Sean’s breath came in short, sharp hitches and he had to force himself to be calm. He looked around him. The air was full of the screams of the dying and the long since dead. Up on the wall the Warden was still struggling with a large Other, a monster of a creature even bigger than he was, the pair of them locked in a clinch, the Warden with his head pushed down into the Other’s chest to protect his neck. Even as Sean watched, the Other heaved and lifted, bringing the Warden’s feet off the ground, threatening to toss him over the wall. Without thinking, Sean threw his sword like a spear. Although his aim was not true, the hilt caught the creature above the eye, and it screamed as a blue flame suddenly flickered there. The Warden fell, his buttocks striking the lip of the ledge before his body dropped down into the courtyard. He hit with a crunch, and Sean saw blood spurt as a bone smashed in his leg, the sheared end punching a hole through the skin.
The large Other, screaming still, dropped on the wounded man, fangs bared, enraged at the sight and smell of the blood. The Warden, his face as pale as an Other, managed to throw himself to one side, kicking out with his good leg as the pale beast grabbed for him. The Other staggered and swayed slightly but kept its balance and moved forward once more.
Sean didn’t have time to think. He threw himself forward onto the Other’s broad shoulders, aware as he did so that he was weaponless. The creature tried to reach for him, hands curled into claws, but Sean managed to wrap his legs around its waist and was working his own hands towards its eyes.
He got his thumbs into the soft flesh at the side of the Other’s eyes and began to gouge, bringing a hiss from it. The creature thrashed under him, then it suddenly fell away beneath him.
As he fell he saw the Warden under them drag his sword across the back of the creature’s knees. They fell together as if toppled by a forester’s axe.
Sean tried to throw himself to one side, but he was too entangled and he had no time. He took the brunt of the fall, the Other’s weight driving all the breath from him. He unclasped his legs from the Other’s waist and rolled to one side, pushing himself upright and waiting for an attack.
He was still trying to get his breath, but the creature never came. The Warden was sitting on its chest and had its head in his hands. He banged it down, hard, on the ground and Sean saw the back of the skull collapse, but still the mouth worked and the fangs clicked together.
“Die, you bastard, die!” The Warden screamed and banged the head down, again and again, until there was only pulp beneath his hands.
Sean put a hand on the big man’s shoulder, then had to stand back as the Warden turned, ready to fight. It was a long second before the fire died in his eyes and Sean felt safe in approaching him.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing the man under the arms. “We need to get that leg looked at.”
“No time,” the Warden said, pointing towards the wall. “I don’t think I’ll be bleeding to death.”
The Others were pouring over the wall, with no one left standing to stop them. Sean was about to throw himself among them when he heard a voice behind him.
“Officers of the watch fall back!”
Training prevailed over logic and he stepped away from the wall, dragging the Warden with him.
More black shadows appeared above him just as he was deafened by the roar of muskets from behind, and a volley of shots almost cleaved the attackers in two. And where the shot hit them, their bodies exploded in patches of white silver which flared so bright they left their impressions like ghosts in front of his eyes.
The Others fell away, but more followed, and they too were hit with a full volley of shots.
“Front rank reload, rear rank forward,” he heard a familiar voice shout, just as the roar of muskets nearly deafened him.
Sean turned to see a line of old men, all armed with muskets, easing slowly forward, kneeling to reload as they came; another line standing up behind them to unleash another thunderous volley. Powder smoke hung heavy in the air and his ears rang in rebellion.
Menzies was leading operations.
“Not bad for a bunch of drunken old sots, eh?” he said. “Although the silver shot does help.”
The musketmen advanced past where Sean was standing. He was astonished to see that the men were from Menzies’ age group, and some were even older. Most wore uniforms of the watch, but ones in which the colours had faded and the cloth had thinned. He saw that some of their hands shook, but from the steel in their eyes, he didn’t think it was from fear.
“Come on, boy!” Menzies shouted. “Or do you want to wait for us to kill them all? Get that barrel filled—we only have a limited supply of the shot, and it won’t last long!”
Sean noticed that the trail of children with the water supplies were standing back behind the musketmen, who were even now advancing to the top of the wall. He motioned them forward, leading them up the steps to the barrel. As he moved to follow after them, the Warden groaned and clutched his leg before holding out a hand to Sean.
“I owe you a favour,” the big man said.
“I’ll collect if we get through the night,” Sean replied, taking the hand and gripping, tight, to show the truth in it.
Already the musketmen were beginning to run out of shot, men peeling away from their ranks as they came up empty. Sean moved quickly to the top of the wall and grabbed hold of the bellows, waiting for the barrel to be full enough.
The massed horde of Others were already creeping closer again. Their ranks were still being thinned by the volleys, but the sheer press of numbers was pushing them forwards.
At last the water reached a reasonable level and Sean shot a spray over the head of the riflemen as the noise reached a new pitch.
So the shooting went on, and Sean kept pumping, and the Others perished in their scores, but there came a time when all the riflemen were out of shot, and the water had again slowed to a trickle. Once more it was down to hand-to-hand fighting as the first of the Others came over the wall.
