Dark Horse

16

Athlone stood on the graying walls of the river gate and watched the exiles’ guard fires burning like a fiery noose in the field before the fortress. In the gathering gloom, he could barely see the marauders clustered around their fires. The exiles thought they had little to fear.

The trapped clans would not waste the time or the men to chase down an enemy that would scatter and flee at the first sign of strength.

It tested Athlone’s tolerance to see the outcasts taunt and posture beyond arrow range, but he could do nothing about them. Savaric had ordered no shots fired or sorties made—yet. Let the exiles think the four clans were cowering in the depths of the defile.

Since the arrival of the Dangari that morning, Savaric and the other chiefs had made plans to bring the four clans out of the defile to the fortress under cover of night. One of Jorlan’s men had found a hidden stairway leading from a storage room in the back of the fortress, down the back of the ridge, and into the gorge behind the river wall.

The stairs made it easy for Savaric and the others to slip down to the defile, but the way was too narrow and steep for a large group with pack animals. The clans could only enter the fortress by the front gates. However, a move like that was too dangerous during the day, for the exile band could wreak havoc on the women, the children, and the wagons of supplies. At night, the clans could slip into the stronghold in relative safety. Particularly if the marauders were busy elsewhere.

Athlone grinned to himself. He would not have to wait much longer. The wer-tain sensed someone come up beside him, and he turned to see Koshyn lean against the parapet.

The young chieftain’s face was unreadable in the deepening twilight, and his tattoos were almost invisible. “For men who are dead to our eyes; they are making a nuisance of themselves.”

Athlone made a sound deep in his throat. He shifted restlessly. “They think we can only sit here on our pretty wall and show our teeth.”

Koshyn glanced over his shoulder and studied the fading light in the west. “Let them be ignorant a little while longer. It will be dark soon, and we’ll be able to ride.” He turned around and stared up at the black, hulking mass of Ab-Chakan. The walls and towers of the old fortress rose above them in a massive silence, its stones hiding secrets and echoing with memories that were beyond the knowledge of the clansmen.

“I feel like a mouse scurrying around some unholy monolith,” Koshyn said softly, as if afraid the stones would hear. “What are we doing here?”

Athlone’s strong face twisted in a grimace. He, too, felt the weight of the old walls. “Trying to survive.”

“In an inhospitable place that was never meant for us. We aren’t used to stone beneath our feet and walls before our eyes. We fight with muscle, bone, and steel.” He gestured to the fortress. “Not with crumbling, old masonry.”

“Would you prefer to face Medb’s fury on the plains below? It would be a glorious way to die.”

The Dangari grinned and shook his head. “And fruitless. No, Athlone, I am not stupid—only afraid.”

Athlone lifted his gaze to the west, half-hoping to see a Hunnuli mare galloping out of the night. But only the wind rode the grass; only the muted hooves of the horses waiting in the defile echoed in the night. “We all are,” he muttered.

Abruptly Koshyn pushed himself away from the parapet and slapped the sword at his hip. “We are too gloomy, Wer-tain. While there are weapons at hand and an enemy to fight, let us ride as warriors are meant to.”

Athlone smiled grimly. “You’re right, my friend. We will be in paradise before this fortress falls. Come, we’ll show the exiles our teeth.”

They linked arms and strode down the stone steps to the gate, where Savaric and a large group of mounted warriors were waiting for full darkness. Behind the riders, in the depths of the gorge, stood the massed ranks of the four clans. The men, carrying packs on their backs, looked uncomfortable and edgy. The women and children stood in a large group in the center of the ranks, their arms full of bundles and their eyes downcast to hide their fear. Loaded pack animals, oxen and cattle that could be eaten later, waited patiently among the lines. Not a torch flickered or a fire burned. It was almost totally dark in the defile. Athlone could feel the anxiety of every person about him.

