by Don McQuinn
Chapter 24
Donnacee Tate howled like a mad thing until Sylah and Kate talked her into drinking a powerful relaxant tea in the healing house. Even then, she was more incapacitated than asleep. She twitched and cried out, muttered in a strange, oddly inflected language. Sylah could only wonder at it; frequently Bernhardt winced and turned away, as if she understood the gibberish. Sylah was even more confused when Anspach and Carter came by to see their friend, and Kate said, “She’s regressed. It’s the narcotic, I think. She introduced Nalatan to her family. She talked about football. Then she explained to someone named Maria why she had to volunteer for the crèche.”
None of it made any sense to Sylah. It clearly frightened the other three women, however. They carried Tate’s cot to the furthest corner of the room.
Still and all, not long afterward, when the war drums sounded alarm, Tate came upright. She staggered crazily, but, wipe in hand, forced her way past the Healers attempting to stop her and made her way to the wall.
Torches advancing through the forest wavered and blended, winked out behind trees only to burst into brightness again. They were in a dispersed cluster, constant shifting giving them and the trunks around them a mysterious, transient quality. As they came out of the trees, a Windband drum throbbed. More torches were lit. Very quickly, flames spangled a semicircle around the city. The huge drum continued the steady thub-dub of a human heart.
The original group of torches came forward. Lights went on in nomad wagons, transforming canvas tops to massive golden-light lanterns.
A spectacle with all the elements of beauty and mystery failed, however. Perhaps it was the thudding monotony of the drums, or the chill mist that drifted in from the west to smear the light. Whatever it was, the scene was menace, not grandeur.
When the advancing torches grew closer, the white signal carried ahead of the group was clear. Less discernible was the horse-drawn object some distance behind. It appeared to be a wagon, rather like the catapult carts.
Standing beside Tate, Gan and Conway were astounded when she perceived the significance of the wagon long before Gan. Her solitary word was a sigh. “Nalatan.”
Gan leaned into the castle wall. “There’s someone standing in the wagon. It might be him.” He sounded ill.
Tate’s voice was flat, dead. “It’s him. To show us.”
By then, the goal of the group’s destination was apparent. The wall that surrounded the castle itself was slightly higher than that which enclosed the entire city. Although Windband’s nomads couldn’t stand on the city wall because it was swept by missiles from the castle wall’s positions, neither could the defenders. The oncoming party aimed for the junction of the two walls, the point signifying Windband’s triumph. Leclerc joined Conway and Gan as they followed a distraught Tate there.
A large band of nomads followed the white signal group. They clung to the darkness, a shuffling, whispering presence in the night.
When the illuminated group stopped, their torches were carefully placed in two lines perpendicular to the wall. The wagon wheeled around to face back to Windband’s lines. The horses were hobbled as soon as it was centered between the lights. Nalatan was in the center of the box, lashed to a cross as if crucified. He searched the wall for Tate. She called to him, and he nodded, expressionless. He appeared uninjured. When Tate lunged forward, calling again, Conway pulled her back. He said, “I know how it hurts, Donnacee. It hurts him more to hear you suffer. Don’t give that other scum the pleasure of seeing it. Hang tough. For him.” She refused to take her eyes from Nalatan, but she quieted.
Moonpriest, dressed in white from turban to shoes, dismounted and walked to climb aboard the wagon. The Harvester joined him, remaining on the ground.
Craning up at the wall, Moonpriest said, “This has been a costly war for you, Murdat. And for me. My ally, the Harvester, prevails on me to make peace. I think we can come to an agreement.”
Gan looked to Tate. Misery clawed his features. “He’s going to offer me Nalatan. I’ll give anything I can.”
She looked at him. Wordlessly, she turned back to the scene below.
Leclerc slipped up behind Gan, saying, “Talk. Keep him talking. Negotiate over anything, everything. But keep him talking.” He acted as if his orders were unquestionable. He spoke to Tate the same way. “Tate, get down off the wall. Muster up a rescue team. Choose your own numbers, but understand you’re going to have to hit fast and hard. Wait at the south gate, have it ready to open. Don’t worry about a signal. You won’t have any questions.”
