The divulging of this news fortified Kiwasar’s authority. His orders were obeyed in the interests of supreme conservation, for everyone understood that if Iordjolk or Oydahm were lost, the very survival of the race would be compromised.
The mountain had 2000 warriors. Eight hundred, under Hsilbog, were designated for the defense of the Iordjolk plateau and the gullies leading to it. Twelve hundred remained under Kiwasar to defend the passes of Oydahm, on which the majority of the places of habitation depended. Kiwasar put the children, the old men and even the mothers into protective shelter. Hsilbog only took a few young women and girls with him, to encourage the warriors in the decisive hours of combat.
Communications between the two armies were assured by the narrow gorges of Borg.
Meanwhile, Rob-Sen’s troops were growing in number every day. From distant districts, even plains that were beyond the lakes and mountains, he received promises of help. In spite of the pain that the loss of Eï-Mor caused him, he retained all his determination. He resolved to commence the great war. After a few uncertainties, it was the plateau of Dap-Iwr—the mountain folk’s Iordjolk—that he decided to capture by means of an extremely rapid attack. With that objective, it was first necessary to insure himself against a surprise attack by the men—under Kiwasar—who were defending the other key to the mountains, the passes of Moy-Dhangh, called Oydahm by the enemy.
Rob-Sen sent 2000 men to advance on Kiwasar. That troop took the first defenses established by the mountain men’s advance guard. Kiwasar, once alerted, moved the bulk of his men forward, while giving appropriate cover to the lateral positions—which were, in any case, almost impregnable—and Rob-Sen’s 2000 men were obliged to stop at the entrance to Moy-Dhangh. Eight hundred mountain men, solidly entrenched, confronted them on the heights of three extremely steep and narrow corridors. A ravine was hollowed out between the mountain men and the lake-dwellers, planted with sparse chestnut-trees, punctuated with small patches of grass, where the assailants would be exposed to terrible losses.
It was dusk. The great trumpets were blaring out a savage music, a challenge as deep and dark as the approaching night. Rob-Sen, not at all inclined to attack these terrible forts, contented himself by placing his men in evident positions, and letting them file slowly over the plateau, multiplying the camp-fires as darkness fell. When he thought that he had convinced his adversaries of the great number of assailants and the necessity of leaving the entrance to Moy-Dhangh heavily guarded against them, he withdrew and had himself transported, lying on an urus-hide, to the part of the mountain that led to the plateau of Dap-Iwr.
He rested during the journey, even going to sleep, and when he arrived close to Hsilbog’s advance positions in the middle of the night, he felt as vigorous in mind as in body. Three thousand men were waiting for him there, who had already captured a few positions the previous day. In accordance with orders received in advance, the army had been resting since dusk. Rob-Sen immediately gave the order to move off.
The Moon illuminated the landscape marvelously. Hsilbog’s advance sentinels saw Rob-Sen’s army approaching. They waited until the army was within bowshot and javelin-range, and started a deadly fire while well-covered. Rob-Sen accelerated the march of his advance guard, and the mountain men drew back.
An hour later, Hsilbog was told about the approach of a large enemy army. The mountain chief had 800 men. He hesitated between an immediate counter-attack—which the moonlight would facilitate—and taking all the measures necessary to make Iordjolk impregnable. In spite of the temptation of a rapid battle and a campaign commenced with a spectacular victory, great for one of his offensive nature, the memory of miscalculations made in the last war made him first take all the precautions of the besieged against a besieger. He divided his army in two, keeping 500 men for himself, and sent three secondary chiefs, each with 100 men, to guard the most redoubtable passes of the three routes across Iordjolk. That done, knowing that he was almost inexpugnable, he considered the possibility of undertaking a counter-offensive, which his intimate knowledge of the area rendered infinitely seductive.
To begin with, he wanted to make an approximate count of his adversaries, and sent out his best spies. From their estimates and those of the various advance posts that had retreated successively before Rob-Sen he knew at about the third hour of the morning that he must be facing between 2000 and 3000 combatants.
