The air felt heavy on his face with the promise of rain. Segovac said it would likely fall before midnight, through any man with weather sense could have told that. The predictions that came next more harder to believe, though the Eburreans seemed ready enough to accept them. And Azaran had been in Segovac's company long enough not to disdain anything the Rhennari said.
He held up a hand. Movement behind as the rest of his men caught up. Veteran fighters all, many of them from the same group that had followed him into battle only weeks before.
A break in the clouds appeared, letting down a slash of light that illuminating things for a moment. Azaran edged back then looped around northwards, approaching the walls from the northeast. Up ahead the torches on the walls burned, behind the lights of the camp. Crouched down, the grass coming up to the middle of his calf. There were men on the walls. He held up a hand, keeping to the shadows, well away from edge of the glow from the torches. He peered ahead, only two men on this patch of wall. One was leaning against a merlon, as if resting,
Moment of truth. Azaran dashed towards the wall, his body casting a long flickering shadow as he ran across the area before the wall. He reached the base, willing himself to disappear into the darkness cast by it. Waiting for the alarm to be sounded. All it would take was one guard even half-awake and this whole thing would turn into a disaster.
Nothing. The rest of his men crossed the field without so much as a question shouted down from the wall. Just as Segovac and the other Rhennari predicted.
He'd seem Segovac do a divination on his own, but that was nothing compared to what happened when four Rhennari decided to occupy the same general area and unite their efforts in communion with their god. A wide open space was cleared at midday and all flames within a hundred yards extinguished. A bag of ground chalk was procured from somewhere and accompanied by much chanting, the Rhennari drew a powdery spiral on the grass. By the time they were done a large crowd had gathered to watch, including many women and children from the nearby villages. Standing at the cardinal directions, they raised a chant. The spiral began to glow, the chalk transmuted into brilliant blue flames that envelope the Rhennari, rising to a height of thirty feet or more and obscuring the holy men from sight. This went on for quite a while, during which any who looked into the flames would have caught faint outlines of various shapes...faces, men running, women laughing, the sun and moon and the Mansion and some things that defied description, all vanishing. Not many people did look however, as all the Eburreans present had their heads bowed and their lips moving in prayer.
The flames eventually disappeared, revealing the Rhennari much as they were before. Three predictions did they give to Gwindec, Azaran and other notables who gathered in the Prince's tent afterward. They also left behind a large spiral scorched in the grass. Later that day, Azaran observed local Eburrean women laying their children down in the center of the mark, as a plea for health and good fortune.
The eastern wall will be clear. The first prediction. One of the men in the raiding party slid a coil of rope off his shoulders. Hanging from one end was a three-pronged iron hook, which he spun about and then hurled high over the top of the wall. He pulled back until the rope came up short. Those below heard an audible metallic clink as the grappling hook found a foothold in the stone. The men tensed, but yet again no cries of alarm came.
Three more ropes went up, seemingly without notice. Azaran went up first, the runes on his torso glowing beneath his shirt, making the climb all but effortless. He reached the top while the rest of men were only a third of the way up. He climbed over the edge and dropped down onto the walkway on the other side.
"No..don't wanna go...shove off..."
Azaran turned about, reaching for his knife, body tensed to strike. The man he saw earlier, leaning against a merlon was less than twenty feel away. His arms were crossed and he look outwards, giving all appearances of a vigilant sentry. Azaran moved quietly over, placing a hand on the merlon and leaning out to look at the fellows face.
He was a mercenary, from some land to the south, judging from his darker complexion and the lamellar armor about his torso. A iron cap sat on his head, wrapped about several times with a strip of cloth that also went below his chin. A large sickle sword leaned against the wall. Cradled in his arms was a clay flask that reeked of sour wine.
Azaran rolled his eyes and stepped away. "Slack bastard," he muttered. The man grunted, shifted about slightly and began to snore.
