And then the fear vanished!
The Skoda warriors surged back to the walls, angry now. Shamed by the courage of the warrior woman who led them, they stood their ground, determination on every face.
The drumbeat stopped. A bugle sounded.
With a savage roar ten thousand warriors surged forward.
Lake and his workers hauled back the bowstrings on the two weapons, filling their bowls with filed lead shot. At fifty paces Lake lifted his arm. At forty he dropped it and tugged the release. The arm whipped forward. The second machine let fly a moment later.
The first ranks of the enemy were scythed down, and a great cheer rose from the defenders. Taking up their bows, the Skoda men sent volley after volley of arrows into the charging warriors. But they were heavily armored and held their shields before them.
Ladders thudded against the wall, and grappling hooks sailed over the ramparts.
“Now it begins!” said Ananais.
The first warrior to reach the ramparts died with Ananais’ sword in his throat. As he fell, he dislodged the man below him.
And then they were over, and the battle became hand to hand.
Decado and the Thirty fought together as a unit to the right of Ananais. Not one warrior gained the ramparts there.
But to the left the invaders forged an opening. Ananais charged among them, cutting and slashing, hacking and slaying. Like a lion among wolves he hammered his way through their ranks, and the Skoda men gathered behind him, roaring their defiance. Slowly they pushed back the soldiers. At the center Rayvan plunged her blade into a warrior’s chest, but as he fell, he lashed out, his sword slicing her cheek. She stumbled as another man ran at her, and Lake, seeing his mother’s danger, hurled his dagger to hit the assailant, hilt first, behind the ear. He half fell and dropped his sword, whereupon Rayvan finished him with a two-handed cut to the neck.
“Get away from here, Mother!” yelled Lake.
Decado, hearing the cry, left the Thirty and ran to Rayvan, helping her to her feet.
“Lake is right,” he said. “You are far too important to risk yourself here!”
“Behind you!” she yelled as a warrior leapt over the wall with ax raised. Decado spun on his heel and lunged. His sword skewered the man’s chest and snapped. Two more warriors climbed into view, and Decado dived forward, scooping up the fallen ax and rolling to his feet. He blocked an overhead cut, then backhanded the warrior from the wall. The second man lanced his blade into Decado’s shoulder, but Lake, running in behind, hammered his sword through the attacker’s skull.
The attackers drew back.
“Get the wounded from the wall,” shouted Ananais. “They’ll return at any moment.”
Ananais moved along the wall, hastily checking the wounded and dead. At least a hundred men would fight no more. Ten more attacks like this and they were finished.
Galand made his way from the far left, meeting Ananais at the center.
“We could do with a thousand more men and a higher wall,” Galand said sourly.
“They did well. Losses will be fewer next time. The weakest of our men fell during this assault.”
“Is that all they are to you?” snapped Galand. “Units with swords. Some good, some bad?”
“There is no time for this, Galand.”
“You make me sick!”
“I know Parsal’s death—”
“Leave me alone!” said Galand, pushing past him.
“What was that about?” asked Thorn, climbing the rampart steps. A bandage had been wrapped around a shallow cut on his head.
“I don’t know.”
“I brought some food,” said Thorn, handing Ananais a loaf filled with creamed cheese. Ananais had taken one bite when the drums began beating once more.
* * *
Five attacks were launched and repulsed before dusk, and one night attack was turned back with heavy losses among the Drenai.
Ananais remained on the wall until two hours before dawn, but Decado assured him that no further attacks were planned, and the general finally staggered away from the ramparts. Valtaya had a room in the hospital, but he resisted the impulse to go to her; instead he moved into the trees and fell asleep on a grassy knoll.
Four hundred men had been removed from the battle; the wounded overflowed the hospital and had been laid on blankets on the grass around the building. Ananais had sent for reinforcements, 250 men of the reserve force.
At Tarsk, he learned from Acuas, the losses had been fewer, but then, only three attacks had been launched. Turs, the young warrior who led the Tarsk troops, had done well by all accounts.
