by Bill Fawcett
“I have killed a liskash,” the exhausted warrior had said. “If the east comes to Cragsclaw, I will kill many more. They frighten me, but I will not run from them.”
Mithmid nodded. “But you fought only one,” he argued gently. “And it did not have magic.”
Talwe started. “How do you know that?” he asked.
“While you slept,” said the wizard, “I entered your mind. I had to, in order to bring you back. Your battle with Cwinyd had taken your strength. As you lay dying, he tried to take your soul.”
“Then you learned everything about me,” the darkfur intoned. His sense of privacy felt violated.
The wizard shook his head. “No, Talwe,” he answered. “I did not try. I learned what I must to bring you back to your body. Your fight with the liskash was part of that knowledge.”
Now, on the wall, Talwe’s anger was gone. Whatever he had lost had been lost for good cause, and he believed that the wizard had learned very little. If Mithmid had learned more, he certainly had not used it against him.
“How long till they come?” Talwe asked.
“Tomorrow is my guess, though I can’t know,” was the response. “But they are close enough that we dare not leave the fortress, not to the east in any event. And with the west filled by marauding bands of clansmrem, we seem to be trapped.”
“Then Crethok has begun the siege?” Talwe asked.
Mithmid sighed. “Yes, my friend. Cragsclaw is besieged. Crethok and Arklier have indeed joined forces, and their armies await us outside the west gates. Our supplies are dangerously low, and the castle is filled with villagers who have fled the highlanders. When Keth Sleisher’s body was borne through the street the hearts of these people withered. We have almost no chance to survive a siege.”
“But they will fight?” The former bandit wondered if he had trapped himself by coming here. For a moment he longed for the clean, simple excitement of a bunda hunt. War had no honor. Then he realized that was a strange thought for a bandit. “How many warriors would you guess, wizard?”
“Four hundred guardsmrem. No more. Plus those who came with you and twice that many again who were led by the Dancer.”
“What will Lord Sleisher do?” Talwe worried.
The wizard only shrugged. The aged hero had not left his room since his son’s body had been brought there. Then Mithmid turned and looked eastward once more. “Perhaps it will all be over before the liskash arrive.”
•
The first assault started early the next morning. Talwe was already awake, wondering how to deal with Morian. There was a strange emptiness inside him whenever he thought of his former lover. He had seen her in the castle the evening before, but she seemed to be avoiding him, though he had to admit he had made no effort to call her to him.
Rocks of all sizes flew over the walls, gathered in the hills to the north of the fortress. These were thrown by catapults the highlanders had fashioned. The missiles were too small to damage the walls, but easily capable of killing anyone they struck or collapsing the wooden roofs of the inner buildings. Two catapults in the castle’s towers replied, throwing jagged rocks in hopes of disabling the highland machines. The archers on duty cowered behind the walls and waited.
Inside Cragsclaw, the mrem ran in panic. They screamed as the rocks cracked the walls of their houses, and screamed as the bones of their legs were crushed. Many ran toward the thick stone walls of the main towers, not stopping to carry the bodies on the streets. Soon most were hidden, but the damage was great.
Next came the arrows. They sang at the guards, at the dozen who fell quickly. Then the next volley flew high above the walls, dropping into the fortress’s center in the path of the mrem still on the streets. Few were killed, but fear ran even deeper.
And then came the fireballs.
They flew over the walls, balls of rock the size of heads covered in burning pitch. They rolled into the streets, harming little but terrifying everyone. There were few things that would burn in a fortress made of brick and stone, but mrem fur will burn, and the mrem began loudly to pray to their gods.
Talwe ran among them, Mithmid beside him. They calmed the mrem they saw, shouting words of encouragement, and warning against panic, and ordering anyone in uniform, or simply male, back to the walls. For the most part it worked, and the fortress began to grow calmer. But for some mrem the fire was the first sight of hell, and these now ran headlong wherever the streets took them. Soon they combined into a panic-stricken mob that was hurrying past the two magic-users.
Mithmid spoke now, his voice expressionless and cold. Talwe could not hear him, but he saw him nonetheless, a glowing aura spraying out from his face and hands. The wizard was chanting, singing words that were not words, and as he sang the fleeing mrem began to slow in their tracks. At last they were still, standing stone-like in the street. With another word Mithmid released them, and they walked to their shelters.
“You calmed them,” Talwe said to him. “It was well done.”
“It was necessarily done,” the wizard replied. “The greatest danger of any siege is panic, not starvation.”
Talwe grabbed the wizard’s shoulder. “The fire frightened me,” he said as the other turned. “Does it say anything to you?”
Mithmid nodded. “It says two things,” he replied. “First, it says that this siege is in earnest. But that is hardly something we needed to know. Second, it tells me that the highlanders have received aid. Aid in the form of skills they did not have.”
“Why?” asked the darkfur.
“Mrem do not make war with fire,” was the short reply.
Talwe shook his head. “I have played with fire,” he said. “I fought Crethok with flame, a short time back. It worked, for we won.”
Turning to face him, the wizard stared into his eyes. “If what you say is true, Talwe,” he said very slowly, “then you are unique among mrem. But perhaps all you did was to teach your tricks to Crethok. If that is the case, then your students learned well.”
