The Swords of Night and Day (48 page)

Askari smiled. “So the Legend riders are really just shy boys, frightened of being seen naked?” She swung to Alahir. “Are you shy, earl of Bronze?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I would really like to swim.” Pushing himself to his feet, he stripped off his shirt and leggings and dived into the water, sending up a mighty splash. All around the pool the Legend riders hooted and clapped. Several other men stripped off and joined him.

The water was wonderfully cool, and Alahir swam to the far side of the pool, resting his elbows on a rock and glancing up at Harad. He was sitting quietly, the great ax in his lap. “Join us, my friend,” said Alahir.

“I cannot swim,” said Harad.

“It is easy. Put aside the ax and come in. I will teach you in a matter of moments.”

Harad suddenly grinned. “Aye, that would be good,” he said. Throwing off his clothes, he waded into the water. “What do I do?” he asked.

“Take a deep breath and lie back. The air in your lungs will keep you afloat.”

Harad leaned back. As his head touched the water he tried to stand. His foot slipped and he sank beneath the surface, coming up spluttering. Alahir was beside him in an instant. “Trust me,” said Alahir. “I will support your back. Now breathe in deeply and we will get you to float.”

Askari watched the two men and swung to Gilden. “You are old to be a soldier,” she said.

“Thank you for sharing that observation,” he said sourly.

“I meant no disrespect. Far from it. To have survived this long you must be very skilled.”

“Lucky is all.”

“You have family? Children?”

He chuckled. “I have these shy boys,” he said. “They are my family. One day they will take my armor and bury me. Then they will sing songs over my grave. It is enough for me.”

“The sky is too blue to be talking about graves and death,” she pointed out. Rising to her feet, she stripped off her clothes. “Come, Gilden, swim with me,” she said, holding out her hand. He hesitated for a moment, then sighed and stood. Pulling his tunic over his head, he displayed a body with many scars across his chest and shoulders and upper thighs. Askari held out her hand and drew him into the water.

Just then Skilgannon and Decado rode through the entrance to the pool and dismounted. Alahir saw them, left Harad happily floating, and waded to the bank. Decado moved away from them, stripping off his clothes and diving into the pool. Skilgannon looked tired. His eyes were red rimmed, his face gaunt. “Perhaps you should get into the pool,” offered Alahir.

“We found three other passes that could be used to get behind us,” said Skilgannon, “and we don’t have enough men to adequately defend them all. There may be even more that I couldn’t find. Once down into the low canyons it is like a warren. Stavut is still checking them.”

“They will come at us head-on first,” said Alahir. “It is the way of the Guard. See the enemy, kill the enemy. They have great belief in their martial supremacy.”

“I agree. It matches everything Decado told me.”

“Then what is worrying you?”

Skilgannon grinned. “You mean apart from being outnumbered four to one? If we are cut off then I will not be able to reach the temple site, and this whole venture will have been for nothing.”

“There is nothing there,” Alahir pointed out. “We have seen that for ourselves.” His body almost dry in the bright sunshine, he picked up his tunic and slipped it on, and then his leggings. “So let’s just finish off this Guard and head back for Siccus.”

“The magic is still emanating,” said Skilgannon. “It
must
be there.”

“I know nothing about magic, Skilgannon, but if the temple is gone, perhaps they took it somewhere else. Another country. Over the sea.”

“True,” admitted Skilgannon, wearily. “But the prophecy said I would find the answer. And I am here—not across the sea.” Taking the reins of the two mounts, he led them to the far side of the pool. Alahir helped him with the unsaddling, and they rubbed the beasts down. Then Skilgannon gestured for Alahir to follow him, and they walked back through the deep cut in the rocks that led out to the trail. It was some thirty feet wide here, dropping steeply away to the north. Skilgannon walked to the edge. From here they could see the great crater where the temple mountain once stood. Skilgannon stared at the distant ring. Heat waves were shimmering over it. Reluctantly he turned away. “We have an advantage here,” he said to Alahir. “The ground dips away to the east, which means the enemy will be coming at us uphill. The cliffs and the precipice mean they cannot flank us.” He walked on down the old road; it narrowed to around fifteen feet at the bend, which swung away sharply before continuing down to the canyon below. “They will have no time to form up properly for a charge,” continued Skilgannon. “The formation will break at this point, where only five or six riders can stay abreast of one another. Once past this they will be in arrow range. I can’t see them risking their horses against trained bowmen on high ground.”

