The Ring Оf Fire. The Wolf Bell

SIX

Ere’s moons waxed to brightness and waned again before the night that, while Cloffi lay sleeping, the Kubalese army rose up, and the little country of Urobb was destroyed.

The attack came down on Urobb on the first night of the Festival of Fish Taking, driving the Urobb tribes back from the river where they had gathered for the fish-rituals, and into the waiting platoons of the Kubalese Horse that had slipped like silent whispers in from the borders of Kubal. A long thin country, Urobb now was squeezed to nothing in the meshing of the two companies of Kubalese warriors, caught and trapped between them just as they themselves had planned to net the breeding shummerfins that swam the River Urobb.

The villages were burned and the women raped and put to labor at food gathering and cooking for the Kubalese bivouacs that remained behind. The hooved animals, horses and donkeys, were taken with the army as bounty, and the meager country, which had only its coal to sell and its fish and mountain crops to sustain it, lay fallen only a few hours after the attack began.

Now that Urobb was taken, Kubal’s land extended to the Urobb River. East of the river lay Carriol—Kubal would not attack her—then the sea. But to the west of Kubal lay Farr and Cloffi. Rivers are coveted, they water crops and herds, and they carry gold in their sands. Kubal had the Urobb. Now she eyed the Owdneet that ran down through the center of Cloffi then through Aybil and Farr to the sea.

The escaped and terrified miner who brought the message to Cloffi predicted in a breaking voice Farr’s certain demise, and then Aybil’s, his eyes red from lack of sleep and from fear and hunger. “And then,” he said, almost triumphantly, “and then it will be Cloffi. It will be Cloffi they rape and destroy.” His voice was filled with a passion of hatred as he stared up at Thorn—for it was Thorn who found him slipping along in the brush of the river outside Burgdeeth.

The little Urobb miner had come up along the river instead by the road, hiding in the bushes at night and eating of sablevine roots and of berries and morliespongs. When the distraught man saw Thorn, he stared at him as if he stared at death itself, and turned to run but Thorn grabbed him. Thorn saw the man’s terror and took him to a sheltered place behind a stand of wild vetchpea. He held out his waterskin, though the river was close, and gave the man his ration of bread and goatsmilk cheese, slicing them on the flat surface of a boulder. The miner ate as if he had not seen proper food for days.

Squally, his name was. When he had told Thorn his story, he wanted to be taken at once up the mountain, before he could be seized and held by the Landmaster. “And I will be, don’t doubt you that. I came secretly up the river to give my news freely to the common men of Burgdeeth, not to the Landmaster—there is a Kubal here, is there not, young goatherd?”

Thorn nodded and sat studying the small, wiry miner whose eyes squinted as if the light of common day was too bright after a lifetime in the coal mines.

“It was so in Sibot Hill, a Kubalese has come there. I had to slip away by night lest they imprison me. The Kubalese have made some bargain with the Landmaster of Sibot Hill. The Landmaster stood before his people and swore there would be no attack from Kubal. He would have sent me to sleep in the Sibot Hill cells, had I not escaped. It will be the same in Burgdeeth. There is no place left save Dunoon where a man can be safe, not this side of the Urobb, boy.”

“We’ll tell the people of Burgdeeth though,” Thorn said shortly. “We’ll get away before the Deacons hear of it.” If we’re quick, he thought. If we’re lucky. But he knew they had to try.

They made their way through the high stand of whitebarley that separated the river from Burgdeeth and into the back streets and alleys, then to the Inn. But the Kubalese was taking his noon meal there; Thorn could see him through the unshuttered window. He led the Urobb away, to the forgeshop.

Shanner Eskar lay sprawled across a bench, eating charp fruit. Thorn greeted him, then gave his attention to the Forgemaster, who sat at his work table drinking a bowl of broth. Old Yelig honored Thorn with a rare smile, and Thorn went to him and laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We have uneasy business to speak of, Yelig. Business the Landmaster won’t sanction. Would you rather we went elsewhere?”

