The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) (34 page)

‘More news from the kitchens?’

‘It is all over the Rorim.’

He cursed. Too many tongues wagged in this place. He wondered if Bragad knew, also.

An owl hooted nearby, and was answered by another farther away. A lone sentry stood watching on the ramparts some way off. The moon caught a glint of his metal armour as he turned in his walk.

‘Shouldn’t you be in at the feast?’ Riven asked.

‘Bragad asked the Warbutt if the captains and the lords could drink alone in the hall. The servers were sent out as well, as soon as the eating was done.’

‘Talking about matters of import,’ Riven said absently, though uneasiness buzzed at him like a fly. He watched the longhouses in the Circle. The torchlight still flickered at the windows, and there were faint bursts of song filtering out.

Doesn’t look as though they’ll be up to anything tonight.

Dunan and twenty Hearthwares were out in the Circle to keep an eye on them anyway. Luib was on the gates with his trainees. The Rorim itself was not so well defended, but they had enough men to neutralise Bragad and hold the gates—for a while.

So why the uneasiness?

He looked down from the ramparts to see Isay standing with his arms folded and his staff tucked into his belt. The sight reassured him.

‘Why did you not go to the feast?’ Madra asked.

‘I wanted to be on my own.’

‘Oh.’ She drew away, but he pulled her close again. ‘You are a strange man,’ she said. ‘You can get drunk and sing with the rest, and yet you like to be on your own. You never lifted a sword before, yet you use one as though you are born to it.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Isay told me.’

‘Isay!’ The exclamation was soft, so the Myrcan would not hear him. He nuzzled Madra’s hair. ‘You get told everything, don’t you?’

She did not reply, but her arms pulled him tight to her with surprising strength and she kissed him fiercely on the lips. Her thighs pushed his legs apart and she pressed herself against him.

‘Let me stay with you tonight.’

And there was that formidable cast to her jaw, the steady sureness of her eyes.

‘All right,’ he replied hoarsely. The cloak fell away from her, and they walked along the ramparts to the catwalk stairs, the air cool on their hot faces. But Riven tripped on a shadow, and would have fallen if she had not caught his arm. He stared down.

‘Oh, shit,’ he whispered.

It was a dead Hearthware, lying in a dark pool of blood. He had been stabbed through the throat.

Riven straightened and glared over at the longhouses. The lights were still there, and he could hear the singing.

‘Isay!’ he yelled. The Myrcan was at the stairs in an instant, with his staff in his hands. His eyes fired as he saw the corpse of the Hearthware.

‘Get to the hall—tell them what has happened, and get them to secure the Manse. There are enemies in the Rorim, and probably more on the way.’

Isay nodded and pelted off.

‘It is Phelim. He was only two summers older than me,’ Madra said, with tears in her voice. She smoothed the hair back from the dead face. Riven pulled her to her feet.

‘Go to the kitchens and warn them there. We are about to be attacked. Tell them to try and arm themselves.’ He shook her. ‘Tell them, Madra!’ She looked at him wide-eyed for a second, then ran off in the same direction as Isay. Riven leant on the ramparts and drew a deep breath.

Think, Riven. What does this mean? What are they doing?

As he stood there, one of the Circle longhouses where Bragad’s ’Wares had been billeted began to blossom with flame. Two figures were at its eaves with torches. Even as he watched, he saw lights flaming in the Dale in answer—and he saw Dunan and his men rush the longhouses with the moon glittering on their swords.

They are coming.

Luib’s men were divided between the three gates in the outer wall. If their attackers were in any strength, it would not take them long to get through. Or they might just clamber over the wall at any point. The outer wall was a defence only against animals, not men. It was to protect the flocks and herds within, more than anything else. Not for the first time, Riven cursed the trust of these people in... other people.

The longhouses were ablaze from gable to gable now, and Dunan’s Hearthwares milled about them. Then Riven was jolted, as Isay nearly knocked him down.

‘They have taken the hall,’ he panted. ‘Bragad’s men hold it, and all in it; his ’Wares must have come over the ramparts in the night.’

