Gidjabolgo held out a glass of wine. “Drink this.”
Kerish obeyed, fixing his whole attention on the patterns in the golden glass.
“I can't understand,” began Forollkin, “why you didn't see the arrow coming. Why didn't you . . .”
“Hold your tongue,” said Gidjabolgo savagely. “Galkis would have broken her. This was a good, clean death and she was best out of it.”
Nobody spoke again until the servants returned to clear away the unwanted meal and to ask when the Prince and his brother wished to see Lord Jerenac.
“Now,” said Forollkin.
*****
The Lord Commander no longer occupied the Governor's Palace. His wives had been sent to comparative safety beyond the Jen Mountains and Jerenac now lived in a single large room in the great tower that overlooked the harbor of Viroc. As the three travelers entered the lofty room, Gidjabolgo wrinkled his nose at the odor of decaying flesh. Though the city shimmered in the heat of high summer, Jerenac lay swathed in furs and he did not rise from his couch to greet them.
“Your pardon, Prince,” rasped the Lord Commander. “I took you for a weakling or a fool, like the rest of our royal brothers, and I see that you are neither.”
Kerish bowed his head in silent acknowledgement as Forollkin walked forward to salute his old commander.
“I am sorry about the woman,” said Jerenac. “I hear you were betrothed. You must believe in a future then, even for Galkis . . .”
“I did,” said Forollkin wearily.
“Whatever hope you had, forget it. Do you care for your country? Your kin? Your friends?” demanded Jerenac. “Forget them; none of them is worth dying for.”
“Then what is?” asked Kerish gently.
“Yourself,” Jerenac's face was grey with pain. “If you had been betrayed by country and kin and friends as I have, you would know that anything is better than to betray yourself.”
“Do you mean that it is better to die than to live as a slave?”
“I mean, Forollkin, that it is better to die than to live as a willing slave. Come here, boy.”
Ignoring the stench of the suppurating leg, Forollkin came closer to Jerenac's couch. “At least one thing is unchanged in Galkis . . . your spirit.”
“My spirit!” Jerenac spat out the words. “How much do you think it cost me, boy, to smile at O-grak's taunts? He mocked at my loyalty and spoke of my scorn for the Godborn. That was too weak a word. I do not scorn my high and holy kin; I loathe them. I used only to despise them, but now I hate the Godborn and I curse the soul of the Emperor who fathered us. He saw this darkness coming and smiled and stepped aside to let it pass.”
“Our mission was one attempt he made to save Galkis,” said Kerish unsteadily.
“Your mission?” growled Jerenac. “Some mad tale of an imprisoned Saviour . . . it was nothing but a trick to send his favorite son out of danger and it robbed me of an heir. Do you really think that Ka-Litraan believed in this Promised Saviour?”
“No, he did not believe.” Kerish's expression was hidden by his veil, but his voice was desolate. “Yet he accepted the High Priest's belief.”
“Izeldon? What did he ever do but bewail our woes? I have more respect for Rimoka or Zyrindella; at least they are prepared to fight for what they claim as theirs.”
“Izeldon fought in his own way.”
Jerenac raised himself on one elbow. “You ordered me to fight to the last. Will you do as much yourself?”
“I will fight in whatever way Zeldin commands,” answered Kerish.
“Then listen to me.” There was a frightening urgency in Jerenac's voice. “O-grak himself has pointed the way. If you would serve your Gentle God, take the throne of the Godborn.”
“Zeldin, not again!” Kerish walked abruptly away towards the window and the cleaner air but Jerenac's eyes pursued him.
“Take my signet ring and go to Ephaan. I promise that my troops there will obey you. Let Zyrindella rule the north as long as she can defend it from Fangmere, but seize Galkis itself and hold it. The people have never learned to love the new Emperor or to trust the Empress Rimoka, but they know no evil of you and absence has lengthened your shadow. They would flock to follow you. Raise an army to protect the capital and something may be saved from the wreck of Galkis.”