“No,” agreed Alahir. “They will dismount and come at us fast on foot.”

“Or send in their beasts.”

“I think they will hold back the beasts at first,” said Alahir.

“Why so?”

“I don’t wish to sound arrogant, but we are the elite, Skilgannon. The Legend riders have a reputation. I think the Guard will want to test that. Once we bloody their noses
then
they’ll send the beasts.”

“That sounds right to me,” admitted Skilgannon, walking once more to the edge. He gazed down. “It is almost half a mile to the canyon floor, but the enemy, following a winding uphill road, will have to travel four, perhaps five, times that far. I don’t know how long they will have been without water, but even with supplies their mounts will be tired, and the warriors will be hot, their mouths dry, their eyes gritty.”

They stood in silence. Alahir gazed at the winding road, picturing the Eternal Guard in their black-and-silver armor, their high-plumed helms. Skilgannon was right. The road, some 150 paces from the entrance to the rock pool, was too narrow for them to form up for a charge. They would have to attack in relative disorder, trying to create a strong formation even as they ran toward the bowmen. Moving to the narrow point, he turned and began to run back up the slope, counting as he did so.

“How many?” asked Skilgannon.

“I would be surprised if we couldn’t loose six volleys before they hit our front rank.”

“Roughly fifteen hundred arrows,” estimated Skilgannon. “Against heavily armored men carrying shields. At least half the shafts will be blocked. Half again will strike breastplates or chain mail and do no damage.”

“And at least half of the remainder will wound, but not incapacitate,” added Alahir.

“That leaves around one hundred and twenty-five taken out of the fight. Leaving eight hundred and seventy-five engaged in hand-to-hand combat with two hundred and fifty. Sheer weight of numbers will drive us back.” Skilgannon strolled along the road back to the entrance leading to the rock pool. “It would be natural,” he said, “to pull back into here. The entranceway is narrow and could be easily defended. Yet it would be suicidal, for there is no other way out.”

He walked on another two hundred paces. Here was the top of the rise. After this the land opened out, as the road meandered down to the desert below. “Once past this point and they will flank us, encircle us, and kill us at their leisure.”

“You are beginning to depress me,” muttered Alahir.

Skilgannon laughed and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Plan for the worst, expect the best,” he quoted. Then he walked back to the main trail and squatted down, studying the land.

“We could send a small group of riders down the trail,” offered Alahir, “and hit them as they climbed. That would increase their losses.”

“True—but then the Jems would probably come first, chasing our riders. We need the Guard to make the first attack. Then we can strip away their arrogance and leave them terrified of failure and death. The sending of their beasts must be an act of resignation and defeat. Then, when we have turned back the beasts, the day will be ours.”

“Ah, this is more to my liking,” Alahir told him.

“What is the fewest number of men you need to hold the line there?” asked Skilgannon, pointing to the widest point of the old road.

“A hundred. Perhaps a hundred and fifty.”

Skilgannon remained silent, his expression intense. Twice he looked back up the trail, then glanced up at the towering cliffs to his left. Telling Alahir to stand at the widest point, Skilgannon retreated up the slope some fifty paces. After a while he returned. “We need to keep shooting at all times,” he said. “When the first attack comes we will meet it here. Once the Guard engage, the rear ranks of our bowmen will move back to the high ground and shoot over our heads into the mass beyond the fighters. They will be crammed together, struggling to get to the action. How many shafts does each man carry?”

“Thirty.”

“If we break their first attack we can replenish our supply from the dead. Everything depends on that first charge. We need to hold them until their confidence breaks. Decado and I will be at the center of the first line.”

“As will I,” said Alahir.

“Indeed. Wear the Armor of Bronze, Alahir. It will lift the men.”

“I had that in mind. Where will Harad fight?”

“He is a concern,” said Skilgannon. “He is brave and he is powerful, but he is unskilled. Added to which no axman can fight in close quarters, surrounded by comrades. He needs room to swing that weapon. I shall send him with Stavut and the pack to watch the other passes.”

