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EXILED Defenders of Ar

Page 19

by Jack Lovejoy


  The mightiest cheer yet now rang from the walls. Highland trumpets recalled the berserkers, but for all save a few it was too late. So deep had they regressed into primordial fury that they could no longer be brought forth again. Savages they had become, and savages they would die; cutting their way into the enemy hordes with their great two-handed clawswords, in the throes of blood madness. As dangerous now to friend as to foe, Ortakh had to abandon them to their fate, and save those whose minds were not utterly lost in fury. A bare quarter of those who had gone forth with him at dawn ever returned, and all, including himself, were bloodied.

  Nor could their wounds be tended until they were safely disarmed. But such was their berserker madness that hours passed in manic victory dances, sword dances, wild shouting and singing, and boisterous carousing, as they quaffed flagon after flagon of heady mountain wine, before anyone dared approach them. Only when they began to drop from loss of blood or sheer exhaustion could they at last be nursed.

  Sruss tended them in person with a few Dancers, who reminded her vividly of her beloved Srana, whose powers as a healer were truly magical. Where was she now? Why had it been so long since she had last contacted her? The All-Mother preserve her from the Evil One....

  Many other gods and goddesses were also invoked that day, and far into the night, and every temple throughout the city resounded with the joyous prayers and choruses of thanksgiving. Ar had been delivered. The most virulent assault ever mounted against it, in all its long history, had gloriously been thrown back. The enemy hordes were in retreat. Praise be to the All-Mother, or Jubala, or Poon, or Kabib-Izama! Religious celebrations at this hour of deliverance were natural, and to be condoned, no matter which deity was praised.

  More sinister were the rumors about dark invocations of Narlock, the primordial war god of Ar, whose cruel sacrifices had long been forbidden. For mysterious reasons, the Silent Ones had begun stirring up the vilest superstitions of the people. At whose behest, Sruss had no doubt, and she pondered deep into the night the possible reasons for so unexpected a maneuver, the purpose of which eluded her. In fact, none of Rhenowla’s machinations had ever so troubled her before, although as yet she had only vague premonitions of the evil that would not manifest itself for months to come.

  Meanwhile, despite all the thanksgivings and celebrations, Ar still lay in deadly peril. For the Eastern Lords had yet to exert their full might, to concentrate the scattered bands of desert marauders and bandits now ravaging the land, or to recall the troops assigned to the transport of slaves and treasure back to the east. Neither had the Evil One yet focused all the vast powers of the Third Eye upon the city. The silence from Cragsclaw grew daily more ominous. All that could be known for certain was that the punishment waiting there for those who had again failed to conquer Ar would be terrible even to behold, let alone experience.

  •

  It was in fact an experience every warlord gathered in the council tent that night sought by any means to forgo. All had ordered executions for insubordination and cowardice, appointed new captains, and suppressed ruthlessly the least shadow of mutiny. Deserters were even now being hunted down. But no matter how effectively they restored discipline, it still would not win today’s battle, and they dared withhold the news from Cragsclaw no longer.

  Finding messengers to carry such news faithfully to the present occupant of Cragsclaw—they avoided naming him more superstitiously than ever—was a problem in itself. For all knew by now the fate of those who displeased that nameless occupant. After so costly an enterprise, no prudent mrem would want to bear the ill tidings.

  Threats, curses, and accusations rang through the tent, but no one leapt to his feet now, claws extended, ready to back up his words. Their situation was too grim; the problem without any apparent solution.

  No messenger was in fact sent to Cragsclaw that night. A messenger arrived instead from Cragsclaw—and all problems were instantly resolved. A new blockage would be raised, across a valley too many miles upstream for any sortie of wizards from Ar to destroy it; new towers and siege machines would be constructed, new catapults, cranes, and wheeled bridges; all hands marauding the countryside would be brought in to reinforce the final assault; all supply lines to the city would be cut. These preparations might need months to consummate, but they could not fail. Every warlord seated in the council tent was assured about that.

