Changer's Moon (42 page)

The launchers were slipped onto the wall in the midst of the contrived confusion Anoike had suggested. The three launchers they had were trained upon the three towers, the rockets nested in them. Overhead the traxim whirled about, thick black flocks of demon spies, but they took no special notice of three small knots of purpose in the larger flow. In the tower Hern scanned the army; it was late afternoon, a heavily overcast day that spread a cold gray gloom over the plain outside the wall and the foothills beyond. He could find no trace of Nekaz Kole, but did locate his tent, its fine waterproof silk walls lit from within by lamps and perhaps a charcoal brazier to keep the army's master warm. He murmured into the teletalk, reporting his observations to Anoike, adding that he saw no point in waiting longer. He flicked to the second channel, glanced down at the scale etched into the stone of the slit, spoke again. “Kole's tent. Ten degrees west of second tower, estimate this point. Comment?” He listened. “Right. Ready. On three. One. Two. Three.”

Diminishing hiss, exhaust clouds glowing in gray light. Rockets whispering from the launchers, exploding with no appreciable interval between launch and hit, so close are the towers, three blasts that open out the gloom with sound and glare. The exiles handling the launchers muscle them around, change their aim and shoot off a second flight about two heartbeats after the first.

Hern grunted with satisfaction as the towers flew into splinters, shifted his gaze to the tents as the next flight converged on them and struck, throwing fire, dirt and stone in a wide circle about the place where the tents had been, the stone and shards from the rocket casing slicing like knives through the surrounding Ogogehians, sending even those hardened mercenaries into a panic flight. He lifted the teletalk, spoke into it. “Go. Get whatever you can.”

More of the rockets streaked out, their flights diverging from the center. Though Sankoise and Ogogehian and Majilarni fled the terrible things that flew at them with paralyzing swiftness and slew by hundreds, not one by one, only the lucky survived. The first flight hit among the Sankoise, slaying many, wounding more. The second sprayed through the orderly camps of the mercenaries, but the third flight veered suddenly upward, curled to the east and exploded some minutes later among the mountain tops, almost too far off to see or hear. Hern cursed fervently, spoke again into the teletalk. “Shut down. No use wasting more of those. That should hold them a while.”

9

Nekaz Kole wasn't in his tent, but sitting at a shaman's fire in a Majilarni shaman's hutch dealing with a potential rebellion. The Majilarni were tired of this interminable siege that was getting them killed without any of the usual pleasures of war. Other times they could hear the moans of the wounded and the dying, could see the city behind the wall begin to suffer, other times they could race their rambuts around the walls and yell mocking things at the defenders, boast what they'd do to them when the city fell, howl with laughter at their stupidity when they tried sending out embassies to cut deals with the shaman and the elders, other times they could play with sorties and smugglers and savor the growing desperation behind the walls. Other times they could ride off more or less when they chose, loaded down with loot and slaves when the city finally capitulated. They could see no profit in this business. The wall was too thick, too high, too long, the defenders were too deadly with their shafts and those tiny pellets that dug right through you and maybe wounded your mount too, that sought you out impossibly far from the wall. That wasn't fair. You died and you didn't even get to call your curses on your killer because she was too far to hear you. And that was another thing. They were fighting women. Oh, they'd seen some men's faces now and then, but they knew what this place was: it was where they trained those abominations that played at being men. How could a man gain honor fighting women? The Majilarni fighters were turning ugly. The shaman was getting nervous. Clans had turned on their shamans before. If he was negligent about bringing them to game and graze, or milking water into dry wells, or if he got them beaten too badly in contests with enemy clans, if he led them to defeat before the walled cities too often, then the shaman got roasted over a slow fire, fed to the herd chini and his apprentice set in his place. That is, if the apprentice stuck around long enough to get caught, in which case he wasn't much of a shaman, and would soon follow his master into chinin bellies. The shaman squatting across the fire from Nekaz Kole knew the smell of revolt; he cursed the day he'd let ambition trap him into this business. Though he feared the Nearga nor, he was on the point of leading his folk away, to take them on raids up through the mijloc and across Assurtilas in hopes that loot and proper fighting would put them into a better mood.