“That is a shame,” said Alahir. “You are right that the Armor of Bronze will lift my men. So would the thought of Druss’s ax being used in the battle.”

“It may come to that by the end,” Skilgannon told him.

H
arad followed Shakul and Stavut up a long rise and onto a wide plateau overlooking a narrow pass, snaking east through the mountains. Here the rest of the pack were waiting. Harad took a swig from a water canteen loaned to him by a Legend rider. Swishing the water around his mouth, he spat it out, seeking to remove the taste of rock dust. Sweat trickled down his back. He glared balefully at the arid land and found himself longing for the green leaves in the forest back home. This brought an instant image of Charis, smiling as she brought him his food. His mood darkened, a mixture of sorrow and rage swirling through him.

Stavut wandered over. “About two miles ahead the trail you can see merges with the old road. If they split their force, this is the way they will come.”

Harad would have preferred to fight alongside the Legend riders, rather than these beasts. He was uneasy around them, though he marveled at the way Stavut wandered among them, clapping some on the shoulder and making jokes Harad was sure the beasts could not understand. The Jiamads stretched out in the sunshine. Many of them began to doze. Stavut yawned and scratched his thickening beard. “Do you know any stories about Druss?” asked Harad.

“A few. Legends probably. His wife was a princess of some kind. She was stolen from the palace by traitors. I think some foreign king had fallen in love with her. Anyway, she was taken across the sea, and Druss went and fetched her back.”

“Storytelling is not a strong point of yours, is it?” said Harad.

“I never was much interested in history. I think he fought a demon king as well—but that could have been someone else.”

“Why is it that all the heroes married princesses?” asked Harad.

“I guess that’s what heroes do.” Stavut glanced back down the trail. “I hope they don’t come this way,” he said.

Shakul suddenly stood and raised his head into the air, nostrils quivering. The other Jiamads stirred. Stavut swore. Harad took up his ax. “You are as good at hoping as you are at storytelling,” said Harad.

Shakul padded back to where the two men waited. “Many Jems. Here soon,” he said.

“How many?” asked Stavut.

“Big pack.”

“Bigger than us?”

“Many times.”

Stavut swore again and drew the cavalry saber Alahir had given him. “I think you should keep back out of the action,” observed Harad. “Unless you know how to use that.”

“Very droll,” muttered Stavut.

Shakul sniffed the air again. “Not all come,” he said. Stavut moved forward to where the trail dipped down toward the canyon floor. To the right was a towering cliff; to the left, an awesome drop. The trail was some twenty feet wide. Then he glanced around. There were scores of boulders from previous rockfalls, scattered over the plateau.

“Shak, I want as many of those big rocks pushed to the edge of the plateau as you can.”

“Rocks?”

Stavut ran to a huge boulder and placed his hands upon it, pretending to push. “We will roll them down toward the enemy. Come on, lads!” he shouted. Shakul walked to the boulder and heaved his enormous bulk against it. The massive rock did not budge.

“No good,” said Shakul.

“Together we can do it. Grava! Ironfist! Blackrock! Over here!” Three more Jiamads joined him. Together they threw their weight against the boulder. Slowly it began to move. “Careful now!” warned Stavut. “We want it right on the edge.” Harad moved forward to assist them, and slowly they rolled the giant rock into place. Others followed, until there was a line of colossal rocks perched on the edge of the plateau. Then they waited.

Far below they saw the first of the Jiamads come into sight. There was an officer with them, on a piebald horse. Stavut ordered his pack to pull back from the crest. He was not quick enough, and the officer saw them. Harad watched as he waved his arm forward. The Jiamads with him began to run up the slope. They were big beasts, all of them as large as Shakul, perhaps larger, and they were carrying long clubs of dark iron. Harad counted them as they came. There were more than forty of them, and they were moving fast. The officer was riding with them. He had drawn his saber, and his black cloak was billowing behind him.

When the beasts were halfway up the slope Stavut bellowed: “Now!”

Shakul and several of the others hurled themselves at the first boulder, tipping it over the edge. Others of the pack pushed another great rock after it. Then a third. The first stopped about ten paces ahead, but the second rolled on, picking up pace. Shakul ran to the first, Grava alongside him. Together they got it moving, then loped back to where Stavut stood with Harad.