They roared in triumph, daring to anticipate victory over this awful foe . . .
And then the tunnel filled with sunlike brilliance. Branra and Danaer instinctively flung up their hands to save their eyes. They held out their swords blindly, fending off attack—but attack did not come as the brilliance died.
Danaer and Branra were unhurt—but the wizard was gone. The opening in the wall was empty, and there was no sound of oars or a boat on the water beyond. Branra threw himself down at the edge, peering out. The entrance was barely wide enough to admit his head and shoulders. The sappers must have had to climb in on their bellies.
"Do you see him?" Danaer asked. Even as he spoke, he felt a peculiar emptiness, no longer cold, and knew that they were truly alone once more.
Branra spat a soldier's oath and crawled backward until he reached a spot where he could stand nearly
upright. "Nothing!" he snaried. "No sign of him! We saw him—and then he was gone!"
Branra was not the sort who could swallow defeat easily. He paced like a man-eater robbed of his prey, an emotion Danaer well appreciated, suffering his own deep frustration. A few of the soldiers poked their heads through the brush-cluttered opening, staring in wonder. Finally Brama gave up and snapped orders for the bodies to be dragged out of the tunnel. He and Danaer followed and inhaled the comparative freshness of open air.
"A tunnel," the Sergeant of the Post was mumbling. "Must be a cave-in. Some fault in the walls that permitted these swappers to—"
"Use your head, troopman," Branra said. "It was no cave-in. Those stones were moved by labor and stealth while Deki defended her walls above the sappers."
"But... how, my lord?"
Branra's glare was fierce, and Danaer spared his fellow Troop Leader the pain of another sharp answer. "It was wizardry." The men shuddered and spoke prayers.
"Get our own sappers, Sergeant," Branra said. "I want this tunnel blocked at once, completely! Now! Have them move from the outside in, and be sure it will withstand any enemy undermining henceforth." As they ran to do his bidding, Branra leaned against the gray stones and looked up at the wall. "It took our ancestors many a long year to build walls so high and so well, when Deki was founded. And now Markuand uses magic to breach them. That wake you saw in the water.. ."
"I did see it, my lord," Danaer said defensively.
"Well that you did." For the first time in some minutes Branra smiled. "At any rate, we have now gained precious time and foiled their attempt to strike at our backs."
Dekan sappers arrived and began work on the tunnel, and Branra ordered the Sergeant of the Post to stand close guard until it was done.
"I will, my lord. And this time I will not sleep."
His earnestness softened Branra's irritation. "You
were not asleep. But perhaps the enemy will find itself too busy to trouble us further with these enchantments. Keep alert, and call for help if you suspect someone tries to cast a spell over you."
Danaer and Branra headed back toward the ramps leading to the walls, and Branra shook his head, repeating with consternation, "Enchantments."
"Kant, prodra Argan," Danaer said piously to ward off more magic.
"Your goddess protect us all, here in a city of her Azsed-Y." Branra lifted his hands to the starry skies. "All you immortal ones, lend us your strength against this Markuand. We need your help sorely!" The sight of Branraediir of the Bloody Sword, notorious for his disbelief in anything but the Royal Commander and his weapon, invoking any gods who could hear him, unnerved Danaer almost as much as the wizardry they had confronted.
Respectfully quiet, he accompanied the Lieutenant back to the ramparts. Yistar was informed of the incident, and messengers were sent to the inn to notify Lira, if she did not already know through some sorkra methods.
The Captain would spread the word to be on guard. But he could do little to combat wizardry. Any coun-termeasures must fall upon Lira and her arts—one more weight added to her tremendous burden. ' Danaer took his station again and resumed his staring across the river. There was an empty barge tied below the place where the tunnel had been dug. The wizard had left behind his boat! Danaer did not like to imagine what dark powers the Markuand sorcerer had used to escape—without boat or without need of swimming!
For a long while he gazed at the watch fires. The night had darkened with clouds, and the strain of seeing through this made him close his eyes now and then to ease them. He began to wish for action to break the tedium, though no more magic!
