Decado swung himself into the saddle. “Mounted or on foot they always attack,” he said. “And like you, kinsman, they never lose.”
U nwallis had experienced many ambitions in his long life. Most had been fulfilled. One would never be fulfilled. For some reason that he would never understand, none of the many women in his life had ever conceived children by him. It had always been a mild regret. Until now.
He lay in the royal bed, Jianna curled up alongside him, her head on his shoulder, her thigh across his own. She was, at this moment, entirely childlike, and Unwallis felt a strong paternal affection for the sleeping queen. He lay there quietly, stroking her long, dark hair. Intellect told him this feeling was merely an illusion. The women lying in his arms was a ruthless tyrant, with the deaths of nations on her conscience. But in the dark of the tent his intellect faded back, allowing his emotions to roam free.
An hour passed. Unwallis began to doze.
Something caused him to wake suddenly. His eyes flared open.
He found himself looking into the gray face of a Shadow, looming over the bed. A knife blade pricked the skin of his shoulder, and he fell back. The paralysis came swiftly. Two other Shadows moved alongside. He saw Jianna jerk and try to swing her legs from the bed. With a swiftness the eye could not follow they were upon her.
Unwallis, paralyzed, could do nothing to help her. He could not even close his eyes when he saw a cold, gray dagger blade plunge into Jianna’s heart. Her body fell back to the bed, her dead eyes staring into Unwallis’s frozen orbs. Then the Shadows dragged the queen’s corpse from her bed.
Unwallis did not see them take her from the tent. He lay, his unclosed eyes becoming dry and painful, for several agonizing hours. Finally he was lifted up by Agrippon. A surgeon was beside the bed. Together they lifted Unwallis into a sitting position. Slowly the feeling came back to his arms, and with it a terrible pounding pain in his skull.
When at last he could speak he uttered a single word. “Jianna?”
“Shadows struck down the Guard,” said Agrippon. “We can find no trace of her.”
“She was killed,” said Unwallis. “Stabbed through the heart. They took her body away.”
A lahir stretched out on the rocky ground at the water’s edge and removed his helm and hauberk. The sun was warm, but there was a breeze whispering through the rocks, cooled as it passed over the pool. All around him the Legend riders, save for the men scouting the eastern roads, were relaxing. Beyond them the horses, watered now, were tethered in the shade of the western rock face.
Gilden joined him. The veteran had doffed his armor and was dressed now only in a simple gray, knee-length tunic. He did not look like a soldier now; more a grim-faced teacher. “That tunic has seen better days,” observed Alahir.
Gilden glanced down. “It was once green, I think,” he said. Then he sat down, reached into the water, and splashed his face. Leaning over, he gazed into the depths. “I wonder how deep it is,” he said.
“Amazing that it is here at all,” said Alahir. “Is it just trapped rainfall, do you think?”
“Hard to say,” Gilden told him. “Desert tanks like these can be connected to artesian wells—even underground lakes. I think that’s why the ancients angled the road so close to the cliffs here. It would have made a fine resting place on the journey from the sea to the interior. Merchants could water their horses and rest before the long haul to Gulgothir or Gassima.” He glanced across to the other side of the pool, some thirty feet away, where Askari was sitting alongside the brooding Harad. “Beautiful girl. That Stavut is a lucky man.”
“I am not sure how lucky any of us are,” said Alahir. “We are about to face the Eternal Guard and a few hundred Jems.”
Gilden did not reply. He cast his eyes around the area. “Where is Stavut?”
“The pack went off with Skilgannon and Decado. They are scouting the other passes, trying to see whether the Guard can find a way around us.”
Gilden laughed. “A part of me hopes they miss us completely.”
“I know the feeling,” agreed Alahir. “But then what would we do, my friend? Ride home and die facing yet another regiment—or two, or ten?”
“There is that.”
Askari rose and walked over to sit with them. “The water is cool and yet no one is swimming,” she said. “Why is that?”