It was now obvious that the main thrust would be aimed at Magadon. Ananais hoped the Joinings would not be sent in the next day, but in his heart he knew that they would be.
Across from the hospital buildings a young warrior tossed in his sleep as the nightmare grew. Suddenly he stiffened, and a strangled scream died in his throat. His eyes opened, and he sat up, reaching for his knife. Reversing the blade, he slowly pushed it into his chest between the ribs until it sliced into his heart. Then he withdrew it and stood up. No blood ran from the wound …
Slowly he walked to the hospital building, staring through the open window. Inside, Valtaya was working into the night, fighting to save the worst of the wounded.
He moved away from the window to the woods beyond, where some two hundred refugees had pitched their makeshift tents. By a camp fire sat Rayvan, cradling a babe and talking to three women.
The dead man walked toward them.
Rayvan looked up and saw him. She knew him well.
“Can you not sleep, Oranda?”
He did not reply.
Then Rayvan saw the knife, and her eyes narrowed. When the man knelt beside her, she looked into his eyes. Blank and dead, they stared back unseeing.
The knife flashed up, and Rayvan twisted and dived, turning her body to protect the sleeping babe as the blade raked her hip. Letting the child roll clear, she blocked the next blow with her forearm and smashed a right cross to the man’s chin. He fell but rose again. Rayvan pushed herself to her feet. The other women were screaming now, and the babe had begun to wail. As the corpse approached, Rayvan backed away; she could feel the blood oozing down her leg. Then a man ran forward, holding a blacksmith’s hammer, which he brought down savagely on the dead man’s head. The skull cracked, but still no expression crossed his face.
An arrow flashed into the dead man’s chest; he merely gazed down at it and then slowly pulled it clear. Galand ran forward just as the corpse reached Rayvan. As the knife came up, Galand lashed out, and the knife arm sailed from the body. The corpse staggered … and fell.
“They want you dead pretty badly,” said Galand.
“They want us all dead,” replied Rayvan.
“Tomorrow they will get their wish,” he observed.
Valtaya finished stitching the nine-inch cut on Rayvan’s hip and then smeared a thick ointment along the wound.
“It will help prevent an ugly scar,” said Valtaya, covering the wound with gauze.
“A matter of indifference to me,” said Rayvan. “When you get to my age, no one is going to notice a scar on the hip, if you take my meaning.”
“Nonsense; you are a handsome woman.”
“Exactly. It is a rare man who notices a handsome woman. You are Darkmask’s lover, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Known him long?”
“No, not long. He saved my life.”
“I see.”
“What do you see?”
“You are a nice girl, but maybe you take debts too seriously.”
Valtaya sat down beside the bed, rubbing her eyes. She was tired, too tired for sleep.
“Do you always make snap judgments of people you meet?”
“No,” said Rayvan, sitting up carefully and feeling the pull of the stitches. “But love is in the eyes, and one woman knows when another woman is in love. When I asked you abo
ut Darkmask, you showed your sadness. And then you said he had saved your life. It was not difficult to reach the obvious conclusion.”
“Is it so wrong to want to repay someone?”
“No, it isn’t wrong—especially now. Anyway, he is a fine man.”
“I have hurt him,” said Valtaya. “I didn’t mean to; I was tired. Most times I try to ignore his face, but I told him to put on his mask.”
“Lake caught a glimpse of him once without his mask. He told me Ananais’ face was hideously scarred.”
“There is no face,” said Valtaya. “The nose and upper lip have been ripped away, and the cheeks are a mass of scar tissue. One scar will not heal and oozes pus. It is a horror! He looks like a dead man. I have tried … I can’t …” Tears fell, and the words died.
“Don’t think badly of yourself, my girl,” said Rayvan softly, leaning forward and patting her back. “You tried. Most women would not even have done that.”
“I am ashamed of myself. I told him once that a face was not a man. It was the man I tried to love, but the face keeps coming back to haunt me.”
