by Tom Deitz
They were actually no larger than a good-sized man—about Eddyn’s size, perhaps—and shared more than size with him, too, Rrath thought sourly. Essentially lizardlike, they nevertheless walked on their hind legs, which put their fanged heads a span above the ground. Their long tails were mostly for balance, and their eyes were in the front of their heads, like most predators. Their skin was smooth and mottled, rather than scaled, and made high-quality leather. And their claws were dark blackish green—and prized in Ixti for use as dagger hilts.
Why were they here?
Officially because Priest-Clan maintained a scholarly function as well as a spiritual one. Which, though it put them in competition with Lore, also helped validate their existence among the increasing ranks of unbelievers.
And perhaps for a second reason.
Canon taught that anything that had intelligence also had a soul. Dolphins had been given their own god, just in case, because their actions were ambiguous. But in recent years increasing attention had been devoted to certain other animals that seemed to display traits that while not distinctly human, yet did not seem to be entirely derived from instinct. Reason and the use of tools were two of these. And maybe language.
Or memory, or loyalty, to judge by how the birkits had acted when they’d attacked his Ninth Face companions back at the station. Avall, and maybe the rest, could speak to them mind to mind—of that he was almost certain. But geens seemed even more warily alert than birkits. And if he could somehow access their wicked little minds …
Well, he might not need Ninth Face allies any longer.
And so he watched and waited, sprawled upon his rock.
Eventually the second geen appeared. The male. It spared what looked almost like a contemptuous glance at the feasting female, as though to say, Fool of a woman! Why dull your teeth on stale meat when we will soon have fresh?
Disgusted, it ambled off toward the south side of the canyon, which brought it directly under Rrath. Apparently its goal was the shade there, for it curled up in a compact ball, all its elaborate armament of claws and fangs obscured, save the row of hand-sized spiky plates down its back.
Rrath edged closer.
A stone moved under his hand. He flinched back, but didn’t fall. The stone did, however, landing directly atop the geen’s head. It uncoiled at once, leaping to its feet faster than even Rrath—who’d observed them steadily for over a year—could imagine.
And not only upright, it leapt up the cliff—straight toward him.
The walls were sheer—fortunately—so the beast could find no purchase. But even so, the movement brought its head uncomfortably close to Rrath’s own before it fell to earth again.
Terrified yet exhilarated, he eased back to his former perch.
The geen was looking up at him, teeth bared.
Impulsively, Rrath bared his in return, trying to look as fierce as flat face and minimal dentition allowed.
To his surprise, the geen cocked its head.
Their eyes met.
For a long time they stared at each other.
Rrath wasn’t sure what the geen was thinking, but he no longer had any doubt whatever that something besides raw instinct lurked behind those intense yellow eyes. It was exactly like staring down a bully or a rival. An establishment of power hierarchy.
Rrath knew that. And he suspected the geen knew as well.
Knew that one-on-one and naked, the geen could rend his life away in instants.
Knew that with any number of longer-range weapons, Rrath had the best of it.
And that Rrath controlled the food.
And maybe that Rrath regarded them with something besides fear and loathing.
For almost a finger they remained that way. Barely blinking, not moving. Only when the female flung the shank bone at her mate did he turn away. And even as he pranced off to meet her, he looked more than once over his shoulder.
CHAPTER XXIX:
FROM ON HIGH
ERON-ERON’S BELT-SUNBIRTH: DAY VIII—MIDDAY
It doesn’t look like a battlefield, Avall told himself, as he shifted to a more comfortable position on his perch: a bare stone shelf three spans wide, high above Ormill Vale. Pines ringed the place, and spring flowers bloomed amid the laurel thickets that masked that part of the ridge. A lightning-blasted stump to his left made decent cover, now that he’d obscured his gaudy livery with a gauze-thin cloak and hood the same anonymous gray-brown as the rocks. The sky blazed overhead, impassive.
