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Every few seconds, a shot slammed into the outer wall from the catapults in Emerson Square, sending up showers of stone and dust that carried over the shattered battlements into the central courtyard. On this side of the wall, Alfred couldn’t see the shots strike, but he could feel them—a pulsing vibration through his jaw and up from the ground through his feet.
Cracks were appearing in the wall between the Queen’s Tower and Valamir Tower. First it had been one long crack, from the bottom to the top. Now, tiny fissures were spreading, like a spiderweb in stone. How long did they have until the wall came down?
Was there some way to brace the wall? Alfred looked around, wondering where Grigory Sobol was. But there was no point in sending for the professor. Alfred remembered how long it had taken to reinforce the outer walls of the city with earth.
“If we had started a month ago,” he thought, “then we could have done it. If only we could have known. But now it’s too late. Like everything else.”
Someone, probably Presley Kemp, had set up water casks by the guard barracks. Alfred started to head over there for a drink—Earstien only knew when he’d have a chance again. But then Robert Tynsdale came running up. Robert glanced around, then drew Alfred a little farther away from the masses of troops.
“They’re going,” Robert whispered. “I said I would find you, so you could say goodbye.”
Alfred didn’t need Robert to tell him who “they” were. Instantly, he forgot the crack in the wall and the water and the scared, exhausted men all around him. He followed Robert at a jog into the palace through the chapel, then down the central corridor and past the great hall.
The stairs leading down from the main entrance hall to the duke’s private dock were lined with knights in the livery of Duke Robert and the royal household. At the bottom, what looked like an entire company of archers was arrayed around the big double-arched entryway and along the narrow, rocky riverbank at the bottom of the castle. A few of the men were trading shots with enemy archers somewhere beyond Earnwald Tower on the Eustace Street embankment.
Hundreds of boats were out on the river—some of them carrying soldiers, others carrying townspeople away from the fighting. Alfred saw fires on the bridges and in the village of Hutton across the river, but he ignored it all and ran to one of the little rowboats moored along the dock.
Caedmon Aldred was seated in the stern, talking to the rowers. King Edwin sat in the thwarts, looking confused and helpless. His uncle, the captain general, sat looking at his feet, utterly dazed. He didn’t return Alfred’s greeting. Maybe he was too beaten and spent to speak. Maybe he was steeling himself for the dangerous journey ahead. Maybe he was ashamed of himself for taking this opportunity to get away.
Elwyn stood at the bow, and her face glowed when she saw Alfred approaching. “You’re here,” she said. “Now we can leave.”
“I will find you when this is all over,” he said.
She took his hands, setting the two gold rings with their matching rubies side by side. “You should come with me.”
For a second, she looked over her shoulder, her gaze clearly falling on her uncle. Then she looked back at Alfred, eyebrow raised. She didn’t have to say the question out loud, because the same question had occurred to him.
Why did it have to be Earl Lawrence in the boat with Elwyn? Why couldn’t Alfred go with them, while Lawrence stayed here and saw this through to the bitter end? But Alfred felt ashamed of himself even for thinking such a thing. Lawrence was the queen’s brother. Alfred was needed here. Lawrence was the king’s family. Alfred was...competent at leading men in battle. It was as simple as that.
“I can’t leave yet,” Alfred said. “I have to stay here and defend the castle as long as I can. And then I will find you. I promise.”
She rose up on the thwarts and pulled him into a crushing hug. Then she kissed him and said, “I’m going to hold you to that promise. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“We must be going now, your royal highness,” said Caedmon softly.
Edwin stood and reached past his sister to shake Alfred’s hand. “We will see you soon, yes?”
Elwyn ruffled his hair and smiled, even though tears were running down her cheeks. “Yes, we’ll see him very soon. Sit down, now. We’re leaving.”
Alfred kissed her one last time. As he let her go, the rowers pushed off, and the boat glided out into the great Trahern even before Elwyn found her seat. The boat turned and slowly gathered speed against the current, moving east past the walls of the Bocburg and threading between dozens of other vessels. Alfred watched for a minute until it disappeared, either by slipping behind some larger boat, or through some spell of Caedmon’s.
The entire Bocburg seemed to shudder and groan. A low rumbling sound echoed down the stairs. With Robert at his heels, Alfred raced back up to the entrance hall and back into the courtyard to find the top quarter of the outer wall between Valamir Tower and the Queen’s Tower had just collapsed. The rest of that section of the wall wavered and swayed like a piece of parchment in the wind, and then toppled inward with a crash that shook the ground and shattered windows in the palace. A dense cloud of dust rolled out, covering the courtyard like a fog.
