Dark Horse (36 page)

The Geldring made a broad sweep with his arm to indicate the army behind him. "Brown is such a strong color, fertile with opportunities."

"So is dung, but I wouldn't trade my clan for it. How do the Geldring feel about forsaking the green?"

Branth's words were clipped with anger. "My clan obeys."

"
Your
clan!" Savaric forced a rude laugh. "No longer, Branth. Your clan is Medb's and it is
he
they obey. The Geldring no longer exist. Go away from here, traitor."

Branth sneered. Behind him, in the valley, the army shifted restlessly. "Bravely spoken, chieftain.

Soon, you, too, will see the wisdom of wearing brown. Only do not take long to decide. The army has already smelled blood." With a harsh cry, Branth spurred his horse back down the road.

Medb, in his enclosed wagon, nodded to himself in satisfaction. He forced his restive army back, away from the fortress. Anticipation would put a keen edge on the fear he had honed in the stronghold; when at last he released the attack, the clansmen would not survive for long.

Their fates were sealed as surely as Medb's victory was assured. The Khulinin and the others would cease to exist; their chieftains would soon be destroyed. Even if Savaric and his allies did surrender, Medb certainly did not plan to be lenient.

* * * * *

The first attack came before dawn, in the cold hours when reactions are slowest and muscles are chilled. It was only a probe to test the strength of the defenders and the clansmen the easily beat back the attack. Still, the men found it was a relief to fight. After the long, interminable hours of waiting through the night, the screaming horde of mercenaries that swarmed up the road to the wall was a blessing. The chiefs knew it was." only a test, and they quickly repaired their defenses to meet the next onslaught.

This time they had a long wait. After the mercenaries fell back beyond the river, the army's encampment was quiet for a few hours. Savaric posted guards and allowed the rest of the defenders to stand down, but few of the warriors left the parapets. They watched and waited to see what Medb was going to do next.

Around noon, the activity in the huge camp suddenly increased. Wagons were seen moving to the hills and returning with stacks of cut logs. Hundreds of men clustered together and appeared to be working on several large things the clansmen could not identify. The noises of wood being cut and hammered sounded long after dark.

In the fortress, Savaric and the clansmen continued their vigilance through another long, unbearable night.

At dawn the next day, the labors of Medb's army became clear. Three large objects were wheeled out of the encampment, across the old bridge, and set up at the base of the hil , out of arrow range but as close to Ab-Chakan as possible. The clansmen were in position on the fortress walls, and those in the front ranks watched curiously as the strange wooden devices were prepared.

"What are those?" Lord Ryne asked, voicing everyone's curiosity.

Savaric called to one of his men. "Bring Cantrell here."

The bard was quickly brought and careful y escorted up the stone steps to where the chiefs were standing on the parapet. "I hear Medb has been busy," Cantrell said after his greeting.

"There are three wooden things just below the fortress," Savaric answered. "They're heavy, wheeled platforms with long poles on top. The poles are attached at one end of the platform and have what looks like large bowls fastened to the other end."

"Look at that," Sha Umar added. "The men put a rock in that one device and they're pul ing down on one end."

Cantrell's face went grim. "Catapults.”

As if in response to his word, the device below snapped loose and a large rock sailed up and crashed into the wal just below the parapet. The defenders instinctively ducked.

"Good gods!" Savaric exclaimed. The men peered over the walls just as another rock was flung at the fortress. The missile hit the bronze gates with a thundering boom. The clansmen were relieved to see there was no damage to the wal or the gate, but as the morning passed, the men on the catapults found their range and the heavy stones began to rain down within the front walls of the fortress. Several clansmen were killed when a huge rock landed in their midst, and the old parapet sustained some damage. The other men were thrown into confusion as the boulders continued to crash down around them.

Then, just before noon, Athlone glanced over the wall and saw the army forming across the river.

"Here they come!" he shouted. A horn bearer in the tower by the gate blew the signal to warn the defenders along the walls.

