by Anne Perry
“You’ll just let him go?” Almerid said raspingly. “He’ll tell his father you’re weak! I won’t let you do that, treasure or not. No man says that of me or mine, not even to the barbarian!” He yielded not a fraction.
“I shall take him to the wall,” Sardriel answered. “These men of his will tell his father what happened and where he is. He’ll come, and he’ll see for himself that we have the city and all that’s in it.”
Almerid laughed abruptly. “He’ll find that out anyway!”
“Think ahead!” Sardriel snapped. “We can’t obliterate the entire barbarian nation! Better we drive them back, which we have done, let them taste our strength, and then make a peace with them.”
“For how long?” Almerid jeered, but there was light in his eyes again, overtaking the rage. He had glimpsed the idea.
“A generation perhaps,” Sardriel answered.
“And this city? Do we give it back to them?” Almerid enquired.
“Of course not! It belongs to the Irria-Kanders.”
Almerid grunted, then slowly relaxed his arm. “Take him to the wall, then. But if it costs you your life, I’ll take you all the way back to the sea with a barbarian arrow in you, to show your men it was none of our doing!”
“I’ll write you a letter to take to them, marked by my seal,” Sardriel replied, letting go of his arm at last.
Almerid smiled sourly, showing his teeth, then turned away.
Sardriel did as he had promised, giving the letter to Almerid, then with a dozen of the best men he took the barbarian’s son and his guard to the main gate of the city and let the men go, keeping the youth. They had no speech in which to communicate. Neither side had taken prisoners nor spoken a word to each other in all the marching and slaughter from the forest’s edge to this day.
The guard went, understanding the bargain and perhaps expecting a ransom to be asked. Sardriel waited, looking at the youth with curiosity and finding his interest returned. He was shorter than Sardriel or the Caevans, broad-shouldered, and with bow legs, as if he had ridden horseback since infancy and it had left its shape upon him. His face was wide with high cheekbones and a broad mouth, eyes narrow as if wrinkled with looking into the teeth of the wind. After the open plains this walled city, with its constant supply of water, its sheltering walls and polished floors, its great fireplaces where peat was burned, cut from the bogs in the surrounding hills, must seem utter luxury. Already Sardriel had seen works of art in fine metal, silver, gold and copper; stones such as jasper and sardonyx carved into animals of ferocious beauty. There were skins with fur so deep they could serve as a bed to shield one’s bones from the hardness of the ground. All the art and wealth of the Irria-Kander civilisation was here for the taking. It was a high prize to lose. Curiously, the barbarians had kept alive many of the younger Irria-Kander women to serve their needs or their pleasures, and they now awaited their fate at the hands of new captors.
But did the barbarian see its worth? Was there a place for loveliness, man- or God-made, in his soul?
It was four long hours before Sardriel saw the horsemen ride over the hill and come steadily towards him. There were no more than forty of them, savage men with black helmets, holding spears high in a gesture of defiance. At this distance Sardriel could only glimpse the outlines of the short, powerful bows slung over their shoulders which shot the devastating arrows.
The central figure parted from the rest and moved forward ahead of them. He stopped twenty yards away, reining in his horse.
Sardriel put his arm on the youth’s shoulder to restrain him.
There was silence, but for the whining of the wind over the grass.
The barbarian would not come within spear range of the walls.
Sardriel shivered. He dared not go within arrow range of the barbarian guard.
Very slowly the barbarian leader dismounted and walked a dozen yards from the beast. It was clear he had no bow with him.
Sardriel gestured towards the waiting horsemen.
The barbarian leader turned and waved them on. They too dismounted and moved a dozen yards from their beasts, bows left over the saddles.
Sardriel took the youth by the arm, and alone they walked across the wind-whipped grass, their feet jarring against the iron-hard earth. They stopped ten feet from the barbarian leader. He had the same shape of face and body as the boy, but a skin burned dark by wind, ice and sun, and slashed with scars until its natural expression was almost obscured. Only his eyes betrayed his anxiety, and the burning relief when he saw the boy alive and unharmed. Then he looked at Sardriel, and held out his hands, palms upward. It was obviously a gesture as to what price Sardriel required for the return of his son.
