Daggerspell (32 page)

“Get the mules and horses inside the broch! Feed them to keep them calm.”

When he saw his orders being followed, he ran round to the back of the ward and found the well. As he’d expected, it had fallen in and was choked with rubble as well as ivy. He ran back into the broch and detailed three muleteers to rush to the nearby stream and fill every pot and waterskin they had. Off to one side he saw Aderyn testing the rusty spiral staircase that led up to the second floor.

“It should hold my weight,” Aderyn announced. “I wouldn’t let a man of your size try it.”

“I doubt me if the floor above will hold anyone.” Cullyn glanced up at the rotten timbers.

“I have to try. I need a high place that’s also private. I can’t be scaring the men out of their wits with dweomer.”

Cullyn felt a bit queasy himself.

“Jill said Loddlaen is a lord’s councillor,” Aderyn went on. “Could he persuade his lord to send men to murder us?”

“It depends on how much this Corbyn honors him, I suppose, but it’s hard to believe. Do you think Loddlaen’s trying to stop you from hauling him in for that murder?”

“That was my first thought, but it doesn’t make sense. Yet I’ve never seen bandits out here, and I tell you, the men I saw were cursed well armed. Well, I’ll have another look.”

As nimbly as a squirrel, Aderyn scrambled up the creaking stairs. Cullyn hurried outside and saw the Westfolk down by the gate. They were unpacking gear from the travois, among it a pair of longbows, beautifully polished staves of some dark wood he’d never seen before, and as tall as they were.

“Archers, are you?”

“We are,” Jennantar said. “I think me our bandits are in for a little surprise.” He gestured at Albaral, who was unpacking a sword belt. “He’s not Cullyn of Cerrmor, but we fight with long knives in our land, too.”

“Well and good, then. Maybe we’ll take some of these bandits to the Otherlands with us. Albaral, do you have any armor?”

“Eldidd mail. Thought it might come in handy, so I packed it.”

“And here I thought you were a fool,” Calonderiel said. “For dragging all that weight along.”

Albaral smiled with a tight twist to his mouth. Cullyn noticed that Albaral had a scar down his cheek much like the one he himself carried.

“So. Your people fight among themselves, do they?”

“Every now and then. But an Eldidd lord marked me like this. I killed the bastard for it. Long time ago now.”

The four of them peered up at the rotted splinters along the top of the wall that were all that was left of the catwalks
under the ramparts. Never would they hold an archer again.

“Well, the top of that wall’s about five feet thick,” Jennantar said at last. “We can stand there and shoot if we’re careful. Those projection things will provide some cover for our legs, anyway.”

“Merlons.” With a real surprise Cullyn realized that they knew nothing about duns. “They’re called merlons. But we still have to get you up there.”

Albaral took a rope off the travois, turned it into a lasso, then stepped back and cast. The loop sailed up and encircled a merlon as easily as if he’d been aiming at a horse in a herd. Cullyn whistled in admiration.

“Now we can weave ourselves a ladder,” Calonderiel said. “I wonder if those bandits are still lying in their stinking ambush. May the flies cluster thick around them if they are.”

“Aderyn will know,” Jennantar remarked. “Look! He’s just going to find out.”

Just then Cullyn heard a strange sound above him, a rushy flap like the wings of an enormous bird. When he glanced up, an enormous bird was exactly what he saw—a great silver owl, a good five feet long, flapping up from the broch, circling once, then heading off to the east with a long mournful cry. Albaral waved farewell to it as casually as if he were waving to some friend who was riding off to a tavern. For a moment Cullyn came close to vomiting.

“By the black ass of the Lord of Hell, can Aderyn turn himself into an owl?”

“Of course,” Jennantar said. “You just saw him, didn’t you?”

Cullyn’s mind refused to acknowledge the fact. He had, of course, seen the owl; he believed that Jennantar was telling the truth; he even remembered seeing Aderyn go upstairs for some purpose of his own—but his mind stubbornly refused to draw the proper conclusion. He stared at the sky for a long time before he could speak.

“Well and good, then. Albaral, we’d best get our blasted mail on our backs.”

Every morning, unless it was pouring rain, Rhodry led his warband out to exercise their horses. Lately, thanks to the threat of rebellion, he’d been making the rides good long ones to ensure that men and mounts both would be fit to ride to war. Thus it seemed perfectly logical when the idea occurred to him of taking the men out for a day-long jaunt. He was talking with Caenrydd, his captain, as he usually did after breakfast when suddenly—out of nowhere, as he would later realize—it occurred to him that none of them had spent a full day in mail in months.

