by T. C. Rypel
When Olga drew near the dais, he extracted his sword and leveled it at her serpent’s heart, and she fled the hall in tears. Klann started to return the blade to its sheath, but then he stopped. He laid it across his lap and considered its gleaming edge.
* * * *
Mord became desperate. He had ordered the soldiers to round up the hostages Genya had freed, but their effort proved futile. His confident sense of place in the cosmos had been dashed in a single night—the very night when, he’d been assured, he was to have risen, resplendent in pure power.
The Dark Master had deceived and abandoned him. The soldiers had lost all fear and respect, refused to obey. Even the mercenaries in his private employ sneered and held out opened palms, trebling their price for their services. Klann was unapproachable. The Dark Lord turned a deaf ear to his pleas. He was alone.
A weak conjurer of smoky serpents....
He needed ritual human sacrifice to increase his mana. And even the anointed one had escaped, thanks to the madman’s work. His attempts to sense her presence revealed nothing.
Hurrying up the ancient stairwell, he found the traitor and his mother in the prison tower Mord had made his own.
“Did you find her yet?” Mord fumed.
“Mmm, that one,” Lorenz chuckled, eyes shining. “She’s a terror. You’d best tackle her yourself.” He showed the bandage where Genya had cut him. “Then when you’ve done with her, tamed her a bit, pass her along to me, won’t you?”
Mord glared at the madman balefully. And then the red-headed whore, Thorvald, was badgering him again.
“All my work for you—my son’s work—has gained me nothing, Mord. You promised you’d influence Klann, intercede for me with the king. You’ve done nothing! He won’t even look at me! Liar!”
“None of us have gained what we bargained for in this business,” Mord countered. “Klann has broken from my counsel, as well, now.”
Lorenz chortled, gazing out a tower window at the mountains on the horizon. “Today Castle Lenska, tomorrow a palace on the Rhine,” he rhapsodized. “Next year—perhaps the throne of England herself....”
“I know what you’ve done,” Olga snarled at Mord. “You withheld all the intelligence Lorenz brought you, for your own purposes. Told Klann only what was to your advantage to reveal. You wanted those people’s destruction all along. Suppose I told the king how you manipulated behind his back?”
Mord moved toward her. “That would be...ill advised.”
She held fast. “I don’t fear you anymore. No one does. You’re nothing without people’s belief in what you can do. Isn’t that so? You’re nothing alone—ahhh!” He grabbed her wrist and twisted in his surprisingly strong, wiry grasp.
“Would you like to see what I can do?”
She grunted, a piercing whine escaping her throat. But she continued to struggle. “When have you ever had to resort to force before?” she screamed at him.
Mord stiffened. Lorenz laughed and applauded behind them. Olga tore free, in that instant, and bolted from the tower. Mord turned at the sound of Lorenz’s odd clucking.
“Ah, women,” the traitor reflected. “They don’t understand about power, do they? I do. I know what you plan. You’re holding it all back in reserve, aren’t you? You’ve great plans up those ample sleeves. Plans of empire. I know...I know because I share them. We are of a kind, as visionaries. I think we can help each other.”
Mord regarded the madman’s grandiose ranting a moment, then spoke patronizingly. “Yes, you do understand, don’t you? I knew you were special, different from the others. Not bound by petty allegiances and provincial ambitions. You’re right. Empire beckons. And it all begins with the...partaking of that girl you allowed to escape. Find her. Bring her here. And we shall begin to open the way....”
Lorenz jumped down from his perch on the sill. “Ja, I shall find the vixen, and we will cement our alliance with her soft flesh, eh?”
“Yes, our alliance....”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Wilf inhaled a shuddering breath of cold night air.
“Genya,” he exhaled.
The night was clear and crisp, the moon a huge drooping disc, pale as if in sickly jaundice over what it had brought in its fullness.
Concealed by forested slopes, they rode wide around half the perimeter of Castle Lenska, making their plans, chafing to use the weapons that festooned every man. They cursed in frustration to see the inviting channel opened through from drawbridge to inner gatehouse, knowing the impossibility of passing that gauntlet, despite the drunken aspects of the soldiers and the staggering giant.
