by Janet Morris
"Meaning it is worth the risk?"
"Meaning if it weren't, we'd still have to accommodate her. Don't you have relatives, Bashir?"
"It seems to me she's going to be accommodating Critias."
"Did you see the horse she brought for Niko?"
"And one for you. Let's hope you don't need them to trek to hell together."
"With you here to watch over all our souls? Come, Bashir; let us see whether a priest of Enlil can drink an old soldier under the table."
And they left, with Randal trailing after, his eyes wide and his witch-scored face pale and wonder in his voice: "She says she's here to help us, Rid—commander. And she wants to confer, alone, with me?"
"Keep your belt tight, mageling, and you should survive it."
Already, she'd brought more troubles than he thought he could handle. But Bashir was as anxious as he to start the ascent to the high peaks keeps; after that, he wouldn't need her.
Niko had his cuirass back, if not his soul, and the sorrow in the Stepson's eyes was partly eased by the magnificent gift Aškelon had sent him; they'd not lost a single man to Roxane during the attack on the Peace River house; Bashir was committed and even Grillo seemed to be keeping his place. Whatever doubts the ranks had had were assuaged by the luminaries convening for this mission.
He heard Sacred Banders talking quick and easy victory as they headed for the mess; what with Enlil's priest and a successful night's work behind them, and the omen of gift horses from the entelechy of dreams, they could even fight hand to jowl with mages, against mages. It was almost as if they had Abarsis back again, so high were spirits in the camp.
Every one of them was spoiling for a fight, and Tempus knew one thing for certain: they were going to join the battle of their lives, sweat the blood of legends, and perform feats of valor the like of which they'd never know again.
Book Five:
UP WIZARDWALL
Around Wizardwall the wards snapped tight and rockfalls glowed bright blue. Nothing over fifty pounds in weight could pass through unnoticed or unscathed or by dint of force alone: the perimeter wards turned unwary insects into exploding fireflies, roasted rabbits in an instant, charred birds' feathers as they hit the high-strung fence of power wound about the citadel like ritual wool.
And down from the high peaks winter blew, and wizard weather vanquished summer: not one of the adepts gathered on the heights expected an easy rout, but all agreed a verdant carpet of flowered earth was not a proper welcome for the Riddler, his murderous sister Cime, Bashir of Free Nisibis who brought Enlil into the war, and Grille, representative of Ranke under whose aegis even the Tysian mageguild had sent a young adept along to fight.
Nisibisi warlocks had never been so busy; already they were engaging the Machadi enemy side by side with Mygdon as the Mygdonian Alliance's most fearful weapon. Most of the blood-hungry and the high-spirited warlocks had joined Lacan Ajami's rear echelon retinue; whose remaining up on Wizardwall didn't dirty their hands with mortals or mix among the puny or the damned. A wealth of tender spirits and newly unconsecrated dead were delivered up to them by the lesser mages; the greater burped and lazed and fed, not really troubled by the distant, raging war or even sixty-six guerilla fighters climbing up with dogged determination to bring the war to them.
To teach Tyse a lesson long past due, blizzard weather was sent down. After camouflaging the high peaks routes and filling crevasses with treacherous drifts of white, it rolled on down the mountainsides, dispatching the summer with its blighting breath that bit off limbs and whispered harshly in reddened ears of famine soon to come.
Exploratory lighting bolts had been parried by Tyse's overweening mageguild; fair warning was ignored. Mere Hazards were not up to battling weather. Terror waxed among the townsfolk as their treasured prestidigitators bowed their heads and warmed their hands over sputtering hearths and tried in vain to call the banished summer back.
Priests pontificated over pious congregations larger than they had ever been before; armies drilled through slushy streets, a show of pretended force; mothers wrapped coughing children close and bought draughts that didn't cure them from overworked physicians; coins changed hands on Commerce Avenue for forecasts of fate and weather meant to make the frightened brave; whores warmed the bellies of unending clients who had fields full of frozen cattle to forget; girls wrapped in skins queued up before the mageguild to buy prophylactic spells and aborting preparations, but those who'd gone through times like these before just accepted that a baby boom was on the way.
