Chapter 12
Rocks pounded into the walls of Mal Zeth relentlessly, like a mighty hammer steadily hitting the tall barrier. On the battlements of the city wall, Zakath leaned out, trying to gauge the distance between the catapults and the walls.
"A hundred yards or so, wouldn't you say, Senji?" he asked, turning to the club-footed sorcerer beside him.
Senji looked calculatingly at the distance. "Yes, that looks about right. Do you think the Mallorean bows will be able to reach that far?"
"It doesn't have to be arrows," Zakath said, rubbing his chin. "Small catapults shouldn't take that long to construct, and if we rain showers of pebbles down on them, I think they'll lose their enthusiasim fairly quickly. Where's my engineers?" he shouted down to the streets of Mal Zeth. "Hey, you! Where's my engineers?"
Senji was only half-listening as he contemplated the rows of Karands. There had to be someway to make them come closer. They could also fire burning pitch, he decided. And then when the Karands rushed up to put it out, they could riddle the ranks with arrows. He squinted at the orderly columns again. If they fired huge rocks into the center of that, it would either cause havoc or kill several.
"What? I don't care! So? I need those engineers!" Zakath was shouting.
"Zakath," Senji said, drawing his attention. "If our catapults fire huge rocks into those orderly lines, it'll be very destructive to them. And if we take advantage of the havoc to burn the catapults..."
"Even better," Zakath said, "We could aim the rocks for the rear of the horde, and when they cluster closer to the walls to avoid the rocks, we can riddle them with arrows."
"Or we can aim the rocks near the front of the horde, and while they draw back, a horseman can ride out there and set fire to the catapults."
"Too risky," the Mallorean emperor decided. "Let's aim for the rear, and get the archers ready, and then we can fire burning pitch to the front, between arrows. Let's turn some Karands into comets." He looked out at the vast sea of black. "We might see if there's a volunteer to try to ride out there and burn the catapults. A burning arrow might do it."
The engineers rushed up the stairs to the battlements, panting with the effort of running. "Your---your imperial majesty! We're here!" They sagged against the stone battlement.
"We need a catapult," Zakath explained. "Several catapults. One or two of them have got to be strong enough to throw heavy rocks to the rear of that mass, and the rest need to toss burning pitch onto those catapults there."
"Why don't you just sent out a horseman to fire a burning arrow into them, your Imperial Majesty?"
"We've heard strange reports about their fighting tactics. We don't want to take any risks, no matter how many people are involved. As long as we're behind the walls, and they're outside of the walls, we can fight with catapults." Zakath turned to gaze out over the Karands, then said calmly, "Duck."
They all dropped to a shelter behind the battlements. There was a reverberating crash as one rock struck the battlements near them, and another as a rock soared over the walls and plunged to the streets inside the wall, denting the pavements and causing a road blockage. They all got up again, and the lead engineer asked, "Do we want mangonels or trebuchets for the catapults, your Majesty?"
Zakath thought. "Mangonels, I think. They're securely anchored to a base, instead of pivoting on a board. Easier to use on the walls."
The engineer drew out a piece of paper. "So, your Majesty, we'll have the anchor here..."
Senji only half-listened as the engineers and Zakath bent over the design, staring sightlessly out over the walls. He could feel his Master's comforting, warm presence in the back of his mind, and he reached out to that presence now, feeling lost and alone.
"It seems hopeless, Master," he said to that corner of his mind where Eriond spoke to him. "There are so many of them, and they seem invincible. They don't even have regular desires. We don't know what they want or who they are. They don't seem to want their nation back, they just seem to be attacking us because they want to."
"Patience, my son," Eriond's voice was warm and Senji felt as if a soft blanket had been wrapped around him. "All shall be made clear in time."
"I feel so helpless, Master. This isn't an EVENT. Each side is not equal, not to be decided by a Choice."
"No. And so it shall be possible for us to have an unseen advantage, us to have the better odds."
Senji gave a long, shuddering sigh. "I'm not ready for this, Master. I've been a disciple of yours for only a year or two. I can't handle this constant responsibility, this constant stress."
"It will all be over eventually, my son. Whether for good or for worse, it shall be over."
"Where is Pelath, Master?" Senji asked sadly. "I want to be with my brother, to know that he's there to support me. I need someone to care for me now."
"You shall be together again, Senji. Soon, you shall rejoin your brother."
And the voice was gone, and Senji returned to the world. Turning, he found that the engineers were already supervising the construction of mangonels, and several bendable tree trunks were anchored against the wall, bent backward, and lashed in place. A cradle had been woven with ropes in which the rocks would be placed, and rubble was being hoisted to the wall to load the catapults with. Archers were already lining the walls, their faces grim. Bundles of brush were brought up, and doused with oil.
Zakath was looking at them with satisfaction, and he turned to Senji. "Does it look all right, Senji? Do you think it would work?"
Senji cast an appraising glance, pushing his feelings to the back of his mind. "You might want to find something else to cradle the burning brush, otherwise it'll burn through the ropes and fall short."
Zakath frowned. "Yes. Blacksmith!" he shouted down from the wall. "We need scrap metal!"
Weaving past the tense archers, ducking to avoid the catapults, Senji moved down to an empty part of the wall, looking out at the mass of black. He ignored the shudder as another rock crashed into the walls, and gazed instead out to the south, where the Dalasian Mountains loomed.
He wondered about Zakath's child, glancing back at the busy Mallorean emperor. He didn't want to remind Zakath of it, but he was glad that Cyradis wasn't here in the city. At least the heir to the throne would be safe. Unless it was a girl... Senji frowned. No, usually first-borns were boys. Probably one of Garion's daughters---he was supposed to have a lot, after all---would marry Zakath's son. Just the right alliance to seal their friendship. He thought. If Zakath had a daughter, she could marry Geran. How old was Geran now? Six?