They could wreak holy havoc and still never get close to Mord.
“Mord,” Gonji kept reminding. “We work as a team until we get Mord. After that you’re on your own. I don’t care what you do or when you make your exit—except you,” he added to a noncommittal Aldo Monetto.
They left the horses and approached the castle on foot. They had chosen the eastern rise of wall as their best bet. From a high vantage it had seemed only nominally manned. And the only Llorm sentries were atop the armorer’s tower at the northeast corner. The prison tower, where the wyvern had late roosted, was shunned of men. Gonji made a weak joke in explanation of that fact in an effort to lighten their mood a tad. They would scale the wall near that southeast tower.
“There will be no guns within the walls but ours,” Garth observed, “that is, if any semblance of Klann’s order is still maintained.”
They were all comforted to hear that, especially Arvin, who patted the four he carried, each in turn, to the others’ fleeting amusement. “I was never very sharp with the sword, you’ll recall.”
Gonji removed his dented sallet and fingered the bullet crease for luck. He gazed up at the ugetsu—the pale and mysterious moon that always followed the rain.
“I’ve seen castles taken by means of sapper action,” he noted. “Small parties of raiders—”
“Castles as big as this?” Wilf interrupted.
Gonji cleared his throat. “Well, maybe not so big as Lenska.”
“By so few raiders as we are?” Arvin asked.
“Perhaps not so few,” the samurai allowed reluctantly, “but they didn’t have you along, Wilf. You and your passionate love. Arvin...with his battery of guns....”
Wilf blushed a bit. “Or you.”
Gonji smiled. “Hai—or as many personal reasons, eh, Garth?” And when the smith bobbed his head in agreement, Gonji went on: “We have no idea what Mord may raise, but that’s the least of our problems, at least at first. But I have a feeling there weren’t many soldiers who had time to sing his chant last night. No supporters, no power. That’s what Tralayn said.”
“We’ve got to do what an army might not,” Monetto told them. “Can you all climb that?” The agile biller pointed at the crumbling facing of the castle’s ancient outer curtain. They all nodded in assent, even the boorish Eddings.
A booming from the walls startled them. A crash in the western foothills, followed by harsh laughter, high aloft in the wind.
“They’re playing with the bombards,” the Monetto explained with a sudden enthusiasm. “That’s good. Let them make all the noise they want—which reminds me—the largest mortar is set on the east wall. I used to be stationed here, you know. We all took our turn manning the big guns....”
“Forget it,” Gonji said. “You get us up to the allure, that’s all. Is it on the outer curtain?”
“No, I’m afraid. It sits on that taller middle bailey wall. Climbing that is what bothers me most. Until we reach it, it’s all killing ground. We’re spotted once and fired on—” Aldo made a throat-slitting gesture.
They made their plan and discussed the timing and signals they’d need for coordination.
“Let’s do it,” Gonji said. They shared a brief prayer led by Garth, ending with the petition composed by Gonji.
They jogged over the tors to the east, keeping low, and forded the river’s shallow r
apids. Then up the shale and scrub of the steep hill that supported the eastern wall. They reached the moat without compromise, panting but offering thanks that they’d made it that far.
Monetto whirled the grapple and missed engaging it the first time. It clinked and fell, and they flattened, motionless for three or four minutes. Either the noise in the wards had enveloped the sound or the outer bailey wall was unattended on this side.
They peered up. Still only one Llorm burgonet was to be seen, that atop the armorer’s tower, a sentry who strolled the turret, whose walk they had timed. From his vantage he would not see them climb, but the outer wall allure was entirely within his view and illuminated by the moon for half its track.
Gonji hissed and drew a practice bead on the turret.
“That would be one helluva shot,” Wilf surmised.
“Gerhard could do it,” Monetto said. “Here—take his bow.”
Gonji did so and handed his own to Arvin. He smiled to feel its heft. “I won’t shoot unless I must. If he’s not alone up there...we’re finished.”
