The Warrior's Tale Part 2

The s.h.i.+p's bell rang a warning. We embraced and kissed a final time. Amalric boarded and the crew cast off. I stood on the dock until the s.h.i.+p tacked at the bend in the river and sailed out of sight. The last thing I saw was Amalric's scarlet hair, blazing in the sunlight.

And it was many a year before I saw my brother again.

Two.

The Siege of Lycanth.

NOT TWO MONTHS ago I was invited to the Citadel of the Magistrates for the blessing of a great frieze. There I wielded the holy knife and sacrificed a white bullock to dedicate the ornate carving - which runs the full circ.u.mference of the Central Dome. It was a rare honour; especially for a woman. But each time I looked at that frieze - which claims to be a history of the Great Lycanthian War - ago I was invited to the Citadel of the Magistrates for the blessing of a great frieze. There I wielded the holy knife and sacrificed a white bullock to dedicate the ornate carving - which runs the full circ.u.mference of the Central Dome. It was a rare honour; especially for a woman. But each time I looked at that frieze - which claims to be a history of the Great Lycanthian War -1 had to hide alternately either a smile or a flash of anger. The ceremony was actually a rededication, since it had been necessary to alter drastically the sculptor's first version after I finally returned home from my adventures - and certain tales could no longer be told as before. had to hide alternately either a smile or a flash of anger. The ceremony was actually a rededication, since it had been necessary to alter drastically the sculptor's first version after I finally returned home from my adventures - and certain tales could no longer be told as before.

My little Scribe, who I'm now seeing as less a wharf rat than a sometimes annoying chipmunk chattering for more nutmeats, is alarmed, frightened I'll ruin my tale by detailing just how, and why, the first frieze became so embarra.s.sing to the Magistrates and Evocators. You may rest easy, chipmunk. I'm too experienced at bellowing war ballads and telling lies of battle, beer and bed to equally deceitful comrades-in-drink to reveal anything in my story before its proper time.

I thought of the frieze because the sculptor's vision - like most tales of war, whether pictured, sung, read or told - is still as big a lie as any hasty stammer a parent fumbles up when her child first wonders how babies came to be. The carving begins with a few panels showing the horrible outrages of the Lycanthians, ending with that demonic attack in the Amphitheatre. The next panel shows the Orissan Army, proudly arrayed, marching off to war. Then we see the a.s.sault on Lycanth's peninsular wall, followed by a boring series of scenes showing Orissans cutting, shooting, spearing and otherwise bas.h.i.+ng our enemies - ending with the last battle. I suppose I ought to be more polite about this moulding, since it now prominently features my women of the Maranon Guard - including an impossibly beautiful warrior woman intended to be me. But I swore I'd tell the truth in this tale and that truth must include my thoughts and opinions. Else I'm no different from any drunken old soldier, whose creaking boasts serve only to send the tavern's drinkers rus.h.i.+ng eagerly out into the heart of a winter storm.

I remember well when we set off on that sharp spring morning, splendid in our ceremonial armour and marching in perfect unison like we were hung from strings controlled by a master puppeteer. As we marched, we sang some thankfully forgotten ballad about how we were going to fuddle ourselves on Lycanthian blood and banquet on their guts. I've noticed that such gory hymns never last beyond the first fighting; and then the old songs of home, the past, plenty and peace are called for.

I won't suggest the frieze should next show the army as we halted an hour after the last well-wisher turned back to Orissa and hastily changed out of our heavy, blister-causing, eye-blinding, but glamorous dress uniforms, hurled them into the quartermasters' carts not to see them again until the campaign ended or we were slid into them for burial, and then shambled off in easy route step and field garb. What I am objecting to is the jump to the breaching of the wall -as if nothing happened in between. We did break through - but only after we'd fought for a full year. And when we first marched up our enemy was waiting on the parapets to fire a deadly stream of missiles -from catapults to crossbows.

During that year all too many Orissans died. Almost a third of my Guardswomen became casualties and I learned a duty never mentioned in the epics - constantly begging my superiors and anyone who seemed to have a speck of authority for more; more weapons to replace those lost; more supplies to replace those consumed or spoiled; but most of all replacements for my poor wounded, crippled, invalided or slain comrades. New recruits arrived, but they never seemed to be as good as the sisters we'd marched out with - no matter how thoroughly we tried to train them before they were awarded the crested helmet of a Guardswoman. I also became skilled at writing letters to the bereaved - letters in which I invariably a.s.sured the mother, father or lover their beloved had been struck down in the midst of some heroic act, dying instantly and without pain. Those lies didn't bother me then nor do they now. The only reason to show a civilian the b.l.o.o.d.y mask of real war would be if that might somehow put an end to solving problems with a sword, but no one but a fool or a romantic can dwell on her people's history for more than a moment and keep that that dream alive. dream alive.

Once we'd formed battle-lines in front of the Lycanthian wall, the killing began. We attacked and were driven back. We a.s.saulted once more, with the same result. We cut down the forests on the mainland behind us to build siege engines, then attacked again. Again we were sent reeling away from that scarred stone face as impervious as any mountain cliff. Sometimes we would reach the parapets, but be unable to hold them; and men and women were butchered or hurled to their deaths if they could not retreat in time. Still, we kept up the pressure, and the Lycanthians were thoroughly trapped.

