by Adam Corby
Kuln-Holn and Berrin followed after him. The great square was thick with the poor and the aged of the city, those whose hearts were not stout enough for fighting. The two friends made their way through paths between makeshift tents and heaps of wretched belongings, and went down into High Town. When they were abreast of the Brown Temple, Kuln-Holn looked up, but saw none of the priestesses among the throngs upon the steps. He smelled the incense of their rites, however, and was heartened. He made the Sign of Goddess, and recited a prayer they had taught him.
Folk were everywhere in the streets. They were huddled together in doorways and alleyways and on the steps of public buildings. Ragged bands of thieving, starving children roamed the streets. In the corner of a theater, a pile of wounded men slept among the props of plays, rolls of scenery and the plaster heads of gods. Many seemed already corpses, but those slumbering atop them seemed not to mind. Young women, the remnants of whose robes proclaimed them once to have been the elite hetairai of the city, walked about the streets restlessly, their eyes hunted and haunted. Rumors had reached the Palace already, Berrin explained, of the way the Emperor’s followers treated women who had the misfortune to catch their fancy.
And here, there, everywhere, on hips, in hands, in rags, slung over shoulders and held between teeth, were the weapons. The streets seemed to have come alive with bronze and iron.
And yet, strangely, what struck Kuln-Holn the most, and the most ominously, was the absence of the statues. Once these streets had been shadowed with them; yet now all those many pedestals were empty. Not even Berrin could explain it.
Nearer the barricades, the activity was more hurried. Strong-armed men came and went, bearing loads of stones to build up the barricades yet higher. Kuln-Holn and Berrin followed them, bits of wreckage on a tide drawing swiftlier toward the shore. Rounding a corner of the sloping street, they came in sight at last of what they sought; and Kuln-Holn learned what had become of the statues.
The many limbs and torsos rose in tangled, intricate growths. A score of smashed Elnas, a hill of voluptuous nymphs, Emperors, generals, philosophers, courtesans of noble rank, the mythic warriors, lost heroes, and the defenders of the realm – they were all here. They rose in a great, massed hedge of stone, beneath broken carts and wheels, blocks of masonry, couches and pot-shards.
They had built the barricades out of the statues of their past.
Even now, more carts drew near, loaded with their stone burdens.
‘You, there! You look fit enough – give them a hand! Yes, you, Guardsman!’
Berrin nudged Kuln-Holn’s elbow, and he looked about. Regarding him was a tall, filthy man with a torn red cloak wrapped round his waist. Kuln-Holn knew him for one of the Emperor’s followers.
‘Well?’ the man asked, raising his brow.
‘Come, Kuln-Holn,’ Berrin muttered. They went to help unload one of the carts. Kuln-Holn wished suddenly he were back in the far North, with only his little daughter Turin Tim to care for, hungry and cold, but spared all of this.
‘Don’t mind them, friends,’ said one of the men in the cart. ‘They may be foul beasts without the manners of men, but wait until the next attack comes: you’ll be glad enough of them then.’
‘When will it come?’ Berrin asked.
‘Who knows?’
‘The first attack was terrible, worse than any of us had dreamed,’ said another man. ‘The second was three times as long and a hundredfold hard. I thought my arms would drop off – and I was a porter. This next one will be the worst. And from what they say, the last. If we can only throw them back one last time, they’ll be broken. We’ll have a chance to rest a bit then, before we follow after and finish the job. Then the city will be ours again.’
‘Say rather it’ll be his,’ said the first, a carter. ‘To think of what we used to dream of when he might take up the Ivory Scepter! Now look at him; he’ll never be all he was before.’
‘Will any of us?’ asked the porter.
They were allowed to rest a bit, and eat some of the food Berrin had brought from the Palace kitchens in a leather sack. They talked a bit more, telling stories of the first two attacks. Then they settled themselves as comfortably as they could in the shadows to rest; but Kuln-Holn could not sleep. Bells sounded from the high buildings. The porter and the carter started to their feet, clapping on ill-fitting bits of leather armor.
‘Come along, friends,’ they said, toeing Berrin in his round belly. ‘More work for us to do.’
