There was difficulty with the horses, of course. No matter how reasonably one explains something to a horse, he will not willingly walk into a stone wall. Bevier solved the problem by wrapping cloth around their heads, and, with Sparhawk in the lead, the party led their mounts into the tunnel.
It was perhaps a hundred feet long, and since the opening at the far end was still in shade, the light from it was not blinding. ‘Hold my horse,’ Sparhawk muttered to Kalten. Then, his sword held low, he moved quietly toward the opening. When he reached it, he tensed himself and then stepped through quickly, whirling to fend off an attack from either side.
‘Anything?’ Kalten demanded in a hoarse whisper.
‘No. There’s nobody here.’
The rest of them cautiously led their horses out of the tunnel.
They had emerged into a tree-shaded swale carpeted with winter-dry grass and dotted with white stone markers. ‘The Glen of Heroes,’ Talen murmured.
‘What?’ Kalten asked.
‘That’s what Ogerajin called it. I guess it sounds nicer than “graveyard”. The Cyrgai seem to treat their own dead a little better than they do the slaves.’
Sparhawk looked across the extensive cemetery. He pointed to the western side where a slight rise marked the edge of the burial ground. ‘Let’s go,’ he told his friends. I want to see just exactly what we’re up against.’
They crossed the cemetery to the bottom of the rise, tied their horses to the trees growing there and carefully crept to the top.
The basin was significantly lower than the floor of the surrounding desert, and there was a fair-sized lake nestled in the center, dark and unreflective in the morning shadows. The lake was surrounded by winter-fallow fields, and a forest of dark trees stretched up the slopes of the basin. There was a sort of rigid tidiness about it all, as if nature itself had been coerced into straight lines and precise angles. Centuries of brutal labor had been devoted to hammering what might have been a place of beauty into a stern reflection of the mind of Cyrgon himself.
The hidden valley was perhaps five miles across, and on the far side stood the city that had remained concealed for ten eons. The surrounding mountains had provided the building materials, and the city wall and the buildings within were constructed of that same brownish-black volcanic basalt. The exterior walls were high and massive, and a steep, cone-like hill, its sides thickly covered with buildings, rose inside those walls. Surmounting that hill was yet another walled enclosure with black spires rising on one side and, in startling contrast to the rest of the city, white spires on the other.
‘It’s not particularly creative,’ Bevier observed critically. The architect doesn’t seem to have had much imagination.’
‘Imagination is not a trait encouraged amongst the Cyrgai, Sir Knight,’ Xanetia told him.
‘We could swing around the sides of the basin and get closer,’ Kalten suggested. ‘The trees would hide us. The ground around the lake doesn’t offer much concealment.’
‘We’ve got some time,’ Sparhawk said. ‘Let’s get away from the mouth of this tunnel. If it’s the only way in or out of the valley, there’s bound to be traffic going through here. I can see people working in those fields down there – slaves, most likely. There’ll be Cyrgai watching them, and there may be patrols as well. Let’s see if we can pick up some kind of routine before we blunder into anything.’
Berit and Khalad made a dry camp in another cluster of jumbled boulders two days west of the place where they had seen the strange soldiers. They watered their horses sparingly, built no fire, and ate cold rations. Khalad spoke very little, but sat instead staring moodily out at the desert.
‘Quit worrying at it, Khalad,’ Berit told him.
‘It’s right in front of my face, Berit. I know it is, but I just can’t put my finger on it.’
‘Do you want to talk it out? Neither one of us is going to get any sleep if you spend the whole night wrestling with it.’
‘I can brood quietly.’
‘No, actually you can’t. We’ve been together too long, my friend. I can hear you thinking.’
Khalad smiled faintly. ‘It has to do with those creatures,’ he said.
‘Really? I never would have guessed. That’s all you’ve been thinking about for the past two days. What did you want to know about them – aside from the fact that they’re big, ugly, savage, and they’ve got yellow blood?’
That’s the part that’s nagging at me – that yellow blood. Aphrael says that it’s because they breathe with their livers. They do that because what they’re used to breathing isn’t air. They can get along here for a little while, but when they start exerting themselves, they start to fall apart. The ones we saw the other day weren’t just running around aimlessly out there in the desert. They had a specific destination in mind.’
