The Myst Reader (113 page)

Many blanched at that and turned away, but many others responded, and so the small rabble with which Ymur had begun became a host, and then an army.

As he went about his camp, arranging things, Ymur nodded to himself. It was strange how it had happened, how the old men had come to him, for it had been in his own mind to raise a force and take on the accursed P’aarli. Better that—better death—than be a slave again. And so he threw himself into the task, cajoling and bullying, attempting to meld that docile host into some kind of fighting force.

He knew it would not be easy. That business in the orchard had been a cheat, in a way. He had known he could get away with it…with luck. But fighting a full-fledged battle against a well-disciplined army was another thing. He had seen the P’aarli at work in the Ages, and could not forget how fearsome they had looked. It did not scare
him
, but he knew he was exceptional in that regard. Most of his men would as willingly jump into a raging fire as face that great host. Yet there had to be a way.

Four days he had, if reports of the P’aarli’s progress could be believed. Five days at most.

He stopped, then laughed, seeing that the answer had come, unasked, in the very weave of his thoughts. Fire. That was it! He would use fire.

“Uta!” he called, summoning the slave-child who had been one of the first to flock to his banner. “Come, child, I have a message for you to run. To Atrus, back at the capital. It begins…”

 

 

§

 

 

Atrus was standing at his desk, studying the map of the capital that was spread out before him, when Uta stepped into the room.

“Uta!” he cried, pleased to see the boy. “You have news for me?”

Uta came across and, stopping before Atrus, bowed his head low, not looking up as he spoke.

“Ymur bids me hail you his friend, and asks if such a thing as liquid fire can be had. If so, he asks for a thousand barrels of it, to be delivered to him by tomorrow evening latest.”

Atrus stared at the boy, astonished. “Liquid fire?” he said quietly, more to himself than in answer. “Yes…I will supply it.”

He nodded decisively. “Tell our good friend Ymur that he will have what he asks for.”

Uta made to turn and leave the room, but Atrus called him back.

“Hold on, Uta! Wait an hour before you return. Catherine, I know, would like to see you before you go.”

 

 

§

 

 

After the boy had gone, Atrus stood there a long while, wondering to what use Ymur was thinking of putting the liquid fire. Whatever it was, he would have to give him instructions—send Irras, maybe, or Carrad to advise him in its use. Then, shrugging that off, he turned his attention back to the map.

He had already marked which avenues and canals in the eastern city should be cut off, and Hersha and Eedrah were already busy organizing the task. Now he needed to decide which of the remaining thoroughfares was best suited to his plan.

If his guess was right, the P’aarli would want to take the capital. If so, then he would lead them into a maze of sorts. I deadly maze, where things were constantly dropped on them and shot at them.

There would be no battles, not even hand-to-hand, for the relyimah would remain unseen.

Gat, particularly, had liked the plan. But Baddu had been far less convinced by it. “Why should the P’aarli come into our trap? What if they wait outside?”

“Then they wait,” Atrus said. “But we make sure they have no means of supporting themselves while they wait. We take away their food and water.”

“But how do we do that?” Baddu had asked.

“By burning every field about the east of the capital and blocking up every waterway.”

“And if that fails?”

“Then we find another way to fight them. We are many.”

“We are many,” Gat echoed, liking the phrase, nodding his blind face enthusiastically. “And the P’aarli…” He grinned broadly. “The P’aarlie are arrogant. They will come into our trap!”

 

 

§

 

 

They had drawn the big awning back, to reveal the P’aar’Ro, seated in his honorary chair of state. The relyimah had moved back out of sight, and the carriage seemed to rest—to float almost—between the pillars.

The three Terahnee halted, looking about them, not certain quite how to proceed. Then, gaining in confidence, they walked through into the great hall, smiling as they saw the silver hair of the old man, the wine-red cloak. This much, at least, was familiar.

