The Anvil of the World (37 page)

"I can't understand him," said Smith.

"He's speaking Old Yendri," Lord Ermenwyr explained. "Nobody's used it in years. It's an affectation. They speak it to show how pure they are."

"Pure!"
Willowspear glared down at them. "After what they've done?"

"What's he saying?" Smith asked.

"Oh, about what you'd expect," Lord Ermenwyr replied, puffing smoke. "Hand over the abominations, that we may cleanse the world of them and so bring the Suffering-Deluded-Ensorcelled Daughter so much closer to sanity and blah blah blah. I think he's just warming up to his main demand, though."

Someone else was speaking now: Greenbriar, out of sight directly below them. He sounded angry, accusatory.

"Good for him," Lord Ermenwyr remarked. "He's telling them off properly. Asking the Grand Master how he dares to wear the Star-Cloak. And ... now he's just said he can't drop the Adamant Wall. And ... ha! He just said something that doesn't really translate, but the closest equivalent would be, 'Go home and simulate mating with a peach.'"

There was a crunch of twigs. Svnae came up behind them, bending low and holding the train of her gown up out of the debris. She had slung a bow and a quiver of arrows over one shoulder.

"I'd never have thought he'd use that kind of language," she said in mild surprise, peering over Lord Ermenwyr's shoulder at the scene below. "However would a monk learn about the Seventeenth Shameful Ecstasy of--" She noticed Smith and broke off, blushing.

The cloaked man spoke again, quietly, with implacable calm. Before he had finished, Greenbriar shouted at him in indignation. It was the closest Smith had ever heard to a Yendri being shrill.

"What's going on now?" he asked.

Lord Ermenwyr snorted smoke. "He says it's all our fault," he replied. "That we made the destruction of the garden inevitable by taking refuge here. They are not responsible. And Greenbriar just called him--well, you'd have to be a Yendri to appreciate the full force of the obscenity, but he just called him a Warrior."

"Well, isn't he?" Smith inquired.

"Yes, but ordinarily they hire mercenaries from your people," Lord Ermenwyr explained. "They don't like getting their own hands dirty. This is some kind of elite force, I suppose."

"You know what this reminds me of?" said Svnae in a faraway voice. "Watching the grown-ups through the stair railings when we were supposed to be in bed."

"Staying awake to see whether Daddy'd drink enough to discover the eyeball I'd hidden in the bottom of the decanter," Ermenwyr agreed fondly. Then his smile faded. The man in the cloak was speaking again. He spoke for a long while, and the lordling listened in silence. So did Willowspear and Svnae.

"What is it?" Smith asked at last.

"He's calling on them to put aside their differences and rise against a common enemy," Lord Ermenwyr replied at last, not looking at Smith. "He means your people, Smith. He's talking about Hlinjerith of the Misty Branches now. He says it'll be profaned if they don't act. And he ... I thought so. He knows the Key of Unmaking is here. He says he'll spare them if they'll deliver up the Key to him. Now we know why he didn't bring mercenaries from your race, Smith."

Greenbriar had been making some kind of reply.

"And
he's
telling him no, of course," Lord Ermenwyr went on. He fell silent as the voices went on down below. He turned to regard Smith with a cold thoughtful stare. Lady Svnae turned too, and though there was a certain pity in her gaze, it too was terribly thoughtful.

"What're they saying now?" Smith stammered.

Willowspear cleared his throat. "Er ... the Grand Master of the Orphans is saying that the brothers have been deceived. He just told them that all the high-yield cultivars and medicinal herbs they've been growing here have been intended to help the Children of the Sun, not the Yendri. He said Mother betrayed them."

"Why would your mother want to help
us?
" asked Smith.

"She has her reasons," said Lord Ermenwyr. "Now... he's saying there have been signs and portents that the Star-Cloaked Man is returning to this world. He will be the ... hm ... the Balancer. He will bring harmony. They are confident he will come in wrath to take by her hair the disobedient--" He stopped, aghast.

"What?" Smith asked.

"Just something really nasty about Mother," said Lord Ermenwyr briskly, though he had gone very pale. "And I'll have to kill him. Perhaps not today, though. Sister mine, I have a getaway boat and six big bodyguards watching it for me. Are you positive there aren't any other hidden back doors to this place?"