By that time, the men in question had surmounted the first, scarcely perilous, obstacles. They had just paused. Their leader was preparing a decisive plan; he had to risk carrying Dap-Iwr by sheer force, with the collaboration of fortune. In order to do that, it seemed necessary to Rob-Sen to engage the enemy everywhere and, after the outcome of the first attacks, to launch the bulk of his army at what appeared to be the most favorable route.
Rob-Sen’s army was positioned on the slope of a valley into which the passages to the plateau emerged like three radii into the arc of a circle. The chief hesitated for some time over the division of his attacking columns. After interrogating prisoners, lake-dwellers involved in previous wars and spies adept at moving over the mountains—which the tribes always maintained—he finally decided to send 500 men along the dry stream-bed, 500 through the gully of Yor-Am and 400 by the third route. He kept half his army—1500 men—in his own hands.
When the decision was made, Rob-Sen wanted to increase the confidence of his men by making a great sacrifice to the war-god of Re-Alg. He summoned the priests. They advanced along a rocky ledge 20 meters wide, from which they overlooked the multitude. The color of their tunics was black. Their shaven skulls were trepanned. In their right hands they held extremely sharp agate daggers, in their left, oak-wood clubs. There were five of them, accompanied by assistants.
The moonlight, striking the ledge directly, illuminated their somber procession. Scattered around the sinister rocks were stands of tall pines, where the delightful mystery of near-darkness mingled with the snow of moonbeams, a few solitary oaks and clumps of beeches. In the distance, colossal profiles, was the symphony of mountains looming up like mysterious clouds. The Moon was motionless in the ether, along with the faint half-extinct torches of the stars. The lacustrian army, assembled in a vast descending avenue, was contemplative, in the murmur of a multitude thrilled by mystery. A shiver went through 3000 heads, their eyes shining in the pallor of the air, a wave passed through the human thicket—and the infinite purity of the atmosphere in which the sky, the mountains, the forests and eternal nature were bathing was a charm.
The high priest leaned over the crenellations of the ledge and cried: “Te-Laad made the Earth, and Ho-Than made the waters, and they set Ham-Dô to defend the Earth and the waters. Ham-Dô had children who populated the Earth and the waters, and the tribes of Re-Alg are among those children, and must exterminate the enemies of Ham-Dô who live on the mountain and those who live on the western lakes. Ham-Dô demands a great sacrifice and he will come to the aid of his children…”
Then, according to the custom of the lake-dwellers in time of war, Rob-Sen replied to the priests in the name of his army: “The children of Ham-Dô will offer five white stallions and five black bulls.”
“Ham-Dô wants men.”
“Which men does Ham-Dô want?”
“Ham-Dô wants five mountain-dweller prisoners. He wants to see their hearts quivering in their open chests!”
Deep down, Rob-Sen loathed the priests, having experienced their caprices and their tyranny; he was not, however, completely incredulous with respect to their power. Most of all, human sacrifices were repugnant to him. He hesitated for a few moments, prey to contradictory sentiments, in which faith, doubt and political calculation collided. One glance at the multitude decided him. There was an energetic approval in that moonlit mass, a violent and voluptuous cruelty, all the hatred of the lake-dwellers for the mountain folk, combined with an implacable instinct of immolation. Belief, the words of the old omnipotent priest and the promise of victory linked to the sa
tisfaction of an appetite would multiply the force of numbers, electrifying desire. Acclamations rang out.
Rob-Sen gave in, raising his arms toward the old priest. “Ham-Dô shall have the hearts of mountain-dweller prisoners.”
On the chief’s order, the prisoners were brought forth and hoisted up on to the ledge. The multitude jeered and insulted them. The victims replied, proclaiming the cowardice of the lake-dwellers and their imminent defeat. They were stripped of their animal-skins. Their white bodies were visible, maintained upright against the rock by their bonds.
With a practiced slowness, the priests opened their breasts. The army enjoyed their lugubrious plaints. Soon, great red floods were welling from the silvery edges of the rock.
Panting furiously, the lake-dwellers rejoiced in the sacrifice, raising their intoxicating faces; the sensuality of the murder excited them all by contagion. The enlarged wounds allowed the mystery of the internal organs to be seen. The sacrifices coughed more feebly.
