With her eyes closed, she spoke. “You said you can solve our food issues? It better be good or they’ll starve us out inside a week.”
“A raid.”
One eye cracked open to regard him. “A raid. It’s the only solution I suppose.”
“We’ve herds in the highlands, but even if we could get to them, we can’t get them back here. A fast raid on their camp though. Hit their stores hard and run with all we can carry.... It could work, with proper planning. They won’t expect a sortie.”
She stared at the ceiling, brow furrowed in thought. “No, they won’t, but they’ll have a palisade around their camp to repel attacks.”
“I think we can go over the old castle wall and come in from a direction they don’t expect. A small force might win through.”
She nodded and turned her head on the pillow, her gaze boring into him like augurs. “You won’t be scouting this expedition.”
“But—”
“No buts.”
“We’ve no scouts.” He leaned in closer, his hand on one knee. “I did a stint with the king’s rangers. I’m better qualified than anyone else here.”
“My decision is final.”
He ground his teeth but forced a smile. Well, he would sneak out ahead of the scouts to surrender himself then. If he moved fast enough, she wouldn’t even know he was gone until too late, and the poor sods roped into scouting would be spared a fateful death.
The door burst open, crashing against the wall. Lyram jerked back, while Ellaeva half-rose before falling back to her pillow. Leinahre stood in the doorframe, clutching her tartan skirts in a white-knuckled grip.
Lyram leapt to his feet. “Are we under attack?”
“My lord—the bodies. They’re all gone.”
Lyram tied off the laces of a black linen shirt and rolled his gambeson and leather tabard into a tight cylinder. Ellaeva lay asleep in the bed—so deeply asleep, thanks to a concoction Everard obtained from Leinahre, that it would be some time before she woke. If she were awake, she’d try and stop him, and he didn’t want to have that argument. He didn’t want to have to say goodbye.
Briefly, he considered the hauberk on its rack in the sitting room, alongside his desk. How would he go climbing a wall in that? And yet, most of the mercenaries still awake would likely be wearing theirs. If he didn’t wear it, would he be obviously out of place? Certainly he couldn’t swim in it....
He left the armour on the rack and the clan sword lying on his writing desk, amongst a scatter of unfinished and lately unimportant paperwork. Where he was going, he didn’t want to be recognised. The six-foot length of his claymore remained beside the door. He settled his dagger on his hip, though, and dropped another into one boot. He picked up his flask from the desk and sloshed it, dispirited at how little remained.
Probably for the best anyway.
An oilskin sack lay next to his sword, and he stuffed the rolled gambeson and tabard inside it then slung it over his shoulder.
The search for the missing bodies had turned up nothing. No one had been in the cool store since the last time a soldier died, nor had anyone been seen moving them or even near them. How did someone move with such unnoticed ease in a castle this tiny? The answer worried him, confirming what he already suspected. The necromancer belonged here. He was someone trusted, and so he went unremarked. Just another castle resident going about his business. Lyram shivered, and sudden gooseflesh prickled his skin. Unless the Rahmyrrim was hiding in the catacombs, there was a growing likelihood it was someone known to him, or, worse, someone close to him... Everard? No... Galdron? He stared vacantly at the blank grey wall of the tower, his elbows pressed hard to his hips, and his shoulders so tight with tension they ached. The thought hurt too much to consider.
If anything, the necromancer only firmed his decision to give himself up. The army outside the walls wasn’t the only danger, and the sooner he surrendered himself, the sooner the siege ended, and the sooner the castle reopened. Either the inhabitants would leave, or the necromancer would. At the very least, the Rahmyrrim would no longer have cause to use stolen bodies for his nefarious purpose, or to raise any of the spectres Ellaeva had mentioned. He shuddered.
Whatever ill Ellaeva believed might be caused by a change in the course of his life, he couldn’t accept he had that degree of importance. He was nothing but a once famous commander, now in disgraced exile.
With his hand on the door handle, he paused, glancing back at Ellaeva. Then on cat-soft feet he crept back across the room. Taking her hand in his, he squeezed it in a silent farewell.
