by Phil Tucker
His men were riding in behind him, crowding and filling the bailey. The drawbridge leading up to the barbican was down. Perfect.
He drew his blade and turned as if to rally his men, his voice a terrible roar. "For Lord Laur! For the glory of the Ascendant! Let's send these heretics back through the Raven's Gate and into hell!"
Without waiting, he charged up the ramp. Now he could hear it: the clash of metal, the screams, the shouts of anger. A moment later he was inside, racing down the L-shaped corridor, the gleam of flames and notched arrows showing through the murder holes as men watched him proceed.
"Who goes there?" cried out a familiar voice, but he ignored it. He ran around the elbow, and then he stopped. The third drawbridge was up, and he wanted to curse himself for a fool. Of course! With the keep under attack, they'd raise the only way out of it in case the keep should fall.
With his men piling up behind him, swords gleaming in the torchlight, Tiron turned and peered into one of the murder holes. "Lower the bridge! We're here to relieve the keep!"
"Who goes there?" The same voice called out its challenge, not swayed by the urgency of Tiron's demand. A side door opened up, spilling out a half dozen guards into the cramped hall. A squat, powerful man moved to the fore, blade in hand. "Who sent you? What is going on?"
Tiron froze. It was Brocuff, wearing a suit of chain, his heavy features made grotesque by the firelight, cutting through the excitement and panic with the calm confidence of a seasoned veteran. He forced his way to the front of the group and stopped, staring at Tiron in confusion.
"Ser Dirske?" The constable shook his head and took a step back. "It can't be. You were killed at the Hold!"
Tiron pushed his visor up. "Hello, Brocuff. Lady Kyferin wants her castle back."
Before the other man could overcome his shock, Tiron stepped forward and thrust his blade straight into Brocuff's chest, his left hand palming the pommel to help it punch through the chain. And punch through it did, sinking in nearly six inches.
Brocuff's eyes snapped open wide, and blood burst from his mouth. He grasped Tiron's blade with his left hand and swung his own blade at Tiron's head. Tiron lowered his chin and turned his head, taking the weak blow on his helm, then twisted his sword and yanked it free.
Brocuff staggered back, trying to speak, trying to call out, then fell. The darkness swallowed him, and pandemonium erupted as his guards realized what was going on. They had no chance, though – Tiron's knights had been waiting for just this eventuality, and they fell upon their victims without hesitation. There was a flurry of stabs, thrusts, and screams, and then Tiron broke through the door into the room inside the barbican. The guards within stood frozen, aghast, and Tiron rushed to the winding mechanism that lifted the portcullis.
Six of his men joined him, while the others set to massacring the guards. Tiron turned, about to roar a command that they simply be captured, but futility stopped his mouth. Most of his knights wouldn't even understand him. Flooded with bitterness, he showed the men where to haul, and they winched up the portcullis rapidly. It creaked and groaned, then they felt it shudder up and hammer home. He then unlocked the drawbridge's mechanism so that it unwound with terrible speed, sending the massive drawbridge crashing down.
"To the keep!"
Tiron forced his way to the fore once more and led the men across the drawbridge. Arrows hammered down into the wood around them. Tiron flinched but kept running, gaining the small tunnel that ran under the drum towers and shouldering it open even as two guards sought to shove it closed. The wood splintered, and Tiron staggered through to the far side, where he cut one man down before the guard could even draw his blade. The second went to attack Tiron's flank, only to be undone by another attack. Tiron caught a glimpse of Patash's armor, but then he turned and raced up the steps to the keep.
Had the sounds of violence above abated? It was hard to tell from inside his helm. His breath was loud, a storm behind his visor. Up he ran, screams sounding behind him as the arrows continued to rain down. He reached the keep's great door. Nobody was there to guard it, and Tiron whispered a brief prayer of gratitude to the Ascendant before he caught himself.
He turned at the top of the steps and saw that his men were being attacked from behind. Their ruse was up. Laur guards were spilling out from the barbican to swamp his knights from the rear, forcing a good quarter of them to stop and fight. Archers at the tops of the drum towers were raining death upon them with wicked ferocity.
