by Ed Greenwood
The closet was full of dead men. Very recently dead men.
Outside the doors, they heard shouts of alarm.
"There they are!" someone cried.
Oh, shit.
Rod swallowed—and promptly dropped his sword with a clang.
KLARL ANNUSK DUNSHAR spun around. He had heard something, after all.
Men in full plate armor were streaming through a far archway into the High Feasting Hall—or what would be the feasting hall, once the chairs got done and the tables set up. Right now, all he had were a score of crude log benches, and he couldn't think of a single Lord of Galath who'd want to sit on them.
Men in plate, with visors down, waving swords and handaxes, and not a badge or blazon in sight. Motley armor, too, of all ages and conditions. Hireswords.
"Rondarl! Bresker!" he bellowed, whipping out his own sword. "Stand guard in yon arch, and hold those men back! Cathgur, sound the war horn! I'll be wanting every man who's not up a ladder or hefting stones here, right swiftly, with whatever weapon they can find! Galathgard is under attack!"
The war horn promptly howled, a blatting call that echoed around the high vaulted ceilings in a horrible cacophony.
The advancing intruders slowed at the sight of men arrayed against them, some of them turning to wave spearmen up through their ranks.
And every Falcon-glorking one of them visor-down, menacingly anonymous; fourscore of them, at least, with more still streaming in...
Dunshar cursed bitterly. There were enough of them to butcher all of the men at his command, and quickly—perhaps too fast for him to flee, if Rondarl and Bresker went down right at the first clash. Glork it all! He'd expected no end of trouble from nobles, right enough, but—
Hold! Someone was shoving his way through those ranks, face uncovered and a rich cloak streaming from his armored shoulders. A noble, right enough, though it was no one whose face Dunshar knew.
Faces... all he could see, whenever he took this thoughts away from what was right at hand, was the Lady Talyss smiling languidly at him, hair flowing freely over her bared... bared...
He swallowed hard and shook his head as he hastened forward, hefting his sword. A few strides took him to where he could peer over Rondarl's shoulder and get a better look at the man, who saw him, pointed, and shouted, "And who by the spewing Falcon are you?"
"Klarl Annusk Dunshar, of Galath. Seneschal of Galathgard, and commander here until King Brorsavar himself sets foot in this castle," he snapped back, matching the man stare for stare. "So in the King's name I ask in turn: who are you, to come striding in here arrayed for battle?"
"Uruld Ruthcoats, Marquel of Galath," came the reply.
Then Ruthcoats flung up his arm and called, "Down blades, men."
There came a collective sigh of relief as swords were grounded and visors swung up. Through it, the marquel called to Dunshar, "So, where's food to be had, in this place? And where are the jakes?"
Dunshar pointed. "Jakes down yon hall. Go right to the end; if things get too bad in the days ahead, we'll abandon that wing, a room at a time, until the smell dies down and the flies stop swarming. As for the food... we're still working on that. If your men can help feed hearthfires and pump water, we've some roast boar and deer that can be scorched enough to eat, and sarnsnips aplenty to go with them."
"Sarnsnips? Boiled sarnsnips?" The marquel's snarl was less than happy. Dunshar shrugged. "Or you can have boar with drippings and naught else. The ale's still on its way."
"The ale's still—? Man, what have you been doing?"
"Rebuilding Galathgard before it falls on our heads," Dunshar snapped back. "Oh, and removing trap after trap from under the throne, every glorking day. Some of our fellow nobles are far more determined than subtle."
Ruthcoats shrugged. "That's a highborn Galathan for you, right there."
He turned away, to follow the general rush to the jakes. "Sarnsnips," he muttered again, shaking his head.
Cathgur came rushing into the feasting hall behind Dunshar, then, at the head of a pitifully small handful of scared-looking men with daggers and cudgels in their hands. "Lord Seneschal?"
"Get all the deer onto spits, and fires going beneath them," Dunshar growled. "Yes, I know they've just been hung."
From another direction, distant war horns sounded—deeper horns than any Dunshar had, or knew.