His men reached the top of the wall and climbed over. One of them saw the slumbering sentry and reached for his sword. Azaran shook his head. "Leave him be," he whispered. "He's earned a night off."
The men grinned at that, several stifling laughs. They climbed over the wall and headed towards the right, leaving the sentry to his wine-sodden dreams.
A stone guard house stood at the northeastern corner of the outer walls. A doorway gave access inside, which was currently closed. Just past it a stairway led down to the ground. Light glowed under the door and the clatter of dice could be heard on the other side.
"Six's again, blast you!" exclaimed a voice on the other side. "How do you pull it off...and with my dice no less!"
"A prayer to Tashtarub. That is all."
"And who in the Iron Bull's stinking arse is that?"
"The God of Luck and patron of gamblers among my people. To those who show him the proper respect, he bestows fortune."
"He pisses on me...damn!"
"Always respect the gods, even those who are not your own. Another round?"
"Yes! Your luck has to turn sometime."
"It's a matter of faith, my friend."
"Well, your faith is costing me money..."
The men inside the guard house continued with their game, oblivious to Azaran and his band headed down the stairs outside. They reached the ground, headed to a set of stables placed against the wall. The horses inside watched them with liquid eyes as they gathered about. Beyond the stables was the lower town, wherein dwelt the common folk of the stronghold...the butchers, the bakers, the carpenters and common laborers, all whose work enabled the lives of their betters. All gone now...expelled as useless mouths before the siege began. Those who stayed behind (blacksmiths, armorers and fletchers and the like) moved into the stronghold at the top of the hill.
Hand signals at this point. Azaran raised three fingers and then clenched his fist. He then darted forward alone, moving from shadow to shadow. Away from the stables and down the narrow streets of Bellovac. Mud squelched slightly beneath his feet - with much of the population now outside the walls, the muck that characterized most of the spaces between the houses of the stronghold was beginning to dry.
As he went, Azaran kept a running count. The men back at the stables were doing the same, silently repeating a nonsense phrase in their heads over and over. One dog barks, two dogs bark, three dogs bark... When they hit three hundred, they would advance. If the streets were not cleared beforehand, this raid would turn to massacre very quickly.
Running down the hill was a main street of sorts, wider than the rest of the narrow alleyways, to the point that two men could lie down on it head to foot across and still have some room to spare. But no man in his right mind would want to do that - cut in the center was a deep ditch flowing down the hill. Trickling along the bottom was a stream of filthy water, excrement and the occasional dead rat. It all flowed through a small drain at the base of the wall and ended in a cesspit on the other side, far away from the stronghold's wells. Local farmers had leave to come by with buckets and use the contents to fertilize their fields, though in practice few could stomach the task and delegated it to those being punished for petty crimes.
The ditch gave this part of the hill its own unique odor. Bellovac was famous for it - among the many unfulfilled promises of the King when he came to power was a vow to cover up the ditch, in hopes of containing the stench. It fell by the wayside, and with the Ghelenai on the loose the locals had worse things to worry abo
ut. Like most living in such circumstances, they grew accustomed to the smell.
But the mercenaries who filled Bellovac now were another matter. Azaran heard their complaints long before he saw them. He ducked between a pair of houses, blending into the shadows. A band of four men walked down the hill, several clapping cloths over their nostrils.
"Gods, what a stench!" said a Hadaraji fellow. "How can anyone live like this?"
"You've smelled worse," answered one of his companions, a pale-skinned fellow from the furthest north with hair so blond it looked near white. He alone left his face exposed. "Didn't you tell me last night that you were at the siege of Tashan-Bul? As I recall, it lasted so long and with so many men that the slit trenches overflowed with shit and worse."
"And because of that, a third of our men died without ever seeing the enemy. The demons of sickness follow filth like this." The Hadaraji waved a hand at the ditch. "And that was a siege! These people live here! Like pigs in filth, the savages!"
"Care to venture an opinion?" The northerner glanced back at the two men behind them. Both fellows had long curling beards tumbling down their torso's, one with red and green ribbons woven through. Neither said anything.
