by Roger Taylor
Instead, an angry, challenging voice floated down to them. Before any of them could react, however, there was a thud, and the voice stopped abruptly.
There was a brief, tense pause, then the signal came. Aaren went up the rope next, to help Yehna support the branch while the two men climbed after her.
* * * *
Jeorg lurched towards the castle gate and began to bang on it. ‘Open up. Open up,’ he shouted, his speech slurred.
After a while, and more banging, the wicket gate opened and a guard emerged, torch in hand. Jeorg gazed at the flickering flame and swayed uncertainly. ‘It’s here,’ he said, smiling inanely and pointing into the darkness.
‘What’s here?’ the guard demanded, scowling an-grily.
Jeorg bent towards him precariously. The guard turned away from his breath with a grimace. ‘The wood,’ Jeorg said, pointing again into the darkness.
The guard followed the wavering hand. He was just debating whether to give Jeorg a beating for this disturbance when a shape as unsteady as its herald formed in the darkness and moved towards him. He stepped back, alarmed, but as the shape neared, it became a horse-drawn cart. Leading the horse was Gryss, and there were a few men behind it. Gryss stepped up to the guard and cast an apologetic look at Jeorg. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said confidentially. ‘I’m afraid he’s been celebrating Whistler’s Day a little too well.’ He beamed suddenly and waved an arm towards the men by the cart. ‘In fact we’ve all been celebrating a little.’ He swayed slightly.
‘What?’ the guard asked, frowning. ‘Celebrating? What the devil are you blathering about? And what’s all this?’ He gestured towards the cart.
Gryss looked at him in exaggerated surprise. ‘Cele-brating. Whistler’s Day,’ he said, as if stating the obvious. ‘You know, the Whistler who comes from over the hill and between the dreams.’ The guard stared at him vacantly. ‘Lures all the ills of the valley away with his playing. Plies them with drink then dances them up into the mountains.’
‘I whistle away – oops!’ Jeorg’s tuneless song ended as he bumped into the gate and slithered to the ground. He laughed ridiculously.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, you old fool,’ the guard shouted, pushing Gryss aside roughly. ‘Get this clown out of here unless you want me to run him through. And this as well.’ He waved his torch at the cart.
‘It’s the wood the captain asked for,’ Gryss said, taken aback. ‘Said he wanted it urgently. That’s why we worked on Whistler’s Day to get it for you. It’s supposed to be a holiday, you know. And I’ve brought some lads to unload it as well.’
‘No-one’s told me anything about any wood,’ the guard said. Others were emerging from the wicket gate. ‘Do you know anything about this?’ he asked, turning to them. There was universal denial.
Gryss shrugged. ‘All I know is that the captain said he wanted this lot urgently. So it’s here. It’s taken some work, I can tell you. Do you want to ask him about it or shall we take it back?’
The guard hesitated. ‘It’s urgent, you say?’ he asked.
Gryss nodded.
The guard blew out a resigned and fretful breath then he motioned the others back through the wicket gate and stepped after them. After a muffled but obviously heated debate, there came the sound of bolts being drawn and the two great leaves of the gate began to open, causing Jeorg to tumble over backwards. This was greeted by raucous applause and cheering from the men who had accompanied the cart.
Gryss, still smiling broadly, began to lead the horse slowly forward. The cart creaked ominously as the horse took the strain. The guard cast an impatient glance skyward. ‘Come on, come on. Move it,’ he urged.
As the cart reached the gate however, there was a pause while Jeorg struggled unsteadily to his feet. Several of the men stepped forward to help him up and guide him out of harm’s way. They were milling about the cart as Gryss began to drag the horse forward again.
Suddenly there was an ominous crack and those around the cart jumped back with cries of alarm, tumbling over one another. With a weary creak, followed by another crack, one of the cart’s wheels fell off, narrowly missing the watching guard. The cart crashed down on one side bringing the horse with it, and the bundles of staves that it was carrying slid off and blocked the gateway.
