In a Time of Treason

by David Keck

  “God knows, Captain. I’d guess thousands or more.”

  Durand’s dun skittered under him. “Only a league or two. We dig in on the road, hold him there. We fall back to the bridges when he’s too much.”

  Just then, a bolt clanged from the bridgehead.

  Coensar looked over Durand’s shoulder, hauling Keening into the air. “It’s too late,” he said, already spurring toward the clash of steel. “We’ll stand here to delay him, but Radomor will have the bridge before the hour is out! Berchard, ride for the castle. We’ll need every man they can spare. Come, Durand!”

  As Berchard spurred east for the citadel, Durand wheeled his dun rouncy and hastened back toward the bridge.

  While a score of Acconel’s guardsmen teetered on the near end, horses flashed in the torchlight beyond. Men shouted. Squads of crossbowmen snapped bolts through fire and darkness. Horsemen jounced into the fight. Someone in the chaos had taken charge. Now, this stranger would wrest victory from the madness, unless they could turn the tide.

  Durand did not have so much as a dagger.

  Into the line of defenders, Coensar rode, his blade singing on the wind. “Keep low! Lap shields!” Coensar roared. A small band could hold a bridge, but this bridge was broad, the only fortification a stone tollhouse lost on the far bank. Peering round, Durand thought that if they could get Acconel bowmen on the banks and warehouses around, they might make the bridge an open grave for their attackers.

  A bolt zipped through the space between Durand’s wrist and his horse’s neck. He saw two men fall with bloody arrows in their throats.

  “Coensar, we must do something about the crossbows!” Neither of them was armored. No one was ready for an assault.

  The captain snarled, lashing with the singing blade. But the line of shields was buckling around them. Yrlaci knights roared out of the night, crashing home amid shields and torn defenders. Bolts chopped down in volleys. Dread was like sickness. And Durand found himself caught with the dun spinning like a dory in a flood. He ripped an Yrlaci spear from someone’s hands.

  “For the gates!” Coensar roared. “For the Gates of Sunset! The bridge is lost!”

  And the defenders broke around him. But Coensar caught Durand’s shoulder. “Not us, Durand! You’d best not go yet! We’ll give them something to think about, you and I, before they go running our comrades down. Stick close, and don’t let them guess you’re shitting yourself.” Durand beamed as the captain’s sudden blade sent hair and a gleaming bowl of helmet sailing. Durand jammed his spear into a lancer’s teeth. The dun was nearly wild with terror. And Durand and Coensar lived only because the press had grown too thick for archery. Finally, the captain shouted, “All right! Enough!”

  And they flew from the bridge and its knot of warehouses and inns, pelting past wide-eyed townspeople, roaring, “For the city! For the walls!”

  Ahead, where the road broke into farmland between bridge and city, the defenders had already thrown the stock pens wide. Cattle bawled in the dark. Durand and his captain sped through moments before the brutes flooded across the road.

  Lamoric and a few dozen more from the castle guard met them as they reached the lower city. “Radomor’s revenge is swift,” said Coensar. “Already he has taken the Fuller’s Bridge.”

  Bells rolled above the dark streets of Acconel.

  THROUGH THE NIGHT, they regrouped three times, fighting by the light of blazing shops and warehouses. Knights and blinking volunteers fought in the stinging dark undaunted, but Radomor’s men were too many and too well led.

  Soot-smeared and bloody, Durand followed a gang of knights shambling under the gate to Castle Acconel’s inner courtyard. Somewhere, Kieren, Lamoric, and Coensar wrangled over wild and hopeless tactics, but Durand was done for a time. Soon, they would fall back. The outer yard behind him was a makeshift infirmary, and, somewhere in the old city, the priests were murmuring their First Twilight.

  Something rushed past Durand from the shadowy precincts of Gunderic’s Tower, dim as moths, nearly skipping him from the walls. Hooves clattered.

  Durand had an axe now. One of the other knights, Badan, whipped a chained flail from his belt.

  “Almora!” It was Deorwen shouting from the yard end of the gatehouse tunnel. The girl stopped, jittering bareback on a black pony.

  The knights opened their hands, embarrassed. Badan wheeled. “What do you mean riding us down, you daft girl? It’s the middle of the bloody night!” He made to move toward her, the chain rattling, but Durand caught him, heaving the man—mail coat and all—against the wall.

