The Thunder King (Bell Mountain) (30 page)

Lord Gwyll had supper with the governor-general at Lord Ruffin’s house. It was not often he was invited there: everyone knew he was a plain man, a soldier, who preferred his wife’s own cooking. But having sent his wife and his whole household into the west, Gwyll had no reason not to accept the invitation. And knowing his guest, Ruffin provided a simple, hearty meal washed down with peasant beer.

“You are pensive this evening, my lord,” he said, when they were almost finished.

“It’s nothing,” Gwyll said. “Nothing more than a vague suspicion of some important thing left undone, but no idea of what that thing could be. I’ve learned not to dismiss such feelings. A soldier who does that is a fool.”

“You think they will attack again, and soon?” Lord Ruffin said. “You have a presentiment? But they’ve come many times, and we’ve always beaten them back. We’re strong enough for anything they might try to do against us—are we not?”

“We are, my lord,” said Gwyll. “Nevertheless, I’m not easy in my mind. When I go to the Temple and join in the prayers, I have a sense that God has turned away from us. We should not have hanged the prophets.”

“You were always against that, Gwyll: I haven’t forgotten. But it was Judge Tombo’s considered opinion that it was necessary, and I’d not overrule him in his special field—no more than I’d overrule you on a military decision. Besides, the Temple consented to it.”

“So did the Temple in the bad old days, according to the Scriptures,” Gwyll answered. “They honored the false prophets and killed the real ones—with what result, we can see by looking across the river at the ruins of Old Obann.”

“I’m sure Lord Reesh knows the Scriptures!” Ruffin said.

“I meant no disrespect, my lord. I’m only thinking out loud, and my thoughts have little rhyme or reason to them lately. All the same, I think I might inspect our state of readiness along the walls tonight.”

“I’ll come with you,” the governor-general said. “Do you know, I think it’s the weather that’s preying on your mind today. It keeps threatening to rain, but doesn’t. The air is like foul water in a barrel. Maybe up on the walls we can catch a breeze.”

At a certain hour of the night the great bell in the main tower of the Temple would toll, and after that, it would never toll again.

There wasn’t room for everyone and everything in the secret chamber where Lord Reesh and Prester Orth had met with Mardar Kyo. Gallgoid had to arrange for some of the men and their baggage to wait in the passages around it—twenty men, all told, and twenty large chests full of papers, scrolls, and personal effects. Below the Temple was a honeycomb of passages, and no map that showed them all. But Reesh’s assassin knew most of them.

Waiting, and waiting, and still more waiting—it was the longest day of Reesh’s life. As evening approached, he could stand no more of it. He summoned Orth to him.

“We’ll go down to the chamber now,” he said.

“My lord First Prester, we’ll be down there for hours—”

“I don’t want to be up here anymore,” Reesh said.

And so they waited down below, as minute crept after minute with exasperating sloth, and the sun set on the Temple one more time.

Ryons, who could barely ride a horse, now rode a beast that had no name and could crush a horse and rider underfoot like helpless babes.

The beast’s back was so broad that there was little danger of falling off—a good thing, too, because it would’ve been a long way to fall. Inching up a little closer to the base of the neck, Ryons found a place between the mighty shoulders where stout hairs grew out of the beast’s thick, pale-brown hide. These he could hang on to whenever he felt he might slip off. From there, too, he could see what lay ahead.

You couldn’t say the monster ran. It was far too big for running. But its legs were like the trunks of trees, and its long, unhurried strides devoured ground. You might even say it was a smoother ride than any horse could give—no jouncing, no bouncing.

The beast never turned its head to look at him, just kept striding northward on the way to Obann. Ryons found wrinkles in the animal’s back and used them to brace his feet.

It was dizzying, to be so high off the ground. Some of the trees were taller, but Ryons looked down on others. He didn’t try to bend over and look straight down.

Cavall stopped barking, saving his breath. “Please, Cavall, keep up if you can!” Ryons called. He didn’t want to leave him behind; but this was no horse to be halted by a pull on the reins, or turned this way or that by a pressure of the heel. Still, the dog kept pace tirelessly, trotting all the way.

Slowly the sun traveled to the western rim of the world. Mile rolled after mile. The great beast thrust out its head on its long neck and set itself a straight course.

Ryons didn’t dare look up, but if he had, he would have seen an eagle flying overhead, escorting him to Obann. Everyone knew eagles sought out battles. But Ryons kept his eyes peeled straight ahead—and, as he grew more accustomed to his outlandish perch, from side to side.

