“Barlanik, do you think Edric will arrive in time to help?” Tor asked quietly.
“No, I don’t think so.”
Tor looked up at the sky, which was pale grey, and thought she might be seeing the dawn for the last time. “Barlanik…”
“What?”
Neither of them took their eyes off the enemy. Tor changed her mind. She was beside him; they would fight together, and probably die together. That was enough. “Nothing.”
He looked at her and smiled. They could see the enemy soldiers’ faces now; raising their bows they fired their arrows towards them steadily one after the other.
Routh rode about on his sturdy reliable charger, overseeing the assault on the Castle. Skardroft was watching from a vantage point by the forest, and Routh wanted to show him a textbook battle. It was going according to plan. Twenty years’ experience told him that Barlanik did not have a chance; however skilfully he defended the walls, he was fighting a well-equipped professional army that vastly outnumbered his own. Routh expected heavy casualties in the initial stages, and accepted them; the tables would turn soon enough. With the manpower at his command, early losses were unimportant. It was simply a question of getting past the walls, and then the enemy would be at his mercy. His men had already got a temporary bridge in place by the sealed drawbridge, and were bringing up the battering ram under showers of arrows, clambering over the bodies of the fallen. Some of the enemy arrows were alight, but in the drizzle did not pose much of a threat. Elsewhere the first ladders were going up. It was satisfactory that the dragon was not on the scene making things dangerously unpredictable. If it was lurking somewhere inside, the special unit Routh had briefed would deal with it once they were in there.
Six hours into the battle, and Skardroft’s men were beginning to win the long bloody fight to get to the top of the wall. Here and there Barlanik’s men began to fall, and their comrades spread out to cover the gaps. Their enemies fell too, but their places were instantly taken by the next wave of soldiers. Gradually, swords replaced bows in the loyalists’ hands as in places the enemy climbed up to the top and hand-to-hand fighting began. Tor glanced over her shoulder and saw the crimson and black. She knew that it was just a matter of time now until there were more enemy soldiers on the battlements than defenders; eventually she and Barlanik would be fighting back to back, surrounded on all sides. She wondered what was happening to Xantilor. There was so much noise, she was not sure if she would hear the battering ram; it might have gone through the portcullis already without her knowing.
Skardroft watched as the small struggling figures in the distance began to reach the top of the Castle walls. He felt no triumph, rather a flat, empty feeling of inevitability. Torbrek was up there somewhere fighting for her life, and there was nothing he could do to help her. In his heart he knew that any idea of taking her alive was unrealistic; she would fight on until she died, like the Knight she was. It would take a miracle to save her now.
A strange low creaking beat in the air behind him made him look up. Bright against a lowering sky, three golden dragons flew high above him; as he stared at them, they plummeted towards the Castle.
At last Skardroft knew what it was that the Knights had been plotting.
Routh was pleased with the way the day was going. By the evening, he reflected, the rebellion would be effectively over; some mopping-up operations in towns and villages too stubborn to recognize defeat when it stared them in the face, and the kingdom would be at peace again. A job well done. That was when the dark shadow passed over him, making him flinch instinctively. Looking up he saw the dragons. Three of them, bigger than the one dragon Barlanik had had before, swooping towards his army. He felt the wind from their wing-beats on his upturned face.
When they got near enough, each dragon scorched a path through his troops to the Castle and circled, burning the men climbing up the walls, making them scream and fall. The battering ram burst into flames. Then they turned, and hovered in a row facing his army, three enormous menacing shapes in the sky, gold against the black smoke, beautiful and deadly.
Men dropped their weapons and ran towards the forest. Horses panicked and barged about, and fallen men were trampled by their comrades. Confusion reigned. As one, the three dragons charged, shooting flames from twenty feet above the ground. There was no attempt to retaliate, only frantic efforts to scramble to safety. It was every man for himself.