“I’ve not gotten so old and crusty by hiding from the Deacons of Burgdeeth. That is why I am still master of my shop and not playing stones on the street. A bit of serious business isn’t going to harm me, lad. Now what is it that brings you here with a face as long as a river-owl’s?”

“Urobb has been taken, defeated. This is Squally from Urobb; he brought the news. He feared to bring such to the Landmaster.”

Shanner was staring at Thorn, his eyes dark. “He is right. The Landmaster won’t let the news be known. He claims there will be no attack, even though we’ve been drilling the whole Burgdeeth Horse every day. He’s as touchy as a trapped weasel. There’s something afoot, and you’d best be out of it, Yelig.”

The old man’s streaked hair was a bristly thatch across his ears. He stared at Shanner for a long minute, then sat back and motioned the miner to make himself comfortable.

As the story was told, Yelig’s expression grew more grim, as did Shanner’s, and when it was finished, Squally, exhausted with his own emotion, they sat silent. Then at last Shanner glanced up though the window. “The Kubalese will be back after his meal. We’d best spread the word.” He looked at Thorn, motioned to the Urobb, and the three of them went out.

*

Zephy was scrubbing cookpots when she heard shouting in the street. She ran out, leaving the greasy water in the basin, her hands dripping—men had gathered in the street, it looked like all of Burgdeeth.

“Don’t let anyone tell you . . .”

“The Landmaster said they . . .”

“But it’s war.”

“—over the borders of Urobb like hunters taking the stag, the Urobb miner said so!”

“Well he got out, didn’t he? How do we know—”

“He was the only one. And they were headed for Farr. After that . . .”

She stepped back into the doorway as four red-robed Deacons converged on the group. The crowd drew back at once and stood silent and uneasy before them. The Senior Deacon, Feill Wellick, stood with his staff raised in anger.

Zephy saw Shanner in the crowd. Then she caught her breath, for Thorn of Dunoon was with him, his red hair bright against the stone wall of the Glassmaker’s shop. And she thought, He should wear a cap if he wants to go unseen.

What had made her think that? But yes, Thorn and Shanner were slipping away quickly behind the crowd accompanied by a third man: she felt a sick fear for no reason.

There was an ugly sound from the crowd, and when Zephy turned to see, there was Kearb-Mattus standing with the Deacons as self-confident as if he were one of them. No Cloffi man would stand so, head up and eyes brazen, beside Deacons. The Kubalese was going to speak to the crowd! Speak in place of the Deacons? Zephy stood staring.

The Kubalese’s voice was deep with confidence. The muttering of the crowd stopped at once. The man’s charm and assurance held them. “There will be no war, men of Burgdeeth. Listen to your Deacons. Kubal will not attack Cloffi; the Kubalese and the Landmasters of Cloffi have made a pact of friendship.”

“But what of Urobb?” someone shouted.

“Urobb is another matter and not of concern to you.”

There was cheering—but some muttering, too. Zephy felt an unease begin to grow in the crowd, and fear crept along her spine. But often another fear touched that one as two of the Deacons stared toward an alley: they started forward suddenly so the crowd drew back; they lunged, caught someone, were struggling to hold him captive, someone who fought them . . .

His red hair flashed as he was pummelled between the Deacons. His arms were pulled behind him, and he was prodded in the direction of the Set between four Deacons. Behind him came the little wizened man, led on a rope like a donkey.

“Might have suspected, a Dunoon goatherd . . .”

“It’s the Urobb behind him . . .”

“Why do they take the miner prisoner? Would the Landmaster keep the truth from us?”

“Hush . . .”

“Shanner Eskar was with them, where is Shanner Eskar?”

“It’s his mother got him free, I heard the Kubal say . . .”

Zephy stared, stricken, as Thorn of Dunoon was led away. When she could no longer see him, or see the cluster of red robes, she looked stupidly at the crowd, then fled to the sculler.