Sean found his sword lying on the wall where it landed and the weight of it in his hand gave him some comfort as he watched the screaming horde flow towards him.
He said a quiet prayer and prepared to die valiantly as the dark Others poured over the walls and the old men began to fall, one by one, around him.
He was forced backwards, down the steps, defending all the time, only just managing to keep the Others at bay until only he and Menzies remained standing over the Warden.
“We fought the good fight,” Menzies said. The old man was breathing hard, but Sean had seen him wield a blade better than many a man half his age.
“That we did, sir. They will sing songs about us long after we are gone.”
“If any are left to sing them,” the Warden said. “Help me up. I would die like a man.”
It took both of them to get the Warden to his feet. The man went pale and had to bite his lip to stop himself crying out, but he managed to stand, shakily, beside the other two. They stood in a small ring, watching the Others circle around them.
“Why don’t they attack?” the Warden said. “Are they playing with us?”
“No. They fear my blade,” Sean said, but the old man shook his head.
“No,” he said, pointing back into the main courtyard. “I fear that their master has been dealing with matters of greater import.”
The large figure of Constable Barnstable led Mary Campbell through the courtyard, and the Others moved to surround them like an honour guard with a married couple.
Martin’s rage consumed him and gave him a burst of adrenaline that saw him get his legs out of the bed, but he could not get them under his body enough to lift him upright. In frustration he pushed down, hard, on his wounded arm, bringing pain so intense that it sent him down into a deep black faint.
He drifts in blackness so deep it is like velvet, and he knows not whether he is falling or rising. Shapes pass him there in the dark: his father, brow creased with worry; Campbell, blood streaming from a head wou
nd; Sean, mouth agape and screaming silently; himself, arms crossed over his breast, eyes dead and skin already beginning to take on the pallor of the dead. He gives in to despair and lets the dark take him, and now he knows he is falling, swirling down to a black well where dim shadows wait.
Then the silence is broken. An air, sung by a voice he should remember, pierces the dark and he rises towards it, rises ever faster, away from where the shadows from the well grasp in failure at his ankles.
And in the distance, a light pulsing in time to the air leads him onwards. And in the light, giant figures stand in a circle, at first seeming to dance to the tune, then becoming still as he approaches and sees the small figure of the Woodsman Lennan inside the stones. He blinks, just once, and he is standing in front of the small man.
The air is crisp and clear and he can feel the wind on his cheeks and in his hair. He can smell the sea, and something else, an animal odour that is coming from the bundle which Lennan is holding out to him.
“This is yours,” Lennan says, although his lips do not move, and the voice seems to come from the stones themselves. The bundle is unwrapped, and Martin sees a large silver skin of a wolf, washed, cleaned, dried and fashioned into a cloak.
“May the strength of the grey brother live on in you. This is your manhood gift from your brothers in the forest. May it empty your soul.”
Martin stretches out a hand and touches the fur, feeling the wiry hair beneath his fingers, and at the same time feels his body being shaken as if by a giant hand. The scene around him begins to fade, and he makes a grasp for the cloak. Lennan thrusts it towards him, but he is only able to grab at a few hairs before the shaking tears him out of the circle and back, whirling through the dark, to his bedchamber. The last thing he sees is Lennan’s face, full of sadness.
He opened his eyes, shaking his head as if to clear a persistent dream. The pain in his arm had lessened, and when he looked down he saw that there, in the palm of his left hand, lay five hairs, thick and grey, like those of a wolf.
He swung his legs completely out of the bed and pushed himself upright, using both hands. There was surprisingly little pain as he walked across the room, unsteadily at first, then faster as he saw the pool of blood which was forming around Campbell’s head.
Sean threw himself forward, intent on reaching Mary Campbell, but the wall of Others repelled him, time after time, and although he hacked and cut with his sword, sending many of them to the ground finally dead, more filled their place. And they did not fight back, merely kept pace with Barnstable and the girl as they headed for the wall.
A voice came from Barnstable’s mouth.
“Ah, the young Romeo,” it said. “I must thank you for taking good care of my bride. As a reward for your faithfulness, and as I am not blind to the rules of chivalry, your life will be spared, just this once. But should we meet again, you will not find me so forgiving. Beware that our paths do not cross again.”
Sean pushed forward with renewed vigour, screaming as he tried to get through the unyielding wall of flesh, until Menzies finally pulled him back.
“It’s no use, son. There are too many.”
Barnstable was already climbing the steps to the battlements as Sean pushed the old doctor away. Once more he threw his sword, and this time his aim was true, hitting Barnstable in the back and penetrating a good six inches. But no blood flowed, and that huge body did not so much as quiver.
The loathsome voice merely laughed, an almost girlish giggle.
“A fair attempt. But you cannot kill that which my mind holds in dominion.”
The Constable, or the thing that had hold of him, took Mary Campbell in his arms and leapt to the top of the wall.
