“Not dead yet?” Hillman said, and shivered before saluting. “They must be dead—they must— ”
“Lieutenant!” Martin said, almost shouting in the man’s face. “I gave you an order!”
Hillman went quiet, but the fear was still there deep down in his eyes.
“Aye, aye, sir,” he said. His hand was trembling as he turned away. “He is not a leader of men,” Barclay said as they watched the man go down the line, and Martin had to agree.
“Maybe not. But the men of the north know him, and at least he is no coward.” Barclay nodded.
“When the fighting gets fierce, I would have Barr standing beside him on the wall—his resolve might need some stiffening,” the old soldier said, then stuttered, ”But…begging your pardon sir...I did not mean to question your judgement!”
Martin laughed grimly.
“Keep giving me advice,” he said. “For you have been a soldier since afore I was born, and I value your judgements. And this one I agree with. Make sure Barr knows that his men should stand with Hillman’s.”
The old soldier grinned.
“Menzies had it right. You have inherited your father’s way with men...and with command.”
“You knew my father?” Martin asked.
“Aye,” Barclay said. “I served with him and Menzies in Ireland in 1706. Did Menzies not tell you?”
Martin had never even known that his father had taken the Protector’s shilling. If he survived this war against the Boy-King there was much he would have to learn.
Martin surveyed the wall. His men were all in place, all alert. The buckets had been refilled with crushed bulb and water, shot had been distributed, and oil was being carefully poured into the cauldrons. The braziers were re-stoked with fuel. Out in the dark, all was still and quiet. It seemed they would be made to wait once more.
“They’ll be back,” the old soldier said. “They always come back. The important thing to learn is not to let it prey on your mind.”
“And pray tell me how best to do that,” Martin said. “For I am almost ready to soil my breeches.”
The old man looked Martin in the eye, and shook his head.
“No. I don’t think so,” he said. “You are strong in mind, and have the fear under control. Think on other matters. Remember brighter days.”
“Then tell me about my father,” Martin asked.
The old soldier leaned back against the wall and took a clay pipe from a soft leather pouch he retrieved from his tunic.
“I only knew him for a year,” he said. “And that was nigh on forty years ago.”
“Yet you knew a man I did not,” Martin said. “And I would know what kind of man he was. I knew him only as a father.”
“Oh, he was a wild one,” Barclay said, and laughed when he saw the expression on Martin’s face. “All men think of their fathers as always having been the stern authoritarian; they forget that fathers were once youths.”
He got the pipe lit and puffed happily on it.
“An old soldier knows the value of simple pleasures,” he said. “But it was other pleasures that Menzies and your father were after that night in Dublin when they first came to my attention. They had started a fight in a brothel.”
He laughed again at Martin’s shock.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but you have not been a soldier long enough if the idea of a brothel offends your sensibilities. Or that your father was in one.
“They were brought up on a charge before me in the morning. Menzies had a black eye, and your father was pissing blood after a blow in the kidneys—they’re a tough lot, these Irish women.
“I let them off with a caution. They were providing enough amusement in the camp anyway. That was how I met them, but we became friends after an almost disastrous engagement with O’Shaughnesy in Kilkenny…but that story will have to wait. I fear we will not be given the time to complete it.”
The sound of the Other’s pipe bags being inflated drifted through the night.
“Look lively, lads,” Martin called out. “It seems they are coming back for more punishment.”
After checking that the men were all awake and alert, he left Barclay in charge of the wall and headed for the billets. The dogs followed at his heels.
John Barr and Toby the smith were waiting for him.
“Well, gentlemen, are you ready for a fight?” he asked.
“That we are,” the big blacksmith said. “My men missed all the fun the last time.”
“It’s no fun, man,” Martin said. “’Tis bloody work.”
“Aye,” said Barr bitterly. “When you’ve seen your companions come back as Others, it takes all joy out of the killing.”
“If you have no stomach for it, stand down,” the smith said. “My men are ready.”
“There are enough Others to be slain,” Martin said. “You won’t have to fight each other for the privilege.”
The pipes and drums started up again beyond the wall, sounding even louder and more wild than before.
“Barr,” Martin said to the younger officer. “Take charge of the oil behind Hillman’s men. And keep an eye on Hillman...the man is a bit excitable and under some strain.”
He turned to the smith.
“Is the pouring of oil too humble for you?” he asked.
“No, sir,” the smith said, grinning. “I am a most humble man. And if it kills Others, I’m game for it.”
“Then take your men and stand on the wall behind Barclay’s men. I will join you before battle is joined. Together we will stand against them, and send them homewards.”
The big man saluted and left. Martin looked around. The courtyard enclosed by their billets was almost empty.
Someone had already cleared away the body of the man Barclay had shot. Martin was glad of that. He didn’t disagree with the old soldier’s action, but the sight of a body that had once been their companion might have led to misgivings among the men.
Barr and the smith were already leading their men up onto the wall. Over in a corner of the yard Gord, Megan and Fitzsimmons were melting silver in a crucible over a fire. Gord was working the bellows, Megan was stoking the fire, and Fitzsimmons was loading the crucible with silver candlesticks.