He stepped out into the deep shadows of the stairwell and pulled the door shut behind him with care. He didn’t wish to be seen—or stopped. Everard had left instructions for Lyram to be undisturbed, but his aide might still lurk nearby, in case Lyram made a late-night call for assistance.
This late, the stairwell torches had gone out. He descended as quickly as he dared in the dark, supporting himself against the stone wall and testing each step with a foot. The soft soles made only a gentle scuffing on the stone as he descended.
At the bottom, the well-room doorway lay open to the courtyard. He hesitated in the mouth of the stairwell, scouting the darkness. Soft rain drizzled from the sky again, deterring all except those who must be out in it, and the clouds hid the moon and the stars. The only light came from a few torches sputtering fitfully on the inner walls. Within the hour, none would burn at all, he judged.
If Everard saw him here, not all would be lost, but he preferred his aide thought him in his room until the morning, when it would be too late to stop him.
Something moved in the courtyard. Everard, or someone else about in the night. Lyram cut left, hugging the wall as he moved away from the shadow, and ducked into the foyer and up the grand stair to the banqueting hall. Stillness blanketed the room, the hush broken only by the occasional moan of the injured or someone stirring in their sleep. The air reeked of infection and sickness.
Leinahre was absent, and he didn’t linger. He took the tower stair to the walls. The sack bounced against his shoulder as he trotted up. At the top, he paused, staring out into the misty darkness. This was the long way around, but if he came out of either gate-tower stairwell, he’d be spotted for sure. Here at the back wall, where fewer soldiers were stationed, he’d a better chance of remaining hidden.
Still within the mouth of the stairwell turret, he knelt and pulled a grappling hook and rope from the sack, together with an oilskin. He stripped off his clothes, wrapped them in the oilskin, and stowed everything back in the sack. A short length of rope allowed him to tie the sack about his waist, and he shouldered the coiled rope with the grapple in one hand.
Then he waited, the chill night air pebbling his naked skin.
A guard appeared, and he started counting. The man walked past, disappearing down the length of the wall. On this wet and cloudy night, visibility was poor. Right on cue, another guard appeared, and then another.
When the third one passed, and before she even disappeared from sight, Lyram dashed from concealment and dropped to his knees beside the crenels. Glancing furtively at the back of the guard still in view and counting under his breath, he secured the hook on the wall and tested its grip with a few short tugs.
The last guard vanished from sight. A few moments, that was all, and the next would appear.
He swung his legs over the crenels, the limestone freezing cold against his bare legs, and began climbing down the outside of the wall. Tiny raindrops stung his face, chilling him to the bone. Soot darkened the grapple so no light would reflect from the metal, but the passing guard might still notice it, and enough time in this drizzle would wash it clean. The dark grey rope played out between his hands as he descended. The soles of his feet began to numb from the pervasive cold of the wall, leeching the heat from his skin. Above, the muffled footsteps of another soldier approached. Lyram held his breath, but the steps passed by and disappeared into the dark.
The water of the moat slapped gently against the castle stones. Lyram grimaced and peered down between his feet. Nothing for it.
He lowered himself in, and the shock of the water almost drove a gasp from him. This early in spring, the water hit with all the icy ferocity of a blizzard. Even the last time didn’t adequately prepare him, and he grit his teeth to stop them chattering.
Already shivering as he trod water, he snapped his wrist. The line rippled, but the hook didn’t give. Dragon balls. Still counting, he waited enough time for the next guard to pass overhead, and tried again. This time the hook came free and splashed into the moat.
Light flared above him, and a guard leaned out over the moat with a torch in his hand.
In the bed, Ellaeva fell back to the pillows as the door opened, worn out by her effort to sit. How long since Lyram clasped her hand and left? The memory was dim and fogged by fading unconsciousness.
She caught only a brief glimpse of Everard coming through the door, a flask in one hand and his head turned over his shoulder.
“I’m telling you,” he said to some unseen companion. “I heard something.”
