Wolf's Blood (82 page)

Bryessidan kissed her, holding her face between his hands and taking care not to crush her against the brass and silver of his armor.

“You will receive reports as regularly as possible, my queen,” he said. “I leave the Mires in your good hands.”

Now, looking at the orderly movements of armed and armored soldiers, Bryessidan thought there was every reason for the confidence Gidji had expressed. Spontaneous cheers greeted him as he made his way toward the gate building, and he answered them with a wave before turning to greet Amelo Soapwort.

The Once Dead spellcaster was clad in all his gaudy regalia today, his long beard carefully plaited with strings of beads cut from what Bryessidan knew were gemstones that enhanced magical power. The two men publicly embraced, letting the enthusiastic roar of the gathered troops wash over them, then turned in to the shelter of the building, where they could converse in relative private—although what they said was readily heard by the gathered Once Dead and various military types already in the building.

“The gate?” Bryessidan asked, feeling like he was reciting lines from a play. He had read the report Amelo had sent earlier, and doubted anything could have changed in a short time. Still, it seemed impossible not to ask, not when the broad piece of stone stood across the building from him, polished and waiting within the elaborate carvings of its incised border.

“Is ready,” Amelo replied. “We did the three-quarter cycle earlier today, shutting down the spell before sending anyone through. The gate is live, and has not been damaged in any way.”

“Good.”

“It is likely that the gate is still blockaded,” Amelo said, “probably within the iron cage we encountered before. However, the Once Dead we are sending through on the initial passage is a fine archer. He has trained so that he is accustomed to the sensation of iron near him. His job will be to protect the soldier who is going through with him while that man breaks down the iron bars.”

“And I will follow in the next group,” Bryessidan said.

“The third,” Amelo said with gentle firmness, “if Your Majesty will so permit. It is possible that in taking out the gate’s defenses both our first two will be killed. The second group will be prepared to reconnoiter, and, if possible, hold the position.”

Bryessidan had known this, but he hadn’t thought it would hurt to seem a bit of a fire eater. Now he acceded to his advisor’s position, but with a show of reluctance.

“I would not have any soldier take a risk I would not, but if you think this best, never let any say I was unreasonable.”

“Never, Your Majesty,” Amelo said, and Bryessidan thought that no one but himself saw the Once Dead’s fleeting smile.

Bryessidan walked from group to group, speaking a few encouraging words to each. He spared a little extra time with the two pairs that would go through before him, letting them know he appreciated the risks they were taking. He might never have been a war leader like his father, but he well knew the value of praise, and it was so cheap to offer.

Then the high, sweet note of a horn signaled that the agreed-upon hour had arrived, and the first pair stepped up to the gate. Bryessidan stood to one side as the spells were recited, and blood donated on the spot from a crippled veteran of his father’s war was spilled into the channels in the stone.

Two men heavily armored in hardened leather, not a scrap of iron on their persons, went to the gate. They watched impassively as their blood was smeared on the gate so it would know them, then stepped into the molten silver field. They did not so much vanish as seem to recede down a long tunnel, the edges of their shadowed images becoming wavery, until they were lost in the silver. The gate was then shut behind them, isolating the brave pioneers lest their enemy push back along that road.

Silence fell after their departure, a silence so absolute that Bryessidan could hear the flame sputtering on the tall candle that was being used to mark the passage of time. Almost transfixed, he watched as the wax retreated to the line.

Amelo called out “Next!” and two more, armed and armored much as the first pair, stepped forward. Again the taking of blood, the activating of the gate, the retreating into silver and shade. The wick sputtered, and Amelo cleared his throat.

“Your Majesty, it is time.”

Bryessidan smiled and settled his dragon-visaged helmet upon his head. He said a few polite things that he immediately forgot to the young Once Dead who was to be his partner in this venture. Her job, he knew, was to leave her king, step back, and tell Amelo to start transporting the troops. If the previous pairs had failed, she was to make Bryessidan return to the relative safety of the Mires.

He didn’t know how she could manage this if he didn’t wish to go, but he suspected she had not been chosen for her role by lot.

Side by side they stepped through, feeling the familiar burning sensation. Then they were in a building somewhat more dimly lit than the one he had just left. Both close by and muffled by distance there was the sound of clashing metal, the shouts of soldiers interspersed with the weird cries and snarls of various hunting animals.

The iron cage that had enclosed this end of the gate was not gone, but the bolts that held it had been ripped from the wall on one edge, and it had been shoved aside, leaving a large enough gap that Bryessidan could easily push through into the building at large.

A dead man was sprawled on the ground, and in him Bryessidan recognized the Once Dead archer. His partner, however, was not at hand, nor were the other two. Looking ahead, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, Bryessidan saw them engaged in combat with what appeared to be a lynx and a soldier in armor cobbled together out of old boots.

The Once Dead spellcaster who had come through with him tugged at his arm. trying to draw him back, but Bryessidan jerked his arm free.

“We have a breach,” he said. “Tell Amelo to bring through the others, or I will hang you from this iron cage myself.”

She balked, but only for a moment. The living wall had not yet closed. Muttering some words, she slapped blood nicked from her finger onto the appropriate place, and vanished.

Bryessidan ran forward, his booted feet hitting the stone hard, his sword coming as easily from its sheath as if this was just another of the many practice sessions he had submitted to in the moonspans since this invasion had first been planned.

A limping, massy figure occluded the doorway at the narrow end of the building.

“More of them here!” it yelled. “We’ve got another break through here! Tell Skea! Tell Derian! The dam’s broken!”