In Brother Bomba's, the owner's wife was uncharacteristically glum: the place was full up night and day, reservations in advance were needed, and the storage magazines beneath would hold for a month or more while everything shot up in price and a mug of warming wine well-mulled or a barley posset was worth what a girl's night used to cost. But Madame Bomba's "soldier boys" were out mountain climbing in foul weather and this, her confidants agreed, was what was wrong; only good news down from the high peaks or word from one of Grille's specials made her smile; a Sacred Bander, when one came down with a horse gone lame, was treated as her guest of honor; all others, rich or well connected or even intimately known as was her husband, were virtually ignored.
And high above the town the archmage Datan, in his preoccupation with the Froth Daughter snoring in his seraglio, could not be shaken to his senses or even spoken with, most days.
Since Roxane had flown up to heal her wounds and gird for battle, she'd hardly seen him. And when, chancing upon him in onyx, private halls, she'd tried to apprise him of his peril, he'd called her "stupid, short-sighted, and inept."
She'd left him with his belly shaking as he laughed at her and all his chins aquiver, certain then that she'd been right to deem him due for toppling. When this war was over, all of Wizardwall and the northern range would be hers, and hers alone.
Thus she didn't have to explain her own behavior; not how the snakes had died (though she'd been ready to blame it on the surprise attack by Stepsons) or even why they'd caught her unawares. She didn't have to justify the fact that she'd spared the young fighter Nikodemos for more spying despite the dream lord's cuirass or His alleged interest in the youth.
So she rehearsed the moment when she'd triumph and planned the fates she'd mete out to enchanters, high and low, to Enlil's priest and to the Riddler and his rightly-accursed sister, whom Roxane had hated at first sight in Sanctuary when One-Thumb introduced them.
As the Stepsons and Successors and specials of the army trudged on through snow and sleet she found those witches and warlocks she wanted for her faction, and prepared the oaths of fealty they must swear to earn salvation.
She was meeting with a chosen few when Datan called her to war council; the enemy had passed through the warding spells unharmed. It was Bashir, Enlil's foul priest, who'd facilitated this with sacreligious prayers sent on high, when from Wizardwall all worship was directed downward. Certain demons were incensed. The priest, it was decided, would be first to die.
* * *
The snow was deep, the shadows purple. Above them, as night fell, it seemed a man could touch the stars if only he reached out with lance or sword. Tempus had split the force once Bashir was sure that sorcerous ramparts were well and truly breached: Niko had already taken his mixed group of Stepsons and Successors northeast; Grille would have the western face to scale with Sacred Banders and his specials; Critias and Straton were to drift off in the morning with five pairs they had chosen for surreptitious entry and undisclosed diversionary action; Cime and he would stay with the main contingent and Bashir.
There had been some little wrangling. Critias had wanted Niko in his squadron: they were off to do what Niko liked and did the best. But Tempus had prevailed, citing Randal's presence as one reason to count against it. The witch's oversight through Niko's eyes he didn't mention until Critias and he had crunched knee-deep in snow to a spot near the horse lines where Tempus could be certain they were quite alone: "I wan
t her thinking he is the main threat, that where Niko goes and what he penetrates should be the wizards' primary concern." He'd sent Niko's team off first, then given out further orders. The young Stepson thought the balance of the incursion force would follow close behind his advance, that he and Randal were the shock troop leaders on which all else depended.
Critias spat into the snow. "You'll likely lose him."
"By standards such as you or I employ, we've already lost him. He's got the mage close on his right; if he comes through this, it will be a combination of his luck and Randal's skill, not anything more or less, that saves him. He's got a witch upon his back, her collar round his neck." To no one else would Tempus have explained himself at length. But Grit's usefulness was enhanced the more he knew; he saw and understood too much to be kept ignorant, allowed to draw his own conclusions, which might be wrong. "And Cime's been over all possible contingencies with Randal. You've seen for yourself that my sister is unparalleled at strategy with men."