And below …
Below stretched a great bowl of a plain, eight shots across north and south, and half that east and west. The river divided it unevenly, a quarter to the north, the rest to the south. The north side—this side—was steeper, too, for the tree-clad heights behind which Gynn’s army nested swooped down sometimes dangerously precipitous slopes to meet the tall plain-grass halfway. Those same heights curved west as well, into the higher wall of Angen’s Spine, which ventured closer to the coast here than anywhere else in Eron. More stone than wood showed there. It was not a place for a battle, for all that a ruined hold claimed a prime vantage point on a particularly impressive crag.
South, beyond the river, the vale stretched flat for a fair distance before giving way to a series of forested hills. Barrax’s forces lurked among them, invisible behind the nearer knolls. They’d seen their smokes, however—and vast smokes they were, too.
Southeast—left—lay the gorge itself, its western terminus veeing in to meet the river at the obligatory waterfall that characterized all five inhabited gorges. Unlike fallen Half Gorge, however, or Eron Gorge, South Gorge’s principal city, Tir-Vonees, had not been built at the west end of the gorge, with fields spreading between it and the sea, but at the coast. This end was mostly lake as well, the few islands marked with mills and assorted villas—all deserted now—with the land between being the province of small Common Clan farmers, many of whom now swelled the ranks gathering beyond the rise. There’d been talk of moving the forces east, to defend Eron’s third most populous city. But such a diversion would have been wildly out of the way. Besides which, Barrax hadn’t marched his army there.
Or into the gorge.
There were two reasons for that. One was that, like the vale below, the gorge’s west end flooded in the spring, which was also why Tir-Vonees was on the coast. The second was that Barrax was no fool, and while it was easy enough to enter the gorge from the south, the northern cliffs were ever so much steeper, and no commander worth his sword would lead his army into such an obvious trap, especially when the defenders could rain whatever they wanted upon them with impunity.
To control South Gorge, then, one had to control the plain around it and the water that flowed into it. The valley was the obvious place for the armies to meet.
Avall wondered about the wisdom of battle now, given that the river was still in flood, though receding every hand, and the flats to either side would surely be reduced to a slippery snarl of grass-laced mud. Not the best terrain in which to wage war, either on horseback, or afoot.
But battle, so the scouts said, there would be.
As soon as the bridges cleared.
Which could be any moment, Avall decided, as he squinted through the distance lenses Gynn had provided. The view was hazy and distorted, for the lenses were a new thing Glass had contrived, and not yet perfect in their operation. Still, he could see the river clearly: a mud-colored shimmer amid fields of grass only slightly less luminous. The bridges were still drowned, but the rails showed on all three intact ones, and the uppermost, which was also the narrowest, was probably covered no more than knee deep.
But they’d slighted the causeway that led up to it, as they’d slighted all those higher up, never mind that it was out of the way, and too narrow. Any army crossing there would have to go single file. And the waters were too deep to ford a-horse, even without opposing fire.
A movement in the underbrush behind him made Avall tense and reach for his sword before he heard a fami
liar hail and saw Merryn trotting up what passed for a path behind him. Like him, she wore a gauze stone-cloak, but the flimsy fabric did little to disguise the glint of steel and heraldic fabric beneath. Her eyes flashed fire.
“Merryn!” Avall began, with a grin that faded when he saw her grim expression.
“I didn’t want to be here,” she grumbled. “I’d planned to get in there and fight till I could fight no more, since a good hunk of this is my fault anyway.” She flung herself down beside him. “But then the King got wind and said, ‘Oh no, you’re going to defend your brother, since he may not be in a position to fight if he’s threatened. You’re also going to advise him on what he sees, since you know more about tactics than he.’” She cuffed him so roughly he wasn’t entirely sure it was play. “So here I am, your trusty adviser/guardian. I hope you appreciate it.”
