by A. D. Green
Shielding his eyes as best he could he looked anyway. How could he not. There was no sign of Marron. Nihm pushed him with a hand.
“In ater, go, go,” she demanded.
He looked back at her helplessly. “I can’t see her Nihm. I can’t see her.”
She gripped his sleeve growling. “et er. In ater, go et er.” She sounded stricken.
“She’s not there Nihm!” Morten shouted. He caught a glimpse of a lump in the water far out, a long way from the bank. Nihm pointed at it, jabbing a finger towards it.
“It’s not her Nihm it’s him.” He stated watching it until it disappeared around a bend in the river.
Nihm sank to her knees, a look of abject misery on her face. “Nihm, I have to go. Mercy is back there,” he said. Guilt washed over him again at her look. How could he say that even if Marron were in the water, he couldn’t help her. Was he running away to help Mercy so he didn’t have to face the water?
There was a holler and Morten turned to see Stama running like a madman across the meadow grass, Lucky a good ten paces further back. Stama reached him, winded and breathless gasping out, “What…the…hells…happened? Where’s…Mercy…Marron?”
Almost pleased at the distraction Morten rounded on him.
“What the fuck? You sent that maniac down here and you’re asking me what happened? He near as damn killed us all is what happened.” Morten raged. All the bottled up fear and emotion bubbled out of him. He was furious. Why had he sent that lunatic to them? It was all his fault.
Stama hit him. It wasn’t a big punch but it was sudden and unexpected and rocked him back on his heels.
“Snap out of it kid. Now where’s Mercy and Marron? Come on focus.”
The punch had clipped Morten’s jaw and it ached. His anger surged and he bunched his fists even as Stama’s question sunk in. Shaking, he forced his hands to relax.
Stama watching encouraged him. “That’s good Red. Control yourself. Now where are they?”
“In ater, go et er,” Nihm shouted.
“You what?” Stama said, not understanding her.
“She says Marron is in the river but I can’t see her,” Morten stammered.
“For fuck's sake Mort,” Stama said. He turned to Lucky. “Look for Mercy I’ll go for Marron,” he said starting to strip from his clothes. He fumbled at the buckles on his gambeson and shrugged out of it. He unwound the ties on his boots pulling them off, before removing his breeches and shirt leaving himself in his underclothes.
“Mort, follow the river down see if you can find her. It isn’t far to the bend so just keep going. Look carefully to the banks. She may be snared or made it to the side,” he ordered. Morten nodded.
“Hold.” It was Mercy. She had appeared in the long grass, climbing wearily to her feet. Her eyes stood out brightly in her soot covered face but they were red, bloodshot. The slump of her shoulders and stance all told of how tired she must be.
“Marron took a knife to the chest. I saw as much before she went in. If she’s alive she won’t be going far and I doubt she’ll be swimming.”
“No, no. In ater, go,” shouted Nihm.
“We are Nihm,” Mercy said. “Morten run hard and fast, the current will have taken her. We don’t have the time to waste searching the river banks. If she’s made the bank then we’ll find her. If she didn’t then we need to catch up with the river. So go.”
“I can’t swim,” Morten said, feeling shame as he said it. “I can look but I can’t swim.” He felt stupid and helpless. He was worse than useless. He felt Nihm’s glare and couldn’t face her.
“Stama go. Morten you search the banks,” Mercy replied, unfazed.
Thankful, Morten turned to start his search, pleased to be doing something. He avoided looking at Nihm as he headed out, if he could find Marron that would change everything. As he stumbled away he prayed to the Lady, please let me find her alive.
Chapter 59
: South Tower
Amos stared out from atop the flanking tower on the southern wall. The urak were camped well out of bow range, their numbers so vast they were hard to count. A war host moving in such large numbers was unheard of and they’d moved so damn quickly, covering the ground from Eagles Watch to envelope Thorsten in the space of a day.
