Authors: Nathan Hawke
‘Nothing is done that is not tried. Isn’t that an Aulian saying? And should it
not
be tried?’ His hand swept up the valley to the castle of Varyxhun. ‘Look at what you made, Aulian. Look at what you were!’
‘But we were not wise, King of the Lhosir. We dug until we found something we could not contain and should not have found and with a stroke it brought everything to ruin. Nothing is done that is not tried does not mean all that there is
should
be tried. That is a saying of my people too.’
‘What did your people bury here, Aulian?’
‘I do not know, O King. The libraries of the castle do not say. I do not know why it was brought here and nor do I know what will happen if it is whole again. It is something unique in its danger. Perhaps in this palace of which you speak there is more . . .’
Medrin nodded. ‘You disappoint me, Oribas of Aulia, but I thank you for your honesty.’
He left Oribas at the side of the river staring at the water, filled with thoughts about the castle that the Aulians had called the Water Castle and the legends which spoke of a dragon who would drown any army who broke the sixth gate. Filled with the knowledge of his ancestors and their craft and their cunning and the certain understanding that he’d missed something. But filled most of all with thoughts of Achista.
Later, the Lhosir led him into the heart of the town. As the evening drew in they took him to what had once been the market, where a dozen carpenters were hard at work building what looked like wooden shelters, each as long as a hanging shed but with no walls. Sixfingers was walking among them and he smiled when he saw Oribas. ‘It seems my Fateguard are all gone.’ He held up his iron hand and looked at it. ‘A precious gift this, once, but now it burns and serves no purpose. Thanks to you, Aulian, and so I won’t be so sad to lose it again. I should have known, of course, that every gift would come with a price. I’m sure
you
would have known that.’ He looked at the road leading up to Varyxhun castle, at the Lhosir moving about on the lower tiers and then across the market square where a bedraggled band of
Marroc were being herded. He stood and watched as the Marroc were beaten and forced onto the wooden frames and tied there, hand and foot; and when it was done he looked at Oribas. He stayed silent but his eyes asked if Oribas understood, and Oribas bowed his head and nodded, because yes, he understood perfectly. The Lhosir would carry these human shields over their heads when they attacked the gates once more and Achista was among them.
‘What do you want?’ He could hardly speak.
The Lhosir king nodded slightly. Arms gripped Oribas and forced him down, holding him helpless while others tied him to the wooden frame. ‘Oribas of Aulia, you came to Witches’ Reach filled with purpose, yet you say you know nothing?’ He shook his head. ‘The Eyes of Time is here, not far away at all. Do you not feel the presence? The Fateguard are gone, the pieces of iron are found, and so our bargain is done. I fear we have become adversaries once more and so my patience for your knowledge has become frayed. Perhaps a night out here will help your memory.’
A wave of despair shook Oribas. ‘I would tell you what I knew if I had the knowledge to share. Why would I not?’ Desperation filled every word. Not for him, but for his love. ‘The red sword. Salt and fire and salt and ice and last of all iron. There is nothing more to know! That is enough! It is all I have to give!’
But Medrin was shaking his head. ‘Tomorrow I’ll take the last gate of Varyxhun. I might go alone, if you convince me. Otherwise we all go together.’ The king squatted beside him. ‘In the morning I’ll let you go. You can walk beside me. You can carry the shield for me.’ He chuckled. ‘If it was the other way round, we both know she’d let you die. But it isn’t.’ He held out his arm with its iron hand and cut the skin above his wrist with a knife. ‘The Eyes of Time. My blood oath, Aulian. Tell me its secrets and I’ll keep your woman from harm. Otherwise what use are you to me? What use are
either of you? Think on it. You have until the morning.’
He walked away. Oribas watched him go and felt his heart turn to lead, for there were no secrets to share.
S
omewhere far away the sun began to rise. Oribas watched the snow-painted tips of the mountains across the river light up in orange fire and listened to the morning watchmen as they shuffled into the market square, yawning and rubbing their eyes. The Lhosir who’d stood guard through the night slunk away to doze before the morning battle began.
