Authors: Christopher Stasheff
The
soldier stared. Then his brows drew down, and he began to chant as he clambered
from the overturned car.
Culaehra
couldn't understand the words, but he comprehended the blood lust in the man's
voice. “Pull back the chariots! I have no wish to fall and be unable to rise!”
Willing
hands yanked the overturned chariots away, and in seconds there was clear
ground for the two fighters. The soldier stepped into it. He struck his chest
with a fist, roaring, “Ataxeles!”
Culaehra
frowned, wondering what the word meant—until his enemy speared a huge finger at
him, shouting something that sounded like a question—and the warrior
understood. “Ataxeles” was the man's name!
Culaehra
struck his own chest, opening his mouth to call out his own name—but at the
last second Yocote shouted, “Do not!”
That
made no sense to Culaehra, but he had learned to trust the little shaman.
Instead he shouted, “Fight!” and slashed his sword at the enemy.
The
big Vanyar jumped back, raising his war-axe. Then he advanced, chanting his
battle song, and for the first time in his life Culaehra found himself looking
up at another human being—nearly a foot. For a fleeting second he felt the same
dread rise in him that he had felt when he faced the Ulharl—but he quelled it
with a laugh; this man might have been huge, but he was still only a man.
His
laugh enraged his enemy, though. The soldier shouted his verse and swung.
Culaehra swept his sword up, deflecting the blow—but Corotrovir jarred back,
nicking his shoulder; the man was unbelievably strong! And here came that
bloody axe, sweeping backhanded. Culaehra leaped away from the clumsy blow,
then leaped in, slashing. Corotrovir swept down toward the man's helmet, then jarred
to a stop an inch from the soldier's head. The big man grinned through his long
moustaches and chopped downward two-handed.
“He
is a shaman!” Yocote howled. “Back, Culaehra!”
A
soldier-shaman? Culaehra had never heard of such a thing! Then he realized that
this was what Yocote was—now. He leaped back, sweeping Corotrovir up to parry.
The axe turned, but not enough—it slammed into the ground, slicing off
Culaehra's little toe.
“Pick
it up!” Yocote cried.
Pain
seared through Culaehra, generating anger. He shouted in rage and leaped in,
swinging and slashing and parrying, too quickly for the clumsy axe to keep up.
Corotrovir bounced off the Vanyar helmet again, bit into the leather of the
breastplate but no farther, then swept downward toward the man's knees.
The
enemy soldier shouted a last line. Light seared Culaehra's eyes; he shouted and
thrust blindly, felt a tug on one side of the sword. But the light coalesced
into flame that died into a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. Coughing and gagging,
Culaehra slashed through and through it, but Corotrovir met no resistance, and
when the smoke cleared he saw why—the soldier-shaman had disappeared.
Culaehra
cursed.
Yocote
came running up. “Your pardon, Culaehra! I should have realized at once that
the man was a shaman, but I did not expect to hear a soldier chanting a spell,
so I thought it was his war song. It was minutes before I realized he was
singing in the shaman's language.”
“I
should have realized it, too,” Culaehra said, “and called upon you. Your
pardon, Yocote—I fear I may have begun to take you for granted.”
“Given,
and gladly! Ho! Where is that toe?”
A
Darian dropped Culaehra's toe into Yocote's cupped palm. He held it against the
foot and Culaehra stifled a howl of pain-but Yocote was chanting.
Yusev
was nodding. “Both ask each other's pardon—good. I, too, ask pardon—I was
fighting instead of watching for sorcery.”
Culaehra
clenched his teeth against the pain, but managed to say, “Given and gladly
again.
Two
of you, both warriors and shamans! I should certainly have
realized the enemy might have some, too!
Aieeeeee!
What are you doing
there, Yocote?”
“Putting
your toe back on.” The gnome stepped back. “Wiggle it.”
Astounded,
Culaehra stared down. Sure enough, his toe was back in its place. He willed it
to move up and down, and was amazed that it responded, however sluggishly.
“It
will take time to heal completely, of course.” Yocote sounded a bit defensive.
“I
had not known it could heal at all! How can I thank you, Yocote?”
