Angus Wells - The God Wars 03 (51 page)

           
"And the closer he comes to
Tharn, the stronger he becomes, the greater the
likelihood
of his reaching the Mad God. You know that shed blood is
meat and drink to Tharn, that war augments his power. Think then what the
arrival of this army at Anwar-teng must mean, think what blood must spill when
these loyal forces encounter the rebels."

           
He turned from the brazier, and in
its dim light his face was grave, hollowed with a dreadful doubt. Calandryll
nodded, understanding. Bracht continued to frown, and Ochen explained, "Do
all these thousands and all the thousands of Ozali-teng fall on the thousands
of the rebels, then the land must stink of blood. There's the irony of it—the
loyal forces would defend the gate,- but to defend that gate can only
strengthen Tharn." He shook his head, sighing again, and it seemed to
Calandryll the weight of all his years sat heavy on him, his vitality suddenly
drained. "I'd not give the Mad God that feasting sooner than is
inevitable. The longer that battle is delayed, the better your chance of
defeating Rhythamun, for does full war commence I believe our enemy shall find
such power granted him as to render him unvanquishable.

           
"I cannot halt the war. Horul,
but I'm by no means sure I should! It's a conundrum to defeat the wisest
mage—does battle commence, then likely Rhythamun becomes insuperable; does
Anwar-teng fall ..."

           
His voice trailed off, exhausted.
Callandryl said, hoarse, "Then likely Rhythamun wins."

           
Bracht said softly,
"Ahrd!"

           
Ochen said, "And so I gamble. I
hope that we may enter Anwar-teng before full battle is joined. I hope the
wazir-narimasu shall lend you such aid that you defeat Rhythamun before he
grows too strong. I pray Horul that I do the right thing."

           
There was anguish in his voice,
doubt writ clear on his face. Calandryll said, "You do what you can,- what
you must," seeking to reassure him, and Ochen laughed, once, a harsh,
bitter sound, and said, "Aye, and in the doing, do I betray my clan? Do I
grant the insurgents entry to Anwar-teng?"

           
"What if you be wrong?"
asked Bracht, offering support. "What if Rhythamun does still own the body
of this Jabu Orati, and rides with this horde?"

           
Ochen looked up at the Kern, a
rictal smile stretching his lips. "Then we had best hope he be soon
found," he answered, "and sleep wary this night. But I doubt I'm
wrong."

           
Katya spoke then, for the first
time. "I believe you right," she said gently. "In all you
do."

           
Ochen nodded his thanks, but
Calandryll saw he took little enough comfort from their reassurances. He
struggled for some formula that would resolve the wazir's dilemma, but could
find none, save: "Surely the defeating of Rhythamun, of the Mad

           
God, is a duty higher than that owed
your clan. Surely it's a duty owed Horul, owed all the Younger Gods. Dera,
should Tharn be woke the Makusen shall likely exist no more! Do we defeat
Rhythamun, then all the world stands in your debt/
⁷

           
"But still," Ochen said
softly, "my blood is Jesseryte blood, and all my life I've served the
Makusen. To deceive my fellows so sits hard with me."

           
"There's no deceit," said
Katya. "As Bracht says—it may be that Rhythamun remains within these
ranks, and therefore such investigation as you've suggested is needful."

           
"But I perceive it as
deceit," Ochen returned, "for I remain convinced he's gone on."

           
"Two days is scarce time enough
to swing the balance of this war," Bracht said. "You take overmuch
blame upon yourself."

           
"Perhaps." Ochen shrugged.
"But then again, perhaps I had done better to speak honestly with my
peers."

           
"No." The Kern began to
protest, but the wazir raised a hand, effecting a wan smile, and said, "No
more, my friends, I beg you. I know you look to convince me, but this is a
matter for my own conscience and none other. I must wrestle with it alone, and
I am mightily wearied. Do we find our beds?"