“You were not wrong. The answer lies in your words: the man you tried to love. You took on too much.”
“But he’s so noble and so tragic. He was the Golden One … He had everything.”
“I know. And he was vain.”
“How can you know that?”
“It’s not hard. Consider his story: the rich young patrician who became a Dragon general. But what happened then? He entered himself in the arena games, and there he killed people to thrill the crowds. Many of the men he fought were prisoners, forced to fight and die. They had no choice; he did. But he couldn’t stay away from the applause. There is nothing noble in that. Men! What do they know? They never grow up.”
“You are being very hard on him. He is willing to die for you!”
“Not for me. For himself. He is after revenge.”
“That’s unfair!”
“Life is unfair,” said Rayvan. “Don’t misunderstand me; I like him. I like him a great deal. He is a fine man. But men don’t come in just two groups, one of gold and the other of lead. They are a mix of both.”
“And what about women?” asked Valtaya.
“Pure gold, my girl,” Rayvan answered with a chuckle.
Valtaya smiled.
“That’s better!” said Rayvan.
“How do you do it? How do you stay so strong?”
“I fake it.”
“That can’t be true. You turned the tide today. You were magnificent.”
“That was easy. They killed my husband and my sons, and they have nothing left to make me suffer. My father used to say that you can’t stop a man who knows he is right. At first I thought it was nonsense. An arrow through the gizzard stops anyone. But now I know what he meant. Ceska is unnatural, like a snowstorm in July. He cannot succeed just so long as enough people stand up to oppose him. All over the empire word of the Skoda rebellion will be spreading, and other groups will rise up. Regiments will mutiny; honest men will take up their swords. He cannot win.”
“He can win here.”
“It will be short-lived.”
“Ananais believes that Tenaka Khan will return with a Nadir army.”
“I know,” said Rayvan. “I don’t feel too comfortable about that.”
In the next room Decado lay awake, his wounded shoulder throbbing. He smiled as he heard Rayvan’s words. You can’t fool a woman like her, he thought.
He stared at the wooden ceiling, ignoring the pain from his wound. He was at peace. Katan had come to him, telling him of the boy Ceorl, and Decado had been close to tears. All things were falling into place. Death was no longer a living fear.
Decado eased himself into a sitting position. His armor lay on a table to his right. Serbitar’s armor. The Delnoch Thirty.
Serbitar was said to have been filled with doubts, and Decado hoped that at the end they had been resolved. It was so good to know. He wondered how he could have been so blind to the truth when the facts shone before him with such crystal simplicity.
Ananais and Tenaka, drawn together near the Dragon barracks. Scaler and Pagan. Decado and the Thirty. Rayvan.
Every one a link in a web of mystery and magic. And who knew how many other links there were of equal importance?
Valtaya, Renya, Galand, Lake, Parsal, Thorn, Turs?
Pagan had been drawn from a far country to save one special child. But who would the child save?
Webs within webs within webs …
Perhaps the events themselves were merely links. The legendary battle for Dros Delnoch had conspired after two generations to create Tenaka Khan. And Scaler. And the Dragon.
It was all too vast for Decado.
The pain in his shoulder flared once more, and he grunted as it washed over him.
Tomorrow the pain would end.
Three more attacks began with the dawn. On the last the line almost gave way, but Ananais, wielding two swords, hurled himself at the invaders in a berserk charge, cutting and cleaving his way through them. As they were thrown back, a single bugle sounded in the enemy camp and the Joinings assembled, five thousand of them.
The beasts loped forward, and the men of the legion moved back through their ranks, leaving the way clear for the Joinings to advance.
Ananais swallowed hard and gazed to the left and right along the wall. This was the moment of dread. But there was no give in these Skoda men, and he felt a surge of pride.
“There will be a warm fur rug for every man tonight!” he bellowed.
Grim laughter greeted the jest.
The beasts waited as the Dark Templars gathered among them, pulsing visions of blood and carnage, inflaming their bestial natures.
