The Doomfarers of Coramonde (40 page)

For a night, a
day and into another night they went. The skies remained threatening, and the
Prince was glad he had mighty Fireheel under him. They would stop for food and
to rest their horses, make relievements or utter a word of prayer, then go on.

At last
Springbuck called a halt, knowing the men must rest before the long trek
through the Keel of Heaven. Gil slumped from his saddle, asleep before he hit
the ground.

The air was hot
and close. Lightning began to flash intermittently in the east. Men picketed
their horses and those lucky enough not to draw guard duty threw themselves
down, exhausted.

The Prince was
seeing to the arrangement of watches, trying to assure himself of each man’s
welfare. The seemingly indefatigable Reacher had disappeared hours earlier,
loping toward his homeland to reconnoiter. Bonesteel was obviously strained by
the ordeal, and Andre was snoring loudly a few paces from the slumbering
American.

Of Hightower
there was no sign. The night was black, and now thunder swelled in their
direction out of the mountains, and spears of levinbolts flew.

Springbuck
found the old man on a low, open knoll outside camp, just as rain began in fat
droplets. He thought he came up silently, especially in the midst of the
growing thunder and racing lightning. But when he was near the other, Hightower
asked, fairly bellowing to be heard, “Who draws nigh?”

“Springbuck,”
he answered, “to see that you come and get some rest now. We have a long road
yet to wend.”

The hulking old
champion didn’t move except to raise his head to chaotic skies and open his
arms, as if to embrace them.

“Too long has
it been since I have stood this close to the earth. Too long between ground and
sky in that tower, suffering the wrath of the gods and the wages of mine own
folly, content to escape with my life.

“But hearing,
smelling, feeling the things of the world again, I remember life, I remember. I
must have my whole life again, or none of it.”

Springbuck knew
Hightower was no longer talking to him, that he was not speaking to any earthly
ear. The focus of the storm swept closer.

“Let my penance
be done! Take my life and this half-existence, or do with me whatsoever you
will. Have I not been punished enough?”

Deafening
crashes and blinding lightning swirled around them. The Prince, awed by the
fury of the sky, faltered and fell sprawling. Gazing up, he saw Hightower’s
figure silhouetted not ten yards from him. The man seemed to gather all his
substance and, in a voice strained and uncharacteristically shrill, repeated:
“Enough!”
He thrust both gauntleted fists into the air over his head.

A bolt from
above struck him, setting forth his shape in blue-white radiance and blasting
the Prince into unconsciousness.

He came
partially awake, with Andre hovering over him apprehensively. He couldn’t hear
and blood was running from his nose. Gil was standing and looking over the
mage’s shoulder. Torches had been brought; in their glare, the Prince made out
Hightower. The old man, too, was staring at him; plainly he could see once
again. His face held a mien of wonder and fear.

Prince of
Coramonde, true Pretender to the Throne of the
Ku-Mor-Mai,
nominal
Commander of the joint expedition, fainted dizzily into cordially receptive
darkness.

When he awoke
again he could hear Gil speaking.

“—not unknown
in my own world. The eye’s a funny thing, y’know…” He sounded very unsure of
himself.

Andre answered.
“You must stop this distressing habit of yours of trying to explain away the
workings of higher powers. Haven’t you seen enough since you’ve been in
Coramonde?”

“Yeah, yeah.
It’s just that I’d rather not see us misconstrue a simple freak of nature for
divine intervention.”

There was
amusement in the wizard’s voice. “I’ve yet to see a
simple
freak of
nature, Gil.”

The driving
rain was loud and steady. Springbuck blinked in the gray predawn, and though
his head hurt and he was stiff and bruised, he was generally whole. He was
lying beneath a densely leaved tree, sheltered from most of the downpour, the
other leaders around him.

Gil noticed he
was awake. “Glad you’re through sluffing off,” he said briskly. “Reacher’s back
and we’ve got trouble. Here, take some water; but don’t take much.”

The Prince
gulped greedily from a drinking skin, but forced himself to stop after a
moment. A wave of nausea threatened him. “What trouble do we have?”

