Shapers of Darkness (65 page)

By nightfall, the wood and iron were groaning. Aindreas
knew that it wouldn’t be long before the second portcullis was defeated as well. The men stationed on his battlements had been forced to seek shelter within the towers, emerging only long enough to loose their arrows and quarrels before being chased back inside by the bombardment from Aneira’s hurling arms. The only saving grace was that with the arms constantly striking at the walls, the enemy soldiers could not risk raising ladders to climb to the ramparts.

Aindreas could do little but watch the siege unfold from his chamber. He would have preferred to fight; despite his girth, he remained a formidable presence on the battlefield, powerful, yet quick with a blade. But this type of war demanded patience, a virtue he had always lacked. Sitting at his desk, the smell of smoke stinging his nostrils, it was all he could do to keep from drowning himself in Sanbiri red.

Early the next morning, as the duke finished a small breakfast, Villyd Temsten, his swordmaster, came to his chamber, face grim, eyes smoldering. He had a bandage on his forearm and an untreated gash above his left eye, but these only served to make him appear even more fearsome than usual.

“What news, swordmaster?” the duke asked, rising from his chair and stepping around his writing table.

“Little has changed, my lord. The second portcullis still stands, though it won’t last the day. Our archers have had some success from the ramparts, but they’re still being chased back to the towers by Rowan’s hurling arms.”

“How are our stores?”

Villyd’s mouth twisted sourly for a moment. “Shrinking, my lord. Slowly, to be sure, but we can’t hold out indefinitely.”

“Neither can they.”

“Actually, Mertesse is near enough that they can reprovision more readily than we can.”

Aindreas frowned. “Is this why you’ve come? To tell me that our stores are running low?”

“No, my lord. There’s something else. I think you should come see for yourself.”

“What is it?”

“Please, my lord. Come with me.”

Aindreas took a long breath, then indicated the door with
an open hand and followed Villyd into the corridor. The swordmaster led him from the inner keep to the nearest of the towers on the outer wall. They climbed to the battlements, then strode to the northeast corner of the castle.

“Look,” he said, pointing toward the farmland beyond the city walls.

The duke had known while still in his chamber what it was Villyd intended to show him. Still, he couldn’t keep from muttering a curse.

A long column of Aneiran soldiers was marching north toward Kentigern Wood, some in the black and gold of Mertesse, many in the red and gold of Solkara. They had set fire to two of the nearer farmhouses and were in the process of setting ablaze a field of grain.

“Bastards,” the duke said, staring down at them, feeling helpless and foolish.

They’ll wait until the siege is well under way
, Jastanne had said, with the prescience one would expect from a Qirsi.
In all likelihood you’ll have little choice but to use all your men in the defense of your city and castle. But just in case you have it in mind to stop them, don’t
.

He could hear her voice, so calm and sure of herself. He would have liked to scream her name, and he found himself glancing due north, to the rise on which he had seen her the day the siege began. No one was there now.

“We should stop them, my lord. We should protect the people in your dukedom, and we should keep them from reaching the Moorlands.”

“We can’t,” Aindreas said, his voice thick.

“But, my lord—”

“We can’t!” The words echoed off the fortress walls, drawing the stares of his men. “It’s what they want us to do,” he went on, more quietly this time. “That’s why they’re burning the houses and crops, to draw us into the open.” He knew this was so, just as he knew that if he divided his army his castle would be at risk. Just as he knew that Villyd was right, that he should have been willing to risk Kentigern to save Eibithar.

“What are your orders, my lord?” the swordmaster asked,
his voice so flat, it made Aindreas’s throat constrict just to hear it.

“We’ll go after the hurling arms again. If we can destroy them, we might be able to break the siege. Rowan has fewer men now.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Villyd turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched and his head low. Protocol demanded that he await permission from Aindreas before leaving, but the duke hadn’t the heart to call him back.

“People are dying, father.”

Aindreas turned to see Brienne standing beside him, her golden hair rising and falling in the warm wind.

“They’re dying because of you. And because of you, the kingdom is in peril of being overrun.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Tell them the truth.”

“I’ll be hanged, and Ennis will be left to rule a shamed house.”

“Yes. But still, you have to.”

He turned away from her, searching the rise once more for Jastanne, fearing that he might see her.

“Our best hope now lies with the Qirsi. As long as they prevail, we’ll be fine.”

“The Qirsi killed me. You know they did, and yet you continue to help them.”

Tears stung his eyes and he squeezed them shut rather than look at her, rather than allow any of his men to see him weep.

“You should be ashamed,” he heard her whisper.

You ‘re a ghost. You ‘re not real
.

When at last he opened his eyes, she was gone. Several of his soldiers were eyeing him, some with open curiosity, others more discreetly, though with apprehensive looks on their faces.

In the next instant, the castle shook, and their attention was drawn once more to the Aneirans and their ram, which was hammering again at the Tarbin gate. A moment later, several of the men shouted warnings, pointing toward the sky. Mertesse’s
soldiers had returned to the hurling arms as well. One of the great stones crashed harmlessly against the outer wall, and another passed over the ramparts and landed in the castle’s outer ward. But two clay oil pots found their mark, shattering on the walkways atop the wall and splattering flaming oil in all directions. Several men dropped to the stone, rolling frantically back and forth, trying to put out the fires on their uniforms and hair. Aindreas rushed to help them, batting at the blazes with his hands, tearing off his cape and throwing it over one man whose clothes were fully engulfed.

When the flames had finally been put out and healers summoned, an uninjured soldier approached the duke.

“You must leave the walls, my lord. They’re certain to attack again, and you could be killed.”

Aindreas glared at the man, ready to tell him to mind his own affairs. But he knew the soldier was right. He was no good to the army dead. Indeed, his death might well hasten the castle’s fall.

