In a Time of Treason

by David Keck

  He climbed the battlements to join the lookouts.

  AS TWILIGHT GLOWED in the Heavens, they watched the misty curve of the bay from the battlements of Gunderic’s Tower.

  “They are coming,” whispered Lamoric. Durand noticed something strange about the motion of the waves along the beach.

  “Keep low . . .” Abravanal cautioned. “We can’t be seen watching.”

  “If only it were a darker day,” Kieren muttered. The Heavens were already blue and clear. “If they’re seen, it’s all useless.”

  “You’ve got to look close,” one-eyed Berchard said, jabbing with his finger.

  And Durand squinted out the nearest embrasure. Tiny horses pounded through the shallows, and miniature footmen stole along the bank above the shore. Battalion after glittering battalion marched five abreast through the surf.

  “It’s like a vision,” Lamoric said. “After all this time.”

  The duke crouched close, a new blade on his hip. “Hells, I still cannot see.”

  “With the breaking of the waves and the sun on the mist, they are cursed hard to make out,” said Lamoric. “That Sallow Hythe is a dangerous man.”

  The duke peered. “What makes you so certain it is he?”

  “Who else among your barons is so sly?”

  The duke nodded. “I cannot see old Swanskin daring a thing like this. Sallow Hythe likely has that big Honefells lad leading the way.”

  The old man glanced to Coensar. “All right, Captain. How many are there?”

  “More than a thousand, Your Grace.”

  “—More like fifteen hundred,” Lamoric declared, though such estimates were the baldest guesswork.

  Now, the duke turned to his oldest counselor. “Sir Kieren, how does our garrison stand?”

  “We have two hundred and sixty fighting men,” said the Fox.

  “What would you say Radomor has?”

  “Four thousand, Your Grace,” said Kieren. “At least.”

  SOON, THE EYE of Heaven broke over the mere, and Radomor’s men were stirring in the mists and long shadows of the ruined city. One party of engineers had even set up flinging stones.

  Under the anxious eyes of Abravanal’s household knights, the Host of Gireth flashed and glinted in the waves. Durand could see Radomor’s men stumbling through the long shadows here and there in the ruined streets. On the distant Harper’s Gate, he saw helmets wink, turning.

  Durand closed his eyes. “We’ll never get an army close enough. There are thousands of eyes.”

  Lamoric quirked an eyebrow. “You remember that day on the battlements? The big stone and the archers all trying to shoot me the moment I put my head up?”

  “Aye,” Durand said.

  “Coensar and I have got a little show planned that will turn poor Radomor’s head. Ah. Coen found a little fellow who—Here’s the man now!”

  A muddy commoner climbed onto the parapet, crouching as low as he could manage.

  “Master Torold,” said Lamoric.

  There was a white flash of teeth. “It’s prepared, Lordship.”

  Lamoric nodded. “Master Torold’s from Highshields. The mines.”

  “Tin, Lordship,” said the man, bowing. “And I’m hardly my own ‘master,’ Lordship.”

  “He’d only been in the city since the Blood Moon. What did you say? In-laws are wool merchants?”

  Under the mud, the man looked forty or fifty. “Aye, Lordship.” He winked, all wrinkles and curls when he pulled his cap off. “Good to toil out under Heaven. Spent long enough grubbing underground.”

  “His wife and daughters are in the Painted Hall. Knights now.”

  Durand gave the man a slow nod.

  “While I’ve had you on the mere, Sir Durand,” said Lamoric, “I’ve put Master Torold to work on our north tower.”

  It made little sense. “Shoring up the walls, Lordship?”

  “Master Torold and his volunteers have been digging. They’ve got the whole edifice balanced on a couple of props by now.”

  “It’s about that bad.” Torold nodded. “I think we’ve pulled all we can without the thing coming down on our heads. The kindling’s heaped round the last few now, and we’re ready for your order, Lordship.”

  The crouched nobles of the court peered southward. It seemed impossible that no one had shouted.

  Still low, Lamoric drew the Sword of Judgment. “Bring it down, Master Torold. They’ll be spotted anytime.”