“Take your
pick,” Gil said.

Andre
explained. Reacher had scouted and found that the balance of the original force
under the late Ibn-al-Yed had been separated and moved, under Legion-Marshal
Novanwyn, through the Keel of Heaven to lay siege to Freegate, leaving a
holding unit in the mountain pass. The information had come in part from
guerrillas in the mountains, which meant that there were two barriers between
them and the Free City. The contingent under Novanwyn had swung up and around
from the south, combing for guerrillas and so missed the allies by chance as
they came down the Western Tangent.

The son of
Surehand sighed. Now they were trapped with the only usable pass defended and
the second army doubtless in pursuit soon. He cursed the endless manpower of
his homeland, not for the last time.

Gil nodded in
agreement. “As prevaricating Uncle Gladstone used to admonish me: ‘It never
hits the fan a little at a time.’ Know what I mean?”

Springbuck
didn’t, nor did he care to be enlightened.

Gil went on
cheerfully. “What I figure is, since the holding element’s dug in and made
themselves a redoubt in the pass at the Keel of Heaven—and isn’t all that
big—we’ll draw them out and hand ’em their ass. Then we’ll sucker our way past
Novanwyn’s main body at Freegate.”

The Prince
laughed weakly. He supposed the American didn’t know how difficult it would be
to take high ground from a unit of the Legions.

Gil forged on.
“Stand up and walk around a bit, that’s right, and I’ll show you how we’ll do
it. Hey, you, send that courier over here!”

Gil had
selected from among the remaining light cavalry a former courier. With the
captured writing materials and official seals from Ibn-al-Yed’s tent, and
Bonesteel’s help, he concocted a strongly worded, authentic-looking movement
orders letter, instructing the officer in charge of the redoubt to come at once
with his entire unit to the Hightower, with mention of a general uprising.

The fraudulent
messenger had been outfitted with a close, makeshift approximation of a proper
uniform. Mud and wear would account for the minor flaws. The plan startled the
Prince so much that he forgot his headache.

“Uh-huh.
Shocked Bonesteel, too,” said Gil. “He said something about revamping the
military dispatch system when this is over. It’s really all quite simple,
buddy; but no one around here ever thought too hard about authenticating
messages.” He paused and reflected for a moment. “Matter of fact, I got myself
in quite a jam that way once.”

Springbuck
slowly regained his equilibrium. The American elaborated on the details of the
plan. Their primary worry was how soon Bey would realize that the force in the
Hightower was drastically smaller than he’d thought.

“We have to
leave in short order,” Gil warned. “Man, if we can just buy ourselves another
crummy day or so; if this cloud cover breaks, Bey’ll come buzzing around and
see what we’re doing. The second army’s probably at the Hightower already. Hope
we’ll be able to come up with an idea to take the pressure off Sordo.

“Anyway, it’ll
be a buster getting to Freegate if the storm is as bad on that side of the
mountains. Mud’s tail-high on a tall bear.”

We will
either find a way… or make one.

HANNIBAL

THE rain had stopped. The ground
was mud, offering untrustworthy footing, but that had made it easier to erase
their tracks. They stood in a narrow draw off the Western Tangent, where it
threaded the pass through the Keel of Heaven, and waited as they had since
noon. The air was chilly and men clamped numb fingers beneath their arms and
stamped their feet, since fires were out of the question.

Springbuck,
shivering in his cloak, had to give the enemy officer credit. The message had
said “all speed,” and it was barely a half-half hour after the courier had been
sent up to the redoubt when the sound of hoof-beats and marching drums reached
their ears. But the commander, in haste to obey orders, had neglected caution.
No outriders came to scout the pass ahead of the main body, though if they had,
they’d have been silenced and made no difference.

Through the
latticework of brush and scrub they’d drawn over the mouth of their hiding
place, the Prince and Hightower watched the mounted troops move by smartly.
Springbuck glanced nervously over his shoulder to make sure every man in his
band was out of sight around a bend in the little ravine. Each had been ordered
to stand to his horse to ensure total silence. Since the requirement for
armored men was great in this element of their ambuscade, Springbuck had most
of the men of Freegate with him, along with some of the Horse-blood.

