Fourth moon, dawn, day forty-one of the siege
South Tower One, southern wall, Rilporin, Wheat Lands
‘Are they coming?’ Crys demanded, shoving an archer away from an arrow slit and peering out. ‘Course they’re coming. Bastards.’
And they were, hundreds of them, running full pelt around the shattered end of the stump wall and charging for the gate. At their centre a dozen running in formation, an iron-tipped tree-trunk battering ram held between them.
Crys patted the archer’s shoulder and jogged down the stairs and out on to the southern wall’s allure. He hopped up on to the guard wall, balancing over the dizzy drop into the city below and waved his arms until he had everyone’s attention.
‘All right lads,’ he shouted, ‘they’re coming and they’ve got a battering ram, so I won’t lie: the situation’s as sticky as a bad shit, but we’re up on the wall shooting them, and they’re banging a twig against the gate. I know you’re tired, we all are, but we’ve got arrows aplenty and we’ve got light to kill them by. I know you all: you’re loyal, you’re professional, and you’re killers. I need all three, and so do you. Do your jobs, and we live.’
‘Nearly at the gate, sir,’ Lieutenant Weaverson called.
‘Right, I’m going down to take a look and speak to the men down there. Roger, get them loosing as soon as they’re—’
‘Loose!’ Weaverson howled.
‘—in range,’ Crys finished and headed for the stairs.
The merchants’ quarter was silent and shuttered, no lights in the windows when he exited the tower. ‘All right, Tailorson, looking good,’ he muttered to himself as he scanned the area. ‘Streets are empty, clear lines of sight. You’re tucked up safe here, they can’t … get … in.’
He came to halt and peered into the recessed shadows cast by the fortifications around the gate. Furtive movement, the soft slide of cloth on stone, the harsh squeak of metal on metal, like the sound of bolts being drawn.
Crys broke into a run, drawing his sword on instinct, eyes fixed on the gate and the faint blush of dawn showing through. It was open.
‘Sweet Dancer,’ he breathed. ‘Some bastard’s betrayed us.’
The light touched the bodies slumped around the gate, the soldiers he was here to check on. Now the wide, open courtyard used by the merchants to unload wagons was empty except for Crys and a small boy with very big, very round eyes. So first, who opened the gate and second, where’s he gone and third, oh gods, I can hear the Mireces coming.
‘Are you a soldier?’ the boy piped and pointed. ‘Those men all fell over. It was very funny.’ Crys followed the little finger to the gate. ‘Thump thump,’ the boy said and laughed. ‘All fall down.’
‘Go home, lad,’ Crys said as a cold finger prickled down his back. ‘Right now.’
The boy wandered over to him and tried to take his hand; Crys snatched it away. ‘Will you fall down too?’ he asked, unperturbed.
Another cold shiver wormed beneath Crys’s armour. ‘It’s looking increasingly likely,’ he muttered. ‘Go home,’ he hissed with a bit more vehemence. ‘Right now.’ There was movement along the base of the wall. ‘Run,’ he yelled into the boy’s face.
The boy froze, his lower lip wobbled, and then he burst into tears. ‘I hate you,’ he sobbed.
‘Get in line,’ Crys snapped, ‘now just fuck off, will you? There’s a battle on.’
The war cries of the Mireces went up a notch, triumph in their screams.
‘Weaverson,’ Crys roared, ‘South Gate breach, South Gate fucking breach.’
There were shouts of alarm from above and Crys grinned; then he shoved the boy hard sideways so that he sprawled on the cobbles and jumped forward to engage the three men sprinting through the gate, howling their victory. The boy was wailing about a skinned knee and Crys had a fraction of a second to wish that was all the pain he would ever suffer, and then there was a notched and angry sword arcing at his face.
Crys jinked left, parried the blade with his own and loosed a sloppy punch with his left fist as the man stumbled past, a glancing blow to his ear that did nothing but piss him off. He roared and stumbled again, tripped over something. His sword flashed. There was a high-pitched squeal that stopped Crys’s heart, and when the man attacked him again the point of his sword was smeared red.
The boy. He killed the boy.
Crys’s lips peeled back from his teeth and he drew a knife with his free hand, used it to block the second attacker’s overhead lunge and dragged it quick as lightning down the man’s face, through the eyeball and cheek, ripping open the lips. His scream was almost as high-pitched as the boy’s had been and he dropped like a stone, sword forgotten, fight abandoned, hands pressed to his face.
An arrow flashed past him and took the third man in the throat; another skewered the first through the calf.
‘Mine,’ Crys yelled, savage now, and no more arrows flew. He stalked his victim as the man limped away. Crys knew it was stupid to follow, knew the man was leading him towards the gate and the others now openly pouring through it, followed anyway. ‘P-please,’ the Raider stuttered, ‘p-please.’
‘Fuck you,’ Crys snarled, jumping forward and punching his sword into the man’s neck. ‘You killed a child. A boy. There are no pleases left in the world for scum like you.’ He sensed movement, glanced over his shoulder.
‘Need a hand?’ Dalli asked, hundreds of Wolves at her back, grim-eyed and grim-faced and swathed in dirty bandages all.
The corner of Crys’s mouth turned up. ‘Fresh as daisies, are you?’
‘Fresh enough.’
‘That’ll do.’ He pointed with his sword. ‘We need to seal this gate; I don’t know who opened it, but I intend to find them and feed them their own intestines.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Ash?’
Dalli frowned. ‘Isn’t he with you? I saw him around dusk; he said he was going to come to you.’
Crys went cold. ‘What?’ He looked around as though Ash would suddenly appear. ‘He never got here …’
Lim shoved past them, knocking Crys off balance. ‘Aren’t you two lucky you still have someone to worry about in all this? Let’s hope your lovers live forever, eh? Seeing as they’re so important.’
He raised his sword over his head. ‘Sarilla!’ he roared. ‘For the dead!’ The Wolves howled with him and charged, flowing around Dalli and Crys like smoke.
Crys watched them go, twitching with the need to find Ash, his stomach full of hot lead. He couldn’t go; he knew he couldn’t, but gods he wanted to. Needed it. Horror like he’d never felt crawled into his throat, cutting off speech.
He looked at Dalli as though for permission. She narrowed her eyes and jerked her head. ‘Let’s seal this gate, Major,’ she growled and then her face softened. ‘And then we’ll go and find him together.’
Crys managed a nod and then leapt into the fray; the sooner this lot were dead, the sooner he could look for Ash.