The Seventh Gate (The Seven Citadels ) (13 page)

Survivors of the battle at the harbor-mouth
were bringing in weapons stripped from the dead on the Brigand ships. Forollkin
suddenly saw one that he recognized – the High Priest's dagger. It had brought
no blessing to the warrior of Fangmere who had taken it. As Forollkin reclaimed
his dagger, it seemed a sign that however sad his homecoming, he was where he
was meant to be.

He didn't return to his quarters until late
that night, but he was roused again before dawn.  Someone had found him a
captain's uniform that almost fitted. The messenger who had been sent to bring
him to the ramparts, helped Forollkin into the silvery mail and fastened the
lilac cloak. They left without disturbing Kerish or Gidjabolgo.

Forollkin was startled to be saluted by the
group of captains standing on the ramparts. All the soldiers manning the walls
were staring north-east at a curious purple glow in the sky.

“It's the light of the nearest beacon,”
said one of the captains, “but that post hasn't been manned for weeks.”

Forollkin leaned over the battlements,
shading his eyes against the unnatural light. A line of hilltop beacons
stretched from Viroc to Ephaan and on to the capital. They had last been lit
six months ago to summon help from the Emperor; help that had never come.

“If they were ordinary flames,” began
Forollkin, “I'd say that the enemy had gone up into the hills and lit the
beacon to confuse us, but they can't know the secret of the powder that turns
the flame purple.”

“True, Sir,” said a second captain, “unless
they've got it out of a Galkian soldier under torture. The other possibility is
that Galkian troops are approaching Viroc and have lit the beacon to let us
know they're coming.”

Forollkin almost flinched at the hope in
the captains' faces. “If that's so . . . they won't know yet that there are
enemy troops between them and the city.”

A large body of Orazian soldiers and a
smaller contingent of the Men of Fangmere had moved in the night and were now
encamped beside the Ephaan road.

“That's right, Sir,” answered the first
captain, “and the land lying as it does, they won't get a sight of the enemy
till they're nearly on top of them.”

Forollkin found that everyone was staring
expectantly at him. “Well . . . has Lord Jerenac been told?”

“No, Sir,” answered the oldest of the
captains. “He's sleeping at last and the Healing Priests didn't want him woken.
The Lord Commander has told us to obey your orders as his own.”

Forollkin tried to mask his shock by saying
crisply, “How far away is that beacon?”

“About five miles, Sir.”

The purple glow was fading. Forollkin
looked up at the sky and saw the grey streaks of dawn. There must be twenty
officers in Viroc more experienced and better equipped to lead the defense of
the city than he was, but they were not sons of the Emperor. The people
demanded Godborn leaders and he could only try not to fail them.

“Assemble three-quarters of our mounted men
in the square by the North Gate. I'll lead a sortie if it's necessary. Oh and
tell . . . ask his Highness if he will join us here.”

Cloaked against the lingering chill of
night, Kerish was soon climbing up to the ramparts, with Gidjabolgo at his
heels. Sentries paced along the walls and four officers were leaning against
the ramparts discussing the best way of dealing with scaling towers. It took
Kerish a moment to realize that one of them was Forollkin.

“So, the sword's back in its scabbard,”
muttered Gidjabolgo.

As the other three officers knelt to kiss
his hand, Kerish had never felt more of a stranger.

“Highness, we need the sight of the Godborn,”
began Forollkin. “There may be Galkian troops coming down the Ephaan road.”

He explained about the lighting of the
beacon and Kerish nodded. “My mind can probably settle the question before my
eyes. Give me a little time and quiet.”

An awed hush spread along the walls as
those who were too far away to know what was happening were scowled into
silence by those who did. Kerish closed his eyes and stood very still, facing
northwards.

After a few minutes the Prince turned to
his brother and said, “I sense nothing but haste and hope. They must be
Galkian. There's a presence among them that I know I should recognize. . .”

Forollkin was no longer listening; he was
already giving more orders. Two of the captains hurried down into the city to
carry them out. For those who remained on the battlements there was nothing to
do but watch the sunrise and wait. The two brothers stood together, looking
towards the hills. After a while, Kerish pointed out a horseman galloping into
the enemy camp. “A scout, I would guess, reporting our newcomers.”