Crit looked at him sidelong: "Have you objections to my spending time with her? She's your sister, after all… perhaps I should have asked. I'm not serious, not in love—just…" He stopped and frowned: "That's not how I meant to say this… I mean, it's a war, commander. Men bunk in where and how they can."
Tempus chuckled at his task force leader's discomfort: Critias was seldom at a loss for words; Tempus couldn't remember him ever being obviously nonplussed. "As long as you're paying her what she asks, it's not my business—"
"You know about that?"
"Would that I did not."
"So?… It's all right, then? You've no objections?"
"Would it matter if I did? No, I'm sorry, Crit. It's hardly a case where you need to ask or I want to give permission. She's ten times your age, you know, surely old enough to choose her bedmates on her own. I'm not her father, nor will I give my blessing to any union she makes for the occasional coin… She has a long, infernal history of which, if you're smart, you'll stay in blessed ignorance." He knew he had been too sharp, that Crit might misunderstand, and uneasiness between them was one thing he could not afford. Yet he didn't like her bedding his best officer, the one man on whom he must be able to depend. Twice in the same evening, he found himself wishing Critias were a trifle less perceptive.
"Listen, Fox," Tempus used Grit's war name; the sound of it brought his second in command up short. "She's my sister but she's not…" He couldn't explain it. He said instead: "Be careful of her, she's not a belly-warmer. And she belongs to Aškelon, lord of dreams, not to men. It's sport for her, and if it's sport for you, that's fine. But I need your head, unturned, and your eyes full sharp, and your mind on business. I can't have you leading men into battle half asleep."
That lightened the mood, and Crit's cynical grin flashed white as the snow about. The moon was rising, gibbous and bright. "Now you sound like Straton. I promise I'll pace myself. It's not a full time occupation of mine, pleasing women. I've a right-side partner now, you know…"
And on firmer ground they left the subject, talking of the Successors' trick of pushing off from crags, their body-weight guiding silken-strutted winglike kites, and whether they could use it; and checking mules and asses among the horses on the lines, and trying to evaluate without prejudice Grillo's men and Grillo's motives—a difficult task when both wondered where the Rankan really stood to profit most, for that was where Grillo's interest always lay. Neither had expected him to volunteer to make the trip. Critias was just venturing that it must be because of Bashir when a commotion among the low, black goatshair tents sent them at full tilt, running in wide-paced strides through the snowdrifts.
They followed sounds of horses screaming, growls and howls and men shouting curses until they came upon a crowd milling uncertainly about a collapsed tent with thrashing shapes beneath it.
"What's happening here? Who's in there?" Crit collared a Nisibisi fighter with arrow nocked and pulled him off his knees.
"Let me go! My lord's in there… and Grille, too… and something… something else!"
"You can't shoot what you can't see, man. Come on." And Crit was running, pointing and yelling names and codes and gathering a group to lift the tent, another with ready arms, spear and bow and sword, to slay whatever was growling and howling under it when they got the cover off.
As ten men moved in to lift the tent, a wind began to gust. Snow rose up in blinding eddies off the ground and clouds attacked the moon. An unearthly whine came from the wind that blew the snow into their eyes and men snapped down their visors or held up arms to keep their lashes from freezing as they blinked and cursed, but Critias and Tempus, with his own sword drawn, wouldn't let them back away.
When they'd gotten it halfway up, the torches and intervals around all guttered, but Tempus had seen something furred and feral, a glimpse of glowing greenish eyes, and dived under, into the tent's confines.
"Bashir? Grille?"
"Aye, my brother. I'm still here," Bashir replied, but faintly.
"Tempus? What took so long?" Grillo sounded stronger, closer. "You feel anything. See anything? Let's not hack each other to bits in here, my friends. All hold!"
And, pausing, his sword fouled in something—:tent or beast, he couldn't say—Tempus listened. He strained his ears. He waited for jaws to close on him. He heard Grille's breathing on his left, and Bashir's, too ragged, somewhat farther away. "I think you're right, Grillo; it's gone, whatever it was—or wasn't. Let's help them lift this up."