Gilden laughed aloud, and looked at Alahir. “We are not, er, great swimmers,” Alahir told her, his face reddening.
Askari glanced at Gilden. “Am I missing something here?”
“Indeed you are, lass.”
“Oh shut up, Gil!” snapped Alahir.
“Ours is a society of ancient values, some of which, to be frank, are startlingly stupid,” said Gilden, gleefully. “Women come in three groups: angelic maidens, wives, and whores. The first two groups are revered, the third enjoyed. Of course when I say enjoyed, it should be understood that this enjoyment comes with a sack of guilt.”
“And this has something to do with swimming?” asked Askari.
“At any time the enemy may come in sight. You don’t want to be fighting in wet clothes. Therefore we would swim naked. And the Drenai cannot do that while you are here, you angelic maiden you.” His laughter boomed out.
“But you do not share this . . . shyness?” she said, sweetly.
“I was part raised in the south, across the Delnoch mountains, so I have greater experience of other cultures.”
“Good, then doff that threadbare tunic and show your comrades how well you swim.”
Now it was Alahir whose laughter rang out. Gilden reddened. “Ah, well,” he temporized, “having said that, I never did quite throw off the shackles of my training.”
Askari smiled. “So the Legend riders are really just shy boys, frightened of being seen naked?” She swung to Alahir. “Are you shy, earl of Bronze?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “But I would really like to swim.” Pushing himself to his feet, he stripped off his shirt and leggings and dived into the water, sending up a mighty splash. All around the pool the Legend riders hooted and clapped. Several other men stripped off and joined him.
The water was wonderfully cool, and Alahir swam to the far side of the pool, resting his elbows on a rock and glancing up at Harad. He was sitting quietly, the great ax in his lap. “Join us, my friend,” said Alahir.
“I cannot swim,” said Harad.
“It is easy. Put aside the ax and come in. I will teach you in a matter of moments.”
Harad suddenly grinned. “Aye, that would be good,” he said. Throwing off his clothes, he waded into the water. “What do I do?” he asked.
“Take a deep breath and lie back. The air in your lungs will keep you afloat.”
Harad leaned back. As his head touched the water he tried to stand. His foot slipped and he sank beneath the surface, coming up spluttering. Alahir was beside him in an instant. “Trust me,” said Alahir. “I will support your back. Now breathe in deeply and we will get you to float.”
Askari watched the two men and swung to Gilden. “You are old to be a soldier,” she said.
“Thank you for sharing that observation,” he said sourly.
“I meant no disrespect. Far from it. To have survived this long you must be very skilled.”
“Lucky is all.”
“You have family? Children?”
He chuckled. “I have these shy boys,” he said. “They are my family. One day they will take my armor and bury me. Then they will sing songs over my grave. It is enough for me.”
“The sky is too blue to be talking about graves and death,” she pointed out. Rising to her feet, she stripped off her clothes. “Come, Gilden, swim with me,” she said, holding out her hand. He hesitated for a moment, then sighed and stood. Pulling his tunic over his head, he displayed a body with many scars across his chest and shoulders and upper thighs. Askari held out her hand and drew him into the water.
Just then Skilgannon and Decado rode through the entran
ce to the pool and dismounted. Alahir saw them, left Harad happily floating, and waded to the bank. Decado moved away from them, stripping off his clothes and diving into the pool. Skilgannon looked tired. His eyes were red rimmed, his face gaunt. “Perhaps you should get into the pool,” offered Alahir.
“We found three other passes that could be used to get behind us,” said Skilgannon, “and we don’t have enough men to adequately defend them all. There may be even more that I couldn’t find. Once down into the low canyons it is like a warren. Stavut is still checking them.”
“They will come at us head-on first,” said Alahir. “It is the way of the Guard. See the enemy, kill the enemy. They have great belief in their martial supremacy.”
“I agree. It matches everything Decado told me.”
“Then what is worrying you?”
