Irdon glanced at Speich and for an unguarded moment compressed his lips in annoyance.
“Yes, Irdon?” Gehan said. “Is there something you wish to say?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then let us go and see how quickly we can be back in our beds tonight.”
Gehan stood up and the meal was over. He led the way out of the tent – Ika had been moved to a warmer, more commodious shelter improvised from mine spars and skins – and saw the toster standing ready, sixty feet long, roofed with bark-clad planks, supported by twenty-five pairs of poles like the columns of a miniature but elongated pavilion. Blean had worked with impressive accuracy and speed. From conception to completion the toster had taken less than eight hours.
Snow was falling in small, busy flakes across the firelit clearing. Behind him Gehan was aware of, but did not turn to see, Ika’s shelter.
He felt a shiver ripple through him as Irdon shouted orders and the harsh responses came.
Gehan had found his love too late and she had been snatched away. What they had left him only mocked her former self; golden Ika had been smashed and trodden into the ground. For her and for what he had missed his grief was a gulf that fifty lifetimes could not fill. All his work had been undone. The campaign, the months and years of planning, his enormous debts to the Home Lord and Bohod Zein, the memory of Gehan First, of his father, the hopes and aspirations, the sense of destiny that had burned in him with a clear flame, everything, everything had been turned to dross. Even the fort had been entered and violated, and with his own men he was going to do it further damage. And yet, far down in the abyss of his suffering, he felt the glow of an illicit twinge of excitement. It was as if, by losing everything, he had moved closer to the brink, the edge of the sea that had tempted him all his life.
The men had taken their places.
Irdon shouted “For-ward!” and the unit leader at the head of the trunk repeated the order, using it to initiate the accelerating rhythm that would coordinate the men.
“For-ward! Ge-han! Ge-han! Ge-han!”
Gehan felt his blood stir as they took up the chant and accelerated away from the glare of the fires. He could yet see the white-sprinkled roof of the toster and the men running beneath it, dark against the ground, heading for the greater darkness of the palisade. Beside him Hewzane said something he did not hear, for he felt himself being carried forward with the motion of his men. They were nearly at the gatehouse. Their chant had built into a run of irresistible speed: the end of the battering-ram would strike at the centre of the gates with a momentum that nothing could withstand.
Above them an illuminated rectangle, window-size, suddenly appeared. A wooden chute was thrust forth, and behind it some wide-mouthed object was steadily being raised.
“The cauldrons!” Hewzane said, but his words were buried by the crash of the impact and Gehan saw for himself the torrent of boiling lamp fat as it spewed from the chute and to the men below.
A blazing brand was tossed from the window and the fat erupted in a writhing sheet of yellow flame that lit up the whole façade of the fort and residence: the palisade, the guard-towers, the battlements crowded with white faces. The front of the toster had collapsed. It had been let down with buckled knees by burning men, screaming men, men in flames, and he saw them trying to crawl out, trapped underneath by the weight of timber and the trunk itself, drenched with fire.
So many had fallen that those behind could no longer manoeuvre the toster. They were unable to move, unwilling to come out and show themselves, for arrows were already thudding into the planks above their heads. Some of the soldiers at the front, their garments on fire, had pulled themselves free and were rolling in the snow, away from the inferno of burning fat. As they came into view of the battlements they were shot, each man, with one, two, or at most three, powerful and accurate arrows.
Gehan stared at the debacle. Lurid flame illuminated the gates and he could see now that the battering-ram had made no impression on them. The fort was intact, invincible, unassailable, as conceived and constructed by Gehan Brennis First. The savages had discovered its secrets, found out how to work it, even down to the siege weapons, to the chute that carried boiling fat safely beyond the cauldron-window and prevented the gatehouse from catching light. They had, in the prescribed and regulation manner, delayed a few seconds before igniting the fat, thus giving it time to soak into the timbers of the toster and to liberally splash the soldiers’ armour and clothing. They had turned the human and wooden debris under the gates into a hideous sort of wick. And they were still shooting his men.
