by Джеффри Лорд
Blade did his best to have the refugees questioned and searched as they came, but that «best» was not very good. There were too many refugees and too few men at the gates. There were other problems as well, as Zemun Bossir told Blade one morning.
«Some of the men don't seem to be interested in searching at all. They won't even shake a bag or open a box.»
«Is there anything special about the men who are doing this?»
«Most of the ones I've seen are those who've been on palace duty.»
«You suspect the duke?»
«It would be the logical thing for him to do-get spies or even Wolves into the city, disguised as refugees.»
«Logic isn't proof.»
«No, and we won't be able to prove anything. If I start questioning the men, they'll resent it and we'd just be warning the duke. I'm glad we have your mounted guard.»
So was Blade. The seventy-five men of his mounted guard were now the best-trained and best-equiped fighting force in Morina. They all had good heudas, lances, bows, helmets, and axes or maces. Many of them had armor-chain mail, pulled out of secret hiding places, or improvised back and breast plates. They could do anything seventy-five men could do against any possible enemies, even the Wolves. Blade could only wish he had ten times as many of them.
Along with the refugees, messages from elsewhere in Rentoro came in almost every day. Several cities that supported the Wizard were sending their armies out to join the Wolves. Several others were sending their armies to join the defenders of Morina. Tens of thousands of men were on the march in Rentoro, a land where hardly anyone except the Wolves had raised a sword in half a century. Now the horizon was blackened with smoke in all directions, not just where the Wolves marched.
As the Wolves marched, the handful of Morinans who could fight in the open nipped at their heels, laid ambushes, cut down bridges and trees, and scouted in their rear. They killed a few Wolves and learned a good deal. Most of what they learned was encouraging.
«The Wizard has done his best to fit out the Wolves for a long campaign, but he hasn't done the job too well. They've got only a few siege engines, practically no spare animals, and only a small wagon train. They won't be able to feed themselves through a long siege. Burning over the countryside behind them won't help either.»
«So what does this mean?» asked Serana.
«It means that the Wolves must either win quickly or retreat. If we can keep these out of Morina for as little as a month, we've won. Then they will have to retreat, and if they do that, many of the cities who now support the Wizard may change sides. We're the heart of the rebellion, and the Wizard's only hope is to strike us down quickly. If he fails-«Blade shrugged.
«Then if Duke Efrim is planning any treachery, it will be something that can help the Wolves win a quick victory,» said Zemun Bossir.
«Exactly,» said Blade. That didn't tell them very much, unfortunately. What he feared most was a spy smuggling in a pair of crystals, so that the Wolves could pour across a skybridge and emerge in the heart of Morina. They were certainly small enough to be concealed in a dozen different ways. To be sure, it took some time to tune new skybridge crystals for a city. But the Wizard and all of his best assistants could have been working night and day since they knew the crystals for Morina were gone.
At least Morina had alert sentries and the mounted guard to use against such a sudden eruption of Wolves. There was another danger which Blade feared even more, because there was absolutely nothing that could be done against it.
The Wizard had spoken of coming with his Wolves against Morina, to use his mental powers on the city and sow panic among the people. Was he riding with the Wolves? Would he bring all his mental powers to bear, and what would happen if he did? Would the sentries on the wall abandon their posts, the women run screaming through the streets, the fighting men cower and cringe, unable to raise a weapon to defend themselves? Blade didn't even like to think about the possibility, and he refused to mention it to any of the Morinans.
On the fifth morning after the first smoke clouds, the northern horizon came alive with gleaming helmets. A final messenger rode in, with a letter from the outlaw leader, Arno of the Mask. He was on his way south to Morina, with all his men and all those he could gather up on the way. The Morinans should be of good cheer, for his coming would surely bring them victory and good fortune.
Under other circumstances the arrogance of the message would have been amusing. As it was, the only thing that made Serana cheerful was the idea of chopping off Arno's head as soon as they'd finished with the Wolves. Blade let her fume and swear. The angrier she got at the distant Arno, the less she'd be thinking about treachery against Zemun Bossir.
Then the Wolves drew an iron circle around Morina, and for the city and everybody in it, the rest of the world no longer existed.
It was the tenth night of the siege of Morina. Blade and Zemun Bossir were walking along the walls. Both walked bent forward, to keep their heads below the top of the improvised wooden battlements. The Wolves kept archers close up to the moat, and even at night they were dangerously accurate.
It was another of those black Rentoran nights. Blade wondered if the Wolves were going to take advantage of this darkness to make their long-awaited assault on the city. They'd been building rams and scaling ladders ever since they settled into their siege camp.
He walked on, occasionally stopping to glance across the tangled rooftops of Morina toward the ducal palace. Its tall domed bell tower was the test observation point in Morina. A small force of guards tricked by Count Drago kept watch from the bell chamber.. Duke Efrim apparently didn't mind having them up there.
Blade wondered if the duke could still be planning any treachery, if he would let his own palace be used as an observation point. The men up there could not only watch the city and the surrounding countryside, they could keep an eye on the palace courtyards as well.