A shiver charged the wer-tain’s nerves like the touch of a ghost. He had seen Ab-Chakan in the daylight and even then its empty chambers and ancient silences had unsettled him. He knew what his people were feeling now as they waited to enter the fortress in the depths of the night.

Another group of warriors taken from all four clans stood along the wall, watching Savaric. They were the volunteers who would remain behind to guard the river wall and the herds that had been driven deep into the defile. Athlone frowned.

There were so pitifully few men to guard the crumbling, old wall. There was little choice, however; the remainder of the fighting men, nearly three thousand, were needed to protect the fortress.

The light of the sunset had died and night was upon the clans. The roar of the river seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet, crowded gorge. Despite the breeze from the rushing water, the air was sluggish and heavy with a damp chill.

Athlone pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he and Koshyn went to greet the mounted warriors. Boreas came to join the wer-tain. In the darkness, the black horse was almost invisible. Only his eyes, glowing like moons behind a thin cloud, and his white mark of lightning could be seen. Eagerly he snorted and butted his nose on Athlone’s chest. The wer-tain vaulted to his back.

Savaric came to the Hunnuli’s side and looked up at his son.

The chief’s hood was drawn over his nose, hiding his sharp features, but Athlone’s gaze reached through the darkness to touch his father’s in a wordless moment of understanding and sadness. In a passing breath, their thoughts and concerns became one and each gave to the other the strength that they would need for the coming days. Savaric nodded once. He squeezed his son’s knee, joined his hearthguard, and in a low voice gave the warriors his last-minute instructions.

“Ride safely, Athlone,” Jorlan said, coming up beside the Hunnuli.

Athlone greeted the other man. “I’ll see you soon in the fortress.”

“Hmmm,” said the second wer-tain. “I can hardly wait to hole up in that monstrosity of stone.”

“Think of the pleasure Lord Medb will have when he fully realizes the size of the nut we are giving him to crack. He will be quite surprised.”

Jorlan’s face broke into a malicious grin. “That’s an image worth savoring.”

“Athlone,” Savaric called. “It’s time.”

The chieftain’s command was passed down the lines of clansmen, and the tension immediately intensified in the defile. The ranks of men shifted forward in a press of armor, swords, and packs; the women drew closer together. At the end of the lines, Sha Umar and the rearguard waited impatiently to go. .

Jorlan saluted Athlone as the mounted men moved to the river wall. Koshyn joined Athlone and the gate was eased open.

“Remember,” Savaric whispered loudly, “we need time’”

On soundless hooves, Boreas passed out of the defile, and the company of riders fell in behind him. All were mounted on black or dark brown horses, and in the thick night, Athlone doubted the marauders would see them until they were on top of the fires. He urged Boreas forward until they reached the foot of the ridge beneath Ab-Chakan, where the river curved south. In the defile, the main ranks of the clans waited breathlessly, tight with tension, with only a long walk to a cold, dark ruin before them. But Athlone and the warriors with him could ride like clansmen were born to: with horns blowing, swords in their hands, and an enemy to fight face to face.

Athlone could wait no longer. An excitement and fury roared within him that was fired by days of frustration and running. He drew his sword. Koshyn caught his feeling and cried to the horn bearer with them. “Now, let them hear the song of the hunt.”

The horn burst in the quiet night like a thunderclap. It rebounded through the hills, ringing clear with the victory of a quarry sighted and the joy of the coming kill. Before the last and note left the horn, Boreas reared and neighed a challenge that blended with the horn’s music and forged a song of deadly peril. In unison, the other men drew their weapons with a shout and spurred their eager mounts into a gallop toward the fires.

The exiles were taken by surprise. As the riders swept down on them, the outcasts broke out of their stunned lethargy and frantically ran for their horses. The Hunnuli burst among the largest group. Two men fell to Athlone’s sword and one to Boreas’s hooves. The rest scattered in all directions, the clansmen on their heels.