Forollkin looked uncertainly at his brother and Kerish said slowly, “Jerenac, you yourself gave me my answer. I might betray my country and my family, but not myself. You may be right that I should seize the throne, but I cannot do it.”
The Lord Commander took his refusal with bitter calm. “Then we shall defend Viroc and await the outcome.”
“The defense of Viroc is vital,” admitted Kerish, “but our task lies elsewhere, our quest must continue.”
“Kerish, surely we . . .” Forollkin faltered as the door was flung open and a messenger ran into the room.
“Sir, a large force is landing about two miles down the river. Captain Felnik has called in the patrols, but we need more troops to throw the enemy back.”
“How many boats?”
“About thirty longboats, Sir.”
“So, Prince,” Jerenac smiled grimly, “you have made O-grak angry enough to attack before all his forces are ready. That is good, though you may not find it so easy to leave Viroc now.”
He gave out a stream of orders and Forollkin listened intently and said at the first pause, “Let me lead one of the sorties. “
Jerenac refused. “Not until you have rested. For the moment you can help me by telling me what you know of O-grak's plans. He does not often make a mistake and I wish to my heart that I was fighting beside him, instead of against him. I shall not live to see his victory, but I do not grudge it to him.”
*****
By evening and through the night reports of further landings reached the city. Jerenac's troops were not numerous enough to repel them all. In some places they could do no more than harry the invaders and retreat before them. By dawn a large contingent of the Men of Oraz had set up camp within sight of the south wall of Viroc. At noon the enemy troops began fanning out to cover all the approaches to the city. An hour later, half the fleet of Fangmere arrived at the entrance to the deep channel that linked the main harbor of Viroc with the sea.
Jerenac sent out horsemen to summon back the soldiers guarding the south-west of his province. For the sake of holding Viroc, all Jenoza between the river and the Jungle of Jenze might have to be abandoned to the enemy.
It was no longer possible to bury Gwerath on a hillside overlooking the sea, as she might have wished. A grave was dug for her in a lonely corner of the Palace gardens within sound of the sea. Forollkin had refused offers of robes and jewels for Gwerath. She was buried wrapped in his cloak, her only ornament a new scarf tied at her throat. Kerish watched two priests heap the dark soil over Gwerath's body and remembered the Valley of Silence. `I laughed there once,' he thought, but he felt no guilt. He knew that Gwerath would have hated that quiet place.
Forollkin walked away before the formal rejoicing over the flight of Gwerath's soul began. He left the Governor's Palace and strode up to the first officer he saw, demanding information on the city's supplies. The man told him how the spring planting and the summer harvesting had been hindered by raiding parties from across the river. It was three weeks since a cargo ship had got through from Ephaan and Jerenac was forced to allot more men than he could spare to guarding the supply route from Joze. The order had just been given to butcher the remaining livestock and salt down the meat. The siege might last all winter and there was hardly enough fodder for the soldiers' mounts. Families who had fled with their treasured animals into Viroc were now weeping or pleading with the slaughterers.
Forollkin hardly noticed them as the officer led him to the main storehouse and armory. It was obvious that Jerenac had prepared prudently for the long-expected siege. The people thought him harsh, but they might learn in the months ahead to trust harshness more than indulgence. Of a
ll the supplies, arms had suffered most from the indifference of the capital to Viroc's danger. Forollkin counted every arrow in the armory. It took a long time and when he had finished he counted them again.
After the funeral, Kerish had gone back to his rooms in the Governor's Palace. He settled in a window-seat with a book across his lap. Gidjabolgo sat nearby, tuning the zildar and watching the Prince read the same page over and over again.
In mid-afternoon, three ships of Fangmere entered the channel and sailed towards the harbor. The channel was too narrow to take more than a couple of large craft abreast and the ships of Fangmere had no chance of turning unless they reached the harbor itself. Two Galkian ships hastily positioned themselves to block the mouth of the harbor, while two more waited behind to bring up fresh men and arms as they were needed. The foremost ships were soon locked in combat and the axemen of Fangmere swarmed on to the Galkian decks.
