by DAVID B. COE
At least not until the castle suddenly shuddered with a blow that seemed to come from the earth itself. The next moment brought a second crash and then another and another.
Javan’s brow furrowed. “That’s a ram. They’re probably trying to bring down the drawbridge.”
A moment later a different kind of crash rattled the castle, not as heavy as the ram, but sharper. Several more followed, and with them came screams of anguish.
“Hurling arms?” Fotir asked.
Javan nodded. “Perhaps. Mertesse is sparing no effort.”
Again they lapsed into silence, waiting for the next stones to strike the walls, the next blows to hammer at the drawbridge. Dark, bitter smoke floated into the chamber, carrying with it the ragged desperate wails of the wounded. Men were dying beyond the castle walls, and Xaver wondered how long it would be before the fighting breached the gates.
They knew immediately when the bridge failed. The castle shook one last time and an enormous cheer rose from the Aneiran army. Xaver took a long ragged breath, clamping his mouth shut against a wave of nausea.
“Courage, Master MarCullet,” said the duke. “The bridge is but the first barrier they have to defeat, and by far the weakest. The Tarbin gate of Kentigern Castle has several portcullises and a door that could stop Orlagh herself.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said weakly. “Forgive me. This is my first siege.”
“You’ve no need to apologize. I’ve seen far more seasoned men than you lose their nerve under similar circumstances.” He eyed the guards for a moment. “In fact, I don’t think you’re the only one worrying. These two—”
The castle shook again, even more violently than before.
Javan shook his head, frowning. “That didn’t sound good.”
Another jolt, and more cheers from the Aneirans.
“Impossible!” the duke breathed. “Something’s not right. That door should have held for hours, if not longer.”
A few moments later, three more blows made the castle heave and quake. And once more the men of Mertesse roared their approval.
“This makes no sense,” Javan said.
The guards had grown pale, and with this last shout from the Aneirans, one of them left, saying that he would find out what was happening.
The assault on the gates went on, the castle seeming to groan under the pounding of the ram, and Mertesse’s army letting out more cheers.
The guard returned a short while later, his face a mask of utter despair.
“The gates are failing!” he said. “All of them!”
“How can that be?” Javan asked, sounding truly frightened.
“Magic.”
They all looked at Fotir.
“Mertesse may have a shaper with him,” the minister went on. “A Qirsi wouldn’t have to destroy the gates. Just weakening them would be enough.”
The duke shook his head again. “But surely Aindreas’s bowmen know enough to kill any Qirsi who tries to approach the gates. A shaper wouldn’t have time to do all this.”
“Then maybe it was done before,” the Qirsi said. “But that’s the only explanation that makes any sense. No ordinary ram could do this.”
“If you’re right,” Javan said, “it won’t be long before the outer gate is breached and the Aneirans lay siege to the inner walls.”
As if in answer, the castle trembled again and yet another cry echoed through the ward.
“You have to free me and all the men of Curgh you hold in this tower,” Javan told the guards. “With the gates failing, you’re going to need every able-bodied man you can find.”
One of the men shook his head, though he didn’t look very sure of himself. “You’re prisoners of the duke. We can’t free you without him saying so.”
“I assure you, your duke would want you to do everything in your power to guard his castle. That’s what I’d want from my men. You know who I am. You know that I’m to be king. Who do you think will do a better job leading the defense of this castle: your night captain or me?”
The guards just stared at him. They were ill suited to make a decision of this magnitude and both of them seemed to realize it. Again the castle rocked, like a ship buffeted by storm winds.
“Wouldn’t another Qirsi help you against the Aneirans? Wouldn’t forty-three more swords?”
“You want us to give a sword to the boy?”
Javan pointed at Xaver. “That boy happens to be the son of Hagan MarCullet, of whom I’m certain you’ve heard a great deal. He may be young, but I’d wager a hundred qinde that he could best half the men in your army.”