A few exiles were caught by the riders and immediately put to death. The remainder fled to the sanctuary of the rough hills, where they could easily lose their pursuers. Thus it was that the marauders did not see the files of heavily laden people and animals toil up the road to Ab-Chakan, nor did they hear the thud as the massive gates were closed.

At dawn, the horn bearer again sounded his instrument to welcome the sun and to gather the riders. Exhausted, their fury spent, the warriors rode back, pleased with their labors. They had suffered only a few minor wounds while nine of the exiles had been killed. The troop rode to the gates of the fortress, and the men who greeted them and took their lathered horses were relieved to have the riders back. The big bronze gates closed behind them with a thud of finality.

It was not long before the exiles edged back to their cold fires and took up their watch of the fortress.

As soon as it was light and the women were settled in the palace and surrounding houses, guards were placed in the towers to watch the plains for signs of Medb’s army, and the chiefs and their men set out to explore every cranny of the stronghold. The men spent all morning poking and digging and opening things that had not been opened in generations. By the time they returned to the palace’s hall to confer, even Koshyn was admiring the handiwork of the men of old and the most reluctant clansman was realizing the capabilities of the fortification.

The outer walls and the towers were still in very good condition. The inner walls were crumbling but defensible, many of the stone buildings in the fortress’s center were sturdy enough to shelter the clanspeople and the livestock. The cisterns, buried deep in the rock, were full, since the water was constantly refreshed by seasonal rains.

As soon as the chiefs had planned their defense of the stronghold, everyone set to work to prepare the old fortress for what it had not seen in centuries: war. The walls were patched, the trash and rubble were cleared out of the space between the two walls, and the gate was secured with logs and chains. Wer-tains and children alike began to grow confident in their new refuge. It would take more than Medb and a few clans to rout them out of this hill of stone.

The clanspeople were still working desperately when a horn blew wildly from one of the towers. The people looked up at the sinking sun in surprise. It was too early for the sunset horn. Then the realization dawned on them all, and the chiefs came running to the wall from every pan of the fortress. The men close by the main wall crowded up onto the parapet.

There in the valley, the exiles were galloping their horses about and the vanguard of the sorcerer’s army was riding up the old road.

As planned, horns blew from all the towers and five, banners—one gold, one blue, one maroon, one orange, and one dark red—were unfurled above the main gate.

Savaric’s hands gripped the stone. “Medb is here,” he called: the people crowded into the bailey below him. “You all know your duties.”

Silently, the warriors dispersed to seek their weapons and take their places along the battlements. Athlone ran up the stone steps to join the chiefs, and without a word, Lord Ryne pointed down to the valley.

Once again Medb timed his arrival to create the greatest impression. The sun was already behind the crown of the mountains when the sorcerer’s army arrived at the Defile of Tor Wrath and the valley was sinking into twilight. A sharp wind blew the grass flat and swirled about the foot of Ab-Chakan.

Heralded by the wind and cloaked by the approaching night, the sorcerer’s vanguard crossed the bridge and stopped at the foot of the hill just below the fortress. They waited in ominous silence.

Behind them, the main army marched to the command of drums. They came endlessly, countless numbers obscured by the dim twilight that hid their true form. They came until the valley was filled and the army spread out along the mountain flanks. There were no torches or lamps or voices or neighs of horses to break the monotony of the terrifying black flood. There was only the sound of the drums and the remorseless tread of feet.

The clansmen watched the coming host in dismay and disbelief. Never had they imagined anything like this. The force that marched relentlessly toward the defile was no longer Wylfling or Geldring or Amnok or foreigner lured by gold. It had become a faceless, mindless mass driven by the single will of one evil man.

The wind eased and all movement died in the valley. The night-shrouded army gathered its breath and waited for its master’s signal. But the sorcerer held them firm. He let the troops wait, allowing them to see their goal and the clansmen to see their doom. In the fortress above, Savaric and the clans looked on with dread. Still Medb held back his army. The tension burned until it became almost unendurable.

