by Bill Fawcett
Morian was gone.
A guard’s report had brought Mithmid to Sruss’s bed with the news. Morian had left the fortress during the night, eluding the watch and lowering herself over the walls at the end of a rope. She went down the west wall, at the point closest to the highlanders’ camp. Sruss had little doubt as to the goal of the tortured female’s quest.
When she awoke again the Dancer saw Talwe standing on the wall. He stared out toward the highland camp, searching the snow for Morian’s body in the first light of dawn. But she knew he would find nothing, knew that the female was beyond their help. They could not follow, because Cragsclaw was ringed by foes. To leave the fortress was to court certain death.
Unless, as with Morian, the leaving was done alone and at night.
From the other window of her tower Sruss could see Mithmid on the east wall. Shielding his eyes from the rising sun, he looked out at the eastern warriors who had arrived at last. They were over a mile away, and in the brightness of the sun and snow they were almost impossible to see. But the wizard saw enough to know that many were not mrem. A haze of power covered them. At first he thought it was a defensive measure, then he realized it simply provided warmth. The liskash were said to have no body heat of their own and the cold would test them badly.
He knew, equally well, that the defenders of Cragsclaw must not know of their approach.
So the wizard from Ar raised his arms, and chanted a song, and a thin veil of mist fell slowly over the field. Through it he could see the marching squares of warriors, but individual creatures were for a while obscured. Keeping the mist in place would command precious strength, but if the warriors in the fortress knew the liskash had come, none of his magic would stop a fatal panic.
Now Jremm’s voice came inside his head. “The Council will join,” it said, “as soon as you are prepared.” Mithmid knew that this message was good news, but as he stared at the mist he wondered what strength would be needed. From across the long miles the magic would weaken, and all of it depended on his own will. He felt pitiful now, a despicable dabbler in amateur magics. Whatever Berrilund believed of him, Mithmid of Ar was still only a beginner.
“It won’t be long,” he replied to the younger mrem. “The liskash are here. And one with power waits among with the highlanders. I felt him last night. It kept me awake. I’m tired.”
Jremm answered. “I will tell Berrilund. But I have another message from him. He says you must announce that the Three are coming to Cragsclaw.”
The Three! Of course. The Great Wizards of Ar, believed still to live. He knew, as did all the Council, that the Three was merely the Council, but since none here but Sruss knew the Council existed, the name of the Three was to them very real. If he made the announcement well, Cragsclaw’s morale would lift. If he made the announcement just right, it might even balance the dread of knowing they were besieged by liskash.
All that day, nothing happened. Talwe strode the walls, watching for another assault. Hundreds of new warriors, sheltered by a mist, had joined the enemy, but for some reason Crethok and Arklier hesitated. There was even a pause in the continual bombardment endured since the siege began. Glad for the rest the delay gave his warriors, he was concerned even more for what plans the highlanders were making. Neither brother was a fool, and the delay was not useless.
The thin mist did not lift. Talwe wondered why, but once more he was glad. He could not see clearly into the highlanders’ camp, and through that thin shroud it looked somehow unreal. If it only were. Still, for some reason he felt safer than he had for the past several days.
Then he wondered if Morian was still alive.
She had nearly been killed on the battlefield. He had seen her bending over him, her head against his chest, but with the swirling of his head he had thought she was a dream. It seemed a long time ago that he had taken her hand, but the hand was like ice and her eyes did not react. Yet she had dragged him from the battlefield, according to the mrem from his band, carried him until she could take no more steps. Now she was gone, and he did not know where.
“My lord,” said a black-cloaked soldier, startling him from his thoughts.
“I’m not your lord,” he replied. “Sleisher is your lord.”
The warrior shook his head. “Lord Sleisher is dead,” he said calmly. “His son is dead too.” Then he looked at the darkfur and said, “Before Lord Sleisher died, he placed you in command. There were no other instructions. That command must still hold.”
