The Glass Bridge (Bell Mountain #7)

by Lee Duigon

  “Not bad luck,” he said. “I don’t believe in luck. But I don’t suppose God would be pleased with us for taking it. He wouldn’t bless blood money. But what else can we do? We can’t let the Thunder King just have it back! He would use it to shed more blood—here in Obann.”

  There they let the matter rest. The baron needed sleep.

  With all the men busy with the defenses or else asleep already after their hard toil under the blazing sun, the ruin stood deserted in the night. But not entirely deserted.

  As silent as a shadow, Wytt crept through the camp eager to explore the vast pile over which so many men had labored like ants. He’d never seen humans behave like that before, and it had aroused his curiosity. Besides, the heap was sure to be full of tasty insects.

  Compared to a man, Wytt weighed hardly anything at all. It was safe for him to go where no man dared. He could pick his way along the timbers without upsetting them, through the maze of interstices between them, deeper and deeper into the ruin.

  He couldn’t imagine why the men were so interested in this place. They weren’t eating any of the creatures that lived in it. Could it be they wanted the dead men lying under it? For most of his life Wytt had lived in a flat-topped hill that used to be a city, along with hundreds of his kind. That hill was full of dead men’s bones. The Omah never gave them a second thought, except to pull them out of the way when necessary, as if they were just sticks or stones. They held no meaning for the Omah.

  There were dead men here, too, down at the bottom of the heap. Wytt smelled them long before he saw them. A lot of them were not yet skeletons, but getting there.

  Their presence didn’t trouble him, but something did, and he didn’t know what it was. It made him proceed cautiously. It wasn’t anything he smelled or saw or heard. It was just a certain sense he had that this was a bad place and that, if he stayed too long, something bad would happen to him. He didn’t like that feeling and he knew better than to ignore it. Why was it that the human beings acted as if there were no danger here? Were their senses so dull? But then they often behaved as if their heads were made of solid wood. Certainly their noses were of no use to them.

  Wytt could see in the dark, but down here it was so dark that even an Omah couldn’t see. Guided by his nose and ears, and by other senses unknown to human beings, Wytt went on, just a little deeper.

  He stopped when he came into contact with a human hand.

  His hair stood up on end. The hand was dead; it couldn’t hurt him. Nevertheless, it was time to retreat back up to the clean, open air. Maybe he could make Ellayne and Jack understand that the men should not be digging here. They probably wouldn’t understand, but he could try.

  Wytt backed away from the hand, growling under his breath. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the fingers would try to close on him. That he knew they couldn’t didn’t seem to help. He gripped his sharp stick tightly, ready to thrust at anything that threatened him. He wanted no more part of any of the crawling things that must have been feeding on the dead. Slowly he retraced his path back up to the rest of the world. With each yard he gained, the scent of fresh air encouraged him. Had he been a human being, he would have danced for joy when he finally emerged into the night. But he did finger the lock of Ellayne’s hair that he wore around his neck.

  When he found them again, Ellayne and Jack were already asleep. He crawled under Ellayne’s blanket and cuddled with her for a while before returning to his safe nest in the woods.

  Foxblood, of course, had scouts prowling all over Abnak country, and tonight they were bringing him good news.

  “The Thunder King’s men have had just about enough of us,” he told Orth. “We were wise to spare some of them. That was good advice you gave us, Et-taa-naa-qiqu. Now that they believe they can get out of here alive, a lot of them don’t want to stay in our country any longer. Just a few days’ march from here, two hundred Dahai burned down their own fort and deserted. Some Zamzu caught up to them and tried to force them back, and there was a fight. The Dahai got away, and many warriors on both sides won’t be fighting anymore. I think we’re going to win the war! At least for the time being. Come next spring, I suppose King Thunder will send more armies here. But we’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

  All around, men talked and laughed and sang around campfires, plucked on harps made from tortoise shells, and blew on flutes and whistles that sounded shrill and barbaric until you got used to it. Orth was used to it by now. The solemn music of the great water organ in the old Temple at Obann would have been out of place here, he thought. “They will need hymns and sacred songs in their own language, to their own kind of music,” Orth thought. But then Foxblood spoke again.

  “Abnaks will remember, forever, that the king of Obann gave them a safe refuge for their wives and children in his own country,” he said. “They will remember that God fought for them; nor will they ever forget you, Sunfish. My chiefs want you to ask for a reward. Whatever you ask them for, they will give you.”

  That surprised Orth. “For me? But they don’t have to give me anything! And yet,” he added, as the thought came to him, “there is something I will ask for, but not for myself.

  “I would ask leave to build a chamber house in Abnak country—a place where all the people can go to hear God’s word preached and to be instructed in His ways. The house will send out teachers to all the tribes and clans, and one day Abnaks themselves will be the teachers.”

  Foxblood considered it. “Hm!” he grunted. “Abnaks aren’t much for building great houses like you have in Obann. But we could try to build one.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a great house—not at all,” said Orth. “It would be up to the people to build whatever suits them best. Indeed, I’d rather it were not a proud, imposing building. It should be just a place where a prester and reciter can assemble the people and teach them.