He rested his eyes, then opened them, not quite believing what he saw. He could swear by his eiphren that the opposite bank was closer than it had been
before, the watch fires coming toward him. A heartbeat or two later, Danaer realized that something formerly connected with the bank had begun to move away, across the river.
As before, Branra was by his side before Danaer had a chance to call him. Danaer relayed his discovery, whispering, half afraid of some unseen presence overhearing them. Other lookouts at other posts were shouting and summoning their oflficers. So it was no illusion made only for Danaer's eyes.
Branra gave orders and there was a stir among the men, a tightening of discipline. The banquette and walkways were full of men, but now more came to join them, forming a second row of defense. Men buckled helmets and fussed with the placement of their extra weapons, lances laid ready at their feet.
Branra cautioned and encouraged, every now and then glancing toward the river. Even in the dim light, it was impossible not to see the glitter in his eyes. Plainly he knew far more joy in facing a multitude of enemy warriors than one Markuand wizard.
"This is no feint," he said, surveying the oncoming flotilla. "The Dekans said all previous attacks had been of an uneven nature. Those boats are well massed."
"We blocked their secret passage and thwarted their wizard. It must have taken much of his energy to escape us," Danaer speculated. "Now they must attack us straightforwardly, my lord."
"Ai!" Branra gripped his shoulder tightly in comradeship of arms. "On our terms, and against our strong fortifications!"
The moving "bank" the lookouts had detected was now visible to those with less trained eyes. Boats of diverse sizes and shapes bobbed over the slow current, aiming for the walls. To those awaiting the attack it seemed the moments crept by. Every man now shared part of Branra's eagerness, wanting the suspense to be ended.
Danaer, too, was glad the enemy was coming at last. Yet he thought of Lira and Gordyan and his friends in the troop, the pleasures of good wine and warm fire
. . . the comforts of the flesh. Would he know these things after tonight? Or would Argan beckon him to Keth's portals? He must not dwell on doubt. If his life was forfeit, he would die a warrior, honoring his name and taking many Markuand with him. He heartened himself with the memory of the ha-usfaen. Strange! Her lithe body seemed smaller than he recalled, and she resembled Lira as much as the goddess.
But Argan was all female, all women—and she knew how to touch a warrior's heart with fire, giving him visions he desired; she was priestess and goddess and beloved in one.
Slay the Markuand for me, faithful ones! Send me the souls of the Markuand. Let us revel in your victory!
Danaer caught up the trailing hem of his mantle and tied it across his chest. A loose cloak might tangle his own blade as well as the enemy's.
How long since he had sighted the Markuand boats? A clock-period? Surely not so long. But then time was nothing.
Everyone saw them clearly now. The dark shapes were boats and rafts laden with soldiers. And there were also towers, miniature forts reared on stilts and floated on barges, waddling into shallow water.
Flame lanced out from the towers, arcing toward the walls. Danaer crouched behind the parapet as three waves of fiery arrows sailed in high parabolas above his head. Most struck the ramparts or bounced harmlessly down onto the banquette, where the defenders stamped out the flaming heads. Some soared on into the city, and Dana
er hoped those patrolling the streets would be watchful, for there was much thatch to tinder a fire if they did not pluck out the arrows quickly.
On a still higher level of the wall, catapults hurled huge rocks back at the approaching boats. The stones whistled through the air in short, flat trajectories. Danaer waited hopefully for the impacts, then narrowed his eyes, doubting what he saw. The rocks were striking some invisible barrier a length ahead of the towers, then ricocheting off and down into the river. A few missiles broke through, with the loud smack and crunch of stone breaking wood and bone. But most of
the defenders' artillery was wasted, never reaching the enemy.
Where had he seen this before?
It came to Danaer in a rush-^Prince Diilbok, riding at the edge of a riot, posturing courageously while no arrow or club or rock could strike him, though many were thrown at the drunken fop. It had seemed the whim of some god then. But now Danaer suddenly recognized the similarity. Wizardry! As the Prince had been protected, so were the siege towers and boats— not by gods, but by evil magic!