In spite of everything, the heavy fear that had settled in his stomach and the racing of his pulse, Xaver couldn’t help but smile at the duke’s praise. For all he knew, Javan was just trying to get the guards to release them, but it was rare indeed to have one’s duke—one’s king?—say such things.
Once more the walls rose and fell, as if from a land tremor. And this time, the shouts that followed took on a chilling urgency. Voices filled the outer ward below their tower. Hurrying back to the window, Xaver saw soldiers streaming into the castle, most of them wearing the black and gold of Mertesse.
“The last of the gates has failed, my lord!” he called over his shoulder. “The Aneirans are in the castle.”
“Do you hear that?” the duke said. “We can’t wait any longer! Release us now, before it’s too late!”
Still the men said nothing. Xaver lingered at the window a moment longer, watching the men of Mertesse swarm through the ward, his heart in his throat. Over the last turn, he had come to hate the duke of Kentigern and his castle. But seeing the famed walls of Kentigern fail now, he felt as a child might learning for the first time that his father was mortal and flawed. If this castle could fall, no fortress in all of Eibithar was safe.
“If you don’t release us,” Xaver heard Fotir say, “I’ll destroy the locks on these doors. I’m a shaper myself, and that’s well within my power.
The boy turned at that and returned to the door.
The guards were staring at the Qirsi as if he were some fearsome wraith from the Underrealm.
“I think you’re lying,” one of them said, in a voice that held little conviction. “If you can do that, why haven’t you before now?”
“Because I told him not to,” Javan answered. “Nothing good would have come of it. Even if he defeated the locks and shattered your swords, there were always more guards waiting at the bottom of the stairs. Eventually he would have tired, and then, chances are, all of us would have been killed.”
“But—”
“Enough!” the duke said. “Mertesse is in your castle! The siege has moved to the inner walls and you’ve less than half your army here to defend against it. Now free us, or stand aside while we free ourselves!”
The guards glanced at one another again, each appearing to wish that the other would make the decision.
“Well?” demanded the duke.
“All right,” one of them said at last, fumbling for his keys.
Javan nodded as the guard approached his door. “Good man. Your duke would approve. I’m certain of it.”
Xaver felt far less certain of this, but he wasn’t about to say so to his duke or the soldiers.
After trying one or two keys, the man opened the duke’s door, eyeing Javan with just a touch of fear, as if he expected the duke to attack him immediately.
“We’ll need our weapons as well,” Javan said, stepping into the corridor.
The guard opened the door to Fotir and Xaver’s chamber before facing the duke again. “I don’t know where they are, my lord,” he said.
“Then any weapons will do.”
The guard hesitated.
“Demons and fire, man! What’s the sense of releasing us if you’re not going to let us fight?”
“There are pikes and swords in the arms chamber at the base of the tower,” the man said, sounding defeated.
Javan nodded. “Lead the wa
y, friend. Whatever you may think of me, I am of Eibithar before Curgh. And I’ll die defending your castle if I have to, as will the men you hold in the chambers below us.”
The man actually smiled. “Yes, my lord.”
The two guards led them down the stairs and in a few moments had freed all of Curgh’s men. They made their way to the arms chamber, where they found the weapons brought to Kentigern by Javan’s army. Javan’s sword wasn’t there, nor were Xaver’s or Fotir’s. Most likely Aindreas had taken them to his quarters. But that was of little importance just then. There were enough blades, shields, and mail coats for all of them, and after arming themselves, they stepped out of the tower into the inner ward. Soldiers of Kentigern were hurrying through the north gate from the outer ward and walls, pursued by the Aneirans who fought to break through to the interior of the castle.
“Find me your night captain,” Javan told the guard, surveying the scene before him. He turned to Fotir. “Take the men and help defend that gate. If we can’t keep them out now, we have no chance.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Master MarCullet,” the duke said, facing him. “You stay with me. I’ll need someone to run messages to Fotir and the captain, and I’ll need your sword, if the walls don’t hold.”
