Drenai Saga 02 - The King Beyond the Gate (33 page)

“I have nothing else,” he said. “But you have a thought, I can tell.”

“Be my bondsman for ten days and lead me to the Wolves,” suggested Tenaka.

Subodai hawked and spit. “That sounds marginally more appealing than dying here. Ten days, you say?”

“Ten days.”

“With today counting as one?”

“Yes.”

“Then I agree.” Subodai raised his hand, and Tenaka took it, hauling him into the saddle behind him. “I’m glad my father is no longer alive to see this day,” muttered the Nadir.

As they cantered off to the north, Subodai thought about his father. A strong man and a fine rider, but such a temper.

It was his temper that had killed him. After a horse race, which Subodai won, his father had accused him of loosening the saddle cinch on his own mare. The argument had blown up into a full-scale fight with fists and knives.

Subodai still remembered the look of surprise on his father’s face as his son’s knife was rammed home in his chest. A man should always know when to control his temper.

The Nadir twisted in the saddle, his black eyes resting on Renya. Now, there was a good woman! Not good for the steppes, maybe, but good for plenty else.

For nine days more he would serve Bladedancer. After that he would kill him and take his woman.

He turned his gaze to the mounts. They were fine beasts. He grinned suddenly as the full joy of life settled over him once more.

The woman he would take

The horses he would keep.

For they would be worth riding more than once.

Lake was sweating heavily as he cranked the thick wooden handle, dragging the bow arm and the twined leather back to the hook. A young man in a leather apron passed him a loosely tied bundle of fifty arrows, which Lake placed in the bowl of the device. Thirty feet down the room two assistants lifted a thick wooden door into place against the far wall.

Ananais sat in a corner with his back against the cool gray stone wall of the old stable. The machine had so far taken more than ten minutes to load. He lifted his mask and scratched his chin. Ten minutes for fifty arrows! One archer could let fly twice that number in half the time. But Lake was trying hard, and Ananais could see no reason to demoralize him.

“Ready?” Lake asked his assistants at the far end of the room. Both men nodded and hurried away behind large sacks of oats and grain.

Lake glanced at Ananais for approval and then tugged the release cord. The massive arm flashed forward, and fifty arrows hammered into the oak door, some passing through and striking sparks from the wall beyond. Ananais strode forward, impressed by the killing power. The door was a mess, having given way at the center, where more than a third of the shafts had struck home.

“What do you think?” Lake asked anxiously.

“It needs to spread more,” said Ananais. “If this had been loosed at a charging mass of Joinings, fully half the shafts would have hit only two beasts. But it needs to spread laterally. Can you do that?”

“I think so. But do you like it?”

“Do you have any slingshot?”

“Yes.”

“Load that in the bowl.”

“It will ruin the cap,” protested Lake. “It’s designed to shoot arrows.”

Ananais put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “It’s designed to kill, Lake. Try the shot.”

An assistant brought a sack of shot and poured several hundred pebble-sized rounds of lead into the copper bowl. Ananais took over the cranking of the device, and they hooked the leather into place within four minutes.

Then Ananais moved to one side, taking the release thong in his hand. “Stand clear,” he ordered. “And forget about the sacks. Get outside the door.” The assistants scurried to safety, and Ananais tugged the release. The giant bow arm leapt forward, and the slingshot thundered into the oak door. The sound was deafening, and the wood split with a groan, falling to the floor in several pieces. Ananais gazed down at the leather cap on the bow: It was twisted and torn.

“Better than arrows, young Lake,” he said as the young man ran to his machine, checking the cap and the leather drawstring.

“I will make a cap in brass,” he said, “and increase the spread. We shall need two cranks, one on either side. And I’ll have the slingshot filed to give points on four sides.”

“How soon can you have one ready?” asked Ananais.

“One? I already have three ready. The adjustments will take only a day, and then we shall have four.”

“Good work, lad!”

“It’s getting them up to the valleys that concerns me.”

“Don’t worry about that. We don’t want them in the first line of defense. Take them back into the mountains; Galand will tell you where to place them.”

“But they could help us hold the line,” argued Lake, his voice rising. Ananais took him by the arm, leading him out from the stable and into the clear night air

“Understand this, lad:
Nothing
will help us hold the first line. We don’t have the men. There are too many passes and trails. If we wait too long, we shall be cut off, surrounded. The weapons are good, and we will use them—but farther back.”

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.