by Tanith Lee
Despite her grief, the sibulla glanced inside. It was a glimpse of the ’tween-world, and Guri wanted her to see something nice. She might go off after it then, not lurk here.
‘You could find your Ranjal lady there,’ said Guri. He recalled that he had thought Ranjal was a real god himself, once or twice. You made these mistakes.
Then he noticed what Narnifa could see through the curtain. It was a sort of foggy nothingness.
‘Me not go,’ she said stubbornly. He did not blame her. Guri wondered why she had seen that instead of what was actually there. Did she believe after death nothing was all there was? Yet here she sat.
Guri lost interest in her abruptly. He shut the air curtain, stood up and took in the overview of everything else.
They had come to Vuldir and asked him if he wished to go up to a higher room of the palace, to regard the horde covering the ice fields below the city. Vuldir had said he had no concern with garbage; that was the job of others.
When the three Magikoy arrived, one was the older man, Wundest, who had attended Vuldir before in place of Thryfe.
‘Where’s Thryfe?’ said Vuldir. He pulled a playful face. ‘Too thoughtless of him. He is warden to my court. He should, shouldn’t he, be here on such a day?’
‘Thryfe is unable to attend you, Vuldir. But we are Magikoy, and that is enough for you.’
‘Is it? So high-handed always, your Order. But look at the predicament of the city. What have you been at?’
‘Preparation for the city’s defence,’ said Wundest.
‘Oh, good.’
‘It is not good, Vuldir. Magikoy law has held the Order here, but you yourself should have deployed troops. Your lesser cities might have been defended, saved. You have lost them all – Thase Jyr, Kandexa, Sofora …’
‘Yes, I remember their names.’
‘… Or Tash,’ finished Wundest. His voice, unusual in a Magikoy, carried a fierce emotion – reined-in anger.
But Vuldir paid no heed. Vuldir’s universe had always been minuscule. His cleverness seemed profound to others, and to himself, only in such a little confine. However, things had changed.
‘It appears,’ said Vuldir, ‘there are a lot of these barbarians.’
‘We believe over thirty thousand men.’
Even Vuldir was, for a second, astonished. Only for a second. ‘Rabble.’
‘Vuldir,’ said Wundest, ‘you yourself, through your ambition and villainous plots, your idiocy, your self-obsessive laziness and lack of care, have brought Ru Karismi and the Ruk to this. Only the highest gods now know what outcome is written in Fate’s book. But if any of the Magikoy survive, you will answer to us.’
‘I?’
‘You. What are you? Less than the lowest of your subjects who carries out excrement, or corpses for burial. These men earn their keep. Even he that lies always drunk, and dreams, is worth more, Vuldir, than you are, for he causes no injury by what he does to another. But you, you, you batten on your people, taking everything and giving nothing back. Only this you’ve given them – their death.’
Vuldir had nothing to say. Then he spoke: ‘But no one will die inside Ru Karismi. I’m king here. I’ve been told of the sorcerous armament beneath the river—’
Wundest turned from Vuldir, King Paramount. The two other Magikoy turned about with him.
They left Vuldir standing there, in his elegant and artistic room that could not even show him the enemy smothering the plains outside, and inside his little rotten personal world.
But otherwise, on every high terrace or tower or roof, Ru Karismi had come out to see.
What they saw was lit darkness, a shadow which sparkled, spilling down and down over the white scroll of the snow and ice towards them.
It was like the avalanches of the mountains, or the tides of the liquid outer sea.
The watchers watched, and their hearts turned like milk.
From the conning towers and makeshift out-wall forts, the soldiery was speeding back along the ice road, and over the barricades of snow. Back to the walls of the city they hurried, and were taken in. Manpower alone could never hold off this streaming ocean of enemy darkness, bright with weapons and banners. Rukarian soldiers would man the walls from within: no more could or would be asked of them.
