Martin’s bedchamber was suddenly thrown into turmoil. The Thane’s head shot back as if he had been struck, and for the first time in his life, Martin saw fear there, a fear that was quickly replaced by a steely determination.
“So. It has come at last. Would that it had been twenty years since.”
The bells tolled again and Campbell sat bolt upright in his chair, confused and bewildered at the means of his awakening. Menzies appeared at a run from the adjoining chamber and everyone began speaking at once until the Thane shouted above the noise of the bell.
“Quiet. I will have quiet.”
His voice, trained over many years in the Great Hall, brooked no argument and the room fell silent.
“Menzies. You know what to do.”
“Yes, sir. The men are ready. But Barnstable has charge—I could stay with you.”
“You know as well as I do that the men won’t follow him in battle—your place is at the wall,” the Thane said, and pointed at the door.
“Yes, sir,” Menzies said and began to move. Just at that moment the messenger finally arrived at the top of the stairs, out of breath and red in the face.
“The Others. They have come,” he managed to blurt out, before suddenly busting into tears.
“We know that, man,” Menzies said. “Get to your post. We need every man out on the walls.” The doctor pushed the man back through the doorway before making to leave himself.
“And...old friend?” the Thane said, “Take care. We have more chess to play yet.”
The doctor nodded and left. Martin thought he looked strangely happy, as if he was looking forward to what was to come.
His father ran his fingers through his hair and stared blankly at the wall for long seconds before muttering to himself.
“After all this time, it has finally come.”
He shook his head, as if to clear away the fear that Martin could see in his eyes, and turned to the Scotsman.
“Campbell. I have a favour to ask of you,” the Thane said.
“You took me in when no one else would, and you have kept your word. Ask, and I will give.”
“You asked me to protect your child, now I ask you to protect mine,” the Thane said.
“I had hoped to fight by your side, sir,” the Scotsman said. “The Others have sore hurt my family and I would like to repay some of that pain.”
“I think you’ll have a chance, if not this night, then soon. But I must have a man I trust here to watch my son and your daughter. And, although we are only of brief acquaintance, there is no man I trust more.”
Martin started to protest, but a look from his father stopped him.
Campbell no longer seemed the worse for drink. His eyes were clear and he stiffened his back as he stood from the chair. He removed his sword and held it in front of him in a salute.
“I shall guard the lad as I would my own,” he said. “You have my word on that.”
The Thane embraced the Scotsman.
“And you have mine. When this is over we will share some ale and tell some stories and leave the young ones to the fighting.”
“I can think of no better way to spend my retirement,” the Scotsman said.
The Thane turned to leave.
“Father,” Martin called out. “Wait. I am an officer of the Watch. My place too is on the wall.”
He tried to raise himself from the bed, but he was too weak. His earlier exertions had taken what little remained of his strength, and he could not get as far as swinging his legs from the bed.
The old man looked at him and managed a small smile.
“You are excused your duty tonight. I must go—the Thane’s place is with the watch on a night such as this.”
He leaned across the bed and took Martin by the good hand.
“I feel in my heart that you have a part left to play in this mummery. Do not be so quick to rush on stage—this is only the first act.”
Martin grasped his father’s hand with all his strength. There was so much he needed to say, about his youth, about his mother—of whom they had never until tonight spoken—and of his now- found realisation of the burdens the old man laboured under, but all he could do was grip harder and let tears run down his cheeks.
“Be careful, Father.” Martin said, but the old man merely smiled again and left the room. Martin had a sudden premonition of doom and feared that he would never see the old man alive again.
Campbell saw his look.
“Don’t worry. The fort is well defended, and old Menzies has cooked up a few tricks that’ll keep the dark ones busy. They won’t find the taking of this place easy.”
But for all the bravado, Martin could see the doubt in the man’s eyes, and the screams he could hear over the tolling of the bell seemed to give a lie to his confidence.
The bell suddenly stopped, and in its absence the sounds of battle could be clearly heard. The clash of steel, the roar of muskets, and, most prominent of all, the screams and wails of men and only men confronted with the dark evil of the Others.
“At least give me a sword in my hand,” he said to Campbell.
“Let me check on the girl first,” the Scotsman said. “Do I have your promise that you will stay there?”
Martin nodded. In truth he knew that he would not be able to even stand, never mind fight, but the thought of his family, his friends, facing the Others without him, chafed sore, and hot tears rose in his eyes with every new scream.
“She sleeps,” Campbell said, returning from the adjoining room. He carried Martin’s sword which he placed on the bed beside Martin’s right hand.
The Scotsman suddenly looked solemn, his face as rigid as if carved from granite.
“If they get past me, I want you to kill the girl,” he said.
Martin must have looked horrified.
“It is the only way,” Campbell said. “And it will go better for her that way. Do I have your word?”
Martin nodded, suddenly unable to speak. He had to force the words out.
“You have my word that I will try,” he said. He hoped the Scotsman didn’t hear the lack of conviction in his voice. Faced with Mary Campbell’s blue eyes, he would be more likely to clasp her to him than to kill her.