           
Bracht would have argued further,
but Katya took his hand, drawing him away. Calandryll said, "Until the
morrow, then," and turned toward Cennaire, offering his arm, courtly,
bringing her to the partitioned sleeping quarters. He would have kissed her,
but both entrances stood open and so he bowed, smiling for all he was concerned
at Ochen's discomfort, bidding her good night. She answered in kind and stepped
into the chamber, dropping the entry curtain behind her. He stood a moment,
frowning, then went to join Bracht.

           
There was no brazier and the chamber
was shadowy, the canvas wall vibrating softly under the wind's caress. The
sounds of the vast encampment came through. Calandryll yawned as he shed his
swordbelt, resting the scabbard against the frame of the low bed. He tugged off
his boots and padded to the washstand. As he splashed chill water on his face
he heard Bracht say,-low, "Ahrd, but it pains me to see the old man so
torn. I've grown fond of him."

           
"Aye." Calandryll
stretched on the bed. The pillow was hard, but after so many nights with only
his saddle it seemed a great luxury: his eyes grew heavy. "He's proven a
true friend."

           
Bracht said something else, but he
failed to discern the words, nor could he summon the energy to question his
comrade. Sleep beckoned and he could barely murmur the protective cantrips taught
him before he gave in and allowed slumber sway.

           
DAWN
came bright, the sun a white
_:
gold disk at the horizon's rim, the
sky poised undecided between blue and grey, the wind died away, the air
sharp-edged. Smoke rose in myriad columns over the camp, and the odors of
cooking food mingled with the scent of almonds as the wazirs went about their
searching. Of Chazali there was no sign, and the questers ate their breakfast
with Ochen, brought them in the pavilion by two kotu-ji.

           
Immediately they were done, they
found the Nakoti commissary and secured such supplies as they should need for
the remainder of the journey to Anwar-teng. None made reference to Ochen's
doubts of the previous night, and the ancient mage seemed to have set his
misgivings behind him. He was, however, somewhat subdued, and when Calandryll
solicitously inquired the reason, he replied that such constant use of magic as
he had employed to clear their path to the army had wearied him.

           
"Horul willing," he
declared as he heaved himself awkwardly astride his mount, "the snow shall
be frozen hard enough I may rest a little as we ride." Then he chuckled, a
measure of his customary good humor returning. "As much as my ancient
bones can rest upon so unyielding a creature as a horse."

           
"Do I break trail?" Bracht
suggested, and Ochen waved his agreement, looking about a moment as though he
bade kinsmen and friends farewell. The Kern tapped heels to the black
stallion's flanks and trotted out, the others behind, past the ranks of tents
and men, the mules and horses, the wagons, all spread in orderly formation, as
if some nomadic people wintered on the desolate flatlands.

           
It took the better part of a hour to
clear the camp, and then they traveled virgin snow, crusted hard and scoured by
the wind. Their pace varied, swift where snow was frozen, supporting the weight
of animals and men, slower where the horses must plunge through drifts banked
up and soft.

           
By
noon
, when the pale sun hung overhead like an
impassive, watchful eye, the great encampment was lost behind them, ahead the
glittering sweep of the unbroken snowfield. It shone bright in the sun's harsh
light, threatening the fresh hazard of snowblindness, and Bracht called a halt,
fetching kindling from his saddlebags to start a small fire. They brewed tea
and ate sparingly of the provisions, and when they were done the Kern took
sticks from the flames, allowing the blackened tips to cool and then daubing
the charcoal around his eyes. He applied the same rough protection to each of
their faces, and they stared at one another, laughing at the clownish effect.

           
"Dera, but we resemble a flock
of owls," Calandryll declared, chuckling. "Do we also possess their
legendary wisdom?"

           
"In
Kandahar
the owl is a symbol of death,"
Cennaire observed, instantly regretting it.

           
"Here, it may save our
lives." Bracht flung the last stick away. "We'll have little chance
of success do we go blind."