  “We in Obann made a great error when we allowed the Temple and its chamber houses to become more to us than God’s word itself. I share in the blame for that. We mustn’t let it happen here. Our Temple collected worldly riches and became, as it were, a false god in itself. It’ll take us many years to correct that error. But here in your country, we can make a fresh start. The important thing is that the people learn to know God and love Him and keep His commandments—to serve the Lord, and not a Temple. For that I think some ordinary tents and shelters will suffice.”

  Foxblood nodded, thinking along with him.

  “Will you send us a prester?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes!” Orth said. He smiled. “In fact, I know just the man for the job—not a man of Obann, but an Abnak.” He was thinking of Hlah and pleasurably imagining the look on Hlah’s face when he proposed the appointment to him.

  CHAPTER 35

  The Race to the Hill

  The other half of King Ryons’ army arrived at Ninneburky to find it busy, but not under siege. The baroness met with the chieftains in her parlor to explain the situation.

  “My husband, the baron, is at the top of the Golden Pass with just a few hundred men. Some three thousand warriors, most of them Wallekki, are on their way after them. I have since learned that Lord Chutt is leading them—a traitor to the king. I don’t know how long the baron can hold them off, or even if he can hold them off at all. I have five hundred Obannese militia, all mounted, to go with you—should you choose to go up to rescue the baron. We’ve had no word from him. It may already be too late.” Vannett didn’t know how she was able to say that without breaking down, but somehow she did.

  “The Golden Pass—that’s the way King Ryons took to cross the mountains,” said the Abnak chieftain, Buzzard. “That’s where the Thunder King’s gold is.”

  “The baron went up to get it,” said Vannett. “Lord Chutt wants that gold. If he gets it, he may be able to overthrow the king.”

  “We won’t let him do that,” said a kilted Dahai chief. “Lady, we’ll march as soon as we can replenish our supplies.”


  “I’ve collected provisions for you and loaded them in wagons.”

  The Fazzan chieftain doffed his wolf’s-head cap. “Then we can set off right away!” he said. “All of the best of the Wallekki are with King Ryons. Those up on the mountain won’t be good for much. We’ll bring the baron home to you. He’s a good man who deserves to be rescued.”

  Vannett’s eyes finally filled with tears, but they were tears of gratitude.

  Knowing that whatever might happen at the Golden Pass would happen long before he could get there, Gallgoid traveled slowly along the road that paralleled the north bank of the Imperial River. It was his plan to offer his services to Lord Chutt and then see what he could do to bring about Chutt’s downfall. Chutt might remember him as a servant to Lord Reesh; he could easily pose as someone who wished to restore the old order. Chutt used to dine with Lord Reesh occasionally, and the two of them had always been on good terms.

  Chutt and his following had passed through the country well to the north of the road. No one along the river had heard anything about him. As far as these folk knew, Obann was at peace. Gallgoid let them go on thinking so.

  Chutt would get the gold—Gallgoid had no doubt of that. If Chutt’s ambition ran so high, he would use the gold to raise armies and purchase the support of great men. Indeed, he had set a course that would force him to do that. If he failed, he would die a traitor’s death. He was probably so caught up in his lust for the gold that he hadn’t thought that far ahead, but he was not so big a fool that he would never think of it.

  “He’s a dangerous man,” Gallgoid thought, “and possession of the gold will make him a deadly menace to the king. Jod and the others underestimate him.” Gallgoid knew him as a shrewd man with an uncanny gift for raising revenue. If he proved as wise in spending money as he was in getting it, he might make himself master of Obann.

  But as Lord Reesh was wont to say, “Every man has a flaw in his character that turns him into a fool when he most needs to be wise”—an observation that the old First Prester had failed to apply to himself. Reesh’s flaw was a sheer inability to distinguish his own interests from the Temple’s. Chutt’s, as Gallgoid well knew, was unbridled greed.

  Before the sun rose, King Ryons’ army dashed with all speed into the east, to the lake and to the hill that they hoped would be their stronghold. Looth’s men skirmished many miles ahead, but the chiefs warned them not to loose their poisoned arrows except in dire need. “We’ll need as many arrows as we have,” said Shaffur, “once we’re on that hill.” It took only a single Attakott arrow to kill a man, even if it only grazed his flesh. The poison’s composition was a secret even from most of the Attakotts themselves.

  Some of the Ghols stayed far to the rear to keep an eye on the army of the Zephites. “Whatever you do,” Chagadai commanded them, “don’t let yourselves be seen. We don’t want them to know that we’re aware of them.”

  Uduqu refused the offer of a horse, let alone a seat in a supply wagon. “You’ll be wanting to carry me to battle in a wheelbarrow, next!” he snapped. He toiled along beside Obst, keeping up the pace with his teeth clenched, his face already shining with sweat. “These old legs will get all the rest they need, once we’re on the hill.”

