In the Realm of the Wolf (38 page)

“I daresay the Gothir will warm it up for us,” Senta pointed out, draping his arm around Miriel’s shoulder. She smiled and leaned in to kiss his cheek.

Angel looked at them: the tall mountain girl, her smile radiant, and the handsome swordsman, golden-haired and young, dressed in a buckskin shirt beneath a breastplate of glittering iron and tan leggings of polished leather. Angel felt old as he watched them, the weight of his years and his disappointments hanging on him like chains of lead. His leather tunic was ragged and torn, his leggings were filthy, and the pain of his wounds was only marginally less than the pain in his heart.

He moved away from them toward the keep, aware that they had not noticed his departure. He saw the mute child sitting on the keep steps, his wooden sword thrust into his belt. Angel grinned and clapped his hands. The boy copied him and rose, smiling.

“You want some food, boy?” he said, lifting his fingers to his mouth and mimicking the act of chewing. The boy nodded, and Angel led the way up to the main hall, where cook fires were burning in the hearths. A fat knight wearing a leather apron was stirring soup. He glanced at the child.

“He needs some weight on those bones,” he said, smiling and ruffling the boy’s hair.

“Not as much as you’re carrying, Brother,” said Angel.

“It is a curious fact,” said the knight, “but I only have to look
at a honey cake and I feel the weight pile on.” Sitting the boy at the table, he ladled soup into a bowl and watched with undisguised pleasure as the child enjoyed it. “You should ask Ekodas to look at the boy,” said the knight softly. “He has a real gift for healing. The child was not always deaf, you know. It faded slowly when he was a baby. And there is little wrong with his vocal cords. It is just that hearing no sound, he makes no sound.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Angel.

“It is a talent fat people have, thin man.” He chuckled. “My name is Merlon.”

“Angel,” responded the former gladiator, extending his hand. He was surprised to feel the strength in Merlon’s grip, and he swiftly reappraised the priest. “I think you’re carrying a lot more muscle than fat,” he said.

“I have been blessed with a physique as strong as my appetite,” the other replied.

The child ate three bowls of the soup and half a loaf of bread while Angel sat and talked with the huge warrior-priest. Shia approached them and sat on the bench seat alongside Angel.

“I told you they would not let us fight,” she said, anger showing in her eyes.

Angel grinned. “That you did. But things will change, if not tomorrow, then the day after—as soon as they try an attack from all four sides. We have not the numbers of men to stop them. Make sure the women gather all the surplus … weapons.”

“By surplus you mean the weapons of our dead?”

“Exactly,” he admitted. “And not just weapons: breastplates, helms, arm guards. Anything that protects.”

At that moment a young woman ran into the hall. “They are coming! They are coming!” she shouted.

“So it begins,” said Merlon, removing the leather apron and striding across the hall to where his breastplate, helm, and sword had been laid by the hearth.

Miriel stood to the left of the wall, almost at the corner, a crazily angled turret leaning out above her. Her mouth was dry
as she saw the Gothir line surge forward, and she ceased to notice the biting winter wind.

Twenty trees had been cut down and stripped of branches and were being carried forward by heavily armed men. Behind them marched two thousand foot soldiers, short swords and shields held at the ready. Miriel glanced to her right. At the center of the ramparts stood Angel, grim and powerful, his sword still sheathed. Farther along was Senta, a wide grin on his face, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the coming battle. She shivered, but not from the cold.

More than a thousand men carried the tree trunks, and the pounding of their feet on the hard valley floor was like a roll of thunder. Two Nadir beside Miriel hefted large rocks, laying them on the battlement. Archers sent shafts down into the charging ranks, but wounds were few among the armored men, though Miriel saw a handful of soldiers reel back or fall as iron points lanced into unprotected thighs and arms.

The first trunk was raised and fell against the battlement with a booming thud. A Nadir hurled a rope over the top and began to pull.

“Wait until there are men on it!” bellowed Angel.

More trees crashed against the wall. A section of battlement gave way, and a Nadir was hurled screaming to the courtyard forty feet below. Miriel swung and saw the man struggle to rise, but his leg had been smashed. Several women ran forward, lifting the injured man and carrying him into the keep.

Notching an arrow to her bow, Miriel leaned out over the wall. Thousands of men were swarming up the ladders, using the stubs of sawn-off branches for handholds and footholds. Sighting her bow, she sent an arrow through the temple of a soldier who had almost reached the top. He sagged back and fell into the man behind him, dislodging him.

Angel hefted a large boulder and hurled it over the wall. It struck an attacker on his upraised shield, smashing the man’s arm and shoulder. Amazingly, he managed to hold on to the branch, but the boulder hit the man below on the helm, sweeping him from the tree. Stones and rocks rained down on
the attackers, but still they came on, with a score of men reaching the battlements.

Senta leapt forward, spearing his blade through the throat of the first man to reach the ramparts. Miriel dropped her bow and gathered up the trailing rope the Nadir had looped over the first trunk. “Help me!” she shouted at the nearest warriors. Three men turned at her cry and ran to her aid. Together they hauled on the rope, and just as the first Gothir appeared, they succeeded in moving the ladder a foot to the right. Top-heavy now, the wood groaned and slid sideways. A Gothir soldier jumped for the battlement but lost his footing and fell screaming to the valley floor. The tree collided with a second ladder and for a moment only was held. Then both began to move.