Senji mused about all the people Garion's daughters could marry. Urgit's son, Zakath's sons, Hettar's sons, Taiba's sons... Senji sighed. Everyone was getting married and having children. He tried to think of someone who wasn't. Unrak and Kheva were unattached. But they wouldn't be for long, he suspected.
He sighed again. Everyone was married. Belgarath was married to Poledra. Polgara was married to Durnik. Beldin had been mated to Vella before they departed. Garion was married to Ce'Nedra. Barak was married to Merel. Mandorallen was married to that Mimbrate lady...Nerina. Lelldorin was married to Ariana. Hettar was married to Adara. Relg was married to Taiba. Silk was married to Velvet. Urgit was married to Prala. Zakath was married to Cyradis. And on and on and on.
Senji turned to go back to talk to Zakath, but a shadowy form solidified in front of him. Senji recognized the young king of Riva, who he had met when his Master and he had gone around and visited all the kings. Garion was a nice young man. "What is it, Garion?" he asked. "We heard that the Morindim were marching down from the north. Have they attacked a capital?"
"That and more," Garion's voice was grim. "You'd better get Zakath, Senji. He'll want to hear this."
Senji darted over and brought back Zakath at a run. "Garion!" the Mallorean gasped out. "What's the urgent news?"
"Listen carefully," Garion's image said. "I can't keep this up too long. It's quite a distance. The Morindim marched down the North Caravan Route towards Boktor, and we set up a barricade to block their way. We also got a sample of how they fight. They have this strange ritual dance, and at a certain point, they throw daggers. The daggers are poisoned, and when it hits someone, they die almost instantly. No one can get near them except the Mimbrates. Grandfather, Grandmother, Aunt Pol and I tried to attack the leader of the Morindim with sorcery, but he seems to have some kind of barrier or something. It's strange, but we can't even touch him. The Orb refuses to help. He's extending the barrier over the army, too. Then he brought the demons. It turns out they're illusions, but our soldiers didn't know that, and they ran. We thought Boktor was doomed, but the Morindim turned and started southwest, in the general direction of the Great Southern Road across a piece of Algaria. We don't know where they're going now, but we think we might be able to break through the barrier on the army if we have more people, more wills." Garion looked at Zakath. "I'm afraid we're going to need Senji, Zakath, and Pelath as well, old friend. We're going to need all we can."
Zakath bit his lip. "That leaves us terribly vunerable."
Garion nodded. "But we're sure this is the main invasion. The attacks on Rak Cthan and Mal Zeth are just distractions---dangerous distractions, but distractions anyway---to keep the Mallorean and Murgo army from joining our forces."
Zakath nodded. "It seems as if the sorcery on the other side is concentrated in your Morindim army. "I think Pelath's in the Dalasian Protectorates, and I'll send Senji." He looked at Senji. "Can you contact your Master and tell him to send word to Pelath to go to Boktor?"
Senji smiled. "I'm fairly sure he already has."
Garion nodded. "Good, then." He paused. "Congratulations on your son, by the way. He's tiny, but very cute." Then the image was gone.
"My---my son?" gasped Zakath.
Senji smiled. "Congratulations as well, your Majesty."
A week later, Urgit sighed as he left the room where Velvet and Silk had been, his eyes sad. Barak was outside the door, and looked at him questioningly.
"He's with her now," the king of the Murgos told him. "The loss of their baby hit them hard."
Barak bowed his head. "As much as we all made jokes about Silk being a father, we still cared about the child," he said quietly.
"They knew that," Urgit said, walking with the huge Cherek down the hall. "Polgara was there too, comforting them. Liselle was crying, and Kheldar's eyes---" he broke off, biting his lip.
"I know," Barak told him. "No one can ever foresee a miscarriage. I guess it was just something that had to happen."
"I wish Prala was here now," Urgit said sadly. "Maybe she could comfort her friend."
"Or Ce'Nedra," Barak rumbled. "The little queen would have known what it felt like."
"Yes," Urgit assented.
They walked down the hall in silence, their shoulders heavy with the weight of the sorrow they had witnessed. They came upon Senji in the hall, who had arrived just the day before, and he knew what had happened.
"Did they?" he asked quietly.
"Yes," Urgit replied. "They lost the baby."
Senji gave a deep sigh, and turned to deliver the news to Pelath. As they entered the room where the kings and visitors were waiting, everyone turned to look at them.
"They lost the baby," Urgit said quietly. "Polgara did everything she could, but it died."
Senji walked over to stand near Pelath, taking comfort in each other's presence. Beltira and Belkira began to cry, and Poledra walked over to embrace them quietly. Belgarath put a hand on Belkira's shoulder, his eyes old and tired. Hettar's normally impassive face was sorrowful, and Korodullin and Mayaserena drew closer to each other, taking comfort in each other. Cyradis had tears streaming down her face as well, and Garion moved over to hold her in his arms like a sister, knowing that she cried for Silk and for Zakath, and wanting to reassure her that his friend would be all right. Sadi, Porenn, Varana, Anheg, Cho-Hag, Fulrach, and the Gorim bowed their heads, and Durnik's honest face was sad. Unnoticed by all but one, Ayan's tear also trickled down her cheek, and Kheva tentatively put his arms around her, unsure of what to do, but also having the strange feeling that it was very important to him that Ayan would not be unhappy. He remembered that she was only fourteen, after all, for all that she acted older, and she was just a girl. She began to cry into his chest, and he held her gently, unaware that his mother's eyes were on them, sadly wise.
They grieved for Prince Kheldar and Margravine Liselle of Drasnia, and their tears fell like a gentle rain from a sorrowing sky.