“Must be a league and a half, Your Grace.”
A tinny sound caught Selwyn’s ear. At first he thought it was a distant bird call, but it repeated twice more.
“Was that—?” Hewland asked.
“Leax just sounded To Arms,” Selwyn answered somberly “We have to go now.” He mounted the stairs to the aftcastle and beat his sword and shield together to draw attention from Queen Bethany. “The enemy is forming for its assault! Row south at all possible speed.”
Selwyn climbed back down to the deck and headed for the stateroom. “Waste no time, Hewland. One way or another, this ends today.”
CHAPTER 49
M irko Bowback and the others in Rotamir’s century kept watch on the savanna, as they did many nights. It was humdrum work, though that could change in an instant when the Bone Riders came. Such was the nature of war, he had learned, long days of boredom and short moments of terror. Things had been livelier tonight, with long columns of Belgorshans marching out on patrol.
Yosip nudged him and pointed. Following the gesture, Mirko saw movement in the grass. While he had no wish to kill Jandari, he also had no desire to be killed by them. “Milord, someone is out there. Something is moving.”
“What it is?” Rotamir asked in thickly-accented Belgorshan, hurrying to Mirko’s side. “Jandari?” He barked something in Oberyn to his two serjeants, one a tall Oberyn, the other with the dark eyes and broad face of a Belgorshan peasant. He was the crueler of the two. The serjeants shouted commands down the line, and the century prepared to fight.
By then, however, Mirko could tell what was making the noise. A burial detail emerged from the gloom, guiding donkeys and empty carts back to camp. He knew what would come next.
“Witless peasant!” Rotamir shouted, smacking Mirko’s bare head with a steel gauntlet and driving him to his knees. “Ill-shapen! Freak!” The curses and blows went on without pause, but Mirko remained calm. It could not touch him now. The beating finally stopped as Rotamir and the century parted to let through the carts. Friends helped Mirko to the side. Blood tickled down his scalp, but he wasn’t badly hurt. He pressed a rag to the wound and watched the burial carts go by. At least with so many men dying, the rest could have proper spears.
A week ago, gravediggers had carried off Pisspot the Latrine Cleaner, and not two days later, they put Kirilo the Tanner in a hole as well. These days, it seemed like oatwater flux and breakbone fever were racing to see which could kill more men. Tea made from sickle-leaf bark was said to help the fever, but every nearby tree was stripped and Jandari marauders killed anyone who strayed too far from camp, except the gravediggers. Vasik said it was a tradition as strong as law not to harm burial details.
Once the carts were gone, Uncle Luka spat on his hands and began digging at his palms. “I hope never to see another ladder. Hate those damned things.” After training all week with heavy, rough-hewn ladders, it was a common opinion among the tithe. Their hands were full of splinters.
“Carrying ladders is better than climbing them. At least we won’t be first up the wall. Vasik says those souls have no chance.”
Uncle Luka shook his head. “It makes no difference. Either by disease, or the Jandari savages, we’re going to die without seeing home again.”
“That’s not true, Uncle,” Mirko said. “Some of us will live.”
The older man regarded him thoughtfully. “You’ve changed since your time with that foreigner.”
“Wicke showed me the path to follow. I know what I must do.”
“And what’s that?”
Before he could answer, a trumpet call sounded from the direction of Leax’s tent, three long horn blasts. It came twice more.
Vasik joined Mirko and his uncle. “That’s the To Arms, lads. At least we’ll get this over with.”
The lords must have known what to expect, because they came out of their tents in mere moments, armored and ready. Mirko watched in awe as the camp prepared for battle, a great city worth of men put under arms. No matter how many had died by illness, more than enough remained to take Nineacre.
Rotamir strode out in front of the century and said something in Oberyn that brought a cheer from the two serjeants. Then he commanded in Belgorshan, “Weapons down. To ladders!” The peasants grounded their spears in piles, and then serjeants drove them toward the ladder piles with stinging blows from their short whips. Eager to escape the sting, peasants sprinted for the ladders, but this quickly turned to anarchy as a dozen of other centuries were doing the same. Fights broke out as they fought over the ladders. Naturally, serjeants and lords beat the men to restore order, which only made things worse.
