Alael heard a crack as the blow sent the man flying backwards across a low bookshelf and with a brittle shattering, through one of the mullioned windows. Later, Alael remembered perfectly that his hair was on fire and that just before he fell out of sight, his skull-like face was grinning.
For a moment the room was plunged into a shout-filled darkness, then a bright glow bloomed between Blind Rina's hands, revealing the presence of Captain Ghazrek and three of his knights.
“Downstairs, captain,” Alael said, gasping. “One of the enemy's agents...fell out of the window - see if he yet lives.”
Ghazrek gave a sharp nod and hurried out.
Alael went over to aid the Master of Parlance. His upper clothing was scorched, his eyebrows and some hair was gone and the skin on one side of his face was red and blistered. As she helped him into his chair, his breathing was shallow and he seemed close to collapse yet still trying to speak. Calming him, she looked round to see Blind Rina examining Nerek's bare hand while a slowly twisting skein of light floated over her head. Halfway across the room, the mage-minstrel Osper Traum looked on with troubled eyes, his hands fingering the silvery instrument at his chest.
Blind Rina came over and crouched beside Alael.
“Is he in much pain?” she said.
“Such a….foolish question,” the old scholar said hoarsely. “Lady Alael, I must…”
“You must rest yourself, Master Onsivar, while I tend to these burns,” Blind Rina said.
The Master of Parlance rallied at this. “My good woman, you may carry out such ministrations as you are able…..but there are matters that I must make clear to the Lady Alael now.”
Blind Rina smiled with ironic brightness. “As you wish, ser.”
“Hmph, very good….now, my lady, listen well. As I began to explain a short while ago, the Raegal manuscript is a palimpsest - an older piece of writing was scraped from the surface of the parchment, allowing it to be used again.
“By various means, I was able to discern those older lines and found to my astonishment that it was a page from an ancient work of philosophy called the Teaching of Korrul. The last copy was thought to have been in the great library of Alvergost when it was sacked after the fall of the Brusartan throne…”
Alael interrupted him. “Master Onsivar, what do these ancient words say?”
“They give instructions, very detailed, on the making of weapons, my lady,” he said. “Weapons made from a mingling of powers, spears, daggers and swords, with not an ounce of iron or wood.” Exhausted, he slumped back in his chair. “There is….a sheet of translation in your book - please, show it to the Archmage.”
“I will, this very night.”
Then the door opened and Ghazrek entered, looking grim, and Alael knew.
“Is he there, captain?”
The Mogaun captain's frustration was plain. “No body, my lady. By torchlight we could see where he landed and we found some burnt scraps of clothing and a few bloody footprints, but they disappeared in the bushes.”
“After all that, he's still able to run off,” Blind Rina said. “A tough one.”
And now he's out there, Alael thought. Wounded but still full of hate and power.
“I'll have to leave you here,” Alael said to Blind Rina and Nerek. Standing up she checked that the translation was in the old book of sagas then closed it and tucked it under her arm. “I'll have to take this to Bardow now. You can see why.”
As Blind Rina nodded, there was a discreet cough from across the room.
“I, on the other hand, will be quite happy to remain here,” said Osper Traum.
“I won't,” said Nerek shortly. “I shall return with you.”
The lean woman smiled coldly as she tugged her gauntlet back on. Alael knew there would be no point in argument.
“Very well,” she said, coming down from the dais. “Captain Ghazrek - we shall depart as soon as I've spoken with the old steward.”
But Ghazrek shook his head. “Sorry my lady, he's dead. Strangled. Found his body in a room on the floor below.”
Alael clamped down on her sense of grief. She put one hand to her eyes for a moment and breathed deeply. Death, death and more death…
Then she let her hand fall and wordlessly gestured Ghazrek to leave. Before they reached the door, Blind Rina spoke.
“Alael, you must also tell Bardow that one of the enemy's agents now knows that we don't have the Staff of the Void,” she said. “Tell him the moment you see him.”
“I don't imagine he'll be pleased to hear it,” Alael said.