Sardriel waved his hands in denial, and shook his head. He took the youth by the arm and pushed him forward, then stepped back himself.
For a moment no one moved.
Sardriel pushed the boy again, and he marched, a little unsteadily, back to his father, standing behind him as quickly as possible, not to block his line of fire, should he choose to attack.
Sardriel smiled.
Carefully, the barbarian leader held out his left hand, palm open, and with his right hand made a gesture of giving something, then he bowed low from the waist, and turned on his heel and departed.
Sardriel retreated rapidly to the wall and went in through the gate, just in case there should be a hail of arrows, but when he looked, the barbarians were gone.
Two days later the mercenaries were still exploring the city and finding more and more of its treasures of luxury for the mind and body. There were springs of water which had been built into fountains and wells to supply the occupants permanently, in any vicissitude. The surrounding hills provided fuel from the peat bogs, and there was sufficient land for growing vegetables. Some of the wild cattle had been domesticated and there was space within the walls for a considerable number of them.
But, far more interesting than that, there were thermal springs outside the city, hot, pungent-smelling water, to carry which they had built a great clay pipe under the ground leading to a vast, steaming cistern, and from this they pumped the hot water to magnificent bathhouses tiled with ceramics of extraordinary beauty. One could go from warm pools to hot, and then brisk cold ones, or be massaged with sweet-smelling oils, pots and jars of which remained.
Each of the public centres such as the palace and the courthouses were roofed with domes which lent the skyline a unique grandeur. The roads were paved, and the arena for chariot racing was like nothing they had seen before.
When Sardriel finally found Almerid on the evening of the third day after their taking of the city, he was in the central room of the palace. Its floor was tiled, and spread with thick skins, there was a fire roaring in a fireplace large enough to have roasted a pig, and others burned in twenty gold and silver holders, giving the room a glow as if seen through amber.
“I still don’t know why they surrendered,” Sardriel said, anxiety pressing at his mind. It was inexplicable to him that anyone should yield a city that could, from all he had seen so far, have been held almost indefinitely against an invader who had not the skills of undermining walls, nor catapult engines to break them. And they had now examined every yard and found no weakness anywhere.
Almerid grinned, full of contempt. “Cowards,” he said simply. “They knew the barbarians were coming. They’d heard tales from other refugees from further east, and they just packed up and ran. Those camps we came across were probably some of them.” He gave a slight shrug, and for a moment his face reflected pity, but it was brief. He was accustomed to war and he had no time for those who did not stand their ground and live or die fighting.
“And leave a thousand of their women behind?” Sardriel said doubtfully. “Even if they were the cowards you say, why would they do that?” A hideous thought crossed his mind that Almerid might believe they had bartered their most handsome young women for their own safety, but he dismissed it.
Alm
erid shook his head, smiling now. “They aren’t from this city. The barbarians have taken them in various places along the way, and kept the best. A fairly usual custom of war.” He grinned broadly, showing all his teeth. “And these ones are skilled in the arts of the hands, with oils and the hot springs. I’d have kept them myself!”
Sardriel was surprised only for a moment. The answer made more sense. “Then I suppose we’ll have to take them with us,” he said reluctantly. “Unless we leave them to tend our wounded? There’s enough room here to care for them well, and guard our rear. It’s time we moved forward. The rest of Irria-Kand lies ahead, and we must build on the advantage we have.”
Almerid lounged back in his chair, leaning against the white wolf hide that cushioned it. “I think not,” he said simply.
Sardriel was taken aback. “For what reason? The worst of the winter is past and there is a long way to go yet.”