It was a feat they couldn’t hope to match. The Black Crow had been organising to move several thousand soldiers south to Rivercross. Something he knew took some hefty planning and logistics. Even with the barges arranged for the ride down to Fallston and onwards to Greenholme saving maybe two or three days, it would still have taken a good twenty to reach Rivercross.
“There’re enough of the fuckers eh,” Jobe stated. “Thick as marsh flies on a turd,” he laughed. It was brittle though, Amos could hear the tension behind it. He clapped Jobe reassuringly on the shoulder, the situation looked grim alright.
“That’s nought. There’s more of em to the west and north from what I can tell,” Jerkze said. He’d been up before sunrise, taking it upon himself to go look at what they faced. “Reckon we’re screwed, should’ve kept riding south. This is a death hole.” His bleak assessment sat heavy in the air. That it came from the normally stoic Jerkze lent it added weight.
“Aye,” Amos replied saying no more. Nothing else to be said he thought morbidly. He shook himself, angry at his fatalistic turn. “Let’s find something hot to drink and some food.”
They took the stairs atop the South Tower. Amos had turned down the offer of armour, preferring his own hardened leather cuirass. Reinforced with metal plates to lend it strength it proved a lot lighter than the chain mail offered and allowed for much better movement. That the chain mail was rusted and of poor quality played no small part in that decision and he was grateful for it as he clambered down the stairwell into the tower's guard station and newly repurposed billet.
Inside it was packed with soldiers, mostly men but a few women too, most laying on bedrolls wherever they could find space. The air was warm and heavy, a heady mix of oil, metal and leather overlaid by sweat and stale breath.
Stepping over and around people they made their way down and out of the tower. Outside was a makeshift kitchen with a fire pit. Several men stood around it warming themselves in the brisk morning air and occasionally turning flatbreads on a stone skillet suspended above the pit.
The baking bread smelt wonderful to Amos and he nodded thanks at the bakers before helping himself to one cooling on a table abutting the tower. He poured a cup of black tea before wandering over to lean against the curtain wall. Jerkze and Jobe joined him, the three of them initially silent as they ate their bread and sipped their tea.
“Sou’ east wall is our best bet.” Jobe declared. “It’s close enough to the river that it covers most of the ground. Urak have had to camp on the far side.”
“Best bet for what.” Amos asked, knowing the answer but asking it anyway.
“To surviving this thing boss,” Jobe hissed. “Way I figure it we wait till dark, climb down the wall and make our way to the river. Grab a boat if we can. If not, we take a couple of leather water bladders, fill’em with air, slip in and float away in the dark like.”
It was a sound plan. Not without its risks of course but everything was a risk. It would mean leaving their horses and a fair bit of gear behind. Amos shook his head sadly following his contemplation. “Can’t do it boys,”
“What? Course we can do it. We don’t owe these folk nothin. Atticus sent us up here to have a look around not get embroiled in a border dispute,” Jobe insisted. He looked to Jerkze for support but his friend didn’t say anything, instead tearing a hunk of flatbread off with his teeth and chewing on it, staring out past Jobe at nothing.
Jobe shoved him. “You got nothing to say? Just gonna eat that damn bread?”
Jerkze regarded his friend. “Can’t do it,” he echoed. “Not tonight at least,” he qualified.
“Why not? Give me one…no give me two good reasons why not,” Jobe demanded.
/> Amos smiled grimly. “First the tri-moons are out tonight and no overcast means no cover. We’d be spotted soon as our feet cleared the walls.” He was matter of fact. “Have to wait for the weather to close in to have any real chance. Preferably rain and not just cloud cover.”
Jerkze took up smoothly from Amos. “Second, that river originates from the Torns mountains. It’s fucking cold and like ta freeze your bollocks off afore a hand has passed.” He smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about it. “Third, say we make the river, manage to survive it. What then? We’ll be wet, cold, no horses, no armour, no nothing. Just us with hostiles all about and nought to defend ourselves with except inflated water skins, unless you think we can swim the river in our armour and carrying our weapons, cause there ain’t no boats left.” Jerkze finished.