He nodded and swallowed. “Of course, my lord.”
The guard returned a few moments later with an older man who had to be the night captain. His head was clean-shaven, like that of a prelate in a court cloister, but the similarities ended there. He was tall and barrel-chested, and he wore a thick mustache and beard. He bled from a gash on his brow and there were raw burns on both his arms, but otherwise he appeared unhurt.
“My lord,” he said, stopping in front of Javan, a scowl on his crooked features. “I see these men freed you. That wouldn’t have been my choice.”
“I don’t imagine, Captain. But it was the right thing to do. I’ve added more than forty men to your army, and I’ve given you a Qirsi who has mists and winds as well as shaping power. You’d be a fool to keep us in that tower.”
The captain conceded the point with a single nod. “I take it you intend to take command of our defense of the castle.”
“I was hoping we could share that responsibility. I’d guess that I have more experience commanding armies. But I lack your knowledge of Kentigern or her men.”
“Very well,” the captain said after a brief pause. “We started the night with about six hundred, including those at the river, in the castle, and in the city.”
Javan raised an eyebrow. “That’s all?”
“The duke was intent on defeating your army,” the man said with a shrug. “Fewer than half were here when the Aneirans crossed the river, though our men by the river made it back to the castle in time to meet the siege. Still, I’ve only four hundred men here in the castle and while I’d like more, I’m reluctant to weaken the city’s defenses just now.”
“I agree. How many sorcerers do you have?”
“Six. Two shapers and three with mists and winds. The other is a gleaner and all but one of them are also healers.”
“What happened to the outer gates?”
The captain shook his head, his mouth twitching. “I don’t know. They just failed. I can’t explain it.”
“My first minister suggested that they were weakened by magic.”
“There were no Qirsi near the gates during the assault,” the man said, his voice rising. “I wouldn’t have allowed that.”
“Then I’d say you have a traitor in your castle. Unless you want me to believe that the fame of Kentigern is based more on myth than truth.”
The captain’s face reddened. “What would you have me do now, my lord?”
Javan looked at the man a moment longer, the hint of a grin on his lips. “Secure that north gate,” he said. “And then get your bowmen on the inner walls. Mertesse has the upper hand right now, but as long as we can keep him from breaching the inner keep, we should be all right. That is, unless the inner gates have been weakened as well.”
“The bowmen are climbing the towers already, and the battle at the gate was going our way.”
“Good. Go back to your men.” Javan laid a hand on Xaver’s shoulder. “This is Xaver MarCullet. He’ll carry messages between us. Use my men however you see fit. Tell my first minister that he’s to follow your orders as if they come from me.”
“Yes, my lord.” He started to turn away. Then, seemingly as an afterthought, he offered a small bow.
“Oh, Captain, I forgot to ask. Is the duke’s family safe?”
The man hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if he wasn’t certain he could trust the duke with an answer.
“Yes,” he said at last. “As soon as I heard the Aneirans had crossed the river, I had the duchess and her children taken to the sanctuary.”
“That was wise,” Javan said.
The man nodded and walked away.
“The guards were right,” the duke murmured, watching him go. “He is a good soldier.” He glanced at Xaver. “Come along, Master MarCullet. We should be on the walls.”
Since Brienne’s death, Javan had appeared to age before Xaver’s eyes, his facing growing gaunt and pinched, his back more stooped by the day. But as the duke hurried up the winding stairs of the nearest tower, a sword in his hand, Xaver following close behind, the years seemed to fall away from him once more. The boy couldn’t help thinking that Javan was enjoying this.
For his part, Xaver had never been more afraid. He had no desire to walk the walls with the duke, in plain sight of the Aneiran archers massing in the outer ward. Yes, he was good with a blade. His father had taught him a great deal. But he had never fought for blood, and he certainly had never killed, or defended himself against a foe who truly wished him dead.
“You’re very quiet, Master MarCullet.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You’re scared.”
