“Sire, should we get something from the ships to shield our heads?” Katog asked Shobar, respectfully. “It is very likely that the defenders will rain projectiles or boiling liquids on us.”
“There is no one to hear us,” said Shobar. “We will scale the cliff and attack a sleeping castle.” He broke off as Nestar Crogus, the commander of his elite Skull Watch, approached and bowed low, allowing rain to run down his back.
“Sire, my men are ready to commence the ascent,” he said. “One of my captains, Cheval Guttanar of Estrans will lead the point squad. He grew up around here and climbed these cliffs as boy, hunting for kittiwake eggs.”
“Good, good,” said Shobar. “I want you to secure the battlements. Remember, once up there, kill all the sentries, but do so silently. They should give you no trouble, but the troops in the castle are another matter. At all costs don’t rouse anyone inside till we are all up with you. Then the Skull Watch will lead us as we storm the castle and slaughter the garrison. I want the Yengar girl, Nitya, and Greghar taken alive and unhurt—I will handsomely reward whoever takes them. And the same goes for Bradar and his wife, Esgrin.”
“It will be done, Sire,” said Nestar, bowing again. He returned to his men.
“You stay behind me, Katog,” said Shobar to his lame First Minister. “You and I will be the last ones up. Cheer up! Today is the first day of the campaign that will lead us to total victory!”
GREGHAR WAS IN deep slumber, but self-preservation had taught him to sleep with one ear open. So even the very light footsteps woke him, and he sat up. The sword Karya was in its scabbard hung on one of the head posts of his bed, and he drew it soundlessly. He recognized the slim, dark shadow and whispered, “Nitya? What are you doing up at this hour? Why are you here?”
She came closer. There was a flash of lightning, and for an instant he saw her as clear as day. She had the look he remembered from Beacon Peak—her eyes were bright and feral, and she radiated the faint bluish halo.
“He comes,” she intoned in a voice that was subtly deeper. “We are not strong enough to fight him now, you and I. We must flee.”
“There is no struggle, Nitya,” said Greghar gruffly. “It is all in your dreams or hallucinations. The war is over. A good and just king is on the throne of Utrea, my father’s legacy is safe. I have done my part in restoring him. I am King Lothar’s servant and no one else’s.”
“He comes!” Nitya repeated insistently. “All in this castle will fall to him. We cannot stay!”
“This castle is impregnable,” said Greghar. “If you want me to move, tell me what you think you know.”
“He has been here,” she said, and trembled. “I felt his presence. He has cleared the seaward side of the castle. There will be no resistance.”
Her look and voice made the hairs stand up on the nape of his neck. He dressed rapidly and laced on his light armor. Within minutes, he was ready with his weapons and his pack on his back.
“Show me,” he said.
“There is no time,” she said, her voice rising. He looked into her eyes and was shocked by how wide her pupils had become, like a cat’s at night.
“Show me, or I will sit right here,” he said firmly.
She stamped her foot.
“All right! Follow me! You try my patience!”
She turned and led the way out of his chamber. She was dressed for the road in a traveling shift and walking shoes. She retied the sash of her shift as they walked down the corridor. The gale and accompanying thunder and lightning meant that they did not need to muffle their footfalls. She led the way unerringly up the stairs to the battlements. When they got to the top of the stairs, Greghar felt his skepticism begin to recede, for the heavy door was ajar. He drew Karya and said to her, “Stay behind me now.”
Oblivious to the pouring rain, he padded out onto the battlements. He knew there was a complete watch detail on duty, and a sentry should have challenged him by now—but there was nothing but the moaning of the wind. Then in the next lightning flash, he saw a sentry. He stood with his back to them, facing out to sea. He did not turn as they approached him.
When they were a few yards away, Greghar called out to him in a low voice to avoid surprising him, but he did not respond. He glanced around at Nitya. She mouthed, “I told you so!” In the next lightning flash, Greghar looked down along the crenels and saw sentry after sentry, all facing the sea, standing as still as statues.
“Are they dead?” he whispered to Nitya.