  Cavall trotted along with Ryons, barking now and then until Chagadai bade him to keep silence. Being a wise dog, he obeyed. Behind the king came Perkin, practically dragged off his feet as he tried to restrain Baby. The giant bird sensed excitement; the feathers on his neck stood out, and he clashed his beak. The Ghol bodyguards on their wiry little horses gave him a wide berth.

  “Sorry!” Perkin gasped. “By my head, if there’s any man looking for a fight, Baby will give him one!”

  Looth’s scouts ran back and forth with reports to the chiefs. The Zamzu still slept in their fort by the lake; the hill was still unoccupied. Looth himself was up there now, they said. Dahai stood guard over the multitude of boats overturned on the lake shore, but showed no sign of being ready to do anything else. With any luck at all, the army would be atop the hill before anyone could prevent it.

  “We’ll only have to charge back down,” Shaffur said, “as soon as we run out of water.”

  “True,” Chagadai agreed. “But if the Zamzu try to charge up first, we’ll make them pay.”

  Gurun and Ryons rode side by side. Gurun had all she could do not to fall off her horse as it was trotting. She was thankful that she had to concentrate on that instead of on the coming battle.

  To Ryons it seemed strange for the army to be advancing without chanting “His mercy endureth forever.” The chiefs had ordered it so: they didn’t want to alert the enemy. But Ryons missed the anthem and wished he could hear it now; it would uplift his spirits. Being surrounded on a hilltop didn’t appeal to him. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing his ancestor, King Ozias, would have done. But it never entered his head to overrule the chieftains’ strategy.

  And then, surprising him, the sun peeked over the horizon, gleaming off the bottoms of the clouds and painting them a golden hue, turning the grey grass to a lustrous green. There should have been a trumpet to announce it, Ryons thought. He remembered a verse he’d learned from the Book of Beginnings: “And God kindled the sun, to give light to His creation; and all living things rejoiced in it.”

  Up and down, up and down, over one low rolling hill after another: horses’ hooves and men’s feet ate up the ground. Thick grass muffled the thunder of their passage. Now the Hosa would have loved to clash their spears against their cowhide shields, beating time, but Hawk and Xhama restrained them. They formed a dark, solid square at the center of the army, easily keeping up with the horsemen on the wings.

  There was something grim and terrible about this silent advance, Ryons thought. And suddenly Angel took wing from off his shoulder and flew overhead with a shrill, exultant cry: her way of welcoming the morning. It heartened those who heard it, and the Hosa saluted her with their spears. She was a great favorite of theirs.

  An Attakott scout came running.

  “There it is, just up ahead—the hill!” he cried, in Tribe-talk. He pointed with his bow to a great hill that rose ahead of them, standing alone above the other hills. “Hurry! The big men are coming out of their fort.”

  “It’s a race, then,” shouted Shaffur, “and we’ll win it! Forward at the gallop!”

  No more silence now. The Wallekki spurred their horses, the riders whooping their tribal battle cries. The Hosa broke into a run, wondrously maintaining their formation and pounding on their shields for all they were worth—a dreadful, daunting sound. Behind them the Griffs, as was their custom before a battle, chanted their death-songs.

  Uduqu only puffed and panted.

  “Now, Father! Now, honeysuckle! Now!” cried Chagadai; and the Ghols, with Ryons and Gurun in the mist of them, swept around the mass of infantry to chase the Wallekki up the hill.

  The sun rose higher. Now Ryons could see Looth and some of his men on the hilltop, waving to them. Cavall howled, running flat-out.

  Before the sun came fully over the horizon, the Wallekki had joined the Attakotts on the hilltop. King Ryons and his Ghols arrived a minute or two behind them. Up came the Hosa, five hundred strong, and then the Griffs. The army’s supply wagons rumbled up the slope.

  Obst had to take Uduqu by the arm and help him the rest of the way.

  “We’ve done it!” Ryons said. “We’ve won the race.” But other words froze in his mouth when he laid his eyes on the water down below—an endless flat sheet of it, dyed gold by the rising sun. It stretched as far as you could see. He had not known there was that much water in the world.

  There, almost at the water’s edge, stood the fort—like a little shed, from this distance. The Zamzu and the Dahai, scurrying like ants, deployed in front of it. They’d made no effort to win the hill. To Ryons it looked like a very great host of men down there. But Shaffur, who had experience in such things, said they could be no more than four thousand. He sat on his horse an
d studied them.

  “Twice our number, I would guess,” he said, “but no cavalry. We would beat them in a stand-up fight—if only we could have one!”

  The Hosa assembled on the top of the hill, looking down on their enemies, and began to drum on their shields again: a slower beat this time. For now they raised their voices in the anthem, and all the rest of the army joined in, in all their different languages—“His mercy endureth forever!” And it seemed to Ryons that the sun shone brighter, hearing it.

  Shortly, the Ghol scouts came trotting up the hill to report to the chieftains. By now the black tent had been set up in the middle of the hilltop, with the wagons parked around it.

  “How many of the Zeph?” asked Chagadai.

  “At the very least, a thousand—maybe more. I would say a thousand and a half.”

  Shaffur grimaced. “I’d like to charge right down there as soon as they come in sight—wipe out every last one of them, the dogs!”