“That is good enough for me,” the Scotsman said. “Although I have a feeling in my bones that I will be meeting Lennan again. Tonight is not my time.”
Martin wished he shared Campbell’s confidence. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and his injured arm was throbbing as if someone was gripping it tight, about once every two seconds.
“I should be out there on the walls,” Martin said.
“Aye,” the Scotsman responded. “But we each have been given our orders. For now we can only wait.”
He took position in front of the door to the bedchamber, his sword in his hand.
Sean ran towards the South Gate of the fort. He was moving as fast as he could, faster than he ever had in his life. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart felt that it might jump out of his chest, but the horses behind him were catching up too fast—he was not going to make it to the walls.
He stopped on the road and waited, leaving his sword sheathed at his side when he realised there were more than ten horses bearing down on him.
The Warden was the first to reach him. He pulled his horse up and dismounted some five yards away. He pulled a pistol from his belt and advanced towards Sean.
“Can you give me a good reason why I should not shoot you where you stand? You have much to answer for, young sir,” the Warden said.
The big man’s hand was shaking, so much so that Sean wondered if this was the first time the man had pointed the weapon at another human being. He decided he didn’t want to test the Warden’s resolve.
“Aye, and answer I will. You can take me away in as many chains as you can muster,” Sean replied. “But first I must go to the aid of my people. The great bell has been tolled. The Boy King has come.”
The
Warden looked over Sean’s shoulder. His eyes widened and the blood drained from his face. Sean turned to follow the gaze, and his heart fell.
A black shadow crawled along the east side of the fort, a shadow made up of a horde of dark figures that moved almost too quickly for the eye to follow. They were inside the wall!
White flashes burst from the castle walls, followed immediately by the sharp popping of musket shots. A shock wave ran through the dark horde, stopping it for a second before it surged forward again. The first screams carried over the field towards them.
“Help me,” Sean said. “Help them.”
He made to run, but the Warden stepped in and held him back.
“This is not our fight,” he replied. “Do not be so quick to rush to your death.”
Sean struggled in the big man’s grip, but the man was as strong as he looked and he was unable to break away.
“If we don’t try to stop them, it will be everybody’s death soon enough. Do you think the Boy King will stop here? How long will it be until he is at your door? And who will you ask for help then?” he said, almost shouting now. “Quickly, we have little time.”
The Warden seemed to come to some decision and turned to speak to his men.
“It looks like we have blundered into a fight,” he said. “I will go to help the people there. Is anyone with me?”
He gave them the choice, and four of them turned and fled, their horses carrying them away as fast as they had come.
“I will deal with you later,” the Warden said to Sean. “But for the present it seems we must fight together. Now how do we get in without getting ourselves killed?”
Sean surveyed the scene around the fort. The black shadows swarmed to the east in great numbers, but somehow, by a miracle, they had failed to breach the fort. He could see that it would only be a matter of time, though, for their numbers were too great to be repelled by the small force mustered against them.
“The South Gate,” Sean said. “And if that is closed against us, then we will have to go over the wall and pray we are not mistaken for enemies.”
The Warden gave Sean a riderless horse.
“It belonged to Johnson, one of those you left dead in yon clearing,” he said, without an intonation in his voice.
As soon as Sean was saddled, the Warden led the band forward, galloping towards the besieged fort.
Sean’s heart sank as he rode. All of their drilling, all of their exercises, had been based on the one fact—that the wall would not be breached. He could imagine the fear and trepidation in the hearts of the defenders. He kicked the horse forward, trying to wring every last bit of speed from it.
Ahead of them a small group of shadows detached themselves from the main group and were already creeping around the corner to the south side. Sean could see no defenders on the wall above the South Gate and spurred his horse forward ever faster, drawing his sword as he approached.
He was amongst them before they noticed his coming, and his first sword stroke took one in the neck and passed clean through. The headless body dropped away from him as two more quickly filled the space. Pale hands grasped at him, and yellowed fangs tried to reach his legs, but his sword was a whirling sliver of death, and his momentum carried him through to the gate where he turned the horse so that his back was to the wall.
A shadow leapt at him, catching him on the left hand side and threatening to drag him from the horse as it climbed up his body. The horse bucked and thrashed under him, rebelling against the strangeness of the Others. Using his knees, he tried to keep the horse turned so that his back was to the wall. He felt twin fangs bite deep into his shoulder just above the collarbone before he twisted and hit the creature in the face with the hilt of his sword.
He was not prepared for the reaction—the creature screamed, a high whine that reverberated in his ears for long after, and it fell away from him, its head smoking, burnt patches of flesh sloughing off its ruined face. The hilt of Sean’s sword glowed briefly white, then subsided. Fitzsimmons had been right, it was a fine blade—there were not many swords that had pure silver in their pommel.
Three more of the Others stood around his horse, but they had backed away from him, hissing like snakes, their eyes blazing fury. These had passed the first death many years ago. Their flesh was waxy and yellow, almost green. Their clothes, or what remained of it, hung off them in tatters. They were wild and feral, all trace of what had once made them men and only men long since gone.
