In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1)

by Ballintyne, Ciara

Before he brought himself to ask, she turned, crossed to the gate tower and disappeared into the stairwell.

  On the wall, men and women were draining waterskins and reluctantly climbing to their feet. Galdron strode amongst them, divvying them up into shifts and directing some to their beds, so they could later relieve those on sentry duty. Lyram wasn’t needed here, and other matters required his attention.

  He stepped into the stairwell, breathing in the dank, clammy air within its close confines. With his helm tucked under his arm, and the other carrying the claymore upright before him, he padded down the shallow steps.

  As he stepped out of the shadows of the stair into the courtyard, the brilliance of the sun dazzled him. From out of that blinding sunlight, something struck him hard. A great weight knocked him to the ground, forcing the breath from his body and tearing the claymore from his hand. The helm bounced away, iron ringing against the stones. What? Who? He blinked tears from his eyes and scrabbled for his sword hilt, but he’d left the clan sword in the tower suite. The other arm was twisted beneath him, the shoulder screaming in agony. The weight atop him resolved into the outline of a man swinging his fist.

  Lyram dodged, but the fist grazed the side of his head. Bright lights flashed before his eyes, and the fist bounced from his skull and careened into the ground beside his ear. He reached for his knife with his left hand.

  The assailant aimed another blow, and Lyram bucked his hips, throwing the man off balance. A guard, though not one of his. A castle guard.

  The man’s weight shifted. Lyram fumbled his knife from its sheath, but it slipped free of his hasty grip. The clatter of the blade on the cobbles sounded as mournful as the cry of a wild goose. Eye to eye with his attacker, he reached instead for the man’s belt, groping along its length for his dagger.

  A curious blankness suffused the man’s features, and almost belatedly he swung another fist at Lyram. Their proximity made the blow awkward, and Lyram jerked aside. The man’s knuckles grazed his cheekbone.

  He found the hilt of the man’s knife, yanked the dagger free, and thrust upwards. The man spasmed, and hot breath huffed into Lyram’s face, its stench ripe. Then his hands closed on Lyram’s throat.

  With his air choked off, Lyram stabbed again, and again, trying to find some vital organ. The choking grip tightened. His lungs burned to breathe. Black spots danced in his vision. He stabbed again, but the blow lacked strength. The knife tumbled from his fingers.

  A glittering blade sliced through his shrinking vision, and blood gushed across his face, almost scalding in the cool spring morning. A second blow hurled the assailant from him, and Lyram sucked in a huge gasp of air.

  Ellaeva appeared, blood dripping from the silver length of her blade. She extended one pale hand—her left hand. Ciotach an Bhais. The left hand of death indeed. He fought the urge to laugh hysterically, recognising the effects of not enough air.

  She hauled him to his feet with more strength than her frame should hold, and he stood swaying on his feet.

  The attacker lay in a pool of his own blood, his eyes open and staring in death. The fresh reek of loosened bowels wafted on the air.

  Strange. He’d made an effort to acquaint himself with all the men, and the handful of women, in the castle guard, but this man was unfamiliar. Did I miss one?

  The castellan raced across the courtyard, pushing past the onlookers, and stooped over the body.

  “Ahura take me, ‘tis Adlin.” He straightened, made the sign of the goddess, brow, lips and breast, then took several steps back from the putrid stink. “But why?”

  Lyram crouched to examine the corpse. The stench he’d taken for bad breath lingered sweet like rotting flesh.

  Thick stubble coated the man’s cheeks. Even the most slovenly sergeant would take a soldier to task for looking like this. Unless...

  He opened the man’s shirt—no armour; another telltale—and found bandages wound around his midsection, stained with blood. A sickly green tinged the edges of the bloodstain. Not only blood, then. This man had been bound for Ahura’s arms even before Ellaeva cut him down. Did the castellan say this was Adlin? Lyram had met Adlin a few times, but no matter how he peered at the dead man’s features, he only caught a glimpse of a resemblance. Wasn’t Adlin the man badly wounded by flying stone fragments during the catapult bombardment?