The howling began.
On the wall Decado called Balan to him. The dark-eyed priest approached and bowed formally.
“It is near the time,” said Decado.
“Yes.”
“You will remain behind.”
“What?” said Balan, stunned. “Why?”
“Because they will need you. To link with Tarsk.”
“I don’t want to be alone, Decado!”
“You will not be alone. We will all be with you.”
“No. You are punishing me!”
“It is not so. Stay close to Ananais and protect him as best you can. Also the woman Rayvan.”
“Let someone else stay. I am the worst of you, the weakest. I need you all. You cannot leave me alone.”
“Have faith, Balan. And obey me.”
The priest stumbled back from the ramparts, running headlong into the shadows of the trees beyond.
On the plain the howling grew to a terrible crescendo.
“Now!” cried Decado.
The seventeen warrior priests slid over the ramparts and dropped to the ground below, walking toward the beasts now some hundred paces distant.
“What in thunder?” said Ananais. “Decado!” he bellowed.
The Thirty advanced in a wide line, their white cloaks flapping in the breeze, their swords in their hands.
The beasts charged, the Templars running behind them and spurring them on with mind blasts of fearful power.
The Thirty dropped to their knees.
The leading Joining, a giant beast almost eight feet tall, staggered as the vision hit him. Stone. Cold stone. Shaped.
Blood, fresh blood, dripping from salty meat.
The beast ran on.
Stone. Cold stone. Wings.
Blood.
Stone.
Wings. Shaped wings.
Thirty paces separated the beasts from the Thirty. Ananais could watch no longer and turned his back on the scene.
The Joining leader bore down on the silver-garbed warriors kneeling before it.
Stone. Shaped stone. Wings. Marching men. Stone …
The beast screamed.
Dragon. Stone Dragon. MY DRAGON!
All along the line the Joinings slow
ed. The howling faded. The image grew in strength. Long-lost memories struggled to surface. Pain, terrible pain burned in the awesome bodies.
The Templars pushed hard, sending searing mind bolts at the beasts. One Joining turned and lashed out, his talons ripping a Templar’s head from his shoulders.
The massive Joining leading the others halted before Decado, its great head hanging down, its tongue lolling. Decado looked up. Holding the image in the beast’s mind, he saw the sorrow in its eyes. It knew. Its taloned arm came up and tapped its chest. The long tongue rolled around a single word that Decado could only just make out:
“Baris. Me Baris!”
The beast turned and ran back screaming toward the Templars. Other Joinings followed it, and the Templars stood rooted to the spot, unable to comprehend what was happening. And then the beasts were upon them. But not all the Joinings were former Dragon, and scores of them milled in confusion until one focused on the silver-garbed warriors.
It ran forward, followed by a dozen of its fellows.
In their trance state the Thirty were defenseless. Only Decado had the power to move … And he did not. The Joinings fell upon them, snarling and lashing out.
Decado closed his eyes, and his pain ended.
The Templars fell in their hundreds as the beasts rampaged through the camp. The giant Joining that had been Baris, the lord of the Dragon, leapt upon Maymon as he tried to run. With one bite he tore the man’s arm from his shoulder. Maymon screamed, but a lashing blow from a taloned paw tore away his face, drowning the scream in blood.
Baris lunged to his feet and ran at the tent of Ceska.
Darik hurled a spear that took him in the chest, but it did not penetrate deeply, and the Joining pulled the weapon clear and charged on.
“Legion, to me!” yelled Darik. Archers peppered the beast with arrows, but still it came on.
All over the field Joinings were collapsing, screaming in their death throes.
Still Baris pushed on. Darik watched in amazement as the giant Joining seemed to shrink before his eyes. An arrow pierced the beast’s chest, and it stumbled, then Darik ran forward to plunge his sword into the Joining’s back. It tried to roll over … And died. Darik turned it with his foot. The beast quivered, and he stabbed once more. Then he noticed that the movement had nothing to do with life; it was reverting to human form. He turned away.