In the Company of the Dead (The Sundered Oath Book 1)

by Ballintyne, Ciara

  “None of us thought, but this is where we are. I hate to lay such a burden on you, but someone needs to try and find a way to break this spell and I have responsibilities on the walls. The castle contains an impressive library—use it. See what you might learn.”

  Lyram’s redemption depended upon anything Everard could find.

  “I’m not convinced this is a good idea.” Galdron chewed on his moustache as he stood by the barracks wall and surveyed the gathered soldiers.

  “I’m not sure any good ideas remain.” Ellaeva’s back ached this morning, reminding her that barely more than a week past she took an arrow wound. Though she healed fast courtesy of the goddess, the injury still pained her.

  Men and women milled in the courtyard beneath a restless sky, checking armour and blades as they waited for the gates to open. Nearly every able-bodied woman and man the castle could muster stood assembled at the mouth to the barbican, all of them girded for war. All the wounded who could stand, even if barely, lined the walls. Many of them glanced at the sky uneasily. The clouds raced ahead of a wild wind that snatched at their plaids and the plume on Galdron’s helm, and made Ellaeva irritable.

  Her mood soured even further as she glanced towards the eastern gate tower, where Lyram’s suite lay. The commander’s absence of more than a week caused rumours to circulate, and though Everard did his best to explain away the absence, the notion that the commander was so badly wounded he couldn’t rise from his bed was hardly a better proposition for troop morale.

  Leinahre hadn’t emerged again either, and when Ellaeva went by the suite, the door remained closed and now barred.

  What was her end game, exactly?

  Lyram would still be too fogged right now to function publicly, making him all but useless, but—if she remembered her studies correctly—eventually his fugue would pass, leaving him functional but devoted to Leinahre. Old memories surfaced, of her as a young girl poring through ancient tomes, sneezing as dust tickled her throat and straining to read cramped script in poor light. So many years ago. She’d been, what, fourteen? There’d been something about breaking the spell—but not from those tomes. Where had she read it?

  Galdron’s sharp voice broke the thread of her thought. Belatedly, she switched her attention back to him and the two soldiers he was addressing. They were her siege engineers, or the next best thing anyway, and they snapped off quick salutes as she turned to them.

  “You’re sure you’ve triangulated the source of the digging?” she asked them.

  One man nodded, but the other temporised with a hand he wobbled back and forth in uncertainty.

  “Pretty sure, your holiness. But t’ain’t no certainty in these matters, to be sure, and neither of us are combat engineers. We done our best—but I can’t say as our best will be enough.”

  “We can’t do any better, so it will have to be enough.” She made the words firm. “How did you go with the explosives?”

  The castle’s siege supplies held a fortunate supply of Mysenan Snow and sulphur, which, when mixed with a ready supply of carbon, formed a crude explosive. She knew the recipe, of course—standard siege tactics—but had never had occasion to test its efficacy.

  The more assured of the two gently hefted a sack. “As per the instructions, lady— er, holiness. We tested one off the back wall, as a boulder flew in, to be sure none in yonder camp would hear. Went off without a hitch, and hopefully the enemy didn’t notice.”

  Ahura make it so. They only had one shot at this. “Are we ready, captain?”

  “As ready as we’ll ever be.” Galdron shouted and waved up to the gatehouse atop the double gate towers, jamming his helm on his head as he went. Despite the stiff wind, sweat shone on his face.

  The bolts released on the inner gate with an echoing report. The soldiers formed a column and marched into the barbican, throwing open each successive gate as they went.

  Ellaeva joined the column about midway. The soldiers cast her sideways looks and rearranged in a shuffle of feet so she stood alone between two rows. The woman in front briefly met her eyes, then fiddled with the buckle on her baldric and dropped her gaze. Ellaeva held her expression steady and ignored them as they strode into the dark of the barbican. A dozen strides and they re-emerged into the afternoon sun. With luck, the glare at this hour would hide their activities—at least until the explosions began.

