The War, page 15
Therelane was hurrying to the hospice for a gash on his forearm that was shallow but bleeding with a frightening persistency. He did not know whether he were dizzy from blood loss or simply anxiety, but he was glad to sink down on a bed and wait for one of the surgeons to see him.
It was a girl who came over his way, small and quick-stepping, with dark hair bouncing soft and loose over her shoulders. She looked startlingly like Irene—why, she was—
“Irene!” Therelane cried, and stared speechless at her as she seized his arm and began applying numbing pressure to the wound.
“Don’t squirm,” she said with stinging briskness.
“Irene—you’re here!”
“Yes, and I arrived just in time, it seems,” she answered. “Don’t squirm, I said. You’re a grown man, or you ought to be.”
“But why on earth are you—”
“Don’t be such a distraction,” she said shortly, cutting him off. “There’s two men coming in here every minute. I really don’t have all day. Hold this here, and I’ll be back in a moment to bandage it up.” She whipped away like a humming-bird, tiny and fierce and no-nonsense. As Therelane waited for her to come back, he realized he did not need to ask her why she had come. It made perfect sense for her to be here.
“Irene,” he only said, urgently, when she reappeared and began winding a cloth tightly around his arm, “you know, you might get hurt.”
She stopped short and regarded him with pursed lips. Then she laughed, dryly, and after knotting the bandage ruffled his hair.
He was too shocked to be embarrassed.
“You’re absurd,” she said. “Don’t worry about me, young soldier.”
CHAPTER 14
MORDRED RAN IMMEDIATELY FOR MITHISSA when the attack drew off. How long the lull would persist he did not know, and his question was urgent.
“Is the general within?” He caught the arm of the nearest man as he tore into the courtyard and skidded to a halt.
The man shook his head. “Boy, he rode out to the walls before the battle started. He’s not returned.”
Mordred spun around, ready to rush out and scour the walls and streets. But even as he did so the gate creaked, and a horse trotted in with the general astride. He leaped off at once on seeing Mordred, and motioned him within.
“What is it, Mordred Kenhelm?” he asked when they were alone.
Mordred wet his lips. “The leader said to me—he bade me find another way into the city, a small secret way.” The excitement welled up in him as it had two nights ago, shot with uncertainty. “My general, I thought of the little bridge and the mountain path, and how if—if I were to tell him of that, and promise that it would be unguarded at a certain time, he could lead a number of men in as he had planned. But we would lie in wait for their coming, and their surprise attack would be surprised.”
“How many would he bring?” the general asked slowly.
“Not very many. I would advise him no more than fifty because of the difficulty of the pass.” He was speaking rapidly, the words tumbling out that he had sorted and mulled over for long hours. “I believe he intends this as a mere sortie, in order to open the main gate from within. My general—” he faltered, his voice fading away as he waited for the older man to speak. “Is it too great a risk, do you think?”
The general lifted his head and crossed to Mordred in a swift stride, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Mari, it is a risk to you.”
Mordred flung up his head, his smile as fearless and confident as he felt. “I can manage it. He will think I made an error in the message, and he will reprimand me; but this once I think he will overlook it. My general, is it not my place to risk myself, if I must, when we can gain by it?”
“You are so full of courage,” murmured the general, shaking his head a little in wonder. “Aye, if you are willing to take the chance then send to him. No gain is too small to be counted in this war. But, Mordred—take care for yourself.” He paused, his hand firm on Mordred’s shoulder and his eyes keenly searching. “There are times to think of one’s own well-being.”
Mordred hesitated—and dropped his gaze, and bent his head. “Aye, my general.”
The general smiled. “There, it is past. Go, and bring to me the details of your message when you have sent it. How fare matters with Sergeant Corass and the men?”
“Sinethar is a dull character,” said Mordred lightly. “But at least he is an easy act to play.”
