Dark Horse (33 page)

Athlone boldly stepped forward and pul ed on one of the doors. Several men jumped to help him.

They expected the doors to be heavy, but the massive bronze gates had been cleverly hung so only one man was needed to open them. To the warriors' surprise, the doors swung back and slammed into the stone with a resounding boom. The men started like nervous hounds as the sound reverberated through the courts and battlements. A flock of crows leaped out of a tower and flew overhead, cawing harshly.

Cantrell leaned on his guide's shoulder and laughed softly. "If anyone is here, we have certainly made our presence known."

The men glanced at the bard sharply, and Ryne said, "Who could be here?" His voice was uneasy.

"Only the dead and their memories," the bard replied. "These are only stones, Lord Ryne, hewn by men as mortal as yourself. There is nothing within to be wary of."

Ryne was not convinced, but he did not want the others to see his dread. He stepped through the gateway. Athlone and the others fell in behind him. Before them, the road passed through another, smaller wall and into the fortress proper. At one time, the area between the two wal s was kept clear and free of debris, its wide space a vital part of the fortress's defenses. However, years of wind-blown dirt and wild growth had accumulated, and weeds grew profusely among the moldering trash, tumbled rock, and the rotting remains of a few wooden shacks put up by later occupants. While the main wal had only one gate, the secondary wall was pierced with eight, one at each tower and one at the road.

Single bronze doors with small lions' heads guarded the gateways.

The clansmen walked into the fortress and gazed about with wonder. Despite the military function of the stronghold, its center was similar to a wealthy city. Inside the eight gates circling the inner wall were the decayed ruins of wooden barracks, stables, kitchens, and servants' quarters. But beyond those were curious houses and courts, broad paved paths, verdant gardens now overgrown and wild, and fountains-all built or decorated with skillfully carved granite or local red stone. Only the eight towers were built of ebony marble, a stone that glistened like black ice and was prized by the old invaders.

Savaric and the warriors slowly paced up the main road past the empty houses, toward the center of the stronghold. The clansmen were stunned by the sheer size of the fortress and the work that had gone into its creation. The men had never seen anything like it.

In the light of early morning, the shade among the buildings was still heavy and a chill lurked in the silent stones. There was no sound except for the men's footfalls. Athlone caught himself staring and listening for a voice in the halls, or a footstep on the side streets, or a face in the embrasures. Instead, all he saw were barred or broken doors, rotting roofs-many of which had fallen in-and eroding masonry with weeds and grass growing in every chink that could hold earth. Year by year, Ab-Chakan was falling into ruin, yet it surprised him how many walls still stood.

The warriors passed out of the buildings' shadows and saw in front of them, in the center of the fortress, the graceful rooms and terraces of the palace built for Ab-Chakan's general. A wide courtyard curved away on either side of the palace. In its center stood a fountain with a carved horse of black marble. Stained and pitted, the statue reared elegantly over a dried pool. Athlone strode to the horse's side and put his hand on the raised hoof.

"I'm beginning to admire these strange people," he said. "They certainly knew horses."

"And knew how to build," Savaric replied. His face was creased with worry, and he inspected everything closely. He was certain he had made the right decision to bring the clans here, but he was overwhelmed by the immensity of the fortress they had chosen to defend. No one in their group had any experience in this kind of warfare, while Medb would possibly have several advisors in his mercenaries who knew how to plan a siege.

"Now it is time for work," Savaric continued. "Ryne, you worked well on the river wal yesterday.

Would you bring the werods and examine the wal s and towers? Be sure there are no breaches or weak places."

The young Bahedin nodded, pleased to have such an important task.

“Jorlan," Savaric said to his new second wer-tain, "I want you to take two men and find the wells. If the water is bad, we will have to bring some from the river."

Sha Umar looked down the road to the great walls. "We'll need plenty of food. I'll start bringing in the supplies."

Savaric agreed. "Cull out the livestock, too. We'll leave the breeding stock and the horses in the defile."

The men left for their tasks. Cantrell and his guide, Athlone, and Savaric were left alone.

"I would like to see this hall," Savaric said, "before we become too busy."