The other man made an impatient huffing noise, and the acrid smell of pipe smoke filled the room. “I heard nothing but you jabbering, but there are noises aplenty in a castle under siege anyway.”
The voice was Galdron’s, and in the silence that followed she could almost imagine Everard draw himself up. Why were they here? She curled her fingers into the soft silk of the sheets in frustration. What was Lyram up to, while she was delayed here? Should she go and try to find him, thus giving up the opportunity to eavesdrop? But then these were two of Aharris’s most trusted advisers—and one of them might be the Rahmyrrim—might be the man she’d hunted all these long, weary years.
“Jabbering, you say.” Everard’s tone was stiff but reasonable. “I was merely enquiring after your well-being. You appeared distinctly unwell on the walls today, and with all this scare over illness, I thought it best to be sure. The commander noticed as well.”
Ellaeva risked cracking her eyelids. Everard stood with his back to her in the flickering candlelight, while Galdron remained near the door, puffing furiously on the pipe so that little grey clouds of smoke drifted free of the bowl. Was that rain or beads of sweat on his forehead in the glow of the lantern?
“Nothing you or anyone else can do,” the captain muttered around the pipe stem.
“Is everything all right with your niece? You’ve been agitated since—”
Galdron jerked so hard his skull cracked against the wall he leaned upon. He pulled the pipe from his teeth and rubbed at the thin red hair covering the back of his head, glaring at Everard as though he were to blame. “She’s— Ah, Ahura damn it, she’s not fine, and what’s an old man to do, trapped behind castle walls and unable to help.”
“I am sorry.” A long, awkward silence followed. “Any progress finding this Rahmyrrim?”
Galdron jerked again. He shoved his helm back on his head, leaving the chin-strap flapping loose. “Dragon balls and Ahura’s tits. Ain’t no good news ‘round here lately. Don’t know who broke the gates, don’t know who took the dead bodies, and don’t know where this bastard necromancer is hiding, as if we needed some black god poking her nose in this mess and stirring the pot.”
Galdron stamped out the door and slammed it behind him.
“He’s surely in a fine fettle tonight.” Everard shook his grey head and turned away from the door. He froze, staring at Lyram’s clan sword on the desk. His gaze moved first to the claymore next to the door and then to where Lyram’s armour hung on its racks.
Ellaeva opened her eyes the rest of the way and tried to sit up, but failed. “Everard?”
Her voice was more slurred than she liked.
Everard’s head whipped around. She tried to sit up, but fell back almost immediately. Damn bloody drug. This was taking longer than she’d hoped. With obvious effort, she beckoned him closer with a weak, flapping motion of one hand. As though drawn by some invisible line, he crossed into the gate-tower room and stood by the bed.
“You should be asleep,” he said.
She smiled lopsidedly. “Ahura’s chosen cannot... be poisoned.”
He bristled. “We only wanted to help you sleep.”
She made a sharp, negating gesture and glared. “Same thing, as far as my body is concerned. Tell me, when did you last see the commander?”
Everard hesitated, smoothing his kilt over his thighs and adjusting the already-straight sporran. “Not for a few hours. He’s gone to get something to eat I expect.”
She remembered that last squeeze he gave her hand before slipping out the door, and she gave Everard a weary but knowing smile. “He’s gone to give himself up.”
The guard leaned over the battlements, the torch in one mailed hand. Lyram didn’t recoil from the sudden light. Torches lined the rear of the battlements at intermittent intervals, but they were few and far between because the glare prevented the guards seeing any distance into the dark. The guard had just ruined his night vision, and he’d no hope of noticing an intruder—or Lyram.
Fool. I’ll have words with them over this.
Except—well, he wouldn’t. This was a one way journey.
The guard vanished. Careful not to slosh too loudly in the water, Lyram wound the rope in until he retrieved the grapple. He slung the coiled rope over his shoulder again and struck out for the far shore, towing the sack tied to his waist.