“No, but they soon will be,” she responded. Her bluish halo was brighter now. “Look there!”
She pointed down toward the tip of the promontory where a dark shape had materialized and slipped over the top of the ramparts. It was followed by many more. As they watched, more and more attackers materialized and quickly moved along the battlements, approaching the motionless sentries quietly. They stabbed them with daggers before toppling them over the walls to fall down the cliff into the rocks and sea below. Greghar recognized the distinctive helmets of the Skull Watch and clenched his fists.
He put his arm around Nitya’s waist and pulled her into a narrow archer’s gallery, so they were out of sight. They saw the attackers complete their grisly task, disposing of the entire watch. In the meantime, every passing minute saw dozens more men-at-arms swarming up over the walls.
“I must get back into the castle and alert Bradar,” whispered Greghar.
“It is too late,” she whispered back.
Sure enough, even as she spoke the Skull Watchmen began streaming into the castle, followed by Shobar’s regular troops. All the gates and doors from the battlements into the interior were ajar. Then a particularly bright lightning flash lit the scene just as the last of the Skull Watchmen began entering the castle. Greghar saw Nestar directing troops to various entrances. Without thinking he unslung his crossbow, loaded a bolt and wound it, confident that the gale would cover any sound he made.
“Don’t,” said Nitya as he lined up his shot through one of the gallery arrow slits. “Now is not…”
Greghar ignored her and fired. With the wind and the darkness, it was a difficult shot. However, even though Greghar’s aim was true, Nestar’s luck held. Just as Greghar squeezed the trigger, the squad of Skull Watchmen he had left to attend Shobar appeared over the walls and raised their standard, a black flag with a white skull on it. Nestar immediately trotted off toward the tip of the promontory to receive his liege. The bolt passed behind him, missing by centimeters. Greghar swore under his breadth.
Now sounds of violence began rising from the keep and the other interior buildings of the castle. Screams and shouts rose in the night air, carrying up to the battlements over the storm. There was the odd clang of weaponry, but mostly it sounded like slaughter and rape. Cursed with an ear that had experienced many battles, Greghar could picture what was happening. They were crouched in the cramped gallery for almost an hour before they saw Shobar and Katog make their leisurely way into the keep.
Almost all of Shobar’s men were now inside the castle. Confident that the rocks secured their rear, they had left just a small rearguard to watch the battlements. These men soon grew bored, however, and paced about the battlements, checking out the various corbels, machicolations, and galleries. Hunched against the rain, two troopers approached the gallery in which they were concealed. Greghar drew Karya and prepared himself. The troopers were a meter away from the entrance and clearly about to enter when Greghar stepped into the narrow archway and ran the leading one through.
Many things happened at once. As Greghar put his boot on the trooper’s body to extricate Karya, the second trooper drew his sword. Seeing Greghar helpless before the sharp blade, Nitya put up her right hand and a surge of blue flame shot out, engulfing the second trooper from head to toe. At the same time, an enormous bolt of lightning struck the ramparts just behind them. It was so close that the ear-splitting thunderclap was almost simultaneous, completely drowning out the second trooper’s thin dyin
g wail.
All the remaining troopers on the battlements threw themselves to the ground in response to the lightning strike. Fearing a second strike, they were slow to rise. Nitya took Greghar’s hand and hissed a single word, “Come!” She ran quickly and silently along the battlements to the tip of the promontory whence the attackers had come, Greghar close on her heels. As she expected, thick ropes were still attached to crenels.
Just as they reached the ropes, a second bolt of lightning struck the ramparts, its accompanying thunderclap deafeningly loud. Shobar’s troopers stayed down, flat on their stomachs with their arms over their heads
“Let us go down to the cove below,” she whispered urgently.
“What then?” asked Greghar.
“Trust me,” she said, self-assuredly. “Can I ride on your back as you descend?”
“It depends on how much weight you have put on,” he said, cracking a grim smile. Even as he spoke, he hoisted himself over the edge of the battlements and stood with his feet planted on the wall. The muscles in his powerful arms knotted as he gripped the rope to hold himself steady.