"Damn!" Those men were doomed. Tiron thought briefly of trying to capture the drum towers, returning to their base and forcing their doors, then gave it up for lost. "To the keep!" He hauled the great doors open and ran inside, cut immediately to the left, then pounded up the winding staircase embedded in the keep wall.
His breath was burning in his throat and the muscles of his thighs were aflame with effort, but still he ran, sword in hand, his knights behind him. Tiron passed the second floor when he heard knights running down the steps toward him. A second later, a massive man wearing dark green armor and a red plume charged into view, the curvature of the spiral stairwell favoring his right arm and working against Tiron's.
They collided with a crash. Tiron's knights shoved at him from behind, keeping him from spilling backward even as more knights shoved from above. Metal clashed, and Tiron heard his enemy's frantic grunting as they wrestled for leverage. With a cry, they both toppled to the side, through an archway and out onto the third floor, crashing to the ground of the Lord's Hall.
Oaths rang out as unarmed men scattered. Tiron dropped his sword and drew his dagger. His opponent had done the same. He could hear the deadly clash of knights frantically battling in the stairwell, and moments later the battle spilled out into the Hall, men backing away from others as they fought, swords flashing and hammering at each other.
Tiron rasped out a curse. He was on top, his blade hand caught by the wrist, his other hand trapping his enemy's dagger hand in a similar manner. Even though he had the advantage, his enemy was stronger. Somehow, he was bending Tiron back.
Sweat burned in his eyes. He couldn't breathe. The man's knife was inching toward Tiron's gorget. Discarding all finesse, Tiron levered his blade beneath his chest, where it could only helplessly scrape at the man's breastplate, then flopped onto it with all his weight.
His own breastplate slammed against the dagger's pommel, hammering its tip through the man's armor and into his heart. The knight's scream became a choke, and all strength fled the man's limbs. He collapsed, and Tiron sagged onto him; then Tiron pulled on his reserves of strength and looked up.
Roddick. He had to get to the bedrooms above. He had to safeguard Iskra's son. That was all that mattered.
The stairwell was the only way up, and it was plugged with battling knights. There was no way up but through the maelstrom. Tiron rose to his feet, panting, and scooped up his blade. He rammed it into his scabbard and crossed to Lord Enderl Kyferin's trophy wall, swaying calmly aside from one attack and almost getting hacked by a second moments before it was parried by one of his knights.
He stopped in front of the wall. Iskra had meant to take these trophies down, but she'd never gotten the chance, praise the fucking Black Gate. These were Enderl's prized weapons. Some of them were beautiful. Some were trophies from fallen enemies. All were wicked, all were vicious, but none so much as the Black Star.
Tiron took down the huge flail. It was a two-handed weapon, its haft three feet long, topped by a heavy chain that ended in an iron orb a full four inches in diameter. Enderl had taken it off a kragh he'd killed. The spikes on its head were cruel, its weight prodigious. Tiron tightened his gauntlets around its handle, then turned to survey the battle.
He swung the spiked ball around once, quicker the second time, then a third, and by the fourth, it was blurring.
There. He burst forward, swung the Black Star horizontally and buried its ball into the side of a knight's helm. The iron crumpled, blood spurted out, and the man s
creamed and dropped like a sack of potatoes. Tiron planted his foot on the man's chest and yanked the ball free, ignoring the melee that was rushing and roaring around him.
The Black Star sang again, and this time, Tiron didn't stop. He kept moving, tearing the flail free, smashing it into one man's back, taking out another by the knee, crumpling the visor of a third.
Almost every knight here was fighting with a blade. Blades, unless reinforced and used for thrusting, were almost useless against other knights.
The Black Star was perfect.
Time lost all meaning as Tiron fought. At one point, he fell, but someone helped him back up. The tide of battle was turning. He could sense it, as could his allies. The enemy knights began to retreat back up the stairs. Many could no longer even swing their swords, undone by exhaustion.
Tiron threw the Black Star away. It had grown too heavy and would be useless in the stairwell. Heaving, gasping, he followed three of his knights up the steps, round and round. The enemy knights fought desperately, backing up past the final floor below the keep's roof.
