Daybreak (54 page)

And they’d left him behind to rot.

Thelred supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. It wasn’t as if he’d made any friends in the council. Still, it was a cad’s move — even for Colderoy. “What about the villagers?”

“They’re gone, as well. I made sure the council took them aboard. As long as they insist on playing
ruler
, they ought to at least be responsible for their people. Now, if there are no more questions …” D’Mere reached behind her and drew a long, slender dagger from her belt. “I believe the last time we met, I promised to carve your face from your skull if I ever saw you again.”

Thelred tried to ignore the murder in her look — but when the dagger’s tip pressed against his chin, it was difficult. “If Midlan’s coming, why are you still here? Why didn’t you run with the others?”

“I suppose I
could
run. I could live the rest of my life in some forgotten corner of the Kingdom, flinching at every shadow and breath of the wind. But living isn’t all that important to me anymore. It hasn’t been for a while. No, Crevan’s ruined me. He’s taken everything from me — and I intend to ruin him back. I don’t think I could live with myself, if I didn’t try.”

Her stare hardened as the dagger bit through his flesh. Thelred gasped against the pain: it stung him at first, spreading across his skin in thousands of tiny thorns. But the knife didn’t twitch again, and soon the pain dulled.

He knew without even catching the edge of her smirk that D’Mere was going to skin him slowly.

The twin wrapped one arm around his neck and planted the other atop his head, leaving his face exposed. His knee crushed Thelred’s hands against his back while D’Mere’s twisted about the knife. She turned it ever so slightly — just enough to awaken another horrible sting.

There was no point in fighting her. Thelred knew this. He was alone in a castle, stuck at the middle of an island — his only escape a mile-long bridge. Even if he managed to free himself from the twin’s hold or avoid D’Mere’s knife, there was no way he’d be able to outrun them.

“I’m going to peel off your mouth, first. So if there’s anything you’d like to say …?”

Thelred scowled at her. His words slid out from between his teeth with surprising force: “I don’t care what you do to me. Skin me, if you like. But you’d better stop him, D’Mere. You’d better keep Crevan out of the seas.”

She smiled at this; she dug a fraction more into his flesh. Her eyes traced the lines of blood that ran from his wound and down the dagger’s blade. Something crossed her face in a bright red swell — some longing that carved a frozen path down Thelred’s neck.

Then all at once, she relented.

D’Mere paced back to the table and sat down hard. Her eyes closed for a moment as she brushed a loose strand of hair from her dampened brow. Deep breaths shook her arm as she waved to the chair beside her.

“Please … join me,” she said hoarsely.

Thelred didn’t get a chance to answer.

One of the twins pulled him onto his feet while the other kicked out his chair. They shoved him down and stuffed a cloth into his hand. He pressed it warily against his chin. “You aren’t going to kill me?”

“No.”
 

She offered him no further explanation, and the way she stared chilled him to his bones. “I’m warning you, D’Mere —”

“No, I’m warning
you
.” Her voice went hard and her eyes turned cold. “Whatever you may think of me, whatever lies or rumors the council might have you believe, listening to me is your only chance of survival now. You will die unless you do exactly as I say.”

He didn’t know if she meant that Midlan would kill him, or if she intended to kill him herself. But for the moment, he had no choice. “Fine,” he muttered. His eyes went back to the rucksacks, to the many sealed bottles stuffed into their mouths. “What’s in there?”

“Poison,” D’Mere said lightly. She drew a bottle out and held it up to the window. The liquid within it glowed an orange-red. “For the tips of our arrows and the edges of our swords. A single drop in a man’s blood, and he’ll be dead within hours. Midlan’s in for quite a shock, I think.”

It turned out that Thelred wasn’t alone, after all. One of the twins found a number of guards passed out inside the dungeons — lulled to sleep by the contents of their tankards, scattered all across the card table and the floor.
 

Once D’Mere explained to them that they’d been abandoned by the council and were now very thoroughly trapped, it was amazing how quickly they sobered up. The twins marched them into the courtyard and stood watch while they practiced fighting — occasionally stepping in to slap them across their helmets for bad form.