She clambered over the battlements and settled herself on his back, holding on to the straps of his pack. She recalled his fear of heights and whispered in his ear, “Don’t worry, we will be fine.”
“Slick rocks, freezing rain, a slippery rope: nothing to worry about!” said Greghar, using graveyard humor to conceal his anxiety.
He eased himself down, hand over hand. The closer he got to the beach, the less anxious he became. She held on, supremely confident of his strength. They reached the sands of the beach, and Nitya leaped off nimbly.
“There are boats pulled up on the beach,” she whispered to him. “We must take one and get out to sea.”
He looked at her doubtfully.
“In this gale?”
“You can sail, you said,” she reminded him.
“In a ship with a crew,” he responded in a low tone. “Not in a rowboat.”
“There is a selection of boats here,” she whispered adamantly. “Choose the best one.”
Greghar knew he had little choice. He had no wish to climb back up to the castle.
“Follow me,” he said resignedly.
He led the way, darting from boulder to boulder to avoid attracting the attention of the men-at-arms Shobar had left patrolling the strand. Nitya stayed close behind, following him like a shadow. Each time he took cover behind a boulder, he scanned the line of boats pulled up on the sand just out of the waves. There were several score boats drawn up, and he checked out each boat carefully.
Finally he saw a one that seemed to suit their needs. It was a cutter, and he saw a mast with furled sails strapped to the gunnels. It was small enough that he thought he could row it, yet large enough that it had some chance of survival in the mountainous seas out beyond the rocks. However, there was a trooper pacing back and forth, right by her prow, stamping his feet in an effort to stay warm.
“Walk behind me,” Greghar whispered to Nitya, and emerged from behind the rock.
He walked up to the trooper with no attempt at subterfuge.
“Who goes there?” challenged the trooper.
“I am a servant of Lord Katog,” said Greghar steadily, adopting the guttural Utrean dialect of the Swards. “He has asked me to place this captive wench in the holds of the king’s ship.”
“Where is this captive wench?” asked the trooper roughly. “I see no one…”
His words trailed off as Nitya appeared from behind Greghar’s back. She had tied her wrists together with the sash from her shift. She looked bedraggled and miserable, her hair matted down in a sodden mass by the rain. The trooper approached them and looked at her appraisingly. He pushed some sodden locks out of her face and grunted.
“She’s comely, I’ll grant,” he said, deliberating. “No doubt she will clean up to look quite the lady for my lord Katog.”
“Don’t just stand there, help me get the cutter in the water,” said Greghar impatiently. “We don’t want to stand around all night. My Lord Katog will be down shortly, and I have to get her into dry things, ready for him.”
“All right, all right, keep your calm,” said the trooper. He turned and helped Greghar push the cutter toward the water. Nitya leaped in and settled herself in the stern sheets. Once she was afloat, the two men climbed aboard and began to row. They pulled strongly, and the cutter moved smoothly over the relatively mild rollers in the cove. They soon came upon the mass of vessels at anchor.
Subtly, Greghar began pulling away from them and toward the rocks. It did not take long for the trooper to realize something was amiss.
“What are you doing?” he cried. “Do you want to kill us? It is death to go toward the rocks!”
Greghar did not listen but continued pulling strongly. He avoided the eyes of the trooper and kept his gaze fixed on Nitya. She was beginning to give off the bluish glow again, and the trooper’s eyes widened.
“What sorcery is this?” he cried. He looked at Greghar in a panic. “Have you been bewitched? Speak, man!”
Greghar still did not speak but continued rowing strongly. The prow of the cutter was now turned completely away from the vessels at anchor and the trooper stood, crouched low to keep down his center of gravity, and moved toward Greghar, drawing a dagger from his belt. Greghar waited, hunched over his oarlock. Just as the trooper raised his arm to strike, Greghar swung his unshipped oar in a vicious arc. He struck the trooper’s side with enough force to knock him off his feet. His dagger flew out of his hand and he flailed in the air as he fell over the gunnel into the sea. He sank under the surface with barely a splash, weighed down by his armor.
