“She loves you like a jealous mate, Karada,” he said, shaking his head. “Watch out for her. Some day she’ll do something rash.”
Night fell in the valley, but the battle continued. Ungrah-de reformed his ogres and, fighting like lions, they stormed the west baffle again, this time holding it against all the villagers’ counterattacks. The defenders were fewer in number now because Zannian had drawn some away with his attack on the northern entrance.
From atop the wall, the ogres could see across Yala-tene to where the raiders battled the villagers, highlighted by flaming fascines. Ungrah could not get any farther because a barrier of logs and stone slabs had been thrown up behind the baffle. Three times the ogres had rushed the barrier, trying to break it down with axe blows or their massive bare hands, and three times they were repelled by large, bronze-tipped spears hurled down at them. The villagers attached lines to the butts of these oversized weapons, to recover them after they were cast. The ogres’ leather armor could not turn aside the sharp spearheads, hastily formed from Duranix’s cast-off scales.
After these three failures, Ungrah ordered his warriors to tear down the baffle wall and dislodge the boulders heaped inside it. This they did far into the night, sending huge sections of carefully placed masonry crashing to the ground.
On the north side of Yala-tene, the situation was just as dire. While the villagers’ attention was focused on the ogres, Zannian personally led an assault on the north baffle, isolating the entrance with bonfires and sending his men up the wall on ladders fashioned from trees taken from the village’s spirit-enhanced orchard.
Once, when Yala-tene’s newly planted orchard was threatened by ice and cold, the proud leader of the Servants of the Dragon, Tiphan, Konza’s son, had used the power of ancient spirit stones to save them. The orchard not only grew at an unnatural rate thereafter, but twigs cut from its branches put down roots and became full-grown trees within days. His success with the orchard had fueled Tiphan’s arrogance, impelling him to take the entire company of Sensarku out to face Zannian’s men before they reached the Valley of the Falls. The Sensarku had been destroyed, down to the last acolyte.
Now, Zannian’s raiders cut down dozens of the spirit-enhanced apple trees, hewed their branches off short to serve as footholds, and carried them to the northern baffle. Thrust in the dirt by the wall, the amputated trees took root and began to grow again. After a day, it was impossible for villagers to topple them from the wall. The raiders cut their way to the top and kept their toehold on the wall despite fierce counterattacks by the villagers.
“One more day should do it,” Zannian said, slumping under the overhang of the town wall. From there, he and his men were shielded from most of the bombardment. “One more day, and Arku-peli will fall.”
The sweaty, soot-streaked warrior beside him opened his eyes. “One more day like today and there may not be enough left of the band to capture anything,” he said.
Zannian, his face and arms covered with cuts, bruises, and blood (not his own), peered at the gloomy raider’s dirty face and recognized him. “Harak? Of all people to share a respite with!”
Harak ran a scrap of leather down the length of his bronze sword, wiping the blood away. Both edges were deeply nicked, and the tip had acquired a distinct bend. “I’ve been fighting at your side since sunset, Zan. Saved your life at least three times.”
“Liar.” Zannian found it unbearable that Harak might be telling the truth. He was good with a horse and deadly with a blade but so smug and sneaky Zannian could not help but distrust him.
A thrown mud brick, heated in a fire, hit the parapet above them and shattered, raining hot fragments over both men. Yelping, they brushed off the burning shards. Two other raiders sitting beside them didn’t move. Harak leaned over and patted their faces. They toppled sideways, falling facedown in the dirt.
“Dead, both of them,” he reported.
“Who are they?”
Harak squinted through the smoke and darkness. “That’s Othas. I knew him. He was a good horse-healer.” He leaned across dead Othas to inspect the other man. “Don’t know this one.”
Somewhere in the darkness, a death scream rent the air. It wasn’t possible to tell if it was friend or foe. Unperturbed, Harak took a grass-wrapped gourd flask from his belt and pulled the stopper with his teeth. The spicy smell of cider reached Zannian.
“Give me some of that.”
Harak passed the gourd. His chief upended the flask, gulping rapidly. “Ahh!” he gasped, handing it back to Harak. “That’s wretched cider!”
“Tastes like spring water to me.” He sipped it lightly. “You should try the ogres’ brew, tsoong. Whew! Strip the skin from your throat, it will. It’s so bad they call getting drunk ‘punishment.’”
“Maybe I’ll try it someday,” Zannian retorted. “If you can drink it, I can. Speaking of ogres, I’ll be glad to see the back of Ungrah-de. Bloody beast! You know he vows he will claim his choice of villagers after the battle? Not to ravage or enslave, but to eat! Filthy monster!”
“The Master’s been known to dine on our delicate kind.”
Zannian snatched the gourd from Harak. “The Master is not bound by human customs. He is above them all.”
Harak took the gourd back and drank. “Tell me. Do you miss Sthenn? Not his power or the terror he brings, I mean. Do you miss his guidance, his company?”
“No.”
The single word, firmly declared, surprised Harak. He said so.
“You know nothing about being chief,” Zannian replied. “I owe my place to the Master, but I have been more of a chief to my men since he left than I ever was in Almurk.”
A loud sound of pottery smashing made both men flinch. Zannian reclaimed the gourd of cider.
Harak said thoughtfully, “At the horse pen, I talked to villagers we’ve captured. They said the Arkuden and the bronze dragon were linked in spirit—one could call the other, even from many leagues’ distance. Do you believe that?”
The raider chief hawked and spat. “I know I never knew the Master’s mind, spoken or unspoken. I only did his bidding.”
Harak leaned his head against the warm stone wall “I wish he were here to do our fighting for us.”
Zannian drained the last drops from the flask and tossed the empty vessel into Harak’s lap. “Fool. You have no sense of glory.”
Seated beside two corpses, surrounded by screams, darkness, and destruction, Harak had to admit his chief was right.
9
The time before dawn is so quiet, plainsmen say, because that’s when the spirits of their ancestors are about, observing the world and the descendants they’ve left behind. Humans and animals alike are quieted by their gaze, and when the disk of the sun first breaks the horizon, the spirits vanish like dew on the grass—until the next night and the next dawn.
Lyopi dozed, standing up. She and the elders of Yala-tene had taken refuge on the sloping ramp below the town wall, a few score paces from the north baffle, now in Zannian’s hands. Hekani and his beleaguered comrades were still holding off Ungrah-de at the west entrance.
She scrubbed her face with her hands and gazed across her threatened town. Early rays of sunlight slanted in over the wall, highlighting the drifting smoke hanging over most of Yala-tene. The streets were deserted, and Lyopi wondered how many people still lived within the wall of Yala-tene. Everyone not fighting had been told to stay inside. Many of the children had already been sent through the narrow tunnel in the eastern cliffs. The anguish of the parents, consigning their young to an uncertain fate, had been terrible to see.
All along the ramp, the defenders stirred. Everyone was armed now, even the elders and the wounded. Lyopi squatted and prodded the cloaked figure lying curled at her feet.