The Cellar Beneath the Cellar (Bell Mountain) (27 page)

Before the army was settled on the land around the castle, Helki sent scouts to the northern plains to watch for the arrival of the Heathen host that had destroyed Silvertown. It was a good thing he did. The scouts came back in a hurry, reporting that the great host was making straight for the eastern end of Lintum Forest. The chieftains assembled in the tent to interrogate the scouts.

“It’s a great army, my lords—much bigger than ours,” said the Wallekki horseman in command of his scouting party. “They have thrice our number, at least.”

“What kind of men do they have?” Shaffur asked.

“Wallekki cavalry, mostly of the Wal-Kallut clans in the south: at least a thousand. Of footmen, maybe ten thousand, mostly Easterners from around the lakes. Uskut spearmen, Shurun archers, and some black men from much farther south, Hosa with short spears and long shields. They have machines, too, but those are for battering down the gates of cities—not much use in a forest.”

“You’re sure they’re coming here?” Helki said.

“Had they meant to stay on the plains, they would have turned before now. But I left the Attakotts to make sure of them and Abnaks along the fringes of the woods.”

“Well, then, it’s bad news for us, but good news for the oligarchs in Obann,” Helki said.

“There is another army close behind this one, my lords,” the scout said.

“It seems we’ve made the Great Man very angry indeed,” said Chief Zekelesh, of the Fazzan.

“These nations that you mentioned: I’ve never heard of most of them,” Helki said. “What kind of countries do they come from?”

“They are all plainsmen, chieftain.”

A grin spread itself over Helki’s face. “Then they won’t know much about fighting in a forest, will they?” he said. “Your Majesty, give me the Abnaks and all my own men who were outlaws, and we’ll go to meet these Easterners.”

“If there’s going to be fighting, we want to come, too,” said Szugetai.

“It won’t be fighting fit for horsemen,” Helki said.

“Then we’ll fight on foot! We may not get rich in this war, but we can still try to get famous.”

Obst shook his head. “Warlord, we fight to stay alive. We are all servants of the living God. The glory is His, not ours.”

“Surely He can understand a warrior’s heart,” Szugetai said. “We didn’t come here to sit on our shields while the Abnaks do the fighting.”

“Very well said!” Shaffur cried. “We have scores to settle with the Wal-Kallut. We won’t be left behind.”

Helki and Obst wrangled with the chieftains, and Ryons sat on his stone throne not daring to say a word. What if they should start fighting among themselves? I’ll be the first to have his head lopped off, he thought.

They were still at it when they were interrupted and silenced by an unearthly shriek. Into the tent came strutting the toothed bird that belonged to Jandra, rattling its dirty plumage. Some of the chiefs shrank back from it, thinking it no natural creature. After it came Abgayle, holding Jandra by the hand. The little girl’s face was blank; by now they all knew what that meant. They kept silence for her. Still holding Abgayle’s hand, she spoke—in that voice that was not her own.

“I have heard my people, and I will surely make them famous. If they keep my commandments, I shall make their names honorable among men.

“Szugetai the son of Ogotai shall go to this battle, but he shall not return. He shall humble himself before me, and I will keep his soul; nor will the generations of my people ever forget his name.

“Let my people go forth against the Heathen, for I have delivered them into your hands. Be bold and of good courage, for the Lord shall fight for you. But take not the whole army out against the Heathen, but only a thousand picked men; and by these I will destroy ten thousand. And I shall give glory to Helki, for I have chosen him.”

With that, Jandra fell asleep and Abgayle gathered her up in her arms. But all the chieftains looked at Szugetai.

He shrugged. “If I’ve offended God, I’m sorry,” he said. “But at least He has given me what I asked for.”

Eventually they had to let Occus go down into the cellar. They couldn’t bring up all the jars. What would happen to the scrolls if it rained? Martis bought a ladder and more lamps, and for the first time, went down with them.

“Now do you believe the find is genuine?” he said.

Occus went all around the room, studying it, even getting down on his hands and knees to examine the floor. Jack and Ellayne wondered what he was looking for. He studied the rocks in the rock-piles, too. Some time went by before he spoke.

“There can be no doubt of it,” he said. “This floor is natural stone, small pieces cut to fit. This room is part of the original Temple, not necessarily the cellar. The Empire Temple was built on top of it.”

“And King Ozias’ scrolls?” Jack asked.

“If they are a fraud, at least they are a very ancient fraud,” said the scholar. “It may be some of Ozias’ followers, or people who remembered him, hoping to reestablish the monarchy, thought this would be the way to do it: create a message from Ozias. There’s no way to know. But what I would like to know is exactly how you found this place!”

“We’ve told you—a prophet sent us,” Martis said.

“A prophet! Did he tell you exactly where to look, in all this vast ruin?”

Wytt had still not shown himself since Occus’ arrival, nor had any of the Omah.

“Someone showed us,” Jack said, “but we can’t tell you who it was.”

“What kind of someone?”

“Why don’t you just read the rest of the scrolls, doctor?” Martis said.

It took him three more days to read them all. He read them on the spot; he didn’t want any more of them taken out of the room.