The general did not laugh. He was no more taken in by the lightness than the leader had been by the humility. Mordred felt himself ache as that dark gaze scraped over loneliness and hurts beneath. Suddenly he did not trust himself to endure it any longer without something breaking, and he whirled and without so much as a farewell left the room.
~
He saw the bird as he approached the barracks. It landed on the road in front of him, cocked its head on one side and fixed an eye on him with strange intensity. Then it stirred its left wing, as though beckoning him closer.
Mordred glanced up the road, and behind him, and saw it all empty. Striding over, he bent down on his knee beside the bird. “Well?” he asked at last, snapping the endless silence.
The bird—it was a crow, perhaps the one he had seen in Cern Dersturi’s tent—looked extraordinarily smug. “Cern Dersturi wishes a report,” it said in a gravelly croak.
Mordred pulled a cool, authoritative mask over the thrill that sped through him at hearing a bird speak with human tongue. “Tell Cern Dersturi that no reinforcements have come to the city yet. I have not yet ascertained how many men were lost in the first clash this morning. Tell him also”—he lowered his voice—“that I have discovered an excellent way into the city.” He jerked out his knife and began to scrawl in the dirt beside the road, replicating the mountain path as best as he could. “It is a dubious path, especially on the ridge; he cannot send large groups along it, but for his purpose it should serve.”
“Is this path guarded?” the bird demanded shrewdly.
“It is guarded at the bridge.” Mordred thrust his knife at the point in the rude map, wiped it clean, and sheathed it. “There will be no guards on it at sunset this evening.” He stared hard into the crow’s beady eyes. “You understand?”
“Yes,” the bird sniffed. It put its head so disdainfully high in the air that it looked liable to topple over in a moment, and Mordred struggled not to laugh at the foolishness.
“You can replicate for him this?” He indicated the map, and, when the bird assented, scuffed it out with his hand. “That is all, then. Farewell, eraris.”
“Farewell, O favored spy,” it returned bitingly, and launched itself into the air. It did not look back to see Mordred gazing after it with a delighted smile. What excitable, easily offended things they are! And so sharp!
Reluctantly did he turn away to set his steps again toward the barracks.
~
“Sunset,” the leader muttered. “So, that does well. I had indeed hoped to release the Adorti at night. Where is Rasakt? Dovurti, send Captain Rasakt to me.”
Lieutenant Dovurti Atta was back shortly with the captain in question.
“Captain. The spy has sent back word. Take forty men up the mountain, and into Mianu by the bridge—here. It may take you some time to negotiate the path, so leave soon, but do not attempt to cross the bridge or expose yourselves before sunset.”
“Paraki. And once we are in the city?”
“I shall send out the trolls shortly before the time you enter it. They will have to call out all their forces to resist that attack, and you should be able to make your way through the city with little or no opposition. Of course you may lose some men; it matters not. It matters not if you lose all.” He leaned forward and spoke grimly, his eyes like harsh stone. “Whatever the cost, only get to the gate, and get it open.”
Captain Rasakt bowed. “We shall succeed or perish, Paraki.”
The leader uttered a short, sarcastic laugh. “There is no ‘or’, Captain. You shall succeed, regardless of the perishing question.”
“Understood, Paraki,” returned the captain.
~
The shadows stretched long over Mianu, flinging themselves backward in tangled black spires across the mountains, and the light was golden, rich and dark. One hundred men waited amassed on the north-west wall.
“You know your orders?” said the general to the man commanding them.
“Wait in hiding until they have crossed the bridge,” came the ready answer. “Come after them and take them by surprise.”
The general nodded, and then as horns and stirring sounded distantly from the enemy camp he wheeled, his face taut. A nearer horn sounded, within the city, mustering the soldiers. A deep, growling bellow, like the rumbling of doom, drifted up to their ears.
The men stirred, unease swelling. The general glanced back to them with resolute countenance though tense and anxious. “It is not your concern. Fulfill your duty, and fight with honor.” He whirled and ran down into the city.