“Withdraw,” he said to Irdon. “Withdraw,” and there came to his breath and almost found utterance a foul curse on Gehan First, on his father, even on himself, on all the Lords of Valdoe and all the Gehans of the Brennis line.
They had built the fort too well.
* * *
“Lord Brennis! Lord Brennis!”
“He won’t answer,” Correy said.
“Lord Brennis!” Even in the open, here on the battlements, the stench of the fat-smoke was overpowering and Tagart had to pause to wipe his eyes before shouting again. “Lord Brennis! You are the man we want! No one else! Come to the gates and surrender by dawn or we kill the hostages one by one! Starting with your wife!”
Below them the last of the soldiers had fled from the wreckage. The ground was strewn with bodies, the newly dead and the Vuchten who had perished in the first attempt, and among them were men who were still half alive, abandoned by their comrades.
“Lord Brennis! Listen to me!”
“He’ll no more answer than he’ll come at dawn,” Correy said.
“What then?” Tagart said. “What will he do?”
“Let the hostages die. They expect to die anyway.”
“And then?”
Correy shrugged. “He might try to make us waste our water with fire-arrows, that is if he doesn’t care about burning down the gatehouse. Or he might decide on a tunnel. Or he might just do nothing. He can get all the supplies he wants from the villages.”
Tagart looked out across the spiked tops of the palisade logs to the Flint Lord’s position. The fires were still burning; the army was still waiting. In the clearing where they had built the shield, Tagart could see new activity. More timbers were being brought. He saw a soldier kneeling on a trestle, his arm rising and falling with the blows of a carpenter’s hatchet and, lagging behind each stroke, the sound of chopping reached the battlements.
“What are they doing now?”
Correy could not say.
3
The rasping and hammering continued into the night. As far as could be seen from the battlements, the Flint Lord’s carpenters were assembling a sort of framework. It seemed to be about fifteen feet long, built of rectangular-sectioned timbers from the mines.
No one knew what it was for, though a few of the slaves said it was a device for digging a tunnel. Others thought it was a winch to pull down a section of the palisade. Others still said it would be mounted on rollers and moved up to the gates, and in its shelter – the roof, if there was to be one, had yet to be fitted – soldiers with axes would cut through the hinge-posts, fix cables, and back away, dragging the gates with them.
Tagart was by now entering a high, giddy state of exhaustion. It was as if he had been awake for ever. He could not remember when he had last slept.
But he could not hope for rest just yet. First, an exact inventory of the food supply had to be taken. Closely rationed, there was enough to last for a month at most. Tagart ordered all the food and live animals to be brought to the residence and its grounds and placed under guard.
Next he inspected the reservoirs. There were six, wooden-sided pits lined with pottery and covered with boards. Each held seven or eight tons when full, but in the last few days, the slaves had told him, the supply had been allowed to run down and now perhaps ten tons remained in all. In addition there were two dewponds, now frozen, and butts fed by pipes
from the roofs of the larger buildings. Several of these butts had been smashed by the slaves. Those still intact were emptied and their contents added to the reservoirs, which, like the food, were put under guard.
Next, with Fodich’s help, he arranged a rota dividing his force into three equal shifts which would take it in turn to sleep. That done, he made sure that at all times, and at both gates, cauldrons of lamp-fat were kept heated in readiness for further attacks.
Finally he organized lookouts for the guard-towers, and, as a last act before going to the residence for a meagre meal and sleep, he put a man on the signal station to watch for Bubeck.
* * *
Bubeck had been separated from the other five prisoners and left in the snow, his ankles tied to his wrists. It was night; he was behind some tents or shelters and could not see the Trundle from here.
The other five were all slaves. At the village they had told the soldiers everything they knew. He himself had kept silent.
The massacre on Levin Down had been so rapid, so controlled, that nobody had known what to do. He and the rest of the force had counted on hiding in the woods. They had thought they would be safe.