With a rhythmic and rapid movement, the priests tore out the hearts, lifted them toward the Moon, still alive and beating, while the multitude howled in an extraordinary frenzy of carnivorous joy.
“Ham-Dô is content with his sons,” the high priest finally shouted. “He will give them the lives of their enemies!”
Dawn was approaching. A delicate splendor was struggling in the Orient, between the gaps in the mountains. Fearful life was stirring among the beeches and pines. Then the red round furnace of the Sun posed on a solitary peak.
Rob-Sen, who had watched the sacrifice impassively, disposed the attacking columns. He kept In-Kelg close to him. In spite of his hatred, the latter was disgusted by having seen men of Eyrimah’s race die in that way.
Trumpets were heard roaring on the heights.
Two hours later, the battle had commenced everywhere. The lacustrian columns, having chased away a few feeble advance guards, plunged into the most dangerous passes.
II. The Gorge
For 1000 feet, the banks of the dead stream-bed extended inaccessibly, 100 meters high, as smooth as ivory. The passage was covered in shadow; bats and other crepuscular animals lived there in abundance. A dismal breeze blew there intermittently; sometimes the voice of the wind sounded as high and profound as the sighs of a god of caverns. Overhanging rocks lined it in places, like meditative mammoths over an abyss. Only the evening sunlight, at the magnificent hour, plunged into it confusedly, brightening the flutter of the bats floating in the ether, as if on a rare wave, with a hint of red.
The dead stream-bed opened up to the west after a series of zigzags. To the east, the bed labored up a 45 degree slope, ending on a little plateau, uneven and initially difficult. By means of steep pathways, that plateau communicated with Hsilbog’s camp to the right, and to the left with glaciers and the immense mountains. Rocky walls limited the view.
Tholrog was in command of the 100 men who had to defend that pass. He had also brought 15 women, in order to sustain the combatants in moments of weakness. That was the mountain-dweller custom; the proportion of women was generally inverse to the perils and difficulties. In an advance expedition like Tholrog’s, only the young ones were involved, chosen from among the hardiest.
Next to Tholrog’s sisters, Dithèv and Hogioé, stood the slender Eyrimah and the lacustrian captive Eï-Mor, Rob-Sen’s daughter. By right of war, they were the young chief’s slaves. Their graces mingled and contrasted, harmoniously.
Tholrog looked at the blonde girl avidly; confusingly, though, a little of his emotion was deflected to the other, the marvelous foreigner whose beauty was somewhat enigmatic. He shook his head, savoring the harsh current of air that fell from above and the disquieting breath of the abyss. He was dominated by a need to act. He gave orders to accumulate stones on the high sides of the extinct torrent and on one of the edges of the little plateau. The mountain men set to work. The fortress was ready to crush the enemy; but anxiety strayed through Tholrog’s mind.
Will they come?
As he believes that he will be able to repel any attack, the greatest possible good fortune seems to him to be victorious in front of Eyrimah. He thinks about that, impatiently, his eyes scrutinizing the darkness of the stream-bed, his ear cocked toward the west.
“Asberl! Tahmen!”
Two warriors approach, fine mountain scouts. They leave. An hour goes by; then the echo of rapid footsteps rises from the darkness. Asberl and Tahmen reappeared.
“The men from the lakes are advancing, in great numbers—the first are 500 meters from the dry torrent.”
Then there is silence. Anxiety stirs in every breast, the awareness that no victory is certain, no position inaccessible.
A race often vanquished by weight of numbers, the mountain-dwellers are aware of the treasons of destiny by virtue of the elders’ dark legends. They know that the mountains crumble, that the voice of a child can unleash an avalanche, that torrents cease to flow and that glaciers travel. Now, here comes death! Many will fade away, as the shade of a dead man fades away. Many of those who are tall and brave will be as cold as the pale summits, as still as the glacier-snows. And death will pass and pass again; they yearn to howl and sing.
Tholrog orders them to hide themselves behind the stones, without saying a word. He disposes them; he gives orders; the women are moved back 300 meters, into a cleft in the rock.