Skilgannon grinned. “You mean apart from being outnumbered four to one? If we are cut off then I will not be able to reach the temple site, and this whole venture will have been for nothing.”
“There is nothing there,” Alahir pointed out. “We have seen that for ourselves.” His body almost dry in the bright sunshine, he picked up his tunic and slipped it on, and then his leggings. “So let’s just finish off this Guard and head back for Siccus.”
“The magic is still emanating,” said Skilgannon. “It must be there.”
“I know nothing about magic, Skilgannon, but if the temple is gone, perhaps they took it somewhere else. Another country. Over the sea.”
“True,” admitted Skilgannon, wearily. “But the prophecy said I would find the answer. And I am here—not across the sea.” Taking the reins of the two mounts, he led them to the far side of the pool. Alahir helped him with the unsaddling, and they rubbed the beasts down. Then Skilgannon gestured for Alahir to follow him, and they walked back through the deep cut in the rocks that led out to the trail. It was some thirty feet wide here, dropping steeply away to the north. Skilgannon walked to the edge. From here they could see the great crater where the temple mountain once stood. Skilgannon stared at the distant ring. Heat waves were shimmering over it. Reluctantly he turned away. “We have an advantage here,” he said to Alahir. “The ground dips away to the east, which means the enemy will be coming at us uphill. The cliffs and the precipice mean they cannot flank us.” He walked on down the old road; it narrowed to around fifteen feet at the bend, which swung away sharply before continuing down to the canyon below. “They will have no time to form up properly for a charge,” continued Skilgannon. “The formation will break at this point, where only five or six riders can stay abreast of one another. Once past this they will be in arrow range. I can’t see them risking their horses against trained bowmen on high ground.”
“No,” agreed Alahir. “They will dismount and come at us fast on foot.”
“Or send in their beasts.”
“I think they will hold back the beasts at first,” said Alahir.
“Why so?”
“I don’t wish to sound arrogant, but we are the elite, Skilgannon. The Legend riders have a reputation. I think the Guard will want to test that. Once we bloody their noses then they’ll send the beasts.”
“That sounds right to me,” admitted Skilgannon, walking once more to the edge. He gazed down. “It is almost half a mile to the canyon floor, but the enemy, following a winding uphill road, will have to travel four, perhaps five, times that far. I don’t know how long they will have been without water, but even with supplies their mounts will be tired, and the warriors will be hot, their mouths dry, their eyes gritty.”
They stood in silence. Alahir gazed at the winding road, picturing the Eternal Guard in their black-and-silver armor, their high-plumed helms. Skilgannon was right. The road, some 150 paces from the entrance to the rock pool, was too narrow for them to form up for a charge. They would have to attack in relative disorder, trying to create a strong formation even as they ran toward the bowmen. Moving to the narrow point, he turned and began to run back up the slope, counting as he did so.
“How many?” asked Skilgannon.
“I would be surprised if we couldn’t loose six volleys before they hit our front rank.”
“Roughly fifteen hundred arrows,” estimated Skilgannon. “Against heavily armored men carrying shields. At least half the shafts will be blocked. Half again will strike breastplates or chain mail and do no damage.”
“And at least half of the remainder will wound, but not incapacitate,” added Alahir.
“That leaves around one hundred and twenty-five taken out of the fight. Leaving eight hundred and seventy-five engaged in hand-to-hand combat with two hundred and fifty. Sheer weight of numbers will drive us back.” Skilgannon strolled along the road back to the entrance leading to the rock pool. “It would be natural,” he said, “to pull back into here. The entranceway is narrow and could be easily defended. Yet it would be suicidal, for there is no other way out.”
He walked on another two hundred paces. Here was the top of the rise. After this the land opened out, as the road meandered down to the desert below. “Once past this point and they will flank us, encircle us, and kill us at their leisure.”
“You are beginning to depress me,” muttered Alahir.
Skilgannon laughed and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Plan for the worst, expect the best,” he quoted. Then he walked back to the main trail and squatted down, studying the land.