It was a fact, if these battalions had been sent earlier to the Ruk’s western cities, they could not have saved them against such odds. Perhaps, on the other hand, if there had been Magikoy left in those cities, all four might have been saved. Wundest had spoken to the king illogically, hating Vuldir’s insouciance and his corruption. The Order of the Magikoy knew all this was Vuldir’s fault – it had come from his plot to have killed his own daughter Saphay, rather than allow her use in a treaty, which act had thrown her in the way of a god, and so led to the birth of the Lionwolf. Yet the Magikoy too were guilty. They had failed to pierce the veil and foretell sufficiently and in time. And this they also knew.
As the huge gates south and north of Ru Karismi were shut and their giant bolts thrust home, the south-flowing horde began to puddle and bulge at its head. The bulge then opened out to either side, a great distance, before rolling forward once more in two severed streams. The intention of the manoeuvre was instantly apparent. The two terrible arms opened from the body of the horde kept extending and extending to encircle the city and hold it tight.
Until now it had been, this horde, a creature in its own right, less or more horrible for that. But as it came ever nearer, now the watchers saw at last what made it up. They saw the numberless chariots, the leaping of lions, the flaxen bulk of mammoths, the fish-horses with forehead horns plated by glass and bronze. Banners they saw, highly coloured rags and tags of scarlet and blue and yellow and white, and skulls and icons on poles. The weak sun flared on metal wheels and shieldings, armouring, blades, lances. But nevertheless the shadow, so bright and spangling, stayed for the city as dark as night. And how near night was – they were afraid.
By now through Ru Karismi stalked the lesser gargolems of the Magikoy. Citizens turned to see these, too, in fear. The gargolems spoke gently to them: ‘Hear this from the Magikoy. Go in now. Go in and close all your doors and your windows, and every opening of the house. Keep your children by you. Bind their eyes, and yours, with cloth. Lie flat on your faces on the floor. Whatever occurs, do not look to see. Pray to your gods.’ Over and over, this message uttered. ‘What—’ the citizens cried, ‘what does it mean?’ The gargolems did not explain, but moved on to tell all others. People milled, veered away. The Magikoy must be obeyed. Most, as they ran, grasped after all what the instruction meant – the legendary arsenal was to be utilized. The city was to be rescued.
Down by the River Palest, those running saw the ice-sheets appallingly split. Vast slots appeared, but under them there was no thaw of water, only impossible depths. The Insularia lay below – they needed to see no more.
The soldiers and guards were being withdrawn from the walls. Some went protesting, for already spears, arrows and burning missiles were being shot upwards from forming enemy emplacements below. What the enemy did looked to the professional soldiers of the Ruk capricious and careless. Yet, given the sheer numbers of the foe, even these haphazard actions were overpoweringly threatening.
‘It is with the Magikoy now,’ the soldiery was told.
They saw Wundest the magician walking along the walltop. Two others of the Order were with him. He told the remaining soldiers on the north wall to go down.
‘What of you, sir?’
Wundest did not answer.
The soldiery went towards their protecting barracks. Here they were told to bind their eyes, and lie down on the floor.
Below, random barbarian shooting went on, for the most part missing its target, for the walltops were high and the city built up behind them. Now and then something would land, crackle and splutter out in the cold.
It seemed none of this fire had yet been mage-charged. The enemy was not yet being entirely serious.
Wundest gazed out to the north. It was dark with the horde, for miles on miles.
‘He is there,’ he said.
The other Magikoy nodded.
They could sense him, the god-demon-man called Lionwolf, just as the hungry Faz shamans had smelled the city.
The second Magikoy said to Wundest, ‘Is that his name – Vashdran?’
‘Yes, in the Rukarian tongue, Vashdran. It means Lion-who-is-wolf and Wolf-who-is-lion. That’s what he is to them. Some fabled beast of the Northlands.’
They stopped talking, looking out towards the war-thousands of the one called Vashdran, thinking of a death so close they could hear the silence of its heart.
He rode his mammoth along the lines of his men.
He had chosen it for its height, so they could all see him. Next, as he normally did, he would take to his lion chariot. That would be once he went to break a gate, or if any came out to fight them.
So far nothing stirred from the city.
