by Nathan Hawke
Sixfingers.
‘You ready?’ Angry Jonnic clenched his teeth and spat. ‘Pity Sarvic’s not here, but he’s not. Quick and steady and take your time to aim. Chances are we won’t get a second shot. And he’ll have mail on, and good mail at that. If you can, shoot him in the face.’
Reddic glanced at the rope ladder up to the second gate. The forkbeards had the whole second tier now, and the third tier too by the look of things, but the ladder was still there and no one had come down from above or up from below to make sure there were no Marroc left on the roof of the gatehouse. Their mistake.
‘Now!’ Jonnic rolled into a crouch and then stood straight with his bow drawn back in one smooth motion, all far too perfect for Reddic, who tried to get to his feet and draw back his bow at the same time but stumbled and almost fell over. He saw Sixfingers on the back of his horse look up. He saw Jonnic shoot his arrow straight at the forkbeard king’s face, just like he’d said, and he saw the Crimson Shield jerk up with an impossible speed to catch the arrow and turn it away. He didn’t see his own arrow because as he let it fly he slipped sideways and he had to drop his bow to catch himself as he fell. He landed on his sore arm and howled.
Arrows and stones and fire poured into the press of Lhosir around the fourth gate. A part of Oribas recoiled in horror and another part clenched in fierce glee. The gates hadn’t fallen and the Marroc at last had the Lhosir helpless. Overhead, behind the fifth gate, they were tipping down every piece of stone they could find, oblivious to Valaric’s orders. Oribas watched a chunk as big as a man crush a handful of Lhosir warriors and sweep three more off the road. He tried to spot the second Fateguard in the melee but it was impossible with all the forkbeards lifting their shields overheard to keep the arrows and stones at bay. Now and then when he thought he caught a glimpse he threw salt, but it was lost in the chaos. The forkbeards were being crushed and burned with no way to fight back. It made his stomach churn and yet he’d seen what they did to the Marroc who defied them. He’d been there and watched as they’d sliced open a man’s back and snapped his ribs off his spine and drawn out his lungs, and these Lhosir would do the same to all of them if they won. To his Achista and to her brother Addic, to him and to Gallow. To Gallow’s children and to every single Marroc they found, man, woman or child.
A Marroc beside him lurched and fell with an arrow in him. Oribas peeked long enough to see a few dozen archers back at the elbow of the road. Marroc archers bought with silver that the forkbeards had stolen from their fathers, that’s what Valaric would say. He ducked, but most of their arrows were going up to the fifth tier. A few more arced overhead.
‘The gates!’ Oribas barely heard the shout. ‘The gates! It’s happening.’ He ripped open another sack of salt and pulled it to the edge of the battlements, heedless of the arrows now. All he could see were shields packed together. He threw the salt anyway in case some of it found its way somewhere useful, but even as he did, the forkbeards suddenly moved apart and Oribas saw broken and empty pieces of iron armour lying on the road. Now the ram rushed forward. It took a dozen blows this time. Small consolation; but before Oribas could get to the ladder and scamper up to the fifth tier, Sarvic was pulling him face down into the stone as the arrows began to fall again.
Gallow saw the iron of the fourth gate brown with rust and flake and peel and split. He saw the dust rise off it with each blow of the ram and the first hinge snap. The stones piled behind the gates held the ram a while longer; and the gates, when at last they cracked and fell, toppled awkwardly, and the Lhosir had to clamber through them, over them and around them, picking their way through the rubble. Not that it made much difference. It was tempting, when the gates gave way and the enemy came screaming through, to give in to the fury, to let out his own scream and charge right back at them. Yell to shake their very bones and eat their souls, as the Screambreaker had done on the day he’d shattered King Tane’s Marroc outside Sithhun. He felt the urge, hot and fierce, and beside him Valaric felt it too, but the forkbeards had to climb over the rubble and there were Marroc archers who still had arrows to shoot them as they did, and it was better to hold the line, to keep their shield wall waiting for the Lhosir when they finally reached clear ground. They growled at each other then, he and Valaric, snarled at one another to hold fast come what may. The first forkbeards came screaming with their spears raised high and Gallow lifted his shield to meet them and turn their sharp iron aside as he stabbed back with his own, while beside him Valaric savaged them with the red steel of Solace. They were mad, these Lhosir, swept away by fury. They’d survived the press of the gates, the fire and stones and arrows. They were burned and battered and now they charged without any thought for themselves. They hurled their spears at the very last with such force that the men who took them in their shields reeled and staggered, and then they smashed into the ranks of the Marroc with their axes raised high and brought them down, splitting skulls, hooking away shields, stabbing with knives, and for a moment Gallow felt the Marroc line waver under the ferocity of that first rush; but then beside him Valaric’s red sword lashed out left and right with a fury that even the forkbeards couldn’t stand and Gallow felt the Marroc harden again. They would hold. They could. They believed, and for once Marroc would face Lhosir and win, toe to toe, shield to shield.
