by Lee Duigon
Osfal made a rude noise. “How hard is it to cobble together a lot of scaling ladders or chop down a tree for a battering ram? It won’t take much to force our gates, such as they are.”
Iolo frowned. The main gate of Silvertown was a weak spot, no denying it. When the Thunder King’s army took the city, they smashed the original gate to splinters. The replacement was adequate to keep people in, but it might not serve to keep King Ryons’ army out.
“I have some news for you that you won’t like,” Osfal said. “The Dahai have deserted.”
Iolo jumped up from his desk. “What?” he bellowed. “All two hundred of them?”
“They went over the wall just before dawn, where they were assigned to be guarding it.”
“Why was I not told at once?”
“I suppose no one wanted to risk a beating.”
Iolo pounded his desk, making it bounce on the floor. “Never mind the beatings!” he said. “Any man caught trying to desert will be hanged! And I’ll hang him slowly, too!”
Osfal smiled sourly. “You needn’t trouble yourself,” he said. “The enemy will be here by this afternoon. It’ll be too late to desert, then.”
And there it was, Silvertown, on the lap of the great mountains that towered over it, and half a ruin. Ryons remembered the great brick smelting towers that used to overlook the city’s walls. These were only heaps of rubble now. The walls themselves looked solid, except for one place where a wide breach had been made and since filled in with broken stone and timbers. There was a new gate, flanked by a pair of archers’ towers built of logs; but the old gate, with its iron strips and studs, was gone.
The Thunder King’s warriors manned the walls. They stood in silence, knowing they were outnumbered two to one. But was two to one force enough to drive them from those walls?
“I see mostly Wallekki up there,” Shaffur said. He had keen sight. “That’s bad. Those are men who have broken with their clans and tribes—nothing left for them to do but fight. They have given themselves to the Thunder King, body and soul. Their clans will never take them back.”
“We have no stone-walled cities in all of Hosa-land,” Xhama said, “only fences to keep the cattle in. The men come out to fight.”
“Well, these men won’t come out, if they know what’s good for them,” said Helki. “But I reckon we ought to get a little closer and see if they’ll parley. Maybe if we offer them a chance to leave the city and retreat across the mountains, they’ll take it.”
“They won’t,” Shaffur said. “If they do, the Thunder King will impale every last one of them. It’s not a nice way to die.”
Nevertheless, the chiefs marched the army to within hailing distance of the gate. Ryons rode in the middle of the host, surrounded by his bodyguard of Ghols, and wondered how many of them he would lose before the battle was over. Angel perched on his shoulder.
Helki stepped out in front of the army. “I speak for King Ryons, King of Obann by the grace of God!” he called. “Who is in command here?”
“I am!” shouted back a thick, stout man who stood above the center of the gate. “I’m Iolo, General of Silvertown by order of the First Prester of the Temple of Obann. You’d better clear out before our reinforcements come!”
“Hear this, all of you!” Helki answered. “This city of Silvertown belongs by right to Obann and to King Ryons. Open the gates to the king, come out in peace, and you’ll be free to go—back behind the mountains to your own country with your weapons, your horses, and your lives. But one way or another, you can’t stay here.”
“It sounds like somebody’s afraid to fight,” said Iolo. “Well, we’re not!”
“Come out and fight, then.”
“Ha! Make me!”
And that was the conclusion of the parley.
“Now all we have to do is make camp and figure out how to take the city without siege equipment,” Helki said. “Any ideas?”
“They’ll have reinforcements before we can starve them out,” Chief Zekelesh said.
“Then we’ll fight their reinforcements,” Chagadai said. “They’ll be fighting against God.”
“Warlords, please!” cried Obst. “Let’s at least think this through before we do anything. Those are the king’s people held prisoner behind those walls. We are their only hope. Surely God didn’t send us here to fail! But He didn’t send us here to be careless, either.”
The chiefs agreed to pull back a little distance and make camp. Its only fortification would be a screen of Attakotts. The men would sleep with weapons handy, and tomorrow they would fight.
In the great black tent that they’d brought across the mountains when they invaded Obann, the chiefs held a council of war. By and by, the Abnak chiefs lost patience with the talk.
“Words and more words!” Chief Buzzard said. “Let us Abnaks rush that weak spot in the wall. I don’t think those slaves up there will have much stomach to face stone hatchets and scalping knives. Let us go at first light! Meanwhile, the Hosa-men can bash in the gate with a tree. It won’t take them long!”
“They’ll shoot you down with arrows,” Shaffur said.
“If old Chief Spider were alive, he’d laugh at us. Afraid of arrows!” Buzzard shook his head. “Spider would have been over that wall in a minute.”
Ryons sat on his ivory stool, saying nothing, fighting off a sense of dread. “I’ll never be a warrior like Ozias,” he thought. But at the same time, something about Chief Buzzard’s bold words stirred his spirit.
