Kunrad smiled suddenly. ‘Then that is what you must do, my lord. Obey.’
It was sunrise five days later when the column of horsemen with the Marchwarden’s banner at their head wound their way down out of the hills, and through the open woods along the shore of the great Lake of the Winds. There were twenty-five horses, but only twenty-two men rode, with lances in their hands and bows slung from their saddles. The three other saddles, in the midst of the column, had limp shapes lashed across them, under red-stained sacking. At sight of the banner, a trumpet sounded from the castle walls. They were expected. The riders reined in at the bridgehead, while their leader pulled down the scarf over his nose and mouth to call across the water. ‘From my Lord Kermorvan! Prisoners and escort, for the Lord Warden!’
At the answering hail the bridge began slowly swinging out towards them. They waited in patience as sentries ran down to make it fast, and saluted the little riding as it clumped on to the walkway. ‘Escort, eh?’ grinned one, wrinkling his nose at the smell from under the blankets. ‘Faugh! Good an’ ripe! Had your work cut out looking after them lively lads, eh?’
‘That’s right!’ growled the captain, glaring from under his bushy brows. ‘Seems they’re just what’s wanted for sentry-go round here!’
‘Don’t bloody joke about it!’ groaned the soldier. ‘Or they will recruit ’em. We’re all on double-stag as it is!’
‘That’s soldierin’ for you, my lad!’ said the captain, not unsympathetically, and passed on, resting his lance in its saddle socket like the rest. At the castle gate the stocky figure of Captain Erlan was waiting, and they exchanged salutes, fist to heart, then outthrust. ‘Welcome back, Ferlias! Come on in!’ He sniffed and recoiled as the horses bearing the bodies came past into the tunnel. ‘Stars above, you must’ve had a merry ride!’
‘Sorry we couldn’t deliver ’em alive and kicking!’ grunted Ferlias.
Merthian’s captain shrugged. “Tween you and me, all for the best! The Marchwarden wouldn’t be saying this right out, mind, but he was well pleased with old Kermorvan’s message!’ He led them out into the courtyard, almost empty at this hour save for some grooms and a few mailed figures lounging on the walls, eyeing the newcomers. ‘So now you can leave your stiffs and your mounts to the lads, and come wash the stench out! My Lord Warden orders you’re to enjoy our hospitality ere you bear the old bugger back his thanks and compliments!’
‘Not necessary!’ said a deep voice from the end of the column. A bulky figure removed his helm and scarf to let white hair straggle down. ‘The old bugger has come in person to receive them – and to have a few words with my daughter and her betrothed! So, captain, if you’d do Lord Ieran Kermorvan the honour of calling them down?’
The effect on Merthian’s captain was immediate and obvious. Like most sothrans, Erlan’s upbringing had dictated obedience to the great lords of the realm; and the name of Kermorvan still retained its power. He stood open-mouthed, and looked wildly about. ‘My lord … He’s not here, he’s … And she—’
Kermorvan booted his horse forward, and Erlan quailed at the look on his face. It was not lost on one or two of the loungers, men with a touch of Northern copper skin. They sprang up and began shouting.
‘Shut the gate! Pull back the bridge! The bastards’re on to us!’
‘Some tender consciences here!’ grated Kermorvan, and bellowed, ‘Stand back from that gate! I’ll skewer the man who disobeys!’
With not the slightest surprise or hesitation his riders snatched up their bows, and drew. At the same moment, so suddenly the horses plunged and whinnied, the three inert bodies kicked free of their looped ropes and slid out from beneath the blood-stinking sacking, plucking out swords as they landed. Kermorvan snatched up a great horn and blew a blast which echoed across the lake. ‘Alert, Moruannen! Morvan morlanhal!’ The loungers cowered from the arrows that threatened them and yelled frantically to the captain.
He, however, was grey-faced with panic. ‘Treachery!’ he shouted, ducking behind a pillar. ‘Guard! Back that bloody bridge! Cut them down!’