When they first erected their city, time before memory, it was cleverly conceived as a fortress. They built at the tip of a narrow peninsula, where a volcano had bellowed fire at the heavens and then the sea had breached its crater - creating an enormous high.-walled harbour. The Lycanthians mounted an immense chain across the harbour's mouth to guard it from enemies such as ourselves. Just at the tip of that crater was the Archons' monstrous sea-castle, where my brother had been imprisoned. Around the crater and down the peninsula, the city itself was built. The Lycanthians preferred to build upward in great street-long tenements, rather than sprawl outward, like Orissa. At the narrowest part of that peninsula was the wall. Beyond it began the wilderness, with not even a Lycanthian hovel to mark the forest.

Our army had them sealed by land, but Lycanth's huge fleet was still a threat. We river-dwellers had only recently realized the necessity for Orissa to be strong on the sea, so our wars.h.i.+ps were few and their reinforcements were still a-building - many of them in the Antero yards Amalric had constructed when he returned from the Far Kingdoms. We could not allow Lycanthian wars.h.i.+ps the freedom of the seas, for fear they might attack Orissa, or land soldiers behind our lines. At the very least their s.h.i.+ps might bring in enough supplies and reinforcements to lift the siege. Once they realized the Lycanthian Navy must be confronted, our Magistrates and Evocators made a hard decision - they hired seaborne mercenaries: by the sailor, by the s.h.i.+p, by the squadron, by the fleet. No one was under any illusion a mercenary fights for other than immediate loot; and not very fiercely even then if his opponent is battle-worthy or offers payment for the gallowgla.s.s to change sides. But no one saw other options and so the Orissan banner was hoisted on craft that a few weeks earlier were privateers and freebooters sailing under anarchy's black flag. They were commanded, after a riotously drunken 'election', by 'Admiral' Cholla Yi, a great hulk who - from his ostentatiously waxed hair worn in a double row of spikes, to his always spotless silks, to the three, some said four, daggers he kept secreted about his body, to his laced, tightly fitting rainbow-coloured boots - was the very image of a merchant-eating corsair. I'll admit, grudgingly because of later events, Cholla Yi at least seemed to keep his rogues under control. He began his reign by erecting gibbets on either side of the beach encampment and saw to it those gibbets were always creaking with the fresh bodies of miscreants. He also struck fast and bloodily, driving the Lycanthian s.h.i.+ps back into their harbour - sinking or capturing those who were slow in their flight. That huge chain - which hung from the Archons' sea-castle across the harbour entrance to a watchtower on the far promontory - served its purpose well and kept our wars.h.i.+ps from attacking the harbour, or sending in fire s.h.i.+ps or cutting-out parties. It was a stalemate, but the Lycanthians were now sealed by sea as well as by land.

The battles for the wall went on. Sorcery rebuilt that great wall before the war began, but as I'd promised Amalric, it finally fell to hard steel, only slightly a.s.sisted by magic. A particularly alert subaltern with the Frontier Scouts, a unit that had become nearly as elite a fighting force as my Guards, noted a section of the wall was lightly manned. For a week thereafter our heaviest trebuchets hurled boulders in the sector, only occasionally loosing a 'wild shot' that happened to strike just at that nearly deserted section. When the stonework was deemed sufficiently weakened, but not so obviously one of the Archons or their underlings cast a reinforcing spell, the a.s.sault troops were told off.

General Jinnah a.s.signed the Scouts the honour of being first up the ropes, although I argued long and hard for my Guardswomen.

Gamelan was in Jinnah's tent during my protest, which grew quite heated. He'd chosen to leave Orissa's comforts to lead the expedition's Evocators. At the time his decision was praised as a great patriotic deed - or, murmured by the cynical, that our Evocators were most worried about the rumoured secret weaponry the Archons might be developing from Prince Raveline's knowledge. As I learned, and you shall in time, there were other reasons for Gamelan's seeming selflessness.

He stepped in when the argument became loud enough to alert the sentries outside and calmed us both. I didn't appreciate it at the time, but he probably kept me from being relieved and sent home in disgrace, since I was about to call Jinnah an incompetent lizard fart whose only ability in war stopped at the sand table. He offered a compromise: once the parapets were taken by the Scouts, my Guard would make up the second wave. I grudged agreement, forced myself to knuckle my brow in respect and stamped out, angrily pulling my helmet on. Gamelan followed and once beyond earshot of the sentries, touched my sleeve. I almost snapped at him as well, before remembering not only my politeness but that this sorcerer was quite capable of casting a spell of, say, invisible pubic lice to suggest the virtues of courtesy.

Since we'd arrived at the wall, Gamelan had visited the Guard and my own tent several times. No one knew why and not even Corais chanced a bawdy theory. Personally, I thought it might be an odd sort of apology for his having taken so long to openly support Amalric in his struggle against the corruption in the Evocators' Guild; or even, perhaps, because he remembered my long-dead brother, Halab, who'd been destroyed by the Guild working as the unknowing cat's-paw to Prince Raveline. But these theories, thoroughly considered, made as little sense as a Guardswoman explaining the real injustice of why she she was chosen to dig a privy. was chosen to dig a privy.

