by Andy Sparrow
A while later, one of the soaring birds of the mountain wheeled down to its favoured perch upon a high turret top, but did not see the snare laid ready, as it set itself down with beating wings. It shrieked with surprise and anger as it was dragged through an open hatch, wings flailing against the timber, feathers filling the air. Torrin chewed hungrily on one drumstick, Soola, beside him on the bed, happily devouring the other. The frozen vegetables were edible enough, but this seemed a more appropriate meal for the occupants of royal chambers.
After a long rest, interrupted at intervals by the passionate demands of Soola, Torrin descended to the city and found his way to its gate. Snow was piled high against the timbers and he began the long task of clearing it away, so that the locking mechanism could be revealed. After much digging he had exposed enough of the structure to see how the gates could be latched. There were iron capstans with long handles on both doors, contrived to mesh with metal bolts that extended to left and right. It took some mighty hammer blows to shift the frozen mechanism, and much straining to turn the capstans, but slowly the iron rods slid and latched into their sockets.
Then there was no more to do than wait. They spent much time in the king's bed, delighting in their passion and friendship. The room would fill with the sound of the four-posted canopy creaking and lurching, and then, after tumultuous gasps, would come laughter, or long gently mumbled stories from their lives before. They explored the city, made entry to its temples and palaces; crept by lantern light through shuttered halls, misty plumes of breath filling the chill air between them. In the east, the sun crept a fraction higher, peeping over a distant mountain ridge. The sunlight stretched lower down the city's towers, melted water dripped and splashed to the alleys below, then froze again into tall, twisted pillars. The westward mountains that reared above the city glowed brighter in the dawn and were a source of echoing thunder as avalanches tumbled to the valley below. When nearly a moon had passed, and as they lay in slumber, wrapped together in naked warmth, a new sound began.
Torrin sat up, listening to what had begun as a distant rumble but was growing louder by the moment. Soola heard it too and they both sprang to the window to look down into the shadowed vale below. The wave of water that surged through the valley had begun its journey many moons before. The melting snows of the mountains had filled one lake and then spilled into another, erupting through the ice dams, tearing the dormant trees from the valley sides in dreadful uncontrolled power. The bore surged and then halted, flowing back into chill twilight, freezing, damming itself and then breaking free again as the sun rose and warmed. As it neared the sea at last, the great torrent wreaked terrible destruction, surging down its ancient course; dark with silt, deadly with tumbled boulders, slabs of ice and splintered trees. It was thrilling to watch, as the angry, dirty water foamed and tumbled across the white landscape, leaving a rippling brown ribbon weaving between the mountains.
Now it was time for the last task appointed to Torrin; to make a signal. A tall stone tower crowned with a wooden balustrade and roof would be his beacon. He had found flasks of oil in a storeroom and already carried several up a long stair. Now he bounded up the steps again and splashed the oil across the timbers. A flicker from the tinderbox set the tower aflame and it was consumed in crackling red tongues that sent a dark plume skywards. He watched from the king's chamber as the burning timbers tumbled to the street below. He heard them crash and splinter amidst that other constant sound of the roaring river.
He knew that eyes, on some distant ridge toward the sea, were watching, and that the signal would be passed on. Another beacon maybe, or the reflected flashing of the sun with mirrors; somehow the message would be passed, and the strategies of empire would unfold. The flaming tower was consumed, it smouldered for some time, a wisp of smoke still rising from the skeletal black timbers. Downstream of the city the river filled the glacial valley from wall to wall. It made a new lake, meandering gently to the sea, where it turned the waters brown, with branches, trees and broken ice bobbing on the swell.
