Irons in the Fire (62 page)

"Come on!" Sorgrad broke into a run.

Gren whooped with glee as he did the same.

The burden of chain mail hindered neither. With the weight of his armoured jerkin sapping his strength, Tathrin was hard pressed to keep up despite his longer legs.

On the road ahead, the bulk of the mercenary riders had been taken by surprise. Slow to rein their horses back, their gallop carried them towards the woods just as a fresh force erupted from hiding. Evord's men threw bundles of stakes into the mercenary horsemen's path, cross-tied so that sharpened points stuck up whichever way they landed. Blond archers pierced men and beasts alike with murderous shafts. As the mercenaries fought to manage their maddened horses, Evord's swordsmen rushed in to attack.

A few at the rear managed to pull up before they were embroiled into the chaos. Dragging their horses' heads around, they spurred them back towards the town.

Reaching the road, Tathrin was running for his life. He didn't care that he was outstripping Sorgrad and Gren. He just wanted to reach the shelter of the gatehouse before one of Wynald's returning horsemen plunged a lance into his back.

Ahead he saw desperate fighting in the shadows. Failla and Nath had indeed got word to the guildsmen inside the town, he realised with distant relief. They had explained how Captain-General Evord needed the townsfolk to stop the mercenaries slamming the gates shut after the first wave of Wynald's horses had been lured out by the Dalasorians.

Beaten earth underfoot gave way to cobbles. Tathrin's feet slipped on blood and the clash of swords in the confines of the gatehouse was deafening. More of those thrashing in the shadows wore broadcloth than armour, the townsmen fighting with swords, spades and pry-bars. He couldn't stop to give way to his horror. Not this time. He had a job to do.

"Which way?" Sorgrad ripped his sword across the shoulder of a man who'd mistimed his thrust. The mercenary reeled away, his arm hanging limp.

"Up the high road to the fountain square." Tathrin braced himself to meet a downward stroke launched by a mail-shirted swordsman.

Gren was there, knocking the blade up and following through to thrust the point of his sword into the man's eye. He wrenched his weapon free. "Come on, then!"

Hacking blindly at the press of bodies, Tathrin fought through to the daylight on the inside of the gate, Sorgrad and Gren flanking him.

The first of the mounted Dalasorians had already pounded through the arched passageway to attack those mercenary horsemen who'd been waiting in reserve. In the open space, the fighting was ferocious. Any man who slipped from his saddle faced death just as readily from some stray blow as from the frenzied kicks of a panicked horse.

At least they were all too engrossed in their own battles to look for new foes. Tathrin followed Sorgrad's lead, keeping his back to the wall of the nearest house.

Gren peered around a corner into a side street. "I'd give a lot to know my way around these back alleys."

"Go." Sorgrad shoved Tathrin.

They dashed across the open street to shelter in a doorway as the first of the swordsmen who'd fought their way through the broken-down houses came rushing into the town.

"Talagrin's bow!" Sorgrad shouted.

Tathrin could only hope his orange cloth token was clearly visible. He didn't think he could unclench his jaw to speak.

"Come on." Gren was moving again, glancing forwards and back, swords in both hands.

Tathrin hadn't seen him pick up the second blade. A blood-curdling yell behind him raised the hairs on his neck and he whirled around.

"No." Sorgrad knocked his sword back down as a handful of Mountain Men raced past.

Three mounted mercenaries pursued, spitting curses. The Mountain Men cut down an alley. The horsemen chased them. Tathrin couldn't see how the Mountain Men could possibly escape. Then all three riders flew backwards out of their saddles to land heavily on the cobbles.

"Always good to have townsfolk on your side," Gren said happily.

Tathrin saw that a chain had been thrown from an upper window to the one facing it across the street. Pulled up taut, it had swept the men off their horses. One lay deathly still as the other two struggled up.

The door of the opposite house slammed open and two men and a boy attacked the stunned mercenaries with sledgehammers and a cudgel. Their women-folk screeched high-pitched encouragement from the windows above.

"This is the fountain court. Where now?" demanded Sorgrad.

