The late afternoon sun sank behind the citadel and Guy motioned Arutha to his side. ‘I think they’re done for the day.’
Arutha said, ‘I don’t know. Look how they stand.’
Guy saw that the attacking host had not retired to camps as they had before. Now they reformed in attack positions, their commanders moving before them, directing replacements into the line. ‘They can’t mean to attack at night, can they?’
Amos and Armand had approached. ‘Why not?’ said Amos. ‘The way they’re throwing their men at us, it matters little who can see who. The silly swine-lover doesn’t give spit for who lives and who dies. It’ll be pure butchery, but they may wear us down.’
Armand surveyed the wall. The wounded and dead were being carried down to infirmaries set up within the city. ‘We’ve lost a total of three hundred twenty soldiers today. We may find the number higher when all the reports are re-checked. That leaves us with a standing force of six thousand two hundred and about twenty five.’
Guy swore. ‘If Martin and the others reach Stone Mountain in the fastest possible time and get back here as fast, it will not be soon enough. And it seems our friends out there have something planned for tonight.’
Arutha leaned against the stones of the wall. ‘They don’t seem to be readying for another assault.’
Guy looked back toward the citadel. The sun was now behind the mountains, but the sky was still bright. Banners and torches could both be seen on the plain before the city. ‘They seem to be … waiting.’
Guy said, ‘Have the companies stand down, but feed them at the forward positions.’ He and de Sevigny left without ordering a sharp watch. There was no need.
Arutha remained on the wall with Amos. He felt some strange sense of anticipation, as if the time for him to play his part, whatever that would prove to be, was rapidly approaching. If the ancient prophecy told him by the Ishapians at Sarth was true, he was the Bane of Darkness and it would fall to him to defeat Murmandamus. He rested his chin on his arms, upon the cold stones of the wall. Amos took out a pipe and began filling it with tabac, humming a sea chanty. As they waited, the army beyond was cloaked in darkness.
‘Locky, no,’ said Bronwynn, pushing the boy away.
Looking confused, the squire said, ‘But we’re off duty.’
The tired girl said, ‘I’ve been running messages all day, the same as you. I’m hot and sticky, covered with dirt and smoke, and you want to lie with me.’
Locklear’s voice betrayed a note of hurt. ‘But … last night.’
‘Was last night,’ said the girl gently. ‘That was something I wanted, and I thank you for it. But now I’m tired and dirty, and not in the mood.’
Stiffly the boy said, ‘Thank you! Was … that a favour?’ His wounded pride showed and his voice was thick with youthful emotion. ‘I love you, Bronwynn. When this is over you must come with me to Krondor. I’m going to be a rich man someday. We can be married.’
Half-impatiently, half-tenderly, the girl said, ‘Locky, you speak of things I don’t understand. The pleasures of the bedchamber are … not promises. Now I must rest before we are called back to duty. Go. Maybe some other time.’
Feeling stung, the boy backed away, his cheeks burning. ‘What do you mean, some other time?’ Colour rose in his face as he almost shouted. ‘You think this is some game, don’t you. You think I’m just a boy.’ He spoke defiantly.
Bronwynn looked at him with sadness in her eyes. ‘Yes, Locky. You’re a boy. Now go.’
His temper rising, Locky shouted, ‘I’m no damn boy, Bronwynn. You’ll see. You’re not the only girl in Armengar. I don’t need you.’ Awkwardly he stepped through the door, slamming it behind him. Tears of humiliation and anger ran down his cheeks. His stomach churned with cold fury and his heart raced. Never in his life had he felt so much confusion and pain. Then he heard Bronwynn shout his name. He hesitated a moment, thinking the girl might want to apologize, or afraid she might simply want him for some errand. Then she screamed.
Locklear pushed open the door and saw the girl clutching her ribs while she awkwardly held a dagger in her hand. Blood poured down her arm and along her side and thigh. Before her crouched a mountain troll, his sword upraised. Locklear’s hand flew to his rapier as he shouted, ‘Bronwynn!’ The troll faltered as the boy leaped toward him, but even as Locklear raised his own weapon, the troll’s blade came down.