That was easier said than done. There were barely ten men down in the courtyard, and they were on foot and unarmed; the rest were on the walls, and few had bows to hand. The riders wheeled, sending the captain scurrying, and the guards on the wall ducked or ran as arrows whistled up at them. Kunrad and the prentices, keeping low, made for the bridge mechanism just as the two nervous loungers came clattering down off the wall to reach it, swords in hand. Kunrad cut down the first one as he spun the windlass wheel, while Olvar, parrying the first blow aimed at him, smashed his opponent on the nose with a huge mailed fist, picked him up as he staggered and threw him at the wall. Gille snatched up their fallen swords and passed them to Kunrad, who studied the mechanism a moment, confirming his memory, then thrust a sword in with such force that it stuck deep in the wooden frame, and beside it another. There was a fearful rumble from the bridge outside. A cog crunched down on the blades, seized and jammed. Olvar was already pounding ponderously up the stairs to the wall.
Other guards were crawling along the battlement on their bellies to the drawbridge winches, when Olvar arrived. Lying flat put them at a terrible disadvantage, and by the time Gille and Kunrad caught up, Olvar was already winding the drawbridge down again. The rumble grew to a reverberating thunder as the rest of Kermorvan’s housetroop galloped across it into the tunnel and came flooding out into the courtyard.
Kunrad and the prentices gathered up the writhing guards’ swords and helms to jam the mechanism, then ran back out on to the wall, expecting a flood of guards from the towers or the heart of the castle. Instead they saw only a few, appearing in small groups or even ones and twos. The firstcomers on the wall showed some fight, but Kunrad’s sword toppled one over into the lake with a scream, another down into the courtyard among the milling hooves, and sent the rest scattering. Others stood gaping wildly, unable to sort out who was fighting who, or why, in the noise and confusion, since all the liveries were the same. Men milled around the trees, screaming out questions while they dodged the horsemen, or tried to escape back into the castle interior.
From the wall Kunrad could see one or two of the guards who had fled him, hard-faced bullies who looked more like corsairs than soldiers, sneaking along the courtyard towards the gate, not to close it but to escape. One had already made it through, and was bolting back across the bridge. That did not concern him. Even as he watched, the man spun around and fell backward on the walkway, with one arm dangling towards the water and a crossbow bolt in his chest. Kermorvan’s troops were already dismounting and leading charges up on to the walls and along, chasing little knots of disunited guards.
‘Know something?’ breathed Olvar. ‘I think we’re bloody winning!’
‘Already!’ said Gille disbelievingly. ‘Where are they all? And where’s Merthian?’
‘Bugger that!’ said Kunrad without warning, and ran to a stair. The prentices kept up, but before he reached the foot, the mastersmith literally threw himself off, on to the back of a figure who was trying to slip by underneath. A moment later Kermorvan’s huge warhorse breasted the mêlée, stamping furiously with its great fringed hooves, and Captain Erlan found himself flat on the cobbles with Kunrad’s sword and Kermorvan’s lance at his throat. Around them they were vaguely aware of other men dropping their swords and holding up their hands, and a movement that spread across the courtyard like a great ripple. Voices protested, women screamed, but the sound of combat was gone almost in a moment, replaced by silence and heavy breathing.
‘Well, captain?’ demanded Lord Kermorvan. ‘How about some of that hospitality we were promised? And to start with, where in Hella’s name’s my daughter?’
The captain glared and twisted about, and said nothing. Kermorvan growled. ‘Think a moment, soldier! Here’s your impregnable castle taken in ten minutes flat! Maybe a whole heap of other things you’re relying on ain’t so secure, either!’ He jabbed the spear-point into the man
’s neck, hard enough to make Kunrad wince.
‘And consider!’ added the Mastersmith mildly. ‘Even assuming Merthian could get you out, somehow, what’s he going to do to you after this? What reward for your loyalty then? Maybe you should be thinking of clearing the slate with us, eh, Erlan?’
‘She’s alive!’ gurgled the captain, holding up his hands. ‘She’s all right, she’s well, not a scratch! Nobody would – My Lord Warden gave orders – uk!’
‘And where’s he?’ demanded Kunrad.
‘Left – days ‘go, after Kerm – your lordship’s word reached him! Took two third parts of the garrison with him. left the lady locked up safe—’
‘Well then,’ said Kunrad. ‘You can take us to her, can’t you? And quick!’
The captain scrambled up, clutching at his throat, and nodded awkwardly. Kermorvan detailed a couple of men, and, leaving Ferlias in command, they followed him, not towards the tower Kunrad had scaled, but the next along, squatter and stubbier but still dauntingly high and featureless, its windows much smaller and set high beneath the frowning eaves. The door at its base stood unlocked, and Kermorvan thrust it booming back. Almost at once, as they set their feet on the winding stair, there was a shriek from above, an echo of tearing fear.
