Three Daroth moved out onto the gallery. Sirano hurled another bottle, but they dived back and it too exploded without harm to the warriors. From his vantage point on the column, he saw the figures of Tarantio and Duvodas make the dash across open ground to the gates.
A hurled spear smashed through Sirano’s belly, pinning him to the pillar. Pain engulfed him, blood spraying from his mouth as he sagged down against the spear.
“You pose no threat to us!” sneered the Daroth leader. “Your pitiful race is weak and spineless. Your weapons are useless against us. We have crushed your armies, and destroyed two of your greatest cities. Nothing that lives can stand against us.”
Loosing the bag from his shoulder Sirano, with the last ounce of his strength, tossed it into the fire. It erupted with a tremendous explosion that hurled several Daroth from their feet, engulfing two of them in flames.
A second spear slammed into Sirano’s chest. And with it came the gift he sought above all others.
Darkness.
As Duvodas entered the tavern Shira ran to meet him, throwing her arms around his neck. “I was so frightened,” she said. “I thought you had left me.” He hugged her close and kissed her cheek.
“Never! I will never leave you again.” His fingers stroked through her long dark hair, and her face tilted up towards him. Tenderly he kissed her lips, then eased free of her embrace and sat beside the fire. Her father, Ceofrin, ambled forward and patted Duvo’s shoulder.
“You look exhausted, man. I’ll get some food for you.” Ceofrin moved to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of porridge and a container filled with honey. It remained untouched.
“What happened? Did you find it?” asked Shira. Duvodas opened the canvas pouch and removed the Pearl, which shone brilliantly in the firelight. For a moment none of them spoke. The Pearl was warm in Duvo’s hands, and the weight of responsibility was strong upon him. Shira’s gaze moved from the orb to Duvo, and her love for him swelled. Ceofrin stood back. He did not understand the nature of the Pearl’s power, but he did know that armies had fought and died for seven years to possess it, and now it lay within his tavern.
“Oh,” said Shira at last, “it is so beautiful. Like a moon fallen from the sky.”
“It contains the Eldarin, their cities and their lands. Everything.” Slowly he told them of the journey to the monastery and of the death of Sirano, Duke of Romark. “What happened at the monastery was terrible,” he said. “The monks were slain by the Daroth, the younger ones consumed by them.”
Ceofrin listened as Duvo repeated his tale. “I can only imagine the anger you must feel,” he said.
Duvodas shook his head. “The Eldarin taught me how to deal with anger: you must let it flow through you without pause. It was a hard lesson, but I believe I mastered it. Anger leads only to hate, and hate is the mother of evil. The Daroth are what they are. Like a storm, perhaps, destructive and violent. I will not hate them. I will not hate anything.”
“If you ask me,” said Ceofrin, “you are walking a hard road. Man is born to love, and to hate. I do not believe that any teaching can alter that.”
“You are wrong,” said Duvodas. “In my life I have seen evil in all its forms, great and small. They have not altered my perceptions.”
Ceofrin smiled. “You are a good man, Duvo. May I touch it?” Duvo passed it to him. Hefting the Pearl in his huge hands, he stared hard into its milky depths. “I cannot see cities here.”
“They are there, nonetheless. I must get the Pearl to the highest mountain of the Eldarin lands. Then they will return.”
“And help us destroy the Daroth?” asked Ceofrin.
“No. I do not believe they will.”
“Then why bring them back?”
“Father! How can you say that?” asked Shira. “Do they not deserve to live?”
“I did not mean it in that way,” said Ceofrin, reddening. “What I meant is that if they chose to hide from a human army because they do not like to fight, then why bring them back to face a Daroth one?”
“It is a good point,” conceded Duvodas. “That said, the Eldarin are a wise people who may well offer alternatives to war. Their return alone will force the Daroth to reconsider their plans.”
“I hope that you are right, Duvo,” said Ceofrin, returning the Pearl. “Now I must prepare the kitchens. There is food to be cooked, and ale to be brought up from the cellar.” He glanced once more at the Pearl and shook his head. “It seems strange to think of such humdrum matters on a day such as this.”
