Suddenly Hannay stopped climbing.
We stared, straining our eyes and trying to figure out what had happened.
"Angina's been knocked out by the rebel's stone," Miky said.
"Oh Lud," I whispered, knowing that, unconscious, the empath could not send courage to the big coercer. If Hannay fell now, he would kill them both. The rebel climber began to ascend again.
For a long time the coercer did not move, but at last he began to climb again, too.
"Has Angina... ?" I began, but incredibly Miky shook her head.
That meant Hannay was going it alone. He went very slowly, testing hand holds and creeping over the face of the cliff like an ant in a windstorm.
By contrast, the rebel climber rose with exultant speed, uncaring that his partner was being dragged and bumped against the poisoned rockwall. When he reached the top, he hauled up his trussed partner and gave a great shout of triumph.
This was echoed by the rebels below.
It was more than half an hour later that an utterly exhausted Hannay dragged himself up on the platform and pulled Angina up after him. They were brought back down on kamuli. Angina had regained consciousness, though he had a lump on his forehead the size of a hen's egg, and claimed to be seeing double. Kella drew the slight concussion out of him, and Miky went to where Hannay sat heavily on a boulder, staring at the ground.
"That was brave," she told him softly. "I know coercers hate heights. Are you all right?"
"That was the hardest thing I have ever done. But it was not bravery that moved me, Miky. It was blind terror."
"Not so blind," Miky whispered, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
A faint color rose in his face, just as Jakoby approached to summon us back to the dais. Miryum had wakened and joined us as we took our places. Bram looked closely at the stocky coercer before agreeing that she was fit to continue. Now we were ten again, but Malik had lost one player. The man who had been trussed and borne up the ridge wall had touched the walls too often and he was seriously ill. There would be no question of his returning within two games.
"The rebel climbers clearly saw the object of the game as speed," Bram said. "Having identified their objective, they lost no time in pursuing it. It is also clear that the rebels have a second objective—that is, to destroy or harm their opponents. They have been equally single minded in their efforts to fulfill this objective, but so far have failed. Oddly, this does not appear to have excited a desire to retaliate on the part of the Misfits. They have done no more than use their unusual Talents to protect themselves when they were under attack.
"Neither did they use their powers to inhibit their opponents' progress up the wall," Bram continued, tugging at the lobe of his ear. "They might have caused their opponents to jump from the cliff under some delusion. But they did not. They only appear able to use their abilities to help themselves or to defend themselves. There does not seem to be any capacity for aggression in them."
He straightened and the overguardian brought the dice again.
At the first throw, twelve marks faced up.
"The Pole," Bram intoned.
On the second throw, three marks faced the sky and we gathered around Rushton to decide which three should represent us.
"I have some skill with the pole as a weapon, but twice I have failed," Hannay said despondently. "I am not afraid, but I think you should not choose me."
"You did not fail," Angina said. "I made you brave, and when I was hurt you made yourself brave."
The coercer smiled wanly and ruffled the empath's hair. "Let us say you showed me the knack of it."
"I will do it," Miryum said stoutly. "Pole fighting is my specialty and if it is aggression they want I am the person to give it to them."
Rushton nodded. "I name myself as well to this, for I too have some skill at the pole."
"We need three," Miryum reminded him.
"I have not learned the pole but I am strong," Daffyd offered diffidently.
"Why not," Rushton agreed, sounding almost cheerful. I guessed he was glad to be involved rather than watching.
"What if they are not to fight with the poles?" Dameon murmured, but Jakoby had called for Rushton to nominate his team for the third game. Malik spoke, and the chosen six were marched off to the armoring tent.
When Jakoby explained this game, my heart sank for we had misjudged yet again, for the game did not involve the common sport of pole fighting. The title referred instead to a long, slender piece of wood run between two high stands. Two of these constructions were erected before our eyes, to stand less than an arm's width apart.
