by Andre Norton
Her eyes searched his and found that he had offered her no idly phrased comfort.
“Thanks given for those words,” she said softly. “I think I shall lean upon them often in the days ahead when my courage would otherwise fail me utterly.”
“All of us use memory so, my Lady.”
Una lowered her eyes to veil the suddenly born pity in them. She would never be able to comprehend how these mercenaries bore with the life they led, the constant danger of it, the constant loss and threat of loss.
She had once believed them to be a callous lot, being almost totally isolated from any but blatantly superficial contact with their fellows. She had recognized her error in that even before Tarlach had come to them and knew now that Falconers were bonded very deeply one with the other, and she shuddered in her heart at the realization of what the coming confrontation would mean to the man beside her. Scant wonder he had been able to use her so gently and wisely just now. He understood all too well the need for reassurance, the need to have reserves, whatever their nature, upon which to draw and lean when all else became horror only.
She lay her hand on his arm, keeping her touch very light. “Do not try to be too strong, Mountain Hawk. It is needful for my people that we be allowed to give as well as to receive. Let us, let me, bear what we can for you in whatever lies ahead.”
14
The threatening storm continued to hold off all through that night, and the new day opened dark and cold but dry and with the wind falling well short of gale force. Only the sea gave indication of the anger that might yet tear down upon them, for the waves were uncommonly high, covering many of the offshore rocks normally visible, and they were rough and cruel in their striking.
Tarlach was standing at the window of the high chamber in which he and Seakeep's other leaders were gathered, staring out over that turbulent ocean. He had been there most of the morning, silent and so seemingly moody that his companions, even Storm Challenger, had left him to himself.
He straightened suddenly as decision firmed in his mind. “Pull the sentries back from the wall,” he said without turning. “Let the watch be kept from the round tower only. When the alarm is given and the ships are actually visible from ground level, let only a few, Dalesfolk all of them, go to the wall, and let them move with apparent confusion and astonishment. The barrier is low, and what goes on behind it will be visible from the fleet's masts. I would have our enemies begin at least their first assault without being aware of our true strength and resolve.”
Rorick grinned in appreciation as he moved to relay the command to one of the sentries waiting in the hall outside. This one well merited the rank he held.
“Hasten!”
All whirled at the note in the Mountain Hawk's voice. He was standing very stiffly, his hands pressed against the deep ledge of the window.
The Lieutenant snapped out his orders, then raced back to join the others, who were now crowded around their war commander.
A forest of as-yet-tiny spikes fringed all the horizon.
They grew rapidly in size, becoming, first sail-shrouded masts and then entire ships, warships and troop carriers by the look of them, all painted the deep purple that was apparently their Sultan god's color, and above each of them floated high and proud the crescent standard which had so long been the terror and the chain of the world that had given birth to those sailing them.
Tears swam in Una's eyes despite the effort of her will to block them. “So many, so incredibly many of them!”
She was not ashamed of her weakness. All of her companions had paled, for the force coming against them was more fearsome in its stark reality than ever their inner dread and imagination had made it.
The Holdruler felt a sharp, uncheckable tremor pass through the Captain's body, which was pressed closely against hers in the narrow space, but whatever his feelings in that moment, the gray-eyed man was perfectly calm in his bearing, seemingly sure of his course in this task a hostile fate had set him to do.
“There they are, Comrades,” he said softly. “Free men drove them from the realm they had believed securely chained. Now let us see what sort of welcome the free people of this one can give to them.”
The arrogance of the Sultanites filled the defenders, Dales-folk and Falconers alike, with cold fury. There was no concealing the defensive nature of the low wall stretching between the beach and the greater part of the valley, nor could it be concealed that some few warriors stood behind it, yet the newcomers conducted themselves as though they were oblivious to it, coolly arranging themselves and their goods just out of arrow range.
Perhaps they were so assured—and contemptuous—because no opposition had been offered them, not so much as a single word of question or protest, but it was Tarlach's will that no move be made until the alien host began its assault, and the apparently few defenders held firm and quiet in accordance with his command.
More than any potential human foe, the weather held the invaders’ attention. It was steadily worsening, not yet a full tempest but lashing out with frequent squalls of both wind and rain that roiled even the well-sheltered bay and made the use of the small boats, necessary for disembarking, treacherous in the extreme.
That could not be helped. They wanted to have the bulk of their army ashore before darkness closed down. Once the fast-approaching night was upon them, the work would have to stop entirely and the ships drop anchor where they were until daylight once more filled the sky—if the obviously building gale would permit it to be resumed at that time.
The defending officers watched their progress from the tower window all that day until their numbers swarmed upon the beach like the seemingly frenzied but ordered mass of ants working within their hill.
The darkness of spirit which had been on him in the morning had remained with the Mountain Hawk, a sullen weight his comrades were powerless to break or lift.
In watching that proud, seemingly infinite army, he could at least feel with Estcarp's Witches. Had he their Power, he would drop the mountains upon these invaders, would sink the very land beyond the wall into the sea to save the Dale and the people he had come to love.