Almerid crossed his legs. “Not for us,” he replied. “We like it here. This city has all we need—food, water, even women. It’s a good place. There’s room for forty thousand of us here, or more, and we can hold it against a few barbarians with nothing but bows and arrows.”
Sardriel was incredulous. “For how long?” he said with an edge of harshness. Was Almerid demanding more money?
“Perhaps for ever,” Almerid replied casually. “This is better than we have in Caeva. We might never return.”
“What about your own people? Your families?” Sardriel challenged, still thinking it was a bluff he could call.
Almerid’s smile widened. “We are mercenaries, we have no homes or kin. War is our business—fighting and dying—you know that. But we have had enough of it. We could live out our lives here very comfortably with no need to fight again, except the occasional skirmish with the barbarians, if they still have the stomach for it.” He waved a lazy arm around, indicating not only the room and the palace, but the city beyond.
“And your honour?” Sardriel said quietly. “You gave your word.”
Almerid’s eyebrows rose. There was no wavering in his gaze as he met Sardriel’s. “Honour is another weapon of war,” he said with a slight shrug. “I like you, Sardriel, but you’re an idealist. You live in dreams. As long as we needed to earn our way then we kept our word. But now we have no need. This is enough.” He gave a little sigh and settled deeper into the wolf fur, but his hand was on the hilt of his knife and his eyes never left Sardriel’s face.
“I realise, of course, that we forfeit the last third of your treasure,” Almerid went on. “But this is wealth enough for it, and there is no more fighting, no long march back over the plains and through the forest. Naturally, you may do as you wish. You can stay here, if you choose.” He put his head a little to one side. “Or you may take one of the horses, two if you like, and make your way back westwards. I doubt the barbarians will bother you, if you keep going. You are no threat to them, and you have nothing worth stealing ... except the horses, of course. Walk, if you prefer.”
Sardriel was stunned. He should have foreseen this, but such a betrayal was outside his imagination. He stared at Almerid’s smiling, deeply satisfied face, and knew that argument was futile.
“You are a man without honour,” he said quietly, disgust unconcealed. Perhaps that was not wise, but the fury and the hurt that filled him was too profound to hide.
“You misunderstand life, Sardriel,” Almerid contradicted. “I am a man who no longer needs it. I am safe, I am warm, I am well fed. I do not need that particular currency any more.” His face hardened. “I shall expect your answer in the morning.”
Sardriel retreated to the room he had chosen, his body moving automatically, his mind numb with shock. He was consumingly angry with himself for having been taken by surprise. He should have seen such a possibility far ahead, he should have imagined or created a guard against it, although even now he could not think what.
He threw the door open and went in, closing it hard behind him and sliding home the bolt. Now suddenly the luxury of it—the warmth, the beauty, the soft ease of the bed—was no comfort at all. The betrayal beat on his senses like an assault. He was a fool, a traitor himself to the cause of God. He had wasted two-thirds of the Treasury of the Island on a single conquest, one city, when he had the men and the skill to have driven the barbarian back to the eastern rim and retaken Irria-Kand for its own people. In the ornate loveliness of this room, with its painted tiles and gilded candles, he could hear the laughter of Asmodeus.
He was still unable to sit or to rest for the turmoil in his mind when there was a rap on the door. He opened it slowly, and saw one of Almerid’s lieutenants there, a man named Halmar, from the Sea Isles, with sky-blue eyes and yellow hair.
“What?” he said curtly. “Almerid expects my answer in the morning. It’s scarcely beyond midnight.”
“I would speak with you, my lord,” Halmar answered so quietly it was little more than a whisper. “But I should prefer not to be seen. It would be safer for both of us.”
Puzzled, Sardriel opened the door wider. If the man meant to kill him there was little he could do to prevent it. If that were Almerid’s plan it was pointless, but very easily achieved. Sardriel was one against an army of above forty thousand.