‘That cave? You think it might be a haven for them?’
‘Now we’re starting to get somewhere,’ Khalad said, his face growing intent. The Peloi are probably the best light cavalry in the world, but Klæl’s soldiers are almost as big as Trolls, and they seem to be able to ignore wounds that would kill one of us. I don’t think they’re running from the Peloi.’
‘No. They’re trying to run away from the air.’
Khalad snapped his fingers. ‘That’s it!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s why they break off and run back to those caves. They aren’t hiding from the Peloi. They’re hiding from the air.’
‘Air is air, Khalad – whether it’s out in the open or inside a cave.’
‘I don’t think so, Berit. I think Klæl has filled that cave with the kind of air his soldiers are used to breathing. He can’t change all the air on the whole world, because it would kill the Cyrgai as well as all the rest of us, and Cyrgon won’t let him do that. He can fill the cave with that other kind of air, though. It’d be the perfect place. It’s closed-in and more or less air-tight. It gives those monsters a place to go when they start to get winded. They can rest up in there and then come back out and fight some more. You’d better pass this on, Berit. Aphrael can let the others know that Klæl’s soldiers are hiding out in caves because they can breathe there.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ Berit said dubiously. ‘I’m not sure what good it’s going to do us, but I’ll tell her.’
Khalad leaned back on his elbows with a broad grin. ‘You’re not thinking, Berit. If something’s giving you problems, and it’s hiding out in a cave, you don’t have to go in after it. All you have to do is collapse the entrance. Once it’s trapped inside, you can forget about it. Why don’t you pass this on to Aphrael? Suggest that she tell the others to collapse every cave they come across. She won’t even have to do it herself.’ Then he frowned again.
‘What’s wrong now?’
‘That was too easy,’ Khalad told him, ‘and it doesn’t really help all that much. As big as those beasts are, you could collapse a whole mountain on them, and they could still dig their way out. There’s something else that hasn’t quite come together yet.’ He held up one hand. ‘I'll get it,’ he promised. ‘I'll get it if it takes me all night.’
Berit groaned.
* * *
‘I have decided to go with you, Bergsten-Priest,’ Atana Maris replied haltingly in heavily accented Elenic. She had come up from behind their column when they were five days south of Cynestra.
Bergsten suppressed an oath. ‘We’re an army on the move, Atana Maris,’ he tried to explain diplomatically. ‘We wouldn’t be able to make suitable arrangements for your comfort or safety when we stop for the night.’
‘Arrangements?’ She looked at Neran, the translator, with a puzzled expression.
Neran spoke at some length in Tamul, and the tall girl burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny, Atana?’ Bergsten asked suspiciously.
‘That you would worry about that, Bergsten-Priest. I am a soldier. I can defend myself against any of your men who admire me too much.’
‘Why have you decided to come along with u
s, Atana Maris?’ Heldin stepped in.
‘I had a thought after you left Cynestra, Heldin-Knight,’ she replied. ‘It has been in my mind to go find Itagne-Ambassador for much weeks now. You are going to the place where he will be, so I will go with you.’
‘We could carry a message to him for you, Atana. You don’t really have to go along.’
She shook her head. ‘No, Heldin-Knight. It is a personal matter between Itagne-Ambassador and me. He was friendly to me when he was in Cynestra. Then he had to go away, but he said to me that he would write letters to me. He did not do that. Now I must go find him to make sure that he is well.’ Her eyes went hard. ‘If he is well, I must know if he does not want to be friendly to me any more.’ She sighed. ‘I hope much that his feelings have not changed. I would not want to have to kill him.’
* * *
‘I want no part of this,’ Gahennas said abruptly, standing up and giving the rest of them a reproving look. ‘I was willing to join with you if it meant tweaking Cieronna’s nose, but I’m not going to involve myself in treason.’
‘Who said anything about treason, Gahennas?’ Chacole asked her. ‘There won’t be any real danger to our husband. We’re just going to make it appear that there’s a plot against him – and we’re going to plant enough evidence to lay the plot at Cieronna’s door. If something were to happen to Sarabian, the Crown Prince would be elevated to the imperial throne, and Cieronna would be regent. We’ll expose her plot before anything really happens, and she’ll be totally discredited – probably imprisoned – and we won’t have to kow-tow to her any more.’
