Kaith had found a handcart, the kind most often used to haul firewood. It was now nearly half-full with torches and leather flasks of oil. He met Huron near the eastern wall. Looking down at the supplies he’d collected, Kaith turned a questioning gaze up to his friend’s anxious face.
“I’m guessing this’ll have to do?”
Huron arched his brows and quirked a smile. The expression made the spearhead of hair on his chin look either uneven or askew. “How are things upon the wall? If there’s time, I can help you gather.” This last word came out in two distinct syllables.
“One task at a turn, Huron.” He grinned. “Where are we set?”
“Sign of the Boar and Bottle. Two lanes north, to the left.”
Kaith nodded. “Ricgerd?”
“Figh-ting his way back south.”
“Back south?”
“He charged up to the gate of the Braided Tower, figh-ting wherever he found foes, I think. He’s spun back and is pressing to-ward us.” He paused. “Vilmocz should be where the lane meets the road, marking the turn.”
Kaith considered, then nodded. “Olshnak?” He looked toward the gate as he spoke, then shook his head. “Never mind.” He paused, doing a double take. “Why is one of his men just standing there?”
Huron shrugged. “One of his is dead. A goblin. When I left Olshnak, the goblin-thing that had done the killing was dead, and he and his remaining guard were bound for the inn.”
Kaith grunted, then pressed on. “I’ll call Gordan and Raegus. Take the supplies to Terrek’s inn. When you arrive, if there’s no fighting to be done, pull the oil flasks to the top of the cart. We’ll need them first, if we need them at all. If there’s nothing else to be done while everyone gathers, grab what horses you can. Questions?”
Huron blinked, cocked his head to one side, then shook it. “The cart to Sergeant Terrek. If there’s time, pull the flasks to the top. If there’s still time, gather horses.”
Kaith grinned. “One last thing.”
Huron waited.
“We don’t want a mob crowding the west wall’s postern gate. If it comes to that—and I fear it will—we’ll set up archers to cover the people as they flee.”
Huron considered, then nodded again. “Where will we go if it comes to that?”
“If it’s west? Rockvale. It’s the only choice.” Sir Trallot wouldn’t much care for the sudden influx of refugees, but where else could they go?
He gave Huron a nod that served as a dismissal. The younger man nodded back, grabbed the pushcart, and jogged off.
Kaith mounted the stairs, unslinging his shield as he went. He kept it in position as he crossed the alure to the nearest person in sight.
“Sir Raegus…” He saw Rae stiffen, then shoot a grin toward him from over his shoulder. “It’s time.”
Rae nodded, loosed two arrows in quick succession, then withdrew behind Kaith’s shield. They moved together toward Gordan until they came across the next set of stairs down. Kaith held them up, turning to pass a final word.
“Boar and Bottle. Two lanes north on the west side. We’ll want eyes and arrows to protect the people if and when we head west. Clear?”
“Boar and Bottle. Aye. And Kaith?” He paused long enough to elicit a questioning look. “I was surprised when your man told me you were already within Wick’s walls. I’m still surprised, but…” He shook his head. “I’m glad… Glad you’re here with us.”
Kaith flashed him a grin. “That makes one of us, but we can laugh about that later.”
Raegus nodded, chuckling as he headed down the stair.
Kaith watched him go and allowed himself a moment to breathe. The Countess wanted Wick secure. That made sense for a few reasons. Wick was wealthy, defensible, and a place from which they could supply and support military efforts against an assault from the north, should one be forthcoming. Yet with the goblin attack, he was almost certain they were going to have to abandon this place, at least for a time.
They’d discovered a weakness that, if he were honest, should have been obvious. Sewer outflows should have a steel grate over them—one that was difficult to breach. That meant a strong, small lock, heavy bars sunk deep into Skolf and reinforced, and…
Storms be swift. Am I describing a sewer’s grate or a castle’s ’cullis?
He shook his head. “That’s enough of that. Come on, Sir Kaith.” But that was where his self-admonishment ended. He felt a surge of resolve that had no source to credit it. He cast about for some explanation—some sight or sound his undermind had caught, but there was nothing.
His blue dreamer’s lamps fell on Gordan as he loosed an arrow, then dropped below the wall’s line. He crouch-walked in Kaith’s direction for a few feet, then stopped. Kaith noted with satisfaction that Gordan had an arrow nocked and his bowstring stretched—partially pulled back, ready for a full, fast draw and quick release.