Blind Rina gave a quiet laugh, which Alael echoed as she left, closely followed by Nerek who laughed not at all.
Chapter Fifteen
Now comes the hour of trial,
When ghosts and dead souls rise,
Hollow and howling,
And hungering for ruin.
—Vosada Boroal, The Fall Of Hallebron, BkV, 7.11
The attack on Scallow began just before sunrise.
In the grey light of pre-dawn, Keren was in Trader Golwyth's stables, rechecking her mount's harnessing when she heard the stir of voices from the yard. Stepping outside she saw Captain Redrigh and a few of Golwyth's men gathered round a runner, listening closely. A moment later the messenger was dashing out of the gates while Redrigh and the others hurried over to the stables, faces eager and alive.
“Word from the Grand Marshalls' tower,” Redrigh told her. “Coastal rider scouts have reported a fleet sailing up the Neck. Huge battle dromonds, apparently, bristling with war machines.”
“Are we still patrolling the west bank?” she said.
He smiled sardonically. “The Marshalls have decided that we'd be of greatest use over on South Bridges.”
Keren shook her head. “They really don't understand cavalry, do they?”
The young captain shrugged, then turned to bellow last directions and warnings to his company. Keren pulled on the heavy, non-too fresh-smelling rider jerkin loaned to her by Golwyth's chief stablemaster, but as she fastened hooks and eyelets down the front she found herself missing Gilly's presence. He would have made some revolting comment on the origin of the jerkin's odour and caused her to defend its sturdiness.
Where are you? she thought as she patted her horse's neck then hauled herself into the saddle. What kind of peril have you got yourself into?
The scant investigations she was able to make yesterday cast up few shreds of information about Gilly's movements after leaving the High House of Keels. Down in Wracktown a couple of sullen youths say they saw him board one of the old hulks which then broke loose and sank, taking him with it. Others claimed that it sailed away along the misty Neck, crewed by the dead. If there had been more time, she might have uncovered more but Medwin had commanded her attendance at a conclave called in the aftermath of Yared Hevrin's killing and the subsequent escape of the Chieftain Hevrin and his captains.
It had not been an even-tempered meeting. Junior floorsmen had levelled charges of gross negligence at the Grand Marshalls, three grey-haired hard-eyed men, who responded by pointing out that one of the conditions for the Hevrin's participation at the High House had been the removal of Scallowan troops from its immediate vicinity. They also pointed out that their opposition to such a condition had been over-ruled, then went on to say that indulging in blame-laying while the enemy was preparing to strike was the folly of cretins. After that, Medwin was asked to conduct the conclave which he did with relish.
Which is why I'm riding in this makeshift mobile reserve concocted by Medwin out of Redrigh's men and half of Golwyth's. Just to show that the Crown Renewed is playing its part….
In addition, Medwin had promised the Grand Marshalls that aid from Besh-Darok would be arriving very soon but would not be drawn on the specifics. Keren did not know what to make of this, although at one point in the hours following the assassination she did spy Medwin deep in conversation with two men who, she later learned, had been Yared Hevrin's advisors.
As she spurred her horse out of the gates of the compound, she found herself smiling at the pull of the jerkin and her mail shirt on her shoulders, the bulk of the small shield slung over one shoulder and the solid weight of her sword on her left hip. Along with the smell of her horse, it was a combination of sensations and pressures which her body remembered well, and which made her feel protected and ready for anything. The Daemonkind Orgraaleshenoth's assault on her flesh and spirit a few months ago suddenly seemed a world and an age away.
This early the streets of Scallow were icy, cold and grey, but not deserted. Word of the impending attack had spread quickly through the town and as Redrigh's riders trotted down towards the river, they passed groups of women and children trudging the other way. Some would be going up to the castle for shelter and safety while others faced a longer walk north to encampments deep in the wooded hills. Many men, and some women, were being armed with spears and axes by sergeants of the city guard, and marched off down to the river bank. Keren saw every kind of face in their number, ever shade of fear and anger.