“Life goes on, my friend,” said Duvodas, pushing himself to his feet.
Shira took his arm. “You need some rest,” she said. “Come. The bedroom is warm and there are fresh, clean sheets upon the bed.” Together they made their way to the upper rooms, where Duvodas laid his harp upon the table and stripped off his travel-stained clothes.
“Lie with me for a while,” he said, as he slipped under the covers.
“I have work to do,” she told him. “And if I came in there with you, you would not rest!”
Duvodas rolled to one elbow and looked at her. The pregnancy was now well advanced. “Are you still sick in the mornings?” he asked her.
“No, but I have the most incredible cravings for food. Honey-cakes dipped in gravy! Can you imagine?”
“Happily, I cannot,” he said. Lying back on the pillow he closed his eyes. His body felt as if it were floating in a boat on a gentle current. He felt her kiss upon his cheek, then drifted away into a dreamless sleep.
When he awoke it was close to midnight and Shira lay fast asleep beside him. Reaching out he drew her to him, holding her close. In ten days they would join the first of the refugees, heading for Loretheli. Once he had settled Shira there, he would strike out south-west to the lands of the Eldarin. Shira awoke in his arms and snuggled closer. He could smell the sweet perfume of her hair and skin, and feel the warmth of her body.
Arousal grew in him and he made love to her, slowly and without passion, kissing her softly. Then he lay back, still holding her. “I love you,” she whispered.
“And I you.” It seemed then that there was no world outside. The whole universe was contained in this one small, cosy room. Placing his hand on Shira’s swollen belly, he felt the life there. His son. The thought brought a lump to his throat. His son! “He will be born in the late spring in a city by the sea,” Shira had said. “I will show him to the sunrise and the sunset. He will be handsome, like you, with fair hair and your eyes. Not at first, for all babies are born with blue eyes. But they will turn grey-green as he gets older.”
“Why should he not have beautiful brown eyes, like his mother?”
“Perhaps he will,” she had said.
Karis sat quietly as Tarantio told her of the journey, and the recovery of the Pearl. Forin, Necklen and Vint were sitting close by, while Brune was in the kitchen, preparing a supper for them all. “You believe it? About the Pearl, I mean?” she asked.
“I do,” said Tarantio. “Brune told me about the resurrection of the Oltor. And Brune does not have the imagination to lie.”
“I hope that you are right. What concerns me, however, is that the Daroth were at the monastery at all.”
“What do you mean?” Tarantio asked.
“All of our plans are predicated on the fact that the Daroth do not like the cold, and will not arrive before the full spring thaw. Now you tell me they climbed a mountain trail in sub-zero temperatures and murdered scores of priests. By that token they could be here within days. And we are not ready.”
Karis swung to Forin. “What do you think?” she asked.
“There is a difference between a small group tackling the frozen wilderness and an army doing the same thing. In spring there will be sufficient water for their soldiers and their horses. In winter the streams and rivers are frozen. Likewise grass for their mounts, which at present is under the snow. I think we still have time—albeit less than we would like.”
“I agree wi
th Forin,” said Necklen. “And since there is nothing we can do about it, I suggest we move on as we have planned.”
Karis nodded. “The new catapult is wonderfully efficient. Three more are being assembled now to protect the eastern wall.”
“What about west and south?” asked Tarantio.
“I am not too concerned about the western wall. The land falls away from it; there is no site for a catapult, and any charge from foot-soldiers would be slowed by the steep slope. In the south we could have a problem; but if we have weeks left before the siege then more catapults will be assembled and raised to protect it. I think the Daroth will strike first from the north, where they will try to breach the walls and storm through. Our first—and main—task is to stop them there.”
“Ozhobar tells me you and he have other plans,” said Necklen. “When will you share them with us?”