‘Guard! Guard! I have something to say to your king!’ Because if what Medrin needed was to hear a story about the Eyes of Time then a story he could have. It wasn’t an easy thing to lie, not for one like Oribas, but he’d done far worse since he’d crossed the mountains.
The nearest watchman laughed and spat at him. ‘If Ironhand wants to hear your begging for mercy, he’ll come in his own good time.’ He walked away. Oribas looked across the yard for Achista but he hadn’t seen where the Lhosir had tied her, and when he called out the Lhosir kicked him until he was quiet. His eyes flickered about the square, searching for inspiration. He could only see two Lhosir now, not the three who’d first come into the square, but then he spied the third again, slipping out of some alley, and one of the Marroc must have said something for the Lhosir suddenly started kicking and snarling like an animal. The second watchman went over to him and the other spun around and smacked him in the face with such violence that even Oribas winced. The two fell to the ground wrestling. The first ran over, and then suddenly the third Lhosir was
up again, sword drawn, and the next thing Oribas knew the other two were being murdered right in front of him. It was brutally quick and happened almost without a sound. The Lhosir dragged the two bodies under the wooden shields and ran to Oribas and crouched down beside him, and at last Oribas saw her face.
‘I have to kill a monster,’ she said in her singsong Vathan voice. ‘So I will kill this Lhosir king.’ She cut the ropes that held him. Across the square he saw another figure rise and crouch down again.
‘Achista?’
Mirrahj helped him to his feet. ‘Run and hide. Get away. I want the Lhosir king.’
Yes, he could do that. Or they could get back into the castle the same way they got out. And he found himself thinking of the shaft that ran up under the gates and into the cisterns and on up into the mountain, and finally his eyes flickered up to the castle and to the tarn above it, brimming full of snowmelt. He gripped Mirrahj’s hand. ‘No!’ Across the square Achista was freeing the other Marroc. Oribas pulled Mirrahj after him. ‘I know how he means to break through the last gate.’ He stared at the rushing waters of the Isset, full and ready to burst its banks. ‘I have to go back. I know why they call it the water castle. I know its secret. I know how to stop him. He will lead his army himself this time, I know it. You can be there, waiting for him.’
Mirrahj seemed to think on this for a moment and then nodded and handed him his precious satchel. ‘Then you might want this.’
Once again the Lhosir climbed the mountain road and once again Gallow watched them. They came with a banner in their midst this time, the banner Reddic and Jonnic had seen before. Valaric looked at him. ‘Are there any iron devils left, or was that all of them?’
As far as Gallow knew no one had ever counted the Fateguard or known how many they were. Not many, that was sure. He shook his head. ‘Someone had better tell Reddic that Sixfingers is coming back for seconds.’
The Lhosir wound steadily closer and Valaric left to stand over the sixth gate. The Lhosir had the big wooden screens they carried over their heads again and Gallow wondered how many more Fat Jonnics there were among the Marroc. Not many.
Sarvic quietly came and stood beside him. ‘Sixfingers must think he’s going to win. He wouldn’t be here otherwise. So there’s more iron devils after all. Must be.’
‘Maybe Valaric will shout the right words into the Dragon’s Maw and draw out the beast to eat them all.’
They both laughed at that. Sarvic shook his head. ‘Never thought I’d see you again, forkbeard, after Lostring Hill. You saved my life from the Vathen. A Marroc saved by a forkbeard. I hated you for that. When they were going to hang you here, I paid you back.’ He drew off his gauntlet and pulled the knife from his belt and cut his arm. ‘Yours today, forkbeard, and freely given. I’m proud to stand with you.’
Gallow did the same. They clasped arms, their blood mingling. ‘You’re not the man I remember, Sarvic. If all Marroc were like you and Valaric, the Screambreaker would have turned back at the sea.’
Sarvic laughed. ‘I wish that were true.’
‘Watch over my Arda and my sons. If Sixfingers breaches the gates and takes the castle then he won’t be kind. Don’t let him take them.’
‘If I still bleed I’ll defend them with my life.’
‘Just let Reddic get them out, Sarvic. He knows the way. You should get out too. It doesn’t have to be the end here.’
‘For most of us it does, Foxbeard. For most of us it does.’