  No sooner did they clear the outer gate than they broke into a jog, led by the two men serving as engineers. One carried the sack of explosives, while the other referred to a piece of paper clutched in his hand and directed the troop away from the castle to a spot in the grassy field.

  Ellaeva split from the column to join the two men and Galdron. The soldiers broke out of formation to establish a perimeter around them, most heavily concentrated in the direction of the old gate. She glanced that way briefly but in the dark light of the cloudy afternoon saw nothing untoward.

  “Here?”

  “We think so, your holiness. As good an estimate as we’re likely to get, anyway.”

  Raising her voice, she turned to address the men armed with shovels. “Right, get digging then!”

  The two quasi-combat engineers showed the diggers the six places to dig, and Ellaeva moved off to stand with the guarding soldiers. Shading her eyes with one hand, she peered into the distance in the direction of the old gate. Where was Lyram’s spyglass? It must be in his suite where he was holed up with the witch.

  I’d give my left hand to see what’s going on at the gate. The left hand of the Left Hand of Death. She grimaced mirthlessly.

  A soldier paused and called out, “How deep do we dig?”

  “As deep as you can before we receive company!” she shouted.

  Galdron appeared at her shoulder, ferociously chewing the ends of his ginger moustache as he stared at the gate. “What are they doing?”

  “Can’t be sure,” she said. “I’ve no doubt they know we’re here, though, and they’ll send word to the camp to muster some troops for an attack. The only reason we’re not already under attack is because we outnumber the men at the old gate.”

  Galdron nodded, his brows beetling in grim agreement.

  They’d emptied the castle of all practical defence for this endeavour. The men left on the walls weren’t fit to repel even the most half-hearted attack. Their presence was only for show since Lyram was still inside those walls. If Sayella knew that, she’d risk everything to seize the castle.

  She turned to monitor the diggers. They’d hacked a small circle out of the whipping, waist-high grass, and within that circle each team worked in furious tandem on holes a foot or two deep. They wouldn’t be able to go much deeper without widening the opening. Well, they’d buy as much time as possible, and for the rest, she’d pray.

  “Something’s going on.” Galdron’s deep, rumbling bass interrupted her musings.

  Little at the ruined gate was visible, but the level of activity had stepped up, with the small figures of men scurrying around. Riders led horses into view and started mounting up. How long for the bulk of the force to assemble at the main camp?

  This foolish risk would have been better undertaken in the dark, but the explosives were far too dangerous to handle without illumination, and torches outside the walls would have drawn the enemy as well.

  “Weapons out!” she shouted.

  The soldiers responded with alacrity, the castle guards as quick off the mark as Lyram’s soldiers after these weeks of siege. Swords rasped from sheaths and archers pulled arrows from quivers.

  She checked the gate, where there were still only a few riders waiting on impatient horses, and then the digging. The holes were only three feet deep, given the delay caused by having to widen them before digging deeper. They might make four—maybe. And they’d need to fill in the holes before retreating so the enemy couldn’t simply ride up and remove the explosives.

  Back at the ruined gate, a cavalry force filed through its narrow aperture to assemble along t
he inside of the crumbling wall.

  Sweat dampened her forehead despite the biting wind snatching at her robes and whipping her horsetail of hair, but the chill sweeping through her was nothing to do with the weather. Like lightning out of a clear sky, the goddess touched her. The unasked for premonition froze her marrow.

  “They’re going to go for the castle.” The horror numbed her so she could barely make her tongue work, and her speech seemed thick and clumsy.

  “You can’t know that,” Galdron said.

  “Yes. I can.” The scene dwindled from her in the moment of realisation, as though she observed from afar future events as they unfolded. Now she slammed back into the moment, and the immediacy of it all, the urgency of their need, crashed upon her like an unexpected wave and sent her reeling. She struggled to recover her balance. “I can. Ahura has told me.”

  She swung in a circle, still trying to find her feet in the wake of the god’s careless touch. “Pack up! They intend to ride for the castle!”