           
That night, and for fifteen more,
they camped on the snowfield, in tents secured from the commissary, Katya and
Cennaire in one, the three men in the other. Their fire was, of necessity,
small, and even wrapped in the heavy cloaks Chazali had given them—their
blankets draped protective over the horses—they were chilled. At least the wind
remained quiescent, as if they had traveled in a matter of days from autumn's
ending to dead of winter. Darkness came early and dawn late, and the air lay
still, keen as a knife's edge in nostrils and mouths, numbing on exposed skin.
By day the sky was a blue so pale it seemed almost white, blending immutable
with the land. By night it was a black so dense the new-filled moon and the
stars seemed not to pierce the obfuscation, but to struggle against a darkening
that was wholly unnatural. Despite the protective gramaryes he employed,
Calandryll could no longer entirely fend off the olfactory manifestation of
Tharn's sending. The charnel stench intruded on his senses as if the reek
became so strong it found chinks in his occult armoring, and he found he must
once more struggle against the horrid feeling of desolation, of despair, that
threatened to leech out his will. Almost, it seemed the land lay already under
the dominion of the Mad God.

           
On the morning of the sixteenth day
they struggled up a snow-encrusted ridge that ran like the backbone of some
buried monster across their path. Stone showed, dull grey and shocking after so
long traversing the blank whiteness of the snowfields, along the crest. There,
as if the stone marked a boundary, the snow ended; beyond, the ridge sloped
gently down, rock giving way to winter-dulled grass that spread over a shallow
river valley. The river ran, grey-blue and broad, from a great expanse of
water. On the north bank, diminished by distance, stood a hold. On the grass
before the citadel, along both banks of the river and partway along the shore
of the lake, stood an array of tents, horse herds like shifting shadows on the
land, men too far away to see.

           
"Anwar-teng," Ochen said.

           
"And none too easy to
reach," murmured Bracht.

           
"Save these approaching
riders," said Cennaire, whose eyes were the keenest there, "be a
welcoming party."

           
The stone concealing at their backs:
it seemed impossible any should have sighted them.

           
"Can you be sure?" Bracht
asked.

           
Cennaire said, "There are
twenty horsemen. Kotu-zen by their armor, and riding hard toward us."

           
The Kern mouthed a curse. Ochen
said, "Magic! The turncoat wazirs use their powers to espy intruders,
Horul damn them."

           
Calandryll said, "Do we follow
this ridge along, might we avoid them? Might we reach Anwar-teng before they
reach us?"

           
"Thaumaturgy guides them,"
Ochen replied. "Likely they'll follow wherever we go."

           
Bracht was already unshipping his
bow from its protective wrappings, adjusting the quiver against his saddle.
"Then we must fight," he declared.

           
Ochen nodded absently, turning to
Cennaire. "Are there more?" he asked.

           
She shook her head. "No, only
these twenty."

           
The wazir nodded, thinking a moment.
Then: "Do we follow the ridge toward
Lake
Galil
, and fight only when we must."

           
Bracht glanced up at the sky and
said, "It's a while before the light goes, and until then they've the
advantage of us."

           
Calandryll and Katya brought bows
from their packs; strung them. Ochen said, "Let us gain what time we may.
Do we close on Anwar-teng, perhaps we'll find help from that quarter."

           
"Do we stand here
debating?" asked Bracht. "Or do we ride?"

           
They rode. Pell-mell across the
downslope of the ridge, grateful for the sounder footing of the grass, thankful
they need not flee across the snow. Bracht led the way, the black stallion
stretching into a furious gallop, Katya urging on her grey behind, then Ochen,
bouncing and cursing in the saddle, followed by Cennaire, Calandryll alongside.

           
Cennaire turned, peering northward,
and shouted, "They change direction to head us off."

           
Calandryll returned her, "How
far?" and she answered, "A league, perhaps."