The introductory slight activity – Ruk soldiers running away, a slinging of lodged flame-arrows off the walls – all that had stopped and nothing else begun.
This city disappointed Lionwolf. He had anticipated much more of it. It looked as if it were only carved from snow, and was not as large as Saphay had led him to believe.
Would the battle also disappoint?
Surely the Rukarians were readying themselves?
The Jafn warriors, arranged in rows in their chariots, their lions restless and eagerly snarling and mage-fires carried about among them, were jeering at the Rukar city. ‘What, are they asleep, these sleep-lovers?’ This mocking chant had soon caught on. They were bellowing towards the vacancy of the high walls, ‘Wake up! Your friends are here!’
Lionwolf smiled, to show his Jafn he appreciated their bravery and wit.
Over on the left flank of the Gullahammer, Peb Yuve’s mammoth towered among other mammoth towers. Lionwolf raised his hand, and Yuve’s yellow banner, with its fresh decaying head, was shaken back at him.
Lionwolf’s own blue sun and fire flag had been bolted already into his chariot.
Gech battle lines lay over behind the Olchibe. Their leaders had tossed a painted counter to decide which nation should have the honour of the front place – Olchibe won. From the left flank, Olchibe had constructed the left city-encircling arm, but Gech had pounded with them too, despite losing the toss.
The right arm was crammed with Jafn, Vorms and Faz, mingled in ravening harmony. Lionwolf had promised the Fazions – who had worked so vigorously at Thase and Kandexa, and raced back overland to join him here – the south gate.
Lionwolf nodded to the Faz shaman, trotting yards down by the mammoth’s feet. The shaman erected his skinny arm and sent a coppery ball of light whirling away over the pack of warriors, who yelled. It was the signal to the right arm that it might begin to hammer.
Gullahammer – hammer of a million heads, that was what the antique word meant. It was a pun – the heads were those of the allies who comprised it, who were it seemed a million strong – also the heads of those enemies they would stave in.
As this enormous ripple of motion flexed across the horde, Lionwolf watched a moment, a fascinated spectator.
He spoke to the men around him, who were craning for his every utterance. ‘No need to fight them if they’re too tired to meet us. We can push their bloody city over.’
Laughter yowled along the lines. ‘What did he say? Did he say that – yes! Push over the city of the sleepers.’
Lionwolf swung from the mammoth’s back, walked off down its side.
His chariot was there for him. He ran round and gripped the manes of the two lions, kissing their lipless mouths. ‘Live long, my brothers. Kill a multitude.’
He sprang into the chariot and waved again, up at the pale mammoth, as if bidding his favourite girl goodbye – but only for an hour or two. The mammoth trumpeted.
From the Gullahammer’s left arm, the trumpeting of other mammoths rose miles higher than their own height.
The atmosphere, which had been quiescent save for the waiting noises of beasts and metal and the chants of derision, rang now like brazen bells. It was full of thunder, wheels and thudding, footfalling progression, jangle of weapons, armour, carapaces, the clacking storm-wrack of banners, the battle-screams of men.
A new upcast rain of fire-arrows and spears was launched at the walls.
Lionwolf drove straight at the north gate called Northgate. It was his, he had claimed it. His army made way for him, widening an avenue, then pouring in to fill the flaming comet’s tail of his chariot’s passage.
On every side, rainbow rays and upward-falling stars of mage-fire crossed each other as they flew at Ru Karismi.
Lionwolf rode with his head back. He too was in flight.
That was when, through the galvanic thrust of speed, he saw abruptly, and too clearly, that three men did stand there up on the northern wall.
Only three – and so well defined. They must be magicians of the city, the famous Magikoy.
Lionwolf laughed to note them. It came to him that the gate would burst open and no one could stand against him, and that he, a god, could run directly up the city’s colossal wall, and seize these three Magikoy and hurl them off, under the churning wheels of those who would follow him, charging into the resistless city—
As his Jafn warriors were doing, Lionwolf let out a bellowing shout of victory and bloodlust. His mind was uncluttered as a shard of glass. He saw reflected there this world he would have, and that he was invincible.