“Have the men pack provisions for the noon meal. We’ll ride fully armed, rest a bit, and then return.”

“Well and good, my lord. Which way shall we ride?”

“Oh, doesn’t much matter.” Rhodry named the first direction that came to mind. “West.”

Although a dark line of fog crouched ominously on the ocean horizon, it was a fine sunny morning when they set out. Every now and then Rhodry would turn in the saddle just to look at his men, riding two abreast, with the red lion shield of his adopted clan at every saddle peak. Soon he would be leading a full army. Cadvridoc, he thought to himself, it has a fine ring to it, truly. Eventually he called Caenrydd up to ride beside him. The captain was a solid man in his late twenties, with blond hair and a drooping mustache almost as thick as Sligyn’s. Since he’d served the Clw Coc all his life, Rhodry could speak freely with him.

“Are the men talking of dweomer among themselves?”

“They are, my lord. I do my best to stop it.”

“I knew I could count on you for that. How do you feel about these rumors yourself?”

“Pile of horseshit, my lord.”

“Good. I couldn’t agree more.”

At noon they stopped to rest in a meadow about a half a mile inland, where a river wound down from the north. Just like one of his men, Rhodry unsaddled his own horse and let it roll, then tethered it out. He sat on the grass
with his men, too. He knew that they saw him as an interloper, and he was determined to show them that the sudden elevation of his prospects in life hadn’t swelled his head. They were all trading friendly jests over their bread and smoked meat when Rhodry felt as much as heard hoofbeats coming their way. He scrambled up and looked off to the north. Trotting fast beside the river came a rider leading a spare horse.

“Who by the gods would be out here?”

Caenrydd joined him and shaded his eyes to stare at the tiny figures.

“Old Nevyn the herbman, maybe?” Caenrydd said.

“It’s not, because those are two western hunters, not a palfrey and a mule.”

“By the hells! His lordship has cursed good eyes.”

“So I do.” Rhodry saw a wink of silver at the rider’s belt. “A silver dagger with two western hunters. What do we have here, a horsethief?”

No horsethief, however, would have broken into a gallop and ridden straight for them as the silver dagger did. He was a young lad, blond and road filthy, and riding without a shield though he had a sword as his side. He swung himself down from his horse and ran to kneel at Rhodry’s feet. Down one side of his face was a livid purple bruise.

“My lord.” His soft, unchanged voice made it likely he was about fourteen. “Do you serve the tieryn in Cannobaen?”

“I do, and I’m her son to boot. Lord Rhodry Maelwaedd.”

“A Maelwaedd? Thanks be to every god! Then I know I can trust your honor, my lord. I’ve just come from a merchant caravan to beg for help. It’s bandits, my lord, at least thirty of them, and they’ve got us penned up in a ruined dun to the north.”

“Bandits? In my demesne? I’ll have their heads on pikes.” Rhodry spun around to yell orders. “Saddle up and get ready to ride! Amyr, ride back to the dun and give
Her Grace the news. Tell her to send a cart with supplies and the chirurgeon after us.”

Everyone ran to do his bidding.

“Get up, silver dagger,” Rhodry went on. “What were you, a hired guard?”

“Well, my father is, to tell you the truth. I just travel with him.”

“Well, mount up and get ready to lead us back. What a splendid bit of luck this is, me having the warband out here. You’d think it was dweomer or suchlike.”

The lad giggled in an outburst of hysteria, then ran back to his horse.

As the hot afternoon dragged on, there was no sign of Aderyn. While the others rested inside the broch, Cullyn and Jennantar kept an uneasy watch, Cullyn at the gates, Jennantar pacing back and forth along the top of the wall. Cullyn began to wonder if they’d ever see the old man again, or if he’d been captured by the enemy. Finally, when the sun lay low in the sky, Jennantar called out in triumph.

“Here he comes!”

Although Cullyn strained his eyes, it was several minutes more before he saw the flapping speck in the sky that meant the owl. All over again, Cullyn felt sick at the unnatural size of the thing as the bird swept down and disappeared into an upper window of the broch. It was some minutes before Aderyn ran out, pulling his tunic over his head.

“They’re on their way, but so is help. Lord Rhodry and his warband are heading up from the south.”

“What did Jill do?” Cullyn said. “Founder both those horses?”