She was cold, unmoving. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You can help me help him, or not. I don’t have time to waste. Get ready to ride out and grab him off that wagon or back off so I can find someone who will.”
From the darkness, a Wolf said, “I’ll go.”
Tate whirled as if burned. “You’ll go with me, then. Come.” She literally snarled at Leclerc on her way past. He flinched, involuntarily stepped back. Still, he smiled when he faced a wondering Gan. “Got to keep her busy,” Leclerc said, then, “Angry too. That’s good. I just hope it doesn’t land on me.” With that, he rushed toward the steps, calling Conway.
As Conway moved to follow, he heard Gan ask why Moonpriest felt he needed so many warriors with him under a white signal. Moonpriest’s answer was insulting: “I know you for a clever, deceptive foe. I’ve ridden far in front of my positions. I wouldn’t want you to think I was without defense.”
Praying that Gan wouldn’t lose his temper, Conway ran to catch Leclerc. As soon as he did, he asked, “What d’you think you’re doing, Louis?”
“I brought something from the farm. I hope it works.”
Conway almost stumbled. “What’s the matter with you? You’ve got Tate hoping you’ll save Nalatan.”
They were at the wagons by the burned-out Violet Abbey then. As Leclerc tore at the covering cloth on one, he snapped at Conway, “If you’ve got an idea, use it. I told her, and I’ll tell you: Shut up and help, or come up with something better. Grab that bundle there. And be careful with it.” Again, Leclerc turned away as if unable to imagine not being obeyed. He called to some Wolves in the counterattack force. “You two. Come give me a hand.”
The three of them lifted a large box out of the wagon, about an arm’s length square, perhaps a third as deep. Conway cradled a tripod. At Leclerc’s word, they raced for the wall. Once on top, Leclerc directed his impromptu crew in putting together his device, keeping it flat on the battlewalk.
It consisted of a large dish-shaped piece from inside the square box. The dish of polished silver, attached to the pod. Conway said, “A reflector? What’s the point?”
Leclerc ignored him, squatting beside Gan, out of sight of Moonpriest. From the side of his mouth, Gan said, “Do something. I don’t understand why he’s still talking. I’m babbling.”
“Make him talk about his religion.”
Gan glanced down. Leclerc said, “I have to have it. Do it.”
Gan nodded. Leclerc scurried to Conway. He called two men carrying generator-connected spears. In a moment, he disconnected the wires and attached both to one generator, then to fittings on the back of the dish. On the inside, he placed two black cylindrical objects, like cigars with one pointed end, in clamp holders. The sharpened ends almost touched. He told Conway, “When I wave my hand, you get this thing upright, aimed at Moonpriest. Don’t get in front of it. Pull that switch, right there, and yell at the generator team to really get their backs into it. You use that lever to move the cylinder on top. As soon as the generator’s at speed, bring them together. They’ll light off. When they do, separate them.” He turned.
“No, you don’t.” Conway grabbed him before he could get away. “What’s this thing do?”
Exasperated, Leclerc pulled free. “You’ve forgotten everything. It’s a carbon arc light. The cylinders are a baked mix of powdered coal and pitch and a little sawdust for a binder. When it lights off,
it’ll be the brightest night-light anyone’s seen since they sealed the crèche on us. I think.”
“You’ve never tested it, have you?”
Leclerc’s grin was sickly. “Like I said: Got a better idea?” He raced to Gan’s side, not bothering to hide this time.
Moonpriest was saying, “We’ve delayed long enough. Surrender the apostates and witches to me: Leclerc, Conway, Sylah, and Lanta. I give you Nalatan. Everyone else will live. Refuse me now, and everyone defending the castle will be dealt with as witches. Decide now.”
Gan’s gaze irresistibly went to Tate. In the dim light of torches, she looked back, stone-faced. There was defiance in the tilt of her chin, but terrible defeat in the way her shoulders sagged.
Leclerc said, “Tell him he’s a fraud, he has no power.”
Gan blinked. His glance for Leclerc suggested insanity. Nevertheless, he faced Moonpriest. “It takes no man to murder a prisoner. You only do this thing to pretend to power you know you don’t have.”