Route drummers
were beating quickstep for the infantry moving down the pass. The Prince
smiled. The infantry would be in the rear, as hoped, the first to be hit.
Excellent!

When the last
rank had passed their position, he and his men quickly tore away the
camouflage, mounted and hurried to form a column, ready to execute their share
of the trap.

A mile farther
down, around several turns in the Tangent, Bonesteel, Dunstan and the remainder
of the men of Freegate stood patiently behind their abatis and piles of stones.
The old Legion-Marshal spoke little to the Berserker. He didn’t like this
gloomy, unpredictable man and felt ill at ease in his presence. He hoped the
fellow would observe some sort of discipline.

From a vantage
point on the cliff overlooking the pass, Gil and Reacher saw the engagement
shaping up. The American signaled Bonesteel that their enemy was close, then
hoped Springbuck and Hightower would have their timing right.

Archers on the
cliffs to either side pulled back at his order, lying out of sight and
concentrating all their attention on listening for the signal to rise again.
Some, jittery, were counting the shafts in their quivers by finger touch or
testing their bowcords.

The enemy
halted behind their captain when they came around a final turn and saw the
barricade barring their way. The captain was confused as to how this
emplacement had come to be here in such short time, since the dispatch rider
who’d brought Ibn-al-Yed’s message to him hadn’t seen it—or at least hadn’t
mentioned it. He assumed that the rider, to whom he’d given word of his
immediate compliance and sent on his way, had been taken or killed.

Then he saw the
fraudulent courier standing with the others behind the abatis, his bright red
tunic open now and a makeshift pike in hand. The captain’s fury was broken by
the sounding of a trumpet by the Wolf-Brother, atop a cliff to his left,
blowing with all his extraordinary vim and producing, to Gil’s mind, a doomsday
wailing.

Hearing this,
Springbuck and his men broke into a full trot; then seeing the tail of the
enemy column, a full charge carried them to the flanks of their foes.

Swords flew and
once again the son of Surehand failed to understand how any man could hope to
come unscathed through such deadly havoc.

The opposing
captain was no fool. Unaware of the attack behind, he ordered a withdrawal
until he could assess his predicament. The maneuver turned to confusion and he
learned that a battle was being fought at the rear of his column, a little over
one hundred yards away, and that he couldn’t get to it; his own men were
falling back and blocking his way.

Boldly, he
determined to carve an escape for his men. Turning back to the abatis, he threw
off his ornate cape; drawing his saber, he ordered his trumpeter to sound the
charge. As he swept forward with his men to fall upon the barricade, Gil stood
and fired a single shot with his carbine.

The tenor of the
conflict changed instantly. What had looked to be a close-quarters fight for
life became a rain of death against which the captain had scant defense, as
archers on cliffs at either side poured a steady, merciless shower into the
tightly confined cavalry. Most of the bowmen were Horseblooded, and their
moaning arrows sowed fright and turmoil along with injury and death.

To the rear,
Springbuck and Hightower were hewing their way through the massed infantry,
which had no chance to establish a line, form shield lock or otherwise fight
except as individuals—disaster for foot against mounted men.

Gil surveyed
the carnage with an expression of stone. Bonesteel attempted to offer terms to
the trapped contingent but was refused, and the fighting continued undiminished.

Reacher hurled
an occasional rock into the milling men below, but the American didn’t lift his
carbine. He knew he didn’t need to; he’d planned this ruse well and the enemy
had small chance of survival.

The enemy
captain, assailing the barricade with no success, fell back. A courageous,
duty-bound man, he obeyed orders without question, a valuable officer liked by
his men and known to do the job allotted him. He’d suffered a wound in his calf
from a pike but didn’t think about it as much as about the agonizing certainty
that he’d led his command to its death. Of course, he wouldn’t surrender. He’d
been told by Legion-Marshal Novanwyn that tortures and humiliations were
inflicted on prisoners by animalistic rebels. He reined back viciously and
studied the hemming cliffs and faceless walls of the trap.