“Fine,” he said. “Where’s the swordmaster?”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

He glanced toward Kentigern Wood once more. Smoke continued to rise from farmhouses and fields, and the column of Solkaran soldiers was still in view, farther from the castle, but near enough to be overtaken by an army on foot.

They’ll tell the world what you ‘ve done. Think of Ennis and Affery. Think of Ioanna
.

Aindreas entered the nearest tower, descended the stairway to the outer ward, and crossed the courtyard to where Villyd stood, speaking with three of his captains.

“My lord,” the swordmaster said, seeing him approach. The captains fell silent.

Aindreas had intended to pursue the Solkarans. He had been ready to confess all to Villyd, to explain what would happen when the Qirsi learned that he had stopped the Aneirans’ march northward. But faced with the prospect of doing so, seeing the way the captains looked at him, the duke couldn’t bring himself to speak the words.

“Was there something you wanted, my lord?”

“Yes. Yes, I—I want you to send out raiding parties against those hurling arms immediately. They’re striking at the battlements again, and I want it to stop.”

“Yes, my lord. We were just discussing that. We had thought to send twice the number of men this time, half through the south sally port, half through the west. Perhaps if we flank them, they’ll have a more difficult time driving back the assault.”

“Very good, swordmaster. That sounds like a fine plan.” His hands were trembling. What he would have given for some wine.

“Very well, my lord. We’ll prepare the raiding parties immediately.”

Aindreas nodded. “Good. I’ll be in my chamber.”

He hurried away, certain that Villyd and the others were staring after him, but too eager to be back in his chamber to care.

Brienne was waiting for him in the corridor outside his door, but he ignored her, reaching for the door handle with his eyes fixed on the stone floor.

“Father.”

He opened the door.

“Father!”

He chanced a glance at the girl, then blinked and looked again. It was Affery, not Brienne. She was frowning at him, looking more peeved than hurt.

“I’m sorry, Affery. I . . . I’m sorry.” He walked over to her and pulled her close in a quick embrace. “What is it you need?”

“Mother was asking for you. We felt the castle shake and I think she was afraid.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her face. She’d be beautiful, too, just as her sister and mother had been. “How is she?”

Affery shrugged. “Not too bad. She sings with us, which she hasn’t done in a long time. And she’s been eating. I know that you worry when she doesn’t.”

Clever child, like her brother. She’d make a fine duchess someday.

Who will marry a girl from a disgraced house?

“Tell her not to worry. The Aneirans are using their hurling arms again, but we’re sending out men to destroy them. Can you remember all that?”

“Yes, but she’ll want to hear it from you.”

“I know. I’ll come to the cloister later.”

“When?”

“This evening. I’ll try to be there for dinner. Tell her that.”

Affery nodded, looking terribly sad. “Yes, Father.”

Aindreas knew that he should say more. Perhaps he should have gone with her immediately back to the cloister, but all he could think about was his wine and the Qirsi and what a mess he had made of everything.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

She gave a half smile before walking back down the corridor toward the cloister. Aindreas watched her go, waiting until she had turned the corner before entering his chamber, bolting the door, and pouring himself a cup of Sanbiri red.

By the time the prior’s bell sounded in the city, Aindreas had gone through two flagons of wine and was well on his way to finishing a third. He wasn’t drunk—he had consumed so much wine in the year since Brienne’s death that he wasn’t certain he was capable of getting drunk anymore—but he had grown sleepy. Sitting by his window, his goblet in his hand, he nearly dozed off, but was pulled awake again by a knock at his door.

His first thought was that it must be Jastanne, and he kept silent, hoping that she would leave him. But then he heard Villyd calling for him.

The duke stood, feeling a bit unsteady on his feet, and crossed to the door. He unlocked it and pulled it open, but then retreated to his writing table, not wanting the swordmaster to smell wine on his breath.

“Report,” he said, sitting once more. “You sent out the raiding parties?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And?”

As if in answer, the castle shuddered, and cries went up from the ramparts.

“Our men managed to destroy one of them, my lord, but they were driven back before they could do more.”

“How many did we lose?”

“Fourteen, my lord. And eight others wounded.”

“Demons and fire.” The fortress shook again. “Do we dare try again?”

“We can, my lord, but I doubt we’ll be any more successful.”

“What if we tried at night? Give the men flints to light their arrows so they wouldn’t need to carry torches.”

“That might—” Villyd stopped, eyes narrowing.

Aindreas heard it as well. More cries from the walls, though these were different from those that had come before. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

The duke stood and together they strode to the closest tower and climbed the stairs to the battlements. Kentigern’s men were gathered at the eastern end of the outer wall, and several of them were pointing toward the lower edge of the wood. For a moment, hurrying toward the east end of the walkway, he wondered if the Solkarans had returned, but they would have had no reason to do so.

Reaching the wall, looking down where his men were pointing, the duke felt his stomach heave. A tremendous column of soldiers was approaching the tor—at least three thousand men. Some marched under the green and white banner of Labruinn, others under the tawny and black of Tremain. Even from a distance, the duke recognized the sigils on their banners. But his eyes were drawn to the lead group, all of them dressed in purple and gold, all of them marching under the flag of the realm. These were Kearney’s men, the King’s Guard.

“They’ve come to save us!” one of the soldiers shouted, drawing cheers from the others.

Aindreas wanted to believe this, but he had defied the king at every turn, refusing to pay his ducal fees, ignoring Kearney’s demand that he journey to the City of Kings. He had even allowed Jastanne to murder Kearney’s emissary in his chamber. Had he been king, he wouldn’t have sent his army to aid such a duke. He would have sent it to destroy him.