Avall regarded her seriously. “You shouldn’t feel guilty—not about War-Hold. There’s not a High Clan man or woman alive who hasn’t been subjected to imphor. It was the wood talking, not you.”
Merryn pounded the rock beside her. “Yes, but I was a member of the Night Guard—or was training to be. A little longer, and I’d have worked up an immunity. But I had to get impatient. I had to go running after a man. A stupid, conniving man!”
“Save your anger,” Avall advised. “That’s also something they teach at War-Hold, isn’t it? At least you’re here with us. At least you’re getting to fight on the proper side.”
“I wouldn’t be fighting at all if I’d kept my mouth shut!” Merryn shot back.
Avall resisted the urge to reach over and hug her. Neither could spare the distraction. “I’m surprised you aren’t with Strynn. She’s playing spy over on the other side.” He pointed west, to where their ridge met the mountains by the ruined hold.
“I asked to be, but the King said you were more important than she was, based on what you know. I didn’t argue. But I made him send Div—who’s quite something, by the way—with her.”
Avall couldn’t help but giggle. “Yeah, I figure she’s almost your equal as a warrior.”
Merryn huffed contemptuously, and settled into a more comfortable slump, but her face told Avall this was no time for talk.
Especially when that conversation might be the last either of them ever had.
“I’m going to try to contact Strynn, Rann, and the King,” he said sometime later, with the vale as empty as ever, but his nerves somewhat more frazzled. “If I do anything weird—stop me.”
Merryn nodded, moving in close enough to subdue him, should that become necessary. “If you start getting cold,” he cautioned, “either move away, or bring me around. I don’t know how much power this will take, but it may very well draw on you. I’d hate for you to be too tired to save my skin when the real battle comes.”
Merryn snorted, but did as instructed. For his part, Avall reached into his tunic and fished out the gem. Per a suggestion from Rann, he’d made a new casing for it that included a spring-loaded spur that popped out when one touched it a certain way, thereby negating the need to constantly cut one’s hand. That wasn’t strictly necessary anyway, he suspected—he hadn’t always needed it with the old gem—but this one was still largely untried, as though the two of them were getting used to one another. A pause for breath, and he closed his eyes, even as his hand closed around the gem. The pressure released the catch, and he felt a prick of pain as his hand was blooded. With it, too, came the now-familiar rush of warmth and familiarity and … liking.
And power enough for what was needed. Working with the gem at odd moments during the last few days had taught him considerable discipline, so that he was able to enter the proper frame of mind with relative ease. A breath. Two—and he’d blanked his mind sufficiently to conjure Strynn. Not as she looked, however, but how she felt when he was in her mind. The image clarified, and then he reached for her—
And was there.
It works.
A mental chuckle. Div had just suggested I send to you! I’d just pricked my finger, and was starting—
Maybe we were linked already.
Maybe so. Can you see anything?
Avall blinked, trying to distinguish among what he saw with his interior eye, the impressions he was receiving through Strynn’s, and what he could see with his own true vision.
Use my eyes, she suggested. Close yours and try to see what I see. And then I’ll reciprocate.
Avall did—and felt the intensity of the contact increase. At the same time he truly did see with Strynn’s eyes—she was gazing at a very quizzical-looking Div. She blinked at him uncertainly, then spoke. Her words had an odd quality to them, like a muffled echo in a metal-lined room. “There’s been a change,” she said. “The King didn’t think it would be wise for him to be distracted by whatever communication you two managed to get to him. More to the point, he wasn’t certain he could receive what you told him without him actively bonding to a gem, which he didn’t think was smart in the heat of battle. So he’s … just sent word for Rann to join him. He’ll have a guard, and he’ll report whatever you tell him to the King.”
Avall’s fury—concern, or whatever—nearly severed the contact. So he’s going to endanger Rann? Does he think Rann can ignore the distractions of combat any better than he can?
Probably not. But he’s more used to it. I … think it’ll be like picking out a single voice in a room full of speakers. Difficult, but not impossible.