The captain looked as startled as they. ‘What? There’s nobody up there with them – my lady! My lady!’ He went bounding up the worn steps, so fast Kunrad had no need to drive him, and Kermorvan was left puffing and panting behind, with his men bearing him up. Erlan was fumbling at his belt for keys as he went, half weeping. They reached the top, breathless.
‘My lady! If anything’s happened to her my lord will slay me like a dog!’
‘No he won’t!’ snarled Kunrad. ‘Because I’ll do it first! That the door? Get it open, man!’
The captain twisted the key, but it stuck in the lock, and he let it go with a yelp, shaking his fingers. ‘Break it down!’ snarled Kunrad, and kicked at the lock with such force that the whole door shook, and the latch bent inward. The captain threw himself against it; it shot back and he went staggering in, off balance on the worn carpet.
The room was a bedroom, darker and less richly furnished than Alais’s own room, but comfortable enough. Only the air was strangely, shockingly cold, so cold their breath smoked suddenly. And there was Alais, whole and alive in her lace-trimmed nightgown, but shrunk back behind the bed with her face tear-streaked and crumpled up with terror, holding a great cushion before her as if to shield against some fearsome blow. But the person who was striding towards her with every aspect of intent menace, hand raised as if to strike her down, was no more than Mistress Nolys, the delicate old Nanny herself.
Her look, as she glanced back at them, was a glare of haughty disgust and high-minded annoyance, eyebrows raised as if they were dirty little children who had come bursting in on a private matter. But there was something so awful in it, the sheer force of revulsion and hatred etched in the folds of the withered old face, that it stopped both men in their tracks.
The captain gaped, half laughing, and scuttled in front of her, stretching out a hand to stop her, babbling incoherently. ‘My lady – please, whatever, don’t be angry – Nanny, please stop and listen – there’s been trouble, we must—’ He caught her by the shoulders to pull her back.
The old woman’s purple lips hissed like a snake, and she lashed out and slapped his face.
The captain stiffened, arms outflung, almost on tiptoe, and let out a shriek that rattled the yellowed glass in the high window. And then stopped, instantly. The heavy man crashed backward to the carpet in a cloud of dust, limbs quivering in sudden rictus, mouth gaping but utterly breathless. Kermorvan and his men, at the door, stood in blank horror. So also Kunrad; but from a deeper cause, from the memory of such a scream sharply cut off. And from seeing once again the glassy print upon a dead man’s face, the milky, opaque eyes, the rime that whitened the red-grey bristles and aged him even in death.
Kunrad looked up and into the old woman’s dim green eyes. He sprang back barely in time as she bore down upon him. Behind her Alais threw the cushion; it hit the floor by her feet, and shattered like glass. Kunrad slashed wildly with his sword, only to twist it violently around as she tried to snatch hold of it. But Kermorvan had his sword out, too, and it was her turn to writhe away from his stroke. ‘Go ahead!’ panted Kunrad, slashing the air before her. ‘Just you try and strike one of us down! Go on! Even if you succeed, the others will have you! Whatever you wanted to do, you can’t do it now! Not now!’
‘Nanny!’ croaked Kermorvan, circling with her. His face was ghastly, but his voice was firm. ‘What’s got into you, old woman? I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to—’ He staggered back as she gave a wild whinnying laugh and grabbed at his sword. Beside him his men were green with fright, but they were fumbling anxiously with their crossbows, and got them levelled.
‘Shoot her!’ shouted Kunrad.
‘No!’ roared Kermorvan.
‘Yes!’ screamed Alais, in such a voice that they all turned to her. Then, barely in time, Kunrad threw himself back as the nurse’s crooked fingers slashed the air an inch in front of his nose. He slipped on the carpet, fell heavily, flung up his sword to ward himself, and she caught it. He let go barely in time. The hilt froze in his fingers and took some skin with it. The blade dulled to a dead white, shattered in the air and fell in a ringing shower, like glass. The crossbows snapped, one, two, and both bolts thumped home with a force that should have bowled the fragile body over and over. She only staggered, bent, then straightened and continued to straighten; for she was growing taller even as they watched.
