“Attack? What attack?”
Rarshman looked at Mott. “I haven’t got that far, Captain,” the wolf said. “I was going to tell him on our way to the palace.”
“The palace!” Rarshman’s eyes widened. Grady could sense the captain’s eagerness to attend the court – seemed he hadn’t completely changed; Rarshman had always harboured ambitions ideas about leading the Palace Guards. “Perhaps I should come… uh… give my report in person. There’s nothing as good as an eyewitness.”
“If anyone is going to be making a report, it will be me,” Odaman told Rarshman. “Tell me what happened, Captain.”
Grady could have laughed but before he had chance to say anything, he heard a loud bang coming from the east.
All eyes turned to Bailryn.
Black smoke billowed from the northern wall. Grady immediately looked north. The fields beyond the wall, and as far as he could see towards Barais’coi, were empty. It wasn’t an attack from the Kel’madden. That only left one option, unless, of course, there was another player at the table – the Black Hand.
“Saddle up, can you—”
“Get your men on the road, Captain,” Ker interrupted. For a wonder, Rarshman saluted the wolf. Turning to the old wolf, Dras, Ker ordered a hundred Wildlings to be ready by the time he set foot on the “humans’ road.” Dras spun, and like Rarshman, the older wolf was off in a flash to carry out Ker’s orders.
Ker had a few words with Mott that Grady could not hear before Mott said, “I’ll go with you, Toban,” to his Alpha. Toban nodded, and their group, Odaman included, readied themselves for a gallop back to Bailryn.
One of the females whispered something in Mott’s ear. By the look on the wolf’s face, Grady was sure the female had some power over him, probably his mate… girlfriend. What did wolves call them? The other female had similar words with Ker. She was definitely the big wolf’s mate, and she did not whisper. Speaking loud enough for all to hear, the female told Ker to “show no mercy to the Dragon Masters.” By the expression on Ker’s face, Grady knew the big wolf needed no persuading. That could be a problem for later, maybe.
For now, though, they had to get back, and quickly! They turned their horses to the road, and before very long, a column of cavalry and probably two hundred wolves lined up ready to march the three miles back to Bailryn. The way the wolves – the Wildlings – were chomping at the bit, Grady thought they might number a thousand by the time they reached the city wall. He did not care, so long as they followed orders. All he was concerned with was getting back to Bailryn in time to be of use.
* * *
Using the smoke as a marker, Rarshman had decided the Highgate – the main entrance – was too close to the trouble to risk. Instead, he took Grady’s advice and led his men, and the wolves, towards the Lampton gate. It might take them longer to get into the city, and once inside, it was another mile to where the fires were burning, but better that than barge into the middle of a battle. Besides, the Lampton was next to the palace, and with any luck he would come across other guardsmen, maybe even Major Mikelmoor, or one of the generals. Not that he wanted to relinquish command; he just wanted to know what was happening. By now, someone should know who their enemy was – they had heard the explosion almost half an hour ago.
Unfortunately, by the time he reined his horse in at the Lampton Bridge, the guards on the other side of the river were busy drawing up the centre walkway. It would seem they thought the wolves were part of the attack.
“Stop what you are doing,” Rarshman shouted. “Lower the bridge, you fool. Don’t you recognise the King’s Guard when you see it?”
The guards barely spared him a look. They just carried on winding the heavy handle. The middle of the bridge retracted, sliding along runners. There was already a gap of a pace and a half.
Grady pulled his horse up alongside. “They’re only doing their job, Captain. I had to show a pass to get out.”
“Little good that does if doing their job leaves us stuck out here.” Rarshman looked around. His eye fell on Cal’s huge bow. It was as tall as the Cren, probably eight foot long, and the arrows would make good spears – for the average Surabhan. “Can you cut the line with that, sir?” he asked.
“No need,” Cal answered.
Rarshman watched as the tall man spun his horse around and galloped back fifty paces. Then, with eyes fixed on the bridge, the huge horse charged.