He groaned, covered his face for a moment, then snapped, "Get going, Cathgur! Rondarl, Bresker, come with me! Someone else is making their grand entrance, and if it happens to be someone Marquel Ruthcoats regards as a sworn enemy, I don't want to get caught between them. Everyone else: barricade yourselves in the kitchens!"
Men scrambled to obey—all except young Vethlar, who inevitably danced along beside the hurrying seneschal, asking excitedly, "Anything else, Lord?"
"Glork glork glork glork glork," Dunshar snarled at him, not slowing. "Go! Get to the kitchens!"
The youngling went pale and fled, presumably to glork someone in the kitchens. Right now, the Seneschal of Galathgard didn't much care. As long as it didn't involved pitched battles in his lap...
"That'll start on the morrow, Lord," Rondarl said grimly.
Dunshar winced. He'd said that aloud, had he? Oh, Falcon spew...
THE CLANG OF Rod's sword was deafening in the closet, but an even louder racket was arising in the room outside, a chaos of ringing steel and screams.
Taeauna was already on her feet, wading over dead men as if they were a discarded heap of boots, her own sword out and ready. She put her head to one of the cracks to see into the room beyond, peered for a moment, then turned her head and hissed, "Stay here, Lord Rod!"
Before he could even start to reply, she'd charged out of the closet, bursting its doors wide and sprinting hard.
The room beyond was large and largely bare, furnished in wood shavings, a few sawhorses and sections of tree-trunk seeing use as rude tables, and a litter of felled saplings leaning against one wall. In the middle of this clutter, men in armor were, yes, hacking at each other with swords, the two at the heart of the fray going at each other with snarling ferocity.
They really hated each other, by the looks of it—and one of them, the one farthest from Rod but facing the closet, was a man Rod knew: Baron Darl Tindror.
"I just slew your herald and your banner-knight, Tindror," his scraggle-bearded foe snarled, as they circled face to face, raining blows on each other's blades, and started to pant and stagger. "And now... huff... now I'm going to butcher you!"
"You're going to—huhh!—try, Murlstag," Tindror replied, wheeling, the clang of their blades never slowing, "but you've not managed it in—uhhh!—all these years, so—"
A man screamed shrilly nearby, startling both barons into turning.
The scream had come as Taeauna reached a Murlstag warrior, run right up his back from behind and toppled him, forcing his face into the sword-swing of the armsman of Tindror he was fighting. He fell messily forward, but she was well past by then, and chopping open the shoulder of the next man.
Rod couldn't tell one warrior from another, men of Murlstag from their foes of Tindror, but Taeauna evidently could, and without the slightest hesitation.
When she'd plunged out of the closet, Tindror had been charging at five men with only two armsmen at his side, but Taeauna had just evened the sides, and wasn't done; she was carving up men of Murlstag as fast as she could move. One of them was fleeing, and Baron Murlstag was glancing away from Tindror, his yellow eyes flashing in alarm. He started retreating, grabbing at his belt as he did so, parrying now rather than attacking.
His hand came up with a small war horn, and he blew a weak, wavering blast on it as he stumbled breathlessly back from Tindror.
It was the last thing he did, as his longtime foe stepped forward and struck him so hard that both swords broke, shards flying away, and kept on coming, crashing into him and slamming him to the floor.
"Die, Mrantos Murlstag!" Tindror roared, pinning his e
nemy with this knees. "For all the bloodshed you brought to my lands, my people, my barony—die!"
Then Darl Tindror drove the broken end of his sword into his foe's face, once—twice—thrice.
Blinded and gurgling blood from a sliced mouth, Murlstag struggled feebly, pawing ineffectually at Tindror's sword as the Baron drew its edge cleanly across his throat.
Murlstag coughed and choked, Tindror raining punches on his ruined face—and died, never knowing that his feeble horn-call had brought the rest of his men into the room at a run.
Too late to save him, but not to avenge him.
One of Tindror's armsmen had already fallen; the other cried out in despair as he saw twenty fresh foes charging across the room.
Taeauna screamed defiant laughter, and raced alone to meet them.
"No!" Rod shouted, bolting out of the closet waving his sword. "No, Tay! No!"
With a great rolling crash, the wingless Aumrarr sprang high— and swept aside the raised blades of Murlstag's men with her own sword, to plunge into their faces kicking and punching.