“It’s a rotten plan you offer, O Buzzard,” said Zekelesh, “but if you Abnaks are going up the wall tomorrow morning, we Fazzan are going with you.” He took off his wolf’s-head cap and looked at it fondly, holding it so everyone could see it. “Among my people, no man is permitted to wear one of these until he’s killed an enemy in battle. All my men wear wolf’s heads. You’ll see, my brothers. God will make a way for us. He always has.”
Shaffur grumbled something about running out of miracles, but only Ryons heard him.
Uduqu that morning sat on the foot of Fnaa’s bed in Prester Jod’s house, telling him the story of an Abnak boy who slew a werewolf with a silver-headed spear.
“When the wolf lay dead,” he concluded, “it turned back into a man. Then everybody was able to see it was the wicked shaman who stole the gods’ beer offerings and was punished by being turned into a wolf.”
Fnaa, who wasn’t the least bit sick, laughed.
“It’s a good story, Chief,” he said, “but what about all those poor people that the wolf killed? The gods did worse to them than they did to that shaman!”
Uduqu shrugged. “That’s the Abnak gods for you,” he said—“never great ones for thinking things through. But that’s the story as we’ve always told it.
“If I can live long enough, I want to learn how to write down some of those old stories, so people could see what chumps they were for worshipping such silly gods when, for all those years, they might have had the real God who created them. King Ryons himself, back when he was just a slave, once said to me that it was a great favor God did us, making us Abnaks and giving us just the kind of country and way of life that we like best. From then on I was never jealous of all those things that the people in the cities had.”
He might have said more, but then Jod came in with Gurun.
“What is it that you mean to do?” Gurun said. “Tomorrow is the coronation.”
“I won’t let them crown me,” Fnaa said. “I’ve been thinking and thinking about it, and it wouldn’t be right. They only want me because they think I’m a ninny. I took King Ryons’ place, Gurun, because you said I had to. You said it was for the best. But I won’t take his crown.”
“Which leaves us in a quandary,” Jod said. “We can’t pretend forever that the king is sick. Merffin Mord and the Thunder King’s prester are bound to find out the truth before too long.”
“I don’t care about them,” Fnaa said. “Here’s what I’ll do. Tomorrow I’m going t
o stand in front of all the people and tell them that I’m not the king—that the real King Ryons had to run away to Lintum Forest because these men were plotting to get rid of him. Just like they got rid of the real First Prester so that man from Silvertown could take his place! Well, I won’t let them do it.”
“The real First Prester? Do you mean Lord Orth?” Jod said. “Who told you about Lord Orth?”
“You did! I mean, I heard you talking about it with a friend of yours. I don’t know much about presters, but I do know when enough is enough.”
Uduqu laughed softly. “Well said, boy! I’ll make an Abnak of you yet.”
Jod glared at him. “Did you counsel him in this?”
“Who, me?” Uduqu said. “All these plots and schemes just make my head spin. I don’t know how you city people stand it. But I think if Obst were here, he’d say that telling the truth is what God likes best.”
Gurun and Jod exchanged a glance.
“He is right,” Gurun said. “We lied for a good purpose, but now it is time we told the truth.”
Jod shook his head and smiled. “For twenty-five years I’ve been a prester,” he said, “and yet I needed a boy and a girl and an old scalp-taker to tell me that! Very well. Let it be as you say. And if they kill us all, we die in God’s service.”
CHAPTER 38
How Jack Left the Palace
An hour after Gallgoid left, Martis tapped on the door to alert the Dahai guard, unlocked it, and let himself out into the hallway. He beckoned to the guard at Goryk’s door, who joined them.
“What is it?” his guard asked.
“I can’t sleep,” Martis said, “so I thought I could use some fresh air. And then I got to thinking that you men have been cooped up in this palace long enough without having any fun. You deserve some, don’t you think? My treat, of course.”
“What kind of fun?” demanded Goryk’s guard.
“I know a few places, not far from here, that are open all night, where a man with coins in his hand can enjoy a drink and the companionship of friendly women. But if you’d rather stay here, I’ll understand.”
They wouldn’t rather stay, and the thought of deserting their posts didn’t seem to trouble them. All four of Goryk’s Dahai—the other two were sleeping—hadn’t set foot outside the palace since their arrival days ago.
“We don’t want to get in trouble, though,” said Martis’ guard.
“You can have a couple of hours of pleasure,” Martis said, “and no one will be any the wiser. We can be back an hour before sunup, if not sooner.”
“It sounds all right to me.”
“We’ve earned it,” said the other guard.
Accompanied by the Dahai, Martis followed the main corridors and left the palace via the front doors. Seeing he was guarded, no one questioned them.
Martis was grateful for the chance Gallgoid had provided him. “Another day or two without Jack turning up,” he thought, “and Goryk won’t trust me anymore. He already has his doubts.” All the same, he didn’t like having to leave Jack’s rescue in Gallgoid’s hands. “Now that I’m out of the palace, it won’t be so easy to get back in—except as a prisoner.” But it did cheer him to be back out on the city streets.
