The Warrior's Tale (10 page)

Link by link, woman by woman, we went up the chain. Finally, Corais, Polillo, Ismet and I reached the last link, where it was fastened to a huge staple set in the sea-
castle
's vertical wall. There were four of us clinging to this final link - the others waiting below - and I had a momentary' image of us as tiny charms on some giantess's bracelet.
I
shook my head. For some reason, perhaps the proximity of so much sorcery, my imagination was rioting like a drunken civilian's this night.

Three of us sent our eyes scanning the sheer, blank tower above and to the side, while Ismet kept a sharp watch - an arrow nocked on its string - on the
battle
ment above in case a sentry should peer over.

Gamelan's spell was running through all our minds
...
'Let the gift of the blade
...
Pass on to the maid
...
The eyes they shall see
...'

Our eyes saw past the ensorcellment around the tower. Here were arrow slits, there slots that were to illuminate dark stairs; then we saw windows that gaped open with nary a bar or shutter. The Archons, like many people with a single great strength, put too much trust in their main weapon of magic. Far above I saw half a dozen wide openings and guessed they marked the luxurious prison Amalric had been held in. But we wouldn't need to test further our climbing skills, because not twenty feet to the seaward side, and about fifteen above, was a portal nearly as wide.

Polillo chuckled low, as Corais unbuckled the pack on her back and took out the heavy grapnel and ropes. I knew what she was thinking -all this time, all this blood and now we find we can enter this
castle
with no more effort than if we were spending a lazy afternoon climbing one of the steeper faces of Mount Aephens in Orissa.

Polillo cast the grapnel easily and two of its prongs hooked on the windowsill. She tugged to make certain the padded hooks were secure, then busied herself with the only complicated part of the task - making sure the ropes were unsnarled. This grapnel was designed for use in a major assault. Before the incantation was laid, it looked as if the hook carried a rope ladder instead of a single knotted line. When the various ropes were straight, Polillo leaned back until they were taut. She slid the bitter end around one of the chain's links, then whispered - and all of us knew the words, having been given them in our command training. Years ago, before Amalric and Janos Greycloak forced Orissa's Evocators to loosen their stranglehold on the most minor spell, an Evocator would have been teetering up here, re-evoking the grapnel's built-in spell. But that was no longer the policy and so any high-ranking sergeant or any officer of the army, once blessed by an Evocator, could do as Polillo was doing:
'My words are those of another, but he has blessed my cause. Make hard, make strong, make straight, hold firm. Hold fast, like steel, like hook, for need
...'

The ropes obediently became rigid. Now we had a solid bridge between us and the window, a bridge wide enough for a beldame to stumble across. Polillo looked back, sneered and whispered: 'I could walk this on my hands.'

Before either of my legates could move I slipped past Polillo, sword ready, onto that bridge. I moved fast, not wanting to give an enemy, if there was one waiting, any more time than I must. I went through the window like a leaping cat, landing on solid stone, going away from the window to the interior dimness, then I crouched. I was in a bare chamber. There was a door at the far side. It was unbolted. By the time I had it opened, revealing a narrow landing and stairs, my Guardswomen were pouring into the chamber. Without commands, not even hand-signals, we formed into attack teams and went out.

It was near pitch-black and gloom and fear must have hung close about. But none of us felt dread, all of us had the hard taste of blood in our mouths and the shrilling joy that finally, by Maranonia, we were through! Just as our fathers had broken into this great
castle
in the first war against Lycanth, so too we'd proven ourselves worthy of their heritage. This time we would ensure there would never be a Third Lycanthian War.