Talwe, Lord of Cragsclaw. He turned his head and looked out into the mist. Lord of a dying fortress, he said only to himself. He did not want to be lord of anything.
“My lord,” the warrior persisted.
Talwe looked at him.
“The Dancer and Mithmid have asked me to find you,” he explained. “They want you to come to them. I am to lead you.”
He said this with pride, and Talwe responded with a friendly nod. “I’ll come,” he said. “Lead me there, warrior.” And the soldier of Cragsclaw bowed low to the grasslander, then turned on his heel and walked quickly through the streets.
•
“The liskash have come,” Mithmid said. “I have concealed them in mist.”
Sruss nodded, fear evident in her laid-back ears and half-sheathed claws, but she held herself steady. Talwe realized she had never faced the liskash as he had.
“Any word of aid from Ar?” he asked Mithmid. He knew that it had better be soon or there would be little left to relieve.
“There is strong help available already. They will join at my command,” was the reply.
Talwe interrupted. “Join what?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” Mithmid answered. “I should have explained. They’ll join, Talwe, with my mind. The way your mind joined with Cwinyd’s. Only this time the joining will not be a battle.”
“Why do we wait?” the darkfur asked.
Mithmid inhaled. “Because the army sent from Ar will not arrive for two days. If I spend my strength now, and the strength of the Council with it, my battle will do nothing to help whatever relief Ar can give. We must hold the fortress until Gerianan gets here, and then we must attack together. I can see no other way to hope for victory.”
“Gerianan?” the dark-furred mrem wondered aloud.
“I know no gentle way to say this,” Mithmid began, looking at Sruss, not Talwe. “All mrem have their time. After it passes, a few are remembered forever for what they have accomplished. A mrem also lives on in the memory of those who loved him.”
The mrem seemed hesitant to talk. Talwe stood staring, confused by the wizard’s words. Was he speaking of Lord Sleisher, or even Talwe himself? Then Mithmid spoke again, still facing Sruss, only occasionally glancing at the dark-furred mrem next to her.
“Your, um, king was killed by the Eastern Lords while defending Ar. He died as he ruled, with dignity. We will all remember him as a great king.”
Talwe wondered why was Mithmid so concerned about how gently he told about the death of a king he had never even seen. Then the dark mrem realized that the magician was speaking to Sruss.
Talwe looked at Sruss. She seemed calm, but he noticed her claws were extended.
“They may be here in as little as two days.” The wizard hurried to distract them with other concerns. As he spoke he reached out to Sruss, pulling her arm as if to guide her off the wall.
“And even then....” Talwe muttered.
“Even then,” Sruss shot back angrily and pulling her arm free, though with a slight waver at first, “we will fight until we die. If you wish to surrender, Talwe, then leave the fortress and walk to Arklier’s camp. Ever since Sleisher’s death, you’ve acted as if there’s no hope. If you truly feel that way, then go away. Cragsclaw does not need you.”
Sruss then turned her back to the two mrem and stared out into the mist. She stood rigid, unmoving for se
veral seconds. Then Talwe strode to her and spoke. His eyes burned with fury. “I have not surrendered,” he hissed, “and I have not given up hope. But I will not pretend that the battle is won, because I don’t even know if winning is possible. Sleisher’s death meant much, because when he was alive Cragsclaw lived with him. Now it seems silent, waiting for death, waiting for something to put it from its misery.”
“Like Morian?” Sruss said. There was no inflection in her voice at all, just carefully controlled tones.
“Like Morian,” Talwe answered, softening. His head fell to his chest, and his eyes filled with tears.
“Morian is not dead,” the whitefur announced. “She is with Crethok, but she is not dead.” Then she too cried, wracking sobs that confused Talwe further. Why cry if Morian still lived?
“With Crethok?” asked Talwe quickly.
Mithmid cut in, literally standing between Sruss and the warrior. “Why is she with Crethok?” he demanded gently.
“We need time,” Sruss explained. “Morian is buying it for us.”