Tiron broke away. He slammed his shoulder into the fourth floor door, once, twice, then burst the lock and staggered into the large room beyond. He'd never been in here, but he knew what it held. Enderl and Iskra's bedroom. A private chapel. Kethe's old room. A privy chamber.
He caught a glimpse of rich crimson carpets, white tallow candles in wall sconces, tapestries, the trappings of wealth. And, in the center of the room, Ser Wyland, holding a blade to Roddick's throat.
Tiron froze.
Ser Wyland's visor was up. Blood was splashed across his armor, but he appeared unhurt. "Who are you?" His voice was cold.
Tiron pushed up his visor. A greasy, cold fear settled in his gut. "Let Roddick go, Jander."
Wyland blinked several times in shock and then relaxed. "Ah. A Portal to somewhere close. Upstairs was just a diversion. Iskra's plan?"
"My own." Tiron spread his hands out. "Now, let the boy go. We can fight this out. But he's just a child."
"No, he's not." Wyland tightened his grip on the back of Roddick's tunic. The boy whimpered and clamped his eyes shut. "He's the only reason Iskra's attacking the Empire. Call off your men or he dies."
Tiron stared Wyland in the eyes. "You wouldn't kill an innocent boy."
"He's not a boy. He's the only thing standing between the Empire and Iskra's madness."
Horror made Tiron's blood run cold. "I can't. It's too late. We've taken the castle. You know we have. The last of your knights are being cornered upstairs. Brocuff is dead." He spread his hands again. "Listen. I'll grant you safe passage out of here. You can ride to rejoin Lord Laur. I swear it."
Wyland looked up, as if he could stare through the stone ceiling. Indeed, the sounds of battle were becoming more sporadic. As if to underscore what Tiron had just said, two of his knights stepped into the broken doorway, bloodied swords in hand.
Tiron saw something go out in Wyland's eyes. A fire, a flame of defiance, his hope that he might still turn these events to his advantage.
"So, it is done. You've taken the castle by trickery and foul betrayal." Wyland's voice had become flat.
"Put the knife down, Wyland. You can live to fight another day."
Wyland shook his head, a sad smile appearing on his face. "To what end? The best service I can render the Ascendant, his Grace, and Lord Laur is right here."
"Wyland." Tiron took a step forward, hand outstretched. "You can't believe you're serving the Ascendant by killing an innocent child."
"Oh, but I do." Wyland shook his head pityingly. "I'd willingly damn my soul if it meant saving the Empire. And if killing this poor boy stymies Iskra's mad drive for destruction, then it is a crime I am willing to commit. I'll die loyal to my faith."
"No, Wyland, stop! Don't –"
Ser Wyland cut Roddick's throat open in one smooth slash, then shoved the boy face-down onto the rug.
Tiron bellowed in outrage and fell to his knees at the boy's side, knowing it was too late, knowing it was over, but still he clamped his hand over Roddick's throat and pressed as if he could staunch the wild jets of blood.
Roddick drummed his heels on the floor, wriggled and croaked, then went still.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Iskra's stared at the Raven's Gate, ignoring the stream of wounded men tottering back through it, ignoring the curt commands and the barked orders of those seeking to impose order upon the roiling chaos that was this vicious engagement. A silk scarf was knotted between her hands, held as tightly as a garrote, and she felt as if she need not breathe, that she had entered a state between life and death and would only return to herself when word was given that Kyferin Castle had fallen.
The Raven's Gate stood on the grassy bank outside Mythgraefen Hold, and an emergency field hospital extended below its walls. Wounded and dying and dead men were being laid out with equal care, Agerastian physicians rushing and sawing and gritting their teeth as they did the best they could to prevent further casualties. Another line of men, composed of Hrethings and Agerastian palace guards, were waiting grimly, weapons at the ready, slowly shuffling forward so they could step through the shimmering black surface of the Gate. Each time the Gate closed, an Agerastian Vothak cried out a command, and it opened anew.