He lost his spear, torn out of his hand when he drove it into a Lhosir’s foot. He hacked and slashed with his axe, battering at each man who stood in front of him, and it was strange fighting in a line of Marroc because the soldiers behind him didn’t do what they should, and when his axe hooked a shield, no killing thrust came at once from behind.
A spear sliced him open along the back of his arm. He barely felt it. An axe hit his shoulder, turned by his mail and he might not even have noticed. He couldn’t hear over the noise, and it was a long while before he realised that most of the screaming was his own.
*
Angry Jonnic dragged Reddic to his feet. ‘You crazy Marroc!’ He was yelping with joy. ‘Did you see what you did?’
Reddic stumbled up. Down on the road only a few dozen yards away the iron devils had stopped. They were staring up at him and in their midst a man lay sprawled across the road, hauling himself sideways by one arm, screaming in pain. Reddic blinked. That’s King Sixfingers?
‘I did that?’
‘I think you shot him in the foot.’ Jonnic loosed another arrow at the forkbeard king but he twisted and lifted the Crimson Shield in the way even as he screamed bloody murder at the pain. ‘His horse threw him too. Now let’s finish it!’ But the iron devils had already jumped down to shield Sixfingers with their own bodies, and other forkbeards on the road were pointing and shouting. Some were already running at the gate with a ladder. Jonnic let another arrow fly, swore, let off one at the forkbeards with the ladder instead and then threw his bow over his shoulder. ‘No use us staying here now.’ He pushed Reddic ahead, who climbed as fast as he could with Jonnic right on his heels. When he got to the top of the second gate and looked back, the forkbeards had raised their ladder and there were iron devils climbing after them.
Reddic lunged for the ladder up to the third gate. They were rope ladders, lowered from above and just as easily pulled up again. He shouted out in case any Marroc were still holding the roof up there. ‘Iron devils! Help!’
There were. Hands reached over the edge to haul him up and out of the way. He heard a woman call for the Aulian wizard to come down from the tier above. He twisted, looked back down and reached for Jonnic right behind him. Their hands touched and then the first iron devil threw an axe from its belt. Angry Jonnic arched and spasmed. His hand slipped out of Reddic’s and he crashed back to the gatehouse below and lay still.
‘No!’ Reddic screamed. He almost climbed back down, even though he knew in his heart that Angry Jonnic was already dead, but other hands pulled him away.
‘No,’ said another voice, and then the wizard was there, breathless and wild-eyed. He pressed something into Re
ddic’s hand. A pot of oil. ‘Wait for it to climb. When I throw my salt, you throw this in its face. You understand?’ The wizard sounded angry and suddenly Reddic was angry too. Red-hot furious angry. He nodded as the sounds of iron scraping on stone came closer. The ladder ropes shook. An iron-gloved hand reached over the battlement and there it was, the face of the devil. Its mask and crown. Reddic had never seen one so close. He wasn’t sure any of them had. He saw it for a moment, long enough to remember for ever, and then the wizard threw a cloud of brown salt into the iron devil’s face. It hissed and froze and Reddic smashed the pot over its crown. The wizard jabbed a burning brand into its face and it burst into flames.
