The column halted some hundreds of yards away, just out of bow range. Units from the Gel da’ Thae rear ranks pivoted and swung to the flank, crunching into the debris field and wheeling around with a precision the more impressive for the uneven footing. Unit after unit fell into place until the line stretched from the road deep into the flat ground to the west. The spearmen stood some five ranks deep, raising their spears to form a hedge of metal points at an angle ready for a charge. With the Westfolk archers threatening on the flank, however, they held their position, just as the princes had expected they would.
For a brief while the stalemate held, giving Gerran time to look beyond the front ranks of well-armed and well-drilled Gel da’ Thae troops. Behind them stood more spearmen, mostly human, and a pack of Horsekin armed with swords. Some of their shields were round, some oval, some almost square, a variety that made the Gel da’ Thae style of shield wall impossible. These men, a good half of the army, stood in loose ranks, three or four men to a file. Gerran saw only leather armour, gleaming here and there with bronze strips and studs. Dotted among them were men in red surcoats carrying long whips—the Keepers of Discipline, the Westfolk had called them, the most important targets on the field.
On the Deverry side of the line, horses stamped and shook their heads. Men shifted in the saddle, muttering now and then. The Gel da’ Thae spearmen held their position with scarcely a quiver or curse, but Gerran could see the Horsekin at the rear of the enemy formation growing restless, impatient even, as they moved back and forth. Some took a few steps forward only to jump back as the Keepers cracked their whips.
Prince Voran’s silver horn rang out for the first feint. Screaming warcries, the front rank of horsemen spurred their mounts forward. They thundered down the rise towards the Gel da’ Thae, who set their spears to greet them. As he galloped towards the glittering spear heads, Gerran saw just how right the commanders had been—they would never have broken through the Gel da’ Thae lines. He yelled once and threw his javelin as hard as he could, aiming over the regular ranks into the mob behind. The other riders threw theirs as well, then followed Gerran’s lead as, some twenty yards from the Gel da’ Thae line, he wheeled his horse around and rode back. They passed through the Deverry lines and took up a position at the rear of their fellows. The next rank of riders moved forward—and waited again, letting the Horsekin wait as well.
Twice more the Deverry and Westfolk riders made their feints, swinging close to the Gel da’ Thae line, but hurling javelins into the Horsekin at the rear. After the third feint, which brought Gerran and his men back to the front rank of the riders, Gerran saw the Horsekin surging forward into the rear rank of the Gel da’ Thae, only to be beaten back with whips and curses by the Keepers of Discipline. The Deverry horns rang out again. Gerran joined the rest of the front rank as they galloped forward and threw their second javelins. He caught a glimpse of one of the Keepers staggering with a javelin in his chest.
Behind him he heard yells and screams of rage following the fleeing riders. He spurred his horse on to rejoin the army, then turned and saw chaos breaking out in the enemy formation. The Horsekin had lost what discipline they had and were charging forward, disrupting the rear ranks of spearmen, pushing them into their fellows. The Gel da’ Thae had no choice but to charge in order to stay clear of the mob behind them. Spears at the ready, they came running up the road into the range of the archers.
With a hiss and whistle the first flight of Westfolk arrows arced up and plunged down. The Gel da’ Thae spearmen flung up their shields to protect themselves just as the second flight arrived, this lot aimed low to strike the men under their roof of leather and wood. The spearmen in the front rank began to crumple and die, disrupting their formation even more as the arrows flew again and again. Horsekin and Gel da’ Thae both milled in the road, trying to get free of each other and charge the enemy.
Brass horns blared like frantic screams. All up and down the lines the Keepers, so obvious in their red surcoats, fell pierced as the archers picked them out. The men they could no longer control trampled them as the spearmen surged forward. Without them the Horsekin turned into an angry mob. The Gel da’ Thae fell back and let their allies rush forward to meet the flights of arrows.
