Martin stood, looking out at the darkness, wondering what he’d forgotten to do. He was shaken out of his reverie by Gord, and with him, the dogs Fang and Blackie. The dogs bounded over as soon as they saw him, and demanded attention.
“I still can’t believe it,” Gord said, laughing as he watched the dogs. “Are you sure you don’t have any dogs in your family tree?”
Martin started, and Gord stopped laughing.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I did not mean to cause offence.”
Martin forced himself to chuckle. To him it sounded hollow, but Gord’s smile returned.
“No dogs in the family, Gord,” Martin said. “But I had a great aunt who was so hairy of the face that she could have been mistook for one.”
They both laughed at that, but their laughter died in their throats as the sound of bagpipes drifted through the night air from beyond the wall. One set of pipes was joined by another, much further north, then another even farther away that Martin guessed was to the east. Battle drums beat far away to the South. The dark army had surrounded the town.
Martin was close to the West Gate, so he was one of the first to see the group of three mounted Others who rode out of the dark towards them. As they approached the gate, Martin gasped. He had seen these three before—in the first vision that Lennan had given him they had stood beside the Boy-King in Jedburgh as he called his army to war.
They were Scotsmen, that much was obvious. They wore long tartan plaids that covered their thin bodies, and berets with feathers laced through them. Their hair was straggly and unkempt, but their chins were clean-shaven and their moustaches were long and groomed to fine points. Their skin was so white as to be almost translucent, and their eyes blazed blood-red as they pulled their mounts to a halt.
Martin had been wondering what kind of mounts would carry such as these when he realised that the horses themselves were turned. They were almost as pale as their riders, and their ribs showed proud against their skin. Their manes and tails were stained deep red, their eyes matched their owners’, and their lips were pulled back, showing fangs nearly two inches long
The middle of the three Others surveyed the wall.
“Your King sends his regards and requests entry to his city!” he shouted.
The men on the wall jeered, and Martin shouted out above the din.
“Tell your King that this city is held by the Protector, and that if the maid tries to enter, we will give him what we gave his father!”
A cheer rang along the wall at that.
The Other merely smiled and licked the points of his fangs before speaking again.
“The Boy-King is prepared to allow the old, the women and children leave to go if your men will join him to reclaim his throne and overthrow the tyrant in London.”
The men on the wall jeered again.
“If you come back when the sun is up we can discuss this as civilised men,” Martin said, and that raised another laugh.
The Other was still grinning.
“If you do not agree, you will all join with us ere morning—men, women and children. This is your last chance,” he said.
“No!” someone on the wall shouted. “This is yours!” And a crossbow bolt flew through the night and embedded itself in the Other’s shoulder.
He pulled it out, digging a hole at his shoulder. There was no blood, but now the grin was gone.
“Your King is coming,” he said. “And it will go better with you if you bow down before him.”
“I’ll bow down and show him my arse!” someone shouted. “It is soft and warm—mayhap he’d like to kiss it?”
Laughter rang along the wall.
“Tell your King to come on!” Martin shouted. “He’ll learn that men of England bow to no one!”
More cheers ran along the wall.
“So be it,” the Other said. As one the three horses wheeled away and were soon lost in the night. The drums started up a marching rhythm, and the pipes skirled into a martial air that soon rose into a screeching wail that drove a cold spike into Martin’s stomach.
Martin grabbed Gord by the arm.
“Get a message to the Duke,” he said. “Tell him to get every church bell in the town ringing— we need to drown the Others’ wailing, for it has a quality that saps the resolve.”
“Aye,” Gord said with a rueful grin. “I’d noticed.”
He left at a run, but the dogs stayed with Martin. They had their paws up on the wall, their ears were pinned back, and they wailed in time to the bagpipes.
“Here, lads.” Martin said, and they obediently trotted over to stand on either side of him. They were trembling and growling through raised lips, ready for a fight.
“Don’t be so ready for battle, boys,” Martin murmured. “It’s coming soon enough.”
The pipes and drums beat faster, getting steadily louder, and the noise was becoming almost unbearable.
Martin heard Barclay shouting further down the line.
“Sing, lads. Sing, for St. George and England.”
The old man’s voice started up a song which was almost lost in the wind, but Martin joined in, then another started up, and soon the whole watch of the west wall raised their voices in song. It was an old ditty, from the time of the Old Protector, but all of the men on the wall seemed to know it. Martin himself had sung it many times in the ale-house in Milecastle, but never with as much feeling as tonight.
They take our blood,
And taint our grub,
They steal our lives in the dark,
But we of the Watch will not be swayed,
By a wee Boy-King who is really a maid.
Well, he preens and he prances,
With his perfume and powder,
And his hair is as smooth as silk,
But we of the Watch will not be swayed,
By a wee Boy-King who is really a maid.
His skin is soft,
Like a new born babe,
And he perfumes himself every night,
But we of the Watch will not be swayed,
By a wee Boy-King who is really a maid.