When the door was closed Halmar spoke. “I am captain of two thousand, but they are loyal to me. We have not sold our honour for hot baths or wolf skins to lie on, or sets of gold candle holders. We will go forward with you against the barbarians, for whatever that is worth. Two thousand, well led, well armed, may make their way as far as the next city, and perhaps find some Irria-Kanders there, and put heart back into them.”
Sardriel hesitated only a moment. He must either accept, and take whatever risks or gains it offered, or refuse and lose all opportunity of success, by his own decision.
“Yes,” he said aloud. “Yes, get your men.”
“We must go tonight,” Halmar warned.
“I know. I’ll meet you beyond the west gate in two hours. Will that be time enough?”
Halmar smiled. “The south gate, in as long as it takes you to get there.”
Halmar took with them all the horses. It was his men’s turn on the watch; two thousand of them rode out into the night, and by dawn they were twenty-five miles from the city and beyond pursuit on foot. They posted watch and rested for three hours, then mounted and rode again. If the barbarians observed them, they saw no sign of it.
They passed what had been an Irria-Kander camp, and saw the remnants of corpses, picked over by carrion beasts, bones white in the wind-torn grass. The land opened out till they could see thirty miles in almost every direction. A line of hills to the north was snow-mantled, shining in the low sun. At the end of the day, when sunset to the northeast stained the flying clouds scarlet, they dropped down towards the valleys and saw the first wild flowers of spring.
The breakaway army took a small town, defeating the barbarian force holding it, and swept onward, east and a little south towards less sparse settlements. They rested and regained their strength. They had lost only a score of men.
The land was wide and level, a few small stands of timber giving shelter. It was two days after that, at high noon with the wind gentler and from the south, when they saw the barbarian force in the distance, seemingly about three hundred men. Surprisingly, considering their respective numbers, they turned and began to advance. Halmar commanded his men to form into battle lines and be ready to charge, shields high against the lethal arrows. There was no sound in the silence but the wind in the grass, the thud of hoofs and the clank and jingle of harnesses and horse armour.
The battle was hard and the barbarians retreated and scattered, riding swiftly. They seemed almost to melt into the bands of trees.
Then suddenly, without even a sound of warning, there were thousands of them. Sardriel turned in the saddle and saw them on every side, and he knew it was over. They fought, but there was never a chance they could have won. By sundown the barbarians’ campfir
es mirrored the stars across the plain in number, and the bodies of the dead mounded the grass as far as the eye could see in the fading light.
Halmar was dead. Sardriel was wounded, but not badly. He gathered the score of men still upright and prepared to make the last stand. Then the barbarian leader rode towards him and in the glare of the flames from the campfires Sardriel recognised the man whose son he had returned to him, savage, brutal, a man who built nothing and planted nothing, a mortal. He lived by the laws of the wilderness of the earth, killing and being killed, like the beasts. This was only a human war.
The barbarian dismounted and walked towards Sardriel, this time coming almost up to him. He was weary, smeared with blood, and his left arm obviously pained him considerably.
He looked at Sardriel, then repeated the gesture he had made at their parting, as if Sardriel had given him something, and very carefully returned it, but held up one finger, and pointed at Sardriel himself. He indicated the others behind him and made a swift gesture of denial, then pointed to Sardriel again and jabbed at the distance. His meaning was clear. Sardriel could leave, but alone.
Sardriel bowed his head in acknowledgement, then refused. He signed that they would all go, or none.
The barbarian smiled and nodded his head several times. But it was approval, not agreement.
Sardriel stood still, his sword in his hand. The wind murmured across the grass, carrying the smell of smoke from a thousand campfires. He prayed that the end would be quick. There was nothing to wait for, nothing else to be said or done. He thought of Almerid in the city, briefly and bitterly. He was right, he was the realist.
The barbarian nodded slowly, still smiling, then waved his hands.
Was it possible? Sardriel gestured to all the men around him, and then towards the distance.
The barbarian agreed, bowing his head.
Sardriel responded, and then turned to the others. “Go!” he commanded. “We are free! It is a debt repaid.”