The men walked across the court to the entrance of the great hall that formed the front of the palace. Seven arches graced the front of the building. Behind the middle arch was a smaller replica of the magnificent bronze gate. Athlone gingerly pushed it open, and the doors swung gently aside. The Khulinin looked into the hall.

It was lit by deep embrasures set just below the roofline, and the light of the morning sun poured through. Two rows of tall pillars supported the vaulted roof, which was stil in good condition. On the floor, faint traces of gold still gleamed through the thick layer of dust, debris, and bird droppings. No hangings, trophies, or anything of wood or fabric remained. But on every wall were murals of ancient battles and generals long forgotten. The colors had dulled with time and the walls were scarred and filthy, but the figures were still clear and detailed.

Savaric and Athlone were staring, fascinated, at the walls when Cantrell suddenly raised his head.

"There are horns blowing at the front gate," he said urgently to Savaric. "Leave me. We will find our own way out."

The two warriors bolted for the door and ran across the courtyard. As they raced down the road toward the main gates, they, too, heard the horns of the Khulinin outriders blowing frantically from the valley below. Other warriors were crowded around the gate and clustered on the walls. Savaric and Athlone charged up the stone stairs, pushed through the men, and stopped on the brink of the parapet.

There, a mile distant from the crossroads, a small company of horsemen was galloping from the south. A blue banner streamed at their head. Behind the troop, a cluster of wagons was fol owing at ful speed and a larger group of riders was fighting a running battle in the rear with an unidentifiable company of warriors. The attackers wore no cloaks and were less disciplined than the fleeing warriors, but they kept up a deadly barrage of arrows at the larger force and cut down anyone who fell behind.

Clan Dangari gained rapidly on the fortress, its attackers close on its heels. It appeared to the watching men that the Pursuers did not realize the other clans were nearby.

Savaric and his men leaned over the wall to see the chase.

"Come on, Koshyn!" Athlone shouted. "Ride!"

Suddenly a score of horsemen led by Sha Umar left the shelter of the river wall and galloped toward the approaching clan, their horns blowing a welcome. The horsemen and wagons pivoted around the foot of the fortress and hurried toward the river wal . The attackers took one look at the approaching warriors and the clansmen gathered on the wal s, then wheeled about and cantered off to the shelter of the woods on the other' side of the val ey. The weary clansmen rode grateful y into the defile to the sound of horns blaring wildly.

The Dangari had come.

Nara stepped carefully onto a sand bar and snorted when she sunk up to her knees in quaking mud.

I am sorry, Gabria. I can go no farther.

Gabria glared at the river in frustration, but she understood Nara's predicament. The giant mare was coated with mud and had already been mired once, and they were barely into the fringes of the great delta. Since daybreak they had been fol owing the Goldrine as its banks eroded away to mud bars and beds of reeds. The river had quickly sunk into a morass of shal ow channels, quicksand, and insecure little islands.

When Gabria and Nara arrived at the river the night before, they had camped in lowlands thick with thorns, brambles, and grasses. But in the morning, as the Hunnuli had traveled deeper into the wetlands, patches of rushes and giant marsh grass with silvery tassels crowded out the thickets. Just a little farther ahead, Gabria had been able to see where the pale gray of the tassels turned to a solid mass of tossing green. Sadly, the illusion of solidity was quite treacherous, for the grass was a shifting quagmire where no Hunnuli or horse of any kind could go.

Nara heaved her front legs out of the silt and-lunged to a more solid bank. Her head down, she stood breathing heavily, her massive strength already drained by the leeching marsh.

Gabria slid off the mare unwil ingly. She had hoped the Hunnuli would be with her when she faced the Woman of the Marsh, and she had relied on Nara's wisdom to seek a path through the dangerous mires. But it was obvious Nara could not go on.

She sighed. "How do I find this woman?"

The woman wil find you.

The girl yanked her hat off and thrust it in her bag, then she crossed her arms, feeling very disgruntled. "And how can I be sure she'll help?"

She will help you. She is a magic-wielder. Like you.

Gabria looked away. Until that moment, no one had told her the woman was a sorceress. But her intuition had already informed her of that possibility long ago.