  “Enough,” Durand breathed. “Leave them alone.”

  Badan’s eyes glinted near, very wide for an instant. “ ‘Alone with you.’ Is that what you mean?” Durand twisted his fists in the man’s surcoat; there were three knights looking on. But Badan only sneered. “I’m watching.” He wrenched himself free and stumbled away.

  Their small audience bowed to Lady Deorwen and left Durand standing under the gate. He could not read their faces.

  “You promised to be careful, child,” Deorwen said.

  “I am. I am.” There was a wet catch in her voice. “The cook, he said, he’s boiling water as fast as he can boil it and there’s no sense hounding him. And he says a lad will be along.”

  Durand wanted to get his hands on Badan.

  Deorwen’s voice was soft. “That’s fine, Almora. That’s fine.”

  The black-haired little thing peered past her, trying for a good look at the straggling infirmary or the smoke drifting from the pyre of Fuller’s Bridge. The bells still tolled above the streets.

  “Good,” said Deorwen. “Good. Now, see if you can get the house steward to hurry with the blankets.”

  Now, Almora’s head bobbed sharply. “Hurry with the blankets!”

  The wheeling pony nearly bashed Durand into the wall once more.

  “And carefully!” Deorwen rubbed a hand over her face. “She cannot sleep. It’s been a trial inventing errands. She prefers that they involve her pony.”

  Durand laughed—a cough of a thing that nearly started the whole weight of the day and night crashing down on him. He put a hand on the wall. “What was its name?”

  “Star, she’s named it.” The animal could not have been blacker. Deorwen’s fingers touched her brow. “He’s got a white mark on his forehead,” she explained. Just like Geridon’s “Pale.”

  Durand panted another soundless laugh.

  “I’d like to keep her away from the worst of it,” Deorwen said.

  Durand nodded. She was very close, and, for a moment, they were alone. “I would like to get us all away from here. Somewhere far away. I can’t think—”

  She kissed him in that archway, her arms snaking round his waist, under his cloak. He caught her up in his arms. He felt her tears on his face. “What is happening between us?” he managed.

  “I don’t know.” She smeared at her eyes. “We are ridiculous.”

  There were voices close, and Durand remembered Badan’s warning. He swallowed. “I want to take you away from all this. I want—”

  “It can’t be like this.” She looked back to the makeshift infirmary. “We must think. What good thing can rise from betrayal?”

  There was an army near and fighting on the island itself. “Be careful,” he said. He could not think.

  DAWN PROPELLED SERVING men into motion, prising their heads from the straw in the cold corridors and storerooms of Gunderic’s Tower. Heaven’s Eye sent great sheets and blades of light to probe the Painted Hall where the knights lay, sprawled like dead men.

  A priest would be making the tower’s shrine ready for morning prayers. The kitchens would be sawing at bread and cold pork. He saw Deorwen coming with a bit of bread, but slipped from the hall before she could reach him and searched out a place to get a look west from the city walls.

  He stalked through a citadel hushed and strange in the chill. He nodded past the guards on the wall, and climbed into bright da
wn on the battlements—as far from the Painted Hall as he could travel. His shadow sprawled a hundred paces over the crooked rooftops of the lower city where he could see men hauling strongboxes and bed frames from their houses. Carts stood under towering loads. Pigs ran in the streets. He heard geese and crying.

  There were worries aplenty in the city without his. Men had already died. Friends. And Lamoric had shouldered his brother’s burdens, rallying the citizens. Durand could not trust his heart with Deorwen near, but neither could he abandon the city and his friends—not now. He would just have to keep clear of her. The family would be trapped in the castle, lucky to step from Gunderic’s Tower with Radomor’s thugs so near. Durand resolved not to set foot inside.

  A bent shadow joined his among the rooftops. Heremund Skald grimaced, puffing a little steam. “You walking the walls as well, O knight of the mountain hall?”

  “There’s an army on the doorstep, friend skald.”

  “Look at them down there!” His stubby hand darted over the refugees, out of his cloak only a moment. “They’re betting on these old walls. Would the buggers be safer in the hills?”