He could not rid his mind of the pictures of irresistibly advancing armour and the beast-faces of the soldiers’ masks. They had seized him and dragged him to the bottom of the hill where the Flint Lord had been waiting.
Since then he had been tortured twice. He had refused to agree to their demands. They had beaten him and he could no longer feel anything below his waist. His right wrist was broken. His breath was sliced into narrow gasps and he knew a splinter of rib was making him bleed inside. And now the soldiers were untying his bonds again and he was being pulled along, his bare toes scraping the ice, through a corridor of tents and men and casually inquisitive glances.
They brought him to a warm fire by a tent where, seated on an upended log, was the General, Hewzane, the thin, fastidious man who had questioned him before. Snow was hissing into the flames; in the background were sounds of scrapers and sandstones.
Bubeck fell when the soldiers let him go and lay with his face near Hewzane’s boots. One of the boots came nearer and touched him on the collarbone. His shoulder was grasped and he was turned so that he could see Hewzane’s patient, mock-benevolent smile.
“Have you reconsidered?”
At once Bubeck remembered his disdainful voice, associated it with the pain he had received.
“Will you speak to Shode and tell him to surrender?”
Bubeck shook his head doggedly.
“He must open the gates eventually. The longer he refuses, the harder it will go with him. You will be doing your people a service.” He smiled. “I have heard they are counting on you to save them.”
He stood up and passed out of sight, walking round Bubeck in a circle. “Do you hear the carpenters? At daybreak we shall take the fort back whether you cooperate or not. If you do as we ask, you will save the lives of your friends. If not, they will die. Which is it to be?”
Hewzane resumed his seat on the log and waited, the fingers of his left glove beating a tattoo on his knee.
Behind him, beyond the tent, the carpenters were still at work. Bubeck did not know what they were making. He could hear a voice issuing instructions, a voice like Hewzane’s, foreign, effete. None of the words could be made out.
“Are you sure you have nothing to say?”
Bubeck remained silent. For the first time, he knew that he was dying. General Hewzane, the fire, the sound of the sandstones, were receding; his thoughts were already far away, in another year, in a summer under the trees when he had been young and known nothing about the world. When the soldiers had dropped him he had felt a great pain in his chest and now his life was leaking away. Nothing Hewzane said was important. He heard him speaking again, and the anger in his voice was no longer concealed.
“As you prefer. You have two hours to change your mind.”
And then, addressing his men, he said: “Take him away.”
* * *
Tagart was asleep at last. He dreamed he was walking by the stream with Bubeck, but this was a Bubeck whose face was whole and unscarred. Tagart advised him to cross. Bubeck stepped on the bridge and suddenly the water reared up. The water was fire and Bubeck was trapped and drowning in its centre, his features melting. Tagart shrank back towards the alder copse, unwilling to help him, afraid for his own safety, and he saw Bubeck’s head and body become a blinding glow of light, brighter than the sun, unbearably brilliant.
Tagart woke up, shivering, feeling empty and sick. He remembered where he was – on the floor of the Flint Lord’s own chamber, lying on rush matting, Segle beside him. They had tried the strange, elevated bed, but found it uncomfortably soft, so had removed the covers and made their bed on the floor.
A lamp was still alight. The shutters behind it were of pale wood which cast a yellowness into the room, softening Segle’s face. She was sleeping soundly, her mouth open a little, an arm thrown across his neck. Her lashes were long and thick, her nose small, her ears neatly formed and part hidden by her hair. Tagart caught himself studying her critically, comparing her with the Flint Lord’s woman. In colouring they were alike, but Lady Brennis was older by a few years, more sensuous, and, about the eyes, she gave evidence of an understanding that Segle would never attain.
Gently he took Segle’s arm from his neck and covered it with the furs. He shut his eyes. He had to rest, to refresh himself. Dawn was an hour away, perhaps less. With daylight there would be some fresh and more terrible onslaught. He would need to be alert.