“It smells like we’re going to have some rain before too long,” one of the Dahai said. “I wonder if they’ll have their king crowned in the rain.”
“I heard the boss say no—they’ll do it right here at the palace, on the steps,” said the other. “The people can all stand in the square and get soaked.” The main entrance to the palace faced Government Plaza, with room, but no shelter, for a multitude.
Martis nodded. No one had said anything to him about shifting the coronation to the palace steps. “Goryk already doesn’t trust me,” he thought. “All the more reason for me to get away now.” He’d heard nothing, either, about the king being sick.
They crossed the plaza and went up a side street, Martis leading the way to a house of entertainment that he knew. With so many people flocking to Obann for the coronation, all such houses were bound to be open tonight.
Filidor’s had been an oligarch’s townhouse, once upon a time. Tonight lights burned in all the windows, and jolly squeezebox music and the sound of revelry came wafting out the doors. Martis paused to press silver coins into the Dahai’s palms.
“What’ll we say?” asked one. “Neither of us can speak Obannese.”
“I’ll take care of you,” Martis said, and ushered them inside.
All the partitions had been removed from the ground floor, leaving a wide space crowded with men drinking wine and beer, with a raised stage in the middle for the squeezebox players and a young woman dancing to their music. Martis found a cramped table for the Dahai and bought drinks for them.
“My friends desire women’s company,” he told the waiter. “They’ll pay for it with Obannese silver.” He tipped the man a penny, and before very long, two women wriggled into seats beside the Dahai.
“My friends don’t speak Obannese,” Martis said, “but do what you can to make them merry.”
“Merry it is, old sport!” said one of the women, when she saw the money.
With his two guards thus occupied, Martis slipped away through the crowd and into the city streets he knew so well.
Wytt wanted very badly to get out of the palace, but he wouldn’t leave Jack. The boy, with the other scullions, slept on a rag-pile in the kitchen. With so many people around, even though they were asleep except for a clerk who sat at a table drowsily examining some lists, Wytt stayed in hiding between a keg of flour and a wall.
He was as close to being frantic as any Omah ever came. They had to get out, and soon. Whatever it was that the men from Silvertown kept covered in their room, its presence now could be felt throughout the palace. It gave Wytt a queasy sensation in his bowels and killed his appetite; he hadn’t eaten all day long. That the Big People couldn’t sense it was a source of wonder to him. Hadn’t they noticed there were no flies in the kitchen anymore?
His ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps: not soldiers’ heavy steps, but a soft, light tread. No menace in it—but he tensed his muscles nevertheless and tightened his grip on his stick.
A young woman came into the kitchen. The clerk didn’t bother to look up at her. Quietly she crept about the room, pausing to look at sleepers’ faces, ignoring the more important staff who slept on cots.
She bent over Jack and gently shook his shoulder. Wytt moved out from behind the keg, just a little closer.
Jack woke, bleary-eyed. The woman knelt and whispered into his ear. Wytt heard it.
“Get up, Jack. Come with me. I’m helping Martis.”
At the mention of Martis’ name, Jack rubbed his eyes and struggled to his feet. Wytt strained his senses, but there was nothing about the woman to alarm him. For the time being he would restrain himself from leaping out and jabbing his stick through her instep.
“Martis?” Jack mumbled.
“Come with me. For Martis.”
She took Jack by the hand and led him out of the kitchen. The clerk kept studying his lists. Jack went along; he must have seen no harm in it. Staying close to the walls and keeping to the shadows, Wytt followed, knowing that the boy’s perception of danger was much duller than his own.
The girl could have only gotten Martis’ name from Martis himself, Jack thought, so that meant she could be trusted. As sleepy as he was, he understood the need for silence and asked no questions of her.
Moments later a man, another servant, stopped them.
“Where are you going?”
“Lord Stott has taken ill again,” the girl said. “There’s a mess to be cleaned up.”
The man grinned. “Overate again, did he? Well, go on—better you than me.”
They went down a flight of stairs, traversed a long, deserted corridor, and entered a room piled high with bales of cloth and boxes. A man was waiting for them. Jack froze for a moment when he saw it wasn’t Martis, but
then he recognized Gallgoid.
“Where’s Martis?” Jack said. He made ready to turn and flee if he didn’t like the answer.
“Thank you, Zilla,” Gallgoid said. “Go back to bed.” The girl nodded to him, smiled at Jack, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
“Martis is safe, Jack. He’s on his way out of the city to meet Roshay Bault.”
Jack startled when suddenly, behind him, Wytt chattered. Gallgoid didn’t seem surprised.
“He remembers you,” Jack said, “from when you came down the mountain with Ellayne. You’re Gallgoid, aren’t you? Wytt says you’re all right, we can trust you.”