In the light from a nearby fire I saw Gamelan had a bit of a smile on his face. 'I understand your disappointment, Captain Antero,' he said. 'But have you considered that, because of General Jinnah's obstinacy, it's not unlikely more of your Guardswomen shall be alive to see tomorrow's sunrise than would be otherwise?'

I must have blinked in astonishment, but before I could formulate a more politic response I blurted, 'What of it? A soldier's final duty is to die. Why else would she serve if she didn't understand that?'

I heard a ghost of a chuckle. 'Most straightforward, Captain. Just the answer I would prize from a brave soldier. But... perhaps I might have expected more from an Antero. After all, a mirror need not reflect a single image.'

'I don't understand.'

There was no response and Gamelan was gone, having slipped away into the darkness as silently as if he'd used magic. I puzzled briefly, then put the matter away. Evocators always behaved like that, I thought. As much of their powers came from deliberate confusion and fumadiddle as from magic itself. Another thought caught me and this deserved more attention: Gamelan, that severe, brooding eagle, had not only smiled, but actually laughed - unless I'd been listening to the wind. Perhaps, some time in the distant past, back in the days when fish had legs, Gamelan had known human concerns? Had laughed, had loved, had joked, had even, perhaps, drunk a flagon too many or even winked at a pretty girl or boy? Impossible, Impossible, I thought and hurried to issue orders for the after-midnight attack. I thought and hurried to issue orders for the after-midnight attack.

The attack went perfectly, to the surprise of all veterans, since war's characteristic is as much confusion as blood. The Evocators, under Gamelan's direction, cast a subtle spell that merely covered the sky with black clouds, and sent a wind from the sea whistling across the peninsula, a wind gusty enough to mask a soldier's clumsiness if he happened to slip noisily as he crept forward. Padded grapnels were cast and the Scouts went up the wall handily and silenced the Lycanthians on the parapet with their favoured weapon, a leather-bound, sand-padded slingshot. They signalled for the next wave. Ladders were rushed forward, steadied and my Guard went up and over. Torches flared and the shouting and slaying began, but there was no more need for silence, as below us the sappers brought forward their rams and the rhythmic cras.h.i.+ng began. Before the Lycanthians could do more than rush in the closest reinforcements, the wall was breached and the army poured through, into the peninsula and then Lycanth itself - first the low buildings on the outskirts, then through the city streets and the towering stone tenements.

Gamelan was wrong about how many Guardswomen were to die that day, because we pressed the Lycanthians hard, knowing if we stopped for food, for water, for even a breath, they'd have time to counter-attack. We gave them no succour and battered them back and back through their city. I'd read war in a city is the worst of all, that an attacker can lose control of his entire force and have it butchered to the last warrior before he realizes what has happened. That is correct. Of all the fighting I did before, and even afterwards, on land or sh.o.r.e, I cannot remember any time as dreadful as those gore-soaked days when we drove the Lycanthians through their home city to the sea.

If the fighting had been b.l.o.o.d.y before, now it became awful. Soldiers and demons poured out of those strange tall buildings, slas.h.i.+ng through their own panic-stricken populace to get at us. More than soldiers died in this swirling madness. I saw Lycanthian women, not in armour, using flails and butcher knives lashed to poles as well as swords and javelins from downed warriors, fighting in the front ranks, and saw them killed. I saw old men, other women and children, unarmed, screaming in fear, trying to run, trying to hide, trying to surrender. I saw them cut down by battle-maddened soldiers - even by my own Guardswomen. My officers and sergeants shouted against this bloodl.u.s.t and in moments it was gone. The fighting went on all that night and the next day and suddenly, we were in front of another great wall.

This was the sea-castle of the Archons. There they stopped us. Again, the siege was mounted and again almost a year pa.s.sed. The sea-castle's walls withstood a.s.sault after a.s.sault. Our blood and theirs stained the black, smoking stone. The gates were buckled and blasted, but still held firm. At any moment they could swing open and unleash a surprise attack by warriors made mad by the Archons' spells. Inside those walls we could hear the screams of the wounded and the pitiful moans of the starving. Outside, our army suffered as well. War had denuded the countryside for many miles. Our supply s.h.i.+ps were simply not enough to support our land forces and we had, through common humanity, to try to feed those poor Lycanthian civilians who'd not been able to flee into the sea-castle in time; civilians the Archons refused to admit to the castle in the one brief truce we were able to call. Our soldiers were exhausted and plagued by hunger and disease, overflowing the hospital tents with their numbers. Sleep was no release: the air was so fetid with the stink of magic that nightmares constantly stalked our dreams.

But it was the will of the Archons, not the defenders of those walls, that had ground our advance to a halt. The two Wizard-Kings of Lycanth were fighting for their lives with a fury. Our Evocators, though bolstered mightily by spells my brother had brought back from the Far Kingdoms, were blocked by the Archons' counterspells at every turn.