And two left behind as a diversion. Clever. Was that a faint shouting he heard, away by the outer wall?

‘Run to Dunan. Tell him to get his men into the Rorim, and to send a runner to Luib on the gates. We have to get everybody back to man these ramparts.’ Isay turned to go, but Riven stopped him. ‘What about our Myrcans? What are they doing?’

‘Two guard the hall doors, with two ’Wares. Druim and Belig arm the household.’

‘Good. Go on!’ Isay leapt over the wall and disappeared into the depths of the ditch. A moment later he was up and running towards the blazing buildings in the Circle.

Riven stood alone on the eerily deserted ramparts, and chafed with impatience. Bragad’s plan was clear now. Hold the leaders hostage in the hall whilst the larger force punch their way through the defences to take the Rorim from its leaderless and probably drunk defenders. His ’Wares had left their billets and accomplished the first part of the plan, leaving some of their number behind to allay suspicions. No doubt Jinneth and the two renegade lords of Ralarth were on their way, with God knew how many at their back.

Dunan’s group began loping towards the Rorim, leaving two bodies behind them on the moonlit ground. They had half a mile to run. From the outer wall came the faint but definite sound of fighting.

Riven rubbed his sword hilt with a white thumb, thinking for a second of Madra pressing against him. He shook his head angrily, and heard a clatter of feet behind, coming up the catwalk stairs. He met them with a drawn sword, but it was Gwion and Colban and a score of others armed with staves, kitchen knives and clubs. Colban was sweating and breathless.

‘Well met, Lord,’ he gasped as his group trooped out along the ramparts. Then he leaned on the wall and rubbed his face with his free hand. ‘I am too old for this sort of thing.’

Gwion was the only one of them who had a sword.

‘Our people are helping the Myrcans guard the hall doors,’ the Steward said. ‘My wife commands them. There are many of Bragad’s ’Wares in there, holding the captains. The doors have been barred. All the others I could find, I brought here.’ He put his fist to his chest and coughed.

‘You did well,’ said Riven. Madra glided to his side with a knife in her hand. Their eyes met for a moment, then he looked away. ‘Dunan and our Hearthwares will be here in minutes. More of Bragad’s men are on the way. We have to hold the Rorim against them.’

There were frightened murmurs at this. In the clear night air, the sound of battle at the nearest of the gates was clearly audible. Gwion ushered them about like sheep and positioned them along the wall. Two-thirds of the ramparts were undefended.

There was a tumult at the gates, and in a few moments Dunan and the Hearthwares joined them.

‘A fine night for a fight!’ the Hearthware leader said, his teeth flashing and the blood shining on his sword. Isay took his place at Riven’s side once more. As the ’Wares positioned themselves amongst the household, Dunan gazed out on the Circle. ‘Luib is pulling his men out in feigned flight; when the foe attacks us, he and his men will take them in the rear.’

Riven nodded. And here it was. Four years in the army, and this is my first real battle—with a sword in my hand. He felt Madra’s arm encircle his waist.

‘Are you afraid?’ she asked.

‘You bet your life I am.’ Then he frowned. ‘You can’t stay here. You can’t stay in the middle of a battle.’

‘There are other women on the ramparts.’

His face twisted as he glanced about him. ‘I know, but—’ He was conscious of the others there watching them. And he saw the stubbornness under her brows. ‘Damn it.’ And he turned away from her smile.

The sounds of battle on the outer wall ceased, and the night was quiet except for fidgeting on the catwalk. Madra was shivering again, her eyes fixed on the Circle beyond the burning longhouses. There was a distant crash as a roof collapsed in flames.

A figure appeared, running past the blaze and stumbling his way to the gate, which boomed open and then closed behind him. He lurched to the catwalk, the breath tearing in his throat and the sweat shiny on his face. A Hearthware.

‘Where is Dunan?’

‘Here, Fimir. What news?’

‘Luib has lost nine men. He has pulled his lot away in flight.’ Fimir seemed to choke on his words. ‘It is Mullach and Lionan—our own lords! They lead the attackers.’

