Nothing but Tombs

by Tim Stead

  “You’ll start outside. There’s a few planks need replacing up above. If you do a good job there’s work inside. I’ll pay you five coppers a day and feed you.”

  Fane pretended he was considering the offer. It was a bit low for a master carpenter. He’d have expected twice that.

  “You think I’m good enough to work inside and you pay me ten,” he said.

  “Eight,” the steward offered.

  Fane held out his hand. “Done,” he said.

  The steward touched his hand in a disdainful parody of a handshake and turned away. “Watch him,” he said to the guard officer. “If he’s no good throw him out.”

  The guards waited until the portly figure had begun to ascend the steps to the keep. Then the officer grinned.

  “Waiting for those to break under him,” he said. “The fifth one’s rotten, so’s the tenth.”

  “Do them first?” Fane asked.

  The officer shook his head. “Walkway,” he said. “There’s boards up there the birds won’t land on.”

  “Well then, best show me,” Fane said.

  They followed the man up a rickety flight of stairs and onto the castle’s first line of defence. The walkway was about eight feet wide, the planks laid parallel to the line of the wall. From beneath Fane had seen that they rested on joists embedded in the stone outer wall. The joists in turn were supported by posts at their other end. It was a common enough arrangement, but the condition of the boards was shocking. He could see the winding track the men on the walls took to avoid the weakest points, but in places they would have had to step right across two boards to avoid putting a foot through into clear air. He shook his head. His carpenter’s sensibilities were offended, but as a soldier he was delighted. Nobody could fight on these walls.

  “Have to look below first,” he told the officer. “Make sure it’s all firm down there.”

  He took his time. He made them fetch him a ladder and he spent a good hour climbing each post and prodding at the wood with a short knife. He marked each joist and post with chalk. It was almost like being young again. His hands remembered the feel of the wood, the old signs, the love he’d first felt for this profession. As an old man he’d grown jaded, but after so long away it almost made him sad.

  When he’d finished his inspection, he looked around the yard.

  “Got any wood?” he asked.

  “In the barn.”

  There was wood there, but not nearly enough, and it was softwood. He could nail this stuff up there and in a year it would be rotten again. He told the officer the truth. The man scratched his head.

  “It’s all we’ve got,” he said.

  “Hardwood’s what you want,” Fane said. “There’s a forest out there full of it. But if you like I can treat this stuff with oil. It might last a few years, but it’ll burn pretty good if someone puts a flame to it.”

  That, too, was unacceptable for obvious reasons, so the officer said that he’d talk to the steward about getting a party together to cut down some trees the next day. It was all nonsense, of course, but that was a pity. If he’d a way of sending a message out it would have been a fine opportunity to get a couple of dozen men out of Fetherhill and the gates opened for a timely assault, but he had no such means, and so the original plan would have to do.

  He cleaned and braced a couple of loose posts just to show willing, Pace standing by him like a frightened, mute child while he worked. It seemed no time at all before night fell and he and Pace retired to beds of straw under the walkway by the hay barn. One of the soldiers brought them a bowl of food each and they sat in the fire lit twilight and talked.

  “You really were a carpenter,” Pace said.

  Fane didn’t answer. The food was good, a spiced mutton stew. He supposed it was taken from the soldiers’ common pot. He watched while he ate, checking how many torches they lit up on the walls, how many men walked their careful rounds up there and how often they took their eyes from the planks between their feet.

  “We going to do it tonight?” Pace asked.

  “That’s the plan.”

  “When the moon sets.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long ‘til then?”

  “A couple of hours. Sleep if you like. I’ll wake you in good time.”

  “Sleep?”

  “Rest then. I’m going for a walk.” Fane stood up and stretched.

  “Where?” Pace sounded scared again.

  “Just stay here. Nobody will bother you. I’ll be back soon.”

  Fane was pretty sure that Pace could manage to do nothing for an hour, but he was worried that the man hadn’t settled at all. He was still jumpy. He walked across the yard and climbed the steps onto the walkway again. He stood looking out into the night and waited.

