by Ian Irvine
She slapped him across the face, a stinging blow with all her strength behind it. “Get. Out!”
He looked up at her, rubbing his cheek. “What was that for?”
“I liked you better as a good man who had failed than I do you wallowing in self-pity, Lord.”
“I’m not wallowing…” But he was.
“Get up and do something about your problems.”
She fetched the red towel and stood by, waiting.
He crouched in the icy bath. “I’ll get out when you leave.”
“I’m not a real person, just a maidservant here to attend your needs.”
Rix did not have the energy to fight her. He rose from the tub and allowed her to dry him, which she did with a servant’s thoroughness. Her cheeks were pink when she finished. He slipped into the fur-lined robe she held out for him.
“On the bed,” she said.
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Her flush deepened. “The enemy are going to attack us, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“How soon?”
“Too soon.”
“Then you’ve got to be in a fit state to take charge of the defences.”
She wrenched the robe down over his shoulders, slapped a handful of some foul-smelling paste into the long gash down his upper arm, and rubbed it in with furious strokes.
Glynnie climbed onto the high bed and loomed over him, using her weight to force the paste deep into a puncture wound in his upper chest, then a slash between his ribs, jamming it into the inflamed area with her thumbs. He bit back a groan.
“Something the matter?” said Glynnie.
“No.”
“It’d serve you right if you got infected and had to rely on other people for a change. I almost hope —” She broke off, her cheeks crimson. “Lord, forgive me. Sometimes my mouth runs away with me.”
It was time for a truce. “Sorry. Didn’t hear what you said.”
“Garramide needs you sound and healthy, Lord. You’re its leader, its inspiration. Its hope, and Garramide can’t do without you.”
“All except you.” Rix took her hand. “I’m really sorry. I’ve treated you badly.”
“Yes, you have,” she said softly, staring into his eyes. Her green eyes were huge.
“But not because I don’t care about you…”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“It’s because I care too much.”
Tears quivered on her lashes. “You’ve got to look after yourself, Rix. You’re all I have now.” She turned away, turned back. “Don’t worry about my little problem with the servants. I can fix it.”
CHAPTER 37
The whole of Garramide was waiting in the main courtyard when Rix rode in with Nuddell and the twenty riderless horses, though they weren’t waiting for news. The survivors of the raid had told the bitter tale an hour ago.
“What went wrong?” said Swelt, gnawing at a blood sausage.
“Bedderlees betrayed us. The enemy knew when we were coming and how we planned to attack. They were waiting inside the gate.”
“And they’ll follow you back,” said Porfry, colourless and dry as dust. “For nineteen hundred years Garramide has been unassailed. Now, in one reckless night, you’ve destroyed it, Deadhand.”
“Doom, doom on us all,” howled the witch-woman, Astatin.
Blathy stared at Rix, arms folded over her bosom. No doubt comparing him to Leatherhead, who had never been known to fail in a raid.
“When the enemy attacks, hundreds of us are going to die,” said Porfry.
No one felt his failure more keenly than Rix, but he was the lord and had to protect morale. “The doom of this fortress was set in ancient times, when Axil Grandys tore down the Cythian manor that once stood here and built Garramide in its place.”
“How dare you blame our noblest ancestor for your failings!”
“The past has created the present, every bit of it —” Rix broke off, reflecting wryly that Tobry had not long ago made the same point to him. “As soon as the centre is secure, Lyf will attack the provinces. Garramide would have been high on his list whether I came here or not.”
“It’s higher now,” Porfry said mulishly.
“Our country is being torn apart by a brutal enemy, Porfry, and if we don’t fight for it we’re going to lose it. Would you have me hide like a coward?”
“Enough, Porfry,” snapped Swelt. “A garrison that size can’t attack a mighty fortress like Garramide. Lyf will have to send a force from Caulderon – if it isn’t already on its way.”
“The result is the same,” said Porfry, shooting Swelt a hostile glance.
“And you’re a whining coward who wouldn’t fight to save your own mother!”
“I think that’ll do,” said Rix. “Let’s go in.”
“Besides,” Swelt went on, “Garramide is the greatest surviving Herovian manor, built by Axil Grandys. And Maloch – the weapon Lyf fears more than any other – lay hidden here for the next nineteen centuries. Lyf’s attention would have turned to us sooner, not later.”
Most of the servants had gone inside, but a small group lingered, shooting Rix dark looks, and Blathy was among them. He could see the fierce joy in her dark eyes.
Swelt turned to Rix and said quietly, “Don’t take any notice of that rabble. The servants that count aren’t too upset.”
“Why not?”
“Surely that’s obvious?”
“Enlighten me.”
“The dead men were the worst of Leatherhead’s thugs and they treated the servants badly. They won’t shed any tears.”
“It doesn’t lessen my failure.”
“But it will reduce the consequences. I’ll send messengers to every hut and steading on the plateau, telling them to be ready to bring their people and livestock to Garramide. We’ve got to get ready for a siege.”