In the val ey below, men rushed forward and set up make shift bridges over the Isin River, and the sorcerer's army launched its full fury at Ab-Chakan. Under the cover of a deluge of missiles and arrows, the first ranks of soldiers with ropes and ladders charged up the road and the sides of the hill to the front walls. Al the while, the army's drums pounded relentlessly and a roar of fury echoed through the fortress. In the first frantic minutes, Athlone was too busy to appreciate the strategic advantages of his position, but as his men fought off the attackers, it dawned on him that the old stronghold was easy to defend. Not only did the swift river prevent large attack force from crossing all at once, but the ridge's steep slopes slowed down the advance of the enemy and left them open to the deadly fire from the battlements. The clansmen cheered when the first wave fell back, and a glimmer of hope returned to their hearts.

The second wave came, more enraged than the first, and nearly reached the top of the walls before they were repulsed. Attack after attack was thrown at the walls and each was pushed back, foot by bitter foot, until the ground was heavy with dead and wounded, and the surviving defenders were shaking with exhaustion.

It doesn't matter, Athlone thought grimly as he threw away his empty quiver, how easy it is to hold this fortress. Medb has the greater numbers and the advantage of time. Eventually the fortress will collapse from the lack of men to defend it.

In mocking reply to Athlone's thoughts, the enemy's horns bayed again and a new attack stormed to the wal . This time the onslaught scaled the defenses. The clansmen drew their swords and daggers and fought hand to hand as the fighting swayed frantically over the battlements. Blood stained the old rock, and yells and screams of fury echoed around the towers. Time and again Savaric rallied the men and fought off the wild-eyed attackers from the parapet, only to face more of them with fewer men at his side. Desperately, he brought the men on the back wal s around to the front and prayed the river wall and its defenders were enough to protect Ab-Chakan's back.

The clansmen lost al sense of time. The battle raged through the afternoon in a seemingly endless cycle of attacks and repulses. Sha Umar went down with an arrow in his shoulder. Jorlan was slain defending Savaric's side. The catapults continued to hurl missiles over the wall and at the gate, damaging the fortress and distracting the defenders. Al the while, the drums pounded incessantly in the valley.

Then, without warning, the enemy withdrew. They fell back to their encampment and an eerie silence fell over the val ey. In the tower by the gate, the horn bearer sounded the cal for sunset.

The clansmen looked around in surprise as darkness settled down around them. They had won the day. But as the chiefs began to count their dead and wounded, they wondered if they would be so fortunate tomorrow.

Across the val ey, in Medb's tent, the sorcerer's rage burned hot. His powers had doubled since leaving the Tir Samod, and he had healed his crippled legs. However, there were no spel s to bolster his energy and he was near collapse from sustaining his army's rage during the long battle. He had suffered heavy losses. Finally, Medb realized he had underestimated Savaric.

The four clans were backed into a stone burrow from which only something unexpected could flush them. There was nothing left to do but hold off on her attacks until new plans could be made.

The sorcerer allowed his army to return to its encampment, and he went into seclusion to rest and ponder. Ab-Chakan would fall if he had to crumble it with his bare hands.

* * * * *

Shortly after midnight, Athlone mounted Boreas and joined a small troop of volunteer riders waiting by the front gate. Several men carried torches and bags of oil.

Savaric was waiting for Athlone and came to stand beside the big Hunnuli. The chief's face was deeply worried. "I don't like this, Athlone," he said forceful y. "It would be better to forget those catapults. They're too heavily guarded."

The wer-tain's eyes met his father's and he nodded. "I know. But those machines are wreaking havoc on us. Besides, it would do the clans some good to see those things burn."

"But if you get trapped outside the gates, we might not be able to help you."

"It's not too far, Father," Athlone replied. "We'll burn those things and get back as fast as we can."

Savaric sighed. He hated the danger his son was riding into, but he too, wanted those catapults destroyed. Final y, he nodded reluctantly.

The wer-tain saluted him. Then, without warning or reason, a deadly chil touched Athlone's mind and a shade seemed to pass over his father's face. Alarmed, Athlone sat back on Boreas and rubbed his hand over his chin. The feeling of malaise was gone as quickly as it came, leaving in its place a dull, aching hol ow and a newly planted seed of fear. He shook his head slightly and wondered what was wrong.

Savaric did not seem to notice. He bid farewel to his son and stood back out of the way. The bronze gates were opened.

