Dark Horse (35 page)

The trapped clans would not waste the time or the men to chase down an enemy that would scatter and flee at the first sign of strength.

It tested Athlone's tolerance to see the outcasts taunt and posture beyond arrow range, but he could do nothing about them. Savaric had ordered no shots fired or sorties made---yet. Let the exiles think the four clans were cowering in the depths of the defile.

Since the arrival of the Dangari that morning, Savaric and the other chiefs had made plans to bring the four clans out of the defile to the fortress under cover of night. One of Jorlan's men had found a hidden stairway leading from a storage room in the back of the fortress, down the back of the ridge, and into the gorge behind the river wall.

The stairs made it easy for Savaric and the others to slip down to the defile, but the way was too narrow and steep for a large group with pack animals. The clans could only enter the fortress by the front gates. However, a move like that was too dangerous during the day, for the exile band could wreak havoc on the women, the children, and the wagons of supplies. At night, the clans could slip into the stronghold in relative safety. Particularly if the marauders were busy elsewhere.

Athlone grinned to himself. He would not have to wait much longer. The wer-tain sensed someone come up beside him, and he turned to see Koshyn lean against the parapet.

The young chieftain's face was unreadable in the deepening twilight, and his tattoos were almost invisible. "For men who are dead to our eyes; they are making a nuisance of themselves."

Athlone made a sound deep in his throat. He shifted restlessly. "They think we can only sit here on our pretty wall and show our teeth."

Koshyn glanced over his shoulder and studied the fading light in the west. "Let them be ignorant a little while longer. It will be dark soon, and we'll be able to ride." He turned around and stared up at the black, hulking mass of Ab-Chakan. The walls and towers of the old fortress rose above them in a massive silence, its stones hiding secrets and echoing with memories that were beyond the knowledge of the clansmen.

"I feel like a mouse scurrying around some unholy monolith," Koshyn said softly, as if afraid the stones would hear. "What are we doing here?"

Athlone's strong face twisted in a grimace. He, too, felt the weight of the old wal s. "Trying to survive."

"In an inhospitable place that was never meant for us. We aren't used to stone beneath our feet and walls before our eyes. We fight with muscle, bone, and steel." He gestured to the fortress. "Not with crumbling, old masonry."

"Would you prefer to face Medb's fury on the plains below? It would be a glorious way to die."

The Dangari grinned and shook his head. "And fruitless. No, Athlone, I am not stupid---only afraid."

Athlone lifted his gaze to the west, half-hoping to see a Hunnuli mare gal oping out of the night. But only the wind rode the grass; only the muted hooves of the horses waiting in the defile echoed in the night. "We all are,” he muttered.

Abruptly Koshyn pushed himself away from the parapet and slapped the sword at his hip. "We are too gloomy, Wer-tain. While there are weapons at hand and an enemy to fight, let us ride as warriors are meant to."

Athlone smiled grimly. "You're right, my friend. We will be in paradise before this fortress falls.

Come, we'l show the exiles our teeth."

They linked arms and strode down the stone steps to the gate, where Savaric and a large group of mounted warriors were waiting for full darkness. Behind the riders, in the depths of the gorge, stood the massed ranks of the four clans. The men, carrying packs on their backs, looked uncomfortable and edgy.

The women and children stood in a large group in the center of the ranks, their arms ful of bundles and their eyes downcast to hide their fear. Loaded pack animals, oxen and cattle that could be eaten later, waited patiently among the lines. Not a torch flickered or a fire burned. It was almost totally dark in the defile. Athlone could feel the anxiety of every person about him.

A shiver charged the wer-tain's nerves like the touch of a ghost. He had seen Ab-Chakan in the daylight and even then its empty chambers and ancient silences had unsettled him. He knew what his people were feeling now as they waited to enter the fortress in the depths of the night.

Another group of warriors taken from all four clans stood along the wall, watching Savaric. They were the volunteers who would remain behind to guard the river wal and the herds that had been driven deep into the defile. Athlone frowned.

