"I wish we could see what's going on," Danior complained. He had ridden over the edge of the escarpment and was trying to peer back up the gorge. "These damned trees . . . wait a minute." The tenor of the shouting below had changed. A rising gust of wind brought a cacophony of Ka'sa war cries—the names of tribal founders, mostly—shrill with blood-lust and triumph.
"Something has happened," Torisen said sharply.
He wheeled Storm and set off at a gallop northward toward the head of the stairs with the others riding after him. Halfway there, a messenger met them.
"My lord! The first barricade has fallen, and I don't think the Karkinorans will hold the second!"
"Oh, won't they, by God," said the Prince through his teeth. "We'll see." He spurred on with his retinue scrambling to catch up.
"What happened?" Torisen demanded.
"Lord, t-they say that Pereden came to the barrier and ordered his father's men to withdraw. They hesitated, and—and were overrun . . . Lord Ardeth!"
Torisen turned quickly to find Ardeth bent forward over Brithany's neck. He caught the old man's arm to steady him.
"Adric, listen! I told you about our suspicions that changers are leading the Horde. Well, this proves it. That wasn't your son Pereden. Do you understand? Do you?"
Ardeth drew himself upright with an effort and nodded. His face was haggard.
"Good. I thought you were going to have a heart attack."
"I . . . was seriously considering it."
"Listen!" said Danior.
The uproar in the gorge was getting louder. Then it swept northward. About a quarter of a mile ahead, dark figures began to spill off the steps into the lower meadow. There were hundreds, thousands of them. Shrill Ka'sa war cries rose in a continuous chorus.
"They're between us and the main body of the Host," said Torisen. "Damn."
"Shall we fight our way through?" Danior asked eagerly.
"With a combined war-guard of only about a hundred riders?" Then too, there was Ardeth, who still looked shaken and wasn't even wearing full armor since he hadn't expected to take any part in the fighting. This upset had caught them all badly off-balance. Still, "Harn is with the Host. He'll see that the contingency plans go into action. We'll get back as fast as we can, the long way: through the woods."
The Kendar of his war-guard exchanged glances. On the whole, they would rather have gone straight through the Horde.
* * *
THE SURVIVING DEFENDERS of the steps fell back to the bottleneck between the middle and lower meadows where they met the Kencyr reserve coming down to reinforce them. About four-fifths of the Host was engaged now and most of the Karkinoran army, spread across the quarter-mile gap between the river and the woods. No one—Host, Horde, or army—went in among the trees.
Harn met Odalian and the tattered remains of his retinue just behind the front line shield-wall.
"How long can we hold here?" the Prince asked, shouting over the uproar.
"Trinity knows. They just keep coming. We need Gaineron's people, but he hasn't brought them down yet from the camp. Damn that man. If he's forgotten his part in the plan, I'll —I'll have Ashe put him in a song he'll never live down . . . heads up!"
A screaming wave of Wastelanders had charged in among the leveled spears and hit the shield-wall. They swarmed up over it. The first across died on the defenders' swords, entangling them, and the next wave crashed down alive on the far side. Harn swept the Prince behind him. His own shield was only a small buckler strapped to his forearm, but it served to turn aside the Wasters' weapons of stone and bone while his own war axe cleared a bloody arc before him.
He felt the red tide of berserker rage rise in him. The night narrowed to the flash of steel, the spray of blood, the crunch of axe on bone, again and again and again. How simple everything suddenly was. One knew one's enemies, and one killed them. Vaguely, he heard the shout of the one-hundred command that swept in to the rescue, heard the crash of the shield wall closing again against the continuing onslaught from the south. Still deep in the blood-lust, Harn only knew that he was running out of enemies to kill. He turned, questing. Ah, here was one more, the last, the greatest enemy of all. Others tried to stop him. He swept them aside, raised his axe to strike at the slight figure of his foe. It slipped away from his blow. The rage gave him speed and strength, but the other still outmatched him. He struck again, missed again, and in the moment before he could regain his balance, the other caught him. Harn fell. He struggled but was held fast. Someone was shouting in his ear:
"Harn! Commandant! Get control of yourself, man!"
The rage receded. Harn found himself on the ground, caught in an earth-moving grip that completely immobilized him. The voice in his ear was that of the Prince.
"Highness! W-what happened?"
"Well, so far you've slaughtered about thirty Wasters, terrorized your own people, and very nearly massacred what was left of mine. You also seemed pretty determined to make mincemeat of me. Are you still so inclined, or can I let go?"
Harn tested the other's grip again and found it unshakeable. He relaxed with a grunt. "You know a thing or two about the Senethar, don't you, Highness?"
The Prince released him. "I like to think so. Now what?"
The tenor of the shouting had changed to the east.
"Can you hold here?" Harn demanded.
"We can try."
"Good enough."