There was at least as much wrestling as swordplay going on around the broad basins fed by the town's main conduit. Bodies floated in two of them, tainting the water with blood and ordure.

Tathrin saw the open arches and angled roofs of the covered markets and pointed with his sword. "This way."

His sword had blood on it. How had that happened?

He had no time to wonder as he ran across the flagstoned expanse, the brothers on either side of him. One man made a half-hearted attack on Sorgrad, only to stumble backwards as the Mountain Man deftly sidestepped to hack at his legs.

Once they were in the street running alongside the market halls, there was no one to be seen. Sweat running down his forehead stung Tathrin's eyes, so he shoved his helmet back to wipe his brow. He could hear the sounds of battle behind them, by the gate. Here all was stony silence.

"Where now?" Gren was circling around, his back to Sorgrad. Both were alert for any sign of movement, never mind some hint of attack.

"To the horse fair." But as Tathrin spoke, he saw two brewhouses just ahead, on either side of a narrow entry. What had Aremil said? Take the street leading to the horse fair. Had he meant that the brewhouses were on the horse fair or on the way to it?

"This way." He ran down the alley regardless. If he was wrong, it would be easy enough to retrace their steps.

It was a dead end. An iron-studded gate wide enough for a wagon blocked their way. It was set deep into a solid wall, the mossy tiles of an old roof just visible behind it.

"Tathrin?" Gren looked at him.

"Gren," Sorgrad warned. He was still facing the other way, watching the street.

Tathrin turned around to see armoured men advancing on them. Five abreast, they blocked the windowless alley. None wore any sign of a yellow rag. He pulled his helmet back down. With Sorgrad and Gren on either side, he could only hope they'd be able to fight clear of this trap he'd inadvertently led them into.

Or had he? He looked at the gate again. There was a griffin carved into the pitch-stained wood. "This is it." He threw his head back and yelled. "Aremil!" It had to be worth a try. "Tell Kerith we're here!"

The advancing mercenaries shared a bemused look but didn't waste their breath talking.

Tathrin gripped his sword with both hands. If he could account for one of them, surely Sorgrad and Gren could bring down two each? His hands felt slippery with sweat inside his leather gloves.

"Cut them down, quick as you like." Sorgrad made a throwing gesture with his empty hand.

Fiery specks swirled through the air, bright as sap spat from an unseasoned log in a hearth. The sparks flew straight at the mercenaries' eyes. Cursing, the men flinched and dodged but the magical embers followed them, burning through leather gloves to sting their hands, searing their bearded faces.

Sorgrad and Gren were attacking before the mercenaries could recover. Gren hacked one man's head nearly from his shoulders before smashing the pointed pommel of his sword into the next man's face. As he fell with blood gushing from his smashed nose, Gren buried his blade in the man's throat.

Sorgrad brought his first opponent down with a sidestep and a slice to the man's hamstrings. As he collapsed, Sorgrad kicked him into the second mercenary on that side. As the second man stumbled, incautiously raising his arm, Sorgrad thrust his sword through the aperture in the armpit of his hauberk.

The last one was still attacking Tathrin. He slashed at the man's arms, the blade sliding harmlessly along the mail rings. At least his hacking strokes forced the mercenary back half a pace. Before Tathrin could congratulate himself, the mercenary recovered with another smashing blow. Tathrin could only parry with a desperate effort. Their swords locked at the hilts. Feeling the wooden gate pressing into his back, he pushed against it, using all his height and strength to throw the man backwards. The mercenary slipped and Tathrin wrenched his sword free. Before the man could attack, Tathrin ripped his blade across his throat. Blood sprayed all over his face and stung his eyes. He choked on the metallic smell of it as the dead man collapsed at his feet.

"Well done." Sorgrad was cleaning the dagger he'd just used to cut the throat of the man he'd crippled.

"Finally got you blooded." Gren nodded with approval.

Shaking, Tathrin stepped away from the body and wondered if he was going to be sick. He looked at Sorgrad. "I thought you weren't going to use magic."