* * * *
Four shadows moved silently along the battlements at the north end of the castle, leaving a second dead sentry behind them. Coming to the top of one of the stairways they paused, studying the buildings about them and looking in particular at those from which the highest tower rose. Then they moved down into the dimly lit courtyard and headed towards a doorway. A clamour from the far end of the castle held their attention momentarily, then they were through the door.
It opened into a passageway lit by a few widely spaced lanterns. The only information the four had about the interior of the castle had been gleaned from Marna and, to some extent, from Gryss. It had not been particularly helpful, however. Both Gryss and Marna knew only cottages and small houses, and were confused by the complexity of the passages and stairways along which they had been led on their few visits to the castle.
The consequences of this had thus been discussed and faced by the four attackers before their present venture had been set in train and they scarcely spoke as they moved quickly and silently along the passage.
‘We’ll follow our noses, reduce the odds on the way, if we can, and hack our way out if we have to,’ was the agreed summary.
And there were two less already.
Some of the doors along the passage stood open, revealing disordered and deserted living quarters, and at the end was a stair well. Steps went both up and down, and Engir signalled upwards. Just as they were about to move, however, a sound drifted up the other flight. Yehna signalled a halt, then, without speaking, seized one of the wall lanterns and ran down the steps. Engir threw a nervous, inquiring glance at Aaren, who shrugged and set off after her.
At the foot of the stairs was a single heavily barred door. Yehna held the lantern by her face and, shading her eyes, peered through a small grill. Then, with a grimace of anger, she thrust the lantern into Aaren’s hands, lifted the timber balk that secured the door, and pushed it wide open. Snatching back the lantern, she stepped inside.
The light illuminated what must once have been a storeroom but was now a dormitory. A women’s dormitory. Bodies lying on crude bunks turned to look at the intruders and the faint sobbing that had caught Yehna’s ear redoubled itself fearfully. Aaren’s eyes widened in dismay, but Yehna’s narrowed and her lip curled viciously. She put the lantern on the floor. ‘Most of the men have gone for the time being,’ she said, her voice icy with restraint, and her accent heavy. ‘You’ll probably find some weapons in the rooms along the passage at the top of these stairs.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, ‘Some of the villagers are doing their best to hold the gate open. They’re as much captives here as you are. Mind you don’t kill any of them on your way out.’
Then she and Aaren were running up the stairs and motioning the two men forward with gestures that forbade any questions. As they reached the top of the stairs, the sound of voices and shuffling feet came up from below, followed by the crash of breaking glass. They were a long way away before the fire started by the broken lantern began to send smoke up the stairs.
* * * *
Though the guard was speaking predominantly in his own language, it was quite apparent that he was deeply dismayed by what had happened. Gryss was both flustered and placatory, fussing around him, picking up odd pieces of timber here and there and then dropping them again, promising to have the gateway cleared immediately and asking where the staves should be stacked.
The other villagers, after having, amid a great deal of confusion and noise, righted the horse and calmed it, were wandering around equally vaguely. Some were examining, with much head shaking, the broken cart and its scattered contents, while others were hurling recriminations
at no one in particular about why the cart had been so heavily loaded, and how it should have been stacked this way, not that, and how two carts would have been better…
Jeorg remained leaning against the gate mumbling happily to himself.
Attracted by the noise, more of Nilsson’s men began to gather. The jeering from some of them increased the guard’s agitation to the point where he began to lash out at those villagers nearest to him. Those who were half-heartedly beginning to move the staves dropped them and scattered, causing further mockery from the watchers.
Infuriated, the guard drew his sword and waved it menacingly. ‘Get this lot moved, now!’ he bellowed. ‘Put them over there. Now! Move!’
The villagers stared at him, wide-eyed and fearful.
‘Move, move,’ The guard’s command was echoed drunkenly by Jeorg.
The guard strode over to him and, seizing him by the front of his loose tunic, dragged him to his feet and pushed him violently on to the tumbled heap of staves. ‘Start moving them now,’ he shouted, levelling his sword at Jeorg’s throat.
