EXILED Defenders of Ar

by Jack Lovejoy

  The tactics of the bandit gang in that ambush had been to drive them into the most dangerous caverns, perhaps knowing what lurked inside. Was this the opposite tactic—using a dragon to drive them into an ambush of lurking bandits? One thing was certain: They no longer dared remain at large in open country. “Bring in the scouts.” Severakh sent a trio of messengers flying. “Cajhet, you’re good at sneaking about. Sneak down to the head of this dell, and inform the men there what’s happening. We’re not going to be forced to run. Above all, we’re not going to panic.”

  His strategy was a tactical withdrawal toward the sole inhabited place in this wild hill country. No city-state of the mrem was so resolutely independent as Ravarbal; none so predatory toward its neighbors. There was said to be a people called the Yozgat whom the very Ravarbalians dreaded, but whether these truly existed, or were merely the bugbears of legend, no man could say. The Ravarbalians were mysterious enough themselves.

  Their walled city had been erected by slaves and war captives generations ago; to this day it was the final resort of all who shunned the law: the end of the civilized world—if Ravarbal could in fact be called civilized. Its depredations on travelers and caravans were tempered only by the fear of punitive expeditions. City-states as far away as Ar had proposed these again and again over the years, but the Ravarbalians had always been able to avert punishment with timely gifts and promises.

  Severakh knew he too would have to make some timely gifts and promises, veiling the threat of the most vindictive punitive expedition ever launched, to get so large a band inside the city gates. The trouble was—he knew it, and the cunning Ravarbalians would also know it—that he was unsure of how much he had to back up such threats. What if the Eastern Lords conquered Ar? No city-state could then stand against them. They would launch their own punitive expeditions against all who had harbored their enemies....

  But first there was the dragon. They were ponderous, slow-moving creatures, and none too bright, but like all reptiles they wielded powers of magic, and could never be trusted. The mrem had ruthlessly hunted them from the settled land; they were now rare in the very wilderness.

  It was not long before the monster lumbered into sight, its scaly head darting serpent like from side to side in search of prey. Its scaly gray-green hide was scarred from old battles; its flared nostrils snorted anger and belligerence. At last spotting the armed mrem retreating in military order at the far side of the dell, it roared defiance. This was more strange behavior in a dragon, which normally relied on reptile magic and stealth to pounce on its victims. It confirmed Severakh’s judgment that the creature was not attacking alone.

  The safest apparent retreat from the dell was northwest, between a jutting volcanic tor and a wooded hillock, and the dragon seemed to be herding them in that very direction. The scouts Severakh sent out to reconnoiter were told what to look for, and they found it.

  “Must be hundreds of ‘em, sir,” reported the first scout to return. “Armed to the whiskers, and all crouching behind trees or rocks.”

  Severakh doubted the numbers were so great, or the bandits wouldn’t have needed an ambush for their attack. But probably great enough, should his mrem be taken by surprise, and forced to defend themselves on two fronts. He ordered a clatter of swords against shields. The bandits knew they were here; silence was wasted.

  Strangely, the dragon was not fazed by the wild clatter, but continued to lumber forward as if enchanted. The first javelin was hurled from beyond effective range, and glanced harmlessly off its scaly hide. Bolder mrem ran forward to hurl their javelins with better effect—but the dragon disappeared.

  There were cries of pain and alarm as it reappeared and seized a mrem in its terrible jaws, chewing the life out of him. Twice more it repeated this maneuver, and Severakh had no choice but to order a retreat in exactly the direction he did not want to go.

  The dragon at once ceased to attack, and again began to lumber back and forth across the dell, herding them between the volcanic tor and the wooded hillock, where the horde of ambushers lay in wait. Twice it levitated to the treetops, as if to assure itself that nobody was trying to hide from it there. Several mrem tried through stealth or agility to outflank it, but all were seized or driven back.

