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once a few of their more useless officers managed to get themselves killed in
action. One dying prisoner gave Blade a hint why.
"Emperor thinks Protector ambitious. He don't hold city Emperor has chance
to " A rattle, a gurgle, then the man coughed blood and died. Blade rose from
beside the body, wishing very much he had Ho-Marn here to question. More and
more he suspected that the gray-haired officer knew most of whatever political
secrets lurked in the shadows of Gerhaa. More and more he was certain that
knowing those secrets would increase the chances of victory for
himself and the people he was leading.
Unfortunately Ho-Marn was nowhere to be found alive or dead.
The Protector himself was hard at work, leading his Guardsmen and organizing
the defenses of the part of Gerhaa still not in rebel hands. In his bright red
leather suit and black-enameled mail shirt, he was a conspicuous object
wherever he appeared. Dozens of arrows and spears were hurled at him, killing
men all around him, but the Protector himself seemed to bear a charmed life.
Blade had to admit that he'd underestimated the Protector. The man might have
every imaginable vice and a few better not imagined, but that didn't make him
a fool. With his back to the wall, the Protector was fighting with skill and
courage worthy of a far better man.
The Protector's leadership, the fighting of the men under him, and the tangled
streets of Gerhaa kept the rebels from sweeping their enemies completely out
of the city. By the afternoon of the second day, a solid line of barricades
rose across the city, dividing the two sides as rigidly as if they'd been on
separate islands. A few bold spirits on either side tried to leap from roof to
roof, or slip through the cellars. They were too few to make any difference,
and most of them were quickly hunted down and killed.
To balance not being able to take the whole city, the rebels did take the wall
on the river side. On top of each tower along the wall was a large catapult.
In the cellars of the towers were hundreds of crossbows, swords, and suits of
armor, along with stones, arrows, and barrels of oil for making firepots.
Blade promptly had the weapon and armor distributed to the men the rebels had
recruited in the city.
The catapults were manned, and after a good deal of trial and error and a few
bloody accidents, they opened fire on the ships in the harbor. Some of the
tougher captains tried to brave the shower of stones and arrows, then Blade's
catapult crews brought up the oil and started shooting firepots. After three
ships went up in flames, the surviving captains decided discretion was the
better part of valor. By nightfall all the Kylanan ships were anchored several
miles from the walls of Gerhaa, and the rebels were temporarily safe from
attack by either land or sea.
As this fact dawned on the gladiators, Blade began to hear the sort of
mutterings he'd been afraid of
from the very beginning.
"How many ships we got, down at waterfront?"
"Thirty, maybe."
"We could all get ourselfs into 'em, then."
"To go where?"
"Upriver, mebbe."
"The Forest People what they say?"
"Half o' the fighters are Forest People. Other half well, we fight good
against Kylan. Mebbe they won't mind havin' us up there with 'em."
"I'll be thinkin' about it."
By the time he heard basically this same conversation three or four times,
Blade decided he'd better find Skroga. A crisis seemed to be in the making,
and it was going to be all the worse because of the number of armed city
people who'd joined the gladiators. Most of them were armed now, none of them
had any place to go, and they would be furious if the gladiators started
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abandoning them. If the two factions of the rebels started fighting each
other, they would be handing victory to the Protector on a silver platter.
Skroga was nowhere to be found, so toward midnight Blade grabbed some bread
and sausage, then wrapped himself in a looted blanket and lay down in a corner
of the guardhouse. He felt as if he hadn't slept at all when he awoke, to find
the sky gray with dawn and someone shaking him furiously.
"Blade, Blade, wake up. Vosgu of Hosh is calling on the fighters to leave
Gerhaa and go into the
Forest. He is speaking in the Street of the Silversmiths. You must come!"
Blade jumped up so fast he tripped over the blanket. He untangled himself and
recognized the man who'd awakened him the son of a barrel-maker who'd joined
the rebels almost at once and been mortally wounded within a few hours. The
young man was sweating, but his hands and gaze were very steady.
Blade had slept in his clothes and shoes. He snatched up his sword and dagger,
sheathed them, then grabbed a spear from a cluster leaning in one corner.
"All right. Let's go."
Blade and his guide covered the mile of mud and cobblestones to the Street of
the Silversmiths at a steady trot. They were still too late. By the time they
arrived, Vosgu was shouting to a crowd of more than five hundred armed men.
Two-thirds of them were gladiators of the Games, but around the fringes were
solid clusters of men from the city. Their faces were grim, they were
fingering their weapons, and a few of the bolder spirits were shouting
obscenities every time the gladiators cheered.
"So what do we owe those of Gerhaa, in truth?" Vosgu was saying. "They fight
beside us now, or so they say. But for years they sat and cheered our dying.
Shall we forgive them all these years for two days'
aid?"
"No!" one of the gladiators shouted, and his angry cry was echoed by others.
"A wise man has spoken the truth," cried Vosgu. "Listen to him, brothers of
the Games. Listen to him, then march to our ships and "
"No!" thundered a familiar voice from a dark alley. "I say no, Vosgu of Hosh,
fool and coward!
Brothers, listen to me." Skroga stepped out of the alley and shouldered his
way through the crowd to the upturned barrel Vosgu was using as a platform.
"Listen to me!" he shouted again. "Do not heed this man. He would curse you
all. What god will aid men who abandon their friends? What god will not curse
them? Answer that, any of you!"
"Are the city people our friends?" someone shouted. He sounded uncertain
rather than angry.
"Who else?" replied Skroga. "Do you expect mercy from the Protector?" That
drew laughter.
"The Forest People " began someone else. Skroga snorted in derision.
"The Forest People! Many of you were once of the Forest. What do you say to a
man who asks you for help, if he deserts friends on a battlefield? What do you
think wise chiefs like Swebon will say if you come now?" There were
mutterings, and Blade heard at least one man say, "Mebbe he's right. Don't [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]