‘Move! Back to the fourth gate now!’ An arrow tore the air and buried itself in the iron devil’s face, straight through the slats of its mask. It tipped back, toppled and crashed into the tower below, knocking another ironskin off the ladder as it went. Reddic stared over the side. They’d landed on Jonnic, both of them. The one with the arrow through its face was still burning. It didn’t move.
‘Get the ladder up.’ The archer reached past him. A woman, and with a start he recognised Achista. Then the Aulian wizard was pushing him.
‘Up! Up! Plenty more of those to kill if you have the stomach for it. Plenty more.’
As he climbed, he heard the wizard and the Huntress behind him, arguing about who should go last.
Valaric didn’t understand how the forkbeards were doing it but they were slowly turning the tide and winning. Never mind that they had to run through the gatehouse with men firing arrows down on them. Never mind that they had to clamber through the stones strewn across the road to break their shield wall and stop their rams, never mind the ribbons of burning oil and the stones that still fell among them, slowly they were winning, and the Marroc around him were falling one by one – falling dead or falling back. The red sword danced in his hand, happy and filled with purpose, yet no matter how many forkbeards he killed there were always more.
A spear stabbed at his leg, reaching under his shield. The red sword split it in two and lashed at the forkbeard who held it, but Valaric felt the pain as the wound Oribas had stitched together ripped open again. And he could hear the sword humming, he really could, but the noise was in his head, not in the world outside, and it was getting louder and louder, drowning out everything else, and then for a moment it stopped and suddenly there were no forkbeards left in front of him any more because they were backing away, turning and running, and the Marroc had won after all, for once they’d really won.
Valaric’s eyes rolled back. He pitched forward and smacked face first into the hard stone road.
27
THE RED SWORD
Back on the top of the fourth gate now, Oribas watched the Lhosir leave. Others might have routed and fled but the Lhosir didn’t. They moved quickly enough when the Marroc were shooting and throwing rocks at them but this was no broken rabble, no matter what the cheering Marroc thought. They’d had enough, that was all. They’d taken the first two gates and smashed in the third and the fourth, and all in one day. Against a castle that was supposed to be invincible, they might well feel pleased with themselves.
‘Oribas!’ Gallow was crouched over a body, beckoning. Oribas rolled his eyes. There was going to be a lot of this. He could probably resign himself to spending every day of the rest of his short life stitching Marroc back together just so he could watch them go and get killed again, but then what else? Was he going to sit and do nothing and watch them die? No.
He climbed down to the road and turned his head from the bodies as he walked. Lhosir mostly, this close to the gates. The air and the stones stank of burned flesh and that wretched fish oil and the road was slick with blood and a greasy ash. He wondered if someone ought to organise a counter-attack but none of the Marroc seemed to have the heart. If anything they looked more battered than the Lhosir they’d driven back.
Gallow’s waving grew frantic. Oribas trotted to him and saw that it was Valaric. He’d ripped himself open again and lost a whole lot more blood and this time he wasn’t going to drink a few cups of water and get up again. Oribas swore and set to work, and when he was done Valaric was still alive and even had a chance to stay that way as long as someone could convince him to just lie down for a few days. He found some Marroc to carry the Wolf to his bed and had Gallow swear in blood to see Valaric up to the castle and to sit on him if that was what it took to make him lie still. Then he took the red sword and put it in Gallow’s hand. The Foxbeard, when he took it, held it as though it was a snake.
Oribas waved Gallow away after that and forgot him almost at once. There were a dozen other Marroc who needed him, a few lives to save that would otherwise have bled out and a few he couldn’t help at all except to make them more comfortable. There would be many more, he knew, as the fighting moved up the tiers and the Marroc couldn’t simply drop things on the forkbeards any more. By the time he was done, the sun was setting, a blazing fiery glory sinking behind the mountains across the river. Achista came and sat beside him and gave him some water. He drank it without any thought and passed it among the injured, and it was only when she took his hand and pulled him away that he realised she’d come for more.
‘Valaric has sent for you.’