  Severakh at last resigned himself to a mass attack upon the creature; the loss of life could be appalling, but at least some would escape. To be caught between a dragon and a horde of bandits meant annihilation. He beckoned to his signalmrem, but before he could order the charge he noticed Srana and young Branwe striding directly at the creature from its left side. The latter held his sword before him, a feeble weapon against a monster more than twice his height at the shoulder, with a hide like armor.

  But for some reason the brute did not look in their direction, although twice they stopped to confer, the second time almost close enough to be overheard. Then they backed away a few paces. Still the dragon did not so much as glance at them. Srana remained at that distance, the better to focus her thoughts. Then Branwe suddenly darted forward, leapt with amazing agility up the scaly hide, clawing and scrambling and vaulted onto the dragon’s neck. With both hands he plunged his sword into its brain.

  Writhing, screaming, viciously snapping its monstrous jaws, it staggered forward, then all at once collapsed. Branwe leapt free while it was actually falling to the ground, to save himself from being crushed underneath. Srana hurried to him, but fortunately he was not injured. A curt nod was his only commendation from Severakh. The old commander was too harried for time to squander it on idle praise or congratulations.

  His first assessment, that there were not enough marauders lying in ambush for an open assault on his mrem, was based on the flimsiest of scouting reports. He could well be wrong. A superior force may also attack from ambush, if conditions are favorable. Though it might be hours yet before the ambushers learned that the dragon was dead, that their trap had been sprung, they would not abandon pursuit. The best strategy now was to try and steal a march on them.

  Through wooded dells and barrens, across tumbling rills, over foothills that rose steeper and steeper before them, Severakh soon had his entire band marching in good order toward the infamous mountain stronghold of Ravarbal.

  Its walls were a dingy red-yellow in the evening sun; its gates were already shut for the night by the time they reached it. Nor were they welcomed. Scores of villainous faces glowered hostilely down at them from the ramparts. Generations of those fleeing the law had found a ready sanctuary here. It was otherwise with those fleeing the Eastern Lords, and it was full night before Severakh—pleading, threatening, cajoling, bribing, and haggling—at last got the poor remnant of his guerrilla army into the city.

  The narrow, crooked streets were as foul and villainous-looking as the thousands of curious mrem and kits who lined them. A few torches burned in cressets on the stone walls; but most of the light came from a peculiar type of lantern carried by individuals, which looked suspiciously like it had evolved from the dark lanterns used by thieves. The gawking of the younger Ravarbalians was shameless, their remarks rudely personal, and they did not seem to care who overheard them. The older mrem stared in astonishment—at Branwe.

  A few actually came out into the street, and held up their lanterns so they could examine him closer. If anything, their astonishment seemed to increase. Soon there were so many people examining him, with uninhibited remarks about his fur and features, that he was quite surrounded.

  He was dressed exactly like the rest of the guerrillas; obviously he had never been here before. Or had he?

  He could only shrug in embarrassment.

  Dragonneck Gorge

  PLUNDER BREEDS plunderers; rapine feeds on the ravished. The Eastern Lords had mobilized a formidable host against The great city of Ar, but the spoils of earlier conquests—towns, villages, city-states, whole kingdoms overrun—had recruited auxiliaries vaster still in number. The Mraal still
flowed placidly between its banks, but the plains beyond now flooded over with wild, seething, numberless hordes of marauders. They had appeared in a single night.

  The wooden towers were larger, more complex, and certainly more numerous than Mithmid had reported. The clangor of axes—felling the groves, forests, and orchards around the city for the timber to build still more engines and towers echoed from the great walls. The defenders ranged along the ramparts were aghast at the spectacle below them. Few truly believed that Ar was not doomed, certainly not the young king, or the Crockercups hovering obsequiously around him on the parapet above the Southland Gate. All were clad resplendently in silken robes, but their jeweled daggers were purely ornamental; none bore real weapons, or would have known how to wield them if they had. Though the drawbridge was up, never had the river seemed so narrow. Some of the great wooden towers drawn up on the opposite shore overtopped the very parapet where they stood.

