In the Realm of the Wolf (29 page)

“Numbers?” snapped Altharin.

“Twenty-one killed today, slightly more than forty wounded.”

“Enemy losses?”

“Difficult to say, sir.” The young man shrugged. “Men tend to exaggerate such matters. They claim to have killed a hundred Nadir. I would guess the figure is less than half, perhaps a quarter, of that.”

The manservant Becca ducked inside the tent and bowed. “The Lord Gallis is returning, sir.”

“Send him to me,” ordered Altharin.

Moments later a tall, wide-shouldered man entered. He was around forty years of age, dark-eyed and black-bearded. His face was streaked with sweat and smeared with black volcanic dust. His gray cloak was slashed and grime-covered, and there were several dents in his embossed iron breastplate.

“Make your report, Cousin,” said Altharin.

Gallis cleared his throat, removed his white-plumed iron helm, and moved to the folding table, on which sat a wine jug and several goblets of copper and silver. “With your permission?” he croaked.

“Of course.”

The officer filled a goblet and drained it with a single swallow. “The cursed dust is everywhere,” he said. He took a deep breath. “We lost forty-four men. The pass is narrow at the base, flaring out above. We forced our way some two hundred paces toward their camp.” He rubbed at his eyes, smearing black ash across his brow. “Resistance was strong, but I
thought we would get through.” He shook his head. “Then, at the narrowest point, the renegades struck.”

“Renegades?” queried Altharin.

“Aye, Cousin. Drenai or Gothir traitors. Two swordsmen, unbelievably skillful. Behind them, above and to the right, was a young woman with a bow. She was dressed in black. Every arrow found its mark. Between her and the swordsmen I lost fifteen men in that one place. And high above us, on both sides, the Nadir sent rocks and boulders down on us. I ordered the men to pull back, to prepare for a second thrust. Then Jarvik lost his temper and ran at the swordsmen, challenging them. I tried to stop him.” Gallis shrugged.

“They killed him?”

“Yes, Cousin. But I wish they had shot him. As it was, one of the swordsmen, the ugliest fellow I’ve ever seen, stepped out and accepted his challenge.”

“You’re not telling me he defeated Jarvik in single combat?”

“That’s exactly what I
am
saying, Cousin. Jarvik cut him, but the man was unstoppable.”

“I can’t believe it!” said Powis, stepping forward. “Jarvik won the silver saber contest last spring.”

“Believe it, boy,” snapped Gallis. Turning to Altharin, the officer shook his head once more. “No one was in the mood to continue the attack after that. I left a hundred men to hold the position and brought the rest back.”

Altharin swore, then moved to a second folding table, on which maps were spread. “This is largely unexplored territory,” he said, “but we do know there are few sources of food within the mountains, especially in winter. Normally we would starve them out, but that is not what the emperor has ordered. Suggestions, gentlemen?”

Gallis shrugged. “We have the numbers to eventually wear them down. We must just keep attacking on all three fronts. Eventually we must break through.”

“How many will we lose?” asked Altharin.

“Hundreds,” admitted Gallis.

“And how will that look back in Gulgothir? The emperor sees this as a short punitive raid. And we all know who arrives tomorrow.”

“Send the Brotherhood in when they get here,” said Gallis. “Let’s see how far their sorcery will carry them.”

“I have no control over the Brotherhood, more’s the pity. What I do know, however, is that our reputations and our futures are in the balance here.”

“I agree with that, Cousin. I’ll order the attacks to continue throughout the night.”

“Stop grumbling,” said Senta as the curved needle once more pricked under the flesh of Angel’s shoulder, bringing together the flaps of the wound.

“You are enjoying this, you bastard!” retorted Angel.

“How cruel!” Senta chuckled. “But fancy letting a Gothir farm boy fool you with a riposte counter.”

“He was good, damn you!”

“He moved with all the grace of a sick cow. You should be ashamed of yourself, old man.” Senta completed the last of ten stitches and bit off the twine. “There. Better than new.”

Angel glanced down at the puckered wound. “You should have been a seamstress,” he muttered.

“Just one of my many talents,” replied Senta, rising and moving out of the cave to stare down over the mountainside. From the cave mouth he could hear the distant screams of wounded men, the echoing clash of war. The stars were bright in a clear sky, and a cold wind was hissing over the peaks and crags. “We can’t hold this place,” he said as Angel moved alongside him.