  Ellaeva squatted comfortably beside him, her gaze flickering across the corpse. Likely no detail escaped that razor glance. She stretched one hand out to touch the man’s flesh, and snatched it away as though burned, her breath hissing through her teeth.

  “Rahmyrrim.” She leaned over to whisper directly into his ear, too soft for the circle of onlookers.

  At that moment, a wet cloth dropped over Lyram’s shoulder, and he looked up into Everard’s wide eyes in a face drained of blood. His aide clutched the sheath and shoulder harness for the giant claymore with one white knuckled hand.

  Lyram grabbed his free hand, holding him in place, and shook his head to stop Everard questioning. Without looking around, he addressed the castellan. “Sir Janun, could you kindly send everyone back to their assigned tasks. The show is over.”

  He waited for Sir Janun to nod and begin dispersing the onlookers. The crowd gave ground reluctantly, the soldiers heading back to their posts or beds, and the servants back to their tasks. The small crowd of children wandered back to their hopscotch course near the armoury.

  Lyram met Everard’s gaze. “Later. Go to my chambers and wait for me.”

  His shaken aide nodded, retrieved the claymore from where it had fallen, and headed for Lyram’s suite.

  “Will he hold his tongue?” Ellaeva asked.

  “Everard knows all my secrets, and then some.” Lyram kept his voice low, even though the courtyard was emptying.

  Her eyes narrowed in scepticism at this assertion, and then she shrugged.

  He took the washcloth from his shoulder, stood, and began wiping the blood from his face. “What did you mean when you said Rahmyrrim?”

  “This man has been touched by Rahmyr.”

  A kitchen chicken approached, scratching at the dusty cobbles, and he shooed the bird away from the corpse. It departed with an angry squawk in the direction of the barbican, where two soldiers manoeuvred the dead enemy soldier in, depositing him on the cobbles.

  “Gallowglaigh scum.” Galdron’s voice rang out unexpectedly from behind.

  Lyram glanced over his shoulder at him. “Captain, your timing is impeccable. Please ask the sisters to perform last rites for this man. You can tell anyone who asks he was dying and out of his brain with wound-fever.”

  Galdron nodded acceptance, but his gaze was still on the dead mercenary. He spit on the cobbles. “I told you, sir, Sayella will have taken this commission from her father.”

  “Find the sisters, captain. Now.”

  Galdron gave a stiff salute and moved off.

  Lyram grimaced down at his clothes and the red-stained washcloth.

  “Some of it is dry.” Ellaeva took the cloth from him, and, tilting his head, she scrubbed at his cheek until the skin smarted.

  “Thanks.” He sighed, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. The weight of his full armour, cuir bouilli and iron layered over a brigandine, layered over his mail, layered over his tabard and gambeson, was almost too much. Ellaeva stilled appeared fresh. Did she wear armour beneath her robes, or did the Left Hand of Death need no protection in battle?

  He recalled the man she’d killed with a touch and he sidestepped away, feigning nonchalance. Taking the three strides to the dead enemy soldier, he studied the courtyard out of the corner of his eye. Most seemed to have gone back to their tasks. The castellan’s son, Kastyn, loitered in the courtyard’s centre, staring at Adlin’s corpse. His gaze skipped up and met Lyram’s. The young man flinched, then turned and hurried away, casting one last look over his shoulder.

  Lyram frowned. Something was amiss with that boy. Was he still angered by his father’s supposed displacement u
pon Lyram’s arrival?

  “That man attacked you because of some spell,” Ellaeva said, keeping her words low.

  Lyram jerked his attention back to her. “How do you know?”

  “I can... sense it. It’s not a smell exactly, but that’s the closest I can get to it. It’s like a stink of evil in my nostrils.”

  “If you can detect the scent of evil, then let’s tour you around the castle and you can sniff everyone. That should resolve whether this necromancer is here or not.”

  She glared at him. “You think it that simple? You can be sure he’s taking care to hide himself, to... perfume himself, you might say. Hiding a sense of a magic is difficult and draining on one’s powers—this is true of all disciplines of magic—but he would do it. He will not be so easily caught.”

  Of course not. Nothing is ever simple.