Talwe’s eyes blazed. “At what cost, Dancer?” he shouted, not sure what he was angry about. He was supposed to be commanding Cragsclaw, but it all felt out of control. “What will this cost?” he questioned more calmly this time.
“Her soul, Talwe,” Sruss explained, as her sobs came less often, “something she’s already lost.”
Mithmid covered his face with his hands. “You knew of this?” he asked, looking up once more.
“Yes,” nodded the whitefur. “She told me she was going.” She seemed in control of herself again.
Talwe grabbed her shoulder, his anger returning. It was all he could do to keep his claws retracted. “You should have stopped her!” he spat. “You’ve allowed her to die.”
The Dancer looked at him, and slowly shook her head. “I have no power to stop anyone,” she said. “She is free, Talwe. Free. You still don’t know what that means, do you?”
“No,” he said. “Not the way you do.” And he turned to the door, and went angrily from the room. Then Sruss looked at Mithmid.
“She has roused him,” said Sruss. “The plan succeeded.”
“Yes,” Mithmid sighed. “And she has bought us some time.” He paused, then added, “But at what cost to Morian?”
Sruss touched his arm. “That, Mithmid, was her own choice. More choice perhaps than the rest will have tomorrow.”
AT DAWN OF the next day, the enemy stormed the walls once more. From the west came the highlanders, their catapults flinging fire and stones, archers arcing arrows over the wall. But the mrem in the fortress did not panic. Talwe ran along the wall as always and directed the defense. For the fire there was water, and for the arrows there were shields. Only the stones did the damage the enemy wanted, but little of that damage was to the defenders themselves.
Then out of the east came the liskash army, and Mithmid cried out the alert from a tower window. Once more he raised his mist, thicker this time and more heavy, and the archers who joined him fired only at half-seen shapes. Soon the mist was helped when a thick flurry of snow began to fall. A return hail of arrows that seemed almost too thick to shoot and mrem-sized spears rattled off the stone. Bodies that fell were covered by the thickening snow in seconds. Most of the arrows and spears of the liskash fell short.
From the wall Talwe noticed they seemed almost hesitant to close. Instead a wave of dark-furred mrem rushed past them and at the wall. These mrem were poorly armed and dressed in rags, but they fought bravely enough and there was a very large number of them. Twice waves of dark-furred mrem came close to overwhelming different sections of the walls, but failed. When a lull came no one commented that their fur was the same color as Talwe’s. Then there was no time as another wave of dark-furred mrem swept toward the wall.
Suddenly, at midnight, the attack stopped short. Talwe ran to the walls and looked out across the west. The highlanders stood as if frozen, some cowering against the freshly fallen snow. Talwe ordered the archers to shoot. One shot only was all they managed.
For out of the mist to the east of the fortress there came a great shape flying above the walls. Then it slowed, and it turned, and with a long, low wail it began its descent. Down into the streets it swept its huge form, and the mrem of Cragsclaw fell cringing against the castle’s stone walls. One who was too slow disappeared into one massive claw. Seconds later, a mangled form thudded onto the roof of the great hall as the monster sailed over it and swung to make another pass.
“Dragon!” cried voices filled with terror.
The monster was dark, deep green with fierce eyes that glowed a sickly pale green. It was huge, and the snow that masked it made the gigantic liskash more terrifying still. Each wing was twenty mrem long and its tail as thick as an uxan. Its claws were longer than a full-grown mrem. The cold air keened loudly as the enormous reptile’s scaled wings cut through it.
From atop a house near the east wall, Mithmid raised his arms. A bolt of golden light snaked from his fingers, striking the beast’s eyes and forcing it to turn. On the wall above, Talwe drew his sword and sliced at its belly, but the serpent was too high and the darkfur missed his target.
From the west wall sang a volley of arrows. One pierced an eye, another lodged in the throat. Looking up, Talwe saw Sruss with the archers, forcing them to swallow their fear and fight. The huge beast staggered, but it did not falter, and when it climbed into the sky Talwe knew it would not go away.