Harn loped off eastward through the one-hundred command which had helped to close the breach. The Kendar hastily made way for him. Beyond their torches, chaos reigned. To Harn's right was the shield wall with a second and sometimes a third line of defenders behind it. It surged back and forth, roaring, a solid mass of blackness except where torchlight fell on strained faces and the flash of swords. Harn went on behind it, tripping over bodies, slithering on grass wet with blood. Damn this darkness anyway. Deeper patches of it moved across the meadow like cloud shadows, obscuring everything. This was like the fall of worlds after moon-dark, when all things come unmade and the void gapes.
Harn scarcely felt more settled in his own spirit. He had just tried to kill Prince Odalian. One of the few good things about his past berserker rages was that even in the deepest blood-lust, he had always instinctively known friend from foe. Now, for the first time, he had deliberately gone after an ally. He felt as if he were beginning to lose control—of the battle, of himself. Where the hell was Blackie? Harn knew that Torisen was still alive, as did every Kendar bound to the Highlord, but he needed him here, now. Somehow, Torisen's mere presence always helped. Harn had been all right with the Southern Host until the boy had left to become Highlord. If he was starting to lose his grip for good now as aging berserkers often did, it was high time that he turned to the White Knife. But not just yet. Blackie was depending on him to keep his head, to keep control, and so he would, by God—if only he didn't lose his temper. Damn and blast this darkness!
Someone ran into him. "Sir!" It was one of his randon cadets, an Ardeth, almost in tears. "Sir, the line has broken! We couldn't hold. I'm sorry, sir . . ."
Horns in the darkness, signaling three, four, five breaks in the line.
At this point, he should signal plan four—all houses to close the line except Caineron's, which was to deal with those Wasters who had broken through. But as far as he could tell, Caineron was still no place on the field. Damn and blast.
"Signal four and find me a horse," he snapped at the cadet. "Quick, boy!"
The horns belled behind him as he galloped up through the middle field. The night was full of dark, running figures. How could so many have broken through? Suddenly his horse plowed into a knot of them and almost floundered. Hands clutched at him. Ka'sa cries rose in a venomous, suppressed hiss as if he had tumbled into a nest of vipers. His horse gave a shriek and bolted free.
The Host's encampment was a good two miles farther on. Horse and rider scrambled up the Lower Hurdles at a point where the lowest step was only about three fee
t high and galloped on among the watchfires into Caineron's camp. All the lord's troops were still there. Harn's mount skidded to a stop in front of the tent of Sheth Sharp-Tongue, Caineron's randon commander. The Kendar who ran forward to hold his horse gave the beast a startled look. Harn saw that the animal's flanks and legs were covered with bleeding bites.
He stormed into the tent, sweeping aside Sheth's aide. The commander himself sat at a small table, reading something. Candlelight brought out the hint of Highborn blood in the sharp lines of his face. It said a good deal for the strength of his nerves that he didn't flinch as Harn loomed over him.
"Why in Perimal's name aren't you at your post?" Harn bellowed down at him. "The line was broken, and I've signaled four. Trinity only knows how many Wasters are halfway here now!"
Sheth closed his book and rose. He was thinner than Harn but a good head taller, which gave him the impression of stooping over the burly Kendar. His acrimonious manner, feared throughout the Kencyrath, for once wasn't in evidence.
"Gently, Harn, gently. My lord Caineron ordered that we wait for him to lead us into position. I think," he said, as if the words gave him some difficulty, "that he wants to lead a charge. He's never done that before."
"Well, now's his big chance. So where in all the names of God is he?"
"Gone."
"What?"
"He came back from Hurlen earlier this evening in foul temper. Whatever upset him, I think he was still brooding about it even after the alert sounded around one o'clock this morning. At any rate, his servant tells me that he suddenly acted as if he'd gotten a brilliant idea and went rushing out again with a few of his most trusted war-guard. That was about an hour ago, just before we heard that the barricades had fallen. I have no idea where he is now."
"And you can't move until he gets back."
"No."
"Yes, you can," said a voice at the tent entrance.
The two randon turned sharply to find Donkerri standing there with Kindrie and Burr behind him.
"We came to find out if there was any news of the Highlord," said Kindrie hastily.
"None," said Harn. "Highborn . . . Doni . . . what do you mean?"
"Grandfather told me that if he wasn't here, I had the authority to order his troops to their posts," said Donkerri in a high, defiant voice.
Harn and Sheth looked at each other. They both knew that Donkerri had been disowned and was almost certainly lying. Kindrie knew, too.
"Don't!" he said sharply to the boy. "Think what you're saying."
"I have thought. I owe Torisen a debt. Now I'm paying it."
"Do I understand," said Sheth carefully, "that you are taking responsibility for this, on your honor?"
Donkerri took a deep breath. He was very pale. "Yes."
"Then we can move." Halfway out of the tent, Sheth turned. "Thank you," he said to Donkerri, and was gone. They heard him outside shouting orders.
"Y-you'll tell the Highlord?" Donkerri asked Harn in an unsteady voice. "Try to explain . . ."
"He'll understand, and be very proud of you. Now you'd better come with us."
"Sir, there's no time for the proper rites," Burr protested.
"The essentials won't be up to us anyway, thank God. Just find him a sword."