In blind rage Locklear slashed out, cutting the troll across the back of the neck. The creature staggered and attempted to turn, but the boy ran it through, the point of the rapier finding a place under the arm where no armour protected the creature. The troll shuddered and its sword fell from limp fingers as it collapsed to the floor.
Locklear stabbed it one more time, then was past it to Bronwynn’s side. The girl lay in a pool of blood and instantly Locklear knew she was dead. Tears ran down the boy’s face as he cradled her in his arms, hugging her close. ‘I’m sorry, Bronwynn. I’m sorry I was mad,’ he whispered in the dead girl’s ear. ‘Don’t be dead. I’ll be your friend. I didn’t mean to shout. Damn!’ He rocked back and forth as Bronwynn’s blood ran down his arms. ‘Damn, damn, damn.’
Locklear wept aloud, his pain a hot iron in his stomach and groin, his heart pounding and his muscles knotted. His skin flushed, as if hatred and rage sought to leach through the pores of his skin, and his eyes seemed to burn inside his head, suddenly too hot and dry for tears.
Then the sound of alarm brought him from his private grief. He rose and gently placed the girl upon the bed they had shared the night before. Then he took his rapier and opened the door. He took a deep breath, and something froze inside him, as if mountain ice replaced the burning agony of the moment before.
Before him a woman held a child as a goblin advanced, his sword upraised. Locklear stepped calmly forward and ran the goblin through the side of the neck, twisting his sword savagely, so the creature’s head fell from his shoulders. Locklear looked about and saw a brief shimmer in the night air, and suddenly a moredhel warrior appeared before him. Without hesitation Locklear attacked. The moredhel took a wound in the side, but managed to avoid being killed by the boy. Still the wound had been serious and Locklear was a swordsman of above-average skill. And now he had come to command a cold, controlled rage, a disregard for his own safety that made him the most fearful of opponents, one willing to take risks because he didn’t care if he lived. With astonishing fury the boy drove the moredhel back to the wall of the building and ran him through.
Locklear spun about, looking for another opponent, and saw another form appear in the street a half block down. The boy ran toward the goblin.
Everywhere in the city, the invaders suddenly appeared. Once the alarm had been sounded, the defenders had dealt with them, but a few goblins and moredhel had joined in force and were now fighting from pockets within the city. As the invasion of magically transported warriors reached its peak, the army outside the walls attacked. Suddenly there was the risk of enough soldiers being pulled from the walls to deal with the teleported soldiers to allow those without to find a point of defence they could breach.
Guy ordered one reinforcement company to the point of heaviest attack upon the wall, and another off the wall to aid those in the city. Hot oil and arrows quickly turned back those at the wall, but the constant appearances within the city continued. Arutha fought off numbing fatigue and watched his father’s most bitter rival, wondering how the man found the reserve of strength to carry on. He was a much older man, yet Arutha found himself envying Guy his energy. And the speed with which he made decisions showed a complete understanding of where every unit at his disposal was at any time. Arutha still couldn’t bring himself to like this man, but he respected him and, more than he cared to admit, even admired him.
Guy watched the distant hill, the place where Murmandamus oversaw his army. There was a faint flicker of light; after a moment, another; then a third. Arutha followed Guy’s gaze and, after witnessing the lights for a t
ime, said, ‘That’s where they’re coming from?’
‘I’d bet on it. That witch-king or his snake priest is behind this.’
Arutha said, ‘He’s too far for even Martin’s bow, and I’ll wager none of your archers can reach him. Nor can your catapults.’
‘The bastard’s just out of range.’
Amos came along the wall to say, ‘Things seem to be under control, but they keep popping up everywhere. I’ve a report of three in the citadel, and one appeared in the moat and sank like a stone, now … What are you looking at?’