~
The guard had been doubled since the beginning of the siege. Therelane and Bardrick were already on the walls when the call to assemble rang out.
Familiar faces pushed towards them. “What is it?” panted Kenneth, alarm wavering in his eyes.
Bardrick lifted a hand against the fading sky, his forefinger pointing sober and dark towards the camp. “See, down there—” So shaken was he, that he gave his answer in the guttural accent of Erahar.
“They are huge,” said Marcus, eyes wide with awe and fear.
The Mograre were gathering before the city, grunting and roaring in a bestial manner. Twice the height of a man, some of them that much and half again, their squat, bulky forms were covered in leathery hide the color of shale on the mountainside, the color of dulled iron or a clouded sea. Their heads, sunken low into short necks, thrust forward like angry bulls as they stormed back and forth, jostling one another.
“Archers!” The general was striding along the walltop, lifting his voice whip-clear and steady for all to heed. “Archers, to your places! Prepare to shoot!”
The command was taken up and passed along, and the defenders grew more orderly and quiet, though the noise from below still continued. For ten minutes it persisted. Then—perhaps at an unseen command—the trolls craned their heads upwards in a simultaneous gargling howl, and lunged for the walls.
“Fire!” rang out the general’s voice. And “Fire!” echoed on down the wall. The snap of releasing arrows thrummed the air. Into the advancing line they hissed, and fresh roars rose up of pain or anger, but not one of them fell or even stumbled.
“Again! Fire!”
This time one of them did drop, with an arrow straight through the eye of its ugly, creased features. But next instant they were all hurtling against the stone, tremoring it with the ferocity of their impact, some of them snatching up the fallen siege ladders and leaping up them in fearful agility, others climbing up the walls by sheer strength.
“Fire at will and prepare to defend yourselves!” And then the general’s words were lost in the tumult.
Therelane, lost in a mad, pressing crush of people, did not know where he was or when it would end. He saw a dark shape of a Mogra heave itself over the top of the rampart against the fast-blackening sky, and wondered bewilderedly if this was how he would die—crushed under the foot or the club of one such thing, like a candle flame dashed out. A coldness pressed around his heart, and he felt no battle madness or excitement, only terror and a longing to go home. Half-heartedly he drew his sword, aware that around him others were doing the same.
Torches flared out into the descending night. Therelane saw a sickeningly clear moment of a troll hurling a man’s form over the battlements, and another brief but vividly lit instant of one’s jaws closing around a man’s throat, and then red, horrible red—
The stones vibrated under his feet, and a low, endless growl sounded close at hand as a dark hump burrowed through the mass of bodies. Therelane with a surge of panic struck out blindly at it as it came at him, again and again, feeling the jar as his blade sunk solidly into the troll’s leg. And it was past him, stamping further down the wall. Therelane staggered, his hands shaking violently.
When his head cleared, he noticed that high on a bastion several dark figures, highlighted dimly by the torches below, were shooting down at the Mograre. A steady and persistent fire they kept up. One troll fell under the relentless rain, then another. And Therelane, seeing those cool, regulated shots, felt a measure of calm return; not all was lost, not yet. His hand tightened upon his sword's hilt.
The trolls began to bore their way down from the walls and into the city below, swathes of carnage following them. “Oh—stop them!” shouted Therelane helplessly, his words empty and lost in the battle-noise. But now they faced a new trouble, for in the wake of the trolls came enemy soldiers, climbing up the ladders. And Therelane flung himself into the fight, glad at least he was able to do something. The Ordenian side was holding its own; despite the numbers of the Runnicorans, they did not break through like the Mograre had done.
The air around him trembled with a thud.
More and more came, resonating in Therelane’s ears, in his bones, as if the wall below him was being battered into shreds.
“Down!” Someone’s voice was shouting, hard and loud above the clamor. “Down, to the gate! Brace the gate!”