The object, Jakoby said, was for each trio to cross the pole from end to end one at a time, without falling. The first team with all members across safely would end the bout.
Hannay groaned. "Badly as we have done already, we cannot hope to succeed now. No coercer fears heights more than Miryum."
Our only consolation was that the rebel team seemed no happier about this Battlegame. I kept my fingers crossed that at least one of their people would also be afraid of heights.
The six returned carrying short staves which were clearly to be used for balance poles. Even at a distance, I could see Miryum was white and tense as Jakoby told them each team must begin at opposite ends and proceed at their own pace.
"Begin," Bram shouted.
Rushton went first, crossing with the grace and balance that had stood him in such good stead aboard The Cutter, and an obvious lack of fear. The first rebel had no hope of matching him and made his own crossing slowly and carefully, sweating and swearing at every step. By the time he reached the other side, Daffyd had already taken Rushton's place and was making his careful way across the pole.
The second rebel was far more agile. He swarmed up the ladder and stepped out onto the pole with confidence. He looked across at Daffyd and smiled.
My heart began to bump uneasily as he came level with the grimly concentrating Daffyd.
He swung his stave out without warning and dealt Daffyd's a hard thump.
Panicking, the Druid armsman dropped his stave and swayed back and forward. The rebel laughed and did not see the stave fall to straddle the two poles. Still laughing, he held his own stave up and stepped forward, only to trip on Daffyd's. Taken by surprise, he had no chance at regaining his balance. He fell with a terrified scream.
"Lud help him," Miky whispered, but my eyes were riveted to Daffyd who was still swaying dangerously.
"Use your arms!" Rushton cried.
Slowly Daffyd lifted his arms and, after a long tense moment, he stepped forward again, only to misjudge.
Kella screamed as he fell but, at the last minute, he caught hold of the pole. He hung there for a long moment before beginning to make bis way hand over hand to the ladder.
There was dead silence as he climbed to the ground and crossed to where the second rebel lay in the red-stained sand, motionless.
He looked up at the two rebels, who had made no move toward their fallen comrade.
"He's dead."
"Go!" snarled the first rebel to the third, shoving him. The red-haired man licked his lips, then began to mount the stand.
I looked across at Miryum.
She was trembling violently, her face paper white, her eyes fixed on the dead rebel.
Rushton cursed audibly, and set his hands on the ladder at the finishing end.
"Look at me, Miryum," he urged.
She lifted her head.
"Put your hands on the ladder. We'll climb up together. Do exactly as I do, and don't look down."
Seeming half mesmerized by his fierceness, she obeyed, putting her hands around the first rung.
And so they climbed.
The third rebel was halfway across now, but moving very slowly. The first rebel shouted and jeered at Miryum, calling her a great stupid sow, but her entire attention was focused on Rushton.
They had reached the top of the ladder and were facing one another. "Come," Rushton i
nvited softly. "Walk across to me. Come as slowly as you wish and don't look down. Don't think. Just step out."
She did not move.
I closed my eyes, unable to bear the tension. If she managed to make it across, we would have won our first game, no matter how long it took. But how could she?
"Lud save us. She's doing it!" Hannay whispered incredulously.
I took a deep breath and opened my eyes to see Miryum had indeed taken up a balancing stave and stepped out onto the narrow pole. She walked forward, step by slow step, her eyes fixed on Rushton as if they were her lifeline. She reached the center of the pole. The exact center.
Then I saw her eyes sweep down to where the rebel lay.
She stopped.
"Come on," Rushton urged. "You've come this far."
But she was like a statue, frozen with terror.
"Come on," Daffyd shouted from below. "Reach down and swing the rest of the way like I did."
"She can't," Hannay murmured, his own brow beaded with sweat.
"I'm strong!" Miryum cried in an agonized voice. "I'm strong!"
For one dreadful moment, I thought she was going to jump.
