Somewhere it was sunset. On the hills

The last refractions of the scarlet sun

Licked at the upper edges, like a flame

About to catch on paper, but below

All now was more than darkness, as the bars

Crossed cruciform around a lantern wick

Grow blacker than themselves against the light,

So though the sky was light yet, torchlights flashed

From point to point, appearing like fireflies.

Somewhere it was sunset. On a wall

Half-ruinous but half-rebuilt, there stood

A watch of silhouettes, like figures for

A shadow puppet play. Behind them rose

The hills up into mountains, bare and sheer.

Below them rolled the rills of tumulus

Down onto plains that seemed to subtly shift

Like sand unstable, or like scorching air

Above a distant road. No grass was this

Stirred by a lazy breeze to gently wave,

For no grass grew there now. Now all was soot.

Somewhere it was sunset, but a light

Was rising o'er the wall the sun had left.

One of the torches flickered in the dusk

From one end to the other. Seven times

It stopped a moment, once for every guard,

And left behind a brazier kindled but

Afflicted in the wind of coming night.

The torch had run its course and had begun

To imitate the sun, when from the first

Watchman that it had visited there came

A shout. It stopped as if the bearer were

That instant turned to stone and was a carved

Effigy representing vigilance

That poses on cold parapet with brand

Ablaze, and eyes forever fixed. Between

Two foothills came a string of ragged folk

All moving with the threadbare haste of one

Who sees his goal beyond hope and puts on

More speed than he had guessed he could endure.

Yet they had cause for haste. Behind them came

Pursuers dark in more than silhouette.

Each time one staggered near, the hindmost two—

The one in armor, the other wrapped in

Brown cloak and bareheaded—would halt and face

The too enthusiastic brigand, then,

With solid strokes and few, leave it upon

The turf to fizzle and collapse to ash.

The one with blade that caught the vanished sun

In flashes brief as lightning, the other

With snap of swirling cloak and thud of glove

Like heavy thunderclap on the eardrum.

The masses on the plain were stirring. The

Most near reared rotten faces round, disturbed

By battle noise not brief enough, and like

The cautious first departures of a crowd

After the match or speech or spectacle,

Began to stumble toward the refugees.

The headmost of the ragged band, a dame

Motherly-aged, if but she stretched her hand,

She could have touched the gate, when a cry came

Beneath the kindling torch, saying “Open!"

And at the word the fortress woke. The doors

Were thrown wide with enough haste that it seemed

The stones to either side of it should crack.

As forward flowed the dark tide of pursuit

Again the voice commanded “Fire at will!"

Down poured, with sound like rain onrushing, bolts

Onto the Soot-horde's heads. The arrows crushed

As might the hailstorm shatter the corn field

And left a swath of dust and splintered shafts

For the next ranks to trample. The last two

Ducked through the gates, and whirled to fix the foe

With feral stare and ready stance, when the

Voice trumpeted again “Make fast the gate!"

The mighty doors slammed shut, and cut the sight

Of foe from foe off with their sudden boom

While the two were skidding to a halt.

As are the waves against the jagged arms

Of broken concrete wearily cast out

Into a geometrical embrace

Around a scrap of sea so shielded that

Within the salty water is as still

As mirror's face, so did the Soot horde rush

Mindless against the wall to no avail.

As out the single drumbeat, from the slam

Of iron door on stone, spread in the cool

Azure and orange of the evening air

The two last through the gate as one released

Long breaths, that had the work of fifty breaths

Each done. The man in armor pushed his helm

Back from his brow, and wrung his grizzled locks,

And said, “Well, here we are. We ran three days.

We fought for every inch of earth. We dragged

Ourselves before the faces of more Soot

Than I had thought existed, to get here.

And here we are. Now where is here?" “Ask not,"

The other answered, throwing off the cowl

From his spark-colored hair, “of me. Ask her

Whose scryings led us here. This wall is thick

And high and sturdy, but I do not like

The view. Why we should risk so much to gain

A wall to put our backs to, I know not."

“Who speaks?" said soft and solid that same voice

That tempest fletched and furious had called

Down on the luckless Soot. “What words are these?

What mercenary's cant infects my ears?

If mewling such as this can issue from

The lungs and mouths of those who gave their lives

For honor and for hopeless odds, then we

Indeed must be at doomsday." On the stair

That lead up to the parapet, there burned

A brand, and underneath there stood a boy

Scare old enough to wear hair on his jaw.