Therelane ran, his breath hot and loud in his ears and his legs heavier than they should have been. It occurred to him that they had left the wall abandoned, and he looked back; but the struggle was still ongoing. Some had remained. Therelane turned again and kept running.
Rivulets of battle followed them, but they outdistanced the bulk of it in their rush. Where the trolls were now, Therelane did not know. And he did not want to wonder, either.
As they drew up to the gate, Therelane noticed that the assaults came with marked irregularity, sometimes two at once; though there was one much louder crash that seemed more regular. “What’s going on?” he grunted breathlessly, finding Braegon beside him as they shoved themselves against the timbers.
“Going on where?” Braegon returned.
“Out there—the pounding on the gate.” Therelane stumbled as the gate shivered under another barrage.
“Last I saw the mountain trolls were hurling rocks against it, and they were bringing up the ram. Now save your breath.” He did not say it reprovingly; his voice was only short and rough with weariness.
Again and again the ram struck. Then there were many cries from without, and the blows came no more.
The men at the gate waited, suffering under anticipation and ignorance, not daring to leave their post of defense. The uproar was dying away into an almost eerie quietude.
At last footsteps sounded, drawing near to them. The sky, to Therelane’s astonishment, had begun to pale with dawn and as the figure came down towards them they could see that it was the general.
“Well done, men,” he said, his words heartening and full of candid cheer despite the exhaustion in his face. “You held them off through the night; they have drawn back now.” And with a quick smile he passed on, leaving the gladness reflected on their faces and tired relief springing in their hearts.
“We lived through it,” said Therelane in wonder, to no-one really but himself.
“Come,” Braegon was saying. “We’d best return to the barracks, and rest while we can.”
He and Therelane found the others congregating at the edge of the building—Fred, Jared, Marcus, Bardrick . . . They all simply stayed there, talking about everything and yet nothing much, mentioning the battle now and then in a half-marveling, half-wary manner, as if to speak of it would incite another attack. They all knew it was coming, eventually; this was but a respite.
“Where’s Kenneth?” asked Marcus suddenly.
Therelane looked at Braegon. He did not know why—except maybe it was that Braegon had remained quite still when everyone else started and broke into murmurings.
“Kenneth’s dead,” said Braegon simply, his flat tone cutting under all the questions. “He never reached the gate.”
~
Though the Runnicorans had retreated into their camp again for now, the streets of Mianu were not safe. The Mograre ran rampant through them, appearing in unexpected places and wreaking destruction; and wherever one was reported, it had fled by the time soldiers arrived. A few had been killed. At a guess, ten or more remained at large in the city.
Mordred, aware of the danger, went carefully when the general summoned him to Mithissa. By cutting across back ways, treading light and soft and listening to every sound, he reached the tower without incident.
“Mordred Kenhelm.” The general greeted him with his customary sincerity. “I thought you would like to know that the matter of the bridge went well and as planned. By it we certainly frustrated Cern Dersturi’s plans and forced him to play some of his tricks that he would have liked to keep in reserve. It is not a sore blow in his numbers, perhaps; nonetheless I think he will take it hard, particularly the Mograre that he has wasted to little purpose.”
“And the rest of the battle?” Mordred asked. “How did that go?”
The general shook his head, the movement so weary it was more of a drop. “Ours the city remains, yet the cost is grievous. They assailed the gate for hours, and would have broken through, I doubt not, but that we managed to pour oil on the ram and set it afire. They retreated then, for we targeted the trolls as well and several were severely burned, perhaps slain. Yet the gate is now weakened, and our numbers have fallen by half.” His breath shuddered as he released it. “I have sent a plea for more soldiers, but they will not arrive before tomorrow; and that may be too late.”
Mordred said urgently, “But the leader does not know that. I am his spy for Mianu; he depends on me to know how many men are here and what numbers fell in the attacks. If I can perhaps give the impression that there are many defenders yet for the city—more survivors than he expected—it will give him pause. He may wish to restructure his plans, and thus delay his next assault.”