There were so pitifully few men to guard the crumbling, old wall. There was little choice, however; the remainder of the fighting men, nearly three thousand, were needed to protect the fortress.

The light of the sunset had died and night was upon the clans. The roar of the river seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet, crowded gorge. Despite the breeze from the rushing water, the air was sluggish and heavy with a damp chill.

Athlone pul ed his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he and Koshyn went to greet the mounted warriors. Boreas came to join the wer-tain. In the darkness, the black horse was almost invisible. Only his eyes, glowing like moons behind a thin cloud, and his white mark of lightning could be seen. Eagerly he snorted and butted his nose on Athlone's chest. The wer-tain vaulted to his back.

Savaric came to the Hunnuli's side and looked up at his son.

The chief’s hood was drawn over his nose, hiding his sharp features, but Athlone's gaze reached through the darkness to touch his father's in a wordless moment of understanding and sadness. In a passing breath, their thoughts and concerns became one and each gave to the other the strength that they would need for the coming days. Savaric nodded once. He squeezed his son's knee, joined his hearthguard, and in a low voice gave the warriors his last-minute instructions.

"Ride safely, Athlone," Jorlan said, coming up beside the Hunnuli.

Athlone greeted the other man. "I'l see you soon in the fortress."

"Hmmm," said the second wer-tain. "I can hardly wait to hole up in that monstrosity of stone."

"Think of the pleasure Lord Medb will have when he fully realizes the size of the nut we are giving him to crack. He will be quite surprised."

Jorlan's face broke into a malicious grin. "That's an image worth savoring."

"Athlone,” Savaric called. "It's time."

The chieftain's command was passed down the lines of clansmen, and the tension immediately intensified in the defile. The ranks of men shifted forward in a press of armor, swords, and packs; the women drew closer together. At the end of the lines, Sha Umar and the rearguard waited impatiently to go. .

Jorlan saluted Athlone as the mounted men moved to the river wal . Koshyn joined Athlone and the gate was eased open.

"Remember,” Savaric whispered loudly, "we need time'"

On soundless hooves, Boreas passed out of the defile, and the company of riders fel in behind him.

Al were mounted on black or dark brown horses, and in the thick night, Athlone doubted the marauders would see them until they were on top of the fires. He urged Boreas forward until they reached the foot of the ridge beneath Ab-Chakan, where the river curved south. In the defile, the main ranks of the clans waited breathlessly, tight with tension, with only a long walk to a cold, dark ruin before them. But Athlone and the warriors with him could ride like clansmen were born to: with horns blowing, swords in their hands, and an enemy to fight face to face.

Athlone could wait no longer. An excitement and fury roared within him that was fired by days of frustration and running. He drew his sword. Koshyn caught his feeling and cried to the horn bearer with them. "Now, let them hear the song of the hunt."

The horn burst in the quiet night like a thunderclap. It rebounded through the hil s, ringing clear with the victory of a quarry sighted and the joy of the coming kill. Before the last and note left the horn, Boreas reared and neighed a challenge that blended with the horn's music and forged a song of deadly peril. In unison, the other men drew their weapons with a shout and spurred their eager mounts into a gallop toward the fires.

The exiles were taken by surprise. As the riders swept down on them, the outcasts broke out of their stunned lethargy and frantically ran for their horses. The Hunnuli burst among the largest group.

Two men fell to Athlone's sword and one to Boreas's hooves. The rest scattered in al directions, the clansmen on their heels.

A few exiles were caught by the riders and immediately put to death. The remainder fled to the sanctuary of the rough hills, where they could easily lose their pursuers. Thus it was that the marauders did not see the files of heavily laden people and animals toil up the road to Ab-Chakan, nor did they hear the thud as the massive gates were closed.

At dawn, the horn bearer again sounded his instrument to welcome the sun and to gather the riders. Exhausted, their fury spent, the warriors rode back, pleased with their labors. They had suffered only a few minor wounds while nine of the exiles had been kil ed. The troop rode to the gates of the fortress, and the men who greeted them and took their lathered horses were relieved to have the riders back. The big bronze gates closed behind them with a thud of finality.