We went down the winding steps towards the main floors of the castle like fluid death. We met Lycanthians once, twice, four times. Each time a sword glittered and a body sagged, surprised into doom before it could cry out. Perhaps they were soldiers, perhaps servitors. It didn't matter. We came into in a wide room, high-ceilinged and hung with tapestries. Fires still glowed on either side of the room. I thought it some sort of audience chamber. But now, in the hours past midnight, it was deserted. From the
castle
around came the normal sounds of a still-garrisoned battlefield: I could hear sentries on their watch and dull shouts of alarm from somewhere. Few people think of a battle as being anything other than hellishly noisy, and such is mostly the case. But a siege can be different. It was very silent to me, although a civilian's ears would probably hear more; would hear that low constant growl that we no longer noted; a sound like great carrion beasts; the sound of armies waiting for battle.

I signalled for stillness. All of us held for a moment. If anyone had seen us, they might've thought we were praying. We were not. Maranonia is a good and sensible goddess, who knows the time for prayer is before and after a battle, not during. What all of us, from the lowest Guardswoman to myself, were doing was recollecting our 'map' - the mental image of the models and drawings General Jinnah's staff had drawn up of the sea-castle, taken from every conceivable source, from pre-war visitors to captured prisoners. Yes. Yes. It was most likely we were here
...
or possibly over there
...
so there should be some sort of passageway out into the huge courtyard, and, from there, through the
castle
's inner defences to the gates themselves. At worst, we might be a floor too high. But now we were oriented.

Corais and Polillo were waiting for me to lead the charge. Their eyes bulged as I signed
...
a touch on my helmet crest, a touch on each of theirs
...
you are now in command
...
a point
...
as your mind tells you
...
as you were ordered
...
as we practised
...
and a gesture with the sword.

Attack!

But no one needed that final gesture. My legates - and my women -may have been astonished by this unexpected change, but they were soldiers and so they obeyed, just as I'd trained them. There was a scuffle of bootheels that sounded as if but one person was moving, and I was alone in the great chamber. Alone except for Flag Sergeant Ismet. I started to glower
...
but she moved first. Two fingers were held up in the gloom. I was reminded that we always,
always,
fought in pairs. One hand extended, palm up.
I
await your orders.

I grinned. Even here in this house made for nightmares, I found a moment of amusement.
You,
you poor idiot of an officer with only fifteen years or so service, you are actually thinking about countermanding one of the Flag Sergeant's wishes? Not a chance, I thought. We were a team and we would die as a team.

It was time for Gamelan's other spell. I took the amulet - nothing but a stitched-together twist of leather that held the scrapings from his divining bones - from my pouch and touched it to my nose, then to the flagstones I stood on. I sniffed. There was no change.

No. Perhaps there was a new odour, sweet, distasteful and my mind compared it to a battlefield with unburied corpses. But it told me nothing. I considered, then remembered Gamelan had told me the amulet might need to be reinforced. I looked about. If I was right, and this was an audience chamber, and the Archons had used it, they'd most likely have stood
...
over there. On that low stone dais. I went to it, stepped up, and again touched the amulet to the stones. For further strength, I pressed it against one of the tapestries against the wall.

Again I sniffed. Again, came the odour, but now very strong, very heavy. I fought back a reflexive gag. Now I had a direction. I turned to gesture to Ismet and, of course, she was just where she should have been, three paces behind, three to the side, sword ready, paying no attention to my doings but eyes scanning the darkness for an attacker.

We went out of the chamber at a dogtrot. Our path led up four floors, but we didn't use the stairs we'd come down. Now we trod wide, stone-balustraded ramps that were richly carpeted. I stopped every now and then, but the amulet guided me onward and the stench grew stronger.

Outside I heard shouts, screams and the clash of steel. Battle was joined. I wondered how far my Guardswomen had got before being discovered. The
castle
was coming alive as soldiers were bellowed awake and to battle. I heard cries of
'Betrayal!', 'They're inside!' and screams of panicked women and children.

