Two more boulders smashed down on the ramparts. At the same time, more of Dantrielle’s men rushed into the ward from the tower stairways, apparently sent from the walls to meet this newest threat.
“Come with me, First Minister,” the duke said, sounding weary as he strode toward the combat. “We’ll do this the same way: back-to-back, you facing toward the inner half of the ward.”
“Are you certain you’re fit to fight, my lord?”
He glanced at her, a hint of anger in his eyes. “What choice do I have?”
“Of course, my lord.”
She followed him, wondering how their luck could possibly hold through another fight. Already her arms and shoulders ached from the previous battle and she felt certain that the duke was no better off than she. Still, he didn’t hesitate to throw himself into the fray. Evanthya actually had to run to keep up with him, and before she knew it they were surrounded by Solkaran soldiers.
Once more the duke wielded his blade like a man who had been waging war all his life, his steel seeming to dance in the torchlight. The two of them were quickly joined by the master of arms and several of his men and together they formed a phalanx that withstood wave after wave of enemy attacks. Before long, however, Tebeo’s breathing began to grow labored, his parries less sure. Evanthya was guarded on both sides by the duke’s men; she barely had to fight at all, and when she did, it was only to keep a single man from striking at the duke from behind. But she could do nothing to bolster Tebeo’s strength or drive back the men of Solkara and Rassor. She had never envied the powers of other Qirsi, not even Fetnalla, who was a shaper and a healer. But on this night, caught in the tumult of battle, she would have given all that she possessed to break a blade with magic or set afire the flesh and hair of Dantrielle’s attackers.
She lost all sense of time, measuring the passage of the night in screams and the ringing of swords, in the thunder of the flaming stones that crashed down on the ramparts, and in the ever-growing number of dead strewn about the wards of Castle Dantrielle. The minister had little experience with warfare, and immersed in this frenzy she had little sense of what was happening elsewhere in the fortress. But there could be no denying the inexorable retreat of the duke and his men. They gave ground grudgingly, exacting from their foes a dear cost in blood for every backward step. But fall back they did.
It seemed to Evanthya that the regent had to have sent through Dantrielle’s gates all of his soldiers save for those few who continued to man the hurling arms. And indeed, in the midst of the fighting, as she glanced over her shoulder to check on Tebeo and the others, she thought she caught sight of Numar himself commanding his men from near the north barbican.
“They’re driving us toward the lower ward, my lord,” Gabrys said a short while later, his voice strained and tight.
“I know,” the duke called back. “If they take the upper ward, we lose the armory, not to mention a good deal of our stores, and the cloister, where I’ve left my family. If you’ve an idea for stopping them, this would be a fine time to tell me about it.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, my lord.”
“Can we order the archers to aim at Numar?”
“Most of your archers remain on the walls, my lord. And the regent is keeping himself shielded at the back of the barbican.”
“First Minister, is there anything-?”
Before Tebeo could finish, an arrow buried itself in the throat of the man next to him. A instant later, arrows were pelting down on Dantrielle’s men. Evanthya raised her shield just in time to stop two darts from striking her in the head.
“To the towers!” Tebeo cried as his men scattered like panicked mice.
Evanthya followed him to the nearest of the tower entrances, peering warily up at the ramparts as she ran. Fighting continued on three of the walls, but one of them was now held by the regent’s men. And unlike Dantrielle’s archers, who still struggled to keep the Solkarans from climbing onto the ramparts, Numar’s men were free to loose their arrows at the soldiers fighting below them in the wards.
“Your castle is falling, Tebeo!” came a voice from the north gate, echoing across the courtyard. “Surrender now, and I’ll spare the lives of your warriors. Fight on and you doom them as well as yourself.”
“I’ll die before I surrender to you, Numar! And the men of Dantrielle will gladly give their lives rather than give in to Solkaran tyranny!” The duke stared across at the regent, his expression belying his brave words. “Do we have any hope of stopping them, armsmaster?” he asked, his voice low.
“Only if our men can retake the west wall, my lord.”
“Damn. And we can do nothing to help them?”
“No, my lord. Not without ceding the wards to the regent and his men.”
“Then, perhaps I should surrender.”
“No, my lord!” Evanthya said, before Gabrys could speak. “You can’t!”
“I don’t want to either, First Minister, but if it means saving the lives of my men-”
“You don’t know that he’ll keep his word! Think of the things he’s done already! Do you really believe this is a man capable of showing mercy to any who have stood against him?”
“No, I don’t. But he has other battles to wage, and he needs soldiers. He can’t afford to kill my men if he doesn’t have to.” Tebeo looked at Gabrys, who was listening intently to their exchange. “Isn’t that so, armsmaster?”
“It is, my lord. But still, I agree with the first minister. You shouldn’t surrender. Not yet, not while we still have some hope of defeating him.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to end this folly and spare my army?”
“I can’t speak for all of the men, my lord. I’ve no doubt that there are some out there-a few-who at this moment would trade your life for theirs. But as a warrior, I can tell you that I would rather die for a cause, even a futile one, than live knowing that my friends and my duke had died for nothing.”
Tebeo nodded. “All right. Then what in Ean’s name do we do now?”
Gabrys surveyed the ward, shaking his head slowly. Once more Numar was shouting orders from the shelter of the barbican, marshaling his men, who now moved about the courtyard with relative freedom. “We need to divert our archers from the ramparts,” he said at last. “Some of them at least. We need to counter their advantage.”
“Won’t your captains on the wall realize that?”
“Their orders are to hold the walls at all cost. They’ve already lost one. They won’t spare a single man if it means endangering the others.”
“Unless we tell them to.”
“Yes, my lord. But I’m not certain that we should. If we lose the walls, none of the rest matters.”
“I can help, my lord.”
Both men turned to Evanthya.
“What do you suggest, First Minister?”
“A mist, my lord. It wouldn’t have helped before, when we were just fighting hand-to-hand. It might have made matters worse. But now, with the archers above us, it may be our only hope.”
“Can you make it hover above us?” Gabrys asked. “So that we can see who we’re fighting here on the ground?”
“I believe so.”
He looked at Tebeo. “In that case I think it a fine idea.”
“Agreed,” the duke said. “Weave your mist, Evanthya. Quickly.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The minister closed her eyes, reaching for her magic. She was weary from her battles, but no more so than the men who would be raising their swords beneath the mist she was conjuring. She ignored her fatigue, losing herself in the flow of power.
Opening her eyes once more, she saw tendrils of pale grey fog rising from the grass before her like thin, ghostly limbs. The mist gathered slowly at first, but then began to build, until it blanketed the ward.
Almost immediately, a wind rose from the north, threatening to sweep away all she had done. Pronjed jal Drenthe, Numar’s archminister.
“What’s happening?” the duke demanded.