“We’re doing well enough so far.”

Senta nodded. “There are too many of them, Angel. And the Nadir are relying on the wall across the center pass. Once the soldiers breach that …” He spread his hands.

Two Nadir women made their way across the open ground, bearing bowls of clotted cheese. They stopped before the Drenai warriors, eyes averted, and laid the bowls on the ground before them, departing as silently as they had come.

“Really welcome here, aren’t we?” observed Senta.

Angel shrugged. There were more than a hundred tents dotted around the giant crater, and from the high cave the two men could see Nadir children playing in the moonlight,
running and sending up clouds of black volcanic dust. To the left a line of women was moving into the deep caves, carrying wooden buckets and gathering water from artesian wells deep below the mountains.

“Where tomorrow?” asked Angel, sitting down with his back to the rocks.

“The wall, I think,” said Senta. “The other two passes are easily defended. They’ll come at the wall.” A shadow moved to the right. Senta chuckled. “He’s back, Angel.”

The gladiator swore and glanced around. A small boy of around nine years of age was squatting on his haunches watching them. “Go away!” roared Angel, but the child ignored him. “I hate the way he just stares,” snapped Angel. The boy was thin, almost skeletal, his clothes threadbare. He wore an old goatskin tunic from which most of the hair had long since vanished and a pair of dark leggings that were torn at the knees and frayed at the waist. His eyes were slanted and black, and they stared unblinkingly at the two men. Angel tried to ignore him. Lifting the bowl of cheese, he dipped his fingers into the congealed mass and ate. “Horse droppings would taste better than this,” he said.

“It is an acquired taste,” agreed Senta.

“Damned if I can eat it.” He swung to the boy. “You want some?” He did not move. Angel offered him the bowl. The child licked his lips but remained where he was. Angel shook his head. “What does he want?” he asked, placing the bowl on the ground.

“I’ve no idea, but he’s obviously fascinated by you. He followed you today, mimicking your walk. Quite funny, really. I hadn’t noticed it before, but you move like a sailor. You know, a rolling gait.”

“Any more of my habits you’d like to criticize?”

“Too many to mention.”

Angel stood and stretched. The child immediately imitated him. “Stop that!” said Angel, leaning forward, hands on hips. The tiny figure adopted the same stance. Senta’s laughter pealed out. “I’m going to get some sleep,” said Angel, turning his back on the boy and reentering the cave.

Senta remained where he was, listening to the faint sounds
of battle. The boy edged closer and snatched the bowl, backing away to the shadows to eat. For a while Senta dozed, then he heard movements on the mountainside. He was instantly awake. Belash climbed to the cave mouth.

“They have pulled back,” he said, squatting down beside the swordsman. “No more now until the dawn, I think.” Senta glanced to where the boy had been, but only the empty bowl remained. “We killed many,” said Belash with grim satisfaction.

“Not enough. There must be more than three thousand of them.”

“Many more,” agreed Belash. “And others are coming. It will take time to kill them all.”

“Ever the optimist.”

“You think we cannot win? You do not understand the Nadir. We are born to fight.”

“I have no doubts concerning the skills of your people, Belash. But this place is ultimately indefensible. How many fighters can you muster?”

“This morning there were 373,” he said, at last.

“And tonight?”

“We lost maybe fifteen.”

“Wounded?”

“Another thirty, but some of these can fight again.”

“How many altogether during the last four days?”

Belash nodded glumly. “I understand what you are saying. We can hold for maybe eight … ten more days. But we will kill many before then.”

“That’s hardly the point, my friend. We must have a secondary line of defense. Farther into the mountains perhaps.”

“There is nowhere.”

“When we rode down here, I saw a valley to the west. Where does it lead?”

“We cannot go there. It is a place of evil and death. I would sooner die here, cleanly and with honor.”

“Fine sentiments, I’m sure, Belash. But I’d as soon not die anywhere quite yet.”

“You do not have to stay,” Belash pointed out.

“True,” agreed Senta, “but as my father so often points out, stupidity does tend to run in our family.”