Rarshman suppress a shout. He wanted to say “No!” Looking at the bridge, the gap had grown to at least three paces. The huge horse’s hooves pounded heavily on the wooden planks. Then, with a shout of encouragement from Cal, the horse jumped the gap, landing a good pace beyond. The guards let go of the winch and fumbled for their swords. The middle section of the bridge slid back into place, and Rarshman heeled his horse over.
“Put your swords away, soldier, and get that bloody gate open.”
Rarshman looked over his shoulder at Grady. He thought the lieutenant might appreciate his use of profanity; he had certain heard the new lieutenant use it often enough. Grady’s grin was enough to prove him right.
The guard sheathed his sword and fumbled to open the gate. Rarshman gave Grady instruction to see everyone over safely while he led the way through the Lampton.
If he thought the guard’s reaction was cautious, the folk on the other side of the gate turned hysterical when they saw the wolves. Men and women alike ran in all directions – as long as it was away from the main street – shouting and screaming. Rarshman heard “Wolf!” and “Run! They’re in the city!” as well as demands for the palace guards to defend them. Fortunately, the guards stood their ground. Admittedly, they looked nervous, but none of them attacked.
Rarshman pulled his horse up next to their sergeant. “What news? Who is behind the attack?” he asked him.
The sergeant shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. My lieutenant ordered me to hold this gate. He went to the palace a while ago. He hasn’t come back, yet.” The man stared as the wolves began to flood the street. “Are they… with you, sir? Uh… friendly, I mean.”
Rarshman grinned at the fool. “If they weren’t, Sergeant, I would hardly be sat talking to you.”
The sergeant nodded. Still staring, he came to his senses and stood to attention, showing Rarshman the salute he should have given when they met. Rarshman ignored the lapse in protocol. Instead, he continued towards Pauper’s Gate. He wasn’t aiming for the palace, though the thought had occurred to him that the left turn at the Pauper’s Gate was the quickest way to the Blue Mile. Well, not the quickest, if he was on his own, the alleys would be quicker. He mused over the idea of sending the men along the alleys, each with a group of wolves, but that would take too long to organise. Besides, splitting the wolves up was a bad idea. If what he had seen so far were any indication, panic would spread faster than the smoke billowing above the north wall.
Rarshman turned his horse and waited for the others.
Toban pushed his way through the ever-thickening crowd of wolves.
The Rukin Alpha appeared reasonable enough, Rarshman thought. He was not as aggressive as Ker, but he held his authority better than Mott. Then again, Mott had struck him as a reluctant leader. This Toban was surer of himself, not arrogant, but efficient and experienced. They would need those qualities if this “union” of theirs were going to work. It was hard enough imagining palace guards working alongside wolves; if Ker were their leader, it would be all but impossible.
As if summoned, Ker made his way to Toban’s side. “What are we waiting for?” the black wolf asked. No, Ker definitely was not the diplomatic type. “We’re wasting time. The fighting will be finished before we get there.”
“I’m waiting until we are all together, Ker. Like it or not, we can’t have groups of wolves wondering around Bailryn. At least not until our pact is common knowledge.” Ker’s growl told him that the wolf agreed, albeit reluctantly.
Since the dragon attack outside Redgate, Ker had become m
ore and more eager, almost frantic, to lead his Wildlings into battle. Anger was useful, Rarshman knew that much, but anger could also blind a good soldier, send him into danger without proper consideration of the consequences. If left to Ker, the black wolf would likely have taken the direct route, and led the line straight to the northern gate, never mind they had no idea who, or what, was there.
A shout came from the back of the now full road. Rarshman turned his head and squinted beyond the wolves to the Lampton Gate. Grady was waving them forward.
“Right,” Rarshman said. “We’re all in. Follow me and keep the formation tight. I want the locals to see we are a unit. Panic won’t help anyone.”