Several arrows came arcing low over the wall right where his brother had been standing. Marking the pins’ paths, Valad’s former armsman rose at speed, already aiming over the wall, and loosed. Before his draw arm had relaxed, Gordan was already crouched and moving back the way he’d come.
Kaith admired the tactic, filing it away for later use. For now, the hourglass was emptying. He hefted his shield and dashed to Gordan’s side.
“Time to go, brother.”
Gordan looked at him, balding pate gleaming in the early moonlight. “Where?”
Kaith told him. After a moment’s consideration, Gordan made a dismissive gesture.
“Go. I’ll be along.”
Kaith blinked, shook his head, and winced out of reflex as an arrow struck his shield. “You’ve done what you can here, Gordan. We need to move while we’re able.”
Gordan ignored him, taking an exaggerated sliding step to his right—still crouching. “Just go. I’ll… I’ll meet you there. Make sure Raegus gets out.”
Kaith’s jaw dropped as he tried to process what the man was saying. Again, he saw Gordan erupt to his full height, finishing his draw and aiming as he stood. Then he loosed. He was back in his crouch an instant later.
“Gordan… we need you with us.”
Gordan looked pointedly away, down toward his knocked arrow. “I’ll do more good from here. Now go.” His voice was empty somehow, save for the tiniest tremor.
“Gordan, no. You—”
“You aren’t someone I answer to, Kaith!” He didn’t shout so much as snarl. “Now, if you want to stay on the wall instead of whatever you have planned, find a bow… or don’t. Just…” His voice became quiet, almost desperate. “Just let me hold the line. The things out there? You can call them goblins or Nebelblut. Hells, call them Sheshik shite for all it matters. None of it speaks to—none of you understand what they really are.”
“Then tell me! If you know things we don’t, I’ve no call to doubt you! Stand with us and explain!”
“Death,” said he. “Death’s very hands are down there, Kaith.”
Kaith neither glared nor rolled his eyes at this dramatic pronouncement—but that act of resistance cost him some of his hard-won self-possession. “Aye, fine! But they’re also in here! We’re wasting time!”
“Then you’d best be about your work … Sir.” Once more, Gordan popped up, loosed a pin, then dropped back down.
Kaith did his best to ignore the stinging derision in the knight’s voice. He didn’t altogether succeed. When he spoke again, it came out in a tone of mounting anger.
“We’d best be about it, you mean! If you stay here, you’ll only—”
“It’s fine, Kaith. When the Falx finally comes for you…” He shrugged.
Kaith’s face darkened as he rose. He stalked the few strides that separated them, shield held above the wall to block most of the enemy archers. As he moved, the heater took one arrow, then another, then a third. A fourth struck somewhere along the back of his neck, but his steel mantle turned it.
“Burn the Falx, Sir Gordan.” His voice was black and bitter.
Gordan winced as if Kaith had physically slapped him. “Burn the—?”
“Falx, Sir Gordan. Yes! Burn it, hang it, throw it from the damned walls!” He spat on the boards between them for emphasis. “I lost Sirs Robis and Lamwreigh at Westsong. Hells, I lost Samik! I had time to call his name and add one word of warning—one line command! And what did I do?” His voice became a growl. “I chose the wrong one. I chose the wrong word, and Samik died. Lamwreigh died. And Robis—”
But it was too much. He bowed his head. His eyes were red and dry, but he feared blinking. Blinking meant closing his eyes, and Robis would be waiting for him there in the dark… or Lamwreigh. He might even be blessed with a return visit from Lanian, shouting catch me, or trying to drag him under dark water.
Gordan looked up at him with wide eyes. Those eyes showed disbelief, but no confusion. He winced as the moon cleared the thin clouds above, and Kaith’s shadow loomed over him.
“I will not lose another due to pride, or weakness, or self-doubt.” He leaned down, dominating the space Gordan occupied. When he spoke, his voice was dark and strained, as if an unseen hand gripped his throat. “Now, Sir Gordan… Get on your damned feet and get down those stairs before I throw you down them.”
Gordan blanched, then flushed. His eyes grew clear, full of shame and new resolve. He nodded. “Boar and Bottle.”
Kaith returned the nod, then crouched beside him. He shadowed Gordan in silence as they moved, covering them both with his shield.
As his brother knight began heading down the stairs, Kaith paused as something occurred to him.
“How many pins do you still have?”
He paused to check his quiver. “Seven.”
Kaith nodded. “Go. I’ll grab another quiver and be right behind you.”
“Right.” And with that, he jogged off toward the gate and the main road.