When he read them exactly as they were written, he was the only one who could understand the language.

“What language is it?” Ellayne asked. “Is it one of the Heathen languages?”

“Oh, no—it’s our own, as it was spoken two thousand years ago. It’s changed a lot since then.”

“But it does sound like I could almost understand it; only I can never quite make it out,” Jack said.

“It wouldn’t be hard to learn, then?” Martis said.

“Easier than any foreign language.”

But of course it was the story, not the language, that mattered; and much else besides a story.

The story was the easy part. Ozias wandered in the East, settled somewhere beyond the Great Lakes, married a Heathen woman, and had children. No more a king, he lived as just a herdsman. But when he was old, and his children were all grown up with children of their own, God called him to return to Obann. The city had not yet been rebuilt. With a few loyal priests—they were like presters, only there were no chamber houses then: just the Temple itself—to minister to him, Ozias settled among the ruins of the Temple and spent a year writing the scrolls. God showed him things in dreams and visions, and he wrote them down; and then he died.

But there were thirty-seven scrolls, and most of what they had to say was obscure even to the scholar. He couldn’t explain it to them.

“It’s prophetic visions—and who knows what they mean!” Occus said. “Some of it seems to foretell the rise of the Empire, and its fall. Some of it speaks of things that would happen long after the Empire fell. It says the city of the Temple, this city, will be destroyed by fire from the sky. And there seems to be a prophecy concerning still another Temple—that would be three—and its destruction, too.

“But it’s all couched in prophetic language: it will not give up its secrets easily! There’s enough here to keep a whole college of scholars and theologians busy for a hundred years. So don’t ask me what it means!”

“I don’t think we need to ask,” Martis said; and there was something in his eyes that suddenly made it easy for Jack to believe he used to kill people for a living. “Three temples, three destructions. We’re in one; the second lies in ruins, over our heads; and the third still stands, across the river.”

“That means Obann’s going to lose the war, then—doesn’t it?” Ellayne said.

Occus shook his head. “That’s just a simpleminded way of looking at it!” he said. “Laymen think they can interpret prophecy, but they deceive themselves. I’ve studied ancient writings all my life. I don’t need children to interpret them for me.”

“Nevertheless,” Martis said, “what people think the writings mean can be much more important than what they really mean.”

“Listen to me—please!” Occus appealed to them with outstretched hands. “It’s pointless to argue about these things down here. These scrolls need to be taken to a safe place and studied, for years, by the most learned scholars in the land. It’s a wonderful thing you’ve done, finding them; but now your part in this business is over.

“These scrolls must be copied. They must be compared to other scrolls we have. Savants must be allowed to study and discuss them. You have no idea how much work has to be done before we can even try to interpret them. No idea at all!”

Jack and Ellayne didn’t understand, but Martis seemed to.

“I suppose you must be right,” he said. “You’re the scholar, after all. Certainly we aren’t accomplishing anything, arguing about it down here, other than to use up the oil in our lamps. I suggest we go back up to camp and have our supper.”

Helki divided his thousand men into small parties, with his own Lintum Forest men to guide them to their places. It was no pitched battle that he planned to fight; that couldn’t be done in dense woods.

“I don’t know about battles,” he said, “but I do know a thing or two about hunting. We’re going to hunt the enemy like you’d hunt a wild boar.”

Before he left, Szugetai requested an audience with the king and Obst. They met in a room of the old castle that had no roof, but four solid walls to ensure their privacy.

“I have told my men that I will probably die in this engagement,” the horse-lord said. “That will leave them without a master of their own blood. Among our people, only a man who is born to be a chief can be a chief.

“We are farther from home than any of our race has ever been, in lands that have no names among us. There is no way back. So we might as well stay with you! And this is what I have done: hear me.

“When I die, my king, my men will become your men, as if you were their father and they were your sons. They will be faithful to you to the death. They will protect you. When you are older, you will protect them. They have sworn an oath before God—not any of our gods, who are not worth very much, but the Great God who has made you king.

“If He really is God, then He will overthrow the Thunder King no matter how many armies he commands. You, old man, have taught us to believe in this God.

“We were brought up to believe that when a man dies, he joins the spirits of his ancestors in the World of Darkness, and only his fame lives on after him. We now understand that that was a silly thing to believe, when there is a real God, up above, who knows us all by name. We have not yet learned much about Him, but those of us who live will learn more.

“Be good to my men, O King. You may find some of our ways peculiar, but you’ll find my men brave and loyal. And I think you’ll have need of them.”

Szugetai bowed at the waist. He would have turned on his heel and walked off, just like that; but Ryons cried out after him.

“Szugetai! Wait!”

“Yes, my king?”

Ryons held back tears. He’d been afraid of this man: squat, bowlegged, who spoke a language that sounded like dogs barking. He’d seen him in battle: he was terrible. But now, at the thought of seeing him no more, he felt as if his heart would crack. He was sure a real king wouldn’t feel like that, but he couldn’t help it. Nor did he know what a real king ought to say.

“I’ll be as good to your men as if they were my brothers,” was all he could think of saying. “I’ll try to be as good to them as you’ve been to me.”

