by S E Wendel
Manek jumped from the berm into the river, water splashing. Even in the knee-high water, he could feel a small countercurrent twisting against his legs.
He was balanced on the balls of his feet again, his face nearly even with the water when Waurin’s horse came up beside Oren.
“What’re you—?”
“No, stay there,” Manek said, waving Waurin back into his saddle. “They’re watching us.”
Leaning an elbow on the horn of his saddle, Waurin peered down at him. “Find something?”
Manek drew his hand along the bottom of the berm, his fingertips turning blue in the icy water. His breath caught when he found something like a seam beneath the dirt, and a little more prodding revealed a small gap set into the berm itself. With a shout, he shoved his fingers into the gap and felt something metal. Trying to pull it towards him, a little click echoed from within the berm, and he looked up at Waurin, a smile cracking over his face as a large square of dirt and sand sprung up.
He shook his head, not believing their luck. The Host may have cursed them, but at least one god had to be smiling on them now.
Pulling up the hidden trapdoor, Manek pushed himself into the hole, and his boots hit rock. The air was cool and damp, and the minimal light coming in with him from the trapdoor illuminated a few feet of a cylindrical passageway leading straight towards the city. Water crashed in from the river, running into the darkness.
His single laugh echoed down the watery corridor as he scrambled back up into the river.
Waurin was smiling down at him. “Find anything interesting?”
Manek climbed back up the berm and swung into Oren’s saddle. The sun had disappeared into the mountains, and they were lighting the night fires along the city ramparts.
“Ride back to Larn, tell him we’ve found it.”
“What of his assault?”
“Have him go ahead.” Waurin’s eyebrows rose. “Make a good show of it, but have the main forces hold back. Wait until we raise the gate.”
Waurin frowned now. “But won’t everyone be at the gate? You can’t fight their whole army from the inside.”
“With their attention on the south gate, we’ll slip in here unnoticed and open the west gate. When I signal, swing the army west.”
With a great laugh, Waurin smacked Manek’s back then spurred his horse south, back to camp, as if Dea herself were on his heels.
Feeling Highland eyes on him, Manek turned Oren upriver and hurried to collect his men. They waited as a purple dusk settled over the riverplain, the city’s fires illuminating the horizon in soft orange light. Manek couldn’t see when the attack began, but something in the air, the way it sparked with anxiety, told him Larn was making his move.
When he spotted the small flicker of torches moving away from the northern ramparts of the city wall, Manek directed his men back to the berm. They lined up their horses neatly, tying the reins together to bind the horses into two columns, each with a rider at its head.
“Keep the torches back—yes, like that,” Manek said to the two rather bemused men still sitting atop their horses. “Toss down just one.” Catching up the torch a man threw down to him, he quickly levelled it with his hip, hiding it from the ramparts behind the berm. “We’re going through. Once we have, ride up and down the river a little while longer then get back to Waurin.”
There wasn’t time to explain his plan, and the men didn’t ask, just nodded and watched as he and the other eighteen men jumped down into the murky passageway. The scuffling noises they made getting in echoed down the great stone cylinder, and Manek held his breath, eyes trained into the darkness, anticipating but dreading a light at the other end.
All of them now in the tunnel, Manek led with the torch, the water muffling their boots as they scraped against the floor. They could feel the men and horses above riding away, the earth pulsing around them. Manek hoped their little show fooled any Highland sentry still on watch; they’d see horses and riders continuing downriver, then eventually heading south to rejoin the main force. Not the nineteen Lowlanders slipping beneath the wall.
Manek knew from the size of the riverplain that the tunnel had to be long, and he let himself marvel a little at the straightness of it to pass the time. Where it let out he could only guess, but if it was used as a clandestine supply tunnel into the city, he suspected they were going somewhere central.
They knew when they passed beneath the wall and into the city when the men slowed and caught their breath, dim moonlight shafting down from a narrow grate above their heads. Manek paused, watching booted feet run across the grate and listening to the sound of hurried activity. His torch revealed the tunnel went further, and they pressed on.
The tunnel finally ended at a great circular door, spanning the whole width of the passage. Testing the door revealed that it was locked from the other side.
Breathing a curse, Manek assigned another man to start at the top while he began quietly chipping away at the bottom of the door. When small squares were made, Manek pried a dagger into the hinge he found. The metal rod clattered onto a stone floor on the other side, and Manek winced.
When the other hinge couldn’t be found, Manek opted not to wait, and as three men pulled at the door, he shoved himself into the opening they made. His sword belt caught against a lip in the floor, and Manek had to bite his cheek not to curse every god he could think of. His heart thundering in his ears, he unstrapped the belt and shimmied through to the other side.
Quick hands passed along his dagger, and he made fast work of the last hinge. The door groaned as it swung open awkwardly on its rusting iron lock, and the Lowland men hurried through into a wide space that had the look of a storeroom.
His fingers mechanically refastened the sword belt as they padded through the room. It had a stone floor covered in several layers of dirt, and the walls were earthen. Several large support beams and columns ran up the length of the room, pointing towards a narrow door atop a set of caving wood steps.
