They had come at midnight, apparently, to the eastern section, killed the sentries at the wall, slunk in and set some horses loose, and managed to fire a wagon or two before the camp woke in confusion. Surprise is a great ally, but there had been too few of them. They had not done as much damage as it had seemed. The most revealing point was that Orash, too, had now presumably discarded the “etiquette” of war, to fight with raw hands and anger.
In my pavilion, after I had cleaned the mess from me, I asked them where Vazkor had been and what he had done in the fighting. I did not know why I asked. I knew, whether I
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wished him safe or otherwise, he could not come to any harm. He had sent no word to me, but then, I had not expected that he would.
So the vast army of White Desert marched against Orash, City of Purple Valley, and I thought there might be a good deal of fighting after that skirmish by the lake. But there was not much fighting at all. Whatever spirit has possessed them to come at us with swords seemed to have died with those other deaths among the smoldering tents.
We reached her at noon, and returned fire for fire. Ten villages massed among the trees, guardians of the City fields. These, together with all crops, orchards, stores of timber, oil, and cloth were ignited and totally destroyed, except, of course, for necessities taken by the army for itself. The villagers, I think, were mostly killed, though I saw some about the camp in after days, acting as unpaid servants or whores.
After the smoke cleared, leaving a reeking black deposit on everything, the army arranged itself around the platform slope and on the causeways which led to Orash from south and north. Despite the soot, she was a white City, in design a sister to any of the desert. No sound or signal came from her. Dusk fell, and not a light was lit.
“Conserving fuel, most probably,” Mazlek said. “She guessed it might be a long wait.”
This was logical, and yet the darkness of her was unnerving. Around the walls the camp fires blazed, the lamps moved; above, the moon made an icy appearance, and between the two the white City stood lifeless, and blind.
Morning, after a night uneasy with many marching sentries. No chances taken this time.
From first light, every hour, the war trumpets of Vazkor’s force pealed their challenge, reminding me a little of the clock at Za. From Orash came no answer. Curious, it is in our natures to be so afraid, so suspicious of something silent. There seemed to be a trap in Orash that-stopped the great rams from rolling at her gates, the laddered towers from leaning at her walls.
Evening came creeping to the eastern line of hills.
“How are things being decided?” I asked Mazlek.
“Vazkor has three men from the Orash villages with him.”
“He is asking them about the City?” I was a little amazed. “Do they know anything?”
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“It seems he thinks so, but they will not tell. You can hear the screams from time to time.”
I felt nothing for the Shlevakin of the villages, nor did Mazlek, yet we both expressed an unspoken, mutual disgust at Vazkor’s pointless cruelty-because both of us hated Vazkor, for different reasons.
“I have thought about Crash,” Mazlek said. “I think she is empty.”
“Yes,” I said, “I think so.”
No moon that night, and, in the blackness, the word ran that the time of our attack should be now. As they should not have expected us in the snow months, so they should not expect us to hammer their walls in the dark.
It was well-conducted, that muffled preparation, horses held still, men silent, the machines oiled and smooth on their wheels. The first true sound was the great beaked ram going headfirst at the north gate. After that thunder there was the briefest pause, the half-unconscious waiting for a response from the City. Yet there was no response, no warning bell, no shout, no hail of missiles, pouring of fire. After the pause, the sounds of anger came again, and there was no cessation.
I sat some way back from the offensive, on the great white horse I had won myself in the Mouth. He was restless and disturbed by the armor he had had put on him. Until this he had gone very lightly trapped, only a saddle pad and rein. Now he carried, like his fellow battle steeds, the large iron breast-guard, the belly-guard, and over his back the stiffened leather drape with its built-in saddle. On his head the crownpiece to protect eyes, cheeks, and skull, with the short sharp unicorn spike protruding from the forehead. Most of the war horses were trained to kick and bite, and stab at their rider’s enemy with this metal horn, but the white had not been so taught, and had no use at all for the encumbrance. He glared at the other steeds, and snorted to tell them what fools they were to brook man’s impertinence.
The gate burst suddenly with a terrible sound. In the torch smoke-light men swarmed through the opening. Company by company the army cavalry galloped up the causeway, into the shattered maw of Crash. I kneed the white horse, raised my hand to Mazlek and his, and rode fast after them.
Through that gate, then, as in my dream, though not at the head, and not in silence.
All around, leaning up skyward from the broad gate-street, the towers and roofs and terraces. I was not uneasy now that
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the moment had come, it was too noisy, and there was too much light.
Perhaps an hour passed, and things were louder and brighter then. Orash was full of soldiers, run in from her front and back gates. Many had broken off from the main stem to loot and set on fire the occasional deserted house and mansion-for there seemed no one here at all. There was a rabid cheerfulness about the arson, the big warm fires of burning homes coloring the world like a festival. And then we reached the square, our riding column, Vazkor at its head now. A large open place, and at the crest of many steps the huge pile of a building, its ice-white pillars seeming to dance in the flame reflections. On the steps stood a woman, tall, white robed, her head encased in a devil mask like those we had met before. It was shocking to see her there, suddenly, this one life-unreal in the empty city.
She screamed at us, and the column halted. From her voice I could tell she was very old, a little mad, but not afraid. Across the curve of the riders I saw Vazkor, dark and tall on the black horse, looking at her under the black iron helm with its drifting plume.
“You,” she said, “War-Death. This is the Temple of the City. They have fled before you to Belhannor, but I have not fled, and the goddess is behind me. You have breached the etiquette of the old war, jackal of the desert. Go back now, or die.”
So, they had evacuated-an answer, and sensible. Vazkor’s campaign was a new and dangerous thing, a sweeping and a devouring. But this one remained. She raised her hands, and fire opened in the air before her, then went out.
“Look,” she shrilled at Vazkor. “I have Power. I will destroy you. Go back, or die.”
Vazkor made a little movement with his own hand, I did not see at first, but then a string spoke and a shaft had pierced the priestess-witch under her left breast. She staggered, and fell over on the steps, but was not quite dead. She pointed at Vazkor and rasped out a mumbled chain of words I could not catch-some curse or other-then laid her head over on her arm and lay still, like an ancient crumpled bird on the staircase.
The steps were very wide, and Vazkor spurred the horse and rode up them, over her arrow-pierced body, and the column followed, stray groups of the foot running up beside us. The Temple would have many rich things in it, and pre-
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sumably they did not fear the wrath of this goddess since they had the woken goddess with them.
Between the pillars it was black. In the dark narrow hall there came a sudden furious screaming, a thrust of bodies, blood. I drew my sword and hacked a devil-masked warrior from my side. They were here then, not many, but a few still fierce to guard the shrine. I lunged and stabbed in the halflight, and the white horse, having never been trained to do it, kicked, and slashed with his lethal brow. Soon it was over, and there were dead men scattered on the floor among fallen dying torches.