I was on the lead ship — Cholla Yi’s own craft — and as we slipped through the waves, I tried to relax with Corais and Polillo on the quarter deck. The sea was calm, and glittered gold and red in the dying sun. I tried to think about the calm waters and the sharp cry of a gull hanging in the calm air beside the ship rather than what lay ahead of us. A dolphin sported in our bow wave, then was gone. Cholla Yi joined us.
I’m afraid I didn’t try very hard to disguise my distaste for him when I asked why he’d decided to accompany this expedition? Wasn’t it beneath the dignity of an Admiral?
Cholla Yi’s gaze flickered — he’d caught my tone — then he became a jovial patriarch: "Ah, Captain, you don’t understand the problems we poor souls who choose to soldier for a more material goal than glory. If we don’t make certain to be at the final triumph of the war we enlisted for, all too often our employers attempt to economize in the settling of accounts. Which leads to all sorts of unpleasantness.”
The he became serious. “Besides, with sailors like mine, a leader is only allowed the quarterdeck so long as he remains in the battle’s van. By accompanying you, I therefore accomplish a double task."
He bowed and walked down the companionway — to the main deck, where the rowers sat along the bulwarks on their slightly-raised benches.
"If he happens to get too near the railing," Polillo said, "I might accidentally bump into him. I’ve heard many sailors never learn how to swim."
Corais showed her sharp, fox’s teeth. "Afterward, dear woman, afterward. When we’re safe on dry land we’ll invite him to a cliff, promising to indulge his most horrid fantasies in private and I’ll kneel down behind him and then you can bump to your heart’s desire."
When the sun was down, sails were furled and masts and yards struck, as if we’d disappeared over the horizon. In the gathering dark, with little to see above the deckline, the ships were almost invisible. The small boats were let out on their tow lines so as not to impede the oarsmen, and the galleys turned back toward Lycanth, the rowers stroking as if racing. I’d wondered how men could accept such a fate, endlessly pulling a length of wood to and fro and thought they might be slaves. But Corais, who was insatiably curious about everything and had asked, said no, they were free. In fact, galleys were only rowed when speed was vital. Under normal circumstances, they’d be driven by sail alone.
Two hours before midnight we closed on the entrance to Lycanth’s harbor. I could see, bulking huge against the night, the sides of the crater that was the city’s harbor — and even the mass of the sea castle which was our goal. The night was peaceful, balmy, exactly the weather Gamelan had ordered spells to be cast for. It bespoke of spring’s arrival, warm, and just a bit sleepy. Nothing could happen on such a peaceful night: sentries would dream of an end to their pacings; their watch commanders wouldn’t find it necessary to make rounds more often than the regulations required; men offwatch would sleep soundly and so forth.
We disembarked into the boats. In spite of what Cholla Yi had implied about my women’s probable incompetence on the water, not a sound was made in the loading, not a weapon was lost, not a Guardswoman fell into the dark, heaving ocean. We moved off toward the harbor entrance. Indeed, these boats were perfect for what I intended. Instead of oars, each had two wheels on either side near amidships. Each wheel was fitted with paddles, like the fins of a sea turtle. The "oarsmen," if that was the correct name for them, sat in the center of the boat next to the wheels, working a circular crank that sent the wheels spinning and the boat slipping silently toward the shore, with nary an oar-splash or needed command from the man at the rudder.
I could see, however, that maneuvering these boats wasn’t for simpletons, since all four "oarsmen" must work in close unison, or else we’d have zigged across the ocean like crazed water-beetles.
As we moved toward our goal, I reconsidered my plan. Its greatest virtue, I believed, was its simplicity. Elaborate tactics seldom survive the first shower of arrows. I planned to have my Guardswomen climb the chain blocking Lycanth’s harbor from the water all the way to the top of the cliff, where it was fastened to the castle. After we reached the top of the chain, we’d look for a window large enough to enter. Once inside, we were to move as rapidly and quietly as possible to the castle’s main gates.
