by Tad Williams
"You sound as though you think it will fail," said Jasper.
"I do." Cinnabar, with his young son Calomel's help, lowered his armored back end onto a rock. "But I agreed to it, promised I would help, and I've done so. Now enough of this. We can do nothing more to help Chert, so let us think about what we can do here."
Vansen pulled the map around. "As everyone knows, we'll give ground as slowly as we can manage, but we will have to give ground. From the Counting Room and on down the tunnels. We'll hold them for a long time in the Cavern of Winds, I hope, but our real stand will be in the Maze, I think. We'll make then earn every inch there."
"But they have their own miners, not to mention those weird little creatures covered in tortoiseshell." Malachite Copper had joined them after seeing to his men. "Surely the southerners can find other ways around us?"
"Eventually, no doubt," Vansen agreed. "But whenever they seem frustrated, we're going to give a little. We'll keep sentries in the other tunnels, so we'll know if they find any of those routes. But if we fight as hard as we can and seem to give back only when we have to, then the autarch will keep his patience, and we'll draw him downward as nicely as can be."
"But that way we'll lead him right into the Mysteries!" protested Sledge Jasper.
"We can't beat them, Sledge. I know it sounds mad, but the fairies swear that what the autarch wants is to be there on the night of Midsummer's Day to perform some black magic. That's what we have to stop."
"Well, you're right, Captain." Sledge Jasper nodded. "It does sound mad. But you've led us right so far, even in the beginning when I thought you'd have us all killed. Me and my men will do what you say."
Vansen smiled. "We couldn't manage it without you." He turned to the others present, Cinnabar and Copper and the other Funderlings, some of them hereditary leaders of their own troops, some selected from the ranks of the warders by Vansen and Jasper. "This is a fight to the death… but it is also a dance. We must learn our partners' movements and mood as well as we know our own."
Jasper's confidence disappeared in an instant. "A… dance? My men don't dance, Captain."
"Then think of it as a story being performed. Do you Funderlings have plays and players?"
Cinnabar frowned. "Of a sort. Some of the Metamorphic Brothers who conduct special rituals…" he hesitated for a moment,"… in the Mysteries, they are players of a sort."
"Well and good," said Vansen. "Think of it that way, then. It is up to us to put on a good show of resistance, but the only way we can do that is to fight and perhaps lose. And then, even if we manage to hold off a much greater force, when they begin to tire, we must give ground, however weary we are ourselves, and however good the position we must abandon." Ferras Vansen spread his hands to show that he had nothing else to give. "That is our task, gentlemen. Perhaps the most difficult thing fighting men could be asked to do, and we must work this miracle with untrained troops and many new commanders. Could the odds be longer?" He turned to Jasper. "So don't fear, friend Sledge. We may die in obscurity but there are many worse ways to do it-and many worse reasons."
"It will be an honor to break my spade in obscurity with you, Captain." Jasper sounded as though he was ready to run out and throw himself on a Xixian spear this very moment.
"Just the same," Vansen said, "it is an honor I would have been happy to turn down."
Pinimmon Vash was terrified by how much stone now lay above his head, of how far beneath the sky-and even beneath the sea!-he had come. It was all that he could do not to leap out of his litter this moment and force his way back past the soldiers in their strung-out camps until he had fought his way back to the surface. It wasn't the knowledge of the permanent and fatal humiliation that would bring that kept him in place. Even the idea of losing face wasn't enough to overcome the horror of these miles of stone weighing down upon his thoughts and feelings. Instead it was the face of the autarch himself, staring at him across the smoke of the ceremonial brazier, that kept Vash seated and smiling vapidly when he felt as though any moment his skin might yank itself free from his bones and run away without him.
Sulepis could go nowhere without the brazier, because it represented the fire of his godly ancestor, Nushash. It was the kind of thing Vash himself approved of: ancient, orderly, ceremonial, respectable-and exactly the sort of things his young master was emphatically not.
"Your face seems sour to me, Paramount Minister," said Sulepis. "Has your keen eye spotted some weak spot in our assault?"