Alfred shook his head and wiped his face, then ran to the nearest officers he could find. “When the dust settles,” he said, “they will try to attack through that pile of rubble. Archers are to make ready here. Pikemen by the stables and the armory to hit them in the flanks as they come over the top.”
The dust dissipated quickly in the wind, blowing into the Bocburg unhindered for the first time in centuries. Alfred could see the facades of buildings in Addle Street now, and the fluttering banners of the Gramiren men as they formed up for the attack. Then trumpets sounded, and the enemy started forward, climbing awkwardly over piles of shattered stones. Some of the rubble was still teetering and unsteady, and men were crushed when rocks shifted under their feet. But slowly, the front rank of the enemy pressed on, reaching solid ground at last.
Behind them, another rank of men was already reaching the top of the rubble. At their head was Sir Halvor Ingridsson, swinging his axe and shouting for his men to hurry up.
The Sigor archers loosed two quick volleys, taking down a score of men at least. But the archers were very low on arrows now. They had to be careful and make every shot count. Alfred was about to order the pikemen forward on either flank, but before he could give the signal, Duke Robert drew his sword and summoned all his knights to attack on foot.
“The Dryhtens have held this castle for five hundred years,” he cried. “Forward now, for the honor of my father and all his fathers, too!”
All the knights of Leornian gave a rousing cheer, and with Duke Robert at their head, they ran headlong at the enemy. Alfred’s pikemen, acting without orders, gave an answering cheer and gleefully joined the counterattack. Stumbling and scrambling over the boulders, the Sigors crashed into the front rank of the Gramirens, driving them back and hacking them to ribbons.
Halvor Ingridsson tried to rally his men, but Duke Robert and his knights converged on the huge Krigadamite warrior. Alfred and Robert Tynsdale rushed to help, as well. Halvor laughed and baited them all, making lewd jokes about Robert’s wife and Queen Rohesia. With one swipe of his long axe, he decapitated one knight and disemboweled another. He might well have killed them all, except that a stone shifted and slid under his great weight, and he toppled backwards down the pile. The last mighty swing of his axe merely glanced off Duke Robert’s pauldron and cuirass.
That, however, was enough to send the duke reeling. The surviving knights, joined by the duke’s eldest son, Lord Aldwin, hurried to his aid. Duke Robert seemed dazed, and his armor was badly dented, and it looked as if he had a broken arm and some broken ribs, at the very least.
Halvor survived the encounter in somewhat better shape, but he returned to the Gramiren lines limping and cursing, rather than laughing and singing. The enemy attack wavered and broke, vanishing into the alleyways and side streets, and someone found a Dryhten standard to plant atop the pile of rubble.
For a few minutes, Addle Street appeared entirely empty, except for the bodies of the dead and the burned crossbow machines near the front gate of the castle. But Alfred could look down Routhier Street toward Emerson Square, and he could see new regiments forming up there in perfect order, with gleaming weapons and spotless surcoats.
In less than an hour, there were two more assaults, one of which the Sigors repelled easily. The other, led by some Annenstruker nobleman, penetrated into the courtyard and almost up to the front steps of the palace before they were stopped.
When the Annenstruker mercenaries were gone, a kind of desperate, manic optimism took hold of the Sigor men. Alfred heard soldiers and knights say things like, “They’re not so tough!” And, “We could do this all day!”
That might well be true, but even if they did this all day, and another day after that, and all week long, Broderick would still have thousands and thousands of fresh, unbloodied men in reserve. And Broderick didn’t care how many had to die. He just wanted to take this castle, even if he had to climb over the walls on a mountain of corpses.
Then, as Alfred shared a ladle of cold water with Robert Tynsdale and a couple officers, he had a moment of startling clarity. He realized they weren’t fighting to win anymore. They were fighting to keep Broderick out of the Bocburg Palace. Not for their honor, or the honor of the Dryhten family, but simply to keep Broderick from learning that Edwin and Elwyn had escaped for as long as possible. The longer Broderick thought they were still here, the longer they would have to get away.
Every hour Alfred and his men could keep Broderick out of the Bocburg, Elwyn and the king would be another mile or two closer to safety, and another mile or two farther away from the reach of Broderick’s agents.
“This is for Elwyn,” he thought. “And for the king, too.”
But mostly for Elwyn. He felt a painful conflict between hope and reason. As a soldier, he knew he was unlikely to live through this battle. But at the same time, he had to believe he would see Elwyn again. Except, if he had really felt love was more important than reason, and hope outweighed duty, then why hadn’t he escaped in the boat with her?