Two lanterns lit up the bell chamber. As Blade looked at the tower, he thought he saw one of them start to flicker, as if blown by a strong wind. Suddenly it went out, like a snuffed candle. A moment later the second lantern also went out. Darkness swallowed the tower, but before it did Blade could have sworn he saw a man-sized, man-shaped object plunge out into space from one of the chamber windows.
That could have been his imagination. The lanterns were something else. They couldn't have been blown out by the wind-not when Blade could barely feel the air stirring around him.
He turned and dashed back to Zemun Bossir. «Somebody's playing tricks in the ducal palace. The lanterns are out in the bell chamber.»
Zemun looked and nodded. «You think?»
«I'm not going to waste time thinking, and don't you do it either. Put all the sentries on the alert and give them torches. Get the reserve archers awake and have them ready to man the walls.»
«You-«
«I'm going to take the mounted guards and head for the palace. I'll pick up the extra men I need on the way. Oh, load a dozen or so of our tar barrels into a wagon. I'll want to take them with me.»
«I-«
«You'll stay here. If anything's happening at the palace, it may still be just a diversion. There could be an attack planned on the walls, if we send everybody off to the palace. So you'll stay here and take care of the walls.»
Blade had forgotten he was addressing the heir-apparent of Morina and wouldn't have cared if he'd remembered. He was almost sure something was badly wrong at the palace. He was absolutely sure that if it was, minutes would be precious, and wasting time in being polite a crime.
Fortunately Zemun was too good a soldier to worry about manners in an emergency. He nodded. «I'll have them start loading the barrels at once, Lord Blade.» He looked down inside the wall and opened his mouth to shout to the nearest man. Blade pulled him back and whispered fiercely in his ear.
«Don't shout yet. We don't want the whole city awake and in a panic. That could be part of the Wolves' plan.»
If there wa
s an enemy plan, thought Blade as he headed for the nearest stairs to the ground. He still couldn't be sure whether he'd be saving Morina by sounding the alert or just making a complete ass of himself. However, he could survive looking foolish better than Morina could survive an attack by the Wolves.
He went down the stairs two at a time, sprang on to his heuda's back without touching the stirrups, and galloped off toward the quarters of the mounted guards. Behind him he heard the rumble of barrels being rolled across the cobblestones and the creaking as they were loaded into the wagon. The tar barrels were intended to provide light on the walls, and also to be dropped on Wolves. Tonight they might have other uses.
During the night, the mounted guards kept their heudas saddled and ready to go. Half were always awake and the others slept in their armor with their weapons close at hand. All Blade had to do was ride up, dismount, and call softly into the guardroom. The guards came swarming out, the ones who'd been sleeping only a little behind their comrades. All seventy-five were mounted in a few minutes. Blade sent some off to alert more of Morina's defenders and led the rest toward the palace.
The streets of Morina wound and twisted, and houses with high-peaked roofs crowded close on either side. Blade caught only rare glimpses of the bell tower. The third time he saw it, the bell chamber was lit up again, more brightly than before. He watched until the roofs once more cut off his view, but saw nothing moving up there. He did see the ducal banner, now visible around one corner of the tower. It was hanging as limply as a wet handkerchief. No wind had blown out the lanterns.
The clattering hooves of the mounted guards' heudas on the cobblestones brought heads popping out of windows as they passed. Blade called out reassurances.
«Stay in your houses., everybody, and keep your doors locked. Get your weapons out if you have any, but leave things to the soldiers for the moment. We'll warn you all the moment there's any danger.»
At last they came out into a slightly broader street between high-walled noblemen's houses. A hundred feet farther on, the street led them into the square in front of the ducal palace. Its walls rose thirty feet above the square, grim, ancient blocks of dark stone. The gate itself looked like a small castle. The torches burning on the gate towers, the sentries marching back and forth; helmeted heads visible above the battlements, the lights in the palace buildings beyond the wall-everything was perfectly normal.
No, not everything. At the foot of the wall lay a sprawled body. It wore the clothing of one of the palace guards, except for the helmet. The torches above cast enough light for Blade to see a dark stain on the pavement under the body.
Blade reined his heuda to a stop and as he did the bolt from a crossbow whistled past his head. A second threw up sparks from the pavement, and a third drilled his heuda through the skull. Blade leaped clear as the dying animal toppled, landed on hands and knees, and leaped to his feet shouting orders.
Battle was joined now, and there was no more reason to be quiet. Blade roared out his orders in a voice that could be heard clear across the square. «Wolves in the palace! The duke has betrayed us. Mounted guards-back, and block the street. Get the tar barrels into a line and light them!»
His arms danced wildly. «You-ride to Lord Zemun. Tell him to get the torches lit and man the walls.
«You-ride back to the men coming up behind us. Send them around to block all the streets leading out from the palace. Have them use wagons, furniture, barrels, tear up the cobblestones if they have to. We've got to surround the palace and keep it surrounded!»
More bolts sailed down from the gate to punctuate Blade's remarks. One struck a guard in the arm, nearly knocking him out of his saddle. He cried out, but with surprise and rage more than pain.
