“You get tucked into the Dark Ones and we’ll get in,” Wurragarr assured him.
“Well, then, there’s nothin’ to worry about, is there? Wot am I goin’ on about it for? Why, there’s one thing don’t concern me already.”
“What’s that?” Wurragarr asked politely.
The otter’s reply was bitter. “I don’t own enough worth makin’ out a will for.”
“What about aerial guards?” Buncan inquired.
“According to Mowara, that shouldn’t be a problem.”
The roo hopped easily over a large boulder that Duncan had to scramble around. “They can combine an eagle with a badger, but it still won’t fly.” “Planning to attack at night?”
“Yes. We’ll strike when the moon is at its highest. Maybe we’ll catch them groggy with sleep. Even monsters have to sleep, or so I’d imagine.” He didn’t sound like he believed it, Buncan mused.
Suddenly he recalled something the roo had mentioned earlier. “You said that the cliffs surrounding Kilagurri were steep and difficult to negotiate. How’s Snaugenhutt going to climb them?”
Wurragarr looked away. “Actually, I don’t see that your large friend can. We were hoping he would help us assault the gate. Surely you can see that he’s better suited to that than alpining?”
“I hear you,” said Snaugenhutt. “Besides,” the roo added, “I’d mink you’d find it hard to slip him inside unseen, even with Mowara’s help.”
“It isn’t up to me.” Buncan looked over at the tickbird. “Viz?”
“The roo’s right, Buncan. We’ll take this gate, however strong it is. If there’s climbing to be done, you’d be better off with an elephant than ol’ Snaug here.” The rhino did not object to the conclusion.
“I, too, should remain with our newfound friends,” Gragelouth declared. The merchant was contrite. “My tribe is not designed for speed. I would not want to delay you at a critical moment.”
“Marvelous,” said Squill from atop Snaugenhutt’s back. “Anything else we need to leave behind? Our clothes maybe? Our weapons? We’re already leavin’ our bloomin’ brains.”
“Wot brains?” Neena opined. Squill turned on his sister as they embarked on their favorite pastime of trading insults.
Buncan let his gaze sweep over the valley below. In the distance the lights of a small village were just visible. He returned his attention to the mountain path. “How much farther?”
Wurragarr indicated the lightly used trail they were following. “Another day’s march. Are you still ready and willing?”
“We’re willing, anyway.” Buncan smiled.
“You won’t surprise ‘em.” Snaugenhutt maintained his steady, unvarying pace. “They’re bound to see a troop this size coming.”
“We know. Our hope is that when we just encamp outside the wall and don’t attack they’ll think we’re settling in for an extended siege. Then we’ll get into ‘em when they’re in bed. You’ve obviously had experience in these matters. What’s your opinion?”
Snaugenhutt considered. “Good a strategy as any.”
“Don’t let’s drown in optimism, wot?” Neena made a face. “Don’t it trouble no one else that this whole enterprise depends on the wiles of a senile pink parrot?”
The monastery of Kilagurri was an impressive pile of moss-covered cut masonry situated behind a massive wall of huge, square-cut stones each as big as a good-size boulder. The wall sealed off the basin containing the monastery buildings as thoroughly as a dam. A trickle of water ran from a pair of drainage pipes set in the base of the wall. Heavy iron grates prevented entrance to the pipes, and Buncan had no doubt they were watched at all times. That obvious way in was closed to them. He was not disappointed. The culverts smelled abominably.
The trail they were following continued past the main gate and ended at an impassable waterfall. Trees had been cleared in front of the wall, meaning anyone approaching would be instantly visible to those within. The only way in was through a comparatively narrow gate reinforced with iron bands and bolts the size of his fist. It was a far more impressive and forbidding structure than Buncan had anticipated. He found himself wondering if it would ever yield to Snaugenhutt.
As they spread out among the trees he could see caped figures gathering atop the wall. Wallabies, a couple of koalas, one numbat. By the light of the torches they carried he could see that regardless of species the fur had been shaved from the crown of each head. Cryptic markings decorated each naked skull.
“Hermetic tattoos.” Bedarra stood close to Duncan. “We don’t understand them.”
Occasionally the monks and acolytes atop the rampart paused to converse with one another. More torches were brought and set in empty holders, until the entire wall and the open ground below were thoroughly illuminated. Certainly there was enough light for those within the monastery to watch as the corps of common folk busied themselves setting up camp. None of Wurragarr’s people had challenged those inside, nor had the silent shapes on the wall tried to hail the interlopers establishing themselves among the trees.
“Maybe they think we are pilgrims,” Gragelouth ventured, “and are waiting for the first supplicants to present themselves at the gate.”
“We’ll present ourselves, all right.” Buncan was studying the steep slope where the mountain met the wall. “But it won’t be at the gate.”
CHAPTER 22“THIS WAY.” MOWARA WOULD VANISH INTO THE DARK-
ness, then dart back to chivvy them onward. “It’s not bad, it’s not.”
Our second nocturnal sortie, Buncan reflected as he scrambled up the increasingly steep cliff. He dared not look down. Nearby he could hear the agile but short-legged otters cursing steadily.
This, he mused darkly as he fumbled for a handhold above his head, was a smidgen more difficult than being gently set down atop the Baron Krasvin’s mansion.
The idea was to climb until they were high above the well-guarded point where the wall met the mountain, scramble forward, and then slink downslope until they were within the monastery proper. A large scaling party would doubtless have been spotted, but just the four of mem creeping slowly along might escape the notice of those within, whose attention was sure to be focused on the rowdy mob of angry farmers and townsfolk who were busily establishing camp in the woods.
“We’re high enough.” Mowara fluttered inches from Duncan’s face, pivoting in midair to gesture downward with a wingtip. “Quietly now.” Trailing in his wake, they began working their way toward the shadowy structures below. Most were dark, but lights beckoned in a few high, narrow windows. To Buncan’s relief, the slope leading into the monastery was much gentler than the one they had scaled outside. There was no sign of any guards. He hoped the monastery’s entire defense would be concentrated on the wall.
Neena kicked a rock loose and they all hunched low as it initiated a miniature avalanche. The pebbles banged and bounced noisily off one another for a minute or so before the slide petered out. Silence once more took possession of the hillside. No shouts rang out below them, no torches were waved in their direction. Buncan breathed a sigh of relief as he resumed his downward crawl.
“I can’t believe no one’s even looked up ‘ere.” Squill tried to tiptoe around the loose scree. “We’re pushin’ our luck, we are.”
“Not luck, no, not luck.” Mowara dipped and darted above their heads. “They have so much confidence in their sorcery, and in everyone else’s lack of imagination. Think they’re the only ones who can think, they do.” He allowed himself a soft derogatory squawk. “Stuff ‘em, the pongy sods.”
Buncan edged carefully around a steep drop. “Keep in mind that we don’t have wings, Mowara.”
“No worries, mate,” the aged galah cackled. “She’ll be right, she will.” He left them to scout on ahead.