by Ian Irvine
“What are you waiting for?” panted Rix.
“Orders, Lord Deadhand,” said the watchman.
A brazier stood in an angle of the wall, occasional raindrops spitting and hissing as they struck the coals. Rix wrenched a tar-coated stick out of the fire box and jammed it into the coals. It caught at once. He thrust it into the centre of the fire box. The tarred wood exploded into fire that leapt ten feet high.
“What’s the signal, man?” Rix yelled.
“For what?” said the watchman. “Heard the bell but don’t know why it was rung.”
“Can’t you see the enemy?”
“He doesn’t have field glasses, Rix,” said Glynnie quietly. “And, by the way he’s squinting, I’d guess he’s short-sighted.”
“A short-sighted watchman,” Rix said in disgust.
Glynnie opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again.
Rix knew what she had been going to say. He was thinking it too. You’re the leader. You should have checked.
“You can’t think of everything,” said Glynnie. “You’ve never done this before.”
“There are no excuses in war – you win, or you lose.” He turned to the watchman. “What’s the signal for an enemy attack?”
“Green flame.”
“Make it.”
The watchman ducked into his booth and came out holding a heavy bag.
“All of it?” said Rix.
“Just half.”
Rix slashed the top of the bag open. The watchman heaved half the white mixture in the bag into the fire box. The dancing, whirling flames turned green.
“Go down to the wall,” said Rix. He sprang up on top of the watch post and roared, “The enemy are coming! Where’s Captain Noys?”
“Here, Lord Deadhand,” said a stocky man wearing a jerkin of crimson leather.
“They’ll be here in under an hour. Rouse out the men. Get them fed. Unlock the armoury and arm everyone.”
Noys began to shout orders.
“Even Blathy?” said Glynnie.
“She can kill me as easily with a kitchen knife as a sword.”
“Then you’d better watch your back. What do you want me to do?”
“If Oosta and her healers are cut off, we’re in dire trouble.”
“I know a bit about healing.”
“Good! Take charge. Swelt will know who can help you. Round them up, and make sure they scrub their hands. Oh – and Astatin knows some healing magery.”
“Anything else?”
“If there’s any trouble among the servants, report it directly to me. I’m going to see Swelt and after that I’ll be on the outside wall, by the gates.”
Glynnie gathered her skirts and ran. Rix headed the other way, down to the castellan’s little empire. Swelt wore a battered old sword that was too long for him; its tip dragged on the floor as the round little man paced. Rix smiled at the sight, but he appreciated the effort.
“A little earlier than you were expecting,” said Swelt.
“But not you?”
“A good castellan hopes for the best and prepares for the worst.”
“How well prepared are we?”
“We went through all this the other day.”
“Tell me again.”
“If it’ll soothe your nerves,” said Swelt. “We’re as well prepared as we can be. The cellars are stocked, the cisterns full and the barns stacked with hay and silage. We have carcasses enough in the cold rooms —”
“Not a complete inventory, Swelt, or the enemy will be at the gates before you complete it. Just the overview.”
“I am giving you the overview. Oh, very well! We have food and drink for ourselves and our beasts, and weapons enough. And the walls are in sound shape, all things considered. What we lack, and you already know this, is men to defend them.”
“We have three hundred and twenty armed and ready,” said Rix, “and another forty or fifty still to come in from outlying manors and steadings. But…”
“To defend the walls from a serious attack we’d need twice that number.”
“Before we panic, let’s see how big the enemy force is.”
Rix nodded his thanks, turned away, then swung back. “I’ve told Glynnie to take charge of the healery. I’d appreciate if you could back her up.”
“The girl has spirit,” said Swelt. “And many talents. And she never complains, no matter the… er, setback. She just tries harder. I find, to my surprise, that I admire her…”
“But?” said Rix.
“We’re at war. I’ll support her all the way.”
“Thank you.”
He headed down through the halls to the front gate, but at the front door he decided to climb back to the battle tower instead, where he could gain an overview of the situation. Nuddell was there on watch, along with three other men whose names Rix had not yet learned.
Nuddell saluted him smartly. After Rix had saved his life at Jadgery, Nuddell had become his man, one of only a few of Leatherhead’s crew that Rix was sure of.
“Rather a lot of the buggers, Deadhand,” he said laconically.
The Cythonian force was visible with the naked eye now, a brown stain spreading across the snow at the top of the escarpment track. Rix checked with his great-aunt’s field glasses, trying to estimate their numbers.
“Four hundred, so far.”
“At least,” said a tall, bald, badly scarred fellow with two front teeth missing. He looked like a brawler, though not a successful one. “And still comin’. They can be here within the hour if they want to.”
“But I’m guessing they don’t,” said Nuddell. “If I were leading them —”
The brawler fell about laughing. “You couldn’t lead a pig into a pie shop, and that’s a fact.”
“I’ll tell you what’s a fact,” Nuddell said heatedly.
“Save it for the enemy,” snapped Rix. “You,” he said to the brawler, “what’s your name?”
“Droag, Lord.”
“Why is your sword rusty, Droag?”