“By the gods you two love seeing problems,” Jobe asserted. “Just needs a bit a thought and planning is all.”
Amos grinned at that. “Tell you what. Think on it and let us know once you figure it out. You’ll have a day at least maybe more depending on the weather changing our way.” He felt bad for the lie.
Truth was Amos wasn’t sure he could just up and leave. Last night Lord Richard had welcomed his return but his report was moot, since the urak had been evidence enough. The town had looked full to bursting with soldiers and armed militia when he rode through but he didn’t have to look hard to see how young and old some were, or the fear that resonated through them all. The Black Crow had said as much.
“I’ve three thousand trained soldiers. A third of those have some combat experience, the rest are green. Most of my forces are conscripted militia, some few old hands in their thankfully, but most of those haven’t lifted a blade in five years or more and it shows.” The piercing blue eyes looked at Amos, remorseless, intense. “I’m short on experienced men, experienced officers that know what to do in the heat of battle. I need you and your men Amos.”
So it transpired he was seconded to Knight Captain Lorcus Samuels. Samuels commanded a large section of the south wall. His command turned out to be a disparate, miss-match of a hundred hands of militia and four squads of regulars, all in around six hundred men and women.
Just like that the Black crow had neatly tied him into this siege. He was obligated now. The Duncan’s honour code ensured that but it was a moot point anyway since they were surrounded. Jobe was up for leaving and Amos couldn’t say his friend was wrong, he just wasn’t sure he’d be going if the chance did present itself.
Jobe leaned back against the wall and stared at Amos. “Known you too long, you’re a shit liar boss but I’ll do it cause you never know. Might be I end up saving your ass again.” He flashed his teeth then started suddenly as Jerkze casually leaned over and dunked a hunk of bread into his mug.
“You talk too much. Tea’s getting cold.” Jerkze said chewing on his sopping bread. Amos laughed and Jobe joined him a moment latter, cussing at Jerkze as he did.
A horn sounded. It was loud and long winded. It was distant though and Amos twisted his head trying to work out where it came from. The closeness of the surrounding buildings made it hard to discern but he thought the north west. It was where Lord Richard anticipated the first attacks would come.
“Best see what the lay is,” Amos said tipping the dregs of his tea onto the ground. He strode towards the tower leaving the other two trailing after. They followed Amos into the tower which was a hive of activity, a complete contrast to the huddled and sleeping bodies they had passed on their way down.
Amos felt many eyes on him as he walked back through the guard room and billet station and a lot of whispered comments he couldn’t quite make out. Stepping out atop the tower Amos saw Knight Captain Samuels talking with some men and passed them, moving instead to the crenels and peering out to the south.
The urak had gathered. They looked disorderly, more mob like than anything but Amos fancied he could see a pattern to it; he just couldn’t quite discern it.
There was a tramp of heavy boots behind and Amos turned as Samuels and Byron Mueller marched up. Mueller commanded the militia and was the Captain’s second.
Samuels was young for a Knight-Captain. He was of medium build and whilst not fat he was well-fed, there was bulk to his frame and not all of it hard. His face was accentuated with a hooked nose over a wide mouth surrounded by a well-groomed courtier’s beard and moustache.
Samuels hadn’t been overly pleased when Amos first presented his orders from Lord Richard, seeming to resent them. Amos wasn’t sure if he thought the Black Crow had sent someone to watch over him or whether it was simply that he was a southerner. If it bothered him now though it was hard to tell. Both men looked anxious.
When Amos had spoken with them late last night it was clear that whilst Samuels considered himself a seasoned veteran he hadn’t actually seen any meaningful combat. So not seasoned at all Amos had thought.
Mueller on the other hand had seen plenty of fighting in his time. Trouble was that was the best part of ten years gone. He hadn’t swung a sword in a while by his own admission and his bulk reflected it; the muscle loose and turning to fat. He looked more landlord than soldier with a paunch round his belly and a mop of grey hair that was both thinning and in full retreat.
“Lord Amos. The horns have sounded,” Samuels stated redundantly. Mueller glared at him.