The first inkling of disaster came with a flare of torches at the fortress gates, then a storm of horses'

hooves thundered down the road and swept with gale force into the midst of the guard around the catapults. Led by a rider on a flame-eyed Hunnuli stal ion, the horsemen surged into the stunned enemy.

The riders' weapons ran red with blood, and their eyes gleamed in the joy of battle.

While Athlone and his men pushed the enemy back, the men with the torches rode to the catapults. They doused the devices with oil and threw their torches onto the wooden platforms. The catapults burst into flames and the riders began their retreat.

But Lord Branth was expecting a possible attack on the siege weapons, so he was waiting with his men in the encampment. At the first sign of attack, he charged across the bridge to meet Athlone's men, before the riders could escape.

The clansmen on the walls of the fortress watched in horror as Athlone and his riders were surrounded and the fighting grew bitter. Savaric shouted frantically for more warriors to ride out and rescue the men, but he knew that it was already too late.

Inexorably, the Wylfling and Geldring pulled down the riders. Athlone and his men were forced into a tighter and tighter circle. They fought back ferociously, anxious now only to survive.

Then, without warning, a spear was hurled over the warriors' heads into Boreas's chest. The great Hunnuli bel owed in pain and fury. He reared and his hooves slashed the air. He tried to leap over the fighters and carry his rider to safety, but the spear was buried too deep. The stallion's heart burst, and his ebony body crashed to the earth.

Athlone felt his friend's dying agony in every muscle of his body; his mind reeled in shock. He held on blindly when Boreas reared and sprang, but as the Hunnuli fel , he was too overwhelmed to jump off.

The horse's heavy body col apsed beneath him. Athlone saw the ground rushing toward him just as unconsciousness dimmed his searing grief.

A triumphant shout roared from the attackers. They pressed forward and quickly slew the last surviving Khulinin who tried in vain to defend Athlone's body. Lord Branth shoved his way through the crowd to the corpse of the Hunnuli. He gleeful y grabbed Athlone's helm, wrenched it off, and raised his sword to cut off the wer-tain's head. .

"Hold!" The command stil ed the chief’s arm. Furiously he looked up and saw Lord Medb standing by the bridge, his face illuminated by the burning catapults. A second spear was in his hand. Branth quaked. .

"I want him alive," Medb said. "I have a use for the son of the mighty Savaric."

On the wal of the fortress, Savaric watched as his son and the big Hunnuli fel . He saw the enemy swarm over their bodies and he saw Lord Medb standing straight and strong on the river's bridge. The chief’s eyes closed. Slowly his body sagged against the stone wall and he gave in to his grief and despair.

Gabria lost track of time. The hours she spent with the Woman of the Marsh seemed to spring from an eternal wel head and flow endlessly beyond her memory.

The girl and the sorceress had descended to a large, round chamber that lay beneath the tree. They sat together around a small wooden table, the woman hunched over her words and gestures like a jealous priestess and the girl watching with a pale face and a fascinated light in her eyes. Slowly, as the uncounted hours passed and the rasping voice muttered unceasingly in her ear, Gabria began to understand the depths of her power.

"Will is at the center of sorcery," the woman said time and again. "You have no time to learn the complexities, the difficult spells or gestures that govern the proper use of magic, so beware. You are attempting to impose your will on the fabric of our world. Magic is a natural force that is in everything: every creature, stone, or plant. When you alter that force, with even the smal est spell, you must be strong enough to control the effect and the consequences."

Gabria stared into the sorceress's remorseless black eyes and shivered.

The woman's dark gaze fastened on her. "Yes! Be afraid. Sorcery is not a game for half-wits or dabblers. It is a deadly serious an. As a magic-wielder, you must use your power wisely or it will destroy you. The gods are not free with the gift and they begrudge any careless use of it."

"But can anyone use this magic?" Gabria asked.

"Of course not," the woman said irritably. "People are born with the ability. That was the reason for the downfall of the sorcerers so long ago. A few magic-wielders abused their powers and those people without the talent grew jealous and resentful." The woman coughed and shifted in her seat. "But that time is past. As for you, your potential for sorcery is . . . good. Your will to survive is a facet of your strength. And that strength of will is the most essential trait of a magic-wielder."