Messengers were soon hurrying between the
Orazian tents and amongst the Men of Fangmere.

“Thank Zeldin not all of O-grak's troops
are here yet,” muttered Forollkin. “And the only horses he has are the ones
he's stolen from us. Still, if he got his men to the high ground above the
Ephaan road he could ambush our . . . no, he can't know the terrain well enough
yet and there isn't time. Will he try to block the road where it comes out of
the hills or wait until the newcomers are level with the camp?”

Kerish understood that Forollkin was
thinking aloud and didn't try to answer him.

For a further half-hour they watched the
hasty preparations in the enemy camp. Food and wine were brought up to them.
Forollkin ate as he paced the battlements and Gidjabolgo settled down with his
back against a wall and a bowl of steaming kardiss in his lap. Kerish would
take nothing but a cup of wine and gazed steadily at the Ephaan road. He
watched the Orazians and the Men of Fangmere march out of their camp and
position themselves across the road, about a mile from the city. The Men of
Fangmere formed a semi-circle, facing the hills, but the Orazian troops behind
them looked towards Viroc. Obviously the Khan was expecting a sortie; Forollkin
would not have surprise on his side.

“Here they are!” exclaimed Kerish. “Look,
just coming out of the hills.”

To Forollkin the newcomers were only a dark
blur on the Ephaan road, but the Prince was saying, “Their livery and banners
are purple and gold, so they must be Imperial troops. Perhaps Rimoka has
remembered the south at last.”

“What sort of numbers?” demanded Forollkin,
forgetting to address his brother formally in public.

“A thousand or so. Ah . . . they must have
spotted O-grak's men.”

The newcomers paused to regroup and then
marched steadily on towards Viroc.

“Time to go,” said Forollkin.

Kerish went with him to the huge square in
front of the North Gate where six hundred horsemen waited. They were met by two
captains. One of them was carrying a plumed helmet and a spear with a jeweled
haft; the other was leading a battle-scarred roan horse. The first captain
handed the spear and the helmet to Forollkin and the other offered him the
reins. “The Lord Commander's steed scents battle.”

“No,” began Forollkin, “I can't ride
Jerenac's horse. . .”

“You must, “ said Kerish quietly. “Zeldin
go with you.”

“And remain with you.”

Forollkin mounted the roan and trotted
across the square to take his place in front of the great gates. The captains
bowed to Kerish and went to join their men. Forollkin murmured soothingly to
his borrowed mount and then stood in his stirrups to speak briefly to his
soldiers. They cheered him, but their eyes were on the purple-cloaked figure of
the Prince.

Kerish raised his right hand and spoke a
blessing in High Galkian. He knew that not one man in twenty would understand
the words, but he could sense the soldiers drawing courage from his very
presence. `They really think my blessing will protect them', thought Kerish
wearily. `Why do they still trust the Godborn?'

Forollkin gave the signal and the North
Gate was unbarred. Kerish almost ran back up the narrow stair to the ramparts.
Instantly two soldiers were at his side, but he dismissed them with a curt, “Zeldin
is my protection” and joined Gidjabolgo. The Forgite was attempting to peer
through a slit in the walls. It was too high for him to reach comfortably and
he gladly yielded his place to the Prince.

“What's happening?”

“Nothing yet. “

The archers positioned along the north
walls stood motionless and there seemed to be no sound in the whole city except
the groaning of the gates and muffled hoof-beats.

“The leaders are on the plain,” said
Kerish. “I can see Forollkin.”

On the Ephaan road the battle had already
begun. The newcomers had regrouped in a square formation to withstand the first
attack by the Men of Fangmere. They seemed determined to protect something at
the center of the formation and Kerish thought he glimpsed the purple of a
royal litter.

Beyond the shadow of Viroc, the horsemen
went from trot, to canter, to gallop and thundered across the plain towards the
Orazian rearguard. As the gap between them closed, Kerish mouthed a prayer,
grateful for the veil that hid his face.

