by Bell, Hilari
“The odds against your lads will be at least two to one,” said Siddas, rather dryly. “Maybe even worse. I’m honored to command your swords, most truly, but I’d rather see you alive and succeeding than dead and trying.”
“What else can we do?” asked Markhan. “Birzan is watching the placement of units. If you start shifting other troops in toward us, he’ll know that you know. And he said something about contingency plans. I think they have a backup plan in mind if this fails, to let the Hrum come over the walls in some other place. The gate is just their first choice.”
“And I can’t afford to pull men off any other stretch of the wall,” Siddas said. “If the Hrum launch an all-out assault, which they likely will if their trickery at the gate fails, I’ll need every man I have fighting at his own post. But what other choice do we have?”
“As to that,” said the peddler slowly, “I believe I have an idea.”
THE HRUM MARCHED against Mazad, and Sorahb himself Dueled their treacherous governor, Drawing the circle of challenge in the earth around his feet and bidding the man to come and fight. When the governor did so, Sorahb slew him—but the death of their spy did not stop the Hrum, who redoubled the force of their attack.
The soldiers on the walls were sore pressed, and all through the long day Sorahb fought with them. His mere presence lent them courage and strength, for so it is with men when a legend fights beside them.
But late that afternoon, after many marks had passed, even their great hearts began to fail. Sorahb saw this and despaired, knowing that only a miracle could save them. Perhaps the prayers of a legend are greater than those of ordinary men.
CHAPTER TEN
KAVI
THE LADY MITRA and her daughters rode toward the gate, the silk of their embroidered overrobes streaming in the cold breeze. The afternoon’s rain was approaching. Mitra was supposed to have left several marks ago, but she’d taken the time to have her hair braided up with expensive glass beads. She’d taken still more time to pack the bundles carried by the horses and the one bewildered groom who accompanied them. It was far more luggage than even a deghass needed for dinner.
The lady Soraya had told Kavi that the woman had packed up the family valuables, but she must have brought more than just her jewelry to make up all those bulging bundles. Even the youngest daughter, her lips pouting in furious rebellion, had a pack strapped to her horse’s rump.
It made them look like folks fleeing a disaster, which was why the governor had tried to avoid it. Even their rich clothes didn’t detract from that impression. When the people had left the suburbs for the safety of the city walls, many of them had worn their best clothes as well—it was the most practical way to carry them.
In truth, Kavi didn’t begrudge the lady Mitra her valuables. The gold and jewels she carried couldn’t be eaten, nor melted and reforged as weapons, so they meant little to Mazad—and if the Wheel turned ill for her, she might be needing them herself. Nehar’s treachery would soon become common knowledge in Farsala. Kavi doubted that the governor—the ex-governor—would survive it if it weren’t for the Hrum’s protection.
As for the impression the lady made today, that hardly mattered at all. Fully half the folk who had gathered near the gate to watch her ride out were Kavi’s people, and they knew exactly what was going on. Even if he hadn’t known them from the time he could toddle, Kavi would still have been able to pick them out—they were the only ones cheering with enthusiasm. Fortunately, there were so many of them that no one stood out.
The men in the tower beside the gate cranked up the portcullis as the lady Mitras party approached, and then opened the massive wooden doors.
From his place at the back of the crowd Kavi could only see a small portion of the Hrum force that was already marching out to meet her. They had to cross the width of the rubbled plain—which had been a prosperous suburb before the Hrum burned it and then cleared away the wreckage to create a field where they could fight.
“They’re carrying long fence-divider things covered with cloth.” The lady Soraya stood on tiptoe to see over the crowd, though she was already standing on the steps of the corn chandler’s shop, where Kavi had taken his position. “I wondered how they’d disguise the ladders. I think they look pretty suspicious, myself. They’re decorative enough, like long banners, but the Hrum don’t go in for decoration much.”