I said the blood-bath of the a.s.sault through Lycanth was the worst fighting I've ever known. I wish I had another set of words to describe what a siege is like, because, in some ways, it is more terrible. There is constant boredom, but you must never let yourself relax. One momentary pause in the open and a sharp-eyed archer sends a shaft through your guts. You must never speak too loudly, nor shout, or else the enemy might use that sound to catapult a boulder onto your position. You must keep your ears sharp, or a raiding party might slit your weasand before you see the glint of his steel. You must never leave your s.h.i.+t unburied, or flies will walk first on that, then on your food and the curse of diarrhoea or worse shall be pa.s.sed. You must try to keep yourself clean, because if you are wounded and dirt from your filthy rags enters the wound, it will fester - although how you're to be so sanitary living in a hole pick-axed through the city's cobbled streets, no one can say. You must try to be cheerful, because a woman who constantly complains will weaken herself and those around her. You must...

... And so forth. I could go on, but I was reminded by my beady-eyed collaborator this is not a manual intended to instruct soldiers.

As the siege continued, matters became worse between General Jinnah and myself and, therefore, the Guard. We were denied what little glory was to be gained being the first to attempt an a.s.sault, or even on what we call a 'futile hope', which is a small part)' seizing a sudden opportunity - a small-scale version of the Scouts' attack on the wall, which now seemed to have happened so long ago it might've been an exploit told to our grandmothers. We were sent into every action; the more b.l.o.o.d.y, the more likely the Maranon Guard would be at the forefront. We were slowly whittled away to less than two hundred and it seemed as if no more replacements would ever arrive. At times it appeared that Jinnah wished the Guard to die to the last woman. This I refused to let myself believe, attributing it to the heart-sickness any leader feels, seeing her best die and others replace them and die as well - and to what end? So I said nothing of my thoughts to anyone, not even Corais or Polillo.

There were rumours Jinnah was enriching himself at the army and Orissa's expense, that he had special teams a.s.signed to comb through the city's apartments for gold and riches and secretly take them to his estates outside Orissa. No one had actually seen these looters-by-command, so I spoke harshly to anyone incautious enough to repeat the rumours in my presence. But when I was in conference with the general, I couldn't help but study him closely for some sign of avarice. All I saw on his face, however, was despair that the siege could not be maintained much longer. There was also real fear in his eyes when he heard tales from our spies that the Archons had nearly mastered a death spell that would be the end of Orissa.

Finally, the day of reckoning arrived; although like all such days I have experienced, there were none of the Signs and Symbols I hear are supposed to accompany these events.

General Jinnah gathered us for yet another dawn attack on those impenetrable walls. There was a weary desperation about the whole thing. The sergeants shouted and lashed the men into formation. Bellowed orders followed and the soldiers cursed their officers and their fates as they were driven into battle-lines. Half-starved oxen dragged heavy war machines through the muck. There were rams and wheeled towers and great catapults. Men with scaling ladders were rushed to the jumping-off points, where they nervously eyed the walls. Meanwhile, our enemy prepared as well. Pots of hot oil and molten lead steamed and smoked on the ramparts; rubble was perched to tumble; crossbowmen cranked their bows taut; archers chose their straightest shafts and pikemen made a deadly, sharp-edged forest along the breastworks. We were a motley army of twenty thousand. Only a few thousand were professional soldiers now, including my two hundred. The rest were shopkeepers, butchers, labourers and former slaves. As for the enemy, we did not know how many opposed us - perhaps ten thousand; perhaps more.

As the horns sounded and soldiers on both sides tiredly pounded their s.h.i.+elds and croaked jeers at the enemy in what had become a routine prelude to battle, I led ten women away from the field, on a special mission given us by Jinnah - although he swore Gamelan had as much to do with it as he did, which I doubted.

The diversion we were about to launch bordered on the suicidal. This was why I led the mission that day, with a hand-picked force that included my two top legates. I was determined to bring them all back alive or, if my hopes were dashed, at least I would have the thin comfort that I'd not given the duty to someone I might think less capable or experienced. Besides, no soldier is fit for command if she will not herself go where she proposes to send her charges.

All of us had blackened our faces and any exposed skin with burnt cork and a spell of non-reflection had been cast on our blades. We wore no armour, since its weight could slow us enough to become a target. We wore only dark short tunics, caps and tight-fitting breeches.

We darted from cover to cover, moving easily, by hand-signals, feeling as if we were all one flesh. Our first goal, which we reached without being observed from that curtain-wall that loomed closer and closer, was the ruin of an outer guard-tower that neither side could hold for long. We crouched beside its high wall and Polillo stirruped her hands. I thrust my foot into that brace and she catapulted me upward, to where timbering protruded from the wall that had floored the upper storey. I caught a broken beam in both hands, pulled myself onto its narrowness and flattened - trying not to send debris showering down on my companions. A sharp rock dug into my breast as I turned on my side and unhitched the long rope slung over one shoulder. I double-hitched it around the beam, dropped its end back down and a moment later Corais swarmed up. She had no trouble finding a steady perch; and while I belayed the rope for the others, she steadied them in the last few feet of their climb. The only sound we made during all this was the creak of our leather harness, the sc.r.a.pe of our boots, and the occasional dull thud of a rag-wrapped weapon.

