Lake’s anger subsided, to be replaced by a dull, tired sense of resignation. He had been pushing himself hard for days without rest, seeking something, anything, that could turn the tide. But he was not a fool, and secretly he had known.
“We cannot protect the city,” he said.
“Cities can be rebuilt,” answered Ananais.
“But many people will refuse to move. The majority, I wouldn’t wonder.”
“Then they will die, Lake.”
The young man removed his leather work apron and sat back on a barrel top. He screwed the apron into a tight ball and dropped it at his feet. Ananais felt for him then, for Lake was staring down at his own crumpled dreams.
“Damn it, Lake, I wish there was something I could say to lift you. I know how you feel … I feel it myself. It offends a man’s sense of natural justice when the enemy has all the advantages. I remember an old teacher of mine once saying that behind every dark cloud the sun was just waiting to boil you to death.”
Lake grinned. “I had a teacher like that once. A strange old boy who lived in a hovel near the west hill. He said there were three kinds of people in life: winners, losers, and fighters. Winners made him sick with their arrogance, losers made him sick with their whining, and fighters made him sick with their stupidity.”
“In which category did he put himself?”
“He said he had tried all three and nothing suited him.”
“Well, at least he tried. That’s all a man can do, Lake. And we shall try. We will hit them and hurt them. We will bog them down in a running war. Knuckle and skull, steel and fire. And with luck, when Tenaka gets back, he will mop them up with his Nadir riders.”
“We don’t seem to be exactly overflowing with luck,” Lake pointed out.
“You make your own. I put no faith in gods, Lake. Never have. If they exist, they care very little—if at all—about ordinary mortals. I put my faith in me, and you know why? Because I have never lost! I’ve been speared, stabbed, and poisoned. I’ve been dragged by a wild horse, gored by a bull, and bitten by a bear. But I have never lost. I’ve even had my face ripped away by a Joining, but I’m still here. And winning is a habit.”
“You are a hard act to follow, Darkmask. I won a footrace once and was third in the open wrestling at the games. Oh … and a bee stung me once when I was a child, and I cried for days.”
“You’ll do, Lake! Once I have taught you how to be a good liar! Now, let’s get back in there and work on the weapons you have devised.”
From dawn to dusk for three days Rayvan and scores of helpers toured the city, preparing the people for evacuation into the depths of the mountains. The task was thankless. Many were those who refused to consider moving, and some even scoffed at the threat Rayvan outlined. Why should Ceska attack the city? they asked. That was why it had been built without walls—there was no need to sack it. Arguments developed, and doors were slammed. Rayvan endured insults and humiliation, yet still she tramped the streets.
On the morning of the fourth day the refugees gathered in the meadows to the east of the city; their possessions were piled on carts, some drawn by mules, others by ponies or even oxen. The less fortunate carried their belongings on their backs in canvas bundles. In all there were fewer than two thousand people; twice that number had elected to stay.
Galand and Lake led them out on the long hard trek to the highlands, where already three hundred men were building crude shelters in hidden valleys.
Lake’s weapons of war, covered in oiled leather, had been placed on six wagons, which headed the column.
Rayvan, Decado, and Ananais watched the refugees set out. Then Rayvan shook her head, cursed, and marched back to the council chamber without another word. The two men followed her. Once they were inside, her anger burst into the open.
“What in the name of chaos is going on in their heads?” she raged. “Have they not seen enough of Ceska’s terror? Some of those people have been friends of mine for years. They are solid, intelligent, reasoning people. Do they want to die?”
“It is not that easy, Rayvan,” said Decado softly. “They are not used to the ways of evil, and they cannot conceive why Ceska would want to butcher the city’s population. It makes no sense to them. And you ask as if they had not seen enough of Ceska’s terror. In short, they have not! They have seen men with their arms lopped off, but the spectators can ask: Did he deserve it? They have heard of starvation and plague in other areas, but Ceska has always had an answer for that. He slides the blame from himself with rare skill. And truly they do not want to know. For most men life is their home and their families, watching the children grow, hoping next year will be better than this.
