In addition to Drehkos and the small staff of nobles, artisans and soldiers screened from the group which had followed him from Morguhn, there was but a bare handful of organizers to attempt to marshal the jam-packed city, find supplies and improve defenses for the attack and siege which was as certain as the morning sunrise. Not that any of the more rational rebels expected to do more than die, if lucky, with some degree of honor. But there did exist, they tried to assure themselves and their people, an outside chance that, if they could put up a really determined defense, they might delay the inevitable long enough to squeeze some sort of terms from the advancing hosts, who would probably be anxious to have any trouble settled by harvest time.
Such had been the extent of the negleot of growing crops in Vawn and the senseless destruction of flocks, herds, barns and storehouses that the foraging parties ranged far and wide with but scant success.
And even while they feverishly prepared against its coming, the leaders secretly prayed for the arrival of the heathen host, hopeful that the immediate proximity of a common foe would help to unite the faction-ridden, mutually hostile inhabitants of Vawnpolis. For the Church, which might have been expected to exercise a steadying and cohesive influence, had wreaked just the opposite to the point where it was frequently all that the overworked soldiery could do to keep the rabid adherents of no less than three self-proclaimed kooreeoee from one another’s throats. Also, all was not sweetness and light betwixt the other disparate elements seething in the overcrowded, underfed city—original urbanites, Vawnee villagers, Morguhnee villagers and city folk, with a leavening of out-and-out bandits from both duchies, all thieved upon and battled with each other when they were not in flight from or in combat with the few thousand loyal spear levymen and nobles’ retainers who composed the only dependable troops.
Danos, now troop sergeant of Lord Drehkos’ Morguhn Cavalry, had never in all his life enjoyed himself so much. In a city filled with boasters, he had only let slip references to the bloody battle at Horse Hall, his own heroic part in it and the gory path he had finally hacked through the ranks of attackers to make good his escape. So the rank and file respected him, and, as he was a reminder of better times, of golden days spent in the company of good old Hari, Drehkos favored the former banter as much as he did any man.
He loved the charging down upon a street packed with rioters, loved the shock of his whip or staff or swordflat on unprotected heads and bodies, while his own stout plate gave him sure protection against such few, pitiful weapons as might be turned on him, since the inhabitants had been forceibly disarmed. Further, through clandestine sales of the food he stole from the citadel stores, he had become a wealthy man.
And his sex life had never been so rich and varied. In a city full of hungry strangers, it was breathtakingly easy to entice peasant girls—and even the occasional destitute noblewoman—to a certain rat-infested cellar hidden under a wrecked building, there to be tortured, raped and eventually killed. In the constant danger of life in Vawnpolis, no one with a grain of sense investigated nighttime screams of unknown origin, and Danos was careful to dump the mutilated bodies far from his hideaway and not in the same area twice, depending on the starving hordes of rats and packs of dogs to effectively camouflage the traces of his gruesome pleasure. It was all he could do to restrain his mirth when a comrade-in-arms told him the grim tale of a woman of his acquaintance who had apparently been torn to bits by the ravening curs; Danos had wondered briefly to which of his victims the man had referred.
Drehkos Daiviz reined up before a heavy gate set in high sandstone walls. A man of his strong escort toed forward and pounded his brass whip pommel on one of the iron-studded portals until a small panel opened behind a grid of bars.
“I am Ahthelfahs Mahrios,” growled the bearded warder in an archaic dialect. “What is it you want?”
“A word with your eeloheemehnos, monk!” snapped Drehkos impatiently. “And quickly, mind you. You may tell him his visitor is Vahrohneeskos Drehkos.”
Now old Drehkos in all probability would have waited the quarter-hour the gate warder was gone, then shrugged and gone on his way. But this Drehkos, radically forged by stress and circumstances, was of a stronger metal.
Turning to Danos, he snapped, “Sergeant, order the ram up; that bastard’s been gone long enough!”
At Danos’ shouted order, a double file of riders trotted forward, a massive, iron-beaked timber slung by thick cables from their horses’ triple-weight harnesses. With the projecting beak a few handspans from the gate, the riders dismounted and, with the expertise of much recent practice, took hold of spikes driven into the beam, essayed a few short swings to build momentum, then sent the ram crashing against the center of the monastery gate with a sound almost deafening in the narrow street. At once, a chorus of panic-stricken shouts erupted from behind the high walls, at least one of them loudly promising eternal damnation to all without should one more blow be struck. But at a nod from Drehkos, the men swung again, and again and again and yet again. On the third blow, the point of impact splintered and with a whine of tortured metal, the great iron lock bolt snapped. The fourth buffet tore out the hinges and the gate groaned and sagged, now supported only by its bar, which resoundingly parted at the fifth impact. The rammers drew their horses aside so that Drehkos and most of his force might ride through the archway, hooves booming hollowly on the shattered portal. And even as the vahrohneeskos and his men entered the courtyard, several large oxdrawn wains queued up behind them.
The burly, white-bearded abbot strode forward, his black eyes flashing, rage afflicting his deep voice with a tremolo. “You Morguhn barbarian! You’ll be made to pay for that gate, sure as my … my … and … and get your men and beasts out of our courtyard! D’you hear me? And what are those wains for?”
Blank-faced, his voice dripping caustic sarcasm, Drehkos answered, “Why holy eeloheemehnos, to collect your freewill offering of stores for the Vawnpolis larder, of course.”
“But,” spluttered the abbot, “we did contribute. Why, a wagonload was driven to the Citadel but a week since!”
Drehkos struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Of course! How could I have forgotten so generous a gift—a bare score of moldy hams, some barrels of weevily flour and two tuns of inferior wine. Wasn’t that the inventory, holy sir?”
The elder put on a long, sad face, while his arrogance dissolved into restrained patience. “We gave our humble best, noble sir. You must realize that as holy men devoted to lives of quiet and contemplation, the eschewing of sinful, worldly pleasures and mortification of our flesh for the betterment of our souls…”
When he could stop laughing, Drehkos wiped at streaming eyes and, leaning aching sides across his saddlebow, said, “I could almost love you for that, you lying old bugger; you’ve given me the first real laugh I’ve enjoyed in nearly two weeks. But you may cease trying to delude me with your pious hypocrisy. It’s a well-known fact that you set a better table than did the late Thoheeks Vawn. So show my men to your magazines. I warn you, if we must waste our time in searching for them, you’ll be very unhappy.”
“I tell you, we have nothing left!” shouted the abbot, his anger returning. “Do you doubt the word of a one sworn to the Holy Orders of God? I trow your faith must be as pale a thing as your eyes, to behave in so heathenish a manner when in so sacred a place!”
Turning to the Ehleen-appearing Danos, he demanded, “Have you and the others looked to your souls’ welfare, that you follow the sinful commands of an obvious heretic backslider?”