He stiffened. Those wheels sounded like the soldiers had brought up a cart or wagon, either to batter down the door or block it from the outside. As for the fire-the guardhouse might not burn, but it could be filled with smoke until no one could breathe inside it. Blade realized that he hadn’t thought of everything the enemy might do against the guardhouse.
The crackling grew louder, and Blade began to see an orange glow through the cracks in the bench. Gray smoke began curling in through the window and flowing down toward the floor. Blade felt his eyes beginning to water, and one of the other men started coughing violently. The soldiers must be putting something on the fire to make the smoke poisonous.
Blade pushed open the tunnel door and shouted, «How far are you?» There was no answer, and as Blade caught his breath he felt as if he’d inhaled a lungful of paper. By the time he stopped coughing he realized that there was only one thing to do-open the door to let the smoke out, and rely on hand-to-hand fighting to keep the soldiers out until the fighters came up from below. That would be running a close and deadly race with time, but all the alternatives were even worse. Blade had a moment’s ghastly vision of the Protector sealing off the barracks, then flooding it with the poisonous smoke to slaughter the gladiators like an exterminator slaughtering rats in a cellar.
Blade motioned toward the door-he could barely speak — and the other men nodded. They understood. Together all three of them lifted the bar. Then Blade motioned the others to stand aside while he threw the bolt and heaved the door open. Fresh air poured in and the smoke swirled out, so thick that it was a moment before the soldiers outside realized the door was open. By that time Blade and his comrades were ready and waiting.
The first two soldiers to come through the door died before they realized the door was open. Blade nearly beheaded one. The other was stabbed in the thigh, then had his throat cut as he lay on the floor. The next two men who came in were more alert, but didn’t last much longer. One slipped on the blood of his dead comrades, and Blade split his head as he crashed to the floor. The other got all the way inside the guardhouse before one of Blade’s comrades caught him and pushed him down the shaft.
The echoes of the falling man’s screams were dying away before Blade heard two new sounds. One was the rumble of the cart being pulled away from the door. The other was a swelling pound of feet and clatter of weapons from deep inside the tunnel. The soldiers ready to enter the guardhouse also heard the noise from the tunnel and backed away from the door. Then the door to the tunnel flew open and the man who’d gone down to unlock the doors burst out. His eyes were wide and he waved a spear so furiously that he nearly skewered Blade. Hard on the man’s heels came Skroga and Kuka, and after them all the fighters of the Games of Hapanu, the doomed men of the Island of Death, on their way to freedom and vengeance.
They came up the tunnel like water out of a high-pressure hose, shrieking warcries, curses, and prayers to all their gods, waving every sort of weapon Blade had ever seen in the Games. They came on so fast and so furiously that any soldiers in the guardhouse would have been trampled to death before a weapon touched them. Blade had to fight with knees and elbows and curses to keep from being pushed down the shaft.
Eventually he was caught up in the mob and propelled through the door like the cork out of a champagne bottle, into the open street. By then half the soldiers who’d been attacking the guardhouse were dead or dying, and the other half were sprinting off in all directions, gladiators hard on their heels. As Blade expected, the gladiators weren’t taking prisoners.
By the time most of the fighters reached the open, reports were coming back of soldiers and Guardsmen also out in force. It was impossible to tell from t
hese reports exactly what was happening, and for the moment Blade wasn’t particularly worried. The Protector would certainly know what was happening by now, but it would still take time to gather his men. It might take even more time to persuade them to advance against the fighters of the Games, armed, desperate, and ready to fight to the death.
There was still no time to lose. Some of the gladiators apparently expected Blade to make a long speech, but he flatly refused to do anything of the kind. Others wanted to go to the waterfront at once, take ships, and sail off at once, never mind where. Blade sent these to Skroga. He himself started choosing men for various special jobs.
Some were to go to the quays, hold them, capture as many ships as they could, and burn the rest. Others were to go to the House of the Twelve Serpents. Meera was to be brought directly to Blade, while the steward and his men would act as guides for the streets of Gerhaa. Still others would start searching all the houses in the areas they’d already cleared of soldiers. Anyone who resisted should be killed, anyone who did nothing should be left alone, anyone who wanted to join should be armed and enlisted.