“We could send a small group of riders down the trail,” offered Alahir, “and hit them as they climbed. That would increase their losses.”
“True—but then the Jems would probably come first, chasing our riders. We need the Guard to make the first attack. Then we can strip away their arrogance and leave them terrified of failure and death. The sending of their beasts must be an act of resignation and defeat. Then, when we have turned back the beasts, the day will be ours.”
“Ah, this is more to my liking,” Alahir told him.
“What is the fewest number of men you need to hold the line there?” asked Skilgannon, pointing to the widest point of the old road.
“A hundred. Perhaps a hundred and fifty.”
Skilgannon remained silent, his expression intense. Twice he looked back up the trail, then glanced up at the towering cliffs to his left. Telling Alahir to stand at the widest point, Skilgannon retreated up the slope some fifty paces. After a while he returned. “We need to keep shooting at all times,” he said. “When the first attack comes we will meet it here. Once the Guard engage, the rear ranks of our bowmen will move back to the high ground and shoot over our heads into the mass beyond the fighters. They will be crammed together, struggling to get to the action. How many shafts does each man carry?”
“Thirty.”
“If we break their first attack we can replenish our supply from the dead. Everything depends on that first charge. We need to hold them until their confidence breaks. Decado and I will be at the center of the first line.”
“As will I,” said Alahir.
“Indeed. Wear the Armor of Bronze, Alahir. It will lift the men.”
“I had that in mind. Where will Harad fight?”
“He is a concern,” said Skilgannon. “He is brave and he is powerful, but he is unskilled. Added to which no axman can fight in close quarters, surrounded by comrades. He needs room to swing that weapon. I shall send him with Stavut and the pack to watch the other passes.”
“That is a shame,” said Alahir. “You are right that the Armor of Bronze will lift my men. So would the thought of Druss’s ax being used in the battle.”
“It may come to that by the end,” Skilgannon told him.
H arad followed Shakul and Stavut up a long rise and onto a wide plateau overlooking a narrow pass, snaking east through the mountains. Here the rest of the pack were waiting. Harad took a swig from a water canteen loaned to him by a Legend rider. Swishing the water around his mouth, he spat it out, seeking to remove the taste of rock dust. Sweat trickled down his back. He glared balefully
at the arid land and found himself longing for the green leaves in the forest back home. This brought an instant image of Charis, smiling as she brought him his food. His mood darkened, a mixture of sorrow and rage swirling through him.
Stavut wandered over. “About two miles ahead the trail you can see merges with the old road. If they split their force, this is the way they will come.”
Harad would have preferred to fight alongside the Legend riders, rather than these beasts. He was uneasy around them, though he marveled at the way Stavut wandered among them, clapping some on the shoulder and making jokes Harad was sure the beasts could not understand. The Jiamads stretched out in the sunshine. Many of them began to doze. Stavut yawned and scratched his thickening beard. “Do you know any stories about Druss?” asked Harad.
“A few. Legends probably. His wife was a princess of some kind. She was stolen from the palace by traitors. I think some foreign king had fallen in love with her. Anyway, she was taken across the sea, and Druss went and fetched her back.”
“Storytelling is not a strong point of yours, is it?” said Harad.
“I never was much interested in history. I think he fought a demon king as well—but that could have been someone else.”
“Why is it that all the heroes married princesses?” asked Harad.
“I guess that’s what heroes do.” Stavut glanced back down the trail. “I hope they don’t come this way,” he said.
Shakul suddenly stood and raised his head into the air, nostrils quivering. The other Jiamads stirred. Stavut swore. Harad took up his ax. “You are as good at hoping as you are at storytelling,” said Harad.
Shakul padded back to where the two men waited. “Many Jems. Here soon,” he said.
“How many?” asked Stavut.
“Big pack.”
“Bigger than us?”
“Many times.”
Stavut swore again and drew the cavalry saber Alahir had given him. “I think you should keep back out of the action,” observed Harad. “Unless you know how to use that.”