They sought the barricades. The defenders milled about, faces grim, hands gripping and releasing the hafts of their lances.
The Emperor’s men rode the lines, cursing at the men perched on the rubble. ‘Hold fast there, you mongrels! Down by the fountain there, you six! Hold your lances in readiness, damn you!’
Behind their backs the porter spat. ‘And if his majesty does not banish those men after peace comes, there will be riots for sure.’
The bells ceased.
Berrin’s stomach growled, and he smiled and patted its sleek girth. ‘Hush, child,’ he murmured. ‘We must feed on other things than food this pass.’
Kuln-Holn clambered higher, clutching the twisted limbs of polished marble precariously, and peered through a great broken wheel. The first of the warriors below were yet in shadow. But they were his people there – perhaps even fellow-tribesmen. He clambered yet higher, to see if he could make out any he might know.
‘You there!’ a voice behind him bellowed. ‘What do you think you’re playing at? Get down before they cut you down!’ It was another of the Emperor’s men, a heavyset fellow with bristling red hair. Abashed, Kuln-Holn slid back down.
‘He was right,’ said the carter. ‘Do you want to die? Look, there go the archers!’
From cleverly fashioned holes in the tops of the walls and from windows and balconies in the upper levels of the ruined palaces behind them, men appeared, bending back great rag-wrapped bows. The strings thrummed, once, twice, thrice – some of the distant shapes fell; the rest scattered. Almost at the instant, an answering hail of death-birds raked the mound-walls. The sharpened iron beaks rattled off the stone.
‘Come,’ said the porter, scrambling for the crest: ‘Gather what arrows you can and pass them along to the archers. But careful, lest you gather one in your throat.’ He balanced himself, half-reclining forward: reached through two legs of a chair and, scooping up three arrows, slid back to pass them down to the archers.
For the next several minutes the game continued: volleys exchanged between the archers of both sides, and then the desperate, wild scrambling to retrieve the arrows of the enemy. Yet the archers behind the barricades were few, with all too few arrows of their own; and soon it was that all the arrows that had fallen were beyond safe reach; and, then, save for occasional shots from down the square, the volleys ceased.
‘Such for skirmishing,’ said the porter, drawing his sword and testing its edge against his deformed, horny-scabbed thumb.
Kuln-Holn, following the example, drew out his own blade. The blue steel gleamed like a flame, tingling with life and eagerness for the purple-red wine.
The carter whistled. ‘Friend, a right good blade have you there. Raamba-fashioned or I’m a panderer’s son.’
Below, the barbarians resumed their advance with greater boldness. They formed ranks in the wide square, shield to shield, battered helms glinting evilly, swords, axes, dagger, lances ready. From every throat the battle-ululations soared. They stepped forward, a hundred legs, advancing, gripping the torn rubble-strewn square, bringing up a second hundred legs. They knew better now, than to trust affrighted horses up that treacherous way. The wall of metal, leather, blades and gleaming eyes surged steadily forward. With well-practiced pace it gathered speed. Behind it poured the others, a tide of dark shapes spilling up the several streets. They began to work their way upward, with steady, accelerating step. They reached the peak of the mounds almost at a run, powerful legs churning, hoarse throats yelling.
Yet those who manned those barricades had held them twice before. They knew the task and were ready. They fought in the shadow of their own beloved city streets, with but a single alternative: to turn that fierce assault, and conquer – or die. They too wielded gleaming blades; they too held stout shields. Swords met in clangor and curses, blood flew in the air, and death-cries rose such as to empty a man’s soul with despair.
Again the dark figures stormed up the barricades, almost winning hold; then fell back screaming in pain and rage. And again they were repulsed, yet at a frightful cost. There were bodies all along the heights: stripped of gear by the defenders, they were hurled forth to add to the height of the mounds. The barbarians were forced to clamber over the corpses of their own fellows now: yet not for that would any of them hesitate. The stroke of sword on shield was like a thunder over the ocean in the sudden breaking heat of high Summer.