Ahead was the broad carriageway which sloped up on great piles, and led across the short bridges which linked a couple of rocky islets prior to entering the Bridges district itself. As the company trotted across, hooves hammering on the heavy woodwork, Keren could see wharfs and jetties coming into view on either side. Then further off to the right, along the west bank, dozens of masts jutted from the waves near the main docks of Scallow, some trailing torn sails and rigging into the dark, choppy waters. One vessel, a long shore-lugger, lay upturned and mastless on the pebbly shore, its hull punched through with a multitude of dark holes. Some said they saw corpses moving in the waters yesterday during the terrible panic as the ships began to slip beneath the surface. A host of small craft had put out to rescue survivors, and one ghastly story told of a boatman who tried to haul a body into his skiff only for the sodden corpse to seize his neck and drag him under.
Night and the shifting currents had loosened much from the sunken ships and a line of flotsam had been washed up along the shore while a scattering of crates and wooden debris drifted and bobbed further out. Keren could see hooded figures in boats scavenging with hooks and nets, then the sight was gone as the stilt road they were on dipped between two buildings.
The southernmost roadways were busy with detachments of archers and spearmen taking up positions, and more than once she saw some bargee shouting in fury as his vessel was tied up and shackled. Then a well-fed officer on horseback rode up accompanied by a standard bearer and a scribe, and haughtily demanded who they were and what business they had in the Bridges district. Once Redrigh told him, his manner changed from disdain to unpleasant amusement.
“Ah, our friends from Besh-Darok. Your task is to patrol the main wharfs along Wracktown – there are several squads of spearmen there already, so you won't be lonely.” He laughed but Redrigh and Keren remained impassive. “The way down is over there behind that warehouse, so be quick about it.”
With that he wheeled and trotted off. Keren stared at the device on his banner, a torch and a bow, and committed it to memory.
The way down to Wracktown was a series of shallow ramps built against the heavy timber shafts that supported the buildings, roads and walkways of South Bridges. Beyond a dilapidated gate the first of them sloped down between two warehouses to a dim landing from where the next led off at an angle underneath a confusion of joists and cross-beams. The damp air stank of rotting fish and there were heaps of rubbish everywhere, some identifiable, others less so. They had reached the third and final ramp when the sound of trotting hooves made Keren turn in her saddle. It was Medwin.
“What are you all doing here?” he asked. His hair was dishevelled and his beard was straggly in a way that brought a smile to Keren's lips.
Redrigh explained their encounter with the officer, and when Keren told him what the man's blazon was Medwin snorted in annoyance. “Gaborig of Goldenbow, a self-important know-nothing. Almost no-one uses this road – too many footpads and kidnappers, and the planks themselves are unsafe. Any accidents, twisted hooves?”
“None, ser Medwin.”
“Well, thank the Mother for small mercies.” He nudged his horse forward. “I'll ride the rest of the way with you.”
“I came here last night,” Keren said. “Road down a sloping road east of here, not far from one of the canal entrances.”
“That is really the only safe way in,” Medwin said. “In fact, I spoke to someone who saw Gilly arrive there by carriage and walk in. Same person also saw a mastless ship sail away from the outer jetties listing badly.”
At last they came to the main quay of Wracktown, a long, low dock swamped in perpetual shadow. A dank chill crept through Keren's clothing and the breath of the riders and horses around her turned white. As they rode along the mostly-deserted quayside, Keren could see hoarfrost glittering on the black flanks of the great hulks, and icicles fringing their timber supports and webs of hawsers.
“Night's edge but it's cold!” said Redrigh.
“It may be less icy by the time the rebel ships arrive,” Medwin said. “But not noticeably so.”
“What about reinforcements?” Keren said. “I heard that message birds have been winging to and fro all night.”