The Lhosir came on up the road through the smashed
lower gates. They marched along the fourth tier and Valaric loosed a single volley of precious arrows to remind Medrin’s men that they weren’t safe, not ever. After that the Marroc watched as the Lhosir marched under their sea of shields and their wooden roofs and turned the corner to the last tier, to the broken fifth gate and then, at the road’s end, the sixth. All the oil was gone and also most of the stones piled up behind the gates to hold them shut and brace them against the inevitable ram. Shouts started up, taunts and insults raining down, but even as the Lhosir came up to the sixth gate, the Marroc held back their last precious arrows. Then a shout went up from Valaric on the gates and all along the battlements the Marroc rose. Stones crashed on the forkbeards’ wooden roofs, knocking them askew. Arrows flew through the gaps. Boiling water rained over them, though it was hard to see whether it ever scalded Lhosir skin. Men snapped off the icicles that had formed overnight and threw them like spears. Gallow smiled as he saw that. Oribas would have done the same.
‘No ram,’ said Sarvic beside him, and Gallow saw it was true. The Lhosir had come up the mountain road with their shields but nothing else. So Sarvic was right. They had more ironskins after all. He looked at the sacks of salt lined up along the battlements and slit one open.
‘Give me a hand with this?’
Sarvic nodded. The first Lhosir were at the sixth gate now, arrows thudding into their shields, and Valaric had his own sacks of salt and all manner of other things to throw down on them. Medrin and his banner were moving up under their own wooden roof. It looked different, but it took a moment for Gallow to realise why.
There were people tied to it.
As the sun crept down the mountains across the Isset, Mirrahj swore softly under her breath in her own tongue.
When Achista and Oribas were finally done freeing the rest, she grabbed them both and hauled them away into the darkest shadows she could find.
‘Look!’ Two forkbeards stumbled bleary-eyed out of a house across the street. ‘They’re waking.’
‘They mean to attack again this morning. King Sixfingers told me this.’
The alley where they hid ran between a jumble of yards to a wide street by the river, the obvious place to go. If they reached a boat, the current would take them and the forkbeards would never catch up on foot, but they’d need to be quick. The other freed Marroc were trying to slip away. One of them, at least, would be seen. The hue and cry would go up at any moment and forkbeards would come swarming from everywhere.
Mirrahj fingered the sword hilt at her belt. Maybe Sixfingers would come to see for himself – now there was a thought. But Oribas wanted to go back to the castle, so Mirrahj pulled him and Achista into a yard instead, and then through the back door of a house. A place to hide.
Three forkbeards looked up at them as they burst in. They were sitting in a circle on the floor. The one staring right at her froze mid-yawn. The nearest had his back to her. She kicked that one in the head, jumped on his back, drove the red sword through the one who was still yawning and then swung a backhand slash that cut open the face of the third. The one she’d kicked had time to let out an angry grunt and turn and look up and go all wide-eyed before she drove Solace through his heart. Two spears leaned against the wall. Achista snatched one. Oribas went for the other door but Mirrahj pulled him back. ‘We wait here.’
Achista laughed. ‘Shall we fight the whole of Sixfingers’ horde?’
As a shout went up outside, the first of the fleeing Marroc seen, Mirrahj gripped Achista. ‘They expect us to run!
Perhaps they won’t look so close. And yes, little Marroc, if we have to then we fight every forkbeard in this valley. Isn’t that what you came here for?’
Oribas pulled a fur off the floor. He wrapped himself in it and lay down.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What if there were six forkbeards here, not three, and all had been killed? Who would know any better? Who ever thinks to look closely at the dead?’
More shouts and then one right outside: ‘Marroc! Marroc!’ Another shout: ‘Ironhand wants them alive!’
The Aulian shifted so that his eyes were on the door but the dead forkbeards hid his face. ‘Lie in the back in the darkest shadows with your weapons close and ready. Sixfingers plans to take the castle today. He has a way through the last gate and he won’t wait. They won’t look for long, I promise you. The castle is his prize today, not us.’