Shaken and trembling, she stood in the herb-scented sculler awash with emotions she could not name. Urobb had been defeated by Kubal. Cloffi might be next. But the spinning terror in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with war. All she could see was Thorn of Dunoon’s face, and the fury in his eyes as he was forced away toward the Set.

When Shanner came home at last, late in the night, she sat up in the darkness of the loft. She would be all right now that Shanner was here. No one had told her anything, no one would speak of what had happened, of Urobb, of war—she had dared not ask about Thorn.

But Shanner was surly to her questions, as unwilling to talk as everyone else. He sat on his cot staring at his feet until she almost screamed with frustration. “What has happened? Tell me something! And why did they let you go and not Thorn?”

“They just let me go,” he said dully. “What do you mean, ‘and not Thorn’?” She could see he was tired. It took him a minute to realize what she had said. It took her only a second to wish she hadn’t said it. He stared at her, surprised. Then he grinned.

“I didn’t mean . . .” she began.

“I know what you meant, little sister.” He smiled knowingly. She could have hit him. “Well there’s nothing for it now, poor girl.” He gave her a look of mock pity. “Well, Zephy, it wasn’t me brought in the Urobb! What did you want me to do, demand to be taken? By Eresu, this is a blazing damned time to turn into a giddy woman!”

She stared at him, wishing he wouldn’t tease. She was awash with uncertainty, confused at her own sudden feelings, and needing him to talk to.

“Why couldn’t you just dally around like the other girls? Great flaming Urdd, Zephy, why do you have to make things so serious?”

“What will they do to him?”

“I don’t know. Lock him up—and the miner, too—for a few days.” His eyes were red and tired. She daren’t ask anything more.

She held her tears until Shanner was asleep, then she dissolved into a misery she didn’t understand and only wanted to be rid of.

*

Few Cloffa had seen the Landmaster’s quarters, except the serving girls who lived there. Though most Burgdeeth men came into the Set to train with the Burgdeeth Horse, their drilling ground was the enclosure itself where the mounts were stabled, not the sumptuous apartments. And Thorn had not seen even the drilling ground, for Dunoon men did not serve in the Horse. He was taken, now, through the parade ground, past the stables, and in through the thick double doors.

The ceiling of the room he entered was as high as the winged statue in the square, as tall as three floors of a common house. Around its upper third ran a balcony with a carved railing, where a fat young girl was standing with a dust cloth in her hand, looking down with curiosity. Below the railing, the walls were wonderfully smooth and were painted with scenes in colors beyond imagining, scenes of the gods, of the Luff’Eresi flying in the clouds. But there was something strange about the pictures, something . . . They were ugly! The Luff’Eresi were not beautiful like the statue in the square: they were heavy, with bold, cruel faces, their wings leathery and thick and their horses’ legs common and hairy. Their eyes were cold and cruel, and they held men in their hands, men as small as toys. They were flying with them and tossing them into the sky, they were . . . they were eating them! Appalled, Thorn stood frozen, staring.

A Deacon jerked him rudely, and Thorn tore his gaze from the paintings to see the Landmaster watching him.

“Those are your gods, Thorn of Dunoon,” the fat man said sarcastically. He gave the picture a proprietary glance, and his mouth twisted in a caustic smile.

“Why have you brought me here?” Thorn demanded. “What do you want of me?” If he were Oak Dar he would have been more subtle, his father could be very politic, but Thorn could squeeze out nothing but sore anger. “What Covenant have I broken against the Landmaster? What crime have you invented for me, to be dragged here like a trussed pig?”

The Landmaster swelled at Thorn’s insolence, his bald head and round stomach seeming to grow tighter; he motioned to the Deacons, who lined up on either side of Thorn. Thorn wished he could laugh in the crude ruler’s face, but his sullen fury was too great.

“You have defied the Covenant of Primacy. Or are you so ignorant you don’t know the Covenant of Primacy, goatherd?”