“She didn’t. She met Rhodry on the road.” Aderyn looked briefly troubled. “Something stranger than strange is afoot here. Jennantar! Did you see any hawks flying overhead?”

“One or two,” Jennantar called down. “Oh, ye gods! You don’t think—”

“I do. Loddlaen has to be behind this.” Aderyn turned to Cullyn. “The men I saw were well armed, well provisioned, and they carried shields with a number of different blazons.”

“Then they’re not bandits, sure enough. What’s Loddlaen trying to do, kill the witnesses to his murder before they reach the court?”

“So I thought at first. But here, I’m the chief witness against him, and it’s hard to trap a man who can fly away.” The old man allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

The rest of the men were already running out of the broch. Hurriedly Cullyn disposed the pitiful force he had on hand—two decent swordsmen, counting himself, three men skilled with a quarterstaff, and five who knew the right way to hold the staff and little more. Because of the rubble, the gate was only big enough for two men to fight side by side. He and Albaral would have to hold it as long as they could, with Dregydd and the other skilled stavemen right behind to step in when they fell. Up on the wall, the archers stood ready with full quivers at their hips. Aderyn climbed up to join them.

“Now, listen, lads,” Cullyn said. “No heroics like in the bard songs. Just fight to hold your place.”

It was some time before Cullyn saw the pack of thirty-four men in mail ride out of the east at a steady trot. About three hundred yards away, they drew up and clustered around a leader for a hasty conference, then came on again at a walk. Cullyn could see men loosening shields and getting ready to dismount for the final charge on the gates, but like most Eldidd men, they were going to stay in the saddle for as long as possible, a habit that was to prove fatal. At a hundred yards they pulled up, well out of javelin range.

Arrow sang out from the wall, then again, and again. The lead horses reared, screaming in agony, and went down hard, rolling on their riders, as the arrows came again, and again, and again. Horses behind them bucked and kicked in panic; men yelled and swore. The arrows flew again, a noiseless rain of death. The warband broke
into a riot of men on foot and panicked horses, and still the arrows flew down. Shouting, screaming, the warband turned tail and fled, leaving behind twelve dead men and more horses. Far down the meadow they regrouped. When the muleteers broke into howls of laughter, Cullyn turned and yelled them into silence.

“It isn’t over yet,” Cullyn said. “We don’t have all the arrows in the world with us, and if even ten of those bastards reach the gate, you’ll need your wits about you—if you dogs even have any.”

Then came more waiting, while the sun inched itself another notch lower in the sky, their enemies argued, and somewhere—or so Cullyn devoutly hoped—Lord Rhodry and his men were riding nearer. Finally Cullyn saw the enemy dismounting. They spread out into two squads, each circling out of bowshot range around a different side of the dun, then splitting up again. Jennantar muttered something in his own tongue that had to be a vile oath from its tone.

“They’ve learned somewhat,” Albaral remarked.

“So they have,” Cullyn said. “The only thing they can do. Rush us from all sides and circle under the shelter of the walls.”

“We can’t stop them with only two archers.”

They exchanged a grim smile. At the moment, Cullyn wondered how he could have hated the Westfolk—he and Albaral understood each other perfectly well. Most of the enemy were moving around to the back of the dun. Jennantar began sidling along the wall to meet them, but Calonderiel held his post over the gates until the other squad began moving to the side. Cursing under his breath, Calonderiel moved to face them. For a moment, everything was preternaturally quiet; then a silver horn rang out.

Distantly from the far side of the broch, war cries exploded as the charge began. Closer and closer—a few screams as arrows hit their mark—then the jingle and clink of men in mail running—the first enemies rounded the wall and raced for the gates. Three, four, too many to
count, they mobbed in, but the gate was too narrow for mobs. The fight was a shoving match as much as it was swordwork. Cullyn parried more than he swung, using his shield like a bludgeon to shove back the blades that hit it. Screaming war cries, the men at the rear pressed forward and forced their own men at the front off balance. Cullyn and Albaral swung and parried and swayed back and forth in a perfect rhythm with each other.

Arrows flew down into the rear of the mob, and Cullyn saw one shaft split a lad’s mail and skewer him like a chicken on a spit. Cursing and yelling, part of the mob tried to peel off and run back around the walls. The rest surged forward. Cullyn got a kill at last, keeping his arm close to his side and stabbing rather than slashing. As the corpse fell, it knocked another man off his feet, and the mob swirled in confusion. Over the screaming, Cullyn heard a silver horn ring out.