And he was right. Mirrahj settled uneasily into the far corner of the room and slumped against the wall, the red sword close to hand. When a pair of forkbeards burst in on them, she stayed very still as they stopped with the sunlight streaming behind them and squinted into the gloom and shook their heads. They left the door open and so now and then she saw others hurry past, back and forth for a while with noise and commotion all about, and then the noise faded and no forkbeards came past any more, and when the three of them finally emerged, hours after dawn, the army was all gone, marching up to the castle and Varyxhun was almost empty. Mirrahj led them from house to house, shadow to shadow, until she reached the edge of the river, and there Oribas stopped her. He looked up to the column of forkbeards steadily climbing the mountain road. ‘Find a rope.’ He looked her up and down and then poked her in the hip. ‘And a stout piece of wood that stands this high off the ground. And be quick.’
*
Sarvic drew back his bow and took aim. ‘Don’t say a word, forkbeard. Not a word.’ His voice was harsh and hoarse. He let the first arrow fly and it struck one of the Marroc in the chest. Sarvic drew another. Medrin was climbing the last tier now, about to pass through the fifth gate and in range of the boiling water and the stones, yet nothing was hitting his human shield. At least there was no hearing the screams over the shouts of the Lhosir and the Marroc on the walls.
Sarvic shot another arrow. It struck a second Marroc in the throat. A good clean kill. Gallow squinted, trying to see if Achista or Mirrahj or Oribas was a part of Medrin’s shield. Under the rags and the dirt and the crusted blood it was hard to be sure.
Sarvic fired again. As Medrin’s banner passed beneath he killed the last of the screaming Marroc, threw down his bow and ran along the battlements, howling at the top of his lungs, ‘There! Down there! Sixfingers! Never mind the rest of them, he’s the one! Kill him! Kill the forkbeard king. Look at him!
Look!
’ He picked up a stone as big as his head and staggered under its weight, hefted it up to a merlon over Medrin’s banner and tipped it over. It bounced off the wall and smashed into a corner of the shield. For a moment the back end wavered and sank. ‘Kill him! Use everything!’
The Marroc went wild. Arrows flew at every opening, no matter how small. Men ran up and down the battlements with stones and pots of boiling water, slopping it, burning their hands and scalding their feet but they didn’t care. A torrent came over the wall down onto Medrin’s roof and banner. Another great stone hit square in the middle and snapped the beam that held the shield together. Smaller stones pinged off the sides and it was riddled with arrows. As Gallow watched, the roof began to break apart. The Marroc cheered but now Gallow wasn’t looking at Medrin’s banner, he was looking everywhere else. There was too little Lhosir
in Medrin to stand beneath his own banner come what may, and yet just enough for him to be here somewhere. And he was looking for the Fateguard too because there had to be one. He could see small rams carried under the following roofs. Nothing big enough for the gates of the castle as they were, but rust their hinges to dust and . . .
Another whoop and a cheer went up from the Marroc on the sixth gate and a cloud of grey showered down. The roof at the front of the Lhosir army tipped sideways and lay on its edge, about to topple over the cliff onto the tier below. Lhosir soldiers hastily lifted their shields and cowered. Medrin’s roof was almost at the front of them now, bent in the middle and sagging but still carried onward. Sacks and sacks came over the gatehouse, each of them ripped before they went. The air was suddenly thick with salt but still Medrin’s banner came on. Then with a great shout from the gate, a stone block the size of a man toppled from the wall. Gallow watched it plunge into the front of what was left of Medrin’s roof, shattering it. The spear flying his banner snapped and exploded into shards. The roof disintegrated, the Lhosir crushed beneath it trapped screaming while others scurried for shelter, pressing themselves against the walls. Everywhere the Marroc cheered and hooted. ‘For King Tane!’ ‘Go back to your sheep, forkbeards!’
Gallow peered frantically among the forkbeards who’d come up behind Medrin’s banner, looking for the one Fateguard who had to be among them to rust the last gate. Looking and not seeing, and then he caught a glimpse: Medrin. A flash of him almost at the front, with his helm and the Crimson Shield in his hand, and then he was gone again, hidden among the press of men.
‘He’s not dead!’ He pulled Sarvic to the edge of the wall and pointed. ‘He’s not dead, Sarvic. He’s there.’