He must tell Lira about this! She in turn could reach out through her Web and speak to. Ulodovol. The Royal Commander must be warned that his sotted kinsman was more than he seemed.
Treachery—everywhere! The accusations Diilbok had laid against Danaer? Not mere drunken meanness, but an attempt to silence the one man who could prove the rioters' true identity. And the riot? To ruin the alliance ere it could begin. How the opposition dreaded the joining of Destre and lit!
Diilbok was the King's own kinsman, and if he plotted with wizards and assassins ...!
Danaer could not linger over the worrisome discovery. Death, garbed in white, was fast drawing near.
There were few flame-tipped arrows shot now. But bowstrings still sang and rains of barbed shafts flew in both directions as the Markuand archers and Deki's few bowmen dueled. Whenever one of the arrows or catapult stones broke through the wizard's barrier and struck home, the soldiers and Dekans cheered mightily. However strong his enchantments, it seemed the Markuand wizard could not protect all his forces at once. Some rocks smashed into boats and tipped or sank them. The archers on the walls cut down many a Markuand with their cruel arrows.
They did not die screaming. When a man defending the walls was hit, he might gasp in shock or cry out if he was from The Interior. But as the Markuand went down, there was no sound. The sappers had died silently, too. And unlike the Destre, these Markuand had no battle shouts, no ululating shrieks to terrorize
their foes. Did their commanders tear out their tongues to bind them to such muteness? Or . . . was this more evidence of magic?
Danaer had no bow, and the boats were still too far away to waste a lance. But he loosed his sUng and risked peeping over the wall and trying for a kill. It took four attempts before he at last struck cleanly. The white uniforms reflected star and torchlight and distant campfire well, and he saw a Markuand officer topple off the edge of his raft. At once another moved to assume his place. There was no moan or plea for help, no confusion.
The deadly, silent Markuand . . . Deki's defenders now sensed why the Clarique had been stunned to meet such a foe, and ripe for the conquest. Krantin had been warned, and though this thing made men shiver, they did not panic and flee.
Boats and tower floats rode above the stony barricade strewn against the walls, and white-clad soldiers debarked, scampering forward. The smack of wood against stone warned those above that ladders were being put in place, ladders of incredible length to scale Deki's mighty walls.
Now the Markuand siege towers used their own catapults, aiming high for their opposing members and for the groups of archers on the lofty parapets. A storm of countering fire raged back and forth as the towers groaned ever closer.
Danaer dared a peek through the lookout's grille, seeing the towers creeping inexorably over the ruins of the quays and wharves. Over broken stone and the bodies of their dead, they came. By morning, the river would be thick with blood and splintered weapons.
"Steady, now!" Branra bellowed, in a voice any Troop Leader would envy.
Arrows hummed like bees, and to Danaer's left a man screamed and clutched an arrow which caught him full in the breast. He lunged upright, then toppled over the wall, smashing down on the rocks. One of his friends wailed in anguish, "He would never keep his head down!"
One tower was now directly in line with Danaer's
section of wall. There was a room built near its top, and Markuand milled about inside. Arrows and rocks continued to bounce away before they could seriously damage the machine.
"Ready, warriors!" Branra again. His voice was like his sword, cutting fear away from them all, steeling them with battle fever.
Like some tremendous wooden demon, the mouth of the tower opened. Running across plankwork and toward the walls, on a new-made bridge, came the Markuand—silent, white-clad, with swords and lances and axes in their hands.
XVI
Wizardry Most Profound
There was a gap between planking and wall, and the foremost Markuand threw down pieces of wood to span the rest of the distance, bracing the device atop an attack ladder. Defenders thrust at the makeshift bridge with pikes and lances, trying to dislodge it. Noise ruled the scene, for though the Markuand did not scream in pain, they could not still their feet or the sounds of their weapons; and Deki's warriors cursed and shouted and cried in triumph or agony as blade or lance or arrow met flesh.