Kavi looked at the patched skirt the girl had borrowed from a puzzled kitchen maid, and suppressed the comment he’d been about to make, that decoration was more of a deghan thing than a Hrum one. In truth, Farsalan peasants went in for decorating things more than either the deghans or the Hrum. If you had to paint something anyway, why not use a cheerful color and add a bit of pattern to it?
While he was being truthful, he also had to admit that the lady looked as comfortable in a servant’s worn skirt and blouse as she had in her silks. She’d looked even more at home in the boy’s britches she’d worn among the Suud.
At least she’d had no trouble staying behind. Even the lady Mitra had been forced to admit that she couldn’t bring Commander Merahb’s daughter to a Hrum dinner.
When Soraya had asked to be present at the gate this morning, Kavi had pointed out that there was little she could do in the coming fight. She’d promptly replied that a man whose right hand couldn’t grip a weapon wasn’t going to be of much use either.
It was different for Kavi. It was his plan. But he had to admit she was right; there was nothing he could do now except watch the thing unfold and pray that it didn’t come apart.
The water carrier was already atop the wall—he was the only one Kavi had been able to station there, where his folk would be most needed. But even as the portcullis rattled down and the great doors swung shut, Nibbis the soup seller pulled her handcart and kettle up to the tower door and knocked.
“Will they let her in?” the lady Soraya asked.
“They should,” said Kavi. “She often sells soup to the men on duty, and it’s cold today.”
He had asked the woman, whose hair was gray for all that her body was stout and strong, to yield her place to her youngest son. He could claim she was sick. But Nibbis had declared, firmly, that any change at such an important time might make the soldiers suspicious.
“Yes, but those men know they’ll be fighting in a few moments,” said the girl beside him. “Will they be hungry? Will they want to encumber themselves with a woman in that space?”
Kavi shrugged. “Our folk will argue for letting her in, no matter what the commanders say—and they can’t afford to arouse suspicion either. She’s the only nonsoldier who comes into the gate tower this time of day.”
At least the water carrier on the wall was so familiar that no one would think of repelling him. But the girl was right—Nibbis had encountered some resistance. She stood in the doorway, with one of her small, portable kettles under her arm, arguing with someone inside.
But the argument between the street sweeper and the two carpet weavers put her efforts to shame. Those three were the only people involved who Kavi didn’t know well. A trio of traveling acrobats, they’d been trapped in Mazad by the Hrum siege when one of the men had sprained an ankle; his brother and sister had refused to abandon him when he was unable to escape before the Hrum arrived. Siddas said that for folk not trained as soldiers they’d done good work on the walls, and they could get themselves up to the top more rapidly than any of Kavi’s other fighters.
Those fool deghans and their men would need all the help they could get—when watch assignments were finally announced, the odds against them had turned out to be close to three to one. But neither Markhan nor Kaluud had hesitated for a moment, not that Kavi had seen. He sighed. He hated the folk they represented, but he couldn’t fault their courage.
“You’ve got to have the street swept,” the acrobat wielding the broom argued. His voice carried like that of a man playing for a crowd—which he was, though he wasn’t supposed to show it. “You don’t want
that fine carpet dragging in the muck, now do you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped the girl who carried one end of the carpet. “It’s wrapped around this pole—it can’t drag.”
Kavi had been listening for the Hrum charge, in the long minutes since the lady Mitra had ridden out, but the sound that finally met his straining ears was not the fierce drumbeats of the Hrum’s signal, but the soft vibration of hundreds of running feet.
It was followed, barely a moment later, by Farsalan cries of warning and alarm. Given that both Nehar’s and Siddas’ guardsmen knew about the Hrum’s plans, it was probably the most expected surprise attack in Farsalan history. But since both sides had orders to act surprised, it didn’t make much difference.
Watching the guardsmen on the walls, Kavi found he couldn’t tell which were Nehar’s and which had been subverted by Markhan and Kaluud. They all reacted with brisk competence, pulling out the forked poles they’d use to push away the scaling ladders, shouting down orders to bar the inner gates and for the men in the tower to bring the kettles of pitch—always kept warm—to a boil.