  Rhenowla was conspicuous among the splendid regalia of the courtiers. She had kept her seamstresses up half the night finishing a new gown for the occasion, and it rankled her that more attention was still paid to Sruss, attired modestly in a simple white robe. However, she was too cunning to reveal her displeasure, or interfere in the military dispositions worked out among the city prefects and the kings of the League of Ar.

  She had never expected such hordes of enemies, such engines and towers arrayed before the walls. She now blamed her late husband for not raising them still higher, though at the time she had opposed his expenditure in building them at all.

  While trying on her splendid new gown last night, she had had fancies about inspiring the defenders today with her radiant beauty, and had planned to stand supreme here on the parapet like their guiding star. And indeed she was radiant: Her high amber coloring glowed sensually in the morning sunlight, whose beams reflected from her priceless tiara, her costly array of brooches, earrings, bracelets, rings, and bangles with an electric glitter. But the furious activity on and around the towers facing her across the river—catapults being readied, files of slingers and archers pouring out onto some platforms, troops loading spring-swivels with grapnel lines on others, rafts being towed toward armed companies all along the shore—gave her second thoughts.

  “The palace is the fit place for a king, my darling,” she whispered intimately to her son. “You’ve done your duty by appearing here. Let’s not interfere with theirs.” Without waiting for him to reply, she ordered the retirement of the court entourage.

  The Crockercups were the first down the stairs; they did not stop until safely ensconced within the palace, where a special banquet was immediately prepared for their delectation. They ordered the palace guards not to admit anyone who might be bringing bad news about the battle. If this was to be their last banquet, they were determined to enjoy it—whether the king presided or not.

  Young Tristwyn in fact did not join them that day, and only rarely in the days that followed. He had obediently started down the stairway from the parapet with his entourage, but each downward step deepened his sense of guilt. His mother seemed to sense his vacillation, and took his hand and leaned affectionately against him. They reached the street together, but no farther, and she was vexed to feel him draw away from her. Concentrating all her infallible powers of attractiveness, she was still unable to impose her will on him.

  Her slanted eyes narrowed, and she glanced vindictively up at the parapet above. Her failure could only mean that stronger powers of magic were being used to thwart her. Every wizard of The Three had gathered this morning upon the ramparts. There also stood Sruss herself. The battle lines were now drawn in more ways than one.

  “Please return to the palace, Mother,” said young Tristwyn.

  He did not look directly at her, but his dissipated, childishly innocent face wore an expression she had never seen there before. Not exactly defiance, but a kind of resolve—the look of a king. “The city is under attack. My place is on the ramparts, not hiding in the palace.” He raised his eyes for an instant; then guiltily lowered them again. “Forgive me,” he muttered, and he turned away and climbed the masonry steps back up to the parapet.

  Rhenowla’s beautiful face now also assumed a look of resolve, but it was not the look of a queen, or even a queen mother. She could hardly protest her son’s action in public; she dared not castigate publicly so revered a figure as Sruss, for any attempt to discredit her with the people would probably rebound on her own head. The Three? She smiled cruelly to herself as she followed her honor guard through the streets, now silent and deserted, back to the palace.

  Magicians were being stoned to death and burned at the stake throughout the land. Ar needed scapegoats as well, to appease the frightened multitude, whose ancient superstitions always overcame their good sense in times of trouble, and to assume the blame for the present calamity. Few things would so grieve Sruss as their destruction. Rhenowla scarcely heeded the thunderous uproar from outside the walls, as she contrived scheme after scheme for avenging this challenge to her power....

  The first attack was so tremendous that it nearly paralyzed the outnumbered defenders by its sheer vehemence. Boulders and pots of fire rained down upon the ramparts, amid clouds of slingstones and arrows; grapnel lines arched across the river and caught, and hand over hand with ferocious agility hordes of skirmishers poured from the towers. Down on the river below a crazy flotilla of rafts and captured barges pushed off, laden with armed troops, scaling ladders, and grappling lines. The noise of their wild battle cries echoed from the walls like claps of thunder.