* * *
Smoke lay like a blanket over the Blue Mile. On the ground it was white, like a thin fog, but overhead the thick black mantle obscured the northern wall completely. Grady could only hear the clang of steel on steel. Now and then, the cries of men drowned out the clatter. Dying men, by the sound of it. Other than giving an order to “follow the noise,” there was no way of planning where to send their men. Occasionally, a guard emerged from the foggy mayhem, sometimes holding an injured arm, or maybe carrying a wounded comrade. Rarshman stopped more than a few times to ask for a report, but none was of much use, other than to say the enemy held the gate. Most were not even sure who the “enemy” was.
Finally, Rarshman issued his orders…
“Four groups,” he shouted. “I will take the first. Grady, you take another. Cockroft and Merhan, the last two.” The two sergeants nodded. “You take your orders from Ker,” he told the taller of the two sergeants. “Spread out through the alleys and wait for the horn, I want a unified attack. You know where they lead… the alleys?” he asked, eyeing the sergeants.
Both men answered “Yes” and gave a salute.
“Good. Then let’s not waste any more time.”
Grady nodded at Cal, and with Toban’s help, they led fifty of the Wildlings through the alley to the east of Highgate. Leaving their horses tied up in the passageway – in this smoke, they were likely as not to trample wolves under hoof – Grady bunched his group up at the far side of the passage. There they waited.
The area in front of Highgate was a wide arc of cobbled ground. If the Black Hand were in the gate towers, it would not be easy to get them out. A dozen archers could hold that area from within. The smoke would give Grady’s group some cover, but he doubted they would secure the gate before the damage was done.
It was obvious the Black Hand were trying to destroy the gate, but why do it now? Surely it would be better to attack when the Kel’madden were outside, waiting. Clearly, something must have interrupted their plans, made them move sooner than they wanted to. But what? What did they know? Were the Kel’madden on their way?
The horn blew, and Grady was nearly trampled by stampeding wolves. “Slow down,” he shouted. He may as well have been talking to himself.
Shaking his head, he followed the howling wolves onto the narrow road that lead to the Highgate. To his right, he could see the wall, or at least the bottom of the wall. Three paces up it disappeared into the blanket of smoke. At least nobody on the battlements would see them. Small consolation, he thought, but better than nothing.
Before they made it fifty paces, Grady heard the baying of wolves; some shrill, some fierce. They had found the enemy. Waving Cal on, he began to run towards the noise, only to stop again at the sound of crashing timber. The arc in front of Highgate was covered in a mist of white smoke, but he could see what was causing the commotion. The enemy were throwing planks, furniture, guardrails … the entire contents of the gate tower – so it seemed – over the battlements and onto an enormous fire at the base of the main gate. Splinters and burning embers were flying everywhere. The heat made it impossible to get to the gate. Wolves were howling as wave after wave of arrows, fired from behind the smoke screen, fell from above the cobbled arc. None was aimed – the archers couldn’t see their prey – but wolves were thick on the ground, and every other arrow was finding a target.
Grady heard Rarshman call a retreat, but with the smoke, wolves and men alike were running into one another, rather than finding an exit. Grady could taste the panic in the air and hear the shouts of the wounded. This was going to be a slaughter, and a pointless slaughter at that. From where he stood, Grady could see the Highgate. Fire lapped up along the iron-braced gates. Even if they could defeat the Black Hand right this minute, the gates were finished.
As if thinking about it made it happen, the right gate collapsed amid a blast of soot and flame. The huge gate landed on the fire, sending ash and burning embers into the arc. Grady felt the surge as wolves ran to avoid the falling debris. Rarshman’s men, some of whom had been aimlessly firing arrows up at the towers, turned and followed the wolves. But again, none were running the right way. Grady himself had lost track of where the road was.
A piercing roar filled the air. All went silent, but for the crackling of the fire. Grady looked up as a huge black shadow flew over, darker even than the black smoke. He heard a thump as the dragon landed – it must be a dragon. Grady felt someone pull at his shoulder. Eyes still fixed where the dragon must have landed; he realised Cal was pulling him away.
“Come on! It’s long past time we were gone,” Cal shouted.
As Grady turned, he heard another thud. Another dragon had landed. Then, through the smoke, he heard the sound of heavy feet running, but they were not running towards him. The fire flared, and then began to dim. A minute later, the smoke started to clear. It appeared that the dragons were somehow putting out the fire. But why?
