76. Lightning.
Seien spent half the night pretending to sleep, even though he was unable to. Ubel had instructed him, that the poison had to be placed in wine, so that its taste would be masked. Ulakhai usually kept a couple of jugs in his tent, but that wine was for everybeast, him, Seien and Marda. Ulakhai, however, also kept a personal flask, he refilled with watered wine every day to refresh himself in the summer heat. Or, more like, Marda refilled it for him. The big mustelid left it laying around the tent often enough, and slipping the small ball of powdery substance inside was not difficult. However, Seien was not sure if Ulakhai drank from it the last day. And then, when poison was going to start working? According to the white ferret's words, it was not very fast acting, requiring half a day or more before first symptoms, but then it disabled the victim very quickly, and once pain appeared any cures or antidotes were too late. Could the poison kill Ulakhai while he slept? That would be the best. But if not, could the captain figure out what happened between the first signs of poisoning and the moment he becomes unable to move?
So, Seien could not sleep, and the fact that his sword was laying within paw's reach was no accident at all.
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The fire burned brightly before Ubel, and the Sword of Martin gleamed scarlet in its light. The white ferret moved with deliberate precision, as he put ritual markings on his fur before a mirror of polished silver, but his heart was beating faster than usual. Finally, after all those years, more or less his whole life, his goal was within his reach.
As Zarfayn taught Ubel so many seasons ago, all magic – beyond sleight of paw for the gullible and petty hypnotic tricks – came from Hellgates, the realm of the dead where time itself froze from eternal cold. Even dream sorceries only were possible because dream was the half-brother of death. But there was one thing Zarfayn never told him and Ubel discovered by himself: at the pinnacle of magical art stood the ability to defy death. To bind one's soul, the real self, to the world forever with an indestructible anchor. To cheat Hellgates. To prevail over the fate and escape the doom of all mortal beasts. To gain the ability to twist and weave destinies as one pleases in the process. Zarfayn himself never sought it, because deep down the old beast was a coward, who surrendered before even trying. Of course, a single life could never be enough to put together the puzzle, vitality of a single ferret, could never suffice for all the necessary attempts to peer beyond the grave. But who said that Ubel had to do the work himself? The accursed Badger Lords of the Fire Mountain did it long ago for him. All he had to do was to steal it. The Mountain itself, alas, was beyond his reach, no matter what cunning plans he could lay and what hordes he could plausibly tempt into attacking it. But, most fortunately, the greatest masterpiece of their art of necromantic binding was stored beyond Salamandastron.
Of course, getting the Sword of Martin the Warrior – the vessel of Martin the Warrior – was no easy feat either. In fact, taking on the abbey that withstood so many sieges and assaults, and their spiritual ruler, capable of foreseeing Ubel schemes before Ubel formulated them, could be seen as equally hopeless. To smaller minds, like Zarfayn. But not to Ubel! Long ago, before even leaving his master, he managed to pierce the veil of time and see, if not entirely clearly, a tenuous path of destiny, leading him to this day. He followed that path ever since. Even as a deathless spirit Martin was still a weak mouse, caring about fellow prey creatures, and that weakness could be exploited to draw him out. Once the sword was in Ubel's paws, Martin himself could be summoned, subjugated and interrogated, secrets of magic that kept his spirit attached to his sword uncovered! Ubel already had what he needed for his own vessel: a cursed item drenched in a sea of blood. Strife, war, slaughter, and betrayal, necessary for the ritual, certainly abounded. And now the requisite knowledge was about to become his!
Without hesitation, Ubel bit through his right thumb, drawing blood, and with a few careful strokes, completed the pattern of signs that now covered most of his head and neck. Then he put the mirror aside, took the Sword of Martin, and knelt before the rock-surrounded fireplace, holding the blade with both paws just below the hilt.
"O you, who are but a shadow on the sunny noon. You, who became dust of seasons on a stone. Hear my command, walk the corridor of memory, and stand before me in the hall of dream!"
With these words, Ubel squeezed the blade and, before the pain could register, drove it right into the middle of the burning fire.
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Air became thick and hot by this evening, and heavy clouds appeared in the sky, so Sheska half-expected more heavy rain with thunder and lightning. And yet she twitched and nearly dropped her spear when a white flash turned night into day for a split second, making beasts, tents, and trees cast sharp black shadows. Before the flash faded completely, a peal of thunder came, so mighty and deafening that very earth and sky both seemed to tremble. A stoat guard next to her fell down, cowering his head in terror. And then darkness returned, deeper than before. It took a few seconds for Sheska to realize that the fire, which just burned in Ubel's big, conical tent right behind her, was now completely gone. Before she could consider the meaning at this, more noise came. And this time it was made by beasts – several voices came from the direction of the camp's edge and sentries who stood there.
"Enemy! To arms! Enemies are comin'!"
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The great thunder woke up everybeast in the camp, the King's tent included. Ulakhai sat up sharply as if the lightning jolted him awake. And then he heard shouts from outside.
"Seien, Marda," he said sharply, as he searched for his halberd in near-dark. "Gather my armor and bring it to me!"
And then he rushed out of the tent.
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Every able-bodied beast in the castle was in the courtyard when the titanic thunderbolt split the heavens – a few old southswarders in livery of Squirrelkings' servants, armed with equally old swords and halberds, the crowd of desert rodents, even their females joining the males for the decisive battle, some with a motley array of blades and spears they obtained in Southsward, some with simple wooden clubs and slings, peasants with staves, pitchforks and scythes turned into clumsy polearms, a few rats with nothing more than daggers. Well plus an ermine and a fox, also hardly well-armed. No sort of battle order was in evidence among them, but as war as Ewalt's ears and nose could tell him, the small force did not feel too badly frightened. At least until the lightning. Ewalt's own heart skipped a couple of beats, and more than a few of the others found themselves shivering like leaves, or trying to leap away from nonexistent danger, a couple even dropped their weapons and clasped their paws to their ears.
But the first cries of battle were already coming from below, and the drawbridge was already crawling down noisily – either the beasts in the gate tower heard those cries already, or the great thunder made a paw slip. There was no time to lose. Ewalt stepped forward out of the crow, spear in his raised paw pointing to the sky. "Look! Sky itself is full of wrath against the vermin. Let's strike them as this thunderbolt! Rush the palisade! Break to the slave stockade! Free the prisoners! Overrun the camp! Win! For Southsward!"
"For Southsward!" shouted with gusto a couple more beasts. Ewalt was sure one of them was Smalltooth. And then their energy spread through the crowd like fire through dry straw.
"For Southsward!" The old castle itself seemed to join the battlecry from scores of throats, walls of the courtyard magnifying it, as the drawbridge hit the dirt and the beasts rushed forward.