  Only when the messenger issued a summons to Cragsclaw, for the purpose of “clarifying authority,” did the warlords again look apprehensive. Though scarred and grisly rogues, the survivors of unspeakable crimes and treachery, here was an evil so alien and malicious that even they were appalled.

  The generalissimo and the warlord of the army recruited by the Eastern Lords were to leave tonight. The others were to follow in a few days, after all the new dispositions had been set in motion.

  There was no choice but to obey, and the two mrem ordered to depart at once sent body slaves flying to their respective tents, to arrange their baggage and transportation. Meanwhile each pondered ways of casting the blame for today’s fiasco on the other. Not in their innermost thought did they mention the dweller at Cragsclaw by name.

  Kizzlecosh

  NEVER IN his life had Cajhet entered a scuzzier den of thieves, but he was a veteran of low life, too experienced certainly to enter alone. The five brawny highlanders with him were insurance against a cosh on the back of the head, or something other than wine in his goblet—or worse. He had heard dark rumors about what became of strangers who entered such dens alone: The young ones ended up in pies, the old ones in stews. But he dearly needed a drink, and music, and dancing, and perhaps some game of chance, although the gambling here looked rough.

  All the inhabitants of Ravarbal in fact looked rough. The last refuge of pariahs and outlaws for generations, at the outermost reaches of the eastern marchlands, smuggling and banditry were still the mainstays of the economy. Severakh had spent a full week fortifying himself against treachery, both from within the city and without, before’ granting a single night’s liberty—with everything more than three blocks from their fortified caravansary off limits.

  This particular den was exactly three blocks away (or perhaps a bit beyond), and the only one Cajhet had discovered that promised any real fun. He smacked his chops over a heady goblet of mountain wine, and called for another.

  The wood-block floor was two steps below street level, and may have been swept within the last month or so; the plaster walls were so grimy that it was impossible to determine their original color in such dim light. Lute, pipes, drums, and scrapers—the musicians continued to play lascivious dance rhythms, though the last of the dancing she-mrem had just retired through a beaded curtain, leading a drunken customer to be fleeced elsewhere on the premises. The villainous bartender looked like his true calling should have been a bandit chief, and perhaps it was. On a display board behind him hung what looked from the main room like dried fruit.

  Snacks? Cajhet wrinkled his nose in distaste. Whatever they were, they did not look very appetizing. Neither did the forty-some mrem, in varying states of drunkenness and debauchery, crowded into the dim, squalid, reeking, low-ceilinged room about him. The attraction at the moment was a game being played by three rogues. Cajhet would gladly have joined in the wagering, but at first was unable to figure out the object of the game. The three rogues—all more or less drunk—seemed to be trying to stab each other’s hands with daggers. Shouts encouraged them, wagers were called back and forth, money was exchanged.

  So much attention now focused on the game that it was a natural opportunity for a hookpurse, and Cajhet instinctively clapped a hand over his money.

  One of the players suddenly shrieked in pain as a dagger pinned his left hand to the table. Laughter mingled with curses, wagers were paid off and collected, then the game resumed between the remaining two mrem. The excitement mounted; the stakes redoubled. Cajhet kept a firm grip on hi
s own money.

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that one of the highlanders who had accompanied him was not as prudent, and that a hookpurse—a rather clumsy hookpurse, it seemed—was in the act of robbing him. Shout a warning? But that might have ended in a brawl, and he was too far from the street door. He looked around for the bouncer.

  This turned out to be a female, a strapping, fierce-eyed she-mrem who wore a mean-looking cosh dangling from a strap around her wrist. Cajhet caught her eye, and glanced meaningfully toward the hookpurse, whose apparent clumsiness, he now saw, was due to the fact that he had in fact nothing to hook purses with. A declawed criminal, if he had ever seen one.

