The Vanyar rose like bears from a winter’s sleep, roaring and famished and thirsting for blood. The soldiers gave it to them, slitting throats and slashing with their swords as they passed. No Vanyar sought to bar their way—they were too busy jumping back from terrified horses, and the soldiers followed in the animals’ wake. Here and there a Vanyar leaped in after a horse had passed, howling in anger, and a soldier met his axe with a short sword’—while another soldier slipped around behind and split the Vanyar’s head. Then on they ran.
Finally, with the camp in an uproar behind them, the soldiers met at the rendezvous point—a huge rock that thrust up out of the plain, midway between the camp and the city.
“How many are we?” Ohaern gasped.
The soldiers turned to tally one another, panting, then reported. “Las and Odro are missing, but all others are here.”
“I saw Las fall with a Vanyar spear through him,” one trooper reported.
“I saw a barbarian split Odro’s head with his axe,” another added grimly. “They shall pay for that, five times over!”
“They have already,” Ohaern assured him, “but let us not count our kills until we are safely back in Cashalo.”
A scream split the night, and a horse, crazed with fright, charged down at them. The soldiers leaped back with cries of alarm, but Ohaern cried, “Catch him!” and threw himself at the beast’s lead rope. He caught it, but the horse yanked him off his feet and dragged him bumping over the plain. The soldiers jolted out of their surprise and ran after—and Ohaern’s weight slowed the beast enough for them to catch it. The beast plunged and reared, but soldiers helped the smith back to his feet and, bruised but still game, he pulled the horse down, making soothing noises. The other soldiers caught the sense of it and joined him, crooning as they would to their dogs, and finally petting the beast until it had calmed enough to follow on a lead rope.
“Why?” asked a soldier.
“Because I saw some of you daring souls cling to their backs in escape,” Ohaern answered. “If we can all learn to do that without falling off, we may be able to hand the Vanyar a very unpleasant surprise—if we can steal enough of the beasts! I shall take this animal to Cashalo. The rest of you, back into the ditch!”
But they were not willing to let Ohaern risk capture alone, so a handful of them trotted with him and the horse, out across the plain. The Vanyar were slow restoring order to their camp and catching and calming their mounts, so Ohaern and his band were just coming back in through the new city gate when the lookout atop the wall sent up the alarm, as he saw Vanyar chariots appear on the horizon.
The barbarians drove up, shouting in rage and hurling spears that struck only wood and stone, then shaking their fists at the Cashalites as they swerved the chariots past the wall and rode away. An archer bent his bow, grinning, but Lucoyo laid a hand on his shoulder. “No. Do not let them know our range until they come in force.”
“Give me a bow, Lucoyo!” Riri said fiercely, his eyes burning in the moonlight. He sat atop an upright tree trunk behind the wall, with his two friends to either side. “Let me see the color of Vanyar blood!”
“You shall have your chance, fisherman—I promise you that,” Lucoyo said. “But not tonight.”
Riri went back to fletching the arrow he was making, snarling, “One Vanyar shall die for each arrow I can shoot!”
Only one? Lucoyo thought, but he did not say it aloud. He could have sworn that the intensity of the cripple’s hatred could have slain a dozen Vanyar by itself.
It was Riri’s great regret, and that of his friends, that they could not go out to help slay Vanyar—but it was Ohaern’s great relief, for he knew the lame fishermen would not have been able to wait to wreak their revenge until he gave the word, and would have given away the attack. But he led five more raids, then finally heeded the demand of the Captain of the Guard—backed by the king—that he was too valuable to risk. By that time his commandos were experienced enough to raid by themselves. Ohaern agonized over them while they were out, and mourned each one lost—but he could not avoid the press of the work in Cashalo. He consoled himself with the knowledge that of the raiders who died, each took ten and sometimes thirty times their number with them to the After-world.
By the time the Vanyar came in sight of the city, their numbers had been reduced by a thousand. More importantly, their morale had been reduced far more sharply than that. They were angry and burning for revenge—but they were also nervous and, for the first time, a little uncertain.