Monetto swung the grapple again and flung it. This time it caught in an embrasure and held. They stilled their breathing, aiming pistols up to the walls. Nothing. The athletic biller skimmed across the moat and struck the narrow, packed-earth bank. Then he scampered up the wall with amazing speed and agility, gained the merlons, and hid in an embrasure until the guard had circled away again.
He disappeared from view, and just as the others became anxious, the second grapple rope dropped from the allure, farther down the wall. They thus ascended by twos, slowly and cautiously, Gonji waiting for last, to cover their climb.
They found the outer curtain devoid of soldiers, but despair crumbled their sense of accomplishment as they crouched in shadow below the armorer’s tower: They were trapped atop a twenty-foot thick wall of rock. Thirty feet below them was the outer ward, an empty killing ground bounded by sheer wall. The only thing that broke the dark enclosure was the impassable stone tunnel arch of an unattended postern gate. They had to breach the gap and scale a wall still thirty feet higher. On it could be heard the voices of many men, laughing and chattering. European voices. Should any of them glance down over the crenellated wall—
“Well, that’s that,” Arvin said, almost hopefully, but he was ignored.
“Aldo-san—there’ll be stairways in the towers?” Gonji inquired.
“Si, take your pick—the armory or the prison tower. Shall I knock?”
Gonji cursed in frustration. Iron-bound portals blocked their way. Wilf saw their looks and slammed a fist against rock.
“Well, dammit,” he whispered, “don’t sit there getting stiff. Gonji—you said there was always a way—”
The others stared at Gonji uncertainly, as he seemed to calculate.
Wilf shook his head impatiently and addressed Gonji. “Remember—remember that time when you first came? How we brazened our way through them? At the gatehouse?” He licked his lips and scrambled out into the moonlight.
They all gasped. The pressure had perhaps driven Wilf over the brink....
“Hey-hey! You, up there!” Wilf shouted at the turret sentry. “Open that god-damn door! Do you think I’m gonna stay out here all night?”
The others all melted into the shadows, cursing in panic and freezing. Gonji craned his neck upward from cover, huffing out a short laugh at Wilf’s boldness. The sentry peered down at Wilf and pointed his crossbow, calling out a challenge.
“Open that friggin’ door!” Wilf pointed at the armorer’s tower. The sentry jabbered back. “I don’t speak Spanish—just open the damn door—they locked me out over here.” He indicated the prison tower.
The sentry turned and called out.
“Holy Jesus!” Monetto swore. “Here comes the swarm.”
Gonji pushed them all toward the tower door. “Well, the kid’s thrust us into it—fare thee well, gents! Hold your guns till last. No noise. Use your garrots.”
They could hear the booted footfalls clumping up the stairs. Their hearts pounded triple-time. A scraping and a hesitation—the sentry on the turret spotted the waiting bushi and yelled—
But he did not see Gonji, drawing back on his bow.
The door grated open as the samurai launched his shot. The two crossbowmen who pushed out first were garroted by the leather straps wielded by Monetto and Garth. Gonji’s shaft skimmed the wall and tore into the lower jaw of the leaning sentry. He spun backward and fell out of sight without an outcry.
They waited breathlessly for an alarm. None came. Arvin and Eddings held the small, incredulous Llorm squad at bay, long pistol barrels angled in deadly promise. The two strangled men slumped to the stone walk.
Gonji strode through the captives and into the tower as a bombard blasted another volley for the mercenaries’ entertainment. Wilf followed quickly.
“Un—deux—trois—quatre,” Arvin told the four Llorm who stood with hands high. He showed them one pistol for each of them and laid a finger across his lips.
Monetto and Eddings dragged the two bodies into a garderobe and donned their uniforms and armor as the others covered them. A curious duty officer mounted the stairs. Wilf took him silently, crushing his windpipe with trembling, bulging arms, at the last breaking the soldier’s neck with a sickening crack.
Gonji mounted the spiral stairway to the door that led out onto the middle bailey wall, while Garth hurried down into the armory.