«You, you, you-ride through the streets and wake up the people. Tell them the Wolves are in the city and must be stopped. Tell them to turn out, block the streets, light torches and be ready to fight for their lives.» Blade's mind went back to Winston Churchill's call of 1940, when Britain faced a German invasion. «Remember, you can always take one with you.»
The messengers clattered off into the darkness on their various missions, pursued by more bolts from the gate. The rest dismounted, some to lead away the heudas, others to unload the tar barrels and pile them across the street. Still others broke down the doors of nearby houses and started dragging furniture out into the street to add to the barricade. At first men shouted angrily at the invasion of their homes. Then they heard what was happening and came swarming out to join the mounted guards at the barricade.
They came in their nightclothes or in no clothes at all. Some came with axes and spears, others with improvised clubs, chair legs, or even stones. Some climbed up to top-floor windows and got ready to throw things down on the heads of the Wolves. None of them seemed to have any idea of how to fight a battle except killing all the Wolves they could find. Blade had seldom commanded a stranger or more ragged army, but he'd never commanded one as eager to fight!
Now Blade could hear a growing uproar behind the walls of the palace. Heudas stamped and cried out, men shouted orders, a rumble of voices rose and fell. The Wolves were gathering there in strength, but they seemed to be taking their time about coming out to attack. Blade wondered if they despised the Morinans that much. Surely they could see the barricades rising all around the palace! Did they think they had all night?
Then silence fell behind the palace walls. In the next moment the main gate crashed open. In the moment after that what seemed like a thousand Wolves came charging out of the palace on their heudas.
At the head of the column was a mass of leaders in full armor, riding almost shoulder to shoulder, their lances raised, pennons fluttering, armor gleaming in the torchlight. They cantered out into the square, the lances dipped, and the whole mass came thundering down on Blade's force. They were a terrifying sight-a massed charge by armored heavy cavalry always is. As he dashed forward with a torch to ignite the tar barrels, Blade wondered if he'd be alone when he turned around.
The torch fell, the tar blazed up, and a wall of flame rose between Blade and the charging Wolves. He dashed back for the cover of the barricade, vaulted it, and shouted to his men. «Men with spears and lances-line up and hold them out in front of you. The rest-gather on the flanks and the rear. No prisoners!»
Then the Wolves reached the wall of flame, and Blade stopped shouting because he could no longer make himself heard.
The Wolves tried hard to rein in and stay out of the flames. But the first rank, the second, and some of the third were too close, and the sheer weight of their comrades behind them pushed them into the fire. Men and heudas came down like falling trees, and all the screams blended together into one ghastly uproar.
Blade saw a Wolf leader plunge to the ground at his feet and start to get up. Then a pain-maddened heuda reared above him and brought both front hooves down on his chest The armor caved in like tinfoil and the man died writhing and gasping, unable to cry out.
Another Wolf landed face down in the thickest of the burning tar. By some miracle he got to his feet and came lurching toward Blade, flames shooting out from the chinks of his armor as the tar ate away his flesh, screaming with every step he took. Three spears jabbed the man in the chest, knocking him over. Blade knelt over the fallen man and thrust his dagger through the eyes-lit of the helmet to end the screaming.
A man in a nightshirt seemed to go mad, rushing past the line of spears waving an ax. His clothing caught fire, but he kept on, straight into the middle of the Wolves. «For Magra, for Magra, for Magra!» he howled, as the flames charred his flesh and the Wolves' swords bit into it. Then his ax came down, sweeping a man-at-arms out of the saddle, and both fell dead. Magra was avenged.
Dead or dying men and heudas piled up along the wall of flame, writhing and twisting, filling the air with screams and the overpowering stench of burning flesh. A few of the men-at-arms unlimbered crossbows and sent stray bolts whistling into the ranks of the defenders. The archers were s
hooting blind, though, and did little damage.
At last the bodies piled up high enough to make a clear path through the flames at one end. The Wolves turned toward it, found they could not force their heudas over the bodies, drew back, and milled around, apparently uncertain what to do next. Blade wished he had about fifty archers, and thought of sending a message to ask for some from the walls. He decided against it. The Wolves here made a tempting target but it was still too soon to risk stripping the walls.
As he watched the Wolves milling around, a suspicion grew in Blade's mind and slowly turned into a certainty. The Wizard was not here. Perhaps he was not in the besieging army at all, but certainly he was nowhere within sight of this force of Wolves. He was not seeing what was going on, either by view-ball or with his own eyes. So he could not give them any orders. Without the orders they'd always had from their master, the orders that had so often saved them from having to think for themselves, the Wolf leaders could not lead. Without the Wizard the Wolves might not be toothless, but they certainly seemed witless. They could march, burn a countryside, set up a siege camp. They could not fight a pitched battle against opponents who fought back, thought for themselves, and could spring sudden surprises!
It was hard for Blade to believe anything else. The Wizard had fought in many battles, or at least knew how they should be fought. If he'd been giving orders to these Wolves, they would not have waited so long to come out of the palace. They would not have charged blindly straight at the wall of flame and a barricade that might conceal anything. They would not be milling around now like a flock of sheep without a leader.