  Faces turned to her in consternation, and soldiers shifted in uncertainty, leather creaking and mail rattling.

  “You can’t know,” Galdron insisted.

  She wheeled on him, her voice clipped and brutal. “You can’t know. Ahura knows, and she has told me. Run or die as you choose, captain.”

  The soldiers watching this exchange began assembling into a rough column. Every face tightened with grim resolution as understanding sank in. In other circumstances, she might have felt warmed by their faith in her, even as they feared her, but dread sank its chill claws into her heart and rode her like a demon.

  “Go!” She pointed towards the castle. “Run as though your lives and the lives of everyone you know depend on it—because they do.”

  The soldiers broke into a jog, and Galdron fell into step with them, chivvying them along in his best drill sergeant’s voice.

  Her engineers debated in heated voices amidst the diggers, and the soldiers still shovelled with eager fury.

  What are they doing? The explosives should have been dropped and the holes filled. As she strode across to round them up, one engineer threw his arms into the air and dashed to meet her.

  “They’re staying.” He panted, leaning on his knees for a moment before straightening and jogging past her toward the castle.

  “What?” His bald announcement caught her flat-footed.

  At the ruined gate, the cavalry broke into a charge, like a storm front unfolding across the sky.

  “We’re out of time!” Despite that, she found herself paralysed, caught between trying to shake sense into the brave diggers and the knowledge that staying would only seal her own death. Torn and anguished, she broke into a trot to catch up to the engineer.

  “They know.” He huffed the words out between breaths, his expression mirroring her own anguish. “I’ve a wife, three children. They told me to go.”

  Theirs was a noble decision, and a brave decision. A foolish decision, perhaps. They would all die, sacrificing themselves in an endeavour they could not be sure would save the castle or the commander they loved. For they were all Lyram’s. How did she not notice before? Such regard for another broke her heart, and she wept, unable to choke back the tears as they fled across the grass to the castle.

  Ahura have mercy on their souls.

  The cavalry closed on her fleeing soldiers with less than half the distance to the castle left to cover. The rumble of hooves built to a crescendo as her men sprinted across the teetering bridge in single file and passed through the gate. On the gate towers overhead, Sir Janun stared out at the diggers. She measured the distance between the cavalry and the castle gate and lengthened her stride. The engineer beside her matched her speed and then overtook her. The riders were close—too close. Even if she wasn’t cut down and made it to the safety of the castle, there would be no time to shut the gates behind her.

  As her engineer reached the bridge, Ellaeva stopped and spun to face the oncoming cavalry charge, thrusting her sword out before her in a two-handed grip, blade point up. The horses beyond the blade leapt into sharp clarity, manes flying, hooves churning up chunks of mud and grass, their nostrils red-rimmed. Their riders leaned low over the horses’ necks, faceless inside helms, waving their weapons.

  Everything became red as she focussed her will on the ruby, on the power of the goddess channelled through the blade. The sounds muted. Thudding hooves turned into a far-distant rumble of thunder and the roar of the men on the battlements faded away.

  She did not need to achieve anything in particular. A distraction or anything to buy time would suffice. Enough time to close the gates.

  She lost herself in the presence of the goddess—vast, unknowable, and beyond the comprehension of the human mind. The riders bearing down on her lost significance, and she studied them with the same interest as she would the grass beneath her feet. Thoughts vaster than the open sky and slower than the turning of the earth touched her.

  Power. A sense of passing years upon years stretching into infinity.

  Then she surrendered to that presence, and the ruby flashed into shocking brilliance. The red light seared her vision and blasted across the open meadow. It gave off no heat, but the horses balked, rearing and whinnying at the sudden shocking light burning their eyes, and men cried out as they threw up their hands to shield their faces.

  The goddess left as quickly as she’d come, leaving Ellaeva sapped of strength. Her legs buckled and she sprawled on the grass almost within reach of the bridge.

  Feet appeared next to her, and then hands rolled her and hefted her.

