At first Orman would not answer. He kept his jaws clenched only to mutter, low, ‘I will not abandon you.’
‘You are not abandoning us. You are fulfilling a last obligation.’
Orman felt hot tears come once more to his eyes and this embarrassed him yet again. ‘Do not send me away.’
Jaochim nodded his understanding. ‘Yrain and I have spoken, and we will not have you fall in our defence. That would be selfish of us. You and the brothers have many years before you. You shall carry our legacy into the future. For that possibility alone, Yrain and I are glad to send you like a spear thrown onward into the years to come.’ He clasped Orman’s shoulders in both hands. ‘Will you do this thing? For our sacrifice? And for Vala and Jass’s sacrifice?’ Unable to speak, his throat and chest choked with emotion, Orman gave a curt jerked nod. Jaochim squeezed his shoulders. ‘My thanks.’
Bernal appeared in the sunlight streaming in the entrance. ‘They are here.’
Jaochim released him. He turned to Bernal. ‘When the time comes — go with Orman here, yes?’
Bernal bowed from the waist. ‘Very well.’
‘You will know when,’ he told Orman. He gestured to the far end of the Greathall where the thrones stood on their raised wooden dais. ‘Yrain and I will wait here. No others should be present.’ Seeing Orman hesitating, unwilling to go, he gently motioned to the front. ‘Bernal — please greet our guests.’
Bernal thumped the butt of his spear to the packed dirt of the hall floor and lowered himself to one knee. ‘As you order, m’lord.’ Straightening, he urged Orman out. ‘Come. There’s more than enough for all of us.’
Though it was a grey overcast day, Orman still had to blink as he stepped outside. Once his vision cleared, he saw that Bernal was right. There were a damned lot of them. Far too many, in fact. The ranks were parting as they approached, no doubt meaning to encircle the Greathall. It was not a ragtag mob of marauders and raiding fortune-hunters. This was an army. Someone had come with more in mind than scavenging gold. He quickly descended the steps and jogged to where he’d left Svalthbrul leaning up against the barricade.
The soldiers formed up two ranks deep encircling them. They wore plain leather armour and carried medium-sized triangular shields, with shortswords at their sides. Behind them ranged the skirmishers: remnants of the force they had routed days earlier. These carried a mishmash of weaponry; some bore no armour at all — it looked as if all those better equipped had been taken up into the ranks.
A man pushed forward and stepped out ahead of the front rank. He was by far the best armoured of the lot: banded iron engraved and inlaid with a silvery spider-tracing that glimmered as he moved. His hair was long and loose, but his beard was short and neatly trimmed. He waved an arm before himself as if in disbelief.
‘What is this?’ he called. ‘I see only three of you.’
Bernal stepped up to the barricade, thumped his spear to the ground. ‘There’s one more in the back.’
‘Is this some sort of insult?’
‘Is this what you call parleying?’
The man, whom Orman assumed to be their commander, looked to the sky in what he might have thought was a gesture of self-control, but which was also actually an insult. ‘I am not parleying,’ he sighed. ‘I am in truth attempting to do you a favour.’
‘And what favour would this be?’ Bernal inquired innocently, leaning on his spear.
‘The offer of your lives.’ He raised his voice, calling: ‘Set down your weapons and walk away and you may live!’
Bernal turned his head round to glance behind to the right and left, then returned his attention to the man. He shrugged.
The commander sighed once more, rubbed his brow. ‘I see.’ He glanced to the men next to him and explained: ‘Barbarians. The same everywhere. All façade of nobility and honour. They yearn to demonstrate how brave they are. We of Lether have dealt with this before, have we not? They wish to prove they do not fear death? Very well. We shall oblige them.’
Orman ached to plant Svalthrul in the man’s sneering heart, but then the weapon would be beyond the barricade, out of his reach. ‘At least give us until nightfall to consider your offer!’ he shouted.
The man glanced to Orman then looked up at the dense ashen clouds above and shook his head. ‘No. I think not.’ He bellowed: ‘Torches!’
Orman flinched. This was not what he’d been expecting.
Shortly, a barrage of lit torches came arcing up from behind the ranks to sail over and land on the wooden planks of the Greathall roof. Most rolled back down to fall to the ground. But some remained, sending up gouts of black smoke. Orman tore his gaze from the roof to return to facing the men ranked before him.
More torches flew overhead. Behind him grew the crackling and snapping of burning wood. Was this what Jaochim meant by the right moment? But what were they to do? Charge the ranks? That would also be certain suicide.
Bernal came limping a circuit of the barricade. ‘Steady, lad,’ he murmured. ‘They won’t charge us now, will they?’
‘What of …’ He jerked his head to the Greathall.
Bernal rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘They’ve made their choice, they have.’
‘But what should we do?’
‘We’ll see, lad. We’ll see.’
The crackling swelled to a constant roar. A growing heat punished his back. Smoke billowed, blinding him and tearing at his throat. A wind rose with the flames. He heard nothing but the ravening fire and the explosive popping of resin.
Dear ancestors, this was it. Oddly enough, he felt utterly resigned. Just as Jass went, so too would he. It was an … elemental way to go.
Squinting through the smoke he saw, rather than heard, the ranks retreat a step. To a man they now stared above him, wonder and a touch of dread on their faces. Orman dared a glance behind.
The fire appeared to be diminishing. He might be mistaken, but here and there the blackened beams of the room showed through, smoking, yet free of flames.
And from the Greathall entrance, descending the log steps like a river, came a steady course of dense fog. It curled outwards past Bernal’s sandalled feet, spreading as it went.
Something frigid kissed Orman’s own feet and he leapt, flinching. More fog now ran out from beneath the hall. It appeared to be spreading to all sides. It coursed through and over the barricade, swelled onward.
Many of the soldiers retreated as it came.
‘Stand firm!’ the commander bellowed. ‘Mere barbarian witchery. I-’ He stopped himself, staring upwards in disbelief. Orman followed his gaze: the roof fire was now completely out. Exposed blackened beams smoked, but no flames could be seen. The commander once more pressed a hand to his brow. He sounded an aggrieved sigh. ‘Oh — just kill them.’
Sergeants among the ranks bellowed, ‘Charge!’
The front rank surged forward to the barricade. They chopped and yanked at the heaped logs, barrels and equipment. One screamed as Bernal’s spear found him. Orman shook off his hesitation and thrust as well, jabbing at every soldier within reach.
He fully expected the soldiers to climb or push their way through the barricade in moments; it was undefended for almost all its length. Yet this did not happen. The men he fended off with thrusts of Svalthbrul retreated, nursing wounds, but so too did nearly all the others. These gasped and flinched, hunching, their breaths steaming. Many fell amid the dense fog. Over these humped shapes he glimpsed a fine glittering armour of hoar frost grow and thicken.
He stood back in wonder. True, it was damned cold; he felt the air biting at him and his own breath plumed, but somehow the frigid streamers were not so deadly to him. He ran to find Bernal.
The disembodied voice of the enemy commander shouted from somewhere behind the wall of churning vapours: ‘What are you waiting for? It is just a fog! Advance, damn you!’
Bernal stood on the log stairs together with one of the Reddin brothers, Kasson, Orman was fairly certain. ‘Now is the time,’ he said as he arrived.