           
And
they on fresher horses than our poor tired beasts,
he thought.
How long before they intercept us!
Ahead, the ridge curved a little, turning north before petering out onto the
grass that swept gentle down to the lakeshore. There were tents there: the
rebel forces. It seemed they ran from one danger into another. It seemed
impossible they should reach Anwar-teng unscathed; nor any more likely they could
fight a way through the armies sieging the citadel.
Dera, Horul,
he thought,
do
you aid us now! Have we come so far, only to fall here!

           
There was no answer, only the
furious drumming of the hooves, the gusty breath of near-blown horses. The sun
looked down, indifferent, from the bleak sky and it seemed the fetid reek grew
stronger, anticipatory. The kotu-zen drew closer, enough that now he could just
make them out, twenty black shapes galloping hard at an angle toward the
questers
^’
path, guessing—or told by sortilege—their intention.

           
They reached the ridge's ending and
Bracht snatched on the reins, the stallion wickering irritably as it halted.
Katya was taken by surprise, almost colliding as she steered her grey around
the curvetting black, turning to come back alongside the Kern.

           
"What do you do?"

           
Bracht flung out his bow, indicating
the terrain ahead, the shadow line of tents along the lake. "Do we go on,
we're caught. Better we face them here." A savage smile stretched his
lips. "They're only a score, and we've the advantage of height here."

           
"And do we defeat them?"
Calandryll dragged the chestnut to a stiff-legged halt. "What then? There
shall surely be more sent out."

           
"Can we stand them off until
dusk we've darkness for our ally." Bracht sprang down, bringing his quiver
from the saddle. "And perhaps Ochen's sorcerers. Or his magic."

           
Calandryll looked to the wazir,
undecided. Ochen studied the land ahead and nodded. "Bracht understands
these matters better than I," he called. "And have the rebels seen
us, then likely the wazir-narimasu, also."

           
"And your magic?" Katya
asked. "Can you use that now?"

           
"That should be hazardous
still," Ochen said. "It may be they take us for scouts, and so better
if you can defeat them without my aid."

           
"Then do we see our mounts safe
among these stones."
Battle
joy flashed in Bracht's blue eyes. "For it's a long walk to
Anwar-teng."

           
Without awaiting a response he led
the stallion in among the lithic detritus that marked the ridge's end,
tethering the snorting beast. The others followed suit, leaving the animals
protected by the rocks.

           
Swift, Bracht barked orders, sending
Katya and Calandryll out on a line where the stones looked down onto the grass.
Cennaire and Ochen crouched at the center, a little way back. Calandryll
glanced at the Kand woman and smiled, she answered him with a wave, her dark
eyes worried as she watched him take his position.

           
It was a place easily defended. The
slope, for all it was gentle, must slow the riders somewhat, and if they chose
to match the questers with arrows, they must fight without cover. Did they
attempt to charge, bringing the fight to close quarters, they must climb the
gradient under fire. Calandryll set his quiver close at hand, upright against a
boulder, and nocked a shaft, waiting.

           
It was not long before the twenty
kotu-zen showed distinct on the plain: it seemed an eternity. They came on at a
gallop, slowing as they saw their quarry had not broken cover, reining in to
study the cuesta. Their armor was dark crimson, marked on chest and back with
the sigils of their clan. Longbows stood in scabbards behind their saddles, all
wore swords; two held long-hafted war axes. They conferred, out of bowshot,
heads turning to survey the ridgetop, faces hidden behind their helmet veils. One
motioned with the ax he carried, sending the rest into line on either side. For
a heartbeat that seemed to Calandryll to stretch out for long moments there was
a silence broken only by the stamping of impatient hooves. He drew his bowstring
taut, sighting down the shaft. There was a shout, soon followed by a medley of
war cries, and the riders charged.

           
They came within bowshot: Calandryll
loosed his shaft. Saw it imbed in crimson armor even as he snatched another
from the quiver, nocking and sighting in a single fluid motion, wondering in
the instant that action took how strong was Jesseryte armor. The man he hit
seemed unaffected, even when the second arrow sprouted from his breastplate.

           
"Their faces!" Bracht
roared. "Aim for their faces!"