There was a cry of anger from the rebels and I saw that Rushton had come out from the other end using his hands outstretched to balance himself. In moments, he and Miryum were facing one another. He spoke too softly for us to hear what he said, but it was clear that he was coaxing her. The third rebel had reached the end and was jeering and exorting the coercer to join the dead rebel on the ground.
Miryum shook her head at Rushton.
He reached out, talking all the while, until he was also grasping Miryum's balancing stave.
"No!" Miryum moaned, as he pulled her gently toward him.
"Yes," Rushton said calmly, firmly. "For Obernewtyn. Walk, Miryum."
And, incredibly, she did. He walked backward, leading her and feeling his way with his feet and instinct.
When they were safe, I cheered myself hoarse with the others, blinded by tears of pride. Miky and Angina were nearly crushed to death by an elated Hannay and mere was not a dry eye among us.
The rebels roared too, hissing that it was a cheat.
"How so?" Jakoby inquired of Malik, who had made the charge formal.
"He helped that fat bitch. She would not have made it without him."
"That is true," Jakoby said, and for a moment her golden eyes were full of irony.
"The Misfits show great courage and great devotion to one another," Bram said. "Perhaps too much, for if the girl had fallen she would undoubtedly have taken their leader with her. A wise leader does not risk himself in this way. Not for a single of his warriors."
He went on to praise the singlemindedness of the rebels in trying to thwart their opponents, but suggested they needed to temper zeal with thought, since they had lost another player and were now down to eight.
"There must be some warriors in case a battle is only one of many in a war." He expressed regret at the dead rebel as the body was carried away, but none of the other rebels seemed overly disturbed by what had happened to their companion.
The next game to be played was called The Ride.
XLII
"I am for this," I told Rushton, for a swift probing had told me there were horses in a corral just behind a clump of trees.
For a moment our eyes met.
"Yes," he said. "But, Elspeth, we have to do more than win this with speed and grace. We won the last game, I am sure, but we have to show some aggression. It sounds as if these Sadorians value that in the rebels and we're losing because of it."
"I'll try," I said.
When Rushton named me to Bram, Malik named himself.
We were brought to the small herd of beasts I had farsensed and bade to choose our mounts. Malik immediately selected a huge gray gelding with intelligent eyes. He had clearly chosen the most powerful beast, but a race among horses sometimes had more to do with endurance than strength. I paused for a moment and swung myself into the corral to walk among the other horses.
I beastspoke at random, asking who was stronger and faster than all the rest Suddenly I found myself face to face with the little mare, Faraf, whom I had aided at the city gate the day I arrived at Sutrium.
"Greetings ElspethInnle," she sent. "It seems our paths are twined. As you see/discover my escape did not bring me to the freerunning barud."
"You were captured?"
"Yes, and sold to these. As funaga go, they are not bad/ evil. Yet I dream of the freerunning."
"Choose," Malik snarled impatiently.
Ignoring him, I explained my need to the mare.
"The other/funaga has taken the strongest among us. But you had better choose me, for I am small and not strong," she advised.
"Why? Will the strong/wise other let us win? My need is very great."
"He would if I ask it, Innle, for he knows what you are. But they will feed us a garrug/a leaf which some call prickleberry. It causes a madness that infects/burns the brain. Better still to ride a weak mad horse than a strong one.
I bit my lip to keep a smile of triumph from my mouth as I led Faraf out.
Malik looked down at the slender mare incredulously, but a servitor merely offered us a choice of saddles. The rebel chose a great solid armored thing with sharp metal spurs. On Faraf's advice, I took one that was light and deep seated. I chose the simplest bridle but removed the metal bit.
When we were brought back to the isis pool, a space had been cleared, and Jakoby explained what Faraf had already told me. We would get onto the horses and they would be fed the prickleberry which would madden them temporarily. We would sit on them until the drug took effect. When one of us was unseated, the game would be ended.
"This weed will not kill the horses as it did the bear?" I asked, trying to recall what I knew of prickleberry.