He hated it when the autarch made light of him in front of the soldiers, but even the polemarchs knew better than to show too much amusement. Whatever they might think of him in private, they all knew that Pinimmon Vash's reach was second only to the Golden One's. More officers than were gathered here today had incurred the paramount minister's ire, and all of them were gone now, the luckiest in ignoble retirement.
Vash did his best to smile. "Sour, Golden One? How could anyone be sour in the midst of such a splendid adventure? I but reflected on worries of my own."
"Ah, did you? How selfish you are, old man. All those concerns and you would not share a single one?" Sulepis turned to his prisoner. "Come, Olin, wouldn't you like to hear what is worrying my good servant?"
To Vash's eyes the northern king looked even paler than usual. His brow was damp, as if a fever were coming upon him. "I beg pardon," Olin said. "I did not hear."
"Never mind. Tell us why you are worried, Minster Vash."
Vash took a breath, held it a moment. "I worry about you, O Golden One, that is all. I fear for your safety so far below the ground, in such a dark and treacherous place, and with such uncanny enemies."
"But you told me only yesterday that I would triumph against any odds-that Heaven had ordained my victory, so how can you doubt me today? Do you doubt me, Minister?" The autarch was smiling, but the yellow lights of his eyes seemed as deep as the vast fires in the temple of Nushash.
He's angry about something, Vash suddenly realized. Not me, but I was fool enough to let him notice an expression on my face. "I am sorry, Golden One. I try never to doubt your victory, but your enemies are so treacherous, so wicked…!"
Olin turned with a look of clammy disbelief on his face. "What? My poor people, wicked? Is it not enough to kill innocents without slandering them, too?"
"He does not mean them, Olin," said the autarch, his mobile face suddenly full of noble feeling. "Although nobody who allows that Tolly creature to rule them can be truly innocent. Old Vash refers to my real enemies-the gods. And, yes, they are strong and cruel, but they do not have what I have… the blood of humanity flowing in my veins!"
The northern king, who unlike Vash himself seemed to have no reason to fear aggravating the autarch, asked, "What do you mean, humanity? It's the blood of gods you're always talking about-the blood that supposedly runs in my veins."
Sulepis smiled with pleasure. "Ah, but that is just the point. The blood of the gods has grown thin and tired, but it is still the key that will unlock the door I need to open… and when the door is open, power will come through it. That power-the might of Heaven itself-will be mine. But my blood may be entirely mortal, or if Nushash is indeed my ancestor, it may have become an even thinner soup over the years than your own. What's important about me is that I have the blood of human conquerors running in my veins-hard, silent men of the desert who seized what they wanted and held it by wits and bravery and nothing more. Who else would even think to snatch Heaven's power? I am the closest thing this world has to a god, and it is exactly because of my mortal ancestors that the circle will be closed and I will inherit the greatest power imaginable."
Olin looked at him for a long time. "Every time I think I have plumbed the uttermost depths of your madness, Sulepis, you surprise me yet again."
"Excellent news!" The autarch was pleased. "Now come with me while I inspect the troops, Olin. They do not like this sunless place, and who can blame them? But I am their sun and I must shine upon them a little."
"But I
don't shine," Olin said quietly. "I only burn."
"Ah." Sulepis peered at him. "That is right, my friend, you suffer as you grow closer to your old home, do you not? Bad dreams, a racing heart, a pounding head? What an irony is there!" The autarch shook his head in dignified disapproval, like a grandfather watching the carryings-on of disrespectful youth. Vash could not help wondering how his master had managed to become even stranger than usual: Sulepis seemed to be trying on different ways of being, as though character could be changed like a priest's ritual mask. "Is your suffering great?"
The look Olin gave him should have immediately set the young autarch aflame. "I persist. I survive."
"Which is, after all, the highest to which most mortals can aspire, is it not?" The autarch laughed and stood. Half a dozen body servants rushed forward to unroll the sacred blue Bishakh carpet in whatever direction he chose to walk: Sulepis was still under the stricture of the priests not to touch the ground. Vash thought it strange that a man who was willing to kill kings and rob the gods themselves should be so scrupulous about religious ritual. "Now come along," the autarch told his captive. "You will keep me company while I bring the sun's brightness to my languishing soldiers."