It was only toward evening that he at last opened his thoughts to those waiting with him. “Those soldiers out there are not under the command to conquer for their Sultan's honor but to claim a new base for all their race, and time is of some import to them. It is possible that they might sail from here again if they find Seakeep too difficult to take and fall upon some other now unsuspecting target.”
“There is nothing we can do to prevent that,” Brennan told him, sighing within his own heart; if there was ever a grim possibility, this man would find it, and he feared Tarlach had come all too close to true prediction this time.
“They would be forced to remain here if we could destroy their ships.”
The Lieutenant stared at him for one moment as if he believed madness had stricken him. “How do you propose we manage that?”
“The Horned Lord has sent us this storm. It may be possible to utilize it.”
“How?”
“Their sailors are not used to working in our seas or with our weather systems, and they most assuredly are not familiar with the tangle of rocks and the fierce currents gracing Seakeep's coast. If they believed themselves secure only to have their anchors suddenly released during the height of a tempest such as will soon break here, might their surprise and uncertainty not leave their vessels at the storm's mercy just long enough that a great many of them would come to serious grief, particularly if all were simultaneously so afflicted?”
“Cut the anchor ropes?” Rorick whispered, his voice low with horror.
“Partially cut them. The tempest must be at full power for it to work, and I doubt swimmers could function in the midst of that.”
The Captain's face was hard, without any touch of lightness or even of hope in it. “Our people would have to act in complete secrecy and return again in complete secrecy. Any hint of what we ha
d done would probably negate all.”
“How could that possibly be accomplished?” Una gasped, no less stunned by his suggestion than were his own comrades.
“By lowering ourselves with ropes down that cliff from which we rescued the survivors of the Mermaid Fair once night has fallen and being raised again by the same means when we have completed our work upon our respective targets.”
His eyes met hers. “What think you, Lady? Both your people and mine have trained long and hard in these waters, but are we good enough to reach our targets under the conditions that will be prevailing out there, do what we must, and then return again? We can afford no floating bodies to be discovered before our plan fulfills itself. The storm may not develop sufficient force until well after dawn.”
“Yes,” the Holdruler answered after only the briefest hesitation. “It will not be an easy task, but I think we are the equal of it.”
“So be it. We shall set out once there is sufficient darkness to conceal us.”
Only a single candle illumed Tarlach's quarters, although the tightly secured siege shutters would have blocked a conflagration from the sight of the invaders on the beach and out on the water so far below. The Falconer lay fully clothed upon his bed, his right arm covering his eyes to shut out even that dim light. He wanted no part of seeing, no part of awareness.
He could not put the thought of what he was to face away from him so easily, however, and yet another shudder shook his body.
The man willed the tremor to cease. This he would have to conquer, he thought grimly, and do it damn quickly. There would be no going down that cliff if he could not so much as bring himself to its edge.
His terror was excessive. The mercenary realized that. He knew those waters and the dangers they contained. By the Horned Lord, he had compelled himself to enter them often enough to train alongside his comrades and the Dalesfolk, and they had frequently been rough and angry.
This was different, though. His mission was real and the storm was real, real as it had been that night he had carried the rope to the prow of the Mermaid Fair, real and terrible as his time aboard the dory from the Dion Star, and far, far more was riding upon his success.
He was relieved when a soft knock announced Rorick's presence, and he sat up to give the Lieutenant greeting.
The newcomer settled himself into a chair until his Captain should finish smearing his face with black grease and drawing on a pair of dark gloves.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asked Tarlach.
“No.” He might as well be truthful, he thought. None of the others were likely to have fared any better in that respect.
Rorick nodded. “I am rather glad to hear it. If you could be that much easier about this than the rest, I would be decidedly worried.” He watched his chief pensively. “Are you sure you want to risk the Holdruler on this jaunt?”
His commander turned to look at him. “She swims like a seal. None of her people and few of ours can match her in the water.”
“If she is lost, we could be accused—”
“We are all likely to be lost,” he snapped, “if not tonight, then later.” He reined his temper. “I have no choice but to use our best swimmers, and unfortunately Una of Seakeep is numbered high amongst them. It is bad enough that I cannot risk all our officers by taking you and Brennan. We shall return. This is no suicide mission.”
“Do not taunt fortune! If the Grim Commandant does not entirely command that storm-tossed ocean, he at least bears very high authority there.”
Tarlach smiled. “Chiefly over the careless for this night, my friend. I trust that none of us shall prove guilty of that fault.”
The Captain was ready by then. He checked the two knives sheathed at his waist for keenness and took up his cloak.
He felt better. His dread was no less, but the activity of these final preparations and the need to speak coherently with his comrade had given his mind something concrete upon which to fix, and he found he was able to master himself once again. If he could bring himself to enter the ocean at all, he should be able to perform as need and fate demanded of him.
15
The party standing upon the broad ledge was a large one, consisting as it did of both those soon to enter the ocean and those who would handle the ropes and attend to the swimmers upon their return.