Nara's eyes glittered like black crystal. She nudged the girl gently.
I will wait nearby.

Without another word, Gabria fastened the food bag to her belt, gritted her teeth, and stepped out bravely. The mud oozed to her ankles and water seeped into her boots, but she did not sink like the Hunnuli. She heard Nara plunging away behind her and, for a moment, her resolve almost crumbled.

She faltered in midstep and thought of running after the horse. Then her foot slipped and she fel headlong into the river.

The water was warm and brackish and smelled of rotting vegetation, yet it cleared her head.

Sputtering, Gabria stood up and looked down at herself ruefully. She was muddy from head to toe and smelled like a swamp; the sleeves of her tunic were black with mud and her bag was soaked. It serves me right, she thought irritably. I've come too far to panic now at the idea of facing my dreads alone.

Her jaw set, Gabria struggled downstream toward the heart of the marshes. The morning sun turned hot, and a smell of moldering vegetation began to rise from the river. Gnats and mosquitoes plagued her. The water spread relentlessly over the land and the ocean of marsh grass loomed closer.

She soon found that what looked like one vast fen of grass was really an endless network of pools, quaking mires, and winding, half strangled channels. Through these a cunning eye and foot could find a wandering, unsteady course over patches of mud, tiny islands, and sand bars. However, as the hours passed and Gabria floundered deeper into the marsh, she began to despair of her cunning.

The journey grew very tiresome. Great reed beds often blocked her path, forcing her to wade or swim in deep, scummy brown water. Thickets of grass towered over her and shut her into a green rustling world. She knew the wind was blowing above, for the tassels rippled in sun-drenched waves, yet nothing stirred the water's surface but the swirl of a fish or the leap of a frog. Soon, Gabria was perspiring heavily, which only drew more fascinated insects.

The day dragged on as Gabria floundered south into the marsh. She looked for anything that would help her find the woman: a path, a hut, even a footprint or a smal item dropped in passing. But the marshes hid their secrets wel . She found no sign of any other human being, only water and reeds and herons that watched her with jaundiced eyes.

At last, filthy and exhausted, the girl came to a long, dark mere, where the water was deep and obscure and barred her way on either hand. She stared at the water for a while and wondered if Athlone would laugh if he saw her like this: more mud than sense. It would hardly matter if he did, Gabria decided. She was too tired to care or to swim the mere. Weary and numb, she crawled onto a dry-looking tussock and curled up in the middle of the grass. Her food was ruined, so she drank a few swallows of water, laid her head on the bag, and tried to rest.

Darkness came and with it the noises of the marsh increased to an uproar. Frogs croaked everywhere. Mosquitoes hummed. Thousands of creatures that sounded like rusted crickets squeaked incessantly until Gabria was in a frenzy. The biting Insects were out in force, too, and they covered every pan of her exposed skin. She swatted and squirmed, but nothing would keep them away. She was cold, wet, miserable, and very lonely.

At last she decided she would have to move or go mad. But Just as she was about to sit up. Gabria heard a distant noise in the mere. She froze and held her breath.

The noise came again---a soft splash like a creature paddling in the water---or a snake hunting. She had heard of the huge carnivorous snakes that inhabited the marshes, and although they rarely reached sizes capable of devouring a human, she had no desire to meet one. Silently, Gabria's hand crept to her dagger. The moon, an old shaving, had not yet risen and the night seemed utterly lightless. Her eyes strained through the black to see, her ears listened fearfully.

Suddenly a small, lithe animal popped out of the water by her feet. Gabria leaped back like a stung cat and whipped out her dagger. The animal churned and bobbed its head. She stared at it in amazement. It was shaped rather like a short, fat snake with a blunt nose and tapering tail. However, it also had four webbed feet and a whiskered nose. Its round eyes glittered in the starlight. It chirped again in obvious inquiry, and Gabria eased her dagger back into her belt. It was only an otter.

"Hello,” she said tentatively.

The otter chittered.

Gabria suddenly felt foolish. It was bad enough to be startled out of her wits by a small, harmless animal, but to talk to it in the middle of the night? She squatted down and shook her head. The marsh was wearing her to rags.