The last woman up was Polillo. I strained against her weight - she was easily twice the weight of any two of us - and a few agonizing seconds later she was on the shelf of rotting wood. She unslung the heavy leather bag that was her charge and dumped it on the stones. She grinned.

'Now, for a little sip of Lycanthian blood,' she said. She patted the beaked axe at her side. 'Precious is hungry, poor thing.'

'We are supposed to create a diversion, Legate,' I reminded her. 'Killing Lycanthians rates way down the ladder of our duties.'

Polillo sulked, those lovely full lips of hers making a childish pout.

Corais gave her a slap on the back to boost her suddenly sour mood. 'I'll catch one for you,' she promised, 'so you can break his little neck.' She made a snapping gesture with her two hands and clicked her small sharp teeth to approximate the sound of broken bone.

Polillo started to boom laughter, then caught herself, with a guilty glance at the castle walls now very high and close beside. 'Oh, Corais, what would I do without your cheer?'

'If that that cheers you, my sweet, I'll catch two of them and really put the s.h.i.+ne in your eyes.' cheers you, my sweet, I'll catch two of them and really put the s.h.i.+ne in your eyes.'

I paid no attention to this pre-battle jawing, but peered carefully first at the sea-castle's main wall - I could see no signs that we'd been spotted - then back at the battlefield from whence we'd come. Our Evocators had mounted a small platform near the centre of our lines. On it I could see half a dozen of them, busy chanting and casting spells, with great and meaningful gestures. In their centre was Gamelan. Suddenly he flung up his hands. His shout, magically amplified, thundered across the field. could see no signs that we'd been spotted - then back at the battlefield from whence we'd come. Our Evocators had mounted a small platform near the centre of our lines. On it I could see half a dozen of them, busy chanting and casting spells, with great and meaningful gestures. In their centre was Gamelan. Suddenly he flung up his hands. His shout, magically amplified, thundered across the field.

From behind the castle walls I heard an equally loud roar from the brazenly magnified throats of the Archons. The air crackled with the roar and then shattered. Then came a chorus of howls so piercing we all ducked our heads, eyes forced shut and ears clamped to avoid the pain.

As we realized we were behaving as foolishly as any raw recruit seeing the first flight of arrows arching towards ttie battle-line, knowing each is aimed directly at her heart, and recovered, the spectral part of the battle commenced. The morning sky was night and magical fires raged overhead and demon legions howled and clashed. On the ground, all-too-human men lurched forward.

This was our cue - we slid through a narrow port, and now we were inside the ruin. I tossed our rope into what had been the guard-tower's central room and slid down. There was no far wall standing that'd keep us from being seen by an alert soldier atop the castle's curtain-wall. I s.h.i.+vered. This was closer than I'd ever been to this dreadful haunt. Here Amalric had been imprisoned, he and Janos Greycloak, first in an apartment high in the castle's battlements in an attempt to break them with magic; then deep underground in its dripping dungeons. I collected myself - my purpose, the purpose for us all, was to destroy this evil, from its huge, nitrous stones to the Archons who ruled from within. Mooning about, feeling evil emanations as if I were a market wife scared out of her girdle by a fortune-teller's cant, accomplished nothing.

The ruined guard-tower had blocked our way to a narrow lava ledge that began a few dozen yards away and ran around the perimeter of the castle wall. The shelf was no more than a spear-length at its narrowest and twice that at its widest, or so my observations had suggested in the two days I'd spent reconnoitring the mission from afar. Do not think this shelf was in any way a weak point our army could exploit. To one side, as I've said, was the castle wall, going straight up with not a place to be seen to which we could spike or lash an a.s.sault ladder. On the other, it fell away, a vertical gla.s.s-like cliff two hundred feet or more to the harbour and bottled-up s.h.i.+ps rotting at anchor below.

I motioned and Corais and three others slipped away onto the ledge itself. I heard a m.u.f.fled cry and the remaining six of us had our weapons bared - there must've been a sentry or even a roving patrol. Polillo dropped the sack and reached for her axe. I held her back with an angry frown - Corais would chance a shout if she needed us. Polillo muttered as we heard the clash of weapons and I knew her hot blood was rising. There was silence. A few breaths later Corais rushed into view and beckoned us forward. Polillo growled with jealousy seeing her b.l.o.o.d.y sword. Corais made a small smile, then shrugged. What could she do? Duty and all. I hissed at them - quit the by-play. Pay attention. Then we hitched up our harness and ran out onto the shelf, around the castle.

We crept almost halfway around the castle before reaching the spot I'd picked for the diversio.n. Here the shelf widened briefly, room enough for perhaps half a company to a.s.semble and then be crushed from above - since there'd be no way a full a.s.sault could be mounted from this position, nor any troops reinforced once the defenders on the walls realized their presence. But the shelf s width was not the reason I'd picked this place for the diversion: I thought I'd seen and a minor vision-enhancing spell had confirmed the sight, that gates had once been cut into the curtain-wall here, at a corner tower. I'd wondered for what purpose at the time and considered the thought once more. I thought I saw, just at the cliff-edge, a splintered stone foundation where a derrick might've been set a long time ago. Possibly this would have been a secret entry to deliver items to the Archons, hoisting them straight up the cliff" and hurrying them into hiding. I shuddered, not able to conceive anything so awful that the Archons would fear discovery by their completely subjugated people.

