Authors: Christopher Stasheff
While
all this went on about them, Ohaern and Noril were seen only as passing
silhouettes behind the columns of Rand’s temple. Clouds of vapor issued from
those colonnades, though. Odors sharp and pungent alternated with exotic
perfumes. Everyone wondered what magic the sage and the smith were brewing
together, but the only people curious enough to sneak close to look,
disappeared into the shadows. They were in the forefront of those later found
in the king’s cellar, still loudly protesting their innocence—but since they
bore the jackal’s-head tattoo of Ulahane’s ardent worshipers, the king heard
their pleas with a skeptical ear.
When
the scouts reported the Vanyar horde only a few day’s march from the new city
wall, Ohaern left the magic to Noril and Rahani’s priestess—who had joined them
because Noril trusted her, and she had offered to help. So Ohaern left the two
of them to stew in their own magic, and picked a small band of the king’s
soldiers to lead out against the enemy.
“Why
should you lead us?” demanded the Captain of the Guard. “We have been soldiers
all our lives! You, you have only been a soldier when it pleased you!”
“I
have been a
warrior
,” Ohaern corrected, “and still am. Biriae are always
warriors, even when we are hunting or fishing—or forging iron. And a warrior of
the forests knows ways to come upon an enemy that a soldier of the field never
learns.”
The
captain set himself, eyes narrowing. “You are audacious to say that to our
faces!”
“I
will do more than that,” Ohaern promised. “I will prove it—but only to those of
your men whom I have chosen, not to you. You know the ways of the city far
better than I; you must stay here to guard.”
The
captain’s lip curled. “Is that your strategy? That you should lead troops
outside the wall, while I command them here?”
“Part
of it,” Ohaern confirmed, “though Lucoyo must command the archers.”
“I,
stay here?” the half-elf cried. “I am twice the sneak you are, huntsman! Twice
as deft, twice as slight!”
“Twice
the archer,” Ohaern countered.
Lucoyo
set his jaw. “You know only the forests! I was raised to follow the great
herds! Surely I will know the way these cow-drivers think far better than you!”
“I
know them well enough,” Ohaern returned, “for I can say where their chariots
will roll. You must stay, Lucoyo. When it is time to lead out the archers, you
may sally forth.”
Then
Ohaern went.
He
went with a band of twenty, out along a watercourse that had worn its way down
ten feet below the level of the plain. He went north, toward the place where
the Vanyar had been sighted—and as he went, he taught his men how to hide among
the rocks and bushes, so that by the time they came to the Vanyar, they could
disappear in seconds. A good tracker could still trace them, and a warrior who
knew that an enemy might be hiding near could have found them—but the Vanyar
would not.
As
soon as they could smell the smoke of the Vanyar’s fires, they went into the
shadows of the bank and moved from bush to bush and rock to rock, as Ohaern had
taught them. They were still visible, but did not catch the unwary eye—and the
Vanyar slave women who clambered down the bank to fetch water were not wary at
all. The warriors froze, then edged back out of sight and waited until the
mutter of,bitter and dispirited talk faded above them as the slave women
climbed back up the bank. Then they edged forward, until they could smell the
stench of too many horses in too close a space and went to ground, invisible to
all but the most experienced eye. There they waited until dark, until the
singing and stamping and quarreling were done, until the camp was quiet above
them. Then Ohaern beckoned his men forward, gathered them together, and
breathed, “Seek for sentries, and take them first. Then loose the horses.”
“May
we not slay them?” whispered one fiery-eyed youth.
“Only
as you leave the camp,” Ohaern answered.
Then
up they went, up and out of the watercourse, slipping silently through the
night past tents full of snores and past slaves who slept fitfully on hard
ground. One by one they came up behind the sentries; only one managed to cry
out— and that cry was strangled quickly—before the garrotes did their work. The
volunteers were all guards who had killed before, when criminals had attacked
them; now they were grim and hard-faced at having to kill from behind, the more
so as the Vanyar thrashed and twisted furiously. Ohaern had warned them that
the Vanyar were hardened to pain and took a great deal of killing, and he was
right—but at last each pair of soldiers lowered its victim to the ground and crept
toward the circles of horses.