But they affected nonchalance. They pitched camp on the horizon, in sight of the city walls, and strolled about while the smoke from their cooking fires darkened the sunset. Ohaern and Lucoyo walked the length of the wall, calming their archers and spearmen and promising them blood on the morrow— but telling them not to waste arrows tonight, or to press for a sally. Ohaern did send his commandos out, with the result that the Vanyar had scarcely settled down to sleep when their camp erupted in an uproar. And scarcely had they settled down from that when the night erupted again, and again. Cashalo lost a dozen trained soldiers that night, but the Vanyar had little sleep—so it was a surly, snappish horde that took the field at dawn the next morning, red-eyed and nervous from lack of sleep. When they attacked, it was by marching forward till they were just out of bowshot, for what good were their proud chariots against a high wall? But they centered on the wooden section of the wall, and many of the Vanyar carried firepots.
“Nock!” Lucoyo called, and arrows rattled against bows as they were laid to bowstrings all along the wall. He glanced up at Ohaern, who nodded, and the half-elf called, “Pull!” Bows bent in a row of curves, and Lucoyo called, “Loose!”
Hundreds of shafts hissed against staves, and arrows darkened the air, then fell among the Vanyar with murderous effect. The howl of surprise, fear, and anger rose clearly to the wall. The Vanyar churned like an anthill in a flood, pressing away from the deadly hail. But those in back did not understand the press and were slow yielding—slow enough for two more flights to sting and stab, and by the time the Vanyar were able to pull back out of bowshot, they left hundreds of dead to mark where their line had stood. Once they were safe, a low and ugly rumble swelled from their lines—the sound of the lust for revenge.
“They would have tortured you for their pleasure even if you had not slain any of them,” Ohaern told the archers as he paced their lines. “They shall not hurt you worse for having slain some of them. But even if they could, your only escape would be to slay every one—or so many that they flee in terror.”
“Loose!” Lucoyo yelled, and the shafts filled the sky again. The Vanyar howled with fright and rage as they discovered that the bows of Cashalo had even greater range than they had thought. They ran back in such haste that for a few minutes they turned into a jostling, shouting mob and retired very far indeed. When they turned about, their rumble built toward rage.
“Hold your arrows nocked,” Lucoyo ordered. “They will charge in an instant.”
They did. One huge Vanyar howled, waving his axe aloft, then charged toward the wall. The others echoed his howl, charging behind him. In three long, ragged lines, thousands of Vanyar came pelting toward the city with bloodcurdling ululations.
“Hold!” Lucoyo snapped. “Wait until they are closer, much closer ... Pull! Loose! Now!”
This time the arrows flew down in a dense cloud. The Vanyar whipped up shields with yells of defiance. Arrows thudded into leather and wood—but other arrows found living targets. Vanyar went down, and other Vanyar tripped over them and fell, rolling. The lines behind them tried to hurdle the roiling obstacle; some succeeded, but others tripped and rolled in their own turn, and were trampled by the third line as often as they were spared.
“Still they come!” Riri cried, bending his bow again.
“Let us see how well they think!” Lucoyo cried. “Every third man, fire straight into them! Every first and second man, fire into the sky, to rain upon their heads!”
<
br /> There was a moment’s confusion while everyone worked out who was first, who second, and who third.
“Third archers! Pull!” Lucoyo cried, then, “First and second! Pull! Third, loose! First and second, loose!”
A scattered flight of arrows shot straight toward the Vanyar, and the barbarians snapped their shields up to catch them. Points thudded into leather and wood, and the Vanyar let out a shout of vindication and contempt—which changed to shrieks of horrified surprise as more arrows rained down upon them. Most who had not already fallen had the presence of mind to pull their shields up overhead. The others simply turned and charged back into their own lines, and the horde churned into chaos.
“Well done, half-elf!” Riri crowed, and a cheer went up all along the wall.