Szugetai grinned. “Then that will be good indeed!” he laughed. And that was the last Ryons ever saw of him.

Then the tears came, and he glared at Obst.

“I really hate being a king!” he said.

“I think that’s one of the attributes of being a good king,” Obst answered.

“But I don’t want men going out and dying for me! I’d rather be a slave again!”

Obst put an arm around his shoulders. He had no way of knowing that Ryons had very early in life lost the habit of crying. No one listened when a slave cried, and he might get a beating if he cried too loud.

“They don’t die for you, Ryons,” he said. “They fight and die because the human heart is dark and sinful, and in these days there is a great evil loose in the world. Men have to fight to save their lives.

“By the mercy of God, these men who are with us fight against that evil. They came west as servants of the Thunder King, but now they are his enemies. They came as Heathen, but now they are God’s. Who could have imagined it?

“You’re God’s, too. You were a slave, but He made you a king. I was a hermit, and He made me His minister to an army of barbarians. We’re not to blame for where we are today. All we can do is trust in Him and do the best we can.”

A forest is no place for an army of plainsmen. The Easterners felled trees to cut a road for their supply wagons. Their Wal-Kallut cavalry, so useful on the plains, could go no faster than the men on foot. Black flies tormented horses and riders alike.

The army couldn’t have ventured into the forest at all if they hadn’t hired a score of outlaw woodsmen as guides. Helki let the host advance some distance into the woods before letting his bowmen pick off the guides. The enemy tried to press on without them—a mistake.

Acting under Helki’s orders, little bands of Abnaks would burst out of the underbrush along the army’s flanks, shriek like devils, cut down a few men, and be gone before the enemy could resist. Szugetai’s men, unseen by the enemy, sang unnerving war songs in their own language: they had a way of singing from deep down in the throat, and it sounded hardly human. Helki’s bowmen shot riders out of their saddles; and ahead of the army’s line of march, his woodsmen chopped down trees to block its path. These could only be removed with hard labor.

Helki changed his plan when he realized the weather was about to change.

“It’s going to rain tomorrow,” he told Szugetai, “and hard, too. I want everybody brought together tonight so we can hit them on both flanks tomorrow—but only after they’ve been rained on for a while. If that doesn’t chase them out of here, I miss my guess.”

“They won’t run,” said Szugetai. “Have you seen that man in the feathered headdress, the one with half his body painted blue? He’s their mardar. While he lives, they will all obey him.”

“It won’t be easy to get him,” Helki said. “He always puts himself in the middle of the crowd.”

“Leave him to me,” Szugetai said.

True to Helki’s prediction, it began to rain the next day, late in the morning, after the army had been marching for an hour. It came down hard and cold, as Helki knew it would: as it always did in this part of the forest in this season of the year. But the strangers from the East could not know that.

Helki let them struggle in it for another hour, then launched his attack. The men made as much noise as they could, and it broke the invaders’ spirit. Having grown accustomed to an enemy they could not see, its sudden appearance made Helki’s force seem many times its number. For all the ten thousand knew, they were being attacked by twenty thousand.

As he’d promised, Szugetai cut down the mardar; and then the mardar’s bodyguard felled him. But with the loss of the Great Man’s agent among them, the men of the East panicked. They stampeded into the woods in every direction. Later, most of them rallied behind their surviving chieftains—but only to retrace their path out of Lintum Forest. Helki let them go, forbidding the Abnaks to give chase.

“It’s a shame,” said Hlah, the son of Spider, “not to harvest so great a crop of scalps. They’ll be back someday.”

“But not soon,” Helki said.

They found Szugetai beside the body of the mardar, dead, but with a smile on his face. No more than a dozen of King Ryons’ men had died in the assault, but there were hundreds of dead Easterners—some, oddly, without a mark on their bodies. Hlah thought they must have died of fear.

“What’ll we do with them?” asked Andrus. “It’d take a week to bury them all.”

But Helki gave that task to the hundreds of prisoners they’d taken. With one of the Wallekki subchiefs to translate for him, he addressed them in a group.

“It would serve you right, all of you, if I sold you for slaves and pocketed the money,” he said. “But King Ryons is my chief, and he’s merciful. So we’ll let you live and provide you with an escort out of our forest—once you’ve finished burying your friends. If you’re wise, you won’t come back.

“And one more thing you can do: you can take the head of your mardar with you and tell the world that King Thunder doesn’t have a future. Whether he comes over the mountains himself, or stays in his castle out beyond the lakes, the true God will find him out and deal with him.”

One of the captured Wal-Kallut was bold enough to ask a question: “Who shall we say has dared to speak thus?”

Helki pondered his answer for a moment.

“It doesn’t much matter who I am,” he said. “I’m just a man named Helki. It’s God your Great Man ought to be afraid of—the true God, who is Lord of all.”

The prisoners looked here and there at the shambles all around them, and many of them nodded. But Hlah cried out, “Helki, the flail of the Lord!” And all the men in Helki’s following took up the cry, to celebrate their triumph: “The flail of the Lord!” It made Helki uneasy to hear it, but he didn’t know how to stop them.