Greghar quickly shipped his oar again and took the other oar.
“I will row for the rocks, Nitya,” he said loudly so she could hear him over the gale. “For that death is preferable to the one that awaits us if we return to the castle.”
She did not respond as he set the oars and settled into rowing. The sound of the breakers on the rocks grew closer and closer. Greghar fell into a steady tempo, his ears telling him that the end could not be long in coming. Then all of a sudden, she spoke, her voice sharp and commanding.
“Stroke with your left oar, now!”
He could not believe his ears, but he obeyed her instantly. All of a sudden they were in a slightly smoother channel.
“Three strokes straight with both oars, now,” she chanted.
Again he followed. She used the tiller with an expertise that surprised him and continued giving him directions. Sometimes she spoke so rapidly so he only had time for half a stroke, and sometimes she told him to take several long pulls. Greghar saw the rocks out of the corners of his eyes, and they were sometimes so near that he struck them with his oars. Once she had him use an oar to push off a rock and get them around a tight turn.
He worked tirelessly. He was now aware that failing to follow her instructions instantly and precisely would mean death for both of them. In spite of the cold, he could feel the sweat running down his face. The pouring rain and the spray off the pounding breakers actually felt good.
In his concentration, he had no idea where they were. So when they suddenly shot out into open water and into the trough of a large wave, he was taken by surprise. However, Nitya was not, and she rapped out her instructions sharply. Following them, he brought the prow around in time to breast the wave. Her bluish halo and bright, predatory eyes were disturbing, but oddly they gave him confidence in her instructions.
He rowed them a hundred meters past the treacherous rocks before setting to unlashing and stepping the mast. His veins were coursing with too much adrenalin to feel tired and he worked steadily till he had them under a scrap of storm sail. Only then did he make his way back to the stern sheets and take the tiller from her. She found a dry tarp in the locker beneath their bench and draped it around both of them. He glanced at her to see that her halo was rapidly fading and she held him close, the Nitya he knew once aga
in.
“Where do you want me to take you, mistress?” asked Greghar, only half in jest.
She snuggled closer against the cold saying, “I’ve done my part, now it is up to you.”
He smiled down at her, feeling their old bond rekindling. He was proud of how calm and unafraid she was as the cutter pitched wildly in the stormy sea.
“I dare not take this cockleshell much farther from shore. But I think she should make it to Estrans harbor—it is only a short sail south of the castle. We can try to buy horses there and ride for Nordberg.”
“Your aunt, the queen, gave me quite a lot of money,” she replied. “She did not want me to be dependent on Baroness Esgrin. Four talents, one gold and three silver.”
“Between the two of us, we should have enough for the journey,” he said. “I shall be much happier once we cross the border out of Swarborg.”
INSIDE ESTRANS CASTLE, chaos still reigned. Shobar’s men had met little resistance, but in the storm and the darkness, there was still mopping up to do. Many of Bradar’s people were scurrying this way and that, trying to find ways out of the castle to escape the clutches of the victors. Native Swards were particularly afraid for they knew that their service to Bradar would earn them the greatest measure of Shobar’s displeasure.
Shobar and Katog stood on an inner balcony, watching prisoners being herded into the main courtyard of the keep. Nestar came up to them and bowed low.
“Highness, the castle is yours,” he said. His leathers and chain mail bore a few marks, but he appeared unhurt. “It will take several hours for us to search every nook and cranny, but that is a minor issue. This is your ancestral seat, we know this castle perfectly.”
“That is well,” said Shobar, masking his eagerness. “But where are the Yengar wench, Greghar, and my cousin, Bradar?”
Nestar looked worried and rubbed the back of his shaven head.
“Sire, we have Baron Bradar, Baroness Esgrin, and their daughters,” he said, trying to sound confident. “The baron and his lady are in the Hall of Tiles. Your High Seat has been prepared with a masthead.”
The Eclipse of the Zon - First Tremors (The New Eartha Chronicles Book 2) Page 8