‘How many are they?’ Dunan asked sharply. The Hearthware gulped for breath.

‘Luib tried to count. At least a score of ’Wares, and half a dozen Myrcans; maybe a hundred others, unarmoured like our trainees. Some of them are Suardale men—and Drynoch men!’

Dunan cursed softly. ‘All right, Fimir; that was well done. Get your breath back. You’ll be needing it soon.’ Fimir nodded and tottered away.

‘We have a fight on our hands,’ Dunan said. He sucked his teeth. ‘Our own Dales. And Myrcan fighting Myrcan. I’d like to know how the fox persuaded them to that.’

‘Why would your people fight each other?’ Riven asked Isay.

‘I know not. But they will have had a good reason.’ Doubt clouded his face, and he was troubled.

‘Just kill their ’Wares for us, then, and we’ll try and take care of your countrymen,’ said Dunan dryly. He spat over the wall into the darkness of the ditch. ‘I hope Luib’s bunch bloodied their noses for them, or things are going to be rather tight around here in a few moments.’

They all heard the noise of feet at once, and instinctively leaned over the battlements, craning to see.

‘There,’ said Riven, pointing. ‘Coming into the firelight.’

Then they were visible: a dark crowd of men with the light glinting off armour and sword blades, and two figures, one slim, one broad, leading them. They fanned out as they approached, and the Hearthwares on the catwalk produced bows from the sheaths at their backs and nocked them with pale-fletched arrows.

‘Wait till the bastards get closer,’ Dunan grated. The attackers halted and seemed to consult amongst themselves; then they gave a ragged cheer and charged, discharging a volley of arrows as they came. They hailed down and clinked on the ramparts. One of the household screamed and fell off the catwalk to the buildings below.

Then the Ralarth ’Wares fired, on Dunan’s hoarse order. There was a hissing sound in the night, clear above the roar of the attackers, and men began to crumple below, hitting the ground with the feathered shafts decorating them. The charge hardly paused, however, and swarmed up to the gates in a rush. They milled there for seconds, a dark mass glinting like beetles in the light of the moon—and then there were thin, spiked shapes being raised against the walls. Slim tree trunks with the branches cut down to within a foot of the bole were placed against the battlements, and men began to climb up them.

The defenders pushed at the makeshift ladders, and at least one went crashing back down into the crowd below; but those who exposed themselves to do it were immediately the target of a dozen archers. Riven saw a Hearthware collapse with arrows in his face and neck. A cook from the kitchens took one in the eye and stumbled backwards with his hands pressed to his temples.

Dunan swore viciously. ‘Those whoresons have twice as many archers as us. They’ll pin us down and then swarm all over us.’

Enemy heads began appearing over the wall. Many died there, with spear points in their mouths or sword blades splitting their skulls, but defenders were falling also. Riven hacked at the neck of one man who had a leg over the wall and saw the agonised face disappear. I’ve killed a man, he thought, but the realisation meant nothing to him in that mad moment.

Armoured Hearthwares with red sashes belting their middles laboured on to the battlements, with the defender’s weapons pounding them like smith’s hammers on an anvil. They reeled under the blows, but the heavy steel saved them and they recovered to push back unarmoured householders. Their comrades followed in a steady stream, like water widening a hole in a dyke—and then Riven saw Mullach top the battlements, with his hammer whirling about his head and the black moustache framing a snarl of a mouth.

The fighting became hand-to-hand all along the wall, blades flashing wickedly in the moonlight. Riven wanted to find Madra, for she was no longer at his side, but the man in front of him fell and he found himself confronting an enemy militiaman. His brain switched off, his limbs doing their job automatically. Their swords rang together, and Riven knew he was the weaker man. He was forced to back away, almost tripping over bodies and becoming enmeshed in other fights. He blocked blow after blow, but his healing bones were ready to collapse. The man grinned, seeing the defeat in Riven’s eyes, and beat down his blade. He raised his own weapon again for the kill, and then fell forward on to his face with a knife buried to the hilt between his shoulders. Madra stood behind him, eyes wild, blood on her hands.