The Quest

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘Massed volleys!’ Hilto called. His men sheathed their swords, and unslung their bows. ‘Level! Take aim! Let fly!’

  The volley of arrows rose against the early-morning sky, dark as a swarm of locusts. It fell upon the Jarrians, the arrowheads clattering on bronze armour. A few went down, but the others closed ranks, lifted their shields over their heads to form a canopy and came on at a trot. Again and again Hilto’s men fired their volleys but under the canopy of shields the Jarrians were undeterred. They reached the foot of the wall. The front rank braced themselves against the stonework, and the second clambered on to their shoulders to form a pyramid. The third rank used them as a ladder to reach the top of the wall. Hilto’s men hurled them back, hacking with swords and thrusting with spears. Others climbed up in their place, blades clanging and rasping against each other. Men shouted, cursed and screamed in pain. A small group of Jarrians forced their way on to the parapet, but before they could exploit their advantage, Meren, Nakonto and Imbali fell upon them. They cut down most and shoved the rest off the top.

  On the tower, Fenn and Sidudu stood at each side of Taita, choosing their targets with care, picking off the Jarrian captains as they tried to regroup their men at the base of the wall. When the assault faltered and failed, their arrows hastened the Jarrians back down the track. The enemy left their dead at the base of the wall but dragged the wounded away with them.

  Soklosh launched two more attacks before noon. Meren’s men beat back the first as readily as they had the chariots. However, in the next, the Jarrions came in three separate detachments, carrying with them hastily constructed assault ladders.

  Simultaneously they struck at both ends of the wall and in the centre.

  The defenders were already thinly stretched, but now Meren was forced to split them into even smaller units to meet the triple-pronged attack.

  It was desperate fighting, and Taita climbed down to join in. He left the girls in the tower with bundles of arrows they had found in the arsenal.

  For the rest of the morning the battle raged at the top of the wall. When at last they had thrown back the Jarrians, Meren’s men were in poor shape. They had lost twelve men killed, and another ten were too badly wounded to carry on the fight. Most of the others were at least lightly wounded and all were close to exhaustion. From down the track they heard Soklosh and his captains shouting commands as they mustered a fresh attack.

  ‘I doubt we can hold them much longer.’ Meren glanced along the parapet at his men, who sat in small groups, drinking from the waterskins that Fenn and Sidudu had brought them, sharpening their chipped and blunted blades, binding their wounds or simply resting, their faces blank and eyes dull.

  ‘Are you ready to set fire to the buildings?’ Taita asked.

  ‘The torches are already burning,’ Meren affirmed. Only the foundations of the wall were of stone: everything else, including the main building and watch-tower, was built of timber. The wood was old and desiccated and would burn readily. The conflagration would seal off the head of the pass until the flames subsided sufficiently to allow the Jarrians through.

  Taita left Meren and went to the far end of the parapet. He crouched in a corner and pulled his cloak over his head.

  The men watched him curiously.

  ‘What is he doing?’ asked one.

  ‘He is sleeping,’ answered another.

  ‘He is a religious man. He is praying.’

  ‘We need his prayers,’ remarked a fourth.

  Fenn knew what he was attempting and stood close to him, screening him with her own body and adding her psychic force to his.

  After such fierce fighting, it took much effort for Taita to compose himself, but at last he broke free of his body and his astral self soared above the mountain peaks. He overlooked the battlefield and saw the massed Jarrian army, three thousand men or more thronging the track from the plain. He saw the next assault forming just below the fort but still out of sight of the walls. Then he passed over the mountain tops and looked down to the Kitangule river, and the distant blue of the lake.

  He saw Tinat’s men in the boatyards at the head of the river. They had overpowered the garrison, and were assembling and launching the boats down the slipways into the swift flow of the river. Already the first refugees were embarking and the men were taking their places on the rowing benches. But hundreds more were still trudging down the mountain path. He sank closer to earth and hung above the deep gorge that split the flank of the mountain. The suspension bridge that crossed it seemed tiny and insubstantial against the massif of grey rock. The last of the refugees were venturing out on to its frail timbers to make the perilous transit of the gorge. Tinat’s men were helping the weak and elderly, and his axemen stood ready to cut away the bridge pylons and let the timbers fall into the dark void beneath. Taita jerked back and swiftly regained full control of his body, then uncovered his head and sprang to his feet.