Then a lone horseman rode out of the vanguard and up to the gates of the fortress. He was cloaked in brown and a helm hid his face, but nothing could hide the snide, contemptuous tone of his voice.

“Khulinin, Dangari, Bahedin, and Jehanan. The rabble of the clans.” He snorted rudely. “My master has decided to be merciful to you this once. You have seen the invincibility of his arcane power and now you see the might of his host. Look upon this army. Weigh your advantages. You will not survive long if you choose to oppose Lord Medb. There are still other choices: surrender to him and he will be lenient.”

Savaric struggled to find his voice. Furiously, he shoved his hands over the edge of the stone wall and gripped it tightly for support. “Branth, I see you have lost your cloak.” His voice was harsh with derision.

The Geldring made a broad sweep with his arm to indicate the army behind him. “Brown is such a strong color, fertile with opportunities.”

“So is dung, but I wouldn’t trade my clan for it. How do the Geldring feel about forsaking the green?”

Branth’s words were clipped with anger. “My clan obeys.”

“Your clan!” Savaric forced a rude laugh. “No longer, Branth. Your clan is Medb’s and it is he they obey. The Geldring no longer exist. Go away from here, traitor.”

Branth sneered. Behind him, in the valley, the army shifted restlessly. “Bravely spoken, chieftain. Soon, you, too, will see the wisdom of wearing brown. Only do not take long to decide. The army has already smelled blood.” With a harsh cry, Branth spurred his horse back down the road.

Medb, in his enclosed wagon, nodded to himself in satisfaction. He forced his restive army back, away from the fortress. Anticipation would put a keen edge on the fear he had honed in the stronghold; when at last he released the attack, the clansmen would not survive for long.

Their fates were sealed as surely as Medb’s victory was assured. The Khulinin and the others would cease to exist; their chieftains would soon be destroyed. Even if Savaric and his allies did surrender, Medb certainly did not plan to be lenient.

The first attack came before dawn, in the cold hours when reactions are slowest and muscles are chilled. It was only a probe to test the strength of the defenders and the clansmen the easily beat back the attack. Still, the men found it was a relief to fight. After the long, interminable hours of waiting through the night, the screaming horde of mercenaries that swarmed up the road to the wall was a blessing. The chiefs knew it was.” only a test, and they quickly repaired their defenses to meet the next onslaught.

This time they had a long wait. After the mercenaries fell back beyond the river, the army’s encampment was quiet for a few hours. Savaric posted guards and allowed the rest of the defenders to stand down, but few of the warriors left the parapets. They watched and waited to see what Medb was going to do next.

Around noon, the activity in the huge camp suddenly increased. Wagons were seen moving to the hills and returning with stacks of cut logs. Hundreds of men clustered together and appeared to be working on several large things the clansmen could not identify. The noises of wood being cut and hammered sounded long after dark.

In the fortress, Savaric and the clansmen continued their vigilance through another long, unbearable night.

At dawn the next day, the labors of Medb’s army became clear. Three large objects were wheeled out of the encampment, across the old bridge, and set up at the base of the hill, out of arrow range but as close to Ab-Chakan as possible. The clansmen were in position on the fortress walls, and those in the front ranks watched curiously as the strange wooden devices were prepared.

“What are those?” Lord Ryne asked, voicing everyone’s curiosity.

Savaric called to one of his men. “Bring Cantrell here.”

The bard was quickly brought and carefully escorted up the stone steps to where the chiefs were standing on the parapet. “I hear Medb has been busy,” Cantrell said after his greeting.

“There are three wooden things just below the fortress,” Savaric answered. “They’re heavy, wheeled platforms with long poles on top. The poles are attached at one end of the platform and have what looks like large bowls fastened to the other end.”

“Look at that,” Sha Umar added. “The men put a rock in that one device and they’re pulling down on one end.”

Cantrell’s face went grim. “Catapults.”

