Slow Turns The World (29 page)

She covered the bed with sheets of satin and silk while he made a stew of the frozen food.   It did not smell foul or bad but would take a while to thaw and cook.  Soola found another washing bowl and ordered Torrin to fill it.  Dutifully he obeyed.  In his absence she found some of the king's, or, more likely queen's, toiletries.  There were bottles of cleansing oils and balms that were richly scented, which she opened and sniffed at with delight.

The bowl of water steamed and she pulled it away from the flames.  Then, standing in the heat and dancing light of the fire, she stripped her clothes off, standing with her back to him, knowing that he watched her every movement.  She stood in the golden bowl of steaming water and smoothed the cleansing oils upon her skin.  She stooped and cupped water in her fingers, then let it dribble down her, mingling with the lather of the oils.  Then her hands moved in circles gliding over the moist skin, exploring and cleansing every mound and crevice.  She stepped from the bowl and drew a royal, silken, bathrobe around her.  Then she turned to Torrin and beckoned him to the washing bowl.  

He did not resist and let his tattered clothing slip from him until he stood naked; his feet in the warm water.  She came behind him and let the cold balm drip upon his back.  Then her fingers began their work, sliding across his skin, pressing deep here and there, soothing aching muscles and then skimming gently on the film of oil.  She reached around him fingers like a soft feather touch upon his chest, lips beginning to kiss gently on his back.  He felt her robe fall open, felt the touch of flesh against his body, the pools of warmth that were her breasts, the deeper more insistent heat between her thighs that pressed rhythmically against his legs.  

Then her hands were sliding deeper, down against his leg, back up the inside of his thigh.  The oiled fingers found their mark and made a circle that slid back and forth around him, that found the tiny point of greatest sensitivity, and lifted him to new heights of excitement and sensation with every brushing touch.  Then he spun around and kissed her as deeply as his tongue could reach.  He swept her up and carried her to the bed, then covered her body with a thousand more kisses.   The shield of the king rocked and swung on its golden chain; rocked and swung, rocked and swung.

A while later, one of the soaring birds of the mountain wheeled down to its favoured perch upon a high turret top, but did not see the snare laid ready, as it set itself down with beating wings.  It shrieked with surprise and anger as it was dragged through an open hatch, wings flailing against the timber, feathers filling the air. Torrin chewed hungrily on one drumstick, Soola, beside him on the bed, happily devouring the other.   The frozen vegetables were edible enough, but this seemed a more appropriate meal for the occupants of royal chambers.

After a long rest, interrupted at intervals by the passionate demands of Soola, Torrin descended to the city and found his way to its gate.  Snow was piled high against the timbers and he began the long task of clearing it away, so that the locking mechanism could be revealed.  After much digging he had exposed enough of the structure to see how the gates could be latched.  There were iron capstans with long handles on both doors, contrived to mesh with metal bolts that extended to left and right.  It took some mighty hammer blows to shift the frozen mechanism, and much straining to turn the capstans, but slowly the iron rods slid and latched into their sockets.

Then there was no more to do than wait.  They spent much time in the king's bed, delighting in their passion and friendship.  The room would fill with the sound of the four-posted canopy creaking and lurching, and then, after tumultuous gasps, would come laughter, or long gently mumbled stories from their lives before.  They explored the city, made entry to its temples and palaces; crept by lantern light through shuttered halls, misty plumes of breath filling the chill air between them.  In the east, the sun crept a fraction higher, peeping over a distant mountain ridge.   The sunlight stretched lower down the city's towers, melted water dripped and splashed to the alleys below, then froze again into tall, twisted pillars.   The westward mountains that reared above the city glowed brighter in the dawn and were a source of echoing thunder as avalanches tumbled to the valley below.     When nearly a moon had passed, and as they lay in slumber, wrapped together in naked warmth, a new sound began.