“Yes, several companies of infantry are rushing from the northeast but they won't arrive until mid-afternoon. The invaders, though, will be here within the hour.” Medwin inhaled deeply, let out a great foggy plume and regarded Keren and Redrigh with frowning concern. “I want both of you to exercise common sense and caution in this – no wild heroics, mind. There are plenty of ordinary militia and spearmen to hand, so if it comes to the enemy trying to gain a foothold here leave the hand-to-hand fighting to others. Look after your men and get back to shore safely afterwards –”
“Indeed Medwin, we shall,” Keren said with a smile, suddenly realising how worried he was. “Only our skills shall guide us.”
“Which will mean worrying me into my next life, no doubt,” the mage said. “Remember, no unnecessary risks.”
With that, he turned his horse and left at a light canter. Keren and Redrigh shared a smile as they watched him recede along the shadowy quay. Then they fell silent when a militia guard officer and two spearmen emerged from between a couple of the mouldering hulks. Seeing the group of riders they came over, identified Redrigh as the commander and saluted.
“Red-sergeant Jirgo, ser. Are you the Beshdars we were told about?”
“That's us, sergeant. I'm Captain Redrigh and this is my second, rider-sergeant Asherol. How many men have you here?”
Keren almost grinned at this field promotion but managed to keep her face straight as the militia sergeant replied.
“Four hands of spearmen, two of axemen. All the bowmen are up on that road, or deck or whatever they call it.”
Three heads craned back to peer up at the balustraded edge where a line of figures was just visible. It was like gazing up a weathered, rain-stained cliff of massive wooden columns.
“Wracktown seems pretty quiet,” Keren said when they looked back down. “Did you evacuate the locals overnight?”
Sergeant Jirgo gave a bemused look. “There's been no evacuation, ser Asherol.”
“Isn't that dangerous?” she said.
“Mayhap it will,” Jirgo said, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “For the invaders. If you come with me, sers, I'll show you what I mean.”
Leaving one of the other senior riders in charge, Redrigh and Keren dismounted and followed Jirgo down half a dozen worn, wooden steps to a lower, narrower wharf. The slanted, cracked and decrepit hulls on either side turned it into a shadowy gulf, deserted and quiet but for the knock of their bootheels on the old planks. A good distance ahead Keren could make out a detachment of men with spears and axes lounging by a barricade of crates and ballast sacks – she also noticed a growing murmur of voices which drew her gaze upwards. In the sterns of the vessels on b
oth sides figures stood along the bulwarks, mostly men armed with spears and slings, but there were women and children too, the latter cavorting as children do, without a care in the world.
As Redrigh went over to talk with the militia men, Keren looked at Jirgo. “Aren't they taking stupid risks, these people? This is an invasion we're facing, not a day in the forest.”
The sergeant shrugged. “No one can force them to do what they don't want to. Besides, some of them are better-armed than we are. Trust me, ser Asherol, you'll be glad of them when those mad Islesmen get here.”
Keren was not convinced but the more she saw of other end-of-wharf defences, the more she realised that any force of invaders would also face retaliation from the old hulks, which were effectively small forts. The walkways between them would become killing ditches and clearly Redrigh and his riders were meant to come down hard on any invaders who made it through.
After seeing about half of the dozen or so defensive positions, Keren made her way back to the higher quayside at the eastern end of Wracktown, near the sloping ramp she had come by the previous day. Redrigh had stationed half of his riders there, including her own mount. She led her horse along the line of abandoned huts and lean-tos, stopping by a shabby Earthmother shrine to feed the creature a handful or two of grain. She was staring at the shrine's weatered statue, pondering the red tears on its face, when shouts went up from a number of places. Quickly she tied her horse to one of the shrine's posts then hurried down to the nearest low wharf and along to its end.
“Ware sails!”
By the time she reached the low wall of crates and barrels, the rigged masts of the enemy ships were clearly visible, sailing in fast on the chill breeze that was coming up from the Sea of Drakkilis. Around her, the militia speculated excitedly on what the Islesmen's tactics might be – would they try to establish a beachhead on the east shore, aiming to seize the city? Or would they put troops ashore on the other bank and capture the western half of the Dalbar mainland?
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