The corridor opened onto a balcony and I could see the courtyard. It was huge. An entire army could've marched in review across were it not for the guard-towers and newly improvised breastworks. This was where the Archons held their monstrous sacrifices, where a victim first chose and then slowly butchered himself, spell-tied by their magic. Here was where they sought my brother, but another counterspell saved him. But now it was a
battle
ground. Torches flared as Lycanthian soldiers ran out, buckling on armour and brandishing their arms. Far across that courtyard I heard the shouts of my women fighting. I could barely hold back a cheer as I saw the knot of struggling warriors. My Guardswomen had nearly reached their goal. They were fighting just before the castle's great gates. If they could but fight on and unbar them, our army could pour in.

But they'd been discovered at the most perilous stage. Naturally the Lycanthians had their strongest defence at the weakest point. The outer gates were protected by an inner, open passageway, the tops of its high walls fitted with fighting decks. The inner gate had been burst open by my Guardswomen, but before they could pour down the passageway, the counter-attack had been mounted. Now they fought for their lives just outside the passage's entrance - soldiers blocking their way and others waiting atop those passageway walls to send spearshowers and arrowflights down. My Guardswomen were between that anvil of the gatehouse and the onrushing hammer that was the reinforcing soldiers.

Still worse, I heard from just above a loud hiss - like a giant serpent awakening. Across the parade-ground two cyclones spun up - black against the torch flare and three or four times taller than a man. They whirled into the melee and Lycanthians and Guardswomen alike were picked up and smashed into the stone walls. My amulet gave off a last wave of scent - the stench of Archons' magic - and I turned and raced up another ramp towards the chamber above, Ismet close at my heels. I couldn't help by standing and watching. Either my Guards-women could hold back the physical threat or they would die. I had to strike against the greater jeopardy now building.

This was my secret purpose. I'd made two plans. The first called for my Guardswomen. The second was for myself - and now for Sergeant Ismet. My intent - and I realize it sounds insane - was to attack personally the Archons. I'd told no one because they would've refused me, damning my plan as that of an eager fool. I believed otherwise, knowing very well just how great an effect a determined warrior, who's willing to make the last sacrifice, can have. But, of course, in these modern times when men talk of great battalions and scores of Evocators and battles that stretch on for leagues and days, such an idea is romantic nonsense. Nonsense it may have been, but I'd commended my soul to Maranonia, my effects to my friends and family, and abandoned all thought of seeing the morrow.

The hissing grew louder as I reached the entrance to the chamber. There were no guards, which surprised me at first, but why should there be? Who would dare disturb the Archons?

I heard voices from inside
...
'brother'... 'strike'... 'just women!'

...
wishing I had a moment to collect my mind, my force and my breath, but I couldn't chance it, even now thinking I heard, perhaps I did hear, 'from behind!' 'from within!', 'Danger!' and I stormed into the Private Chamber of the Archons.

I saw in a blur glass and gold, alembics and scrolls, burning tapers and incense, bones and horrid creatures, but had no time, realizing there could be but one chance for a mortal to confront such sorcerers and that was blinding speed and surprise.

Two tall, bearded, vulture-faced men whose malignity marked them clear spun, hands coming up to tear, one stretching a finger like a lance, and something grey-black beginning to build, to dart at me, striking the sword from my hand and I hurled my shield sideways, spinning through the air into his guts, leaping after and there was a great cloud of smoke as I heard a very human screech of pain and a shout from the other and then I touched flesh, flesh became scales, became flesh and the Archon and I smashed to the floor, rolling about and I could feel huge muscles contort, as if I were in the ring against
the strongest man I'd ever wrestl
ed and great hands came up, forcing mine to the side and I was rolled over onto my back, as those hands came around my throat, gripping, thank the gods not knowing enough to press the arteries but squeezing my windpipe, world turning black and I struck straight up with my free hand, fingers clawed, stiff like a hawk's talons into the Archon's eyes and he screamed and I felt wetness and kickspun him off, both of us on our feet, but blood and fluid seeping through the fingers held to his face, but there was no time for that and I stepped into him, both fists together, swinging sideways like a morning star's ball and smashing into his temple and the Archon flipped back in a convulsion and fell, body thrashing, dead but not realizing it.