This door too was locked, and this time Manek did curse ever god he knew. They couldn’t spare any more time to find hinges, so Manek kicked down the door.
Wood and iron flew into the deserted street beyond. The cobblestone street was missing some of its cobblestone, other dilapidated storehouses lining it up and down. Quietly thanking the gods he’d just cursed for putting them in a warehouse district rather than someone’s cellar, they headed west.
Keeping to the shadows was easy enough, and they walked for some time without coming across anyone. When they spotted the first soldier, Manek jumped back into the man behind him before he led them onto a new street He realized with a sickened feeling that in some ways it made sense for the armory to be near all the other storehouses.
Doubling back to avoid the cacophony of activity around the arms houses, the Lowlanders delved deeper into the city, their eyes always seeking ways to slip westwards. Only soldiers moved through the streets, the people of Dannawey shuttered inside their houses. Manek pushed down his guilt until it sank to his toes, and he tried to leave it behind in the street as they slipped down an alley.
The ancient Dannawey was sprawling, and its streets made little sense. They realized too late how far they had strayed into a residential district, the wattle and daub houses standing five or six stories, nearly blocking out the night sky. Manek had to risk sending a man scurrying up to a roof at one point to help them regain their bearings.
When they found an edge of the city wall, they followed as it curved northward. They ducked into alleys now and again to avoid soldiers; they had only one chance to fight and couldn’t waste it.
The guard towers overlooking the west gate were ablaze in light, forty soldiers at least swarming about. They approached from a narrow, dark alley before Manek broke his men up. Seven he sent to find their way to the other side of the towers to attack from two fronts. Four men he sent scrambling up to the rooves with bows and as many arrows as could be spared from the rest of them.
His men nodded grimly, hands tightening around their weapons.
He could hear the shouts of the Highland soldiers, distant cries from the battle waging at the south gate, the rush of blood in his ears. Then the twang of an arrow cut through it all and everything fell to silence.
The archers got out two volleys before the other Lowlanders descended upon the startled soldiers, hacking their way through to the door. Manek felt blood splatter against his face but kept moving, ignoring the sting in his shoulder and the slack mouth of the man he’d just run through.
He rushed the door of the guard tower, which resembled an iron grate. He commanded his legs to move faster when he saw a wide-eyed soldier trying to get the door shut, a ring of keys jangling in his shaking hands.
Two Highlanders sprang up to stop him, but fell at his feet, arrows piercing their skulls.
Wrenching the door back, the soldier inside made a helpless sound, cowering back against the stone wall of the tower. Manek couldn’t spare him another thought, instead pounding up the steps. Dispatching the two soldiers he found at the top, Manek set his back to the great wheel in the center of the room. His men flooded up the stairs, and he heard the clank of the door closing below. It was quick work with each spoke of the wheel manned, and together they raised the first portcullis.
When it was nearly finished, Manek grabbed a torch from a sconce and barreled out of the guard tower, hurrying across a stone catwalk mounted above the west gate. He waved the torch at the dark plain beyond, his men rushing ahead of him into the second guard tower to start on the other wheel that would raise the outer portcullis.
In the distance Manek spied a horse and rider, and seeing him wave the torch, the horse reared and spurred towards the Midland camp. Before the rider even reached it, the camp came alive, vibrating like a hornet’s nest. Dark figures emerged from tents and ditches, streaming towards the west gate.
It would take precious minutes for the first troops to arrive, so Manek and his men locked themselves inside the guard towers, using up their store of arrows on the Highlanders trying to break back in. The west gate was flooded with them now, angry cries from commanders flying through the air to get another set of keys, to warn the south gate, to alert Lord Morn.
The next hours passed in a sanguine haze for Manek. The only image he could remember afterwards was standing atop the west gate, the buildings behind it already engulfed in flames to light the hordes’ way, and looking as Larn came riding up as proud as Dea herself, his eyes dancing in the firelight.
It was past midnight when the invading hordes drove the Highlanders back behind the defense of the castle wall, and it wasn’t long before Larn set his sights on Dannawey’s citadel. As the city fell to bedlam around them, Larn turned to Manek, jerked his chin at the castle gates, and said with baleful eyes, “Open it.”
Using the lever that had been meant to crack open the south gate, the Lowlanders worked through the night without fear of tar raining down on them. When dawn broke over the riverplain to reveal a burning and blood-soaked Dannawey, her castle fell.
The hordes streamed into the castle, meeting the Highland soldiers standing in prim formation awaiting them. The first charge was repulsed, the Highlanders almost reclaiming the castle gate, but Larn, atop his warhorse, took direct command. The Highlanders fought on, trying to pull Larn from his horse, but their lines began to buckle, then break. Overwhelmed by the number of warriors flooding through the gates, a few hundred Highlanders retreated into the castle itself.
Larn wasted no time ordering for a battering ram. Manek stood not far from him and his son Verian, watching the vicious glee in Lord Midland’s face as the castle trembled with each hammer stroke of the ram.
In the chaotic castle courtyard, Manek and Waurin found each other.
“The south’s taken,” he reported. “They’re still holding out against us behind the east wall.”
“If they’re smart they’ll flee through the east gate.”