  Somewhere out there four hundred men waited for the moon. Now it hung over the western horizon, still high enough to be clear of the trees, but pregnant with its setting.

  “You shouldn’t be up here,” a voice said. It was the officer who’d been given charge of him.

  “Sorry,” Fane said. “Good view of the night, though, and the air is cleaner up here.”

  “It is,” the officer said.

  “I hear a lot of news on the road,” Fane said. “I heard there was some trouble at Golt.”

  “You did, did you?”

  “Fetherhill’s, I heard. Your people.”

  “Pomeroy,” the officer said. “He always was a bit too sure of himself.”

  They were silent for a while, looking out at the night.

  “Your Lord, what kind of man is he?”

  The officer shrugged. “He’s a lord.”

  “Worth dying for?”

  The man gave Fane a sharp look. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. Just that I wouldn’t face the Wolf for any man, woman or gold.”

  “Soldiers swear an oath,” he said. “It’s a soldiers’ thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “My grandfather was a soldier,” Fane said.

  “Was he?” the officer seemed faintly amused. “What regiment?”

  “Seventh Friend. He fought for Quinnial in Bas Erinor – part of the squad that held the River Gate in the Great War.”

  “An honourable action,” the officer said. “That’s a noble heritage. You didn’t think of becoming a soldier yourself?”

  “I thought about it,” Fane said. Despite himself Fane found that he liked this officer. The man was conscientious and not unkind. It would be a pity to have to kill him. So many soldiers were just on the wrong side almost by accident, but that was war. He’d seen it a thousand times. It changed nothing.

  “I’d best get some rest,” he said. “A lot to do tomorrow.”

  The officer nodded and Fane felt he was watched all the way back to his bed by the barn. Pace was still awake and staring at the walkway above him. Fane took his place and pulled his thin blanket over his shoulders.

  “Rest,” he said.

  Fane didn’t sleep. He went over the plan a few times in his head. Outside the walls Melis Wenban would be preparing to lead his small army clear of the trees. They would be approaching the gate but making sure that they stayed clear of the light cast by the torches on the wall. There they would wait. It would be about two hundred paces, he thought. How long would it take them to run so far? A minute? A little less, perhaps for the first men to arrive. He had to hold the gate for a minute. After that he had other work.

  The moon set.

  He couldn’t see it, but the dim glow that illuminated the keep from the west faded, and it was a cloudless night – not ideal. Fane waited a few minutes. In the fresh darkness beyond the gate his men would be moving.

  “String your bow,” he said to Pace. The man obeyed. He seemed steadier now. Men were like that sometimes – prey to waiting but fine once the fighting began. “Remember,” he said. “The gate is what matters. If anyone gets past me and tries to close it, that’s your target.”

  He saw Pace n
od. The bow was strung, an arrow loose on the string. Fane slipped down from the straw and ambled over towards the gate. There was a chamber to the right of it, a guard room. A spiral staircase led up from that. He’d seen it all when they passed through.

  There were a couple of candles burning in the room, a couple of men sitting at a table playing cards. They looked up when he appeared in the doorway.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Can’t sleep. You got a spare bottle of wine I can get for a couple of coppers?”

  “This isn’t a shop,” one of the men said, but the other touched his comrade on the arm.

  “We can spare a bottle. It’s not like it’s any good.”

  “I’d be grateful,” Fane said. “Three coppers,” the guard said. He passed the bottle over, but Fane reached past the bottle and grabbed the man by the wrist tugging him forwards and planting his fist squarely in the man’s face. Fane could kill a man with a single blow, but he’d learned to finely judge his strength and this wasn’t a killing strike, but the man would be out for a while.

  He caught the wine bottle as it fell. No point in bringing curious men down from above to investigate the sound of breaking glass. He set the bottle down and jumped over the table at the other guard, knocking the surprised man down as easily as he had the first.