Here
and there a beast whinnied with uncertainty as his hobbles were cut and his
picket rein, too—but the soldiers were almost done before they heard a sleepy
voice demand something in the Vanyar tongue. They froze, all looking toward
Ohaern—but he nodded and pantomimed a slap, and they all turned to whack the
horses on the rumps, filling the night with shouts and bloodcurdling howls. The
horses screamed and burst out of their circles, bolting in fright for open
ground.
The
Vanyar rose like bears from a winter’s sleep, roaring and famished and
thirsting for blood. The soldiers gave it to them, slitting throats and
slashing with their swords as they passed. No Vanyar sought to bar their
way—they were too busy jumping back from terrified horses, and the soldiers
followed in the animals’ wake. Here and there a Vanyar leaped in after a horse
had passed, howling in anger, and a soldier met his axe with a short sword’—while
another soldier slipped around behind and split the Vanyar’s head. Then on they
ran.
Finally,
with the camp in an uproar behind them, the soldiers met at the rendezvous
point—a huge rock that thrust up out of the plain, midway between the camp and
the city.
“How
many are we?” Ohaern gasped.
The
soldiers turned to tally one another, panting, then reported. “Las and Odro are
missing, but all others are here.”
“I
saw Las fall with a Vanyar spear through him,” one trooper reported.
“I
saw a barbarian split Odro’s head with his axe,” another added grimly. “They
shall pay for that, five times over!”
“They
have already,” Ohaern assured him, “but let us not count our kills until we are
safely back in Cashalo.”
A
scream split the night, and a horse, crazed with fright, charged down at them.
The soldiers leaped back with cries of alarm, but Ohaern cried, “Catch him!”
and threw himself at the beast’s lead rope. He caught it, but the horse yanked
him off his feet and dragged him bumping over the plain. The soldiers jolted
out of their surprise and ran after—and Ohaern’s weight slowed the beast enough
for them to catch it. The beast plunged and reared, but soldiers helped the
smith back to his feet and, bruised but still game, he pulled the horse down,
making soothing noises. The other soldiers caught the sense of it and joined him,
crooning as they would to their dogs, and finally petting the beast until it
had calmed enough to follow on a lead rope.
“Why?”
asked a soldier.
“Because
I saw some of you daring souls cling to their backs in escape,” Ohaern
answered. “If we can all learn to do that
without
falling off, we may be
able to hand the Vanyar a very unpleasant surprise—
if
we can steal
enough of the beasts! I shall take this animal to Cashalo. The rest of you,
back into the ditch!”
But
they were not willing to let Ohaern risk capture alone, so a handful of them
trotted with him and the horse, out across the plain. The Vanyar were slow
restoring order to their camp and catching and calming their mounts, so Ohaern
and his band were just coming back in through the new city gate when the
lookout atop the wall sent up the alarm, as he saw Vanyar chariots appear on
the horizon.
The
barbarians drove up, shouting in rage and hurling spears that struck only wood
and stone, then shaking their fists at the Cashalites as they swerved the chariots
past the wall and rode away. An archer bent his bow, grinning, but Lucoyo laid
a hand on his shoulder. “No. Do not let them know our range until they come in
force.”
“Give
me a bow, Lucoyo!” Riri said fiercely, his eyes burning in the moonlight. He sat
atop an upright tree trunk behind the wall, with his two friends to either
side. “Let me see the color of Vanyar blood!”
“You
shall have your chance, fisherman—I promise you that,” Lucoyo said. “But not
tonight.”
Riri
went back to fletching the arrow he was making, snarling, “One Vanyar shall die
for each arrow I can shoot!”
Only
one?
Lucoyo thought, but he did not say it aloud. He could have sworn that
the intensity of the cripple’s hatred could have slain a dozen Vanyar by
itself.