As his guards helped the northerner to his feet, Olin stumbled and took a lurching step toward Vash, then caught at the older man's robes to keep from falling-or so it seemed; but as his sudden grab bent the paramount minister almost double, Olin leaned close to Vash's ear.
"I know you are no fool," the king whispered quickly. "If you wish to survive, go to Prusus. You will find him a good listener."
For a moment Vash thought his own command of Eion's common tongue had failed him-that Olin had muttered a curse and he had misheard it in a ludicrous, impossible way. But the quick look of significance the northerner gave him before allowing himself to be led away made the old minister's heart, already beating swiftly, begin to rattle like a festival noisemaker.
Is he mad? Does he think for a moment I would betray the autarch?
But a second, guiltier thought followed quickly. What did he see in me? Is it in my face? Can everyone see my doubts?
A moment later came the third and most horrifying idea of all: Olin must have heard something. He's telling me that the Golden One already plans to have me removed and executed. Sulepis only toys with me, like a cat with a granary rat.
Vash watched as the autarch was carried across the great stone chamber, bobbing on his litter with lanterns hung at each corner, and suddenly felt his treacherous thoughts must be leaking out like blood through a bandage, or like the fever-sweat on Olin's face. Perhaps everyone knew!
Badly frightened by the words of a condemned foreign enemy, the Paramount Minister of Xis hurried to his tent, seeking shadows and a chance to think.
"I can scarcely see anything," Vansen whispered to the young warder Dolomite as he stared out into the blackness of the vast, low chamber. He had been told there was enough light from glowing fungus on the walls in most parts of the Mysteries for the Funderlings to see at least a bit, but Ferras Vansen thought he might as well have a bucket over his head. "I'm blind here!"
"That's because you are an upgrounder, Captain Vansen."
"Fortunately for us, then, Warder, so are our enemies."
A moment later Dolomite whispered, "I think the southerners are breaking through the last of the rubble we stacked. Some have shuttered lanterns-even you could see them if they were a little closer, Captain!"
But Vansen had chosen this place at the opposite end of the wide Counting Room quite deliberately for his command post. The cavern floor was covered with broad, tablelike mounds of stone, and the cover they provided was why Vansen had decided to contest this cavern as fiercely as he could. He knew he would eventually have to give ground, but first he planned to make this stone room deadly for the Xixians. "Save your breath for the facts," he told the young warder, making his voice harsh. "Jasper sent you to me to help me. If I have to argue with you, I'll get another messenger and you'll be making your explanations to Jasper."
"Sorry, Captain." The young fellow was clearly surprised, his voice unsteady. "Won't… I won't do it again."
"No, you won't. And speak more quietly. I may be an upgrounder, but even I know that sound travels strangely in caves."
"You're right, Captain. I beg your pardon."
"Withheld, for now. Get on with it." Doubtless the young warder was only trying to keep fear at bay. Still, it was distracting.
"Sir," Dolomite said after another sustained silence, "a troop of southerners have formed up and look like… yes, they are moving forward. But these don't look like Xixians!"
"Their emblem? Can you see one?"
"A wolf or a dog, Captain…"
"The autarch's White Hounds," Vansen said. "I wondered when we would see them. They are northerners-from Perikal, or at least their fathers were. Fierce as a wounded bear in a fight. How many?"
"Looks like one lantern for every ten or twelve, Captain. I can see… perhaps twenty lantern in the first mass of troops."
"So many? And Jasper and the others?"
"Crouched out of sight. The Hound-men are still coming forward, but slowly. The ones in front have spears, but there are bowmen just behind them."
"Can't let them get too close. Tell me when they are halfway between the rest of their troop and Jasper's rocks."