When Blade finished giving all his orders, he called for parchment and ink, then sat down and wrote out a letter he’d long since worked out in his mind.
Swebon
Meera brings this letter, to tell you that the Free Fighters and their allies now rule in Gerhaa the Stone Village. The power of the Protector, the great enemy of all the Forest People, is dying, but it is not dead. To finish the victory, the Forest people must unite and come to Gerhaa.
Meera also brings the secret of the strong bow, which I have discovered. This bow will drive arrows into the hearts of Treemen and through the armor of the Sons of Hapanu. It is a weapon the Forest People can use to destroy all their enemies, or to destroy each other.
So that they may destroy their enemies, I ask that you take oaths from all the chiefs, to end the warfare among the People. Only those chiefs who swear this oath should be given the secret of the strong bow. This is my wish, and my curse is upon any who do not heed it.
I also ask that you take care of Meera. I have had another vision during my time in Gerhaa. It tells me that when Gerhaa has fallen forever and the Forest People are safe, I must return to England. Meera will need protection, and you are a man she will accept and honor: I have not told her of this vision and I ask you not to, for it would only cause her grief now.
May the Forest Spirit be with you, and bring you and the People swiftly to Gerhaa and victory.
Richard Blade of England
Then he rolled up the letter and coated it with wax. He picked up the other parchments he’d prepared for Swebon and along with the letter sealed them in a bronze drinking horn looted from a nearby house.
As Blade was finishing this job, Meera and the other people from the House of the Twelve Serpents arrived. Right after them came the twenty-five men chosen to escort Meera and Blade’s message upriver to Swebon. Skroga was with them. Blade and Meera embraced, then the steward led her toward the waterfront. Blade had to stay at his improvised command post, but Skroga went to see them off. He returned an hour later, to report that they were safely on their way.
«On their way» didn’t mean safely home, but it certainly meant they were past the biggest obstacle, the enemies around Gerhaa. There would still be raiding parties and the garrison of the camp at the river junction to be avoided, but these would soon be hearing the news from Gerhaa. When they did they’d have other things on their minds than looking for three canoes. At least Blade hoped so-and for the moment, hoping was all he could do to help Meera and her party. He turned his attention back to sorting out the situation in Gerhaa.
This situation proved remarkably hard to sort out, because the garrison put up a stubborn resistance. Some of the regular soldiers deserted, frightened or unwilling to fight beside the Protector’s Pets. Very few of these joined the rebels. Most of them ran off into the countryside to hide among the farmers and hunters, or boarded sailing ships and headed out into the ocean, bound home for Kylan.
The regulars who didn’t desert fought well, with a grim, sullen determination that no rabble of gladiators and the sweepings of Gerhaa’s streets was going to beat them. The Protector’s Pets also fought fairly well, once a few of their more useless officers managed to get themselves killed in action. One dying prisoner gave Blade a hint why.
«Emperor-thinks Protector-ambitious. He don’t hold-city-Emperor has chance to-«A rattle, a gurgle, then the man coughed blood and died. Blade rose from beside the body, wishing very much he had Ho-Marn here to question. More and more he suspected that the gray-haired officer knew most of whatever political secrets lurked in the shadows of Gerhaa. More and more he was certain that knowing those secrets would increase the chances of victory for himself and the people he was leading. Unfortunately Ho-Marn was nowhere to be found alive or dead.
The Protector himself was hard at work, leading his Guardsmen and organizing the defenses of the part of Gerhaa still not in rebel hands. In his bright red leather suit and black-enameled mail shirt, he was a conspicuous object wherever he appeared. Dozens of arrows and spears were hurled at him, killing men all around him, but the Protector himself seemed to bear a charmed life.
Blade had to admit that he’d underestimated the Protector. The man might have every imaginable vice and a few better not imagined, but that didn’t make him a fool. With his back to the wall, the Protector was fighting with skill and courage worthy of a far better man.