More Deverry horns, and the signal Gerran had been waiting for. He drew his sword, saw his men do the same, and paused until Calonderiel blew the final signal on an elven horn. The archers stopped loosing arrows, and like arrows themselves the riders charged. A Horsekin swordsman stood in Gerran’s path. As his mount swerved to the Horsekin’s left, Gerran leaned low over the horse’s neck and swung his broadsword like a sabre. He caught the man hard across the neck, saw him go down, and swung his weight in the saddle to his left to catch a spear thrust on his shield. His horse followed the shift and turned, allowing him to attack the wielder of that spear from the side. He made a hard swing at the spear itself and snapped it in half. Its owner dropped the pieces and ran.
Gerran pulled up at the side of the road to let his horse rest. Among the dead and dying men, Gel da’ Thae shields littered the road, only to be smashed under the hooves of the pursuing riders. Yelling and swinging, Deverry and Westfolk riders streamed past, cutting down Horsekin and Gel da’ Thae both. The enemy were running full-tilt, gasping for breath in the hot sun, as the horsemen caught up with them. The riders swung and struck; blades flashed up bloody, then swept down again. The unequal slaughter turned Gerran’s stomach, until he remembered the dead farmers of Neb’s village, laid out in a line for the ravens. He spurred his horse forward and joined the rout.
Still, the horses could only run so far, and the mob of riders began to spread out into a line, dangerously thin along the road. Here and there clusters of spearmen turned and gathered, back to back, to make a desperate stand. Silver horns shrieked, calling the Deverry and Westfolk men back to gather around their commanders. The remaining spearmen headed south again, running, walking, staggering towards the temporary safety of their stronghold. Gerran rode back to the army, spotted Calonderiel, and trotted his horse up to the banadar’s mount.
‘Can you see the fortress?’ Calonderiel pointed south with a blood-streaked sword. ‘Right down there.’
‘I don’t have Westfolk eyes,’ Gerran said.
‘Of course, my apologies.’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘The dragons are lurking down there somewhere. If the Horsekin cavalry rides out, they’ll send them back in again.’
‘Good. What do we do now?’
‘Move the camp down. It’s time to invest Zakh Gral.’
The archers changed their weapons to the curved hunting bows they could use from the saddle, then mounted up. Something occurred to Gerran as he watched them.
‘The cursed Horsekin have got to have some kind of bow,’ Gerran said. ‘Why aren’t they using them?’
‘Good question,’ Calonderiel said. ‘My guess would be that they don’t have a lot of arrows. You can always cut more shafts, but if you lose a fight, your points belong to the enemy. I’m willing to wager high that the Horsekin are hoarding theirs.’
Once the army had formed itself up into a decent marching order, it set out south along the river road. They passed the corpses of men who’d died in the retreat and saw wounded men who’d managed to crawl to one side to wait for death or capture.No one challenged them until they reached Zakh Gral. Even then, the challenges came from the top of the walls. The great iron-bound gates, wide enough for four horsemen to ride out abreast, stood shut against them.
Zakh Gral spread along the cliff edge, just as Salamander had described, but an outer stone wall, no more than five feet high, now circled the inner, wooden walls, made of whole tree trunks bound together and standing about twenty feet high. Next to the main gate stood another door, a mere sliver of a door compared to the massive construction next to it, though the builders had armoured it with metal strips to fend off an attacker’s axemen. In an attack the defenders would doubtless block it with stone. Above the walls, G
erran saw three towers looming, one of wood, two faced in stone.
‘We got here just in time,’ Calonderiel said. ‘Another eightnight, and those stone walls would have been finished.’
The wooden walls must have been fitted with inner catwalks, because Horsekin warriors stood along them at intervals. Gerran could just make out their heads and helmets over the barricade. Now and again he saw something that looked like the tip of a longbow as well. He pointed them out to Calonderiel.
‘That’s what they are, sure enough,’ the banadar said. ‘Well, we’re going to find out how good they are. And soon.’
Just before sunset the baggage train, the servants, the wounded, and the chirurgeons caught up with the army, but they set up the encampment a safe distance from the fortress walls. While mounted riders guarded against a Gel da’ Thae sally, in the last of the light exhausted men dug ditches and arranged wagons to protect the camp and the supplies. The sky hung so clear and warm above them that no one bothered to set up tents except for those that would shelter the worst wounded.
