There was a lull in the battle, all on the wall taking the opportunity to drink, eat something, some even leaning against the wall and sleeping. The sun sank into the rim of the world, night creeping up behind. Just before full dark Orgull stared out over the wall, frowning.
Men were running from the side streets, some carrying timber beams between them, others with arms full of straw and thatch. They ran to the gates and the sections of the wall that had long been repaired with wood instead of stone. Soon there were high piles spread along the wall’s base.
‘Don’t like the look of that,’ Tahir muttered to Maquin when he saw great jars of oil being carried to the piles of timber and thatch. Warriors on the wall began throwing spears and rocks, and screams told that some found their mark, but almost immediately sparks were being struck and flames were curling up.
‘They’re going to bum their way in,’ Maquin said.
He watched as Gerda and her captains organized the fetching of water from wells within Dun Kellen’s wall, but by the time the first buckets of water had arrived the fires were burning bright, the thrown water hissing into steam. They managed to put one fire out, but a dozen others raged against different sections of the wall, the wood used to repair it charring and crackling, smoke billowing over the ramparts.
The boy that had given them water earlier in the day hurried along the wall, scurrying over when he saw Maquin and his companions.
‘The lady wants to see you,’ he said to Orgull, who nodded and followed the lad into a cloud of smoke. Soon he returned.
‘Gerda’s calling a retreat to the keep,’ he said, but quietly. ‘She’s leaving a handful of warriors up here to watch the back of those leaving, and to give Jael the impression we mean to fight on.’
‘A suicide watch, you mean,’ Tahir said.
‘No. Her orders were that whoever remains must leave as soon as the first ladders hit the wall.’
‘They’d better be quick about it — those walls won’t be standing all night,’ Maquin said, and as if to prove his point timbers nearby creaked, part of the palisaded walkway collapsing with a crash.
‘I suppose you volunteered us for the rearguard,’ Maquin said.
Orgull grinned.
‘Best show our faces, then. Give Jael and his lads something to be scared of,’ Maquin said, walking into view on the wall.
‘Just make sure we keep our feet on stone,’ Tahir added, stepping close to Maquin.
The retreat of Dun Kellen’s warriors to the keep did not take long. Soon Maquin, Orgull and Tahir stood with a handful of others left to guard the wall.
It was not long after that the first wooden section of wall collapsed, flames and smoke roaring up in its aftermath. Jael’s warriors rushed forwards, but the fire flared in their faces, burning fiercer as it was fed by the timber. In their eagerness, Jael’s men lifted ladders to the stone walls, done with waiting.
‘Best be out of here,’ Tahir said, looking over his shoulder at the dark shadow of the keep behind them. Orgull barked an order at the other warriors ranged about them, only a dozen or so, and they began filing down a wide stairwell.
Maquin put a spear to the ladder that appeared nearby, pushed with all his strength, but the weight of the warriors climbing it held it pinned to the wall. Orgull saw and added his axe, bracing the head against the ladder and leaning into it. Nothing happened, then an iron-capped head appeared on the ladder.
‘Come on,’ Tahir yelled.
Maquin and Orgull gave a last effort and the ladder swayed away from the wall, teetering for a moment before it hurtled backwards into the darkness. Maquin smiled at the screams that drifted up to them. Then the three of them were running, leaping down the stairwell and sprinting for the keep. A warrior stood guard, keeping the doors open. They slammed shut behind them and were barred with iron and oak.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CAMLIN
Camlin drew an arrow back to his ear, held his breath, and released it as the arrow sped from his bowstring. Beside him he heard the thrum of Dath’s arrow, then a succession of screams and the two of them slid back down the ridge.
‘Must’ve hit something,’ he muttered to Dath, who grinned back at him. Then they were slipping through the undergrowth. Camlin grunted approvingly as he noted how Dath moved lightly, quick on his feet, looking ahead to avoid snagging branches. He’ll make a good woodsman. Hounds barked behind them, close, from the ridge they had just left. If he lives long enough.
They ran through the woods, Camlin leading the way back to their horses, always twisting and turning, his path never straight. They mounted quickly and set off, both of them too winded to speak.
Leaving the cover of trees, they had to ride across open meadows for at least a league. Camlin glanced up, saw it was well past highsun. They had been at their deadly cat-and-mouse game in the woods since mid-morning, striking at their pursuers four times — enough to make them think there’s more’n two of us lurking in the shadows. Camlin was under no illusions, knew that they could not stop their trackers, only hope to slow them a while. They had just slipped under the shadow of a stand of pines when Camlin heard the baying of hounds rising faint on the wind.
‘They’ve found our trail,’ he called to Dath, who looked nervously back.
They spurred their horses on.
They rode all day, not stopping to rest, periodically allowing the horses to walk instead of canter. As the sun was sinking behind the mountains on the western horizon Camlin spied their companions. They were gathered in an open space of green and purple heather.
‘Why aren’t they riding?’ Dath called to him. Camlin just shook his head, wondering the same question. They should be riding on until nightfall, making the most of every daylight moment.
Close by a fire had been lit, flames crackling hungrily as the cold wind snatched at it. Camlin scowled. They are out in the open. As the dark settles, that fire will draw our trackers like flies to dung. Then he reached them and saw a figure on the ground.
Marrock.
Halion and Anwarth moved out to meet them as they slid from their saddles.
‘Marrock has a fever; he collapsed from his saddle. Brina says his wounds are rotting.’
Camlin felt a twist in his gut, like a knife turning. Did everyone he came to think something of have to die?
‘What is Brina going to do?’ Dath asked.
‘She says there is nothing left, except to take his hand. If the rot has not spread to his blood he may live.’
Camlin strode to where Edana knelt by Marrock, wiping his feverish face with a damp cloth.
They are kin, cousins, he remembered.
Brina stood by the fire, holding a knife blade in the flames. Corban hovered close to her, stirring a pot. Frequently Brina snapped orders at him, the young warrior rummaging through a large pack, pulling out stoppered jars, a roll of linen, a handful of small tools.
Is that a filing iron?
‘I don’t have the strength to do the cutting,’ Brina said. ‘Not here, without all my tools. Who will do it for me? It needs a strong arm, a sharp blade and a good aim.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Heb said. Brina looked him up and down and snorted. ‘You don’t have the strength, and if you did your eyes are so bad you’d probably take his head off, not his hand.’
Heb scowled at her.
‘I will do it,’ a voice said. Gar stepped forwards, drawing the sword from his back.
Brina strode up to him, her knife glowing red in her hand. She nodded to Farrell, who pulled taut Marrock’s arm with a leather cord. Gar swung his sword once and Marrock screamed, his body jerking, blood spraying from his wrist. Brina stepped close.