Kuln-Holn fell back, forgotten in the turmoil. Never, not even in the fires of Gerso, had he known such a tumult. What was he doing there? He was no warrior – it was even as the Queen had said. He watched his three friends above him, their dark arms waving and bending against the pale sky. The carter and the porter, even rotund Berrin, were doing well: giving stroke for stroke, laughing, cursing: wet with sweat and blood. Side by side they fought like comrades, who had before been strangers, even rivals in their trades.
Then four warriors came against them, great-limbed fellows with the trappings of the River’s-Bend tribe upon their breasts: a cry sounded, and the porter fell back dead. His body rolled down the slope of the mound, bumping against Kuln-Holn’s foot in passing.
He gripped his blade fast and scampered up the mound, filling the gap between Berrin and the carter. ‘A friend to take his place,’ he cried, thrusting the sword blindly forward.
The Raamba steel seemed to have eyes of its own – a mind to move of its own accord – a will to know its target. Swiftly it struck a Karghil in his unprotected neck, drinking brown-black blood; then slid back to the ready. The man fell, clutching at air, tumbling back down the litter of the mound.
‘Well-aimed, Kuln-Holn!’ Berrin laughed.
Kuln-Holn stood looking at the rolling corpse. It was the first man he had ever killed.
Another Karghil stood before him, sword leaping out. Desperately Kuln-Holn brought the little shield about, feeling it jar under the blow. Out of balance he fell back, tumbling down the face of the mound-wall, his helmet clanging like a bell upon the stones and litter.
He was dazed for a moment. But the shield had taken all the blow, and he had not lost hold of the Raamba blade. Gripping it firmly, he set his helmet on straight, and ascended the barricades anew.
Again the Karghil faced him, breaking with the carter; but now it was Kuln-Holn who struck. ‘Eater-of-dung!’ he shouted, and the Karghil paused, startled to hear his own tongue spoken here so far into the South. The Raamba blade found the seam between his armor and buried itself in his bowels; and the Karghil screamed. Kuln-Holn laughed, and kicked the man in his shoulder.
‘Now who laughs?’ he yelled, watching the body roll.
‘Beware!’ screamed Berrin. Kuln-Holn slipped in turning, thereby falling below the sweeping blade. He rolled forward, striking low; above him, Berrin put his sword full into the man’s breast; but on his other side another, a Durbar by his looks, swung his axe lustily, severing Berrin’s arm at the shoulder. A savage laugh echoed in Kuln-Holn’s ears as he saw his friend fall forward.
‘Guard me!’ he shouted, clutching at Berrin’s leg and dragging him back. He half-dragged, half-rolled the rotund body down the slope, to where a worn carpet had been spread. Berrin’s eyes rolled about, the lids flickering like bird’s-wings. It was as if he knew not where or how he was.
‘How is it with you, Berrin?’ Kuln-Holn asked foolishly. ‘Is your pain great?’
‘Pain? No pain,’ the blanched lips mumbled. ‘Thirsty. Bring water.’
Kuln-Holn ran back to the fountain some paces behind the walls. He dipped his helmet into the dark waters, filling it. Hastily, he returned, slopping water on his legs: the coolness brought back memories of autumn in the far North, in the quiet time when the harvests were in and the warriors departed on the long trek for Urnostardil, for the yearly Assembly of the Tribes.
When he returned, he found the carter sitting on the worn carpet, wiping his brow.
‘Water, is it?’ he asked, running his lips along the back of his arm. ‘Good. Truly, I’m too weary now to fight them off at the fountains, too! Don’t worry about the barbarians: they’ve fallen back for the moment to drink, cart off the dead, and regroup. We’ll do the same. It’ll be a few moments of peace anyway.’ He extended his hand for the dripping helmet, which Kuln-Holn dumbly surrendered.
Bent in a ball at his feet Berrin lay dead.
* * *
They rested awhile, side by side, yet somewhat apart to let the air cool their burning limbs. Not ten paces away lay the body of the porter. Some weary worn men, urged to their tasks by two of the Emperor’s men, came by with a cart: they took away the bodies of Berrin and the porter.