Another trumpet call echoed into the Bocburg through the gap in the wall, and Alfred rushed to the top of the pile of rubble to see hundreds and hundreds of men now marching out of the side streets and forming up in Addle Street, first pikemen, then archers, then cavalry. Looking up Routhier Street toward Emerson Square, Alfred made out a group of riders in gleaming armor under a whole panoply of great banners. He saw the arms of Keneburg and Severn and Haydonshire, but in the center was the Gramiren black eagle. And right there, in front of that banner, Alfred saw a tall, powerful figure in black with a gleaming crown on his helmet.
“That’s him,” said Robert Tynsdale quietly at Alfred’s side. “That’s my brother. That’s Broderick.”
One rider separated from the crowd of the high nobles and commanders and advanced up the street toward the Bocburg. Soldiers stepped smartly aside for him, and two squires stood ready to hold his horse as he dismounted. This was not Broderick, however, and at first Alfred scarcely recognized the man, because he looked like his old self, back in the days of the Loshadnarodski War, when all these noblemen and knights had been fighting on the same side.
Lieutenant General Lord Volker Rath strode up to the front of his troops, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. A herald in Gramiren colors walked behind him, carrying a white flag of parley.
“Who is in command here?” Rath called out.
“That would be me,” said Alfred, taking a few careful steps closer down the pile of broken stone. He bowed. “Hello, Baron Rath.”
“Hello, Sir Alfred.” Rath bowed in return. “You and your men have made a gallant stand. His serene majesty, the King of Myrcia, calls upon you to throw down your arms and surrender.”
Alfred grinned. “That’s funny. I spoke to the King of Myrcia quite recently, and he wants me to keep fighting.”
The Sigor men around Alfred laughed at this. Some of the Gramiren men chuckled, too. Rath did not.
“You may leave with your honor intact,” Rath continued. “Knights and nobles may keep their horses, armor, and personal weapons. The king waives his rights to any ransom. Common soldiers may return home after helping to restore this city, and those who were injured may claim a pension from the crown.”
Those were astonishingly generous terms. Assuming Broderick intended to keep his word, of course, which was a lot to assume. Alfred would sooner have trusted a desert scorpion than trust Broderick the Black, and he was about to say so. But then a thought struck him: “If all we’re doing now is stalling for time, so that Elwyn and Edwin can get away, we don’t necessarily have to spend that time fighting and dying.” Protracted negotiations would work just as well.
Alfred bowed. “That is a fascinating proposal, Lord Rath. However, I will have to relay your offer to the queen regent and the privy council.”
Rath smiled and bowed back. “Of course. Do send them my regards, will you?”
“Some of the council have been injured in battle, so I regret to say it might be a few hours before I can return with their answer.”
“Of course. Naturally. Take all the time you need.” Rath turned to leave, but then came back. “By the way, Alfred, do your people need any medicines? The king has graciously offered to send a few of our physicians to treat your sick and injured, if the queen and her council are willing to accept.”
“That is...very kind,” said Alfred. “I shall, of course, pass along that proposal as well.”
“And fresh food and water, as well, if you require it,” Rath added.
“That would be...lovely,” said Alfred.
“And all of your soldiers, noble and commoner alike, will be permitted to send one letter home immediately at the king’s expense.”
Broderick Gramiren was behaving in an unimpeachably decent and chivalrous manner. Alfred could hardly believe it. In fact, he didn’t believe it, and with a sinking feeling, he realized he wasn’t the only one trying to draw out these negotiations.
“What is he doing?” Alfred said to himself. “Why is he trying to keep me here talking, while—”
With an earsplitting roar, the eastern gate under the Lookout Tower exploded in a flash of fire and smoke. Huge timbers and pieces of the iron portcullis pinwheeled across the courtyard, tearing men to bits. Glass shattered and rained down from the palace windows.
The explosion made the pile of rubble between the Queen’s Tower and Valamir Tower shift and shake, as well, and Alfred had to fight to keep his footing. Below him in Addle Street, Rath seized the white flag of parley from the herald and threw it to the ground.
“Forward now!” shouted Rath. “Forward for the true king!”
There was a trumpet call, and with a resounding cheer, the Gramirens advanced. To the east, where the dust from the explosion was still settling, there came an answering trumpet and cheer.
Alfred grabbed the first knight he could find and said, “Take half the pikemen. Hold them back at the east gate. Keep them out as long as you can. Go!”