“In southern Ventria an entire community lives on a volcanic island. Every ten years or so it spews ash, dust, and burning rock, killing hundreds. Yet they stay, always convincing themselves that the worst is over.
“But do not torment yourself, Rayvan. You have done all that you could. More than could have been asked for.”
She sagged back in her seat and shook her head. “I could have succeeded. About four thousand people are going to die down there. Horribly! And all because I started a war I could not win.”
“Nonsense!” said Ananais. “Why are you doing this to yourself, woman? The war began because Ceska’s men poured into the mountains and massacred innocent people. You merely defended your own. Where the hell would we be if we just allowed such atrocities to occur? I don’t like the situation; it smells worse than a ten-day-dead pig in summer, but it’s not my doing. Nor is it yours. You want blame? Blame the people who voted him into power. Blame the soldiers who follow him still. Blame the Dragon for not putting him down when they could. Blame his mother for giving birth to him. Now, enough of this! Every man and woman down there had a choice, given to them freely. Their fate is in their hands. You are not responsible.”
“I don’t want to argue with you, Darkmask. But somewhere along this dreadful line someone must claim responsibility. The war is not of my making, as you say. But I elected myself to lead these people, and every one of them who dies will be on my head. I would have it no other way. Because I care. Can you understand that?”
“No,” said Ananais bluntly. “But I accept it.”
“I understand it,” said Decado. “But your care must now be for those people who have trusted you and moved to the mountains. What with refugees from outside Skoda and the city folk, we will have over seven thousand people up there. There will be problems with food, sanitation, sickness. Lines of communication must be set up. Stores, supplies, and medicines. That all takes organization and manpower. And every man we lose to that side of the war is one fewer warrior standing against Ceska.”
“I shall be there to organize that,” said Rayvan. “There are maybe twenty women I can call on.”
“With respect,” said Ananais, “you will also need men.
Penned up like that, tempers can flare and some people will become convinced they are getting less than their ration. Many of the men among the refugees are cowards, and often that makes them bullies. There will be thieves, and among so many women there will be men who seek to take advantage.”
Rayvan’s green eyes blazed. “All that I can handle, Darkmask. Believe it! No one will question my authority.”
Beneath his mask Ananais grinned. Rayvan’s voice had an edge of thunder, and her square chin jutted pugnaciously. She was probably right, he thought. It would be a brave man who went against her. And all the brave men would be facing a more formidable foe.
During the days that followed Ananais divided his time between the small army manning the outer mountain ring and the setting up of a passable fortress on the inner ring. Minor trails into the valleys were blocked, and the main entrances—the valleys of Tarsk and Magadon—were hastily walled with boulders. Throughout the long hours of daylight the mountain-hardened men of Skoda added to the fortifications, rolling huge boulders from the hills and wedging them into place across the
mouths of the valleys. Slowly the walls increased in size. Pulleys and wooden towers were erected by skilled builders, and larger rocks were lifted by ropes and swung into place, cemented by a mix of clay and rock dust.
The main builder and wall architect was a Vagrian immigrant named Leppoe. He was tall, dark, balding, and indefatigable. Men walked warily around him, for he had an unnerving habit of looking through a man, ignoring him totally as his mind wrestled with some problem of stress or structure. And then, with the problem solved, he would smile suddenly and become warm and friendly. Few workers could keep up with his pace, and often he would work long into the night, planning refinements or taking over as foreman of a work party and pushing his men hard under the moonlight.
As the walls neared completion, Leppoe added yet another refinement. Planks were laid and cunningly fitted to create ramparts, while the outer walls were smeared with mortar and smoothed, making it more difficult for an enemy to scale them.
Leppoe had two of Lake’s giant bows placed near the center of each wall; these were tested for range and spread by Lake himself and the twelve men he had trained to handle them. Sacks of lead shot for slings were placed by the weapons, along with several thousand arrows.