Shivering, he climbed from the moat to marshy ground. The cool night air hit his wet skin with a vengeance, but stopping to dress within eyeshot of the castle walls made no sense. Instead, he waded through the knee-high grass, making straight for the closest section of the old wall. The grass rustled as he passed, though hopefully not loud enough to alert the guards on the wall. No point making for the old gate; his guards would be watching it closely, not to mention the besiegers maintained a checkpoint there.
The outer wall appeared as a darker, hulking shadow in the night, and he hurried over. With the comfort of the wall’s bulk at his back, he dressed his shivering form quickly. The short swim had chilled him to the bone, and the persistent drizzle didn’t help. With no way to dry himself, his clothes clung unpleasantly to his skin, and the weight of gambeson and tabard only heightened the sensation.
Grimacing and shifting his shoulders to try and ease the stickiness, he explored the broken-down wall in the pitch dark, groping his way over tumbled stones that rose up into a steeply inclined hill. The wall had fallen into greater disrepair than he’d expected, and grass grew thick over the stones. Some large pieces came away in his hands—a man could break his ankle on those if he wasn’t careful.
I think I can climb it, though.
Getting an army over would be more problematic, but he didn’t have an army.
Without bothering to shake out his grapple, he began the ascent. Half or more of his handholds rolled away under his weight, tearing great gashes in the grass and making the going slow. At the crest, he paused, teetering on the brink of a steep drop. Crouching, he explored again with his hands. Though the wall had mostly crumbled on the inside, leaving a steep but surmountable pile, the exterior felt largely intact and vertical, covered in vines more than grass.
Given how far he’d climbed, it was a long way down.
With the sweet smell of torn grass in his nostrils, he pulled the grapple from his shoulder, secured it, and negotiated his way down the wall.
The night lay dark and still outside the castle defences. The drizzle increased into a light rain pattering softly in the leaves of the scattered trees and the grass. Somewhere nearby, an owl called in the heavy silence. A few crickets chirped. The arc of the outer wall blocked his view of the enemy camp, and no light from either castle or encampment reached this spot.
A tree with a hole in the trunk provided an ideal place to stash the grapple. Carrying that into the encampment would surely draw notice.
Satisfied, he
struck out again, following the curve of the wall and keeping a wary eye out for guards. They were likely stationed the length of the entire castle wall, where the ground wasn’t so marshy as to be impassable. With luck, he would see them and not the other way around. Guard duty was boring, especially a posting where nothing ever happened, and even more tedious in persistent and unpleasant rain like this. Hopefully they guarded against a full-scale assault and not a lone man slipping over a wall. Sieges dulled even the best soldiers.
He found only one guard, asleep against the bole of a tree. The man’s axe lay propped alongside. Tempting. But if the Gallowglaigh woke and found the weapon gone it might raise an outcry. Lyram passed by like a ghost.
Eventually he came to the old gate lit in a blaze of torchlight. A few guards loitered on this side of the wall. Lyram squinted against the glare, trying to see through the gate. Yes... Some movement suggested more soldiers were stationed on the inside of the wall.
To his right, some twenty yards from the gate and sheltered by the old wall, lay a small empty camp with a fire burnt down to embers, a few tethered horses, and other odds and ends strewn around. The glow of the dying fire illuminated the men’s two-handed axes and claymores scattered around the camp. Such weapons were too large to haul around on sentry duty, but they were still close enough if needed. With one eye on the nearby gate, Lyram crept out of the trees, dropped to his belly, and slithered into the camp through the long grass. The guards showed no sign of noticing him, since they were more interested in watching the castle. One of them passed a flask to another, who tipped his head back to drink before passing it along. Lyram shook his head, took one of the Gallowglaigh signature axes, and crawled back out the other side and into a sheltering copse of trees.
He headed deeper into the trees, guided by the glow of fires marking the main encampment. The axe he put over his shoulder.
The camp was surrounded by a crude palisade inside a ring of sentries. The nearest Gallowglaigh sat propped against a tree, cleaning his crossbow. With the weapon partially dismantled for cleaning, he was certainly in no position to use it, though in the grass nearby his claymore reflected the gleam of firelight.
In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1) Page 16