General Jinnah would have assault battalions waiting just outside. When we swung the gates open, the main attack would be mounted.
It wasn’t as impossible as it might seem — more than one great fortification has fallen to a handful of soldiers with steel in their hands and hearts. If we failed, as all were predicting — what of it? My women would leave their bodies inside the sea castle. More than ten times their number had died just in that one hopeless attack we provided the diversion for earlier.
And, from what Jinnah felt about the use of women in battle, wouldn’t please him to no longer have the "cloven sex," as I heard him call us, insisting on such annoyances as logic and forethought instead of mindless brawn and battleplanning worthy of a bull in must?
Now it was time to test the edge of the sword I’d hammered out, to see whether it cut clean or bent or shattered uselessly. There was also a second, very private goal — which was the one I’d asked Gamelan for help with, even though I hadn’t fully explained exactly what I intended.
The harbor opened before us like some fabulous monster’s gaping jaws. Then we were drawing close to the chain rising from just below the water’s surface up to the sea castle high above and there was no longer time for reflection. Training, muscles and, yes, familiarity took over.
* * * *
My Scribe lifted an eyebrow as I said the last, thinking perhaps a basic part of the Guards’ training was swarming up and down great chains, and wondering why he’d seen no such training devices on our parade ground.
Actually, there’s little difference between climbing from chain link to chain link — a woman bracing herself, a second woman stepping on her to reach the next link, at which time she became the top rung in the ladder and so on — and what all Orissa has seen us do in holiday demonstrations of our athletic prowess, scrambling over obstacles at great speed.
With the minor exceptions that now there were several thousand enemy soldiers above, and our "obstacles" were big pieces of slimy, rusting iron, dripping seaweed, barnacles and other sea creatures that would no doubt be revolting in daylight. Polillo and other Guardswomen known for their strength were in charge of the maneuver and I became nothing more than one more climbing, and bracing, soldier.
Link by link, woman by woman, we went up the chain. Finally, Corais, Polillo, Ismet and I reached the last link, where it was fastened to a huge staple set in the sea-castle’s vertical wall. There were four of us clinging to this final link — the others waiting below — and I had a momentary image of us as tiny charms on some giantess’ bracelet. I shook my head. For some reason, perhaps the proximity of so much sorcery, my imagination was rioting like a drunken civilian’s this night.
Three of us sent our eyes scanning the sheer blank tower above and to the side, while Ismet kept a sharp watch — an arrow nocked on its string — on the battlement above in case a sentry should peer over.
Gamelan’s spell was running through all our minds . . . "Let the gift of the blade . . . Pass on to the maid . . . The eyes they shall see . . . "
Our eyes saw past the ensorcellment around the tower. Here were arrow slits, there slots that were to illuminate dark stairs; then we saw windows that gaped open with nary a bar or shutter. The Archons, like many people with a single great strength, put too much trust in their main weapon of magic. Far above I saw a half a dozen wide openings and guessed they marked the luxurious prison Amalric had been held in. But we wouldn’t need to further test our climbing skills, because not twenty feet to the seaward side, and about fifteen above, was a portal nearly as wide.
Polillo chuckled low, as Corais unbuckled the pack on her back and took out the heavy grapnel and ropes. I knew what she w
as thinking — all this time, all this blood and now we find we can enter this castle with no more effort than if we were spending a lazy afternoon climbing one of the steeper faces of Mount Aephens in Orissa.
Polillo cast the grapnel easily and two of its prongs hooked on the window sill. She tugged to make certain the padded hooks were secure, then busied herself with the only complicated part of the task — making sure the ropes were unsnarled. This grapnel was designed for use in a major assault. Before the incantation was laid, it looked as if the hook carried a rope ladder instead of a single knotted line. When the various ropes were straight, Polillo leaned back until they were taut. She slid the bitter end around one of the chain’s links, then whispered — and all of us knew the words, having been given them in our command training.