  “I’ve never seen a city under siege,” was all Durand could answer. The ancients had girded Acconel with high walls and strong towers, but there were precious few soldiers to man them.

  Heremund hauled his cloak tight, puffing. “You remember us two riding double on that poor bay of yours? You remember the woman who blocked that road? Villagers shying stones? That’s what they’ll meet out there when they run. There’ll be some battles when the villagers try to turn them back.”

  “It’ll be wild inside or out.” In the distance, Fuller’s Bridge town was a smudge of smoke and charred timber. Radomor’s men had gouged a line of earthworks around their beachhead. Any who hoped their assault was just a raid knew better now.

  The skald clawed the back of his neck. “I’ve been at this a long time. Traveling. Better part of forty years sleeping by other men’s fires.” A finger darted out of his cloak to tap his broken nose. “Always curious.”

  Durand looked at the little man. “Forty years is a long time, I think.”

  “You’re not wrong.”

  Along the Ferangore Road, mists and snatches of smoke rippled, perhaps veiling the march of an army.

  “You’d think I’d know how to watch out for myself,” said the skald. “Staying when a siege is closing round. There’s enough sorrow in any man’s life without such follies. Mael-grin Skald wrote about the fall of Perantur. Said ‘The Writhin Men tell us that hunger is a fire. We, the citizens of Perantur, have seen this. In its stalking, hollow flames, all things are devoured—faith, love, hope. Before hunger, Creation is a thing of husks and dry grasses.’ Doesn’t seem wise to stick by when a man can step aside.”

  A skald was a traveler, not bound by vows and a knight’s foolishness. “Will you leave?” Durand asked. Was that what had the little man nervous?

  He flinched a smile. “I find that I can’t.”

  “Ah.” Durand tapped his own nose as the skald had done.

  “Aye. Bloody Radomor, Duke of Yrlac—if he’s killed his father—has been in my head since first I clapped eyes on him in that Ferangore cradle: a naked thing with his mother dying. Was it I who set him on this path all those years ago? ‘Everything he does will come to nothing.’ I can’t guess what fiends flattered me into spitting out that one.” Again, he flinched his quick smile, lips folding into the gap of his missing teeth.

  “I knew the lot of them in Yrlac,” said Heremund, “though you don’t tell a man his son will come to nothing, and then beg a roof for the night.” He knuckled his oft-broken nose. “And poor Alwen. Such a lovely girl. And I knew Aldoin Warrendel. I remember an old skald chuckling about the town house Aldoin bought by the citadel. The Maiden and the Mother either side of the front door, proud as whatever—had been a bawdy house in times gone by: convenient for the baron with an itch of an evening.” As it turned out, Aldoin needed the house so he could be near Radomor’s young wife, waiting for her to whistle from her tower window. Durand had stood by while the man drowned in Radomor’s well. He had stood by while Alwen and her child starved in her chamber.

  “And now I’m tied to Lamoric’s misfit band. Here’s you: a stray come to my door. You lead me to kings and princes, wars and sorcerers. The Red Knight will be Duke of Gireth someday. And you? You’ve bulled your way to the head of the line. There are men who’ve fought twenty years but here you are, hero and festival bull.”

  “For all the good it’s done anyone.”

  “Well, think on it. You’ve drawn their eyes now. Geridon held his spot a long time.”

  Durand looked back westward. “None of that was on my mind.” He was certain now: something wavered between the Banderol and the Warrens, as though the boughs had come alive.

  Heremund joined him, taking a long look. “That’ll be our Radomor riding to overturn the kingdom.” He sucked a deep breath. “It’s a marvel what one man’s folly can do.”

  From the towers of the citadel, great horns moaned over the lower city: they’d sighted Radomor’s army.

  Heremund scrabbled at his cap. “What a teacher is the world; what lessons there are in a man’s life. You be careful.”

  Durand saw the glint of helmets on the Fuller’s Bridge. They had to hold the walls.

  When he looked down, the skald had gone.