As if in response to his word, the device below snapped loose and a large rock sailed up and crashed into the wall just below the parapet. The defenders instinctively ducked.

“Good gods!” Savaric exclaimed. The men peered over the walls just as another rock was flung at the fortress. The missile hit the bronze gates with a thundering boom. The clansmen were relieved to see there was no damage to the wall or the gate, but as the morning passed, the men on the catapults found their range and the heavy stones began to rain down within the front walls of the fortress. Several clansmen were killed when a huge rock landed in their midst, and the old parapet sustained some damage. The other men were thrown into confusion as the boulders continued to crash down around them.

Then, just before noon, Athlone glanced over the wall and saw the army forming across the river. “Here they come!” he shouted. A horn bearer in the tower by the gate blew the signal to warn the defenders along the walls.

In the valley below, men rushed forward and set up make shift bridges over the Isin River, and the sorcerer’s army launched its full fury at Ab-Chakan. Under the cover of a deluge of missiles and arrows, the first ranks of soldiers with ropes and ladders charged up the road and the sides of the hill to the front walls. All the while, the army’s drums pounded relentlessly and a roar of fury echoed through the fortress. In the first frantic minutes, Athlone was too busy to appreciate the strategic advantages of his position, but as his men fought off the attackers, it dawned on him that the old stronghold was easy to defend. Not only did the swift river prevent large attack force from crossing all at once, but the ridge’s steep slopes slowed down the advance of the enemy and left them open to the deadly fire from the battlements. The clansmen cheered when the first wave fell back, and a glimmer of hope returned to their hearts.

The second wave came, more enraged than the first, and nearly reached the top of the walls before they were repulsed. Attack after attack was thrown at the walls and each was pushed back, foot by bitter foot, until the ground was heavy with dead and wounded, and the surviving defenders were shaking with exhaustion.

It doesn’t matter, Athlone thought grimly as he threw away his empty quiver, how easy it is to hold this fortress. Medb has the greater numbers and the advantage of time. Eventually the fortress will collapse from the lack of men to defend it.

In mocking reply to Athlone’s thoughts, the enemy’s horns bayed again and a new attack stormed to the wall. This time the onslaught scaled the defenses. The clansmen drew their swords and daggers and fought hand to hand as the fighting swayed frantically over the battlements. Blood stained the old rock, and yells and screams of fury echoed around the towers. Time and again Savaric rallied the men and fought off the wild-eyed attackers from the parapet, only to face more of them with fewer men at his side. Desperately, he brought the men on the back walls around to the front and prayed the river wall and its defenders were enough to protect Ab-Chakan’s back.

The clansmen lost all sense of time. The battle raged through the afternoon in a seemingly endless cycle of attacks and repulses. Sha Umar went down with an arrow in his shoulder. Jorlan was slain defending Savaric’s side. The catapults continued to hurl missiles over the wall and at the gate, damaging the fortress and distracting the defenders. All the while, the drums pounded incessantly in the valley.

Then, without warning, the enemy withdrew. They fell back to their encampment and an eerie silence fell over the valley. In the tower by the gate, the horn bearer sounded the call for sunset.

The clansmen looked around in surprise as darkness settled down around them. They had won the day. But as the chiefs began to count their dead and wounded, they wondered if they would be so fortunate tomorrow.

Across the valley, in Medb’s tent, the sorcerer’s rage burned hot. His powers had doubled since leaving the Tir Samod, and he had healed his crippled legs. However, there were no spells to bolster his energy and he was near collapse from sustaining his army’s rage during the long battle. He had suffered heavy losses. Finally, Medb realized he had underestimated Savaric.

The four clans were backed into a stone burrow from which only something unexpected could flush them. There was nothing left to do but hold off on her attacks until new plans could be made.

The sorcerer allowed his army to return to its encampment, and he went into seclusion to rest and ponder. Ab-Chakan would fall if he had to crumble it with his bare hands.