Torrin sat up, listening to what had begun as a distant rumble but was growing louder by the moment.  Soola heard it too and they both sprang to the window to look down into the shadowed vale below.   The wave of water that surged through the valley had begun its journey many moons before.   The melting snows of the mountains had filled one lake and then spilled into another, erupting through the ice dams, tearing the dormant trees from the valley sides in dreadful uncontrolled power.  The bore surged and then halted, flowing back into chill twilight, freezing, damming itself and then breaking free again as the sun rose and warmed.   As it neared the sea at last, the great torrent wreaked terrible destruction, surging down its ancient course; dark with silt, deadly with tumbled boulders, slabs of ice and splintered trees.  It was thrilling to watch, as the angry, dirty water foamed and tumbled across the white landscape, leaving a rippling brown ribbon weaving between the mountains.

Now it was time for the last task appointed to Torrin; to make a signal.   A tall stone tower crowned with a wooden balustrade and roof would be his beacon.  He had found flasks of oil in a storeroom and already carried several up a long stair.   Now he bounded up the steps again and splashed the oil across the timbers.  A flicker from the tinderbox set the tower aflame and it was consumed in crackling red tongues that sent a dark plume skywards.   He watched from the king's chamber as the burning timbers tumbled to the street below.  He heard them crash and splinter amidst that other constant sound of the roaring river.  

He knew that eyes, on some distant ridge toward the sea, were watching, and that the signal would be passed on.  Another beacon maybe, or the reflected flashing of the sun with mirrors; somehow the message would be passed, and the strategies of empire would unfold.  The flaming tower was consumed, it smouldered for some time, a wisp of smoke still rising from the skeletal black timbers.   Downstream of the city the river filled the glacial valley from wall to wall.   It made a new lake, meandering gently to the sea, where it turned the waters brown, with branches, trees and broken ice bobbing on the swell.

Three ships came.  They were double masted, but no sails were set, as ranks of oarsmen laboured and drove them against the current.  The banner of Nejital fluttered from each, men dressed in leather and silver standing upon the prow, watching the city grow nearer with every oar stroke.   Torrin wondered if they had seen the signal; if they had any notion of his presence.  He went with Soola to the gate, entered the guard turret beside it and found a window slit that looked down on the world outside.   The ships berthed against the lower wall, which had become the city's quay once more.  Men jumped ashore, well-armed soldiers and dignitaries of the empire who gathered before the gate.  A chest was carried forward and a seal was broken; within were the keys to the city.   They heated oil over a brazier and poured it from a long necked vessel into the frozen lock.  They did not seem too disturbed when, having managed at last to turn the key, the doors would not budge.  They poured more oil upon the hinges and looped ropes through iron rings that were bolted to the door in readiness.  The oar crews disembarked and strained upon the cables, but the doors would not open.

“What happens now?” asked Soola, as she watched the activity outside.

“According to my master,” said Torrin, “I am to delay the entry of Nejital until the representatives of Etoradom arrive and make their claim upon the city.”

“And if they do not come?  Or if these men are not ‘persuaded’ to give their city away?”

Torrin bit his lip and watched as the heavily armed troops continued to disembark.

“Then they will find us, and take us, and then… I do not know.  But I doubt that they will thank us for being here, or for barring the gates.”

More soldiers were summoned to haul, the doors creaked but the rope broke under the strain, sending the men tumbling.   Tools were unloaded from the ships; hammers, saws and crowbars.  There was much animated discussion about how the entry should be made before the first hammer blows struck the timber.  Torrin’s stomach knotted as the echoes filled the valley between the city walls and the mountainsides.   He clenched his fists and paced, then stopped to peer out at the rippling brown waters.   

If Torrin had his way every ambition and stratagem of Etoradom would be thwarted.  Then perhaps all the tribes of the world could live as they had before.  Perhaps, but then who else might hold the whip and the blade?  Etoradom, Nejital; was one any better than the other?   He saw the streets of Hityil in his memory, the wretched huddled beggars, the rotting bodies dangling, the cold indifference of the hard faced soldiers.   Maybe there would be more hope for the world if Etoradom and Nejital waged war upon each other; if they fought till all their armies were wasted, every warrior bloodied or dead.