“Mm,” Waurin hummed, his anxious eyes trained on the shuddering castle doors. His voice fell to a whisper when he asked, “You suppose the king’s in there?”
Manek’s breath hitched. “He’d be a fool not to have left sennights ago.” Yes, King Dunstan was still here. And damn if Manek didn’t admire him for it.
With a great crack that reverberated in the cold dawn, the castle doors gave way, the ancient wood splintering and the iron hinges groaning. Before charging into the great hall, Larn pointed a bloodied finger at Manek and Waurin and said, “Find Morn. I want him alive.”
The Midlanders and Highlanders were already clashing within the great hall, and Larn, Manek, and Waurin followed them in. Collecting those of his men he saw, Manek led the way to a side door. Wrenching it open revealed a long corridor, flanked on either side by rows of doors. At the far end, he saw the swish of skirts disappearing into another corridor. He started in the opposite direction.
They opened door after door, some swinging wide, others kicked down. They found abandoned chambers, a kitchen with the fires still lit, and groups of terrified staff. Despite the fear in their eyes, none of the Highlanders would give up where Arion Morn or King Dunstan might be.
The castle seemed endless, and Manek almost let out a howl when they opened another door, revealing the great hall again. Speeding up the great stone staircase on the far side of the room before Larn spotted them, Manek chose the western gallery. His men began checking doors again, their boots silenced by the plush green carpet lining the floor.
Pausing before a lacquered door, Manek pressed his ear to it and heard muffled voices beyond. Waving for his men, he kicked the door down to reveal a long room lit by a series of arched, stained glass windows. A gleaming oak table took up much of the room, finely carved chairs evenly spaced around it. He spotted movement from the corner of his eye—a cluster of Highlanders burning papers in a great stone hearth. At the sight of him they drew their swords.
Dodging the chair one of the Highlanders threw at his head, Manek thrust his sword at the nearest man, driving him back from the force of the blow. The man parried, nearly lost his footing. His eyes went wide as—
Manek’s sword shrieked as it collided with another, metal scraping against metal. His new attacker forced him back, and Manek had just enough time to block a series of thrusts.
This man was too old to be Arion Morn, but he had telltale signs of rank. Clad in fine armor, if besmirched and bloodied. A five star signet ring adorned one of his fingers. Sandy blond hair and beard crisply cut. Manek noticed other things too; how he favored his right side, deftly keeping Manek away from what he assumed was an injured left leg.
And that’s when Manek saw the Highland prince over his attacker’s shoulder. Defending himself against two of Manek’s men, Colm Dunstan again resembled an indignant sun god, his gold hair and armor shimmering in the pale morning light.
When Manek’s eyes flicked back to the man before him, the man seemed to know where he’d been looking. Setting his jaw, the man lunged, taking them another few steps back, away from Colm Dunstan, a younger version of himself.
Throwing the man back, Manek managed bite out, “My orders are to take Arion Morn, not you, King Dunstan.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “You won’t take any of us,” he said. “Not alive.”
King Dunstan swung his sword high, and Manek had to block with one hand, the other leaping forward to knock away the dagger the king stabbed at him.
“The city’s taken. You should’ve left,” Manek hissed.
“And abandon another city to you miserable lot?”
“If you die here, there’s no one to defend the rest of the Highlands.” Pushing the king away, Manek said, “Don’t leave your people to Larn.”
“Why do you think I’m trying to ki
ll you? And why should it matter to you?”
Manek kept his sword at the ready, his stance defensive, but didn’t take advantage of the king’s labored breathing. A line of sweat had broken out over the older man’s brow, and blood seeped through the left leg of his breeches.
“The Lowlands doesn’t want the Highlands to fall.”
King Dunstan frowned, digesting this declaration. “I’ve heard rumors of you. Larn’s Lowland captain.”
“Manek of Rising,” he said. “I’d bow, if I didn’t think you’d run me through.”
King Dunstan grunted.
Manek looked around quickly, taking stock of the room. Most of the battles were small duels between two or three men, some reduced to hand-to-hand combat. Colm Dunstan was watching him and his father when he could, trying to follow their progress through the room.
“Is there a way out of this room? Some way to get out of the city from here?”
King Dunstan didn’t answer, just regarded him warily.
“Is Arion Morn alive? Both of you need to get out of the city.”
“Why should the Lowlands care what happens to us? Why would you want me to live?” He cocked an eyebrow. “To keep Larn in the Highlands? Better to bed him in the Highlands than fight him at home?”
“In part,” Manek admitted. He was ready for King Dunstan’s charge.
“Someone told me we might help each other.”
Parrying Manek’s thrust, King Dunstan spat, “Who?”
He pushed the king away, making sure there was some distance between them when he said, “Ennis Courtnay.”
The king’s face went rigid with shock, and behind him, an inhuman howl ripped from of his son’s mouth. Knocking back the man he’d been fighting, Colm Dunstan launched himself between Manek and his father.
“You wretched whoreson!” Colm growled, his fist colliding with the side of Manek’s neck.
Reeling back, he just got his sword up to defend a strike. The prince’s fury emanated from him, his eyes gleaming with hate and sorrow.
“Where is she?”