High above him, the Magician Wundest and his two companions looked down.
‘Now,’ said Wundest. ‘It is now. Gods pardon us for this, and take in payment our three lives, here given willingly to atone.’
Like the Gullahammer, like the Lionwolf, Wundest flung his voice upward in a scream. It was for loss, for rage and terror, and for the agony to come.
Northgate was splintering. All around, walls rocked to the crash of iron and wood rams and incendiary blasts. Mage-fires danced along the walltops. The sky was ribboned by rays. Southgate also staggered. Horsazin, shod with steel, kicked shrieking at undefended timbers.
Ru Karismi lay blindfolded on its face. Tears and urine soaked the floors. Do not look – do not look.
Under the ice of the Palest River, a hiss. Then a rush, like enormous wings.
It was anyway not possible to see what emerged from the slots in the ice, out of the Insularia below, from the bowel of the Telumultuan Chamber. A glimmer in the air, like softest lightning – that was all.
But, oh, the sound.
A great throat had come undone. Neither men nor mages nor mammoths could forge such a tumult. It outdid the storming of the horde of the Gullahammer. It even quenched that. It was so loud, then it passed away into a silence. The silence was white – noise had become silence and silence white.
White was on the plains beneath Ru Karismi. There was an impact; it was silent. The impact was whiter than the whitest snow. It was beyond whiteness. It was crimson and then black. It was night. It was the night that ends all days.
One second, there had been movement, war, violence, life—
A second more, a second of white that was black, and sound that was white that was black—
A third second began. In the third second, there was no longer movement. No violence, no noise, not even a noise that was silent and white. The white died.
The sky had sagged to a stale dark green. From it fluttered a kind of transparent sleet.
This dropped mildly to the ice fields, and to the city of Ru Karismi.
The third second, however, persisted. Nothing altered. Nothing moved.
Ah, something after all – from the northern wall, three pillars like blocks of congealed salt, formless, unidentifiable, toppling slowly off.
Down through the green air they spun. Reaching the ground, they shattered into pieces. And, in shattering, shattered what had been there
– the other things of salt, some lumpen, some almost – almost – to be recognized.
A weird glimmering, like a translucent forest of stalks, lingered over the flat, colourless plains, then faded.
Still nothing moved. At last a wind whistled by, a thoughtless wind.
A man stood up in a cage of salt that had been – had it? – a chariot. The wind combed back his red hair. He was naked. His clothes had become salt, his standard of sun and fire also. He stood looking at the lions of his chariot team, each a perfect leaping statue, changed to stone. But, oh, the wind came, thoughtless, and breathed on them. They crumbled, and with the wind, their salt-dust blew away.
FIVE
If you had not seen this place, you could not know it, now.
Yet, even so, nor could you ever know it. Unknowable.
Guri picked his way, like a man of flesh and blood, between the pillars, stacks and mounds of fused, partly eroded salt. Always the wind came whistling, and scoured off more of the salty dust. Chariot wheels, lances, standards, men and beasts, skin, hair and bones – eyes, hearts – blew odourless, colourless on the wind.
Guri leant over and threw up. Or he thought he did. It was what one must do here, spew or sob. Or lie down and die, and Guri did not have that option.
Here, where he had come, had been parked the baggage carts, the dray or riding hnowas, spare weapons and vehicles, spare lion teams, young mammoths kept back to learn at a distance. Here too had been sent the few witches and women. None of this would you ever guess.
Guri cried.
Then he stood still and said aloud what he had witnessed: ‘Like a lightning flash that stayed—’ and then, ‘I saw the spirits of men and animals go up in clouds, all together, like smoke. They went into another sky, behind the stars.’
Guri cried like a boy, knuckling his eyes, wiping his nose on his braids.
Peb Yuve was dead. Olchibe – all Olchibe – dead. Gech. Jafn. Half the sons of Vormland and Faz.
Guri did not look for the Lionwolf. To see the Lionwolf would have made Guri very sick again. No, he had come to discover what had happened to the old sibull who haunted the Ranjal cart.