“Oh, but I do.” Moonpriest’s pleased smirk was clearly visible. He sounded pleased to have been challenged. He called the Harvester onto the wagon with him, positioned her behind himself.
A murmur of nervous anticipation swept the wall. Archers nocked arrows.
Stepping up beside Nalatan, Moonpriest extracted the thick-bodied rattlesnakes from inside his robes. The noise on the wall turned into a moan that rose swiftly, trailed away. Behind Moonpriest, the massed horsemen made a similar sound, but this one reeked of anticipation.
Perversely, Leclerc was pleased, excited. “We’ve got him,” he said, grabbing Gan’s arm. “Tell him even a god doesn’t threaten to kill prisoners under the white signal. His mother will withdraw her power. Tell him.”
Doubt wrinkled Gan’s brow. Nevertheless, he delivered Leclerc’s suggested message in a voice dire with conviction. Moonpriest’s reaction was mild to the point of amusement. He waved a languid hand at the crowd behind him, called over his shoulder, “Withdraw, Windband. Unbelievers can’t harm me.”
A Wolf called softly to Gan, “He’s no god. He’s just hiding behind Nalatan, Murdat. Let me put a catapult bolt through both of them. Nalatan will thank you. Don’t let those things bite him.”
Gan said, “You’d hit the Church woman. Don’t chance it.” Then, to Leclerc, “Well?”
“Yell. Tell him you can bring on the moon. Tell him.” Leclerc called to Conway: “Get that thing upright. Turn it on.”
Gan raised his voice. It resonated across the night. “The moon, as all things, is part of the One in All. No man can claim godhood from a thing that is no god. Trickster. Magician. The true Church, the good Church, is here. I will prove it. I will show you the moon on my command.”
Saying, “Now!” to Conway, Leclerc signaled Tate. Men eased open the south gate. The generator moaned to life, settled to a hum of promise.
Conway closed the switch. Nothing happened. Gan stood, dramatically posed, pointing at the silver disk. Its mirror surface glowed gently in the light of flaming torches. A harvest moon through ground mist might have been that pale. As it was, this was a blatant fraud, a clumsy trick. Raucous laughter and coarse threats boomed from the darkness behind Moonpriest’s torchlight.
A tiny spot of red marked the tips of the compressed coal cylinders. Leclerc said, “Don’t move, Gan. We’re getting there.”
Moonpriest’s laughter was like a whip. The Harvester’s voice rose in mocking triumph. “You’ll burn. All of you. My vision showed me, flames all around. Flames destroy false Church. All of you.”
Along the walls, men groaned, turned to their companions. Despair—worse, damnation—was in the air. Hands worked three-signs, two signs. Lips moved in prayer. Hearts that feared no death withered at the thought of bleak eternity.
Gan said, “You’ve doomed us, Louis. Whatever you meant to do, the Wolves’ spirit is breaking. We’re done.”
The red spots on the cylinders were suddenly white. There was a sputtering, crackling noise. Speeding strands of blue-white smoke lifted.
Conway jerked the lever, separating the cylinders. The budding brightness spat loudly, turned back to a surly red.
Agonized, Leclerc shouted, “Not so fast. You killed it. Bring them back together. Separate them slowly.”
From the darkness, Windband mumbled anticipation. Far off, war drums sounded their intricate rhythm. Screeching like fingernails on slate, the Harvester’s laughter threaded through all of it.
Trembling, Conway tried again. The ruby glow turned white again, sent out more smoke. And brilliance. With a busy, satisfied sound the cylinders sparked alive with blinding intensity. The disk lived, beamed directly at the tableau on Moonpriest’s wagon.
The snakes recoiled on Moonpriest’s arm. He, dazzled, was already throwing his hands up against the glare. Rattling wildly, the snakes flew from their purchase, fell onto his shoulders. Facing the Harvester. They struck in perfect synchrony, jaws agape, fangs lancing the horrified, transfixed features.