Arutha indicated the hill and Amos watched for a while. ‘Our catapults can’t reach it. Damn.’ Then the old seaman’s face split in a grin. ‘I’ve an idea.’
Guy waved toward the bailey, where an astonished looking troll had suddenly appeared, to be overwhelmed by three soldiers. But while he died, another came into existence and dashed away down a street. ‘Anything. Sooner or later, they’re going to gather into a large enough company to cause serious trouble.’
Amos hurried away, toward a catapult platform. He issued instructions and soon a cauldron was heating. He oversaw the preparations and returned. Leaning upon the wall, he said, ‘Anytime now.’
‘What?’ said Guy.
‘The wind will change. Always does this time of night.’
Arutha shook his head. He was tired and suddenly was visited with a funny image. ‘Are we going to sail closer, Captain?’
Abruptly a troll was upon the rampart, blinking in confusion. Guy struck it with the back of his fist, knocking it to the cobbles far below. It landed with a thump of finality. ‘It seems they have a moment or two of disorientation, which is a damn good thing,’ said the Protector. ‘Otherwise that one might have had your leg for lunch, Amos.’
Amos stuck a finger in his mouth, then raised it. With a satisfied ‘Ah’ he shouted, ‘Catapult! Fire!’
The mighty war engine uncoiled, throwing its missile with such force as to make it leap upon the wall. Into the dark the missile silently sped.
For a long moment no effect was visible, then shrieks filled the night from the distance. Amos let out a satisfied howl of glee. Arutha watched for a moment and saw no more flashes of light. ‘Amos, what did you do?’ asked Guy.
‘Well, One-eye, it’s a trick I learned from your old friends the Keshians. I was in Durbin when a tribe of desertmen had an uprising and decided to take the city. The governor-general, that old fox Hazara-Khan, found the walls being swept with bow fire, so he ordered up hot sand and threw it at them.’
‘Hot sand?’ said Arutha.
‘Yes, you just heat it until it glows red and toss it at them. The wind carries it a fair piece, and if it hasn’t cooled too much when it hits – it burns like unholy blazes. Gets in your armour, under your tunic, in your boots, your hair, everywhere. If Murmandamus was looking this way, we might have blinded the impotent son of a poxy rat. Anyway, it’ll take his mind off spells for an hour or two.’
Arutha laughed. ‘I think only for a time, however.’
Amos took a pipe from his tunic and a taper which he lit from a torch. ‘Yes, there’s that.’ His tone turned serious. ‘There is that.’
The three looked out again into the dark, seeking some sign of what would be next.
• Chapter Fourteen •
Destruction
The wind blew dust across the wall.
Arutha squinted as he watched riders move along the lines of the assembled host, heading for Murmandamus’s banner. The attacks had continued unabated for three days before ceasing. Some sort of war council was being held in Murmandamus’s camp, or so it seemed to Arutha.
For an hour the conference had been taking place. Arutha considered the situation. The last assaults had been intense, as much as any before. But they had lacked the disquieting element of the sudden appearance by those warriors transported by magic inside the walls. The lack of magic assaults had Arutha puzzled. He speculated there was some compelling reason for Murmandamus not to use his arts again, or some limit on what he was able to do for any length of time. Still, Arutha suspected something was about to break for Murmandamus to be calling all his chieftains together.
Amos wandered along the wall, inspecting the soldiers on duty. It was late in the day, and already men were relaxing, for it was apparent there would be little chance of attack before morning. The enemy’s camp was not standing ready, and it would take hours for them to muster. Amos reached Arutha’s side and said, ‘So, then, if this was your command, what would you be doing?’
‘Had I the men, I’d roll out the bridge, sally forth, and hit them before they could marshal their forces. Murmandamus pitches his command post far too close to the front, and without apparent thought a company of goblins has been moved down the line, leaving an almost clear path to his pavilion. Lead with mounted archers and with luck you could have several of his captains dead before they could organize resistance. By the time they were roused, I’d be back inside the city.’