For ten minutes, they'd been feeding soldiers into the death trap that was the keep's rooftop. For ten minutes, her forces had been fighting against unknown odds who knew how many thousands of miles away, holding a pocket into which reinforcements could flood. Those who had limped or fallen or been dragged back out spoke of fierce resistance, a large cadre of knights standing at the ready, of blood-slicked stone and a crowded melee where there was barely enough room to swing a sword.
Each death caused Iskra's stomach to twist into a tighter knot. Had Tiron been successful? Was their pincer movement being executed this very moment? And where was Roddick? Hiding under his bed? Under guard? What had seemed a logical and cunning plan now seemed like a fool's gamble. But how else were they to take back the castle? How else were they to rescue her son?
Would she hold him soon? How was he? She trembled in anticipation. She would whisk him to Agerastos, to stay in her own suite of rooms. She imagined holding him tight, kissing his thick, tousled mop of brown hair, and then she ruthlessly curbed those thoughts.
Not yet. He's not safe yet. The fighting yet rages.
Ravens cawed in the branches of the twisted oak in front of Mythgraefen Hold's main gate, and their unease sawed on Iskra's nerves. She tried to blot out the sound, but even over the cries and screams of dying men she heard them, a bruising panoply of mocking caws.
She unwound the scarf, then slowly rolled it up once more in her fists. Eleven minutes, surely. Sixty men had entered the Portal. Nineteen had emerged. Where was Tiron? What was happening?
A Hrething emerged from the Portal, unwounded. He was wearing badly dented plate armor, and his sword was deeply notched. He hesitated, searching the crowd, and then he saw her.
And she knew.
She saw it in his gaze, in the way he recoiled at the sight of her. The knowledge hit her like a stone fist right over her heart, causing it to miss a beat.
Someone had her by the elbow. Had she almost fallen? No, she would not fall. She thrust the help away and strode forward. The mocking cries of the ravens was all that she could hear.
"My lady," said the Hrething man. His face was familiar. One of Kolgrimr's lieutenants? "My lady, the castle is secured..."
Iskra thrust him aside. Armored men stepped back, none of them daring to meet her gaze as the Portal flickered and died. She didn't even glance at the Vothak as she stepped up to the archway and waited as he called out the command in a hoarse and weary voice.
The moment she saw the black waters, she plunged through.
That familiar disorientation swept through her, that sense of gulfs being traversed, of her whole sense of self being inverted, and then she was on the keep's rooftop.
The same moon was shining down but from a different position in the sky. No clouds dimmed its glow, and the stone roof glistened in the pale light. Nearby, bodies were being hauled aside by the heels. Men turned to stare at her, their faces made young by a horrible awareness of what was to come.
She didn't need guidance. She could walk through this keep with her eyes closed.
Her soldiers parted before her, opening a passage to the trapdoor. She crossed to it, her skirt growing heavy as its hem thickened with blood. A hand helped her descend to the first step, then into the gloom.
No. No. No. No. The word rang out in her mind as she descended toward her quarters, around and down, one hand brushing the stone walls, stepping over discarded blades, a hacked-off hand. Her head spun. No. No. No.
She emerged through the archway onto the fourth floor. Torches burned luridly. The walls pressed in on all sides. Men were standing around, at a loss, and as one they seemed to notice her and pull away.
A small body lay in the center of the room, a sheet pulled over it. One end was speckled red.
Iskra stumbled to a halt as if a huge, invisible fist had been rammed deep into her stomach. She tried to cry out, but could produce only a hissing wheeze. Some essential part of her cracked, and its essence bled out into the world. Nobody moved. She felt the moorings of her mind loosen. She swayed, feet locked in place, the light smearing around her, the voices becoming a dull roar that melded with the pounding in her ears.
"Roddick." It was a whisper, all that she could manage. Then a hand touched her elbow, and it was as if a spell had been broken – she staggered forward and fell by his side.
He was so small. "No. Oh, no. Please no."
Someone was speaking to her, asking her a question, but she ignored them. Instead, she reached down with shaking hands and pulled back the sheet. The sight of his pale, waxen face was beautiful, overwhelming, shattering. The world went away, and there was only his face, so cherished, so familiar... but wrong. He was gone. It was true, he was gone, and nothing was left of him but these white lips, these sunken eyes, the blood vivid across his jawline.