  He shook his head at both of them. “Mean and greedy,” he said. He helped himself to a sword and a shield and went back to the door. It was still quiet outside. He stepped up to the gate a put down his weapons. The entrance was kept shut by two large iron bolts that dropped into stone and a large bar cradled across it. He quickly drew the bolts and examined the bar. It was thick and made of solid oak. It would have made at least two fine joists for the walkway. It would take a few men to lift the thing, but Fane was a Farheim Lord and lifted it easily, setting it down before the gate.

  Now was the difficult part. He’d heard this gate open during the day, and on a quiet night it would make as much noise as a butchered pig, but there was no help for it. He put his foot against the gate and pushed.

  The noise was more like a Green Isles parrot than a pig, an agonised shriek as the abused hinges struggled against his strength and lost. Just about everybody in Fetherhill would have heard it, Fane guessed. He turned his back to the gate, set his shield high on his shoulder and flexed his sword arm. He hoped that Wenban was on his way.

  They arrived quickly. Two of the soldiers from the walkway first. They looked at him, not quite making sense of what they saw.

  “You’re the carpenter,” one of them said. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Fane didn’t want to repeat himself, so he twirled his blade to show then that he knew how to use it and waited. It took less than a minute for the first officer to arrive. It was the man he’d talked to a couple of hours ago. He eyed Fane uncertainly.

  “Alos, isn’t it? Put the sword down. We don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I’m afraid I lied to you, Lieutenant,” Fane said. “I’m Jerac Fane, a Farheim Lord and one of Narak’s chosen. I claim this castle in the name of the people of Avilian.”

  The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. He licked his lips. “You know I can’t let that go,” he said. “How come I’ve never heard of you?”

  Time was passing, which was good. “I’ve been busy elsewhere,” Fane said. “Look, best thing you can do is surrender.”

  “To one man?”

  They’d forgotten Pace.

  “Well, then,” Fane said. He flourished his sword again. “Let’s get to it.” His apparent confidence made the lieutenant pause again. He looked behind him.

  “Clate, shoot him.”

  A man stepped forwards, bow in hand and drew. Fane could catch any arrow on his shield. He was quick enough. But this time he didn’t want to. It would hurt, but no real damage would be done. He turned as the man loosed his arrow and caught it square in the shoulder. It hurt a lot. He swore and ripped the arrow free, throwing it aside.

  “Proof enough?” he asked.

  “It changes nothing,” the lieutenant said. “You are one man.”

  “Wrong, you idiot,” Fane said. “Why do you think I opened the gate?”

  There was a moment’s pause once more. He could see the shock in the lieutenant’s eyes and the number of men facing him was now in the twenties. But he’d done it, he’d wasted the time. Even now he could hear the sound of running feet, the faint jingle of mail on the backs of running men.

  They rushed him.

  “Close the gate!” the lieutenant shouted. But even as they ran onto Fane’s shield and sword Wenban’s men began to pour through behind him. Fane killed three men in quick succession because he needed speed now. If they locked up the keep before he got there it could take a day or more to winkle them out, and it would cost lives.

  He threw a last man aside and ran. Wenban’s hundred alone could deal with what faced the gate, and they needed to fight.

  As he ran, he saw that the lieutenant was ahead of him. The man had thought the same thought. But this race was no race at all. Fane was much faster and caught the man in half a dozen long strides. He seized him by the collar and tried to throw him aside, but the lieutenant twisted free and slashed at him, cutting him across the belly. The wound healed in the blink of an eye, but the pain made him slow, and the other had scrambled to his feet and was off again by the time he recovered.

  Fine thanks I get, Fane thought, for trying to not kill the man. He leaped after him, landing on the lieutenant’s back and bearing him down to the ground. He tore the man’s sword from his fingers and tossed it aside, relieved him of his dagger, too.

  “Stay down and stay alive,” Fane said, but the man clawed at his face, fingers reaching for his eyes. Fane hit him and he slumped.