  Given the hint, the female bouncer now saw the thief too—and pounced. But instead of leveling him with her cosh, she seized him by the ear with her teeth. He at once went limp, as tame and docile as a sleepy child. Guffaws and shouts of laughter—the two players left off their game to enjoy the fun—followed the collared thief all the way to the street door. He seemed very anxious not to show the least resistance, despite a barrage of ribald advice on how he should fight back, for the bouncer still had his ear in her teeth.

  An expectant silence fell on the crowd the moment the pair disappeared out into the street. Sharp curses accompanied the thudding of some blunt object against flesh and bone. At last the strapping female bouncer strode back through the door alone, cosh in hand. A burst of ribald applause greeted her, but her look was so fierce that attention immediately refocused on the gambling game.

  Cajhet also looked prudently the other way. Moments later he sensed someone hovering beside him, and turned his head. The female bouncer looked even more imposing up close. She jerked her thumb toward the bar, and he obediently followed her there.

  “Good work, laddie,” she said in a deep hoarse voice. “I take it kinda personal when anybody thinks he can steal on me. Outside is one thing, in here’s another. Ain’t that right, Haggie?”

  “Right, Kizz,” said the bartender, who was obviously afraid of her. “Spotted a hookpurse, did he? Well, he’s earned a drink on the house.”

  “Thanks.” Cajhet sipped from the brimming goblet. “But he wasn’t really a hookpurse. No hooks. I used to be chief lockup at the fortress in Kazerclawm, you see. Had my own collection of claws in a metal beaker, which I would rattle now and then when the lads acted up. Nothing personal. I was sorry to see ‘em lose their claws, but if your job is to keep order, then you’ve got to do it.”

  “Same goes with me, laddie. They know better than to fight back when Kizzlecosh has got ‘em by the ear.” She jerked a thumb at her own mountainous bosom. “Claws, you say? Why you’re a mrem after my own heart. I got a Collection of my own. Out of the way, Haggie, so’s I can show him.”

  Cajhet suddenly felt queasy. It was not dried fruit on display behind the bar; certainly not snacks. Nailed in rows were ears of various colors, bitten off by sharp, powerful teeth.

  “That’s my collection,” she continued, “and everybody knows it’s here. But I’m always fair. If they behave themselves when I take ‘em by the ear, why then I just lead ‘em out into the street, and give ‘em a tap or two to remember me by. If they don’t....” She finished by jerking her thumb at the rows of ears.

  Cajhet swallowed hard. “Very, uh, impressive I’m sure.”

  He noticed the bartender dodging glances from one to the other, and chuckling slyly to himself. “Much more impressive than my own poor collection.”

  He turned back to her. The fierce look in her eyes had softened into something almost tender, and he began to feel uneasy for he sensed that the look could become fierce again in a hurry, if she were rebuffed. She edged closer. Her smile revealed rows of sharp, powerful teeth, and he could feel his ears tingle. She began tenderly to groom him, with hands he was sure could spring sharp, powerful claws.

  The next thing he knew they were slipping arm in arm through the beaded curtain. He glanced back, and saw the bartender shaking with silent laughter.

  •

  Out in the street, the battered hookpurse was also shaking himself, but not with laughter. He had been coshed about the head and shoulders, and as consciousness slowly returned he could feel lumps already rising in several places; his nose was sore, and one eye was swollen shut. He could also feel both ears, which was a relief, considering the circumstances.

  Gingerly, he tried to rise, fell back with a groan, then tried again. This time he succeeded, and began feeling for broken bones. Happily, he found only more lumps and bruises. Kizzlecosh must have been in a good mood. Life had been much easier for him when he still had claws, and he squinted warily up and down the street in search of enemies. One beating tonight was enough.

  The street was deserted—then all at once an old man appeared out of thin air. An old wizard with a big shiny sword stood not five yards away. He seemed disoriented, as if not yet sure where he was. Then he relaxed, and nodded a greeting.

  “Could you direct me to the Anglock Inn, my good man?” asked Mithmid. He was dressed in the cap and gown of a master wizard, but wore armor on his sword arm, a scabbard, and stout leggings, as if girded for battle, although even the startled hookpurse doubted his martial prowess. He pointed.