"And armor?"
"No."
Kindrie caught Harn's arm. "You can't take him into battle, My God, he's only a boy!"
" 'We all find our own rites of passage,' " said Burr unexpectedly. "It was something my lord said at Tagmeth," he explained.
"This rite may have saved us all, but through a lie that's cost Doni his honor," said Harn. "The only way that honor can be restored is through an honorable death. You know that, Highborn."
Kindrie let his hand drop. "Yes," he said numbly. "I know that. Good-bye, Donkerri."
When they were gone, Kindrie stood for a long moment in the empty tent. Outside, horses neighing, shouts, receding hoof-beats. Caineron's troops had been ready to move at a minute's notice for hours and now did so. When the Shanir emerged, all twelve thousand of them were gone, with dust still swirling in the light of abandoned watchfires. Far downfield, horns were sounding the news of a line utterly broken. Then came the Cainerons' eldritch war cry, faint in the distance, and the crash of horses clearing the Lower Hurdles. The wind veered, taking the sounds of battle with it. Upfield, a sheep overlooked by its shepherd was bleating disconsolately.
Kindrie went through the empty camp. No, not quite empty. Ahead was a large tent full of light and activity, guarded by Jaran and Coman one-hundred commands. Inside, bandages were being folded, poultices and potions prepared.
"Yes, Highborn?" A red smocked surgeon bustled up, brisk, impatient. "Can we help you?"
Kindrie gulped. "Perhaps I can help you," he said diffidently. "You see, I'm a . . . a healer, of sorts."
* * *
THE CABLE STRETCHED TO INFINITY. Gleaming water surged over it, under it, pulling, pulling. Her arms ached from fighting the strain. Hemp fibers lodged under her nails like splinters. Every time she released one grip to take another inches farther on, the current tried to sweep her over or under the cable, down toward the rapids. Trinity, what a relief it would be to let go, to rest until she hit the white water and then to die. Drowning was supposed to be an easy death. But her hands went on, grip by painful grip, as if they had determined on their own not to let go of life.
. . . too stupid to give up, too stupid to give up . . .
* * *
JAME BLINKED. She still heard the rapid's almost deafening roar, but what she saw were flames. A small bonfire, with her d'hen and boots drying beside it. A sharp face across the flames turned toward her.
"Hello," said Graykin.
"Hello." She had to raise her voice almost to a shout to make it carry over the water's noise. "I assume I didn't drown."
"Not quite. You got nearly to shore before passing out, and fetched up on some rocks a few yards downstream. We're about a hundred feet farther down the gorge now, about level with the Lower Hurdles. The River Road is on top of that cliff behind us, which you can't see because it's about as light down here as the inside of a boot. So much for the geography lesson. How do you feel?"
"As if drowning might have been a good idea."
She pushed back the blanket and sat up. Her arms felt as if every muscle in them had been pulled. She looked at her hands, at ruined gloves and nails scarcely in better shape. She wouldn't be using them again soon. At least by some miracle Ganth's ring hadn't fallen off. She considered pocketing it, then on impulse stripped off what was left of her gloves, wrapped a bit of fabric around the ring and put it back on.
"Let's see. So far tonight I've fallen out of a tower, almost drowned, nearly been declawed, and now I'm apt to lose my voice from shouting. Once, just once, I'd like to spend a quiet evening at home—wherever that is. So when does your lord Caineron arrive to collect me?"
Graykin spat into the shadows. "He's not 'my lord' anymore. Mind you, he still would be—as much as he ever was—if he had given me what the news of your arrival was worth."
"And he didn't, huh?"
Graykin drew a handful of coins out of his pocket and let them spill, flashing, onto the ground. "What do you think?"
"That Caineron is a fool. Also that you're being very . . . blunt."
He shot her a look across the flames. "I'm no more apt to lie than you are, but there are a hundred ways to hide the truth. I'll never use any of them with you, ever. That's a promise."
She stared at him, wondering if she had heard correctly. "Graykin, that's one hell of a concession. Why? Guilt?"
"No. I simply follow my own interests. Listen: People in power need sneaks like me to be their eyes, to keep their hands clean. I've been Caineron's sneak most of my life—not bound to him, you understand, just letting him use me. Well, that's over now. He'll never give me what I want, but perhaps someday you can. You'll need someone like me when you have power. Oh yes, you'll get it. Nothing stops
you. When that day comes, I want to be your sneak—if you're half-witted enough to want me."
Jame shook her head. "Graykin, this is one of the strangest conversations I've ever had, which is saying something. Even if you're right about the power, which I doubt . . ."
"Why should you trust me? A good question. The best I can do is offer two tokens of my good faith. First, this." He picked up a long bundle and handed it to her across the flames. "It's your brother's sword. Caineron wanted it, but he'll have to do without. Second, when we last met, you trusted me with your name. Unfortunately, my Southron mother didn't live long enough to give me one. All my life, I've answered to whatever people chose to call me. But I can tell you who my father is: Caineron."
"Sweet Trinity. Does he know?"
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