“It all looks strong enough,” Thorn told Ananais. “But Dros Delnoch it is not!”
Ananais strode along the ramparts of Magadon, gauging the possible lines of attack. The walls negated Ceska’s cavalry, but the Joinings would have no trouble scaling them. Leppoe had worked miracles getting them up to fifteen feet in height, but it was not enough. Lake’s weapons would create havoc to within thirty feet of the walls, but nearer than that they would be useless.
Ananais sent Thorn to ride the two miles across the valley to Tarsk. Then he dispatched two other men to run the same distance. It took Thorn less than five minutes to make the journey, while the runners took almost twelve.
The general’s problem was a tough one. Ceska was likely to strike at both valleys simultaneously, and if one was overrun, the second was doomed. Therefore, a third force had to be held in check somewhere between the two, ready to move the instant a breach looked likely. But walls could be breached in seconds, and they didn’t have many minutes. Signal fires were useless, since the Skoda range loomed between the valley mouths.
However, Leppoe solved the problem by suggesting a triangular system of communication. By day, mirrors or lanterns could be used to send a message back into the valley, where a group of men would be constantly on the lookout. Once the message was received, the group would relay it back to the second valley in the same way. A force of five hundred men would camp between the valleys, and once a signal was received, they would ride like the devil. The system was practiced many times both in daylight and in darkness until Ananais was convinced it had reached its peak of efficiency. A call for help could be transmitted and a relief force could arrive within four minutes. Ananais would have liked to halve the time, but he was content.
Valtaya had moved back into the mountains with Rayvan and taken control of the medical supplies. Ananais missed her terribly; he had a strange feeling of doom that he could not shake off. He was never a man to give a great deal of thought to death; now it plagued him. When Valtaya had said good-bye the previous night, he had felt more wretched than at any time in his life. Taking her in his arms, he had fought to say the words he felt, desperate to let her know the depth of his love for her.
“I … I will miss you.”
“It won’t be for long,” she said, kissing his scarred cheek and averting her eyes from the ruined mouth.
“You … er … look after yourself.”
“And you.”
As he helped her to her horse, several other travelers cantered toward the hut and he scrambled to replace his mask. And then she was gone. He watched her until the night swallowed her.
“I love you,” he said at last, too late. He tore the mask from his face and bellowed at the top of his voice.
“I love you!” The words echoed in the mountains as he sank to his knees and hammered the ground with his fist. “Damn, damn, damn! I love you!”
18
Tenaka, Subodai, and Renya had an hour’s start on the tribesmen, but that was gradually whittled back, for despite the strength of the Drenai mounts, Tenaka’s horse now carried double. At the top of a dusty hill Tenaka shaded his eyes with his hand and tried to count the riders giving chase, but it was not easy, for a swirling dust cloud rose up around them.
“I would say a dozen, no more,” said Tenaka at last.
Subodai shrugged. “Could be a lot less,” he said.
Tenaka remounted, casting about for a likely ambush site. He led them up into the hills to a low outcropping of rock that jutted over the trail like an outstretched fist. Here the trail curved to the left. Tenaka stood up in the saddle and leapt to the rock. Startled, Subodai slid forward and took up the reins.
“Ride forward to that dark hill, then slowly circle until you come back here,” Tenaka told him.
“What are you going to do?” asked Renya.
“I’m going to get a pony for my bondsman,” said Tenaka, grinning.
“Come, woman!” snapped Subodai, and cantered off in the lead. Renya and Tenaka exchanged glances.
“I don’t think I shall enjoy being the docile woman of the steppes,” she whispered.
“I said as much,” he reminded her with a smile.
She nodded and heeled her horse after Subodai.