  “What I can tell you,” she said, “is that the necromancer is definitely inside these walls, and that he touched that man within the last two days.”

  Chills swept through Lyram’s body, and when he spoke, his voice came out hoarse. “A spy inside our walls, armed with black magic, and an army outside that doesn’t expect to need to starve us out.”

  “Rahmyrrim magic is not precisely black magic....” Her words trailed off under Lyram’s gaze. “Yes. Yes, that is the situation in which we find ourselves.”

  “Tell me again how unlikely it is they’re working together?”

  She turned her hands palm up, mute.

  “The castle will need to be searched,” he said.

  “We don’t know what we’re looking for—who we’re looking for.”

  “It still needs to be done. We can start with that picture of yours, see if anyone recalls ever seeing him.”

  “We should check anyone who joined you or the castle in the last twelve months—they’ll be the most likely suspects, but not the only ones. He could also be a sleeper—someone Rahmyr planted near to you, in case he ever needed him. He may not be out of place here.”

  Weariness almost overcame him, and he dropped his gaze to the dead enemy soldier. He squatted to inspect the corpse and its gear. A large two-handed axe was strapped to his back, and an empty sheath hung on his belt. The man wore a black coat of plate over a mail hauberk and a black gambeson. The mail’s rivets had burst asunder, and a quarrel from one of the castle’s few crossbows jutted from the breach.

  “Mercenary,” she said, squatting beside him.

  He nodded. “Galdron was right, he’s a Gallowglaigh. My scout said as much, but this is the first proof. No way to know who employs them. Could be a Velenese noble as easily as it could be Drault or someone else again. Could be Sayella’s father, like Galdron says. Or not. But the Gallowglaighs undeniably have a connection to Velena.”

  “Someone undeniably wants us to believe they are Velenese, but I’m always reluctant to believe something when someone is trying so desperately to convince me.” Ellaeva scoured the corpse with a steely eye, then looked off in the direction of the enemy camp, frowning. “A smart play. Finding their employer will be difficult.”

  Lyram stood sharply, his lips twisting. “You have that right. Find Galdron and help him organise the search for the Rahmyrrim. Give whatever guidance you can without saying we’ve the worshipper of a black goddess in the walls. And show that picture around. I’ll go speak to Everard.”

  Squaring his shoulders, he went to beg for his aide’s silence.

  Ellaeva didn’t mean to pry, only to speak to Aharris, but she paused outside the commander’s rooms, forestalled by shouting from the other side of the thick panel. She stood there, her hand still raised to knock. Glass clinked inside.

  Letting her hand drop, she fell back into the shadows of the doorway that led to the murder holes and prison. Her natural instinct was always to find the truth of any matter. Perhaps she would hear something useful.

  Aharris shouted again, but his voice was slurred, and Everard replied in a tone too low to hear. She strained her ears, and furrowed her brow in concentration, but the shouting turned to a long silence.

  As she turned to go, a guttural yell from the tower suite shattered the stillness of the night. Then came Everard’s voice again, soft and consoling, the rattle of a bottle against glass, and what might have been sobbing.

  She waited until silence fell again, then lingered a while longer. That yell, disoriented and frightened, almost sounded like someone waking from a nightmare, or perhaps jolting awake on the threshold of asleep. Was he asleep again now?

  The commander’s door opened, and Everard appeared. He was careful to make no noise, and pulled the door closed gently behind him.

  Everard’s care to be silent seemed a wasted effort. If Aharris had drunk as much liquor as she suspected, not even the enemy storming the walls would wake him. But was it grief that drove him to the bottle, or guilt?

  Even in the dim moonlight falling through an arrowslit in the outer wall, Everard’s face was ashen. Did Lyram tell him the truth about Rahmyr? The mere whisper of the word was enough to chill most to the bone, and her name was so abhorred that rarely was it used as an epithet.

  She stepped forward from the shadows. “How is he?”

  “Dragons balls!” Everard clapped one hand to his mouth and fixed her with a grim stare. “You sneak around like a damn cat. Why aren’t you asleep? It’s only a few hours to dawn.”