The landscape seems to be alone with him: the respiration of plants, the melancholy of the wind, the imperceptible life of the rock, in which forces flow so slowly that the rock seems eternal, the running of thin beasts, the soaring of falcons, the distant flow of streams and springs, insects gnawing their petty pastures or massacring one another in a crack in a pebble…
The sound of marching feet echoes. In the depths of the abyssal passage-way men are advancing: the lake-dwellers. At first there are 10, then 20, then 100, approaching with prudence. The first few pause, in terror of the silence, of the possibility of ambush. Night-birds and bats take flight. A dozen men advance as scouts.
The advance guard begins climbing the slope, but slowly, exploring every nook and cranny, every rocky outcrop. An imperious voice is heard; the men climb more rapidly; 30 others run to join them. Their woolly heads are visible, their prying eyes in red-painted faces, their pikes, clubs and bows. They stop to wait for their companions. Their mouths are anxious. One of them, drawing back, seems to have seen something. His hand rises to his eyelids.
“Blocks to the right and left,” whispers Tholrog. His order is passed on in low voices.
The reconnaissance having been anticipated, the mountain men are not positioned at the most practicable entrance to the plateau. The first lake-dwellers are able to advance that far. They look around suspiciously, without seeing anyone. One of them speaks; Tholrog is able to understand his words. “There’s no one here!”
Another makes a movement of alarm, though; his lips open over shiny teeth and his eyes grow wide.
“To the death!” cried Tholrog. And everything in the taciturn landscape awoke.
The falling of stone blocks was heard, and cries of horror. The mountain men surged forth, hurling javelins; then their bellicose trumpets roared. On the slope, 20 blond men hurled themselves upon the fleeing dark-haired men. There was a brief battle, individuals whirling around, soft flesh opening, skulls smashing. Two lake-dwellers, instead of going down the slope, had recklessly run on to the plateau, in a mad rush, brandishing their axes. One of them, bounding at hazard, stopped dead, his face twisted into a rictus of mad and terrible laughter. Tholrog hurled himself upon him and knocked him down, but without killing him. The other took refuge in a cleft, his eyes filled with terror; his broad face imploring mercy.
It was death that came—a horrible blow of an axe-hammer; gray matter splashed all around, in pools of blood.
Down below, the boulders had crushed the lake-dwellers, and one could see soft pulp, red liquid, fragments of bone; panic drove all those still alive out of the sinister gorge. O
nly five or six round-heads remained on the slope: the number, the fury and the rapidity of the mountain men only permitted them a brief defense.
In the litter of limbs and heads, dark eyes, pale teeth and greasy hair only glimmered for a few minutes; then, their flesh rent, their skulls split and their necks broken, the lacustrians perished, finished off without mercy, torn apart and dismembered by adversaries in whom the overly brief combat left an excess of bellicose anger to dispense random carnage.
That rapid and overwhelming victory swelled chests. Voices resounded in the echoes of the stream-bed. Tholrog had the joy of a prize won from fate, of the certainty of a deed accomplished; full of pride, he watched the women come running.
From the shelter of the rock they listened to the combat; two or three came out, ready to join the men, to fight or to urge them on—but the bellicose rumor, the vociferations of attack informed them of the mountain-dweller’s strength. They all came forward after the cry of triumph, and were met by Tholrog.
“They’re running away,” he said, with glorious calmness.
He told them the story of the battle. While he was speaking, Eyrimah trembled with other thoughts. Was In-Kelg among the assailants? Rob-Sen’s daughter, unfamiliar with the mountain language, watched the gesticulating young chief fearfully.
He sought Eyrimah’s gaze. The sentiment of her beauty was suddenly mingled with the take of the victory. His voice became softer, his gaze sought the admiration of the large and tender pupils of her beautiful feminine eyes. Eyrimah kept her eyelids lowered, her eyes in the shadow of her long lashes; her delicate cheeks were as emotional as her heaving breast. The young chief was saddened to see her so distant; he was saddened by the white harmony of her neck, the abundant tresses of her hair, and the curve of her chin, as delicate as a distant snowy peak.
Vamireh Page 17