Routh cantered amongst the tumult of his terrified troops, shouting commands till he was hoarse, trying to rally the archers and spear throwers. Getting nowhere with this he tried to organize an orderly retreat, but desperate to escape the soldiers took no notice.
This was utter defeat; this was a rout.
On the ramparts the fighting continued, but without reinforcements the few isolated insurgents surrendered. There came a moment when Barlanik’s troops looked around them and found no one left to fight; over the wall through the rank black smoke of the burning battering ram they could see the havoc wrought by the dragons, and the enemy retreating in disarray.
A great whooping cheer came up from Barlanik’s soldiers. Tor ran to the inner wall and looked over. There was Xantilor, safe, and hugely reassured she waved at him, seeing that the sight of her pleased him just as much. While she was leaning over the parapet Kerris and Drewitt came up behind her. While Drewitt crossed to the far wall to speak to Barlanik, Kerris, sweaty and bloodstained, seized Tor and swung her round. When he put her down she saw he had an open gash from his eyebrow to his chin, crusted with blood.
“Kerris, your face…”
“I know, I was careless. I’m no longer the outrageously handsome devil you used to admire. Though I believe some girls like a man with a scar…” He gave her a crooked grin and changed the subject. “Where did those dragons spring from? D’you think they were just passing and thought, ‘They look nice, we’ll give them a hand?’”
Tor was worried about Kerris’s injury and knew it must be hurting him, but could see he didn’t want a fuss made about it. As soon as she could do it discreetly, she would fetch the doctor. She smiled at him. “Look, two of them are landing next to Xantilor, let’s go and see.”
Skardroft got back to the palace at Tarragon and sat down to wait. Having watched Routh’s set-piece assault disintegrate into bloody chaos, he realized that this was perhaps the end of everything he had spent thirty years achieving, thrown away by his own irresolution. Worse than this, he did not know whether Torbrek had survived the battle. He reminded himself that she was a Knight, and not easy to kill, but the possibility that she was dead in the shambles without his knowing it tormented him.
It was time to consider his immediate future. He could stay and fight on, the outcome uncertain at best, or he could go; gather all the gold to hand and leave to live out the rest of his days alone in a strange country. This prospect lacked appeal. He was a fighter; he liked to win; giving up had never been his way. An hour later, when Routh walked into the room without knocking, he was still there. Routh sat down uninvited and looked at the King. Routh’s face was haggard. Bad news was written all over it.
“Well?” said Skardroft at last.
“We’ve lost a fifth of our men in the battle. A lot of them burnt to death. Two of the mercenary troops are leaving, they won’t stay to face three dragons on any terms. The rest of the mercenaries are demanding triple pay, in advance. I’ve agreed. After all, it’ll be Urquin’s money in a day or two. You might as well spend it. That still leaves us with nearly half as many men again as Barlanik – except he has three trained dragons on his side.”
Skardroft had nothing to say. This was disaster, worse even than he’d expected. Taking this in, he did not consciously register Routh’s hostile manner.
Routh had not finished. He continued bitterly, “They’ll be celebrating tonight at the Castle. Then, tomorrow or the next day, it doesn’t make much difference which, they’ll be coming here. They are going to hammer us into the ground. And do you know wha
t really gets me? Three days ago, we had them right where we wanted them. We had them in the palm of our hand. We could have gone into the Castle and wiped them out. I told you again and again. Why didn’t we? Because you lacked the will to do it. Because all you could think about was that granddaughter of yours, when it’s plain she hates everything you stand for. Because you wouldn’t accept the fact that she’s your enemy, always has been, always will be.”
Routh had never spoken to him like this. It was as if his own dog had unexpectedly turned snarling on him, teeth bared.
Skardroft stirred himself. “That’s quite enough, Routh. Pull yourself together; we are not beaten yet. And you forget your station.”
“Oh? What are you going to do to me? I don’t really care any more. As I see it, it’s the end of the road. You need me to supervise the defence of Tarragon. I’m going to do that now, futile as it is. I don’t think either of us need to plan any further ahead than that.” Routh got up and made to go.
