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.