It
was Riri’s great regret, and that of his friends, that they could not go out to
help slay Vanyar—but it was Ohaern’s great relief, for he knew the lame
fishermen would not have been able to wait to wreak their revenge until he gave
the word, and would have given away the attack. But he led five more raids,
then finally heeded the demand of the Captain of the Guard—backed by the
king—that he was too valuable to risk. By that time his commandos were
experienced enough to raid by themselves. Ohaern agonized over them while they
were out, and mourned each one lost—but he could not avoid the press of the
work in Cashalo. He consoled himself with the knowledge that of the raiders who
died, each took ten and sometimes thirty times their number with them to the
After-world.
By
the time the Vanyar came in sight of the city, their numbers had been reduced
by a thousand. More importantly, their morale had been reduced far more sharply
than that. They were angry and burning for revenge—but they were also nervous
and, for the first time, a little uncertain.
But
they affected nonchalance. They pitched camp on the horizon, in sight of the
city walls, and strolled about while the smoke from their cooking fires
darkened the sunset. Ohaern and Lucoyo walked the length of the wall, calming
their archers and spearmen and promising them blood on the morrow— but telling
them not to waste arrows tonight, or to press for a sally. Ohaern did send his
commandos out, with the result that the Vanyar had scarcely settled down to
sleep when their camp erupted in an uproar. And scarcely had they settled down
from
that
when the night erupted again, and again. Cashalo lost a dozen
trained soldiers that night, but the Vanyar had little sleep—so it was a surly,
snappish horde that took the field at dawn the next morning, red-eyed and
nervous from lack of sleep. When they attacked, it was by marching forward till
they were just out of bowshot, for what good were their proud chariots against
a high wall? But they centered on the wooden section of the wall, and many of
the Vanyar carried firepots.
“Nock!”
Lucoyo called, and arrows rattled against bows as they were laid to bowstrings
all along the wall. He glanced up at Ohaern, who nodded, and the half-elf
called, “Pull!” Bows bent in a row of curves, and Lucoyo called, “Loose!”
Hundreds
of shafts hissed against staves, and arrows darkened the air, then fell among
the Vanyar with murderous effect. The howl of surprise, fear, and anger rose
clearly to the wall. The Vanyar churned like an anthill in a flood, pressing
away from the deadly hail. But those in back did not understand the press and
were slow yielding—slow enough for two more flights to sting and stab, and by
the time the Vanyar were able to pull back out of bowshot, they left hundreds
of dead to mark where their line had stood. Once they were safe, a low and ugly
rumble swelled from their lines—the sound of the lust for revenge.
“They
would have tortured you for their pleasure even if you had not slain any of
them,” Ohaern told the archers as he paced their lines. “They shall not hurt
you worse for having slain some of them. But even if they could, your only
escape would be to slay every one—or so many that they flee in terror.”
“Loose!”
Lucoyo yelled, and the shafts filled the sky again. The Vanyar howled with
fright and rage as they discovered that the bows of Cashalo had even greater
range than they had thought. They ran back in such haste that for a few minutes
they turned into a jostling, shouting mob and retired very far indeed. When
they turned about, their rumble built toward rage.
“Hold
your arrows nocked,” Lucoyo ordered. “They will charge in an instant.”
They
did. One huge Vanyar howled, waving his axe aloft, then charged toward the
wall. The others echoed his howl, charging behind him. In three long, ragged
lines, thousands of Vanyar came pelting toward the city with bloodcurdling
ululations.
“Hold!”
Lucoyo snapped. “Wait until they are closer, much closer ... Pull! Loose! Now!”
This
time the arrows flew down in a dense cloud. The Vanyar whipped up shields with
yells of defiance. Arrows thudded into leather and wood—but other arrows found
living targets. Vanyar went down, and other Vanyar tripped over them and fell,
rolling. The lines behind them tried to hurdle the roiling obstacle; some
succeeded, but others tripped and rolled in their own turn, and were trampled
by the third line as often as they were spared.
“Still
they come!” Riri cried, bending his bow again.
“Let
us see how well they think!” Lucoyo cried. “Every third man, fire straight into
them! Every first and second man, fire into the sky, to rain upon their heads!”
There
was a moment’s confusion while everyone worked out who was first, who second,
and who third.
“Third
archers! Pull!” Lucoyo cried, then, “First and second! Pull! Third, loose!
First and second, loose!”