* * *
‘Think of other things.’ The carter sighed wearily. ‘Man, whence have you sprung, not to know battle’s cost by now? Shed no tears over my corpse when I am dead: rather, hurl it into the barbarians’ path, so that even in death I may defend my city! He, poor fellow, would doubtless have said the same when he lived. Friend, if I could only hold Ara-Karn’s neck between my hands, I’d give all our lives!’
Kuln-Holn lay back panting, too weary to reply. Beneath the carpet he could feel the shards of broken pottery and marble digging into his flesh. Yet at the moment that dusty, blood-smeared carpet seemed more comfortable even than the couches of the Palace. He wondered what Salizh would do when she heard of Berrin’s death. He felt a sharpness in his belly, and found himself wishing they hadn’t taken away the leather sack along with the corpses.
* * *
When next they came, the barbarians offered neither shout nor charge. Silently and grimly, they marched across the square and climbed the mounds; stolidly and workmanlike they brought their weapons to bear. And in like manner the defenders gave answer. Arms waved, blades fell, blood burst, dead fell, bodies were trampled, wounded, staggered down.
Kuln-Holn fought at the carter’s side. When he had been a young man, his father had tried to teach him some of the ways of the sword, for even a fisherman must defend himself in the wild far North; and in the cruel far North, when the catches do not come, another man’s goods can mean your life.
And now even after so many years, Kuln-Holn found that his body recalled those lessons – how to stand and how to hold, how to cut and thrust, how to feint and deceive the foe, how to watch not just the other’s blade but also his eyes and shoulders to see where his blade would go. And though his arms grew as heavy as iron weights, Kuln-Holn fought on with a greater vigor than those about him: for buried in his body was still the strength he had harvested as a young man hauling sodden full nets up out of the depths of the darkened sea.
Beside him the carter fought, using the weight and great strength of his burly arms and shoulders to great advantage – so that the two of them formed a knotty point of resistance, to which other defenders flocked, coming to replace the many dead.
The carter swung his sword against a bronze-plated Buzrah warrior, and the wearied blade shivered into a dozen pieces, leaving the carter defenseless; and the Buzrah roared. But Kuln-Holn leaped before him, catching the blow upon the strong breastplate, and slashing back so fiercely that both the Buzrah’s kneecaps burst and broke, and he tumbled backward like a straw toy in the wind. The carter laughed, and snatched up a heavy battle-axe.
‘Now let them come!’ he roared. The next man he faced fell back down the mound, one half to the right and the other to the left; and the carter wiped at the blood that had drenched his face beneath his helmet.
‘A good blow!’ shouted Kuln-Holn in a r
oaring voice he scarcely recognized as his own. ‘But watch now a better one!’ And in his exultation he leaped forward at two barbarians, kicking one in the belly so that he fell tumbling back, and taking the other in one sweeping blow that fell just below the helm, so that the man’s head flew and turned.
A shout praised him: Kuln-Holn looked back, saw the Rukorian captain. Bloodied helm to toe he was, and his lance rested in his palm as though it were the lengthening of his arm. He smiled at Kuln-Holn, and rode on, and vanished into the thick of men, lance waving, dipping but to kill.
Kuln-Holn fell back by the carter’s side, shivering with strange, fiery delight. ‘And who would have thought that I’d become a warrior at my time of life?’ Fire danced in his veins like beer, like mead, like purple Postio wine. The battle-madness of his ancestors of the Last Stand had claimed him, the desperate violence of the far North. Not Gundoen, not Hertha-Toll, not Turin Tim herself would have recognized him now. He knew now how it had been among those upon Urnostardil. It was no wonder that all of Elna’s men and captains had been unable to defeat them.
He took his sword two-fisted, a conqueror atop those mounds of broken statuary. And those fierce savage warriors before him fell back at the light of madness darting from his eyes.
‘Come up, you dogs,’ he croaked, amazed that they should retreat before him. ‘Will you give me battle or not? By the gods, I forced Ara-Karn upon you, but now I throw you back in spite of him!’
Then one below, an Archero, shouted, ‘A renegade! A tribesman fighting against the King!’
‘His very prophet!’ shouted Kuln-Holn back. ‘I gave you one god, there in the snows upon Urnostardil; now here’s another! Come on and die!’