Martin strode over, and the dogs ran ahead of him, jumping excitedly around Rollo until he calmed them with soft words.
Fitzsimmons had a large sack at his feet. It was filled to the brim with candlesticks, spoons, trays and teapots.
“Well, Fitz, I see some of the town burghers are less well off this night,” Martin said.
“Aye, sir,” the man said, smiling. “Hillman’s boys have proved adept at wheedling out the good stuff. And I did leave the owners an IOU in the Duke’s name.”
They all laughed together, until the sound of the pipes and drums got closer, and the city bells began to be rung once more.
“I am needed on the wall,” Martin said. “We’ll have five hundred rounds of shot to give to you in an hour,” Fitzsimmons replied.
“Then I’ll make sure we survive that long,” Martin said, and left at a run for the wall. The dogs ran just behind him.
“How goes it?” he said to Barclay as the old man turned away from the parapet.
He saw shock in the man’s eyes.
“I didn’t know he had so many,” the old soldier whispered.
Martin looked over the wall. It seemed Barclay had been right—the first attack had just been to test their defences. This time there seemed to be no end to the dark army; it stretched back into the darkness as far as he could see.
Once more he searched for the deeper blackness, for the person of the Boy-King...and suddenly there was a voice in his head, a voice he had heard before back in his bed in Milecastle.
“Ah, the young officer who would have kept me from my wife,” the voice said. “Would you like to see her again?”
Martin realised that he was rooted to the spot. He had no control over his limbs. At his side the dogs whimpered and c
owered low to the ground, their ears bent back.
“I have her here,” the voice continued. “You just have to open the gate, and I will let her come to you.”
Martin saw a picture in his mind of Mary Campbell, naked atop a long stone, her legs open, waiting for him.
He started walking along the wall towards the West Gate. He was aware that Barclay shouted after him, but he felt no compulsion to stop.
Then, without warning, his left arm began to twitch, and he felt his fingernails turn to talons, and the hairs on his arm thicken and sprout.
The Boy-King was gone from his mind as quickly as he had come, and when he looked at the back of his left hand, it was only his own, human, hand once more.
Barclay caught up with him.
“Sir?” the old man said. “What ails you?”
Martin shook his head, as if to clear it.
“A momentary rush of blood,” he said. “I wanted to check the defences at the gate. See to your men. The Others are almost on us.”
He followed the old man back to their post and looked out over the wall.
The ranks of the mind-slaves were now five deep, and more of them carried rope, ladders and hooks. They came on without a pause.
“Normal shot, rapid fire!” Martin ordered when they were within thirty yards. Some of the attackers fell, but most walked on, despite showing gaping, bloodless wounds. Martin saw one, no more than a child, with a hole the size of a plate in its upper body. Yet still it came on, climbing over the still smouldering corpses from the first attack.
Martin waited until the first rank of the mind-slaves started to throw their ropes and ladders up the wall, then ordered the oil to be lit and poured. Once more the smell of roasting flesh rose in the air. Despite that, ladders and grapple hooks began to appear along the top of the wall.
“More oil!” Martin ordered, turning to the men behind him.
“It is coming!” the smith shouted.
“It had better be!” Martin said.
One of the dogs barked behind him, and Martin turned just as a huge man clambered over the battlement. Martin raised his musket, but Fang beat him to it and leaped on the man’s chest, sending him back over the wall. The dog seemed to bounce off the attacker and landed beside Martin on all four legs.
“Fall back!” the smith shouted, and more burning oil went over the wall. Flame now rose above the far side of the battlements, and Martin realised that the press of bodies on the other side must be rising remarkably high.
The noise and the stench assailed Martin’s senses. Great palls of greasy smoke hung heavy in the air, and it was difficult to see much over the wall. But he saw enough to see that the Others were massing, and were even now beginning to press forward over the burning corpses of the mind-slaves. The Others burned fiercely, but every one who fell brought the pyre closer to the top of the wall.
“Ready the bulb!” Martin shouted, but held the order to use it...the water would quench the fire, and it was killing many Others. But if he waited too long, the Others would be over the wall in seconds. The first pale hands were beginning to grasp the top of the wall.
“Pour the water!” he shouted. “And ready the silver shot!”
The Others died in their hundreds as bucket after bucket of water mixed with the bulb poured over the wall. Silver shot was fired in volley after volley into their ranks. But still the Others pressed forward.
Martin tried more oil, and used up every available ounce of bulb, but it was not enough. Eventually the Others started to come over the wall, and Martin stepped forward, ready to engage in hand to hand fighting, knowing as he did so that death wasn’t far away. Just as he drew his sword, a familiar voice shouted out behind him.
“Officers of the Watch, stand back!”
Martin made to retreat, but an Other leaped over the wall and threw itself at him. He only got his hands up in time to stop it tearing out his throat, then it knocked him over. They rolled on the parapet, the dogs snarling and biting around them. Martin shoved the thing’s head away from his face—and was suddenly soaked in water full of the pungent odour of the bulb.