They circled the horse warily, but did not seem inclined to come closer. Sean showed them the sword hilt, and they backed off. Not far, but at least it bought him several seconds. His horse still bucked and kicked beneath him, but he managed to keep control of it as he banged on the door of the gate with his sword.
“Ho! Fellows of the Watch. There are friends here who need entry,” he shouted at the top of his voice, but there was no reply.
More Others had come from their left, as if drawn by the fighting. The Warden was pushing his horse through the throng towards him, and there were three more horsemen behind him. Small, knotted tangles of heaving shadows on the ground showed where the remainder of the warden’s men had fallen.
“We should make a run for it,” the big man shouted as he clubbed a ragged, almost skeletal, figure aside. “One more minute and we’re dead men.”
Sean shook his head, even as the creatures re-grouped and began to close in around them. They were even more cautious now, their approach slow and deliberate. Their eyes shone red in the darkness, and some were already daubed red with the blood of the Warden’s men.
All the horses were shying and kicking, terrified beyond control.
“Dismount,” the Warden shouted. “At least we can let the horses save themselves.”
The five men stood in a tight knot beneath the gate as they released the horses. The Others pounced on the fleeing animals, like dogs on a fox. Two of the horses went down, hamstrung. They were immediately covered in a sprawling, hissing blanket of shadows, and thankfully the piteous noises from the stricken animals was quickly cut short. The others were lost from sight in the night, but the screams of triumph from out in the dark spoke of their fate.
The Warden’s own horse, a great brute of a beast, still stood, lips pulled back from bared teeth. An Other hung from its neck, fangs seeking the jugular, while a second tried to grab the beast’s back legs. The horse reared, shaking its neck, dislodging the Other which fell under the flailing hooves, one of which came down hard on the Other’s head, caving it in on one side. But still the Other managed to grab at the leg, unbalancing the beast. Immediately two Others jumped on its back, and, although the horse managed to bite the fingers off one, still it couldn’t stop itself being dragged to the ground.
The Warden took aim with his pistol and shot it between the eyes, but still the Others fell on it in droves. Sean saw tears in the big man’s eyes before he turned back to the gate.
Sean pounded on the great oak door again.
“Men of the Watch, to me!”
But still there was no response, and the men backed against the door as the snarling shadows crept closer around them.
“The only way to bring them down is either to take their heads off or with a strike through the heart,” Sean said. “Let’s see how many we can take with us.”
The Warden nodded grimly as the first creature leapt from the throng and threw itself at him. Sean had to admit he was impressed as the officer took the Other by the throat and wrenched, removing its head from the body and tossing the torso back among its brethren before kicking the head to join it.
“Will that do?” he said to Sean, and there was a sparkle in his eyes that Sean hoped never to have directed at him.
Sean barely had time to signal his approval before the rest of the Others moved forward. One was faster than the rest and Sean stepped into its path to meet it. He drew back his sword to strike, and was already bringing the weapon down when he was drenched by a spray of water fr
om above.
The liquid fell on his head and ran off his shoulders, stinging his eyes, but the Other fell to the ground writhing and spitting, its flesh bubbling and boiling like a slug doused in salt. Its limbs thrashed in the mud, thrashings which got less frantic until they finally stopped, leaving only an oily puddle of grease behind on the ground.
The rest of the shadows backed off, hissing louder than before.
A voice came from above them.
“Open the door. Quickly!”
Sean looked up to see old Menzies standing on top of the wall. He was holding what appeared to be a massive pair of bellows, like those which would be used to keep a fire going. The old doctor squeezed the handles of the bellows together and Sean finally saw their use. A jet of water arced out of the spout, flying high over the men’s heads and falling onto the Others. The water immediately sent them into a frenzy as they struggled to back off even as their skin boiled and seethed. The smell of garlic was heavy in the air.
The heavy gate was pulled open behind them, just wide enough for one man to slip in at a time. Sean allowed the Warden’s men to go first, and there was only him and the Warden left when the jet of water faltered overhead, first to a dribble, then stopping all together.
“Another barrel!” he heard the doctor shout, but didn’t have time to wonder what he meant as the remaining Others lunged forward.
He pushed the Warden inside just as they were on him. Remembering the effect from before he pushed the pommel of his sword into the nearest one’s face, at the same time kicking out at one who had come in low around his ankles. He felt teeth scrape at his foot, and was grateful to Fitzsimmons once more as the leather boots saved him further damage. The one who had taken the blow of the hilt fell away, but others were already taking its place. Sean caught hold of the one nearest him, and, turning and spinning in one movement, he threw himself through the open door, carrying the creature along with him.
He heard the gate slam behind him, but had no time to look around. The Other spun away from him, then came back, faster than a cat. He had no time to raise his sword, no time to do other than react. His body remembered its training and his hands shot up, catching the creature around the neck, his arms straining to keep clashing fangs away from his jugular.
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