After I'd seen these gates and told Polillo and Corais of their existence, fire had sparked in their eyes. Perhaps we could somehow break those gates down? Perhaps we could lead a party into the castle itself? I cut off such speculation. I knew the Archons and their military commanders were hardly fools and such a weak spot in their defences, even one as hard to reach as this, would've been sealed long before. Now, close to these gates, I saw I'd been right. They were cemented firmly closed, and the lightness of the mortar showed they'd been sealed for years. If it were possible to break down these gates, it'd take an enormous ram to do it - and how could such a device be transported to this cliff-edge? But the gates had inspired a bit of modification to Gamelan's diversion.

Below us was the harbour mouth and I saw the catenary arch of the colossal chain that blocked it. Each of the chain's links was the size of a river yawl. The chain was green with age, dripped seaweed and slime. I had spent hours staring at that chain as I planned this mission, wondering if we could work our way along the shelf to where it ended against the castle walls, held by a huge staple. But I'd suspected the shelf petered out before reaching the chain and now my impression was confirmed. Even if we had been able to reach it, what good would that have done? However the chain was raised and lowered -I knew as much by magic as by levers, pulleys and human engineering - that was done from the tower on the far promontory, a tower as fiercely defended as the sea-castle itself. knew as much by magic as by levers, pulleys and human engineering - that was done from the tower on the far promontory, a tower as fiercely defended as the sea-castle itself.

I brought myself back to the business at hand and felt ashamed. I was behaving as b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedly as any young subaltern, always with an eye out for that single stroke, that single charge that'd not only win a war but cover its architect with glory. Our duty today was more prosaic, since at most it would be an a.s.sist to the main attack now being mounted far behind us.

Cold fingers eeled up my spine. I had the eerie feeling of being observed by unfriendly eyes. I let my own eyes scour the battlements above and saw nothing. But that feeling is something I've learned to prize highly, so I next scanned the walls themselves, looking for a window or even an arrow slit from which someone might observe us. But there was nothing.

For a moment I wondered if this corner tower was where Amalric had been imprisoned - he'd said he had a clear view of the harbour and the chain from the window of his prison-apartment. No. These walls were blank; except for the barred gate, there was no feature to mar those smooth stones. Amalric's cell must've been at a different point. Still, the feeling of being watched persisted.

I heard something then. It was a voice, but yet not a voice, and I thought it whispered a warning, although I couldn't make out any words, nor the speaker's s.e.x. It was vaguely familiar, and I s.h.i.+vered, wondering in a mad moment if it might be Halab, my long-dead brother. Amalric had said Halab's ghost had come to his aid on the expeditions to the Far Kingdoms. Although I've found Amalric to be mostly a man of sense, at that time I personally believed his imagination had been stoked by that rascal Janos Greycloak. Either that, or they made an especially heady wine in the Far Kingdoms.

I steeled myself and gave the signal. Polillo threw the sack over her shoulder and leaped forward. I ran behind her across the open ground. The big woman moved easily, toting a weight that would've foundered two strong men. We stopped on the ledge's widest point and my legate upended the sack. Out tumbled three ma.s.sive crystal spheres, along with an odd mounting apparatus designed by our wizards in their weapons shops. It consisted of a three-foot cylinder-k.n.o.bbed on one end - and a wheeled tripod base. The cylinder telescoped to twice its length, as did the legs. As I struggled to set it up, a beam of sunlight speared through the magical haze, bathing us in light. I cursed my clumsy fingers, knowing at any moment we could be spotted. But finally it was done and Polillo had the cylinders arranged into a triangle. At my signal Corais led the others out. They took the formation Gamelan had drilled into us for half the night.

Polillo frowned, as distrusting of sorcery as I. An Evocator should've been a.s.signed to perform these functions. Gamelan had urged Jinnah to let him go, but the general had refused - without explanation - not even allowing the presence of a junior and, therefore, more expendable wizard. Polillo unhitched her axe and spread her long legs into a comfortable striking stance. I pulled a small bag from my waist pouch and sprinkled grey dust on first one sphere, then the others. The dust was the ground bones of fallen warriors. Feeling more than a bit of a fool, I chanted the spell Gamelan had hammered into my head.

We are few.

We are many.

We are bone.

We are flesh.

We are ten.

We are one thousand.

I stepped back and drew my sword. Then I threw back my head, opened my lungs and hurled the battle-cry of the Maranon Guard.

My sisters echoed my challenge. Our voices ululated up and up until the keening pierced the roar of the battlefield we'd left. Then we waited - an army of ten, certain we were about to die. I saw figures running along the castle walls above us and braced for what would follow.