Finally, the army stood ready for battle, but then waited at least an hour for Priest-King Leax to appear. No, Mirko chided himself. Just Leax. He was neither a true king, nor priest.
During the wait, Rotamir became even more ill-tempered, cursing loudly to the serjeants. “He’s complaining about ladder duty. The fool wants to be one of those assaulting through the dweorg tunnels,” Vasik One-Hand explained. “The red flag already robbed him of the chance for ransoms, since they’ll be killing all the prisoners, so he’s hungry for glory instead.”
Mirko longed to murder Rotamir, but a spear had little chance of a quick kill against plate mail, and even if he succeeded, punishment would fall on the rest of the tithe. God would reveal the proper time to him.
An excited murmur passed through the army. Leax strode out from his tent, one servant feeding him from a stew bowl, while others finished strapping on his armor. He thrust his giant blade toward the castle and gave a speech in Oberyn. His voice was grand, and booming, but Mirko thought it sounded thick with wine. No one seemed to mind, as the men-at-arms all responded with cheers.
“Ladders!” Rotamir called, motioning upward. Mirko and the tithe hefted the ladder to their shoulders. In truth, it was eight ladders tied side-to-side and strengthened with crossbeams. The nobles had ordered this change after the last assault, when the Jandari had flipped many ladders away from the wall, sending Belgorshans to their deaths. These were much harder to carry, but once positioned the enemy would have an awful time moving them. In each tithe, two men carried forked poles to help get them in place.
Ladder bearers ringed the castle on all sides. Ahead of them were ranks of crossbowmen, already trading shots with the castle defenders. At the very front stood the surviving trolls, so horrible that his eyes begged to look away. The trumpet sounded again, a quick series of rising and falling notes. “Forward!” Rotamir shouted. “Forward, swine!”
They surged toward the castle. Mirko struggled to keep pace with the others, especially as they descended into the dry riverbed, with its treacherous, smooth stones. Arrows hissed around them. Uncle Luka cried out and stumbled. Cousin Stepan rushed to his father. The ladder tilted painfully, wrenching Mirko’s back and pitching him headlong into the sand. He scrambled out from under its weight. The serjeant with peasant features was beating Stepan with the flat of his sword. Out of the corner of his eye, Mirko saw the oncoming mass of soldiers behind them, as unstoppable as a falling oak. No one wanted to stay in the killing ground a moment longer than he had to.
“We have to move!” Mirko commanded the rest of them. “Stepan — on your feet!” He bent his knees and began lifting the ladder once more. The others followed his lead, even Stepan. He caught a last glance of Uncle Luka being ground underfoot and then they rushed the last few paces to the castle wall and shoved the ladder upward. Magpie and Yosip used their forked poles to lever it into position. Just as the first soldiers began to climb, a stone plummeted from the battlements, shattering several rungs and crushing two of the climbers.
The task finished, Mirko and the rest of the century followed Rotamir away from the carnage, back toward their grounded weapons. Soon it would be their turn to climb the ladders. Rotamir shouted in broken Belgorshan, demanding that they hurry, eager to win whatever glory he could. As they ran, Mirko caught sight of Stepan, his cousin’s
face a mask of rage. It was good. He could use that rage.
CHAPTER 50
T imble woke to trumpet blasts: that sound could mean nothing good. He sat up and wiped the grit from his eyes. All along the curtain wall, others were doing the same. With their barracks gone, most of the Nineacre garrison slept in the lee of the wall, protected from dweorg stones and huddled together like filthy, lice-ridden pups against the evening chill. “That was the To Arms,” someone said nearby. “They’re coming.” As if to confirm it, tower sentries began ringing hand bells.
Groaning, Timble unwrapped from his cloak and headed for the outdoor kitchens. It would take the enemy a good while to form up, and he wasn’t going to die on an empty stomach. The line was shorter than most days. Maybe the thought of battle robbed some men of their appetite. Second Cook looked a little shaky himself as he pressed hard cheese and biltong into Timble’s hand. Munching on the meager ration, Timble returned to his bedding. It was time to prepare for the assault and what came after.