“Thank you, Swelt,” said Rix. He had one ally in Garramide, at least.
Glynnie was also watching him but her eyes were hooded and he could not tell what she was thinking. She had a livid mark on her right cheek, and her arms and legs were covered in bruises.
She had always been his stoutest defender, and look how he had repaid her.
What have I done? Rix thought. And how am I ever going to fix it?
The fire in his suite was blazing and the room was full of welcoming steam. Rix had never been more glad to see it. He stripped off his filthy, bloodstained garments and collapsed into the bath that had been drawn for him. He was pouring a dipper of water over his head when the latch on the outside door clicked.
He started up, water going everywhere, and was reaching for Maloch when Glynnie came through the inner door with an armload of clean clothes. She yelped and looked away. He sat down in the tub, hastily.
“You’re hurt, Lord Deadhand.” It sounded like an accusation.
“Just scratches.”
She approached the tub, inspected his chest, arms and back. Glynnie was trying to look like an impassive servant, but she was trembling. She put down his clothes.
“They look bad. Let me tend —”
It wasn’t right that she should be looking after him when he had done her such wrong. “No!” he said, more harshly than he had intended. “It’s nothing. I can do it.”
“You rob me of every little thing we had together,” she said. “You must really hate me.”
“I don’t! I care —”
She went out as quietly as she had entered.
Rix flopped back in the tub. What could he do for her? He couldn’t give her a new role – that would only make her position worse, and heighten the rumours that she was his lover.
As he sat there, brooding, an image of the raid came to mind, a moment he had not seen but had thought about constantly on the long ride home. Fifteen men climbing over the gate in the dark, only to have their throats slit as they reached the ground on the other side. Many had been thugs, even brutes, but Rix had tr
ained and fought with them, and none of them had been wholly bad. They had all cared about someone, or something.
Fifteen fathers, sons or brothers who would never come home to their weeping womenfolk, their grieving fathers, their families who might now starve in this most bitter of all winters. And he had given the order that had sent them to their deaths.
It was an inevitable consequence of being a leader in wartime. The chancellor’s orders had led to tens of thousands of deaths – soldiers and civilians – and perhaps, after a while, the body count grew so high that one became numb to it. Rix had not reached that stage. He could see all their faces.
Hours later he was still sitting in the icy tub when Glynnie reappeared, wringing her small hands.
“What are you doing?” she said softly.
“Counting my failures and reckoning up the toll. Trying to make peace with all those men I sent to their deaths.”
“Well, stop!”
“The faces won’t go away.”
“They went willingly – for plunder.” She thumped him on the shoulder, hard. “Get out.”
“What?” he said dazedly.
“Get out of the tub.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got to tend to your wounds.”
“They don’t matter. Nothing matters.”
She slapped him across the face, a stinging blow with all her strength behind it. “Get. Out!”
He looked up at her, rubbing his cheek. “What was that for?”
“I liked you better as a good man who had failed than I do you wallowing in self-pity, Lord.”
“I’m not wallowing…” But he was.
“Get up and do something about your problems.”
She fetched the red towel and stood by, waiting.
He crouched in the icy bath. “I’ll get out when you leave.”
“I’m not a real person, just a maidservant here to attend your needs.”
Rix did not have the energy to fight her. He rose from the tub and allowed her to dry him, which she did with a servant’s thoroughness. Her cheeks were pink when she finished. He slipped into the fur-lined robe she held out for him.
“On the bed,” she said.
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Her flush deepened. “The enemy are going to attack us, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“How soon?”
“Too soon.”
“Then you’ve got to be in a fit state to take charge of the defences.”
She wrenched the robe down over his shoulders, slapped a handful of some foul-smelling paste into the long gash down his upper arm, and rubbed it in with furious strokes.
Glynnie climbed onto the high bed and loomed over him, using her weight to force the paste deep into a puncture wound in his upper chest, then a slash between his ribs, jamming it into the inflamed area with her thumbs. He bit back a groan.
“Something the matter?” said Glynnie.
“No.”
“It’d serve you right if you got infected and had to rely on other people for a change. I almost hope —” She broke off, her cheeks crimson. “Lord, forgive me. Sometimes my mouth runs away with me.”
It was time for a truce. “Sorry. Didn’t hear what you said.”
“Garramide needs you sound and healthy, Lord. You’re its leader, its inspiration. Its hope, and Garramide can’t do without you.”
“All except you.” Rix took her hand. “I’m really sorry. I’ve treated you badly.”
“Yes, you have,” she said softly, staring into his eyes. Her green eyes were huge.
“But not because I don’t care about you…”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“It’s because I care too much.”
Tears quivered on her lashes. “You’ve got to look after yourself, Rix. You’re all I have now.” She turned away, turned back. “Don’t worry about my little problem with the servants. I can fix it.”
CHAPTER 38
“That mural is bad luck, Rix,” said Glynnie, several days later. “I wish you’d paint over it.”