Salamander helped carry Tieryn Gwivyr into one of the elven round tents. Dallandra’s assistants had bound the tieryn, lying on his stomach, to a platform made of two planks tied together with rope, then turned his head to the side so he could breathe. Gwivyr lay as limply a set of empty clothes, and he stank of blood and urine both. The spear thrust had broken his spine just above his kidneys, Dallandra remarked.
‘He can’t control his water,’ she said, ‘or anything else, either. If he lives, he’ll never walk again.’
One of Gwivyr’s eyes opened to reveal a bloodshot white around a clouded blue; then the lid drooped shut again. Had he heard? Salamander hoped not.
That night sentries ringed the fortress on both sides of its walls. The men slept with weapons and armour close at hand, but no sally came.
The morning brought with it mounted patrols, trotting back and forth in front of Zakh Gral. The rest of the men began to set up tents and dig more ditches at a further distance back from the fortress. Salamander crouched behind the chirurgeons’ tents and hoped no one noticed that he was scrying. He could see inside the fort easily enough, at least when it came to the places that had existed during his brief visit there. Everywhere armed men stood in groups or paced back and forth, talking together or merely staring at the walls around them as if wondering how long they’d hold.
When Salamander turned his mind to Rocca, he saw her in dim light surrounded by stone. For the first time he saw most of the Inner Shrine, simply because she knelt in a crowd of priestesses and servant women, most of whom he’d physically seen. At the altar Lakanza stood, arms upraised before the picture of the goddess. Oil lamps burned on the dark altar stone, and the black pyramid glimmered with its sullen sparks.
‘There he is!’ Calonderiel’s voice cut into his consciousness.
The vision wavered and disappeared. Salamander looked up to see Calonderiel hurrying towards him. Maelaber, carrying a staff wound with ribands, trotted after him.
‘What’s all this?’ Salamander rose and met them. ‘Mael, it looks like your father’s decided you’re a herald.’
‘He’s got the memory for one,’ Calonderiel said before Maelaber could open his mouth. ‘Ebañy, we need you to pretend to be a bard.’
‘Uh, what?’
‘Grallezar told us about a Gel da’ Thae law,’ Maelaber said. ‘They can’t hold a parley unless a bard’s present. The gods only know if there’s one in Zakh Gral.’
‘The only other possibility is Meranaldar.’ Calonderiel paused to spit on the ground. ‘Not much of a choice at all. You’ll have to do.’
‘My most humble thanks!’
‘Oh by the silver shit of the Star Gods!’ Calonderiel set his hands on his hips. ‘There’s no time to stand on courtesies.’
‘When you stand on them, they only get trampled anyway.’ If he gave in to his heartfelt longing and punched Calonderiel in the mouth, Salamander supposed, he’d be broken into several pieces before he could land a second blow. ‘How exactly do I pretend to be a bard?’
‘I have no idea,’ Calonderiel said. ‘Figure something out.’
Smoothly Maelaber stepped in between them and raised the staff. ‘Hold and stand!’ he barked. ‘Father, if you’d just leave this to me?’
With a shrug, Calonderiel strode off, heading back to the main camp. Mael’s going to make a good herald, Salamander thought. If we all live through this.
‘What are we parleying for?’ Salamander said.
‘The princes want to offer the women their protection and a safe passage out of the fortress.’
‘Thanks be to the gods! For that I’ll be glad to feign the bardic calling.’
‘It should be simple enough. Grallezar told me about their bards. All you have to do is carry the drum I found and stand there looking grim, but if you could chant something impressive now and then it would help.’
‘I can certainly—wait! Where is this parley going to take place?’
‘Out in neutral ground.’
‘Where the men on the walls can see me? What if they recognize me? I’ve been in the fortress before, you know. I don’t want a well-placed arrow as a reward for my spying.’