“Primacy! What has primacy to do with letting a poor Urobb miner say his piece?”

“Primacy entails that all news of Ere come first to the Landmaster, Cherban! You had no right . . .” Thorn stared at him with interest. The man’s cold demeanor was pretty thin. “You had no right to bring any news of Ere to the people of Burgdeeth! False news it was, and upset them unduly, goatherd! Take him away. Lock him where the Urobb was; we’ll see how the whelp likes cow dung and gutter-water for supper.”

Fury blinded Thorn. As he was forced at sword point through the Set, even the beauty of the inner gardens and fountains could not cut through his anger.

The cellhouse stood alone on the opposite side of the Set. As Thorn was thrust through the door, he spun around to see the Urobb miner coming toward him across the parade yard, led on a long rope by the Kubalese on his dark war horse. Kearb-Mattus’s crude laugh rang across the Set. “I’m taking your friend to Urobb, Cherban, as fast as my horse can gallop. If he can run faster, he might be alive when he reaches his homeland.”

Thorn gripped the door bolt helplessly as the Kubalese trotted off, Squally running behind.

*

It was five days that Thorn languished in the Landmaster’s jail; the floor was deep in filth, water was brought only once a day and that little enough, and the food was cold mawzee mush gone sour, not fit even for pigs. For two days he did not eat at all, then when he did eat, the food came up again. But on the third day, before dawn, he woke in the near darkness to see a silent figure standing outside the bars. Fear gripped him; but it was a small figure. He rose and went toward it, and could sense a quiet urgency beneath her stillness. Was it a girl? Or a young boy? The light was better on the basket: and the smell of food made his mouth water. But the hands holding the basket—yes, a girl’s hands.

He could barely see her face as she handed the basket and waterskin through the bars: dark eyes, dark hair pulled down inside her collar, and wearing something baggy and shapeless. “I can’t leave the waterskin or the basket,” she whispered. ‘They’ll find them. Take the food out, it’s in a napkin. Hurry!”

He reached out to do as she told him, felt her hand brush his. He glanced around the courtyard, but could see nothing else in the darkness. “How did you get in?” He put the basket down. “Zephy? Is it Zephy?” She was trembling.

“I slipped through behind the men coming to drill for the Horse. I put on Shanner’s clothes and walked behind him. He didn’t know, no one noticed. I—I have to go back so I can get out when the horses go through. I tried to come yesterday but there were Deacons by the gate.”

He took the napkin, drank deep of the fresh water then emptied the rest into the crock the guard had left.

As he finished he reached through again and took her hand, and a strange, quick feeling touched him; he felt her sigh rather than heard her, and the only thing he could think to say was, “Why? Why did you come?”

“It’s going to be light soon, the drill is making up, the torches are already lit” She reached hastily for the waterskin and basket. He touched her hair once, then she was gone into the shadows along the wall.

He stood staring after her, then put his strange feeling down to hunger, and turned eagerly to the meat rolls and mawzee cakes and bread. Why had she bothered about him? If she were caught . . . He had felt she was trembling almost before he touched her. Fear, he guessed. Fear . . .

He was unwilling to leave any food judiciously for later, afraid it would be found. He drank the rest of the water, too, and when the Deacon came with his sour gruel at mid-morning, Thorn threw the bowl in his face.

She came the next morning. He was awake and waiting for her, though he had supposed she would not come again. He heard the early morning grumbling of Burgdeeth’s men, then saw her dark shadow slipping along the wall. He heard the horses nicker and the sound of hooves on the cobbles, but he was aware only of her, close to him. “There’s only salt cow meat,” she whispered. “The goat meat is gone.” He knew, again, that she was trembling. The torches flared on the other side of the Set. He took the napkin and waterskin from her, then held her by her thin elbows, so she stepped closer and stood looking at him. In the near-dark the sense of her was strange and heady. He couldn’t ask, today, why she had come.