Shortly after midnight, Athlone mounted Boreas and joined a small troop of volunteer riders waiting by the front gate. Several men carried torches and bags of oil.

Savaric was waiting for Athlone and came to stand beside the big Hunnuli. The chief’s face was deeply worried. “I don’t like this, Athlone,” he said forcefully. “It would be better to forget those catapults. They’re too heavily guarded.”

The wer-tain’s eyes met his father’s and he nodded. “I know. But those machines are wreaking havoc on us. Besides, it would do the clans some good to see those things burn.”

“But if you get trapped outside the gates, we might not be able to help you.”

“It’s not too far, Father,” Athlone replied. “We’ll burn those things and get back as fast as we can.”

Savaric sighed. He hated the danger his son was riding into, but he too, wanted those catapults destroyed. Finally, he nodded reluctantly.

The wer-tain saluted him. Then, without warning or reason, a deadly chill touched Athlone’s mind and a shade seemed to pass over his father’s face. Alarmed, Athlone sat back on Boreas and rubbed his hand over his chin. The feeling of malaise was gone as quickly as it came, leaving in its place a dull, aching hollow and a newly planted seed of fear. He shook his head slightly and wondered what was wrong.

Savaric did not seem to notice. He bid farewell to his son and stood back out of the way. The bronze gates were opened.

The first inkling of disaster came with a flare of torches at the fortress gates, then a storm of horses’ hooves thundered down the road and swept with gale force into the midst of the guard around the catapults. Led by a rider on a flame-eyed Hunnuli stallion, the horsemen surged into the stunned enemy. The riders’ weapons ran red with blood, and their eyes gleamed in the joy of battle.

While Athlone and his men pushed the enemy back, the men with the torches rode to the catapults. They doused the devices with oil and threw their torches onto the wooden platforms. The catapults burst into flames and the riders began their retreat.

But Lord Branth was expecting a possible attack on the siege weapons, so he was waiting with his men in the encampment. At the first sign of attack, he charged across the bridge to meet Athlone’s men, before the riders could escape.

The clansmen on the walls of the fortress watched in horror as Athlone and his riders were surrounded and the fighting grew bitter. Savaric shouted frantically for more warriors to ride out and rescue the men, but he knew that it was already too late.

Inexorably, the Wylfling and Geldring pulled down the riders. Athlone and his men were forced into a tighter and tighter circle. They fought back ferociously, anxious now only to survive.

Then, without warning, a spear was hurled over the warriors’ heads into Boreas’s chest. The great Hunnuli bellowed in pain and fury. He reared and his hooves slashed the air. He tried to leap over the fighters and carry his rider to safety, but the spear was buried too deep. The stallion’s heart burst, and his ebony body crashed to the earth.

Athlone felt his friend’s dying agony in every muscle of his body; his mind reeled in shock. He held on blindly when Boreas reared and sprang, but as the Hunnuli fell, he was too overwhelmed to jump off. The horse’s heavy body collapsed beneath him. Athlone saw the ground rushing toward him just as unconsciousness dimmed his searing grief.

A triumphant shout roared from the attackers. They pressed forward and quickly slew the last surviving Khulinin who tried in vain to defend Athlone’s body. Lord Branth shoved his way through the crowd to the corpse of the Hunnuli. He gleefully grabbed Athlone’s helm, wrenched it off, and raised his sword to cut off the wer-tain’s head. .

“Hold!” The command stilled the chief’s arm. Furiously he looked up and saw Lord Medb standing by the bridge, his face illuminated by the burning catapults. A second spear was in his hand. Branth quaked. .

“I want him alive,” Medb said. “I have a use for the son of the mighty Savaric.”

On the wall of the fortress, Savaric watched as his son and the big Hunnuli fell. He saw the enemy swarm over their bodies and he saw Lord Medb standing straight and strong on the river’s bridge. The chief’s eyes closed. Slowly his body sagged against the stone wall and he gave in to his grief and despair.