Thelred wasn’t at all impressed with the guards. Judging by the hesitance behind their blows and the sheer number of arrows that completely missed their marks, he wagered none of them had ever done any real fighting. They’d likely been given their spears for the sole purpose of stalking around the castle,
looking
formidable.

Still, with the gates shored and the bridge keeping their enemies trapped in one spot, he thought they had a decent chance of surviving for a few days.

Then Midlan marched in.

Several hundred soldiers entered the village at sunset. Thelred watched from the other end of the bridge as they took over the houses and let themselves into the shops. A line of carts packed the streets, each piled to its top with rations and gear.

They’d prepared for a siege.

While most of Midlan spent the evening either sleeping or buried deep in their cups, one man separated himself from the rest. He was obviously a seas man: he stripped down to his trousers and dove into the waves first thing, spear in hand. He swam beside the mile-long bridge and did his hunting just out of bow range — Thelred knew, because he’d sent an arrow at him the moment he came close.

“Greyson,” D’Mere whispered. She smirked when the man shot them a rude gesture. “One of Midlan’s more dangerous captains.”

Thelred readied another arrow. “You know him?”

“I make it a point to know a little about all of Crevan’s leaders. There are other seas men he could’ve chosen — I rather wish he would’ve sent anybody else.” D’Mere sighed, and her smile slipped into a frown. “Greyson doesn’t make mistakes. He’s frustratingly thorough. The fact that Crevan sent him to the chancellor’s castle means he wants it taken over, not destroyed.”

Thelred supposed that made sense. Crevan would likely appoint another grubbing ruler the moment he captured the seas, and the island castle was too enviable a fortress to pass up. The rule would probably go to this
Greyson
fellow … if he survived.
 

Thelred raised the bow over his head and drew back as he brought it down. He leveled the arrow straight between Greyson’s eyes, but it fell well short.

“You have a strange draw,” D’Mere said, glaring after his shot. “Perhaps that’s why you keep missing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my draw. I’ve been shooting this way since I was a child, and I’ve hit plenty,” he added, before she could retort. “I’m only missing because that scab is floating out of range.”

“Just make sure you have it sorted out before tomorrow. In order for the poison to work, it has to actually hit something.”

Thelred glared at her smirk. “I know how to fight. Perhaps you ought to worry about your own men, D’Mere.”

“I’ll do that. And please,” she said as he marched away, “call me Olivia.”

That was the last in a long list of things he wanted to call her. But somehow, he managed to hold his tongue. All he had to do was suffer her presence for a few more days. If he could survive that long, the pirates would do the rest. They couldn’t be far from the castle, now. They would turn up at any moment.

He was sure of it.

*******

A red sun rose the next morning. The wind blew at his back, howling from the Westlands. Waves slapped against the island’s jagged rocks in a near constant roar. Thelred thought for certain that he would be the first to the ramparts, but D’Mere was already there.

“No mages. That’s … unusual,” she whispered when Thelred approached. Her eyes sharpened upon the gathering crowd in the village: Midlan was preparing to cross the bridge. “Ready your archers, pirate. I’ll gather the spearmen.”

Thelred didn’t know how she could’ve possibly seen from that distance, but he didn’t question it. For now, his only task was to survive the morning — and it would be far from easy.

Most of the remaining guards were spearmen. They gathered on the ramparts with D’Mere and the twin she called
Left
. Only a few guards seemed to be any good at archery — and even then, Fate might have to intervene if they wanted any chance of hitting their marks.

The guards stood in a crooked line in the courtyard, waiting to file into the towers at his order. Half would go with Thelred into the southern tower, and the others would follow Right into the northern. At least Right was decent with the bow: after a few minutes of practice, he’d been able to fire arrows that thudded into the target every time.

As for the rest of them … well, Thelred just hoped their hands were steadier than their nerves.

 
“Chins up, dogs,” he barked as he approached. “I need you all to —”

One of the guards heaved over the top of his words, spilling his breakfast across the stone. Another followed him, and a third became so violently ill that he collapsed upon his knees. The last man didn’t raise his visor in time: he wound up spewing sick through the vents of his helmet while the others watched in open-mouthed shock.