  “Holiness?” Her engineer peered down at her as he cradled her in his arms.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured. “Take me inside. I need a moment to recover my strength.”

  The barbican passed over her head, the murder holes black shadows in the dark of the roof. Soldiers squeezed past to draw the bridge back across the moat, and gates slammed and bolted in their wake, echoing down the narrow tunnel.

  “Good man!” Galdron clapped her engineer on the shoulder.

  A pleased smile spread across the soldier’s face as he set Ellaeva carefully on the ground.

  “The diggers?” She swayed on her feet a moment before Galdron steadied her by her elbow. “The explosives?”

  A huge rumbling roar blasted over the castle. Without waiting, she pulled free of Galdron’s grasp and staggered towards the nearest stairwell, stumbling up each riser, almost scrambling on hands and feet around the bends, until she broke free of the shadows and burst out on top of the gate towers.

  Down in the grassy meadow, another explosion lifted a huge gout of earth and torn grass into the air. Her ears rang in the wake of the concussion, and she raced to the wall. Several soldiers shuffled over to make way for her and she pressed hard against the stone to lean out and peer at the chaos of the scene.

  Horses charged in all directions, spooked further by the explosions. Several animals raced around riderless, while others fought soldiers for control, rearing and running in tight circles as riders wrestled with them. The ringing in her ears made sounds difficult to hear, but distantly men shouted and horses neighed in fright.

  As the dust cleared, several small figures became visible, racing away from the dig site. Another of her chemical creations exploded upwards, and fresh dust and smoke obscured the scene. A wind blasted the residue over the castle, and her breath hitched at the sudden stink of rotten eggs—sulphur. Along the wall, a few men coughed and gagged.

  At the rear of the cavalry, some riders were having better luck regaining control of their fractious horses. A small group of riders began to move towards the source of the concussions, although occasionally a rider turned his horse in a tight circle to reassert control.

  “Archers!” Ellaeva turned to the soldiers lining the walls, most standing in open-mouthed shock.

  At her shout, they turned raggedly and reached for weapons, some fumbling as they strung their bows, other dropping arrows befo
re finally nocking them in place.

  “Shoot at will!”

  The last two explosives blew in quick succession, the roar of the second eclipsing the first and deafening her. Down the wall, soldiers recoiled, arms rising to shield faces. The woman beside her pointed, her lips moving, but only a ringing filled Ellaeva’s ears. She followed the soldier’s pointing finger. The last of the diggers emerged from the collapsing cloud of debris: three men of her original eleven, including the engineer who stayed. The rest were gone. One of the men leaned heavily on another.

  The cavalry bore down on them, too close for her to do anything. A few arrows arched out, most falling wide of the riders. More of her soldiers raised their bows, putting arrows to strings, but too slow.

  She flinched as a rider ran down the lead digger. The tableau unfolded without sound, and all along the wall soldiers either watched in fascinated horror or turned away, some vomiting over the stones. A few shot arrows, and one horse went down, dragging its rider along.

  I did this. I made the decision that put them there.

  Ellaeva forced herself to watch as the soldier supporting his fellow sat him down and drew his sword, to little avail. A dozen riders closed on him, and in seconds two more lifeless bodies sprawled on the ground.

  A last few arrows arced out as the riders turned and cantered back to the old gate.

  Galdron and the surviving engineer joined her. She stared out at the ruins of the battlefield, the grass scarred by the explosions and stained with blood from the fallen. Tears swelled in her eyes and she blinked them away.

  “Go to the catacombs.” She turned away from the wreckage beyond the castle walls. “Check if they’re still digging.”

  She prayed the lives of those brave men had bought them success.

  Ellaeva sat in the withdrawing room, contemplating a half-full glass of wine on the table. A matching decanter, still almost full, weighed down one corner of the map. The thud of Galdron’s receding boots still echoed around the small room. The room’s shadows deepened as the sun sank toward the west, and the chair held her close, like a nest cradling a baby bird, or a man comforting his lover.