Jeorg blinked and nodded. ‘All right, all right,’ he muttered several times, as he clambered awkwardly to his feet. ‘Don’t get angry. It is Whistler’s Day, you know. We’re only trying to help.’ He took hold of two staves at once and yanked at them. One of them came loose suddenly and he staggered backwards waving it wildly. The guard stepped back to avoid this flailing confusion. As he did so, Jeorg abruptly recovered his balance and, swinging the stave round, struck him a stunning blow on the side of the head.
* * * *
The four slipped across a darkened hall and paused by a closed door. Light streamed underneath it and voices could be heard. Engir listened intently and then silently signalled, ‘Two.’ Very slowly, he eased the latch and began to pull open the door. It creaked immediately. Without hesitating he yanked the door open and strode through. Levrik and the two women followed right behind him. Almost before the brief screech of the door had died away, a savage blow from Levrik’s iron-protected knuckles had silenced one of the two startled speakers while Engir’s knife had finished another.
‘Attack! Attack! Atta…’ The cry rent open the breathless silence in the brightly lit passage. It came from a man just emerging from a room nearby and it cracked as he saw Aaren hurling herself towards him. None of Nilsson’s men were such as would readily flee the threat of personal violence, but the knowledge that he was being attacked by a woman, together with the unhesitant ferocity of her approach and the shock of realizing who she must be, conspired to make Aaren’s intended victim falter as he reached for his knife.
Aaren seized his fumbling knife hand and, swinging round, drove her knee into his groin. As he lurched forward, she stepped aside and pushed him head first into the opposite wall of the passage. He slumped to the ground.
As Aaren turned away from him, she saw the door being pushed shut. A massive kick from Levrik sent it crashing open and he was dragging the prostrated occupant to his feet as Aaren entered the room. ‘Saddre!’ she heard, as the figure was drawn up on to his toes and thrust against the wall, Levrik’s hand tight about his throat. ‘No!’ she hissed, laying her hand on Levrik’s free arm as it drew his knife.
Levrik paused at the touch but did not take his cold, unreadable eyes from Saddre’s face. Saddre’s eyes, by contrast, showed his every emotion as they flicked from his would-be executioner to his unexpected saviour. Fear and cunning mixed equally, but terrified recogni-tion overrode all. ‘You can’t kill me,’ he gasped. ‘You’ve no authority. You have to take me back.’
Levrik’s eyes flashed fiendishly alive for an instant, and his knife came up under Saddre’s chin. Aaren’s hand still rested gently on Levrik’s arm, but she made no apparent effort to stop him. ‘Exigencies of the situation are all the authority we need now, Saddre,’ she said. ‘If we kill your new master, then you’ll get your accounting, have no fear. Failing that…’ She shrugged. ‘Now, take us to him.’
Despite the threat to his own life, Saddre’s eyes opened in scorn. ‘Kill him? You’re insane. You’ll not even get near him. He’s probably already as powerful as…’
Levrik’s grip tightened about his throat, choking off his reply. ‘Don’t even say that name,’ he said very quietly, but with such intensity that Aaren let her hand slide from his arm. ‘Just take us to him if you want to live long enough for your accounting.’
Saddre, his hands wrapped futilely about Levrik’s wrist and his face contorted with pain, managed a flickering and desperate nod. As Levrik eased his grip, an angry voice reached them from the passage.
Chapter 25
‘Riders coming! Riders coming!’
The cry galvanized the resting camp. Nilsson burst out of his tent and almost collided with the frantic messenger. Before he could ask any questions, the man answered them. ‘Dozens of them,’ he gasped, pointing northwards. ‘Armed. Coming fast.’
With uncharacteristic gentleness, Nilsson eased the man to one side, then bellowed out, ‘Arm up. Take close positions.’ The order was unnecessary, however, for his men needed no urging. Even as he shouted, Nilsson saw they were gathering up weapons and forming defensive groups.