Anxiously watched from the tower and the ramparts, the battle raged for more than three hours. Slowly the Men of Fangmere were overwhelmed and their ships were captured, but the cost was heavy. Sixteen Galkians lay dead on the decks and more would die later of the terrible wounds inflicted by the axes of Fangmere.
Forollkin came down to the harbor as the wounded were being brought ashore on stretchers. He knelt to comfort a soldier who did not yet realize that his leg was half severed. As he tried to talk steadily and cheerfully, Forollkin saw a growing understanding of the grimness of their situation in the faces around him. The crew of the three ships of Fangmere were either dead or seriously injured, but the enemy could suffer such losses for months before their strength was appreciably diminished, while the small garrison of Viroc could hardly afford to lose a single trained soldier. In fanatical devotion to their goddess, the Men of Fangmere would fling themselves on Viroc day after day, week after week, month after month, and it was O-grak who would profit from the slaughter on both sides.
One of the city's overworked Healing Priests reached the man whom Forollkin was comforting and knelt to administer a drug to ease the pain. No longer needed, Forollkin crossed the city and climbed the southern ramparts to observe the enemy forces. The Orazian troops were hurriedly assembling the rams and catapults and scaling towers whose components had been brought across the Jenze under cover of darkness. For centuries the Men of the Five Kingdoms had considered the use of these weapons dishonorable, but O-grak had no such scruples. He had spent years patiently gathering the necessary skills and materials. His trained men clustered about the half-completed weapons, while the warriors of Fangmere looked on contemptuously. They were preparing for the land battle with prayer and fasting, dedicating their gleaming axes to the glory of Idaala.
Forollkin paced along the walls until he came to a slender tower that marked the easternmost limit of the city. Kerish had overheard Cil-Rahgen and O-grak discussing this weak place in the ramparts, so now nearby houses were being pulled down and the masonry piled against the tower to strengthen it. An old man who had lived in one of the houses all his life was sitting, bewildered, in the middle of the street, surrounded by his possessions. His thin hands clutched a little silver figure of the dying Imarko, as though he were determined to save that if nothing else. Forollkin turned on his heel and went back to the armory.
Survivors of the battle at the harbor-mouth were bringing in weapons stripped from the dead on the Brigand ships. Forollkin suddenly saw one that he recognized – the High Priest's dagger. It had brought no blessing to the warrior of Fangmere who had taken it. As Forollkin reclaimed his dagger, it seemed a sign that however sad his homecoming, he was where he was meant to be.
He didn't return to his quarters until late that night, but he was roused again before dawn. Someone had found him a captain's uniform that almost fitted. The messenger who had been sent to bring him to the ramparts, helped Forollkin into the silvery mail and fastened the lilac cloak. They left without disturbing Kerish or Gidjabolgo.
Forollkin was startled to be saluted by the group of captains standing on the ramparts. All the soldiers manning the walls were staring north-east at a curious purple glow in the sky.
“It's the light of the nearest beacon,” said one of the captains, “but that post hasn't been manned for weeks.”
Forollkin leaned over the battlements, shading his eyes against the unnatural light. A line of hilltop beacons stretched from Viroc to Ephaan and on to the capital. They had last been lit six months ago to summon help from the Emperor; help that had never come.
“If they were ordinary flames,” began Forollkin, “I'd say that the enemy had gone up into the hills and lit the beacon to confuse us, but they can't know the secret of the powder that turns the flame purple.”
“True, Sir,” said a second captain, “unless they've got it out of a Galkian soldier under torture. The other possibility is that Galkian troops are approaching Viroc and have lit the beacon to let us know they're coming.”
Forollkin almost flinched at the hope in the captains' faces. “If that's so . . . they won't know yet that there are enemy troops between them and the city.”
A large body of Orazian soldiers and a smaller contingent of the Men of Fangmere had moved in the night and were now encamped beside the Ephaan road.
“That's right, Sir,” answered the first captain, “and the land lying as it does, they won't get a sight of the enemy till they're nearly on top of them.”
Forollkin found that everyone was staring expectantly at him. “Well . . . has Lord Jerenac been told?”