"No!" Rod shouted again, knowing he was too late. "No, Taeauna! You'll be killed!"
He was always too late.
"BLACKRAVEN! BLACKRAVEN!" THE small knot of warriors surrounding one rippling banner chanted.
"Snowlance! Snowlance!" others shouted, from another archway.
"Make way for Teltusk! Arduke Teltusk is among you!" still others called, from down a passage.
Gleaming armor and fluttering banners were crowding the lofty halls, men milling and shouting and shoving. From one high balcony, two sweating maids stopped at a rail to peer down at it all, wince, and curse softly.
"All the castle's like this," one said. "Like tussling lads, they are!"
"So many nobles," the other said gloomily. "And all their bodyguards, cooks, and manservants, too. And every last man- jack of them of them'll be wanting clean sheets!"
"Huh. Wait 'til the coin-dancers and the lords' hired playpretties get here," the other replied darkly. "Clean sheets aren't in it!"
They uttered despairing sighs, and rushed on again.
Perched unnoticed on a crossbeam above them, Iskarra turned to the two Aumrarr lounging in the angles where two of the rafters met crossbeams. "Haven't seen many archers, yet."
"Oh, they'll be there," Juskra said bitterly. "More than enough of them. And nothing hurts more than an arrow through a wing, believe me."
"Heh-heh," Garfist growled happily, from somewhere in the rafters behind them. "Did ye hear? Playpretties."
His companions rolled their eyes in unison.
OFF TO ROD'S left, Baron Tindror was running to Taeauna's aid, too, and shouting at his surviving armsman, "To me! Protect the Aumrarr! To me, Naurlond!"
Rod pounded across the room, well aware of how clumsy he was, how hopeless this was, how stupid and dangerous—
Taeauna was raging through the Murlstag warriors, wreaking grand slaughter, moving so fast that men couldn't keep track of her in the press of men and swords. "Murlstag! Murlstag!" someone was bellowing.
"Die!" Taeauna hissed.
"Falconfar!" Rod shouted. "For Falconfar!"
Idiot. A warrior who might never have known he was coming in all the fray and its din, turned and saw him—and swung his sword viciously as Rod came pelting up to him.
Rod tried to duck under it, lost his footing, and slid helplessly in under the boots of about a dozen warriors.
Most of whom stumbled—Falcon, their knees and heels were hard!—kicked out wildly, shrieked curses, and fell. All of them on top of Rod, by the feel of it, in a great tangle of bodies that cleared a space behind Taeauna for a moment. The Aumrarr used it to turn and drop out of reach of a dozen Murlstag swords.
One blade sliced through her streaming hair and glanced harmlessly off one shoulder of her leathers—and she was gone.
Rod rolled for his life, just trying to hold onto his sword as he kept moving.
He came to his feet in a stumbling run, on the far side of the Murlstag warriors from Baron Tindror, his lone armsman, and Taeauna. Three Murlstag men advanced on him.
Rod ran to an open door. There was one thing he did know how to do, and that was run. Time to play to his strengths again.
As he ran past the door, he caught hold of its edge and swung it, hard, to close it in his wake. Almost immediately there was a dull crash right behind him, and a curse.
Rod grinned. Just like the movies! He pelted out through the doorway into a passage outside—and found himself about two strides away from a coach.
A Falcon-glorking coach, that some noble was riding in, right down one of the halls of the castle! With an escort of matching knights or armsmen on the far side, spears glittering—
He sat down hard, still at a full run, bounced bruisingly off his behind, scraped his nose on the coach's dried-mud-spattered underside, and... was out the other side, a little dazed, just ahead of the large, heavy rear wheel.
His pursuers weren't so lucky.
After the second one had slammed into the side of the coach, rocking it violently, the guards inside were up and slashing through the windows. Rod was able to weave between three of the startled spearmen marching along on the far side of the coach, go round behind the conveyance—it was emblazoned with two crossed war horns, which was a badge Rod didn't remember at all—and emerge again.
He was in time to see two of the Murlstag men down and looking dead, a third cursing and clashing swords with a guard who'd just leaped down from the coach, side door still swinging in his wake, and the fourth Murlstag warrior fleeing back the way he'd come.