Droag shrugged. “Once I stick it through a couple of the enemy, no one will notice.”
“A man who’s too lazy to look after his weapons is a man I put in the front line. When he’s killed, I haven’t lost anyone who matters. Clean it. Now!”
Droag borrowed a sharpening stone and began to rasp the rust off the blade.
“I hope they’re not all like him,” Rix muttered.
“Garramide hasn’t been besieged in a thousand years, Deadhand,” Nuddell said quietly. “They’re just farm lads. They don’t know what war is.”
“But you do.”
“I’ve seen some raiding over the years. And a pitched battle or two; only short ones though.”
“Splendid. You’re promoted. Take charge here, Sergeant.”
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 sec
ond 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.
“What are you waiting for?” panted Rix.
“Orders, Lord Deadhand,” said the watchman.
A brazier stood in an angle of the wall, occasional raindrops spitting and hissing as they struck the coals. Rix wrenched a tar-coated stick out of the fire box and jammed it into the coals. It caught at once. He thrust it into the centre of the fire box. The tarred wood exploded into fire that leapt ten feet high.
“What’s the signal, man?” Rix yelled.
“For what?” said the watchman. “Heard the bell but don’t know why it was rung.”
“Can’t you see the enemy?”
“He doesn’t have field glasses, Rix,” said Glynnie quietly. “And, by the way he’s squinting, I’d guess he’s short-sighted.”
“A short-sighted watchman,” Rix said in disgust.
Glynnie opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again.
Rix knew what she had been going to say. He was thinking it too. You’re the leader. You should have checked.
“You can’t think of everything,” said Glynnie. “You’ve never done this before.”
“There are no excuses in war – you win, or you lose.” He turned to the watchman. “What’s the signal for an enemy attack?”
“Green flame.”
“Make it.”
The watchman ducked into his booth and came out holding a heavy bag.
“All of it?” said Rix.
“Just half.”
Rix slashed the top of the bag open. The watchman heaved half the white mixture in the bag into the fire box. The dancing, whirling flames turned green.
“Go down to the wall,” said Rix. He sprang up on top of the watch post and roared, “The enemy are coming! Where’s Captain Noys?”
“Here, Lord Deadhand,” said a stocky man wearing a jerkin of crimson leather.
“They’ll be here in under an hour. Rouse out the men. Get them fed. Unlock the armoury and arm everyone.”
Noys began to shout orders.
“Even Blathy?” said Glynnie.
“She can kill me as easily with a kitchen knife as a sword.”
“Then you’d better watch your back. What do you want me to do?”
“If Oosta and her healers are cut off, we’re in dire trouble.”
“I know a bit about healing.”
“Good! Take charge. Swelt will know who can help you. Round them up, and make sure they scrub their hands. Oh – and Astatin knows some healing magery.”
“Anything else?”
“If there’s any trouble among the servants, report it directly to me. I’m going to see Swelt and after that I’ll be on the outside wall, by the gates.”
Glynnie gathered her skirts and ran. Rix headed the other way, down to the castellan’s little empire. Swelt wore a battered old sword that was too long for him; its tip dragged on the floor as the r
ound little man paced. Rix smiled at the sight, but he appreciated the effort.
“A little earlier than you were expecting,” said Swelt.
“But not you?”
“A good castellan hopes for the best and prepares for the worst.”
“How well prepared are we?”
“We went through all this the other day.”
“Tell me again.”
“If it’ll soothe your nerves,” said Swelt. “We’re as well prepared as we can be. The cellars are stocked, the cisterns full and the barns stacked with hay and silage. We have carcasses enough in the cold rooms —”
“Not a complete inventory, Swelt, or the enemy will be at the gates before you complete it. Just the overview.”
“I am giving you the overview. Oh, very well! We have food and drink for ourselves and our beasts, and weapons enough. And the walls are in sound shape, all things considered. What we lack, and you already know this, is men to defend them.”
“We have three hundred and twenty armed and ready,” said Rix, “and another forty or fifty still to come in from outlying manors and steadings. But…”
“To defend the walls from a serious attack we’d need twice that number.”
“Before we panic, let’s see how big the enemy force is.”
Rix nodded his thanks, turned away, then swung back. “I’ve told Glynnie to take charge of the healery. I’d appreciate if you could back her up.”
“The girl has spirit,” said Swelt. “And many talents. And she never complains, no matter the… er, setback. She just tries harder. I find, to my surprise, that I admire her…”
“But?” said Rix.
“We’re at war. I’ll support her all the way.”
“Thank you.”
He headed down through the halls to the front gate, but at the front door he decided to climb back to the battle tower instead, where he could gain an overview of the situation. Nuddell was there on watch, along with three other men whose names Rix had not yet learned.
Nuddell saluted him smartly. After Rix had saved his life at Jadgery, Nuddell had become his man, one of only a few of Leatherhead’s crew that Rix was sure of.
“Rather a lot of the buggers, Deadhand,” he said laconically.
The Cythonian force was visible with the naked eye now, a brown stain spreading across the snow at the top of the escarpment track. Rix checked with his great-aunt’s field glasses, trying to estimate their numbers.