“By
your pardon, which you have already given.” The gnome held his hand over
Culaehra's other wound and began reciting.
He
healed Culaehra, then wandered among the other wounded, healing where he could.
Yusev did likewise. Lua picked out those who were near death and did what she
could to soothe their passing, then to comfort the widows who wailed beside the
corpses. Kitishane stared as if startled by the novelty of the idea, then went
to imitate her. After a while the Darian women followed their example, those
who had not lost husbands or sons.
Culaehra
looked out over the field, wondering why there was no rejoicing. Only a half
dozen of the nomads lay dead, after all; there should have been victory songs
before they realized that some of their own folk lay lifeless. He solved the
riddle when he saw a knot of the Darian warriors gathered to glare down the
gully after the soldiers who had fled. Culaehra realized that they did not
count it a victory, because some of the enemy had survived—and, worse, had fled
back to their fortress. He could sympathize—the fugitives might well bring back
an army of ten times their number.
On
the other hand, if the whole garrison left the fortress, it should be easy
pickings for the nomads ... He nodded judiciously; it was a thought to keep in
mind. In the meantime, though, he had a better plan.
He
went over to the knot of warriors and beckoned. They looked up in surprise,
then with misgiving, but they followed him. Lua and Kitishane had begun to seek
out dying soldiers, but found few—the warriors had already prowled through the
slain, finding the few who still had some life in them and finishing them with
quick sword strokes.
Culaehra
led the Darians to a cluster of enemy dead and began to unbuckle the armor of
the biggest soldier he could find. The Darians watched him in disgust; Culaehra
guessed that they had a taboo about robbing the dead. But when he began to
buckle the Gormaran armor over his own, they exclaimed with sudden
understanding and turned to take harness off the other dead.
Kitishane
saw and came up, frowning. “What do you intend?”
“A
little surprise for the soldiers,” Culaehra explained.
Kitishane
nodded slowly, liking the sound of the plan. “Only a few of you, though,” she
said. “The fugitives would notice if three score of their dead comrades had
recovered and joined them.”
Culaehra
frowned. “There is that, yes. Well, we shall have to open the gates for the
rest.”
“Well
thought.” Kitishane turned away and began to unbuckle the armor from a dead
soldier.
“You
cannot go with us!” Culaehra caught her shoulder. Fear for her was plain on his
face, but he only said, “The Gormarani did not have women among their warriors.
I doubt they allow it.”
“They
shall not see a woman.” Kitishane thumped the leather breastplate, smiling. “Armor
has more purposes than those for which it was intended.”
When
the dead were buried, the Darians rode off down the dry riverbed, seeming no
different from their usual selves—but under their robes, twelve of them wore
Gormaran armor.
The
routed soldiers were not hard to follow—they had left a trail as plain as a
herd of camels. The Darians rode along the top of the gully. When Culaehra saw
the soldiers in the distance, he held up a hand. His twelve picked Darians
dismounted, laid each his robes over his saddle, skidded and slid down the
sides of the gully and began to lope along after the soldiers. The rest of the
warriors followed on their camels, slowly enough to be unseen, closely enough
to keep the fugitives within earshot.
The
Gormarani had tired and were plodding along, their hearts heavy, making quite a
bit of noise as they went. It was easy to keep them barely out of sight until
emerging from the riverbed, almost under the palisade of the fortress.
The
palisade was made of sun-dried brick, not wood, but it was a high, strong wall
nonetheless. Culaehra looked up at it and felt his heart sink. What chance had
tribes of desert nomads against such a stronghold?
On
the other hand, he knew what chance
this
tribe had. “Now, quickly!” He
waved his men on. They understood the gesture if not the words and followed,
grinning.
They
were right behind the fleeing soldiers as they came to the gate. Startled
shouts echoed down from the top of the wall, and the sentries at the huge
portal stood aside, staring, as the weary, defeated troops streamed in. There
were cries that Culaehra was sure meant, “What happened to you?” and the
fugitives called back terse sentences that probably meant, “I will tell you
later.” They picked up their pace as they hurried through the gate to safety.
Culaehra,
Kitishane, and their warriors came right behind them.
