‘Come, Deinon, he’s dead. Avenge Thaan now, mourn him later.’
Deinon looked up at him, eyes red, tears washing gullies through the blood and grime on his face. Slowly he stood. ‘Don’t kill the bald one; he’s mine. I want to take my time on him.’
A hand gripped Lykos’ shoulder and he spun around, sword readied for attack. It was Jael, grinning as if it was his nameday, his shieldmen about him. ‘I must say, I am impressed with your timing,’ he said.
Lykos lowered his sword. ‘Nathair sends his greetings,’ he said, gripping Jael’s arm. What kind of king will you make, who needs the help of corsairs to win your first victory? He looked up at the town and fortress. ‘Getting here in time was only half the job. Best we finish this lot before they dig themselves in too deep.’
‘Their walls and gates are thick,’ Jael said. ‘We may have to starve them out.’
‘There are other ways to scale a wall,’ Lykos said, signalling to Deinon. ‘We Vin Thalun are not cut out for siege making. I hate waiting.’
One of Dun Kellen’s warriors was kneeling on the ground, begging for mercy. The warrior standing above him looked to Jael, who shook his head.
‘I need prisoners,’ Lykos said. ‘The more the better to row me back to Tenebral when we are done here.’ And they’ll make good sport in the pits when we’re back there.
Jael was silent, then he nodded. ‘You can have all those who surrender, but you look after them. I don’t have the men, or the inclination to care for them.’
‘Good enough,’ Lykos said. He looked to Deinon. ‘Let’s teach these landwalkers how to scale a wall.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
MAQUIN
Maquin slid from his horse and stood by the gates to the keep, sword drawn, waiting as Dun Kellen’s warriors retreated inside the feast-hall. Orgull and Tahir were still with him, blood splattered and weary.
Maquin had been so close to Jael, just a sword-length away from reaching him, and then the ships had arrived, emptying their deadly cargo. And now instead of victory they were staring death in the face again. They were heavily outnumbered: most of Dun Kellen’s warriors had been killed during the battle on the bridge or cut down as they tried to retreat. If it had not been for Gerda and her battlechief, Thoris, organizing the rearguard, Maquin doubted that any would have made it back to the keep alive.
And who were these new warriors? Not men of Isiltir. They were dressed strangely, in leather kilts, tunics and sandals rather than breeches and boots, with iron rings in their beards and hair. And the ships — sleek and fast, looking as if they were built more for the sea than river.
‘They are allies of Nathair, is my guess,’ Orgull said. ‘Remember what I have told you: there is more to this than the throne of Isiltir. The God-War is being waged here. Right now.’
Maquin shook his head. Why did it have to be so complicated? Revenge used to be simple.
A knot of warriors entered the courtyard, Thoris at their head, Gerda in their centre. She was sweating, short of breath, her sword bloodied and notched.
‘Quickly,’ Thoris shouted, ‘a few have chosen to stay behind, to give us time to get inside and bar the gates. Inside, now.’
With that they were all piling into the feast-hall, heaving the doors shut, slamming the thick bars into place. Then Gerda was marching through the hall, Thoris summoning him, Orgull and Tahir to follow. They ended up with Gerda in her chambers, her son Haelan standing beside her.
‘You must take Haelan now,’ Gerda said, ‘before they gather and strike. Their numbers are too great; they will storm the keep somewhere and we do not have the men to keep them out.’
‘But how can we take him?’ Tahir said. ‘We are besieged — there is no way out.’
‘There is a way. A secret tunnel the giants built. It burrows underground, comes out on the plain half a league to the north.’
Orgull looked at Maquin and Tahir. ‘We swore an oath. Let’s keep it,’ he said.
Noises boomed in the corridor behind them, voices shouting, screaming, the clash of arms.
Thoris ran to the door and stuck his head out. ‘Quickly,’ he said, ‘the assault has begun. You must leave now.’
‘Eboric here will take you to the tunnel and guide you through it.’ Gerda gestured to a man standing beside the boy, a huntsman by the look of him, dressed in worn leathers, an archer’s bracer on his wrist. ‘He knows the land beyond well, and Haelan knows his face.’ Her voice wavered. She grasped her son by his shoulders. ‘You must be strong now, and do as Eboric and these men say — they will keep you safe.’
‘Yes, Mother,’ the boy said, looking up seriously into Gerda’s eyes. She cupped his face in her hands, kissed him, then ushered them out of the door.
Eboric led the way, Orgull and the boy next, Tahir and Maquin at the rear.
They met warriors further along the corridor, running towards the tower stairs. Eboric grabbed one of them, pulling him to a stop.
‘What is happening?’
‘Jael assaults the feast-hall gates, but they are holding for now. The danger is these new men from the river — they are throwing ropes with claws that snag on stone, and are using them to scale the towers.’
‘Are they inside the keep?’ Eboric asked.
The sound of swords clashing rang down the tower stairwell, giving his answer. He let go of the warrior and the man ran up the stairs. Eboric looked grimly at them all and led them down the steps.
They spiralled downwards, reached ground level where the sound of the hall gates being rammed was deafening, but continued on down. Eboric grabbed a burning torch from a wall sconce. They hit level ground and left the stairwell. Maquin heard the slap of feet somewhere above, the echo in the spiral of the tower playing games with his ears. Those feet could be ten paces away, or a hundred.
‘Is this the only way down to this level?’ Maquin called to Eboric.
‘No, other towers also lead down to the cellars.’
Not the answer I was hoping for, Maquin thought.
They twisted and turned through high corridors, sometimes in silence — apart from their breathing, the drum of their feet — at other times the sound of combat was close by, the sound of men moving in numbers.
Then abruptly they were at a dead end. Eboric stuck his hand into a hole in the wall, twisted something that gave a click, and there was a hissing sound. Something like steam or mist poured from the wall as the outline of a door appeared and swung open. Darkness lay within.
‘This is the giants’ tunnel,’ Eboric said.
Maquin peered in, remembering the tunnels beneath Haldis and Forn Forest, and the thing that lived in it that had put a hole in Tahir’s leg. ‘Don’t like the look of it in there,’ he muttered.
The sound of people, men shouting, echoed along the corridor.
‘Come on,’ Orgull said, taking a step towards the tunnel entrance. Then booted feet were clattering in the corridor, tall shadows flickering on the wall. Figures appeared, one flinging a spear. It whistled past Maquin and buried itself in Eboric’s shoulder. He was thrown back into the wall with the impact, his head making a cracking sound. He slumped down the wall, lay motionless.
Haelan screamed.
Orgull swore and hefted his axe, moving to meet the newcomers. ‘Take the boy!’ he yelled without looking back.
Maquin looked at the scene, between Orgull and the crying boy who was shaking Eboric, the huntsman’s head lolling.
‘What do we do?’ Tahir asked.
We swore to protect the boy, but we swore an oath to each other, as well, as Gadrai. He looked at Orgull, swinging his axe, then punching the iron-capped butt into someone’s face. Men were crammed in the corridor, for the moment holding back in the face of Orgull’s ferocity, but the corridor was high and wide, built by giants. Even the bulk of Orgull could not fill it. Once his attackers gained their courage he would be flanked and overwhelmed. He won’t be able to hold them long enough.