The men of the watch, to a man, began to bang their fists on the wall in time.
He plays with his rod,
As he bleeds his boys,
And his guards take it up the arse,
But we of the Watch will not be swayed,
By a wee Boy-King who is really a maid.
He has no life,
And he has no wife,
And he has no balls for a fight,
And we of the Watch will not be swayed,
By a wee Boy-King who is really a maid.
They take our blood,
And taint our grub,
They steal our lives in the dark,
But we of the Watch will not be swayed,
By a wee Boy-King who is really a maid.
When they finished, the singing men, as one, turned their backs on the dark horde and wiggled their rear ends over the wall. At almost the same instant the church bells in the city began to ring. At first there was only one, but then another joined it, and another, until the air rang with their peals.
The men on the wall started to sing again, another bawdy song about the sexual fecundity of the Protector and the great size of his manhood.
The old man’s old man is as long as your arm, And as thick as the trunk of a tree...
Martin didn’t join in this time. He looked out over the wall at the sea of blackness that was beginning to close in around them.
He had seen this army in Carlisle, but it had swelled to many times that number. It was a heaving mass of blackness near a hundred yards wide, and it looked like it circled the whole city. He searched the darkness for the deeper black—the place where the Boy-King would be found— but his eyes were having to strain too much to see into the night.
More bells joined in the cacophony at his back. He could still faintly hear the beating of the drums and the wailing of the pipes, but they no
longer instilled the weakness and fear they had earlier.
Gord arrived back on the wall, still running.
“The Duke thanks you for your suggestion,” he said. “And old Sawney says he’ll have five sets of bellows ready in two hours time. Fitz has already delivered the barrels. And Barr and the smith are standing ready below awaiting your orders.”
“Tell them to stand firm,” Martin said. “They will be needed soon enough. And tell Menzies to get those bellows to the wall as soon as he can; he needn’t wait until all are ready.”
Gord saluted and left again. Megan passed him on the steps on the way up and walked over to Martin. She had to shout to make herself heard above the noise.
“The men are fed and watered,” she said. “And Fitz is seeing to finding more silver. I’m going back down to the billets to make sure there’s enough food to feed this lot in the morning.”
“If morning ever comes,” Martin said.
“Oh, it’ll come,” Megan said. “And if none of us are here to see it, it will still come. Even the Boy-King cannot affect that.”
She turned to leave and almost bumped into Lieutenant Barclay.
“Is your eyesight fading, old man?” she said.
“Not so much that I cannot fail to be dazzled by your beauty,” he said.
Megan blushed deeply.
“Your tongue has not failed you—I can see that,” she said, and made her way past him to the stairs.
“You didn’t salute your commanding officer,” the old soldier said.
“Giving a man a silly name and making people salute him doesn’t make him a leader,” she said. “A man is either a leader, or he isn’t.”
The old soldier looked shocked as Megan threw a salute at Martin and left. Martin was about to make a comment when a shout rang out loud along the ranks.
“They are attacking the North wall.”
Some of Martin’s men made to move.
“Stand firm,” he shouted. “Stay at your posts. The Duke himself is there—he will hold them.” The sound of cannon boomed out, loud even above the rest of the noise. The dogs at his side barked loudly and had to be calmed.
Martin looked north. He could see the muzzle flashes of muskets, and the smoke from the cannon. As long as the guns were firing, the wall was holding. Away to his left the dark army didn’t move—a black wall against the horizon. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, it began to roll forward. It reminded Martin of the shadow of a rain cloud on an otherwise sunny day.
“Here they come,” he shouted. “Hold your posts.”
There was a rattle of weapons being prepared, and Martin saw that some of his men were muttering prayers under their breath.
He walked along the wall behind them, having a word with those who looked the most terrified, shouting encouragement to others. And all along the wall, he saw the way the men looked at him that Hillman’s story had spread. Martin now realised that the Duke had spoken true—most of these men would follow the legend that had been created for him.
He passed Lieutenant Barclay. The old soldier was leaning on his musket, his arms crossed and his eyes almost closed. Martin was convinced he was asleep, but as he got nearer the old man stood straight and gave a precise salute.
“The time is nearly on us,” he said. “We are in a dark place.”
“Aye,” said Martin. “But we shall watch the sun coming up together, you and I.”
The old man spat on his palm and offered the hand to Martin.
“I’ll shake on that one.”
Martin managed a smile and spat on his own palm before shaking with the soldier.
“Now we are vowed,” the old man said. “And we only have that lot out there to deal with.”
He motioned over the wall, and Martin looked out at the ranks of the Boy-King’s army.
The Others had obviously learned from Milecastle and Carlisle; the front three ranks of the army were made up exclusively of the mind-slaves. They carried makeshift ladders and ropes with thick hooks on the ends.
“Reload your weapons,” Martin shouted. “Do not waste your silver on the front ranks—it will not kill them.”
