The Red Knight (45 page)

Luckily for him she had enough self-control to ride out the anger his words provoked.

“I didn’t see you fighting today, Smith, so don’t talk to me about dying when you aren’t willing to spill a drop of blood in your own defence.” She let her gaze travel over the group. “Do any of you think you would have been spared if you’d stayed in whatever miserable shitholes you came from when the Guthani rode through? At the very worst you’ve lived a few days longer than you would have; at best you’ve been given a chance of surviving this.”

The other delegates shuffled back against the wall, distancing themselves from their leader as the air turned sharp and cold. Smith opened his mouth to speak, but Alyda beat him to it.

“Go or stay. I don’t care which, but if you stay, you will not question my actions or make demands like this again or I’ll have you thrown in a cell with the other traitor. Listen well, Smith; I don’t tell you how to shoe a horse, or mend a cook pot, so don’t try to tell me how to fight a fucking battle. Now get out.”

The colour drained from Smith’s face. He stormed out of the room, the other delegates following close behind him. When they were gone, Alyda sank into a chair.

Jamie was grinning. “Looks like someone found out he wasn’t the meanest dog in the yard.”

Alyda didn’t give a damn about winning a pissing contest. That Smith might be right was what rankled.

Alyda didn’t remember falling asleep, but woke abruptly as a ball of fire burned a trail across the night sky before crashing into the Arth. Horns sounded the call to arms and were answered by the chant of armour as defenders ran to take up their positions. She got up, shook sleep from her leaden limbs and drew her sword.

She ran outside the Great Hall and straightway had to leap aside as a burning bail of hay tumbled across the bailey and smashed into the doors of the hall. Clouds of sparks swarmed into the night seeking to take root in thatch and timber, but worse was to come.

Before she could drag the hay away from the door, another missile splattered against the wall, showering her with gobbets of pulverised flesh and blood. She looked up. Shreds of human flesh and bone were dripping in thick clots down the wall. Terrified cries filled the darkness, as those less inured to such horrors realised what was being hurled into the Arth along with the burning hay.

Delivered less than an hour ago, Redbear’s parchment was like a knife in the gut. The Iceheart had allied with the Antians. And no matter what Redbear said, his Warprows didn’t stand a chance against the Raider’s drakes. All hope of victory now depended on beating Daris on land where the Guthlander’s gave up a sizeable advantage.

“You’ve run the Ants to ground, now let’s call them out and be done in time to help our kinsman celebrate victory, eh?” Hanser beamed. Thorgulsen wanted to punch him.

As well as the message from Redbear, Hanser had brought two hundred mounted warriors, proving it was possible to be both useful and a prick.

The tide was beginning to turn against Jerim’s little uprising, and that left Thorgulsen with some hard decisions to make. He could stay and take the Queen, but if he did, he risked being cut off should the war go against them. He could abandon the siege and go support Redbear in Cathlan, but it might already be too late and if it wasn’t, his kinsman would want to know why he hadn’t taken the Queen. The last, most practical option was to head back to his ships docked at Pridmore and go home.

Neither of the last two choices held any appeal, not because they lacked strategic merit, but because choosing either would mean Stenna had won, and that bothered him. In fact, now that he thought about it, he realised it bothered him more than letting the Queen escape or abandoning his kinsman. He was so close to ripping the guts out of that fucking castle, he could taste it.
So close to winning.
His heart quickened at the thought, something that hadn’t happened for a long time. Before he hung her, he’d have to thank the Antian for re-igniting his lust for battle.

“They won’t just come out, Hanser. You’re going to have to get off your nags and go get them.”

“Eh? Impossible.” Hanser took off his magnificent dragon crested helm, and admired his reflection in the polished metal. “I told Redbear: we don’t fight on ships and we don’t fight on foot. We are horse warriors.”

“Can your horses climb walls?” growled Thorgulsen.

“No, of course not—”

“Then they’re no fucking good to me.”

“If I might interject my Lords…?” The Priest had arrived with Hanser and had been sitting quietly at the back of the tent, pretending to read his prayer book while taking in every word that was said.

“Do you know how to get horses up walls?” said Thorgulsen.

The Priest coughed a laugh. “The only way that springs to mind would be in a catapult, but I’m not sure Thane Hanser would approve.”

Hanser’s eyes bulged. “I see now why the Brotherhood has few friends outside of Suvia.”

The Priest offered a contrite bow, but his eyes were as sharp as broken glass. “‘Twas a jest, Thane, merely a jest. As to the problem of horses and walls; I overheard Captain Trenham discussing the matter, he had some interesting ideas…”

“
Bethanglyn.”
She rolled over. She was still in bed, but surrounded by a heavy, grey mist. A dream then; a dull one.

“Bethanglyn.”
It wasn’t Kasper, but she knew the voice. She closed her eyes, willed herself to sleep again. This dream was wrong.

“Hear me, Bethanglyn!”

It isn’t a dream.
Her eyes flew open
.
She was in bed in the tent. A few feet away, the air shimmered like water. Wary, she got up; cold nipped at her bare skin and raised gooseflesh. The wall of shimmering air turned iron grey. No.
Not a wall, it’s a window
. She stumbled back when she realised she was gazing into the Void. Her skin tingled, she could almost taste the power that lay beyond the portal, and then she saw him.

“Help me…”
the sorcerer breathed and reached out to her.

She recoiled from the steel-eyed demon who was lying amid bones on the black ground. He was a monster, and yet…he needed help; her help.
There’s power in that, Beth, bargains to be made.
The tent flap lifted. She spun, afraid that Kasper had returned, but it was only the wind.

Kasper.

