The Unsound Prince Page 18

  The roar of the battle around him was tremendous, and he hoped it would cover the noise of his activities. At least until he had disabled the lethal machines.

  There were four of them. Each had a contingent of guards, and one of the Xaanian “commanders” that he knew were Sarkosay. The two machines nearest him had not yet started firing. He climbed quickly over them, cutting vital lines and jamming any working parts he found. The crews would be mystified how the damage happened when they went to use them.

  He might not have much time if the Sarkosay detected spirit energy at work, so he had disabled these two by more mundane means. Then he was between the stone thrower and the fire machine. They were making ready to hurl more devastation into the League lines.

  He reached out with his spirit senses, focusing his mind on what he needed to do. Then he burned the war machines from the inside out.

  It took time, but both of them finally burst into flame. Ultrich kept to his task, wanting the fire to be unstoppable. At the same time he knew he was drawing attention to himself in the spirit world, and he hoped he would be finished before the Sarkosay figured out exactly where he was.

  One of the reptilian creatures appeared, leading a contingent of guards. It burst through the confusion of troops round the burning machines and headed straight for him.

  It stopped a dozen paces away and gestured with its hands. It couldn't break through the spirit veil around him, but it managed to outline the veil in a red glow. On its command the guards lifted their spears, and threw them at the illuminated ball.

  Ultrich tried to accelerate the fires on the war machines, and increase the heaviness of the spears at the same time. Unfortunately for him, the spears were being cast wildly, the troops disconcerted by what they were seeing. One of the higher spears didn't drop far enough. He felt an abrupt shock as it struck him high in the leg, spinning him round and dropping him to the ground.

  Ultrich poured all his energies into the blazing war machines for one last moment. He looked up, and saw that they were well ablaze. Only then did he force himself to grab the shaft of the spear with both hands, and pull the long blade out of his leg.

  He knew he was near to passing out. He tried to picture the top of The Lion in his mind, so he could transport himself back to it. The fuzziness in his mind told him he wasn’t going to make it.

  He felt a sense of regret, that he wouldn’t have more time to enjoy the peace and prosperity that he had created in the Karnatic League. Then he collapsed back onto the ground.

  Something slammed into his side, forcing him out of the blessed peace and quiet of unconsciousness. He could hear a voice shouting over the din, and he groaned. Then he opened his eyes in time to see a vivid flash of light, and a Sarkosay dropping to the ground. It was revealed as the strange half reptile, half manlike creature it was.

  He recognised Cinnabar’s voice. She was chanting in one of the old tongues, and Ultrich could feel energy concentrating in front of her. She was haloed for a moment in the red fire of a dissipating Sarkosay attack. Then she whirled and blasted another of the creatures, slamming it off its feet in the process.

  He vaguely heard her saying something to him.

  “Get up,” she hissed again, hauling on his arm. She wasn't strong enough to lift him bodily from his sprawled position. Part of his spirit sense followed her mind as it closed in on the hilltop. She was going to try and transport them both.

  That was when he understood. He couldn't make the jump himself, but if she could visualise the top of The Lion, he could add his energies to hers to get them there.

  He pushed himself up on one knee, then almost fainted as white-hot pain stabbed through his leg. She shielded them both from another Sarkosay attack, and then knelt in front of him. He collapsed forward across her back, managing to bring one arm awkwardly around her. Then she transported them both.

  Ultrich could feel the strain she was under. She was the only other spirit walker he knew who could transport at all, but she wasn’t used to lifting two people. He poured his energies into hers, trusting in her ability to get them to the hilltop. The battlefield vanished from around them, and then he was unconsciousness again.

  When he came to he felt like he’d been run over by a team of horses, and several times by the wagon following them. He lay still, his eyes closed, and listened to what was happening.

  "The binding on his leg’s tight enough," said a high-pitched, musical voice. “Riban has guided the arteries back together with his spirit senses."