Tenaka lay flat on the rock, watching the horsemen approach; they were some eight minutes behind Subodai. At close range Tenaka studied the riders; there were nine of them, wearing the goatskin jerkins of the steppes rider and rounded leather helms fringed with fur. Their faces were flat and sallow, their eyes black as night and coldly cruel. Each carried a lance, and swords and knives were strapped to their belts. Tenaka watched them come, waiting for the back marker.
They thundered up the narrow trail, slowing as they came to the curve by the rock. As they passed, Tenaka slid out, drawing up his legs under him; then, as the last rider cantered below him, he dropped like a stone to hammer his booted feet into the man’s face. He catapulted from the saddle. Tenaka hit the ground, rolled, came upright, and lunged for the pony’s rein. The beast stood still, nostrils quivering with shock. Tenaka patted him gently and then led him to the fallen warrior. The man was dead, and Tenaka stripped off his jerkin, pulling it over his own. Then he took the man’s helm and lance and, vaulting to the saddle, set off after the others.
The trail wound on, veering left and right, and the riders became less bunched. Tenaka cantered close to the man in front, just before another bend.
“Hola!” he called. “Wait!” The man drew back on the reins as his comrades moved out of sight.
“What is it?” inquired the rider. Tenaka drew up alongside him, pointing up in the air. As the man glanced up, Tenaka’s fist thudded into his neck, and without a sound he fell from the saddle. Up ahead came the sound of triumphant yells. Tenaka cursed and heeled his mount into a gallop, rounding the bend to see Subodai and Renya facing the seven riders, swords in hand.
Tenaka hit their line like a thunderbolt, his lance punching a rider from the saddle. Then his sword was out, and a second man fell screaming.
Subodai bellowed a war cry and kicked his mount forward; blocking a wild cut, he swept down his sword, cleaving his opponent’s collarbone. The man grunted, but he was game and attacked once more. Subodai ducked as the tribesman’s sword slashed through the air, then gutted the man expertly.
Two of the riders now charged at Renya, determined to gain some spoils. However, they were met by a feral snarl as she leapt from the saddle at the first, bearing man and pony to the ground. Her dagger sliced his throat so fast that he felt no pain and could not understand his growing weakness. Renya came up quickly, letting forth the bloodcurdling shriek that had terrified the outlaws back in Drenai. The ponies reared in terror, and her nearest opponent dropped his lance and grab
bed the reins with both hands. Renya leapt, hammering a fist to his temple; he flew from the saddle, struggling to rise, then slumped to the ground unconscious.
The remaining two tribesmen disengaged and raced from the battleground as Subodai cantered to Tenaka.
“Your woman …” he whispered, tapping his temple. “She is crazy as a moon dog!”
“I like them crazy,” said Tenaka.
“You move well, Bladedancer! You are more Nadir than Drenai, I think.”
“There are those who would not see that as a compliment.”
“Fools! I have no time for fools. How many of these horses do I keep?” asked the Nadir, scanning the six ponies.
“All of them,” said Tenaka.
“Why so generous?”
“It stops me having to kill you,” Tenaka told him. The words moved through Subodai like ice knives, but he forced a grin and returned the cool stare of Tenaka’s violet eyes. In them Subodai saw knowledge, and it frightened him. Tenaka knew of his plan to rob and kill him; as sure as goats grew horns, he knew.
Subodai shrugged. “I would have waited until after my bond was completed,” he said.
“I know that. Come, let us ride.”
Subodai shuddered; the man was not human. He gazed at the ponies. Still, human or not, he was growing rich in Tenaka’s presence.
For four days they moved north, skirting villages and communities, but on the fifth day their food ran out and they rode into a village of tents nestled by a mountain river. The community was a small one, no more than forty men. Originally they had been of the Doublehair tribe far to the northeast, but a split had developed and now they were Notas—“No Tribe”—and fair game for all. They greeted the travelers with care, not knowing if they were part of a larger group. Tenaka could see their minds working; the Nadir law of hospitality meant that no harm could come to visitors while they stayed in one’s camp. But once out on the steppes …