Three ships came. They were double masted, but no sails were set, as ranks of oarsmen laboured and drove them against the current. The banner of Nejital fluttered from each, men dressed in leather and silver standing upon the prow, watching the city grow nearer with every oar stroke. Torrin wondered if they had seen the signal; if they had any notion of his presence. He went with Soola to the gate, entered the guard turret beside it and found a window slit that looked down on the world outside. The ships berthed against the lower wall, which had become the city's quay once more. Men jumped ashore, well-armed soldiers and dignitaries of the empire who gathered before the gate. A chest was carried forward and a seal was broken; within were the keys to the city. They heated oil over a brazier and poured it from a long necked vessel into the frozen lock. They did not seem too disturbed when, having managed at last to turn the key, the doors would not budge. They poured more oil upon the hinges and looped ropes through iron rings that were bolted to the door in readiness. The oar crews disembarked and strained upon the cables, but the doors would not open.
“What happens now?” asked Soola, as she watched the activity outside.
“According to my master,” said Torrin, “I am to delay the entry of Nejital until the representatives of Etoradom arrive and make their claim upon the city.”
“And if they do not come? Or if these men are not ‘persuaded’ to give their city away?”
Torrin bit his lip and watched as the heavily armed troops continued to disembark.
“Then they will find us, and take us, and then… I do not know. But I doubt that they will thank us for being here, or for barring the gates.”
More soldiers were summoned to haul, the doors creaked but the rope broke under the strain, sending the men tumbling. Tools were unloaded from the ships; hammers, saws and crowbars. There was much animated discussion about how the entry should be made before the first hammer blows struck the timber. Torrin’s stomach knotted as the echoes filled the valley between the city walls and the mountainsides. He clenched his fists and paced, then stopped to peer out at the rippling brown waters.
If Torrin had his way every ambition and stratagem of Etoradom would be thwarted. Then perhaps all the tribes of the world could live as they had before. Perhaps, but then who else might hold the whip and the blade? Etoradom, Nejital; was one any better than the other? He saw the streets of Hityil in his memory, the wretched huddled beggars, the rotting bodies dangling, the cold indifference of the hard faced soldiers. Maybe there would be more hope for the world if Etoradom and Nejital waged war upon each other; if they fought till all their armies were wasted, every warrior bloodied or dead.
The sound of wood splintering under axe blades came now from below. It was only a matter of time before they hacked an entry; then what would happen? Maybe it was not too late to open the gates and surrender. But even if he told them everything would it satisfy the questioners? Did they not have their Cloisters too? It did not matter so much what happened to him, but he could not bear to think of what they might do to Soola. Maybe they could hide somewhere in the city, but only in the cold, for the sunlit towers would be occupied by the newcomers. They would freeze or starve. They might escape through the cave, but to where? Dh’lass was an island surrounded by water on three sides, sheer cliffs on the other. There was only one way; to hold the gate and hope.
“They must be held off,” he said, reaching for his bow, “there is no choice. But one man cannot hold off such a force for long.”
“We are not just one man,” said Soola, the last two words with a little sneer, as she raised her own bow. He sent the first arrow into the lid of the chest that had contained the city's key. There was a flurry of reaction; men shouting and scattering, heads ducked low, fearful of where the next arrow would land. More soldiers issued from the ships, bowmen darting along the quayside, finding cover, then peering out with arrows ready. Torrin let off a few more shots, aiming to frighten, sending th
e shafts whistling close to any man who showed his head, or made a dash across the open space.
His heart thumped, muscles strained as the string was drawn, his breathing came fast, then halted for the moment as he sighted down the shaft, before the slap and hiss of each release. Then the snatch of another arrow from the quiver, fingers finding the wooden shaft while the hunter’s eyes chose the next target. And all the while he heard the sound of Soola’s bow; her shot, then his shot, then her shot again. He could feel the muscles tiring, the arrows in the quiver growing few and yet they still both kept the rhythm and did not let it slow.