‘I don’t care what you say, Chacole,’ the jug-eared Tegan Empress declared flatly. ‘You’re putting something in motion that’s treasonous, and I won’t be a party to it. I’m going to keep an eye on you, Chacole. Dismiss your spies and drop this wild scheme at once, because if you don’t –’ Gahennas left it hanging ominously in the air as she turned on her heel and stalked away.
‘That was very clumsy, Chacole,’ Elysoun drawled, carefully selecting a piece of fruit from the silver platter on the table. ‘She might have gone along if you hadn’t gone into such detail. She didn’t have to know that you were actually going to send out your assassins. You weren’t really sure of her yet, and you went too fast.’
‘I’m running out of time, Elysoun.’ Chacole’s tone was desperate.
‘I don’t see the need for all this urgency,’ Elysoun replied, ‘and how much time did you save today? That Tegan hag’s going to be watching your every move now. You blundered, Chacole. Now you’re going to have to kill her.’
‘Kill?’ Chacole’s face went white.
‘Unless you don’t mind losing your head. One word from Gahennas can send you to the block. You aren’t really cut out for men’s politics, dear. You talk too much.’ Elysoun rose lazily to her feet. ‘We can discuss this later,’ she said. ‘I have an enthusiastic young guardsman waiting for me, and I wouldn’t want him to cool off.’ She sauntered away.
Elysoun’s casual attitude concealed a great deal of urgency. Chacole’s Cynesgan upbringing had made her painfully obvious. She had drawn on the hatred of Sarabian’s other wives for Empress Cieronna. That part was clever enough, but the elaborate, involved story of staging an imitation assassination-attempt was ridiculously excessive. Very clearly the attempt was not designed to fail, as Chacole and Torellia so piously proclaimed. Elysoun began to walk faster. She had to get to her husband in order to warn him that his life was in immediate danger.
‘Xanetia!’ Kalten said, starting back in surprise as the Anarae suddenly appeared in their midst that evening. ‘Can’t you cough or something before you do that?’
‘It was not mine intent to startle thee, my protector,’ she apologized.
‘My nerves are strung a little tight right now,’ he said.
‘Did you have any luck?’ Mirtai asked.
‘I gleaned much, Atana Mirtai.’ Xanetia paused, collecting her thoughts. ‘The slaves are not closely watched,’ she began, ‘and their supervision is given over to Cynesgan overseers, for such menial tasks are beneath the dignity of the Cyrgai. The desert itself doth confine the slaves. Those foolish enough to attempt escape inevitably perish in that barren waste.’
‘What’s the customary routine, Anarae?’ Bevier asked her.
‘The slaves emerge from their pens at dawn,’ she replied, ‘and, unbidden and unguarded, leave the city to take up their tasks. Then, at sunset, still uncommanded and scarce noticed, they return to the city and to the slave-pens for feeding. They are then chained and locked in their pens for the night to be released again at first light of day.’
‘Some of them are up here in these woods,’ Mirtai noted, peering out through the trees that concealed them. ‘What are they supposed to be doing?’
‘They cut firewood for their masters in this extensive forest. The Cyrgai warm themselves with fires in the chill of winter. The kenneled slaves must endure the weather.’
‘Were you able to get any sense of how the city’s laid out, Anarae?’ Bevier asked her.
‘Some, Sir Knight.’ She beckoned them to the edge of the trees so that they could look across the valley at the black-walled city. ‘The Cyrgai themselves live on the slopes of the hill which doth rise within the walls,’ she explained, ‘and they do hold themselves aloof from the more mundane portion of the city below. There is yet another wall within the outer one, and that inner wall doth protect Cyrgon’s Chosen from contact with inferior races. The lower city doth contain the slave-pens, the warehouses for foodstuffs, and the barracks of the Cynesgans who oversee the slaves and man the outer wall. As thou canst see, there is yet that final wall which doth enclose the summit of the hill. Within that ultimate wall lieth the palace of King Santheocles and the temple of Cyrgon.’
Bevier nodded. ‘It’s fairly standard for a fortified town then.’