“P’aar’Ro!” one of them called, hailing the Great Steward. “We welcome you to Ro’Derraj! We are the last Terahnee in the district. The governor…”

He fell silent, then waited, expecting the P’aar’Ro to stand, perhaps, and come down to greet them, but the chief of the servants merely sat there, as if no one had spoken. Indeed, now that they looked closer, the Terahnee noticed that he was eating!

They turned, looking back at the line of P’aarlie who now stood along the line of the great doorway, blocking it, then turned back.

Strange…

“When we heard you had returned, we were overjoyed!” the second of them said, then stopped, for the P’aar’Ro had sat forward, as if about to speak. Instead, gesturing to the stewards behind them, he nodded toward the three Terahnee then drew his finger across his throat.

“P’aar’Ro?” one of them queried. “Is the interview over?”

But he had barely finished the sentence when he was grabbed from behind.

The P’aar’Ro considered the half-eaten fruit in his hand, then threw it aside, feigning not to notice the slave who quickly and unobtrusively retrieved it and carried it away.

Practice
, he told himself.
All it needs is practice.

 

 

§

 

 

Ymur went down the line of carts, inspecting each one’s stock of barrels carefully, then turned, looking to Carrad.

“Excellent!” he said. “But let us hope we shall not have to use them!”

Carrad scratched his bald pate. “You mean to hold them in reserve, Ymur? But surely…”

Ymur took the young man’s arm and led him across to his tent. Inside, he turned and faced the big fellow.

“I will say this once and not repeat it. Nor will you mention this to anyone, Master Carrad. The fire is not for the P’aarli, it is to be used on our own men, in case they do not have the stomach to fight.”

“But…”

“No buts. We can defeat the P’aarli. Overrun them by sheer weight of numbers. But not if we are running the wrong way! I mean but to stiffen their resolve.”

Carrad nodded, but he was ill at ease suddenly. To be truthful, he had not liked the sound of this little man when Atrus had briefed him about what to expect, and in person he found him even less attractive. Yet Uta, whom he took to be a good judge of character, seemed to idolize the man.

“Tell me who I am to instruct,” Carrad said.

“Good,” Ymur said. “You will speak to the mutes later…”

“Mutes?”

Ymur smiled. “You think I could trust such a thing to men with tongues? Even relyimah talk among themselves!”

He met Ymur’s eyes briefly, seeing the cruelty there, alongside the anger he had expected to find, then lowered his head. “As you wish, Ymur.”

 

 

§

 

 

There were so many now that it was becoming a problem to feed and water them, to clothe them properly and find them weapons. But it would not be a problem for long. The P’aarli army was, if his scouts were right, but an hour away, camped in a great hollow on the edge of the local governor’s estate.

It was an hour from sunset, and if he took his men directly there they could engage with the P’aarli before dark. Not that it mattered. Ymur was prepared to fight them beneath the moon, if necessary. Indeed, he had considered long and hard whether there would be any advantage to doing so. But sunset seemed right somehow. Men were relaxed at that time of day. Or would be, in a camp. Whereas his own men would be tense from a long forced march.

Half a million men followed his banner now. It was more than a hundred times the number of the P’aarli. But that was no guarantee of success. If the first line faltered and turned, then he could find himself at the head of a retreating herd. They would trample themselves to death.

He stretched his arms as he walked, then looked about him at his chiefs, who walked along beside him—men he had picked from the ranks for their attitude. Men like himself, mainly. And, at the back of the small group, young Uta, who had proved a surprise. He had thought at first that Uta was a plant, an ear in his camp for Atrus and the rest of them, but the child could not hide his enthusiasm. He was as keen as Ymur to rid Terahnee of the Masters and their helpers.

Ymur grinned at the thought, then turned his attention to the runner who had come up over the hill and was heading directly toward him.

“What is it?” he asked, neither stopping nor slowing his pace, letting the man fall in beside him. “Are the P’aarli on the move?”