The long features lengthened, the high cheekbones spread and became angular and sharp. The lips empurpled, then paled to a livid tinge, thinning as they changed, until they were no more than a snarling line around long narrow teeth. The stooped shoulders swelled and grew bony, distorted; the slender arms crooked, and muscles stood out on them like twisted cord. The skin coarsened, yellowed, sprouted thin wiry hairs like a beast-fell. The elaborately raised hair wound and uncoiled with a serpentine slither and became a sleekly pulsing mass, framing the still lengthening face. The eyes …
It was impossible to look at them. They were three times their normal size now and still swelling, milky and opaque as the dead man’s, yet they moved and saw clearly, a greenish glitter within darting from one assailant to another with gloating menace, echoed by the writhing mouth. She spat suddenly at one of the bowmen, and he screamed and dodged as a stream of mist whitened the side of his mail. He fell down, beating at it and writhing. The other, who had managed to reload in the confusion, loosed again, and caught the apparition of the woman in the side of her face. She reared up with a howl, and her tangled head crashed against the plastered ceiling and brought down showers of it. She shrieked, and raised up hands that had become massive, elongated, the shape of the mark on Haldin’s face. Kunrad rolled out of the way barely in time as a great clawed foot, no longer human at all, kicked out at him. The pale claws ripped up the carpet and left furrows in the wood beneath; and those furrows filled with solid ice.
The nurse’s body, still thin and withered-looking, twisted and thrashed in pain, as she struggled to pull out the barbed bolts. Kermorvan, throwing off his shocked paralysis, struck out at her. His sword jarred as it touched her side, as if there was scale-mail beneath the shredding cloth, and he jumped back, tossing his whitened sword frantically from hand to hand. There were shouts from below; more of his troops, drawn by the commotion, were forcing their way up. The other crossbowman, greatly emboldened, darted across the room to the shelter of a heavy chair, and drawing his bow again, rested it on the chairback to aim. She saw him even as she plucked out his last shot, and breathed harder at him, just as he loosed yet again. He ducked down; the chair blossomed white in an instant, glazed with bitter rime. The arrow blanched in the air as it flew, becoming an arrow of ice in itself, and this time, by luck or judgement, struck the creature in o
ne great opalescent eye.
The shriek crazed the window-glass and stabbed their eardrums like sleeting icicles. The creature reared up, whipping back and forth, and smashed and thrashed against the wall, bringing down the columns of the bed in splintered ruin. Alais leapt for safety, diving out past the thrashing creature. Kunrad caught her up as she came past, and, snatching the fallen bowman’s sword, he backed off with her, towards Kermorvan. With a single whipping motion the creature dragged the dart from her face and flung it, smoking with blood, to the floor. It stuck there as if bowshot, and she rose like a snake, fixing her good eye on the little group that huddled towards the door.
The pale lips writhed, and the air smoked around her, awesome, towering. She wore the bitter haze like a falling robe, swelling still in size, even as dark blood trickled from the torn eyesocket. ‘Flock, sheep!’ crackled a voice as inhuman as a winter gust. ‘Huddle, vermin! Share your warmth and your stink! Chatter your little defiance, while events unfold that were planned and determined ages before you were whelped, from filth into filth! Determined in minds as ancient as the world you infest, the selfsame minds that first shaped and steered the stone beneath your feet, and are its rightful masters still. The first breath you drew was already too late to stop us! Man will wrestle man for scraps of gold amid the trodden dung, and both will go down into emptiness. So it is foreseen, so it is decreed, by your own vile nature as much as any act of ours! With the poison of your own blood you shall sting yourselves, and like the worm in agony you shall devour your own tails, and wipe your own wasting imperfection from the tormented earth!’
Shaking violently, the young crossbowman nonetheless managed to draw and load, whole others milled in the door. Kermorvan and Kunrad, picking up small tables as improvised shields, were inching forward. The creature hissed mist about them, and laughed, with an eerie ripple like chiming icicles. ‘Spit your sharp sticks, scratch with your steel claws! Can they so much as scratch the Ice itself? The Walls of Winter will crush you, and the shroud of the eternal Ice will still even the corruption eating at your forgotten bones, and you can no more alter this than turn back the flow of your own rotten mortality. It is foredoomed!’
The Castle of the Winds Page 30