“Sit down, Routh.”
There was still command in Skardroft’s voice. After a moment Routh turned and sat down.
“How long have you been my Chief of Staff? Ten years is it?”
“Nine.”
“That’s a long time together. You have served me well. I value you; you are good at what you do. So when you make a careless mistake, and let Barlanik, the dragon and my granddaughter slip through your fingers, when you should have caught them and ended the rebellion, I let it pass.” Routh looked down at his hands, shamed. He still felt anger and guilt over his failure. “But it seems you do not expect others to make mistakes.” Skardroft waited while he thought it over.
“I’m sorry, Sire, I was wrong,” Routh said at length.
The King went on, his voice forceful and persuasive, “There is truth in what you said. But we cannot undo what is done. The future we can change, if we put our will to it. Our forces still outnumber Barlanik’s. You have succeeded once in downing a dragon, you can do it again. I want you to put heart into our men; don’t let them think that they are fighting a lost cause. Don’t think it yourself, because it’s not true. We can win the coming battle.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Skardroft looked into his eyes. “Can I count on you to do your utmost, to put your heart and soul into it as you always have for me before?”
“Yes, Sire. I’d appreciate it if you could overlook what I said earlier.”
“It’s forgotten.”
He stood up and walked his chief of staff to the door. Routh left, feeling a mix of emotions, chief of which was shock that he had spoken so offensively to the King, and next astonishment that Skardroft had been so magnanimous about it. And Skardroft was right; the battle was not yet lost. He could not think what had come over him, being so defeatist. He squared his shoulders; he would do his best to win for the King. But blaming him less now, Routh blamed Torbrek more. Nothing had been the same since she appeared on the scene. That was when Skardroft had changed, had made errors of judgment, and things had begun to go wrong. It was all her fault.
Routh hoped to win the battle for Tarragon, but if it came to the worst and the rebels triumphed, there was something he made up his mind to do. He had never been a man for taking personal revenge, but this time he would make an exception.
If Skardroft’s granddaughter arrived victorious in Tarragon, he was going to kill her.
CHAPTER 30
Dragons have an insight men lack
While the Knights explained to Barlanik about their Dragon Battalion, and Xantilor was making the acquaintance of the first dragons he had seen for decades, Farren went on Zik to collect Gwenderith and Pom. When they touched down on the Castle Square the soldiers, still euphoric at their last minute reprieve, mobbed them and cheered their arrival. News of Pom’s quest had spread fast. The noise re-echoed from the castle walls like thunder. Barlanik came up to Pom, followed by Tor, and everyone moved back and fell silent.
“Pom, how can I thank you? On your own, you found the Knights and saved both the cause, and the life of every man here. I am deeply in your debt, and so is each of my soldiers.”
The men cheered again. Pom was very pleased but embarrassed to be the centre of attention. “That’s all right. I couldn’t have done it without Gwenderith, and it was the Knights’ dragons that won the battle.” He turned to Tor. “Hello.” He looked at her, not quite saying what was uppermost in his mind.
She answered his unspoken question. “Okay, you win. Start as my squire tomorrow. You can move into the second turret. I’ll speak to your mother about it.”
Pom dug in his pocket and got out the little gold dragon in its tatty wrapper. He put it in her hands. “I got this for you,” he said uncertainly. For him, it would always be associated with Parrelor, and Quintern’s death.
Tor unwrapped it. “Oh Pom, it’s lovely…” Ridiculously, she felt tears in her eyes. She would have hugged him, but thought he wouldn’t like it. “Thank you so much.”
Xantilor led the three dragons to the Dragon Tower where they would remain until the assault on Tarragon. Farren noticed with enjoyment Zik and Ottobar’s suddenly meek demeanour under Xantilor’s stern eye, even though he looked small beside them. He had informed them in no uncertain terms that they were to behave themselves, and mind what Tor told them for the duration of their stay.