He sifted through his pack and came out with threadbare clothes so ragged even the saddest peasant in Belgorsk would be ashamed to wear them. They were baggy enough to hide the leather brigandine and leg tassets he wore. Nineacre was going to fall, that much was certain. Loyalty demanded he fight beside his friends, but that didn’t mean he had to die for them as well, not while the magus was still unpunished. When things got bad, he planned to hide in the undercroft and then blend in with the victorious Belgorshans.
Once ready, Timble headed for the western wall, intent on keeping an eye on Sir Hornbill during the battle. That bastard was up to something. Breakfast soured in his stomach as soon as he reached the battlements – looking out over the enemy was like watching an angry colony of well-armed and muscular termites come to life. By Neptha, there were a lot of bloody Belgorshans out there. Row upon row of them, and Imperial priests rolling along in chariots, shouting and stirring them up for blood.
A clatter in the courtyard drew his attention. Most of the surviving household knights were gathering there, along with a few serjeants. In addition to the usual knightly arms, they carried nets, pikes, mallets, mancatchers, and picks. Off to the side, handlers kept the house troll on a leash, the beast whining eagerly, as if sensing what was coming.
“What’re they doing?”
Timble looked down to see one of the kitchen scullion boys. He was maybe twelve, likely the only person on the wall shorter than Timble, and apparently too filled with youthful excitement to realize how doomed they all were. The poor lamb was grinning. “That’s the breach tithe. When the dweorgs start to break through with their tunnel, those fellows will stop them.”
“How do they know where the dweorgs will come through?”
Timble motioned around the courtyard. “Targe gave us a trick. See the shallow bowls all over the place, with wounded men sitting next to them? When the dweorgs start breaking the surface, the water will quiver and the men can call out a warning.”
Not far from the breach tithe, Targe the Stone Man was speaking with Lady Alethea and Sir Chegatay. He bowed awkwardly and went to join the knights. It was surprising that Chegatay was allowing him to fight, but Alethea seemed convinced he was genuine.
“So what do they have you doing, lad? I don’t see a spear in your hand.”
“I’m a messenger,” the boy said proudly.
“Thought they sent the younger boys south. Why are you even here?”
“I hid when they sent the rest away.”
Timble sighed. “If things turn bad, come and find me. I might have a way to help you.”
He nodded but seemed too excited about the prospect of battle to give it any mind. After a moment, the lad went to join Sir Drakan, newest of the castle knights. Timble had attended his dubbing the evening before. He’d had no chance to slay an aksu-kal, so Chegatay must have bent the rules to elevate him from squire. Blue rot had maimed or killed nearly half the knights, so it could be they needed replacements, or perhaps it was just out of compassion, not wanting him to die without tasting knighthood.
Sir Drakan walked the battlements to the Lord’s Tower, the boy dutifully on his heels, and then returned, inspecting each man as he went. Household guards and well-equipped militia held the gaps, while savanna peasants backed them up with horsebows and short, heavy spears. Among them stood the castle staff. Timble noticed Second Cook wielding a cleaver and the castle farrier with a hammer in each hand.
When Sir Drakan reached Timble, he motioned to the nearest brazier. “You’ll be on sand duty, fool. Chegatay says it will go faster than we expect, so use it wisely.
Timble nodded. “Happy to.” Tossing burning sand into a fellow’s eyes was more his style than grappling at close quarters. “Hoi – where’s Sir Bartram?”
“Taken ill.”
“But where is he?”
The young knight shrugged wearily. “Not here.” He continued down the wall, giving orders and encouragement.
Disease was rife in the castle, so maybe Hornbill truly was sick. Or maybe he was plotting something. Grand – one more thing to worry about. Taking position at the brazier, Timble fed chunks of soft, brown coal to the flames. When the trolls came, he wanted the sand good and hot.
It took a long time for the ugly-arsed things to arrive. Instead, the Belgorshans milled around getting into place. Meanwhile, the sulfurous vapor of the coal mixed with the fear in his belly to make a noxious soup. Just when he was ready to empty his guts, the shrill whistles of the troll handlers sounded across the field. Stepping up on tip-toes, he could see the maggoty-white monsters bounding across the riverbed, their handlers struggling to keep up, or in one case being dragged across the river stones. Bowmen loosed volleys at the creatures. Once the trolls began climbing, the bowmen shifted fire to the onrushing mass of troops following them. Timble scooped a generous helping of sand into his pail, and waited for the worst to happen.