Tate and her rescue party thundered out the gate. They were on Moonpriest and the wagon before stunned warriors could recover. Swift sword strokes freed Nalatan, eager hands slung him across Tate’s saddle. The group was returning to the gate before most of the nomads realized they’d been cheated of their captive.
Or before the rescuers realized no one had finished Moonpriest.
Under the wagon, which now held the shrieking, writhing Harvester, he screamed for help. Wolves who’d have given anything to arrow him held off, afraid of hitting the woman, even though all knew she was already dying.
That was when the full weight of Moonpriest’s treachery revealed itself.
Under cover of bargaining with Gan, with the attention of every man in the castle drawn to the south wall, numbers of Windband slipped from the burned-out city to the east, across the open ground between the two entities. Now, at the unbelievable appearance of a light that exceeded the moon itself, that force rose as one.
They saw weapons that killed impossibly. In faith, they attacked. They saw their wallkiller, proclaimed an irresistible destroyer, reduced to ashes, and its deadliest capability turned against themselves. Still they attacked. Seeing their god’s own symbol turn against him, however, seeing him reduced to quaking, screaming for help, was beyond bearing.
A handful of the men who accompanied Moonpriest’s treacherous embassy rescued him. They slashed the horses’ hobbles, leading the wagon off. Moonpriest scrabbled along, crablike, cowering under its protection into the darkness.
The distant drum, heretofore supremely arrogant faltered. It stopped.
A Wolf raised a ragged howl. Swelling, the call soon rang from everywhere, stronger, surer.
The fields in front of the castle walls stood empty.
Silence cloaked the victorious defenders. Gan braced a forearm against the lasting stone, lowered his head onto it. He heard in that quiet the relief and loss and fearful hope that comes to every combat survivor. It is the silence of the warrior, alive, assessing cost. It is the most precious of all moments, sullied only by the knowledge that it must pass. Must be repeated.
Gan cared nothing if anyone saw his tears. He dreaded only that he might have to explain that they weren’t for the dead and maimed alone.
Torches retreated into the forests sheltering Windband. Their flaring belligerence faded to listless, pale glimmers that eventually disappeared. Lamplike nomad wagons drifted across the darkness, spectral creatures seeking solace in company. Several formed a circle. Soon, there were flames within that enclosure.
“Pyres,” Conway said. “Committing their dead. It’s over. We’ve won.”
There were no more cheers. Mute, the Wolves watched the fires burn, tracked more disappearing torches into the forest depths. Neela and Sylah appeared on the battlewalk. Neela said, “Tate’s in the healing house with Nalatan. He’s fine. A few bruises. Leclerc’s with Bernhardt. They tell me the Harvester said something about a vision. Flames.”
&n
bsp; Gan turned to look at her, wincing at her exhaustion, at the robe stained with the unspeakable detritus of tending wounded. Concentrating on her eyes, he nodded, answered, “Visions and prophecies. They seem to always stand in need of interpretation.” He smiled. It was a distant, thoughtful expression.
Chapter 25
Eight days after Moonpriest’s retreat, a troop of riders approached the Sunrise Gate. They were expected. Patrolling Wolves, instructed to observe without contacting, reported them long before. They identified them as heavily armed warriors.
Construction stilled as the men came into view. Nervous women hurried about, gathering up children. Those who escaped maternal concern raced for vantage points on the wall, nimbly dodging Wolves determined to send them home.
Gan, with Conway and Nalatan, ignored that byplay. Worried expressions underscored their concern for the slight numbers of Wolves climbing to defensive positions. At one point, Gan frowned over his shoulder at the city, clearly concerned for the women and children recently returned from their island safety.
There were only twenty riders in the oncoming group. The scouts confirmed that. They also confirmed that these men came from the south, and that other men were with them. The second group caused most concern. They stayed to the woods, seeming to drift along in parallel with their companions, unapproachable.
It was known that the group of twenty spoke to Moonpriest in passing. That worthy and his surviving Windband camped with River People allies on the north shore. Informants reported that Moonpriest was already blaming the Harvester’s death on the apostate Church, and his defeat on the combined strength of several known witches within Ola’s walls. Some of his force believed him. Many didn’t.
But these newcomers talked to him, and rode directly at Ola.