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“William. There you are.”
William hadn’t seen or heard the king approach in the predawn blackness. There was too much noise coming from the command tent—too many squires and messengers running in and out. If William hadn’t expected the king to be here, he might have pissed himself from surprise. He nearly did so, anyway.
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you made any progress in finding our mole yet?”
“I...believe I may have some leads, sir, but nothing definite.”
“Pay close attention today, William. If there is a traitor, this is when he is most likely to reveal himself. Or herself, as the case may be.” The king clapped his hands together, making his mail and gauntlets rattle. “Come with me. And remember to keep an eye out.”
The king led the way into the tent, where all the captains were gathered around a ten-foot map of the city. Little flags with the arms of the commanders showed where their troops would be. In a few, terse sentences, King Broderick reviewed the plan. When he finished, he said, “Very well, if there are no questions...,” and turned to go, clearly thinking there wouldn’t be any.
But Duchess Flora called out, “Just a moment, your majesty. What about the river? My Hugh and Pedr could put chains across upstream and downstream of the city, and I could lead some of my barges on a patrol for—”
“No, your grace,” said the king. “You will follow Lieutenant General Rath’s plan. I do not care about the river. Right now, I care about getting through the city wall.” He looked around, glaring at each of his commanders in turn. “I want to know where you are. When I look across the battlefield, I’d better see your banners out there. You had better be following the plan. All of you.” His gaze returned to Flora. “No exceptions.”
***
ROBERT SPURRED HIS horse through the busy streets, dodging carts and teams of volunteers still moving timbers and rocks and dirt even now. A few people called out to him, asking for news, but he couldn’t stop. They had heard the bells of the Bocburg chapel, no doubt, and they knew the enemy was here.
He kept thinking of his brief conversation with Alicia before daybreak. He had tried to convince her to leave now, while she still could, and take the children to their secret cabin in the woods. She had begged him to let her stay and help the queen with Veronica Swithin, wife of the captain general, who had gone into labor overnight.
“I don’t recall that you’re a midwife,” he had said.
“Yes, but I have some personal experience in the business,” she had said with a wink. “Besides, what cabin could possibly be safer than the Bocburg?”
Eventually, he had given in. He prayed that would turn out to be the right choice.
At the Martin Street Gate, he found Sir Alfred, still desperately trying to finish reinforcing the walls. Hundreds of feet of wall remained bare and unprotected on either side of the two southwestern gates. But there was no more time.
“Let me guess. They’re right across the river now,” Alfred said, even before Robert could give his report.
“Yes, sir. A half-mile-long front starting west of Hutton and curving back to the river.”
Alfred entered the gatehouse, jogging up the narrow spiral stairs to the top. Robert followed behind, in case Alfred needed him to send a message. From the battlements, they looked to the south, peering up the wide fields into the fading morning mist.
Over the sounds of the workmen below, they heard drums and Kenedalic pipes. Then they could see banners fluttering, half-hidden in the trees. And finally they saw endless files of men marching out into the early morning sunshine. Their spears and helmets glittered, and all their tabards and tunics looked bright and new, decorated with the arms of a hundred great noble houses.
Alfred and Robert leaned over the parapet looking east, then west. The line of the enemy kept going and going and going. There were more regiments here than Robert had ever seen in any one place. Scores of them. Possibly more than anyone had seen since the days of King Edmund Dryhten, or maybe since Horatius Severus, the first Immani Emperor.
“Well, there you are,” said Alfred. “Better for waking you up than a whole pot of strong coffee.”
The soldiers who were near enough to hear him laughed, but the rest of the men looked pretty nervous. Robert couldn’t blame them.
Already a vanguard of Gramiren cavalry were approaching the southern wall. They were from Keneshire, with a little band of mounted pipers leading the way. A captain standing nearby with a spyglass said Duchess Flora was with them, too, in front of her banner. Alfred looked and confirmed it was her. Robert borrowed the glass and saw the famous duchess riding proudly in gilded armor, with the visor of her helmet pushed back and tendrils of her long, red hair swirling loose in the breeze.
The men on the wall traded lewd jokes about Flora. Alfred did not laugh; he gave orders for the catapults to start shooting and the archers to make ready.
The first catapult shot arced over Robert’s head and smashed into the enemy. Two Keneshire knights were crushed, but even before the stone landed, Duchess Flora gave some kind of signal, and the regiment veered away to the southeast.