“I heard Captain,” Amos replied. “The urak are gathering.” He nodded over the walls towards them. “What’s the status on the walls?”
“I have the bulk of the archers assembling on the walls, spaced evenly, one militia and one regular with each bow to guard them. I have the rest formed as a reserve,” Samuels replied. His face tightened slightly, a frown appearing as he realised he had reported to Amos.
Amos for his part managed to keep the smile from his face. The arrangement had been his own suggestion when he’d spoken to the man just before sunup.
Mueller watched the interplay between the two. “It’s a good disposition,” he grunted.
Amos saw the tension ease from Samuels at Mueller’s words. He reassessed them both in that instant. The young Captain seemed variable and insecure, Mueller shrewd and insightful. It was a shame it were not the other way around he lamented. Samuels would need watching.
“Now we wait,” Amos said. He looked around to see who might be near then lowered his voice, “This is new for us all. Don’t know much about urak except what I’ve seen and that ain’t good. But we got a wall they have to get over. We stop that from happening at any cost. They breach the wall it’s over for us. They’ll show no mercy and give no quarter. You fight for your families, your children and loved ones. You fight for your lives. Make sure all know this.”
The two men murmured agreement and Samuels even patted his shoulder in a comradely fashion. They surveyed the gathering horde observing as their ranks thickened, forming for action. They left Amos shortly after.
“Brought a tear to me eye that did,” Jobe said.
“Very inspirational boss,” Jerkze added.
Amos looked at them both. Despite their levity he could see they were nervous, a tautness about their eyes. Too much time standing about and thinking he knew.
“You’d best go fetch our gear. Gonna be a long day and most of it spent here unless I miss my mark.”
Amos heard a sudden dull, low drum beat in the distance and as he looked back the horde of massed urak stepped out towards the walls.
Samuels gave the order to hoist the red flag. Lord Richard would see it from the keep and know they were under assault. Thinking of Lord Richard, Amos glanced back across the town’s rooftops to the Keep’s hulk. He heard the braying of horns from the north and west. They would be assailed across multiple fronts it seemed.
Amos looked eastward following the southern wall. In the near distance was a corner tower. There were a lot of people and much activity on its battlements, their own flag raised at the impending threat. Beyond that Amos saw the curtain wall as it curved around
leading to Riversgate.
The massive barbican and gate house at Riversgate sat on raised ground and was clearly visible. Amos made out the distant armoured figures atop it and the ballistae that bracketed the gates but there was no red flag flying from its mast. It seemed the urak weren’t stupid enough to attack the Riversgate up the long slope from the river.
Shame we don’t have a ballista on this tower Amos thought. The only working ballistae were at the gate towers. Amos knew from his histories that Thorsten hadn’t been assaulted in over one hundred and fifty years. The expense of maintaining working ballista deemed excessive it seemed by the Lords of Thorsten past and present. The Black Crow had men preparing the older mothballed machines that had been stored but much of the wood had perished or dried out and it would take the woodsmiths quite some time to restore them - time they didn’t have.
There was a clatter and stomp of booted feet as men and women filed out along the walls flanking the tower. Section leaders hollered at them cajoling them into position.
Amos turned to observe as a squad of twenty archers tramped up onto the tower’s top.
A lanky rough looking man seemed to be in charge of them. He was unkempt, with a face full of whiskers and long dark hair loosely tied back in a tail. It looked like he’d just been rousted from an inn he’d been drinking in all night. Amos was impressed nevertheless as he watched him organise his archers. He didn’t say much but somehow managed to convey what was needed.
The man turned, feeling eyes on him, and stared back. The directness in his gaze told Amos that he too was being assessed. The man flicked a sardonic salute before returning his attention to his charges.
Jerkze and Jobe suddenly clattered back up the stairs, their shields slung across their backs. Jerkze carried Amos’s shield on one arm and three bows in his other. Jobe carried the quivers and three long spears that he must have picked up from somewhere as they certainly didn’t have any.