Talwe did not flinch. He probed the other’s eyes, then announced, “I do not need your bitterness. I have come my own way to fight against Crethok. What I did, I had to do.”
Mithmid breathed deeply. “You’re right,” he said. “You do not need my bitterness. I am frightened, Talwe, and I am angry. For days now I have asked Ar for help, ever since I learned the Dancer’s army was defeated. But no one comes, and no one even answers.” He paused. “I am alone here, Talwe,” he continued. “Alone against an enemy I can’t begin to understand, much less fight.”
Shaking his head, the darkfur smiled. “You’re not alone,” he said. “I am here, and so is Sruss. Sleisher is a fine warrior. Even Morian may come to be of help. I am told I owe her.”
“Morian?” the wizard exclaimed. “She is unconscious, and I cannot enter her mind. What help can an unconscious female possibly be?”
This time it was Talwe’s turn to shrug. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But the rest of us are at your side.”
They waited all day for an attack on the walls, but nothing came. The rocks and fireballs continued to fall, though less often as the catapult’s crews tired.
Talwe paced the walls, impatient. Outside, Crethok taunted the castle’s defenders, promising them horrible deaths. To make his point he tortured a few village females he had captured. His brother could be seen as well, watching the highlanders’ antics with evident distaste. Both stayed carefully beyond arrowshot.
For the defenders there was nothing to do but wait.
ON THE TENTH morning of the siege, the clamor of voices awoke the dark-furred mrem. His first thought was that the feared liskash army had finally arrived. Each morning he had awakened expecting it, yet it had not appeared. Mithmid had finally searched, to find it camped at the edge of the desert, obviously content to let the highlanders do most of the work for them. Talwe had taken to sl
eeping in Mithmid’s former room over the West Gate, risking an occasional catapulted stone for the advantage of being close to the most vulnerable part of the fortress. Jumping from his bed, he went to the doorway. Outside was excitement and confusion as mrem ran past him, talking all the while. Pulling on his clothes, he stepped out into the street.
He expected to see the guardsmrem massing to meet another assault. Four times the highlanders had charged the walls, each time they had been driven back. During the last assault some clansmrem had actually controlled a section of the wall, but a counterattack led by Sruss had cleared them before more could be called to reinforce them.
“Where are you going?” he asked the first mrem who passed him.
“To the East Gate,” the soldier replied. “Lord Sleisher is there. I must not be late.” He sped off, and a puzzled Talwe followed.
When he came to the courtyard by the eastern gate, a crowd gathered in front of him. Pushing his way through, he found Sruss and the wizard. They stood near the front, watching but not moving. Talwe approached them and pointed to the gate.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Sleisher has called for a sortie,” Mithmid explained.
Talwe started. “An attack?” he exclaimed. “Against what?”
The Dancer touched his arm. “He is tired of waiting,” she said in a low voice. “His son is dead. He has been awake every night. Now he feels he must act.”
“But a sortie is no answer,” said Talwe, shaking his head. “We have barely enough mrem to defend both walls.” Yesterday, they had counted over three thousand clansmrem encircling the fortress. “How many will go with him?”
“All, even the rest of your mrem,” Mithmid whispered. “That’s what he’s ordered.”
Talwe rubbed his hand over his face. He felt his ears flattening as anger found him. “Why wasn’t I awakened?” he almost hissed. “Everyone but me knows about this.”
“There’s no point being angry,” Sruss shot back. “We didn’t know, either. Mithmid found out, and so did I. I don’t know why nobody told you.”
“Sleisher did this without consulting you?” he asked.
Mithmid nodded his head. “Yes,” he admitted. “We had nothing to do with it.”
When Sleisher appeared, a shout rang out. Most of the mrem of Cragsclaw were now gathered, and they saw in their leader a new hope, a hope that the fortress would finally fight back. For months they had lived in an undefined fear and, except for the army of Keth Sleisher, few had gone out from the gates. But now they would go, under their lord’s command, to confront the foe that threatened them.
The Lord of Cragsclaw stood before them now, atop a large crate that served as a platform. He wore a harness covered with gold coins and a coat of finely wrought iron rings. Sleisher wore pants and a robe of dark red, the color of ceremony. This was an indication that a gathering was of the highest importance. On the back of the robe was emblazoned the image of Bralittar.
“We have stood by and watched,” he said, “waiting for Ar to relieve us. They have failed. But the winter is cold, and our supplies are short. Unless we solve our problems now, the fortress will last no longer than a month.”
Fool, thought Talwe. Why bring about panic?
“We wait no longer,” Sleisher continued. His face looked old, Talwe noticed, creased with worry and with sorrow. Seeing this, he no longer wondered why he was doing this thing. In all likelihood, he felt within him only one more great deed. If he died in the attempt, he would at least die in battle.
“We wait no longer,” he repeated. “We have waited long enough, enduring stones and flames. Today, warriors of Cragsclaw, we open the gates and fight back. Today, we march on the highlanders’ camp.”