Grady followed Cal and Toban back to one of the alleys. Hiding behind a low wall, he turned back to see what the dragons were doing. A huge shape began to resolve amidst the thinning smoke, showing the form of a black dragon. On either side, two more dragons emerged.
Grady gulped. There was nothing to do but watch and wait. Though running was beginning to sound like a good idea.
“We could probably muster the archers,” Cal said, as he squatted behind the wall next to him. “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Grady could have laughed. “I think we’re in trouble.
CHAPTER 14
Timing
With Arfael gone, Olam found himself… hovering, wondering what to do. For over forty years, his big friend had been a constant companion. Forty years of searching, all the while knowing there was something special about his friend, something crucial. Now that he knew, now that Arfael knew, he felt lost, directionless. Yes, he was happy Arfael’s memory had returned, proud to be associated with the Cinnè’arth, the Saviour of Barais’coi, the Witch Hunter – and a dozen other names – proud that he had helped a legend. Still, what was he supposed to do now?
Nobody appeared to need his help. The villagers of Braylair had planned everything. The wagons were loaded and property secured, food stored, horses tended; the only thing left to do was leave, and they could have done that yesterday if Brea had not insisted on joining the rescue party.
Well, it was not just a rescue party; Arfael wanted Vila’slae dead, that much was certain. Gialyn, on the other hand, could not give a fig for the Witch. That young man was adamant he was going to save Elspeth, even if it would mean riding in single-handedly. Of course, Elspeth’s brother, Ealian, wanted her back, too, but he was carrying Alacin around in his head, and Olam was far from certain about that character.
Oh, the ancient Cren said the right things. He seemed sincere, but more than once Olam had gotten the impression that the thousand-year-old Cren Raic had his own agenda. Maybe he was wrong; only time would tell. Besides, there was not much he could do about it, nothing, really. At least Arfael was with them, he would make sure Elspeth was safe, but whether that was before or after the witch was dead…
Bre’ach fumbled his way through the front door of the Whistling Shepherd. Dropping the large bag he was carrying on the floor tiles, the Salrian pointed over his shoulder with an outstretc
hed thumb. “They’ve gone,” he said, resting his hands on his hips and breathing heavily. “Only the produce wagons and the horse line left.”
They had both been up since before dawn, and Bre’ach had spent the last two hours helping the villagers load their wagons. Turns out, he was surprisingly strong for such a short man. But then he was broad and had thick arms. Indeed, he looked quite menacing, with his bald head and bright grey eyes. Of course, it was not that long ago that the man was counted among their enemies. Olam knew different now. Despite their less than auspicious beginnings, Bre’ach was a valued friend. Besides, the man no longer looked much like a soldier, not with his plain brown breeches and farmer’s shirt. Likewise, with his sun-tanned skin, he could easily pass for a farm labourer.
“We cannot take that with us,” Olam said, pointing at the large bundle wrapped in a brown blanket. “Brea said no more than what you can carry with one hand.” One hand! I hope they look after my books.
Affrair had promised to take care of his things. She could be trusted. Olam was beginning to like Brea’s mother; she was straightforward and honest, with a good sense of humour – and not bad looking, either.
Still, he did not like the idea of travelling without his prized collection of The History of Moyathair, or his volumes on Eurmacian Lore; but needs must, he supposed. For that matter, he did not much like the idea of travelling on the back of a dragon…
The dragons could take them to Bailryn in seven hours, apparently. It would take a week on horseback, and then only if they could change their mounts every few days. The dragons would be travelling twenty leagues an hour – and never mind how high they might fly. Just the thought of travelling that quickly turned Olam’s stomach over.
Bre’ach kicked the bundle and chuckled to himself. “It’s not for us; Affrair took these out of Lance the innkeeper’s wagon. The fool packed every cook pot he owns. I don’t know what the man thought he was going to do with them. Set up an inn in Redgate, maybe. Anyway, she told me to put them back in the kitchen. I tell you, Olam – that woman would make a good officer.”
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