As the j&rst wave of invaders clambered atop the wall, Danaer drove the flat of his sword against a Markuand belly. The man tried to strike with his ax. Sprawled on the parapet, the Markuand was easy prey, and Danaer brought down the blade hard between shoulder and neck. Then he upended the slain Markuand, flinging the body over the wall.
The white-clad foe was everywhere now, weapons in constant play. One Markuand leaped over the
crenel to Danaer's left; before he could turn to counter, Branra was there, as swift as a lightning stroke. The invader dropped in a gory heap and Branra immediately attacked another opponent.
A Markuand fell heavily against Markuand as Dekan pikemen dispatched him. Together the Dekans and Danaer heaved the corpse down into other enemies just mounting the wall. In a tangle, living and dead disappeared into the darkness below with a sodden splash.
As each head or body appeared, Danaer struck re-flexively, and so did most of the other defenders. Men moved in concert, a ritual of slaughter, a deadly dance.
"Archers!" Branra yelled above the din. "Now! Set the towers afire!"
They strove to obey him. At first the fire-arrows and globbets of balled fire bounced away uselessly, as they had before. But as the barrage kept on, Danaer felt an odd pressure building, a tautness in the air and a crackling.
Lira? Hurling her magic against the mighty Markuand wizard?
She was taxing him, while he must be put to his utmost powers, for the assault of the Markuand pressed forward all along the river, and surely he could not be everywhere at once.
Danaer's talisman was quiet, but he sensed Lira's presence, though he could not see or hear her. The tension in the air grew, like stinging nettles raking along his skin, and an eerie blue glow limned the siege towers—the unseen barrier, becoming solid!
And then it burst! All at once the fire-arrows struck home, and so did the catapults' missiles. Markuand plucked out the blazing shafts embedded in the towers and tried to throw them away before their siege machines caught fire. Their white clothes in flames, they fell like living torches. The towers were now so close that Deki's archers skimmed their shafts barely above the heads of the defenders, a whistling melody accompanying the raging man-to-man battle.
Indeed, it was a battle, true and untainted by wizardry at last! Arms and courage alone would now
decide this outcome. The fearful cloud of wizardry which had shielded the Markuand melted away. Every man on the walls seemed to feel the same release Danaer did, an inner knowledge that he could strike and no
magic would thwart him.
For long minutes they were all absorbed in the business of keeping alive. Arrows sped toward targets, the Markuand hurled back flaming torches, and men died. Again and again Danaer slashed at the oncoming white wave, a wave of soldiery seemingly without end.
Branra howled elatedly and others took up the cheer. The siege machines were ablaze, and the Markuand were climbing out onto ropes, trying to escape the flames. Silent or not, they feared death. The ropes burned through and many fell to the rocky waters. Others dived off, preferring a quick end to a pyre. The pikemen seized on that confusion, put their shoulders to dislodging the makeshift bridge, and succeeded. The bridge carried with it those Markuand who had been crossing to the walls at that moment. One jumped off and clung to the parapet ledge. A soldier, using a shield against the onslaught of Markuand arrows, leaned over and prodded until the enemy's fingers lost their grip and he too fell.
Branra exhorted his troops to press the counterattack. "This must be their main assault! Get oil on tiiose scaling ladders, quickly!"
In the bright light of the burning towers, the scene below was order being rebuilt of chaos. With superb discipline, the Markuand paddled forward in small landing boats to take the places of the dead and injured. They did not help the wounded but kicked them aside mercilessly or walked over them.
Heavy cauldrons were wheeled out of special bastions and slid out into the machicolations Deki's wise defenders had constructed long ago. Soldiers drew back to permit the sweaty operators to work their contrivances. Ropes were pulled and chains fed through pulleys, and the cauldrons poured their boiling contents of searing oil onto the Markuand below.
Even then, there were no screams. But a chorus of
shocked, strangling noises rose, as if agony caught in tens of throats of the tortured and dying. There was a terrible hiss and a column of steam as hot oil and scalded bodies fell into the cold river.
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