It was a short wait. A pallid claw reached past the battlements and plucked a townsman over the side by his head. Then a mangled snout loomed over the wall, pincushioned with arrows. It snapped at the defenders, chomping through a spear shaft. Timble ran forward and tossed a bucket of burning sand into its open maw. The monster reared back in pain. A villager speared it in the throat, as Sir Drakan brought his blade down across its claw. Mustard-colored blood sprayed their faces. Timble felt a rush of relief as it lost its grip and fell from sight.
By then, ladders began topping the wall. Timble cursed whomever had given Leax the idea of lashing them together; it would be damned hard to flip them. The Jandari gave a shout of alarm, and Timble saw the ends of the ladders start to bounce. The enemy was coming.
Soon the first wave arrived, spear-wielding peasants. They died quickly, as Leax no doubt expected, the fresh defenders easily sending them to the rocks below. Timble knew it meant nothing. The first wave couldn’t take the wall, but whether the seventh or the seventieth, eventually the Belgorshans would exhaust and massacre the defenders.
CHAPTER 51
S elwyn anxiously followed the Amber Stag’s southward progress through the cloudy, green-glass windows of the stateroom. It was a bit like being under the river itself. Soon the banks started to look familiar and he knew they were close to Harlowe Ford. The noise of battle began to reach them, sounding small and absurd at such a distance, like children playing a game. The burned outskirts of town hove into view, and Selwyn felt a surge of anger and loss. Lord Hewland called down to the coxswain, who repeated the commands. “Hold water! Check her down.” The ship began to slow as the men let the flats of their oars break its speed. “Very well thus.”
“Please identify yourself, milord,” a voice demanded from shore. Craning his neck, Selwyn could just see the enemy pickets, at least a tithe in strength. They jogged to keep pace with the Stag.
“Sir Enos, of Sacha’s Swiftsteeds.”
“And what have you brought us from home?”
Selwyn tensed as he waited to hear the words. Afte
r an agonizing pause, Hewland answered, “Everything — everything needed for victory.”
Hoof beats sounded and a group of riders joined the pickets. Selwyn noticed light glinting from their plate armor. Knights or nobles. “We expected you four days ago! Where are your escort troops and the rest of the convoy?”
“About a half-day behind us, keeping the Jandari marauders at bay,” Selwyn heard Hewland respond. “Captain Sacha said these supplies were critical and ordered us to press on alone.”
The noble seemed to confer with the men on shore a moment, and then said in a grudging voice, “He was correct. You can wait to unload until after the assault — we have enough confusion already. But for now, dock the Queen Bethany and offload the Sargoshi flame. Our stone men are demanding it.”
“Aye, my Lord,” Hewland called back. “Straightaway.” Selwyn moved to the door of the stateroom and cracked it open. He watched Hewland cross to the gunnel and shout to Sir Ivo, who commanded the Queen Bethany. “Moor between those two keelboats.” The other boat began to pull ahead. Then he shouted down to the coxswain of the Stag, “Square and bury your oars. Ahead easily.”
Selwyn returned to the window, hoping to see the noble and his men returning to battle. Instead, they halted at the docks and waited. “What are you men doing?” the Belgorshan noble shouted as the galleys sailed past without slowing. “Anchor those boats this instant!” He turned to his subordinates, and they all rode off at a gallop toward Nineacre. Selwyn heard a triggerfish release from up on the Stag’s aftcastle, and one of the Belgorshan knights tumbled from the saddle.
They were going to figure it out eventually, Selwyn thought. But I had hoped for more time. Everything began to move much faster. He pushed out of the stateroom and on to the broad deck of the galley, Reyhan and the others on his heels. A layer of sand coated the deck to help keep their footing if water and blood slicked the planks. That seemed likely now. Selwyn and the others loosed their bows at the Belgorshan noble and his men. One went down with an arrow in his back, and a wounded horse bucked off another rider, but the others soon disappeared into the endless ranks of the Belgorshan reserves. Selwyn’s breath caught at the sheer number of enemy still uncommitted to the fight.
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