  18. The Red Hour

  As a ragged squall tumbled in from the mere, Radomor’s host crossed the River Banderol. Durand moved to the mighty Gates of Sunset, scrounging a meal among the towers. Thousands crowded the arch below, struggling to carry their lives to safety. Radomor’s soldiers shouldered past the Fuller’s Bridge like a rug hauled through a knothole. Their numbers brimmed the Fuller’s Bridge camp and flooded the fields toward the lower city. They made no pause. Durand saw knights beyond counting and ranks of spearmen glinting like the sea. Engines of war arose like outlandish battleships, rocking in the wake of oxen.

  Durand looked back. Dominating the square beyond the Gates of Sunset was a white idol of the King of Heaven himself. Masses heaved around the feet of the solemn giant.

  “Hells, now it’s raining,” Berchard griped. The old campaigner climbed to the parapet, a crossbow on his shoulder. “Rain plays merry hell with these things.” He nodded to Durand. “We’re all up on the walls, now. Coensar has the conroi scattered in twos.” He managed a crooked grin. “He’s got Lamoric, and he had me looking for you. Guthred’ll be sitting on Badan somewhere. I think I’ll be in charge of our division, eh?”

  Durand flashed a few teeth, but nodded his chin toward the advancing host.

  “Hells.” Berchard grimaced after a good look, his face curling like a fist around the patched eye. “Now why did I want to see that, eh?”

  “I’ve been watching it since dawn.”

  “That’s not just his own boys and sellswords that Radomor’s using. I’d wager there’s a lot in plain green surcoats who’ve left their Beoran gear at home.”

  Durand nodded. A man would need half the knights in Er-rest for an army that size. The advancing host looked like a city come adrift—carrying its towers and derricks along for company.

  Under the patter of rain, Acconel changed color: silver thatch and pale walls darkened, the citadel’s courses shining like slabs of clay.

  “God.” Berchard shook his head, whispering, “She’s root-bound, Acconel. Once, I’d wager you couldn’t force the Banderol with all the Sons of Heshtar. Now, there are strong stone bridges on every side. This lower city? From what I hear, it was a bald killing ground for generations. They dug ditches to keep you off the walls and packed the towers and the battlements with espringals and ballistae. If some poor devil got over the river, he’d come up to the wall and hell would pour down on him. Now, those engines are dust and houses crowd the walls.” Berchard managed a quick grin. “That’s peace.”

  While the two knights watched, the Yrlaci columns slid into the tangl
ed roots of the lower city. Engines of war stole among the rooftops. Nearer at hand, sullen crowds of townspeople struggled to pass the Gates of Sunset, filling the streets before the wall a hundred deep.

  “How long can they keep the gates open?” Durand asked. “Yrlac is in the streets.”

  “They should have had time to spare,” said Berchard, peering toward the hidden battalions. “This is mad. Your Radomor’s got half the blades in Errest and we never heard a whisper. He must have had an army of carpenters just to build those engines. Even if the barons said nothing, think on how many throats they had to cut. Every fool who gaped at a crossroads. Every shepherd on a hill. Imagine the blood.”

  The clamor under the gates swelled louder, the crowd surging. Someone had likely spotted Radomor’s towers or heard a war horn out among the shops and hovels.

  “ ‘Oceans,’ ” Durand recalled.

  “Lady Deorwen was asking after you. You’ve been up here all day, then?”

  “Little chance of any of us spending much time dining in the Painted Hall now.”

  “I expect we’ll be busy, at that. I got the sense she wanted to tell you something.” The man looked at Durand very carefully.

  Just then, a group of the guards drew the two men’s attention. Some of the guards had moved to the battlements, peering down at the surging masses. With a grunt, Durand got up to join them. Down below was a knot of carts, with something thrashing among them—a hopeless tangle.

  “Come on,” said Durand. “There’s no time for this now.” And the two knights descended into the chaos. A mob pressed on every side, and, in the midst of the tumult, they heard something screaming. Durand waded into the throng, Berchard close after him. The pressure of fear and desperation had jammed poles and cart shafts into a knot like a wicker fence—and each cart was stacked higher than a man could reach. Under the heap, one snapped pole had speared a bay carthorse through the neck.

  Durand heaved with the rest. Voices rang under the deep arch; they were like people trying to get out of a storm. But soon there were enough hands in the right places. Guards and townspeople jockeyed carts free. A hundred arms whisked bundles and strongboxes from the street. Someone gave the carthorse mercy, and it was soon hauled into the square below the King of Heaven.