‘Oh.’ Maelaber paused to chew on his lower lip in thought. ‘Ah! I know! Do you remember how Danalaurel killed a wolf a couple of years ago? He was so cursed proud of doing it that he takes the skin with him everywhere. What if we put it on you for a head-dress? We could add a bit of cloth for a scarf if it doesn’t cover enough of you.’
‘That should do it. Very well, then. Will your father be coming with us?’
‘Why would I want the parley to fail? Of course he won’t.’
Salamander found the small hand drum easy enough to carry, but the wolfskin was hot, smelly, and itchy. The wolf’s flaccid head, deprived of its skull, sat on top of Salamander’s head, while the rest of it hung down his back. Maelaber tied the front paws together around his neck, then added a necklace of fancy Bardek beads that Calonderiel had once given Maelaber’s mother. When Grallezar joined them, she announced that Salamander looked both convincing and well-veiled.
‘I be coming with you,’ she said, ‘to ensure that someone attends who does speak the Gel da’ Thae tongue. Prince Voran did decide to send a Lijik herald, you see, to do the speaking. Indar be his name.’
‘He’s a grand choice,’ Salamander said. ‘He’s already talked one of Alshandra’s lords into letting his women leave a siege.’
Together they rode out of camp and trotted the mile or so to the army’s emplacement. Servants took their horses and brought them to the commanders, who were talking with Indar at the edge of the empty ground between them and the fort. They stood, however, well out of bow range. Indar acknowledged his reinforcements with a nod and a tight smile.
‘Shall we go?’ Indar said. ‘Let’s hope the commanders of this fort are Gel da’ Thae, not Horsekin. I’ve no desire to be spitted on an arrow before I open my mouth.’
As their small party approached the gates of the fortress, the two heralds held their staves high to let the wind catch the ribands and flutter them, an invitation to parley all across Deverry and the Westlands. Salamander was praying that the custom held in Gel da’ Thae lands as well. When he looked up at the dark wooden walls, he could see the longbows in the hands of the guards. The four of them stopped walking some thirty yards from the gates, well within bow range. Helmets gleamed at the top of the palisade, looking oddly like shiny beetles scuttling back and forth as the men wearing them trotted from one position to another on the catwalks.
Inside the fortress a horn called out. The little door next to the main gates creaked open. Salamander beat a quick tattoo on his drum to cover the pounding of his heart. Two Horsekin, one carrying a riband-bound staff, stepped out. They were barely clear of the door when it slammed shut behind them. The herald, an enormous man with a coarse mane of bleachedred hair, decorated with charms and little scrolls, wor
e the common brown brigga and tan shirt of the Gel da’ Thae infantry. A welter of blue and purple tattoos covered his face and neck.
The other, slender and young, wore a long leather shirt, fringed along the sleeves and yokes and painted in a variety of designs, over plain grey brigga. Under a short black thatch of hair, his milk-pale face sported only a single tattoo, Alshandra’s bow and arrow on his left cheek. He carried a hand drum, wound round with blue ribands like the herald’s staff. Scar tissue filled his eye sockets.
Grallezar murmured, ‘The law says go meet them’, and led her little delegation forward as the others approached. The Gel da’ Thae herald stared at her, then bowed his head briefly and spoke in the Horsekin tongue. She answered in the same, then returned to Deverrian.
‘Do you still ken the Lijik tongue, Minaz?’ she asked him. ‘Or do you scorn it by the laws of your false goddess?’
The herald’s upper lip curled, and he made a growling sound deep in his throat. ‘I do, Grallezar, and should you say to, I shall use it here. If, that be, you restrain your mockery of things you ken not.’
Grallezar snorted, then motioned to Indar. ‘Do tell him, good herald, what the commanders wish him to hear.’
Indar stepped forward, as lean and bony as Minaz was stout.
‘I come from the army of the two princes,’ he began, ‘to ask you in the name of mercy to set free the women you hold in your fortress. We see no need for them to suffer, and we promise them safe conduct and succour. They shall be free to return with us to Deverry should they wish or to return to your cities should they wish that.’
The Spirit Stone Page 41