Jakoby's brows lifted. "The bear did not die from the gurrug. Its heart was weak and burst under the strain of battle."
The shadows were long now, and I prayed this game would end the day. If we won, it would leave both sides equal, and perhaps that was the best way to win this fight.
"Courage," Faraf sent as I mounted her. The saddle felt stiff and hard against my backside, and the metal stirrups pressed my feet uncomfortably. A servitor brought a nosebag and, as Faraf ate, a thought came to me of how we might further impress the rebels.
"Faraf/littlesistermind, if you will let me into your thoughts/open to me, I can block the effect of this leaf so that it will not madden you."
"I will open but already it begins to affect me."
This was true, for her whole body was already twitching. I sent a probe into her mind and examined the effect of the prickleberry. It moved swiftly but I was faster, blocking nerve paths and sending it by innocent trails to the bowel to be voided. Still some of the drug remained in her system, so I took control of her nerves and immobilized her completely.
Gradually the trembling faded and she stood quiet.
Malik's horse, meanwhile, was pacing about shuddering and shying at nothing. The rebel's face was pale and he held the rein cruelly tight, ready to saw on the horse's mouth the minute it tried anything.
Without warning, the animal gave a shrill whinnying shriek and reared up.
The sound tore at me and I tried to get to Malik's horse to ease him. But the drug had taken hold and his mind was inaccessible. It plunged and bucked violently, but the rebel kept his seat. He was a superb rider.
He gave me a look of patent fury and I read his intention a moment before he kicked his horse into a maddened run—straight at me!
I could do nothing to move Faraf out of the way because I had shut down her nerves. As Malik thundered past the saddle spikes cut her neck and my leg deeply.
The horse bucked in a circle as Malik fought to bring him around. Then he charged again.
"Stop!" I screamed, as the metal spur this time tore open the little mare's flank. I was trying frantically to restore her motor
responses but the drug was preventing me.
Again Malik fought his mount to turn it, and as he bore down on me I saw that he meant to kill me if he could, or cut my mount to pieces under me. The spikes missed but he dug the horse with his heels and it kicked out, catching Faraf on the side of her head.
Blood streamed down her face and she staggered sideways in a hideous parody of the first time I had seen her.
He turned again.
"No!" I screamed, and threw my leg over her to slide to the ground. "I forfeit!"
There was a roaring sound in my ears, and my leg felt oddly numb, but I turned to slide my arms around the mare's bloody neck.
"I am sorry, ElspethInnle. I have failed you," she sent humbly.
"Never," I whispered, looking into her eyes. I kissed her soft nose and limped with her back to the pens. I did not look at Malik, who had jumped clear of his horse.
"There is nothing to be said since this game was forfeited," Bram said, when we were all assembled again. "Ye did th' right thing," Fian whispered angrily, when I returned to them. Freya nodded and squeezed my arm. But I was not comforted. If only I had possessed the presence of mind I might have coerced Malik, but fear for Faraf had stopped me thinking clearly. I dared not look at Rushton. He had trusted me to win this game and I had forfeited. That meant we had won only a single game, while the rebels had won three. Even if we won the next game we would lose the Battlegames, for the shadows were long and the sun would soon set. I sat down, feeling as if my legs were too weak to support me.
"There is blood on your trews," Freya whispered.
Bram rose to throw again. Ironically the fifth game was named Song, and the number of players from each team was two. We could not lose, and yet it was now impossible for us to win.
"A song! This is a joke," Malik snarled.
"I told you, the Battlegames tests many qualities. Proceed, unless you would forfeit," Bram said tranquilly.
The two red-faced rebels chosen by Malik sang a bawdy battle song, probably the only one they knew.
In contrast Miky and Angina's song dealt not with the glory of war, but with the tragedy of it. It was an old song that told of two boys; brothers separated at birth and sent to war against one another. Only when one had killed the other, did they understand what had come to pass. The song was supposedly a dirge, sung by the surviving man over his brother's body.
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