XL

  WHEN THE FIRST of the iron cages went down at the Hearthome gate, Derian was there. Skea had given them a pretty thorough briefing about the temperaments of the peoples who held the lands on the other side of the gates.

“Hearthome and Tavetch are probably the most openly aggressive,” Skea had said. “The Tavetch are, frankly, sea raiders, and in a weird way they could be said to cultivate the peoples they attack. Their king has been known to argue that if it weren’t for his people’s demands for tribute, the small settements along the northern seaboard wouldn’t be doing nearly so well. He might even be right.

“Hearthome is a different matter completely. Their queen, Iline, would like to argue that all she is doing is trying to unite Pelland, but the rest of the continent is having nothing to do with that. The usual target for her attacks is the kingdom of Azure Towers. That’s ruled by a queen as well, and I recall rumors that there’s some personal feud between them.”

Since the Hearthome gate was in the Pelland cluster, and it was from Pelland that they expected the greater number of the attacks to come, Derian had positioned himself there. Nemeria, a level-headed young woman with a bellowing voice, had been given chief watch of the Tavetch gate, which was off in a cluster by itself, as was the u-Chival gate of which Tiniel had charge.

Skea would have liked to be up on the gateway hill, but for now the greater danger was offered by another sea attack. Moreover, the soldiers stationed there had already been through one nasty fight, and there was some concern their morale would break without strong leadership. By contrast, the group stationed in the vicinity of the gates was eager to prove itself the equal or better of their fellows.

The sun was climbing toward noon when the gates in various buildings began to flicker, but the stone never quite achieved the strange silvery sheen that indicated a transition was about to happen.

“Testing,” Verul said, almost contemptuously. “They don’t know if we’ve disabled the gates and don’t want to risk anything.”

Derian sent word to Skea and the stocky, dark-skinned general arrived almost immediately.

“Selecting noon would be a good way to time a coordinated action,” he said, “since it occurs at about the same time everywhere.”

“About?” Derian asked.

“There are differences,” Skea said almost absently, “the farther apart places are. I guess the sun needs time to get across the sky or something. The Tavetch say we’re moving, not the sun, but what does it matter if the result is the same?”

Skea moved to the center of the Pelland gate cluster, inspecting the positioning of the troops assigned there, and bringing in reinforcements from below.

“If they’ve somehow managed to coordinate the naval and gate attacks down to the hour,” Skea said, “I’m playing right into their hands. However, I don’t think they could have done that.”

“Is there any indication of landing boats being prepared?” Derian asked, hoping the anxious note in his voice wasn’t too obvious.

“Not that the winged folks have been able to see,” Skea said. “A few of the ships are shrouded by a fog or mist of some sort, but whoever is raising it isn’t powerful enough to cover the entire fleet. Still, we’re unable to spy on the command craft, and ever since the sailors took to shooting at anything with wings the yarimaimalom have limited their spying to what they can see from a distance.”

“So if they’re not getting landing craft ready,” Derian said, “then the two forces aren’t coordinated.”

“Or they’re even more organized than I think,” Skea said, “and have coordinated for, say, an hour after noon, or two hours after noon. A candle is fairly accurate for that short a period of time, and we could wear ourselves out with guessing. Still, I think I’m right …”

Derian hoped Skea was, and surely this wasn’t the time to start second-guessing the general. Even so, he could think of numerous alternate plans of attack. The attackers could have selected a day two or three days from now, but by flickering the gates they would force the Nexans to wear themselves out with watching. They could delay by a few hours, or come through in staggered waves say a half-hour apart.

What if that mist could be spread? He knew that Ynamynet worried more about magics that would impede communication and ease of movement than she was about the destructive forces that had featured so frequently in the stories he’d been told as a boy. If the attackers could cover the island in mist, then the winged folk would be nearly useless, and even the yarimaimalom would be hampered.

But wouldn’t the attackers be crippling themselves?
Derian thought.
Mist or fog would be bad for everyone on both sides. Unless, that is, they have some means of seeing through the mist.

With such suppositions and the fears they bred to fill his mind, Derian’s primary reaction when the first gate transit occurred was a relief so intense that it astonished him.

The cry rose from those guarding the building holding the gate to the kingdom of Pelland, a land that Skea had described as possessing a powerful and well-trained warrior class, but in many ways weakened by its belief that it was sole heir to the continent’s past glories.

Derian raced over in time to hear the excited report of the woman who had been stationed to watch that particular gate.

“They came through, two of them, both armored. One took a swing or so with a mallet or axe of some sort at the bars of the gate while the other started firing arrows at me. I was surprised, and I don’t mind saying so, but I got my bow up and fired. They got out of there pretty quickly.”

“Did the Once Dead seem to have any difficulty working the transit spell?”

“I don’t think he had to do it all,” the guard reported. “The gate stayed live, but sort of dimmed down.”

“That will take power,” Skea said with satisfaction. “Of course, I’m not too worried that the Pellanders will be using magic as one of their main attacks. I’m more worried about that from Tishiolo, Azure Towers, and, just maybe, the Mires.”

Skea stationed extra soldiers to watch the Pelland gate, and sent for one of the stone workers to see if anything could be done to repair the damage already done to the cage anchors.

Derian returned to his post near the Hearthome gate, so he was there when the Hearthome force came through. Their tactics were similar to those used at the Pelland gate, but with two marked exceptions. Instead of a mallet, the invaders carried through something short, thick, and very heavy. When they began to swing it. Derian realized it was a battering ram of some sort. The pair using it had clearly prepared to operate the thing in a constricted space, and within moments the iron was bending beneath the short, thudding blows.