When she did not come the next morning, he tried to feign sickness so the Deacon with the key would come and open the cell—surely he could overpower one Deacon. But it didn’t work; they didn’t care if he was sick; they didn’t care if he died there. He was ashamed he could not devise a way to escape. He thought of Zephy again and hoped she was all right. Then on the fifth day when she had not appeared and his hunger was worse than before, he looked up to see Oak Dar striding across the Set Like a conquering lord came the Goatmaster, with the Deacons trailing sullenly behind.

It all happened in an instant The lock slid back, Thorn stepped out of the cell. By Oak Dar’s eyes he knew to say no word. He strode off by his father’s side in silence, and only when they were through the gate and free at last did Thorn turn to stare at him. “What did you have to do? You didn’t bargain for me?”

“I bargained,” Oak Dar said shortly. “I bargained all of Dunoon for you.”

“You did what?” Then he saw the laughter behind his father’s eyes. “You bargained what?”

“I bargained all of Dunoon. I told him if I did not take you home with me, there would be not a goat carcass nor a hide come to Burgdeeth and not a man or animal on the mountain in any place where Burgdeeth would ever find them. I told him they’d be living on their milk cows, for all Dunoon would furnish their meat.”

Thorn roared with laughter. “But how did you know I was there?”

“A little Urobb miner slipped into Dunoon bruised and bleeding, with a rope still around his waist

“Squally! How did he get away? He must have cut the rope.”

“He did just that—after killing that Kubal’s horse with a stone and slipping the Kubal’s knife out.”

“He didn’t kill the Kubal?”

“No, the fool.”

“Squally had better make himself scarce. If that Kubalese finds him . . .”

“He’s gone up over the Rim into Karra; no Kubal would be fool enough to hunt a man there.”

No sensible man would hide in the high barren deserts, either. And behind Karra the mountains were utterly unknown. Thorn felt a wave of sadness for Squally.

They made their way quickly through the whitebarley field to the river. Above them the mountain was washed with low rain clouds; Thorn thought he had never seen anything so welcome or smelled such a scent as the tang of damp sablevine that blew down to them. Cloud shadows lay dark against the bright pastures on the slope, and to his left over the highest peaks, something in the heavy clouds moved so he caught his breath—but then it was gone. He stood willing it back but it did not come, and at last he caught up with Oak Dar, eager to be home. As they climbed above Burgdeeth he glanced back once, feeling some disquiet; the clouds were very low so that even Dunoon was covered; and they lay down over Burgdeeth’s fields behind him.

*

Zephy knew when Thorn was released because Meatha saw Oak Dar striding into the Set and ran to tell her. By the time Zephy got to the square, Thorn and his father were going up through the whitebarley field toward the river, sun and shadow striking them. Thorn didn’t look back, he didn’t turn to see her standing there.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said fiercely, turning away from Meatha’s sympathetic gaze. She went back to her field alone, picked up her abandoned hoe, and set to work. Had Thorn felt nothing for her then? Had the way he looked at her meant only that he was glad to be fed? Her angry hoeing made the dry mawzee leaves rattle, and she knocked a grain pod to the ground so it split open to scatter its precious store. She looked up the mountain and saw the two figures, dark against a patch of sun. Thorn did not pause, and her longing was terrible. Was he looking back in her direction? Well he couldn’t see her anyway here among the crops in the cloud shadow.

Here in the cloud shadow?

The shadow was moving! Not drifting, moving! It was alive! She stared upward, reached upward as the wings swept above her surging against cloud and sun wings lifting—the beautiful Horses of Eresu, their necks stretched in flight, their wings knifing and turning the wind. She reached, loving them, searching for a god among them . . .

But they were gone in a cloud so suddenly, in the rising wind. Gone.

She saw them once more, a darkness surging over the Kubalese hills and vanishing quickly. She stood staring, her pulse pounding, her whole being enflamed.

And on the mountain, Thorn and Oak Dar stood frozen with the wonder of the flight as the dark cloud moved over Burgdeeth and receded beyond the Kubalese hills.