Suddenly I felt a tingling all over my body. My hair rose, my nipples became hard as stones. The tingling turned to warmth and centred itself at my belly. It plunged into my womb where it gathered strength and flared into a hot fire. I howled with the joy and strength of that blaze and I heard my sisters joining in until our ten voices were that of a mult.i.tude. I felt I was no longer one warrior, but ten. That ten became ten times that number and I was one hundred women, with one hundred swords slas.h.i.+ng the air in defiance. And about me were nine hundred warrior sisters raging at our enemy.

Gamelan had promised we'd appear to our enemy as an army of a thousand that had suddenly leaped up from the very earth to confront them. I heard shouts of surprise come from the castle walls and knew he hadn't lied. Battle l.u.s.t clutched at my throat and I wanted to order the attack, but sanity held sway over my magically charged imagination and instead I shouted to Corais. She and another woman raced to the wheeled apparatus and ran it forward. The k.n.o.bbed end slammed into the gates and although I knew it was too small to leave even a mark, the sound it made was that of a mighty ram - and that is how it seemed to our enemies. A s.h.i.+mmer in the air gave me a glimpse of their view: the odd apparatus had become a huge war machine, towering above the two hundred women warriors who operated it, an engine easily big enough to shatter those gates and their reinforcing. The rest of us - eight hundred plus - were dressed in sparkling armour and we displayed all manner of weapons besides that great ram: axes and bows, lances and crossbows, grappling hooks and scaling ladders. We made a terrifying sight.

The shouts of warning were many now, but I could see they offered no threat; panic was the commander of those walls. I heard Polillo laugh and mock their manhood. I laughed with her, imagining their b.a.l.l.s shrivelling against their thighs. Soon the enemy would strip his defences from the front gates and rush back to oppose this new threat. Jinnah had held a great force in reserve that would then burst through those weakened defences and for the second time in Orissa's history the Archons' sea-castle would fall.

I heard one of my soldiers cry in alarm. Huge black clouds rushed through the sky. They hovered above us, boiling and whirling. My marrow froze as ghostly laughter roiled from within them. The clouds parted and I saw a man's gigantic face. His eyes were the black of graves, his fleshy lips blood-red and his great beard a desolate forest. The lips peeled back to expose long filed teeth. The Archon laughed again and that laughter was so powerful it broke Gamelan's spell and my strength fled. I was swiftly diminished until I was not a hundred soldiers, but ten; then but one - and such a small one at that to dare the Archons of Lycanth.

The Archon's lips compressed to form a word, and when he hissed it, his breath was foul, so cold it froze us in place. 'Antero,' he said. I thought I heard a note of surprise. His gaze became worms crawling out of black mud to sniff at me, leaving trails of slime on my soul. More laughter. 'A woman!' woman!' His mockery was thunder. He drew in his breath - a howling in the air - and spit. His mockery was thunder. He drew in his breath - a howling in the air - and spit.

His spittle rained from the cloud, drenching us in unimaginable filth. We were humbled and humiliated by that fetid storm. The face vanished into the cloud ma.s.s, which swirled furiously for a moment, then funnelled down and down into the sea-castle ... until it was gone.

The ten of us stood on that naked shelf, helpless against our enemies. Before we died it was our turn to suffer jeers. The men on the walls shouted, mocking our s.e.x; taunting us with threats of the obscene acts they'd perform on our corpses. But the jeers had an opposite effect - instead of fear, they roused anger.

Polillo roared: 'Come down and fight, Lycanthian sc.u.m! I'll cut off your arms and legs and send your heads back to your women with your b.a.l.l.s stuffed down your throats.'

She hurled her great axe upward. But she was so angry she loosed too soon and the axe fell short of the parapets - if any of the rest of us had tried a similar throw, we could not even have reached half the distance. The blade struck the blank stone with a crash - but instead of falling back, it stuck! I gaped - the axe had not penetrated the stone, but seemed to hang there in midair. Why didn't it fall?

There was a knot of archers on the parapets and a thick flight of arrows rained. Training overtook fear and we dove for the ground, rolling over and over until we lay close along the castle wall itself. I sprawled next to Polillo, hugging the stone to make as difficult a target as possible. But the safety was illusory; soon the archers would crane over and pick us off, or other soldiers would fry us with boiling oil.

I peered up and realized I was just beneath Polillo's axe. To my amazement I saw it wasn't stuck in a crevice or joining at all, but hung from the ledge of a shuttered, not even barred, window. I turned my head this way and that, examining what I had believed to be blank walls. Instead, I saw other windows pocking the face. As I puzzled over the trick that had made the walls seem blank from a distance, someone gave a cry of pain. Jolted, I saw one of my soldiers plucking an arrow from her thigh. Our doom was moments away. I saw those crystal spheres, still out in the open and an idea struck. I gave quick orders to Polillo. She nodded, her face lighting up.

I came to my feet and darted out - back along the shelf - as if trying to flee, zig-zagging and dodging as arrows fell around me. Then I wheeled and doubled back. Polillo had followed me out, but took a different course. While the archers concentrated on me, she raced to the spheres. She plucked one up and hurled it at the knot of archers. It whistled towards them like a shot from a siege catapult. The magical sphere struck just below the parapet, where it exploded with a huge flash and roar. I had guessed, or perhaps just hoped, that all of the spells the Evocators had muttered over the device must have given it a mighty charge - one as likely to be unleashed by physical strength as by sorcery; just as a perfectly-blown crystal may shatter when tapped with a fingernail at the correct point.