Rod ran after him, slashing the man fighting the coach-guard across the side of the head as he passed. The warrior reeled with a groan, and the guard pounced on him. Not looking back, Rod kept on after the fourth man, back into the room he'd just fled from.
Only to come to a skidding halt as the last warrior stopped right in front of him, very suddenly, and started whimpering.
A moment later, Rod saw why. The tip of Taeauna's sword, dark with blood, was protruding from the man's leather-clad back. The man was shuddering from head to toe, his sword tumbling from spasming fingers.
As it clattered to the flagstones, Rod passed the man, his own sword up, and saw his clumsy swordplay wouldn't been needed.
Tindror and his armsman and Taeauna were all still standing, and everyone else in the room was sprawled on the floor, silent and bleeding copiously.
Taeauna tugged her sword free of the warrior and let him fall, and rounded on Rod, eyes blazing.
"You!" she snarled. "I told you to stay in yon closet!"
Rod stared at her a little sheepishly, spread his hands—almost dropping his sword in the process, which made the watching baron snort—and said, "Sorry, Tay. I... I guess Lord Archwizards just aren't very good at taking orders."
The wingless Aumrarr stared at him, face tight with rage... shook her head in resignation, and then broke into wry laughter.
Rod grinned back at her the moment he dared to, and Taeauna's laughter grew.
By the Falcon, but she was beautiful.
THE RINGING CLANGOR of swords was rising loudly from a room off to the left, and right below them, four bowmen had just come running out on a balcony.
"There! That man!" the oldest one snapped, pointing into the jostling press of men below, and bows were bent and loosed in haste.
A man cried out as an arrow sprouted in his shoulder. Twisting around, he waved at the air in agony and went down—atop another man who'd fallen silently, with five shafts in him.
The bowmen ducked out of sight.
"Don't know who the wounded one was, but ye got the wizard," the elder bowman said with satisfaction. "Now, let's be away from here, before anyone comes looking!"
"Kulduth! Kuldutb, you motherless defiler of virgin goats! Know that I, Thalander, am your doom!"
The shout was unnaturally, magically loud, and came rolling down the hall from afar.
Right behind it came a burst of rolling, spitting lightning. Men screamed and writhed in their armor, blue-white fire crawling all over them—but it was a haughty-looking man in purple robes who winced as the lightning closed around a cone of air around him. The cone held briefly as lightning lashed it and the air around it roiled, then collapsed. Kulduth didn't even have time to scream.
Thalander screamed, though, as warriors stabbed into him from all sides. He tottered, spewing blood, and fell limply to the ground.
"Well, 'tis indeed nice to know that virgin goats will henceforth be safe in Falconfar," Garfist Gulkoun rumbled from his perch in the rafters, sounding almost contented.
"Hush," Iskarra murmured in his ear. "We're hiding, remember?"
"Stormserpent!" someone roared, from the press of men below them. "Stormserpent, I'm coming for you!"
"I tremble!" a man in gilded armor called back, almost merrily. "And I, you fat boar of an excuse for a velduke, am coming for you! Forward, men! Forward and carve up yon windbag of a Felldrake for me!"
"Oooh, 'tis as good as a minstrel show," Garfist chuckled. "Wizards and nobles dying right and left—when will it all end?"
THAT'S THE THIRD pitched battle," Iskarra pointed out. "If I this keeps up for another day or so, Galath is going to run out of nobility!"
"Trouble," Juskra snapped, throwing out one long arm to point as something dark and batlike swooped through the cobweb- shrouded crossbeams and angled rafters of the great hall of Galathgard.
"Lorn!" Garfist and Dauntra spat, in unison.
"'Ware! Dark Helms!" Iskarra added, pointing down at the balcony, and the warriors in black armor with closed black visors on their helms.
The Helms that were already looking up at the four occupants of the rafters.
"Get right in to a joint of the rafter," Juskra warned, "and use its upright as a shield. Dauntra and I can fly if we fall, but you two—"
"Thank ye for reminding me!" Gar growled sarcastically. "I was just working my way around to asking ye how many services I'd have to do for the Aumrarr before I was granted wings of mine own, when ye—"