  THE TWO HUNDRED in the yard watched smoke billow from a pit below the north tower, knowing that an army was waiting to leap upon them. In the stone bowl of the inner yard, they chanted prayers and old songs: “Dawn Thanksgiving,”

  “The Young Princes,” and “Praise to the Powers of Heaven.”

  For the last hour, the thing had burned while the men wrung the handles of their weapons. But the props held, and Torold paced. Durand crouched near Torold like a man peering down an oven.

  “How long, Master Torold?”

  “There’s a thousand tons on a few charred spindles now. I’d have bet my life.” He eyed Gunderic’s Tower behind them. The man’s wife and children huddled with the others inside. He’d bet more than his life.

  Durand gripped the man’s arm. “I know.”

  “Sir Durand!” A chain of whispers called him to the battlements where the noble lookouts still peered south.

  He nodded up and left the onetime miner, squeezing through the grim soldiers to climb the open stair to the battlements. The impact of one of Radomor’s missiles had him staggering against the stones, but he found Lamoric where the lord bent close to his captain.

  “Radomor’s sighted the barons,” Coensar said evenly.

  “Then . . . I can’t be too late,” Durand breathed.

  Lamoric’s lips were pale. “There are messengers riding from battalion to battalion. They must have seen something.”

  The army of Gireth was still strung out a thousand paces from the Banderol.

  “Has he dug in?” asked Durand.

  Coensar was shaking his head, when his eyes flickered to the beach. “Ah,” he said, “Sallow Hythe’s scouts have seen.”

  “It must be now,” Durand said. If the stubborn northern tower didn’t fall, Radomor would turn his whole force against the Host of Gireth.

  And the beach seemed to shimmer, as though the mere had leapt the shore. Durand heard a dislocated rumble of hooves. Rank after rank vaulted from the shoreline, charging past the shells of upturned boats.

  As Durand tried to gauge distances and imagine reactions, the castle yard behind him erupted in shouts. Durand saw what he took for a brawl at the north end. But it was Torold. The miner broke from the grip of the garrison. In his fists, he had a maul. It took only a heartbeat, but, in a few quick strides, he had plunged into the flames below the tower.

  Durand stood—in plain sight of a thousand Yrlaci archers.

  Arrows whistled by him; he faintly noticed startled curses from his comrades.

  But by the mere, horsemen were outracing a ragged scythe of infantrymen. Shields and trappers in every color shouted their owners’ name and line: men from the far corners of Gireth.

  “Down, idiot,” Coen said.

  But then the north tower was falling—in the blazing depths, Torold had done his work. On the battlements, every man caught hold of the rock as the mighty tower tore free of the curtain walls and thundered into the outer yard. In a thousand years, there had never been such a sound on the shores of the Silvermere. Dust billowed with the shock; the world heaved under their feet.

  Durand bared his teeth.

  With his last glance, Durand saw knights sweep for the Banderol bridges. Then, he and half the knights on the battlements had charged into the boiling cauldron of the yard.

  Coensar bellowed into the dust, “Lap shields! Front ranks down!” As Radomor’s battalion hit the breach, a hundred soldiers dropped to their knees, shields locked, and spears jutting into the dust. Radomor’s men skidded down the
rubble, shrieking glee and hatred—but falling on lances or rebounding from shields. Durand saw one green soldier pitched over the front rank on the blade of a lance. Crossbowmen snapped bolts past the ears of their comrades, and scores of green killers howled through the breech, off balance and dead before they knew what faced them. Coensar had planned it all. The men of Acconel roared and shook their lances like the jaws of a single monstrous animal.

  Trapped in the rear, Durand pictured the scene beyond the blank walls. Radomor would be roaring to heave his divided army through the ruined streets. A wild mob had surged for the broken tower, but Radomor must fling the rest at the charging barons at the Banderol. It would be chaos—Durand only hoped it would be enough.

  A scream called Durand’s attention back to the narrow yard: an armored wedge of Yrlaci heroes bowled down the rubble, Acconel arrows glancing from the shields in their fists. As they struck the front rank of lancers, Yrlaci axemen surged through the attacking line, blades swiping heads from shoulders. High on the rubble, archers leapt into the gap, chopping further breaches in the line.

  With a furious roar, Coensar spurred the garrison at their attackers. Durand leapt into the surge, swinging Ouen’s blade and feeling blows and arrows bounce from his hauberk.