“Let go of the rope,” shouted Miriel as the overburdened ladder fell away. The rope hissed and cracked like a whip as it was dragged over the battlements. The falling ladders struck a third, which was also dislodged from the wall. Miriel ran along the battlements to where Senta stood. “The scaling ladders are too close together,” she shouted. “Move that one and you’ll bring down three, maybe four more.”

He looked to where she was pointing and nodded. Ropes had been placed along the wall, and he lifted one, shaking out the loop. While the Nadir battled to keep the Gothir from the battlements, Senta hurled a loop over the closest ladder and started to pull. It would not budge. Miriel joined him, but to no avail. Angel saw them and sent four men to assist.

Gothir warriors were scrambling over the battlements now, and one of them threw himself at Senta. The swordsman saw the blow almost too late but let go of the rope and lashed out with his foot, kicking the oncoming warrior in the knee. The man fell. Drawing his sword, Senta sent a crashing blow to the soldier’s helm. The Gothir struggled to rise. Senta ran in and shoulder-charged him, hurling him from the ramparts to the courtyard below.

Miriel and the others were still trying to pull the tree clear, but it was wedged into one of the crenellations of the battlement wall. Angel picked up a fallen ax, ducked under the rope,
and delivered a thunderous blow to the crumbling stone of the battlement. Twice more he struck. The granite shifted. Dropping to his haunches, he lifted his feet and kicked out. The granite blocks fell away. The tree slid clear, struck the next crenellation, and snapped.

The rope wielders were thrown back, with Miriel, still holding the rope, tumbling from the ramparts. As the tree snapped, Angel saw Miriel fall and dived for the snaking rope. The hemp tore the flesh from his fingers, and Miriel’s falling weight hauled him to the edge of the rampart. But he held on regardless of pain or the peril of the drop. Just as he was being pulled over the edge, a Nadir warrior threw himself across the fallen gladiator. Then Senta grabbed Angel’s legs.

Miriel was dangling fifteen feet below the rampart. With the rope now steady, she climbed and hooked her foot over the stone. A Nadir hauled her to safety. Angel climbed wearily to his feet, blood dripping from his torn palms.

The dislodged tree had toppled seven more, killing more than a hundred soldiers. Fearful of a similar fate, the remaining Gothir warriors scrambled down to safety and retreated out of arrow range. Gleefully the Nadir sent all the trunks crashing to the earth. Subai, leaving the reserve force, climbed to the battlements, turned his back to the Gothir, and, dropping his leggings, exposed his buttocks to the enemy. The Nadir howled with delight.

Orsa Khan, the tall half-breed, lifted his sword high above his head and shouted a Nadir refrain. It was picked up along the line until all the defenders were screaming it at the uncomprehending Gothir.

“What are they saying?” asked Angel.

“It is the last verse of the battle song of the Wolves,” said Senta. “I can’t make it rhyme in translation, but it goes like this:

“You don’t see too many axes among them,” complained Angel.

“Ever the poet,” said Senta, laughing. “Now go and get those hands bandaged. You’re dripping blood everywhere.”

18

T
HE PASSING OF
the years, and with it the fading of his powers, was a source of intense irritation to Kesa Khan. As a young man in his physical prime he had sought to master the arcane arts, to command demons, to walk the paths of mist, scouring the past and exploring the future. But when young, though strong enough, his skills had not been honed to the perfection needed for such missions of the spirit. Now that his mind burned with power, his aged frame could not support his desires.

Even while acknowledging the manifest unfairness of life he found himself chuckling at the absurdity of existence.

He banked up his fire not in the hearth but in an ancient brazier he had set on the stone floor at the center of the small room high in the keep tower. His precious clay pots were set around it, and from one of them he took a handful of green powder, which he sprinkled onto the dancing flames. Instantly an image formed of Waylander entering the great gates of Gulgothir. He was disguised as a Sathuli trader in flowing robes of gray wool and a burnoose bound with braided black horsehair. His back was bent under a huge pack, and he shuffled like an old man crippled with rheumatism. Kesa Khan smiled.

“You will not fool Zhu Chao, but no other will recognize you,” he said. The scene faded before he was ready. Kesa Khan cursed softly and thought of the crystal lying on the golden floor below the castle. With it you could be young again, he told himself. You could abide through the centuries, assisting the Uniter.

“Pah,” he said aloud. “Were that the case, would I not have seen myself in one of the futures? Do not delude yourself, old
man. Death approaches. You have done all that you can for the future of your people. You have no cause for regret, no cause at all.”

“Not many can say that” came the voice of Dardalion.

“Not many have lived as single-mindedly as I,” answered Kesa Khan. He glanced toward the doorway in which the abbot was standing. “Come in, priest. There is a draft and my bones are not as young as they were.”

There was no furniture in the room, and Dardalion sat cross-legged on the rug. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” asked the old shaman.

“You are a devious man, Kesa Khan, and I lack your guile. But I do not lack powers of my own. I, too, have walked the paths of mist since last we spoke. I, too, have seen the Uniter you dream of.”

The shaman’s eyes glittered with malice. “You have seen but one? There are hundreds.”

“No,” said Dardalion. “There are thousands. A vast spider’s web of possible futures. But most of them did not interest me. I followed the path that leads from Kar-Barzac and the child to be conceived here. A girl, a beautiful girl who will wed a young warlord. Their son will be mighty, their grandson mightier still.”