It was not long before the exiles edged back to their cold fires and took up their watch of the fortress.

As soon as it was light and the women were settled in the palace and surrounding houses, guards were placed in the towers to watch the plains for signs of Medb's army, and the chiefs and their men set out to explore every cranny of the stronghold. The men spent al morning poking and digging and opening things that had not been opened in generations. By the time they returned to the palace's hal to confer, even Koshyn was admiring the handiwork of the men of old and the most reluctant clansman was realizing the capabilities of the fortification.

The outer wal s and the towers were stil in very good condition. The inner walls were crumbling but defensible, many of the stone buildings in the fortress's center were sturdy enough to shelter the clanspeople and the livestock. The cisterns, buried deep in the rock, were ful , since the water was constantly refreshed by seasonal rains.

As soon as the chiefs had planned their defense of the stronghold, everyone set to work to prepare the old fortress for what it had not seen in centuries: war. The wal s were patched, the trash and rubble were cleared out of the space between the two wal s, and the gate was secured with logs and chains.

Wer-tains and children alike began to grow confident in their new refuge. It would take more than Medb and a few clans to rout them out of this hill of stone.

The clanspeople were still working desperately when a horn blew wildly from one of the towers.

The people looked up at the sinking sun in surprise. It was too early for the sunset horn. Then the realization dawned on them all, and the chiefs came running to the wall from every pan of the fortress.

The men close by the main wal crowded up onto the parapet.

There in the valley, the exiles were galloping their horses about and the vanguard of the sorcerer's army was riding up the old road.

As planned, horns blew from all the towers and five, banners---one gold, one blue, one maroon, one orange, and one dark red---were unfurled above the main gate.

Savaric's hands gripped the stone. "Medb is here," he cal ed: the people crowded into the bailey below him. "You all know your duties."

Silently, the warriors dispersed to seek their weapons and take their places along the battlements.

Athlone ran up the stone steps to join the chiefs, and without a word, Lord Ryne pointed down to the valley.

Once again Medb timed his arrival to create the greatest impression. The sun was already behind the crown of the mountains when the sorcerer's army arrived at the Defile of Tor Wrath and the valley was sinking into twilight. A sharp wind blew the grass flat and swirled about the foot of Ab-Chakan.

Heralded by the wind and cloaked by the approaching night, the sorcerer's vanguard crossed the bridge and stopped at the foot of the hil just below the fortress. They waited in ominous silence.

Behind them, the main army marched to the command of drums. They came endlessly, countless numbers obscured by the dim twilight that hid their true form. They came until the valley was filled and the army spread out along the mountain flanks. There were no torches or lamps or voices or neighs of horses to break the monotony of the terrifying black flood. There was only the sound of the drums and the remorseless tread of feet.

The clansmen watched the coming host in dismay and disbelief. Never had they imagined anything like this. The force that marched relentlessly toward the defile was no longer Wylfling or Geldring or Amnok or foreigner lured by gold. It had become a faceless, mindless mass driven by the single will of one evil man.

The wind eased and al movement died in the val ey. The night-shrouded army gathered its breath and waited for its master's signal. But the sorcerer held them firm. He let the troops wait, allowing them to see their goal and the clansmen to see their doom. In the fortress above, Savaric and the clans looked on with dread. Stil Medb held back his army. The tension burned until it became almost unendurable.

Then a lone horseman rode out of the vanguard and up to the gates of the fortress. He was cloaked in brown and a helm hid his face, but nothing could hide the snide, contemptuous tone of his voice.

"Khulinin, Dangari, Bahedin, and Jehanan. The rabble of the clans." He snorted rudely. "My master has decided to be merciful to you this once. You have seen the invincibility of his arcane power and now you see the might of his host. Look upon this army. Weigh your advantages. You will not survive long if you choose to oppose Lord Medb. There are still other choices: surrender to him and he will be lenient."

Savaric struggled to find his voice. Furiously, he shoved his hands over the edge of the stone wal and gripped it tightly for support. "Branth, I see you have lost your cloak." His voice was harsh with derision.