There were cheers and jeers and more crude jokes about the duchess. But then the Keneshire knights turned back toward the city. And far in the distance to the east, in the fields facing the Wellard Street Gate, a different regiment of horsemen began doing much the same thing.
“It’s a feint,” said Alfred, smacking the top of a merlon.
A knight approached with a message from the captain general. “His lordship’s compliments, and he suggests you send the cavalry outside the city walls for a counterattack.”
“Very kind,” said Alfred, “but I don’t think we should commit our reserves quite yet.”
Sure enough, not even a minute later, alarms came from the north and the northeast. Messengers arrived, reporting that infantry were attacking the city from both directions along the river road. From Robert’s perch on the Martin Street Gate, the city blocked his view of the distant east gate. But he could look to the northwest, and he could see that, indeed, several regiments of pikemen were approaching the west gate. They seemed to have ladders with them, too.
Alfred sent the cavalry to make sorties on both sides of the city, and Robert gave silent thanks that Alfred, not Lawrence Swithin, was the man standing at this advanced command post to make key tactical decisions.
With a fanfare of trumpets, a vast line of Gramiren infantry and cavalry now approached across the open fields to the south. It was a stirring sight, with hundreds of standards, large and small, fluttering in the breeze. In spite of himself, the tiny part of Robert that had once longed to be a brave knight on a noble steed admired and envied those men.
The Gramiren regiments stopped outside the range of the Sigor catapults, though. And then, to everyone’s surprise (and some soldiers’ amusement) they commenced a series of odd and intricate maneuvers. The cavalry would wheel toward the city, just as Duchess Flora’s men had, and then veer away when they drew a shot from a catapult or two. The infantry began marching back and forth, turning, retreating, and turning again. All the while their flags fluttered and in the Kenedalic regiments, the pipers played their wailing old battle songs.
“What in the Void is this?” said the knight who had come from the captain general.
Alfred frowned. “Another distraction.” Using the spyglass again, he scanned the army, this way and that. Then he stopped and whispered, “Oh, shit.”
At that moment, the enemy troops parted, revealing a dozen catapults being wheeled into position. The closest was barely a hundred and fifty yards away. The farthest was at least a quarter mile distant. But they were all turned to point at the same spot in the city wall—a spot just to Robert’s left.
“Dammit, they know,” said a colonel nearby. “They know this is where the wall is weakest. How did they find out? Is there a spy?”
“A spy, Lady Jorunn’s magy—who knows?” said Alfred. “That’s not important. Get two squads of men ready to shore up the wall when—”
He was cut off when the Gramiren catapults loosed their first volley, one after another in a long, rippling line. The closest shots came at the wall almost horizontal. Others came glancing in from the side. The shots from farthest away rose high, high in the air and plunged down on the parapet almost vertically.
Men on the wall ran screaming. Shards of stone flew through the air, cutting men in half and blasting holes in the sides of the nearest houses.
Another volley came in, and the sound of the shot against the stone wall made Robert’s ears ring. Then another volley, and another.
“The wall should hold,” Alfred shouted to a lieutenant over the din. “Just be ready with those men to reinforce it when the enemy stops. They’ll have to stop for maintenance soon. They can’t keep up—”
There was a low rumbling, and the whole gatehouse shook. Robert and Alfred and all the officers turned to see the wall sway and shudder at exactly the spot where the catapults were aiming. With a roar, the ground dropped away on either side, leaving a deep, ragged hole that belched smoke and flame. The wall did not collapse completely, but it sagged and buckled and leaned ominously.
“They managed to undermine it,” said Alfred. “I didn’t think the soil here....” He stopped, took a deep breath, and then gathered the officers. “We’re going to lose the wall here. There’s no way to fix that now.”
“Then what do we do?” asked an officer.
“We’re not abandoning the wall!” cried a wild, quavering voice.
Earl Lawrence Swithin, the captain general, emerged from the gatehouse stairwell, followed by Duke Robert of Leornian and a dozen knights.
“My lords,” said Alfred, bowing even as another volley of shots arrived, and bits of stone came whistling overhead. “That wall is going to collapse soon. I doubt we have more than an hour. Most likely less.”
“My wife is in labor right now!” said the earl, his eyes wide. “I’m not going to surrender and leave her to...to....” He gestured over the parapet toward the south. “To those people!”