"We could make one," Svnae replied.

"I've got a remarkable rock-melting spell."

"An explosion might be quicker."

"Just what I was about to say."

"We can't just leave!" said Willowspear. "What about the brothers? What about the Key of Unmaking?"

"The brothers will be fine as long as the Adamant Wall holds, and as for the Key--Smith, old man, I'm sorry, but your race will have to take their chances. I make it a point never to try to pinch anything that belongs to a god, especially when he's paying attention."

"If it's too dangerous for us to take the Key out of there, it will be even more dangerous for the Orphans to try," said Lady Svnae. "Cheer up! Perhaps nothing very bad will happen after all."

"Other than a race war?" Smith demanded.

"Well, er--" Lady Svnae was searching very hard for a response both reassuring and noncommittal when there was a shout from beyond the window.

They all turned to look. The shout had been a summoning.

From the back ranks of the Yendri came a very young man, striding confidently to the front. He halted before the Grand Master and made deep obeisance. The man put his hands on the boy's head in a gesture of blessing. Then he turned and addressed Greenbriar.

They listened at the window in silence. Suddenly, Lady Svnae put her hands to her face in horror. Lord Ermenwyr's smoking tube fell out of his mouth.

"That tears it," he said. "Willowspear, Smith, we're going now. I hope the monks have the sense to run."

"Why?" Smith peered out at the boy, who was standing proudly beside the man in the cloak.

"They're going to take out the Adamant Wall," Lord Ermenwyr replied over his shoulder, for he had already grabbed his sister by the arm and was pulling her down the passageway with him. "Come on!"

Willowspear seemed to have taken root where he stood, so Smith caught his arm and began to stagger after the lordling and his sister. "Let's go, son."

Willowspear turned his face away and ran. "Innocent blood," he said. "Willingly offered. The boy will let them behead him, and his blood will break the Wall."

Smith could think of nothing to say in reply. He concentrated on following Lady Svnae, just close enough to avoid stepping on the train of her gown. He congratulated himself on the fact that he was able to run so well, all things considered. Thinking about that, and watching where he put his feet, kept him from dwelling on the fact that his hand was cold as ice and turning blue.

Down and around they went, through long echoing darkness pierced now and again by the light of a distant barred window. The air was a roar of echoes. Something was echoing louder than their footsteps. Something was loud as surf on a lee shore--

The train of Lady Svnae's gown stopped moving.

Smith cannoned into her. She felt like a warm and beautifully upholstered wall. He staggered backward and collided with Willowspear, who cried, "What is it?"

It was a moment before anyone answered him, but the silence was amply filled by the thunder of their beating hearts and the other sound, the louder sound. Smith, who had been a mercenary, knew what it was. He felt a sharper pain in his hand and, looking down, saw that he had pulled a stone from the wall. He hefted it, getting the balance, knowing exactly where it should be fractured to make an edged weapon.

"The battle cry sounds familiar," said Lady Svnae.

"Nine Hells," said Lord Ermenwyr. "It's
Daddy."

Lady Svnae turned on her heel decisively. "This way," she said, and they followed her up yet another tunnel, one with quite a lot of daylight at the end. It was bright because it opened out on a gallery of stone, lower in the face of the rock than their previous vantage point but still well above the floor of the valley. It had clearly been cut from the rock for persons wishing to enjoy a spectacular view. The view now was indeed spectacular, if not exactly enjoyable.

The Adamant Wall was still in place. The order of the previous vista had been destroyed, the neat green ranks broken up by a chaos of black and silver that was streaming over the hill to the south. An army, liveried and fearsome, had arrived.

It was like no battle Smith had ever seen. More horrible, if possible, because many of the Yendri stood straight and let themselves be cut down by the invading force, but it appeared that they did so to enable their comrades to advance on their targets without interference.

They made for three targets.