That was precisely the moment when Thelred realized they were all going to die.

“Is everybody finished?” he growled. “Get it out, now. If things go well, we’re going to be stuck inside those towers until dusk. I don’t want to have to wade through the sick to reach the windows. Tighten your laces and let’s get climbing.”

The men slumped off into opposite directions. Thelred followed well behind his guards. By the time he’d finished climbing his way to the top of the tower, his leg ached and the grip of his bow was damp with sweat. It was going to be a long, miserable day. 

A few slit windows ringed the walls — their only portals to the outside world. At least there was a breeze sweeping in to lessen the stench of sweat and nerves. That was one less discomfort Thelred would have to manage.

Three of the windows gave them a fairly decent view of the bridge. Thelred lined the guards up behind them, and took the front spot at the middle. “The first man will fire while the man behind him nocks. Once you’ve taken your shot, step to the back of the line and start nocking. Make every arrow count — and be careful,” he added, glaring at them. “The Countess has tipped the heads with poison. If you get nicked, you’ll die just as quickly as the tinheads.”

They nodded — and took an inordinate amount of time to nock their first arrows.

Thelred couldn’t bear to watch them fumble. If he had to witness one more arrow bouncing off its string, he’d start kicking shins. Instead, he turned his attention to the army below.

Most of the troops stayed behind while a small portion made its way across the bridge. It was wide enough to hold two wagons side-by-side, and sturdy enough to bear the weight of merchants’ caravans. So as much as Thelred might’ve wished for it, hoping the bridge would collapse and drag the soldiers to their deaths wouldn’t do him any good.

Midlan’s front ranks were comprised of a group of heavily armored men. They lined either side of a battering ram: a weapon the size of a stout tree with an iron-capped head. Behind the ram marched several rows of archers. Thelred couldn’t help but notice how they stood in perfect ranks. There wasn’t a shaking hand or an arch of sick among them.

At the very back of the line was a company of swordsmen. They shifted restlessly, the slits in their helmets fixed upon the ramparts. Thelred knew by how intently they watched that the swordsmen were eager for a fight. If that lot made it through the gates, the siege would end quickly. 

Greyson lurked in the middle of it all. He was mounted atop a horse, fully armored. He stripped his helmet away and addressed them with a grin. “Good morning, Countess.”

D’Mere leaned against the rampart walls, inspecting the head of her spear. “You’re making a mistake, Greyson,” she called without bothering to look up. “You’ll find nothing but death behind these gates.”

“Really? I haven’t heard very many footsteps on your side of things — and I’ve got ears like a fox.” He turned his helmet over in his hands, gazing at her through the fall of his hair. “Your little trick at Lakeshore is going to cost you. There’s a bounty on your head large enough to change any man’s fortunes. I’m so pleased that I came across you first. Still, it would be a shame to put such beauty to the sword. Perhaps you’d like the chance to speak with the King, yourself? To plead for your traitorous life? Open the gates for me, my dear, and I’ll give you that chance … eventually.”

Laughter billowed up across the bridge. The soldiers’ shouts and whistles stifled D’Mere’s reply. She glared down as they taunted her, but made no move to silence them.

Thelred wasn’t sure if he could hold his place much longer. The way Greyson spoke, how he sat above everybody else and lorded over them with a smirk — all reminded him of Duke Reginald. He knew how the seas had suffered beneath Reginald’s rule. And there was no doubt in his mind that Greyson would be worse.

When he grew tired of laughing at them, Greyson waved the soldiers forward and galloped from the bridge — moving back into the safety of the village.
 

A crooked rail marked the edge of Thelred’s range. He’d managed to land arrows near it several times in practice. So the moment the battering ram’s nose crossed it, he pulled back and fired.

It landed harmlessly between two soldiers and skittered off the bridge.

Thelred swore. When the guard behind him tried to step forward, he elbowed him back. “Move!”

“But you said —”