“I’m not suggesting we surrender,” said Alfred. He paused, hands on hips, and studied the city. Then he nodded, having apparently come to some vital decision. “I suggest we fall back, sir.”
“Fall back to where?” asked the duke. “All the way to the Bocburg?”
“No, your grace. We still have piles of building materials all up and down the city streets. I suggest we turn those into barricades. We’ll block off the streets and the alleys. Bring the infantry reserves here. We can hold them at the breach in the wall long enough to build our new fortifications, and then we can fall back.”
Another volley exploded against the wall, and they were all peppered with gravel and dust.
“I don’t know. I don’t know at all,” muttered Earl Lawrence. “Broderick has such a huge army, and my wife is.... I just don’t know.”
“The size of his army doesn’t matter in city streets,” said Alfred with a confident smile. “You can have ten thousand men, but if you try to squeeze them down an alley that’s eight feet wide, they can still only advance four at a time.”
“Good. Let’s do it,” said the duke. The earl looked as if he were going to object again, but his grace said, “I am the lord chancellor, and more to the point, this is my damned city. We’ll do what Sir Alfred says. I’ll go back to the Bocburg and set up a new headquarters in the Queen’s Tower.” He looked at Robert. “Ride on ahead, please, and let them know I’m coming.”
***
ONCE, MANY YEARS AGO, Presley had been with Grigory when he blew a hole in the side of a building. The crunch and fall of rock had made a rather impressive noise standing close to it. So, if enemy trebuchets were pummeling the south wall and the noise rattled his teeth here at the Bocburg, what was happening at the wall?
As everyone had headed off for battle, Presley had stationed himself and a dozen servants at the main gate leading onto Addle Street between the Queen’s Tower and Hengist Tower. He could run a messenger back to the palace or out to the troops, receive supply requests, and be ready even to tell Lawrence news of his wife’s labor. The man had gone back and forth between ashen and red all morning, and however little Presley had ever liked him, Lawrence did garner some sympathy today.
But not much. Far too much was happening all at once to spare sympathy for any one person. Leornian was being attacked on all sides simultaneously. The report from Intira had been that Broderick had more than enough men to encircle the city, but somehow it had not been clear to Presley what that would sound like. What had really worried Intira was the silence from her spy, and wondering if he couldn’t get away, or had switched sides back to Broderick.
“I will eat his balls in front of him smothered in gravy and butter if he’s fucked us,” she said, and Presley did not doubt it.
Even with the noise and Intira’s missing spy, Presley remained hopeful that Grigory’s defenses would hold. That was until he saw a frowning Robert Tynsdale gallop through the gate of the Bocburg. One of the stableboys rushed over to hold his reins, and Presley was close behind.
“How bad is it?” Presley asked.
“Bad. Somehow they knew about the weak spot in the south wall and just hammered it. It’s going to give any minute if it already hasn’t.”
Grigory was always most worried about that spot. Dammit! Broderick, that murdering, usurping, lying asshole does not get to do this to Grigory. Dammit!
“Plan?” Presley asked through gritted teeth.
“Sir Alfred is pulling the men back. His hope is to hold them at the breach while they build barricades in the streets with the materials that didn’t make it to the walls. Duke Robert is on his way back here. He wants to set up headquarters in the Queen’s Tower.”
Presley turned to the servant beside him, a youth with perpetually mussy red hair named Cody. As calmly as he might, not wishing to set anyone’s nerves more on edge, Presley said, “Please go to the palace and inform Caedmon and the rest of the privy council of Duke Robert’s intention. Thank you.”
As the boy jogged off, Presley took a deep breath, readying himself for the question he really wanted answered. “Have you seen Grigory?”
“Peabody Street where it runs into Emerson Square. He was helping to coordinate the building of barricades.”
“He was what?”
“Explaining to the soldiers and even some townspeople who turned up the best way to pile the available materials to block the passage of troops.”
“Finster’s balls.” Whipping around to the next servant in line, a pale freckled boy named Scott, Presley announced, “I am going to get Professor Sobol. If anyone asks for something we have, give it to him. If we don’t, send him to Caedmon. He should be here at the new headquarters shortly.”
Robert rested a hand on Presley’s arm. “I’m sure Grigory will fall back in a minute.”
“No, he won’t. He will stay there until it’s the best barricade ever constructed, and by the time that happens, Broderick fucking Gramiren will be staring at him from the other side. Trust me.”