The thing in his hands stopped struggling and went limp, and, as Martin rolled away, it dissolved into no more than a greasy mass of fatty flesh.
Martin rose to find Menzies behind him, a bellows in his hands.
“I’m sorry to take so long, my Thane,” the old doctor said as he pumped water over the stretch of wall around him. Along the line in both directions Martin saw other men operating bellows. The Others fell back in the face of the bulb, and back further as the water close to the wall was soaked to a width of nearly ten yards.
“Silver shot!” Martin called, and his men stepped forward. After the fourth volley, when the ground was littered with burning, screaming Others, the pipes and drums fell silent, and the dark army fell back out of sight once more. The cheer that went up from the wall was one of relief rather than triumph
“Well met, Captain Menzies,” Martin said.
“Aye. Well met, indeed,” Lieutenant Barclay said from behind him. “I do believe that I am even more pleased to see you than I was at Kilkenny.”
Martin looked over the wall, but there was no sign of any Others—at least none that hadn’t been given the final death or were in the process of getting there.
“Ale!” he called down into the courtyard. “Ale for the men of the Watch!”
Gord left the fire and saluted up to him.
“I’ll have a new barrel cracked open!” he shouted.
“I would hear this story of Kilkenny. Come to my billet,” Martin said to the two older men. “I’m sure Gord can find enough ale for us to wash the stench of Others from our passages.”
In truth, Martin would like enough ale to bring oblivion, to rid himself of the memory of the Boy-King in his mind and the reappearance of the wolf. But he feared those were memories that would be with him for a long time...if not for the rest of his life.
He gave charge of the wall to the smith.
“Have you killed enough Others yet?” he said to the big man.
“No,” the man said grimly. “But it is a start.”
Five minutes later Martin was sitting on the ground in his tent alongside Menzies and Barclay. The dogs lay on either side of him, and a small fire had been lit, scarcely enough for warmth, but enough for light.
Gord had provided Martin with a change of clothes, but he refused to wear them.
“Not while there is yet a chance that the Others will return,” he said. “These are infused with the bulb—it should keep Others away.”
He looked at Menzies.
“Do we have enough water and bulb to bathe everyone?”
Menzies shook his head. “We are already low in the bulb. If the dark ones hadn’t retreated so quickly, we would be in trouble now. We do not have enough to stave off another attack. Fitz has people scouring the city for more, but I fear we may have exhausted the supply.”
Gord brought ale and four mugs.
“I thought I would join you,” he said. “It is hot work manning the bellows.”
“And where are Fitz and Megan?” Martin asked.
“They have found a bed,” Gord said.
“Surely they cannot be sleeping at a time like this?” Martin said.
Gord looked astonished, and then laughed.
“I don’t think sleep is what they have in mind,” he said.
Martin suddenly realised what he was being told, and blushed.
“As I said earlier, sir,” Barclay said, “you have not yet been a soldier long enough.”
He turned to Menzies.
“And I thought you educated the boy...surely you have been remiss in this matter.”
Menzies laughed with the others.
“Oh, he knows what his manhood is for,” he said. “But it was young Sean Grant who bewitched the female population in Milecastle...young Martin here just didn’t want to be second after his friend.”
Martin wa
s still blushing.
“May I remind you that I am still your commanding officer,” he said, then began to laugh along with them.
“Let us drink,” he said. “And you can tell me the story of what occurred in Kilkenny.”
“It is a long story,” Barclay said.
“And your father and I do not come out of it too favourably,” Menzies said.
“I care not,” Martin said. “Anything to divert our minds for a while.”
“It starts in an ale house...” Barclay began.
“No...it was a brothel,” Menzies said.
The story took two hours, what with Menzies’ interruptions, and Barclay’s diversions. All Martin learned was that his father had been a headstrong youth, but courageous, and faithful to his friends. That didn’t surprise him over much.
“I thank you,” Martin said to Barclay. “It is not often that a man gets to know about his father’s life as a boy.”
“He was a fine man,” Barclay said.
“And a good friend,” Menzies added. “A toast,” Gord said. “To our fathers.”
They all drank, and Martin saw tears on Rollo’s cheeks before the big man turned away from the fire and hid his face in the shadows.
“The night is getting on,” Barclay said. “I must go and check on the line.”
“Aye,” said Martin. “There may yet be time for another attack afore dawn.”
But when the men rose and left the tent they were surprised to see that pink and grey were showing in the sky.
Morning was coming.
Derby had survived the first night.
A messenger arrived from Cumberland while Martin was inspecting the wall. He was ordered immediately to a staff meeting with the Duke.
He just had time to change his tunic for a clean one, and leave the dogs with Gord, before he followed the messenger at a run to the Duke’s field tent in the courtyard behind the main north gate of the town.
Martin was shocked to see squads of men staking tens of bodies of the Duke’s soldiers.
“The wall was breached?” he said, breathless.
“Aye,” said the messenger. “Just before your man arrived with the bellows. It is said that some of the watch went slack-jawed, dropped their weapons, and allowed the Others to take them without a fight.”
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