“No, Sir,” answered the oldest of the captains. “He's sleeping at last and the Healing Priests didn't want him woken. The Lord Commander has told us to obey your orders as his own.”
Forollkin tried to mask his shock by saying crisply, “How far away is that beacon?”
“About five miles, Sir.”
The purple glow was fading. Forollkin looked up at the sky and saw the grey streaks of dawn. There must be twenty officers in Viroc more experienced and better equipped to lead the defense of the city than he was, but they were not sons of the Emperor. The people demanded Godborn leaders and he could only try not to fail them.
“Assemble three-quarters of our mounted men in the square by the North Gate. I'll lead a sortie if it's necessary. Oh and tell . . . ask his Highness if he will join us here.”
Cloaked against the lingering chill of night, Kerish was soon climbing up to the ramparts, with Gidjabolgo at his heels. Sentries paced along the walls and four officers were leaning against the ramparts discussing the best way of dealing with scaling towers. It took Kerish a moment to realize that one of them was Forollkin.
“So, the sword's back in its scabbard,” muttered Gidjabolgo.
As the other three officers knelt to kiss his hand, Kerish had never felt more of a stranger.
“Highness, we need the sight of the Godborn,” began Forollkin. “There may be Galkian troops coming down the Ephaan road.”
He explained about the lighting of the beacon and Kerish nodded. “My mind can probably settle the question before my eyes. Give me a little time and quiet.”
An awed hush spread along the walls as those who were too far away to know what was happening were scowled into silence by those who did. Kerish closed his eyes and stood very still, facing northwards.
After a few minutes the Prince turned to his brother and said, “I sense nothing but haste and hope. They must be Galkian. There's a presence among them that I know I should recognize. . .”
Forollkin was no longer listening; he was already giving more orders. Two of the captains hurried down into the city to carry them out. For those who remained on the battlements there was nothing to do but watch the sunrise and wait. The two brothers stood together, looking towards the hills. After a while, Kerish pointed out a horseman galloping into the enemy camp. “A scout, I would guess, reporting our newcomers.”
Messengers were soon hurrying between the Orazian tents and amongst the Men of Fangmere.
“Th
ank Zeldin not all of O-grak's troops are here yet,” muttered Forollkin. “And the only horses he has are the ones he's stolen from us. Still, if he got his men to the high ground above the Ephaan road he could ambush our . . . no, he can't know the terrain well enough yet and there isn't time. Will he try to block the road where it comes out of the hills or wait until the newcomers are level with the camp?”
Kerish understood that Forollkin was thinking aloud and didn't try to answer him.
For a further half-hour they watched the hasty preparations in the enemy camp. Food and wine were brought up to them. Forollkin ate as he paced the battlements and Gidjabolgo settled down with his back against a wall and a bowl of steaming kardiss in his lap. Kerish would take nothing but a cup of wine and gazed steadily at the Ephaan road. He watched the Orazians and the Men of Fangmere march out of their camp and position themselves across the road, about a mile from the city. The Men of Fangmere formed a semi-circle, facing the hills, but the Orazian troops behind them looked towards Viroc. Obviously the Khan was expecting a sortie; Forollkin would not have surprise on his side.
“Here they are!” exclaimed Kerish. “Look, just coming out of the hills.”
To Forollkin the newcomers were only a dark blur on the Ephaan road, but the Prince was saying, “Their livery and banners are purple and gold, so they must be Imperial troops. Perhaps Rimoka has remembered the south at last.”
“What sort of numbers?” demanded Forollkin, forgetting to address his brother formally in public.
“A thousand or so. Ah . . . they must have spotted O-grak's men.”
The newcomers paused to regroup and then marched steadily on towards Viroc.
“Time to go,” said Forollkin.
Kerish went with him to the huge square in front of the North Gate where six hundred horsemen waited. They were met by two captains. One of them was carrying a plumed helmet and a spear with a jeweled haft; the other was leading a battle-scarred roan horse. The first captain handed the spear and the helmet to Forollkin and the other offered him the reins. “The Lord Commander's steed scents battle.”
The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) Page 12