‘Is that stupid man up and walking again?’ Oribas ground his teeth. ‘He has only so much blood inside him, and when it comes out I can’t simply put it back. I’ve told him myself but perhaps my accent confuses him. Please explain to him that the next time he tears himself open he might die whether I am there or not. Even if I am, I’m not sure I’ll be minded to stop it.’
‘You can tell him yourself.’ Achista dragged him to his feet. He followed with a numb reluctance, exhausted, and they walked up the road between knots of Marroc soldiers who clearly felt the same. As they passed through the sixth gate he looked up at it and at the Dragon’s Maw beyond, barred to keep its mythical dragon at bay. Oribas didn’t believe in dragons. Valaric had said that the castle was unassailable and Gallow had said much the same, yet they’d lost four gates in a day.
‘I’m missing something.’ He shook his head. ‘My people came and settled this forsaken place with its bitter winter cold. They built this castle and their bridge over the river and the forts that look over it. They built a road halfway to the sea. They traded with the Marroc but they didn’t stay and after fifty years they left. And the story they left was of a flood that rose to the very gates of their castle and swept everything before it.’
He turned to look Achista in the eye and stopped. He’d thought she meant to drag him back to the hall where Valaric held his war council but the look on her was quite different, a look he’d come to know. And she did drag him to Valaric’s hall in time, but only after she’d taken him somewhere more private first, and when they finally walked in, long after nightfall, and Valaric snarled at him and demanded to know where he’d been for so long, Oribas only smiled. He felt calmer now.
‘The tomb under Witches’ Reach,’ he said. ‘The Aulians came here to bury something. All this way, and now King Medrin has brought it back. I’ve seen it.’ He stopped to look at Valaric. The old Marroc looked white as a shadewalker himself, droopy-eyed, holding himself up by clutching on to the table. ‘And you need to rest, Valaric the Wolf.’
Valaric smashed a fist into the table. ‘And how long can I rest before the forkbeards are smashing in my doors? At this rate they’ll be here by tomorrow! How do we stop them, Aulian? Your people made this place – how do we stop them?’
‘Shadewalkers and Fateguard, Valaric the Wolf. We must put an end to their monsters. You still have walls enough to deal with the rest.’
Gallow sat in the castle yard, his back against the wall among the Marroc soldiers, exhausted and rocking back and forth, picking at the dead skin on his fingers and yet quietly smiling. Arda sat beside him and held his hand while the little ones played tag in between the Marroc. Jelira was somewhere else with the young soldier Reddic. A little
storm crossed Arda’s face whenever she spoke of him, and Gallow didn’t know whether it was because Jelira was still so young or because the Marroc boy was a soldier, or perhaps because that’s simply how mothers were. Reddic seemed brave enough and Gallow felt churlish standing in the way of any happiness at a time like this and so he let it go and sat quietly with his Arda. They didn’t say much, even if they hadn’t seen each other for most of the last three years. Somehow talking seemed a waste of the little time they had left.
He slipped slowly out of his reverie to see Oribas and Achista coming across the yard with Valaric hobbling and limping beside them. Arda squeezed his hand, a little warning – a reminder of what he’d promised, perhaps, but she needn’t have worried. She looked up as Valaric reached them. ‘You look terrible, Mournful.’
‘Shut it, woman, or I’ll throw you at the forkbeards. Might do a sight better than throwing rocks at them. Rocks just come at you the once.’ He looked half-dead. ‘And no, Foxbeard, before you ask: I don’t want a plough fixed or an axe sharpened.’ He tossed a belt and a scabbard and the red sword onto the ground at Gallow’s feet. ‘You were supposed to take this away from me.’
‘I did.’
Oribas glared at him. ‘You know very well I meant you to carry it, not simply leave it lying on the floor.’
‘I don’t want it.’
Valaric lowered himself painfully to his knees and sat down beside Gallow, breathing hard. ‘Well who else? I’m done, as you can see. Your wizard says I’ll fall down and die if I try to fight any more. So I can’t use it so I’m not giving you a choice.’
Oribas hissed between his teeth. ‘You should not even be walking. Lying still! Perhaps, Gallow, you can tell him that. Gods know I’ve tried enough times to make him understand!’