“I’m sorry, my lord.”
“It’s all right. Only a fool knows no fear. The measure of a warrior is how he overcomes his fear. Always remember that.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Besides, I intend to keep you so busy that you won’t have time to be afraid.”
They stepped out of the stairwell and onto the castle wall, and Javan spat a curse. Already men in black and gold had reached the top of the wall and were battling Kentigern’s soldiers. More were climbing onto the ramparts by the moment. Scanning the rest of the inner wall, Xaver could see that Mertesse’s men were everywhere. The defenders tried to use forked sticks and even their pikes to push the hooked ladders away from the wall. But for every ladder they defeated, two more took its place. Archers loosed their arrows at the climbers, but they were too numerous to be driven back. It wouldn’t be long before the Aneirans controlled the wall.
Javan started forward, his sword held ready. Xaver did the same, though his legs felt so uncertain that he barely trusted them to keep him standing.
“No, Master MarCullet,” the duke said, casting a quick look over his shoulder as one of Mertesse’s men advanced on him. “I need your legs more than I need your blade. Go to the captain. Tell him we need Fotir and the other shapers up here immediately. If we can’t break those ladders, we’re lost.”
“But, my lord—”
“Go, boy! Now, before it’s too late!”
Reluctantly, Xaver turned away from the duke and hurried back down the stairs, faltering only for a moment when he heard the ring of clashing swords just behind him. He was back in the ward within just a few moments, and, sprinting across the trampled grasses to the north gate, he soon found the captain.
“Yes, boy, what is it?” he said, his gaze flicking in Xaver’s direction for but a moment before returning to the fighting just in front of them. “Tell the Qirsi to use their fire!” he hollered, before Xaver could answer. “We have to drive them back and get those portcullises down!” He looked at Xaver again. “Speak, boy! I haven’t time for shy children.”
&
nbsp; “There are Aneirans on the wall, sir. They’ve got ladders and the men can’t hold them off for much longer. The duke wants his first minister and the other shapers up there to break the ladders. He thinks it’s the only way to stop them.”
“Demons and fire,” he man muttered. “I can give you one and the minister. My other shaper also has fire. I need her here.”
Xaver was speaking for the duke, but he was doing so in Kentigern. He couldn’t argue with the man.
“Very good, sir.”
“Tell your duke the Qirsi will be there shortly. I’ll see to it myself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Xaver ran back to the tower and started up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. The mail slowed him some and made it seem a far warmer night than it really was, but he still had his wind. His father would have been pleased, the boy thought, a smile briefly touching his lips. Running the towers of Curgh had prepared him well for this night.
Stepping out onto the wall’s walkway, Xaver felt his heart turn cold. There were even more men in black and gold than there had been a short time before. Kentigern’s men still fought, but they were outnumbered and falling back. Javan was still near the opening to the stairs, fighting off two Aneirans. Xaver’s father had spoken to him often of the duke’s brilliance with a blade, but until this night, Xaver had never seen his duke fight. The Aneirans he battled were far larger and brawnier than Javan. Indeed, the duke looked like a frail old man beside them. But it seemed to Xaver in that moment that the duke had been born to fight. He used his shield as if it were part of his arm, blocking every slash and thrust of the soldiers’ swords with apparent ease. All the while, the duke’s own steel whirled and flashed as if it were alive, flicking out like a serpent’s tongue to strike at the soldiers. Both of the larger men were bleeding from small cuts on their faces, arms, and shoulders. None of the wounds was enough to drop them, but together they had to take a toll.
Sweat ran down Javan’s face like early rains off the steppe, and his teeth were bared in a fierce grin. One man already lay dead behind the two Aneirans, his blood on the duke’s sword. Javan had to be tiring, but he showed no sign of weariness. Instead it was the soldiers who appeared to be laboring, every blow they aimed at the duke seeming more desperate than the last. Even faced with two men, both of them younger and stronger, the duke was controlling this battle.