Despite everything that was crowding his mind, despite his dream of Bubeck, he made himself relax, made himself shut down his thoughts and allow sleep to come. He was conscious of his woman’s breathing, sharing her body-warmth. Except for the random creaking of timbers, the fort was quiet. From time to time there was a sound from the enclosure, a goat’s bleat or the lowing of cattle. Occasionally voices could be heard. Tagart began to grow drowsy. He had left a guard by the door, and from the landing came a few words spoken in low tones: the guard had changed.
Tagart drifted towards sleep. He did not hear the door opening, nor did he hear the careful footfalls on the rush matting. But he sensed the pressure of a man’s weight on the floorboards and felt air currents moving, and it came to him that there was no cause for the guard to change, and with the thought he was rolling aside.
Klay’s axe, a full-sized felling axe, missed Tagart’s temple by a finger’s width and slammed into the crumple of bedding.
The force of the stroke caught Klay off balance. Tagart grabbed hold of his leggings at one ankle and pulled with all his strength, reaching out with the other hand for the axe. Klay fell backwards and struck his head on the sharp corner of the dais.
Segle was awake and shrieking as Tagart took firm hold on the axe-handle and rose to stand above Klay.
Although stunned by his fall, Klay knew enough to hold up his hands to ward off the blow. A mist filmed Tagart’s vision and surged into a contraction of his muscles. Impervious to Segle’s screams, he went up on his toes to give the axe its fullest swing.
The whole weight of the preceding weeks and days and hours was bearing down on the flint edge, a hairline of intolerable pressure that could only be released in one place: in the head of his betrayer.
But, with the axe at its height, Tagart tottered and arrested his swing. He had overcome himself, and let gravity alone bring the axe-head down.
Then he saw that Klay was no longer holding up his hands. The eyes were blank: the sight had gone from them. Tagart let the axe go, knelt and lifted his shoulders. A wet gleam in his hair showed where the corner of the dais had split his skull.
Segle’s screaming had become hysterical. She scrambled free of the bedding and put her head to Klay’s breast, listening for his heart. She kissed his face again and again, prostrated herself across his chest, embraced him, put her face next to his, sobbing and calling his name.
>
Segle and Klay. The stories had been true.
For a moment Tagart could not absorb it. On top of everything else, this was a trifle, unimportant. In a world where only fears came true and hopes were never realized, it was almost to be expected, of a pattern with the rest of it. But even as he stood watching them, he knew that, like bodily pain, this pain would not start with the making of the wound. It would come later.
She did not look up as he gathered his boots and stormcoat and went to the door.
“Take his body away,” he remembered saying to someone on the stairs.
As soon as he stepped outside, he realized that the hammering from the hillside had ceased.
Overnight snow had lined the enclosures and laid a fresh mantle along the roofs and palisades. Flakes were still floating down in the twilight before dawn.
It had become much colder; Tagart’s mittens stuck to the rungs as he climbed the ladder to the battlements.
“They’ve moved it from the clearing,” said Correy, who was among those watching.
“I see it,” Tagart said.
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
The east was already pale. At the front of the Flint Lord’s position, a high scaffold or gantry could just be distinguished, its spars emerging from the night.
“They built it on its side,” Correy said. “Now it’s standing up.”
“What is it?”
No one knew. Gradually, under their eyes, the growing daylight showed them what had been made: a framework of timbers, fifteen feet high, reminding Tagart somewhat of a child’s stick-doll. It was like a puppet, a man, facing the south-west gatehouse, seated on the ground with his knees bent, his head and body leaning back at an angle. A concave seat or basket gave him what seemed to be a face. Connecting the flanks to the thighs were what appeared to be bundles of ropes. The knees were joined by a stout crossbar, and the base of the framework had, by the use of a roller, been made adjustable for rake. The whole construction was fixed to the ground with eight heavy piles.
The Flint Lord Page 18