  The very kings of the League of Ar fell back before the first onslaught, but they rallied, and firmed their confused and frightened troops by example. A troop of axmrem, armored against the rain of sling-stones and arrows sweeping the ramparts, attacked the grapnel lines with powerful strokes, and skirmishers plummeted into the waters below by the hundred: Boulders crashed down upon the defenders; fire pots ignited their machines and catapults. New waves of grappling lines now began to arc upwards from the approaching flotilla below, too many for the harried axmrem to repel. Scaling ladders were raised, ready to breast the walls the instant the raft, barge, or riverboat supporting them was close enough.

  The moveable ramps of the defenders now went into action, and boulder after boulder, with deadly aim, crushed one vessel after the other in the crazy flotilla below. Then the ramps themselves began to be crushed in turn, as the catapults across the river redirected their aim. Sling-stones and arrows continued to take a fearful toll. So long as the great wooden towers of the enemy overtopped the walls of Ar even the most spirited defense was ultimately doomed.

  The tallest of these was positioned near the foot of the stone span, at the other end of which yawned the gap whence the drawbridge had been raised. While its catapults swept the parapet above the defenders, a team of sappers barged unopposed across the river below, and began undermining the gate.

  At that moment occurred an event which turned the tide of battle, today, and for months to come. Sruss and young Tristwyn, driven from the parapet by the relentless catapult barrage, had retired behind the shield wall protecting The Three. The scores of assembled wizards stood in a compact mass, their thoughts concentrated on freeing their minds of all reserve or interference. Mithmid stood at the fore, a lifetime of wizardry, remultiplied by the fragments of the Khavala, directed against the great tower facing the gate.

  Minutes passed in utter silence. If the attackers thought about the strange assembly of old mrem at all, they probably dismissed them as mere priests uselessly supplicating some god or goddess for deliverance. Then all at once the great tower began to vibrate at its native resonance, more and more violently. The explosion shattered it to splinters.

  Mithmid immediately raised his left hand, as if focusing the bracelet on his wrist, and again tapped the concentrated mind power of The Three. Minutes later another tower vibrated to splinters. Then another.
The attackers were thrown into confusion, their catapults unattended, and swarms of defenders surged back onto the ramparts in time to repel the scaling ladders with swords, poles, melted lead, pikes, and cauldrons of boiling oil. A tower with a triple deck crowded with archers shattered to the ground.

  Renewed battle cries thundered into the morning air, but now these came from inside the city. Those moveable ramps not destroyed by the catapults were repositioned, and boulders again crashed down upon the flotilla below with deadly aim. Battle priests could now be seen moving authoritatively up and back among the hordes of marauders, rallying them for a second attack. It came, and was again beaten back. Then yet another attack, this time without any real spirit. At last the attackers fell back to regroup. The first assault upon the great city of Ar had successfully been repulsed.

  Meanwhile Sruss was attending to The Three. The effort had exhausted them. Several old men had collapsed, and several more were teetering, supported bodily by their colleagues. Mithmid was still conscious, but seemed dazed by the tremendous effort of concentration. The shattering of but one more tower might also have shattered the mind power of The Three. Those still capable of thinking clearly were happy indeed that the enemy had withdrawn for today.

  What would tomorrow bring? That was the question of the hour, and few among the multitudes crowded into Ar slept soundly that night, so apprehensive were they about its answer.

  The attack was launched just after dawn—if it could be called it real attack. It was more like a probe, or reconnaissance in force. New rafts had been built, new catapults remounted on the remaining towers; these were drawn up a full mile from the riverbank, and only a single one trundled forward with the advancing hordes. It was shattered while being positioned at the foot of the bridge.

  The Three had recovered enough of their vitality overnight to muster at least this much effort. How much more effort they could have exerted against another full-scale assault was doubtful; perhaps it was fortunate they were not tested.