  "What's happening with the war machines?" said a gruffer, obviously male voice. It was slightly muffled. Ultrich realised the speaker had his head turned away from him.

  "It’s still burning," said another voice. This time Ultrich recognised Sergeos. “I don’t think they’ll be using those ones again.”

  “What about the other two?” continued Gruff Voice. The response was more non-committal. They certainly weren’t in action at the moment, and hopefully they would stay that way.

  Ultrich opened his eyes.

  Cinnabar was in the middle of making something for him to drink. It was for the shock of the deep wound in his leg. She smiled down at him encouragingly. Then she lifted a small container from within her robes.

  When she gave him the tonic he accepted it gratefully. The way she fussed around him would make you think he was about to die, thought Ultrich. A smile came to his lips.

  “Yes! Yes!” exulted Sergeos suddenly, dancing on the spot in his excitement. It was enough to make Ultrich raise his head from the simple pillow Cinnabar had made for him on the ground.

  “The armoured cavalry’s smashed through the centre of the line,” reported Sergeos. “It's taking advantage of the confusion around the war machines. They’ve opened up a gap several furlongs wide already, and the infantry’s pouring through!

  “Now they’re curling round to the right,” he continued.

  “I think it’s Gosan leading them. Whoever it is he’s driving the cavalry forward like a madman. Now I see what it is! They’re trying to trap the Xaanian horse archers against the hills.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Now the League units at that end of the line are surging forward to help.”

  There was another delay in Sergeos’ commentary.

  “By the prophets! It’s turning into a massacre.

  “Wait. Some of the archers are trying to escape into the hills, but the League units have come round to cut them off. They’re dropping off our own archers on the hills overlooking the Xaanian archers. That’s a good idea!

  “Now the Hill Tribesmen have arrived. They're herding the horse archers back into the armoured horse.”

  There was another delay while he followed developments.

  “My god, the horse archers have been decimated! There’s less than a quarter of them left. No. Wait, the remainder are surrendering.”

  Ultrich wondered at that. All the Sarkosay commanders must have been killed. From his experience, the Sarkosay drove their troops until they were dead, if that was needed.

  Still, the League forces had achieved what he wanted them to achieve. The war machines had been destroyed, the Xaanian elite troops had taken a hammering as the armoured cavalry forced their way through the centre of their lines, and now the horse archers had been taken out of the picture.

  Doing that to the Xaanian army was much like drawing a lion’s teeth. What was left was still dangerous, but it was now reduced to a ‘slug it out’ mentality. It was incapable of the sudden cut and thrust that could tear the League lines open, and change whole situations.

  Ultrich closed his eyes again.

  That should do it. That should force Xianak to send another army to Rotor Valley Pass. Then, he thought tiredly, the League would be faced with the task of doing this all over again. Well, that could wait for another day. Enough had been done on this one.

  Cinnabar pushed him gently back onto the makeshift pillow. She called some of the newly arrive
d spirit walkers over, and they began making a stretcher for him. She checked his pulse and looked at something in his eyes again. She smoothed a cool ointment onto a scrape on his arm, something he hadn’t even noticed in the fighting.

  Ultrich had little choice but to give in to Cinnabar’s healing ministrations. When she insisted on giving him something to make him sleep, he resignedly accepted it. Now the shock of the wound had worn off, his leg was beginning to hurt like someone was heaping hot coals on it.

  The potion she gave him would help the pain too. Sleep was probably the best thing for him now, he wasn’t going to be of much use in the battle still raging below them.

  As he nodded off, he wondered why Cinnabar had taken such a risk to save him. She'd plucked him from the clutches of the Sarkosay, and certain death. He was touched by her loyalty.

  He found his spirit senses connecting to her mind, and then he was drowsily aware of the many emotions that resided there. He didn't normally intrude on others, but something was drawing him to her.

  He wondered what it was. Then he realised she was a much more complex person than he had thought. Her feelings for him seemed particularly strong. He was intrigued by how personal they were.