  While Coensar stood bellowing and laying about with blade and flail, one great brute broke through—unseen in the wild press. As he flashed his axe round for Coen’s neck, Durand reached—almost too far—and shot his blade through the fiend’s bearded jaw.

  In a hard minute’s work, they’d mauled every man of the latest onslaught, and Coensar was roaring to bring fresh soldiers forward. They’d never hold long enough if they couldn’t keep fresh blood in the front line.

  Durand made to leap into one gap when Coen caught his shoulder. “I need to know what’s happening out there!” And, when Durand gaped, “Get up to the wall!”

  Astonished—half-furious—Durand staggered, then left the fight.

  “They’re holding?” asked Kieren.

  “For now,” said Durand. From atop the wall, the din below rang like a hundred foundries.

  Durand joined Lamoric, peering south at the Host of Gireth.

  “They came through the Harper’s Gate like swallows from a hayloft,” said Kieren.

  Now, the riders of Durand’s homeland looked more like a boiling river as they rushed to strike before Radomor could draw his host together. Knights thundered after the banners of their commanders, bolting down the channels of the ruined streets.

  Before Durand’s eyes, the first conrois struck, tearing into confused knots of Radomor’s army. Across two hundred paces of broken streets, the hosts locked together in a collision like a hundred tourney charges. Durand watched Yrlaci commanders urging their men forward. But, even shocked from their beds, there were too many soldiers in Yrlac green.

  Abruptly, Lamoric started. “Hells.”

  “Lamoric?” the duke asked.

  Lamoric’s finger jutted down.

  The greater part of Radomor’s army was still swinging round to crash into the Host of Gireth. But Radomor’s turn was heavily lopsided. Confusion or fear of the archers high in Acconel Castle left the flank below the castle’s wall weak.

  “And Sallow Hythe’s seen it,” said Lamoric.

  From their vantage on the battlements, they could see a sudden flood of men—squadrons of flying lancers—rush against Yrlac’s weak flank.

  “Hells!” Lamoric swore, hands in his hair. “It is too much, too clear.”

  “Lamoric,” said Kieren, “Sallow Hythe’s pouncing on Radomor’s weakness.” Radomor’s flank was indeed crumbling under the onslaught of Gireth’s vanguard.

  “No, he’s taking Radomor’s bait,” said Lamoric. “I’m sure of it.”

  Before Kieren could argue, Abravanal had raised his hand. “Show me,” he said.

  Lamoric stepped up between the merlons, teetering over the streets. “There!” His arm struck like a snake.

  “An alley between stone walls,” said Abravanal. “He’s herding our riders there.” Radomor’s retreat led to a channel between two stone ruins. Durand saw movement among the black and jagged ruins.

  “Crossbowmen,” said Abravanal. “Hundreds. Radomor’s rushing our men straight into them. We will be destroyed.”

  The old man shook his head. “Radomor is the ablest commander of his generation. . . .”

  Lamoric took a deep breath. “I’ll be damned if I let him spring his bloody trap! How many horses did we save?”

  THEY WERE GOING to ride out.

  Lamoric would lead them. They couldn’t talk him down. But Coensar and Durand would ride on either side. They pulled the last eighteen warhorses from the stables—Durand on black Pale—and mustered under the gate. No one knew whether they could break through the outer wall. Lamoric wore the iron slit of his helm as though it were his own expression.

  Men were poised at the portcullis.

  Coensar ducked close. “We are ready, Lord.”

  Lamoric’s nod was crisp. Durand curled his toes in his boots, shifting his lance for balance. This was a good way to get killed. Beyond Lamoric, he watched Coensar seat his azure battle helm.

  “Now,” Lamoric said, and though it was no more than a murmur, two dozen soldiers from the castle heaved the portcullis high.

  Eighteen knights charged out into the instant before five hundred heads turned. Durand saw the press at the fallen tower, but Lamoric spurred for the castle’s main gate—abandoned in the chaos—and the conroi shot through into the cobbled market beyond the walls.

  Durand’s head spun in the eerie emptiness as he rode at Lamoric’s side. Shattered masonry, ladders, and abandoned engines of war littered the market. Durand could barely keep pace as Lamoric flew over the dangerous ground. In moments, they saw the stone alley of Radomor’s trap. The ruins were full of archers, and a shield wall was set to catch and hold the men of Gireth.