  “Two blocks down, and turn left. A little over one more block after that. You can’t miss it.”

  He deftly caught the coin tossed him, and watched the old wizard stride off brandishing his big shiny sword, as if he had recently been taking fencing lessons. The blade itself looked formidable, although not the scrawny arm that brandished it....

  Severakh was even less charitable. He had a low opinion of wizards in general. But he knew that Srana was a White Dancer, and twice in his long life he had seen the legendary Sruss in person; the last time, during an investiture ceremony in Ar, at a distance of no more than a hundred feet. But was this ridiculous old mrem telling the truth? Srana appeared satisfied with the signs brought her from Sruss.

  “Then Branwe is truly the son of the Shadow Warrior,” she said thoughtfully. “The tale you’ve related to us here tonight is both tragic and dreadful. The All-Mother pray that the Evil One has not anticipated us.”

  “Amen,” murmured all those gathered in the refectory of the Anglock Inn.

  It was sometimes chilly at night, this high in the mountains, and a fresh log had just been laid in the fireplace. Srana gazed down at it, rapt in thought. She seemed, in her youth and beauty, so charmingly like what Mithmid recalled of the young Sruss that his whiskery old face softened with nostalgia.

  Severakh snorted impatiently. “If you’ve brought that sword for Branwe, give it to him before you cut yourself with it.” He did not add, “you silly old fool,” but it was implied in the tone of his voice. “Now gather around and listen, all of you. Our duty is clear, and we’re going to do it, or by the All-Mother I’ll know the reason why.” He glanced sternly from face to face, but none demurred. “We’ve long since resigned ourselves to being cut off from Ar. Nor would it be a refuge for us any longer, even if we could reach it. Mithmid here has given us a full military appraisal of the situation, and told us about all his tribulations, worries, trials, fears, dangers, and rare swordsmanship.” His captains glanced sardonically at the old wizard.

  Mithmid failed to detect the irony in this, and assumed so proud a bearing that the captains now laughed outright. But another stem look from Severakh quickly brought them to order.

  “Where’s Cajhet?” he asked. “On liberty? Then send out a platoon to fetch him. At once!”

  “Yes, sir.” A captain hurried out the door, returning in time to hear Mithmid detail all the dangers, real or legendary, they might have to face.

  “I’m not a seaman,” exclaimed Severakh at last. “None of us is. But if this Khavala is as important to our survival as we’ve just heard”—he glanced at Srana, rather than Mithmid, as if trusting her confirmation more than what the old wizard had to
ld them in the first place—“then we must not let it fall into the hands of the Evil One. If we can’t bring it back, we can at least destroy it. Wherever these Shadow Islands are, we’ll find them first. Somehow, some way, no matter what it costs. We’ll leave at dawn—”

  He was interrupted by a commotion out in the corridor; the door opened, and a pair of stout sentries hauled Cajhet into the room by the elbows. He grinned ingratiatingly at Severakh.

  “Caught him trying to sneak in the back door, sir,” reported one of the sentries. “He dodged the platoon out searching for him, but not us.”

  “Wipe that silly smirk off your face!” Severakh growled.

  “You’re a disgrace to the army.”

  “Yes, sir.” Cajhet rocked unsteadily on his heels, a sleepy dissipated look in his eyes. His futile efforts to stand at attention really were disgraceful.

  “Pinch him and pull his whiskers,” cried Severakh. “If that doesn’t work, drag him out and hold his head under the pump.”

  “Yipe!” Cajhet squealed as he was pinched, but steadied himself enough to stand at ease, if not attention. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “I never want to see you, you scoundrel, and in fact I seldom do. But right now we need your services. You’re from the port city of Namakhazar, I believe?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that’s where we’re going—some of us, at least—and you’re the one who’s going to get us a ship, once we get there....” He was silent for several moments, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “The first problem is getting there at all.”

 

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