  ‘What did you discover, Taita?’ Fenn asked quietly.

  ‘Most of our people have crossed the gorge,’ he replied. ‘If we leave the fort now the rest should be over the bridge by the time we get down to them. Fenn, you and Sidudu will make ready the horses.’

  He left her to it, and strode down the parapet to Meren. ‘Rally the men. Set fire to the walls and take to the path before the next Jarrian attack develops.’

  The men’s spirits rose when they understood that the fight was over.

  Within a short time they were marching out of the rear gates of the fort in tight order, carrying their weapons and the wounded. Taita stayed back to supervise the lighting of the fires. The Jarrian garrison had used rushes as a floor covering and sleeping mats. Now they were stacked along the base of the walls. Meren’s men had sprinkled them liberally with lamp oil from the quarter-master’s stores. When the lighted torches were thrown on to them the flames shot up immediately. The wooden walls caught fire with such ferocity that Taita and the torchmen were forced to run for the gates.

  Fenn was already mounted on Whirlwind, holding Windsmoke for him to mount. They trotted down the track together, following the last platoon, which was headed by Meren and Hilto.

  When they reached the suspension bridge they were dismayed to find that at least a hundred refugees had still to make the crossing. Meren forced his way through the throng to find out the reason for the delay. Five old but vociferous women were refusing to venture out on to the narrow planks that crossed the deep gorge. They were lying flat in the middle of the path, screaming with terror and kicking anyone who came near them.

  ‘You want us to die!’ they howled.

  ‘Leave us here. Let the Jarrians kill us, rather than throw us into the pit.’ Their terror was contagious. Those coming up behind them were hanging back now, and holding up the rest of the column. Meren seized the ringleader round the waist and threw her over one shoulder. ‘Come, now.’ She tried to scratch his face and bite his ear, but her crooked black teeth made no impression on the bronze visor of his helmet. He ran with her on to the narrow way, the planking trembling beneath them, the drop on each side seeming bottomless. The old woman wailed with fresh voice and Meren realized suddenly that his back was wet. He roared with laughter. ‘It has been hot work. Thank you for cooling me.’ He reached the far side and set her down. She made one last effort to claw out his eyes, then collapsed in a whimpering heap on the path. He left her and ran back to pick up the others, but Hilto and three of his men were already coming across the gorge, each with an old woman struggling and screaming on his back. Behind them, the traffic was flowing once more over the bridge. However, the delay had cost them dear. Meren pushed his way back through the throng until he found Taita at the tail of the column.

  ‘The flames at the fort will not hold Soklosh much longer. He will be on us again before we can get them all across. We dare not begin to cut away the supports until the very last of our people is over,’ he told Taita.

  ‘Three men could hold an army on this narrow path,’ Taita said.


  ‘Hilto and we two?’ Meren stared at him. ‘By the festering sores on Seth’s buttocks, Magus, I had forgotten how things have changed. You now have the strongest and craftiest sword arm of any.’

  ‘This day we shall have a chance to put that statement to the test,’ Taita assured him, ‘but make certain that we have good stout fellows behind us to fill the gap if one of us should fall.’

  There were still fifty or more refugees waiting their turn to cross the bridge when they heard Soklosh’s men behind them: the tramp of their feet, the rattle of their weapons on shield and scabbard.

  Taita, Meren and Hilto took up station, shoulder to shoulder, across the path. Taita was in the centre, with Hilto on his left and Meren on the outer verge with the cliff face dropping away below him. Nakonto and ten picked men waited behind them, ready to jump forward if they were needed. A little further down the track, Fenn and Sidudu sat their horses, holding Taita’s and Meren’s on lead reins. They had unslung their bows and had them at the ready. Sitting high in their saddles they had a clear view over the heads of Taita and the others.