Even now, the spark of outrage flared in Lucoyo, to be called “half-elf”—but he realized that Riri had not meant it as an insult and turned to grin at the lamed fisherman. “It will not work a second time,” he cautioned, “at least, if they are as smart as they are ferocious.”
And the Vanyar were proving their ferocity, for they charged again with a low, ugly roar. The front line bore its shields before them, and the men behind held them overhead.
“Smart indeed!” Lucoyo snapped. “Shoot for their feet!”
Bows thrummed along the wall, and Vanyar fell rolling—but their mates, prepared for this, leaped over them and came on, lowering their shields. Fallen men scrambled out of the way, trying to regain their footing; some of them succeeded.
“Shoot their feet, too!” Lucoyo cried, but he knew his part of the battle was almost done, for the human wave was rolling closer and closer. Bows thrummed, arrowheads bit ankles and shins, Vanyar fell—but more came on.
Still, the warriors who hit the wall were far fewer in number than they had been.
“Archers back!” Ohaern roared. “Pikemen to the fore!”
The archers leaped down off the ramparts, and the spearmen scrambled into their places. Those spears were long—eight feet long—and they stabbed downward as the Vanyar clambered atop one another’s shoulders, forming a human ladder in an attempt to scale the twelve-foot wall. That only required three men, the third leaping over—but even as that third man scrambled up, an eight-foot pike stabbed the second man. All down the line the second man fell back with a cry choked by blood, and the third toppled with him. Here and there the third man came up fast enough so that the spear struck down into him; even more rarely, the third man brought his shield up in time to ward off the spear point, and managed to leap over the wall. The spearman stepped aside, and an arrow struck into the Vanyar’s chest. Even then the barbarian warriors kept fighting, hewing about them with their swords as Death pressed its cuneiform into their faces, until they finally fell from the parapet, where other spears transfixed the dead bodies through the chest, just to be sure.
Here and there spears broke; here and there the barbarians were just a little too quick, and the spearmen died, their chests ripped open, falling from the parapet, their bodies striking hard against the invaders, knocking them askew even in death. Their wives caught up their fallen spears, shrieking in grief and rage, and struck downward again and again, until sword points took them and they died with one last stroke.
Then, suddenly, the fight was done. The Vanyar were retreating—not running, but pulling back, gathering up their wounded as they went, driving their chariots forward to take away the bodies of their dead. Slowly, their lines moved away, with much shaking of swords and shouting of curses, calling down the wrath of Ulahane on the heads of the people of Cashalo—but move away they did.
The defenders stared, scarcely believing their eyes. Then a huge cheer erupted, tearing along the wall until the whole city seemed to be howling with joy and victory. The Vanyar heard and raised their swords, answering with a shout of murderous rage.
“They threaten that they shall yet capture the city,” Riri translated.
“I do not doubt it,” Lucoyo said grimly, “and I fear they may be right.”
“If they come again, we shall slay them again!” one of the Cashalo traders said, grinning.
“Will you indeed?” Lucoyo turned to him. “Are you willing to pay the price?”
The trader frowned. “What price is that?”
“Constant drill,” Lucoyo answered, “constant training in the weapons of war—and not just bows and spears, but all the weapons of war—slings and swords and shields and axes. Constant, and early—raising your sons in the Way of the Warrior from their earliest days, aye, and your daughters, too! Their earliest toys must be wooden swords, their earliest games mock battles. Will you pay that price, peaceful trader?”
The man stared at him, appalled. Then his face hardened, and he said, “Aye—for must we not? We have no choice.”
“Oh, yes,” Riri told him, “you have a choice. Just look at me.”
Farther along the wall the king clapped Ohaern on the back, crying, “We have won, War Chief, we have won! I scarcely thought we could, but we have won!”
“Aye, we have won.” Ohaern could not restrain a grin. “But do not relax your vigilance, O King—the Vanyar shall return!”
The king sobered at once. “Aye, they will not leave it at this, will they? No, we must be watchful indeed.”
Ohaern gestured at the writhing bodies below the wall. “And what shall you do with their wounded?”