The available horses were being held for emergencies, and while Presley believed this qualified, he had never particularly liked to ride, so he set off on foot. As soon as he left the castle grounds, he encountered people running through the city, most seemingly without purpose. In any other circumstances, Presley would be trying to help bring order to the city, but for now, he could only think of getting to Grigory.
When he arrived in Emerson Square, it was much as he expected—Grigory at the center of an orderly group of soldiers blocking up the southern, western, and eastern entrances to the square, the townspeople organized into lines to pass the material forward. Standing next to him was a man in uniform, specifically in the Duke of Leornian’s colors. In other words, a man who could be left in charge to see to the defense of his city, while the smartest man in Leornian goes safely back to the castle.
“You,” Presley said, coming to a stop in front of the man in the duke’s livery. Closer up now, he recognized the man as Sir Tom Patter, the son of a knight Presley knew during his tenure with Duke Brandon. “Sir Tom, do you understand Professor Sobol’s intentions for these barricades?”
Sir Tom nodded, somewhere between confirmation and a bow. “Yes, Sir Presley. The men in the left-hand line are—”
“You don’t need to explain it to me. I just need you to take over so Professor Sobol can return with me to the Bocburg.”
“I can do that, sir.”
Grigory had remained quietly stunned through this exchange, but when Presley rested a hand on his arm to lead him away, Grigory came to life. “No. I must remain here and help. If the Gramiren troops make it through this square, the city will fall.”
Sir Tom, perhaps sensing a private dispute he did not wish to be a part of, or maybe wanting to exert the authority Presley had given him, stepped away. A moment later, he was issuing orders, and Presley could say what he needed to without an audience.
“You can’t help here anymore,” he whispered. “And it’s dangerous. Come back to the Bocburg and help plan the next step.”
“But these men.” Grigory’s features twisted, and Presley had no illusions how much this pained Grigory. He will blame himself, even though he did more than any other man could have. But I can help him manage the guilt, as long as I can keep him alive.
“These men have this task under control. If you want to save them, come back to the castle. We need you.”
They looked in each other’s eyes, and Presley’s hard stare eventually convinced Grigory. He nodded, lips pressed tight, and turned to Sir Tom to give some last minute instructions. Once finished, they walked purposefully and silently through the chaotic city back to the safety of the castle.
Looking up, as they neared the Addle Street gate, Presley saw a crowd atop the Queen’s Tower. Caedmon somehow picked Presley out from the bustle and solemnly nodded down. When they passed into the castle, Cody was waiting for them to let them know Caedmon and Duke Robert could be found on the roof of the Queen’s Tower.
Already knowing this, Presley nodded and kept walking, but Cody added more.
“News from the birthing chamber is not good,” he said. “The queen regent has remained there to help. She has given Duke Robert command in all necessary things.”
Presley cleared his throat, but found no suitable answer. He led Grigory up the tower stairs, trying to block thoughts of whatever might be happening to Lawrence’s wife and child. There would be time to deal with whatever Earstien had planned for the Hyrne family once they saved Leornian.
“Professor Sobol,” Caedmon said as soon as they popped up on the roof. “I am very pleased to see you safe returned.”
Grigory and Presley pushed through the councilors, servants, and soldiers cluttering the roof to join Caedmon at the edge looking out over the city. Duke Robert stood beside him, listening to reports and giving orders, trying desperately to defend his beloved city. He looked haggard and dusty, and Caedmon appeared more tired and strained than Presley had ever seen him.
“What’s the current situation?” Presley asked once they reached Caedmon.
The great hillichmagnar opened his mouth to answer, but a tremendous explosion unlike anything yet heard that day rent the air. Caedmon whipped back around to survey the city, leaving Presley to view his silhouette against a wall of flames in the distance. Earstien help anyone nearby.
“What in the Void happened?” Duke Robert asked.
“Not even Immani Fire can do that,” Grigory said, and Presley well knew he was an expert on Immani Fire.
“No,” Caedmon answered gravely. “Only one thing can, and that is magy. I must see the king at once.”
“Jorunn?” Presley whispered.
“Yes.”
“So, does that mean Diernemynster has chosen to back Broderick, or did she act on her own, so Diernemynster will be angry with her and back us?”
“That is a complicated question,” was all Caedmon said before suddenly disappearing from the roof.