  She was a spirit walker from one of the old, aristocratic houses. He had thought her a hard-headed woman. He hadn't suspected she felt anything for anyone much, but he saw that she admired him. No, more than that, she . . . adored him?

  Cinnabar snapped her mind shut, and Ultrich slipped into unconsciousness.

  FOURTEEN

  The desert stretched to the horizon in every direction. The heat of the sands shimmered the air above it, even in early morning. To the left long dunes of soft sand made the way impassable, but ahead and to the right gravel plains looked more inviting. They were covered in skeletal shrubs that looked battered and bereft of life.

  “How far to the Great Salt Lake?” said Mudge with a sigh.

  “Two, maybe three, days march,” said Ochren sombrely. He was finding the journey equally unappetising.

  “This isn’t going to work!” said a cross voice over their shoulders. Then Arnima bounced across to stand in front of them. Mudge couldn’t believe how much she’d changed from the little butterball that had left Shaker’s Hope, adamant Senovila wasn’t going into danger without her at his side.

  He had to admit her healing abilities had come in useful more than once, though she had not brought anyone back from the dead, as she’d done with her husband. He was still hardly able to believe that.

  “That lot are not going to pass as slaves!” said Arnima dismissively. She was pointing at the Rangers behind her, and Mudge had to agree. They’d made some attempt to dress in rags, and rubbed a bit of dirt into their faces, but their disgustingly good health, and upright bearing, made it unlikely they were slaves.

  “Someone’s going up in the world,” said Senovila good-humouredly as he came up beside them. “I didn’t have this many slaves when I was an aristocrat in Xianak.”

  “You did too!” said Arnima, rounding on him. “You’re forgetting the housemaids and the gardeners,” but her heart wasn’t in it. Mudge was pleased to see the rift between them because Arnima had learned fighting skills appeared to be closing.

  “They weren’t real slaves,” said Senovila, lowering his head in submission. “They were more like family.”

  Arnima smiled. “Yes, they were, weren’t they.”

  Then she looked more sternly at Ochren. “However, the Rangers do not look like slaves, no matter how much we dress them up!”

  The travellers had a plan to pass unnoticed through the countryside on the way to Xianak. Senovila and Arnima would be aristocrats travelling with their ‘man’ Ochren who spoke Xaanian, though not fluently. This was fairly common. Many foreign servants had earned positions of trust with their Xaanian masters.

  The others were all much younger, and they were to be passed off as recently purchased slaves. These were generally pathetic creatures who had got into debt and been sold to meet their obligations.

  “Well, I do have some ideas,” said Arnima, stepping down from her antagonistic stance, “but they are not going to like it.”

  Mudge and Ochren looked at each other warily. What did she have in mind?

  “Dab this on your teeth,” said Arnima a little later. She had made up a mixture of charcoal and some viscous substance out of her healing kit. “Don’t spread it evenly, or swill it round your mouth. Just dab it on one or two spots and leave it there.”

  They did as they were told. The grey paste looked innocent enough, though it smelt rather badly.

  “Now let me scratch this across your skin. Arms and neck mostly.”

  The soon to be ‘slaves’ looked at each other in alarm, as she advanced on them with a piece of spotted lungwort.

  “Doesn’t that bring you out in an itchy rash?” said Shyleen apprehensively, knowing the forest better than most.

  “Yes,” said Arnima testily, “and then I’m going to rub a little bird fat into the rash to make it look like its permanently weeping. You want to look sickly don’t you?”

  The others nodded glumly.

  Arnima swished the lungwort at their necks and arms with vigour. She applied it to some more than others, so they’d appear to be at different stages of the disease. Then she applied the fat. At least the fat diminished the itching, which had soon become a nuisance.

  “What do you think?” said Arnima, stepping back. Ochren and Mudge surveyed her handiwork. They had to admit the ‘slaves’ did look pretty bad after she had dealt with them.