‘If thou wert aware of all this, why didst thou ask, Sir Knight?’ she asked tartly.
‘Confirmation, dear lady,’ he replied, smiling. ‘The city’s ten thousand years old. They might have had different ideas about how to build a fort before the invention of modern weapons.’ He squinted across the valley at walled Cyrga. ‘They’re obviously willing to sacrifice the lower city,’ he said. ‘Otherwise that outer wall would be defended by Cyrgai. The fact that they’ve turned that chore over to the Cynesgans means that they don’t place much value on those warehouses and slave-pens. The wall at the foot of “Mount Cyrgon” will be more fiercely defended, and if necessary, they’ll pull back up the hill to that last wall that encloses the palace and the temple.’
‘All of this is well and good, Bevier,’ Kalten interrupted him, ‘but where are Ehlana and Alean?’
Bevier gave him a surprised look. ‘Up on top, of course,’ he replied, ‘either in the palace or in the temple.’
‘How did you arrive at that?’
‘They’re hostages, Kalten. When you’re holding hostages, you have to keep them close enough to threaten them when your enemies get too close. Our problem is how to get into the city.’
‘We’ll come up with something,’ Sparhawk said confidently. ‘Let’s go back into the woods a ways and set up for the night.’
They moved back among the trees and ate cold rations, since a fire was out of the question.
‘The problem’s still there, Sparhawk,’ Kalten said as evening settled over the hidden valley. ‘How are we going to get inside all those walls?’
The first wall’s easy,’ Talen said. ‘We just walk in through the gate.’
‘How do you propose to do that without being challenged?’ Kalten demanded.
‘People walk out of the city every morning and back again every evening, don’t they?’
‘Those are slaves.’
‘Exactly.’
Kalten stared at him.
‘We want to get into the city, don’t we? That’s the easiest way.’
‘What about the other walls?’ Bevier obje
cted.
‘One wall at a time, Sir Knight,’ Talen said gaily, ‘one wall at a time. Let’s get through the outer one first. Then we’ll worry about the other two.’
Daiya the Peloi came riding hard back across the gravelly desert about mid-morning the next day. ‘We’ve found them, your Reverence,’ he reported to Bergsten as he reined in. ‘The Cynesgan cavalry tried to lead us away from where they’re hiding, but we found them anyway. They’re in those hills just ahead of us.’
‘More of those big ones with masks on their faces?’ Heldin asked.
‘Some of those, friend Heldin,’ Daiya replied. ‘But there are others as well – wearing old-fashioned helmets and carrying spears.’
‘Cyrgai,’ Bergsten grunted. ‘Vanion mentioned them. Their tactics are so archaic that they won’t be much of a problem.’
‘Where exactly are they, friend Daiya?’ Heldin asked.
‘They’re in a large canyon on the east side of those hills, friend Heldin. My scouts saw them from the canyon-rim.’
‘We definitely don’t want to go into that canyon after them, your Grace,’ Heldin cautioned. ‘They’re infantry, and close quarters are made to order for their tactics. We’ll have to devise some way to get them to come out into the open.’
Atana Maris asked Neran a question in Tamul, and he replied at some length. She nodded, spoke briefly to him, and then she ran off toward the south.
‘Where’s she going?’ Bergsten demanded.
‘She said that your enemies have laid a trap for you, your Grace,’ Neran replied with a shrug. ‘She’s going to go spring it.’
‘Stop her, Heldin!’ Bergsten said sharply.
It must be said in Sir Heldin’s defense that he did try to catch up to the lithe, fleet-footed Atan girl, but she merely glanced back over her shoulder, laughed, and ran even faster, leaving him far behind, flogging at his horse and muttering curses.
Bergsten’s curses were not muttered. He blistered the air around him. ‘What is she doing?’ he demanded of Neran.
‘They’re planning an ambush, your Grace,’ Neran replied calmly. ‘It won’t work if somebody sees them hiding in that canyon. Atana Maris is going to run into the canyon, let them see her, and then run out again. They’ll have to try to catch her. That’ll bring them out into the open. You might want to give some thought to picking up your pace just a bit. She’ll be terribly disappointed in you if you’re not in position when she leads them out.’