Scant armor wore he, but a grizzled pelt

Of wolfshide bound over his back, his arms

The claws for gauntlets wore, the helm

Was the still-snarling skull, the fangs

Parting his coal-black hair above the face

Scowling, downturned, thin, streaked with stripes of woad

And set with anger that its very calm

Became a kind of rage. Upon his belt

There hung a scabbard far too long. The tip

Rested acute upon the step behind.

When drawn, the blade must have been more

In length than bladesman was in height, in weight

Than wielder. Though the torch illumined not

His black eyes, they burned bright enough themselves.

Varr sheathed his sword, and said “I see you are

Of my hall. I rejoice, for now I know

We two are not the last. Well met, indeed,

Young brother." But the boxer frowned and said

“And who are you, to gainsay when I speak

My mind? No one could call you an Old Man.

Men may fight without understanding, but

The whiles they do, they wish to understand.

If you have understanding of this fight

Then hoard it not, and prove my doubts in vain!"

The boy smiled as he lowered the torch, “I judge

Not by your words. I saw your deeds, and those

Are what has weight and worth. Come, Last-to-Flee.

Come, Champion. And meet your company."

He pointed with the torch, and from the gate,

His scabbard clanking sharply on each stair,

He led them inward toward the mountainsides.

As rivers fast conjoining blend their selves

Their waters welding into one, their mass

And slow momentum intertwined, confused,

And redirected, so the witchfolk throng,

Some new arrived, some camped for many weeks,

Milled in the stronghold. In amongst them went

Warriors in armor, some fatigue-faced from

The long day's watch, some new arisen for

The longer night. Between then, as a rock

Cuts through the white and tossing cataract

The boy led Shane and Varr. Against the sheer

Obsidianate cliffs, there was a porch

And promontory of cold stone. They turned.

Below, a sea of torchlit faces swam,

Like too-close constellations neath their feet,

Upturned toward them. As the clouds at dawn,

Opaque as heavy mountains, check the sun

To stretch the morning out into the day

And keep the young dew-freshness until noon,

So did the scarlet torches spread sunset

Past sunset. The clouds seemed as the low boughs,

The mountainside the trunk, the faces filled

With half-hope and half-light the fireflies

Of some autumnal forest. The boy strode

Onto the very edge, above the throng

Suddenly silent in expectation.

He smacked his palm upon the pommel-stone

Of his titanic blade, and his voice rang:

“Warriors and heroes, brothers not in death

But brothers in frustration of it, who

Have plumbed even down to its heart to strike,

Now is our hour of victory come at last!

Now shall we drink our fill of honor, blood,

And glory far beyond the dreams of those

Who strive and strain yet living on the earth!

Now is our company complete! We all:

Gor Battle-Hungry, Veiz Fighter-of-Tides,

Heim Hammerhanded, Dar Braver-of-Storms,

Ulf Black-Brow, Torg the Lucky, Piers the Bold,

Koll the Shield-Breaker, Hark Guesser-of-Foes,

Cuan Holyspear, Fin Stubborn-as-Stone,

Lief Fatherless, and Ard Maker-of-Gates,

Stad the Ship-Slayer, Helm the Far-Watching,

Rolf Quick-Rage, Heath the Finder-of-Rich-Land,

And I, Klau the Berserker, called Blacksword,

Shall have our names engraved in more desert

Of glory and good memory than all

Our fathers numberless and valiant. Each

Of us these coming days shall do what all

True kings pretend at, true troubadours sing,

And true warriors have longed for but done not!

Behold the two last warriors of our rank:

Varr Last-to-Flee and Shane the Champion!

Hail them, who come the dawn will be with you

Hailed by all peoples for all time to come!"

As out a single overpowering cheer,

Filling Shane's chest with sense of now and here

As water fills the pipe it travels through,

In echoes spilled over the wall away.

Klau turned, smiling like one who knows the name

You are in vain attempting to recall,

And said, “Be not amazed I know you. Come.

Your counsel would I have, but ere I do,

My tale will you have of me, that you may

Know what comes with the coming battle day."

Klau turned to go within the rough stone hall

Wedged in between the shoulders of the cliff

To made a pass into a tunnel. Varr

Followed, but Shane a moment stayed to watch

The torches lower and disperse, some to

The barracks, some the gate, some to the wall.

Ere he had gone within, gone was the light.

Darkness came down at last, and it was night.