For a few minutes he felt that he was
looking down on a vast, geometrical dance as the Men of Fangmere spread out to
encircle the newcomers and the Galkian horsemen split neatly into three groups.
One group rode to the right and another to the left, trying to outflank the
Orazians, but the main body of horsemen made straight towards them.

“They've met!”

“I can hear that,” growled the Forgite.

The impetus of their charge carried the
foremost horsemen deep into the Orazian ranks and Kerish lost sight of Forollkin.
The dance dissolved into chaos. Distance blended individual screams and shouts
into one continuous roar. Flashes of light marked spear-thrusts and the
swinging axes of the Men of Fangmere. Kerish was too far away to see the wounds
they inflicted but he watched soldiers on both sides fall and be trampled into
stillness by the Galkian horses.

Gradually the confused mass of fighting men
began to break up as the horsemen isolated groups of Orazian footsoldiers and
the newcomers forced their way forwards through the thin line of axemen.

“I can see O-grak,” said Kerish suddenly.

The Khan's huge form and the great
two-handed sword he wielded were unmistakable. The warriors of his household
had gathered around him on a knoll above the road. A band of Galkian horsemen
was riding towards the Orazians and Kerish recognized the roan horse of their
leader.

“Three, no four horses are speared and down
. . . Now they can't use their spears; the fight's too close. Forollkin's all
right, he's just cut down a man who . . . oh!”

Kerish stood so still he might have stopped
breathing.

“Has a stray arrow got your tongue?”
demanded the Forgite. “What's happening?”

“Forollkin and O-grak are fighting.”

A space had opened up around the two
leaders. O-grak had the advantage of the high ground and rained down blows on
Forollkin, but each was deftly parried and the Commander's warhorse stood firm.
The other soldiers, Galkian and Orazian, paused to watch their leaders fight.

“Ah, he's lost his footing!”

“Who?”

“O-grak. Why don't they move to help him?
Idaala take them . . . Oh, Forollkin, no!”

His foot caught in a tree-root, O-grak had
fallen heavily. For a moment he lay winded and Forollkin only had to lean down
to drive his sword through the Khan's back. It was a long moment. A dozen of
O-grak's men saw him fall, but not one of them sprang forward to defend him.
Forollkin brought down his sword as the Khan struggled to rise, but it paused
in mid-sweep and the Galkian threw up his hand in the signal to retreat.

Three hundred horsemen encircled the
newcomers and escorted them towards the city. Forollkin formed the rest of his
soldiers into a rearguard to resist the axemen of Fangmere who fought all the
more ferociously in defeat. Kerish's eyes were still on O-grak. The Khan had
got slowly to his feet and was staring at his men. Then, without wasting words
on reproaches, he rallied his remaining troops and marched them southwards
towards their main camp. Kerish heard the great gates creak open again and
hurried down from the walls.

The courtyard was already crowded with most
of the women who had chosen to remain in the city, all of them anxious about
husbands or sons involved in the sortie. The Healing Priests were there too,
ready with stretchers for the worst of the wounded. It seemed a long time
before the first group of horsemen clattered into the cobbled square. Behind
them were the newcomers, still marching in formation under the purple and gold
standard of the Imperial Guard. Now the immediate danger was over, exhaustion
surfaced on every soldier's face. As the order was given to fall out, some of
them stood swaying with their eyes closed, others slumped down on to the
cobbles. Kerish had recognized their leader. The crowd parted to let the Prince
through as he made his way towards the officer who stood by a standard
emblazoned with three golden starflowers.

“Captain Yxallin, welcome to Viroc. But why
have the Imperial Guard left the Inner Palace?”

Yxallin sank to his knees. The
purple-cloaked figure before him might have been any of the Godborn, but he
knew the voice of the Third Prince.

“Highness . . . we thought . . . we didn't
realize. We are at your command.” Yxallin began a confused explanation but
Kerish drew him to his feet and said gently, “I was wrong to ask you yet. When
you've rested you shall tell me everything.”

As he spoke, Forollkin rode into the
courtyard. The archers on the walls were picking off those Men of Fangmere who
were still pursuing the rearguard. The battle was almost over and only a few
troops remained outside Viroc to gather up the dead and wounded. Forollkin
dismounted and took off his helmet.