Amos grinned. ‘Well, what a bright lad you are, Highness. If you want, you can come play with us.’
Arutha regarded Amos questioningly, and the seaman inclined his head. Arutha looked past him to the bailey and saw horsemen riding into position before the inner gate of the barbican. ‘Come along. I’ve an extra horse for you.’
Arutha followed Amos down the stairs to the waiting mounts. ‘And what if Murmandamus has another magic trick to toss at us?’
‘Then we will all die and Guy will be sad for having lost the best company he’s had in the last twenty years: me.’ Amos mounted. ‘You worry too much, lad. Have I told you that?’
Arutha smiled his crooked half-smile as he mounted. Guy, waiting by the gates, said, ‘Be doubly careful. If you can hurt them, fine, but no heroic suicide assaults just on the chance to get at Murmandamus. We need you back.’
Amos laughed. ‘One-eye, I’m the last candidate for hero you’re ever likely to meet.’ He signalled and the inner gate was opened. The rumble of the bridge being run out could be heard as the inner gate closed. Suddenly the outer gate swung open and Amos was leading the company out. Quickly outriders took their position on the flanks as the main element of Amos’s force advanced upon the besieging army. At first it was as if the enemy didn’t understand that a sally was being undertaken, for no alarm was given. They were almost upon the first elements of Murmandamus’s army when a trumpet sounded. By the time the goblins and trolls were scrambling for weapons, Amos and his raiders were racing by them.
Arutha rode straight for the hill where Murmandamus’s commanders were in conference, three Armengarian archers at his side. He didn’t know what drove him, but suddenly he was filled with a need to meet this dark lord. A squad of riders, those closest to the raiders, galloped to intercept the Armengarians with Arutha. Arutha found himself facing a human renegade, who grinned as he slashed at Arutha. Arutha killed him quickly and efficiently. Then the fight was fully joined.
Arutha looked toward the command pavilion and saw Murmandamus standing in plain view, his snake companion at his side. The moredhel leader seemed indifferent to the carnage being visited upon his forces. Several Armengarians attempted to close upon the pavilion, but they were intercepted by renegade and moredhel horsemen. One archer pulled up his mount and coolly sent bow shafts at the pavilion. Having learned the lesson of Murmandamus’s invulnerability, he chose other targets. He was quickly joined by another bowman and suddenly two of Murmandamus’s chieftains were down, one clearly dead from an arrow in the eye. Another company of foot soldiers ran toward the spot where Arutha laid about with his sword, cutting down goblins, trolls, and moredhel, attempting to protect the archers while they attacked the chieftains. For some endless time the ringing of steel and the pounding of blood in his ears were all Arutha heard. Then Amos shouted, ‘Begin the withdrawal!’ The cry was taken up by other horsemen, until every raider had heard the call.
Arutha cast a glance past where Amos sat his horse and saw another co
mpany of riders was headed toward them. Arutha slashed out with his sword, unseating another renegade, and headed toward Trask. The newly arriving renegades struck Amos’s raiders, halting their movement. Then the raiders wheeled as a body and attacked Murmandamus’s cavalry. Slowly the raiders began to fight their way out of the camp, killing everyone who stood between them and escape. A break appeared in the mass around them, a clear path back to the gates. Arutha spurred his mount forward and joined with the others in headlong flight back to the city. He glanced over his shoulder. A company of black-clad riders sped past Murmandamus’s pavilion, following in hot pursuit. To Amos he shouted, ‘Black Slayers!’
Amos signalled and several riders peeled off to turn and engage the Black Slayers. They charged and met with a ringing clash of steel, and several riders from both sides were unhorsed. Then the melee dissolved as the Armengarians disengaged, while another company of moredhel advanced upon the conflict. Most of the Armengarians who fell regained their saddles, but not all. A full dozen soldiers lay upon the sandy soil of the plain.
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