Rath was advancing now with what appeared to be two entire regiments. Alfred had a motley little band of archers, pikemen, and knights, most of whom were injured now.
“Archers, loose all arrows, now!” he shouted. There was nothing else to save the arrows for.
The last few Sigor arrows flashed overhead, taking down a handful of Gramiren men. But a moment later, the advancing formations closed up again, and it looked as if the archers had done nothing at all.
Alfred shouted for the men—archers, pikemen, and knights—to form a single line atop the rubble pile. All the archers carried a sword or axe in their belts, and they drew these now, casting aside their bows. They knew as well as Alfred did that they had no other options.
When Rath and the first of his pikemen reached the rubble, their advance slowed, and they had to pick their way carefully over the fallen stones. Like all the attackers before, they found this much trickier and more dangerous than they had probably imagined it would be.
Alfred counted slowly in his mind—five seconds, ten seconds. Then he turned to his men and said, “Let’s make this one count. Charge!”
They were no more surefooted on the jagged stones than the attackers were, and many of them stumbled. But they had the advantage of stumbling downhill. They crashed into the Gramiren troops and forced them back. Alfred himself practically fell into Lord Rath’s arms. The two men grappled, tripped, tumbled painfully over a few stones, and came to rest a few yards apart on the dust-covered cobblestones of Addle Street.
Rath was on the far side of middle age, fifteen years older than Alfred, but he rolled easily and came up swinging with his sword before Alfred had even sorted out his feet. Only the grace of Earstien and a desperate, wild parry kept Rath from taking Alfred’s head off.
Then Alfred made it upright. Some random Gramiren pikeman appeared on his left, surging in for the kill, but he cut the man easily down and turned back to Rath. The lieutenant general was gone, however, scrambling up the pile of rubble toward the top.
Alfred found a stone about the size of his hand. With a mighty heave, he threw it at Rath. He missed the man’s head and hit him between the shoulder blades. The impact sent Rath sprawling face-first into the jagged boulders.
Even as Alfred approached for the killing blow, Rath staggered up, grabbed his sword, and turned around. He had a nasty gash on his forehead, dripping blood down his nose.
“That was hardly the action of a true knight,” said Rath, wiping the blood away.
“You broke the law of parley,” said Alfred, raising his sword. “You deserve what’s coming to you.”
He attacked, raining down blows on the baron. Rath had been a famous tournament champion in his day—Alfred remembered that. But he was old now, and perhaps a bit slower than he had been.
Except then Alfred stumbled over a broken stone, and with a neat little flick of the wrist, Rath disarmed him and stabbed him. Alfred felt the sting of the blade in his side, under his cuirass. But it was only a tiny prick—no worse than a bee sting.
Alfred kept tumbling down the pile of boulders—he was on the inside now, facing the palace. All around, he could see the Gramirens forcing his men back.
He reached out desperately, and his hand met one of the longbows that an archer had discarded earlier, when all the arrows were gone. He grabbed it and swung it around even as Rath raised his sword to slice Alfred’s head off.
The bow caught between Rath’s legs, and the baron stumbled and fell, dropping his sword and tumbling over some massive rocks. Alfred scrambled and grabbed Rath’s sword and followed him.
Except Alfred’s feet didn’t seem to be working quite right. There was a throbbing pain in his side where Rath had stabbed him, and a heaving pain in his chest, and his body below the waist was starting to feel a bit vague and numb.
He put his hand to the wound in his side, and it came away red and dripping, with blood almost covering the ruby ring that Elwyn had given him.
“Oh, shit,” said Alfred. The pain was getting worse now. He tried to breathe, but his chest felt heavy, and there was a rattle when he exhaled.
But he forced himself over the next few rocks, more crawling now than walking. Rath lay on his side on the ground at the base of the pile. One of his legs was bent at an awkward angle from the fall. With one hand, he clawed in the grass of the courtyard, all gray and covered in dust.
Maybe he was proud of himself for getting this far. Maybe he was angry he couldn’t go on. Alfred didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He raised the sword and plunged it through Rath’s neck into the ground below.
Then his knees gave out, and he fell. “I have to get up,” he thought. “I have to get up for Elwyn.” But when he tried, he could hardly move.
A dark figure loomed close in his failing vision, and it was only when the man spoke that Alfred recognized Robert Tynsdale.
“Sir, you’re bleeding.”
“I...I think we’re done,” said Alfred. The pain was fading, but he couldn’t feel his legs at all now, either.
Robert put his arms under Alfred and lifted him. “We’ll see about that.”