“What of our wounded!” The king turned to bark at the Captain of the Guard. “Send out men to see if any of our people who fell outside the wall still live!”
“Guard that party well,” Ohaern advised, “from the ground, but also from the wall.”
The Captain of the Guard nodded and turned away. The king turned back to survey the wounded Vanyar, who sat or lay, clutching bleeding wounds or the stumps of limbs, white-faced, but with lips clamped tight to hold in cries of pain. “Indeed,” the king said heavily, “what shall we do with these?”
“Geld them!” Riri cried, face lit with savage joy. “Hamstring them! Do to them as they have done to us, to all their captives—as they would have done to you!”
Silence fell about them.
“There is justice in what he says.” But even Lucoyo could find no enthusiasm for the idea.
“If we gave only that justice, though, we would be no better than they.” The king lifted his head with decision. “We shall bind their wounds, we shall see them healed—but they shall serve us as our slaves!”
Riri’s face flamed with anger, and he pointed with a shaking arm. “Geld that one, at least! For he is a chieftain.”
Everyone turned to stare.
The captive in question set a hand against the wall and pushed himself to his feet, though one leg hung useless, still bleeding freely. “He speaks truth,” the man said in barely understandable Cashalan. “I am. What shall you do with a Vanyar chieftain, O You-who-call-yourself-king?”
The people all turned to stare at the king, holding their breath as they waited for his answer.
Chapter 20
The king said slowly, “If he deemed himself the highest of the high, he shall become the lowest of the low. No, we shall neither geld nor hamstring him, for that is how you treat a beast, and if we pretend that he is less than human, then we shall become less than human. But he shall fetch wood and draw water, and do all the things that any slave does.”
The Vanyar chieftain stood stiffly against the wall on his one good foot, stiff in outrage, crying, “I am no common man, but Ashdra, a chieftain of the Vanyar! How dare you treat me as a slave!”
“By the fortunes of war,” said Ohaern, his face hard, and the king agreed. “We treat you as you have done to defeated rival chieftains in your own turn. Be glad we allow you life.”
“I would sooner have death!”
“Keep on with such impertinence and you may find it.” The king lifted his head to look out over his people. “All the Vanyar who live shall be slaves of the king! The others I shall sell to the merchants—
but this one I shall keep for myself; we can spare him this much token of respect. Take him away! Take them all away to the cellar of my castle and see they are tended till their wounds are healed. Then they shall set to work indeed, helping us strengthen our wall!”
Ashdra gave an incoherent shout, but guardsmen held spears to his throat and heart. As they laid hands on him he turned, striking out at them with hard fists—and the guards struck back with the butts of their spears. When the tussle was over, one or two guardsmen were picking themselves up with black looks, rubbing the places the Vanyar chieftain had bruised, while others bound his unconscious form to the shafts of two spears and bore him away. His tribesmen fought as he had, and if they did not fight as well, they certainly fought well enough to knock out several of the fishermen before they were finally borne down, then borne away.
“They are beaten!” the king cried. “Hail Ohaern and Lucoyo, who have showed us the path to victory!”
“Hail, Ohaern!” the people cried. “Hail, Lucoyo!” And they surged forward to seize the Biri and the half-elf, bearing them up on their shoulders and parading in triumph to the king’s hall.
Lucoyo looked about him in amazement, holding hard to the shoulders of the men who bore him. He could scarcely believe that he, the outcast, the stranger, the man who was always an alien, could be acclaimed as a hero!
Ahead of him Ohaern was taken aback, too, but quickly recovered his poise. He began to smile and to wave to the people about him, calling, “Thanks, brave fighters! All thanks, valiant people of Cashalo! Valiant bowmen, valiant archer-women! It is you who have won the victory, not I!”
But the people cheered him all the harder, for they knew the truth.
At the doors of the castle, they set the outlanders down beside the king, who grinned widely as he waved at the cheering throng. When their noise began to ebb, he called, “Tonight we shall feast, though two hundred must offer to fast and guard the walls so that others may rejoice!”
The Shaman Page 23