Grillo answered; Bashir did not.
And when, with much straining and pulling and pushing from within, they got the tent (which like a great bat with a will of its own seemed to want to smother them) pulled up and cast aside, and someone brought a torch Tempus hardly needed in the light from a moon come clear in a starry night with no traces of wind or snow to mar it, all could see the black blood running from Bashir's gut around the hand he held to his groin.
He was curled up, and Tempus called: "Get Cime," refusing to let Successors, pushing back the others to get close to their wounded leader, move him.
Bashir's eyes were open wide, and Tempus could see the shock in them. If he started flailing, he would surely die. So Tempus sat down in the snow and talked quietly but insistently to the warrior-priest, who had bubbles at the comers of his mouth, about what had happened and demanded a description of the attacker.
Bashir was trying to get his words out clearly, willing himself to ignore the pain. Men crouched silent, close, and bit their lips; from farther back, Tempus could hear curses and prayers begin to sound.
"Make way, here. Let us through. Move, hillman!" It was Stratons' voice. Then Tempus heard Critias, talking fast and low to Cime about getting her anything she needed and what it was going to mean to the endeavor if Bashir died now and his men, a superstitious lot, deserted, leaving them not much better than lost among the crags covered with snow.
"Crit, not now. Cime, look at this."
Then his sister was beside him; Bashir's grip tightened on his hand. The priest shook his head; no, he didn't want that kind of help. But he hadn't spoken aloud and Tempus leaned down, whispering, "This is no time for scruples, fighter. Unless you're a coward and seek an easy death."
That put life into Bashir's brown eyes, and Cime bent over him, diamond rods aglow.
As she worked, Bashir, against his will, gave one soft cry and sucked in breath; when she straightened up, she ran one bloody hand through her hair and said, "I cannot say for sure if this avails him." Then, louder: "Successors! That blood wine of yours is what he needs right now. All you've got, and hurry! Get it!"
"Straton!" she continued. "He needs a litter, a dry, warm tent—mine will do. Lots of furs, painkillers; get all the drugs together and someone to tell me about each one you've got. And start some soup—we need clear broth."
"Soup? Woman, with a wound like that? You'll kill him," Grille objected.
Tempus was about to intervene; with all Bashir's Successors listening, the l
ast thing he needed was dissension, open questioning of Cime's healing skills.
But she said: "The wound is closed. It's the blood he's lost which concerns me. And the pain he's in. Now, get back. Where's Straton? Brother, move these men and speed this up. He'll be on his way to Enlil's hands if he lies much longer in this snow."
When she'd used that same snow to wash away his blood from the angry, closing wound, she called her brother close: "Put your hand right here, and keep it there."
"I thought you said it's healed?…"
"In deep, it is. We've got to squeeze the fluids up and out; if it were to heal over poison, or his own wastes, we'd lose him. Just hold it closed and don't ask questions." He did as he was told, noticing that Bashir had quite passed out.
Later, within her tent, they traded guesses as to what had made the wound and whether Bashir would have to be left behind.
"One place is as bad as another. The trip up won't kill him more surely than the trip down. Leave him? And if it attacks again? We've got to take him, brother. The god loves him; if it's Enlil's will, he'll mend."
Grillo sneered that gods had nothing to do with this, that it was a werewolf, probably planted among the men.
"Oh yes? That's your guess? Then go out and find him, Rankan. Use this." From her belt Cime pulled a little dart, silvery and very thin at its tip.
Once the flap had closed behind Grillo, her mocking laugh rang out. "I keep wondering when those fools will grow up, but the answer is that they will not."
"There's no werewolf, then?" Straton asked.
"Not unless it's you, Stepson. Or Critias. I keep those stickers to pick my teeth."
Straton shuddered, made a face, and scrambled up to see if the broth was ready.
That left just Critias, Tempus, and Cime, her cheeks smeared with blood like rouge, a lock of hair hanging down before her eyes. She pursed her lips and blew it back: "Well, beloved sirs, what think you? His color's better."