Then the archers below returned fire upon him. Keen eyes had seen his shadow move behind the window-slit and there was a clatter as steel tips struck the surrounding stones. One arrow hissed through the portal, missed him by a whisker, and buried deep in a timber beam above. There was deadly skill in these bowmen, an art of warfare finely honed. He raised his head again cautiously and saw the archers aiming towards him. One fell shouting in sudden pain, clutching at Soola’s arrow in his leg. A storm of arrows flew back, barbed points sparking against the wall, one or two finding the opening and whistling past Soola as she jumped back sharply.
“Do not cause them too much pain,” warned Torrin, “it will give them more reason for revenge and they may be our captors soon.”
He ran to another slit and let the bow do its work again. Soola risked a quick glimpse from her window, let another arrow fly, and then scurried to his side.
“They will soon know that we are only two,” she gasped out, trying to catch her breath, “and now they are bringing shields from the ships.”
The soldiers were well trained indeed and carried a roof of shields above them. Below the protective cover they came again to the gates, and the axe blows continued.
“I must go down to the gate,” Torrin stated grimly, squeezing his sword hilt with white knuckles.
Soola stepped back from the window and lowered her bow. She sighed and nodded before speaking.
“I have some arrows left. I will do what I can here to slow them in their work.” She did not seem to have fear about her, just a little sadness in this moment as they stood, weapons in their hands, distant angry shouts and hammer blows echoing in the cold stone chamber. Some little signal, a quiver of the lip or blink of the eye passed between them and suddenly they were embracing. They hugged and clung with all the strength their strained muscles could muster. They kissed once, deeply, hungrily, each knowing it might be their last. She held his face in her hands and would not let his mouth leave hers. And so he mumbled out the words, lips still touching hers.
“I should not have let you come, I knew some danger waited here.”
“Do not be sorry,” she said between kisses “there is not a moment I would change. Don’t fear for me, because you know…”
She stepped back holding his shoulders, looking into his eyes and made a little grin that was brave and sad.
“You know,” she said, “that I have weapons beyond blades and arrows. They are just men. I do not fear them, but they should fear me.”
“Well,” said Torrin with a little smile, “then I must do what I can to save them from that fate.”
“Good luck,” she said and then, as he turned to go, “You know I love you.”
Torrin looked to her, then sighed and nodded before he spoke.
“What a maker of mischief He is, to let us love so much.”
He ran down the staircase from the tower. He could feel the hunter’s blood surging through him, lifting him beyond the realm of fear and pain. He drew the long curved sword and slashed it through the air as he came before the gate. The timber was already breached, the axe head flashing repeatedly as it widened the splintered crevice. He watched its rhythm for a moment then sprang forward screaming.
“Barakanda! Baraki!”
As the axe pulled back, he plunged the sword through the hole in a swift angry jab. There was a shout of pain and the blade came back bloodied, he saw the red stain drip but felt no sorrow or remorse. He was no longer a hunter, but in this desperate time something more; something, fierce angry and possessed.
“Barakanda! Baraki!”
He lunged his blade again through the hole towards some shape that moved, but did not connect. Then he winced and cried out as a spearhead thrust towards him and spiked his shoulder. He recoiled from the point, then grasped and pulled the shaft from the unseen hands that held it, spun the weapon around and rammed it back through the cleft, screaming in pain and fury as he drove the dagger-point towards its target. Another dreadful cry rose above his and then, as he made the final thrust, choked and gasped to silence.
He pumped the spear back and forwards through the hole, angling it this way and that, trying to force back the axe bearers. But then strong hands snatched it and pulled it from his grasp. Torrin stood breathless, swaying, sweat dripping and mixing with the blood of his wounded shoulder. He lifted the sword again but found it heavy and loose in his hand. Pain stabbed at him as he raised the blade and made a new lunge towards the cleft. Then the arrow came. It struck the shoulder that was already bleeding, spun him around and sent him sprawling. He fell back on a bank of snow, gasping; then tried to lift himself but slumped down again. There were faces at the cleft now, watching him with angry eyes. So what came now? One more arrow to make a final end? No, the axe blows again, the splintering wood. No arrow. Death would be slower than that; much, much slower.