"Only where someone might see." The mageborn Mountain Man shrugged. "It's only a few sparks. Anyone wondering at the marks will just think they got a faceful of some housewife's ash pan."

"Fighting fair's for fools and nobles." Gren clapped Tathrin on the shoulder and went to hammer on the gate. "All safe now. Open up."

"What's the word?" a voice shouted on the other side.

"Talagrin's bow."

Tathrin was about to ask how they knew to request the field word when he realised Aremil must have told them.

The small porter's door in the gate opened to reveal Kerith, holding a venerable pole arm with incongruous proficiency.

"Master Scholar." All courtesy, Sorgrad extended a bloody gauntlet.

"Are you all safe?" Tathrin stepped forward. "Is Failla here?"

"She is," Kerith said guardedly. "You had better come in."

Tathrin hurried past him towards the open door on the far side of the stable yard. Two ostlers stood irresolute, hayforks in their hands. One retreated at the sight of Tathrin and his bloody sword. The other stepped forward, ready to try skewering him.

"They're friends!" Nath appeared in the doorway. "And very welcome," he added with profound relief.

"You put that down before you get hurt, pal," Gren advised the courageous ostler. The hayfork clattered to the ground.

"We're upstairs." Nath retreated a pace and indicated the steps.

Tathrin caught a glimpse of a frightened huddle in the taproom, men and boys all wide-eyed with apprehension. He took the stairs two and three at a time. On the landing above, a linen-capped woman, her face as pale as her apron, hurriedly slammed a door.

"Failla?" Tathrin didn't want to try the bedchambers at random.

"In here." Her voice was tremulous.

The others were coming up the stairs behind him. "I take it we wait here, till Aremil tells us everything's safe?" Nath asked.

Kerith was less sanguine. "Unless we have to get ourselves safely out, if Evord's men lose the day."

"Not likely," Gren scoffed.

Tathrin opened the door to see Failla sitting with her back to him, in a chair by the window. "Are you all right?"

"I am." Her voice broke as she turned around.

Tathrin saw she was cradling a little girl. Against all the odds, the child slept peacefully on. There could be no doubt this was Failla's daughter, her dark hair curling across her bodice.

"Someone's got some explaining to do," Gren observed with lively interest.

Words failed Tathrin completely. He had never guessed. Had anyone?

"We've got a good deal to tell you all," Kerith said grimly.

"A tale always goes better with food and drink," Sorgrad said practically. "What's this inn got to offer?"

"My lady?" Gren offered Failla his arm, as if he were about to escort her into a banquet.

"No." She looked at the floor, shamefaced. "You'll have things to tell Nath and Kerith that I shouldn't hear."

"What?" Tathrin was bemused.

"Failla was forced into some indiscretion by a Triolle spy," Kerith said coldly. "We've yet to decide if we still trust her."

"I was trying to keep my daughter safe." Failla raised her shadowed eyes to Tathrin with desperate appeal. "I only told lies to the spy."

"So she says." Nath scowled. "Half the Carluse guildsmen have been seized regardless. And she lied to us, time and again."

Tathrin had feared he might see the map-maker looking at Failla with desire the next time they met. Or worse, with proprietorial content. He hadn't imagined he'd see such contempt in Nath's eyes.

First things first. That's what his father always advised when he couldn't decide what to do. Tathrin looked down at his stained gloves and felt the drying blood stiff on his cheek. "Is there anywhere I can wash?"

"My room's next door." Kerith nodded towards the back of the inn. "Come downstairs when you're done and we'll find you some food."

They all filed out of the room, leaving Failla still sitting by the window hugging her sleeping child.

Tathrin found half a ewer of cold water on Kerith's washstand and a chunk of pale soap. He scrubbed the gore from his face. Aremil had turned angry and evasive when Failla had come up in their aetheric conversation. He must know what she had done, or rather, what she was accused of. Why hadn't he said anything? Tathrin dried his face slowly. Not so long ago, Aremil wouldn't have been able to hide something like this. What other secrets was his friend keeping from him now?