Zna-yat bowed. “This will be done, Muth Mauk.”
Dar went to her hanmuthi to put on her warmest clothes, then headed for the Welcoming Chamber. It was a large room that lay to one side of the hall’s main entrance and featured three huge windows. Dar recalled her sisters waving from them the first time she departed for Taiben. By the time she arrived at the chamber, its windows already had been shattered. Shards of sand ice littered the floor and the smashed sashes lay atop a pile of other combustibles. Snow blew in through the empty windows. Dar clutched her cloak against the wind and peered out at the valley. It’ll be dusk soon, she thought. Perhaps Kol will camp on the road and arrive tomorrow. Despite that hope, Dar watched nervously for the sentries’ signal fire.
Heavy clouds had made for a dark day, and when the sun behind them sank close to the horizon, the light grew even dimmer. Dar was glad when Zna-yat arrived; his eyes could pierce the gloom much better than hers. She noted that he had donned his armor. “Sons are finishing up,” he said. “It’s sad work. When they’re done, they’ll come here to watch and wait.” Zna-yat gazed into the storm. “You could go where it’s warmer.”
“Thwa, I’ll watch also.” Dar noted that Zna-yat carried his two deetpahis. To make conversation she asked, “What lore do you carry?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to read.”
“I carry proof that I could bear Kath-mah’s granddaughters.”
Zna-yat regarded Dar with a look that seemed both surprised and pleased. “Does Kovok-mah know this?”
“Thwa. We’ve had no time to speak.”
“Such news will give him hope.”
“Do you think his muthuri will bless us now?”
“I don’t know her mind, but that deetpahi should improve your chances.” Zna-yat returned his gaze to the valley. “It seems strange to talk of blessings and children as we watch for death’s approach.”
“Children are our only means to overcome death,” said Dar. “It’s fitting time to talk of them.”
The valley grew darker and the wind deposited ever more snow upon the floor. As sons finished preparing for the hall’s destruction, they joined Dar and Zna-yat in the Welcoming Chamber. It was dusk when Zna-yat suddenly pointed at a distant hilltop. “Muth Mauk, do you see that?”
Dar stared into the storm but saw nothing. Then she thought she detected a glow atop a nearer summit. “Is that signal fire?”
Before Zna-yat could answer, another fire blazed in the storm, then another. Finally, a fire glowed on the nearest hilltop. “Muth Mauk, should we light piles now?”
“Thwa. Let’s wait and see what washavokis will do. Delay will help fleeing mothers.”
For a long time, nothing happened. The signal fires burned out without any sign of the invaders. As the light failed, Dar could see less and less. When her view was reduced to little more than vague silhouettes, Zna-yat spoke. “Washavokis approach.”
Dar peered into the gloom. It seemed that a black shadow was flowing between the hills. She couldn’t distinguish individual soldiers, but their masses darkened the snow. They moved slowly and steadily toward the hall.
“Shall we light fires?” asked Zna-yat.
“Not yet. Perhaps they’ll stop and camp for night.” Dar waited for the dark wave to halt. It continued to advance. Sevren said they wouldn’t attack at night. She hoped Kol wouldn’t prove him wrong. Eventually, the army reached the mountain’s base. The valley was filled with soldiers. There seemed to be many more than two thousand. Instead of halting or moving up the winding road to the hall’s entrance, the mass split and began to encircle the base of the mountain.
“Muth Mauk,” said Zna-yat. “Now?”
“Thwa. We wait.”
“For what?”
Dar answered the question for everyone’s benefit. “I think washavokis will surround our mountain, then wait for dawn. They are tired and cold, and they see poorly at night. Soon they will sleep. When they do, we’ll light fires.” Dar sent sons to observe from other windows and report back. When they did,
she was relieved to learn that she had guessed right; the soldiers were settling in around the base of the mountain. Already, campfires were being lit on the lower terraces. After a while, the mountain was ringed with fires. It gratified Dar to think of the mothers safely fleeing. But we won’t escape unnoticed, she thought. W£ll have to fight our way out.
Dar retreated with the orcs into a hanmuthi in the innermost part of the hall. There, they made a small fire to roast some pashi. Dar, who hadn’t eaten all day, was ravenous. The smell of the cooking roots made her stomach grumble. When the pashi was ready, she said that the food was Muth la’s gift and served it. The meal was eaten in silence, for everyone seemed deep in thought. Dar relived a memory of the queen who had been Nir-yat’s grandmother, and for a while, her mind’s eye filled the room with happy feasters. Dar knew that some of the children who laughed on that long-ago night were now elderly mothers, trudging in the storm as she ate.
Dar spent the remainder of her meal reviewing her plan to torch the hall. A fire pile at the center of the building would be lit first, in hopes that the blaze would be well established before the enemy noticed any flames. Once the first fire took hold, sons would fan out toward the hall’s outer walls, torching rooms as they went. After all the fires were lit, everyone would rendezvous on a terrace near the northeast side of the hall. White cloth, torn into cloak-sized pieces, had been placed there. Everyone would don their camouflage and descend the mountain by a route different from the one the mothers had taken. At some point, they would have to break through the enemy’s line.
It was past midnight when Dar lit the first fire. She touched a torch to an oil-soaked cloth and it blossomed into blue and orange flames. These quickly ignited the shattered furniture, sleeping mats, clothes, foodstuffs, deetpahis, and other items piled above it. As Dar watched, wind blowing through shattered windows whipped the flames into a swirling column of orange. The column reached the ceiling’s wooden beams. Soon they were ablaze. Dar stood transfixed as the fire spread, reliving her vision of the burning hall.
Then someone gently touched her shoulder. “Muth Mauk,” said Zna-yat. “We should leave.”
Dar realized that she and Zna-yat were the room’s sole occupants. The others had left to set more fires. Dar and Zna-yat strode through hallways that were already beginning to fill with smoke. They reached the exit and stepped into the frigid night. As Dar made her way to the terrace, flames appeared above the hall. The falling snow took on a red tint and bright, rising sparks mingled with it. Dar smelled smoke and cooking food. She smiled slightly, imagining the scent’s effect on hungry soldiers.
When Dar arrived at the terrace, several sons were already there, draped in white cloth. She wrapped herself in a piece, then waited with them. As her party slowly assembled, Dar worried that the flames would awaken the soldiers. She hoped they would be confused and slow to react. By the time everyone had returned, billowing flames rose above much of the hall. All its windows were alight, giving it a falsely festive look. Dar felt conspicuous in the firelight.
“Zna-yat, be my eyes and lead way. Stay in shadow whenever possible, and choose difficult path. There’ll be fewer washavokis there.”
Zna-yat strode off, and Dar followed close behind. The northeast side of the mountain was the steepest part and little farmed. The terraced fields were few and far between and the narrow, snow-covered paths that connected them were hard to follow. When shadowed from the fire’s light, Dar
could see very little. More than once, she lost her footing on the slippery incline and would have slid down the mountainside if Zna-yat had not grabbed her.
When, at last, the way grew less steep, Zna-yat halted abruptly. He whispered to Dar. “I hear washavokis ahead.”