The samurai cracked open the door and espied the scene along the castle’s tallest curtain. At least a dozen mercenaries lounged on the wall in the immediate area. Most sat gambling and guzzling near the mortar. Beyond—the main gatehouse was alive with Llorm, their security concentrated there due to the heavy traffic of free companions whom Klann didn’t trust. What he could see of the inner bailey looked like a festival ground, and Tumo bellowed somewhere in the outer bailey. Torches and pennons fluttered in the night breeze all along the walls. Dogs and sheep, cattle and horses ran freely through the wards. And among them, their purpose concealed from his view by the long roof over the kitchens and bakehouse, a long line of mercenaries formed, angled toward the armorer’s tower. He blew a breath and cursed. Then he saw the pair of free companions ambling for his door.
Down at ground level, a black powder magazine was lifted by two grunting Llorm and carried out to the ward. The sentries slammed and barred the door. When they turned back to their posts, they saw the twin barrels aimed at them from the landing. They signaled to the officers at the counters and weapon vaults as they slowly unlimbered their arbalests.
“Hold it—stay your hands,” Garth warned them.
“Iorgens!” a surprised officer exclaimed, his face screwed up in disbelief. “These are powder magazines—are you mad?”
“If you fire those things in here—”
“Ja,” he replied, smiling thinly, “quite mad. Now leave your posts and come up with me. Slowly and carefully. Lay down those crossbows.”
They began to comply nervously. A door opened on the next level, and two Llorm emerged from a chamber, startled by the sight. Garth threatened them similarly and coaxed them into joining the somber procession upward.
“I don’t know what you have in mind,” the officer who knew Garth told him, “but you can’t possibly succeed.”
“That depends on what I have in mind.”
Arvin joined him with the four from the outer bailey level, and they were all locked into a tight chamber with no window facing out. They hurled oaths and words of discouragement after the departing bushi.
“Holy stars above,” Arvin intoned in amazement. “We’ve taken a whole tower without a shot—mon Dieu!”
The two mercenaries were admitted from the middle bailey curtain by the Llorm officer who closed the iron portal behind them. They emerged onto the landing to find the deadly blades of Wilf and Gonji awaiting them. Four lightning two-handed slashes—one dead body tipped over the balustrade and down to the magazine level.
&
nbsp; The Llorm officer—Aldo Monetto—steeled himself and waved for Eddings to join him. They pulled their cloaks-of-office around them and strode casually out onto the allure, hands clasped behind them, buffes snapped shut. Their bows were slung over their backs. They approached the lounging party of mercenaries.
“Gentlemen,” Monetto addressed them, in an official tone, “get up and follow me, please.” He had spoken Italian. A few translations were blurted.
“What for?”
“Without questions, please. We have an urgent duty.”
“Who the hell you kiddin’? We’re off duty.” Grunts of support.
“No one is off duty now,” he replied steadily, feeling Eddings waver at his side.
“Go screw yourself.” Surly laughter burst out supportively, as they warily resumed their gambling.
Monetto strode up calmly and kicked the speaker square in the face, knocking him off the wall and down onto the thatched roof of the kitchen and bakehouse building, twenty feet below. He lay motionless in the depression his fall had made. The others were paralyzed by the immediacy of it, then they awkwardly went to their sword hilts.
Monetto and Eddings tossed their cloaks open and drew wheel-locks. The mercenary band fell back.
“We ain’t allowed to wear no friggin’ pistols here—how come you can?”
“I’m an officer of His Majesty. Now hear me well. We’ve just had word that werewolves are on their way to attack the castle. They’re on the move. The gates are going to be shut, and we’re preparing for a siege. Do you remember what it was like last night?” He didn’t need an answer. “Then you’ll please move to the mortar at once, charge it, and load it. Now. Quietly. And without panic.” He pointed at the great-mouthed mortar barrel.
As they clumsily pursued the work, Monetto saw the urgency sweeping the ward below. The Llorm were reacting in confusion to the locked tower door. The lines of men refilling powder flasks there and at the far wall were beginning to disperse in bewilderment.
The mercenaries finished loading the mortar. The bombard on the far wall boomed again amid cheers and applause from its excited crew.