“No, Ymur,” the man answered breathlessly. “Unless you count moving toward their beds as strategy!”

There was laughter among the leading group.

“Then let us hope to find a few of them asleep,” Ymur said, and, hastening his pace, drew the long knife from his belt and raised it, as if the P’aarli were already in sight.

 

 

§

 

 

The P’aarli were seated about their fires, talking and laughing, discussing the day’s “sport.” The sun was low now, the shadows long, and the moon was already climbing the sky to the west.

This was a pleasant land—more pleasant than most they ventured into—and the relyimah here were docile and conditioned. Even so, they had set a guard, as they did in more hostile Ages, though more from habit than expectation of attack.

It was thus that they failed to note the sudden darkening of the sky about the upper ridges of the valley. And if any there heard anything they no doubt thought it the sound of distant thunder.

Ymur, looking down on the encampment from the ridge took in the neat disposition of the tents, the orderliness of the fires, the way the food wagons were placed, and other details, knowing he could learn from them. Then, having looked enough, he raised his arm and, with a whooping cry, threw himself down the slope, yelling at the top of his voice as he ran, his weapon held high, hearing the great thunderous cries of his ragtag army as they threw themselves after him.

He had considered silence and surprise—had thought of stealing into the camp at night and slitting throats—but this was better. He would lose more men, but what of it? No one praised a skulking man, but a bold one, that was different.

As they smashed into the first line of P’aarli, Ymur felt a great wave of elation rise up in him and sweep him away, and for a time he was mindless, his knife arm rising and falling, cleaving friend and foe without distinction.

And then, even as their defeat seemed certain, the P’aarli rallied. A small group of them formed up at the center of the camp and began to fight their way out toward the great house at the far end of the valley. The relyimah, facing this determined group, buckled and fled, throwing their weapons down in fear, by Ymur, coming to himself again, saw this and, taking several of his handpicked men, went and intercepted them, taking risks with his own life—showing his men by example what could be done—and in a moment the P’aarli were overrun as more and more relyimah rejoined the fight.

And then, suddenly, it was over, and a strange silence fell over the camp.

Ymur walked out into the center of the camp, seeing, by the light of the campfires, the great piles of dead that had fought here. “Burn it!” he said, looking about him. “Burn it all! Then on to He’Darra. Let us finish with these P’aarli!”

 

 

§

 

 

“Where are you going in such a hurry?”

The P’aar’Ro stopped, then slowly turned. The relyimah he was facing came barely to his chest, and in the flickering lamplight he seemed to have a strange, squinting face.

“Is no one
carrying
you, Great Steward?”

“I…” The P’aar’Ro swallowed. The truth was, his slaves had deserted the moment the relimah had attacked the encampment. He, fortunately, had been in the house at the time and so had had the chance to escape. Or so he’d thought.

“Would you like
us
to carry you, P’aar’Ro?”

The man looked about him. The shadows might be playing tricks, but he had the strong sense that there were no friendly faces here. Were these men part of the slave army, or just stragglers? If so, he might yet intimidate them.

“You have a litter?” he asked, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

“We do,” their spokesman answered, and at his gesture four of the relyimah brought up a simple straw pallet, then squatted there, as if about to let him mount.

“That?”
the P’aar’Ro asked, incredulous now.

“It’s what we use,” the little man said.

“Use?”

“To carry the bodies…”

The P’aar”Ro’s mouth went dry. “I…”

“Hold him,” Ymur said, smiling, almost gentle as he stepped toward the Great Steward. “Hold him tightly while I gouge out his eyes.”

 

 

§

 

 

Atrus heard the cheering long before the messenger arrived. Going out onto the balcony, he was in time to see Hersha hurry across the courtyard to intercept the man.

There was a moment’s brief consultation, and then the old man straightened, letting out a great whoop of joy.

So Ymur had done it. He had crushed the P’aarli army. Atrus took a long breath, glad in a way that he had not been needed.