No noise issued from any of them, no needless movement which might, through some quirk of fortune, betray their presence to the ships trying to ride out the storm on the sea below; because of the sharp turn of the cliff, the ledge and those upon it were completely invisible to the warriors on the beach itself.
Una huddled deeply into her heavy cloak. The gale was already high and seemed to gain strength with every passing minute. She hoped they had not delayed too long, that it would not grow too powerful too soon. Tarlach was right. They all had to reach their targets, and they all had to return to their place again.
She glanced at the dark figure of the Captain. He was standing only a few feet from her, unmasked, of course, in preparation for the effort to come, but had she not known it was he, she would not have recognized him, so deep was the storm-enhanced darkness.
He was holding himself stiffly, and his face had been set when they had left the round tower. It was too much, she thought. The fate of a continent, a world, was too heavy a responsibility for one man to have to carry, and doubtless he was as nervous as any of the rest of them as well over what he himself must soon face. No sane man challenged an ocean without qualm.
Her eyes closed, and she battled down her own fear. They were not here to die, but a hard and dangerous task was before them, and the time to set out was almost upon them.
Tarlach waited tensely while the ropes were prepared and tested. He was to descend with the first group.
Now!
His body felt oddly uncoordinated, and he thought his legs must surely buckle as he moved forward to grasp the rope.
It was not yet too late. He could still spare himself. …
His fingers closed around the rough fibers of what was to be both his road into terror and his salvation out of it.
The Falconer went to his knees and crawled forward until he reached the edge of the natural platform. He moistened his lips with a tongue gone nearly as dry. This would be the most difficult part, this turning and letting himself down into that black emptiness and the fearful, churning force that was his goal.
Closing his eyes, he reversed his position so that he faced the sturdy wall of the cliff. He clutched the rope almost convulsively as he slowly lowered his body over the edge.
There was an instant of panic as he seemed to be suspended in nothingness, but he gripped that, raised his legs and moved them inward until they made contact with the solid rock.
The improvement in his position, both physically and psychologically, was instantaneous and significant. The wind was not yet so strong that his muscles were unable to stand against it. With a firm brace against the cliff face, he no longer spun and twisted helplessly with each new gust.
It was an eerie feeling, this walking down the almost perpendicular wall like some great spider descending along a strand of its web, and he might almost have enjoyed the strangeness of the sensation were it not for his knowledge of what lay at this journey's end.
The sea was very near now. The Captain could hear the roar of her as she strove to batter down the sturdy heartstone of the land. Already, he shivered under the lash of occasional high-flying spumes of spray. The rain, heavy and chill as it was, did not have the bite of this.
The warrior gasped as a sheet of frigid water poured over him. It was still chiefly wind-borne foam, but the backlash of angry water striking resolute stone had a part in it as well.
Somehow, he retained his grasp on the rope despite the shock of it. A fall from here would not be perilous to man or mission, but it was best to accustom oneself to the touch of cold water before attempting to function in it, and there could be no thought of clinging to the lin
e for even the few seconds necessary to allow his body to acclimatize itself once he actually submerged himself, not in the maelstrom now existing where land and ocean met.
He remained in place until another and yet another wave had slapped over him, then loosened his hold and plunged straight down into the storm-swept darkness.
He knew fear, stark, blind, primal fear, during the fraction seconds of his fall, whatever assurance his reason tried to draw from the knowledge that the water directly beneath was deep and utterly free of obstacles, however thickly they were scattered only a few feet farther out.
Tarlach struck and sank quickly. He plunged deeper and still deeper until he felt sure he was below the turmoil rending the upper layers. Once at that point, he struggled into a horizontal position.
The mercenary Captain was a strong swimmer and a fast one, and he put forth his full effort now. It was imperative that he be as free as possible from the white water and sharp, conflicting currents fringing the cliff before he was forced to rise to the surface for air.
At last, his lungs warned him he must begin his ascent. Up, he went, carefully testing the way lest he be caught in some eddy or struck down by a breaking wind wave on the surface. It was essential that he retain full control over his movements. The waters around him were no longer clear of debris, and he had no wish to be slammed against any of the rocks or islets littering the region. What would be a relatively light, even an insignificant, accident on land could well prove fatal out here.
The Falconer broke surface. A grin of triumph momentarily lighted his face. He had indeed come far and had managed to place himself in an almost perfect approach to the first of his targets.
He remained above water but a few moments, only long enough to take his bearings and to draw a fresh supply of air into his lungs. Movement was far easier and safer below.
A sense of elation filled him as he deftly swerved to avoid a sharp spire lifting up out of the ocean floor. The long, hard hours of training to which he had subjected himself and his comrades were proving their worth this night. Even with visibility so poor and with the surface so roiled by the ever-rising tempest that he was compelled to remain much deeper than was his wont, he was functioning as if such movement were as natural to him as was the handling of a spirited horse. Barring some viciously ill cast of fortune, he knew now that their mission would be a success and that they would all return from it.