The tower that protected the huge winch that raised the portcullis was where the battle would truly be decided, Kavi knew. Markhan and Kaluud had only been able to get themselves and one of their men assigned inside it. So if Kavi’s folk were going to help them, they’d have to clear Nehar’s men from the top of the wall and get into the tower fast. But not so fast that they gave away their knowledge of Nehar’s plan too soon—it was for the young deghans, who had taken the most dangerous and most important job, to judge the best moment to start the fight inside the tower.
Kavi found that his left hand was clenched into a fist, and his weak right hand was clenched as far as he could close it. He took a breath and tried to relax—just as the Hrum army reached the walls.
They didn’t have much effect, as far as Kavi could see.
Farsalan archers fired down, and Hrum arrows arced over the walls as well, but the angle was so sharp that none flew near the steps where he and Soraya stood.
Still, the few ignorant citizens who had come to watch the lady Mitra ride out hurried away now. Some of them would be assigned to assist the soldiers on the walls, and the others would want to see to the safety of their homes—though now that the winter rains had started it would take a near miracle for a fire arrow to set anything alight.
The tower door slammed shut in Nibbis’ face. She squawked with outrage and rapped on it, arguing with the men inside that they weren’t likely to be in the fighting and could still use a bit of soup. Would they leave an old woman out in the street with an attack on?
It was the acrobats who managed the best performance, though, giving the rest of Kavi’s people an excuse to be lingering in the shelter of Mazad’s tall, thick wall.
“Out of the way, you … you broomy bastard!” the girl who carried the rug was shouting. “We’ve got to get to our purchaser before an arrow hits this and wrecks two months of work!”
“But you haven’t paid me,” the acrobat with the broom whined. “I’ve been sweeping your path for half a dozen blocks. You’re owing me at least two tin bits—a whole foal if you weren’t so Flaming tight!”
The crowd around them divided their attention between the quarrel inside and the battle outside, just as they should. If they looked a bit nervous, well, that was to be expected. The Hrum had assaulted the walls often enough that no one was panicking over it anymore, but no one was easy with it either. Especially since the governor was now, presumably, a prisoner in the Hrum camp.
Yes, their reactions were fine. But they might have been doing a ribbon dance or holding an orgy for all the attention the guardsmen on the wall paid them. The guardsmen were pushing over Hrum scaling ladders in a kind of reverse tug-of-war conducted with sticks instead of rope. Though it seemed to Kavi that the Hrum weren’t trying quite as hard as they might to hold their ladders in position, and that the men on the wall were as much engaged in shooting surreptitious glances at one another as they were in pushing the ladders down.
“What will they do,” Soraya asked suddenly, “about the Hrum’s ladders when they’re fight—”
A clash of swords sounded from the gate tower. The thick stone muffled it, but the ring of steel on steel was as vivid as a war cry in this battle of ladders, poles, and arrows.
The guards on the wall shouted, and almost as if they’d agreed on the timing between them, turned and attacked each other.
“Now!” Kavi yelled.
The men in the street pulled out the short cudgels they’d concealed and ran for the nearest stair. The acrobats—their fake quarrel dropped in midsentence—unrolled the light rug they carried. The two brothers each took an end, while their sister grabbed the short staff the rug had been wrapped around, stepped into the center, and crouched. As she leaped, her brothers snapped the rug tight, tossing her far higher than she could have risen on her own. They had chosen a place where no one was fighting, which was just as well, since she only caught the edge of the parapet with her free hand—or perhaps that was what she’d intended all along, for she swung one leg over the edge and rolled onto the walk with an ease that seemed miraculous to Kavi.
Her arrival was the signal for the water carrier, who dropped his bucket, pulled out his cudgel, and started cracking backs, elbows, shoulders, any part of a traitor that came within his reach.
The brothers were already unwinding ropes from their waists and attaching grappling hooks when the girl spun toward the nearest of Nehar’s men and swung her staff at the back of his knees.