  Everything was taking too much time now. Looking up he could see a soldier at the entrance to the keep staring at the melee that swirled about the gate. It would be only seconds before he closed and bolted the door.

  Fane ran. He remembered what the lieutenant had told him the evening before. The fifth and tenth steps were rotten. He took them in threes, but even so the man at the door saw him coming.

  It was one of the oddest things about being Farheim. When you tried, when you really tried, time seemed to slow down, or you speeded up. Fane had never quite understood which it was, or if they meant the same thing, but now he could see the man’s head pulling back from the doorway, the door swinging shut inch by inch. He was going to be a second or so too late.

  He threw his shield. For a moment he thought he’d got it wrong. The shield was unfamiliar and round. It wobbled in the air, but at the last moment the deviation corrected itself and it slammed into the remaining gap just before the door slammed.

  The guard was forced to open it a few precious inches to push the shield away, and in those few seconds Fane arrived. The impact of his shoulder on the door flung it open and slammed the guard against the wall inside.

  Now he was in he took the guard’s dagger and slammed it into the door so that it couldn’t be closed and looked about him. A narrow stone staircase led upwards, and he followed it. It opened out into a large hall. There were tables and chairs here, and two more guards. Fane could see two more staircases as well, leading upwards from the far end of the chamber, and a door leading off to the left. Since the soldiers seemed to be protecting the staircases, he guessed that was the way to go.

  He advanced. As he walked, he picked up two of the chairs. They were high-backed, four-legged things – the sort of chairs that the high born used. He held one in each hand by its back and fended off the soldiers with the legs. When he was close enough, he rushed forwards. One of the soldiers fell, and Fane set the chair down on top of him and vaulted over, using the legs of the other chair to trap and lift the second soldier. He threw the man and the chair to one side and raced up the stairs.

  Two twists around a spiral and he came out into another chamber, but this was more of a hallway, and it was crowded with armed men.r />
  Fane wasn’t shy of a fight, but even a Farheim Lord could be cut down and there were twenty men here. They spread themselves out and hung back so that, if he chose to advance, they could surround him. He couldn’t allow that.

  “Who is in command here?” he demanded. There was no reply, but a couple of the man glanced at a solidly built man in the centre of the hall. Fane directed his words at him.

  “Lay down your weapons,” he said. “The door below cannot be closed and I have four hundred men through the gate by now. You can’t win.”

  “If I’m going to die, I’ll die as a wolf, not a lamb,” their captain said.

  “I’m not in a killing mood,” Fane said. “You aren’t my enemy, you’re just in the way.”

  “And those four hundred?”

  “Will do as I tell them. I am General Jerac Fane, Farheim Lord and their commander. My purpose now is to preserve the lives of Lord Fetherhill’s family. They’re no good to me dead.”

  “So you say but, if we put our weapons down, we lose all say in the matter.”

  “Keep them, then, but stand aside and let me pass.”

  The captain licked his lips. He was wondering if they could close on Fane while he tried to pass through, but Fane saw him shake his head.

  “A kindly offer, but no. We serve Fetherhill.” Fane reckoned he could have got past them. He was quicker than they knew, but now it was going to get ugly. Already he could hear shouting from below, the brief sound of steel on steel as the two guards he’d left alive in the chamber below died.

  “Last chance,” Fane said.

  The captain looked at the other stair. “You there,” he pointed to some of his men. “Go…”

  Fane jumped forwards – just a couple of feet, but every blade and eye turned to him. His timing was perfect. At that moment Wenban’s men burst from the other door and the hall erupted into bloody chaos.

  He tried to push forwards, but a good number of Fetherhill’s defenders were still focussed on him, and he was forced to edge his way around the room resisting the attentions of half a dozen men. He remembered a story Narak had told him about using the wall as a shield and he fought with his back to it, but he really needed two blades to fight like that, and he was neither as skilled nor as strong as the Wolf. It took him time, too much time, to work his way down the hall, and Wenban’s men broke through on the other side first.