He did not like it either, but Rix was constantly drawn back to the work, as if his crude dabs of paint could reveal the man within. Swelt had given him a book on Grandys and Rix now knew all the man’s astonishing achievements, though little about Grandys himself.
He had been everything Rix was not – a brilliant, charismatic leader who had pulled off one impossible victory after another. His troops would have followed him anywhere, but what had he really been like?
“Have you been listening to Astatin again?” he said, belatedly responding to Glynnie’s remark.
“It’s impossible not to. She stalks the halls by day and the battlements in the starlight, forecasting doom and disaster. And Blathy is worse. Is everything ready?”
Everyone in the fortress had been working night and day to ready the defences, and Rix and Glynnie were snatching a few minutes’ break up in the old dame’s observatory.
He went to the wall and looked down on the yard. The carpenters had almost finished strengthening the gates. Behind them the masons were raising a second line of defence, a wall of basalt blocks, but cutting and laying such hard stone was slow work and after a week and a half it was only shoulder-high. Better than nothing, if the enemy broke through the gates, though not much better.
“You can never be truly ready for war – there’s always more that can be done. But the walls are strong, the stores are in, the weapons ready and the new wall guards trained… At least, as best I could in the time.”
“And we’ve all had some training with a knife or a sword,” said Glynnie. “We’re ready to fight for our house and our country.”
If only servants could be trained to fight battle-hardened warriors that easily. If he survived the coming struggle, which seemed unlikely, how many more dead faces would he have to endure? And would Glynnie’s be among them? If only things could go back to the way they were… but that offered no comfort, either. House Ricinus’s wealthy, privileged life had been built on the murder of innocents and the near slavery of its servants and serfs.
“Is Oosta back yet?” said Rix.
The chief healer was a law unto herself and, without telling Swelt or Rix, she had taken both her assistants to a village on the far side of the plateau two days ago, to attend a serious outbreak of buboes. They had not yet returned.
“No,” said Glynnie, “but I’ve had the healery scrubbed down and a dozen beds moved into the recovery room next door, and I’ve used her recipes to make extra balms and healing draughts. The amputation saws have been sharpened and…”
What would I do without you? Rix thought. While I agonise, you just get on with all the jobs that need doing.
His belly was aching. He’d fought in various skirmishes before, but never a proper battle. War was a terrible business and, as Jadgery had shown, the most carefully laid plans could end in disaster. What if this great fortress fell, and all its people were put to the sword, solely because of his failures?
He turned his great-aunt’s field glasses towards the track that wound up the escarpment. Only glimpses could be seen from here, but anyone reaching the top of the track was immediately visible.
“How long until they come?” said Glynnie, beside him.
“No idea. Why did I make that foolish raid on Jadgery?”
Nowadays, she was his staunchest defender. “We came here to fight, Rix. If the raid had succeeded, people would be praising your name all across Hightspall. How long until the wall behind the gate is finished?”
“Another three or four days, if the masons can keep up the pace.”
“There’s one more thing.”
Something flashed in a gap between the trees. Someone was riding up the track. No, racing up it, which was liable to kill the horse or break his own neck. “Mmm?” he said absently.
“I’m really worried about Blathy. She hates you. You’ve got to get rid of her.”
“You’re right. I should have taken your advice. But it’s too late now.”
“Give me three guards and I’ll have her off the plateau within the hour.”
He felt the tendons in his neck go rigid.
She stood up on tiptoe and looked over the wall. “What is it? I can’t see anything.”
“See that speck at the top?” said Rix, handing her the glasses. “It’s a horseman, and he’s just come hurtling up the mountain track.”
She lowered the glasses, staring at him. “No one would gallop up the escarpment unless it was an emergency.”
“He’s waving a red warning flag.”
“Does that mean —?”
“Yes, the enemy are coming.”
He ran to the bell that stood beside every watch post in the fortress and swung the clapper against the side, three times, then three more. The signal that an enemy attack was imminent.
“How did they get an army here so quickly?” said Glynnie. “Rix?”
“What?”
“Get going.”
“Where?” he said dazedly. He sagged against the wall. This was it. The fortress was ready, but he was not. Normally, he was good in a crisis but he could not think where to begin.
“Signal the other manors and villages,” said Glynnie. “If they’re not inside our walls by nightfall, they’re lost.”
“The emergency signal, yes!”
“And Oosta. Signal the healers to come back immediately.”
Rix’s thoughts unfroze and he set off at a run, down the observatory tower steps and across the yard towards the battle tower behind the gates. “Why didn’t I consider that the enemy might make a forced march and get here in half the time? Because I’m a fool.”
“If they’ve been on a forced march for a week,” said Glynnie, “won’t they be exhausted?”
“Utterly.”
“So they won’t be able to fight very well.”
“Neither well, nor for long,” said Rix. “That’s the first positive thing I’ve heard all day.”
He crashed his way up the steps to the top of the battle tower. Glynnie came after him, red-faced and gasping. A watchman stood by the great cast-iron fire box. He had taken the rain cover off, and the fire box was piled high with kindling and tar-soaked wood.