The Protector’s leadership, the fighting of the men under him, and the tangled streets of Gerhaa kept the rebels from sweeping their enemies completely out of the city. By the afternoon of the second day, a solid line of barricades rose across the city, dividing the two sides as rigidly as if they’d been on separate islands. A few bold spirits on either side tried to leap from roof to roof, or slip through the cellars. They were too few to make any difference, and most of them were quickly hunted down and killed.
To balance not being able to take the whole city, the rebels did take the wall on the river side. On top of each tower along the wall was a large catapult. In the cellars of the towers were hundreds of crossbows, swords, and suits of armor, along with stones, arrows, and barrels of oil for making firepots.
Blade promptly had the weapon and armor distributed to the men the rebels had recruited in the city. The catapults were manned, and after a good deal of trial and error and a few bloody accidents, they opened fire on the ships in the harbor. Some of the tougher captains tried to brave the shower of stones and arrows, then Blade’s catapult crews brought up the oil and started shooting firepots. After three ships went up in flames, the surviving captains decided discretion was the better part of valor. By nightfall all the Kylanan ships were anchored several miles from the walls of Gerhaa, and the rebels were temporarily safe from attack by either land or sea.
As this fact dawned on the gladiators, Blade began to hear the sort of mutterings he’d been afraid of from the very beginning.
«How many ships we got, down at waterfront?»
«Thirty, maybe.»
«We could all get ourselfs into ‘em, then.»
«To go where?»
«Upriver, mebbe.»
«The Forest People-what they say?»
«Half o’ the fighters are Forest People. Other half-well, we fight good against Kylan. Mebbe they won’t mind havin’ us up there with ‘em.»
«I’ll be thinkin’ about it.»
By the time he heard basically this same conversation three or four times, Blade decided he’d better find Skroga. A crisis seemed to be in the making, and it was going to be all the worse because of the number of armed city people who’d joined the gladiators. Most of them were armed now, none of them had any place to go, and they would be furious if the gladiators started abandoning them. If the two factions of the rebels started fighting each other, they would be handing victory to the Protector on a silver platter.
Skroga was now
here to be found, so toward midnight Blade grabbed some bread and sausage, then wrapped himself in a looted blanket and lay down in a corner of the guardhouse. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all when he awoke, to find the sky gray with dawn and someone shaking him furiously.
«Blade, Blade, wake up. Vosgu of Hosh is calling on the fighters to leave Gerhaa and go into the Forest. He is speaking in the Street of the Silversmiths. You must come!»
Blade jumped up so fast he tripped over the blanket. He untangled himself and recognized the man who’d awakened him-the son of a barrel-maker who’d joined the rebels almost at once and been mortally wounded within a few hours. The young man was sweating, but his hands and gaze were very steady.
Blade had slept in his clothes and shoes. He snatched up his sword and dagger, sheathed them, then grabbed a spear from a cluster leaning in one corner.
«All right. Let’s go.»
Blade and his guide covered the mile of mud and cobblestones to the Street of the Silversmiths at a steady trot. They were still too late. By the time they arrived, Vosgu was shouting to a crowd of more than five hundred armed men. Two-thirds of them were gladiators of the Games, but around the fringes were solid clusters of men from the city. Their faces were grim, they were fingering their weapons, and a few of the bolder spirits were shouting obscenities every time the gladiators cheered.
«So what do we owe those of Gerhaa, in truth?» Vosgu was saying. «They fight beside us now, or so they say. But for years they sat and cheered our dying. Shall we forgive them all these years for two days’ aid?»
«No!» one of the gladiators shouted, and his angry cry was echoed by others.
«A wise man has spoken the truth,» cried Vosgu. «Listen to him, brothers of the Games. Listen to him, then march to our ships and-«
«No!» thundered a familiar voice from a dark alley. «I say no, Vosgu of Hosh, fool and coward! Brothers, listen to me.» Skroga stepped out of the alley and shouldered his way through the crowd to the upturned barrel Vosgu was using as a platform.