Dolomite squinted. In the silence Vansen could hear his own blood throbbing in his temples. The White Hounds may be a couple of hundred trained soldiers, he told himself, but they're the ones on unfamiliar ground. My men are fighting in their own fields. Still, he could not help thinking of the vast line of Xixians snaking back up the tunnels behind these ten or twelve score, swelling to fill the larger chambers with armed men, several thousand in all, their ranks eventually leading up to the encampment on the surface where twice that many soldiers waited. The Funderlings talked a great deal about rockslides, and this would be a rockslide of murderous humanity; no matter what heroics they performed or good fortune they might have, they would never overcome such odds.
"Those Hounds are almost halfway, Captain," whispered Dolomite, startling Vansen out of his unkind thoughts. "Almost… almost…"
"Then give the signal!" Vansen said. "Here!" He handed up the lantern; the warder lifted its shutter and stood to hold it in the air above his head.
"Jasper's seen it!"
"Then get down, man!" Vansen reached up and yanked hard, toppling him backward. As the lamp spun away, spattering burning oil as it bounced down the shallow slope, three arrows splintered against the stones just in front of them.
"Sorry, Captain…"
"Don't apologize, Warder, just get back to work. They won't be shooting at us again now that we're dark. Tell me what you see. Are our crossbowmen taking any of them down?"
"Some, but there are many more arrows stuck in shields."
"We could aim lower if the cursed floor wasn't covered in lumps of stone. You Funderlings need to keep things a bit more tidy."
"Captain?"
"Never mind, Dolomite. Tell me more."
"They're down low, those White Hound men, and they're going forward only a little at a time, when their archers are firing. And…" He stopped, suddenly. "By the Elders," he said then in a strangled voice, "that was Chrysolite. I know him!"
Vansen let him have a moment, but only that. "Many good men will fall. We need to make sure we take down more of theirs-many more. Report."
"The Hounds have almost reached the place where our men wait. Ah! And now they come together, they come together…! Oh, no, stop them! Don't…!"
The cries of men fighting and dying now echoed so densely that Vansen could hardly hear what the Funderling was saying. "Dolomite, I need you to tell me what you see!"
"The southerners, the White Hounds, they've reached the rocks and they're trying to push out Jasper and the others. They're using spears. Oh, Elders, it is terrible to see!"
"Don't see it, then, just tell me w
hat's in front of you. As if it were a picture in a book."
"The… the southerners and ours are fighting very fiercely in the rocks. In some places, the Big Folk have pushed in between the stones and are fighting with our people in the open spaces. In others Jasper's men have fallen back. Ah, there is Cinnabar bringing men to help them-they are all holding near the back of the rocks…" He stopped to lean even farther, so that Vansen reached up and grabbed the little man's collar to prevent him from tumbling off the rock. "Oh, no, Captain! The southerners are getting past!"
"What does it look like?"
"Sorry, sir. Some of the White Hounds have found a way past along the edge of the cavern-they're slipping by while the rest are fighting in the middle. They'll be behind Jasper's men in a moment… ah! Ah!"
"Keep talking, boy."
"It's bad now, sir! The White Hounds have gotten past on both sides of our soldiers. They're surrounded, our men are surrounded; they'll be overwhelmed…! Let me go help!"
"No! Stay here. Curse this dark place!" Vansen fumbled in his pack. "How I wish I could see. Tell me things that are happening, Dolomite, not what you think might be happening. Are the White Hounds all around our men now?"
"Yes, sir. Almost as thick on this side as on the other. It's a ring of torches all the way around…!"
"Good." Vansen held something up. "Do you know what this is?"
He felt certain that the young warder was staring at him as though he had gone utterly mad. "It's… it's a cuttlehorn, sir. One of those stony seashells. Like the one the Brothers blow to call the monks to prayer."
"Would you like the honor of blowing it, then?"
"Sir?"
He put it in the warder's hands. "Blow it. Loud as you can. It is time to call those White Hound bastards to temple."
After a long moment, a rasping, breathy note rose beside him, growing louder and louder until its triumphant clamor set echoes bouncing all over the Counting Room. In the shuddering aftermath of the horn's call came a sudden roar from Malachite Copper's Funderling troop, who had been hidden in the rocky slope above the place where the autarch's soldiers had first entered the cavern, and now came streaming down onto the backs of the nearest White Hounds.