A torrent of thoughts swept over him. He had no doubt about who these riders could be. They’d come at last to demand an accounting from him and his men. It puzzled him a little that they’d come from such an unexpected direction. They could only have come to the valley from the south, but how had they managed to move around him in force, unnoticed? And what were they thinking of, using cavalry in this terrain? Was there an infantry force somewhere? But he dwelt on none of these questions. He was content to thank the old habits that had made him place seemingly unnecessary lookouts about the camp. His lips curled back to reveal his teeth, predatory in the firelight that lit the camp. Good discipline on his part meant that the attackers had lost the element of surprise they were obviously relying on, and now it was they who would be surprised.
Suddenly he felt exhilarated. For years, the fear and the rumour of pursuit had debilitated his troops, and to some extent even himself. And even though the fear had dwindled greatly over these last months, it had been with them too long to be banished utterly. If his men could now destroy this force, then the threat would be gone for ever, and morale would be enhanced tenfold.
He plunged back into his tent and emerged, sword in hand, just as Derwyn’s men, shouting and screaming, and borne along by their ancient fury, galloped into the camp. They made a formidable sight and, skilled horsemen and lancers that they were, they brought down several men with their initial rush. These however, were mainly new recruits, who panicked and ran. The bulk of Nilsson’s men had faced true cavalry in the past, and though they wavered at the first onslaught, they held their ground in tight groups, spiky with menacing swords and alive with blazing brands.
Then, as the impetus of the Valderen’s charge was lost and the riders began to mill about, obstructing one another and uncertain how they should attack these unexpected enclaves, Nilsson’s men attacked in their turn. The tight-knit groups became suddenly mobile. Selecting a rider they would surge forward, some to hack at the horse’s legs while others menaced the rider, who could do little but wave his lance futilely until his horse collapsed under him, or he himself was struck from his blind side.
Derwyn, one of the first riders into the camp and now at the edge of the melee, turned to look at the scene. His eyes widened in horror at what he saw, but it was the terrible noises that were beginning to ring through the silent trees that struck to his heart and froze him into immobility; the dreadful screaming of men and horses and the savage, triumphant cries of Nilsson’s men. Farnor’s words formed cruelly in his mind. ‘They’re brutal fighting men. If you go against them rashly, they’ll hack you down without a thought.’ And in his careless fury he had moved against them rashly indeed.
As Nilsson watched, however, his reaction was one of growing disbelief. Who were these people? Certainly they were
n’t his own countrymen, as he had assumed. In fact, though they were good riders, they weren’t even cavalrymen. What he had anticipated being a long-awaited confrontation, a bloody and testing battle, promised now to be a bloody and amusing rout. The suddenly remembered old fears evaporated. He shrugged and chuckled to himself. No doubt a few of the attackers would be taken alive for entertainment later on, and he could have his questions answered then.
‘Derwyn!’ Marken’s voice, soft but desperately ur-gent, penetrated into Derwyn’s guilt and horror. He started violently.
‘What have I done, Marken?’ he said, his voice trem-bling.
‘Your horn, man, your horn. Call them to you. Get them out of there,’ Marken shouted.
Derwyn hesitated for a moment. Then, with shaking hands, unhooked the hunting horn from his saddle. As he raised it to his lips he faltered. His mouth was too dry and his breathing shallow and unsteady.
‘Spit, for pity’s sake. Take a deep breath, and don’t let the others see you like this, or we’re all dead,’ Marken hissed, seizing his arm and shaking him ferociously.
Derwyn nodded automatically. Somehow, he man-aged to moisten his lips and steady his breath. The first note was harsh and discordant, but the very sound of it started to lift him out of his paralysis. Marken raised and sounded his own horn, then others gathering around them did the same, until the calls finally rose above the din of the battle.
* * * *
Farnor needed no warning from the trees. The presence of the creature grew in intensity, although it was not as if it were waking. Rather, it seemed to be returning from somewhere: somewhere that was not in this place. It was a terrifying sensation. His own words to Derwyn returned to him mockingly. ‘Expect to be afraid, but don’t fear your fear.’ Well, he was afraid, all right, but that said, what was he to do next?