  The foremost rank of the Jarrian brigade came round the bend in the pathway and halted abruptly when they saw the three men confronting them. The ranks following bunched behind them, and there was momentary confusion until they had recovered their formation. Then they stared in silence at the three defenders. It lasted only as long as it took the Jarrians to realize the strength of the opposition. Then the burly sergeant in the leading rank pointed at them with his sword, threw back his head and bellowed with laughter.

  ‘Three against three thousand! Ho! Ha!’ He choked with laughter.

  ‘Oh! I am dirtying myself with fright.’ He began to thump the blade of his sword against his shield. The men around him took up the beat, a menacing staccato rhythm. The Jarrians came on, stamping and banging their shields. Fenn watched them over the fletching of the arrow she held at full draw. Just before the Jarrians launched themselves into the attack she whispered from the side of her mouth, without taking her eye or aim from the face of the bearded sergeant that showed over the top of his shield, ‘I have the one in the middle. You take the one on your side.’

  “I have him in my eye,’ Sidudu murmured.

  ‘Shoot him!’ Fenn snapped, and they let fly together. The two arrows fluted over Taita’s head. One took the Jarrian sergeant cleanly in the eye: he went over backwards and his armoured weight crashed into the two men behind him, bringing them down. Sidudu’s shot hit the man beside him in the mouth. Two of his teeth snapped off and the arrowhead buried itself in the back of his throat. The troopers behind them shouted with anger, jumped over the corpses and rushed upon Taita and his two companions. Both sides were now so closely engaged that the girls dared not fire another arrow for fear of hitting their own.

  However, only three Jarrians at a time could reach the head of the line. Taita ducked under the blow of the man who came at him and, with a low sweep of the blade, cut his legs out from under him. As he dropped, Taita sent a thrust through the lacing of his breastplate into his heart. Hilto parried the blade of his man, then killed him with his riposte, which flew through the gap below the visor of his helmet. The three squared up and retreated two paces.

  Three more Jarrians jumped over their dead comrades and rushed at them. One struck at Meren, who parried, seized his opponent’s sword wrist and swung him out over the edge of the cliff to fall, shrieking, to the rocks far below. The man who came next at Taita lifted his sword with both hands and aimed at his head, as though he were cutting firewood. Taita caught the blow on his blade, then stepped up close and drove the dagger he held in his left hand into the fellow’s belly, and pushed him staggering back into his own ranks. Meren maimed another and, as he was falling, kicked him in the head to send him reeling backwards over the cliff. Hilto split the helmet of the next Jarrian with a blow that cut through the bronze crest and went on deeply into his skull.

  The force of the blow was more than the blade could withstand. It snapped off short and left Hilto with the hilt.

  ‘A sword! Give me a fresh blade,’ he shouted desperately, but before those behind him could pass it to him he was attacked again. Hilto hurled the hilt at the face of the Jarrian but he ducked and deflected it with the visor of his helmet as he thrust at Hilto. The blow went home but Hilto seized him round the waist in a bear-hug and dragged him back into his own lines. The men behind him killed the Jarrian as he struggled to free himself from Hilto’s grip. But Hilto was hard hit and would fight no more that day. He leant heavily on the comrade who led him back to the bridge, and Nakonto stepped into his place in the line beside Taita.

  He had a stabbing spear in each hand and wielded them with such speed and dexterity that the bronze heads merged into a blur of dancing light.

  Leaving a trail of dead and dying Jarrians on the pathway, the three backed away towards the bridgehead, matching the pace of their retreat to that of the tail end of the refugee column.

  At last Fenn shouted, ‘They are all across!’ Her ringing tones carried clearly above the din of the battle. Taita killed the man he was fighting with a parry and riposte to the throat before he glanced back. The bridge was clear.

  ‘Order the axeman to lay on with a will. Bring down the bridge!’ he called to Fenn, and heard her repeat the order as he turned back to meet the next enemy. Over their heads he could see the ostrich plumes in the crest of Soklosh’s helmet and heard his harsh cries urging on his men.

