21

AT THE CURTAIN WALL

The field was open, its grass cropped short by grazing sheep, but brown flashed everywhere on the bailey: the guards.

Drest focused on the towering curtain wall ahead. She tried to fly as she had always flown on the headland, but Emerick’s weight slowed her. The fall had harmed him; he was leaning heavily, as he had in the days of their journey when his rib wound had plagued him most.

“Almost there,” panted Drest.

Almost there, but now there were four guards—and a splash of blue on white ran alongside them.

Drest’s boots pounded on the grass, her desperate energy keeping them ahead.

At last they were at the curtain wall, a shadowy stone giant covered with cracks, sprigs of moss, and crumbling mortar.

Drest propped Emerick up. “Start climbing!”

He pressed his pale, pain-clenched face against the wall. “I can’t climb.”

“I’ll be right behind you. Start climbing, quick!”

“Go, Drest. Save your own life. I’ll hold them back.” He cast a frantic, hopeless glance at her. “I can’t climb walls. Even when I’m well. I don’t know how.”

All feeling rushed out of Drest.

Emerick’s pale blue eyes fixed on her in despair.

“Why did no one teach you to climb a wall?” she bellowed.

But she knew that shouting would do no good against the guards and knight who were closing in on them. She stepped away from Emerick and drew her sword.

“Drest, I—I order you to go,” he stammered.

The lowering sun lit the steel. Tancored’s weight seemed to thrum up her arm, through her body, and to her heart.

She settled herself into a fighting position: one foot forward, the other to the side, knees bent, ready to pivot.

All her years of training had prepared her for this moment. Drest took a deep breath.

A bleating cry pierced the air.

A sheep ran wildly past them as if buffeted on a wave.

Another sheep called out, running just as fast. Then another. A chorus of deafening bleats.

Drest stared. A flock of sheep was flooding the grounds, pooling frantically around the guards.

“Get out of the way!” shouted the Faintree Castle knight, but the sheep only pressed closer.

Sheep are not easily stirred, said Thorkill’s voice. Someone’s alarmed them.

Tig? Drest’s heart lifted. Using animals instead of weapons—that was like him.

But a tall, cloaked figure—not Tig—was weaving among the sheep. It was a woman, and she veered to the wall and dashed alongside it toward them. Her cap slid off in her rush. A wave of gray hair streamed in her wake as she drew near.

Merewen.

Her silver falcon’s eyes were wild. “Sheathe your sword and I shall help you,” she gasped. “Hurry, child!”

“I won’t leave Emerick—”

“Why do you think I am here?” She darted around Drest to Emerick’s side and pulled him to his feet. “Listen to me, lord: I shall kneel, and you shall climb upon my shoulders. Drest—climb first and grasp his hands from above so that I can rise, and from there you will take him. Do you understand?”

It was a method of climbing that Grimbol had made the lads practice: a means to help an injured brother.

Drest sheathed her sword, thrust her fingers into the wall’s cracks, and scrambled up.

The crumbling mortar gave her many easy holds. Within seconds, she was at the top, a wide surface pitted with stone battlements. She slipped between the merlons, hooked her feet on the other side, and turned and reached down.

“You can’t be serious,” Emerick murmured.

“You are risking the lives of us all, lord,” snapped Merewen. “Make haste!”

With a muted sob, he stumbled to the wall. Gripping the ridges between the stones, he stepped onto the witch’s shoulders.

“Hold yourself steady,” said Merewen.

Drest reached down, stretching as far as she could. Emerick’s shaking hand rose. Their fingertips brushed.

Not close enough.

She slipped a foot free from its hold on the other side of the battlement and stretched again—and this time, touched his hand. Praying that her one foot’s hold would be strong, Drest seized his hand, and pulled.

That pull took a fraction of weight from Merewen’s shoulders. Bracing herself against the stone wall, she slowly stood, lifting Emerick just a little—

Drest’s hand closed over his wrist, then his forearm, then his elbow.

She crawled back on the battlement, pulling him toward her, until he was close enough to grab the nearest merlon and drag himself into the crenel.

Drest seized his legs and, scrambling over them, thrust them to the other side. “We’ll have to slide. Merewen?” She hooked her feet onto the battlement again and reached down.

The river of sheep was now mostly at the far end of the bailey, tangling the guards who were streaming from there. The other guards were running free.

“Merewen! Grab my hand!”

The witch stepped away from the wall. “No, child. Move swiftly. Help him down, and run. I shall keep them back.”

“But Merewen—”

“Do what I say,” roared the witch in a terrible voice, “and value your precious life for once! I will save myself!” She turned and set off into a run along the curtain wall.

“Drest! How do we get down?” Emerick was pulling at her.

She crawled back to his side.

“Hold on to my shoulders,” she said, her throat hollow. “We’re going to slide down, and we need to slow ourselves with our feet. Let me get under you. Are you ready?”

Panting, Emerick nodded and grabbed her shoulders. Drest slipped over the edge and down the wall.

Emerick’s dragging feet made up for his weight. Soon Drest’s fingers were raw, but they quickly reached the ground.

Merewen.

But there was no time to see if she’d escaped.

Hoisting Emerick’s arm over her shoulder, Drest dragged him running into the woods.