He heard the order being passed along the wall as the dark army came closer. The sound of their pipes and drums contended with the bells and the cannon, and the drums were now winning. The relentless beat pounded in Martin’s brain until his teeth began to ache with the vibration.
“Save your bulb for the Others!” Barclay shouted as one of the men raised a bucket to the top of the wall. “Like the silver, it does not affect them.”
“Pick your targets well,” Martin shouted. “Aim for their heads—they are difficult to put down otherwise.”
The men moved forward to take aim. The horde was now little more than thirty yards away.
“Fire!” Martin shouted, and a volley rang out the length of the wall. The air was suddenly filled with smoke and the smell of spent powder.
“I hit him!” a voice shouted in dismay. “I hit him, and yet he still walks!”
“And I.” another said.
A man near Barclay turned from the wall and dropped his weapon, his eyes wild.
“We cannot fight such as these!” he screamed, and began to run. “They are demons from hell!”
Barclay shot him in the heart and kicked his still-twitching body off the wall to the courtyard below.
“We are here to protect the people of this city and to uphold the will of the Protector!” the old man shouted. “Not so serve our own interests! If any other man deserts his post, he’ll get the same!”
There were some shocked expressions on the men’s faces, but they all turned back to their posts.
“Reload and fire at will!” Martin shouted. Off to his right, above the West Gate, the big cannon started to boom, just as the top of the first ladder appeared above the parapet.
“Barr!” Martin called out. “Get your men up here and man the oil!”
The first ladders to reach the top of the parapets were easily toppled, but the defenders were having to lean over the wall to get a clear shot. Several men were almost pulled over, and three attackers managed to pull themselves over onto the wall before the defenders managed to repel all attempts and Barr’s men arrived to man the oil cauldron.
“Men of the Watch, fall back!” Martin said. They withdrew as one, and Barr’s men stepped forward. They set fire to the boiling oil and poured it over the wall.
Martin waited for the screams, but none came.
He chanced a look over the wall. The Others had moved back, away from the flames, but the Boy-King’s mind-slaves were afire, a seething mass of burning flesh. And still they made no sound, and still they tried to climb the walls, leaving smoking patches of decomposing flesh behind as they scrambled for purchase on the stone.
“More oil!” Martin ordered, and all along the wall the burning oil was poured over the battlements. Martin’s nose stung with the smell of burnt flesh and used powder, and he had to stifle a reflex to vomit.
Another look over the parapet showed him that, on this section at least, the mind-slaves were no longer a threat. They were burning in a huge pyre below the wall. And the fire served another purpose—it kept the Others at bay. They stood just beyond the fire, and they were screaming in rage.
“Silver shot!” Martin called out. “Reload with the silver, and fire at will!”
He leaned over the wall and picked a target—a tall Other in a red tunic. He wondered if this one had fought beside him at Carlisle, then his training took over. He shot it in the heart and it fell back, face staring at the sky. Blue fire began to play along its tunic and Martin watched until it was lost under the press of bodies.
More musket fire rang out in a ragged volley, and patches of blue flame ran along the line of the Other’s ranks. A ragged cheer went along the wall but was stopped in the men’s throats as the Others surged forward in a wave that broke against the base of the battlements.
“Ready the bulb!” Martin sho
uted.
Buckets were raised onto the battlements.
The Others climbed over the burning bodies of the mind-slaves, ignoring the fire that burned them as they climbed. As more bodies piled into the melee, the pyre grew higher and more Others burned, but the fires began to be smothered by the sheer press and weight of the bodies.
“Pour the bulb!” Martin ordered. “Use it now!”
When the bulb-saturated water hit the Others, its effect was immediate. They boiled and seethed from huge, oily lesions that sloughed the skin off their bodies. They screamed as they fell backwards on top of their companions.
Then, suddenly, the dark army fell back, the darkness receding into the night and the pipes and drums falling silent.
One by one the cannon went quiet, and soon the bells faltered until a deadly calm fell over the city. Thick palls of smoke hung in the air, and the stink of death was everywhere. As far as he could see, Martin’s stretch of the wall had not lost a single man.
A loud cheer rang along the walls, and Martin joined it, until he saw the grave expression on Lieutenant Barclay’s face.
“They were merely testing our defences,” the old soldier said. “They’ll be back. Stronger the next time.”
Martin ordered the refilling of the cauldrons and the buckets, and made sure every man had a full supply of both silver and normal shot.
The stink and the smoke stung his eyes, and he moved back so that he was as far from the wall’s edge as he could get. His ears rang, and his head ached, but he was alive.
Hillman arrived at a run. The man’s face was flushed, and his eyes wide.
“I slew an Other,” he said. “Shot it right between the eyes—well, more in the nose. But it burned—I saw it go up like a firework. I—“
Martin stopped him by placing a hand on his shoulder.
“What are you doing here?” he said. “Your place is with your men. Go back down the line and make sure all is well. And tell your men to keep an eye on those bodies under the wall—some of them might not be dead yet.”
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