High above the mountains, linked to the spirit of Kesa Khan, Miriel floated beneath the stars. Below her, on the moonlit plain, were the tents of the Gothir, erected in five lines of twenty, neat and rectangular, evenly spaced. To the south were a score of picket lines where the horses were tethered, and to the east was a latrine pit exactly thirty feet long. One hundred campfires were burning brightly, and sentries patrolled the camp’s perimeter.

“A methodical people,” pulsed the voice of Kesa Khan. “They call themselves civilized because they can build tall castles and pitch their tents with geometric precision, but from here you can see the reality. Ants build in the same way. Are they civilized?”

Miriel said nothing. From that great height she could see both the tiny camp of the Nadir and the might of the Gothir attackers. It was dispiriting. Kesa Khan’s laughter rippled out. “Never concern yourself with despair, Miriel. It it always the weapon of the enemy. Look at them! Even from here you can feel their vanity.”

“How can we defeat them?”

“How can we not?” he countered. “There are millions of us and but a few of them. When the Uniter comes, they will be swept away like grass seeds.”

“I meant
now.”

“Ah, the impatience of youth! Let us see what there is to be seen.”

The stars spun, and Miriel found herself looking down at a small campfire in a shallow cave on a mountainside. She saw Waylander sitting hunched before the flames, the hound Scar stretched out beside him. Waylander looked tired, and she sensed his thoughts. He had been hunted but had eluded the trackers, killing several. He was clear of Sathuli lands now and was thinking about stealing a horse from a Gothir town some three leagues to the north.

“A strong man,” said Kesa Khan. “The Dragon Shadow.”

“He is weary,” said Miriel, wishing she could reach out and hug the lonely man by the campfire.

The scene shifted to a city of stone set in the mountains and a deep dungeon where a large man was chained to a dank, wet wall. “You treacherous cur, Galen,” said the prisoner.

A tall, thin warrior in the red cloak of a Drenai lancer stepped forward, taking hold of the prisoner’s hair and wrenching back the head. “Enjoy your insults, you whoreson! Your day is over, and harsh words are all you have now. Yet they will avail you nothing: tomorrow you travel in chains to Gulgothir.”

“I’ll come for you, you bastard!” swore the prisoner. “They won’t hold me!” The thin warrior laughed, then bunched his fist and struck the helpless man three times in the face, splitting his lip. Blood flowed to his chin, and his one pale eye focused on the red-cloaked soldier. “I suppose you’ll tell Asten we were betrayed but you managed to escape?”

“Yes. Then, when the time is right, I’ll kill the peasant. And the Brotherhood will rule in Drenan. How does that make you feel?”

“It should be an interesting meeting. I’d like to be there to see you telling Asten how I was captured.”

“Oh, I shall tell it well. I shall speak of your enormous bravery and how you were slain. It will bring a tear to his eye.”

“Rot in hell!” said the prisoner.

Miriel felt the close presence of Kesa Khan, and the old shaman’s voice whispered into her mind. “You know who this is?”

“No.”

“You are gazing upon Karnak the One-Eyed, lord protector of the Drenai. He does not look mighty now, chained in a Sathuli dungeon. Can you feel his emotions?”

Miriel concentrated, and the warm rush of Karnak’s anger swept over her. “Yes. I can feel it. He is picturing his tormentor being killed by a soldier with red hair.”

“Yes. But there is something else to consider, girl. There is no despair in Karnak, yes? Only anger and the burning desire for revenge. His conceit is colossal, but so is his strength. He has no fear of the chains or the enemies around him. Already
he is planning, building his hopes. Such a man can never be discounted.”

“He is a prisoner, unarmed and helpless. What can he do?” asked Miriel.

“Let us return to the mountains. I am tiring. And tomorrow the real enemy will show himself. We must be ready to face the evil they will unleash.” All light faded in an instant, and Miriel opened the eyes of her body and sat up. The fire in the cave had burned low. Kesa Khan added wood to the dying flames and stretched, the bones of his back creaking and cracking.
“Aya!
Age is no blessing,” he said.

“What is this evil you spoke of?” asked Miriel.

“In a moment, in a moment! I am old, child, and the transition from spirit to flesh takes a little time. Let me gather my thoughts. Talk to me!”

She looked at the wizened old man. “What do you wish me to talk about?”

“Anything!” he snapped. “Life, love, dreams. Tell me which of the two men you wish to bed!”

Miriel reddened. “Such thoughts are not for idle chatter,” she scolded.