“I won’t be sharing them, my friend,” replied Karis. “The Daroth are telepaths. I do not believe they will seek to read our minds before the first charge, for they are arrogant and believe us to be pitifully weak. When we turn them back, however, that arrogance will begin to leach away. Then they will concentrate on learning what else we have in store. It is vital that our secondary plans remain secret. That is why neither Ozhobar nor myself will be on the walls—or in sight of the Daroth—at any time.”
“I take it,” said Vint, “that is why the stonemasons have been gouging deep holes in the stonework behind the gates?”
“It is. You will see many such activities in the days to come. Try not to be curious.”
Vint laughed. “Easier said than done, my lady.”
“I know. I remember the silly mind-games Giriak used to play. One of them involved not thinking about a donkey’s ears for ten heartbeats. It was impossible. Even so, you must try. Also warn all the men along the north wall: any sudden headaches or feelings of warmth in the skull are to be reported and the men questioned. I tend to think the Daroth will concentrate on officers, but I could be wrong.”
“How many fighting men will we have, Karis?” asked Necklen. “Already the numbers listed for the refugee columns have reached ten thousand, and they are still rising. Councillor Pooris says he and his department are weighed down by the requests.”
“The closest estimate is fifteen thousand fighting men,” said Karis. “We should outnumber the Daroth by three to one. However, that statistic is meaningless, since our troops will need to be spread around the four walls. It is likely we will be evenly matched on the north wall.”
Brune brought in several trays of meat, bread and cake, and a large flagon of red wine.
“Prentuis fell within a day,” said Necklen. “One blood-filled, terrible day!”
“This is not Prentuis,” said Karis. “And they were not led by me.”
The logistics of the problem had initially excited Pooris. Several thousand refugees to be shepherded to the city of Hlobane, just under 300 miles south-west, and then a further 410 miles south and east to the port city of Loretheli. The problem was now much greater, and Pooris sat with Niro and a score of clerics in the hall above the Great Library, frantically trying to collate statistics.
Fourteen thousand people had now declared their wish to leave Corduin, almost 20 per cent of the adult population. The Duke’s riders had made a score of hazardous journeys south with messages to and from Belliese, the Corsair Duke, who had demanded five silver pieces for every refugee, a further ten for any who wished to be transported on to the islands. The sum was not extortionate, but was now coming close to emptying the treasury.
Considering the fact that there were more than 10,000 mercenaries now in Corduin who demanded payment on the first day of every month, the problem was serious indeed. Without the windfall of the executed Lunder’s fortune, the project would never have been begun. Even with it, Pooris now doubted whether the city’s finances would stretch far enough.
The spidery figure of Niro loomed over his desk and Pooris glanced up. “There are not enough wagons, sir,” said Niro. “Not by half. The price of those there are has trebled already. It will rise higher.”
“How many have we purchased for movement of food and silver?”
“Thirty, sir. But the main holding yard was broken into last night, and five were stolen. I have placed extra guards there.”
“Were our wagons marked as ordered?”
“Yes, sir. A yellow strip hidden by the rear axle.”
“Order a full search. When the wagons are found the owners are to be hanged.”
Niro hesitated. “You are aware, sir, that they will have been sold on in good faith? The people who now have them will not be the thieves.”
“I am aware of that. Before they are hanged they will be questioned as to those who sold them the vehicles. Anyone named will also be hunted down and hanged. We will leave no-one in any doubt as to the severity of punishment should such thieving continue.”
“Yes, sir.” Niro moved away and Pooris leaned back and rubbed his chin. The bristle growing there surprised him. How long had he been in the building? Fourteen hours? Eighteen?
A young cleric approached him and bowed. Pooris was so tired he could not remember the man’s name. “What is it?”
“A small problem, sir. We have run out of red wax for the Duke’s seal. There is none to be found anywhere.”
Every official refugee was to be given a note of authority stamped with the seal of Duke Albreck, and each, upon presentation of the seal, was entitled to remove from the treasury a sum not to exceed twenty gold pieces—assuming, of course, that they had money in excess of the sum banked there.