“Be well,” he said to Sean. “You have spirit, and a bit of the dark in you. There will be a place at my side in the Royal Court if you would take it.”
Sean shouted an obscenity and once more ran forward, but another laugh came from Barnstable.
“I assure you that my mother was long dead before I was old enough to try,” he said.
Without another word he jumped from the wall, followed swiftly by his dark guard.
Sean leapt to the battlements, and would himself have jumped over had not old Menzies held him back.
“It is suicide,” the doctor said. “There will be other days. He will not kill her until she has served her time—he needs what she is carrying.”
He pulled at Sean again, taking him away from the edge of the wall.
“Live to fight again,” he said. “All is not yet lost.”
Sean watched the white figure that was Mary Campbell being carried through the dark field to the greater darkness beyond. There was a schism in that darkness, and a group of figures broke off, taking the white figure with them, eastwards along the wall.
“They will be taking her north. To Edinburgh, if I’m not mistaken,” Menzies said, and Sean finally realised that there was more to Mary Campbell’s story than he knew. But that would have to wait—the black horde beyond the wall was massing once more. He looked around the fort, checking the state of the defending force, but was dismayed to find that Menzies and himself were the only two men standing, the Warden having slumped to the ground with his back to the wall.
“It was all for nothing,” he said. “I have lost and will die here not knowing what has become of her.”
Menzies shook his head and pointed out over the field. “I don’t think we are to die. At least not tonight anyway.”
The black army moved southwards, away from the wall, the Boy King in the midst of a greater blackness leading them onto the road to Carlisle.
“Farewell!” a voice boomed from afar. “I go after bigger prizes!”
They stood and watched as the horde left the field, finally merging into the night. Even then they stood for long minutes, barely believing that they yet lived.
Campbell was alive. His breathing was quick and shallow, and his pulse raced, but the cut on his head was mainly a scalp wound and it had already stopped bleeding. Martin raised his head on a pillow and left him there as he hefted his sword and made for the stairs, the wolf’s hair still clutched tightly in his left fist.
He felt light, as if he was floating, and the pain in his arm had dulled to little more than a dull ache. Lennan’s song started up and rang in circles inside his head, and once more the world sparkled around him.
He was aware that there was silence outside, and hoped that he had time yet to stop Barnstable. He had no idea how long he had been out, nor whether Lennan had really aided him, but he had the wolf’s hairs, and, no matter how temporary, he had his strength back as he headed down the stone steps.
After the second turn, he became aware of a heavy, laboured breathing from below, and his heart sank. But the song still sustained him through the turns until he came upon a small figure huddled on the stairs, sitting in a pool of blood that shone black in his newfound sight and poured in an alarmingly long thread down the stairs away from him. It was only when he bent down closer that he realised that it was his father.
The song stopped, as quickly as it had come, and Martin’s legs threatened to give way beneath him.
The small figure stretched out a bloodstained arm, revealing a deep, too deep, wound in his right side, a side that was soaked black in blood.
“Barnstable,” the old man whispered, bubbles of blood bursting at his mouth, and Martin remembered the man’s sword, already bloodied before it hit Campbell.
“Don’t speak, Father,” he said, his voice breaking, sobs filling his chest. “I’ll get Menzies.”
Martin stood, unsure of his next move, but was grabbed and pulled back down close to the old man’s face.
“No time,” the Thane said. “Tell Campbell I tried to keep my oath.” He coughed, and a stream of blood ran from his mouth and nose. “Tell him I do not yet relieve him of his part of the bargain.”
“Please don’t speak.” Martin said. “Save your breath.”
“No need
,” the Thane said, and coughed, bringing more blood to his mouth. When he spoke again his voice was little more than a wet whisper. “I am going to be with your mother, so do not grieve. The harder part falls to you. You must be Thane, and, in time, deal with Barnstable. Remember—the Thane must be just. Revenge must not cloud your actions.”
The speech seemed to be too much for the old man. He clasped Martin’s hand tighter.
“I wish I had more time to know you. Be a better Thane than I was.”
“I’ll try to be as good as you,” Martin said.
There was a rattle in the old man’s throat and his head fell to his chest. Martin let out a shriek. He pushed the wolf’s hairs into the old man’s hand, hoping to transfer some of what had sustained him, but there was no grip in the Thane’s fingers, and there was no longer the sound of liquid breathing.
A stray draught caught the hairs and whirled them away into the darkness as Martin’s strength left him and he fell in a swoon over the dead body of his father.
End
THE BATTLE FOR THE THRONE
Book Two of the Watchers Trilogy
By William Meikle
Chapter 1
MILECASTLE 3RD NOVEMBER 1745
When Sean and Menzies descended from the wall, they finally realised the extent of the carnage that had been wrought on Milecastle.
“So many?” Menzies whispered. “So many gone.”
Bodies were littered everywhere…dead, dying, and Others, all of whom would have to be staked and sent to the true death.
There was a moan from below, and Sean saw the Warden trying to raise himself into an upright position.
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