The talk went on for a while more, but Kole wasn't a man to dribble away his authority in futile argument. He cut off the discussion and ducked out of the hutch; before he could get to his mount, the rockets hit the walking towers, then his tents, then started ravaging his army. The Nor at his side cursed, then spoke a WORD that shivered the air about him. The last of the flaming missiles curved up and away, exploding somewhere among the mountain tops behind them. Kole watched that, then scowled across the slopes at the devastation where his tent had been. Being that close to losing his life shook him, not because it was a brush with death, but because even the Nor wouldn't have saved him if they'd both been in that tent; there wouldn't have been time for him to act. Chance had saved him this time. Another time it might destroy him. He had no control over that sort of event. Luck. The idea disturbed him. He strode to his gold rambut, swung into the saddle and rode at a slow walk toward the heart of his army to look over the damage to his veterans, the Nor silent, riding a half-length behind him. There was one aspect of the destruction he was quietly applauding. Floarin was gone; he'd left her huddling over a fire after listening for an hour to her querulous demands for information and for quick action to end the war. She was puffed to ash now or blown into shreds of charred flesh. He'd deferred to her since she was provisioner and nominal paymaster, but he knew well enough where the real power lay. She'd developed into an irritant impossible to ignore, equally impossible to endure. And she'd started getting ideas about him, hovered around him as much as she could, constantly touching him, pressing against him, even trying to force her way into his tent. That she disgusted him and the thought of coupling with her turned his stomach he kept to himself. He evaded her during the day, put guards around his tent at night. In Ogogehia there are spiders that grow as broad as a man's hand, ghastly, hairy bags of ooze able to leap higher than a man's head and poisonous enough to make a strong man deathly sick. The females are the big ones, males are elusive, shy and smooth-skinned, dinner for the females once the mating is over. In his eyes Floarin was as disgusting as one of those spiders, feeding on her husband, feeding any male that got close enough for her to inject her poison. He smiled at the scattered embers of the tents and felt a strong relief flood through him, with the result that he silently promised those inside the wall as generous a settlement as he could wring out of the Nearga Nor. He watched the embers dying to black, heard the wounded groaning, and coveted those weapons. Where Hern had got hold of them was something he was going to be very interested in discovering. With them in his arsenal, well, there would be very little he couldn't have for the asking. Once this was over. He bent forward and patted the neck of his nervously sidling rambut. Time for Vuurvis. He swept his eyes along the wall, scowled at the gate towers. Start loading the melons tomorrow. Hit the walls first, then the towers, get rid of spotters, then burn through the gates. Once he got enough men inside the wall, it was over. He kneed the rambut into a faster walk. The majilarni were lost but he didn't need them. Vuurvis was enough.

10

Serroi straightened, rubbed at her back, smiled at the lined face of the woman who'd been something of a mother to her. Pria Mellit. She took her turn on the wall with the others, her strong wiry arms hurling the javelins with great accuracy; fed by her stable girls, she could get three or four of the short lances off in as many heartbeats, but that meant she stood for long stretches without much cover. The wound Serroi had just healed was Mellit's fifth serious hurt. She endured the pain without complaint and went quietly back to the wall when her turn came, handling the pain-memory far better than the younger meien. Serroi helped her sit up, clucked her tongue at the deep bruises about Mellit's eyes. “Get some rest, pria-mama,” she said gently, knowing Mellit would ignore her this time as she had before.

Mellit got to her feet, straightened her torn clothing. “Not here, child. You'll need this pallet soon enough.”

Serroi reached out to help her as she stumped toward the tent's door, but drew her hand back. Mellit would walk where she wanted on her own legs and when she could no longer do that, then she'd die. She wouldn't appreciate one of her girls, old or new, hastening her toward that time. Serroi watched her look about then move off with that ground-eating stride her Stenda legs gave her and she took a moment to appreciate the old woman's undiminishing strength, then she started to go back inside.