“Red wax,” mumbled Pooris. “May the Gods spare me! What colours are there to be had?”
“Blue, sir. Or green.”
“Then stamp them with blue. It is the seal, not the colour, which gives authority.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man backed away. Pooris stood and moved to his private office, where the stove fire had died and the room was cold. There was a jug of water on the desk. Pooris filled a goblet and sipped it.
The convoy of refugees would probably spread out over two miles or more. They would have to be guarded from robbers, and fed, and housed in tents on the journey. It was like equipping an army for a campaign, thought Pooris. Gazing up at the map on the wall, he studied the terrain. A swallow would cover 512 miles to Loretheli, but on foot the refugees would have to skirt the mountains, adding almost 200 miles, much of it across rough, cold country with little game and less shelter.
The Council at Hlobane had been instructed to send out food wagons to meet the convoy. These would most certainly be needed. According to Karis, the refugees would average around eight miles a day. All told, the full journey might take three months.
And still 14,000 wanted to try it, to face the perils of cold and hunger, robbers and thieves. Many of the richer refugees would also be obliged to leave their fortunes behind, never to be recovered. All for the distant prospect of a safe haven. Some would die on the journey; Karis estimated the number at around 2 per cent.
Three hundred people who would have lived longer had they remained in their own homes . . .
Pooris had been against the expedition from the start, despite his love of logistics. But both the Duke and Karis had been against him.
“You will not stop people deserting,” said Karis. “If heroes came in great numbers we would not value them so highly. Most people have cowardly hearts.”
“And if we force them to stay,” put in Albreck, “there will be panic when the Daroth arrive. We cannot afford panic. Let it be known that a refugee column will leave the city in the last month of winter; it will be escorted to Hlobane.”
“That will push up the numbers of those wishing to leave, my lord,” said Karis.
“I fear that is true, sir,” added Pooris.
“Let the faint-hearted fly where they will. I want only the strong. We will fight the Daroth—and we will beat him.” The Duke gave a rare smile. “
And if we do not, we will bloody him so badly that he will not have the strength to march on Hlobane. Is that not true, Karis?”
“It is true, my lord.”
True or not, it did not help Pooris as he struggled to make the arrangements for the civilian withdrawal.
A knock came at the door. He called out to enter and Niro stepped inside.
“Another problem?” he asked the man. Niro gave a shrug.
“Of course, sir. What else would you expect?”
Pooris gestured him to a seat. “I was scanning the list of refugees. You asked for them to be compiled as to occupation.”
“Yes. And?”
“Twelve of the city’s fifteen armourers have applied to leave. Not a good time, I would have thought, to run short of crossbow bolts and suchlike.”
“Indeed not.”
“Curiously, only two of Corduin’s sixty-four bakers have applied to leave.” Niro grinned. “Makers of bread are more courageous than makers of swords. Interesting, sir, don’t you think?”
“I will raise the problem with the Duke. Well spotted, Niro. You have a keen eye. How many merchants on the list?”
“None, sir. They all left soon after Lunder’s execution.”
“Will you be leaving also?” asked Pooris. “I understand that more than four-fifths of the city’s clerics have applied.”
“No, sir. I am by nature an optimist. If we do survive and conquer, I should imagine the Duke would be most grateful to those who stood by his side.”
“Pin not your hopes on the goodwill of rulers, Niro. My father once told me—and I have seen it to be true—that nothing is as long-lived as a monarch’s hatred, nor as short-lived as his gratitude.”
“Even so, I shall stay.”
“You have faith in our lady general?”
“Her men have faith. They have seen her in action,” said Niro.
“As have I. I watched her bring a mountain down on a group of Daroth riders. More importantly, to do so she crushed several of our own people. She is ruthless, Niro. And single-minded. I do believe that we are lucky to have her. Yet . . . the Daroth are not like any human enemy we have ever faced. Every one of their warriors is stronger than three of ours. And we have not yet seen what strategies they are capable of.”