He felt the snow, damp and cool under him, and looked to the sky; deep morning blue with pinky wisps of sunrise cloud. He heard the axe blows thudding, wood splintering, the shouts and barked orders on the quay. He was strangely peaceful now; the anger burnt away, able to savour these last moments before the vengeful blows and the final torment began. He closed his eyes and faces formed in some inner mist. Faces that dissolved from one to another; Varna, Marasil, Valhad, Soola, and Varna again. All lost now, all denied by the tolling bells of fate. He could hear their sombre tone ringing in his mind, marking the slow beat of the death march. He could hear it sounding in his ears, but not so slow or gentle now for it had become a more urgent clanging. There were bells; ship’s bells, sounding alarm and many voices shouting in confusion. The axe blows had ceased.
He made himself roll over, gasping with the pain, then rose onto his knees. He managed to stand and then stumble back up the stair to a window-slit where he looked out across the water. Ships were coming. Low, sleek, ships; many of them, gliding swiftly, propelled by the quick rhythm of long oars. Torrin knew their shape, recognised their form; the fleet of the Qualzes had come. And he saw in his mind His Lordship in council with their king, the maps before them, the boxes of weapons and precious metal being loaded in their hold. Here was the bargain, here were those who had watched for Torrin's signal.
Their vessels were quick and deadly. A storm of fiery arrows rained down on the ships of Nejital and they burst into lurid flame. Men ran helpless on the quay before the city walls, with no refuge, as the hail of darts fell upon them. There were fresh blows on the gate; desperate pleading hammerings, and shouted entreaties for sanctuary. They were silenced before any benefactor could have responded, though Torrin often heard their pleading in his dreams. It was a slaughter, a merciless extermination that was soon over. The ships broke then sank, burning timbers hissing and steaming. Bodies lay floating in the water, and strewn before the wall, pierced with many arrows.
He did not open the gates for the Qualzes but made his way painfully, propped up by Soola, to the king's chamber. She dressed his wound while hammer blows sounded below; as the breach in the gate was enlarged. He cursed and grimaced as she tended him.
“Damn them,” he muttered, “damn them all. I knew there was some foul purpose in this, I always knew it. Well that is the end of it. I've done all that His Lordship asked and there will be no more blood on my hands.”
“We all serve kings or chieftains,” she said with a shrug, “and we all must do their bidding, be it
good or ill. It has always been so.”
She looked out of the window, toward the rising sun, which turned her hair to gold.
“There are two more ships coming, of a different kind. Another flag…”
Torrin rose, grimacing, and looked. Two vessels approached with churning paddle wheels, and the flag of Etoradom, triumphantly unfurled.
Eventually, a small delegation of priests found them in the king's chamber.
“You are the servant of Etoradom? Who barred the gates against the heathens?”
A golden bowl flew at them across the room and sent them scurrying back down the stairs. After some discussion, and tending of bruises, it was decided not to disturb the occupants of the chamber again.
The time came to depart. On the quay before the city Torrin held Soola's hands tightly in his own. Around them more ships, newly arrived from Etoradom, unloaded, and the occupying forces of the Qualzes looked on as their paymasters took possession of the city.
“I have spoken with the Captain of this ship,” said Torrin, “I have asked for two good men of his crew, men who can be trusted with your safety. I have spoken with them, and believe they will do what is asked. They will take you in small boat upriver, until you can find the Haranda again. I have promised to pay them well to do this, and that I shall chop the manhood from them if a finger is laid upon you.”
“I want to go with you, you know I do.” She spoke the words firmly but tears filled her eyes.
“This parting hurts me too,” he sighed, but then was firmer in his words, “I must go to Etoradom a final time and then to the Vasagi. I never made my wife a secret, or my one resolve to be with her again.”
“Can the men of the Vasagi not take two wives?”