She had believed he was the one who would lift her out of the mire. Her grandmother had killed the lamb and had seen in its steaming guts that a power would take her far from Guthland’s shores. When she met him—the brash, ambitious young hirth with fire in his ice-blue eyes, she thought he was the one. As she stepped through the portal and into the Void, she realised her expectations had been too modest.

When the fires had been brought under control, Talin dragged his weary carcass over to the Queen’s tower where his mother and brother had been moved. Other than the royal fugitives, the tower was empty. It smelled of damp and disuse. He stank of smoke and death.

When he entered, Olin looked up from his book and grunted. Their mother was sitting by the fire, staring into the flames. She’d been crying.

“They’re dying because of me. I can’t stand it, knowing that I am the cause of all this misery,” she said.

Talin went over and held her, as much to find comfort as give it. “This isn’t your fault, this is our uncle’s doing,” he said.

“Oh, my darling boy, it
is
my fault. If you could trace the thread of this back far enough you would find that it leads to me. I allowed myself to be ruled by a fool’s heart and that selfishness was the seed of this nightmare.” She smiled wearily at him. “I just couldn’t give him up. Oh, Tal. I miss him so much.”

There was nothing he could say; she was distraught, sick with unfounded guilt and worry for his father. The only thing he could do, the only comfort he could give was to hold her.

Eventually, she retired to her room, wrapped in a blanket of misery too thick for him to penetrate. He banked the fire up and sank down beside it. For all that he’d had his fill of flames, he was cold, and dark thoughts were keeping sleep at bay. Olin closed his book and came over and sat beside him.

“I think I hate the Guthani, Tal,” his brother whispered, flame shadows tattooed his boyish face with writhing patterns. “It’s like something alive, crawling inside me. It makes me feel sick just thinking about them. Do you think it’s possible to hate too much?”

“I don’t know, brother, but if there is a limit, I’ve not reached it yet.”

They toiled through the night to control the fires while the Void rained down on them. When the flames were doused and the trebuchets fell silent, Alyda slid down beside the well and fell into an exhausted asleep.

She woke at daybreak and cursed Trenham for what he’d done. They’d saved the Arth, but on seeing it in the cold light of day, she wondered why they’d bothered. Something squirmed against her back. She looked round to see the child she’d taken to calling Flea, huddled against her, fast asleep. She scooped him up and carried him over to the Great Hall.

Nobody had claimed the boy when she’d made enquiries about him, and he didn’t speak as far as she could tell. He might have just become separated from his family in the confusion, but more likely he was one of the castle rats; a by-blow or orphan given food and a place to sleep in exchange for chores. Either way, he was going to the cellars.

On the way over he woke up and fixed her with a steady gaze. His huge brown eyes were old beyond his years; they were the eyes of a child who had seen too much. Alyda was tired; her feelings deadened by exhaustion, but even so, she probably should have felt some small measure of guilt for the misery that accompanied the practice of her bloody trade. Should have, but didn’t.

“Not you again!” said the housekeeper when she unbolted the cellar door and saw who Alyda had brought her. Thank you, Captain. He’s such a rascal. I can’t keep hold of him; he’s as slippery as an eel,”

Alyda went to hand him over, but the boy threw his scrawny arms around her neck and clung on. As gently as she could, she extricated herself from his limpet grasp and quickly passed him over to the woman who enfolded the squirming child in her doughy arms before he had chance to escape.

“Don’t let him out again,” Alyda ordered more sharply than she intended.

The woman mumbled an apology to Alyda’s retreating back.

She couldn’t wait to get away from the cellars, and those anxious faces peering out of the gloom.
They’re all going to die.
Her inner voice whispered. She stopped at the top of the stairs, took a breath. She was tired, that was all. Everything looked bleak when you were exhausted. They would hold; reinforcements would come, and she would not let the civilians die. Yesterday that had been a statement of fact, a solid truth she could put her back against and face the fight with certainty, with conviction. Today it sounded more like a prayer.

When she was back in the bailey she looked up at the ancient walls. In time, the smoke-black and bloodstains would be nothing more than a memory. The walls would remain; a towering monument to the fragility of human life.
Tired, that’s all.
She went to the well, drew a bucket of water and poured it over her head. The shocking cold stole her breath, but drowned the nagging voice of doubt. Walls were just walls, and while she had breath in her body this place would not become a tomb.

Chapter Fifteen

“Their dead are rotting three deep down there and they still have warriors who have yet to draw their blades.”

Alyda shrugged. “There are always more dogs than lions.”

They were on the roof of the barbican, peering through the smoky haze rising from the husk of the gatehouse. Dozens of untouched crawlers were lined up halfway across the field before the earth bulwarks. Behind them, scores of Guthani warriors were forming up and another battering ram, bigger than the last, was being wheeled onto the road.

“Still nothing from the scouts?” Alyda asked, even though she knew the answer.

Cassian shook his head. “Nothing at all. I don’t think help is coming, Ali. Or if it is, I think it will arrive too late. They’re bound to break through on the next attack.”

“What do you suggest? That we surrender?”

“No, but …” He threw up his hands. “Aye. Maybe. It’s over, Ali. There’s nothing to be gained standing on the wall any longer.”

Cass looked dour when he was happy, right now he was the embodiment of despair. She laughed.

“Something amuses you, Alyda?”

“Sorry, Cass. I’m just tired.” She composed herself. “You’re right, there’s nothing to be gained standing on the wall. We haven’t nearly enough bodies to hold back an assault—
up there
.” She grinned, gave him a moment to catch her drift. “We’re the best damn cavalry in the world, we should play to our strengths, don’t you think?”

Cassian shook his head. “There are less than a hundred of us and what would be the point? Even if we went out and wrecked the trebuchets again, or halted the attack, we’re still going to lose. Today, tomorrow, it’s over. You have to accept that, Alyda.”