The patrol went past Azaran's position. One glanced into the shadows, looked directly at Azaran, but saw nothing. They continued on.
Azaran slipped out behind, sword at the ready. He moved in quickly, cutting down both men from behind before either had any inkling what was happening. The northerner and Hadaraji turned about, the latter grabbing his sword and opening his mouth to shout. Steel flashed and his head fell away from his shoulders. The heavy blade kept going from momentum and smashed into the northerner's head, knocking him into the ditch. He did not move afterward. The sewage backed up before his body, then flowed around and over it.
Two hundred. The count was there now, as near as he could figure. Azaran turned back up the hill and sprinted to the second wall. It was somewhat smaller than the one at the base and looked to be at least a hundred years older. A single narrow gate pierced it. Two mercenaries stood there, conversing in a language he did not know. He pressed back against the stone and listened. The familiar crawling sensation tickled his mind. A moment later the words resolved into understanding. Hadaraji, judging from their appearance, though both wore gear common to the Teregi corsairs. Likely a pair of Enkilash's followers, sworn to a new paymaster.
"The worst part of it is," one was saying, "we'll have to hear Yasarkali moan on and on about the smell."
"He is a complainer, that one," said the other. "The gods grant that the patrol is a long one and he slips and falls into the ditch."
Azaran stepped forward. "A shameful thing," he said in Hadaraji, "to insult a brother behind his back." Then he switched to Teregi. "But I would expecting nothing else from a pair of Corsair rats!"
Both men drew their swords. But standing in the confines of the gateway, neither had room to maneuver. Azaran stabbed his sword into the throat of one, letting go and letting it fall with the body, He moved on the second, grabbing the man's sword arm by the wrist just as he was about to slash. With his other hand he stuck under the mercenary's chin, crushing his wind pipe. Before he could even begin to choke, Azaran spun him about and snapped his neck.
He pulled the bodies out of the doorway. Footsteps sounded in the street and he saw his men running up, they streamed through the doorway, spreading out on either side, Azaran slipping through at one point to keep an eye on the Great hall above. He could hear the faint sound of music playing through the open windows in its side, along with the murmur of a lot voices speaking at once. The King hosted a feast on this night.. Best to keep up morale until the reinforcements from Cavarag arrived.
The last of the men came through, and all eyes were on him. Azaran gave a single order. "Begin." A single word, yet in this moment it initiated several actions of crucial importance.
First, the men divided into three groups. One headed west along the inner wall towards a cluster of low buildings. The Upper Hill, as it was known, held store houses, barracks, and the homes of clan elders, most of whom were evicted along with the rest of the non-combatants, their homes turned into additional housing for the flood of mercenaries crowding the place. The men in the first group carried clay bottles filled with lamp oil, stoppered with cloth wicks. The Upper Hill provided them with a wealth of potential targets.
The second group went off in the other direction. Their target was a small house tucked against the wall, whose windows were currently cold and dark. A man who went inside would have found a single-room house with a thatch roof in dire need of repair and a dirt floor covered with dry and brittle reeds. But a few moments work clearing an open spot in the center would reveal a wooden door embedded in the ground. When pulled away, they would find a stone-lined hole going downwards, with hand and footholds embedded alone on side. When they reached the bottom they would see a passageway dug out of the living rock of the hill, headed towards the stronghold. The sheer amount of dust coating the floor and walls suggested that no one had passed this way in a very long time, over a hundred years in fact.
This was the second vision relayed by the Rhennari, its veracity confirmed by a very old clan elder who'd taken refuge in the rebel camp. A century ago, there was a chieftain who'd countered the monotony of his duties by having any number of mistresses on the side. Such things were not unknown to the men of Eburrea, though frowned upon - infidelity was seen as a regrettable weakness that revealed other defects of character, though that hardly stopped men from engaging in the practice. But this particular chieftain had taste for women married to other men, especially those sworn to clan elders and others of note. To avoid scandal, a tunnel was dug in secret from the lowest levels of the great hall to a nondescript house a few hundred yards away, where the chieftain and his paramour of the moment might meet in secret with no one else the wiser.