Their road took them directly through a good-sized town deserted by its residents. Only the bell tower in the chamber house rose over them; all the other buildings lay below. The beast followed a broad street through the center of the town. Ryons tried to imagine what the people would do if they were here to see it.

“Look out!” he cried, as if the beast would heed him. A cart had been abandoned in the middle of the street. In a moment he heard it being crushed to splinters as the great beast trod on it without breaking stride.

Passing through the town, the land rose before them. But they were atop the hills before you knew it, and heading down again.

Directly ahead, Ryons saw the silver ribbon of a river, acquiring a bronze sheen as the sun began to set.

“There it is, Cavall! We’ve done it—we’re here!”

Beyond the river lay the city of Obann, with white towers, green copper domes, and walls—such walls! Walls with forts and towers, with great gates guarded by the towers, mile after mile of walls: it seemed impossible that human beings could have built such a place. Ryons had never seen a real city, and this was the greatest city of them all. This was the prize that had drawn so many tens of thousands of warriors out of the East.

As yet they were too far away to see the enemy encamped against it to the north and east and west, too far away to discern the great moat dug by the Heathen to keep their prey within the city. But as the sun set and the day waned, fires sprang up on the plain around the city, a host of fires like the stars of heaven—campfires of the enemy. They were past counting.

But Ryons remembered his dream: mobs of men running before him in a panic, as seen from high above the ground. That dream, he knew, was going to come true.

“Don’t stop!” he urged the beast. Its ears flickered, as if in answer. “This is what God wanted. This is why He sent us here!”

Down, down toward the river strode the beast, with Cavall panting alongside and Ryons clinging to the stiff hairs on its back. Down, down sank the sun. In the northern sky, where clouds permitted, the early stars appeared.

Up on the walls after sundown, the air was no fresher. Clouds continued to pile up, and from time to time a flash of heat lightning bathed the scene in garish radiance.

“Faugh! Why doesn’t it rain?” Lord Ruffin said. “It’s late in the year for such a stuffy night as this.”

“Getting dark fast,” Lord Gwyll thought, as he and the governor-general toured the walls. All the defenses seemed to be in order, every man at his post. “Summer is hanging on,” he said.

“Wonder if we’ll have a hard winter,” Ruffin said.

They’d been up there for a good while, and Ruffin was about to go back down, saying he felt like going early to bed for once, when all things changed.

From the tallest tower on the northern wall rang out the blare of trumpets. A moment later, the horns blew from the west.

“They’re coming!” cried a watchman. “God save us, they’re all coming!”

Alarms clanged. Catapult crews leaped into action. Down below, men who’d been resting in their barracks snatched up weapons and hurried to their stations.

“A night attack!” Ruffin said. “That’s something new for them. But why should it go any better for them than anything they’ve done by day?”

“It’ll be harder to shoot at them by night,” Gwyll said. “But it’ll be harder for them, too. They won’t be able to see their commanders’ signals.”

As yet Gwyll and Ruffin couldn’t see the enemy. But then, in a flash of lightning, they could—a dark mass creeping across the plain. Within it sprang to life innumerable torches, red eyes flickering in the murk. Those would have to serve as signals, unless it rained and put them out. The attackers would then cease to be a military force, Gwyll reflected, and turn into a confused mob. For that reason few commanders risked a major operation in the dark.

Ruffin’s face was pale. He flinched when Gwyll laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Be at ease, my lord,” Gwyll said. “See how our men go so calmly to their stations: officers and men know what to do. Listen to the horn-calls of the lookouts. There—that one means that the enemy to the north is bringing up his rams. Our men on the claw machines will be ready for them. See the archers taking their positions. They’ll wait until they get good shots before they let fly. And if you go down to the streets, you’ll find our fire-fighting teams in place and well prepared. Be assured our city is as safe as mortal men can make it.”

Ruffin nodded. “You’ve trained them well, my lord. I think now I’ll go down to the council chamber to receive reports, and leave the fighting to you.”

“If we’re hard-pressed,” said Gwyll, “you can always send Lord Davensay to reinforce us.”

Reesh and Orth and a few others sat sweating in the secret room beneath the Temple, waiting and waiting. Here they were cut off from the upper world, and knew not that the assault on the city had begun. How long they’d been waiting, none could say; but no one dared complain in Reesh’s presence.

One of the presters prayed silently, head bowed, lips moving. Reesh supposed piety had its place; but to him, all prayers were pointless. He no longer believed God heard them.