  Lamoric lowered his lance, launching the whole conroi into a headlong charge at the back of this wall: two hundred men in iron. Durand caught a last breath as Badan took up a high shriek.

  “Wait!” Coensar shouted, but the captain might as well have been snatching for a flying arrow’s feathers. Lamoric’s men were already on top of Radomor’s line.

  With only a heartbeat’s warning, Lamoric’s conroi hit the hundreds packed between the broken walls. Radomor’s men had nowhere to run. Lances, hooves, and horsemen hammered bodily into the mob of soldiers. Sane horses threw their riders at the madness of it. Other beasts leapt, vaulting onto the cattle-pen crush between the walls.

  Durand had an eye-corner flash of Lamoric flying into the ranks—unhorsed and plunging into the mob like an iron missile—just as Durand’s own lance stamped home, the shock nearly wrenching him limb from limb.

  Beyond Lamoric’s flight, Coensar had leapt from the fight. His warhorse struck, but he sprang, like some boy acrobat, straight from his saddle and onto the jagged wall of the ruin above them.

  As Pale pitched and bobbed under him, Durand made out Sir Coensar bounding among fifty bowmen. The devils would have foiled Lamoric’s rescue, but now Coensar tightroped into that den of assassins as bows snapped, Keening flashed, and the archers were defenseless before the fatal captain.

  But, down below, Lamoric was lost somewhere in the seething multitude. Big Pale managed to stay on his feet, buoyant as a barrel. Men fought with swords and teeth and the edges of their shields, screaming under lashing hooves and the press of braying soldiers. Durand wrought havoc with Pale and Ouen’s big sword, trying to get to his master—who never surfaced in the press. Lamoric was dead or dying under the mob. A deafening blow clapped one of Durand’s narrow eye-slits shut. He swatted the attacker down.

  He couldn’t get through.

  Ahead, Badan flailed at the masses; Durand fought to see from his mangled helm.

  “Badan, is he there?”

  Frantic, Badan lashed at the crowd around him—Durand couldn’t get by the fool.
He hacked and kicked, pawing at his helm. Lamoric had to be in the throng somewhere.

  “Badan! Do you see him? Badan, you whoreson!”

  Lamoric was Durand’s to watch. He had to see. “Out of my way, idiot!” he roared at Badan’s back. Skipping toothless Badan against the wall, Durand plowed by, scarcely hearing the last crossbows clatter in the stone shells above him, or the bolts pegging hips to saddles and helms to heads.

  Badan was screaming: “You son of a whore! You nearly killed me!” But Durand didn’t care if he’d thrown the man onto a dozen swords.

  Durand reversed Ouen’s sword, clawing men aside as he drove Pale onto the heap of soldiers. Lamoric was down there somewhere, and Durand clawed men aside by hair, surcoat, and whatever else he could catch hold of. He heard Coensar. He fought to draw air through his smashed helm.

  And rage carried him up in his stirrups, blade high. A hundred faces turned, and he wrenched the thing from the air. Again and again. There were eggshell clops and metal clangs. Durand’s face was a clenched fist.

  Then, for a moment only, he saw Lamoric’s red and white surcoat at the bottom of it all.

  In an instant, he reached through the chaos to pluck the boneless form from the street and fling his master over Pale’s neck.

  Durand was finished with the battle. This had been his mission: keeping Lamoric alive. And what had he done?

  He spurred Pale for the gates, back on the market cobbles, bolting past the high walls and clear of Radomor’s men.

  Hoofbeats rang on the stones behind him: some of his comrades. When he might have turned, Pale was jumping something in the rubble. Durand fought to hold Lamoric as they landed. And the shock brought a gasp from the body over the saddlebow. Alive! Durand thought. He had done it. A wild grin knotted his face.

  A hundred Acconel defenders met Pale as they crossed the old market. They stopped the throng of Yrlac’s men peeling away from the castle’s face to catch Durand. Arrows from the castle’s archers picked at the stalled battalion like crows on a wasteland corpse.

  Free, Durand wrenched the smothering helm from his head. He had done it.