The sound of wood splintering under axe blades came now from below.  It was only a matter of time before they hacked an entry; then what would happen?  Maybe it was not too late to open the gates and surrender.   But even if he told them everything would it satisfy the questioners?  Did they not have their Cloisters too?  It did not matter so much what happened to him, but he could not bear to think of what they might do to Soola.  Maybe they could hide somewhere in the city, but only in the cold, for the sunlit towers would be occupied by the newcomers.  They would freeze or starve.  They might escape through the cave, but to where?  Dh’lass was an island surrounded by water on three sides, sheer cliffs on the other.  There was only one way; to hold the gate and hope.  

“They must be held off,” he said, reaching for his bow, “there is no choice.  But one man cannot hold off such a force for long.”

“We are not just one man,” said Soola, the last two words with a little sneer, as she raised her own bow.    He sent the first arrow into the lid of the chest that had contained the city's key.  There was a flurry of reaction; men shouting and scattering, heads ducked low, fearful of where the next arrow would land.  More soldiers issued from the ships, bowmen darting along the quayside, finding cover, then peering out with arrows ready.  Torrin let off a few more shots, aiming to frighten, sending the shafts whistling close to any man who showed his head, or made a dash across the open space.   

His heart thumped, muscles strained as the string was drawn, his breathing came fast, then halted for the moment as he sighted down the shaft, before the slap and hiss of each release.   Then the snatch of another arrow from the quiver, fingers finding the wooden shaft while the hunter’s eyes chose the next target.    And all the while he heard the sound of Soola’s bow; her shot, then his shot, then her shot again.   He could feel the muscles tiring, the arrows in the quiver growing few and yet they still both kept the rhythm and did not let it slow.   

Then the archers below returned fire upon him.   Keen eyes had seen his shadow move behind the window-slit and there was a clatter as steel tips struck the surrounding stones.   One arrow hissed through the portal, missed him by a whisker, and buried deep in a timber beam above.   There was deadly skill in these bowmen, an art of warfare finely honed.   He raised his head again cautiously and saw the archers aiming towards him.  One fell shouting in sudden pain, clutching at Soola’s arrow in his leg.  A storm of arrows flew back, barbed points sparking against the wall, one or two finding the opening and whistling past Soola as she jumped back sharply.   

“Do not cause them too much pain,” warned Torrin, “it will give them more reason for revenge and they may be our captors soon.”

He ran to another slit and let the bow do its work again.   Soola risked a quick glimpse from her window, let another arrow fly, and then scurried to his side.  

“They will soon know that we are only two,” she gasped out, trying to catch her breath, “and now they are bringing shields from the ships.”

The soldiers were well trained indeed and carried a roof of shields above them.  Below the protective cover they came again to the gates, and the axe blows continued.

“I must go down to the gate,” Torrin stated grimly, squeezing his sword hilt with white knuckles.  

Soola stepped back from the window and lowered her bow.   She sighed and nodded before speaking.  

“I have some arrows left.  I will do what I can here to slow them in their work.” She did not seem to have fear about her, just a little sadness in this moment as they stood, weapons in their hands, distant angry shouts and hammer blows echoing in the cold stone chamber.   Some little signal, a quiver of the lip or blink of the eye passed between them and suddenly they were embracing.   They hugged and clung with all the strength their strained muscles could muster.   They kissed once, deeply, hungrily, each knowing it might be their last.  She held his face in her hands and would not let his mouth leave hers.  And so he mumbled out the words, lips still touching hers.

“I should not have let you come, I knew some danger waited here.”

“Do not be sorry,” she said between kisses “there is not a moment I would change.  Don’t fear for me, because you know…”

She stepped back holding his shoulders, looking into his eyes and made a little grin that was brave and sad.

“You know,” she said, “that I have weapons beyond blades and arrows.  They are just men.  I do not fear them, but they should fear me.”

“Well,” said Torrin with a little smile, “then I must do what I can to save them from that fate.”

“Good luck,” she said and then, as he turned to go, “You know I love you.”

Torrin looked to her, then sighed and nodded before he spoke.