He shouted with pain and surprise as his legs collapsed; then a blow from the flat of his opponent’s sword tumbled him off the platform and down to the street. He cried out again when he hit the cobbles—he’d probably broken some bones.
Kavi suppressed a flinch, trying to harden his heart. If the man broke an ankle or two, it would be easier for those who had remained below to disarm and bind him. It was to be a battle that took place here, not a massacre—Kavi’d had a hand in one of those already, and he hadn’t cared for it.
The girl whose father had died in that massacre frowned at Nibbis, who was lifting her large kettle off the cart.
“Should we help her? They’ve barred the tower door.”
“She doesn’t need our help,” said Kavi. “Do you have any idea how much that kettle weighs?”
His point was proved as Nibbis pulled the kettle back and then swung it at the door, just where the latch would be holding it on the other side. She might be old and stout, but she’d been handling heavy kettles most of her life. The tower door burst open. As the thick, hot soup splashed over the steps, Nibbis dropped the large kettle, picked up the small one, and darted into the tower, ladle at ready. A scream sounded within and Kavi winced, imagining a ladle of hot soup striking one of Nehar’s guardsmen in the face, in the eyes. Like the rest of Kavi’s fighters, Nibbis had been introduced to all of Siddas’ men who would be fighting in this area—Kavi hoped she had a good memory for faces.
The screams also told him that some of the portcullis’ defenders were still fighting. Not that he’d needed to be told, for the portcullis was still down—not just a barrier, but a reinforcement for the outer gates if the Hrum did bring a ram.
Two guardsmen, the only two Siddas had spared him, raced into the tower after the soup seller. As Siddas had explained, inside the tower there wouldn’t be room for any more. But all of Siddas’ men were armed with the new watersteel blades, and even if there were only two, they were the best swordsmen Siddas had.
Kavi’s grin died as the water carrier cried out and toppled from the parapet. The acrobats, moving like the team they were, managed to catch him and break his fall. The man was unconscious as they lowered him to the cobbles, blood flowing from a sword stroke that had opened his shoulder to the bone.
The two brothers handed him over to the people Kavi had dubbed his “ground team”—he’d made sure there were healers among them. Then t
he acrobats tossed up their ropes; they were climbing to join their sister on the wall almost before the grappling hooks had set.
Several of Nehar’s men saw them coming and cried a warning, but they were too busy with their own fights to intervene. There was nothing Kavi could do to aid the fighters, but he might be able to help the healers somehow. He was moving off the steps when Soraya’s fingers dug into his shoulder.
“Ladders!” she cried.
Kavi looked up as two more Hrum scaling ladders thudded onto the ramparts to join the one she had seen. He shouted his own warning, but the guardsmen were already aware. One of them, next to one of the ladders, bellowed in anger and determination and launched a furious blow, not at Nehar’s henchman, but at the man’s sword.
Kavi, frozen despite the urgency of the moment, watched the watersteel descend. He could feel the ringing clash as the two swords met, not only in his ears, but vibrating through his skull, his bones. The shattering of the traitor’s sword felt as if it were echoed in his own flesh.
He had time to marvel—as Nehar’s guardsman fell from the wall, his wrist shattered along with his blade—at the strange shilshadu gift old Maok had opened for him.
But not much time. The soldier who had broken his opponent’s sword snatched up a pole and knocked down one ladder, and the two acrobats saw to another, but a Hrum soldier threw himself over the top of the third and vaulted onto the wall. His own watersteel blade carved patterns in the air before him—defending the ladder so his comrades might climb.
The men on the wall, Siddas’ guardsmen and Kavi’s civilians, surged toward him, and the Hrum struggled to beat them back. But Kavi’s attention was suddenly captured by a sight so horrifying that the battle on the wall was forgotten: a tiny twitch of movement in the great iron portcullis behind the gate. It quivered again, then jerked and started to rise.
“On the portcullis!” Kavi yelled, running across the street to leap onto the grid. It sank as he added the weight of his own body to that of the iron, then rose again, carrying him with it. “On the portcullis, men!” he cried again. “We need weight!”