One ran with the demon-army in its black plate and silver mail, and he was a white stag of branching antlers, silver-collared. He bounded, feather-light, across the tips of their spears. He dropped like a bolt of lightning on the Yendri. Where he struck his hooves slashed, his antlers raked. Yet the Yendri fought one another to get at him, though they fell bleeding at his feet and were trampled. He dodged the green darts and danced on the bodies of the slain, belling his frenzy, exulting.

One had come alone over the hill to the north, a solitary figure. He wore no armor, he carried no blade. He had only a long staff, but in his long hand at the end of his long arm it cleared a wide space around him as he came, and where the steel-shod end of the staff connected, his opponents fell and did not rise again. Smith could hear the skulls cracking from where he stood; still the Yendri came scrambling over the dead to reach that lone fighter, ignored the armored host that hacked them to pieces as they advanced.

All these died willingly, that they might get close enough to strike a blow, even in vain; but more aimed themselves at the one who stood on the southern hill, overlooking the brief contest.

The man wore black. He watched impassively as the banner guard kept off his enemies. He bore two long blades in a double scabbard on his back, and not till the end, when the Grand Master himself fought close, did he draw steel over his shoulder.

He said one word, and his guards parted to let the man through. The Yendri vaulted forward, pipe to his lips, sending his poisoned dart flying. One blade cut the dart out of the air; its backstroke cut the pipe from his hands. Then he disappeared under a tackle pile of guards, as he screamed at the dark man.

And then it was over, and the field was silent.

Willowspear left the gallery. They heard him being quietly sick in the corridor.

Nobody said anything.

There came a wind off the field. It brought the groans of the wounded, though only the armored fighters; none of the Yendri were left alive to cry for help, save their leader. The survivors were stepping carefully across the devastation. Near the Adamant Wall lay the boy who would have been sacrificed. He had died fighting, his blood spilt to no purpose, his holy destiny unfulfilled. Was his death cleaner?

The man in black was giving orders, in a low voice, and stretchers were being made and his guard were moving out to collect the living. But they kept well away from the white stag, which was still bounding and trampling like a mad thing, tossing the dead on its antlers. It clattered all the way to the Adamant Wall, and collided with it; danced back, snorted its rage, and stamped.

The solitary figure with the staff had been making his way to the Wall also. He came to it and extended his hand cautiously, stopping just short of the surface. Ignoring the stag, he looked up at the gallery.

He had a long plain face, austere and dignified. He looked more like a high priest than a warrior, and his eyes were sad.

"Svnae," he called.

The stag noticed him. It threw its head up in surprise, rearing on its hind legs. They lengthened, the antlers shrank and vanished, its whole body altered; and Lord Eyrdway strode along the perimeter of the Wall.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Mother sent me," said the other. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm being Daddy's herald."

"I didn't hear you offering terms." The other gestured at the mounded dead.

"I didn't bother. But the fight's over, so you can turn right around and go back home."

"Are you at all concerned with how our sister fares?"

"You'll observe that neither one of them has deigned to notice me," Lord Ermenwyr remarked to Smith.

"She's fine," said Lord Eyrdway. He turned, waved at Svnae, turned back and went on, "I know what you're really here for, you know. You won't get it. Not if Daddy wants it."

The plain man looked up at the gallery again. "Svnae, let me through. I must speak with you."

"Who's that?" Smith inquired.

"That's our brother Demaledon. Demaledon is good and kind and wise and brave and clean and reverent," muttered Lord Ermenwyr. "The only reason he isn't a bloody monk is because he kills people once in a while. But only
bad
people, you may be sure."

"You can damned well speak to me from out there!" Lady Svnae shouted, clenching her fists. "This is none of Mother's business!"

"Yes, Svnae, it is," said Lord Demaledon. "Mother knows why you're here. You should have come to her for counsel first."

"My entire life has been one long session of Mother giving me counsel," Lady Svnae replied sullenly, "and Mother knowing exactly what I'm doing and why, and Mother always being right, and Svnae being wrong."

"Hey, look, isn't that, what's his name, Smith?" said Lord Eyrdway. "The Child of the Sun? Hello, Smith!"

Lord Demaledon looked up and spotted Smith. He murmured something in a horrified tone of voice.

"Thank you for asking, I'm miraculously unharmed!"
Lord Ermenwyr screamed.