Miriel and the others were still trying to pull the tree clear, but it was wedged into one of the crenellations of the battlement wall. Angel picked up a fallen axe, ducked under the rope and delivered a thunderous blow to the crumbling stone of the battlement. Twice more he struck. The granite shifted. Dropping to his haunches he lifted his feet and kicked out. The granite blocks fell away. The tree slid clear, struck the next crenellation – and snapped.
The rope-wielders were thrown back – Miriel, still holding the rope, tumbling from the ramparts. As the tree snapped Angel saw Miriel fall and dived for the snaking rope. The hemp tore the flesh from his fingers and Miriel’s falling weight hauled him to the edge of the rampart. But he held on, regardless of pain or the peril of the drop. Just as he was being pulled over the edge a Nadir warrior threw himself across the fallen gladiator. Then Senta grabbed Angel’s legs.
Miriel was dangling fifteen feet below the rampart. With the rope now steady she climbed and hooked her foot over the stone. A Nadir hauled her to safety. Angel climbed wearily to his feet, blood dripping from his torn palms.
The dislodged tree had toppled seven more, killing more than a hundred soldiers. Fearful of a similar fate the remaining Gothir warriors scrambled down to safety and retreated out of arrow range. Gleefully the Nadir sent all the trunks crashing to the earth. Subai, leaving the reserve force, climbed to the battlements, turned his back to the Gothir and, dropping his leggings, exposed his buttocks to the enemy. The Nadir howled with delight.
Orsa Khan, the tall half-breed, lifted his sword high above his head and shouted a Nadir refrain. It was picked up along the line until all the defenders were screaming it at the uncomprehending Gothir.
‘What are they saying?’ asked Angel.
‘It is the last verse of the battle song of the Wolves,’ said Senta. ‘I can’t make it rhyme in translation, but it goes like this.
Nadir we,
Youth born.
Axe-wielders,
Victors still.’
‘You don’t see too many axes among them,’ complained Angel.
‘Ever the poet,’ said Senta, laughing. ‘Now go and get those hands bandaged. You’re dripping blood everywhere.’
18
The passing of the years, and with them the fading of his powers, was a source of intense irritation to Kesa Khan. As a young man in his physical prime, he had sought to master the arcane arts, to command demons, to walk the paths of mist, scouring the past, exploring the future. But when young, though strong enough, his skills were not honed to the perfection needed for such missions of the spirit. Now that his mind burned with power, his aged frame could not support his desires.
Even while acknowledging the manifest unfairness of life he found himself chuckling at the absurdity of existence.
He banked up his fire, not in the hearth, but in an ancient brazier he had set upon the stone floor at the centre of the small room high in the keep-tower. His precious clay pots were set around it, and from one of them he took a handful of green powder which he sprinkled on to the dancing flames. Instantly an image formed of Waylander entering the great gates of Gulgothir. He was disguised as a Sathuli trader in flowing robes of grey wool and a burnoose, bound with braided black horsehair. His back was bent under a huge pack, and he shuffled like an old man, crippled with the rheumatism. Kesa Khan smiled.
‘You will not fool Zhu Chao, but no other will recognise you,’ he said. The scene faded before he was ready. Kesa Khan cursed softly, and thought of the crystal lying on the golden floor below the castle. With it you could be young again he told himself. You could bide through the centuries, assisting the Uniter.
‘Pah,’ he said aloud. ‘Were that the case would I not have seen myself in one of the futures? Do not delude yourself, old man. Death approaches. You have done all that you can for the future of your people. You have no cause to regret. No cause at all.’