  But the Jarrians had seen the slaughter of their comrades, and the ground under their feet was red and muddy with blood. The track was cluttered with corpses, and their ardour was waning. Taita had time enough to look back again. He could hear the thudding of the axes on the guy lines and the bridge timbers. However, the two mounted girls had not yet crossed the gorge. With them, a small group of men stood ready to fill any gap in the line.

  ‘Go back!’ Taita shouted at them. ‘All of you, go back!’ They hesitated, reluctant to leave so few to face the foe. ‘Go back, I tell you. You can do no more here.’

  ‘Back!’ roared Meren, ‘Give us space. When we come it will be fast.’

  The girls swung the horses round and their hoofs clattered on the planks of the bridge. The other men followed them across the gorge and reached the far side. Nakonto, Meren and Taita, still facing the Jarrian host, backed slowly out on to the bridge and took their stand in the centre, with the deep drop on either side. The cliffs resounded to the thudding of axes as men hacked away at the main supports.

  Three of the enemy rushed out on to the bridge. The planking trembled under their tread. They clashed their shields against those of the three in the centre. Hacking and thrusting, both sides balanced on the swaying catwalk. When the first Jarrian rank was cut down, others ran out to take their places, slipping in the blood puddles and tripping over the corpses of their comrades. Others crowded on to the narrow bridge behind them. Blades clanged on blades. Men fell, then slithered off the sides of the bridge and dropped wailing into the void. All the time the axe strokes boomed against the timbers, and shouts started the echoes anew.

  Suddenly the bridge shuddered, like a dog trying to shake off its fleas.

  One side dropped and hung askew. Twenty Jarrians were hurled, screaming, into the gorge. Taita and Meren fell to their knees to keep their balance on the swaying deck. Only Nakonto stayed upright.

  ‘Come back, Taita!’ Fenn cried, and all those round her took up the cry. ‘Come back! The bridge goes down! Come back!’

  ‘Back!’ Taita roared at Meren, who jumped up and ran, balancing like an acrobat. ‘Go back!’ he ordered Nakonto, but the Shilluk’s eyes were glazed red with battle lust. They were fixed upon the enemy and he did not seem to hear Taita’s voice. Taita hit him a resounding blow across the back with the flat of his sword. ‘Get back! The fighting is over!’ He seized his arm and thrust him towards the far end.

  Nakonto shook his head as though waking from a trance and ran after
Meren. Taita followed a few yards behind him. Meren reached the end of the bridge and sprang on to the rocky path, but at that moment there was a crack like a whiplash as one of the main guy ropes that held the bridge parted. The catwalk heaved and sagged at a sharper angle, before it caught again. Those Jarrians who still had a footing could no longer maintain it. One after another they slid towards the edge and dropped off. Nakonto reached solid ground a moment before the bridge sagged again.

  Taita was still on it when it tilted violently. He slid towards the edge and, to save himself, flung aside his sword and threw himself flat. There were narrow gaps between the lashings of the planking. Clawing with hooked fingers, he found a handhold. The bridge shuddered again and fell until it hung vertically down the cliff face. Taita’s feet dangled over the gorge as he hung on by his fingertips. He groped for a foothold, but the toes of his sandals were too bulky to squeeze into the narrow gaps in the planking. He drew himself up by the main strength of his arms.

  An arrow thumped into the plank closest to his head. The Jarrians on the opposite side of the gorge were shooting at him, and he could not defend himself. He drew himself up hand over hand. Each time he changed his grip he hung on one hand and groped with the other for the planking above. The bridge was twisted so that each successive gap between the planks was narrower than the preceding one. At last he reached a point where he could not force his fingers into the next opening and hung there helplessly. The next arrow struck so close that it pegged the skirt of his tunic to the wood.

  ‘Taita!’ It was Fenn’s voice and he craned his neck to look up. Her face was ten feet above him. She was lying on her stomach peering over the edge. ‘Oh, sweet Isis, I thought you had fallen.’ Her voice trembled.

  ‘Hold hard for just a little longer.’ She was gone. Another arrow thumped into the timbers close to his left ear.

  ‘Here, take hold of this.’ The looped end of a halter rope dropped beside him. He reached for it with one hand and slipped it over his head, then worked the bight of the loop under his armpit.