Later that day almost everyone was taking it easy in various ways after the morning’s battle. Tor sat with Kerris as the doctor she had brought carefully cleaned his wound and gave him strict instructions on how to minimize the risk of infection, while Kerris made jokes and pretended not to be taking it too seriously.
“Tor, you make sure he looks after it. An ugly scar’s one thing,” the doctor said tactlessly, “blood poisoning’s quite another.”
Tor agreed, while noting with amusement that like a lot of people, he assumed she was Kerris’s girlfriend.
Barlanik was on the ramparts with the lookouts. An attack was extremely unlikely, but a watch had to be kept. He sympathized with the men still on duty while their comrades relaxed and so was up there with them. In the quiet heat of the afternoon, when even the birds had stopped singing, he saw Edric and his army arrive, picking their way through the detritus of the defeated army, looking around them at the abandoned equipment, dead soldiers and foundered horses as far as the eye could see. But for the Knights’ dragons, they would have arrived just in time to be savaged by Skardroft’s troops, exultant after their triumph in the Castle.
Barlanik went down to meet them.
That evening Barlanik held a banquet to celebrate the unexpected victory and welcome the Knights, who were guests of honour. The next day would be for cremating the dead, rest and preparation. On the day following that, he planned to attack Tarragon and finish the war. Everyone was in high spirits; the best wine was being served, the kitchens had made a special effort and the tables were decorated with flowers. In the distance, the men could be heard having their own celebration in the barracks.
Tor sat next to Farren. He was good company; she liked him; they talked about dragons and Pom. But every so often, Tor’s eyes would stray down the table to where Barlanik sat beside Gwenderith. She was simply dressed in a deep blue gown, and if anything was more beautiful than before; she looked more alert and less passive and it suited her. The main difference though from the old days was that now she and Barlanik were deep in conversation. His dark head bent towards her attentively, not missing a word she said. Tor began to feel unhappy. Farren’s eyes followed hers.
“They seem to get on well together. Are they betrothed?”
Tor picked up the salt spoon and made miniature sandcastles with the salt. “I don’t think so, but Kerris said Urquin was keen on having Barlanik as a son-in-law.”
“Oh.”
Neither of them said anything for a minute, and then Farren said resolutely, “Well, he couldn’t do much better. She’s a lovely girl.”
“Yes, she’s very beautiful,” said
Tor glumly.
“And so kind. She was really concerned about Pom, you know. And she’s very sympathetic.”
“Mmm,” said Tor. “I don’t know her very well.” She was not enjoying this conversation.
Farren was still gazing at Gwenderith. “She’s not at all proud, although she’s a princess. Back at our base, whatever we were doing she offered to help – even chores, though she’d never done them before.”
“That was nice of her,” said Tor, thinking how she could change the subject without sounding abrupt. Farren gave no sign of having finished.
“She’s very bright, too, you know. You don’t often come across brains and beauty like that together…”
“Tor! Tor!” Edric, who sat on her other side and had not addressed a word to her so far, now barged into her conversation with Farren. He was flushed and bright-eyed and his voice was a bit loud. “Hey, Dragon Master, I want to talk to you. You’ve been ignoring me all evening.”
“What is it, Edric?”
He ran his eyes over her. “Tor, or shall I call you Torbraya, tell me, I’ve been meaning to ask you, do you ever wear a dress?”
She looked at him coolly. “Not very often, actually. And it’s Tor.”
“Not even to a do like this? I’d have thought you’d have made a bit of an effort for the celebration tonight.”
“I did,” said Tor icily. “This is my best jacket. And shirt and britches.”
“And very dashing you look in them,” said Farren.
“Thank you,” said Tor. “Go on with what you were saying about Gwenderith…”
Edric grabbed her shoulder and turned her towards him once more. “I’m in the middle of saying something! Just stay put for a minute…” He studied her critically, swaying a little, his eyes narrowed, seeming oblivious to her unfriendly manner.
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