As stones showered down Polillo scooped up another, and flung it. This sailed entirely over the walls to explode, unseen, in the courtyard within. The final sphere found its mark and I heard screams of pain and terror follow its blast.

Before our enemy could recover we were serpenting back the way we had come. Corais led the race and Polillo took the rear, the wounded woman slung over her shoulder. We didn't bother dodging, but sprinted straight as swallows for their nest. But even in that mad flight, shame stung at me; and despite my improvisation, defeat was sour on my tongue.

We doubled along the shelf towards that shattered guard-tower, the ropes and safety. A flight of arrows whipped after us. Time was running out.

But as the first swarm struck at our heels, a thought pierced my desperation. I suddenly knew how to solve the riddle of the Archons'

Three.

The Casting of the Bones.

Do YOU KNOW YOU KNOW what it is to hate, Scribe? Have you ever looked a fellow in the eyes and felt a loathing so fierce you wanted to pluck them out? No need to answer - your guilty flush betrays you. Good. It's comforting to know there's marrow in your bones. It'll help you understand how it was between Jinnah and me. what it is to hate, Scribe? Have you ever looked a fellow in the eyes and felt a loathing so fierce you wanted to pluck them out? No need to answer - your guilty flush betrays you. Good. It's comforting to know there's marrow in your bones. It'll help you understand how it was between Jinnah and me.

At first I thought it was merely a mutual dislike. That wasn't so shocking. It's perfectly natural for two people to find each other offensive on first meeting. I've already underscored the faults I found in Jinnah and his breed. As for Jinnah's bitterness towards me, this also seemed natural. The patricians of Orissa disapprove of the merchant clans such as the Anteros. Money earned by toil and trade is unseemly to them. They see themselves as the kings and queens of our society. But in Orissa a peasant with pluck and skill can work his way into the glittering chambers that Jinnah entered merely by being born. What's more, it was the Anteros - thanks to my brother - who freed the slaves, to the immense displeasure of the old families.

So there was foundation for dislike. He was the commander, so I did my best to hide my feelings. He, however, made little effort to conceal his. Never mind. I'm a soldier who prides herself on being able to serve under any any circ.u.mstances - even the displeasure of my superior. However, the night before that final battle, as I sat in Jinnah's tent and laid out my plan, I caught a glimpse of how deep his feelings ran. But I was in such a fever of inspiration I failed to look closer. There is much blood on my hands for that failure - the blood of my sisters and friends. Their ghosts are too sweet to haunt me. But, I do not sleep well, Scribe. And when I do, I circ.u.mstances - even the displeasure of my superior. However, the night before that final battle, as I sat in Jinnah's tent and laid out my plan, I caught a glimpse of how deep his feelings ran. But I was in such a fever of inspiration I failed to look closer. There is much blood on my hands for that failure - the blood of my sisters and friends. Their ghosts are too sweet to haunt me. But, I do not sleep well, Scribe. And when I do, I never never dream. dream.

The men made no comment as I told them what I'd seen from that stony shelf. General Jinnah stared down his handsome nose at me, his pale, haughty features cast into a mask of polite attention, his thin lips stretched into what could be mistaken for a smile. But as I spoke, his fingers drummed impatiendy against the top of his ornately carved field table. His aides, taking the cue from their master, sat in cross-armed boredom. The tent was dank and reeked of spoiled-musk -which was the manly perfume Jinnah, and, therefore, his aides, favoured. The dark bulk that was Admiral Cholla Yi amused himself by undressing me with his eyes. He stroked his lace cuffs while he stared and occasionally fingered the stiff spikes that were his hair. Wonderful, I thought. Another fellow who thinks I only need a good bedding by a real real man to change my s.e.xual preferences. Normally I'd have challenged him to a ball-kicking contest, but I was so caught up in laying out my plan I ignored his attempt to humiliate. In the far corner Gamelan sat as quiet as the rest. I couldn't read his feelings, but sensed no hostility from the wizard. man to change my s.e.xual preferences. Normally I'd have challenged him to a ball-kicking contest, but I was so caught up in laying out my plan I ignored his attempt to humiliate. In the far corner Gamelan sat as quiet as the rest. I couldn't read his feelings, but sensed no hostility from the wizard.

Jinnah had yawned when I'd first told him about Polillo's axe hanging from the spell-shrouded window, but one of Gamelan's bushy brows had arched high over his hawk-like features. When I told my commander the use I intended to make of that discovery - along with several others - he yawned wider still. But I saw Gamelan tense and stroke his long, white beard.

Captain Hux, Jinnah's chief aide, made an elaborate pretence of scrawling a note. 'Shall I send a scouting party around to confirm Captain Antero's ... unusual observations, sir?' His voice was languid, moist with mocker}'.

Jinnah roused himself enough to put on a mild show of careful thought.

I jumped in. 'That might give it away, sir,' I said. 'Only Te-Date knows if we'll have another chance like this.'