And froze, mouth open, eyes glazed. Pain. A pain so far beyond description it blanked her mind. Hern. In agony. With a low whining moan she stumbled around, stood staring at the burning tower. “Vuurvis,” she said. She heard it echo in her head, a soft plaintive denying word, then she shook off her temporary paralysis and ran for the only motorcycle near the tent. The rider was dismounting, coming off his shift. She grabbed his arm, pointed. “Take me there. Hurry.” Again the words echoed in her head. She wanted to scream at him, shake him, force him to move faster, but her words came out in a whisper. She hitched up her robe, swung a leg over the long narrow seat above the rear wheel and got herself set as the boy started the machine and roared toward the tower. Everything was floating around her, she couldn't think with Hern's agony burning in her. She felt the machine shimmy under her, felt the jolts and vibrations as it raced over the rough ground, felt the bunching and shifting of the boy's muscles where she clutched at him. The tower came at her fast-fast, yet the ride seemed to go on forever. More vuurvis hit the tower; the heavy, greedy flames ran over the stone, eating pits in it. There were screams and shouts and crashes sounding all along the wall but she ignored those; her entire being was focused on the burning tower.

11

The heat was intense, the smell indescribable. The little healer was off the cycle before Wes got it stopped, running toward the tower's door, toward the flames and smoke coming from it. He let the machine fall and started after her. She's hysterical, he thought, killing herself, nothing she can do for him now, she can't bring back the dead. He reached her before she dived into that mess of stinking smoke, lunged and caught hold of her arm.

Pain ran like fire into his hand and his fingers jerked open. He couldn't keep hold of her though he tried again. She ran inside, flames licking at the loose robe she wore, at the bounding curls that made her seem such a child until you looked into her eyes. He backed away, coughing and spitting, looked around. There was more than the tower to worry about. Forgetting the food and rest he'd been looking forward to, he muscled his machine up and around and started toward the hospital tent to pick up a medic and supplies and begin doing something about the burned; he'd heard enough stories about vuurvis and what it did to flesh to be glad that his belly was empty and his body tired.

12

Serroi is burning with her own fire as she runs up the squared spiral stairs. Her robe is burning off her, her hair is on fire, but she feels none of that. Up and around and up and around and all the time Hern is dying, dying alone, his stubborn generous spirit burning out of his body. She will not let that happen, she must not, must not, must not, the words echo with the patter of her bare feet on the hot stone, she does not notice that where she steps, where her fingers touch the wall, she leaves a mark on the stone and the fire is quenched there. Hern hangs on, refusing to die. Reaching and reaching, she draws power to herself as she runs, her breath sobbing in her ears, up and around and up and around.

The upper room is awash with flame, but again where she steps, the flame dies. She runs to the blackened hulk, kneels. The fire retreats from her, leaving a circle clear about Hern's body. She gathers her will and puts her hands on him.

The oil fights her and he fights her, maddened by the agony. She holds him down and pours all the power she has called into him. The Biserica means nothing to her now, Ser Noris means nothing to her, Hern is all, she will not quit until he is whole. She reaches out and seizes all power she can reach, draining the Shawar, draining the Norim, draining even Ser Noris, swallowing whole the fragments of the other norissim, the bits he'd left of them, all this she channels through her body and into Hern, into the blackened hulk that writhes on the stone and threatens to crush her with its uncontrolled flexings. The tower hums about her, turns grass green and translucent and the earth-fire, nor-fire, shawar-fire kills the vuurvis fire and reinforces the flickering glow of life in him, begins rebuilding the life as she stimulates the cells of his body to repair themselves, the dead charred flesh sloughing off, replaced by new, building from the bone out, cell by cell, nerve by nerve, layer on layer on layer of flesh all over his body until new skin spreads over him, but she doesn't stop there. Eyes closed, body swaying, her will holding her, she keeps his body working until lashes grow back, eyebrows, body hair; his head hair coils out and out, black and pewter as before, until it is long enough to curl about her wrist.

The pale gray eyes opened and looked up at her, knowing her.