Years ago, before Amalric and Janos Greycloak forced Orissa’s Evocators to loosen their stranglehold on the most minor spell, an Evocator would have been teetering up here, re-evoking the grapnel’s built-in spell. But that was no longer the policy and so any high-ranking sergeant or any officer of the Army, once blessed by an Evocator, could do as Polillo was doing: "My words are those of another, but he has blessed my cause. Make hard, make strong, make straight, hold firm. Hold fast, like steel, like hook, for need . . . "
The ropes obediently became rigid. Now we had a solid bridge between us and the window, a bridge wide enough for a beldame to stumble across. Polillo looked back, sneered and whispered: "I could walk this on my hands."
Before either of my legates could move I slipped past Polillo, sword ready, onto that bridge. I moved fast, not wanting to give an enemy, if there was one waiting, any more time than I must.
I went through the window like a leaping cat, landing on solid stone, going away from the window to the interior dimness, then I crouched. I was in a bare chamber. There was a door at the far side. It was unbolted. By the time I had it opened, revealing a narrow landing and stairs, my Guardswomen were pouring into the chamber. Without commands, not even hand signals, we formed into attack teams and went out.
It was near pitch black and gloom and fear must have hung close about. But none of us felt dread, all of us had the hard taste of blood in our mouths and the shrilling joy that finally, by Maranonia, we were through! Just as our fathers had broken into this great castle in the first war against Lycanth, so too we’d proven ourselves worthy of their heritage.
This time we would ensure there would never be a Third Lycanthian War.
We went down the winding steps toward the main floors of the castle like fluid death. We met Lycanthians once, twice, four times. Each time a sword glittered and a body sagged, surprised into doom before it could cry out. Perhaps they were soldiers, perhaps servitors. It didn’t matter. We came into in a wide room, high-ceilinged and hung with tapestries. Fires still glowed on either side of the room. I thought it some sort of audience chamber. But now, in the hours past midnight, it was deserted. From the castle around came the normal sounds of a still-garrisoned battlefield: I could hear sentries on their watch and dull, shouts of alarm from somewhere.
Few people think of a battle as being anything other than hellishly noisy, and such is mostly the case. But a siege can be different. It was very silent to me, although a civilian’s ears would probably hear more; would hear that low constant growl that we no longer noted; a sound like great carrion beasts; the sound of armies waiting for battle.
I signaled for stillness. All of us held for a moment. If anyone had seen us, they might’ve thought we were praying. We were not. Maranonia is a good and sensible god, who knows the time for prayer is before and after a battle, not during. What all of us, from the lowest Guardswoman to myself, were doing was recollecting our "map" — the mental image of the models and drawings General Jinnah’s staff had drawn up of the sea castle, taken from every conceivable source, from pre-war visitors to captured prisoners. Yes. Yes. It was most likely we were here . . . or possibly over there . . . so there should be some sort of passageway out into the huge courtyard, and, from there, through the castle’s inner defenses to the gates themselves. At worst, we might be a floor too high. But now we were oriented.
Corais and Polillo were waiting for me to lead the charge. Their eyes bulged as I signed . . . a touch on my helmet crest, a touch on each of theirs . . . you are now in command . . . a point . . . as your mind tells you . . . as you were ordered . . . as we practiced . . . and a gesture with the sword.
Attack!
But no one needed that final gesture. My legates . . . and my women . . . may have been astonished by this unexpected change, but they were soldiers and so they obeyed, just as I’d trained them. There was a scuffle of bootheels that sounded as if but one person was moving, and I was alone in the great chamber. Alone except for Flag Sergeant Ismet. I started to glower . . . but she moved first. Two fingers were held up in the gloom. I was reminded that we always, always, fought in pairs. One hand extended, palm up. I await your orders.
I grinned. Even here in this house made for nightmares, I found a moment of amusement. You, you poor idiot of an officer with only fifteen years or so service, you are actually thinking about countermanding one of the Flag Sergeant’s wishes? Not a chance, I thought. We were a team and we would die as a team.
It was time for Gamelan’s other spell. I took the amulet — nothing but a stitched-together twist of leather that held the scrapings from his divining bones — from my pouch and touched it to my nose, then to the flagstones I stood on. I sniffed. There was no change.