It turned and began another dive, this time straight for the wizard Mithmid, who had climbed to the wall near Talwe to have a clearer view of the menace. Mithmid stood tall, and raised his hands aloft, and the night was shattered by a bright, hot blast. Once more the archers shot, and once more Talwe swung. This time he struck, and green blood spattered his fur, and with a low, mournful wail the great beast flapped its wings. These carried him unsteadily back over the wall, and the force of the wind from their beating threw the defenders to their knees. With a screech that echoed off the distant mountains, the monstrous liskash climbed into the snow-filled sky. Then the snow fell more thickly and the dragon was lost from sight.
The dark-furred mrem stormed against the wall beneath Talwe. Once more the black-clad guardsmrem toppled ladders and showered masonry and arrows on their attackers. Finally the assault ended.
The mrem on the walls of Cragsclaw waited for the dragon to come back, tails twitching, as they stared into the snow-filled sky. They waited but it did not return.
•
Mithmid conjured up another mist. The mist he conjured churned so thickly that no mrem could see beyond the walls. This worried Talwe. Finally Mithmid relented and allowed a gap half an arrowshot wide to form. The twisted shapes he wished to hide had not approached that far the night before.
And then the wizard started a rumor, steering it throughout the fortress, that the dragon had not been real at all. “We are fighting magicians in the employ of the highlanders,” he told them, and the news was welcomed by most of the mrem.
In fact, Mithmid himself thought the dragon might have been conjured, a form of illusion, but he did not tell this to Talwe. Nor did he tell him that the battle had exhausted him. Some force was keeping him from tapping the power of the distant Council of the Three.
A net of green force had been stretched between Cragsclaw and Ar. He felt that if rested he might break through, but not in his current condition. And there seemed little likelihood of rest today. The mist was draining the last of his strength. Still, he had no choice. Cragsclaw needed this defense, for without it their terror of the liskash would take over. What would happen that night if the dragon returned, he tried desperately to put out of his mind.
It was the time for a decisive battle. There were fewer than two hundred unwounded defenders, though that many more wounded struggled to the walls as well. Talwe knew no dragon would be needed to take Cragsclaw, simply a mass
ive attack on both walls. There simply was no reserve left to retake any section of the wall they had lost.
All that day, the expected attack did not come. Talwe watched for it, straining his eyes to see through the mist, but it did not come and the armies did not attack. He did not understand it, but was grateful. If they survived the night and Mithmid had been right, tomorrow they might be relieved.
Maybe that was the answer. Maybe the liskash were waiting for the night. He shuddered at that thought, just as he shuddered at the memory of the dragon.
He wondered at Mithmid, at the wizard’s store of strength. He well knew the price of using magic, the strain on the nerves and the drain of the power, and he knew that Mithmid must be exhausted. Yet the mist remained thick, and that was a good sign.
A voice behind him interrupted his thoughts. “Morian is alive,” the White Dancer said.
Talwe spun around. “How do you know?” his words spilled out.
“She has spoken with me. With my mind, at least.”
The darkfur nodded. “Where is she?” he asked.
“She is with Crethok,” was Sruss’s cold answer. “She warns that we must not attack, make no sorties. The minute we do, the liskash will storm the walls.”
Talwe pressed his thumbs against his temples. He stood in the street at the entrance of the great hall, rubbing at the pain, stopping himself from grabbing the Dancer and shaking her. “We won’t attack,” he said quietly. “Because we don’t have the strength.”
“You won’t acknowledge what she’s doing, will you?” the whitefur said.
“No,” replied Talwe. Even as he said it he tried to not think about Morian or what she must be suffering at the hands of Crethok. “No!” He hissed the words so vehemently a passing guardsmrem stopped and drew his sword. A few painfully thin children had ventured out to enjoy the daylight in the unusual calm. They scurried back to the shelter of the charred buildings. The Dancer just turned and shook her head, and with an uncertain step left the darkfur standing alone.