The chieftain died. The tunnel, which was a secret to begin with, was forgotten by subsequent generations. Now the second group of rebels made their through its narrow confines, their path lit by a single lantern held by the lead man. At the far end was a door which opened into a storeroom barely fifty feet from the dungeons, filled at the moment with hundreds of Cavaragi hostages. The rebels would free them, place weapons in their hands and add their numbers to their own. Combined, they would attack the stronghold from below. Surprise would be total, or so they hoped.
The third group consisted of Azaran alone. Once the others were away, he strode up the hill on his own, approaching the last of the three walls, surrounding the Great Hall itself. He was about halfway there when then first cries went up from above. "Fire! Fire in the town!" He slipped into the shadows as men streamed down the hill, drawn by the sight of flames flaring up among the barracks, mingled with the shouts of the men who'd been sleeping in them, awakening to the threat of a burning death. Chaos, confusion...just what the plan called for. If the men were following the plan, they would stream back to the lower town and take positions near the gate. They would wait for the chaos to begin, then attack the gatehouse, seizing it and opening the gates for Gwindec, who would be waiting with a picked assault force to seize the lower town. The rest of the hill above the second and third wall, that would depend on Azaran and his men.
Azaran waited until maximum confusion before making his move. He crept up the hill, keeping an eye on the wall. Ten feet fall..too much for him to jump, but he could get his hands on the top...except there were iron spikes embedded there. He glanced at the gate, just wide enough for two men to get through side by side...and sealed shut with an iron bound wooden door.
There had to be a way. He stood in the shadow cast by a house. Behind he could hear the sounds of chaos. The fires were spreading. He stepped sideways and bumped into something...bundles of dried reeds, bound with twine at the top. Thatch for roofs...and beside them long wooden poles on which they would be laid.
Azaran picked one up. For anyone else it would have seemed heav
y, sixteen feet of solid bronze spruce, favored by the locals in building their houses for its flexibility and strength. He held in one hand, looking at it, then at the wall. A wild idea entered his head.
He shifted his grip, holding the pole with both hands near one end, keeping the rest pointed straight out.
Azaran burst from the shadows, running up the hill. Runes flared on his chest, giving him a burst of speed far greater than his legs should have allowed. Shouts of alarm went up, but he ignored them, keeping his focus on the rapidly approaching wall. He shifted his grip again, raising his arms so that the pole pointed at a downwards angle. The tip slammed into the ground before the wall, pressing against its base. The spring wood bent, then snapped back as he kicked off the ground, vaulting into the air, rising above the wall. He let go of the pole just before its length struck the wall, flying over the top and down to the other side.
He tucked in and rolled as he hit the ground, tumbling over several times, ribs and limbs screaming in protest. Azaran rolled to his feet, shaking his head in amazement that the move actually worked. Then he spun about, as a man came charging at him, shouting in some language, too garbled for the runes to translate, raising a heavy battle ax in both heads.
Azaran didn't draw his sword. He stepped aside, letting the mans swing hit air and pull him off balance. He stepped behind and slammed his fist into the back of his head, right above where it met his neck. There was a muffled crack of breaking bone and a corresponding shiver running up Azaran's arm, numbing it for a moment. The ax man dropped face first to the ground.
Azaran drew his sword. He reversed the blade and stabbed down into the fellow's neck, then yanked the blade free, looking towards the Great Hall. The doors were open and warriors were streaming out, headed down to the fires down the hill. One of them raised a shout, pointing at Azaran. They changed course and headed towards him instead.
"Perfect," Azaran said. And indeed it was. The plan was going as planned. With a smile he went forward as the nights real work began.
Shadow of the Ghost Bear (The Tale of Azaran Book 2) Page 19