No
one looked too closely at their faces—they were far too concerned with the
calamity that had befallen their friends and were already bedeviling the others
for the story. An officer pushed his way through, barking questions. Ataxeles
the shaman-soldier began to answer him, every word angry.
Kitishane
muttered under her breath, “Will Yusev remember when to charge?”
Ululations
erupted outside the wall. The sentries turned to look, startled—and Kitishane
cried “Now!” in the Darian language.
Yocote
dropped from under Culaehra's cloak and began to chant. Ataxeles must have
sensed his magic, because he whirled, eyes widening—but Yocote finished his
spell, crying out the last syllable, and something unseen buffeted the enemy
shaman; his head snapped back and his eyes rolled up. He slumped, unconscious.
None
of the other soldiers noticed—they were all staring out at the charging nomad
army.
The
false soldiers struck.
A
pair of Darians converged on each sentry; two more pairs converged on the
porters behind the gate. Knives flashed, and the Gormarani slumped in silence.
Quickly the nomads dragged the bodies out of sight behind the panels, then
assumed the posts of the dead men, standing in readiness. When the officer
called down from the wall, they stared up in blank incomprehension—as well they
might, since his words meant nothing to them. The officer turned purple,
shouting at them in anger. Still they stared up, not understanding. The officer
bellowed, running down the stairway inside the wall.
At
the bottom Culaehra leaped, Corotrovir swinging.
The
captain fell, blood spreading. Soldiers shouted and leaped forward—but
Kitishane loosed two arrows, and the sentries atop the wall fell, dead before they
struck the paving below, while the other four Darians turned to meet the
soldiers, knocking aside their spears and stabbing with nomad knives. The
soldiers weren't prepared to have their own men fight back at them; they died
astonished.
Then
the camels burst through the gate.
Suddenly
the nomads were everywhere, blades scything, spears stabbing. A dozen Darians
sprang down to guard the gates. Culaehra shouted, and his false soldiers ran to
follow him. Looking back, he saw there was one missing, and he hardened his
heart—there would be time enough for grieving later.
Soldiers
were running toward the gate from all over the compound, but Culaehra could see
from which building the men with more ornate harnesses came. These would be the
commanders. He sprinted toward that building, then swung Corotrovir at the
first of them. The man howled with pain, staggering back and clutching his
side. Four more commanders shouted in anger and converged on Culaehra,
battle-axes flashing.
Blood
sang in his veins even as Corotrovir sang in his hand. He blocked axe blows and
slashed at men—but one axe struck through, slamming Agrapax's armor against his
side. Pain exploded, but he ignored it and slashed at the man, who fell, a
virtual fountain. Then another axe struck through the leather armor, slamming
the magic breastplate in front so hard as to knock the breath from him. Pain
wracked him, but Culaehra swung and slashed anyway, stiffening when another axe
struck against the small of his back. Pain again, but he whirled and struck
down the last man, then stood panting, looking about him in quick, darting
glances, knowing that if it had not been for the Wondersmith's gift, he would
have been dead on the paving stones that moment.
All
about him nomads fought officers. Three more of his advance guard lay dead, but
virtually all of the Gormarani had been made corpses, too. One or two still
breathed—or groaned, trying feebly to move.
“Put
them out of their misery,” Culaehra told a Darian, and when the man frowned
with lack of understanding, said briefly, “Kill them, “ in the Darian
language—the two armies had learned a few of each other's words already. The
nomad nodded, with a grin that made even Culaehra shudder, and turned away to
deliver the coup de grace to the two surviving officers.
To
the others, Culaehra recited the words that Yocote had taught him: “Go among
the soldiers, now, and slay their officers in any way you can. Have no more
concern for honor than they would.”
The
Darians responded with hard smiles and turned away to do their work.
They
were only just in time—the soldiers outnumbered the nomads three to one, and
though the Darians were each slaying five times their number, they were being
slain at an alarming rate. Culaehra stripped the harness from the most
high-ranking officer he could find, exchanged it for his own, then caught the
Darian who had slain the wounded and pushed the Gormaran uniform at him. The
man understood; he changed harnesses quickly. “Tell them to surrender,”
Culaehra said in the Darian language as clearly as he could, and hoped the
words he said were really the ones Yocote had taught him.