  “Smile,” said Arnima, and her charges grimaced obligingly. Where they’d dabbed the grey paste it had set hard and gone black. It looked like their teeth were in an advanced state of decay.

  Ochren and Mudge laughed so hard they had to sit down. Senovila, who was attending to the cart, came back to see what the noise was about. He, too, laughed until tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes.

  The ‘slaves’ looked at each other uncomprehendingly. Then they discovered the joke.

  “This better not be permanent!” said Shyleen, rubbing at her teeth worriedly. She was a little more attached to her looks than the others, and Arnima had to assure her it would wear off in time. Quite a long time, unfortunately. Neither Shyleen or Mareet seemed too happy about that, but they said nothing.

  “Can you all stop standing so straight,” said Senovila. “Try to limp, or at least act exhausted. If you can manage that, then with Arnima’s little touches you might just pass as slaves.”

  “A more reprehensible, diseased, and worthless lot of swamp foxes than I’ve ever seen,” he added under his breath. That set Mudge and Ochren laughing once more.

  It felt good to laugh, reflected Mudge. They seemed to have stopped laughing days, or was it weeks, ago. Everything seemed to have become so serious, and it was serious, but it wouldn’t help if they went around acting like problems were insurmountable.

  That first day in the desert heat was the worst. No matter how much water they drank, they still felt light-headed and vaguely nauseous. Ochren rationed them to a cup of water every quarter watch, more for the horses. They had to force themselves over the stifling and never-ending gravel plain.

  At midday Senovila freed the horses from the cart, then settled them down under a cloth shade to keep the worst of the sun off them. The travellers shared the shade under the cart, little though it was, and tried to sleep through the worst of the day.

  Ochren roused them as evening approached, and the cooler temperatures rejuvenated aching bodies. Mudge crawled out from under the cart and stretched. A dull ache at the back of his head told him he had a touch of sunstroke, but he figured that would pass as the day cooled.

  Once the horses were back in harness, the travellers made good time across the dusty plain. As the sun dipped below the horizon they found themselves at the top of a gentle rise. They were looking down on a vast shallow bowl, in the middle of a desert landscape of epi
c proportions.

  “Mmm, closer than I thought,” said Ochren. “Still a day’s march away though.”

  "What are we looking at?” said Mudge, as he raised his hand against the last of the sun, low in the sky.

  "See the workings on the far side of the depression?" said Ochren, pointing in the direction he meant.

  The lowest point seemed to be on the side furtherest from them. Mudge could see the dirty white of a flat plain that surrounded it.

  It had to be the Great Salt Lake. Following Ochren’s prompting he could see ripples on the surface of the salt, long lines of salt that had been mined and laid out in oddly geometric patterns. That must be the workings the Ranger was talking about. They had a long way to go.

  He nodded.

  "Those are the salt workings that supply Xaan, and produce much of the country’s trading goods,” said Ochren. “There’s quite a town there, though you can't see it. It's called Jik, and most of it is underground."

  That surprised Mudge. He couldn't imagine living in rooms made of salt, and what would the people do when it rained? He guessed it never rained in the desert, and his travels had already shown him people could live in almost any conditions.

  Then he was struck by the similarity of Jik with the name the Empress had used for the Sarkosay, Udjik. He asked Ochren what Jik meant in Xaanian. He wasn't surprised to learn it meant hopelessness. That probably described the work at the salt mines quite well, and it also described what the Sarkosay did. Turning all good feelings into ones of despair.

  Ochren halted the company some time short of midnight. He wanted them to get a good rest before they trudged into the salt town on the morning of the following day. That was when they’d have to start acting like slaves and masters, and none of them were looking forward to that.

  The travellers made the best of the rest period, stopping the cart over a patch of sand that was holding the day's heat. It was, indeed, comfortable to sleep on, though Mudge pulled his greatcoat more tightly around him as morning approached. He was glad of the warmth of the others, packed with him under the cart.