No. Perhaps there was a new odor, sweet, distasteful and my mind compared it to a battlefield with unburied corpses. But it told me nothing. I considered, then remembered Gamelan had said me the amulet might need to be reinforced. I looked about. If I was right, and this were an audience chamber, and the Archons had used it, they’d most likely have stood . . . over there. On that low stone dais. I went to it, stepped up, and again touched the amulet to the stones. For further strength, I pressed it against one of the tapestries against the wall.
Again I sniffed. Again, came the odor, but now very strong, very heavy. I fought back a reflexive gag. Now I had a direction. I turned to gesture to Ismet and, of course, she was just where she should have been, three paces behind, three to the side, sword ready, paying no attention to my doings but eyes scanning the darkness for an attacker.
We went out of the chamber at a dogtrot. Our path led up four floors, but we didn’t use the stairs we’d come down. Now we trod wide, stone-balustraded ramps that were richly carpeted. I stopped every now and then, but the amulet guided me onward and the stench grew stronger.
Outside I heard shouts, screams and the clash of steel. Battle was joined. I wondered how far my Guardswomen had gotten before being discovered. The castle was coming alive as soldiers were bellowed awake and to battle. I heard cries of "Betrayal!" "They’re inside!" and screams of panicked women and children.
The corridor opened onto a balcony and I could see the courtyard. It was huge. An entire army could’ve marched in review across were it not for the guard towers and newly-improvised breastworks. This was where the Archons held their monstrous sacrifices, where a victim first chose and then slowly butchered himself, spell-tied by their magic. Here was where they sought my brother, but another counterspell saved him. But now it was a battleground.
Torches flared as Lycanthian soldiers ran out, buckling on armor and brandishing their arms. Far across that courtyard I heard the shouts of my women fighting. I could barely hold back a cheer when I saw the knot of struggling warriors. My Guardswomen had nearly reached their goal. They were fighting just before the castle’s great gates. If they could but fight on and unbar them, our army could pour in.
They’d been discovered at the most perilous stage. Naturally the Lycanthians had their strongest defense at the weakest point. The outer gates were protected by an inner, open passageway, the tops of its high walls fitted with fighting decks. The inner gate had been burst open by my Guardswomen, but before
they could pour down the passageway, the counterattack had been mounted. Now they fought for their lives just outside the passage’s entrance — soldiers blocking their way and others waited atop those passageway walls to send spearshowers and arrowflights down.
My Guardswomen were between that anvil of the gatehouse and the onrushing hammer that was the reinforcing soldiers.
Still worse, I heard from just above a loud hiss — like a giant serpent awakening. Across the parade ground two cyclones spun up — black against the torch flare and three or four times taller than a man. They whirled into the melee and Lycanthians and Guardswomen alike were picked up and smashed into the stone walls. My amulet gave off a last wave of scent — the stench of Archons’ magic — and I turned and raced up another ramp toward the chamber above, Ismet close at my heels. I couldn’t help by standing and watching.
Either my Guardswomen could hold back the physical threat or they would die. I had to strike against the greater jeopardy now building.
This was my secret purpose. I’d made two plans. The first called for my Guardswomen. The second was for myself — and now for Sergeant Ismet. My intent — and I realize it sounds insane — was to personally attack the Archons. I’d told no one because they would’ve refused me, damning my plan as that of an eager fool. I believed otherwise, knowing very well just how great an effect a determined warrior, who’s willing to make the last sacrifice, can have. But of course, in these modern times when men talk of great battalions and scores of Evocators and battles that stretch on for leagues and days, such an idea is romantic nonsense.
Nonsense it may have been, but I’d commended my soul to Maranonia, my effects to my friends and family, and abandoned all thought of seeing the morrow.
The hissing grew louder as I reached the entrance to the chamber. There were no guards, which surprised me at first, but why should there be? Who would dare disturb the Archons?
The Warrior's Tale (The Far Kingdoms, Book 2) Page 8