  “I don’t sleep much. I saw the light from Lord Aharris’ suite, and I heard...” She fell silent, unwilling to admit exactly how much she really did hear.

  Everard narrowed his eyes at her and drew himself up. “He doesn’t sleep much, either. He has bad dreams. But he’s sleeping now. And so must I.”

  She gave him a small nod of acknowledgement, and he brushed past her.

  She waited, listening to the echoing patter of his feet as he passed down the twisting stairs and out into the courtyard, then followed slowly. A good aide was like a butler, protecting his master in more important ways than a guard would.

  The full moon cast bright light across the courtyard on this cloudless night. Ahead of her, Everard lifted an arm to hail Captain Galdron, who was exiting the barbican. She ducked back into the cover of the well room door.

  Galdron hesitated a moment before crossing the dusty cobbles to join Everard. Moonlight reflected from the sweat on his pale forehead, and he carried his helm under one arm. His other fist clutched a crumpled piece of parchment.

  “You doing the watch rounds? Everyone’s awake, it seems.” Everard stifled a yawn with his fist. “Though I surely wish I wasn’t.”

  “The commander can’t sleep again?”

  “Just nodded off. And the bloody Death Priestess is skulking around too.”

  Galdron jumped and glanced around the empty, shadowed courtyard. From atop the battlements came the soft jingle of mail and a murmur of voices. “I don’t trust her.”

  Ellaeva thinned her lips. It wasn’t the worst she’d ever heard, nor likely to be the last.

  “That makes two of us, my friend. Are you well? You look a bit... piqued.”

  The captain twitched again. There was a soft rustle as he gestured with the hand holding the parchment. “I... ah. Yes. Just a letter from my niece. My sister’s daughter.” He paused a moment then rushed on. “It arrived just before the siege, and I— I’d forgotten, what with everything. I remembered it tonight.”

  “And is all well?”

  “Uh... well enough.” Galdron glanced down at the crushed letter in his fist, and attempted to straighten and refold it neatly. When the effort failed, the captain tucked the missive away in his clothes. “Little enough I can do for her from here anyway. Uh, the gates are all checked and the watches rotated. I should get what sleep I can before the sun rises.”

  Galdron strode away without waiting for a response, and Everard moved off in another direction.

  Ellaeva started to step out of the well-room doorway when another shadow drifted across the courtyard from near the barracks. She
froze. The shape resolved into Leinahre, headed for the grand stair that led to the banqueting hall.

  Ellaeva waited until she’d disappeared, and then slipped across to the stairwell leading to her own room.

  There were entirely too many people wandering around in the middle of the night for her comfort.

  A pounding, as though someone was attempting to break down the bedchamber door, finally roused Lyram from a deep sleep. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he rolled from the bed. He squinted down at his clothes. Why didn’t I undress before sleeping?

  The door swung open to reveal Everard, as immaculate as ever in formal shirt, kilt and plaid. Did he ever sleep?

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but we’re under attack.”

  Lyram blinked, the fogginess disappearing from his mind as sharply as if it had been dunked in cold water.

  His aide bustled over and began pulling his hauberk from its stand. His calm demeanour betrayed no sign of distress at Lyram’s explanation about the necromancer late last night.

  Stooping, Lyram snatched up his gambeson from the floor and began pulling it on. He’d barely got the leather tabard on over the top before Everard hauled his mail across the room.

  Everard straightened Lyram’s posture then lifted the hauberk to drop over his head and arms.

  Lyram grunted as the weight of the hauberk settled. As Everard hurried to fetch the coat of plate, Lyram’s gaze fell on the empty bottle by the bed.

  How much did I drink last night? Surely not so much as that—Everard would never allow it.

  Everard helped him with the brigandine, and, when satisfied with his work, began buckling on the various pieces of cuir bouilli and iron plate over the top: vambraces and rerebraces, spaulders, lames and greaves.

  “The attack,” Lyram said. “Do you have any details?”

  “No, sir. Galdron told me to run—and I did.” He buckled the clan sword’s baldric over the top, then lifted the giant claymore from its stand and proffered the hilt, holding fast to the sheath with two hands to allow Lyram to draw the blade free with a steely rasp.