           
Calandryll adjusted his aim, and saw
a veil pierced. Likely the hit man screamed: battle shouts and hoofbeats hid
all other sound. He saw the Jesseryte sway in his saddle, sword dropping from
his hand. He nocked and swung leftward, bowstring throbbing as the shaft was
flighted. His target rose in the stirrups, rigid as his head flung back,
tumbling over his horse's hindquarters. The first warrior still sat his mount,
urging the animal on, his fallen sword replaced with a wide-bladed dagger.
Calandryll fired again, the range far shorter now, the arrow driving deep into
armor, the Jesseryte shuddering as it hit, then slipping sideways from the
saddle, dragging his horse's head round before his gauntleted fingers let go
their hold. The horse screamed angrily, bucking, almost on the rocks, then
cantered away, downslope. Its rider lay awhile on his side, then staggered to
his feet, retrieving his dagger. The broken lengths of three arrows protruded
from his breastplate, another from his face. Calandryll thought he saw blood
running from under the veil as the kotu-zen began to weave an erratic course
toward the boulders.

           
Seven men lay dead; twelve were
still mounted, their armor decorated with shafts. They seemed less deterred by
the slaughter of their comrades than enraged. They spun their mounts,
thundering partway back down the slope to turn and charge again. The wounded
man continued his solitary advance, halted by the arrow Katya sent with
dreadful accuracy into the right eye hole of his veil. Calandryll heard his scream
then, shrill as he fell to his knees, a hand beginning to reach up, then
halting, suddenly, his head dropping forward. He pitched onto his face and lay
still.

           
Three more died in the charge, flung
from their horses as feathered shafts sprouted lethal from their veils, driving
hard through the vulnerable links into the softer flesh beneath, finding
targets in eyes and mouths and brains. The rest turned back, regrouping out of
bowshot.

           
Bracht shouted, "Cennaire, do
you see them reinforced?"

           
She came from where she waited with
Ochen, running to Calandryll's side, looking out toward the distant huddle of
tents, and answered, "No. There's none others approach."

           
"Good, for I run short of
shafts." Bracht laughed, a wild cry of battle lust, and glanced at the sky.
"Dusk draws closer. Do we stand off these few left and then, save we've
slain them all, slip away."

           
Calandryll felt Cennaire's hand
resting on his shoulder and turned his head a little, to rub his cheek against
her grip. She smiled grimly and stroked a hand over his long hair as he called
to Ochen, "Shall they not know us gone, with magic to aid them?"

           
"Likely," replied the
wazir. "But we've little other choice, save to go back."

           
"And have them find us out on
that snow?"

           
Bracht shook his head. "No, my
friends. We stand or fall here."

           
Further debate was curtailed by the
enemy. They charged with drawn bows now, sending long, crimson-painted shafts
winging before them. Calandryll ducked, pushing Cennaire back, as three arrows
rattled off the boulders to either side. He heard Bracht shout, "Hah! They
replenish our quivers," and brought his own bow to bear.

           
The defenders still enjoyed the
advantage of height, the attacking kotu-zen forced to expose themselves as they
rose in their stirrups to use their longer bows. Two more were slain, the
charge turned back again.

           
"Here!"

           
Calandryll found Cennaire beside
him, her out- thrust hand clutching gathered Jesseryte shafts. He took them
with a grunt of thanks and waved her back to cover, forgetting in the heat of
the moment that arrows offered her no harm.

           
The riders charged a fourth time.
The waning afternoon filled with the susurration of exchanged fire. Calandryll
found his quiver emptied and nocked a crimson shaft. He noticed the head was
viciously barbed. Then saw it lift a man from his saddle, spilling him down
among the bodies already littering the slope. Horses went riderless now,
milling on the gradient, some turning to canter away from the fight, others
running wild alongside the remaining attackers, halting only at the rocks, to
rear and flail their forehooves, shrilling madly, as if they joined the
surviving kotu-zen in outrage at the slaughter.