The shouts and cheers rang through Talwe’s head. He was barely yet awake, despite the coldness of the air, and he could hardly believe the words he just heard. Not only was Sleisher about to risk the fortress, he was about to do so by announcing his plans to the enemy. Surprise, the only thing that made a sortie worth chancing, was now beyond all possibility. Crethok needed no spies to know what Sleisher planned.
“Your plan is wrong!” Sruss shouted from beside him. A guard stepped forward to grab her. Talwe pushed him back.
“This is no time....” he whispered, but she would not listen.
“If you go through with this attack,” she shouted once more, “you doom the fortress. We have none of their numbers. Our strength is in Cragsclaw’s walls.”
“You are from Ar,” Sleisher announced. “I have already thanked you for your help. But do not presume....”
“I will presume what I wish,” the Dancer broke in. “Your plan has no purpose. It can succeed at only one thing: the fall of Cragsclaw.”
Sleisher looked unfazed. “I have borne your contempt out of respect,” he announced loudly. “But I will hear it no longer. Like the darkfur and the wizard, you do not wish to act. I understand that, but I cannot approve. I wish to fight, not to sit. I am the Lord of Cragsclaw.” With the last he raised his sword over his head.
The mrem in the courtyard cheered, even those who had formerly been in his band and now gathered around him. Talwe cringed once more. Perhaps they should simply send a herald to announce the attack.
Sruss looked at the ground. Talwe put a hand on her shoulder. Beside them, Mithmid took a single step forward. “Like the White Dancer of the Wilds, I do not agree with you,” he announced as calmly as his voice would allow. “But Cragsclaw is yours, and I will answer to your commands. Yet I would ask you, my lord, to order half your army to remain in the fortress. If the battle goes well, they can march out to join you. If it goes poorly, they can cover your retreat. In either event, you stand to lose nothing. And perhaps we could leave by the other gate?”
Sleisher looked down at him. “That, Mithmid, is precisely my plan,” he said. Talwe knew he was lying, but he admired the wizard’s manner, allowing the Lord to save face. Sruss was impassioned, but Mithmid achieved the greater good.
By midday, the army was prepared. Five hundred mrem stood impatiently, in four equal columns. The two flanking columns carried bows and quivers, their task being to spread wide as they marched through the gates. Then the swordsmrem would fan to each flank, giving them room to fight. Finally over half the mrem were armed with spears, axes, and longswords. They would make up the center of the advancing attack. Every other bowman they could spare was ordered to the walls. The highlanders’ camp was out of bowshot, but they could cover any retreat. Sleisher’s attack might be too hasty, but his knowledge of battle was still excellent. Talwe felt that the pointless sortie could do nothing but fail, yet he knew that the highlanders would pay a price for its defeat.
The Lord of Cragsclaw took his place at the head of the center. His robes were black, and they shone in the sun. In the cold of the day his breath was visible when he talked, but the words warmed the hearts of the mrem who waited to march. He told them of glory, and of the fortress’s safety, and he told them they were now under Bralittar’s eyes. So deep was his voice, so moving and so certain, that Talwe felt a sudden desire to go with him.
Sleisher had placed him in charge of the fortress. Surprised and taken aback, he had hesitantly agreed, turning to Mithmid with a look of puzzlement. But the wizard had only smiled, a smile that seemed sincere.
And then Sruss had asked to march with the attackers. Sleisher stared at her for at least a full minute, then nodded and turned and walked slowly away. As she stood now behind him, leading the second column, Talwe wished he was with her, but he did not fear for her life. She had proven herself in the battle at the mountain. What she needed was hope, and Talwe tried to give her that.
“Inla go with you,” he had said as she passed.
“If she’s here,” she replied, “I will use what she gives.”
Then, suddenly, Sleisher’s voice rang out. “Open the
gates,” he shouted to the sky, and the western gates of the fortress of Cragsclaw opened to the world for the first time in days.
Out streamed the five hundred mrem. Once outside, they hurried to their positions, awaiting the order to begin their march. To each side, the archers readied their bows as they took up their places. Beside them the swordsmrem put their hands to the hilts of their swords, testing them once more to see that they would unsheathe easily. In the center, the spearmrem raised their spears aloft, and the war-axes caught the gleam of the winter sun.
“For Cragsclaw and for Ar,” Lord Sleisher’s voice sang. It was the sound that had led the armies of Ar to victory for over fifty years. Then he turned to his captains, tears in his eyes. “Let the guardians of the eastern lands of the king now march to destroy Andelemarian’s foes.”
With those words, the army set forth.
Talwe walked up the stairs, Mithmid beside him. Together they would watch the battle unfold from the tower at the point of the walls. They would watch and decide what new actions were needed. Talwe had already dispersed his mrem about the fortress, archers on the walls and swordsmrem near the gates, more than half to their quarters until needed.
At first things appeared to go well for the Lord’s bold move. Talwe wondered if this renowned warrior had some knowledge he could never understand. The highlanders were amazingly absent, with only a few clansmrem shooting arrows and then hurriedly fleeing. The defenders of Cragsclaw were a dark blot against the often churned snow as they approached the walls and stakes of their besiegers’ camp. They were almost at those walls, far beyond the reach of even the strongest archer on the walls, when the trap was sprung.