Savaric, meanwhile, put the men to work on the river wall. It had stood for centuries, but floods and time had taken their toll. The warriors put aside their horses and swords to carry stone and shift earth. They spent the day strengthening the gate and filling in the ruinous gaps in the stones.
Athlone was still angered at Gabria’s disappearance, so he threw himself into the unfamiliar labor. His men watched him and wondered, but they were heartened by his tireless strength and they worked long into the night without complaint or slacking. Above them, the massive shape of Ab-Chakan sat in forbidding vigilance.
When night came, the three clans were pleased with their progress. The women and children had gathered a large store of food, water, and firewood. The river wall was patched and the gate was shored up against attack. Few expected the wall to survive a prolonged siege, particularly if the guardian fortress fell. But while its stones stood and defenders survived, the wall would help protect the herds and act as a last defense if the clans had to retreat into the defile.
The clanspeople went back to their camp bone-tired and, although they had done a major task, they all knew that the primary work had to be done tomorrow on the fortress. So the clanspeople treated their blisters with salves, rubbed their weary muscles, and prayed for more time-time to strengthen Ab-Chakan and to learn its secrets, time for the Dangari to arrive.
Savaric knew that Koshyn would keep his promise to come, but somewhere between Dangari Treld and Ab-Chakan was the band of marauders, and behind the Dangari was Medb’s army. If anything went wrong, Koshyn’s clan would be slaughtered. Savaric considered sending messengers to the Dangari to urge them on; instead, he settled for posting watchers on the bluffs. It would do no good to tell Koshyn something he already knew.
Nevertheless, Savaric could not keep his eyes from wandering to the south, where he hoped to see the dust of an approaching clan. Or of a Hunnuli. Athlone had told him of Gabran’s disappearance and, although he was distressed at the boy’s danger, he sensed Gabran had an important reason for leaving. If the gods allowed, the boy would soon return.
The next day, the clansmen broached the fortress. The three chiefs, along with Cantrell, Athlone, and a picked force of warriors, trod the ancient road to the main gates. The stone road that began in the valley crossed the river on a crumbling bridge and climbed the face of the short hill.
When the men reached the top of the hill, they stood on a broad, smooth ramp that led through the wall into the fortress. On either side were two of the eight towers, and, at their base, the walls molded into the natural rock and fell away to the valley floor. Before the men, the main gate stood partially open.
Two bronze doors, now weathered to a dingy brown, hung in the huge archway of the front entrance. Fifteen feet tall or more, they rose above the men’s heads to a curved lintel carved with strange beasts and letters. On each door a bronze lion’s head glared down at the interlopers. The lions, guardians of the gate, were worn and grimy, but their topaz eyes still glittered fiercely in the rising sun.
Within the gate, the men glimpsed another wall and red colored buildings, dark doorways and patches of thick weeds.
The abandoned walls towered above them, and the wind moaned in the empty towers. The men paused at the entrance and stared nervously inside. The huge, echoing fortress held only shadows, but the enclosed, lifeless confines were almost more frightening to the free-roaming clansmen than all the armies of Medb’s host. Warriors with gleaming swords were a tangible danger. These strange, old ruins were beyond their knowledge. Still, the clans’ survival depended upon this stronghold and upon learning how to exploit its advantages.
Athlone boldly stepped forward and pulled on one of the doors. Several men jumped to help him. They expected the doors to be heavy, but the massive bronze gates had been cleverly hung so only one man was needed to open them. To the warriors’ surprise, the doors swung back and slammed into the stone with a resounding boom. The men started like nervous hounds as the sound reverberated through the courts and battlements. A flock of crows leaped out of a tower and flew overhead, cawing harshly.
Cantrell leaned on his guide’s shoulder and laughed softly. “If anyone is here, we have certainly made our presence known.”
The men glanced at the bard sharply, and Ryne said, “Who could be here?” His voice was uneasy.
“Only the dead and their memories,” the bard replied. “These are only stones, Lord Ryne, hewn by men as mortal as yourself. There is nothing within to be wary of.”
Ryne was not convinced, but he did not want the others to see his dread. He stepped through the gateway. Athlone and the others fell in behind him. Before them, the road passed through another, smaller wall and into the fortress proper. At one time, the area between the two walls was kept clear and free of debris, its wide space a vital part of the fortress’s defenses. However, years of wind-blown dirt and wild growth had accumulated, and weeds grew profusely among the moldering trash, tumbled rock, and the rotting remains of a few wooden shacks put up by later occupants. While the main wall had only one gate, the secondary wall was pierced with eight, one at each tower and one at the road. Single bronze doors with small lions’ heads guarded the gateways.
The clansmen walked into the fortress and gazed about with wonder. Despite the military function of the stronghold, its center was similar to a wealthy city. Inside the eight gates circling the inner wall were the decayed ruins of wooden barracks, stables, kitchens, and servants’ quarters. But beyond those were curious houses and courts, broad paved paths, verdant gardens now overgrown and wild, and fountains-all built or decorated with skillfully carved granite or local red stone. Only the eight towers were built of ebony marble, a stone that glistened like black ice and was prized by the old invaders.
Savaric and the warriors slowly paced up the main road past the empty houses, toward the center of the stronghold. The clansmen were stunned by the sheer size of the fortress and the work that had gone into its creation. The men had never seen anything like it.
In the light of early morning, the shade among the buildings was still heavy and a chill lurked in the silent stones. There was no sound except for the men’s footfalls. Athlone caught himself staring and listening for a voice in the halls, or a footstep on the side streets, or a face in the embrasures. Instead, all he saw were barred or broken doors, rotting roofs-many of which had fallen in-and eroding masonry with weeds and grass growing in every chink that could hold earth. Year by year, Ab-Chakan was falling into ruin, yet it surprised him how many walls still stood.
The warriors passed out of the buildings’ shadows and saw in front of them, in the center of the fortress, the graceful rooms and terraces of the palace built for Ab-Chakan’s general. A wide courtyard curved away on either side of the palace. In its center stood a fountain with a carved horse of black marble. Stained and pitted, the statue reared elegantly over a dried pool. Athlone strode to the horse’s side and put his hand on the raised hoof.
“I’m beginning to admire these strange people,” he said. “They certainly knew horses.”
“And knew how to build,” Savaric replied. His face was creased with worry, and he inspected everything closely. He was certain he had made the right decision to bring the clans here, but he was overwhelmed by the immensity of the fortress they had chosen to defend. No one in their group had any experience in this kind of warfare, while Medb would possibly have several advisors in his mercenaries who knew how to plan a siege.