Changer’s Moon

29

Georgia and Anoike were up in the observation room of the west tower, moving about from windowslit to windowslit, watching the power-dance on the mountain peaks, looking out over the army, checking on the vuurvis fire eating at the gates.

Anoike pulled her head in. “Somethin weird happenin over here.”

Georgia turned from the side slit where he was scowling at the fire. “Huh?”

“C’mon here, hon.”

He brushed at the crumbling stone, then leaned out the slit beside hers. “What?”

“Them. There.”

“Mercs. So?”

“Uh-uh.” She lifted her binoculars, looked through them a minute longer, slipped the strap over her head and passed them to Georgia. “Look close, see ’f you see what I see.” She went back to leaning in the slit, ignoring the carbon staining her thin strong arms. When she saw the Kulaan swarm over Kole and the Nor, she gave a low whistle. “Would’ya look at that.”

“When you’re right, you’re right.” He brushed at his arms, handed her the binoculars. “Got your wish, Annie Lee.” He grinned at her scowl. “Someone took out Nekaz Kole.” He sobered. “Better let Hern and Yael-mri know.”

Hern stood very still, his eyes fixed on the crumbled cliff, on the paired trees blowing in a wind that didn’t reach the valley floor. His face and eyes looked blank, rather as if he were unconscious on his feet.

Yael-mri put her hand on his shoulder. “Hern.”

He shuddered, sucked in a long breath, exploded it out, sucked in another. He glanced at the trees one more time, then swung around, his back to them. “What?” The single word was harsh, strained. He cleared his throat, coughed. “What’s happening?”

“The Shawar are loosed. They’re chasing the Sleykynin from the valley.”

Anoike was staring at the upwelling of thick golden light, spreading in slow waves out from the heart of the Biserica. Georgia watched her a moment, then turned to Hern. “Nekaz Kole is dead. Looks like some of the raiders got hold of merc leathers, just walked up to him and stuck a knife in him, pulled him out of the saddle and went off with his rambut.”

Hern closed his eyes. “Then it’s over.” He looked down at himself. “I’d better get dressed. Georgia, collect your councilors. Yael-mri, you get the priestsu together; Where’d be the best place to meet? Not the Watchhall.” He brushed at his face as if trying to brush away memory. “The library, I think, neutral ground of a sort.” He started walking toward the hospital tent and the trucks parked there, talking as he walked, as idea after idea came to him. “Oras will be a rat-pit by now. Won’t take long to tame it, though. Hang a few of the bloodiest rats, keep patrols in the streets a passage or two. Cimpia Plain. That’ll be harder. Food. Have to work out a way to distribute what’s left of the tithing, chase off any bands of majilarni still there, bound to be raiders hitting the tars and the villages. Reminds me, we’ll need someone to talk for the tars and ties, a Stenda and a Keeper, one of those who came in with the last bunch of ’lockers. Suppose I’ll have to stand watch for the others. Your folks can stay here at the Biserica if that’s what you want. Probably should until spring. North of the Catifey the winters are hard on those without shelter. Some should stay at the Plaz in Oras, once we can get that cleaned out, advance party so to speak, it’s close to the land you’ll be getting, got maps there. Have to talk to you about the Bakuur, they have tree-rights to bottom land on both sides of the river. Have to work out some kind of government, I’m not going back to the way it was before, even if…” He stopped walking, paused. Then after a minute he started on, continuing to blurt out whatever came into his mind, not bothering with any but the most rudimentary of connections, talking to hold off the loss that kept threatening to overwhelm him.

The golden light thickened about them and began pouring over the wall onto the army, waking them to defeat, prodding them away from the valley.