Maybe, Avall conceded. In any event, I don’t want to waste any more energy on this than I have to. But take care of yourself—all of you. Remember that I love you.
And I you.
A pause. Then, from Strynn, Can I have a look at Merryn?
A short one would be wisest, but you were going to test this back.
And with that, Avall opened his eyes. Reality roiled and shifted, and it took a moment before he felt solid again. His head also felt clogged, as though with a painless hangover. The pain would come later, he suspected. In spite of his confusion, he spoke to his twin. “She’s here, Merryn. She can’t speak to you directly, though you might feel the resonance. But if you’ve anything to tell her, now would be a good time.”
“She knows what I’d have to tell her.”
“I know, but she needs to hear it.”
Merryn puffed her cheeks. Then: “Everything after today will be easier, but simply knowing we’re both free again and fighting on the same side makes everything easier.”
Avall felt twin waves of emotion wash through him, one from close by, one from afar. It was more than he could bear. And with that the contact severed. Nor did he trust himself to contact Rann. That, he suddenly knew, truly would be more than he could bear.
It began as a glint on the horizon just before noon. Just as the narrowest bridge finally stood free. Just as the water on the other two reached knee height. Just as sections of wall became visible along the riverbanks.
A glint that hadn’t been there before. And then a glitter of light: sunlight on a burnished helm. Avall tensed at once, saw Merryn fall into reflexive guard beside him. He fumbled the lenses free and checked to make certain. He’d hate to call down an attack on some poor misguided tinker with a donkey. Eronese tinkers also wore burnished helms.
“Is it—?” Merryn hissed beside him. He watched a moment longer, then passed her the instrument.
“It is,” she concluded grimly.
Avall’s hand had already closed on the gem. Rann! he shouted into the ether. I think it’s begun. He blinked then, and in that moment glimpsed Rann running toward the High King, who was just starting to climb atop his horse. The armies of Eron spread around him. Beyond him was the crest of the ridge to the right. A mirror signal could have marked the movement, but not been so precise. “Your Majesty,” he heard Rann cry, “it’s started.”
The King fairly leapt into his saddle. An instant later he was galloping. Avall withdrew from Rann’s mind. But he had no doubt whatever that his bond-brother was also
mounted.
When he blinked back to his own place again, it was to see Merryn all but crawling down the rock in her eagerness to see more. “If there’s anything the King should know, please tell me.”
“Tell him,” Merryn said at once, “that the foe has twice as far to ride as we, but that the ground is marshier on this side the last shot or so, which will slow him down. Tell him that the bulk of the force seems to be angling toward the bridge closest to the gorge, though the water is highest there. Tell him that I see banners of Ixti’s minor houses but not that of their king.”
Avall closed his eyes, and relayed all those things, and for that one moment, his world was the pain in his hand, the one in his heart, and the one in his head.
Nor did he know if the King even heard Merryn’s last observation. Because by the time Avall had relayed it, the vanguard of the Eronese army had crested the ridge and started down the hill, with the King clothed in the Cloak of Colors, riding unhelmed in the center.
It was like ants swarming toward a line of fresh blood, Avall thought. Eron’s first charge consisted of alternating sections of foot and horse, the idea being that the horse would arrive first, and slow the enemy until the foot—mostly archers at this point, and most of them Common Clan men, women, and youths of either sex from South Gorge—got within range to effectively use their bows.
Certainly there’d be no massive impact; the terrain would see to that. What Barrax was doing attacking so early, he didn’t know, either. But perhaps the king of Ixti knew something they didn’t.
“They don’t value life as much as we do,” Merryn offered, as though she’d overheard him, which, given the intensity of Avall’s emotion, she might have. “And they’ve surely been promised booty. There’s much for the average Ixtian to gain in Eron. There’s precious little for us down there, unless you want to fire all the sand in the Flat into bricks and build a wall around them.”
